A while ago it was commented that the regularity of my posts can sometimes have a feast and famine nature. In truth the last two weeks have been exactly of that nature with a variety of binges taking over one another at different points from large quantities of alcohol and late nights in La Paz to hammock chill time and binging on sun, swimming and fruit in the Pampas. But first we have the La Paz bus journey to regress over.
I arrived at the station to find the English lads boarding the bus, and that they had populated seats around me. This at least meant that I wouldn't be crammed up against the wall by some overweight bolivian woman and her worldly belongings. We boarded and the bus started off. People were everywhere, arguing about seats and space, and eventually dumping themselves on the floor of the bus, leaving no space whatsoever for my legs. The 20 hours became a prison sentence in my mind, especially when the heater came on in the already stuffy bus and roasted us in our seats. I tried to read to pass the time; they turned off the power so there were no lights. Time passed and my cramped legs began to ache with nowhere to put them, I got irritated and tried to jostle for space with some woman sat on the floor with her bags in my leg area, yet to no avail, she was a pro, I was just another gringo who didn't get the rules. The night rolled on and the temperature dropped, and dropped, and dropped. It was freezing and stupidly I had left my warm stuff in my bag. Hours passed shivering uncontrollably.
We arrived in La Paz beaten by the Bolivian bus system. Up until the point I had had pleasant and interesting experiences on them but this was not one of those. We walked to Loki, the premier party hostel in La Paz, where my mates Adam and Dan were staying. Check in was not for 7 hours but I popped into their room and caught up on the last month while I waited to be given a bed. As it turned out they had a space in their room and I took it. We took off for a hearty breakfast, where I met Peachey and Nick, Australian and South African respectively. This was to be the party crew for the next few weeks.
The next three nights were late, intense and very banterous, leaving me extremely tired and in need to some sunshine. On the second day, Nick and I had gone to the San Pedro Prison in La Paz to do a totally unofficially corrupt tour of the prison, where we were guided around being told about life in the prison by the prisoners, and then chilled in the cell of one of the prisoners for a while, listening to the stories of a South African drug trafficker. A very surreal, strange and unnerving experience, especially due to the fact that this was totally off the record. It was, however, a brilliant and eye opening experience that I'm glad I partook in.
Other than that, days in La Paz mostly passed tending hangovers, eating and strolling around. We booked a 6 person jeep to Rurrenbaque and left on Saturday morning to do the Pampas Tour, a tour through the Pampas river area of the rainforest that feeds the largest Delta in the world. The jeep was good fun with four iPods and an iTrip, in spite of the bumpy roads and hard seats. We arrived in darkness, booked into a rather basic hotel, found hammocks and rolled the first of the many joints that we would be smoking over the next four days. The crickets chirped, the parrots squarked and our hammocks swung us until we were ready for sleep.
The next day we left the hotel immersed in the abundantly clammy heat of the jungle that we were in. For the first time since Brazil I was finally hot, wearing shorts and t-shirt, and ambled along in the sunshine. We booked a tour for the next day and grabbed an old wooden boat to take us to a waterfall down the river. The waterfalls were small, yet had pools below them to swim in, we swam under the shade of the trees and returned on the small boat at sunset. Pizzas and beers followed, before crawling back to our hammocks for an early evening smoke and a long sleep. The next day we were leaving early for the Pampas, pink dolphins, crocodiles, snakes, piranhas and mosquitos.
Saturday, 26 July 2008
An Obstacle On The Tracks
Sadly my train journey wasn't to be. I arrived at the train station excited that I was going to be slowly moving through the mountains between Potosi and Sucre on some battered old train that had seen better years. It was 6am and freezing cold, as it usually is before the sun rises at 4000m above sea level. I bought my ticket for the six hour journey and sat in the waiting room amongst traditionally dressed Bolivians.
The train arrived, or what was supposed to be a train. In fact it more resembled a bus with train wheels and in all honesty I was a little disappointed. The major issue arose when I was told that I had to put my bag on the roof, open to the elements and easy to steal by some opportunist little shit. So like any British consumer I kicked up a fuss, resulting in the guy telling me that I could put it on my seat and sit on it for six hours.
The taxi driver whisked me away from the train station with due haste and I found myself on a Sucre bound bus within 10 minutes. I arrived in Sucre, a few hours later and checked into my hostel only to realise that my guitar was still on the bus. The bus had left and I was to continue my travels without the sweet sounding instrument that I had picked up in Rosario.
Sucre was what you would expect of a Old Colonial South American city: colourful old buildings and palm trees under a deep blue sky. The markets were filled with countless fruits, many of which I had never seen before but bought with my new friend Andy for a fruit party later. The evening passed on a swing chair with fruit wine and good music, a stark contrast to the next evening, which would be spent on a shitty Bolivian bus to La Paz. As it was to turn out shitty was an understatement.
The train arrived, or what was supposed to be a train. In fact it more resembled a bus with train wheels and in all honesty I was a little disappointed. The major issue arose when I was told that I had to put my bag on the roof, open to the elements and easy to steal by some opportunist little shit. So like any British consumer I kicked up a fuss, resulting in the guy telling me that I could put it on my seat and sit on it for six hours.
