Weather: Boiling, scorching... and humid
Mosquitoes: I´ve acclimatised and stopped counting.
In our last morning trek we found some macaws, having a very noisy argument up at the top of a tree. You could barely see them, but could certainly hear them, oddly they sound a bit like the french agrics. Jimmy played with his machete for a bit and made the enthused tourists a jungle tarzan swing, out of one of the vines, amazing fun. We then used a very long stick to shake some odd forest fruit out of the top of a tree, and returned to camp laden with gifts for the cook.
Sadly then it was time to return to civilisation. We headed off down the fast flowing river (on another highly motorised canoe). The currents here are really odd, and seem to flow in all directions. In an odd move towards health and safety we are all made to wear life jackets. On the way back Jimmy takes us to an island full of butterflies, and a cliff face covered in macaws (all having noisy French arguments).
We arrive back in the middle of the afternoon, which pretty much brings this journal up to date. I am sitting in a tiny Internet cafe in the middle of a jungle town, intermittently swatting mosquitoes off the keyboard, and wishing I could find my glasses.
Tomorrow I have another terrifying flight booked back to La Paz.
Saturday, 29 September 2012
Day 2 The Jungle
Weather: Hot hot hot, and not a thunder storm in the sky.
Mosquitos: Millions.
A very relaxing day of more forest treking/ wandering. Incredibly beautiful trees, enormous trees, big enough to hide from a jaguar in. Jimmy the guide likes talking about Jaguars a lot. Jimmy like telling his story about the time he wrestled a jaguar a lot. We don´t find any jaguars, Jimmy is very disapointed he didn´t get to wrestle a jaguar again, looking at his pot belly I´m pretty sure his jaguar wresting days are long gone. Instead we find more monkeys, wild pigs, beautiful butterflys, wild fruit, red squirrel like thinghs and a few prehistoric looking insects.
In the afternoon we go fishing for piranha and catfish. I think the piranha must have gorged themselves on a recent tourist. They are not even to be tempted to appear with a sardine head. Perhaps it is not my new found talent after all. The agrics have fun trying to push each other into the water though. The dutch girl and I are too sensible for this, we get to make fans and water bottle carriers out of palm leaves
Night falls, and the full moon fills the sky and forest with a cold blue light. Jimmy takes us on a night trek, which apart from the french agrics telling me I have a tarantula on my head is lovely.
With the exception of animals we are trying to photograph life in the jungle moves very slowly.
It is a wonderful, fantastic place.
Mosquitos: Millions.
A very relaxing day of more forest treking/ wandering. Incredibly beautiful trees, enormous trees, big enough to hide from a jaguar in. Jimmy the guide likes talking about Jaguars a lot. Jimmy like telling his story about the time he wrestled a jaguar a lot. We don´t find any jaguars, Jimmy is very disapointed he didn´t get to wrestle a jaguar again, looking at his pot belly I´m pretty sure his jaguar wresting days are long gone. Instead we find more monkeys, wild pigs, beautiful butterflys, wild fruit, red squirrel like thinghs and a few prehistoric looking insects.
In the afternoon we go fishing for piranha and catfish. I think the piranha must have gorged themselves on a recent tourist. They are not even to be tempted to appear with a sardine head. Perhaps it is not my new found talent after all. The agrics have fun trying to push each other into the water though. The dutch girl and I are too sensible for this, we get to make fans and water bottle carriers out of palm leaves
Night falls, and the full moon fills the sky and forest with a cold blue light. Jimmy takes us on a night trek, which apart from the french agrics telling me I have a tarantula on my head is lovely.
With the exception of animals we are trying to photograph life in the jungle moves very slowly.
It is a wonderful, fantastic place.
Day 1 Jungle
Weather: Back to hot humidity.
Mosquito Count: Unknown. Plenty of UFTs though (Unidentified flying things)
Despite the soggy third day in the pampas I had enjoyed the experience so much I decided to go into the jungle. Luckily (as I couldn´t take much more political, religious argument circles) all my companions decided to fly back to La Paz.
The Morning:
Another three hour boat trip (this time without the fun truck off road experience) deep into the Madidi National Park. My new companions aren´t really the political sort.
The Dutch.
One female student who has just graduated, and is suffering from the ubiquitous Bolivian stomach upset, and her boyfriend who works at Deloitte.
The French
Two agric students. Exactly like English agrics, but French.
We arrive at the jungle lodge, which is completely in the middle of nowhere. The jungle has some seriously anti social insects. They are deafeningly noisy and they bite.
The afternoon:
First four hour trek into the thick jungle. The guide is called Jimmy. Jimmy likes using his machete, at every opportunity he slashes down a bit of tree. The forest eventually bites back. We find some monkeys after about an hour wandering around, while trying (and failing) to take pictures the monkeys decide we are trying to shoot them and decide to perform their defence technique. They all jump out of the tree from about ten metres up and land like cannon balls around us. Everyone escapes unharmed, with the exception of Jimmy. One lands directly on his crutch. The Spanish that followed was even more incomprehensible than normal, however the words like anaconda and the girls don´t understand were pretty clear.
Once Jimmy had recovered the trek continued. Turns out he is the son of a Sharman and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of all plants uses, and can imitate pretty much any animal. The spanish lessons are beginning to pay off, and I convince myself I can understand what he is going on about.
We find a Cobra scarily close to camp, and head back for dinner (rice potatoes and fried chicken.)
Mosquito Count: Unknown. Plenty of UFTs though (Unidentified flying things)
Despite the soggy third day in the pampas I had enjoyed the experience so much I decided to go into the jungle. Luckily (as I couldn´t take much more political, religious argument circles) all my companions decided to fly back to La Paz.
The Morning:
Another three hour boat trip (this time without the fun truck off road experience) deep into the Madidi National Park. My new companions aren´t really the political sort.
The Dutch.
One female student who has just graduated, and is suffering from the ubiquitous Bolivian stomach upset, and her boyfriend who works at Deloitte.
The French
Two agric students. Exactly like English agrics, but French.
We arrive at the jungle lodge, which is completely in the middle of nowhere. The jungle has some seriously anti social insects. They are deafeningly noisy and they bite.
The afternoon:
First four hour trek into the thick jungle. The guide is called Jimmy. Jimmy likes using his machete, at every opportunity he slashes down a bit of tree. The forest eventually bites back. We find some monkeys after about an hour wandering around, while trying (and failing) to take pictures the monkeys decide we are trying to shoot them and decide to perform their defence technique. They all jump out of the tree from about ten metres up and land like cannon balls around us. Everyone escapes unharmed, with the exception of Jimmy. One lands directly on his crutch. The Spanish that followed was even more incomprehensible than normal, however the words like anaconda and the girls don´t understand were pretty clear.
Once Jimmy had recovered the trek continued. Turns out he is the son of a Sharman and has an encyclopaedic knowledge of all plants uses, and can imitate pretty much any animal. The spanish lessons are beginning to pay off, and I convince myself I can understand what he is going on about.
We find a Cobra scarily close to camp, and head back for dinner (rice potatoes and fried chicken.)
Day 3 The Pampas
Weather: Soggy
Mosquitoes: Too cold for mosquitoes.
A rather muted day. A bit more of the same really, more boat exploration, more fiery political arguments between my companions. Up to this point I hadn´t really got involved and held a diplomatic silence. But this morning they got onto the subject of badger culls and TB... I think the Australian hippy almost pushed me in with the alligators when I told him my views on the situation. The American suddenly wanted to be my best friend.
After a bit we dragged our soggy remains back up river, but I did manage to see some more beautiful dolphins. The truck to Rurrenbaque took almost four hours as the unpaved road had turned into a swamp. We all arrived back soggy and exhausted... the day was saved by an amazing bit of Bolivian cuisine which consisted of fish filled with cheese in a red wine tomato sauce (naturally accompanied by the standard Bolivian two carbohydrate chips and rice.)
Mosquitoes: Too cold for mosquitoes.
A rather muted day. A bit more of the same really, more boat exploration, more fiery political arguments between my companions. Up to this point I hadn´t really got involved and held a diplomatic silence. But this morning they got onto the subject of badger culls and TB... I think the Australian hippy almost pushed me in with the alligators when I told him my views on the situation. The American suddenly wanted to be my best friend.
After a bit we dragged our soggy remains back up river, but I did manage to see some more beautiful dolphins. The truck to Rurrenbaque took almost four hours as the unpaved road had turned into a swamp. We all arrived back soggy and exhausted... the day was saved by an amazing bit of Bolivian cuisine which consisted of fish filled with cheese in a red wine tomato sauce (naturally accompanied by the standard Bolivian two carbohydrate chips and rice.)
Day 2 The Pampas
Weather: http://www.phobia-fear-release.com/thunder-storm-phobia.html
Mosquito Count: Everyone was more worried about the alligators. Don´t remember any mosquitoes, but may have been eaten by a few bed bugs in the night (the amount of deet on my face meant they didn´t feel inclined to nibble my nose this time.)
The morning... Anaconda Hunting:
Armed with holey wellies five gullible tourists set off into a swamp. The swamp turned out to be a bit deeper than the wellies, so pretty soon I was up to my knees in primordial gloop. Oscar the guide instructed us to look for anacondas, and not to move if we stepped on one. Unfortunately the same applied to alligators, who liked a bit of swamp time in the mornings. The problem is I´m not completely sure what an anaconda looks like, the only reference I had was Disney´s The Jungle Book. Luckily, Beth had done the same thing the day before, and told a good scare story about a snake she had chased for ten minutes- the guide laughed when he joined her and happily told her she´d been chasing a Cobra, which if caught would have killed her in under ten minutes.
Anyway to my great relief all snakes had better things to do that morning than be trod on by one of my wellies. Unfortunately for the guide Oscar he managed to stand on the tail of an alligator. I´ve never seen a Bolivian run so fast. (He escaped unharmed.)
The afternoon... Piranha Fishing:
I have discovered my true talent in life: I am an excellent Piranha fisher. This is probably due to years of going crabbing on family holidays. In fact the equipment looked pretty similar -the only difference being you need steak to catch Piranha. I caught eleven in just under an hour. The American (who had before declared himself a member of the American killing religion) caught one. Admittedly the vast majority were not much bigger than a north Norfolk crab. But I did get to eat one for supper that evening. Their teeth were terrifying, and one gave me a rather quick manicure of one finger nail while I was clumbsily trying to remove a hook.
The evening... Armageddon Thunder Storm:
We watched it approach. An hours worth of spectacular lightening against the back drop of the forest. The storm was eerily silent, with the trees acting as sound barriers. And then it hit. Torrential rain wind and thunder and lightening for the next nine hours.
All bed bugs were sadly drowned. Had nightmares about waking up to find an alligator next to me.
Mosquito Count: Everyone was more worried about the alligators. Don´t remember any mosquitoes, but may have been eaten by a few bed bugs in the night (the amount of deet on my face meant they didn´t feel inclined to nibble my nose this time.)
The morning... Anaconda Hunting:
Armed with holey wellies five gullible tourists set off into a swamp. The swamp turned out to be a bit deeper than the wellies, so pretty soon I was up to my knees in primordial gloop. Oscar the guide instructed us to look for anacondas, and not to move if we stepped on one. Unfortunately the same applied to alligators, who liked a bit of swamp time in the mornings. The problem is I´m not completely sure what an anaconda looks like, the only reference I had was Disney´s The Jungle Book. Luckily, Beth had done the same thing the day before, and told a good scare story about a snake she had chased for ten minutes- the guide laughed when he joined her and happily told her she´d been chasing a Cobra, which if caught would have killed her in under ten minutes.
Anyway to my great relief all snakes had better things to do that morning than be trod on by one of my wellies. Unfortunately for the guide Oscar he managed to stand on the tail of an alligator. I´ve never seen a Bolivian run so fast. (He escaped unharmed.)
