Buenos Aires, meh.

Bennett Cain August 31, 2016

Don't hate me. Surely this somewhat tongue-in-cheek statement is sacrilege, especially among those countless Americans who hold this city to such a lofty romantic ideal. And if a native happens to read this, don't think I'm disparaging your fine city. I feel the same way as you do right now when I read visitor's unfavorable first impressions of New York on Trip Advisor — I got ripped off by a cartoon character in Times Square or NY pizza is greasy and gross (they ate at Sbarro.) It takes time to come to love a place. You can't just blow through it!

B.A. it's beautiful, fascinating city unlike any other in many ways, it just didn't ignite excitement that's overcome me like the electricity of Osaka, the hedonism of Barcelona, or the exhilarating chaos of Mexico City, Istanbul, or Bangkok. Even the first time I visited New York City when I was 15. I knew that I would spend a good portion of my life here. There's just something about these places that my chemistry gravitates towards. You can't spend enough time in a place you love; you just want more, you want to know them, to own them in a way. You start thinking about how you can live there, how to be a legit expat. I think for many visitors, B.A. gets under their skin like that. The decaying fusion of the Old World and New, like Europe from a bygone era is irresistible to some. It has its undeniable charms but perhaps these visitors Spanish is better than mine.

I was here and in the environs for a little less than two weeks. Not a whole lot of time but long enough to drink red wine out of the bottle with strangers in the park, pass the mate gourd around, and eat as much beef as a mountain lion. I tried my hand (or feet and hands rather) at the Milagra, only to exhibit my poorly concealed "gringoness" to new friends, confirming their suspicions.

The Milagra — city squares that erupt into communal tango dancing. For those with rhythm anyways.

A scene from a different epoch in La Boca.

The romantic quality this city is famous for comes from its remarkable texture. Glimpses of the past are everywhere and the shiny and new often seems to be struggling to compete.

Street tango in La Boca. Note the ubiquitous mate gourd in the background.

Beautiful Recoleta cemetery featuring you guessed it, the tomb of Eva Peron.

Newer districts of the city are a sharp and shoddy contrast with the charming older areas with their intricate stonework and Southern European influences.

I stayed at a cheap hostel in San Telmo for the first five nights. I won't call them out because while the hosts were lovely, it was a pretty terrible place. The building was ancient and was once beautiful no doubt but it fallen into almost irreparable dilapidation. There was no power on the entire neighborhood for the first few days so much effort was spent dealing with just trying to figure out how to charge my phone. I rarely travel with a plan which works just fine so long as there's a decent internet connection. Devices go dead and the whole free-wheeling approach pretty much derails.

Ah my favorite thing about hostels and cheap hotels. I travel with a roll of grip tape in case it's the only way to securely fasten the damn adapter into the wall.

In these first few days I was also very hungry as I couldn't find anything to eat. Where are the vegetables? Surely someone here must eat vegetables? Apparently the diet is meat, pizza, cake, gelato, wine, and cigarettes. That's all fine and dandy but my constitution gives out fairly quickly when subjected to such regular abuse. I found this city's signature lifestyle a far cry from the cold pressed juices, kale salads, and vegan tacos of my NYC haunts. But it's good to shake things up. I did my best to stick to my usual diet subsisting on the "comida por kilo," places that are eerily similar to NY delis where you can a bite of soggy salad or cucumbers soaking in oil.

The Argentine diet was actually the beginning of the end of my two years of diligent vegetarianism. I was on an estancia outside the city and wandering around the grounds, taking it all in, Las Pampas is a ruggedly beautiful part of the world. I followed my nose and trespassed behind one of the farmhouse to see what was for lunch. There I found the asador so simply and perfectly grilling up huge sides of different beasts. The smoke stung my eyes and the smell of all that simmering animal fat made me ravenous. What, was I going to come all the way to Argentina and not eat BBQ? I'm all about the obtaining the fullness of experience. In hind sight, by eating such a restrictive diet over the past few years I've unintentionally denied myself this full breadth at many of the places I've visited over the past few years. Not anymore.

Who alive could resist this? I am no longer a vegetarian because of this.

Estancia La Margartia, a few hours outside the city. Nice place to get drunk, ride horses, and eat a bunch of meat.

His name was Flacco. He was an ornery cuss.

I spent the next day wallowing in self pity and disappointment in myself. After the meat orgy of the previous evening there was clearly no going back so the only thing to do now was go to La Brigada. There I was eating bife de lomo and papas fritas, washed down with what else but a fine bottle of Mendoza's own malbec. That's the other glorious thing about Argentina — you can get a bottle of wine that would cost $20-30 here for less than $5. So in other words, it's hard to spend most of your here not drunk and that's perfectly acceptable because you're usually in good company.