The taxi driver whisked me away from the train station with due haste and I found myself on a Sucre bound bus within 10 minutes. I arrived in Sucre, a few hours later and checked into my hostel only to realise that my guitar was still on the bus. The bus had left and I was to continue my travels without the sweet sounding instrument that I had picked up in Rosario.
Sucre was what you would expect of a Old Colonial South American city: colourful old buildings and palm trees under a deep blue sky. The markets were filled with countless fruits, many of which I had never seen before but bought with my new friend Andy for a fruit party later. The evening passed on a swing chair with fruit wine and good music, a stark contrast to the next evening, which would be spent on a shitty Bolivian bus to La Paz. As it was to turn out shitty was an understatement.
Sunday, 13 July 2008
There's Tourism In 'Dem 'Der Hills
Potosi, the highest city in the world and home, many years ago, to the worlds largest silver mine and consequently it most affluent city. Now, after being sucked dry by the colonial powers of days gone, it's the home to struggling miners in pitiful conditions and a 'must visit' spot on the South American tourist trail.
For me it was another city with another hostel full of people I didn't know. Never really an issue but something that always requires you to be on your game. On those days where you don't have the willpower or energy to make friends all over again, you spend the day friendless. Simple as. Fortunately I have thus far usually managed to find something in the tank to put down enough conversation to get a dinner invite. Although people you get close to leave and the whole process begins all over again. Sadly an inevitable fact of independent travelling on your own. If I'm honest, which I invariably am, the process had gotten to me a bit, as anyone I had gelled with of late had being going in a different direction, and my desire to meet one or some cool folks to travel with, if even for a week or so, has grown somewhat. Still, you keep on fighting the good fight and eventually it pays off.
In fact, when I think about it, independent travelling isn't that easy. To some it must seem like it's one big long holiday, which in some respects is true, but when you consider the insect bites; regular cold showers; constant need for personal security; heavy bags; shitty buses; language barriers; need to be social all the time; snorers; smelly clothes; banging bolivian cheesy music on the buses, drunk people in your dorm etc. then it's not all a walk in the park.
The major, and pretty much only, thing to do in Potosi, aside from wandering the narrow streets in the sunshine, is to visit the once abundant mines. I was still struggling a little with the altitude, however a group of english guys (one of which I had briefly met in BA) and a canadian girl were going that afternoon and asked me along. I happily complied, and within no time I was donning a miners suit complete with head torch. We were taken to a shop to buy some dynamite and sample the miners drink of choice: 96% proof alcohol, which burned like hellfire. We all purchased some dynamite and bandanas (to cover our mouths), and jumped back in the minibus.
We were taken to a refinery to see how they extract silver from the rocks and then moved onto the mines themselves. After more photography than an Oscars ceremony we descended into the mines with our guide, Scorpio. To begin with the air was cool and lightly dusty, but as we descended through tiny holes and down broken ladders into the working heart of the mountain the air became humid and thick with dust (containing asbestos and silica). Breathing through our bandanas was become a struggle for all of us. We spoke to some miners while the guide translated the stories of life in the mines. The mines have such a tragic air which has aleady claimed millions of lifes and it after struggling with an hour it is difficult to see how the miners can spend at least 8 hours a day, 6 days a week down there. In part we were shielded from the tragic nature of the mines by a banterous guide (once a miner himself), yet the nature of the mines was clearly apparent. We returned to the clean air after an hour gasping for breath. Our final task was to prepare the gel, fertilser and fuse of some dynamite, which was then lit and passed around for photos. After we had all posed with the hissing bomb the guide ran off to throw it in a section of wasteland moments before it exploded noisily, ripping a small section from the ground.
After showering and eating the day diminished and all were in bed early after such an eventful day. Tomorrow I would attempt to get the first train of my journey to Sucre.
For me it was another city with another hostel full of people I didn't know. Never really an issue but something that always requires you to be on your game. On those days where you don't have the willpower or energy to make friends all over again, you spend the day friendless. Simple as. Fortunately I have thus far usually managed to find something in the tank to put down enough conversation to get a dinner invite. Although people you get close to leave and the whole process begins all over again. Sadly an inevitable fact of independent travelling on your own. If I'm honest, which I invariably am, the process had gotten to me a bit, as anyone I had gelled with of late had being going in a different direction, and my desire to meet one or some cool folks to travel with, if even for a week or so, has grown somewhat. Still, you keep on fighting the good fight and eventually it pays off.
In fact, when I think about it, independent travelling isn't that easy. To some it must seem like it's one big long holiday, which in some respects is true, but when you consider the insect bites; regular cold showers; constant need for personal security; heavy bags; shitty buses; language barriers; need to be social all the time; snorers; smelly clothes; banging bolivian cheesy music on the buses, drunk people in your dorm etc. then it's not all a walk in the park.
The major, and pretty much only, thing to do in Potosi, aside from wandering the narrow streets in the sunshine, is to visit the once abundant mines. I was still struggling a little with the altitude, however a group of english guys (one of which I had briefly met in BA) and a canadian girl were going that afternoon and asked me along. I happily complied, and within no time I was donning a miners suit complete with head torch. We were taken to a shop to buy some dynamite and sample the miners drink of choice: 96% proof alcohol, which burned like hellfire. We all purchased some dynamite and bandanas (to cover our mouths), and jumped back in the minibus.
