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...
Friday, 4 July 2008
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...
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