Lima, oh Lima.
The capital perhaps but to most, at most, an airport, one night’s stay and a place to pass through on the way to better things.
Not I though. Determined to see another side to this much maligned city I intended to spend a few days seeing the sights yes but also traipsing the back streets, seeking the edge and caressing the seething underbelly.
Deciding to stay in Barranco as opposed to the perennially more popular Miraflores I paid heed to the advice of the PS Guide to South America from which I expect royalties, or at least a passing mention, upon publication.
First impressions seemed positive too - a rare break in the fog - the so called donkey’s breath that encases the city in a damp grey slime for 8 months of the year meant I awoke to sunshine. Time to explore.
Stepping over the drunk who had fallen out of bed (or never quite made it into bed), tracing a wide arc around the rather pungent young man of undetermined origin and dodging in-between the dole queue types waiting for breakfast I emerged from my hostel/flophouse not 50m from Lima’s coast and began my wandering...
All sounds quite promising doesn’t it? Well no, not even close. I wanted to like Lima, I wanted to see the side that others don’t, I really did but I didn’t.
As the fog rolled in things slowly fell apart and thus I have compiled a top 5 mustn’t do’s for anyone visiting Lima:
1 - Spend time in Miraflores. Too busy, too noisy. I have to agree the quiet streets and aging architecture of Barranco are infinitely preferable.
2 - Eat at a restaurant in Barranco on the main square recommended by the Lonely Planet (I should have known better). I won’t go into details but you can keep your Atkins, leave the GI book on the shelf for losing weight has never been so rapid.
3 - Expect to see the sun for more than half a day. Even hoping for half a day displays a misplaced optimism.
4 - Take a taxi at rush hour. The first corner in a grand prix is an orderly procession by comparison.
5 - Go into a rather lovely boutique in Barranco and by one item of clothing you love and one you despise. 1 in 2 just isn’t acceptable on a travelling budget.
Ok, so perhaps I am being a little harsh. I didn’t get to truly experience the cuisine for which Lima is famous (by virtue of the fact of experiencing the type of cuisine for Lima isn’t famous) and no I didn’t sojourn in the evenings to sample the nocturnal delights of the city but honestly, looking back, this doesn’t phase me too greatly.
Earlier than expected time to say a less than fond farewell to Lima and head once more, 5 years after the first time, to Huaraz.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
Wednesday, 3 September 2008
Huacachina (Ica), Peru
Having bravely (¨you didn’t go to ... and ... but they're BEAUTIFUL!!!¨) and sensibly decided to skip a couple of Southern Peru’s more famous attractions on the all too well trodden tourist trail (lack of time provided a rather handy justification) our next stop after Cuzco was to be Ica and nearby Huacachina.
Ica for many travellers, ourselves included, is but a bus stop and thus with a taxi secured we made our way to Huacachina. Leaving the city behind we headed for the towering sand dunes that dominate, surround and threaten to envelop all that stands in their way. Winding our way between the dunes a sign en route proclaimed, rather modestly, that we were about to see - The Oasis of America - and as we rounded the final bend thus it proved. For, revealed in all its quite breathtaking glory, was truly a sight to behold. Nestled deep amongst the dunes was an emerald green lake shimmering in the morning sun, framed by lush tropical vegetation growing with abandon in this otherwise arid landscape. For once the whole scene was complimented rather than insulted by the hotels - luxurious yet rustic their presence was subtle but somehow just right.
Really? This is Peru, of course not.
Rounding the final corner the ´Oasis of America´ was revealed as a dirty puddle (maybe green, maybe brown) surrounded by dying palm trees and ill-planned and badly made hotels which seemed to compete for the title of most inappropriate.
Never judge a book by its cover though (unless the cover is written in ......) and with the promise of sun and fun - in all the various forms offered - spirits were far from dented.
And truth be told (currently my phrase du jour) Huacachina proved to be a rather enjoyable stopping point. Bathed in sun for at least a couple of hours a day many an hour (at least 2 or 3) was wiled away sat around the pool enjoying the antics of others - the rather overweight gentleman who had come to the conclusion that the physical repulsion he induced in others would be negated, not by the losing of some bulk, but rather through platting and then beading his goatee was a highlight. Alas, to my regret the Joey and Glenn semi-Synchronised Diving Team (JGs-SDT for short) made no appearance - after such a successful debut in Mexico this can only be seen as a shame.
Deciding rather unwisely that merely laying in the sun was not the thing to do (far from my decision) we alighted upon the idea of a little tour of the Ica vineyards. Not internationally renowned for its wines the next three hours would prove without any shadow of a doubt why this is the case. Visiting three vineyards the wines (red, white and rose) progressed from a level of sweetness akin to licking the inside of a sugar bowl to somewhere just north of what is safe for human consumption. Forcing smiles and making appreciative noises I can truly say that not one wine that we tasted was fit for anything other than perhaps, er, erm, nope, words fail me. Moving onto Pisco our logic in trying some of Peru’s indigenous spirit was simply that things could get no worse than the wine - and they didn’t - but alas they got no better either. There is a reason that Pisco rarely travels beyond Peru’s borders and that is because it doesn’t taste very nice (yes, despite my hatred I used the word nice - thinking of Pisco and the wine debacle has reduced me to that level).
In addition to the consumption of the sweetest wines known to man the box to tick (there is always one) in Huacachina is a tour of the sand dunes. Blessed with a seemingly jet propelled buggy and a driver who although advancing in years seemed immune to adrenaline and thus became compelled to take ever greater risks to get his fix - this was to be quite an experience. All but one of our number (She had asked the lady at reception if we could go slowly...the driver laughed knowingly) were willing participants in a journey that travelled further vertically than ever it did horizontally.
Flying over bumps, careering down dunes our driver knew and pushed the limits of our aging buggy as far as they would go. Even when occasionally a halt to proceedings was called it was far from time to relax. Rather the sand boards (a plank with Velcro) were unloaded doused liberally in lubricant (focus...) and we were invited to negotiate the steeper dunes quite by ourselves - sometimes on the board, sometimes not - the sand, well, that went everywhere...
To end a rather enjoyable day (the buggying as opposed to the vineyards) we indulged in an all you can eat (not a challenge) and drink BBQ and thus Huacachina provided all that we could ask for - er, in terms of food and drink I mean. After three weeks of travelling together and having conquered a variety of afflictions (some self-inflicted and some, yep, self-inflicted) Joseph and myself spent the night getting quite pleasantly tipsy and, heaven forefend, meeting new people!
- So Joe - looking back on the last three weeks - any regrets? Anything you wouldn’t do again?
- Erm, yes.
- I should co co.
Ica for many travellers, ourselves included, is but a bus stop and thus with a taxi secured we made our way to Huacachina. Leaving the city behind we headed for the towering sand dunes that dominate, surround and threaten to envelop all that stands in their way. Winding our way between the dunes a sign en route proclaimed, rather modestly, that we were about to see - The Oasis of America - and as we rounded the final bend thus it proved. For, revealed in all its quite breathtaking glory, was truly a sight to behold. Nestled deep amongst the dunes was an emerald green lake shimmering in the morning sun, framed by lush tropical vegetation growing with abandon in this otherwise arid landscape. For once the whole scene was complimented rather than insulted by the hotels - luxurious yet rustic their presence was subtle but somehow just right.
Really? This is Peru, of course not.
Rounding the final corner the ´Oasis of America´ was revealed as a dirty puddle (maybe green, maybe brown) surrounded by dying palm trees and ill-planned and badly made hotels which seemed to compete for the title of most inappropriate.
Never judge a book by its cover though (unless the cover is written in ......) and with the promise of sun and fun - in all the various forms offered - spirits were far from dented.
And truth be told (currently my phrase du jour) Huacachina proved to be a rather enjoyable stopping point. Bathed in sun for at least a couple of hours a day many an hour (at least 2 or 3) was wiled away sat around the pool enjoying the antics of others - the rather overweight gentleman who had come to the conclusion that the physical repulsion he induced in others would be negated, not by the losing of some bulk, but rather through platting and then beading his goatee was a highlight. Alas, to my regret the Joey and Glenn semi-Synchronised Diving Team (JGs-SDT for short) made no appearance - after such a successful debut in Mexico this can only be seen as a shame.
Deciding rather unwisely that merely laying in the sun was not the thing to do (far from my decision) we alighted upon the idea of a little tour of the Ica vineyards. Not internationally renowned for its wines the next three hours would prove without any shadow of a doubt why this is the case. Visiting three vineyards the wines (red, white and rose) progressed from a level of sweetness akin to licking the inside of a sugar bowl to somewhere just north of what is safe for human consumption. Forcing smiles and making appreciative noises I can truly say that not one wine that we tasted was fit for anything other than perhaps, er, erm, nope, words fail me. Moving onto Pisco our logic in trying some of Peru’s indigenous spirit was simply that things could get no worse than the wine - and they didn’t - but alas they got no better either. There is a reason that Pisco rarely travels beyond Peru’s borders and that is because it doesn’t taste very nice (yes, despite my hatred I used the word nice - thinking of Pisco and the wine debacle has reduced me to that level).
In addition to the consumption of the sweetest wines known to man the box to tick (there is always one) in Huacachina is a tour of the sand dunes. Blessed with a seemingly jet propelled buggy and a driver who although advancing in years seemed immune to adrenaline and thus became compelled to take ever greater risks to get his fix - this was to be quite an experience. All but one of our number (She had asked the lady at reception if we could go slowly...the driver laughed knowingly) were willing participants in a journey that travelled further vertically than ever it did horizontally.
Flying over bumps, careering down dunes our driver knew and pushed the limits of our aging buggy as far as they would go. Even when occasionally a halt to proceedings was called it was far from time to relax. Rather the sand boards (a plank with Velcro) were unloaded doused liberally in lubricant (focus...) and we were invited to negotiate the steeper dunes quite by ourselves - sometimes on the board, sometimes not - the sand, well, that went everywhere...
To end a rather enjoyable day (the buggying as opposed to the vineyards) we indulged in an all you can eat (not a challenge) and drink BBQ and thus Huacachina provided all that we could ask for - er, in terms of food and drink I mean. After three weeks of travelling together and having conquered a variety of afflictions (some self-inflicted and some, yep, self-inflicted) Joseph and myself spent the night getting quite pleasantly tipsy and, heaven forefend, meeting new people!
- So Joe - looking back on the last three weeks - any regrets? Anything you wouldn’t do again?
- Erm, yes.
- I should co co.
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
Cuzco, Peru
Finding a voice/Giving voice to my frustration.
I want to write a story.
OK.
What do you mean OK?
OK to the concept of you wanting to write a story.
Well that’s not much help is it?
Am I supposed to be helping then?
If you wouldn’t mind.
OK.
Well?
Shall we begin with Lesson 1? First things first do you have an idea for the story, a subject, setting, characters or a message you wish to convey, a moral if you will?
No.
Ok.
Stop saying OK.
Very well. So to be clear you have a desire, a want, maybe a whim to write a story but you lack anything resembling an idea?
Yes.
Indeed. Well let’s try to be logical as illogical precipitation of falls all around us.
What do you mean by that?
Everything, nothing, the world, the worm, totality, normality, who knows, who cares?
What?
Apologies, I think I just had a prosaic fit, much worse are my linguistic seizures.
What do you say then?
Nothing.
Right. Back to my story.
Or lack thereof.
Quite.
We, rather you, need a starting point, a catalyst, a stimulant, a certain something to ignite your, thus far, inert creativity. Can you think of anything you desire to write about, a story you have read that inspired you perhaps or an author of whom you are particularly fond?
No.
I think I need another coffee, a hit of heroin, 5mg of methadone, industrial strength amphetamines and a fully loaded revolver.
But you don’t take drugs.
Or have a propensity towards suicide, so often your first successful attempt tends to be your last, but I am considering taking drugs as a viable alternative.
Alternative to what?
To not taking drugs.
I fear you digress.
I fear you persist.
My story?
Unquestionably. Let’s try another path - what was the last story you read?
Let me think.
For my part a wholly preferable method.
Sorry?
No need, I am quite enjoying myself.
The last story I read was...
¨Can I get you something else sir?¨
¨Another coffee please, strong.¨
¨And a slice of that rather delicious cake if you don’t mind.¨
¨One coffee - strong - and a slice of cake, no problem.¨
It would be surprising if there were.
Were what?
A problem. Pray haste, back to your thinking, heaven forefend we should stall at this vital juncture as the potential butterfly of your creativity emerges from its seemingly dormant chrysalis.
The last story I read was...I don’t know to tell the truth.
And thus the butterfly is but a moth. So not a vociferous reader then?
No, does a desire to write necessitate a history of reading then?
Indeed not and though I am sure quite unintentional your stand against the snobbery of the, at times, sycophantic literary world is admirable.
Writing is art no?
And art is inspiration and thus our problem, our stream to ford, mire to traverse, wall to climb and obstacle to negotiate makes it presence felt once more.
¨Your coffee - strong - and cake sir.¨
¨Why thank you.¨
¨Can I ask you a question sir?¨
¨But of course¨
¨Who are you talking to?¨
¨Alas, as ever, my frustration.¨
For those seeking further information on Cuzco, the nearby former summer retreat of the Incas - Machu Picchu - and a background to the fall of a once great empire please refer to any one of the following titles:
Inka Tinker: A life of pick-pocketing on the streets of Machu Picchu - T Hief
Inka Thinker: Musings on the Sun God - Phil Osophy
The Caring Colonialist - Q Victoria (one owner - F Pizarro, never read, as new)
I want to write a story.
OK.
What do you mean OK?
OK to the concept of you wanting to write a story.
Well that’s not much help is it?
Am I supposed to be helping then?
If you wouldn’t mind.
OK.
Well?
Shall we begin with Lesson 1? First things first do you have an idea for the story, a subject, setting, characters or a message you wish to convey, a moral if you will?
No.
Ok.
Stop saying OK.
Very well. So to be clear you have a desire, a want, maybe a whim to write a story but you lack anything resembling an idea?
Yes.
Indeed. Well let’s try to be logical as illogical precipitation of falls all around us.
What do you mean by that?
Everything, nothing, the world, the worm, totality, normality, who knows, who cares?
What?
Apologies, I think I just had a prosaic fit, much worse are my linguistic seizures.
What do you say then?
Nothing.
Right. Back to my story.
Or lack thereof.
Quite.
We, rather you, need a starting point, a catalyst, a stimulant, a certain something to ignite your, thus far, inert creativity. Can you think of anything you desire to write about, a story you have read that inspired you perhaps or an author of whom you are particularly fond?
No.
I think I need another coffee, a hit of heroin, 5mg of methadone, industrial strength amphetamines and a fully loaded revolver.
But you don’t take drugs.
Or have a propensity towards suicide, so often your first successful attempt tends to be your last, but I am considering taking drugs as a viable alternative.
Alternative to what?
To not taking drugs.
I fear you digress.
I fear you persist.
My story?
Unquestionably. Let’s try another path - what was the last story you read?
Let me think.
For my part a wholly preferable method.
Sorry?
No need, I am quite enjoying myself.
The last story I read was...
¨Can I get you something else sir?¨
¨Another coffee please, strong.¨
¨And a slice of that rather delicious cake if you don’t mind.¨
¨One coffee - strong - and a slice of cake, no problem.¨
It would be surprising if there were.
Were what?
A problem. Pray haste, back to your thinking, heaven forefend we should stall at this vital juncture as the potential butterfly of your creativity emerges from its seemingly dormant chrysalis.
The last story I read was...I don’t know to tell the truth.
And thus the butterfly is but a moth. So not a vociferous reader then?
No, does a desire to write necessitate a history of reading then?
Indeed not and though I am sure quite unintentional your stand against the snobbery of the, at times, sycophantic literary world is admirable.
Writing is art no?
And art is inspiration and thus our problem, our stream to ford, mire to traverse, wall to climb and obstacle to negotiate makes it presence felt once more.
¨Your coffee - strong - and cake sir.¨
¨Why thank you.¨
¨Can I ask you a question sir?¨
¨But of course¨
¨Who are you talking to?¨
¨Alas, as ever, my frustration.¨
For those seeking further information on Cuzco, the nearby former summer retreat of the Incas - Machu Picchu - and a background to the fall of a once great empire please refer to any one of the following titles:
Inka Tinker: A life of pick-pocketing on the streets of Machu Picchu - T Hief
Inka Thinker: Musings on the Sun God - Phil Osophy
The Caring Colonialist - Q Victoria (one owner - F Pizarro, never read, as new)
Monday, 1 September 2008
Puno, Peru
Prostitution of Culture
For I was once proud; I was because I had always been. Not for any reason was I other than because each generation desired to know me; to adhere to that which I had guarded, to follow where I guided.
For alas my lament is that time can not preserve all. The movement of man creates hunger afresh, his appetite whetted but never sated by the new, the different. Once isolated and innocent I have been exposed for all to see. He who courted me came with promises untenable, intentions undefined.
Where once I had nothing to prove, to be myself was enough for all that knew me; now I must parade and promenade myself in a degrading and humiliating cycle of pastiche. He makes me dress in my best clothes whenever his gaze is upon me and when not he forgets me. Offered money and some hope for the future he is willing to call himself by many names to appease those who try to protect me.
My children look upon me with disgust; I am but a tired old family member past their use; an embarrassment to all and a reminder of harder times gone past. I am but now a means to an end, no longer a badge of heritage to be borne with pride.
His clients come armed and ready to capture memories, to enjoy their time in my company but never imbued with any intention to understand. They enjoy the difference but never seek the reason. Their presence is justified as positive for guilt at the destructive process of which they are part would be an uncomfortable truth not desired.
When they are gone I cry myself to sleep. My children leave me in order to make money from that which destroys me – the inevitability forcing their departure. Without the reality of need I am doomed to become a play, no more than a series of well rehearsed scenes with no meaning beyond the denouement.
For I am culture and he is tourism.
Wednesday, 6 August 2008
Copacabana, Bolivia
This is how it should have gone:
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- Ah yes, here it is!