The afternoon... Piranha Fishing:
I have discovered my true talent in life: I am an excellent Piranha fisher. This is probably due to years of going crabbing on family holidays. In fact the equipment looked pretty similar -the only difference being you need steak to catch Piranha. I caught eleven in just under an hour. The American (who had before declared himself a member of the American killing religion) caught one. Admittedly the vast majority were not much bigger than a north Norfolk crab. But I did get to eat one for supper that evening. Their teeth were terrifying, and one gave me a rather quick manicure of one finger nail while I was clumbsily trying to remove a hook.
The evening... Armageddon Thunder Storm:
We watched it approach. An hours worth of spectacular lightening against the back drop of the forest. The storm was eerily silent, with the trees acting as sound barriers. And then it hit. Torrential rain wind and thunder and lightening for the next nine hours.
All bed bugs were sadly drowned. Had nightmares about waking up to find an alligator next to me.
Day 1 The Pampas
Weather: Hot.
Mosquito Count: Middling.
Mosquito Complaint Count: Too high I wish the American would zip it.
This is going to sound like a bad joke, but I went into the Pampas, with the following characters:
The Australian
Think The Kinks song Apeman... An out of time hippy, who is an ethno botany student, and has hair down to his waist, and a greying bandana to keep off the sweat. Fondly called Michael Jackson by the guide.
The American.
A Miami born wannabe Israeli, who puts on an Israeli accent whenever negotiating a deal, as he thinks it has better results. He equates Mitt Romney with the messiah. In the list of Kinks references this guy thinks he is David Watts. He is dating a Persian princess.
The Irish.
The honeymoon couple, a nurse and a health and safety expert (apparently they exist in Ireland.) The nurse is lovely and relatively normal, apart from the fact she married a health and safety expert who has more vocal opinions on life than the australian and american combined. He loves Hitchens. Due to the amount of complaints about the Irish economy and general these two are definitely the well respected man meets dead end street.
You might have guessed I found a Kinks album on my blackberry, after the three hour drive to the river. The politics were hotter than the weather.
After the human political safari had quietened down a bit the actual fun began. We all clambered in to an old fashioned canoe with an enormous outboard motor for a four hour trip up river deep into the Pampas. the Pampas is an area of the amazon basin, which is wetland. It is populated by savannahs, swamps, and a few rivers. It is also swarming with alligators and caimen (south American crocodiles.) Oscar the guide likes to get as close as possible to these. I don´t.
Other highlights include:
The largest and most attractive rodent in the world. The Capybara.
And pink river dolphins.
Then we arrived at a lodge, before heading off to see the sunset at a bar in the middle of nowhere.
And there in the middle of nowhere was Beth Rugen... Turns out the world is really quite small afterall, or coincidences are quite large. I was at Worcester with Beth for three years.
We returned to the lodge in the dark dodging the enormous alligators and bats.
Mosquito Count: Middling.
Mosquito Complaint Count: Too high I wish the American would zip it.
This is going to sound like a bad joke, but I went into the Pampas, with the following characters:
The Australian
Think The Kinks song Apeman... An out of time hippy, who is an ethno botany student, and has hair down to his waist, and a greying bandana to keep off the sweat. Fondly called Michael Jackson by the guide.
The American.
A Miami born wannabe Israeli, who puts on an Israeli accent whenever negotiating a deal, as he thinks it has better results. He equates Mitt Romney with the messiah. In the list of Kinks references this guy thinks he is David Watts. He is dating a Persian princess.
The Irish.
The honeymoon couple, a nurse and a health and safety expert (apparently they exist in Ireland.) The nurse is lovely and relatively normal, apart from the fact she married a health and safety expert who has more vocal opinions on life than the australian and american combined. He loves Hitchens. Due to the amount of complaints about the Irish economy and general these two are definitely the well respected man meets dead end street.
You might have guessed I found a Kinks album on my blackberry, after the three hour drive to the river. The politics were hotter than the weather.
After the human political safari had quietened down a bit the actual fun began. We all clambered in to an old fashioned canoe with an enormous outboard motor for a four hour trip up river deep into the Pampas. the Pampas is an area of the amazon basin, which is wetland. It is populated by savannahs, swamps, and a few rivers. It is also swarming with alligators and caimen (south American crocodiles.) Oscar the guide likes to get as close as possible to these. I don´t.
Other highlights include:
The largest and most attractive rodent in the world. The Capybara.
And pink river dolphins.
Then we arrived at a lodge, before heading off to see the sunset at a bar in the middle of nowhere.
And there in the middle of nowhere was Beth Rugen... Turns out the world is really quite small afterall, or coincidences are quite large. I was at Worcester with Beth for three years.
We returned to the lodge in the dark dodging the enormous alligators and bats.
The Death Flight to Rurrenbaque
Weather: Not too hot in La Paz, swelteringly happy humidity in the jungle.
Llama Count: Need to update this metric to mosquito count temporarily. Not the most exciting animal in these parts but they seem to fill a good 90% of the conversation out here.
The transport options to the jungle town of Rurrenbaque* are as follows:
Number 1-- The Bus.
This goes down the remains of the death road, it is meant to take the newly built bypass around it. However, this adds three hours to the journey time so most drivers don´t bother with that innovation. Consequently there have been quite a few deaths on this week. Apparently last week a whole football team disappeared off one of the many cliff edges. The journey is meant to take twenty hours. However, it has been known to take five days, due to bus crashes, road failures, and the Bolivian favourite... the flat tyre.
Number 2-- The Boat.
An expensive four day cruise up a river.
Number 3-- The Plane.
Supposedly the fastest and safest option.
Definitely one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
I asked if I could have a window seat. Turns out all the seats are window seats, as there are only fifteen. The plane is tiny and you cannot stand up strait. The pilots seem very relaxed, a bit too relaxed. Due to the altitude of La Paz there is a very long run way, and it takes a very long time to take off. But we do. The plane rattles, and rattles, and then every few minutes there are a zero gravity couple of seconds, as we hit turbulence. To be fair to the pilot we are flying over one of the highest points of the Andes. In fact the mountains appear to be higher than us, and in one case I am certain we are flying lower than a snow capped peak. Forty terrifying minutes later we land in the jungle. The plane negotiates a last mountain and we appear to be about to land in the forest. There are only trees as far as I can see. Then suddenly out of nowhere appears a dirt landing strip, and there is an audible sigh of relief from all passengers as the plane touches down.
Rurrenbaque is a jungle port town on the river Beni. This is the land of the motorbike. There are more motorbikes here than street dogs. However, there appears to be a one bike policy per family. Whole families (including the odd dog and chicken) straddle their machines. Im not really sure where they are all going, Rurrenabaque doesn´t seem to be big enough to warrant transport. I think its more of a social event. After the traffic of La Paz long live the motor bike. They don´t need no zebras here.
*A place that looks easy to pronounce but no tourist can get it right so the Bolivians helpfully have renamed it Rurre.
Llama Count: Need to update this metric to mosquito count temporarily. Not the most exciting animal in these parts but they seem to fill a good 90% of the conversation out here.
The transport options to the jungle town of Rurrenbaque* are as follows:
Number 1-- The Bus.
This goes down the remains of the death road, it is meant to take the newly built bypass around it. However, this adds three hours to the journey time so most drivers don´t bother with that innovation. Consequently there have been quite a few deaths on this week. Apparently last week a whole football team disappeared off one of the many cliff edges. The journey is meant to take twenty hours. However, it has been known to take five days, due to bus crashes, road failures, and the Bolivian favourite... the flat tyre.
Number 2-- The Boat.
An expensive four day cruise up a river.
Number 3-- The Plane.
Supposedly the fastest and safest option.
Definitely one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.
I asked if I could have a window seat. Turns out all the seats are window seats, as there are only fifteen. The plane is tiny and you cannot stand up strait. The pilots seem very relaxed, a bit too relaxed. Due to the altitude of La Paz there is a very long run way, and it takes a very long time to take off. But we do. The plane rattles, and rattles, and then every few minutes there are a zero gravity couple of seconds, as we hit turbulence. To be fair to the pilot we are flying over one of the highest points of the Andes. In fact the mountains appear to be higher than us, and in one case I am certain we are flying lower than a snow capped peak. Forty terrifying minutes later we land in the jungle. The plane negotiates a last mountain and we appear to be about to land in the forest. There are only trees as far as I can see. Then suddenly out of nowhere appears a dirt landing strip, and there is an audible sigh of relief from all passengers as the plane touches down.
Rurrenbaque is a jungle port town on the river Beni. This is the land of the motorbike. There are more motorbikes here than street dogs. However, there appears to be a one bike policy per family. Whole families (including the odd dog and chicken) straddle their machines. Im not really sure where they are all going, Rurrenabaque doesn´t seem to be big enough to warrant transport. I think its more of a social event. After the traffic of La Paz long live the motor bike. They don´t need no zebras here.
*A place that looks easy to pronounce but no tourist can get it right so the Bolivians helpfully have renamed it Rurre.
La Paz
Weather: Estaba soleado
Llama Count: A disturbing amount of llama foetuses at the witches market. They are meant to bring good luck if you buy one and put it by your door. I think they probably just stop anyone from visiting your house. Maybe hermits have good luck.
Most Bolivians are kamikaze drivers. However, La Paz drivers are so keen to end their own lives, and preferably a good twenty pedestrians near them, that the government has had to intervene. There solution is innovative if a bit comical.
These are the La Paz traffic police:
The Zebra police. These zebras dance in front of the traffic to allow a brief respite for pedestrians to run across roads, as fast as their bowler hats will let them. They are surprisingly effective.
To be honest I only saw them briefly, most of today was spent in bed, happily asleep.
The English travelling community is very small in Bolivia. I walked into the dorm to be greeted by two Middlesbrough boys I met in Uyuni. They make up 50% of the total British people I have met so far out here. The hostel is in the faded grandeur of an old Viennese hotel, which is rather beautiful. However, I don´t have that much time left so I have booked a flight out to the amazon town of Rurrenbaque for tomorrow afternoon.
Saturday, 22 September 2012
Sucre Dia Cinco
Weather: Burning, boiling, expiringly hot.
Llama Count: I encounter the plastic one from a couple of days ago again. It looks even more slobbered on than last time.
Happy First Day of Spring!
Happy National Day of Students and Children!
Happy some dreadful Bolivian attempt at Valentines Day (like the English version, but with more helium balloons and teddy bears.)!
So all altruism for volunteering in a nursery is today shown in its true colours... Its basically because I wanted to go to a party. I arrive to be greeted by fifteen mini princesses dressed up to the nines, and about twenty soldiers, and a couple of children looking sulky in the rather less glitzy fancy dress. The children perform various dances, to tunes ranging from Bolivian folk music, to the wheels on the bus go round and round and round and round and round and round... it was an incredibly popular choice. Then it is time for repeated refrains of a wedding march, as four year old Lilly Anne is crowned and given a sceptre. She looks a bit like a May Queen in a first holy communion dress, with a lot of plastic glitter, and inordinate layers of blusher.
And then I try to have lunch... It is boiling and I think my immune system has entered system overload after another morning with snotty children.. I feel dreadfully sick again, I need to go to actually pay the Spanish school today so go for a long slow walk up the hill. Luckily the Spanish teacher also considers herself a doctor, and diagnoses altitude sickness brought on by heat. I am fed some tea, which has definitely been more than friends with coca. Fifteen minutes later I am no longer about to vomit all over the table, and feel well again if completely wiped out, and as with every ill symptom I seem to get out here, dreadfully homesick.
Spanish teacher says I should be fine now. I have a very slow afternoon feeling sorry for myself, missing England, and packing up to catch a bus to La Paz. I decide the latter is probably a good idea as all I want to do is sleep, and everyone in the hostel is going out partying.
It turns out to be a brilliant decision, twelve hours of wonderful sleep later I am in La Paz.
La Paz in Sanish means the peace. At least the Bolivians find irony amusing.
Llama Count: I encounter the plastic one from a couple of days ago again. It looks even more slobbered on than last time.
