As the final blog of my Big Adventure I write this after an evening out with Daniela, the lovely Porteña I met in Mendoza during the first month of my trip. We spent the evening conversing mostly in English, with bits of Spanish thrown in: her efforts to communicate in a second language much better than mine, despite my five months of trying.
Tomorrow morning I must catch a cab to Pistarini airport by 10am to be in plenty of time for my 12.30 BA flight back to Heathrow.
All things considered, I´m feeling a bit peculiar.
Now that it´s so close I can´t deny that I´m really quite excited about being back in England and seeing my wonderful sister, my lovely parents and my fantastic friends who I now realise that I have actually missed rather a lot. I´m looking forward to not having to rummage for the same pair of trousers at the bottom of my backpack again or having to haul said backpack around while I wait for yet another 18-hour bus or trudge around trying to find a place to stay. I´m looking forward to a decent cup of tea, being able to communicate properly with people in shops and being able to use a hair dryer. I´m looking forward to my birthday and to enjoying a large glass of chilled Chablis in the garden in Somerset and, of course, to meeting the two new members of my family who have arrived in this world while I´ve been off exploring the other side of it.
But there is a rather large part of me that simply refuses to believe that the Big Adventure is finally over. Five whole months, which always seems like such a long time until you are at the end of it, which I know I´ll never forget and I´m fairly certain that at some point I will try to recapture.
The verdict about whether I am a completely different person will have to wait a while until I have settled back in to Blighty. I don´t feel that different from the girl who stepped off at the very same airport in February, mostly just incredibly fortunate to be one of the few people in the world who has had the opportunity to be so self-indulgent as to actually go travelling. There really aren´t that many of us, however it may seem when you´re enjoying a pint at the Hostel Inn and I hope I always remember that.
miércoles, 11 de julio de 2007
domingo, 8 de julio de 2007
Hot In The City
Safely back in Buenos Aires as I prepare to return home, I am suddenly feeling as though I don´t have enough clothes as it´s winter here and freezing! It´s even more noticeable as I´ve just arrived here from the Caribbean coast of Colombia and the beautiful city of Cartagena.
After a mind-numbing 23 hour bus journey with Jon and Richard, we stepped off into a dramatic temperature shift from Bogotá. Although Bogotá is close to the equator it is at an altitude of over 2,000 metres so the average temperature all year round is somewhere in the late teens. Cartagena de Indias couldn´t have been more different. A sweltering 3o something degrees and bearing all the signs of a tropical city, we suddenly realised where we were in the world and how far we had come from southern Patagonia.
The city retains a lot of colonial charm with an old town inside the city walls with cobbled roads and brightly painted houses with balconies leaning into the narrow streets. But it´s just not enough to go to the Caribbean unless you go to a Caribbean beach, right? So, after a weekend of partying we hopped on a boat from the harbour market for the one hour ride to La Playa Blanca, an isolated beach along the coast.
Isolated is right. There has so far been almost no development on La Playa Blanca and you can find nothing but a few wooden shacks on the beach, only a few with electricity generators and the kind of restaurants that are just someone´s kitchen and that fry up whatever that day´s catch was for dinner.
We spent a sweaty few days lying on the beach, swimming in the warm turquoise Caribbean sea and lying in our hammocks reading or saying things of such profound intellectual significance as, "Bloody hell, it´s hot, innit?"
The best parts for me were the sunsets (I took this picture myself, for once!) as we sat on the beach sipping rum and being feasted upon by mosquitos. Although I now have 75 itchy scratchy bites to contend with I do feel that it was the perfect way to round off my trip.
I have now said goodbye to Caroline and Felipe, Jon and Richard and have a few days by myself for a trip to Iguazú waterfall and a little bit of shopping before embarking on my final South American journey. This one to bring me home.
After a mind-numbing 23 hour bus journey with Jon and Richard, we stepped off into a dramatic temperature shift from Bogotá. Although Bogotá is close to the equator it is at an altitude of over 2,000 metres so the average temperature all year round is somewhere in the late teens. Cartagena de Indias couldn´t have been more different. A sweltering 3o something degrees and bearing all the signs of a tropical city, we suddenly realised where we were in the world and how far we had come from southern Patagonia.
The city retains a lot of colonial charm with an old town inside the city walls with cobbled roads and brightly painted houses with balconies leaning into the narrow streets. But it´s just not enough to go to the Caribbean unless you go to a Caribbean beach, right? So, after a weekend of partying we hopped on a boat from the harbour market for the one hour ride to La Playa Blanca, an isolated beach along the coast.
Isolated is right. There has so far been almost no development on La Playa Blanca and you can find nothing but a few wooden shacks on the beach, only a few with electricity generators and the kind of restaurants that are just someone´s kitchen and that fry up whatever that day´s catch was for dinner.
We spent a sweaty few days lying on the beach, swimming in the warm turquoise Caribbean sea and lying in our hammocks reading or saying things of such profound intellectual significance as, "Bloody hell, it´s hot, innit?"
The best parts for me were the sunsets (I took this picture myself, for once!) as we sat on the beach sipping rum and being feasted upon by mosquitos. Although I now have 75 itchy scratchy bites to contend with I do feel that it was the perfect way to round off my trip.
I have now said goodbye to Caroline and Felipe, Jon and Richard and have a few days by myself for a trip to Iguazú waterfall and a little bit of shopping before embarking on my final South American journey. This one to bring me home.
viernes, 29 de junio de 2007
Mean Streets
This afternoon I leave Bogotá to enjoy the final two weeks of my Big Adventure soaking up some sun on the Caribbean coast in Cartagena before legging it back to Buenos Aires for a final shopping trip.
Although I am now back on the You Only Live Twice Tour with Jon & Richard, it´s been great to spend some time in Colombia with my friend Caroline, both as someone I can completely relax with and as someone who lives in Colombia and knows something about it.
Colombia still has a bad reputation and many travellers I have met along the way have told me that it was one country in South America they would be avoiding. It´s true that six to eight years ago it would have been a bold adventurer who took a an overnight bus journey here as kidnappings were still common, and Felipe told me that for a large chunk of his twenties he was consigned to Bogotá and unable to travel, but from what I have learnt and what I have experienced, that simply is not the case any more.
My experiences of Colombia so far? Beautiful weekend houses in the country, pretty villages selling amazing coffee, and the gorgeous Candelaria district of Bogotá with its colonial houses, cobbled streets and cute restaurants. I´ve seen a total of about six other backpackers in the place which contrasts dramatically with Peru and has made a welcome change!
My only complaint? The weather! Bogotá seems a similar climate to a soggy English autumn and, while it hasn´t been cold, if the Caribbean coast isn´t sunny and warm I´ll be asking for a refund!
Must run as Richard has just brought me a steaming cuppa and then we´re off to the bus station for a 19 hour ride northwards.
Although I am now back on the You Only Live Twice Tour with Jon & Richard, it´s been great to spend some time in Colombia with my friend Caroline, both as someone I can completely relax with and as someone who lives in Colombia and knows something about it.
Colombia still has a bad reputation and many travellers I have met along the way have told me that it was one country in South America they would be avoiding. It´s true that six to eight years ago it would have been a bold adventurer who took a an overnight bus journey here as kidnappings were still common, and Felipe told me that for a large chunk of his twenties he was consigned to Bogotá and unable to travel, but from what I have learnt and what I have experienced, that simply is not the case any more.
My experiences of Colombia so far? Beautiful weekend houses in the country, pretty villages selling amazing coffee, and the gorgeous Candelaria district of Bogotá with its colonial houses, cobbled streets and cute restaurants. I´ve seen a total of about six other backpackers in the place which contrasts dramatically with Peru and has made a welcome change!
My only complaint? The weather! Bogotá seems a similar climate to a soggy English autumn and, while it hasn´t been cold, if the Caribbean coast isn´t sunny and warm I´ll be asking for a refund!
Must run as Richard has just brought me a steaming cuppa and then we´re off to the bus station for a 19 hour ride northwards.
jueves, 21 de junio de 2007
Luxury, Colombia Syle
After a pleasant, yet uninspiring week in Ecuador (possibly because I did nothing but hang around the hostel in Quito), I have arrived in Colombia to visit my university friend Caroline. She moved to the capital Bogotá a few years ago and now lives in a very nice flat with her husband just outside the centre of the city.
One of the things I accepted long ago about travelling is an absence of luxury. I knew I would be sharing sloppy bathrooms with scuzzy hippies, sleeping in single beds and coping without things like hairdryers or sofas. So I was extremely delighted that as my first activity in Colombia, Caroline had planned a trip to get us both manicures and pedicures. As I sat on a comfy chair with women stationed at my hands and feet and another bringing me a cup of fresh herb tea, I was able to reflect on the fashion pages of Elle magazine and learn that metallics are this seasons hottest colours for handbags. At least in Colombia anyway. Who knew?
As it was a bank holiday weekend, we went to visit some friends of Caroline´s who have an amazing weekend house outside the city. Apparently, this is quite common but I don´t know if they all have jacuzzis, tennis courts, a private chapel and a team of staff who wait on you hand and (pedicured) foot. It felt a bit strange to have maids at my beck and call bringing me a variety of traditional Colombian drinks and snacks and clearing up after me, but as it wasn´t the done thing to refuse it, I decided to enjoy every minute!
Now, freshly pampered, I have arrived for the rest of the week in coffee country, in a little town called Salento where I hope to visit the Parque del Cafe. Apparently it´s like Disney Land, but for coffee. I hope to be a trembling, caffeine fuelled wreck by Friday, just in time to spend a few more days in luxury with Caroline and Felipe!
One of the things I accepted long ago about travelling is an absence of luxury. I knew I would be sharing sloppy bathrooms with scuzzy hippies, sleeping in single beds and coping without things like hairdryers or sofas. So I was extremely delighted that as my first activity in Colombia, Caroline had planned a trip to get us both manicures and pedicures. As I sat on a comfy chair with women stationed at my hands and feet and another bringing me a cup of fresh herb tea, I was able to reflect on the fashion pages of Elle magazine and learn that metallics are this seasons hottest colours for handbags. At least in Colombia anyway. Who knew?
As it was a bank holiday weekend, we went to visit some friends of Caroline´s who have an amazing weekend house outside the city. Apparently, this is quite common but I don´t know if they all have jacuzzis, tennis courts, a private chapel and a team of staff who wait on you hand and (pedicured) foot. It felt a bit strange to have maids at my beck and call bringing me a variety of traditional Colombian drinks and snacks and clearing up after me, but as it wasn´t the done thing to refuse it, I decided to enjoy every minute!
