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.
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