We were taken to a refinery to see how they extract silver from the rocks and then moved onto the mines themselves. After more photography than an Oscars ceremony we descended into the mines with our guide, Scorpio. To begin with the air was cool and lightly dusty, but as we descended through tiny holes and down broken ladders into the working heart of the mountain the air became humid and thick with dust (containing asbestos and silica). Breathing through our bandanas was become a struggle for all of us. We spoke to some miners while the guide translated the stories of life in the mines. The mines have such a tragic air which has aleady claimed millions of lifes and it after struggling with an hour it is difficult to see how the miners can spend at least 8 hours a day, 6 days a week down there. In part we were shielded from the tragic nature of the mines by a banterous guide (once a miner himself), yet the nature of the mines was clearly apparent. We returned to the clean air after an hour gasping for breath. Our final task was to prepare the gel, fertilser and fuse of some dynamite, which was then lit and passed around for photos. After we had all posed with the hissing bomb the guide ran off to throw it in a section of wasteland moments before it exploded noisily, ripping a small section from the ground.
After showering and eating the day diminished and all were in bed early after such an eventful day. Tomorrow I would attempt to get the first train of my journey to Sucre.
Friday, 11 July 2008
Buses through Bolivia
The morning was similar to most mornings before a journey. I awoke unnecessarily early to ensure I had an hour to pack my bag. Why i'm not sure, as with a shitty hangover and my clothes everywhere I can do it in 45 minutes. Sober with everything in piles to be thrown straight into my bag requires no more than 10 minutes if I'm meticulous. So, with breakfast out the way and 50 minutes to spare I wandered out into the streets of Uyuni in search of an Internet café. Everything was closed, so I sat for an hour and a half shivering in the cold waiting for my bus. The bus came and was packed with tourists, part of a tour group from what I could gather. They were all complaining about the state of the bus and how there was no food. Sat in the back with the Bolivians I was struck with a kind of pride. I was the scruffy independent traveller tutting to myself about a tourist group with their ridiculous expectations of the third world country they were passing through. This is where the real travelling began. I was a traveller.
The bus set off and I sat marvelling out the window at the ragged, rocky and mountainous scenery the passed by. Next to me sat an old toothless Bolivian man in his best suit, putting coca leaves into his mouth. He offered me some, which I gladly accepted as the altitude was increasing rapidly as the scraggy Bolivian bus swung around bends like Lewis Hamilton at Silverstone. They were fresh and he told me that they had been picked that morning. I stuffed a few in my cheek and put some of the ash in that activated it. He gave me a toothless grin and began to show me how to remove the leaf from the stem and follow the process correctly. After reciprocating with my knowledge he mumbled something with a smile and continued to go about his well practiced process.
With a cheek full of coca and viewpoint out of the window I sat and watched the scenery unveil itself. The nature of the land never changed but the abundance of nothingness began to become astounding. Mountain upon mountain passed by, leading to down to the dry riverbeds that had once fed the land, now resigned to dry canyons cut with cacti. It became clear that Bolivia had once, many years before the Spanish, and probably even the Incas flourished with greenery and great lakes. Now the brightly clad farmers leading a few measley sheep through the hills struggled for a livelihood on a land that gave them nothing. This was Bolivia.
After six hours of swinging around the mountainsides in the rusted bus, we arrived in Potosi, another example of Bolivian former glories left scrabbling under the domineering mountain which had once made it the richest city in the world.
The bus set off and I sat marvelling out the window at the ragged, rocky and mountainous scenery the passed by. Next to me sat an old toothless Bolivian man in his best suit, putting coca leaves into his mouth. He offered me some, which I gladly accepted as the altitude was increasing rapidly as the scraggy Bolivian bus swung around bends like Lewis Hamilton at Silverstone. They were fresh and he told me that they had been picked that morning. I stuffed a few in my cheek and put some of the ash in that activated it. He gave me a toothless grin and began to show me how to remove the leaf from the stem and follow the process correctly. After reciprocating with my knowledge he mumbled something with a smile and continued to go about his well practiced process.
With a cheek full of coca and viewpoint out of the window I sat and watched the scenery unveil itself. The nature of the land never changed but the abundance of nothingness began to become astounding. Mountain upon mountain passed by, leading to down to the dry riverbeds that had once fed the land, now resigned to dry canyons cut with cacti. It became clear that Bolivia had once, many years before the Spanish, and probably even the Incas flourished with greenery and great lakes. Now the brightly clad farmers leading a few measley sheep through the hills struggled for a livelihood on a land that gave them nothing. This was Bolivia.
After six hours of swinging around the mountainsides in the rusted bus, we arrived in Potosi, another example of Bolivian former glories left scrabbling under the domineering mountain which had once made it the richest city in the world.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
Barren Lands and Shivering Hands
I arrived in town, my face was speckled with the first kiss of the sun and my salt and dust clad clothes had the appearance of one finished journeying through barren lands. I had. In fact I hadn't washed in days or changed my clothes as there was little point. The dust was ubiquitous and everything would be dirty within an hour or so. Plus it was freezing and my one fleece and jumper was essential.
