Twenty years ago John Gunther observed that, to most North Americans, South America is still terra incognita:

To many in the United States the concept “South America” still prominently includes generals in white sombreros on mangy horses picking their teeth and shooting peasants at random, love in the hot sun, polo ponies, a peculiar capacity for disorganization, the philosophy of mañanas, cha-cha-cha, excessive edgy pride and sensitivity, gigolos drenched in eau de cologne, the overemotionalism of personal contacts, Indians squatting over dark pots of beans, gauchos, and fragile young women in black lace dresses with large red roses in their hair leaning over grilled balconies within range of a serenading guitar…. Timbuctoo is more familiar to most Americans, if only as a symbol, than thriving hemisphere cities like Medellin, Cordoba, or the new industrial complexes of Venezuela. Such a distinguished and otherwise cosmopolitan man of letters as Edmund Wilson makes a point of never having visited the continent or read its literature. ¹