Now, freshly pampered, I have arrived for the rest of the week in coffee country, in a little town called Salento where I hope to visit the Parque del Cafe. Apparently it´s like Disney Land, but for coffee. I hope to be a trembling, caffeine fuelled wreck by Friday, just in time to spend a few more days in luxury with Caroline and Felipe!
lunes, 11 de junio de 2007
Journey To The Centre Of The Earth
As there is barely a month left of the Big South American Adventure, I have started racing through the continent in an effort to squeeze in as much as possible before it´s time to come home. A mere three days after leaving Peru I have made it to the Eduadorean capital of Quito and to within 25km of the equator, a sight I will be going to see in a day or two. I think it´s just a sign surrounded by tourists with cameras, but still - worth doing while I´m here!
I have made my various journeys from the depths of southern Patagonia near the end of the world right up to the centre of the planet via a variety of means: taxis, planes, trains and even the odd boat, but the transport I am now an unwilling expert in is the long distance bus. The first I took, in Argentina, was 20 hours from the east coast to the western border and with journeys lasting from 5 hours to 30 hours, I have lost track of the number of buses I have travelled on since then!
While buses during the day do usually come complete with stunning scenery (the countryside in Ecuador is insanely spectacular to the point that I have run out of superlatives to describe it), I have usually risked snores and robbery on the night buses to save money on accomodation and in the hope that I will sleep through the whole experience. I have developed a method of padlocking my bag to itself and then crossing my arms through the straps to discourage any opportunists and I wedge my ipod firmly into my jeans pocket before wrapping myself up in whatever warm materials are to hand and trying to get some shut eye. It´s not ideal but I think sometimes my body simply sleeps due to lack of other options.
The quality has varied massively from the luxury "cama" bed seats on the coaches in Argentina to the broken recliners on the bus I took over the border from Peru. There was no room for my knees and the man in front had his seat so far back that his head was practically in my lap and I could count his grey hairs from where I sat. Add to that the ants, the cockroach, the large crowd of villagers carting fruit and chickens in baskets who crammed on, and the driver´s over-enthusiastic cornering, it was definitely the most stereotypical South American bus experience I have had.
As the buses are generally pretty cheap (the 9 hour bus to Quito cost me five pounds) I suppose I can´t complain, but my need for comfort has got the better of me and I´m off to buy a plane ticket to get me to Colombia for this Friday. What a way to blow 200 quid!
I have made my various journeys from the depths of southern Patagonia near the end of the world right up to the centre of the planet via a variety of means: taxis, planes, trains and even the odd boat, but the transport I am now an unwilling expert in is the long distance bus. The first I took, in Argentina, was 20 hours from the east coast to the western border and with journeys lasting from 5 hours to 30 hours, I have lost track of the number of buses I have travelled on since then!
While buses during the day do usually come complete with stunning scenery (the countryside in Ecuador is insanely spectacular to the point that I have run out of superlatives to describe it), I have usually risked snores and robbery on the night buses to save money on accomodation and in the hope that I will sleep through the whole experience. I have developed a method of padlocking my bag to itself and then crossing my arms through the straps to discourage any opportunists and I wedge my ipod firmly into my jeans pocket before wrapping myself up in whatever warm materials are to hand and trying to get some shut eye. It´s not ideal but I think sometimes my body simply sleeps due to lack of other options.
The quality has varied massively from the luxury "cama" bed seats on the coaches in Argentina to the broken recliners on the bus I took over the border from Peru. There was no room for my knees and the man in front had his seat so far back that his head was practically in my lap and I could count his grey hairs from where I sat. Add to that the ants, the cockroach, the large crowd of villagers carting fruit and chickens in baskets who crammed on, and the driver´s over-enthusiastic cornering, it was definitely the most stereotypical South American bus experience I have had.
As the buses are generally pretty cheap (the 9 hour bus to Quito cost me five pounds) I suppose I can´t complain, but my need for comfort has got the better of me and I´m off to buy a plane ticket to get me to Colombia for this Friday. What a way to blow 200 quid!
domingo, 3 de junio de 2007
I Wanna Be Your (Latino) Lover
With the Peru tour finally over I am enjoying a few days doing as little as possible in Huanchaco, on the north coast of Peru. This afternoon as I was looking for somewhere to eat lunch a local guy ran up to me and started chatting away, suggesting after a couple of minutes, "Perhaps we can be friends?"
One thing I will say for the Peruvian men, what they lack in stature they more than make up for in enthusiasm. After being largely ignored by the men in Argentina and only receiving shouts of "Gringa alta!" from men I passed on the street in Chile, I was expecting the Peruvian romeos to stay well clear of this pasty English giantess.
It would seem, however, that plenty of Peruvian men just crave being towered over by a 6-footer and I have been approached from all sides!
My first encounter was in Miraflores, Lima, when a dog-walker called Percy ran across the main road to catch-up with me and guide me to the street I was looking for. After a couple of minutes he was telling me about his ex-girlfriends and what he looked for in his ladies. Assuming I might be a little on the large side for him I was mistaken, as he declared, "I LOVE big STRONG women" and suggested he take me out for a drink. I declined.
Our Inca Trail tour guide, Humberto was less original. On the first day of the trek he asked me whether all the girls in England are as beautiful as me before responding to my question about what time we would arrive at camp with, "Your eyes are a beatiful colour" and then suggesting I try out some of the romance section in my phrasebook on him.
Then of course, there was long-haired Paulo, the tour guide who got me on side by speaking to me in easy to understand Spanish and salsa-dancing with me, before inviting me back his hotel room in Cusco, but even he was not as presumptuous as the Peruvian student I met on my penultimate night in Lima. We met as his friend had taken a liking to my Canadian tour mate and we found ourselves in his car bound for a bar on the other side of town. His technique was certainly more unusual as he started by asking me whether I used sanitary towels or tampons, then accusing me of being uptight for admitting that I didn't really want to talk about it. I tried every 'not interested' technique I know short of actually ignoring him but still he followed me back to my hotel. When he finally realised he wasn't getting anywhere he loudly announced, "I think I am in the wrong place!" and left in a huff.
Entertaining as it has been to watch someone utilise all their romantic artillery in their efforts to woo a gringa, I still have a soft spot for awkward Englishness and bad dancers.
One thing I will say for the Peruvian men, what they lack in stature they more than make up for in enthusiasm. After being largely ignored by the men in Argentina and only receiving shouts of "Gringa alta!" from men I passed on the street in Chile, I was expecting the Peruvian romeos to stay well clear of this pasty English giantess.
It would seem, however, that plenty of Peruvian men just crave being towered over by a 6-footer and I have been approached from all sides!
My first encounter was in Miraflores, Lima, when a dog-walker called Percy ran across the main road to catch-up with me and guide me to the street I was looking for. After a couple of minutes he was telling me about his ex-girlfriends and what he looked for in his ladies. Assuming I might be a little on the large side for him I was mistaken, as he declared, "I LOVE big STRONG women" and suggested he take me out for a drink. I declined.
Our Inca Trail tour guide, Humberto was less original. On the first day of the trek he asked me whether all the girls in England are as beautiful as me before responding to my question about what time we would arrive at camp with, "Your eyes are a beatiful colour" and then suggesting I try out some of the romance section in my phrasebook on him.
Then of course, there was long-haired Paulo, the tour guide who got me on side by speaking to me in easy to understand Spanish and salsa-dancing with me, before inviting me back his hotel room in Cusco, but even he was not as presumptuous as the Peruvian student I met on my penultimate night in Lima. We met as his friend had taken a liking to my Canadian tour mate and we found ourselves in his car bound for a bar on the other side of town. His technique was certainly more unusual as he started by asking me whether I used sanitary towels or tampons, then accusing me of being uptight for admitting that I didn't really want to talk about it. I tried every 'not interested' technique I know short of actually ignoring him but still he followed me back to my hotel. When he finally realised he wasn't getting anywhere he loudly announced, "I think I am in the wrong place!" and left in a huff.
Entertaining as it has been to watch someone utilise all their romantic artillery in their efforts to woo a gringa, I still have a soft spot for awkward Englishness and bad dancers.
sábado, 2 de junio de 2007
Olympians In Training
Well, I have survived the Inca Trail and, after reflecting on it during a flying visit to the Peruvian Amazon, I can say I feel both proud of myself and rather meek from the experience.
Now, I'm sure that hundreds, if not thousands of people around the world have written stirring, evocative accounts of their four-day hike to Machu Picchu and the elated feeling when they finally reached the sungate and looked down upon the stunning sight of Peru's most fascinating piece of archeological heritage. As wonderful as my Inca experience Trail was, I don't feel I can compete with this, so instead I ask you to imagine the following scene:
Against a stunning backdrop of soaring mountains with their peaks in the clouds, waterfalls, ancient stone ruins and rare and beautiful wildlife were twelve hikers, all kitted out in their North Face finest. Gore-tex boots, waterproof jackets, sun hats, insect repellent, altutide sickness pills, factor 50 sun cream, hiking poles and small day packs containing water and energy bars. We were a pretty friendly bunch, with no real complainers and we trekked along fairly contentedly despite two or three cases of stomach upsets and many aching limbs.
Part of the reason we didn't complain could have been the 20-strong team that was needed to look after us on this 45km trek. It consisted of 16 porters, two cooks and two guides. The guides walked with us, camped with us, ate with us, and wore similar modern outfits.
Not so the porters and cooks.
These seemingly superhuman individuals tackled the hike wearing, in most cases, nothing more than a pair of shorts and sandals made from recylcled car tyres. They carried up to 30kg on their backs, including the rest of our luggage, our tents, sleeping bags, the kitchen and dining tents, gas cannisters, chairs, tables, water and enough food for 32 people for four days. They cleared up after us each morning and at intervals on the trek we would hear, "Porter coming through!" and would part so that they could run panting and sweating past us up steep, uneven steps in time to set up our tents, beds and dining table by the time we got to camp and be ready waiting for us with fresh glasses of pineapple juice.
You might think, perhaps, that the food and setting would be pretty basic considering where we were. Well, every day our waiter carefully folded our napkins, origami style into the shape of condors or peacocks, and the cook wrote G.A.P. (the name of our tour company) in caramel letters on our breakfast pancakes (next to the carefully arrange slices of orange). The effort and attention to detail was just incredible and made the trip almost luxurious for us, although after dinner the porters slept together on the floor of the dining tent. Who could complain after this?
We couldn't even feel bad when, having been woken up at 4am on the final day of the trek (with a cup of tea and a basin of hot water, obviously) we reached the sun gate to see nothing but a valley full of mist and no Machu Picchu in sight. We made it, that was all that mattered, and to achieve something even slightly on a par with what the Inca Trail porters manage five times a month was, for me, as moving as any part of the experience.
The Peruvian Olympic running team should be the best in the world.