We started off early, the bus dropping us at the border to collect our jeep and guide. The sun shone on the craggy land yet at 3000m above sea level it was always cold. We piled in and headed up through gaps in the mountains, occasionally stopping at frozen volcanic lakes packed with minerals which gave them varying colours. Next up we stopped off to swim in hot springs, which was perfectly warm but resembled a rocky paddling pool. Still, as the shower hadn't worked for days in San Pedro it was a welcome stop.
Before finishing the first day's travelling we went on to hot pools of bubbling eggy mud, which was at our highest altitude of the trip: 4840m abov sea level and the equivalent to being well over half way up Everest. It was freezing and by the time we had reache our first stop for the night we had descenced to 4315m (exactly half way up Everest's 8800m) and altitude sickness had really set in. In theory you should only go up 500m a day safely, yet we had gone up over 2000m. My head was banging and I struggled for breath in the freezing cold bed which I had taken to immediately without food. The night was spent sleeplessly shivering and struggling for breath. Morning couldn't come too soon.
The next day passed grumpily recovering as we went to more frozen lakes and to see an active Volcano for the day before staying in a hotel made entirely of salt on the edge of the salt flats. We drank a few beers and went to bed early in preparation for sunrise over the salt flats. It was freezing cold but bearable. In fact anyone who thinks that I am sunning it up in South America is gravely mistaken, as Argentina was in the midst of winter and Bolivia and Peru, being on the spine of the Andes, are at such high altitudes that in spite of a strong sun, are always cold. Tshirts, shorts and flipflops haven't really been solely donned since Brazil and probably won't be until Ecuador/Columbia onwards.
The sunrise over the salt flat was amazing enough to be difficult to describe without the aid of photos, which still don't do justice, and many were taken. We continued on to a beautiful Island populated with numerous cacti and an amazing viewpoint over the salt flats. We returned to a wonderful breakfast and to take the archetypical photos that are taken on the Salt Flats, which look like you are crushing little people and standing on bottletops.
After luncheoning in a tourist town we moved on to by far my favourite part of the trip: The Train Graveyard. The train graveyard is a collection of rusting old steam trains abandoned in the desert, which had such a haunting presence. A reminder of times gone by abandoned and forgotten while the world speeds onwards. Plus it was a perfect place to flex the SLR, and I could have spent hours there.
The excursion ended and my friends Michelle, Jan, Kaisje and Maria left for La Paz, leaving me on my own in Uyuni: a backwards town with brightly clad locals and terrible hotels. I booked myself a room in a deadly quiet hotel and went to bed early. Tomorrow I would be leaving early for Potosi, the highest city in the world.
We started off early, the bus dropping us at the border to collect our jeep and guide. The sun shone on the craggy land yet at 3000m above sea level it was always cold. We piled in and headed up through gaps in the mountains, occasionally stopping at frozen volcanic lakes packed with minerals which gave them varying colours. Next up we stopped off to swim in hot springs, which was perfectly warm but resembled a rocky paddling pool. Still, as the shower hadn't worked for days in San Pedro it was a welcome stop.
Before finishing the first day's travelling we went on to hot pools of bubbling eggy mud, which was at our highest altitude of the trip: 4840m abov sea level and the equivalent to being well over half way up Everest. It was freezing and by the time we had reache our first stop for the night we had descenced to 4315m (exactly half way up Everest's 8800m) and altitude sickness had really set in. In theory you should only go up 500m a day safely, yet we had gone up over 2000m. My head was banging and I struggled for breath in the freezing cold bed which I had taken to immediately without food. The night was spent sleeplessly shivering and struggling for breath. Morning couldn't come too soon.
The next day passed grumpily recovering as we went to more frozen lakes and to see an active Volcano for the day before staying in a hotel made entirely of salt on the edge of the salt flats. We drank a few beers and went to bed early in preparation for sunrise over the salt flats. It was freezing cold but bearable. In fact anyone who thinks that I am sunning it up in South America is gravely mistaken, as Argentina was in the midst of winter and Bolivia and Peru, being on the spine of the Andes, are at such high altitudes that in spite of a strong sun, are always cold. Tshirts, shorts and flipflops haven't really been solely donned since Brazil and probably won't be until Ecuador/Columbia onwards.
The sunrise over the salt flat was amazing enough to be difficult to describe without the aid of photos, which still don't do justice, and many were taken. We continued on to a beautiful Island populated with numerous cacti and an amazing viewpoint over the salt flats. We returned to a wonderful breakfast and to take the archetypical photos that are taken on the Salt Flats, which look like you are crushing little people and standing on bottletops.
After luncheoning in a tourist town we moved on to by far my favourite part of the trip: The Train Graveyard. The train graveyard is a collection of rusting old steam trains abandoned in the desert, which had such a haunting presence. A reminder of times gone by abandoned and forgotten while the world speeds onwards. Plus it was a perfect place to flex the SLR, and I could have spent hours there.