- A room on cue.
- A room that’s new.
- A room for two?
- A room with a view.
This is how it actually went:
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- I’m sorry we’re full tonight.
- That’s odd as I have a reservation.
- You can’t have. Was it by e-mail? Show me.
One e-mail located, suite requested, confirmation received.
- Oh, I appear to have made a mistake with the dates.
- So we haven’t got a room because you made a mistake? That’s not very good is it?
[Heckles rising, barely there chilled out traveller persona receding]
- No. Let me check - I think we may have one room for tonight.
And thus we were shown to a room for two entirely available for the evening...
- I have this room.
- Ok, looks fine.
- Or I have the suite for $18 a night.
- Oooh toughy, let me think, this room or the suite I originally requested and that you told us less than 5 minutes ago wasn’t available (this dose of sarcasm may have been silent). The suite please.
- Ok, but you can only have the room for tonight.
- Ok.
Later that night...
- Can we book our room for tomorrow night as well please?
- Yep, no problem.
What more of Copacabana?
Sitting on the shores of Lake Titicaca Copacabana is the Italian Riviera Bolivian style - and thus nothing like the Italian Riviera.
Consisting of ramshackle streets, various accommodations, obligatory stalls selling Alpaca and Llama products and a surplus of seafood restaurants the whole town is overlooked by a rather grand Cathedral with an altar bathed in pure gold - unlike those who beg at its door.
A place to rest, relax and, if one so feels the need, sojourn to the Isla Del Sun (Sun Island) where myth has it that the Inca race was begun Copacabana rewards a laid back approach a place to be rather than do. Watching vistas of the lake itself, the waning sun (not quite a sunset due to an awkwardly placed hill) and a violent electrical storm proved a more than satisfactory way to pass an hour or two...
And that is perhaps that for Copacabana. Last stop in Bolivia - time to say goodbye to a country which surprised, shocked but rarely overcharged and hello to Peru. Back again and this time I was determined to see Machu Picchu.
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- Ah yes, here it is!
- A room on cue.
- A room that’s new.
- A room for two?
- A room with a view.
This is how it actually went:
- Hi, I have a reservation for the lakeside suite in the name of Glenn Cumming.
- I’m sorry we’re full tonight.
- That’s odd as I have a reservation.
- You can’t have. Was it by e-mail? Show me.
One e-mail located, suite requested, confirmation received.
- Oh, I appear to have made a mistake with the dates.
- So we haven’t got a room because you made a mistake? That’s not very good is it?
[Heckles rising, barely there chilled out traveller persona receding]
- No. Let me check - I think we may have one room for tonight.
And thus we were shown to a room for two entirely available for the evening...
- I have this room.
- Ok, looks fine.
- Or I have the suite for $18 a night.
- Oooh toughy, let me think, this room or the suite I originally requested and that you told us less than 5 minutes ago wasn’t available (this dose of sarcasm may have been silent). The suite please.
- Ok, but you can only have the room for tonight.
- Ok.
Later that night...
- Can we book our room for tomorrow night as well please?
- Yep, no problem.
What more of Copacabana?
Sitting on the shores of Lake Titicaca Copacabana is the Italian Riviera Bolivian style - and thus nothing like the Italian Riviera.
Consisting of ramshackle streets, various accommodations, obligatory stalls selling Alpaca and Llama products and a surplus of seafood restaurants the whole town is overlooked by a rather grand Cathedral with an altar bathed in pure gold - unlike those who beg at its door.
A place to rest, relax and, if one so feels the need, sojourn to the Isla Del Sun (Sun Island) where myth has it that the Inca race was begun Copacabana rewards a laid back approach a place to be rather than do. Watching vistas of the lake itself, the waning sun (not quite a sunset due to an awkwardly placed hill) and a violent electrical storm proved a more than satisfactory way to pass an hour or two...
And that is perhaps that for Copacabana. Last stop in Bolivia - time to say goodbye to a country which surprised, shocked but rarely overcharged and hello to Peru. Back again and this time I was determined to see Machu Picchu.
Monday, 4 August 2008
La Paz, Bolivia
And thus to La Paz - Bolivia’s administrative capital and at over 3600m altitude the highest capital in the world.
Time to say hello and goodbye as I bid one friend a fond farewell and welcomed another to South America.
Firstly goodbye to my Paunch - a constant companion for far too long the little bump that has long defined (or more appropriately - not defined) my lower stomach fell victim to the many nightmarish reports I had heard of Bolivian cuisine which had for the past week reduced by intake of food to barely sustenance levels.
Secondly hello to Joseph T Loader who would be joining me on this little adventure for three weeks. Time to prepare for the rollercoaster ride that spending time with Joey ever is. A man, whose mood, in lighter moments, soars higher than Icarus ever dreamed and, at darker times, plumbs the deepest, darkest recesses of Neptune’s basement.
Where was I? Ah yes, La Paz - literally.
Home for just under a week I chose to stay in La Paz´s premium party hostel. Ever the moth to the flame I seem drawn to staying in such places - the feeling of maybe missing out gets me every time and every time I regret my decision. For ´party´ in hostel parlance invariably, perhaps inevitably, means extremely inebriated English and Irish of various ages (all below 21 though) being rather loud and really rather tiresome. I am getting old and if this is what it is to be young I am quite happy to be doing so. Youth is wasted on the young and the young waste their youth.
Enough of that.
Bolivia seems always to be the South American black sheep, the bad apple and the place in which to be that little bit more wary. Even contemplation of time spent over the Bolivian border sends shivers down the spine of residents of other countries - ¨here is fine, but in Bolivia you need to be careful...¨. Add to that the simmering political unrest, rumours of a potential civil war and Foreign Office advice to avoid large gatherings and it was becoming obvious that time spent in La Paz, the capital and thus the centre of all things (obviously...), was going to be anything but dull...
And thus it proved but in a far more pleasant way than my words may have suggested to be expected...
Joey came determined to confound stereotypes - speaking Spanish and spending with gay abandon he maintained a shop to purchase ratio that only just dipped below 1:1. Life is cash intensive but not in Bolivia it would appear.
Having completed our tour of the tourist shops and the witches market (Llama foetuses - do I get a discount for buying two?) we decided - against the advice of several people including the taxi driver we were paying to take us there - to make the journey to El Alto market. After initially poor impressions the little we saw yielded a veritable cornucopia of bargains. It was to our regret that time and baggage allowances did not permit further forays into the bowels of this 5sq km beast. Next time I travel to South America I will take only the clothes I stand up in and begin my journey here.
Contrary to the impression given thus far La Paz wasn’t all shop, shop, shop and when not redistributing wealth in a manner of which Robin Hood would have been proud we indulged in a spot of eating and also, very occasionally and never to excess, drinking. On the food and drink I must admit to having no complaints and found the fayre to be of a really rather decent order - however the choice of a feisty Llama curry the night before our death defying bike ride was perhaps not the most sensible timing...
Thus to the bike ride - down the World’s Most Dangerous Road (!). Booked against Joey’s wishes and truth be told without him knowing too much about it the road down which we were to ride was given the rather dramatic moniker of World’s Most Dangerous by the International Development Bank based on the cold hard facts of the most fatal accidents per mile.
After 10 years the ride has become quite the box to tick on the Bolivian travellers (as in people travelling in Bolivia as opposed to people from Bolivia who travel - though they may like it too) itinerary. And who am I to be original?
Beginning early one morning we togged up in all manner of protective clothing ready to face the worst the road could throw at us - apart from the cliffs for which it is famous though - stretching to a willy worrying 400m vertical drop should disaster occur helmet and goggles somehow seemed slightly inadequate...
After seemingly having fixed some early teething troubles with Joey’s steed it was off ever downwards (apart from a slight up that is) - round hairpin, across stream but always accompanied by the drop that has claimed too many victims.
And thus things proceeded in due course - a natural order being established as those imbued with too much testosterone, too little regard for life or a point to prove tried vainly to keep up with yours truly (I jest). Indeed all was passing rather smoothly until word reached the leading pack that there had been a crash in the peleton...
- Who was it?
- Not sure.
- Was it serious?
- Don’t know.
And thus, fearing the worst, I began counting the riders. 6 of us here - three more - 7, 8, 9, no Joey - 2 more coming down the hill - 10, 11, still no Joey - one more - 12 from a total of 13 and no Joey. Oh dear.
- Hello Mrs Loader - its Glenn
- Oh hello, how are you? How’s Joey?
- Erm...
I jest once more. Some 5 minutes later and with only the mildest onset of panic Joey rounded the bend bleeding profusely from a rather nasty cut to the arm but otherwise seemingly OK - I feared the presence of head injuries would be difficult to discern. Still in good spirits Joey blamed mechanical failure and I shall not argue with that conclusion here.
And so after 5 hours of downhill descent (is there any other kind?) we reached the bottom. Tired and is some cases bleeding but overall smiling we rewarded ourselves in blo*dy bloke fashion with a couple of cold ones...death defying - or rather riding a bike down a hill without the need to pedal and avoiding falling off the edge - is thirsty business indeed...
Having survived the bike ride the only remaining challenge was getting back to our hostel (oh joy - Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all...YEE HAH). Blocked at every turn by closed streets we found ourselves in the middle of a University procession watched by a large and boisterous crowd (remember the bit about avoiding large gatherings). Our fatigue turned to aggression as the party atmosphere (not a hostel type party) seemed to mock us and people seemed to prefer to dance and laugh rather than ease our journey - inconsiderate indeed. Becoming an inconvenience of quite monumental proportions - I think by this point we had lost some perspective - we eventually rounded the woman relieving herself in the street, hopped over the woman kicking her prone husband and barged through the procession itself no doubt setting the gringo cause in Bolivia back several years...
Leaving La Paz I reflected on time well spent and a more than promising start to Joey and Glenn’s little adventure. I looked forward to the next 2 and a bit weeks - spending time with a mate - at times just the two of us - catching up, chewing the fat, no-one else, keeping it simple - and then at other times being social, meeting new people, not judging, getting merrily inebriated...
Time to say hello and goodbye as I bid one friend a fond farewell and welcomed another to South America.
Firstly goodbye to my Paunch - a constant companion for far too long the little bump that has long defined (or more appropriately - not defined) my lower stomach fell victim to the many nightmarish reports I had heard of Bolivian cuisine which had for the past week reduced by intake of food to barely sustenance levels.
Secondly hello to Joseph T Loader who would be joining me on this little adventure for three weeks. Time to prepare for the rollercoaster ride that spending time with Joey ever is. A man, whose mood, in lighter moments, soars higher than Icarus ever dreamed and, at darker times, plumbs the deepest, darkest recesses of Neptune’s basement.
Where was I? Ah yes, La Paz - literally.
Home for just under a week I chose to stay in La Paz´s premium party hostel. Ever the moth to the flame I seem drawn to staying in such places - the feeling of maybe missing out gets me every time and every time I regret my decision. For ´party´ in hostel parlance invariably, perhaps inevitably, means extremely inebriated English and Irish of various ages (all below 21 though) being rather loud and really rather tiresome. I am getting old and if this is what it is to be young I am quite happy to be doing so. Youth is wasted on the young and the young waste their youth.
Enough of that.
Bolivia seems always to be the South American black sheep, the bad apple and the place in which to be that little bit more wary. Even contemplation of time spent over the Bolivian border sends shivers down the spine of residents of other countries - ¨here is fine, but in Bolivia you need to be careful...¨. Add to that the simmering political unrest, rumours of a potential civil war and Foreign Office advice to avoid large gatherings and it was becoming obvious that time spent in La Paz, the capital and thus the centre of all things (obviously...), was going to be anything but dull...
And thus it proved but in a far more pleasant way than my words may have suggested to be expected...
Joey came determined to confound stereotypes - speaking Spanish and spending with gay abandon he maintained a shop to purchase ratio that only just dipped below 1:1. Life is cash intensive but not in Bolivia it would appear.
Having completed our tour of the tourist shops and the witches market (Llama foetuses - do I get a discount for buying two?) we decided - against the advice of several people including the taxi driver we were paying to take us there - to make the journey to El Alto market. After initially poor impressions the little we saw yielded a veritable cornucopia of bargains. It was to our regret that time and baggage allowances did not permit further forays into the bowels of this 5sq km beast. Next time I travel to South America I will take only the clothes I stand up in and begin my journey here.
Contrary to the impression given thus far La Paz wasn’t all shop, shop, shop and when not redistributing wealth in a manner of which Robin Hood would have been proud we indulged in a spot of eating and also, very occasionally and never to excess, drinking. On the food and drink I must admit to having no complaints and found the fayre to be of a really rather decent order - however the choice of a feisty Llama curry the night before our death defying bike ride was perhaps not the most sensible timing...
Thus to the bike ride - down the World’s Most Dangerous Road (!). Booked against Joey’s wishes and truth be told without him knowing too much about it the road down which we were to ride was given the rather dramatic moniker of World’s Most Dangerous by the International Development Bank based on the cold hard facts of the most fatal accidents per mile.
After 10 years the ride has become quite the box to tick on the Bolivian travellers (as in people travelling in Bolivia as opposed to people from Bolivia who travel - though they may like it too) itinerary. And who am I to be original?
Beginning early one morning we togged up in all manner of protective clothing ready to face the worst the road could throw at us - apart from the cliffs for which it is famous though - stretching to a willy worrying 400m vertical drop should disaster occur helmet and goggles somehow seemed slightly inadequate...
After seemingly having fixed some early teething troubles with Joey’s steed it was off ever downwards (apart from a slight up that is) - round hairpin, across stream but always accompanied by the drop that has claimed too many victims.
And thus things proceeded in due course - a natural order being established as those imbued with too much testosterone, too little regard for life or a point to prove tried vainly to keep up with yours truly (I jest). Indeed all was passing rather smoothly until word reached the leading pack that there had been a crash in the peleton...
- Who was it?
- Not sure.
- Was it serious?
- Don’t know.
And thus, fearing the worst, I began counting the riders. 6 of us here - three more - 7, 8, 9, no Joey - 2 more coming down the hill - 10, 11, still no Joey - one more - 12 from a total of 13 and no Joey. Oh dear.
- Hello Mrs Loader - its Glenn
- Oh hello, how are you? How’s Joey?
- Erm...
I jest once more. Some 5 minutes later and with only the mildest onset of panic Joey rounded the bend bleeding profusely from a rather nasty cut to the arm but otherwise seemingly OK - I feared the presence of head injuries would be difficult to discern. Still in good spirits Joey blamed mechanical failure and I shall not argue with that conclusion here.
And so after 5 hours of downhill descent (is there any other kind?) we reached the bottom. Tired and is some cases bleeding but overall smiling we rewarded ourselves in blo*dy bloke fashion with a couple of cold ones...death defying - or rather riding a bike down a hill without the need to pedal and avoiding falling off the edge - is thirsty business indeed...
Having survived the bike ride the only remaining challenge was getting back to our hostel (oh joy - Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all...YEE HAH). Blocked at every turn by closed streets we found ourselves in the middle of a University procession watched by a large and boisterous crowd (remember the bit about avoiding large gatherings). Our fatigue turned to aggression as the party atmosphere (not a hostel type party) seemed to mock us and people seemed to prefer to dance and laugh rather than ease our journey - inconsiderate indeed. Becoming an inconvenience of quite monumental proportions - I think by this point we had lost some perspective - we eventually rounded the woman relieving herself in the street, hopped over the woman kicking her prone husband and barged through the procession itself no doubt setting the gringo cause in Bolivia back several years...
Leaving La Paz I reflected on time well spent and a more than promising start to Joey and Glenn’s little adventure. I looked forward to the next 2 and a bit weeks - spending time with a mate - at times just the two of us - catching up, chewing the fat, no-one else, keeping it simple - and then at other times being social, meeting new people, not judging, getting merrily inebriated...
Sunday, 3 August 2008
Potosi, Bolivia
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
¨Watch your rucksack!¨
¨Sorry?¨
The lady from the bus company with which I was travelling sounded her verbal warning and departed.
¨Be careful with your rucksack!¨
¨Excuse me?¨
The French girl offered her advice and disappeared into the melee.
After checking that I was not displaying an obvious disregard for my belongings or that I wasn’t receiving unwanted attention from someone of obvious ill repute I boarded my bus. Following the warnings and the unavoidable need to put my large rucksack (mainly dirty clothes following life on the slat flats) on the roof I held my little rucksack (everything of value) with a pincer like grip.
Taking my assigned seat next to a man of indeterminate age (¨Its so hard to tell with these indigenous types¨ - Charles) I eyed him wearily as a potential bag thief but it became clear that apart from desiring to sit in both his own and my seat and undertaking vigorous preparations for the World Coca leaf chewing championships he would pose no threat. Thus I sat and hoped quietly to myself that the next six hours (my first on a Bolivian bus) would pass incident free.
Alas such a hope was futile at best and despite repeatedly telling myself that - this is travelling (!) - the next 14 hours (14 being 8 more than 6 for the mathematically challenged) of my life would not prove to be the most pleasant I have ever spent.
Although a ´direct´service to Potosi the driver seemed more than happy to pick up and drop off passengers and their baggage (invariably brought onboard and occasionally including livestock) here, there and everywhere. As the bus filled to record breaking proportions - 57 people, 6 chickens, 5 children and 2 llamas - the grip upon my rucksack became ever tighter and the space which I occupied ever smaller.
Devoid of music - I feared the iPod as such an obvious example of the accoutrements of Western wealth seemed entirely inappropriate - and unable to read due to the pervasive, oppressive and truth be told slightly ominous darkness I sat surrounded on all sides but with only my thoughts for company.
And thus we proceeded and, given the age of the bus, the first couple of hours passed without great event, disturbing noise or pilfered rucksack. Bolivia is nothing if not interesting though and as our five minute convenience break stretched to half an hour and then to an hour including a tyre change and some miscellaneous banging emanating from the engine it became apparent the first hours were but false dawn and that our forecast 6 hour journey time was passing from fact through fiction and on into fantasy.