The famous butchers of San Telmo market. This guy loved me. My key to getting the kind of shots I want is to sadly, not give a shit. Yell at me, chase me, whatever. I still got it. I still captured your soul with my camera! — The famous butchers of San Telmo market. This guy loved me. My key to getting the kind of shots I want is to sadly, not give a shit. Yell at me, chase me, whatever. I still got it. I still captured your soul with my camera!

Oddly enough, barring "vacation type" countries, your Mexico's, Thailand's, etc — this is one of the few faraway places where I've found tons of Americans. Students, expats, wine aficionados, romantics. There's an odd yankee appeal here that I haven't quite put my finger on just yet. If I were to return, I'd be more inclined to just head to the wine country in Mendoza and then time permitting, Patagonia. I had a great time in B.A. but next time would be a quest for places of spectacular natural beauty of which Argentina has many. Even the skies in the city on a good day are shockingly bright, blue, and beautiful.

Something noteworthy for me at least is you don't see such raw poverty in B.A. as you do in other parts of the developing world. There are slums but nothing like cities of comparable size in Brazil for example. It's just a completely different socioeconomic situation. Here, oddly enough they're concentrated around heavily industrial railroad hubs. The most notorious is one called Villa 31, an illegal city-within-a -city wedged between two commuter rail stations. As a photographer, I'm always looking for places like this, places where the human condition has nowhere to hide. I always enter respectfully, working with a local guide, paying everyone I encounter for their time, and working as quietly as possible. After a week of trying to find someone to take me into this Villa Miseria, I gave up. I was told it was just too dangerous which I'm not entirely sure I believe but the one time I took a short cut through an outlying street in this neighborhood, someone threw a rock at me, so maybe there is some truth after all.

The wrong side of the tracks. Literally. The only way in or out of Buenos Aires most infamous slum, Villa 31.

As deep as I could safely go into Villa 31.

I suppose in some ways the lack of omnipresent, visible poverty in the city is a testament to good local government. Outside of these few areas, for a city this size, it's quite safe and clean.

After writing this I think I actually like Buenos Aires more than I thought I did. Don't listen to me. Just go and soak it up. Two weeks is enough to get a good taste, more is better if you have the time. However this is a place where the stronger your Spanish skills, the more enjoyable your experience will be. English is just not widely spoken and if you can't string together a few sentences of basic Spanish, you will struggle as I did and do in every Spanish speaking country I go to.

Brazil—Big, Beautiful Beast

Bennett Cain July 6, 2016

Prior to arriving I knew this would be a tough country to wander in with its well known crime and poverty but I honestly wasn't expecting it to be harder than traveling alone in India. Here, I met with numerous attempts to rob me, my bank account was hacked, and I was confronted by the Federal Police in Rio de Janeiro. It left a bad taste in my mouth but ironically only left me wanting to experience more of this country and come to understand it. The learning curve is steep but it's a beautiful place unlike any other in the world and absolutely worth the trouble.

First, my trip was way too short. I was in South America a little less than a month. In Brazil, I was only able to explore the environs of Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo. I discovered this just isn't enough time to to get the kinds of shots I came to get. A higher degree of intimacy is required. My trip was a bummer in that sense but a valuable learning experience nonetheless.

Uncharacteristically awful weather the first few days. I ventured up to Christ the Redeemer regardless and actually found this different view to be quite beautiful in its own way. I was the only one up there, willing to waste a few Real's to "see nothing."

The cable car up to the peak of Pao de Acucar in such weather proved an equally weird and different view of the usually blue skies and paradise views of sun drenched mountains and surf.

Brazil is a gigantic, unwieldy beast. The culture and language are virtually impenetrable to the uninitiated outsider. It's a place with as many romantic qualities as horrible—a tropical paradise but one laced with poverty stricken hillside shanty towns built so dense the sun can barely reach the barred windows below. As for the Brazilians I met, I encountered such warmth, kindness, and free spirited joie de vivre but also distrust, suspicion, and occasionally those seeking to enrich themselves at my expense. It takes time to get in sync with Brazil's rhythms but it is possible and I learned a lot about this from an interesting character I met in Rio by the name of Don Blanquito, "the bravest gringo in Rio," one of few non-Brazilians in the country's home grown funk music scene.

Through Don I realized the commitment it takes to fully wrap one's head around this place. To understand Brazil, one must become Brazilian. I didn't have that kind of time, I only had about a month so shooting here proved to be an enormous challenge.

The first few days were difficult. Without even having a camera out, everyone spots the gringo a mile away which makes it very difficult to photograph in the streets even with small, discrete equipment. This has nothing to do with the shade of your skin because the entire gamut of the human race is represented in Brazil but everyone knows you're not from around here.

Whenever I'm shooting a new place, I always try and go it alone at first just to see what I can get it. If it's impossible, I'll enlist the help of a local fixer or guide. This is always a mixed bag as these people give you access to places you would never be able to go alone but they almost always try and rip you off, take advantage of you, or just waste your time taking you to places you have no interest in. It's a difficulty I would choose to avoid if possible however it rarely is. After getting escorted out of the favela above Copacabana by the cops, I realized it wasn't much of a choice.