The excursion ended and my friends Michelle, Jan, Kaisje and Maria left for La Paz, leaving me on my own in Uyuni: a backwards town with brightly clad locals and terrible hotels. I booked myself a room in a deadly quiet hotel and went to bed early. Tomorrow I would be leaving early for Potosi, the highest city in the world.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Desert Adventures
The first excursion in San Pedro was to be Sandboarding on the sizeable dunes that are sporadically spotted around the town. San Pedro is not necessarily the kind of desert that you would expect from seeing Lawrence of Arabia, but the barren, craggy land is still as inhospitable as any of ubiquitous sand. It does, however, have some sizeable dunes spotted around, waiting to be graced by a smooth board or two. Rhys, Dr Mike and myself were yearning for some action, adventure and adrenaline pumping pastimes, hence this beauty being the first thing on our list.
If I'm honest I expected pretty much everyone to be awesome at this whilst I spent the day falling off and cursing. However, although I didn't manage to get the whole way down I got some good runs and didn't fare any better or worse than anyone else. Unsurprisingly my competitivity had me attempting higher and steeper dune before I was ready which resulted in some pretty impressive rolls down the dunes. We returned, three happy pioneers covered in sand, to discover that the showers were no more than a freezing trickle of snowman's piss, and sand was to be duly discoved in all kinds of random places over the coming days.
The night was to be passed in a much more relaxed yet totally spectacular fashion as Rhys, myself and two swedish girls headed off into the middle of the Valley of the Moon to a stargazing observatory.
We were met by an enthusiastic French man who began by excitedly telling us about the rudimentaries of space, which despite being told facts that we learnt in school, was awe inspiring. After 30 minutes of animated lecturing, the group was led outside and presented with the most beautiful sky that I think I will have the privilege to see. Furthermore, we were in the company of the French guide, who began to point out each star, constellation and visible planet accurately with his laser pen.
We were then led into an area that contained a number of massive telescopes which were primed and aimed at Jupiter, Saturn, a Supernova and a section of the Milky Way to name but a few. Like excited children we ambled round enjoying the perfect sky and learning all sorts of wonderful things. After warming up with hot chocolate we had to leave but I for one left humbled and keen to know more.
The next day I booked myself on a three day tour through the Salt Flats to Bolivia, which would leave the next day. I made haste to grab all of my provisions as I was to leave presently to the Valle de la Luna (Moon Valley) to watch the sunset. So I ran around the small town to purchase sunnies, water, fruit, cookies and toilet paper, returning just in time for my tour. We set off, at first, to the top of the valley to look out over the area, whilst the guide told us the history. However, of late the photography bug had returned and I was more interested in playing with my camera, including a few shots of me doing heel clicks on a cliff edge (which looked deceptively unsafe but wasn't really). We continued to death valley, which overlooked the dunes that I had been snowboarding on the day before. Very pretty, but not a lot to relate back.
Our final stop was the national park of the Moon Valley. I was thoroughly enjoying the literal moon-like landscape and the haunting black and whites that I was able to take. This, however, was sadly marred by some fat idiot trying to give me camera lessons, in spite of the fact that he was using his camera on automatic point-and-shoot mode (which a monkey could master), whilst I, who have now totally mastered my SLR, was setting every detail in manual mode and getting great results. To further my frustration, he had the damn thing attached to a tripod for no reason at all. Eventually, when I had managed to escape him, I climbed, along with Rhys and an English guy called Ed to sit on a cliff edge to watch the sun set over the spectaculor landscape.
The next day I was to leave San Pedro for Bolivia, and I was brimming with excitement. San Pedro had been a great mix of exciting adventures and humbling moments, I was able to have time with my thoughts whilst being in the mix of fun people. As when moving on to every new place, uncertainty awaited me as I took to high altitudes; perfectly white deserts of salt and every changing landscapes to the north.
Over The Hill
Under the cover of darkness, I fled my final Argentinian city. I had been warned that this route was spectacular but as the sun came up to bath the mountains that I had watched the sun set over a few days before, it dawned on me (pun intended) that this was going to actually be a pleasurable bus journey. In fact it was to be a literally breathtaking bus journey. After winding into the foot of the Andes the roads twisted and turned through imposing canyons, riddled with cacti that stood to attention in the morning sun. The road began to climb into what seemed to be an impossible route. There were mountains here there and everywhere, and not a pass or valley in sight; but we weren't to go through the mountains, we were going over them. The road became an almost coiled snake as it zigzagged back and forth up the mountain until the world was spread below us in a tapestry of overlapping and descending creases, rippling into the horizon. Finally after what felt like an age of undisturbed ascent we reached the top. Around every twist and turn of the road the landscape was breathtaking. Literally. The serpentlike road's kiss was not entirely without sting, as the drowsey nausea of the altitude reared its ugly head putting most of the bus to sleep. In spite of the drowsey caresses of sleep calling to me, and the pretty much constant breathlessness I didn't want to miss any of this.
We descended into a baby salt flat driving straight through the middle where a road had been laid over the immensely flat salt, which would, many years ago, have been a great expanse of water. Water: something that I truly wished I had purchased along with some fruit instead of spending my last 12 pesos on beer. However hindsight is a wonderful thing and at the time it seemed almost heathen to not compliment my last all you can eat steakathon with a delicious glass of cerveza.