Trying as best she could the bus in which I started my journey soldiered on for another couple of hours - the periods spent travelling becoming ever shorter as the periods spent idle increased until at 4am (we were due to arrive in Potosi at 1am) the driver and bus gave up.
Therefore the next three, seemingly interminable, hours of my life would be spent in single digit degree temperature, 4500m on top of a mountain pass in remote (1 bus a day) Bolivia. Fortunately another bus had been arranged to pick us up - unfortunately the bus driver neglected to mention this fact as we waited quite unsure what was going on.
With no feeling in hands or feet (physically rather than emotionally) I stumbled to the new bus and refrained from gazing out of the window for the remainder of the journey as the driver - rather pointlessly to my mind - tried to claw back some lost time. An admirable intention perhaps but not when the corners being taken at some significant spend are precariously precipitous to say the least.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Descending from the bus relieved if a little tired I was given a rather harsh welcome as a violent wind accompanied by an assortment of dust, grit and urban detritus struck me straight across the face. First impressions of Potosi led me to think the bus journey was a pleasant experience.
With grit in my eyes I extracted the ever present guidebook from the closely watched rucksack and determined to walk to my lodgings (something to do with economising). Relying only on a notion of the right direction (the map being too small to show where I then stood) I set off rebuffing a barrage of taxi offers. Having walked for 10 minutes and having had no luck in matching a street name to my map I asked for directions in a shop - with perfect timing and not a smirk in sight the man pointed me straight back from whence I came. Thus a further 10 minutes later I stood back in the whirling dust of the bus station. After two further abortive attempts at finding the town centre I relented - sod the expense - hailed a taxi and 5 minutes and roughly 20p later found myself where I should have been an hour earlier.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
This time quite literally for if hell on Earth truly exists the mines of Potosi could surely stake their claim to that title.
Dispensing with the health and safety briefing in typically brisk Bolivian style and dressed in full mining get up myself and 23 others (Is anyone here travelling alone? That would be only me with my hand up then...) felt ready for the adventure to begin.
To set nerves jangling and before even setting foot within the mine we had witnessed our guide smoking a stick of dynamite, had each sipped 98% proof Alcohol Potable (a likely claim) and had an oxide of unidentified origin smeared on our faces. Bolivian tourism.
Bearing gifts of dynamite and fizzy drinks and chewing vociferously on coca leaves (they are supposed to help with the altitude) it was time for the real adventure to begin.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
The entrance to Satan’s salon, Beelzebub’s boudoir is marked by no special fanfare; St Peters evil twin does not greet or note your passing. Rather one passes through a seemingly innocuous hole where the darkness from within seems to fight with the sunshine for territory advancing further than it should. Through this portal man and metal have passed for many years creating riches and trouble in equal measure. For there is only one way in and if you are lucky, if it is not yet your time, one way out.
One step followed another, left after right. As the tunnel grew darker and ever smaller forward progress relied on senses other than sight. The heat slowly growing from unpleasant to unbearable as hands groped along wall and ceiling and the heart and head in unison told that turning back really was the thing to do. Claustrophobia, nausea and asthma stalked my every step. 20 metres in.
Mined for over 500 years the once rich silver lodes that attracted first the Incas, then the Spanish and even at times the English have long been excavated and thus now co-operatives of miners (only men for women in the mine are seen as bad luck) toil in medieval conditions for ever decreasing returns but spurred on - against the toxic fumes which leave not a lung untouched - lives in the mine can be long but retirement rarely is - by the hope for finding that rich seam, that last silver lode.
Generations of Potosi man has followed generations of Potosi man into the mines. Undeterred by the archaic conditions the mine remains resolutely and almost entirely manual and after one short burst of shovelling (more for the photo than to truly help - though I tried) I considered my mining career ended shortly after it had begun.
Beginning at a height of 4000m the mines are a physical, mental and emotional challenge. Lacking sufficient oxygen, enduring +35 degree heat and scrambling on hands and knees (and at times fully prone on stomach when the tunnels became quite disturbingly small) it is a tourist experience quite like any other.
Passing numerous other groups of foolhardy or just plain foolish souls there seemed to be people crawling throughout the bowels of the mine - left, right, up, down and save for the workers OUT OUT.
Part of an ever decreasing group as several of our member decided enough was enough we survived (for that is how it felt) and the tour complete our pace quickened with the promise of seeing the sky once more. Quite literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was worth the price of admission alone - to kill two clichés with one stone.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Our day was not finished yet though and after regaining collective breaths it was time to take a crash course in assembling a fully functioning bang for your buck dynamite complete.
Once finished by my fair hand the complete was lit, held for the obligatory panic stricken photo (given no mention of safety records I was rather glad to hold it first with the fuse a healthy length) and then transported at high speed, deposited on the mountain side where it exploded (after a not excessively long time) with some vigour roughly above where we had been about half an hour ago - and yes where the miners still were...
Potosi - I have been to hell and back...
¨Watch your rucksack!¨
¨Sorry?¨
The lady from the bus company with which I was travelling sounded her verbal warning and departed.
¨Be careful with your rucksack!¨
¨Excuse me?¨
The French girl offered her advice and disappeared into the melee.
After checking that I was not displaying an obvious disregard for my belongings or that I wasn’t receiving unwanted attention from someone of obvious ill repute I boarded my bus. Following the warnings and the unavoidable need to put my large rucksack (mainly dirty clothes following life on the slat flats) on the roof I held my little rucksack (everything of value) with a pincer like grip.
Taking my assigned seat next to a man of indeterminate age (¨Its so hard to tell with these indigenous types¨ - Charles) I eyed him wearily as a potential bag thief but it became clear that apart from desiring to sit in both his own and my seat and undertaking vigorous preparations for the World Coca leaf chewing championships he would pose no threat. Thus I sat and hoped quietly to myself that the next six hours (my first on a Bolivian bus) would pass incident free.
Alas such a hope was futile at best and despite repeatedly telling myself that - this is travelling (!) - the next 14 hours (14 being 8 more than 6 for the mathematically challenged) of my life would not prove to be the most pleasant I have ever spent.
Although a ´direct´service to Potosi the driver seemed more than happy to pick up and drop off passengers and their baggage (invariably brought onboard and occasionally including livestock) here, there and everywhere. As the bus filled to record breaking proportions - 57 people, 6 chickens, 5 children and 2 llamas - the grip upon my rucksack became ever tighter and the space which I occupied ever smaller.
Devoid of music - I feared the iPod as such an obvious example of the accoutrements of Western wealth seemed entirely inappropriate - and unable to read due to the pervasive, oppressive and truth be told slightly ominous darkness I sat surrounded on all sides but with only my thoughts for company.
And thus we proceeded and, given the age of the bus, the first couple of hours passed without great event, disturbing noise or pilfered rucksack. Bolivia is nothing if not interesting though and as our five minute convenience break stretched to half an hour and then to an hour including a tyre change and some miscellaneous banging emanating from the engine it became apparent the first hours were but false dawn and that our forecast 6 hour journey time was passing from fact through fiction and on into fantasy.
Trying as best she could the bus in which I started my journey soldiered on for another couple of hours - the periods spent travelling becoming ever shorter as the periods spent idle increased until at 4am (we were due to arrive in Potosi at 1am) the driver and bus gave up.
Therefore the next three, seemingly interminable, hours of my life would be spent in single digit degree temperature, 4500m on top of a mountain pass in remote (1 bus a day) Bolivia. Fortunately another bus had been arranged to pick us up - unfortunately the bus driver neglected to mention this fact as we waited quite unsure what was going on.
With no feeling in hands or feet (physically rather than emotionally) I stumbled to the new bus and refrained from gazing out of the window for the remainder of the journey as the driver - rather pointlessly to my mind - tried to claw back some lost time. An admirable intention perhaps but not when the corners being taken at some significant spend are precariously precipitous to say the least.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Descending from the bus relieved if a little tired I was given a rather harsh welcome as a violent wind accompanied by an assortment of dust, grit and urban detritus struck me straight across the face. First impressions of Potosi led me to think the bus journey was a pleasant experience.
With grit in my eyes I extracted the ever present guidebook from the closely watched rucksack and determined to walk to my lodgings (something to do with economising). Relying only on a notion of the right direction (the map being too small to show where I then stood) I set off rebuffing a barrage of taxi offers. Having walked for 10 minutes and having had no luck in matching a street name to my map I asked for directions in a shop - with perfect timing and not a smirk in sight the man pointed me straight back from whence I came. Thus a further 10 minutes later I stood back in the whirling dust of the bus station. After two further abortive attempts at finding the town centre I relented - sod the expense - hailed a taxi and 5 minutes and roughly 20p later found myself where I should have been an hour earlier.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
This time quite literally for if hell on Earth truly exists the mines of Potosi could surely stake their claim to that title.
Dispensing with the health and safety briefing in typically brisk Bolivian style and dressed in full mining get up myself and 23 others (Is anyone here travelling alone? That would be only me with my hand up then...) felt ready for the adventure to begin.
To set nerves jangling and before even setting foot within the mine we had witnessed our guide smoking a stick of dynamite, had each sipped 98% proof Alcohol Potable (a likely claim) and had an oxide of unidentified origin smeared on our faces. Bolivian tourism.
Bearing gifts of dynamite and fizzy drinks and chewing vociferously on coca leaves (they are supposed to help with the altitude) it was time for the real adventure to begin.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
The entrance to Satan’s salon, Beelzebub’s boudoir is marked by no special fanfare; St Peters evil twin does not greet or note your passing. Rather one passes through a seemingly innocuous hole where the darkness from within seems to fight with the sunshine for territory advancing further than it should. Through this portal man and metal have passed for many years creating riches and trouble in equal measure. For there is only one way in and if you are lucky, if it is not yet your time, one way out.
One step followed another, left after right. As the tunnel grew darker and ever smaller forward progress relied on senses other than sight. The heat slowly growing from unpleasant to unbearable as hands groped along wall and ceiling and the heart and head in unison told that turning back really was the thing to do. Claustrophobia, nausea and asthma stalked my every step. 20 metres in.
Mined for over 500 years the once rich silver lodes that attracted first the Incas, then the Spanish and even at times the English have long been excavated and thus now co-operatives of miners (only men for women in the mine are seen as bad luck) toil in medieval conditions for ever decreasing returns but spurred on - against the toxic fumes which leave not a lung untouched - lives in the mine can be long but retirement rarely is - by the hope for finding that rich seam, that last silver lode.
Generations of Potosi man has followed generations of Potosi man into the mines. Undeterred by the archaic conditions the mine remains resolutely and almost entirely manual and after one short burst of shovelling (more for the photo than to truly help - though I tried) I considered my mining career ended shortly after it had begun.
Beginning at a height of 4000m the mines are a physical, mental and emotional challenge. Lacking sufficient oxygen, enduring +35 degree heat and scrambling on hands and knees (and at times fully prone on stomach when the tunnels became quite disturbingly small) it is a tourist experience quite like any other.
Passing numerous other groups of foolhardy or just plain foolish souls there seemed to be people crawling throughout the bowels of the mine - left, right, up, down and save for the workers OUT OUT.
Part of an ever decreasing group as several of our member decided enough was enough we survived (for that is how it felt) and the tour complete our pace quickened with the promise of seeing the sky once more. Quite literally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel was worth the price of admission alone - to kill two clichés with one stone.
Into the mouth of hell I stepped...
Our day was not finished yet though and after regaining collective breaths it was time to take a crash course in assembling a fully functioning bang for your buck dynamite complete.
Once finished by my fair hand the complete was lit, held for the obligatory panic stricken photo (given no mention of safety records I was rather glad to hold it first with the fuse a healthy length) and then transported at high speed, deposited on the mountain side where it exploded (after a not excessively long time) with some vigour roughly above where we had been about half an hour ago - and yes where the miners still were...
Potosi - I have been to hell and back...
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Uyuni, Bolivia
For today I travelled to the end of the world - and when I reached the end I found no-one to meet me there...
And thus at 2am I stepped off the train from Villazon into the freezing night time desolation of Uyuni. After a brief tour of the town and several unsuccessful efforts to secure accommodation eventually I checked into the Hotel Avenida - one should perhaps not expect much for the princely sum of 2 pounds a night but a room warmer than the outside temperature would perhaps be a start...bedding down under 5 blankets, a quilt and my sleeping bag I shivered myself off to a fitful sleep...
Uyuni from a travellers perspective exists almost entirely, nope that’s wrong, exists entirely for the purpose of serving trips to the nearby Salar De Uyuni (salt flats). Apart from arranging tours and buying woollen goods there is little else to do when in Uyuni - indeed even a day spent in the town leads one to contemplative thoughts of what went wrong and quite how to move on...the perpetual time warp of groundhog day seeming a cornucopia of possibility by comparison.
With these thoughts in mind I awoke early and after defrosting in the shower which only maintained heat when trickling with the force of post marathon spit I ventured into town determined to do as the guidebook suggested and shop around for a good deal on a good tour with a reputable company. Armed with a list of questions regarding such essentials as menu, programme of activities and safety records I was prepared to negotiate, haggle, play one against the other and not say yes until I was sure the best deal had been secured. And thus I returned to the hotel 5 minutes later having agreed to do the tour with the first lady that approached me - she seemed nice and life’s too short for such things I think.
Perhaps Uyuni's gift is the gift of time for in the day between the arranging of the tour and the tour itself minutes passed as though they were hours and hours crawled along as though they had forgotten the need to move on. However with an almost imperceptible inevitability day became night and as the sun waned the temperature began to fall slowly to its quite disturbingly low levels. Had Kelvin been to Uyuni I feel sure he would have set the absolute zero benchmark just that little bit lower than -273.
After having a farewell dinner with my two rather moody Irish travelling companions (4 weeks of travelling - 7 combined weeks of food poisoning) I settled down to sleep fully clothed and draped in a selection of the best the local Alpacas could muster - sleep was again fitful but Mr Frost and Mr Bite were at least kept at bay...
And thus to the salt flats - travelling invariably by Toyota Land Cruiser the streets of Uyuni throng in the morning with tour after tour as numerous travellers sate their need for another tick in the travelling box and head out onto the salt flats for 1, 2, 3 or 4 day trips around a quite surprising landscape. Joined by Elias our driver (husband and father rather reassuringly) our tour group consisted of little old me, two Irish peoples (fortunately not of the ill moody variety), two Brazilians (a couple - sometimes I just can’t catch a break) and a Frenchman (nothing to say about that).
And quite a merry little band we formed as we set out upon one of geography and geology’s weirdest and most wonderful creations - the Salar de Uyuni. Thrust skywards by a monumental shift in tectonic plates the Salar was once a sea like any other but is now a blinding expanse of salt all the water having long since evaporated under the intense gaze of the sun. Towns line the shore seemingly remnants of another age when people came to bathe, fish and play at the waters edge. Where the Salar touches the land the last lapping of the final waves of a once liquid and very much moving expanse can be seen frozen in salt forever more.
After a full day on the salt flats and the (almost) obligatory perspective shots having been obtained we spent the next two days in and around the lakes, geysers and other geographical wonders of the region. Stopping briefly at villages here and there and taking time for yet more photos time outside of the 4x4 was welcomed by all - after a while and one flat iPod we all needed a break from Elias´ rather limited musical repertoire - the same song 7 times in a row is a bit much for anyone. One village sprung a surprising highlight when one young Bolivian chap - in the midst of a game of football, and on hearing that one of our member was French - waved his hand in front of his nose - certain stereotypes are very reassuring.
And thus after three relatively incident free days (apart from the Frenchman who performed a back flip and landed on his face) we returned to Uyuni still shivering from the hot springs in which we bathed at 7am on our last morning. The translation of Aguas Thermales is not in doubt but the validity of the claim, considering the proximity of vast ice patches to where we swam, perhaps is...
Deciding that another night in Uyuni was too much even for an occasional laconic traveller such as myself I booked a ticket for Potosi and having not been back in town even for two hours I found myself sat on a rickety old bus heading into the night and into the mouth of hell...
And thus at 2am I stepped off the train from Villazon into the freezing night time desolation of Uyuni. After a brief tour of the town and several unsuccessful efforts to secure accommodation eventually I checked into the Hotel Avenida - one should perhaps not expect much for the princely sum of 2 pounds a night but a room warmer than the outside temperature would perhaps be a start...bedding down under 5 blankets, a quilt and my sleeping bag I shivered myself off to a fitful sleep...
Uyuni from a travellers perspective exists almost entirely, nope that’s wrong, exists entirely for the purpose of serving trips to the nearby Salar De Uyuni (salt flats). Apart from arranging tours and buying woollen goods there is little else to do when in Uyuni - indeed even a day spent in the town leads one to contemplative thoughts of what went wrong and quite how to move on...the perpetual time warp of groundhog day seeming a cornucopia of possibility by comparison.
With these thoughts in mind I awoke early and after defrosting in the shower which only maintained heat when trickling with the force of post marathon spit I ventured into town determined to do as the guidebook suggested and shop around for a good deal on a good tour with a reputable company. Armed with a list of questions regarding such essentials as menu, programme of activities and safety records I was prepared to negotiate, haggle, play one against the other and not say yes until I was sure the best deal had been secured. And thus I returned to the hotel 5 minutes later having agreed to do the tour with the first lady that approached me - she seemed nice and life’s too short for such things I think.
Perhaps Uyuni's gift is the gift of time for in the day between the arranging of the tour and the tour itself minutes passed as though they were hours and hours crawled along as though they had forgotten the need to move on. However with an almost imperceptible inevitability day became night and as the sun waned the temperature began to fall slowly to its quite disturbingly low levels. Had Kelvin been to Uyuni I feel sure he would have set the absolute zero benchmark just that little bit lower than -273.
After having a farewell dinner with my two rather moody Irish travelling companions (4 weeks of travelling - 7 combined weeks of food poisoning) I settled down to sleep fully clothed and draped in a selection of the best the local Alpacas could muster - sleep was again fitful but Mr Frost and Mr Bite were at least kept at bay...