Now, I'm sure that hundreds, if not thousands of people around the world have written stirring, evocative accounts of their four-day hike to Machu Picchu and the elated feeling when they finally reached the sungate and looked down upon the stunning sight of Peru's most fascinating piece of archeological heritage. As wonderful as my Inca experience Trail was, I don't feel I can compete with this, so instead I ask you to imagine the following scene:
Against a stunning backdrop of soaring mountains with their peaks in the clouds, waterfalls, ancient stone ruins and rare and beautiful wildlife were twelve hikers, all kitted out in their North Face finest. Gore-tex boots, waterproof jackets, sun hats, insect repellent, altutide sickness pills, factor 50 sun cream, hiking poles and small day packs containing water and energy bars. We were a pretty friendly bunch, with no real complainers and we trekked along fairly contentedly despite two or three cases of stomach upsets and many aching limbs.
Part of the reason we didn't complain could have been the 20-strong team that was needed to look after us on this 45km trek. It consisted of 16 porters, two cooks and two guides. The guides walked with us, camped with us, ate with us, and wore similar modern outfits.
Not so the porters and cooks.
These seemingly superhuman individuals tackled the hike wearing, in most cases, nothing more than a pair of shorts and sandals made from recylcled car tyres. They carried up to 30kg on their backs, including the rest of our luggage, our tents, sleeping bags, the kitchen and dining tents, gas cannisters, chairs, tables, water and enough food for 32 people for four days. They cleared up after us each morning and at intervals on the trek we would hear, "Porter coming through!" and would part so that they could run panting and sweating past us up steep, uneven steps in time to set up our tents, beds and dining table by the time we got to camp and be ready waiting for us with fresh glasses of pineapple juice.
You might think, perhaps, that the food and setting would be pretty basic considering where we were. Well, every day our waiter carefully folded our napkins, origami style into the shape of condors or peacocks, and the cook wrote G.A.P. (the name of our tour company) in caramel letters on our breakfast pancakes (next to the carefully arrange slices of orange). The effort and attention to detail was just incredible and made the trip almost luxurious for us, although after dinner the porters slept together on the floor of the dining tent. Who could complain after this?
We couldn't even feel bad when, having been woken up at 4am on the final day of the trek (with a cup of tea and a basin of hot water, obviously) we reached the sun gate to see nothing but a valley full of mist and no Machu Picchu in sight. We made it, that was all that mattered, and to achieve something even slightly on a par with what the Inca Trail porters manage five times a month was, for me, as moving as any part of the experience.
The Peruvian Olympic running team should be the best in the world.
viernes, 25 de mayo de 2007
Walking In The Footsteps Of History
Tomorrow morning I am getting up at five to begin the four day Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. Full report to follow next week.
miércoles, 23 de mayo de 2007
Anachronism
Week two of the Peru tourist circus, I mean Peru tour, has started with a visit to Puno on the shores of the mystical and mythical Lake Titcaca. The world´s highest navigable lake (whatever that means, exactly) sits on the border between Peru and Bolivia and holds several islands, including the incredible floating reed islands of Uros (pictured).
We began with a visit to Taquile Island and then on to Amantaní where we were due to spend the night with a local family. So far in Peru it has been hard to tell what is genuine and what is a show for the tourists but Amantaní is home to Quechua speaking families who have lived there all their lives and only visit the mainland once a year, so despite the fact that we were far from the only boat rocking up to the island last night, the people we met were just being themselves.
Laura (Canadian tour-mate) and I stayed with Justina and her six year old boy Jeme and although I forgot the Quechua words we had been taught on the boat, I did manage to communicate reasonably well in Spanish. We ate a delicious dinner in her very humble kitchen and then dressed up in local costume (including those damn woolly hats with earflaps and pompoms) and were escorted to a party in the village hall to dance our altitude sickness away until we could party no more. Which happened at around 9.15pm (it´s hard dancing at altitude, you know).
After a chilly night and early start we said goodbye and travelled to Uros to meet the people who make and live on these bizarre floating communities. Quite a different people from those on Amantaní, the Uros people are more friendly, speak Aymara instead of Quechua and seem a little more au-fait with modern life in the rest of the world.
Yes, they live in huts made from reeds, eat fish from the lake and mostly wear traditional clothes with their long hair in thick black plaits, but while we were being escorted round the islands in a sort of canoe catamaran (a ´canoe-maran´?) made from reeds, one of our oarswomen had to stop for a moment to answer her mobile phone.
She had a better one than I´ve got too.
Leaving Puno tomorrow (dependent on strikes) to head for Cusco where we have a couple of days to relax before starting the highlight of the trip - The Inca Trail!
We began with a visit to Taquile Island and then on to Amantaní where we were due to spend the night with a local family. So far in Peru it has been hard to tell what is genuine and what is a show for the tourists but Amantaní is home to Quechua speaking families who have lived there all their lives and only visit the mainland once a year, so despite the fact that we were far from the only boat rocking up to the island last night, the people we met were just being themselves.
Laura (Canadian tour-mate) and I stayed with Justina and her six year old boy Jeme and although I forgot the Quechua words we had been taught on the boat, I did manage to communicate reasonably well in Spanish. We ate a delicious dinner in her very humble kitchen and then dressed up in local costume (including those damn woolly hats with earflaps and pompoms) and were escorted to a party in the village hall to dance our altitude sickness away until we could party no more. Which happened at around 9.15pm (it´s hard dancing at altitude, you know).
After a chilly night and early start we said goodbye and travelled to Uros to meet the people who make and live on these bizarre floating communities. Quite a different people from those on Amantaní, the Uros people are more friendly, speak Aymara instead of Quechua and seem a little more au-fait with modern life in the rest of the world.
Yes, they live in huts made from reeds, eat fish from the lake and mostly wear traditional clothes with their long hair in thick black plaits, but while we were being escorted round the islands in a sort of canoe catamaran (a ´canoe-maran´?) made from reeds, one of our oarswomen had to stop for a moment to answer her mobile phone.
She had a better one than I´ve got too.
Leaving Puno tomorrow (dependent on strikes) to head for Cusco where we have a couple of days to relax before starting the highlight of the trip - The Inca Trail!
viernes, 18 de mayo de 2007
Hostal Takeover
After three months of hostal accommodation I have temporarily bade goodbye to roughing it while I am on my three week tour of Peru with Gap Adventures. It is costing a bleeding fortune as we are staying in nice hotels and have had our own private minibus and local guides, but they are definitely packing in the value in a way that I just wouldn´t manage if I was here on my own.
Since meeting the rest of my group in Lima, just three Canadian girls, Brenna, Laura and April and our guide Yessica, we bussed down to Pisco along the coast, took a tour of the Balletas Islands (thousands of birds, penguins & sea lions - see picture), went sandboarding in the Huacacuina Oasis in Ica, took a free tour of a Pisco factory (with lots of samples) and had our first glimpse of the Nasca lines at dusk, before arriving at a countryside hotel with a pool for the night.
That was just day one.
Since then we have taken a private morning flight over the Nasca lines (incredible), been on a tour of a pre-Inca cemetery, been to a traditional ceramic factory and visited the Santa Catalina convent in Arequipa. I could go on!
Strangely, I do slightly miss the unique hostal experience of strangers snoring all night or rustling plastic bags at 4am, or having to queue for the shower but I can´t deny it´s fun to be enjoying a bit of luxury. I may as well make the most of it, as in one week we arrive in Cuzco and begin the Inca Trail which will mean three nights in a tent at high altitude! Room service!!!
Since meeting the rest of my group in Lima, just three Canadian girls, Brenna, Laura and April and our guide Yessica, we bussed down to Pisco along the coast, took a tour of the Balletas Islands (thousands of birds, penguins & sea lions - see picture), went sandboarding in the Huacacuina Oasis in Ica, took a free tour of a Pisco factory (with lots of samples) and had our first glimpse of the Nasca lines at dusk, before arriving at a countryside hotel with a pool for the night.
That was just day one.
Since then we have taken a private morning flight over the Nasca lines (incredible), been on a tour of a pre-Inca cemetery, been to a traditional ceramic factory and visited the Santa Catalina convent in Arequipa. I could go on!
Strangely, I do slightly miss the unique hostal experience of strangers snoring all night or rustling plastic bags at 4am, or having to queue for the shower but I can´t deny it´s fun to be enjoying a bit of luxury. I may as well make the most of it, as in one week we arrive in Cuzco and begin the Inca Trail which will mean three nights in a tent at high altitude! Room service!!!
lunes, 14 de mayo de 2007
Getting Personal
Here I am in Lima, Peru, having arrived a whole day early for my Absolute Peru tour which starts tonight at 7.30pm. I checked in to my hotel room yesterday afternoon and enjoyed the luxury of complete privacy, the opportunity not to padlock all my stuff away, to take as long as I wanted in the shower and to walk around naked without worrying that anyone might come in.
This will be my last opportunity for the next three weeks, as I will be sharing a room with one of my tour mates, who I meet tonight. Lucky them.
It´s a strange reality of the kind of trip I am doing that it is impossible to conceal the less attractive parts of yourself as you are forced to be so close with other people, both physically and emotionally.
If you have a stomach upset, people know. If you have period pains, people know. If you have a spot or a cold, people know. If you wake up in a foul mood you can´t shut yourself off as there is nowhere to go. People just know.
This has been particularly true as I´ve been travelling with Jon and Richard. I realised that I spent a month with them, and Jon and I were pretty much together 24 hours a day. At first this was hard as, well, normally not only would I be making a special effort with someone I had only known a short time and wanted to impress, but I wouldn´t be able to trust them with myself so quickly. That kind of reserve has been impossible and I have had to let my barriers down and let him see the real me.
And you know the funny thing? He hasn´t seem phased in the slightest. And once I realised that, well, everything just got a little easier and I got a little happier with the reality of who I am. I´m sure on my Peru tour I will have moments when normally I´d hide myself way, but maybe this time I will just forgive myself and find that it´s not as important as I thought.
This will be my last opportunity for the next three weeks, as I will be sharing a room with one of my tour mates, who I meet tonight. Lucky them.
It´s a strange reality of the kind of trip I am doing that it is impossible to conceal the less attractive parts of yourself as you are forced to be so close with other people, both physically and emotionally.
If you have a stomach upset, people know. If you have period pains, people know. If you have a spot or a cold, people know. If you wake up in a foul mood you can´t shut yourself off as there is nowhere to go. People just know.
This has been particularly true as I´ve been travelling with Jon and Richard. I realised that I spent a month with them, and Jon and I were pretty much together 24 hours a day. At first this was hard as, well, normally not only would I be making a special effort with someone I had only known a short time and wanted to impress, but I wouldn´t be able to trust them with myself so quickly. That kind of reserve has been impossible and I have had to let my barriers down and let him see the real me.