Happy First Day of Spring!
Happy National Day of Students and Children!
Happy some dreadful Bolivian attempt at Valentines Day (like the English version, but with more helium balloons and teddy bears.)!
So all altruism for volunteering in a nursery is today shown in its true colours... Its basically because I wanted to go to a party. I arrive to be greeted by fifteen mini princesses dressed up to the nines, and about twenty soldiers, and a couple of children looking sulky in the rather less glitzy fancy dress. The children perform various dances, to tunes ranging from Bolivian folk music, to the wheels on the bus go round and round and round and round and round and round... it was an incredibly popular choice. Then it is time for repeated refrains of a wedding march, as four year old Lilly Anne is crowned and given a sceptre. She looks a bit like a May Queen in a first holy communion dress, with a lot of plastic glitter, and inordinate layers of blusher.
And then I try to have lunch... It is boiling and I think my immune system has entered system overload after another morning with snotty children.. I feel dreadfully sick again, I need to go to actually pay the Spanish school today so go for a long slow walk up the hill. Luckily the Spanish teacher also considers herself a doctor, and diagnoses altitude sickness brought on by heat. I am fed some tea, which has definitely been more than friends with coca. Fifteen minutes later I am no longer about to vomit all over the table, and feel well again if completely wiped out, and as with every ill symptom I seem to get out here, dreadfully homesick.
Spanish teacher says I should be fine now. I have a very slow afternoon feeling sorry for myself, missing England, and packing up to catch a bus to La Paz. I decide the latter is probably a good idea as all I want to do is sleep, and everyone in the hostel is going out partying.
It turns out to be a brilliant decision, twelve hours of wonderful sleep later I am in La Paz.
La Paz in Sanish means the peace. At least the Bolivians find irony amusing.
Friday, 21 September 2012
Sucre Dia Quatro
Weather: Still no sign of the Armageddon storms here.
Llama Count: 0.
This morning I went sight seeing in Sucre. The most memorable sight is a room in the Casa de Liberdad, which displays pictures of all former Bolivian presidents. There have been an enormous amount of presidents here considering the country was founded in 1825. Apparently there have been even more ´ unofficial ´ presidents. Below each picture was the date of their reign, how they achieved this reign ( a large amount simply had dictator in this category) and their birth and death date. Judging how close the dates of their presidential terms and the date of death were, its probably fair to say being a Bolivian president has a worse prognosis than lung cancer. One particular chap had had his portrait coloured in grey, I presume to emphasise the many Bolivian badges he was wearing. Below it said he had declared himself dictator, and the following year had died. The fact the whole portrait looked a bit like a Nazi youth postcard was probably explained by the date of 1939, although even in black and white he still didn´t look particularly aryan.
Then in the afternoon more spanish classes... more homework.. more rice and meat...and sleep.
Llama Count: 0.
This morning I went sight seeing in Sucre. The most memorable sight is a room in the Casa de Liberdad, which displays pictures of all former Bolivian presidents. There have been an enormous amount of presidents here considering the country was founded in 1825. Apparently there have been even more ´ unofficial ´ presidents. Below each picture was the date of their reign, how they achieved this reign ( a large amount simply had dictator in this category) and their birth and death date. Judging how close the dates of their presidential terms and the date of death were, its probably fair to say being a Bolivian president has a worse prognosis than lung cancer. One particular chap had had his portrait coloured in grey, I presume to emphasise the many Bolivian badges he was wearing. Below it said he had declared himself dictator, and the following year had died. The fact the whole portrait looked a bit like a Nazi youth postcard was probably explained by the date of 1939, although even in black and white he still didn´t look particularly aryan.
Then in the afternoon more spanish classes... more homework.. more rice and meat...and sleep.
Sucre: Días Tres
Weather: Its still sunny here... but the forecast doesn´t look to great for the rest of the county. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/picturegalleries/worldnews/9555541/Violent-wind-storm-sweeps-across-Paraguay-and-Uruguay.html?frame=2345288
Llama Count: 0.25 There was a plastic one in the nursery.
It´s not every morning you wake up to discover a passed out Irish girl lying on the floor in dangerous proximity to your bed, clutching a water bottle as though it was her salvation, and still wearing all clothes and shoes that she left in the night before.
Good morning Sucre, time for homework on the roof terrace, and a breakfast of amazing... and at this point last night all the power shut down in the internet cafe and the whole street was plunged into darkeness.
Attempt two I had an amazing breakfast of mango, kiwi, and Dulche de Leche ( a bit of bread as well.)
Then it was time for volunteering forty snotty children between the ages of baby and 6 normally have two minders, this morning they had 4.5 (I am a wimp- I needed to go in a group, I am also an incompetent child minder and am firmly the 0.5.) It turns out Bolivian children are like miniature boxers, both in the appearance of the dog breed (snub nose, big eyes, funny legs) and the sportsmen (I am covered in bruises from one particular brute.) They are quite affectionate though, and if they could be genetically configured to scream less, vomit less, slobber less, they would make quite good pets.
So I spent a fair few hours removing chess pieces of the mouths of three year olds, and singing ring a ring a roses repeatedly, and it was actually a suprising amount of fun.
The nursery is mainly for children from the countryside who are from one parent families. According the Australian organiser there are plenty of these in Bolivia, apparently most Bolovian women consider themselves to be on the shelf if they aren´t pregnant by twenty. Added to this are the factors of a Roman Catholic education system, extremely high rates of domestic abuse, and road traffic accidents. The result is overflowing orphanages, and under funded day care centres (set up so the parents can work.)
Despite the fact the nursery is on a building site inside it is not too bad (the large exception to this is the general toilet mess and lack of running water.) The toy selection is pretty basic, and the children are really very grubby (especially the babies, the nursery has a fairly lax nappy changing policy.) They also all have rotten teeth, one girl in particular has black stumps instead of teeth. However, they are exceptionally well fed, the food is provided partly by the Spanish school I am attending and partly by a local not for profit tourist company.
Later I have another Spanish lesson... My mistake of the day went roughly along the lines of ´my potato is a farmer and my breast is an artist.´...
Apparently there is a very specific way you have to pronounce Mum and Dad.
Llama Count: 0.25 There was a plastic one in the nursery.
It´s not every morning you wake up to discover a passed out Irish girl lying on the floor in dangerous proximity to your bed, clutching a water bottle as though it was her salvation, and still wearing all clothes and shoes that she left in the night before.
Good morning Sucre, time for homework on the roof terrace, and a breakfast of amazing... and at this point last night all the power shut down in the internet cafe and the whole street was plunged into darkeness.
Attempt two I had an amazing breakfast of mango, kiwi, and Dulche de Leche ( a bit of bread as well.)
Then it was time for volunteering forty snotty children between the ages of baby and 6 normally have two minders, this morning they had 4.5 (I am a wimp- I needed to go in a group, I am also an incompetent child minder and am firmly the 0.5.) It turns out Bolivian children are like miniature boxers, both in the appearance of the dog breed (snub nose, big eyes, funny legs) and the sportsmen (I am covered in bruises from one particular brute.) They are quite affectionate though, and if they could be genetically configured to scream less, vomit less, slobber less, they would make quite good pets.
So I spent a fair few hours removing chess pieces of the mouths of three year olds, and singing ring a ring a roses repeatedly, and it was actually a suprising amount of fun.
The nursery is mainly for children from the countryside who are from one parent families. According the Australian organiser there are plenty of these in Bolivia, apparently most Bolovian women consider themselves to be on the shelf if they aren´t pregnant by twenty. Added to this are the factors of a Roman Catholic education system, extremely high rates of domestic abuse, and road traffic accidents. The result is overflowing orphanages, and under funded day care centres (set up so the parents can work.)
Despite the fact the nursery is on a building site inside it is not too bad (the large exception to this is the general toilet mess and lack of running water.) The toy selection is pretty basic, and the children are really very grubby (especially the babies, the nursery has a fairly lax nappy changing policy.) They also all have rotten teeth, one girl in particular has black stumps instead of teeth. However, they are exceptionally well fed, the food is provided partly by the Spanish school I am attending and partly by a local not for profit tourist company.
Later I have another Spanish lesson... My mistake of the day went roughly along the lines of ´my potato is a farmer and my breast is an artist.´...
Apparently there is a very specific way you have to pronounce Mum and Dad.
Wednesday, 19 September 2012
Sucre Día Dos
Weather: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dckdQHuDdcw (In addition to the wonderful lyrics the date given at the beginning of this could be today in Sucre.)
Llama Count: Again a happy 0.
As I left the hostel rather late this morning, having survived the haute cuisine of the previous evening sheeps cheese and aubergine. I was greeted by the worlds most out of tune brass band. Apparently it was the anniversary of one of the Sucre´s schools. This meant the boys got to play with brass instruments. Meanwhile the girls donned high heeled leather boots, knicker grazing mini skirts, blue and white corset tops, and with a fashion nodd towards the american majorette they were carrying (like handbags) sticks with fluffy pompoms on the end. I think the girls might have been contributing to the band´s tuning problem. Anyway they played what I presume might have been the national anthem (if you had the ears of a super duper ultra proud parent) in the main Plaza.
According to my long suffering tutor my freanish is excellent, however, today it was time to take it one step further and learn proper Spanish. The greatest excitement of the day was the appearance of worksheets. I haven´t had worksheets to complete for years, no annoying grown up eco-friendly copying out and replacing words. Instead the pure simple pleasure of filling in the gaps of widely spaced A4 heaven. Two hours later I feel wiped out, worksheet overload has hit, and with the sugar crash of a sherbet doped toddler I wander out of school in a haze. The most important thing I have learnt is that for the past three weeks I have been telling everyone I feel married as opposed to tired, a classic casada/ cansada mix up. This probably explains the mysterious reply and bemusement received from an Argentinian man whilst mountain biking down a hill in Tilcara; he wanted to know how long I had been tired for, and didn´t seem to understand the phrase five minutes.
This evening I watched a Mexican film called Sex Shame and Tears. Imagine large amounts of frenetic Spanish shouting and all of the above three elements, and you will have probably have saved yourself three hours of pain and will never have to watch the film.
One final note despite all of the above... I love Sucre.
Volunteering begins tomorrow.
Llama Count: Again a happy 0.
As I left the hostel rather late this morning, having survived the haute cuisine of the previous evening sheeps cheese and aubergine. I was greeted by the worlds most out of tune brass band. Apparently it was the anniversary of one of the Sucre´s schools. This meant the boys got to play with brass instruments. Meanwhile the girls donned high heeled leather boots, knicker grazing mini skirts, blue and white corset tops, and with a fashion nodd towards the american majorette they were carrying (like handbags) sticks with fluffy pompoms on the end. I think the girls might have been contributing to the band´s tuning problem. Anyway they played what I presume might have been the national anthem (if you had the ears of a super duper ultra proud parent) in the main Plaza.
According to my long suffering tutor my freanish is excellent, however, today it was time to take it one step further and learn proper Spanish. The greatest excitement of the day was the appearance of worksheets. I haven´t had worksheets to complete for years, no annoying grown up eco-friendly copying out and replacing words. Instead the pure simple pleasure of filling in the gaps of widely spaced A4 heaven. Two hours later I feel wiped out, worksheet overload has hit, and with the sugar crash of a sherbet doped toddler I wander out of school in a haze. The most important thing I have learnt is that for the past three weeks I have been telling everyone I feel married as opposed to tired, a classic casada/ cansada mix up. This probably explains the mysterious reply and bemusement received from an Argentinian man whilst mountain biking down a hill in Tilcara; he wanted to know how long I had been tired for, and didn´t seem to understand the phrase five minutes.
This evening I watched a Mexican film called Sex Shame and Tears. Imagine large amounts of frenetic Spanish shouting and all of the above three elements, and you will have probably have saved yourself three hours of pain and will never have to watch the film.
One final note despite all of the above... I love Sucre.
Volunteering begins tomorrow.