And thus to the salt flats - travelling invariably by Toyota Land Cruiser the streets of Uyuni throng in the morning with tour after tour as numerous travellers sate their need for another tick in the travelling box and head out onto the salt flats for 1, 2, 3 or 4 day trips around a quite surprising landscape. Joined by Elias our driver (husband and father rather reassuringly) our tour group consisted of little old me, two Irish peoples (fortunately not of the ill moody variety), two Brazilians (a couple - sometimes I just can’t catch a break) and a Frenchman (nothing to say about that).
And quite a merry little band we formed as we set out upon one of geography and geology’s weirdest and most wonderful creations - the Salar de Uyuni. Thrust skywards by a monumental shift in tectonic plates the Salar was once a sea like any other but is now a blinding expanse of salt all the water having long since evaporated under the intense gaze of the sun. Towns line the shore seemingly remnants of another age when people came to bathe, fish and play at the waters edge. Where the Salar touches the land the last lapping of the final waves of a once liquid and very much moving expanse can be seen frozen in salt forever more.
After a full day on the salt flats and the (almost) obligatory perspective shots having been obtained we spent the next two days in and around the lakes, geysers and other geographical wonders of the region. Stopping briefly at villages here and there and taking time for yet more photos time outside of the 4x4 was welcomed by all - after a while and one flat iPod we all needed a break from Elias´ rather limited musical repertoire - the same song 7 times in a row is a bit much for anyone. One village sprung a surprising highlight when one young Bolivian chap - in the midst of a game of football, and on hearing that one of our member was French - waved his hand in front of his nose - certain stereotypes are very reassuring.
And thus after three relatively incident free days (apart from the Frenchman who performed a back flip and landed on his face) we returned to Uyuni still shivering from the hot springs in which we bathed at 7am on our last morning. The translation of Aguas Thermales is not in doubt but the validity of the claim, considering the proximity of vast ice patches to where we swam, perhaps is...
Deciding that another night in Uyuni was too much even for an occasional laconic traveller such as myself I booked a ticket for Potosi and having not been back in town even for two hours I found myself sat on a rickety old bus heading into the night and into the mouth of hell...
Friday, 1 August 2008
Villazon, Bolivia
And thus to Bolivia where life gets cheaper in more ways than one...
Not too much to say about Villazon as, at best, it is a town to pass through. After avoiding the myriad of contraband goods on sale and having warmed myself in the midday sun (along with a couple of mad dogs - good idea for a song?) I boarded the train to Uyuni with a random assemblage of other travellers met along the way.
Train travel boasts a unique fillip over that of travelling by bus - the buffet car. After finishing a rather ominous looking dinner it was time to try and blank out the bumpy track, aging rolling stock and precipitous drops which escorted our rather slow progress. In the absence of sleeping pills, horse tranquilisers or stories beginning - When I was in... - it was time to decamp to the buffet car and proceed to get quite merrily drunk. The hangover with which I awoke at 2am the next morning in the minus temperatures of Uyuni was truly a thing to cherish...
And thus to the end of the world...
Friday, 4 July 2008
La Quiaca, Argentina
La Quiaca – Argentina’s border town with Bolivia.
Time to say goodbye to Argentina after a very happy time exploring but a few of the wonders of this varied land...alas, at 7am in the bitter cold - tears were not shed!
Next stop Bolivia...
Time to say goodbye to Argentina after a very happy time exploring but a few of the wonders of this varied land...alas, at 7am in the bitter cold - tears were not shed!
Next stop Bolivia...
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Cafayete, Argentina
In the style of 999...
Our story today follows the adventures of Glenn Cumming. A 27 year old accountant from England we join Glenn around 6 weeks into his 7 month jaunt around the world.
Tired from the travelling undertaken thus far Glenn decided to rest and recuperate for a few days in the quiet Argentinean mountain town of Cafayete - how in the days to come he would wish to have followed that original intention...
Bedding down early after securing accommodation Glenn went to bed intending to spend the next day meandering slowly by bike around Cafayete and its beautiful surroundings.
Awaking early after an uncharacteristically good night’s sleep Glenn decided to set off early - the morning sun encouraging his, as it would transpire, hasty and ill prepared departure...
Travelling by bike Glenn made his way without too much trouble or bother to the ever shifting sand dunes whose presence in an Andean landscape is truly a sight to behold. Already feeling the heat of the slowly climbing sun it was becoming apparent that Glenn had failed to foresee the severity of conditions to which he would be exposed and that he was not ready for even a mild day of adventure. Attired in flimsy plimsolls, shorts, t-shirt and still carrying an injury sustained some weeks earlier whilst snowboarding Glenn’s progress was slow indeed. His faltering pace was compounded by the affects of altitude and further exposed him to the full extent of the sun’s energy sapping glare...
Journeying to the base of a nearby mountain in order to sample the reputedly fine vista Glenn did not heed the warning of his fading condition which several wrong turns, slips and stumbles should have provided...
Stopping briefly for a wholly inadequate lunch Glenn was forced to move on rather rapidly by the attentions of the local insects. Realising he had set off too soon Glenn stopped again to cool down and digest his lunch - a lunch which would prove to provide little in the way of the energy needed to cope with the dramas yet to unfold...
Tricked by the relaxing cycle down the hill he had earlier climbed and taken in by a vista of Inca irrigation channels and vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see Glenn’s resolve to return home faltered, wilted and ultimately collapsed...
Buoyed by a drink of water Glenn decided to head out of Cafayete with the intention of visiting the forceful waterfalls of the Rio Colorado. Only hindsight can truly expose the folly of that decision...
Dehydrated, burnt, tired and with little or nothing left in the way of energy reserves Glenn wound his way up hill to the start of the waterfall trail. Deciding not to entrust his bike to the attentions of several entrepreneurial young local children his progress did not halt to provide the rest he needed. Rather, onwards he pressed...
Obtaining the start of the walk Glenn ignored the advancing hour, the waning sun and his aching body and instead pressed on further...
In his increasingly delirious state borne of exposure and fatigue Glenn proceeded to secure his lock to a nearby tree but alas not his bike - a mistake thankfully pointed out by a local guide who only wanted small change for the favour provided...
Making relatively easy progress on the upwards leg of the journey Glenn stopped frequently to admire the views and take in all that surrounded him in this green and fertile valley. Arid landscapes and water caressed foliage nestled in close proximity tempting the eye to look every which way. Having lost all the others with whom he begun the ascent Glenn ignored his solitary state and kept pushing on with each step taken and each corner turned promising more visual delights...
Stopping ultimately at a particularly picturesque spot Glenn decided to kneel down and take several photos for the sake of posterity...
In rising from his crouched position the culmination of the day’s excess hit Glenn with full force. Almost collapsing he grasped the nearest rock for support hoping the light headed feeling would pass. Struggling to focus and newly aware of his predicament and fatigue several moments passed in determined concentration as he tried to cling desperately to consciousness.
As the sun fell behind the valley Glenn was aware that the once friendly surroundings now seemed to be a prison and far from the picture postcard they had been but moments earlier. Glenn felt a shiver as shadows descended all around and the path to safety became increasingly obscured...
Deciding to linger not a moment longer Glenn bid a hasty retreat back down the track - or what he thought was the track - from whence he had came...
In his light headed state the route became ever more blurred - stumbling from rock to rock, cut to ribbons by the foliage he had earlier admired the world and nature in its every manifestation seemed to mock the sorry figure Glenn now presented...
Taking wrong turn after wrong turn the journey of descent represented double the time needed earlier for that of the ascent.
Eventually spying his bike tethered to a tree some 50 metres below Glenn threw himself bodily down a scree slope desperate to escape the drama that enveloped and threatened to consume him...
Riding home guided only by instinct and need Glenn wobbled from side to side over tree root and rock but eventually found his way back.
Collapsing in a heap the only fortuitous moment of the day found Glens resting spot to be outside Mirandas Heladaria (Ice Cream Parlour). The sugar and indeed the taste of one scoop of lemon and one scoop of Torrentes (white wine) ice cream provided the boost Glenn needed to conquer the further 50 metres home...
Semi comatose he could only be roused by the promise of Salta´s finest cerveza negra (black beer) and an Asado (barbeque) cooked by chef of 6 years Alex...
The combination of the two and a warm bed provided a far more pleasant end to the day than had seemed possible but hours earlier.
We caught up with Glenn sometime later recuperating in Cafayete aided by a plate endowed with a selection of local cuisine and a glass of the local red:
- When I look back it scares me - so many signs said turn back but I ignored them all. For all that I went through I feel lucky to have made it home in one piece.
A sober tale indeed.
Our story today follows the adventures of Glenn Cumming. A 27 year old accountant from England we join Glenn around 6 weeks into his 7 month jaunt around the world.
Tired from the travelling undertaken thus far Glenn decided to rest and recuperate for a few days in the quiet Argentinean mountain town of Cafayete - how in the days to come he would wish to have followed that original intention...
Bedding down early after securing accommodation Glenn went to bed intending to spend the next day meandering slowly by bike around Cafayete and its beautiful surroundings.
Awaking early after an uncharacteristically good night’s sleep Glenn decided to set off early - the morning sun encouraging his, as it would transpire, hasty and ill prepared departure...
Travelling by bike Glenn made his way without too much trouble or bother to the ever shifting sand dunes whose presence in an Andean landscape is truly a sight to behold. Already feeling the heat of the slowly climbing sun it was becoming apparent that Glenn had failed to foresee the severity of conditions to which he would be exposed and that he was not ready for even a mild day of adventure. Attired in flimsy plimsolls, shorts, t-shirt and still carrying an injury sustained some weeks earlier whilst snowboarding Glenn’s progress was slow indeed. His faltering pace was compounded by the affects of altitude and further exposed him to the full extent of the sun’s energy sapping glare...
Journeying to the base of a nearby mountain in order to sample the reputedly fine vista Glenn did not heed the warning of his fading condition which several wrong turns, slips and stumbles should have provided...
Stopping briefly for a wholly inadequate lunch Glenn was forced to move on rather rapidly by the attentions of the local insects. Realising he had set off too soon Glenn stopped again to cool down and digest his lunch - a lunch which would prove to provide little in the way of the energy needed to cope with the dramas yet to unfold...
Tricked by the relaxing cycle down the hill he had earlier climbed and taken in by a vista of Inca irrigation channels and vineyards stretching as far as the eye could see Glenn’s resolve to return home faltered, wilted and ultimately collapsed...
Buoyed by a drink of water Glenn decided to head out of Cafayete with the intention of visiting the forceful waterfalls of the Rio Colorado. Only hindsight can truly expose the folly of that decision...
Dehydrated, burnt, tired and with little or nothing left in the way of energy reserves Glenn wound his way up hill to the start of the waterfall trail. Deciding not to entrust his bike to the attentions of several entrepreneurial young local children his progress did not halt to provide the rest he needed. Rather, onwards he pressed...
Obtaining the start of the walk Glenn ignored the advancing hour, the waning sun and his aching body and instead pressed on further...
In his increasingly delirious state borne of exposure and fatigue Glenn proceeded to secure his lock to a nearby tree but alas not his bike - a mistake thankfully pointed out by a local guide who only wanted small change for the favour provided...
Making relatively easy progress on the upwards leg of the journey Glenn stopped frequently to admire the views and take in all that surrounded him in this green and fertile valley. Arid landscapes and water caressed foliage nestled in close proximity tempting the eye to look every which way. Having lost all the others with whom he begun the ascent Glenn ignored his solitary state and kept pushing on with each step taken and each corner turned promising more visual delights...
Stopping ultimately at a particularly picturesque spot Glenn decided to kneel down and take several photos for the sake of posterity...
In rising from his crouched position the culmination of the day’s excess hit Glenn with full force. Almost collapsing he grasped the nearest rock for support hoping the light headed feeling would pass. Struggling to focus and newly aware of his predicament and fatigue several moments passed in determined concentration as he tried to cling desperately to consciousness.
As the sun fell behind the valley Glenn was aware that the once friendly surroundings now seemed to be a prison and far from the picture postcard they had been but moments earlier. Glenn felt a shiver as shadows descended all around and the path to safety became increasingly obscured...
Deciding to linger not a moment longer Glenn bid a hasty retreat back down the track - or what he thought was the track - from whence he had came...
In his light headed state the route became ever more blurred - stumbling from rock to rock, cut to ribbons by the foliage he had earlier admired the world and nature in its every manifestation seemed to mock the sorry figure Glenn now presented...
Taking wrong turn after wrong turn the journey of descent represented double the time needed earlier for that of the ascent.
Eventually spying his bike tethered to a tree some 50 metres below Glenn threw himself bodily down a scree slope desperate to escape the drama that enveloped and threatened to consume him...
Riding home guided only by instinct and need Glenn wobbled from side to side over tree root and rock but eventually found his way back.
Collapsing in a heap the only fortuitous moment of the day found Glens resting spot to be outside Mirandas Heladaria (Ice Cream Parlour). The sugar and indeed the taste of one scoop of lemon and one scoop of Torrentes (white wine) ice cream provided the boost Glenn needed to conquer the further 50 metres home...
Semi comatose he could only be roused by the promise of Salta´s finest cerveza negra (black beer) and an Asado (barbeque) cooked by chef of 6 years Alex...
The combination of the two and a warm bed provided a far more pleasant end to the day than had seemed possible but hours earlier.
We caught up with Glenn sometime later recuperating in Cafayete aided by a plate endowed with a selection of local cuisine and a glass of the local red:
- When I look back it scares me - so many signs said turn back but I ignored them all. For all that I went through I feel lucky to have made it home in one piece.
A sober tale indeed.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Cachi, Argentina
To Pachamama...
The scene appeared a picture;
Mother Nature’s finest vista spread forth;
An orgy of bucolic beauty.
A painter of incomparable skill;
Her vistas burn the retina and indelibly lift the soul.
Bathed in the suns ever affectionate gaze she rose up to meet his stare;
Absorbing the affection he so willingly gave.
Glowing further still under the watchful eye of her eternal suitor;
Her reciprocation radiated and both enjoyed the union of heaven and earth.
The perfection of absolute tranquillity could not be broken with any conviction,
The persistent flow of the lands lifeblood;
The efforts of the breeze but perfunctory punctuation in an extended verse of perfection.
Animals lay still, hiding in the shade;
Knowing that movement is for other times.
Man closed his doors and windows;
Intending to sleep when work was no longer possible.
Strands of her pure silver hair threaded through the scene;
Tumbling over her clothes tailored from folds of the greenest velvet;
Concealing the troubles she keeps hidden beneath.
Ruptures, rents, cracks and crevasses lay upon her body;
Evidence of her indeterminable age;
Evidence of the struggles of days gone past;
For her beauty is not without pain.
Scarred by mans need to travel, his need to work, his need to sustain;
Where he no longer moves new life spreads forth with abandon;
Slowly and with patience borne of a life beyond mortal realms;
Beginning to reclaim all that is rightfully hers.
For in the beginning she gives life;
Provides that by which we need to grow; and
In the end, after the last breath, she provides refuge;
The final resting place for earthly vessels no longer needed.
She is the beginning of all things.
She nurtures and protects comforts and cares.
Creation springs from her every effort.
Her every movement creates beauty afresh;
Dramatic or subtle but beauty nonetheless.
In the beginning we are of her;
In the end we become her once again.
Perpetually the guardian of life and of death;
She takes from one and gives to the other.
Battered and bruised, she has been used and abused by her very own children;
She wears the indignity of pain with pride;
But with the reticent and sad knowledge that this life’s mistakes;
Will be visited upon her children’s children;
With a force too great even for her to bear.
Knowing not of borders and caring not for the disputes of man;
Her riches are plundered and pillaged.
Unappreciated by those she cares for her anger can be savage.
But in her quieter moments she is kind;
Her breath warming and her bosom a place to rest.
For she is mother earth and we her children.
The scene appeared a picture;
Mother Nature’s finest vista spread forth;
An orgy of bucolic beauty.
A painter of incomparable skill;
Her vistas burn the retina and indelibly lift the soul.
Bathed in the suns ever affectionate gaze she rose up to meet his stare;
Absorbing the affection he so willingly gave.
Glowing further still under the watchful eye of her eternal suitor;
Her reciprocation radiated and both enjoyed the union of heaven and earth.
The perfection of absolute tranquillity could not be broken with any conviction,
The persistent flow of the lands lifeblood;
The efforts of the breeze but perfunctory punctuation in an extended verse of perfection.
Animals lay still, hiding in the shade;
Knowing that movement is for other times.
Man closed his doors and windows;
Intending to sleep when work was no longer possible.
Strands of her pure silver hair threaded through the scene;
Tumbling over her clothes tailored from folds of the greenest velvet;
Concealing the troubles she keeps hidden beneath.
Ruptures, rents, cracks and crevasses lay upon her body;
Evidence of her indeterminable age;
Evidence of the struggles of days gone past;
For her beauty is not without pain.
Scarred by mans need to travel, his need to work, his need to sustain;
Where he no longer moves new life spreads forth with abandon;
Slowly and with patience borne of a life beyond mortal realms;
Beginning to reclaim all that is rightfully hers.
For in the beginning she gives life;
Provides that by which we need to grow; and
In the end, after the last breath, she provides refuge;
The final resting place for earthly vessels no longer needed.
She is the beginning of all things.
She nurtures and protects comforts and cares.
Creation springs from her every effort.
Her every movement creates beauty afresh;
Dramatic or subtle but beauty nonetheless.
In the beginning we are of her;
In the end we become her once again.
Perpetually the guardian of life and of death;
She takes from one and gives to the other.
Battered and bruised, she has been used and abused by her very own children;
She wears the indignity of pain with pride;
But with the reticent and sad knowledge that this life’s mistakes;
Will be visited upon her children’s children;
With a force too great even for her to bear.
Knowing not of borders and caring not for the disputes of man;
Her riches are plundered and pillaged.
Unappreciated by those she cares for her anger can be savage.
But in her quieter moments she is kind;
Her breath warming and her bosom a place to rest.