And you know the funny thing? He hasn´t seem phased in the slightest. And once I realised that, well, everything just got a little easier and I got a little happier with the reality of who I am. I´m sure on my Peru tour I will have moments when normally I´d hide myself way, but maybe this time I will just forgive myself and find that it´s not as important as I thought.
sábado, 12 de mayo de 2007
Sparks In The Salt
Well, another week, another country. This morning I arrived solo in Peru, after a quick visit to Bolivia on a tour of the world´s largest salt flat. After almost three months spent in the relative comfort of Argentina and Chile, I thought it was time to experience a different side of South America. I couldn´t have asked for a more dramatic shift.
Jon, Richard and I started the tour from San Pedro de Attacama, a dusty little desert town cum tourist mecca in northern Chile. By law you have to transfer to a Bolivian tour company on the border so it was at the immigration point in the desert that we first saw our homes for the next four days: battered 4x4 Toyota Landcruisers bearing stickers saying things like "I Heart Bolivia" and a decidedly worrying amount of stratches and dents.
We raced off across the desert in search of our first pitstop, the Laguna Blanca. There are no roads here, just the tracks left by the previous day´s vehicles and you just have to trust your driver´s judgement in finding the smoothest way. Which isn´t very, and every bone is rattled.
We took in five or six lakes, an active volcano, hot springs and some terrifying geysers as well as the famous Arbol de Piedra (rock shaped like a tree, woohoo) over two days, staying one night in a stone barn in middle of the desert at an altitude of 4,600 metres. It was officially the longest night of my life, due to a combination of altitude sickness, freezing cold and the large gang of Israelis partying and throwing up outside our room until the wee hours. When the alarm went off at 7am, my first words were, "Thank god!"
The second night was more enjoyable. We reached the salt hotel on the edge of the flats just before sunset. It was little better equipped, but was warmer and did at least have hot water. Jon and I also discovered that running your hand or arms against the sheets generated a massive amount of sparks in the dark. Static electricity in the sheets or something to do with the salt beds? I have no idea, but it kept us entertained for a good 15 minutes.
The following morning it was up at 5am to drive to the Isla de Pescadores to watch the sunrise over the salt. As we entered the plain (no roads here either), our driver Leo turned off the lights so we were driving in the dark. Scary until we realised that we were shooting across 12,000 square kilometres of nothing but smooth, flat salt. We watched the sunrise across the endless white expanse from an island covered in 10ft cacti and crunched our way through the salt like ice.
We finished the tour, exhausted, in the tiny Bolivian town of Uyuni, where I left Jon and Richard to travel back through the desert by myself (with the driver, obviously) and make my way up to Peru. I have made it to Tacna, just over the border and have yet another overnight bus to catch tonight to finally arrive in Lima where I will want a shower and a bed more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.
Jon, Richard and I started the tour from San Pedro de Attacama, a dusty little desert town cum tourist mecca in northern Chile. By law you have to transfer to a Bolivian tour company on the border so it was at the immigration point in the desert that we first saw our homes for the next four days: battered 4x4 Toyota Landcruisers bearing stickers saying things like "I Heart Bolivia" and a decidedly worrying amount of stratches and dents.
We raced off across the desert in search of our first pitstop, the Laguna Blanca. There are no roads here, just the tracks left by the previous day´s vehicles and you just have to trust your driver´s judgement in finding the smoothest way. Which isn´t very, and every bone is rattled.
We took in five or six lakes, an active volcano, hot springs and some terrifying geysers as well as the famous Arbol de Piedra (rock shaped like a tree, woohoo) over two days, staying one night in a stone barn in middle of the desert at an altitude of 4,600 metres. It was officially the longest night of my life, due to a combination of altitude sickness, freezing cold and the large gang of Israelis partying and throwing up outside our room until the wee hours. When the alarm went off at 7am, my first words were, "Thank god!"
The second night was more enjoyable. We reached the salt hotel on the edge of the flats just before sunset. It was little better equipped, but was warmer and did at least have hot water. Jon and I also discovered that running your hand or arms against the sheets generated a massive amount of sparks in the dark. Static electricity in the sheets or something to do with the salt beds? I have no idea, but it kept us entertained for a good 15 minutes.
The following morning it was up at 5am to drive to the Isla de Pescadores to watch the sunrise over the salt. As we entered the plain (no roads here either), our driver Leo turned off the lights so we were driving in the dark. Scary until we realised that we were shooting across 12,000 square kilometres of nothing but smooth, flat salt. We watched the sunrise across the endless white expanse from an island covered in 10ft cacti and crunched our way through the salt like ice.
We finished the tour, exhausted, in the tiny Bolivian town of Uyuni, where I left Jon and Richard to travel back through the desert by myself (with the driver, obviously) and make my way up to Peru. I have made it to Tacna, just over the border and have yet another overnight bus to catch tonight to finally arrive in Lima where I will want a shower and a bed more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.
miércoles, 2 de mayo de 2007
Going Loco In Valparaiso
It´s easy for a South American virgin like myself to fall into the trap of thinking that, because they share a language, so much geography and such a looong border with each other, Chile must be quite a lot like Argentina.
Well, after a mere fortnight spent in the longest country in the world (and a good chunk of that on a boat), I hang my head and humbly apologise to the Chilean people for my foolishness.
Much of Argentina has a feeling of a work in progress, with many towns resembling campsites, and the culture similarly feels new.
From what I have seen so far, Chile is firmly established, developed, ingrained and refined and feels much older. I have just spent a few days with Richard and Jon (yes, I´m back on the You Only Live Twice Tour) in the coastal town of Valparaiso, a couple of hours drive from Santiago, and have been totally absorbed by its fascinating architecture, people, culture and well, just its Chileanness.
The city rests on the side several very step hills, necessitating an assortment of rickety little elevator cars dotted around to assist the less able-bodied citizens around the town. The buildings are crammed together higgledy-piggledy, built almost on top of one another, many teetering dangerously on the brink of sheer drops and sometimes held up by tree roots or wooden struts. They are all different styles, different materials (in one street you could have wood, brick, stone and corrugated steel) and painted in wild colours, designs and often fantastic art or graffiti.
You don´t need to plan much and can spend your days simply walking around admiring the vivacity that created such an organized mess. On one of our wanderings, slightly aggravated after having my camera deftly removed from my bag by one of Valparaiso´s less friendly inhabitants, we walked into a tiny, grimy bar for a much needed beer.
The other punters were all aging inebriates, sitting in well-worn spots for their daily dose of red wine. Now, Richard speaks pretty good Spanish. This comes in extremely handy in a negotiation with a hostel manager or a waiter, but it does mean that you can sometimes make unexpected new friends. At the next table was a sixty-something white-haired man with very few teeth, well into his second jug of merlot at 2pm on a Monday afternoon. He introduced himself as Tony Sombrero, ex-circus clown and father of 20 kids from five different wives, and offered to show us a few of his skills. The jukebox came on and suddenly he was dancing around the bar with a paper cone balanced expertly on his nose and the rest of the bar clapping along.
The barman looked deeply unimpressed, but we rewarded old Tony with another jug of red and he was so pleased he offered to make me wife number six. I have now been christened La Reina de la Inglaterra and kissed three times by a Chilean clown. Now THAT wouldn´t have happened in Argentina.
Well, after a mere fortnight spent in the longest country in the world (and a good chunk of that on a boat), I hang my head and humbly apologise to the Chilean people for my foolishness.
Much of Argentina has a feeling of a work in progress, with many towns resembling campsites, and the culture similarly feels new.
From what I have seen so far, Chile is firmly established, developed, ingrained and refined and feels much older. I have just spent a few days with Richard and Jon (yes, I´m back on the You Only Live Twice Tour) in the coastal town of Valparaiso, a couple of hours drive from Santiago, and have been totally absorbed by its fascinating architecture, people, culture and well, just its Chileanness.
The city rests on the side several very step hills, necessitating an assortment of rickety little elevator cars dotted around to assist the less able-bodied citizens around the town. The buildings are crammed together higgledy-piggledy, built almost on top of one another, many teetering dangerously on the brink of sheer drops and sometimes held up by tree roots or wooden struts. They are all different styles, different materials (in one street you could have wood, brick, stone and corrugated steel) and painted in wild colours, designs and often fantastic art or graffiti.
You don´t need to plan much and can spend your days simply walking around admiring the vivacity that created such an organized mess. On one of our wanderings, slightly aggravated after having my camera deftly removed from my bag by one of Valparaiso´s less friendly inhabitants, we walked into a tiny, grimy bar for a much needed beer.
The other punters were all aging inebriates, sitting in well-worn spots for their daily dose of red wine. Now, Richard speaks pretty good Spanish. This comes in extremely handy in a negotiation with a hostel manager or a waiter, but it does mean that you can sometimes make unexpected new friends. At the next table was a sixty-something white-haired man with very few teeth, well into his second jug of merlot at 2pm on a Monday afternoon. He introduced himself as Tony Sombrero, ex-circus clown and father of 20 kids from five different wives, and offered to show us a few of his skills. The jukebox came on and suddenly he was dancing around the bar with a paper cone balanced expertly on his nose and the rest of the bar clapping along.
The barman looked deeply unimpressed, but we rewarded old Tony with another jug of red and he was so pleased he offered to make me wife number six. I have now been christened La Reina de la Inglaterra and kissed three times by a Chilean clown. Now THAT wouldn´t have happened in Argentina.
jueves, 26 de abril de 2007
Fire and Ice
Humans have many qualities that differentiate them from other animals, but I think that a key one is the urge to acheive something entirely for its own sake. Not because we get more food, or earn more money, but simply so we can proudly say, "I did that!"
I can think of no other earthly reason to explain why, yesterday morning at 7am, Harsh and I set off to climb the volcano that dominates the landscape around the small Chilean town of Pucòn.
A towering snow-capped cone of more than 9,000 feet, Villaricca is not only the highest point in this part of Chile, it is also one of the most active volcanoes in the country (with its last major erruption in the 80s) and smoke can regularly be seen pouring from the top.
Spurred on by the claim in our guide book that the climb to the peak is "regularly completed by those with no previous climbing experience", we signed up with Klaus, a hoary old German tour guide who kitted us out in a variety of unstylish snow gear, including helmets, ice-axes and crampons (some truly hilarious pictures to follow) and began our ascent.
It was my very first time in crampons, and the experience of jamming each step into the snow to stop yourself sliding down a mountain when hammering winds are trying their hardest to knock you over was a tough and extremely slow one. The wind was too strong for the cable car which usually takes climbers part of the way but we battled on determinedly for almost four hours, long after most of the other groups had given up and gone back.
Eventually, however, we had to concede that the winds were too strong and going any further might result in serious misadventure so we reluctantly turned around a began the tricky slide back down. Disappointed as I was not to reach the peak, given that the reason was an unavoidable case of nature taking its course and not simply because I was too weak, I still feel justified in proudly claiming, "I climbed Volcano Villaricca!"