Sucre Día uno
Weather (and general sentiment towards life): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjPqsDU0j2I
Llama Count: A happy 0.
Sucre is a city for pottering around. It is too hot to move very fast, and the glare off the white washed buildings means the city probably has the highest proportion of fake Ray Ban glasses sales per capita. If you stand on one of the many roof terraces you could think for a second you were in Andalucia in Spain then you descend to the street, and Bolivian life is suddenly summed up by the amount of business the wizened old lady sitting on the corner is getting selling super glue.
She is obviously a true believer in the religion of super glue, this is one of the cults that happily exists alongside the ubiquitous Roman Catholicism in Bolivia. Her bowler hat is mended in three places with the precious substance. Her buttons are covered in a liberal amount, as are her shoes... and really there is only one way of keeping the gold teeth from falling out. People watching gets particularly interesting when the cult of super glue collides with Roman Catholicism, it is after all the main ingredient in the plastic figurines of saints, and stiff rosary beads that some other enterprising women sell. The cult collision reached its apotheosis this morning as one of the bowler hatted women tried to extract a rosary from the hair of plastic saint, without realising she had managed to stick a "Virgen de Guadalupe" to the end of one of her plaits.
Sucre actually has four names, one of which is La Plata (the silver) . Considering the amount of mining that is going on in this area, and the oil reserves in the Amazon regions, it is astonishing how poor the country is. Although the centre of the city is beautiful, the actual city is surrounded by slums. Politics and wealth distribution are extremely complex here. Everyone seems to have a different idea about what is actually going on. The best explanation of the country I have heard came from the German owner of the hostel I am staying in. He pointed out there are eight people employed by the Bolivian mayors office to round up the stray dogs, which are responsible for the deaths of two or three Sucre children a year from rabies. Last year the grand total the group caught was four. Considering there are almost more dogs than bowler hats in this place this is almost an Italian effort at productivity. In fact I think more than ten dogs in the past twenty four hours have stopped me in my path to beg for food.
I spent most of today searching for things to occupy me for the next four days. Have managed to find a not for profit Spanish school that will teach me Spanish in the afternoons, and in the mornings I am going to volunteer at one of the nursery projects they sponsor.
Today has been a very slow day on reflection. The biggest adventure was going to the market. The second biggest adventure was summoning the courage to eat the combination of ingredients I bought from the market. I seem to be becoming dreadfully sentimental, which means I buy whatever the woman who most evidently belongs to the cult of super glue is selling. (I am not offensively sexist there is only one male run market stall I have seen, for some reason he is selling make up.) Ányway this evenings hard task was trying to find a meal that included aubergine, cheese (which on closer inspection was definitely sheeps cheese) one kiwi, brioche, and strawberry yoghurt.
Llama Count: A happy 0.
Sucre is a city for pottering around. It is too hot to move very fast, and the glare off the white washed buildings means the city probably has the highest proportion of fake Ray Ban glasses sales per capita. If you stand on one of the many roof terraces you could think for a second you were in Andalucia in Spain then you descend to the street, and Bolivian life is suddenly summed up by the amount of business the wizened old lady sitting on the corner is getting selling super glue.
She is obviously a true believer in the religion of super glue, this is one of the cults that happily exists alongside the ubiquitous Roman Catholicism in Bolivia. Her bowler hat is mended in three places with the precious substance. Her buttons are covered in a liberal amount, as are her shoes... and really there is only one way of keeping the gold teeth from falling out. People watching gets particularly interesting when the cult of super glue collides with Roman Catholicism, it is after all the main ingredient in the plastic figurines of saints, and stiff rosary beads that some other enterprising women sell. The cult collision reached its apotheosis this morning as one of the bowler hatted women tried to extract a rosary from the hair of plastic saint, without realising she had managed to stick a "Virgen de Guadalupe" to the end of one of her plaits.
Sucre actually has four names, one of which is La Plata (the silver) . Considering the amount of mining that is going on in this area, and the oil reserves in the Amazon regions, it is astonishing how poor the country is. Although the centre of the city is beautiful, the actual city is surrounded by slums. Politics and wealth distribution are extremely complex here. Everyone seems to have a different idea about what is actually going on. The best explanation of the country I have heard came from the German owner of the hostel I am staying in. He pointed out there are eight people employed by the Bolivian mayors office to round up the stray dogs, which are responsible for the deaths of two or three Sucre children a year from rabies. Last year the grand total the group caught was four. Considering there are almost more dogs than bowler hats in this place this is almost an Italian effort at productivity. In fact I think more than ten dogs in the past twenty four hours have stopped me in my path to beg for food.
I spent most of today searching for things to occupy me for the next four days. Have managed to find a not for profit Spanish school that will teach me Spanish in the afternoons, and in the mornings I am going to volunteer at one of the nursery projects they sponsor.
Today has been a very slow day on reflection. The biggest adventure was going to the market. The second biggest adventure was summoning the courage to eat the combination of ingredients I bought from the market. I seem to be becoming dreadfully sentimental, which means I buy whatever the woman who most evidently belongs to the cult of super glue is selling. (I am not offensively sexist there is only one male run market stall I have seen, for some reason he is selling make up.) Ányway this evenings hard task was trying to find a meal that included aubergine, cheese (which on closer inspection was definitely sheeps cheese) one kiwi, brioche, and strawberry yoghurt.
Tuesday, 18 September 2012
Travel Sickness
Weather: Thunder and Lightening when the bus went through Potosi, the historic mining city that worships the devil.
Llamas: The four year old girl on the bus next to me was a big Llama fan. She screamed very loudly every time she saw one, this was normally a good thing, as it meant she wasn´t trying to stick her lollipop in my face for these few brief moments.
So after being sick for a night in a freezing freezing town I decided to leave. I figured this would probably not be very dangerous if I didn´t eat anything and just got on bus. Not sure if I was still ill, or just travel sick, but ten hours of extreme travel sickness later I finally reached Sucre. I spent most of the journey between a very vomity baby and a very loud four year old. To be honest, don´t remember much more.
Anyway about two hours away from Sucre, I suddenly felt better, and very hungry... Got to Sucre had an amazingly large supper, and went to sleep. Have found a hostel run by a German, who is very very keen on cleanliness. This is heaven after all the other hostels.
I realise the Spanish are very original with their colonial names... Salta, Sucre, sadly there is not a city in the area called Pepper, but there is a country called Chile.
Llamas: The four year old girl on the bus next to me was a big Llama fan. She screamed very loudly every time she saw one, this was normally a good thing, as it meant she wasn´t trying to stick her lollipop in my face for these few brief moments.
So after being sick for a night in a freezing freezing town I decided to leave. I figured this would probably not be very dangerous if I didn´t eat anything and just got on bus. Not sure if I was still ill, or just travel sick, but ten hours of extreme travel sickness later I finally reached Sucre. I spent most of the journey between a very vomity baby and a very loud four year old. To be honest, don´t remember much more.
Anyway about two hours away from Sucre, I suddenly felt better, and very hungry... Got to Sucre had an amazingly large supper, and went to sleep. Have found a hostel run by a German, who is very very keen on cleanliness. This is heaven after all the other hostels.
I realise the Spanish are very original with their colonial names... Salta, Sucre, sadly there is not a city in the area called Pepper, but there is a country called Chile.
Day 4 South-West Bolivia Homeward Bound- The Incredible Journey
Weather: This getting a bit repetitive freezing hot freeezing...
Llama Metrix: 0, but saw a small boy taking his pig for a walk on the edge of Uyumi.
The French are not particularly good with time. Olivier makes us all get up a whole 45 minutes too early, this means more of the freezing Bolivian desert morning. We spent the time watching the Toyota being resusitated by Freddy, who was trying everything ... It wouldn´t have suprised me if he had suddenly given it mouth to mouth.
Finally it started in a plume of black smoke. Janet appeared with the kitchen utensils, and we headed off onto the salt flats. It was still dark, the stars were still out- no surprises really at 5.30 in the morning. We stopped to watch the sunrise. This was spectacular, as a red sphere appeared over the horizon it became apparent that as far as you could see was glittering white.
Breakfast took place on a Cactus island. The Cactuses here were up to nine metres tall. The island had made its name for having Bolivia´s tallest Cactus a giant of 12 metres... Unfortunately this had died in mysterious circumstances in 2007, and half of its remains could could be seen on one side of the island. What happened to the other half is a Bolivian mystery, but there was plenty of nice wooden Cactus signs around the place.
After breakfast we were told to walk into the sun by Janet, whilst Freddy got the car started. The French found more French, and we headed off into the great nothingness of white, under a bright blue sky.
An hour later Freddy and Toyota arrived.
The rest of the day was spent taking funny photos on the salt flats, which makes a good canvas for perspective games. Turns out one of the new French contingent was a professional photographer. My camera in the face of such pressure to perform immediately broke. (It hasn´t recovered since, and now is in the hands of a Korean in Sucre who is trying to revive it.)
After this it was time to head back to civilisation. First mobile signal for four days!
I was dropped off in Uyumi, and the French headed back to Tupiza.
Uyumi is the rectum of the arse end of nowhere. It was never meant to be a town, and is really a group of shacks for the workers on the railway. It is also according to Lonely Planet, the oracle of all things, climatically challenged, with an annual average nigh time temperature of minus twenty five centigrade.
Not the greatest place in the world really to start to feel ill. But two hours after a sad farewell to the french, I was feeling very peculiar. I decided to find a hostal and stay in Uyumi.
Llama Metrix: 0, but saw a small boy taking his pig for a walk on the edge of Uyumi.
The French are not particularly good with time. Olivier makes us all get up a whole 45 minutes too early, this means more of the freezing Bolivian desert morning. We spent the time watching the Toyota being resusitated by Freddy, who was trying everything ... It wouldn´t have suprised me if he had suddenly given it mouth to mouth.
Finally it started in a plume of black smoke. Janet appeared with the kitchen utensils, and we headed off onto the salt flats. It was still dark, the stars were still out- no surprises really at 5.30 in the morning. We stopped to watch the sunrise. This was spectacular, as a red sphere appeared over the horizon it became apparent that as far as you could see was glittering white.
Breakfast took place on a Cactus island. The Cactuses here were up to nine metres tall. The island had made its name for having Bolivia´s tallest Cactus a giant of 12 metres... Unfortunately this had died in mysterious circumstances in 2007, and half of its remains could could be seen on one side of the island. What happened to the other half is a Bolivian mystery, but there was plenty of nice wooden Cactus signs around the place.
After breakfast we were told to walk into the sun by Janet, whilst Freddy got the car started. The French found more French, and we headed off into the great nothingness of white, under a bright blue sky.
An hour later Freddy and Toyota arrived.
The rest of the day was spent taking funny photos on the salt flats, which makes a good canvas for perspective games. Turns out one of the new French contingent was a professional photographer. My camera in the face of such pressure to perform immediately broke. (It hasn´t recovered since, and now is in the hands of a Korean in Sucre who is trying to revive it.)
After this it was time to head back to civilisation. First mobile signal for four days!
I was dropped off in Uyumi, and the French headed back to Tupiza.
Uyumi is the rectum of the arse end of nowhere. It was never meant to be a town, and is really a group of shacks for the workers on the railway. It is also according to Lonely Planet, the oracle of all things, climatically challenged, with an annual average nigh time temperature of minus twenty five centigrade.
Not the greatest place in the world really to start to feel ill. But two hours after a sad farewell to the french, I was feeling very peculiar. I decided to find a hostal and stay in Uyumi.
Monday, 17 September 2012
Day 3 South-West Bolivia More Volcanoes and Lakes
Weather: Whole experience eloquently summed up by this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSAJ0l4OBHM.... Ironically the only horse I have met so far was called Rock, possibly more appropriate than a horse with no name.
Llama count: Not so many, but we could have done with some to pull the Toyota, that seems to be still suffering from altitude sickness despite Freddy mending the radiator ´Con plastico y Superglue´, which I think translates from Bolivian Spanish to Cambridgeshire English as bailer twine.