For she is mother earth and we her children.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Salta, Argentina
As my guidebook suggests Salta is - a romantic city and gateway for exploring Argentina’s amazing North West - whilst, alas, I cant comment on the former statement I can on the latter (but not here - see the Cachi and Cafayete entries)...
Deciding to spend a couple of days relaxing in Salta's temperate climes proved a sensible decision indeed. Initially catching up on some much needed sleep my arrival in the town coincided with the weekend and thus an excuse (as though one were needed) to stock up on edible, beef based steaks and decent drink before the entering the culinary unknown that is Bolivia!
My time in Salta was spent wandering the streets, visiting the odd museum and basking in the gaze of the one whose attention I crave so - despite the fact she has treated me with such contempt, and hurt me so, in the past - the sun.
And a very pleasant time it was too. Salta is rare for an Argentinean city in that it has retained much of its colonial heritage (and we all love the architecture of former colonial oppressors and learning how a proud people were oppressed don’t we?). It is also provides a home to numerous empanada vendors meaning sating my addiction was but an easy task - I can appease my guilt at such reckless consumption with the knowledge that a little extra paunch in the cold nights of Bolivia will be no bad thing...
Mention should go to a young character I encountered in Salta. Sebastian, I think, is Argentinean and has rather bravely decided to travel around his home country despite being completely deaf and dumb. Communicating through the use of his mobile phone, lip reading and sign language he makes his way from one place to another without it seems too much trouble. My occasional tendency to moan at life’s little tribulations was put into sharp focus (alas, only for a short while) by meeting Sebastian. Annunciating in my best Spanish and using sign language, which whilst perhaps not internationally recognised seemed to do the job, I invited Sebastian to join us for a night out and he duly accepted. Indeed, from shady memory, he was having a just super time when I left a little later due to my equilibrium having once again departed me...
What else? Truth be told not that much for the blog to concern itself with...perhaps the city planners are worth a mention. In deciding to dedicate one whole street to the pursuit of the inebriated state - it contains nothing but bars - they have made the occasional drunkards life an easy one! Further eradicating traffic from said street means stumbling around is a safer pastime than it sometimes proves. Sitting and watching Salta’s finest (and even talking to a couple…) proved a just lovely way to while away those evening hours...
Ever onwards...
Deciding to spend a couple of days relaxing in Salta's temperate climes proved a sensible decision indeed. Initially catching up on some much needed sleep my arrival in the town coincided with the weekend and thus an excuse (as though one were needed) to stock up on edible, beef based steaks and decent drink before the entering the culinary unknown that is Bolivia!
My time in Salta was spent wandering the streets, visiting the odd museum and basking in the gaze of the one whose attention I crave so - despite the fact she has treated me with such contempt, and hurt me so, in the past - the sun.
And a very pleasant time it was too. Salta is rare for an Argentinean city in that it has retained much of its colonial heritage (and we all love the architecture of former colonial oppressors and learning how a proud people were oppressed don’t we?). It is also provides a home to numerous empanada vendors meaning sating my addiction was but an easy task - I can appease my guilt at such reckless consumption with the knowledge that a little extra paunch in the cold nights of Bolivia will be no bad thing...
Mention should go to a young character I encountered in Salta. Sebastian, I think, is Argentinean and has rather bravely decided to travel around his home country despite being completely deaf and dumb. Communicating through the use of his mobile phone, lip reading and sign language he makes his way from one place to another without it seems too much trouble. My occasional tendency to moan at life’s little tribulations was put into sharp focus (alas, only for a short while) by meeting Sebastian. Annunciating in my best Spanish and using sign language, which whilst perhaps not internationally recognised seemed to do the job, I invited Sebastian to join us for a night out and he duly accepted. Indeed, from shady memory, he was having a just super time when I left a little later due to my equilibrium having once again departed me...
What else? Truth be told not that much for the blog to concern itself with...perhaps the city planners are worth a mention. In deciding to dedicate one whole street to the pursuit of the inebriated state - it contains nothing but bars - they have made the occasional drunkards life an easy one! Further eradicating traffic from said street means stumbling around is a safer pastime than it sometimes proves. Sitting and watching Salta’s finest (and even talking to a couple…) proved a just lovely way to while away those evening hours...
Ever onwards...
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Santiago, Chile
On the basis that I will return to Santiago at the end of my travels around South America I will refrain from going into too much detail here of my brief visit. Indeed the day or so I spent in Santiago was mainly passed attending to the administrative tasks that build up as one tries to leave responsibility and the real world behind...
However I did make time to indulge in a couple of activities - one of which was to take an almost compulsory photo of little ol' me stood outside Cumming underground station, on the corner of Avenida Frederico Cumming. Apparently one of my forefathers (I have no doubts the lineage is strong) was a pretty big queso in these parts - how proud he would be to see the impact I have had upon London...
The other activity of the day was taking a trip to Santiago city zoo - perhaps the most depressing visit of my travels so far. In a city where certain cars are banned from the roads on certain days should the air be deemed too toxic (isn’t toxic, too toxic?) it seems slightly sadistic to situate a zoo on a hill in the midst of the toxic funk. Further limiting the animals to areas in no way proportionate to their needs only compounded the misery that was tangibly etched on the inhabitants (read inmates) faces. The polar bears were a particularly sad sight, their coats dulled by pollution and their vigour robbed by captivity.
The one lighter moment the zoo did present however was the sight of a little black cat walking nonchantly through a cage of over 20 Condors. The little blighters supreme indifference to the watchful gaze of the numerous killing machines that stalked his (or her) every move was quite something to behold - are Condors superstitious?
Back to Argentina methinks...
However I did make time to indulge in a couple of activities - one of which was to take an almost compulsory photo of little ol' me stood outside Cumming underground station, on the corner of Avenida Frederico Cumming. Apparently one of my forefathers (I have no doubts the lineage is strong) was a pretty big queso in these parts - how proud he would be to see the impact I have had upon London...
The other activity of the day was taking a trip to Santiago city zoo - perhaps the most depressing visit of my travels so far. In a city where certain cars are banned from the roads on certain days should the air be deemed too toxic (isn’t toxic, too toxic?) it seems slightly sadistic to situate a zoo on a hill in the midst of the toxic funk. Further limiting the animals to areas in no way proportionate to their needs only compounded the misery that was tangibly etched on the inhabitants (read inmates) faces. The polar bears were a particularly sad sight, their coats dulled by pollution and their vigour robbed by captivity.
The one lighter moment the zoo did present however was the sight of a little black cat walking nonchantly through a cage of over 20 Condors. The little blighters supreme indifference to the watchful gaze of the numerous killing machines that stalked his (or her) every move was quite something to behold - are Condors superstitious?
Back to Argentina methinks...
Monday, 2 June 2008
Valparaiso, Chile
And thus following on in quick succession from Vina del Mar a brief summary of my time in Valparaiso.
Valparaiso is very much Chiles second city surpassed in almost all respects by its close and far larger neighbour Santiago. Recent attempts to enliven the city have included locating the new Chilean parliament building there and naming the city a capital of culture (think Liverpool, apologies in advance). However these, at best notional, acts have done little to change the fortunes of a resolutely working class city which remains off limits for the more discerning Santiagan (again, not sure).
However, undeterred we decided to spend a night and day seeing what Valparaiso had to offer and after securing accommodation and a rather pricey dinner - the guidebook says the seafood in Valparaiso is to die for (to use such unfortunate parlance) but on the basis of my experience I really couldn’t comment - we ventured for a drink in the local bar - helpfully if a little miserably owned by an English man:
...Its Ok here but I am stuck because the wife won’t let me take the kids back the UK...
Despite Senor Englishman’s misgivings over his adoptive home he supplied us with a sheet entitled - What to do with three days in Valparaiso - ambitious to say the least given the content (Day 2 was weak and Day 3 practically blank - go to a cafe, drink a coffee) and the fact we competed the first day in circa an hour. The author of the itinerary is also worthy of a mention for a rather apparent predilection for the Village People and the world of high camp and homosexual stereotypes they embraced. To give a flavour of what it is that I mean two highlights of day 1 were eating lunch in the fire station canteen where no less than two troops were based (heaven forefend, be still my beating heart) and visiting the nearby naval outfitters for a little twirl in a sailors togs...I shall refrain from mentioning the bar known as being - an off duty sailors hang out...
Unfortunately we were too late for lunch and the outfitters were closed - by which I mean the building in which they were housed was now but rubble. However the port is still there (it’s a UNESCO world heritage site don’t you know? What the criterion for such an award is I am unsure as it seems remarkably easy in this part of the world to secure such status) and we completed the obligatory tourist tick in a box of a boat tour around the harbour without incident or if I am honest a great deal of interest...
Further our walking tour for a while became a riding the funiculars tour. These quite severely angled railroads provide access to the city’s cerros and the differing communities to whom they provide refuge. The angles of the houses which cling limp like to a land surely never really intended for mass settlement produce a confusion of angles usually only witnessed when really quite inebriated. This element of the itinerary was also curtailed somewhat as the advice given by the trusted (if increasingly wholly inaccurate) sheet was - not to linger to long, for this is the poor party of town - sound advice indeed but also saying where the poor part of town was would have helped. However, such knowledge was provided by a local police officer which rather kindly if a little bluntly pointed out - its not safe for you here...
Perhaps Valparaiso’s most interesting side is in the artistic creativity that a city past its heyday (I am assuming it had one once) has bred in its inhabitants. Surrounded on all sides by hills, or cerros to give their Spanish name, the hill, or cerro (next time I will just put cerro) on which we stayed has become a centre for an alternative community of artists, designers and other bohemian types that us traveller types just love to be associated with. Let us be honest the centre of cities are for tourists, not for the likes of us, we want edge, we desire dirt, need grit and a large dollop of the underbelly. And in this cerro there was plenty to be had. Not a wall remains which hasn’t felt the touch of a spray can nor a cafe that doesn’t offer at least one product that is at least probably fair-trade. The bars remain in that odd state where one is unsure if they are open, closed or safe to be inside - issues over hygiene are to be left well behind. In this vein the remains of the day were spent wandering the streets taking pictures of said graffiti (a complement of theft?), drinking (potentially fair-trade) coffee, visiting the boutiques (the friend more than I, men’s clothes were hard to find - apparently we just aren’t interesting enough for the bohemians).
And onto Santiago...
Valparaiso is very much Chiles second city surpassed in almost all respects by its close and far larger neighbour Santiago. Recent attempts to enliven the city have included locating the new Chilean parliament building there and naming the city a capital of culture (think Liverpool, apologies in advance). However these, at best notional, acts have done little to change the fortunes of a resolutely working class city which remains off limits for the more discerning Santiagan (again, not sure).
However, undeterred we decided to spend a night and day seeing what Valparaiso had to offer and after securing accommodation and a rather pricey dinner - the guidebook says the seafood in Valparaiso is to die for (to use such unfortunate parlance) but on the basis of my experience I really couldn’t comment - we ventured for a drink in the local bar - helpfully if a little miserably owned by an English man:
...Its Ok here but I am stuck because the wife won’t let me take the kids back the UK...
Despite Senor Englishman’s misgivings over his adoptive home he supplied us with a sheet entitled - What to do with three days in Valparaiso - ambitious to say the least given the content (Day 2 was weak and Day 3 practically blank - go to a cafe, drink a coffee) and the fact we competed the first day in circa an hour. The author of the itinerary is also worthy of a mention for a rather apparent predilection for the Village People and the world of high camp and homosexual stereotypes they embraced. To give a flavour of what it is that I mean two highlights of day 1 were eating lunch in the fire station canteen where no less than two troops were based (heaven forefend, be still my beating heart) and visiting the nearby naval outfitters for a little twirl in a sailors togs...I shall refrain from mentioning the bar known as being - an off duty sailors hang out...
Unfortunately we were too late for lunch and the outfitters were closed - by which I mean the building in which they were housed was now but rubble. However the port is still there (it’s a UNESCO world heritage site don’t you know? What the criterion for such an award is I am unsure as it seems remarkably easy in this part of the world to secure such status) and we completed the obligatory tourist tick in a box of a boat tour around the harbour without incident or if I am honest a great deal of interest...
Further our walking tour for a while became a riding the funiculars tour. These quite severely angled railroads provide access to the city’s cerros and the differing communities to whom they provide refuge. The angles of the houses which cling limp like to a land surely never really intended for mass settlement produce a confusion of angles usually only witnessed when really quite inebriated. This element of the itinerary was also curtailed somewhat as the advice given by the trusted (if increasingly wholly inaccurate) sheet was - not to linger to long, for this is the poor party of town - sound advice indeed but also saying where the poor part of town was would have helped. However, such knowledge was provided by a local police officer which rather kindly if a little bluntly pointed out - its not safe for you here...
Perhaps Valparaiso’s most interesting side is in the artistic creativity that a city past its heyday (I am assuming it had one once) has bred in its inhabitants. Surrounded on all sides by hills, or cerros to give their Spanish name, the hill, or cerro (next time I will just put cerro) on which we stayed has become a centre for an alternative community of artists, designers and other bohemian types that us traveller types just love to be associated with. Let us be honest the centre of cities are for tourists, not for the likes of us, we want edge, we desire dirt, need grit and a large dollop of the underbelly. And in this cerro there was plenty to be had. Not a wall remains which hasn’t felt the touch of a spray can nor a cafe that doesn’t offer at least one product that is at least probably fair-trade. The bars remain in that odd state where one is unsure if they are open, closed or safe to be inside - issues over hygiene are to be left well behind. In this vein the remains of the day were spent wandering the streets taking pictures of said graffiti (a complement of theft?), drinking (potentially fair-trade) coffee, visiting the boutiques (the friend more than I, men’s clothes were hard to find - apparently we just aren’t interesting enough for the bohemians).
And onto Santiago...
Sunday, 1 June 2008
Vina Del Mar, Chile
Aware that I am slipping slightly behind in my blogging activities I will try to keep the following three entries uncharacteristically short! It is also 10:30pm, I have a bus to catch in two hours and I am currently sat in a petrol station as I scribe my musings - three factors which necessitate some haste...
And thus on a whim I found myself taking, er myself, on a whirlwind tour of Chile.
Following some backwards and forwards communication (really the best kind) I decided to head to Chile to meet up with a friend from my Milhouse days back in good old BsAs. Originally intending to meet in Mendoza for a day around the Bodegas such plans were first altered to meeting in Santiago and then (around five minutes before boarding the bus) were altered again to meeting in Santiago’s summertime beach resort - Vina Del Mar.
Quite surprisingly I was met at the bus station (as arranged in Plan C or was it D?) by my friend, who is a girl, but isn’t a girlfriend (clear?) and her friend’s friend - a native Chilean. Following my pick up we made our way swiftly to my friend’s friend’s friend’s aunt and uncle’s house cum mansion perched on a hillside over looking the beach. Said house proved more than a suitable location for the excessive consumption of pizza, vodka and coke in varying quantities and combinations. With thirst and hunger suitably sated we headed out into the evening - first to my friend’s friend’s friend’s friend’s flat where a rather depressing party was taking place. Bad Chilean music, little or no alcohol and a male to female ratio of 8 to 1 a good time rarely do make and thus we made our polite excuses and left to find where Vina Del Mareans (not sure if that is right) let loose.
Alas, all I can confirm is that it isn’t in a 7 floor super club called El Huevo (The Egg) where the only music which invoked any passion in an otherwise dormant crowd (perhaps 7 floors of utter sonic sodomy is too much for anyone) was the live band in the basement where a group of 7 or 8 Chileans ran at each other full pelt in complete disregard for the tone or tempo of the music (it seems an insult to other practitioners of the art form to call it such) but in some imitation of a Nirvana video just out on Chilean MTV.
Thus we tried another bar notable only for the insistence that I needed ID to enter (an insistence which relented after about 5 minutes of reasoning in broken Spanish) and for displaying a similar penchant to the Argentineans for any music as long as it was created in the eighties - it really is possible to hear too much of Jimmy Sommerville squealing at the top of his already high vocal range...
And thus absolutely defeated we retreated to the mansion for further pizza, vodka and coke (perhaps less than before though) and a mammoth sleep which was broken late the next afternoon.
My curiosity as to who would open their home to just about anyone was satisfied the next day when my friend's friend's friend's aunt and uncle returned to find me in the dining room. Their facial expressions belied a mix of fear and surprise, the former greatly increased as I turned around slowly wielding the knife I had been using to cut the last of the pizza. I am not sure what the Spanish for - the money is in the biscuit tin, third cupboard on the left behind the homemade salsa - is but if I cold lip read I would probably know. Ok, so the last bit is a lie, pure fiction one might say - rather, on meeting the aunt and uncle I tried to explain (through a fog of alcohol, pizza, excess sleep and lack of language) that I was a friend of the friend of their nephew. Far from clear I had the distinct feeling said nephew’s parents would be getting a call in the not too distant future regarding just who could and should be invited to stay.
Not all was lost in Vina del Mar though and in the last moments of my time there the setting sun sank slowly into the sea creating the warmth of colour and sort of vista only nature can. Sitting watching from the sandy beach provided a pleasant end to an otherwise really rather odd visit...
On to Valparaiso...
Friday, 9 May 2008
Las Lenas, Argentina
Thus far, my little hop, skip and jump around the world (well Argentina anyway) has been anything but planned and in this vein I found myself heading for the Portenos (because BsAs is by a port you see) winter playground - the apparently internationally renowned Las Lenas. Famed for being the home of the Marte chairlift, its off piste potential and the conditions (if you are lucky vast quantities of sun and snow - not mutually exclusive when it comes to this corner of the Argentinean highlands) Las Lenas is a resort whose image lives large in the mind of many a winter sports addict. This is the place the Argentinean elite come to get their winter kicks - oh and buy Volvos.
Deciding to head down for a few days tumbling headfirst down the pistes I boarded (sorry) the bus in Mendoza at 5.30am more than a little inebriated and knew nothing further until I awoke 5 or so hours later (I have discovered the key to sleeping on buses!) to find myself and (amazingly) my bag (I don’t remember putting it on the bus - mum, I joke, I do remember) in Las Lenas.