As we descended I really did feel the effects of the altitude, when the bus plummeted down through the clouds towards San Pedro and my ears felt like they were going to explode. After piling off the bus into the immigration and promising that we were not smuggling turnips, baby monkeys or semen (they even had a picture of a jar labelled 'semen' to make sure that we understood) into Chile we were in San Pedro de Atacama. At first impressions the town that was described as "a cool backpacker haven" in the guidebooks looked more like something out of Desperado, however when we turned the corner we were presented with an impressive little set of mudbuildings crammed with hostels, bars and restaurants all within 30 seconds walk. The hostel was ridiculously basic to say the least and were told that the outside showers were as sporadic and unpredictable as Hugo Chavez on a bad day. For those of you who don't get that last one, they didn't work that well.
After Rhys, a Welsh guy who I met in Mendoza, and I checked in, we were cheerfully greeted, and presented with beer, by two fellow hostel residents (Alex and Dr Mike). As the evening passed we sat around the fire under the stars, played some guitar and had a singsong. It was bitterly cold but San Pedro felt like the kind of place where wayward travellers could have some fun adventures. And that we were about to find out was to be proven correct.
We descended into a baby salt flat driving straight through the middle where a road had been laid over the immensely flat salt, which would, many years ago, have been a great expanse of water. Water: something that I truly wished I had purchased along with some fruit instead of spending my last 12 pesos on beer. However hindsight is a wonderful thing and at the time it seemed almost heathen to not compliment my last all you can eat steakathon with a delicious glass of cerveza.
As we descended I really did feel the effects of the altitude, when the bus plummeted down through the clouds towards San Pedro and my ears felt like they were going to explode. After piling off the bus into the immigration and promising that we were not smuggling turnips, baby monkeys or semen (they even had a picture of a jar labelled 'semen' to make sure that we understood) into Chile we were in San Pedro de Atacama. At first impressions the town that was described as "a cool backpacker haven" in the guidebooks looked more like something out of Desperado, however when we turned the corner we were presented with an impressive little set of mudbuildings crammed with hostels, bars and restaurants all within 30 seconds walk. The hostel was ridiculously basic to say the least and were told that the outside showers were as sporadic and unpredictable as Hugo Chavez on a bad day. For those of you who don't get that last one, they didn't work that well.
After Rhys, a Welsh guy who I met in Mendoza, and I checked in, we were cheerfully greeted, and presented with beer, by two fellow hostel residents (Alex and Dr Mike). As the evening passed we sat around the fire under the stars, played some guitar and had a singsong. It was bitterly cold but San Pedro felt like the kind of place where wayward travellers could have some fun adventures. And that we were about to find out was to be proven correct.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Solo Sunsets
After much thought and little decision making I arrived at the bus depot with very little idea where my next destination was to be. One option was to cross the Andes into Santiago, Chile and the other was to head North to Salta and then over the mountains that way. As it happened I ended up taking the latter route.
A 16 hour bus journey followed: tiring, frustrating and pretty much experienced in its entirity. Actually I did manage to get around an hours sleep before being woken to enjoy another pitiful excuse for a bus breakfast.
I arrived shattered as I usually do in new cities and slept in a quiet yet pleasant hostel. My bed felt so soft and comfy that I didn't really want to get up for dinner. But it was all you can eat BBQ, and I needed to hit the bar to make aquaintance with some other people. Everyone seemed quite nice but I went to bed without really feeling I had bonded with anyone. I did get on fairly well with an Australian girl, but she was to leave the next day.
The next day was spent with Alex before she left and then exploring the streets of Salta, a beautifully colourful city with imposing colonial churches and green parks heavily populated with orange trees. The weather is beautiful, actually it's not beautiful it's perfect: The sun is warming without being baking, and the colourful city feels wonderfully complemented like walking through a postcard.
However, my wayward journeying North is calling and after ambling through the city I took myself off to the station to acquire a ticket across the mountains. By this time the sun was dipping and I hopped on a cable car to the top of the nearest mountain (not every day you can say that) to watch the sunset over the imposing mountains that I am to cross in a few days.
So here I sit, as I have for the last hour, watching the city alight below as the sky darkens, slowly progressing through a myriad of yellows, golds, oranges, purples and finally the dark blue canvass spotted with stars. I'm actually humbled by watching the world close its day's business in such a beautiful setting. I don't know anyone in the city below and if I'm honest it doesn't really matter if it remains that way. I'm totally alone with my thoughts and yet not remotely lonely. Almost three months through my travels I recently realised that I've been so busy that I've had little time to process everything. Time to just sit and watch the world turn, and in turn contemplating my position in it. Because the person who sat staring out of the window desperate for change needed not just to go on a literal, physically journey but an emotional, contemplative and, in some ways, spiritual journey. Otherwise the change that I so desired would at best be a break. The world's turning and for the first time I'm finally able to sit back and watch it do so.
I arrive in the Atacama Desert exactly three months through my travels ready to roll on to adventures anew in the North. Bring it on.
A 16 hour bus journey followed: tiring, frustrating and pretty much experienced in its entirity. Actually I did manage to get around an hours sleep before being woken to enjoy another pitiful excuse for a bus breakfast.
I arrived shattered as I usually do in new cities and slept in a quiet yet pleasant hostel. My bed felt so soft and comfy that I didn't really want to get up for dinner. But it was all you can eat BBQ, and I needed to hit the bar to make aquaintance with some other people. Everyone seemed quite nice but I went to bed without really feeling I had bonded with anyone. I did get on fairly well with an Australian girl, but she was to leave the next day.