We were the only tour group which helped their guides wash up, and insisted that Freddy and Janet joined us for dinner. This was spectacular diplomacy, and means that every guide in south west Bolivia is looking out for us, and many have offered to drive in convoy with Freddy in case of another break down. Luckily there is to be no more official breakdowns. However, the Toyota will only start when pushed.
First push of Toyota...
Lake Number 1... Red Lake
The sun rises over a lake which is naturally red. This partially explains why the flamingoes here are so pink, they are all a Barbie shade, none of this English rose nonsense you find in Whipsnade, or the Isle of Wight Flamingo world for that matter. Interestingly I have also lost all English rose complexion, and am also Barbie pink. I think this might be sunburn though, don´t think I can blame the lake.
Second push of Toyota...
Lake number 2... White Lake
More Flamingoes.
Third push of Toyota...
Desert with amazing lava formations, only a spitting distance away from Chile. They have lava that looks like trees, and enormous odd formations to climb. I climb to the top, and then get vertigo, and go down with shaky jelly legs, very slowly.
Fourth push of Toyota...
Another lake that looks like the Alps, with the snowcapped mountains in the distance
Fifth push of Toyota...
A hotel next to a lake with almost domesticated flamingoes.
Sixth push of Toyota... this time it took 100 yards to start, it really did not appreciate the dust in this corner of the desert.
Lunch with Andean rabbits, which look like a cross between rabbits and squirrels, weird things. The French feed them salad, and Freddy gets out his sling shot to get rid of them (the rabbits not the French). He is a surprisingly bad shot, or maybe its so he doesn´t offend anyone. Anyway Tally would have killed them in one go.
Seventh push of the Toyota...
I get to see a smoking volcano, the French and I are certain the Toyota will definitely not start this time.
It does!
We stop in a tiny town to see a market, and a 1970s museum about the local pre-Inca tribes. They had an interesting habit of burying their dead in the foetal position, and mummifying them in coral. Consequently curious tourists can wonder round a cemetery peering into holes in the coral and seeing dead bodies. I think the bones might be plastic they look too clean, and there are no fracture marks on the skulls... Very Bolivian tourism.
The Toyota is pushed for the ninth time..
And we reach a hotel completely made of Salt. Everything here is Salt including the beds which looks a bit chilly. It is on the edge of the world´s largest salt flat that from the windows is only a thin white line below a blue horizon (it reminds me of Holkham beach, in fact there are many aspects of Bolivia that remind me a bit of Norfolk.)
I play catch the stone with a local 5 year old girl, which basically leads to a one sided game of gentle catch, and another sided game of throw the stone as hard as you can at the stupid English tourist, and suck it before hand just to show her you don´t care.
Everyone goes to bed early, the French want to party, but we are in a different hotel to all the other youngsters. There are only elderly Brazilians here.
Everyone is in bed by nine.
No one expects the beloved Toyota to start in the morning (including Freddy).
Llama count: Not so many, but we could have done with some to pull the Toyota, that seems to be still suffering from altitude sickness despite Freddy mending the radiator ´Con plastico y Superglue´, which I think translates from Bolivian Spanish to Cambridgeshire English as bailer twine.
We were the only tour group which helped their guides wash up, and insisted that Freddy and Janet joined us for dinner. This was spectacular diplomacy, and means that every guide in south west Bolivia is looking out for us, and many have offered to drive in convoy with Freddy in case of another break down. Luckily there is to be no more official breakdowns. However, the Toyota will only start when pushed.
First push of Toyota...
Lake Number 1... Red Lake
The sun rises over a lake which is naturally red. This partially explains why the flamingoes here are so pink, they are all a Barbie shade, none of this English rose nonsense you find in Whipsnade, or the Isle of Wight Flamingo world for that matter. Interestingly I have also lost all English rose complexion, and am also Barbie pink. I think this might be sunburn though, don´t think I can blame the lake.
Second push of Toyota...
Lake number 2... White Lake
More Flamingoes.
Third push of Toyota...
Desert with amazing lava formations, only a spitting distance away from Chile. They have lava that looks like trees, and enormous odd formations to climb. I climb to the top, and then get vertigo, and go down with shaky jelly legs, very slowly.
Fourth push of Toyota...
Another lake that looks like the Alps, with the snowcapped mountains in the distance
Fifth push of Toyota...
A hotel next to a lake with almost domesticated flamingoes.
Sixth push of Toyota... this time it took 100 yards to start, it really did not appreciate the dust in this corner of the desert.
Lunch with Andean rabbits, which look like a cross between rabbits and squirrels, weird things. The French feed them salad, and Freddy gets out his sling shot to get rid of them (the rabbits not the French). He is a surprisingly bad shot, or maybe its so he doesn´t offend anyone. Anyway Tally would have killed them in one go.
Seventh push of the Toyota...
I get to see a smoking volcano, the French and I are certain the Toyota will definitely not start this time.
It does!
We stop in a tiny town to see a market, and a 1970s museum about the local pre-Inca tribes. They had an interesting habit of burying their dead in the foetal position, and mummifying them in coral. Consequently curious tourists can wonder round a cemetery peering into holes in the coral and seeing dead bodies. I think the bones might be plastic they look too clean, and there are no fracture marks on the skulls... Very Bolivian tourism.
The Toyota is pushed for the ninth time..
And we reach a hotel completely made of Salt. Everything here is Salt including the beds which looks a bit chilly. It is on the edge of the world´s largest salt flat that from the windows is only a thin white line below a blue horizon (it reminds me of Holkham beach, in fact there are many aspects of Bolivia that remind me a bit of Norfolk.)
I play catch the stone with a local 5 year old girl, which basically leads to a one sided game of gentle catch, and another sided game of throw the stone as hard as you can at the stupid English tourist, and suck it before hand just to show her you don´t care.
Everyone goes to bed early, the French want to party, but we are in a different hotel to all the other youngsters. There are only elderly Brazilians here.
Everyone is in bed by nine.
No one expects the beloved Toyota to start in the morning (including Freddy).
Day 2 South-west Bolivia, into the wild
Weather: Freezing Boiling Freezing
Llama count: Replaced by flamingo metric temporarily, in honour of the pink coats Janet and I own. Flamingo count: 5672.
Janet woke us at 5, and we had breakfast in the dark. Early morning made better by mate tea, Dulche De Leche, and bread biscuits. We head off into the sunrise, which illuminates the snow capped mountains with a beautiful red glow. It looks deceptively warm, its bloody freezing. I remind myself if I was in the UK I would probably be beagling in Northumberland, suddenly Northumberland feels likes the tropics compared to this place.
Stop number 1 is the ´ville de phantom´. (I had better add at this point Janet had given up with the English, and we were mainly operating in French.) The ghost town was eerie. It was deserted, but better built than any place I had seen in this part of Bolivia so far. The original architects were the Incas, and elegant archways, and complex building systems could still be seen in the ruins. The problems for the town started when the Spanish arrived, it was one of the first places in Bolivia to be colonised. Yet, the Spanish had trouble convincing anyone to move here... they had obviously heard about the morning temperature. Instead of civilians the Spanish filled the place with former prisoners, who all came with various forms of sickness. Consequently the local population were ravaged by disease, and depleted. Many fled, but a few of the older generation remained, and the town was still partially inhabited.
The Spanish brought with them Roman Catholicism, which blended rather well with the local religion. In the middle of the town was an impressive church which we climbed to the top of. (Definitely would have not been approved of by the health and safety executive.) It was here where things went from bad to worse for the town. In the middle of mass one Sunday, the local priest went mad. This was the final straw for most of the inhabitants, who feared the town was occupied by the devil. Most fled, and only a few remained to pull down the roof of the church, and build another next door. The little chapel, which was white washed to purify it is now also in ruins, as the old died and the young moved away. Today none of the locals will go to the town at night, and those that have report that red lights and singing float across the thin air from the church...
So after a rather macabre start to the day we head into the national park. This is the land of volcanoes and lagoons. It is spectacular, flamingoes everywhere, and more llamas. We stop for lunch at some hot springs, which look out over an aqua marine lake, which is dotted with pink flamingoes, and yellow mountains rise in the distance.
Next stop is the Desert of Dali, named in honour of Salvador Dali. He never visited the place, but in a rather too perfect example of nature imitating art it could easily have been one of his paintings. Then I think we went to the green lagoon, which was a poisonously colourful combination of arsenic and copper. I say I think, as somewhere at this point we went above 4800 metres, and I reverted to fen routes, and got altitude sickness. This basically meant nausea, a throbbing head ache, and a desperate need to sleep. Luckily I was travelling with a French doctor, who gave me strong painkillers, and some odd looking Bolivian pills, which were basically caffeine, aspirin, and coca. I was soon bouncing along again.
We drove back through the Dali desert. It was about in the middle of this arid place, with not another living thing in sight, let alone a human, that the radiator on the Toyota broke. It did so with an impressive amount of smoke and clattering. I think this might have had something to do with Freddy´s love of speed. I don´t think Janet´s folk music was to blame, no matter how loud she played it.
The day then turned into a survival game Bear Grylls would be proud of. Every ten minutes the Toyota broke down, every ten minutes we filled the radiator with water, and push started it. The French had had enough of the folk music by this point and produced an ipod. So everything was done to the soundtrack of Queen´s Under pressure, and Gloria Gaynors I Will Survive. We spent a very long afternoon deciding we were going to eat Janet first (she like all Bolivian women had plenty of meat on her.) Finally with the moon rising we made it to the accommodation...having used thirty bottles of water on the radiator... and with only one bottle of water left.
This time we were in purpose built tourist accommodation, which was freezing despite a cactus fuelled fire in the middle of the eating room, but anything was better than sleeping in the Toyota in the desert. We played cards and went to bed... for more odd altitude fuelled dreams.
Llama count: Replaced by flamingo metric temporarily, in honour of the pink coats Janet and I own. Flamingo count: 5672.
Janet woke us at 5, and we had breakfast in the dark. Early morning made better by mate tea, Dulche De Leche, and bread biscuits. We head off into the sunrise, which illuminates the snow capped mountains with a beautiful red glow. It looks deceptively warm, its bloody freezing. I remind myself if I was in the UK I would probably be beagling in Northumberland, suddenly Northumberland feels likes the tropics compared to this place.
Stop number 1 is the ´ville de phantom´. (I had better add at this point Janet had given up with the English, and we were mainly operating in French.) The ghost town was eerie. It was deserted, but better built than any place I had seen in this part of Bolivia so far. The original architects were the Incas, and elegant archways, and complex building systems could still be seen in the ruins. The problems for the town started when the Spanish arrived, it was one of the first places in Bolivia to be colonised. Yet, the Spanish had trouble convincing anyone to move here... they had obviously heard about the morning temperature. Instead of civilians the Spanish filled the place with former prisoners, who all came with various forms of sickness. Consequently the local population were ravaged by disease, and depleted. Many fled, but a few of the older generation remained, and the town was still partially inhabited.
The Spanish brought with them Roman Catholicism, which blended rather well with the local religion. In the middle of the town was an impressive church which we climbed to the top of. (Definitely would have not been approved of by the health and safety executive.) It was here where things went from bad to worse for the town. In the middle of mass one Sunday, the local priest went mad. This was the final straw for most of the inhabitants, who feared the town was occupied by the devil. Most fled, and only a few remained to pull down the roof of the church, and build another next door. The little chapel, which was white washed to purify it is now also in ruins, as the old died and the young moved away. Today none of the locals will go to the town at night, and those that have report that red lights and singing float across the thin air from the church...
So after a rather macabre start to the day we head into the national park. This is the land of volcanoes and lagoons. It is spectacular, flamingoes everywhere, and more llamas. We stop for lunch at some hot springs, which look out over an aqua marine lake, which is dotted with pink flamingoes, and yellow mountains rise in the distance.