Scrambling in my bag I found the map and instructions provided to me by the quite intolerable Emi (such a comment will no doubt be taken as intended, as a compliment) who rather unfairly judged me based on personality and thus found me entirely distasteful to be around. Fortunately 1 pound a litre gin and a mutual loathing for certain other hostel dwellers provided the requisite bridge for our love - hate relationship to blossom and thus for me to garner the insider knowledge needed to secure accommodation and a snowboard without even breaking a sweat or stretching my Spanish.
And thus to the slopes and time to test whether the basic plans made in various messages, posts and drunken conversations would reap tangible results. To my surprise they did and the youngster named Oliver I had met in Mendoza was close to where he said he would be at around the time he said he would be where he said he would be at the time he said he would be there. I think he hails from that suburb of England called Australia - I say I think as when I asked him he seemed to seek clarification from me on the point (I spy 5 points for hackneyed Aussie inflection joke, a further 5 points for any subsequent criminal descent references).
Further meeting up with Ollie’s two flatmates Tom and Tom and every now and then joined by a group of Argentineans we made quite the merry band on and off the slopes enjoying all that Las Lenas has to offer - which is much.
Incidents of note include:
The lost glove - dropped carelessly from a chairlift the glove was never recovered after whatever the Argentinean version of a darned thief is made off into the distance with it before I could recover the flighty little blighter. Arguing against the quite excessive charge levied for the loss of one glove tested my Spanish to its limits and beyond - its more than possible that RIDICULO is not Spanish but the tone of voice and my facial expression conveyed the anger my linguistic skills could not. Alas, the force of my conviction, ill nature of my glare and stormy intonation of my voice secured the same success enjoyed on the many times my heckles have risen before at home (or abroad) - yes indeed, absolutely none. Oh the young lady understood, she felt my pain, agreed the charge was over the top, an outrage, a travesty for the working (or travelling) man, a pure con but, however, these things are what they are and thus Mr Englishman its time to pay up, its not me its my bosses you see and anyways the pound is strong no?! The last bit of the story is pure exaggeration.
The broken binding - making my way happily down the piste I once again fell (sorry, again) victim to gravity and a lack of skill and found myself sliding downhill headfirst on my back. Slightly surprised to see that one leg appeared to no longer be attached to my board further investigation revealed that the binding had decided to part company with the board quite of its own volition. As I trudged back uphill (the ever so slighter shorter and slightly less morally demeaning journey than stomping downhill) I contemplated that the bad luck of having a broken binding must be tempered by the good luck that the incident had not resulted in a broken leg. Has travelling given me perspective? I doubt it.
The face plant - OK so the incidents of note are taking on a decidedly dubious nature but stories of glorious sunshine and hours spent carving the piste are just dull. After ascending the pure insanity that is the Marte chairlift I found myself atop the mountain with only one way to go - down. Following those far more able than I we carved a path though the powder and I was cruising off piste (two metres to the left of the piste is still off piste) in a complete winter wonderland. Alas, such things rarely last and a moments indecision resulted in a face plant of quite epic proportions from which I emerged frosted from head to foot and with a rather sore leg. Rather pleased to have emerged relatively unscathed I had been wearing my limp as a badge of honour, until about an hour ago that is when I smashed my foot on a drain and thus I am currently the owner of a buckled knee and almost broken toe. A two leg limp is just a pain.
A quick mention to two other characters met in Las Lenas:
Sabrina - a rather lovely young lady who is paid to make the fiesta thump and who endured with good nature some of the lowest grade banter I have ever been victim to witness (and yes, partake in). OK maybe not that bad but not good.
David - my roommate for a couple of nights who I have to thank for making me appear as though I find material possessions an unnecessary burden such was the volume of equipment and clothing he brought with him for a few days snowboarding. A DJ from BsAs (What do you do for a living Glenn? Sorry, no speaka de Inglish) the point at which he brought out the battery powered screwdriver for the purpose of fixing his bindings I knew I was in the presence of greatness.
And so with no more snow in sight in the near future and having stayed an extra night for the workers party it proved time to leave LL (Las Lenas, I know - cool) and I am once again heading to Mendoza - hopefully for the last time - though never say never. I have decided the next entry will introduce some of the characters I have met thus far on my travels as all I have planned in Mendoza is a rather urgent trip to the laundrette - I refuse, I simply refuse to wear a t-shirt more than once - and even I, with my tendency for the verbose, my predilection for the florid, would struggle to extend such an event to more than 2 pages...
Deciding to head down for a few days tumbling headfirst down the pistes I boarded (sorry) the bus in Mendoza at 5.30am more than a little inebriated and knew nothing further until I awoke 5 or so hours later (I have discovered the key to sleeping on buses!) to find myself and (amazingly) my bag (I don’t remember putting it on the bus - mum, I joke, I do remember) in Las Lenas.
Scrambling in my bag I found the map and instructions provided to me by the quite intolerable Emi (such a comment will no doubt be taken as intended, as a compliment) who rather unfairly judged me based on personality and thus found me entirely distasteful to be around. Fortunately 1 pound a litre gin and a mutual loathing for certain other hostel dwellers provided the requisite bridge for our love - hate relationship to blossom and thus for me to garner the insider knowledge needed to secure accommodation and a snowboard without even breaking a sweat or stretching my Spanish.
And thus to the slopes and time to test whether the basic plans made in various messages, posts and drunken conversations would reap tangible results. To my surprise they did and the youngster named Oliver I had met in Mendoza was close to where he said he would be at around the time he said he would be where he said he would be at the time he said he would be there. I think he hails from that suburb of England called Australia - I say I think as when I asked him he seemed to seek clarification from me on the point (I spy 5 points for hackneyed Aussie inflection joke, a further 5 points for any subsequent criminal descent references).
Further meeting up with Ollie’s two flatmates Tom and Tom and every now and then joined by a group of Argentineans we made quite the merry band on and off the slopes enjoying all that Las Lenas has to offer - which is much.
Incidents of note include:
The lost glove - dropped carelessly from a chairlift the glove was never recovered after whatever the Argentinean version of a darned thief is made off into the distance with it before I could recover the flighty little blighter. Arguing against the quite excessive charge levied for the loss of one glove tested my Spanish to its limits and beyond - its more than possible that RIDICULO is not Spanish but the tone of voice and my facial expression conveyed the anger my linguistic skills could not. Alas, the force of my conviction, ill nature of my glare and stormy intonation of my voice secured the same success enjoyed on the many times my heckles have risen before at home (or abroad) - yes indeed, absolutely none. Oh the young lady understood, she felt my pain, agreed the charge was over the top, an outrage, a travesty for the working (or travelling) man, a pure con but, however, these things are what they are and thus Mr Englishman its time to pay up, its not me its my bosses you see and anyways the pound is strong no?! The last bit of the story is pure exaggeration.
The broken binding - making my way happily down the piste I once again fell (sorry, again) victim to gravity and a lack of skill and found myself sliding downhill headfirst on my back. Slightly surprised to see that one leg appeared to no longer be attached to my board further investigation revealed that the binding had decided to part company with the board quite of its own volition. As I trudged back uphill (the ever so slighter shorter and slightly less morally demeaning journey than stomping downhill) I contemplated that the bad luck of having a broken binding must be tempered by the good luck that the incident had not resulted in a broken leg. Has travelling given me perspective? I doubt it.
The face plant - OK so the incidents of note are taking on a decidedly dubious nature but stories of glorious sunshine and hours spent carving the piste are just dull. After ascending the pure insanity that is the Marte chairlift I found myself atop the mountain with only one way to go - down. Following those far more able than I we carved a path though the powder and I was cruising off piste (two metres to the left of the piste is still off piste) in a complete winter wonderland. Alas, such things rarely last and a moments indecision resulted in a face plant of quite epic proportions from which I emerged frosted from head to foot and with a rather sore leg. Rather pleased to have emerged relatively unscathed I had been wearing my limp as a badge of honour, until about an hour ago that is when I smashed my foot on a drain and thus I am currently the owner of a buckled knee and almost broken toe. A two leg limp is just a pain.
A quick mention to two other characters met in Las Lenas:
Sabrina - a rather lovely young lady who is paid to make the fiesta thump and who endured with good nature some of the lowest grade banter I have ever been victim to witness (and yes, partake in). OK maybe not that bad but not good.
David - my roommate for a couple of nights who I have to thank for making me appear as though I find material possessions an unnecessary burden such was the volume of equipment and clothing he brought with him for a few days snowboarding. A DJ from BsAs (What do you do for a living Glenn? Sorry, no speaka de Inglish) the point at which he brought out the battery powered screwdriver for the purpose of fixing his bindings I knew I was in the presence of greatness.
And so with no more snow in sight in the near future and having stayed an extra night for the workers party it proved time to leave LL (Las Lenas, I know - cool) and I am once again heading to Mendoza - hopefully for the last time - though never say never. I have decided the next entry will introduce some of the characters I have met thus far on my travels as all I have planned in Mendoza is a rather urgent trip to the laundrette - I refuse, I simply refuse to wear a t-shirt more than once - and even I, with my tendency for the verbose, my predilection for the florid, would struggle to extend such an event to more than 2 pages...
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Interlude - characters...
As promised there now follows a few little quotes and snippets of conversations I have had the distinct pleasure to overhear or indeed be involved in and that have given me cause to giggle (never intentionally mind). If you are reading this then more than likely it isn’t you (honestly a good thing)...
Apologies in advance for the language - some people really will insist on the use of the profane and at times display a quite shocking tendency for the obscene. Quotes are verbatim to the best of my memory - I think the need for over emphasis is absent...
Act 1, Scene 1 - Milhouse, Buenos Aires
After briefly chewing the fat (I refer to talking rather than the act of actually chewing fat) with Michael, a be-dreaded production assistant from New Zealand, we found our conversation somewhat interrupted by a Canadian gentleman in cowboy boots (he was wearing other clothes but the boots stick in the memory).
Michael: So, where to next bra?
Glenn: Probably going to head down South to Puerto Madryn, with my friend Sam, to see the wildlife.
Michael: Sounds pretty sweet.
Enter stage left, Canadian guy...
Canadian guy: Just been to the gym, yeah the gym, been working out in the gym, in the gym, got some good weights in the gym, dumbbells up to 40kg, was lifting those in the gym. Only 10 pesos to go the gym.
Michael: Ok.
Glenn (thought): So, what have you been up to?
Act 1, Scene 2
The scene is set in the TV room of Hostel Lao in Mendoza where a few people are idly watching TV and talking over the days activities when a previously quiet member of the cast pipes up...
American guy: F$ck man, someone get me some paper, I need to be creative!
Said gentleman returned after securing the means to vent his creative frustrations though apparently the paper he located was ´sh&t man, its wet and sh&t, what am I supposed to do with this?´.
And what, the audience may ask; did such an urgent need to release one’s creative urges, to give voice to the inner artist result in? Mona Lisa’s sister? Dali’s diabolical double? A line drawing so complex as to give Escher a headache? Oh no, no, no - the result, the end product, the culmination of a moment that could wait no longer that had to burst free in such a public way was...an origami swan, or was it a sailor’s hat, or was it just a piece of screwed up paper? Who knows, who cares. Berk.
Another little conversation worthy of note from Mr Creative and his friend went something as follows (I will save you the preamble):
Mr Creative: F$ck no man, autumn and fall are completely different. Autumn is like South Carolina bullsh$t - the leaves are changing colour - that kind of isn’t it beautiful sh$t - fall means death, the end of life, destruction, rain. I f$cking hate Autumn, I f$cking love fall.
American friend: What you got to understand about this guy is - he’s a cynical f$ck.
Glenn (thought): No, what you have to understand is that he is an idiot.
Act 1, Scene 3
Terry (more to follow) and I are sitting down to dinner in the hostel and the conversation has mainly revolved around where we have been, would like to go etc...
Enter stage left - Eric, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Swedish gentleman who has been travelling the world on and off for the last 5 or so years, speaks 4 languages fluently and I have no doubt is rather successful in the old age battle of man’s wants versus women’s willingness:
Terry: I would love to see the glaciers, I think I might go. Argentina is such a varied country. Where would you like to go Eric?
Eric: I’m a f$cking sex tourist man, I don’t give a f$ck about the country.
Such clarity of purpose, such honesty has to be admired.
Act 1, Scene 4
Terry, oh Terry. My travelling companion for all of three days but oh how it seemed so much longer. Gregarious in the extreme Terry could and would talk to anyone about anything, anytime, anyplace. Perhaps not a negative trait but with a blog intentionally titled Solitary Contentment I knew after about 5 minutes on the bus together that I had perhaps made an error in judgement (the rather obvious message of listening to music, staring out of the window and not reacting to any conversation failed to deter dear Terry who blathered on regardless). All was not bad though and Terry provided me with some truly golden moments on our tour of the National Parks before I made my escape by catching the bus at 3.30am (I had planned 2pm the following afternoon) leaving Terry and his electronic snoring machine (best not to ask) behind...
In the hostel:
Terry: So, where are you from?
The young lady: Israel.
Terry: Ok, so what is your name?
The young lady: Taliah.
Terry: Wow that is beautiful!
The young lady: It means - how do you say in English? The water on the grass in the morning...
Glenn: Dew.
The following conversation should be read with the understanding that Terry spoke not a word of Spanish; so little in fact that it fell to me to take on the role of translator...
Lady at the hostel: 80 pesos para la tour.
Glenn: 80 pesos.
Terry: The man at the bus station said he could do the tour for 70.
Lady at the hostel: Lo sciento, yo hablo solo un poca Ingles.
Glenn: She doesn’t speak much English.
Terry: Oh, Ok. THE MAN AT THE BUS STATION SAID HE COULD DO THE TOUR FOR 70 PESOS. WHY ARE YOU MORE EXPENSIVE?
In the national parks:
To set the scene the park guide speaks not a word of English, Terry speaks not a word of Spanish leaving me and the two other people doing the tour somewhere in the middle - me further towards the non speaking end admittedly. As the guide explains the significance of where we are our German co-tourist very helpfully explains what is being said and that is that we are in a landscape that is over 250 million years old, where the oldest known dinosaur bones have been found and what remains a crucial site in furthering our understanding of this planet we call home (deja vu?). The fact that the park we are in is called the Valley of the Moons refers to the other worldly landscape and also its emblematic spherical rocks. All clear? Time for Terry...
Terry: So, who comes here? I am guessing not the Americans but is this where people come to practice being on the moon.
A bit later...
Terry: Can you ask the guide if I can go for a p$ss behind the bushes?
More to follow as people continue to entertain.
Exeunt, perused in the bare...x
Apologies in advance for the language - some people really will insist on the use of the profane and at times display a quite shocking tendency for the obscene. Quotes are verbatim to the best of my memory - I think the need for over emphasis is absent...
Act 1, Scene 1 - Milhouse, Buenos Aires
After briefly chewing the fat (I refer to talking rather than the act of actually chewing fat) with Michael, a be-dreaded production assistant from New Zealand, we found our conversation somewhat interrupted by a Canadian gentleman in cowboy boots (he was wearing other clothes but the boots stick in the memory).
Michael: So, where to next bra?
Glenn: Probably going to head down South to Puerto Madryn, with my friend Sam, to see the wildlife.
Michael: Sounds pretty sweet.
Enter stage left, Canadian guy...
Canadian guy: Just been to the gym, yeah the gym, been working out in the gym, in the gym, got some good weights in the gym, dumbbells up to 40kg, was lifting those in the gym. Only 10 pesos to go the gym.
Michael: Ok.
Glenn (thought): So, what have you been up to?
Act 1, Scene 2
The scene is set in the TV room of Hostel Lao in Mendoza where a few people are idly watching TV and talking over the days activities when a previously quiet member of the cast pipes up...
American guy: F$ck man, someone get me some paper, I need to be creative!
Said gentleman returned after securing the means to vent his creative frustrations though apparently the paper he located was ´sh&t man, its wet and sh&t, what am I supposed to do with this?´.
And what, the audience may ask; did such an urgent need to release one’s creative urges, to give voice to the inner artist result in? Mona Lisa’s sister? Dali’s diabolical double? A line drawing so complex as to give Escher a headache? Oh no, no, no - the result, the end product, the culmination of a moment that could wait no longer that had to burst free in such a public way was...an origami swan, or was it a sailor’s hat, or was it just a piece of screwed up paper? Who knows, who cares. Berk.
Another little conversation worthy of note from Mr Creative and his friend went something as follows (I will save you the preamble):
Mr Creative: F$ck no man, autumn and fall are completely different. Autumn is like South Carolina bullsh$t - the leaves are changing colour - that kind of isn’t it beautiful sh$t - fall means death, the end of life, destruction, rain. I f$cking hate Autumn, I f$cking love fall.
American friend: What you got to understand about this guy is - he’s a cynical f$ck.
Glenn (thought): No, what you have to understand is that he is an idiot.
Act 1, Scene 3
Terry (more to follow) and I are sitting down to dinner in the hostel and the conversation has mainly revolved around where we have been, would like to go etc...
Enter stage left - Eric, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, Swedish gentleman who has been travelling the world on and off for the last 5 or so years, speaks 4 languages fluently and I have no doubt is rather successful in the old age battle of man’s wants versus women’s willingness:
Terry: I would love to see the glaciers, I think I might go. Argentina is such a varied country. Where would you like to go Eric?
Eric: I’m a f$cking sex tourist man, I don’t give a f$ck about the country.
Such clarity of purpose, such honesty has to be admired.
Act 1, Scene 4
Terry, oh Terry. My travelling companion for all of three days but oh how it seemed so much longer. Gregarious in the extreme Terry could and would talk to anyone about anything, anytime, anyplace. Perhaps not a negative trait but with a blog intentionally titled Solitary Contentment I knew after about 5 minutes on the bus together that I had perhaps made an error in judgement (the rather obvious message of listening to music, staring out of the window and not reacting to any conversation failed to deter dear Terry who blathered on regardless). All was not bad though and Terry provided me with some truly golden moments on our tour of the National Parks before I made my escape by catching the bus at 3.30am (I had planned 2pm the following afternoon) leaving Terry and his electronic snoring machine (best not to ask) behind...
