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...
Sunday, 3 August 2008
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...
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