Next stop is the Desert of Dali, named in honour of Salvador Dali. He never visited the place, but in a rather too perfect example of nature imitating art it could easily have been one of his paintings. Then I think we went to the green lagoon, which was a poisonously colourful combination of arsenic and copper. I say I think, as somewhere at this point we went above 4800 metres, and I reverted to fen routes, and got altitude sickness. This basically meant nausea, a throbbing head ache, and a desperate need to sleep. Luckily I was travelling with a French doctor, who gave me strong painkillers, and some odd looking Bolivian pills, which were basically caffeine, aspirin, and coca. I was soon bouncing along again.
We drove back through the Dali desert. It was about in the middle of this arid place, with not another living thing in sight, let alone a human, that the radiator on the Toyota broke. It did so with an impressive amount of smoke and clattering. I think this might have had something to do with Freddy´s love of speed. I don´t think Janet´s folk music was to blame, no matter how loud she played it.
The day then turned into a survival game Bear Grylls would be proud of. Every ten minutes the Toyota broke down, every ten minutes we filled the radiator with water, and push started it. The French had had enough of the folk music by this point and produced an ipod. So everything was done to the soundtrack of Queen´s Under pressure, and Gloria Gaynors I Will Survive. We spent a very long afternoon deciding we were going to eat Janet first (she like all Bolivian women had plenty of meat on her.) Finally with the moon rising we made it to the accommodation...having used thirty bottles of water on the radiator... and with only one bottle of water left.
This time we were in purpose built tourist accommodation, which was freezing despite a cactus fuelled fire in the middle of the eating room, but anything was better than sleeping in the Toyota in the desert. We played cards and went to bed... for more odd altitude fuelled dreams.
Day 1 South-west Bolivia, Goodbye Civilisation
This happened a while ago now, but seeing as my paper diary is about as long as Bolivia´s coastline I think I had better write up my adventures here.
Weather: Boiling day, freezing night.
Llama Glama Count: Double points for Llamas with pompoms in their ears.. So must have seen at least 2 million today. Quite a few donkeys as well. Have decided Vicugna are much cuter than Llamas, new aim in life is to domesticate a Vicugna, and teach it to show jump, I think it would be popular on youtube.
The sun rises on another scorching day in Tupiza, and the truck, which will be home for the next four days arrives. It is strange, exactly this time last year I was in Northumberland beagling, and watched (repeatedly) a VHS Tom Smith found about the Camel Trophy (anyone who has missed this wonderful TV show there is more info here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camel_Trophy). This year I am standing next to an aged Toyota about to head on an overland challenge and all the French are smoking camel cigarettes.
It is expedition time, and huge quantities of water and fuel are strapped precariously to the roof. Our bags our flung on top and strapped down using some very frayed rope. The French finish their cigarettes... and we are off.
The guide is called Janet, she has almost the same pink coat as me, but lacks the pink socks to match. Janet speaks French (fortunately slowly) and English, she is twenty eight. The driver is called Freddy, Janet says he was the first driver for the tour company, Freddy only speaks Spanish, but understands everything. It soon becomes apparent that Freddy likes going very fast across the barely visible dirt tracks, and that Janet loves loud Bolivian folk music.
The Bolivian countryside becomes more dramatic as we drive up into the mountains. Sheer drops, cliffs, and canyons full of pointy red rocks. If all the Llamas I have seen today were like Carl from Llamas with hats, there would be no population left on earth. (For all who have not seen my Dad´s favourite youtube video educate yourselves here, and enrich your life with exceptionally odd humour http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-vsynsE8RQ ).
We have lunch in an abandoned mining village. The mountains are full of gold, silver, and iron ore, which means the only other traffic on the road apart from us is enormous trucks. (Not much fun to meet on a blind corner and cliff edge, luckily like all south american drivers Freddy really likes using his horn.) Lunch is amazing... turns out Janet is a very good chef (by Bolivian standards). One of the French Marions is training to be a chef in France, she does not seem to appreciate the food quite so much...
Onwards and upwards we travel into the mountains. We stop for a few minutes in a village called San Paulo, it reminds me of a town in northern argentina, where someone had scribbled below the town sign ´twinned with Siberia.´ The streets are lined with mud shacks, and completely deserted, it soon becomes apparent the whole town are watching a football match on the other side of the river. By the distant cheers it seems to be going well. Even the military barracks are deserted. Bolivian barracks are appear to be mock medieval sand castles... but involve more broken glass on the top of mud walls. They are utterly deserted, and we take a few pictures, however decide its best to move on fast when a man with a gun strapped round his shoulders leaves the football match and starts to run towards us.
We leave quickly, and after more bumpy roads, a bit of rock climbing and more llamas we reach the accommodation for the night. San Antonio is a tiny Andean village, where we only have electricity for three hours, there are no showers, and mattresses instead of glass in the windows. Our group is enlarged by a few aged Australians, we decide to climb the mountain behind to watch the sunset. The Aussies make it half way up, and the French smokers, three quarters of the way. My smoke free lungs make it to the top. However, I arrogantly run a few paces. Big mistake, pounding headache ensues, I quickly take a picture and descend to the French party.
The evening entertainment consists of folk songs from enterprising village children. The Von Trapp family have nothing on this lot, they have even got a complicated dance routine, and pan pipes. The lack of electricity is not a problem, as the stars are fantastic. More than I have ever seen, you can almost make out the galaxies.
Turns out to be surprisingly warm under the thousands of blankets the villagers have supplied. One of the effects of altitude turns out to be peculiar dreams, although I am not sure if this is the thin air or the medicine Bolivians use to cope with it. We weak Europeans were all advised to chew coca leaves, and drink coca tea on the trip... which if you process correctly becomes cocaine. (Had better add before I receive worried emails from parents...the leaves are perfectly legal and normal here, and I will remember to remove them from my bag before I go through customs on the way home.)
Weather: Boiling day, freezing night.
Llama Glama Count: Double points for Llamas with pompoms in their ears.. So must have seen at least 2 million today. Quite a few donkeys as well. Have decided Vicugna are much cuter than Llamas, new aim in life is to domesticate a Vicugna, and teach it to show jump, I think it would be popular on youtube.
The sun rises on another scorching day in Tupiza, and the truck, which will be home for the next four days arrives. It is strange, exactly this time last year I was in Northumberland beagling, and watched (repeatedly) a VHS Tom Smith found about the Camel Trophy (anyone who has missed this wonderful TV show there is more info here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camel_Trophy). This year I am standing next to an aged Toyota about to head on an overland challenge and all the French are smoking camel cigarettes.
It is expedition time, and huge quantities of water and fuel are strapped precariously to the roof. Our bags our flung on top and strapped down using some very frayed rope. The French finish their cigarettes... and we are off.
The guide is called Janet, she has almost the same pink coat as me, but lacks the pink socks to match. Janet speaks French (fortunately slowly) and English, she is twenty eight. The driver is called Freddy, Janet says he was the first driver for the tour company, Freddy only speaks Spanish, but understands everything. It soon becomes apparent that Freddy likes going very fast across the barely visible dirt tracks, and that Janet loves loud Bolivian folk music.
The Bolivian countryside becomes more dramatic as we drive up into the mountains. Sheer drops, cliffs, and canyons full of pointy red rocks. If all the Llamas I have seen today were like Carl from Llamas with hats, there would be no population left on earth. (For all who have not seen my Dad´s favourite youtube video educate yourselves here, and enrich your life with exceptionally odd humour http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-vsynsE8RQ ).
We have lunch in an abandoned mining village. The mountains are full of gold, silver, and iron ore, which means the only other traffic on the road apart from us is enormous trucks. (Not much fun to meet on a blind corner and cliff edge, luckily like all south american drivers Freddy really likes using his horn.) Lunch is amazing... turns out Janet is a very good chef (by Bolivian standards). One of the French Marions is training to be a chef in France, she does not seem to appreciate the food quite so much...
Onwards and upwards we travel into the mountains. We stop for a few minutes in a village called San Paulo, it reminds me of a town in northern argentina, where someone had scribbled below the town sign ´twinned with Siberia.´ The streets are lined with mud shacks, and completely deserted, it soon becomes apparent the whole town are watching a football match on the other side of the river. By the distant cheers it seems to be going well. Even the military barracks are deserted. Bolivian barracks are appear to be mock medieval sand castles... but involve more broken glass on the top of mud walls. They are utterly deserted, and we take a few pictures, however decide its best to move on fast when a man with a gun strapped round his shoulders leaves the football match and starts to run towards us.
We leave quickly, and after more bumpy roads, a bit of rock climbing and more llamas we reach the accommodation for the night. San Antonio is a tiny Andean village, where we only have electricity for three hours, there are no showers, and mattresses instead of glass in the windows. Our group is enlarged by a few aged Australians, we decide to climb the mountain behind to watch the sunset. The Aussies make it half way up, and the French smokers, three quarters of the way. My smoke free lungs make it to the top. However, I arrogantly run a few paces. Big mistake, pounding headache ensues, I quickly take a picture and descend to the French party.
The evening entertainment consists of folk songs from enterprising village children. The Von Trapp family have nothing on this lot, they have even got a complicated dance routine, and pan pipes. The lack of electricity is not a problem, as the stars are fantastic. More than I have ever seen, you can almost make out the galaxies.
Turns out to be surprisingly warm under the thousands of blankets the villagers have supplied. One of the effects of altitude turns out to be peculiar dreams, although I am not sure if this is the thin air or the medicine Bolivians use to cope with it. We weak Europeans were all advised to chew coca leaves, and drink coca tea on the trip... which if you process correctly becomes cocaine. (Had better add before I receive worried emails from parents...the leaves are perfectly legal and normal here, and I will remember to remove them from my bag before I go through customs on the way home.)
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
Tupiza
Weather: Quote from Aussies staying at hotel "crikey mate this is real sun burn weather"
Llama count: 0 but goat count 5.
Today I went horse riding in the real wild west, with the french. We were all given stetsons to wear, which turned out to be essential as it was hot enough to fry an english breakfast on the rocks. I was the only one who had ridden before, and was handed a horse called Rock, which the guide mimed boxing for when I couldn´t initially understand his name. This and the spanish phrase be careful he (then something I didn´t understand) that the women owner shouted as I left was pretty ominous. I decided at first it was probably a warning that he didn´t like traffic, as he skittled backwards at every passing truck. However, it wasn´t until the way home that he put in his real party trick, a nasty double barrelled and twisting buck. If I was riding with an English saddle I would have been on the floor, luckily western ones are harder to fall out of. The guide decided at this moment it was time to swap with me, and I got to ride a Bolivian race horse home.
I spent the rest of the day asleep, or swimming as the temperature rocketed.
Today I am off into deepest darkest Bolivia for four days. Not sure there will be any internet so please expect radio silence for a few days.
Hope you are all having fun in sunny England.
Llama count: 0 but goat count 5.
Today I went horse riding in the real wild west, with the french. We were all given stetsons to wear, which turned out to be essential as it was hot enough to fry an english breakfast on the rocks. I was the only one who had ridden before, and was handed a horse called Rock, which the guide mimed boxing for when I couldn´t initially understand his name. This and the spanish phrase be careful he (then something I didn´t understand) that the women owner shouted as I left was pretty ominous. I decided at first it was probably a warning that he didn´t like traffic, as he skittled backwards at every passing truck. However, it wasn´t until the way home that he put in his real party trick, a nasty double barrelled and twisting buck. If I was riding with an English saddle I would have been on the floor, luckily western ones are harder to fall out of. The guide decided at this moment it was time to swap with me, and I got to ride a Bolivian race horse home.
I spent the rest of the day asleep, or swimming as the temperature rocketed.
Today I am off into deepest darkest Bolivia for four days. Not sure there will be any internet so please expect radio silence for a few days.
Hope you are all having fun in sunny England.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Argentina: The Great Escape
Weather: I guarantee you it is sunnier and hotter than London. I don´t believe these rumours of a heat wave in England. It is at least 32 here, and there is not a cloud in the sky.