The next day was spent with Alex before she left and then exploring the streets of Salta, a beautifully colourful city with imposing colonial churches and green parks heavily populated with orange trees. The weather is beautiful, actually it's not beautiful it's perfect: The sun is warming without being baking, and the colourful city feels wonderfully complemented like walking through a postcard.
However, my wayward journeying North is calling and after ambling through the city I took myself off to the station to acquire a ticket across the mountains. By this time the sun was dipping and I hopped on a cable car to the top of the nearest mountain (not every day you can say that) to watch the sunset over the imposing mountains that I am to cross in a few days.
So here I sit, as I have for the last hour, watching the city alight below as the sky darkens, slowly progressing through a myriad of yellows, golds, oranges, purples and finally the dark blue canvass spotted with stars. I'm actually humbled by watching the world close its day's business in such a beautiful setting. I don't know anyone in the city below and if I'm honest it doesn't really matter if it remains that way. I'm totally alone with my thoughts and yet not remotely lonely. Almost three months through my travels I recently realised that I've been so busy that I've had little time to process everything. Time to just sit and watch the world turn, and in turn contemplating my position in it. Because the person who sat staring out of the window desperate for change needed not just to go on a literal, physically journey but an emotional, contemplative and, in some ways, spiritual journey. Otherwise the change that I so desired would at best be a break. The world's turning and for the first time I'm finally able to sit back and watch it do so.
I arrive in the Atacama Desert exactly three months through my travels ready to roll on to adventures anew in the North. Bring it on.
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
A Tale Of Unrequited Love
Behold a classic tale of a true love; unabashed and unbreakable. Staring at someone that will never truly, or even remotely, love you back. The pain of such knowledge as unbearable as life without the water that quenches the unrelenting thirsts of each lifeform on this earth. And a thirst is what it is in the most literal sense. Because the one, or ones, that feel so much unreturned love are the little bastards that keep biting me on a nightly basis. I'm not sure what it is about me, but I think that I'm far enough north again to return to donning the travellers choice of cologne: Deet. But for now back to the tales of Mendoza.
After leaving the coffee shop with a renewed sense of vivacity for travelling, I went into action mode. I returned to the hostel and booked myself a wine tour for the next day. With that box ticked off I grabbed my bag and set off on a rather long walk. It was well and truly siesta time and I watched the shops, museums and bars consequently close up so that their staff could pop off to unknown destinations for activites to be determined in due course. Siesta at first seemed such a strange concept, as for three or so hours pretty much everywhere closes and whatever town you're in becomes a ghost town. As a brit this was at first difficult to comprehend, but as with most things which seem odd the subtleties begin to become apparent and you find yourself falling in with them. After spending time in the smaller towns and cities of Argentina, going for a midday snooze was pretty easy to get used to. However Mendoza brought out a totally different side of siesta that not only impressed me but endeared the entire idea of having such a large break in the working day.
My walk took me to the large, and previously recommended city park which must be around the size of hyde park in London. The sun was undisturbed in a sky as blue as could be imagined, and the contast of the golden late autumn leaves and the ubiquitous grass made the park on the verge of being surreal. One thing that became quickly obvious was the amount of joggers, walkers and cyclists about. People played football on the many flat patches of grass, the tennis clubs were all full and people of all ages were to be seen on the golf course. This was a Thursday at 2:15. And then I finally came to realise how much sense it actually made. They were all out appreciating another beautiful Thursday. I regressed to a time when in summer we would quickly grab some food and go to play cricket in the Warwick park. Still wearing our suits we would happily play for around 30 minutes before speeding back to work for the next 4 hours in front of our computer felling grubby, yet happy that our day had been divided by something enjoyable. The I went on to imagine how it would differ if we had time to change, play for a good hour, shower, get some lunch and a coffee before returning to work clean, fulfilled and refreshed after a sizeable break in the work day. The social, physical and general wellbeing factors alone would be enough reason for this to be adopted. Siesta had taken on a new meaning to me and, although I doubt that it will ever be much more than a hindrance as a tourist, I could happily imagine incorporating it into my daily routine.
After walking around 3 miles I reached the end of the end of the park and the zoo, which I could smell before I could see. If I'm honest I don't really like zoos especially when, as was the case here, many of the animals seem to have gone mad in their undersized cages and have to live in the constant stench of their own fecies. However, having my camera in this underfunded zoo kind of alleviated my slight guilt for going because capturing the unsavoury aspects is sometimes as important as capturing the picturesque views and frequent natural wonders. The evening passed as many others have in Argentina: big midnight steak with two new travel mates (Martin and Stu from England) and an early night (2am).
The next day I went on a rather curious wine tour which took us to a church, a factory and a small factory to see their concrete wine storage tanks and to try some rather mediocre wine narrated in length in spanish and followed by pigeon english explanations in as few words as possible. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect everyone in the world to be able to speak English to make everything easier for me. In fact I make every attempt at every opportunity to try and converse in Spanish. However, a wine tour that sells itself as being available in English should not be a series of apologies for poor English by the guide before reverting back to Spanish for another 45 minutes. In fact, with a few exceptions, in spite of Argentina being a wonderful country with great food, people and places, on the whole their ability to cater for the lucrative western tourists leaves much to be desired in many respects.