First of all Rio, is a stunningly beautiful city. It takes your breath away and if you happen to be on top of a high hill as the sun sets, you'll hear people clapping as the sky turns orange in that final moment of the sun's light.

It's unfortunately carved out of pristine Atlantic rain forest, though much of it survives today and parts of the city feel like they're built in the jungle. It's third world and modern, it has a vibe like New York meets Miami meets New Orleans but is still unlike any other city. For all it's luxury high rises and posh neighborhoods there are even more favelas, shantytowns illegally carved out of the hillsides. There are as many as 700 of these settlements in Rio and because of the World Cup and Olympics, some of them are being integrated into the city proper. One of these so called "pacified" favelas is Rocinha, the largest in Brazil and once the most dangerous slum in Latin America.

Rocinha is absolutely massive and denser than any slum like it that I saw in India or Southeast Asia. While it's rapidly changing, even gentrifying some would say, it's still a very dangerous place. I was able to find a guy who grew up there and for a very reasonable price, enthusiastically agreed to show me around.

The closer to the bottom of the hill, the safer and more expensive it is in Rocinha. The further up and more inconvenient, the cheaper and more dangerous. At the very top, it's still possible to hack out a small plot from the trees and build your own house. Ironically, at the bottom of the hill is Sao Conrado, one of Rio's most expensive and exclusive neighborhoods. Because of the proximity to quality services and infrastructure built for the rich people there, the quality of life at the base of the favela is rapidly increasing.

Because of the strong police presence in Rocinha the neighborhood has been deemed "pacified." While most of the people who live Rio's favelas are normal working people just trying to make ends meet, there is always an element of crime. A pacified favela is one where the influence of drug trafficking gangs has been largely minimized and been deemed safe for civilians. The situation between Brazil's gangs and the government remains for all intents and purposes, a state of undeclared civil war. The Federal Police's response to organized crime in these areas is ruthless and shootings are common.

Mototaxi's take people up and down the paved parts of the hills in Rocinha night and day. The further you go up, the steeper and more narrow the passageways become, eventually inaccessible to vehicles. Because of poor access, in the event of fires and other emergencies, there's often little that can by the authorities.

Imagine building a three-story house with no dump truck. I find the logistics and the odds stacked against settlements like these fascinating. People needs a place to call home and where there's a will there's a way. There's no stopping these things.

The favelas are their own world. Dark and intimidating in places but warm and inviting in others. They have their own culture and economy and I encountered pride in the fact that many here carved out their own life in their own way. Social inequality is an enormous problem in Brazil and lack of access to basic education and economic opportunity are the strongest correlations to the crime that too many have just accepted as a part of life here.

Some Israelis buying coke in the favela and then documenting it on their social media accounts.

I met these cool young dudes on the way out of Rocinha and they showed me some incredible capoeira moves. Their enthusiasm, positive vibes, and outright friendliness towards an outsider was extremely refreshing.

From Rio I traveled to Sao Paulo, an even bigger megacity with a metro population over 20 million. I love big cities and was expecting to like SP but instead discovered a polluted, dangerous, endless sea of drab gray buildings.

Within the first 12 hours of arriving in Sao Paulo someone tried to grab my phone right out of my hands. Because of thieves, I had an even harder time shooting here than in Rio and was unable to find a solid contact who would take me to the parts of the city I knew would pay off. There's a tragically interesting area called Cracolandia that just saying the name, Paulistas would scoff. There was no way to gain access in such a short period of time and honestly, trying to shoot there would have been a bad idea, even with local protection. Brazil's stories are perhaps best left to Brazilians to tell. The culture and language barriers are massive for an outsider and without a command over them, probing deeper here is a dangerous prospect.

One thing that immediately struck me about this city is that it's covered in spray paint. There are many beautiful murals but also a lot of what looked like ugly, visual polluting tags that I learned are called pichacao.

These are encrypted letters only legible to other pichacao writers. Sometimes gang related but not always, the notorious Comando Verhelmo, who still operate openly in this city have been known to write them. More often than not, they're a form of political and social protest and pichacao crews will free climb the sides of tall building to write them. The higher one goes, the more prestige and I was shocked to see 30 story office towers completely covered in tags.

Brazil is a fascinating place but I left it feeling like I didn't get it photographically, also realizing what "getting it" would entail. I would need a lot more time and If I were to do another trip here it will be one focusing on Amazonas and Agri-Business there. I have the burning desire to see the extent of its environmental devastation. Maybe it's not as bad as I suspect but for some reason I doubt it.

There's a common thread emerging from this work I've been doing for the past year and a half now and that is the culture of extreme poverty and how it relates to the world's densest urban areas—Megacities, megaslums, and their impact on society and environment. This is what I realized I've been exploring. What will come of all this work down the road, I'm not sure just yet but I feel compelled to keep going with it.