Llama count: Too many, I lost count, at a guess a million.
Standing at the migration office for Bolivia I realise that I recognise the group standing next to me. You could spot these three anywhere they garble french loudly, only taking a breath to have another drag on a cigarette (which at almost 4000 metres above sea level shows a certain gallic level of bravado.) One of the girls turns to me, smiles in recognition that we have met before, and then her jaw drops.
"What happen to your face?" She demands in a strong french accent.
I don´t blame her slightly blunt greeting, last night a group of over friendly bed bugs (I presume) had taken it upon themselves to bite my face 14 times, my neck 12 times, my arms 7 times, and one particularly cheeky one got my shoulder. On the plus side it gave me something to do on the bus ride between Tilcara and La Quiaca, counting spots is a highly underappreciated hobby. On the minus side I appear to be allergic to the little beggars, and my face is not only spotty, but swolen to such odd proportions that I look like a slightly sun burnt elephant woman.
The french group are suitably sympathetic. We wonder together into Bolivia, where the national sterotype of round grannyish women with two plaits and a bowler hat is evident in every other person we pass. (The men are yet to make this fashion statement.) Continuing on the national stereotype theme the french are very keen to have a large lunch. We manage to have a three course meal for one pound fifty (and no one is sick).
The next step is to try to get to Tupiza. This turns out to be ridiculously easy. Instead of getting a bus we get a group taxi, and whizz through the rugged countryside to the tune of Bolivian folk music, which is punctuated at odd moments by Katy Perry and Justin Bieber. Our driver chews coca leaves furiously, and seems to like the adrenalin rush got from driving on the wrong side of the road. (The french suggest he is English).
We arrive in Tupiza in the baking heat, and I decide to join the french contingent in their hostel, which is more like a hotel. (it has a swimming pool.) I decide to go on a bed bug killing spree, and wash and deet everything. (Twice.)
I had better explain the french contingent consists of two girls called Marion and Oliver, who is a doctor. We decide to stick together and go horseriding the next day and on the Salt flat expedition for four days on Wednesday.
The very long day finishes with more rice and meat in a dodgy Bolivian bar. It has wild west swing doors and an enormous collection of 80s music videos.
Despite general disfigurement from Argy bed bugs...I´ve made it to Bolivia!
Llama count: Too many, I lost count, at a guess a million.
Standing at the migration office for Bolivia I realise that I recognise the group standing next to me. You could spot these three anywhere they garble french loudly, only taking a breath to have another drag on a cigarette (which at almost 4000 metres above sea level shows a certain gallic level of bravado.) One of the girls turns to me, smiles in recognition that we have met before, and then her jaw drops.
"What happen to your face?" She demands in a strong french accent.
I don´t blame her slightly blunt greeting, last night a group of over friendly bed bugs (I presume) had taken it upon themselves to bite my face 14 times, my neck 12 times, my arms 7 times, and one particularly cheeky one got my shoulder. On the plus side it gave me something to do on the bus ride between Tilcara and La Quiaca, counting spots is a highly underappreciated hobby. On the minus side I appear to be allergic to the little beggars, and my face is not only spotty, but swolen to such odd proportions that I look like a slightly sun burnt elephant woman.
The french group are suitably sympathetic. We wonder together into Bolivia, where the national sterotype of round grannyish women with two plaits and a bowler hat is evident in every other person we pass. (The men are yet to make this fashion statement.) Continuing on the national stereotype theme the french are very keen to have a large lunch. We manage to have a three course meal for one pound fifty (and no one is sick).
The next step is to try to get to Tupiza. This turns out to be ridiculously easy. Instead of getting a bus we get a group taxi, and whizz through the rugged countryside to the tune of Bolivian folk music, which is punctuated at odd moments by Katy Perry and Justin Bieber. Our driver chews coca leaves furiously, and seems to like the adrenalin rush got from driving on the wrong side of the road. (The french suggest he is English).
We arrive in Tupiza in the baking heat, and I decide to join the french contingent in their hostel, which is more like a hotel. (it has a swimming pool.) I decide to go on a bed bug killing spree, and wash and deet everything. (Twice.)
I had better explain the french contingent consists of two girls called Marion and Oliver, who is a doctor. We decide to stick together and go horseriding the next day and on the Salt flat expedition for four days on Wednesday.
The very long day finishes with more rice and meat in a dodgy Bolivian bar. It has wild west swing doors and an enormous collection of 80s music videos.
Despite general disfigurement from Argy bed bugs...I´ve made it to Bolivia!
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Tilcara Adventures
Weather: Sun plus wind equals dust.
Llama Count: Only six today, and they were six of the eleven I saw yesterday
Turns out the national alcoholic drink, a mixture of fermet (a bitter herb liqueur) and coke causes a very nasty headache in the morning. For the first time in all my experience of South American breakfasts there is no Dulche de Leche. The combination of this, my headache, and my new found Argentinian friends heading back to Buenos Aires makes for a miserable start to the day. It is Sunday, and I feel vaguely homesick. (This is lessened by the home from home experience of the street dog climbing through the dorm window at about seven thirty this morning.)
I decide I really want to join a llama caravan. It is about as close to running away with gypsys as I am going to get in Argentina. I find llamas, but sadly no llama tamers or caravan.
Plan B I am going to hire a mountain bike. Not quite sure how this happened, but before I know it I am being handed a puncture kit, and asked in very fast Spanish whether I can change a tyre. The bike man doesn´t even wait for me to reply, he takes one look at me and says something along the lines of "don´t worry, lots of nice men in Argentina, they change tyres". I have no reply, I definitely will not be able to change the tyre alone. I am handed a map that I imagine would be similar to the product of Eppie deciding to become a cartograopher (beautifully arty, beautifully vague.) The bike man points to the road and says easy route. I take the hint and head in that direction.
What the easy route description failed to take into account is the hundreds of kamikaze trucks, busses, and cars that whizz past my elbow. After half an hour I decide that the death road in Bolivia is probably safer than this, turn around, and head up the most difficult route the bike man showed me... up the mountain to the devils throat. It is aptly named, only the devil could cycle to the top without bursting his esophagas. I amble up at a walk dragging the bike along side me.
However, upon reaching the top the view is spectacular. I am above the cloud line that shrouds the canyon on one side of the valley. The rock faces are a multiculured, russet, violet, cream and white. It is probably the lack of oxygen, but it is absolutely breathtaking. The ride back to Tilcara is much more fun, I turn mountain biking on its head refuse to do any cycling and let gravity do the work. The bike man is suitably impressed, and I return to the hostel to sleep, exhausted, with a sunburnt nose that is flashing a scarlet to rival that of Rudolph the reindeer.
Tomorrow to get into the outlaw character that Barclays bank seem to think I am, I am off to the Wild west Tupiza in Bolivia, which is famous for being the place where Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid were killed.
Tonight I am going to sleep very well.
Llama Count: Only six today, and they were six of the eleven I saw yesterday
Turns out the national alcoholic drink, a mixture of fermet (a bitter herb liqueur) and coke causes a very nasty headache in the morning. For the first time in all my experience of South American breakfasts there is no Dulche de Leche. The combination of this, my headache, and my new found Argentinian friends heading back to Buenos Aires makes for a miserable start to the day. It is Sunday, and I feel vaguely homesick. (This is lessened by the home from home experience of the street dog climbing through the dorm window at about seven thirty this morning.)
I decide I really want to join a llama caravan. It is about as close to running away with gypsys as I am going to get in Argentina. I find llamas, but sadly no llama tamers or caravan.
Plan B I am going to hire a mountain bike. Not quite sure how this happened, but before I know it I am being handed a puncture kit, and asked in very fast Spanish whether I can change a tyre. The bike man doesn´t even wait for me to reply, he takes one look at me and says something along the lines of "don´t worry, lots of nice men in Argentina, they change tyres". I have no reply, I definitely will not be able to change the tyre alone. I am handed a map that I imagine would be similar to the product of Eppie deciding to become a cartograopher (beautifully arty, beautifully vague.) The bike man points to the road and says easy route. I take the hint and head in that direction.
What the easy route description failed to take into account is the hundreds of kamikaze trucks, busses, and cars that whizz past my elbow. After half an hour I decide that the death road in Bolivia is probably safer than this, turn around, and head up the most difficult route the bike man showed me... up the mountain to the devils throat. It is aptly named, only the devil could cycle to the top without bursting his esophagas. I amble up at a walk dragging the bike along side me.
However, upon reaching the top the view is spectacular. I am above the cloud line that shrouds the canyon on one side of the valley. The rock faces are a multiculured, russet, violet, cream and white. It is probably the lack of oxygen, but it is absolutely breathtaking. The ride back to Tilcara is much more fun, I turn mountain biking on its head refuse to do any cycling and let gravity do the work. The bike man is suitably impressed, and I return to the hostel to sleep, exhausted, with a sunburnt nose that is flashing a scarlet to rival that of Rudolph the reindeer.
Tomorrow to get into the outlaw character that Barclays bank seem to think I am, I am off to the Wild west Tupiza in Bolivia, which is famous for being the place where Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid were killed.
Tonight I am going to sleep very well.
Onwards to Tilcara
Weather: Sun sun sun (and wind)
Llama Count: I saw 12 genuine bonafide llamas. I ate one llama steak. I think that means (if my maths is as good as always) that the llama count today is 11.
I was almost stranded in Salta. The battle of barclays bank (version 2.0) took up much to much time.Apparently despite speaking to their fraud department on Tuesday I am still a persona no grata, con woman, and general thief, ie my card is still blocked. After another extortionate fifteen minutes on hold, in which I planned to find their freepost address and send them one of Cobbles´s finest products they unblocked the card (again.) So I was suprised to find myself on a bus happily heading to Tilcara as planned.
Travel sickness pill consumed, my general drowsiness was interrupted by the person sitting next to me, who having worked out my origin was desperate to practice her english. Turns out I was sitting next to what must be the number one cougar in Buenos Aires. In between showing me pictures of her grandchildren, she happily listed the number of her boyfriends, each inhabiting a different town in north west Argentina, and a few younger ones in the various districts of Buenos Aires. Having advised me to go to Cuba without a boyfriend, and before I marry, she then turned into a fantastic tour guide, explaining the importance of the various towns, rocks, and men we passed. My favourite of which was the city Jujoy, whose pronunciation is close to the sound you make when someone elbows you in the ribs.
Tilcara is absurdly beautiful, if Wordsworth had seen this part of the Andes his head would have exploded. I arrive, dump stuff and hike up to the local inca fortress. If this is what the Incas considered to be a fortress, they only have themselves to blame that they surcumbed to the Spanish so quickly.
I wonder back to the hostel and soon discover I am the only non Argentinian there. Panic ensues, until I am assured by all hostel inhabitants that they speak fluent Spanglish and would really like me to join them for the evening. We head off to a pub, where I am fed llama steak and after dinner a folk band arrives complete with pan pipes and drum kit. Before long everyone is dancing- a dance that looks suspcioulsy similar to various reels. I head back to the hostel with exceptionally sore feet, with my new found Argentian friends at 4am.
Llama Count: I saw 12 genuine bonafide llamas. I ate one llama steak. I think that means (if my maths is as good as always) that the llama count today is 11.
I was almost stranded in Salta. The battle of barclays bank (version 2.0) took up much to much time.Apparently despite speaking to their fraud department on Tuesday I am still a persona no grata, con woman, and general thief, ie my card is still blocked. After another extortionate fifteen minutes on hold, in which I planned to find their freepost address and send them one of Cobbles´s finest products they unblocked the card (again.) So I was suprised to find myself on a bus happily heading to Tilcara as planned.