On Saturday I joined Martin and Stu on a whitewater rafting day in the mountains, the whitewater rafting was good fun however slightly marred by the fact that after we had to sit around and wait three hours for them to take us home because some of the group was trekking after. Once again another instance of unexpected letdowns to slightly taint the experience in hand. In retrospect looking back it seems to me that the problem isn't actually the customer service but the lack of information about these things. If they had told us when booking that we may have to wait a little while for a trek or that we could join it after, it's likely that we would have signed on for the both and come prepared. As with the wine tour I would have felt less cheated if I had known in advance that the group would be mixed but that the guide spoke some English. A rudementary fact that people won't be disappointed if the product does what it says on the tin.
As Sunday approached my time in Mendoza was nearing an end and I had virtually no idea where I would be going after. I had three choices, West to Santiago, Chile, North to Salta or North East to Cordoba. But that was a choice for another day and a story for another blog.
After leaving the coffee shop with a renewed sense of vivacity for travelling, I went into action mode. I returned to the hostel and booked myself a wine tour for the next day. With that box ticked off I grabbed my bag and set off on a rather long walk. It was well and truly siesta time and I watched the shops, museums and bars consequently close up so that their staff could pop off to unknown destinations for activites to be determined in due course. Siesta at first seemed such a strange concept, as for three or so hours pretty much everywhere closes and whatever town you're in becomes a ghost town. As a brit this was at first difficult to comprehend, but as with most things which seem odd the subtleties begin to become apparent and you find yourself falling in with them. After spending time in the smaller towns and cities of Argentina, going for a midday snooze was pretty easy to get used to. However Mendoza brought out a totally different side of siesta that not only impressed me but endeared the entire idea of having such a large break in the working day.
My walk took me to the large, and previously recommended city park which must be around the size of hyde park in London. The sun was undisturbed in a sky as blue as could be imagined, and the contast of the golden late autumn leaves and the ubiquitous grass made the park on the verge of being surreal. One thing that became quickly obvious was the amount of joggers, walkers and cyclists about. People played football on the many flat patches of grass, the tennis clubs were all full and people of all ages were to be seen on the golf course. This was a Thursday at 2:15. And then I finally came to realise how much sense it actually made. They were all out appreciating another beautiful Thursday. I regressed to a time when in summer we would quickly grab some food and go to play cricket in the Warwick park. Still wearing our suits we would happily play for around 30 minutes before speeding back to work for the next 4 hours in front of our computer felling grubby, yet happy that our day had been divided by something enjoyable. The I went on to imagine how it would differ if we had time to change, play for a good hour, shower, get some lunch and a coffee before returning to work clean, fulfilled and refreshed after a sizeable break in the work day. The social, physical and general wellbeing factors alone would be enough reason for this to be adopted. Siesta had taken on a new meaning to me and, although I doubt that it will ever be much more than a hindrance as a tourist, I could happily imagine incorporating it into my daily routine.
After walking around 3 miles I reached the end of the end of the park and the zoo, which I could smell before I could see. If I'm honest I don't really like zoos especially when, as was the case here, many of the animals seem to have gone mad in their undersized cages and have to live in the constant stench of their own fecies. However, having my camera in this underfunded zoo kind of alleviated my slight guilt for going because capturing the unsavoury aspects is sometimes as important as capturing the picturesque views and frequent natural wonders. The evening passed as many others have in Argentina: big midnight steak with two new travel mates (Martin and Stu from England) and an early night (2am).
The next day I went on a rather curious wine tour which took us to a church, a factory and a small factory to see their concrete wine storage tanks and to try some rather mediocre wine narrated in length in spanish and followed by pigeon english explanations in as few words as possible. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect everyone in the world to be able to speak English to make everything easier for me. In fact I make every attempt at every opportunity to try and converse in Spanish. However, a wine tour that sells itself as being available in English should not be a series of apologies for poor English by the guide before reverting back to Spanish for another 45 minutes. In fact, with a few exceptions, in spite of Argentina being a wonderful country with great food, people and places, on the whole their ability to cater for the lucrative western tourists leaves much to be desired in many respects.
On Saturday I joined Martin and Stu on a whitewater rafting day in the mountains, the whitewater rafting was good fun however slightly marred by the fact that after we had to sit around and wait three hours for them to take us home because some of the group was trekking after. Once again another instance of unexpected letdowns to slightly taint the experience in hand. In retrospect looking back it seems to me that the problem isn't actually the customer service but the lack of information about these things. If they had told us when booking that we may have to wait a little while for a trek or that we could join it after, it's likely that we would have signed on for the both and come prepared. As with the wine tour I would have felt less cheated if I had known in advance that the group would be mixed but that the guide spoke some English. A rudementary fact that people won't be disappointed if the product does what it says on the tin.
As Sunday approached my time in Mendoza was nearing an end and I had virtually no idea where I would be going after. I had three choices, West to Santiago, Chile, North to Salta or North East to Cordoba. But that was a choice for another day and a story for another blog.
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