If only I hadn´t fallen down the stairs on the way to the thermal springs later in the evening I might be feeling better about it today...
I can think of no other earthly reason to explain why, yesterday morning at 7am, Harsh and I set off to climb the volcano that dominates the landscape around the small Chilean town of Pucòn.
A towering snow-capped cone of more than 9,000 feet, Villaricca is not only the highest point in this part of Chile, it is also one of the most active volcanoes in the country (with its last major erruption in the 80s) and smoke can regularly be seen pouring from the top.
Spurred on by the claim in our guide book that the climb to the peak is "regularly completed by those with no previous climbing experience", we signed up with Klaus, a hoary old German tour guide who kitted us out in a variety of unstylish snow gear, including helmets, ice-axes and crampons (some truly hilarious pictures to follow) and began our ascent.
It was my very first time in crampons, and the experience of jamming each step into the snow to stop yourself sliding down a mountain when hammering winds are trying their hardest to knock you over was a tough and extremely slow one. The wind was too strong for the cable car which usually takes climbers part of the way but we battled on determinedly for almost four hours, long after most of the other groups had given up and gone back.
Eventually, however, we had to concede that the winds were too strong and going any further might result in serious misadventure so we reluctantly turned around a began the tricky slide back down. Disappointed as I was not to reach the peak, given that the reason was an unavoidable case of nature taking its course and not simply because I was too weak, I still feel justified in proudly claiming, "I climbed Volcano Villaricca!"
If only I hadn´t fallen down the stairs on the way to the thermal springs later in the evening I might be feeling better about it today...
domingo, 22 de abril de 2007
Cabin Fever
Tired of travelling around South America by bus? Looking for an alternative transportation experience? Try the three-day Navimag CRUISE. Lasting five days and six nights, this exciting journey takes you through some of the remotest spots on earth, where you´ll be surrounded by the stunning scenery of the Chilean fjords. You´ll have to take our word for it though, as chances are there´ll be so much cloud and rain you won´t be able to see a thing (this IS Chile, you know).
You´ll be sharing this barely converted rusty cargo ship with a variety of fascinating companions, including ten trailers full of sheep, cows and horses, bound for the slaughterhouse. You get a great view of them from the dining room windows (NOTE: Dining room is also bar, lecture area, social area and reception). However cramped your cabin may be, at least you´ll be better off than they are!
Among the exciting activities on board, we can offer you the opportunity to sleep, eat, drink powdered coffee or out-of-date beer, listen to lectures about the indigenous people of the area (who we won´t be stopping to meet) or eat a bit more. Some cruises come complete with 185mph wind storms on the pacific which are guaranteed to cause seasickness in the majority of passengers as well as your guide, who will be out of action all day. Ask at booking office for details.
Very few passengers will be fortunate enough to be sharing their cabin with everyone´s favourite Welsh couple Michelle and Andrew, although the gorgeous Frenchman Karim will not be available on all journeys.
For more information about the cruise of a lifetime (trust us, you won´t want to do it again), or for lyrics to the ship´s catchy theme tune, the Stuck On A Boat For Five Days Blues, visit our sister site.
You´ll be sharing this barely converted rusty cargo ship with a variety of fascinating companions, including ten trailers full of sheep, cows and horses, bound for the slaughterhouse. You get a great view of them from the dining room windows (NOTE: Dining room is also bar, lecture area, social area and reception). However cramped your cabin may be, at least you´ll be better off than they are!
Among the exciting activities on board, we can offer you the opportunity to sleep, eat, drink powdered coffee or out-of-date beer, listen to lectures about the indigenous people of the area (who we won´t be stopping to meet) or eat a bit more. Some cruises come complete with 185mph wind storms on the pacific which are guaranteed to cause seasickness in the majority of passengers as well as your guide, who will be out of action all day. Ask at booking office for details.
Very few passengers will be fortunate enough to be sharing their cabin with everyone´s favourite Welsh couple Michelle and Andrew, although the gorgeous Frenchman Karim will not be available on all journeys.
For more information about the cruise of a lifetime (trust us, you won´t want to do it again), or for lyrics to the ship´s catchy theme tune, the Stuck On A Boat For Five Days Blues, visit our sister site.
miércoles, 11 de abril de 2007
Impresiones de la Argentina
Adios Argentina. Today, with my arrival in Chile, I´d just like to note down a few little details that I´ll remember about this fabulous country:
- Little shrines to Difunta Correa by the roadside, usually with red flags and often surrounded by empty plastic bottles.
- Unpredictable road surfaces: gravel; potholes; ramps; long, straight, brown, featureless highway suddenly changing dramatically to mountains or green forests and lakes.
- Very young kids out to dinner with their familes late at night.
- Mate! People carrying their Mate mugs and flasks of hot water with them wherever they go.
- Medialunes (croissants) and dulce de leche for breakfast. Roquefort and palmito pizzas.
- Dogs everywhere. Mostly friendly but all insane, chasing cars and behaving suicidally.
- Bosa Nova versions of classics: U2, The Rolling Stones, Bob Marley, Guns & Roses and, er, Soundgarden.
- The definite feeling of a work in progress.
- Argentina flags and Coca-cola signs everywhere.
- Over-18 films on buses full of kids.
- Wasps in the lake district.
- Really good wine, available cheap.
- People saying "David Beckham!" or "Wayne Rooney!" when they find out you are English.
- Huge, panoramic, camera-busting landscapes.
- Entire cows or sheep hanging over open fires in the cheapest to the most expensive restaurants.
- Turquoise lakes, black sand, dusty highways, snow-capped peaks, red hils, featureless plains, miles of vineyards.
- Chocolate, ponchos, Quilmes beer, roses and penguins.
- All the streets in every town having the same names: Roca, San Martin, Colòn, Sarmiento, etc...
- Battered old cars with no registration numbers, cracked windscreens, missing headlights and major rust. Often crammed with families of 8.
- Craft markets - Crafts Artesenals.
- Not eating dinner until 11pm and still being expected to get up for breakfast at 7. When do these people sleep?
- No-holds-barred public snogging.
- Kids playing football in the street - what else is there to do in a town like Rio Gallegos?
- Thousands of stars.
- Cuba Libres (with Havana rum, not Bacardi).
- Little shrines to Difunta Correa by the roadside, usually with red flags and often surrounded by empty plastic bottles.
- Unpredictable road surfaces: gravel; potholes; ramps; long, straight, brown, featureless highway suddenly changing dramatically to mountains or green forests and lakes.
- Very young kids out to dinner with their familes late at night.
- Mate! People carrying their Mate mugs and flasks of hot water with them wherever they go.
- Medialunes (croissants) and dulce de leche for breakfast. Roquefort and palmito pizzas.
- Dogs everywhere. Mostly friendly but all insane, chasing cars and behaving suicidally.
- Bosa Nova versions of classics: U2, The Rolling Stones, Bob Marley, Guns & Roses and, er, Soundgarden.
- The definite feeling of a work in progress.
- Argentina flags and Coca-cola signs everywhere.
- Over-18 films on buses full of kids.
- Wasps in the lake district.
- Really good wine, available cheap.
- People saying "David Beckham!" or "Wayne Rooney!" when they find out you are English.
- Huge, panoramic, camera-busting landscapes.
- Entire cows or sheep hanging over open fires in the cheapest to the most expensive restaurants.
- Turquoise lakes, black sand, dusty highways, snow-capped peaks, red hils, featureless plains, miles of vineyards.
- Chocolate, ponchos, Quilmes beer, roses and penguins.
- All the streets in every town having the same names: Roca, San Martin, Colòn, Sarmiento, etc...
- Battered old cars with no registration numbers, cracked windscreens, missing headlights and major rust. Often crammed with families of 8.
- Craft markets - Crafts Artesenals.
- Not eating dinner until 11pm and still being expected to get up for breakfast at 7. When do these people sleep?
- No-holds-barred public snogging.
- Kids playing football in the street - what else is there to do in a town like Rio Gallegos?
- Thousands of stars.
- Cuba Libres (with Havana rum, not Bacardi).
lunes, 9 de abril de 2007
The Ice Age Is Coming
Today, I went back in time and experienced ice age earth. It is possible, of course, that in the ice age there were no cosy log-cabin cafeterias, heated mini-buses or padded Gore-Tex (TM), but these minor details are insignificant when you are confronted with the breathtaking sight of the mighty Perito Moreno glacier.
Argentina´s most famous glacier, covering a surface area roughly the size of Buenos Aires, is not its biggest (nearby Upsala is more than three times the size). What makes it unique is that its two sides push forward across Lago Argentina for 30 kilometres to meet the land at Penninsula Malleganes. This means that it is possible for a woolly-hatted tourist such as myself to take a gentle stroll along the opposite shore and marvel at the wonder of one of nature´s best performances taking place live, mere metres away.
The hostel in the nearby town of El Calafate where I am staying, organises an ´alternative` tour, which takes in a beautiful drive across the Patagonian steppe (populated by hares, guanacos, ostrich-like rheas, eagles, condors, pink flamingos, unseen pumas and thousands upon thousands of sheep) and the wooded Andean foothills, a boat trip along the northern edge of the glacier (about as close as you can get without running the risk of several tonnes of ice collapsing on your head) and a short trek along the lake´s shore. It finally ends up at the viewing balconies where you can join all the other tourists, cameras poised, waiting for the creaking and groaning frozen mass to deposit another giant chunk of ice in the milky turquoise channel. It´s a regular event, fortunately, so no one goes away disappointed. It was a pretty special day, and almost worth leaving my new partners in crime, Richard and Jon, who are now in Ushaia (the end of the world).
Happy Easter to all. I celebrated by buying myself some home-made Patagonian chocolate and eating it all in about 30 seconds flat. I finally leave Argentina on Wednesday to explore the western side of the Andes, the Pacific ocean and the wonders of Chile.
Argentina´s most famous glacier, covering a surface area roughly the size of Buenos Aires, is not its biggest (nearby Upsala is more than three times the size). What makes it unique is that its two sides push forward across Lago Argentina for 30 kilometres to meet the land at Penninsula Malleganes. This means that it is possible for a woolly-hatted tourist such as myself to take a gentle stroll along the opposite shore and marvel at the wonder of one of nature´s best performances taking place live, mere metres away.
The hostel in the nearby town of El Calafate where I am staying, organises an ´alternative` tour, which takes in a beautiful drive across the Patagonian steppe (populated by hares, guanacos, ostrich-like rheas, eagles, condors, pink flamingos, unseen pumas and thousands upon thousands of sheep) and the wooded Andean foothills, a boat trip along the northern edge of the glacier (about as close as you can get without running the risk of several tonnes of ice collapsing on your head) and a short trek along the lake´s shore. It finally ends up at the viewing balconies where you can join all the other tourists, cameras poised, waiting for the creaking and groaning frozen mass to deposit another giant chunk of ice in the milky turquoise channel. It´s a regular event, fortunately, so no one goes away disappointed. It was a pretty special day, and almost worth leaving my new partners in crime, Richard and Jon, who are now in Ushaia (the end of the world).