In the hostel:
Terry: So, where are you from?
The young lady: Israel.
Terry: Ok, so what is your name?
The young lady: Taliah.
Terry: Wow that is beautiful!
The young lady: It means - how do you say in English? The water on the grass in the morning...
Glenn: Dew.
The following conversation should be read with the understanding that Terry spoke not a word of Spanish; so little in fact that it fell to me to take on the role of translator...
Lady at the hostel: 80 pesos para la tour.
Glenn: 80 pesos.
Terry: The man at the bus station said he could do the tour for 70.
Lady at the hostel: Lo sciento, yo hablo solo un poca Ingles.
Glenn: She doesn’t speak much English.
Terry: Oh, Ok. THE MAN AT THE BUS STATION SAID HE COULD DO THE TOUR FOR 70 PESOS. WHY ARE YOU MORE EXPENSIVE?
In the national parks:
To set the scene the park guide speaks not a word of English, Terry speaks not a word of Spanish leaving me and the two other people doing the tour somewhere in the middle - me further towards the non speaking end admittedly. As the guide explains the significance of where we are our German co-tourist very helpfully explains what is being said and that is that we are in a landscape that is over 250 million years old, where the oldest known dinosaur bones have been found and what remains a crucial site in furthering our understanding of this planet we call home (deja vu?). The fact that the park we are in is called the Valley of the Moons refers to the other worldly landscape and also its emblematic spherical rocks. All clear? Time for Terry...
Terry: So, who comes here? I am guessing not the Americans but is this where people come to practice being on the moon.
A bit later...
Terry: Can you ask the guide if I can go for a p$ss behind the bushes?
More to follow as people continue to entertain.
Exeunt, perused in the bare...x
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Mendoza (again), Argentina (as before)
Once again I find my fingers dancing across the keyboard in an unrehearsed melee: part intention, part inspiration - the worst of my digit’s drunken stumbles hidden (I hope) by the electronic rubber that is the delete key.
If letters are soldiers and words their battalions my blog is the frontline in the war I wage against my own reticence towards communication...
No doubt failing to inform;
Perhaps it entertains;
For me it nevers fail to divert.
Lyrically lolloping the words wander across my mind and saunter slowly onto the page. In and out and out and in, meaning everything, meaning something, meaning nothing.
And thus to Mendoza - the second time around...
Returning to the city after my little sojourn to look at rocks (, rocks and more rocks) and then party (alas, hardly) with the youngsters in Cordoba I decided Mendoza seemed a just lovely base for my first attempts at some mastery (read basic ability to comprehend and be comprehended) in Spanish. Splitting my time between a Hostel and a week with a Mendocinian family my two weeks here have passed without great incident or event of particular note but I shall not let such things prevent the blog from winding its inexorable course...
Spanish lessons have once again proved my dislike for being taught. Whilst I enjoy the learning of the new I grow frustrated easily at both my own lack of understanding and the inability of another to explain to me in terms that I deem adequate. I feel relations with the teacher deteriorated rather rapidly and no amount of provision of fruit or attempts at humour (are they ever anything more?) could overcome the seething disdain with which she simmered, greeting as she did my every fumbling attempt at speaking with a barely contained rage. I perhaps exaggerate but if I said Spanish lessons were OK where would be the fun in that? However it must be noted that after two weeks of lessons I am now able to conversate fluently read the daily newspaper without trouble and follow the news on TV understanding every word. When it comes to Spanish though things are not so easy.
I would love to say that staying with the family really helped and that each night we sat down for dinner and chatted merrily about the affairs of the day. However whilst prone to exaggeration and some artistic license (there was one part of one street in BsAs without dog poop) I try to refrain from absolute untruths. Worth every penny for the ability to catch up on the sleep I have missed over the last month - people seem to have to get up at different times in dorms - the family or I seemed never to be in the house at the same time. Viewing me as a slight oddity my main conversation was with the father Hector, a fourth generation Italian who speaks not a word of English but explained (with vigorous hand actions - as I said he speaks no English AND is of Italian descent) the reasons behind the farmers strike which has been ongoing for over 100 days. Not sure of his allegiance to either the country or the city I kept my nods neutral and my face blank (the latter not difficult). In summation, for those that are interested, the farmer’s strike is, I think, something to do with something selling for more than it used to and thus the taxes being raised, as I said, I think. The main manifestation of the strike to a wanderer such as I is the proliferation of roadblocks on the main arterial trade routes across Argentina. Indeed the Cordoba - Mendoza leg of my journey was almost postponed for just this reason - in not holding me up the farmers have garnered my full support (I may find out what I am supporting at some point but no rush) however the mention on the news last eve of the potential for `no bife` (no translation necessary surely?) would put a significantly different slant on things and may rapidly alter my allegiances.
So apart from chewing the fat with Senor Hector what else have I been up to?
Nursing a severe addiction to empanadas (think miniature Cornish Pasties) for one. In this arena special mention must go to ¿Que Como? a restaurant barely five minutes walk from the hostel and serving 6 of the little pastry beauties and a fizzy drink for less than the price of a first class stamp (should said stamp cost a couple of quid). Yes the T-Bone Steak (read Bife de Chorizo in these parts) at Don Mario’s was the size of a small child’s head (cooked to perfection and carved slice by slice akin to the finest farmhouse loaf) and yes 5 pounds for all you can eat (including meat of unknown origin) at Tinajas is good value but something about the convivial host, barely there decor and a complete absence of other diners means ¿Que Como? is a winner every time. The provision of soap and hand towels in the bathroom (never a certainty) are but icing on a very cheap cake.
You still with me? OK, time to wrap up - only four pages to go...
After two, almost three, given my first visit, weeks in Mendoza I feel it is time to move on. Cabin fever, itchy feet, call it what you will but not many towns can sate the insatiable (obviously) hunger, satisfy the voracious appetite nor quench the unquenchable (again, obviously) thirst for the new that travelling instils in one. And therefore my camera, Moleskine and I will take ourselves to pastures new before `ere long has passed. Alas, it must be noted in addition to the rather romantic notion of travelling in only what you stand up in and those tools necessary to document the journey I also have a rather full bag of clothes and `products` which I have no doubt Beau Brummel would have found quite adequate for at least a weekend. I am travelling but I am no brute. Indeed I have with me assorted paraphernalia which means I am adequately and equally prepared for the beach or the glacier, the city or the sierra, from artic to temperate, from equatorial to just plain hot I have the requisite outfit and accessories to hand.
Probably just you and me now mum so I’ll sign off here. Bye for now. More soon as I once again pick up the travelling pace.
On another point the old adage goes that a picture paints a thousand words and whilst this may be true it does not necessarily follow that a thousand words paint a picture (in the case of this little ditty more than likely not). Photos to be posted elsewhere.
If letters are soldiers and words their battalions my blog is the frontline in the war I wage against my own reticence towards communication...
No doubt failing to inform;
Perhaps it entertains;
For me it nevers fail to divert.
Lyrically lolloping the words wander across my mind and saunter slowly onto the page. In and out and out and in, meaning everything, meaning something, meaning nothing.
And thus to Mendoza - the second time around...
Returning to the city after my little sojourn to look at rocks (, rocks and more rocks) and then party (alas, hardly) with the youngsters in Cordoba I decided Mendoza seemed a just lovely base for my first attempts at some mastery (read basic ability to comprehend and be comprehended) in Spanish. Splitting my time between a Hostel and a week with a Mendocinian family my two weeks here have passed without great incident or event of particular note but I shall not let such things prevent the blog from winding its inexorable course...
Spanish lessons have once again proved my dislike for being taught. Whilst I enjoy the learning of the new I grow frustrated easily at both my own lack of understanding and the inability of another to explain to me in terms that I deem adequate. I feel relations with the teacher deteriorated rather rapidly and no amount of provision of fruit or attempts at humour (are they ever anything more?) could overcome the seething disdain with which she simmered, greeting as she did my every fumbling attempt at speaking with a barely contained rage. I perhaps exaggerate but if I said Spanish lessons were OK where would be the fun in that? However it must be noted that after two weeks of lessons I am now able to conversate fluently read the daily newspaper without trouble and follow the news on TV understanding every word. When it comes to Spanish though things are not so easy.
I would love to say that staying with the family really helped and that each night we sat down for dinner and chatted merrily about the affairs of the day. However whilst prone to exaggeration and some artistic license (there was one part of one street in BsAs without dog poop) I try to refrain from absolute untruths. Worth every penny for the ability to catch up on the sleep I have missed over the last month - people seem to have to get up at different times in dorms - the family or I seemed never to be in the house at the same time. Viewing me as a slight oddity my main conversation was with the father Hector, a fourth generation Italian who speaks not a word of English but explained (with vigorous hand actions - as I said he speaks no English AND is of Italian descent) the reasons behind the farmers strike which has been ongoing for over 100 days. Not sure of his allegiance to either the country or the city I kept my nods neutral and my face blank (the latter not difficult). In summation, for those that are interested, the farmer’s strike is, I think, something to do with something selling for more than it used to and thus the taxes being raised, as I said, I think. The main manifestation of the strike to a wanderer such as I is the proliferation of roadblocks on the main arterial trade routes across Argentina. Indeed the Cordoba - Mendoza leg of my journey was almost postponed for just this reason - in not holding me up the farmers have garnered my full support (I may find out what I am supporting at some point but no rush) however the mention on the news last eve of the potential for `no bife` (no translation necessary surely?) would put a significantly different slant on things and may rapidly alter my allegiances.
So apart from chewing the fat with Senor Hector what else have I been up to?
Nursing a severe addiction to empanadas (think miniature Cornish Pasties) for one. In this arena special mention must go to ¿Que Como? a restaurant barely five minutes walk from the hostel and serving 6 of the little pastry beauties and a fizzy drink for less than the price of a first class stamp (should said stamp cost a couple of quid). Yes the T-Bone Steak (read Bife de Chorizo in these parts) at Don Mario’s was the size of a small child’s head (cooked to perfection and carved slice by slice akin to the finest farmhouse loaf) and yes 5 pounds for all you can eat (including meat of unknown origin) at Tinajas is good value but something about the convivial host, barely there decor and a complete absence of other diners means ¿Que Como? is a winner every time. The provision of soap and hand towels in the bathroom (never a certainty) are but icing on a very cheap cake.
You still with me? OK, time to wrap up - only four pages to go...
After two, almost three, given my first visit, weeks in Mendoza I feel it is time to move on. Cabin fever, itchy feet, call it what you will but not many towns can sate the insatiable (obviously) hunger, satisfy the voracious appetite nor quench the unquenchable (again, obviously) thirst for the new that travelling instils in one. And therefore my camera, Moleskine and I will take ourselves to pastures new before `ere long has passed. Alas, it must be noted in addition to the rather romantic notion of travelling in only what you stand up in and those tools necessary to document the journey I also have a rather full bag of clothes and `products` which I have no doubt Beau Brummel would have found quite adequate for at least a weekend. I am travelling but I am no brute. Indeed I have with me assorted paraphernalia which means I am adequately and equally prepared for the beach or the glacier, the city or the sierra, from artic to temperate, from equatorial to just plain hot I have the requisite outfit and accessories to hand.
Probably just you and me now mum so I’ll sign off here. Bye for now. More soon as I once again pick up the travelling pace.
On another point the old adage goes that a picture paints a thousand words and whilst this may be true it does not necessarily follow that a thousand words paint a picture (in the case of this little ditty more than likely not). Photos to be posted elsewhere.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
Cordoba, Argentina
Cordoba is Argentina’s second city and (to some) it’s cultural and very much geographical heart. Famed for its universities (it has between 7 and 9 - the guidebooks seem unable to agree just how many), schools and colleges the city is a remarkably young one - I refer to the population, apparently some of the buildings are really very old. Indeed the proliferation of youngsters lining every street corner meant the camera made only rare ventures out for fear of accusations I would not be keen on defending in a language which was not my own!
Limiting myself to a couple of days wandering the streets my time in Cordoba was marred slightly by a bout of man flu and thus tales of adventures in mind, body and spirit will not be featuring in the blog today!
Less attractive than Mendoza and lacking the sheer intensity of Buenos Aires Cordoba is pleasant enough but did not create any moments of particular note. Tales of a population with a female to male ratios of 7:3 were, alas, seemingly untrue! After visiting a couple of art galleries and joining a group of locals for a night on the proverbial tiles I was not disappointed to be climbing aboard a bus heading back to Mendoza. Fortunately the Argentinean farmer’s decision to block a number of important cross country routes did not cause me to repeat the 23 hour round Journey (Cordoba - Cordoba) endured by a fellow traveller...
And thus I find myself back in Mendoza where I intend to spend a couple of weeks learning a little of the language and living with a local family. Where I head next is very much to be decided but you will of course be the first to know...
Limiting myself to a couple of days wandering the streets my time in Cordoba was marred slightly by a bout of man flu and thus tales of adventures in mind, body and spirit will not be featuring in the blog today!
Less attractive than Mendoza and lacking the sheer intensity of Buenos Aires Cordoba is pleasant enough but did not create any moments of particular note. Tales of a population with a female to male ratios of 7:3 were, alas, seemingly untrue! After visiting a couple of art galleries and joining a group of locals for a night on the proverbial tiles I was not disappointed to be climbing aboard a bus heading back to Mendoza. Fortunately the Argentinean farmer’s decision to block a number of important cross country routes did not cause me to repeat the 23 hour round Journey (Cordoba - Cordoba) endured by a fellow traveller...
And thus I find myself back in Mendoza where I intend to spend a couple of weeks learning a little of the language and living with a local family. Where I head next is very much to be decided but you will of course be the first to know...
Monday, 5 May 2008
Valle de Fertil, Argentina
Another day, another town.
After wrenching myself away from the numerous delights of Mendoza I travelled due north to a little town called Valle de Fertil in order to visit the two National Parks (Ischigualasto and Talampaya should anyone be interested) which lay nearby.
Unremarkable in almost all respects the town itself had a certain charm borne of its innocence and isolation. Redolent of 1950´s America the town produced vivid images of a time gone by as children rode casually down the barely there roads unimpeded by traffic or threatened by unwanted attention and the men and women folk gathered outside the corner shop to discuss the issues of the day with no rush, anxiety or complaint.
Of particular note was the local junior disco where the teenagers of the town - too old to play on the swings but too young to drink in the bar with dad - lived out a scene from many a childhood. In a small room with the chairs pushed to the sides and music emanating from within the girls and boys faced each other from opposite ends as though preparing for battle. Desperately waiting for someone to break the deadlock and move onto the dance floor each group stood fast desperately trying to appear indifferent to those their eyes fell upon while their hearts, though they knew not why, felt anything but.
Alas, I think I have drifted slightly off track. And thus to the national parks - in summation: rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Some big, some small, some round, some not round, some old, some older. Feeling akin to a tourist as never before my three companions for the day and I were shepherded in and out of numerous buses, told when and where to take photos, where to stand and more frequently where not to stand and then charged handsomely for the displeasure!
Not a bad day, just not a great one. Vamos a bailar methinks.
After wrenching myself away from the numerous delights of Mendoza I travelled due north to a little town called Valle de Fertil in order to visit the two National Parks (Ischigualasto and Talampaya should anyone be interested) which lay nearby.
Unremarkable in almost all respects the town itself had a certain charm borne of its innocence and isolation. Redolent of 1950´s America the town produced vivid images of a time gone by as children rode casually down the barely there roads unimpeded by traffic or threatened by unwanted attention and the men and women folk gathered outside the corner shop to discuss the issues of the day with no rush, anxiety or complaint.
Of particular note was the local junior disco where the teenagers of the town - too old to play on the swings but too young to drink in the bar with dad - lived out a scene from many a childhood. In a small room with the chairs pushed to the sides and music emanating from within the girls and boys faced each other from opposite ends as though preparing for battle. Desperately waiting for someone to break the deadlock and move onto the dance floor each group stood fast desperately trying to appear indifferent to those their eyes fell upon while their hearts, though they knew not why, felt anything but.
Alas, I think I have drifted slightly off track. And thus to the national parks - in summation: rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Some big, some small, some round, some not round, some old, some older. Feeling akin to a tourist as never before my three companions for the day and I were shepherded in and out of numerous buses, told when and where to take photos, where to stand and more frequently where not to stand and then charged handsomely for the displeasure!
Not a bad day, just not a great one. Vamos a bailar methinks.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Mendoza, Argentina
Hello all, after a little help from my imaginary travelling companions I will be handling today’s blog my very self...
And thus to Mendoza, a town (I think they think it’s a city but I am not so sure) which has quite stolen my heart and provided a really rather lovely place to spend a few days before heading ever onwards. Nationally and increasingly internationally famous as a destination par excellence for both wine and adventure tourism (though perhaps not together) the town is friendly, sophisticated and bustling without perhaps the relentless pace of life which characterised my time in Buenos Aires.
Of the town's two famous tourist attributes the adventure part I have not yet indulged in but the wine element proved impossible and really quite unnecessary to resist. Lying at the foot of the Andes the dry climate, mountain air and fertile lands have that indefinable quality the French simply call - terroir - that which separates the good wines from the bad and the great from the good. Several varieties of grape are grown by the numerous bodegas which line the valley - notably Malbec (the Argentinean flagship grape on the world stage), Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. For a small fee one is able to rent a bike (the enterprising Senorita Erica deserves a special mention for renting the worse bikes - two bikes and two punctures - but gaining the most business by soliciting tourists on the bus before the first vine is even in sight) and ride between the various vineyards sampling their wines as you go. With the sun shining from on high and the countryside calling to mind the winding lanes of rural France (I would imagine, I have never been) a day spent in such fashion was pleasant indeed. The danger of becoming a little too inebriated after visiting three or four wineries at which you simply had to have three or four glasses of wine was negated by the clarity of fear induced by the lorries and buses which hurtled past the increasingly wobbly cyclists at quite obscene speeds!