Happy Easter to all. I celebrated by buying myself some home-made Patagonian chocolate and eating it all in about 30 seconds flat. I finally leave Argentina on Wednesday to explore the western side of the Andes, the Pacific ocean and the wonders of Chile.
sábado, 7 de abril de 2007
BARRETT IS NEW BOND BABE!
Guest columnist Jon Rhodes reports on the situation in Argentina
FORMER music PR guru Rebecca Barrett has just wrapped up a two-week starring role as the new Bond babe. The 29-year-old joined Jonty Rhodes and Richard Donnelly on location in Argentina - the latest leg of the You Only Live Twice Tour 2-007. It is the first time the Sussex-born diva has worked abroad. Critics are already hailing the performance.
"It was just a great opportunity for me," said Barrett, yesterday. "I´ve had a lot of fun and the boys have been great - I'm looking forward to seeing the the final picture."
Barrett shot to prominence after spending six years working for a London-based music firm. She quit earlier this year to pursue other interests. Donnelly and Rhodes, both 32, who visited South East Asia six years ago as part of the From Laos With Love Tour, have been filming across the globe for the last six months. Locations have included the Philippines, Dubai, Hong Kong, Australia and New Zealand. Filming in South America is expected to last seven months with both men excited to be working for the first time on the continent.
"Rebecca is everything the You Only Live Twice Tour needed," said former local hack Rhodes. "She´s smart, savvy and sexy and can drink us both under the table. Watch out Ursula Andres."
The You Only Live Twice Tour is expected to return to England next year.
The more open-minded among you may enjoy Snr Rhodes`s travelling companion Richard Donnelly`s contribution: here
FORMER music PR guru Rebecca Barrett has just wrapped up a two-week starring role as the new Bond babe. The 29-year-old joined Jonty Rhodes and Richard Donnelly on location in Argentina - the latest leg of the You Only Live Twice Tour 2-007. It is the first time the Sussex-born diva has worked abroad. Critics are already hailing the performance.
"It was just a great opportunity for me," said Barrett, yesterday. "I´ve had a lot of fun and the boys have been great - I'm looking forward to seeing the the final picture."
Barrett shot to prominence after spending six years working for a London-based music firm. She quit earlier this year to pursue other interests. Donnelly and Rhodes, both 32, who visited South East Asia six years ago as part of the From Laos With Love Tour, have been filming across the globe for the last six months. Locations have included the Philippines, Dubai, Hong Kong, Australia and New Zealand. Filming in South America is expected to last seven months with both men excited to be working for the first time on the continent.
"Rebecca is everything the You Only Live Twice Tour needed," said former local hack Rhodes. "She´s smart, savvy and sexy and can drink us both under the table. Watch out Ursula Andres."
The You Only Live Twice Tour is expected to return to England next year.
The more open-minded among you may enjoy Snr Rhodes`s travelling companion Richard Donnelly`s contribution: here
jueves, 5 de abril de 2007
The Real Argentina
I´m very excited that my friend Harsh is coming out to join me in Santiago in a couple of weeks, and in the few days before meeting up with him I am booked on a cruise of the Chilean fjords leaving from Puerto Natales. This means that I need to be in El Calafate (home of the famous glaciers and just over the border from Puerto Natales) no earlier than Saturday. As a result I have been able to travel in leisure down Patagonia´s east coast, visiting towns that don´t normally make it onto the average tourist´s itinerary and some of which haven´t even made it to Lonely Planet!
Since Puerto Madryn, Richard, Jon and I have visited Comodoro Rivadavia (pictured, with sunset), Puerto Deseado and Caleta Olivia (very briefly). We are now in Rio Gallegos, which officially qualifies as The Deep South. To get to these places we have taken overnight buses along endless bleak, featureless highway, punctuated every few hundred miles by a petrol station and rusty corrugated steel or concrete cafeteria, always with the obligatory Argentinian flag and a Coca-Cola sign.
While it´s been fairly obvious why these places aren´t major tourist attractions, it´s been great to see a little of the way Argentina goes about its business when it´s not trying to impress bus-loads of backpackers. One of the main things that has struck me is just how little an impression humans have made on the land here. In England and Europe I am used to being able to feel how the countryside has been shaped and tamed for generations, but here many of the towns are only a little over a hundred years old and there is almost a feeling that people are just camping here. No surprise given the vast distances that people have to conquer to set up home in these places.
Easter this Sunday and I will be saying goodbye to the boys (who have promised to be guest columnists on the blog) and arriving in El Calafate in time to catch a glacier or two before my cruise.
Since Puerto Madryn, Richard, Jon and I have visited Comodoro Rivadavia (pictured, with sunset), Puerto Deseado and Caleta Olivia (very briefly). We are now in Rio Gallegos, which officially qualifies as The Deep South. To get to these places we have taken overnight buses along endless bleak, featureless highway, punctuated every few hundred miles by a petrol station and rusty corrugated steel or concrete cafeteria, always with the obligatory Argentinian flag and a Coca-Cola sign.
While it´s been fairly obvious why these places aren´t major tourist attractions, it´s been great to see a little of the way Argentina goes about its business when it´s not trying to impress bus-loads of backpackers. One of the main things that has struck me is just how little an impression humans have made on the land here. In England and Europe I am used to being able to feel how the countryside has been shaped and tamed for generations, but here many of the towns are only a little over a hundred years old and there is almost a feeling that people are just camping here. No surprise given the vast distances that people have to conquer to set up home in these places.
Easter this Sunday and I will be saying goodbye to the boys (who have promised to be guest columnists on the blog) and arriving in El Calafate in time to catch a glacier or two before my cruise.
domingo, 1 de abril de 2007
Feature Creatures
Finally I have seen some Argentine wildlife, and I don´t mean the Irish bars in Bariloche!
Having hooked up with Jon and Richard for a few laid-back days in hippy town El Bolsón along with their friend Jo, the three of us hopped on a night bus to the other side of Patagonia for a bit of sun, sea and the Atlantic wildlife reserve of Penninsula Valdes near Puerto Madryn.
The flat and (to my untrained eye) barren stretch of land is home to wild horses, sheeps, cows, llama-like guanacos and hares inland, but it´s the creatures who hug the coastline who draw the crowds. There are sea-lions and very cute penguins, but the main attraction is the Orca whales who, if you are really lucky, will swim up to the seal colonies during March and April in search of a mid-morning snack.
We hired a car which Richard drove at breakneck speed along the bumpy gravel roads to the Penninsula after a guy in our hostel helpfully told us over breakfast that we should have left two hours earlier, and we arrived at the viewing point to find fifty or so other tourists standing motionless staring at a patch of water just offshore from the hundreds of basking seals. After a few moments of nail-biting tension we saw the sight that inspired Spielberg: the black fin slicing through the water, mere feet from the beach.
It was soon joined by at least three others, and they obligingly swam up and down along the coast right in front of the gaping tourists for around 90 minutes. They apparently weren´t hungry so we weren´t treated the very rare sight of them sliding up the sand to grab an unsuspecting seal pup which, to be honest, might have offended my delicate vegetarian sensibilities. It was still an awe-inspiring experience and I´m glad the seals got to live another day. (This is the closest picture I could find to what I actually saw - mine will be up any day now!)
Having hooked up with Jon and Richard for a few laid-back days in hippy town El Bolsón along with their friend Jo, the three of us hopped on a night bus to the other side of Patagonia for a bit of sun, sea and the Atlantic wildlife reserve of Penninsula Valdes near Puerto Madryn.
The flat and (to my untrained eye) barren stretch of land is home to wild horses, sheeps, cows, llama-like guanacos and hares inland, but it´s the creatures who hug the coastline who draw the crowds. There are sea-lions and very cute penguins, but the main attraction is the Orca whales who, if you are really lucky, will swim up to the seal colonies during March and April in search of a mid-morning snack.
We hired a car which Richard drove at breakneck speed along the bumpy gravel roads to the Penninsula after a guy in our hostel helpfully told us over breakfast that we should have left two hours earlier, and we arrived at the viewing point to find fifty or so other tourists standing motionless staring at a patch of water just offshore from the hundreds of basking seals. After a few moments of nail-biting tension we saw the sight that inspired Spielberg: the black fin slicing through the water, mere feet from the beach.
It was soon joined by at least three others, and they obligingly swam up and down along the coast right in front of the gaping tourists for around 90 minutes. They apparently weren´t hungry so we weren´t treated the very rare sight of them sliding up the sand to grab an unsuspecting seal pup which, to be honest, might have offended my delicate vegetarian sensibilities. It was still an awe-inspiring experience and I´m glad the seals got to live another day. (This is the closest picture I could find to what I actually saw - mine will be up any day now!)
lunes, 26 de marzo de 2007
From R&R to A&A
The tranquility I experienced in San Martin de los Andes has metamorphosed into a weekend of action and adventure in Patagonian party capital, San Carlos de Bariloche. Set on the side of a huge, sparkling blue lake, surrounded by mountains and a few miles away from one of Argentina´s best ski resorts, Bariloche is a top destination for travellers and the streets are buzzing with bars, restaurants, clubs and English people with backpacks.
I have spent three nights at a hostel which describes itself as ´Bariloche´s party hostel´ and so far it has definitely lived up to the name. For a start, it´s pointless to even try and speak Spanish here, as the place is full of English, Americans, Irish, Israelis and all the staff (and seemingly the entire town) speak perfect English. I´ve been out for the last three nights with my two English room mates Jon and Richard, getting to know Bariloche´s varied selection of Irish bars, drinking a shocking amount of Havana rum and not getting in until around 5ish.
But the days have not been without their excitement. In memory of early teenage years spent trotting around the Mendips, I booked an afternoon of horseriding in the mountains on Saturday. There were just six of us and the first couple of hours was spent slowly walking across the hills, gasping at the pretty scenery. Then, for the last half an hour, we were invited to attempt a gentle canter. My horse didn´t need telling twice and shot off across the mountain side, with me desperately clinging to the reins, my feet swinging wildly, having fallen out of the stirrups. I´m ashamed to say I screamed like a big girl in fear of falling off and being trampled but managed to cling on, although I´m bearing some pretty hefty bruises in some fairly intimate places from the experience.
Final night in Bariloche today before I venture into the Patagonian autumn towards glaciers near the end of the world.
I have spent three nights at a hostel which describes itself as ´Bariloche´s party hostel´ and so far it has definitely lived up to the name. For a start, it´s pointless to even try and speak Spanish here, as the place is full of English, Americans, Irish, Israelis and all the staff (and seemingly the entire town) speak perfect English. I´ve been out for the last three nights with my two English room mates Jon and Richard, getting to know Bariloche´s varied selection of Irish bars, drinking a shocking amount of Havana rum and not getting in until around 5ish.
But the days have not been without their excitement. In memory of early teenage years spent trotting around the Mendips, I booked an afternoon of horseriding in the mountains on Saturday. There were just six of us and the first couple of hours was spent slowly walking across the hills, gasping at the pretty scenery. Then, for the last half an hour, we were invited to attempt a gentle canter. My horse didn´t need telling twice and shot off across the mountain side, with me desperately clinging to the reins, my feet swinging wildly, having fallen out of the stirrups. I´m ashamed to say I screamed like a big girl in fear of falling off and being trampled but managed to cling on, although I´m bearing some pretty hefty bruises in some fairly intimate places from the experience.
Final night in Bariloche today before I venture into the Patagonian autumn towards glaciers near the end of the world.
lunes, 19 de marzo de 2007
The San Martin Diet
I´ve just started a new diet. It´s one which I would bet a substantial amount of money that the Hollywood size 0 set will not be raving about in the bikini issues come the summer.
It goes like this:
Breakfast - Standard hostel breakfast of two or three croissants covered in honey, possibly with a bit of dulce del leche (sweet, creamy caramel that the Argentines have on everything). Milky coffee with sugar (to disguise that bitter `hostel-coffee´ taste).
Lunch - A chunky cheese and tomato sandwich with mayonnaise. Crisps. A bottle of Sprite.
Afternoon snack - Little puffed bread cake things that have been baked and then fried and are eaten hot with sugar. Another milky, sweet coffee.
Dinner - Deep fried cheese. Pizza with roquefort and olives. Chocolate fondue. A bottle of Mendozan Malbec.
Bedtime snack - A puff-pastry cake filled with dulce de leche and covered in nuts and chocolate.
Ok, so that´s a slight exaggeration for one day, but having arrived in San Martin de los Andes on Saturday I´m struggling to keep out of the multitude of chocolate shops, fondue restaurants and panderias (bakeries) that line every street. No, I´m no in Switzerland, but in a beautiful little town in northern Patagonia in the Argentine lake district. Founded in the late 19th century largely thanks to German and Austrian immigration, it´s easy to forget you´re in Argentina when confronted with the log cabin architecture, beautiful lake and surrounding mountains.
Fortunately, the scenery is at least as impressive as the cuisine, so I´ve been trying to distract myself by getting out and seeing something of the countryside. Today´s visit to Parque Nacional Lanin to see the volcano was breathtakingly beautiful to the point of being overwhelming, but you´ll have to wait for my photos as this computer was made in 1946 (or something). I´ve found someone else´s picture of San Martin to keep you going in the meantime.
Slightly homesick today as I haven´t met another English speaker for over a week now and am in dire need of some conversation without the aid of a dictionary. Thursday´s arrival in party town and favourite backpacker destination Bariloche should sort that out and I´m looking forward to a big night out. Right, I´m off to get some more dulce de leche... I mean grapes.
It goes like this:
Breakfast - Standard hostel breakfast of two or three croissants covered in honey, possibly with a bit of dulce del leche (sweet, creamy caramel that the Argentines have on everything). Milky coffee with sugar (to disguise that bitter `hostel-coffee´ taste).
Lunch - A chunky cheese and tomato sandwich with mayonnaise. Crisps. A bottle of Sprite.
Afternoon snack - Little puffed bread cake things that have been baked and then fried and are eaten hot with sugar. Another milky, sweet coffee.
Dinner - Deep fried cheese. Pizza with roquefort and olives. Chocolate fondue. A bottle of Mendozan Malbec.
Bedtime snack - A puff-pastry cake filled with dulce de leche and covered in nuts and chocolate.
Ok, so that´s a slight exaggeration for one day, but having arrived in San Martin de los Andes on Saturday I´m struggling to keep out of the multitude of chocolate shops, fondue restaurants and panderias (bakeries) that line every street. No, I´m no in Switzerland, but in a beautiful little town in northern Patagonia in the Argentine lake district. Founded in the late 19th century largely thanks to German and Austrian immigration, it´s easy to forget you´re in Argentina when confronted with the log cabin architecture, beautiful lake and surrounding mountains.
Fortunately, the scenery is at least as impressive as the cuisine, so I´ve been trying to distract myself by getting out and seeing something of the countryside. Today´s visit to Parque Nacional Lanin to see the volcano was breathtakingly beautiful to the point of being overwhelming, but you´ll have to wait for my photos as this computer was made in 1946 (or something). I´ve found someone else´s picture of San Martin to keep you going in the meantime.
Slightly homesick today as I haven´t met another English speaker for over a week now and am in dire need of some conversation without the aid of a dictionary. Thursday´s arrival in party town and favourite backpacker destination Bariloche should sort that out and I´m looking forward to a big night out. Right, I´m off to get some more dulce de leche... I mean grapes.
viernes, 16 de marzo de 2007
Traveller´s Fables: The Bus and the Backpack
A young (ish) woman from London town had set forth on a great adventure to far-off lands. After learning enough of the local language to order herself wine and a bed for the night, she felt she was ready to ignore the advice of her trusted companion, the Footprint Guide to Argentina and attempt, by herself, a visit to a strange town where, rumour had it, lay the bones of the largest meat-eating dinosaur that had ever been found on the earth.
So, she reserved a hotel room, not knowing what it might cost, and found a bus that would take her to her destination, not knowing when it might arrive. She sat quietly on the bus, with a feeling of nervous anticpation in her stomach. The bus attendant, a kindly man, who had observed her feeble attempts at communicating with the other passengers, told her when the bus had arrived at her destination, and helped her off with her bag before the bus, full of sleeping passengers, continued on its way.
As she gathered her things together, she looked around and realised that the bus had left her on a deserted highway with no bus station or nearby town in sight and she, alone and confused, was stranded in the dark in Patagonia at 10pm with a heavy bag upon her back and without a map, a mobile phone reception or a clue.
And the moral of the story is: When travelling for the first time to a strange town in Patagonia by yourself, try and arrive during daylight hours, as next time you might not be able to count on the only other person who got off at the same time as you getting her dad to give you a lift to your hotel.
Fortunately, the hotel was lovely (although it did blow the budget) and I could enjoy sleeping with my curtains wide open and waking up to watch the sun rise over the lake. The dinosaur bones were pretty cool too.
So, she reserved a hotel room, not knowing what it might cost, and found a bus that would take her to her destination, not knowing when it might arrive. She sat quietly on the bus, with a feeling of nervous anticpation in her stomach. The bus attendant, a kindly man, who had observed her feeble attempts at communicating with the other passengers, told her when the bus had arrived at her destination, and helped her off with her bag before the bus, full of sleeping passengers, continued on its way.
As she gathered her things together, she looked around and realised that the bus had left her on a deserted highway with no bus station or nearby town in sight and she, alone and confused, was stranded in the dark in Patagonia at 10pm with a heavy bag upon her back and without a map, a mobile phone reception or a clue.
And the moral of the story is: When travelling for the first time to a strange town in Patagonia by yourself, try and arrive during daylight hours, as next time you might not be able to count on the only other person who got off at the same time as you getting her dad to give you a lift to your hotel.
Fortunately, the hotel was lovely (although it did blow the budget) and I could enjoy sleeping with my curtains wide open and waking up to watch the sun rise over the lake. The dinosaur bones were pretty cool too.
jueves, 15 de marzo de 2007
The Condor in the Canon
Well, aren´t I whizzing through Argentina? Today I find myself on my first stop in Patagonia, in the province (and capital city of) Neuquen. As I am aiming to be in Santiago by the middle of April I only stopped in San Rafael for a few days, giving myself just enough time for a visit to another winery and a tour of the local wonder of nature, the Cañon del Atuel.
Not wanting to fork out for a hire car by myself (too hard to map read when you´re driving), I decided it would be easier to book an all day tour. Most of the tours kindly collect you from your hotel in a little minibus, usually with an alarming spider´s web of cracks across the windscreen due to the quantity of gravel they spend their time speeding through.
Although in the same province as Mendoza, the countryside surrounding San Rafael is noticeably different. Where closer to Mendoza city is all towering peaks (some with snow), San Rafael is jagged rocks and gullies. We made several pit stops to appreciate the area´s more aesthetically pleasing aspects, including the Dique de Nihuel, before an atmospheric and nerve-wracking drive through the stunning Cañon del Atuel. I found that there was an optional rafting excursion through the bottom of the Cañon and, as I showed such a natural aptitude in Mendoza, I happily clambered aboard. As we floated along a quieter part of the rushing stream our instructor nudged my shoulder and pointed up. Above us, silloueted against the blue sky was a condor, wheeling against the craggy cliffs. Then, for some still unknown reason (my Spanish is still very sketchy), the instructor made me climb out of the raft and cling on to the side through the next bit of rapid, all the while shouting at me incomrehensibly. I have only just recovered from the combined experience.
Not wanting to fork out for a hire car by myself (too hard to map read when you´re driving), I decided it would be easier to book an all day tour. Most of the tours kindly collect you from your hotel in a little minibus, usually with an alarming spider´s web of cracks across the windscreen due to the quantity of gravel they spend their time speeding through.
Although in the same province as Mendoza, the countryside surrounding San Rafael is noticeably different. Where closer to Mendoza city is all towering peaks (some with snow), San Rafael is jagged rocks and gullies. We made several pit stops to appreciate the area´s more aesthetically pleasing aspects, including the Dique de Nihuel, before an atmospheric and nerve-wracking drive through the stunning Cañon del Atuel. I found that there was an optional rafting excursion through the bottom of the Cañon and, as I showed such a natural aptitude in Mendoza, I happily clambered aboard. As we floated along a quieter part of the rushing stream our instructor nudged my shoulder and pointed up. Above us, silloueted against the blue sky was a condor, wheeling against the craggy cliffs. Then, for some still unknown reason (my Spanish is still very sketchy), the instructor made me climb out of the raft and cling on to the side through the next bit of rapid, all the while shouting at me incomrehensibly. I have only just recovered from the combined experience.
sábado, 10 de marzo de 2007
If at first you don´t succeed
While Mendoza is a busy city and a hub of activity for outdoor sports and, of course, vineyards, I´ve actually done relatively little of all there is to offer as my attempts at excursions haven´t been altogether successful. Firstly was the failed cycling tour of local bodegas (vineyards), as Lindsay, the mad Texan woman I was due to go with, fell down some stairs and was in no fit state to cycle. Then there was the moonlight horseriding, which I sat around all day waiting for only to be told that it was cancelled as not enough people had booked. This is not to mention the barbeque at the hostel where the food I was assured was perfect for a vegetarian turned out to be lettuce and tomato salad.