Mendoza is one town where the oft quoted observation that Argentina is the most European of the South American countries is truly, er, true. Resting my weary bones and slightly dull head in the park on Saturday the vista was of an Italian fresco with trees, shrubs, lakes and monuments placed just so. A summer’s day spent idly in a London park was also brought to mind as the posh parents paraded their progeny hoping for an admiring glance from those they passed and a generation of thirty something’s pounded the pavement in a bewildering array of fitness regimes intended to halt the relentless onset of age and girth.
Mendoza has also seen the re-emergence of a side of my character not witnessed since I hopped the Greek islands with Messrs Cook and Myers. Yes indeed, Shirley Valentine is back! In the 5 days I have been here the anatomically impressive Paula and I have been on two dates including a trip to a backstreet jazz cafe - nice - all requisite jazz going attributes were in evidence - roll neck jumpers, hideous goatees and heads nodding in appreciation yet apparent disregard of the tempo of the music. Anyways where was I? Ah yes, the lovely Paula. Her ability to speak English makes my frustratingly limited Spanish seem almost fluent by comparison (she speaks not a word - of English that is - she is no mute and rambles along quite happily in Spanish) but talk is cheap and conversation a burden. After the occasional romantic desolation of my days in London Paula has provided a welcome reminder of why we to choose to complicate this life in the pursuit of companionship. Fear not mother I think this is more holiday than romance but a little local knowledge of where to go and when is ever a good thing.
One other incident worthy of mention is the opportunity which Mendoza provided with to take a little dig at the national hero; you know the one, that little guy who used to be alright at football. Whilst playing a game of cards in the hostel one evening the question was asked as to what the word for cheat was in Spanish. I simply replied: Maradonna.
And finally a special blog mention must go to Eileen (to my regret, I made the obvious joke) my travelling companion from Puerto Madryn to El Calafate and then ALL the way up to Mendoza where we parted ways. Performing the role of translator and still speaking to me after 48 hours of travelling on buses where the seats didn’t go fully flat it was a pleasure spending time together.
Unsure where my next blog will come from I have a day of deciding where, in this quite wonderful country, to go next (life, at times, is a relentless chore) and thus I will head to the square to sit in the sun and contemplate my next move and muse on the travellers lot - which thus far has been a very good one.
Ciao, luego...x
And thus to Mendoza, a town (I think they think it’s a city but I am not so sure) which has quite stolen my heart and provided a really rather lovely place to spend a few days before heading ever onwards. Nationally and increasingly internationally famous as a destination par excellence for both wine and adventure tourism (though perhaps not together) the town is friendly, sophisticated and bustling without perhaps the relentless pace of life which characterised my time in Buenos Aires.
Of the town's two famous tourist attributes the adventure part I have not yet indulged in but the wine element proved impossible and really quite unnecessary to resist. Lying at the foot of the Andes the dry climate, mountain air and fertile lands have that indefinable quality the French simply call - terroir - that which separates the good wines from the bad and the great from the good. Several varieties of grape are grown by the numerous bodegas which line the valley - notably Malbec (the Argentinean flagship grape on the world stage), Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah. For a small fee one is able to rent a bike (the enterprising Senorita Erica deserves a special mention for renting the worse bikes - two bikes and two punctures - but gaining the most business by soliciting tourists on the bus before the first vine is even in sight) and ride between the various vineyards sampling their wines as you go. With the sun shining from on high and the countryside calling to mind the winding lanes of rural France (I would imagine, I have never been) a day spent in such fashion was pleasant indeed. The danger of becoming a little too inebriated after visiting three or four wineries at which you simply had to have three or four glasses of wine was negated by the clarity of fear induced by the lorries and buses which hurtled past the increasingly wobbly cyclists at quite obscene speeds!
Mendoza is one town where the oft quoted observation that Argentina is the most European of the South American countries is truly, er, true. Resting my weary bones and slightly dull head in the park on Saturday the vista was of an Italian fresco with trees, shrubs, lakes and monuments placed just so. A summer’s day spent idly in a London park was also brought to mind as the posh parents paraded their progeny hoping for an admiring glance from those they passed and a generation of thirty something’s pounded the pavement in a bewildering array of fitness regimes intended to halt the relentless onset of age and girth.
Mendoza has also seen the re-emergence of a side of my character not witnessed since I hopped the Greek islands with Messrs Cook and Myers. Yes indeed, Shirley Valentine is back! In the 5 days I have been here the anatomically impressive Paula and I have been on two dates including a trip to a backstreet jazz cafe - nice - all requisite jazz going attributes were in evidence - roll neck jumpers, hideous goatees and heads nodding in appreciation yet apparent disregard of the tempo of the music. Anyways where was I? Ah yes, the lovely Paula. Her ability to speak English makes my frustratingly limited Spanish seem almost fluent by comparison (she speaks not a word - of English that is - she is no mute and rambles along quite happily in Spanish) but talk is cheap and conversation a burden. After the occasional romantic desolation of my days in London Paula has provided a welcome reminder of why we to choose to complicate this life in the pursuit of companionship. Fear not mother I think this is more holiday than romance but a little local knowledge of where to go and when is ever a good thing.
One other incident worthy of mention is the opportunity which Mendoza provided with to take a little dig at the national hero; you know the one, that little guy who used to be alright at football. Whilst playing a game of cards in the hostel one evening the question was asked as to what the word for cheat was in Spanish. I simply replied: Maradonna.
And finally a special blog mention must go to Eileen (to my regret, I made the obvious joke) my travelling companion from Puerto Madryn to El Calafate and then ALL the way up to Mendoza where we parted ways. Performing the role of translator and still speaking to me after 48 hours of travelling on buses where the seats didn’t go fully flat it was a pleasure spending time together.
Unsure where my next blog will come from I have a day of deciding where, in this quite wonderful country, to go next (life, at times, is a relentless chore) and thus I will head to the square to sit in the sun and contemplate my next move and muse on the travellers lot - which thus far has been a very good one.
Ciao, luego...x
Saturday, 3 May 2008
El Calafate, Argentina
Charles, 43, explorer. Year of our lord 1881.
After a day of travelling during which I rested not a moment I can confirm the vastness of this land to be beyond the realms of my comprehension. Rutted cart tracks masquerading as passable roads stretch to the horizon with seemingly no end, their hypnotic regularity broken only by the entrance gates to the vast Estancias which the people of this land cultivate for the means of sustenance and occasional trade.
My epic journey south finds me in the Southern Argentinean outpost of El Calafate, which henceforth I shall call New Eastbourne in dedication to my beloved homeland and from where I enclose my latest dispatch as promised.
Sat by a waning open fire my very bones are warmed by the effortless heat emanating from its embers after a day of adventure and indeed cold unimaginable to many. I should note with some gratitude that the welcome I received from Frederico and Marina my hosts in this charming if remote guesthouse was yet warmer still and a welcome relief from the harshness of this land.
New Eastbourne is the sole human outpost in a land untouched by daylight or caressed by the sun’s affectionate gaze. As I feared such conditions have bred a man dark of skin, quick of eye and brutal in habit. Manners and morals are as foreign to this land as I. Alas, I have neither the time nor inclination to educate these people or make plain the error of their simple, bucolic ways. It is my only hope that others may follow so that civilisation can be wrought from the clutches of native traditions and the barrier to progress they provide.
However, all is not lost and I find solace in the pursuit of religion I have seen practiced here. Though not the god of Christian or Catholic religions nor recognisable as any other deity of significant note their god took human form in the memory of those still living. Referred to simply as El Diego, the image of Diego Armando Maradonna adorns every wall and fills every heart. Considered to have performed acts of miracle implausible by any other he is said to have touched these lands with the hand of god and recalls to mind a character known as Pele whom the Amazonians worship in a similar manner. A martyr to some Maradonna's greatest acts were followed by an attempt to banish the world of all evil through the consumption of the devil’s every earthly manifestation.
Alas, as is my wont. I digress, and thus to my adventures...
Setting off before dawn I joined a merry band of adventurous spirits from Spain, Germany, France and various other lesser nations I shall not bother wasting ink or quill noting here. Heading for the legendary rivers of ice frozen in time and body we travelled overland before reaching the threatening waters of Lago Argentina which we navigated with the aid of a skilled and fearless local crew. At journeys end we found ourselves treading the frozen waterways of an age gone past. Attired in plus fours and woollen socks, sturdy boots, tweed jacket and carrying a pipe should conditions become overly harsh I knew I had prepared well to face the rigours of the day to come. Trekking through caves of pure azure, across crevasses of depth beyond reason and over peaks so sharp it startled the soul our progress was inhibited as much by the landscape as by the awe which each step and corner induced in all.
Ably guided by Carlos, a man hewn from the very rock of the vast mountain ranges of this jagged land, our every footfall was serenaded by a cacophony of sounds of which words can provide no adequate description as the glacier ruptured and split, aching and groaning with the pain of a man lay dormant too long. Such things call to mind the immensity of nature and inevitably lead to the contemplation of one’s own insignificance but I did not let such thoughts disturb the unrelenting concentration required to survive the traversing of such dangerous landscapes.
Furthermore our trek brought us face to face with the fabled Condor, master and guardian of these lands, surveying his kingdom with the majesty of unassailable royalty the bird witnessed our progress with a supreme indifference. Truly his presence did make the heart beat faster.
At the end of a day of quite stirring experiences and wondrous sights it was a pleasure indeed to take a dram of Scotland’s finest chilled by ice taken from beneath our very feet. Whiskey, ever the travellers companion allowed us to toast our bravery in suitable fashion. United in the possession of fearless spirits and daring souls the unique band of which I was now a part felt confident our footsteps would likely never be trod again.
And thus as time presses onwards so must I and before long I head for Mendoza, a town 2 days travel north from where I currently reside. Said to be more advanced than the indigenous population I have encountered thus far the people of Mendoza are reputed to have adopted some of the customs and cultures of the French. I am trusting such statements refer to the practice of Bacchus’ own alchemy of fermenting grapes into gastronomic gold rather than the adoption of a socialist work ethic or an inability to perform on the field of battle.
As an aside it would appear Argentina differs from Britannia where travel in a northerly direction beyond the boundaries of London leads to a regression in culture and refinement exposing one to a people of quite despicable habits and the basest, most animalistic behaviour.
Alas, as the wick of the solitary candle by which I write my musings burns low I fear it is time to say goodbye. My bed calls me to her comforting embrace and I have no will nor desire to resist.
Until I reach you again give my love to dearest Blighty, I do miss her so.
Yours,
Charles.
After a day of travelling during which I rested not a moment I can confirm the vastness of this land to be beyond the realms of my comprehension. Rutted cart tracks masquerading as passable roads stretch to the horizon with seemingly no end, their hypnotic regularity broken only by the entrance gates to the vast Estancias which the people of this land cultivate for the means of sustenance and occasional trade.
My epic journey south finds me in the Southern Argentinean outpost of El Calafate, which henceforth I shall call New Eastbourne in dedication to my beloved homeland and from where I enclose my latest dispatch as promised.
Sat by a waning open fire my very bones are warmed by the effortless heat emanating from its embers after a day of adventure and indeed cold unimaginable to many. I should note with some gratitude that the welcome I received from Frederico and Marina my hosts in this charming if remote guesthouse was yet warmer still and a welcome relief from the harshness of this land.
New Eastbourne is the sole human outpost in a land untouched by daylight or caressed by the sun’s affectionate gaze. As I feared such conditions have bred a man dark of skin, quick of eye and brutal in habit. Manners and morals are as foreign to this land as I. Alas, I have neither the time nor inclination to educate these people or make plain the error of their simple, bucolic ways. It is my only hope that others may follow so that civilisation can be wrought from the clutches of native traditions and the barrier to progress they provide.
However, all is not lost and I find solace in the pursuit of religion I have seen practiced here. Though not the god of Christian or Catholic religions nor recognisable as any other deity of significant note their god took human form in the memory of those still living. Referred to simply as El Diego, the image of Diego Armando Maradonna adorns every wall and fills every heart. Considered to have performed acts of miracle implausible by any other he is said to have touched these lands with the hand of god and recalls to mind a character known as Pele whom the Amazonians worship in a similar manner. A martyr to some Maradonna's greatest acts were followed by an attempt to banish the world of all evil through the consumption of the devil’s every earthly manifestation.
Alas, as is my wont. I digress, and thus to my adventures...
Setting off before dawn I joined a merry band of adventurous spirits from Spain, Germany, France and various other lesser nations I shall not bother wasting ink or quill noting here. Heading for the legendary rivers of ice frozen in time and body we travelled overland before reaching the threatening waters of Lago Argentina which we navigated with the aid of a skilled and fearless local crew. At journeys end we found ourselves treading the frozen waterways of an age gone past. Attired in plus fours and woollen socks, sturdy boots, tweed jacket and carrying a pipe should conditions become overly harsh I knew I had prepared well to face the rigours of the day to come. Trekking through caves of pure azure, across crevasses of depth beyond reason and over peaks so sharp it startled the soul our progress was inhibited as much by the landscape as by the awe which each step and corner induced in all.
Ably guided by Carlos, a man hewn from the very rock of the vast mountain ranges of this jagged land, our every footfall was serenaded by a cacophony of sounds of which words can provide no adequate description as the glacier ruptured and split, aching and groaning with the pain of a man lay dormant too long. Such things call to mind the immensity of nature and inevitably lead to the contemplation of one’s own insignificance but I did not let such thoughts disturb the unrelenting concentration required to survive the traversing of such dangerous landscapes.
Furthermore our trek brought us face to face with the fabled Condor, master and guardian of these lands, surveying his kingdom with the majesty of unassailable royalty the bird witnessed our progress with a supreme indifference. Truly his presence did make the heart beat faster.
At the end of a day of quite stirring experiences and wondrous sights it was a pleasure indeed to take a dram of Scotland’s finest chilled by ice taken from beneath our very feet. Whiskey, ever the travellers companion allowed us to toast our bravery in suitable fashion. United in the possession of fearless spirits and daring souls the unique band of which I was now a part felt confident our footsteps would likely never be trod again.
And thus as time presses onwards so must I and before long I head for Mendoza, a town 2 days travel north from where I currently reside. Said to be more advanced than the indigenous population I have encountered thus far the people of Mendoza are reputed to have adopted some of the customs and cultures of the French. I am trusting such statements refer to the practice of Bacchus’ own alchemy of fermenting grapes into gastronomic gold rather than the adoption of a socialist work ethic or an inability to perform on the field of battle.
As an aside it would appear Argentina differs from Britannia where travel in a northerly direction beyond the boundaries of London leads to a regression in culture and refinement exposing one to a people of quite despicable habits and the basest, most animalistic behaviour.
Alas, as the wick of the solitary candle by which I write my musings burns low I fear it is time to say goodbye. My bed calls me to her comforting embrace and I have no will nor desire to resist.
Until I reach you again give my love to dearest Blighty, I do miss her so.
Yours,
Charles.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Puerto Madryn, Argentina
Sam, 7.
I am in Puerto Madryn and today I went on a tour of the Island nearby it isn´t really an Island as you can drive there but it seemed like an Island so that it is what I will call it on the Island I saw lots of wildlife including sealions elephant seals which aren´t really elephants and also whales the whales were swimming and messing about in the sea really near where I was standing which was amazing I wanted to jump in the water and swim with them but the water looked cold so I didn´t the whales seemed like fun as they spat water everywhere and kept flashing their tails above the water this made everyone very excited and I took lots of pictures I had a cheese and ham roll for lunch which I made myself after asking the nice lady for the ingredients in Spanish I worked out the money myself but the money I tried to use wasn´t made by the president of Argentina and was made my someone else I think using crayons and pens so the lady gave it back to me I will try to use it again as wasting pocket money makes me feel sad on my journey round the Island I met someone from Switzerland which is not sure if it is in Europe someone from Korea and someone from England which is the same country I come from they all seemed nice the man who took us round was also very nice and spoke English and Spanish he kept making jokes which I didn´t understand he said that all Elephant Seals do on land is sleep and breed and that was a good life sleeping gives me bad dreams and breeding sounds yucky so I think he is wrong he also said that a guanaco which is like an antelope boy lives with five girls which is expensive my mummy says my daddy never gives her enough money so I think he must be wrong again it is late now so I am off to bed I want to look through the photos I took today I hope they are good as if they are not I may cry but I think tears are proof of the soul so maybe that is Ok.
Love mummy and daddy...x
I am in Puerto Madryn and today I went on a tour of the Island nearby it isn´t really an Island as you can drive there but it seemed like an Island so that it is what I will call it on the Island I saw lots of wildlife including sealions elephant seals which aren´t really elephants and also whales the whales were swimming and messing about in the sea really near where I was standing which was amazing I wanted to jump in the water and swim with them but the water looked cold so I didn´t the whales seemed like fun as they spat water everywhere and kept flashing their tails above the water this made everyone very excited and I took lots of pictures I had a cheese and ham roll for lunch which I made myself after asking the nice lady for the ingredients in Spanish I worked out the money myself but the money I tried to use wasn´t made by the president of Argentina and was made my someone else I think using crayons and pens so the lady gave it back to me I will try to use it again as wasting pocket money makes me feel sad on my journey round the Island I met someone from Switzerland which is not sure if it is in Europe someone from Korea and someone from England which is the same country I come from they all seemed nice the man who took us round was also very nice and spoke English and Spanish he kept making jokes which I didn´t understand he said that all Elephant Seals do on land is sleep and breed and that was a good life sleeping gives me bad dreams and breeding sounds yucky so I think he is wrong he also said that a guanaco which is like an antelope boy lives with five girls which is expensive my mummy says my daddy never gives her enough money so I think he must be wrong again it is late now so I am off to bed I want to look through the photos I took today I hope they are good as if they are not I may cry but I think tears are proof of the soul so maybe that is Ok.
Love mummy and daddy...x
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