So you can imagine how I felt when I woke up on the day I had booked rafting and abseiling to see that the heavens had opened. Still, rafting, I thought, gets you wet anyway, so I clambered aboard a little minibus for the drive into the moutains to find the rapids. By the time we reached the lake the clouds were lifting and its surface was starting to reflect the blue sky in patches of brilliant turquoise.
And here we have, ladies and gentlemen, my first piece of evidence that I am really here and not just fabricating this entire story from my living room (that´s me on the far left at the back). If you look closely you will see that stlyish blue helmet I am wearing says ´Argentina Rafting´, so it´s really true, you see? It was lots of fun although it didn´t go on long enough and was easier than I expected.
I never did quite make it to the abseiling, but maybe in San Rafael.
domingo, 4 de marzo de 2007
Wine and Women
The city of Mendoza, on Argentina's western border, nestling next to the Andes, is the country´s main producer of wine. Each year on the first Saturday of March they hold a big festival to celebrate the start of the vendimia (harvest) and enjoy some of their finest produce. Funnily enough, I happened to arrive in Mendoza on the first Thursday in March, just in time to find a place to stay before the festivities began.
It´s a very pretty city, with broad streets lined with trees and inhabitants who seem to take greater pride in their surroundings than in Buenos Aires. On every street is someone washing their car, sweeping the pavement or tidying their garden and the streets are relatively free from the litter that Porteños just drop as they go.
Last night was the Vendimia Acto Central, a huge show in the town´s outdoor theatre to celebrate the start of the festival and select this year´s Reina de la Vendimia (Harvest Queen). I couldn´t miss out so, along with at least 50 thousand patritotic Argentines waving flags, I perched on a stone seat with a glass of Malbec to enjoy the show.
Hundreds of dancers dressed as grapes, wines, water, sun and earth depicted the story of wine production, including, I am sure, a fair amount of local myth and legend that I didn´t recognise. I have to say it was a bit of a "cena del perro" (look it up) with many of the dancers seemingly doing their own thing and bumping into each other on stage, but it was very enjoyable and the rest of the audience absolutely loved it, including those who hadn´t been able to get tickets and had thronged the surrounding hills to peer down at the stadium from above. I regret to say that after two hours sitting on a stone I didn´t stay until the very end to see who was elected Harvest Queen, as I realised that I was bored and didn´t care.
Tonight I might just find a lovely restaurant and enjoy a bottle or two of Mendoza´s finest. Adios. x
It´s a very pretty city, with broad streets lined with trees and inhabitants who seem to take greater pride in their surroundings than in Buenos Aires. On every street is someone washing their car, sweeping the pavement or tidying their garden and the streets are relatively free from the litter that Porteños just drop as they go.
Hundreds of dancers dressed as grapes, wines, water, sun and earth depicted the story of wine production, including, I am sure, a fair amount of local myth and legend that I didn´t recognise. I have to say it was a bit of a "cena del perro" (look it up) with many of the dancers seemingly doing their own thing and bumping into each other on stage, but it was very enjoyable and the rest of the audience absolutely loved it, including those who hadn´t been able to get tickets and had thronged the surrounding hills to peer down at the stadium from above. I regret to say that after two hours sitting on a stone I didn´t stay until the very end to see who was elected Harvest Queen, as I realised that I was bored and didn´t care.
Tonight I might just find a lovely restaurant and enjoy a bottle or two of Mendoza´s finest. Adios. x
martes, 27 de febrero de 2007
Ich Bin Ein Englander!
Am by the seaside this week, in the town of Villa Gesell on the Atlantic coast, about 600km south of Buenos Aires. It´s not much like I expected from my guide book´s short description of a town that was founded in the 1940s as an ecological project, and is neither quiet nor picturesque. In fact, it´s a bustling little place with a garish mainstreet full of shops, bars and arcades and a busy beach that backs onto sand dunes. That said, I´m starting to rather like it.
There is such a relaxed attitute here and the people are friendly without being too forward, or as friendly as they can be when I speak so little Spanish! I would place a bet that I´m the only English person in town this week and possibly even the only native English speaker, as I think Villa Gesell is the sort of place that Argentines go on their holidays but rarely gets overseas visitors. In fact, most people I have met seem to think I am German, an appearance I owe, of course, to my grandmother.
Marianna, the owner of my hotel is very friendly, speaks wonderful English and has been translating things for me and giving me Spanish grammar lessons. It´s still coming along slowly, unfortunately, although I think by the end of this trip I will be expert at ordering drinks and buying bus tickets.
Tomorrow I am catching the last bus of the season to Mendoza for the start of their wine festival. Now that´s what I call a holiday!
Marianna, the owner of my hotel is very friendly, speaks wonderful English and has been translating things for me and giving me Spanish grammar lessons. It´s still coming along slowly, unfortunately, although I think by the end of this trip I will be expert at ordering drinks and buying bus tickets.
Tomorrow I am catching the last bus of the season to Mendoza for the start of their wine festival. Now that´s what I call a holiday!
domingo, 25 de febrero de 2007
Don´t Cry For Me Buenos Aires
Rebecca B: Well, Viva, it was quite an experience! I read that Porteños (Buenos Aires inhabitants) are Italians who speak Spanish, live like the French and want to be English. The city has a definite European influence, but every now and then you will be reminded you are on another continent with a streetside tango show, the sight of an unmistakeable "mestizo" with their high cheekbones, long noses and deep-set eyes, a pan-pipe band or tribute to Eva Peron sprayed on a wall.
VL: What did you enjoy the most?
RB: I absolutely loved the tango show, but also enjoyed my visit to the cemetary with the tomb of Evita. It´s like a town in itself with paved streets, lined with mausoleums (see picture). It even has signposts! And my day-trip to Colonia, across the Rio de la Plata in Uruguay was picturesque, peaceful and lovely.
VL: Is there anything you regret?
RB: Not bringing better shoes! Argentine women don´t appear to have giant plates o´ meat and I haven´t been able to buy anything except flip flops!
VL: How was the hostel experience?
RB: Not as bad as I´d feared. Once you get used to strange people being in your bedroom when you wake up, it is lots of fun. I had a great time with Michelle and Elaine, Christoph from Bavaria, who shares my sarcastic sense of humour, Isle of Wight Sam, Hawaiian David, Chilean Sergio and more!
VL: Will you go back to Buenos Aires?
RB: Absolutely! I´m thinking of spending at least a week there before I fly back to England in July, and anyway, Christoph, who is studying in the city, has promised to cook me dinner and take me out dancing!
martes, 20 de febrero de 2007
Three for tango
By Argentine law, no one is allowed to leave Buenos Aires without either eating a giant piece of steak or going to see a tango show. Fortunately for this silly English vegetarian, La Ventana theatre and restaurant had some free places for their dance show last night, so Michelle, Elaine and I booked up.
It was one of the more expensive places in town, but included dinner, wine and looked rather posh, so as we settled into our seats at 8ish we were feeling very excited. We did decline to have tourist snaps taken with two of the dancers hovering around the stage, particularly after I noticed that the male dancer couldn´t have been above 5ft 4.
Things looked up, however with the start of the dancing. Skimpy dresses and sharp suits, a live band on stage and sultry, high-speed moves that inspired gasps whenever a dancer was spun too close to the chandeliers. But that wasn´t all. We were treated to a (what seemed to me) Peruvian-style pan pipe band, a rope-spinning, drum-banging, tap-dancing gaucho and ever-more raunchy dance moves and revealing outfits from the stunning female dancers, which I´m sure left several men in the audience feeling like they didn´t want to stand up for a few minutes.
The low point was the live rendition of Don´t Cry For Me Argentina, sung in Spanish, complete with flag waving and a little plaster balcony. Do the Argentines really all love Andrew Lloyd Webber? But the peak of the show for me was the accordion band who played with such passion and energy that it was impossible to wipe the grin off my face during their every number.
I mercifully avoided the inch thick steaks, yet now feel I have experienced a little true Argentine culture so I´m off to get another cheese sandwich for my lunch...
It was one of the more expensive places in town, but included dinner, wine and looked rather posh, so as we settled into our seats at 8ish we were feeling very excited. We did decline to have tourist snaps taken with two of the dancers hovering around the stage, particularly after I noticed that the male dancer couldn´t have been above 5ft 4.
Things looked up, however with the start of the dancing. Skimpy dresses and sharp suits, a live band on stage and sultry, high-speed moves that inspired gasps whenever a dancer was spun too close to the chandeliers. But that wasn´t all. We were treated to a (what seemed to me) Peruvian-style pan pipe band, a rope-spinning, drum-banging, tap-dancing gaucho and ever-more raunchy dance moves and revealing outfits from the stunning female dancers, which I´m sure left several men in the audience feeling like they didn´t want to stand up for a few minutes.
I mercifully avoided the inch thick steaks, yet now feel I have experienced a little true Argentine culture so I´m off to get another cheese sandwich for my lunch...
lunes, 19 de febrero de 2007
Alive Crazy Person
I like to talk about things a lot before I actually get round to doing them. That way I almost don´t need to go through the real experience, because, well, it might not be such a good idea when it comes down to it and anyway, I´ve talked about it so much that it feels as though I´ve really done it.
Today I can say, however, that I have actually achieved something it feels as though I´ve been talking about for months. I´ve started my Big Adventure in South America. Alone, at the age of 29, with very basic Spanish and barely a clue what I´m doing. I first hatched the idea back in August and have been telling everybody I know and quite a lot of people I don´t all about the plan. Everyone has been sweetly supportive, telling me it will be the best thing I ever do and that I will have an amazing time. A few people have suggested that I will come back a completely different person (which is a frankly alarming thought) and some have hinted that I might "find myself", as though the real me has all along been hidden down the back of a Peruvian sofa. I am hoping for neither of these things, but I did feel I was overdue for an adventure, so backpack firmly strapped into place, I touched down in Buenos Aires three days ago.
I´m staying at the Hostel Carlos Gardel in San Telmo, a basic but respectable place named after the famous tango musician. San Telmo is the oldest part of Buenos Aires, centered around the Plaza Dorrego where every Sunday there is a huge antiques market. I´m sharing a room with two Irish girls, Elaine and Michelle who are nearing the end of their own five month adventure and have been sharing their stories and tips with me.
They are quite intruiged by the idea of Juan-Pablo Gonzales, my future husband, whom I´m sure I´m going to bump into at any second. To encourage this we have booked a tango show and dinner tonight. I must dig out my sparkly skirt...
Michelle and Elaine leave Buenos Aires tomorrow and I must go exploring and plan the next part of this whole experiement. Adios para ahora. x
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