Travel sickness pill consumed, my general drowsiness was interrupted by the person sitting next to me, who having worked out my origin was desperate to practice her english. Turns out I was sitting next to what must be the number one cougar in Buenos Aires. In between showing me pictures of her grandchildren, she happily listed the number of her boyfriends, each inhabiting a different town in north west Argentina, and a few younger ones in the various districts of Buenos Aires. Having advised me to go to Cuba without a boyfriend, and before I marry, she then turned into a fantastic tour guide, explaining the importance of the various towns, rocks, and men we passed. My favourite of which was the city Jujoy, whose pronunciation is close to the sound you make when someone elbows you in the ribs.
Tilcara is absurdly beautiful, if Wordsworth had seen this part of the Andes his head would have exploded. I arrive, dump stuff and hike up to the local inca fortress. If this is what the Incas considered to be a fortress, they only have themselves to blame that they surcumbed to the Spanish so quickly.
I wonder back to the hostel and soon discover I am the only non Argentinian there. Panic ensues, until I am assured by all hostel inhabitants that they speak fluent Spanglish and would really like me to join them for the evening. We head off to a pub, where I am fed llama steak and after dinner a folk band arrives complete with pan pipes and drum kit. Before long everyone is dancing- a dance that looks suspcioulsy similar to various reels. I head back to the hostel with exceptionally sore feet, with my new found Argentian friends at 4am.
Saturday, 8 September 2012
Salta La Linda
Weather: Sunny, but the Argentinians are complaining its cold. In England this kind of weather would be the signal for all unattractive men with beer bellys to remove their shirts...
Llama count: We have a stuttering lift off on the llama metric... 0.5 (I saw a stuffed one in a craft market.)
I arrive at Salta in the late afternoon, just in time to see some nuns struggling to take down a tent. An argument in fast staccato spanish had errupted between two of the sisters, and the mother superior figure (who looked very superior) watches in amusement. The town is packed for the religious festival, with a motley collection of pilgrims, some hispanic, some quechan from the nearby mountains (in national dress), and the odd enterprising pickpocket taking advantage of the general religous trance.
After a dinner of steak and chips (where the steak cost less than 5 pounds) I sit around drinking fermet and coke with the hostel owner called Mathios, who has more opinions than piercings (its a close competition).
The next morning...
I find another girl who is travelling alone called Anika. She is about to start training to be a CBT therapist, we decide to go and climb the nearby mountain. Relief hits when we get to the bottom to discover there is a cable car to the top. This cable car is very agricultual, I´m suprised there wasn´t bailer twine pinning the doors together. However, we get to the top in one piece (just). Then the guilt hits, at the top there is a gym, for all the fitness fanatics of Salta, who regurlarly run up the hill. We decide we need to walk down the hill, this turns out to be an awful lot more difficult than it appeared. We reach the bottom with jelly legs, and an admiration for the Salta fitness fanatics.
Next stop on the tour is the market, but this turns out to be closed. The area is full of people sitting quietly in the street. At first we think it might be something to do with the religious festival- but it soon turns out to be a homeless protest. The most peaceful protest I have ever seen, but a worrying problem for a town where the street dogs are obese, and the street children emancipated.
Later in the afternoon we head off the beaten track to an artisan market, before deciding that everything will look the same, but be cheaper in Bolivia. The evening concludes with empanadas in the main plaza, whilst the mass is televised outside the cathedral. Pilgrims sing as I eat ice cream, and street children go round the tables stealing bread.
However, the days highlight has to be spotting a lingere shop called ´touch and go´....
Llama count: We have a stuttering lift off on the llama metric... 0.5 (I saw a stuffed one in a craft market.)
I arrive at Salta in the late afternoon, just in time to see some nuns struggling to take down a tent. An argument in fast staccato spanish had errupted between two of the sisters, and the mother superior figure (who looked very superior) watches in amusement. The town is packed for the religious festival, with a motley collection of pilgrims, some hispanic, some quechan from the nearby mountains (in national dress), and the odd enterprising pickpocket taking advantage of the general religous trance.
After a dinner of steak and chips (where the steak cost less than 5 pounds) I sit around drinking fermet and coke with the hostel owner called Mathios, who has more opinions than piercings (its a close competition).
The next morning...
I find another girl who is travelling alone called Anika. She is about to start training to be a CBT therapist, we decide to go and climb the nearby mountain. Relief hits when we get to the bottom to discover there is a cable car to the top. This cable car is very agricultual, I´m suprised there wasn´t bailer twine pinning the doors together. However, we get to the top in one piece (just). Then the guilt hits, at the top there is a gym, for all the fitness fanatics of Salta, who regurlarly run up the hill. We decide we need to walk down the hill, this turns out to be an awful lot more difficult than it appeared. We reach the bottom with jelly legs, and an admiration for the Salta fitness fanatics.
Next stop on the tour is the market, but this turns out to be closed. The area is full of people sitting quietly in the street. At first we think it might be something to do with the religious festival- but it soon turns out to be a homeless protest. The most peaceful protest I have ever seen, but a worrying problem for a town where the street dogs are obese, and the street children emancipated.
Later in the afternoon we head off the beaten track to an artisan market, before deciding that everything will look the same, but be cheaper in Bolivia. The evening concludes with empanadas in the main plaza, whilst the mass is televised outside the cathedral. Pilgrims sing as I eat ice cream, and street children go round the tables stealing bread.
However, the days highlight has to be spotting a lingere shop called ´touch and go´....
Friday, 7 September 2012
The never ending bus journey to Salta
Weather: Arctic
Llama count: 0
Horse count: 500
Donkey count: 1000
Unidentified horse like animal count (possibly a mule or an emancipated donkey): 25
I´ve never been the greatest fan of buses- however 21 hours on an Argentinean bus has improved my opinion of them. This wasn´t any old bus, this was a bingo bus (which in my case was a useful lesson in spanish numbers). It had reclining seats, food, and no one smoking on the back seat. The journey began with some great ´soft latin´music videos. These were quite something, inca sacrifices took place while a 40 year old man crooned on a street corner that looked suspiciously like stevenage. Then the bingo began, with the whole bus enthusiastically taking part. (The first prize was a distinctly dodgy bottle of white wine). Knowing that I would probably have to do some pretty lengthy bus journeys, and that I have managed to make myself travel sick whilst driving I had brought some pretty hefty motion sickness pills with me. The sort my parents used to give me on long journeys, which have the convenient side effect of sleep inducing zombification. I almost slept through supper. Luckily was woken by the four year old next to me, whose hand held playstation provided a repetitive sound track for most of the journey. Supper was hot, with three courses of aeroplane food.
I awoke the next morning to find it was still raining, but we were happily travelling through the middle of no where. The area consisted of shacks along the edge of the road, with horses, donkeys, and other things grazing in front. Watching this was fun for about an hour, but then the highlight of the journey began- I got to watch mega shark versus giant Octopus in Spanish.
Finally got to Salta (la linda) last night.There appears to be a religious festival taking place, with both nuns and police officers posing in their uniforms on street corners. The town is more catholic than Rome, there are more shops full of plastic saints than you could shake a rosary at, and even a shop dedicated to first holy communion dresses. Am going to spend a couple of nights here then head up to Tilcara in the mountains for the weekend.
...Oh and I have brought another Dictionario....
Llama count: 0
Horse count: 500
Donkey count: 1000
Unidentified horse like animal count (possibly a mule or an emancipated donkey): 25
I´ve never been the greatest fan of buses- however 21 hours on an Argentinean bus has improved my opinion of them. This wasn´t any old bus, this was a bingo bus (which in my case was a useful lesson in spanish numbers). It had reclining seats, food, and no one smoking on the back seat. The journey began with some great ´soft latin´music videos. These were quite something, inca sacrifices took place while a 40 year old man crooned on a street corner that looked suspiciously like stevenage. Then the bingo began, with the whole bus enthusiastically taking part. (The first prize was a distinctly dodgy bottle of white wine). Knowing that I would probably have to do some pretty lengthy bus journeys, and that I have managed to make myself travel sick whilst driving I had brought some pretty hefty motion sickness pills with me. The sort my parents used to give me on long journeys, which have the convenient side effect of sleep inducing zombification. I almost slept through supper. Luckily was woken by the four year old next to me, whose hand held playstation provided a repetitive sound track for most of the journey. Supper was hot, with three courses of aeroplane food.
I awoke the next morning to find it was still raining, but we were happily travelling through the middle of no where. The area consisted of shacks along the edge of the road, with horses, donkeys, and other things grazing in front. Watching this was fun for about an hour, but then the highlight of the journey began- I got to watch mega shark versus giant Octopus in Spanish.
Finally got to Salta (la linda) last night.There appears to be a religious festival taking place, with both nuns and police officers posing in their uniforms on street corners. The town is more catholic than Rome, there are more shops full of plastic saints than you could shake a rosary at, and even a shop dedicated to first holy communion dresses. Am going to spend a couple of nights here then head up to Tilcara in the mountains for the weekend.
...Oh and I have brought another Dictionario....
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
Day 1 Buenos Aires
Weather... A commendable Hispanic attempt at English drizzle.
Llama count... 0 (Disappointing but not unexpected)
I am formally introduced to Dulce de Leche at breakfast this morning. Merry would love this stuff, it is essentially super sickly condensed milk, and probably explains the large signs for diabetes treatment that I saw on the drive in last night. The hostel guests appear to consist of two nationalities, if you are male you are Norwegian, and if you are female you are Brazilian, and called Julia. I meet the two Julias, and Marcello (who is the exception to prove the rule) as I am finishing breakfast. They are in Buenos Aires for a yoga week, which starts on Thursday, and will mean four days of total silence. The three Juans and Lucas have already told me they think the Brazilian are mad. I come to a similar conclusion, and decide on this brilliant recommendation to spend the day sight seeing with them. Our first stop is the cemetery recolete, this is the final resting place of Evita... and a morbid tourist attraction. I soon learnt the portugese for ´funeral party´, as one of the Julias made a brave attempt to find a tour guide. Next stop was a museum of European fine art, which was impressive, but probably shows the pitfalls of joining south americans, who are being tourists in south america. After this the Brazilian find me some pro Malvinas island graffiti, and we head off to lunch. The Brazilian are not meant to be eating meat to prepare for their yoga, but this lasts about halfway through an empanada. The waiter really likes Manchester United, and Brazilian women (although the minute they mention yoga he seems less enthusiastic.) The afternoon is spent wondering through various parks, and then a trip to a book shop in an old theatre. (Very spectacular.)
We return to the hostel for a very late supper, and then go dancing to four in the morning to Argentinian rap and electronica- interesting cultural experience.
If I have learnt one thing in the last twenty four hours it is that Argentinians like dogs. One dog however is not enough, only five or six canine pedigrees on a lead will show that you are a proper Porteños. There is one thing Argentinians do not like doing though, they appear to have a national aversion to cleaning up the dog poo. As a consequence I have spent the past day expertly dodging piles of the stuff.
I am now sitting exhausted in the bus station waiting for a bus to Salta. Had to explain to Barclays for most of this morning I was not a fraudster, and actually on holiday in Argentina. Also appear to have misplaced spanish disctionary. This is a big problem my spanish mi español es mierda.
Weather... A commendable Hispanic attempt at English drizzle.
Llama count... 0 (Disappointing but not unexpected)
I am formally introduced to Dulce de Leche at breakfast this morning. Merry would love this stuff, it is essentially super sickly condensed milk, and probably explains the large signs for diabetes treatment that I saw on the drive in last night. The hostel guests appear to consist of two nationalities, if you are male you are Norwegian, and if you are female you are Brazilian, and called Julia. I meet the two Julias, and Marcello (who is the exception to prove the rule) as I am finishing breakfast. They are in Buenos Aires for a yoga week, which starts on Thursday, and will mean four days of total silence. The three Juans and Lucas have already told me they think the Brazilian are mad. I come to a similar conclusion, and decide on this brilliant recommendation to spend the day sight seeing with them. Our first stop is the cemetery recolete, this is the final resting place of Evita... and a morbid tourist attraction. I soon learnt the portugese for ´funeral party´, as one of the Julias made a brave attempt to find a tour guide. Next stop was a museum of European fine art, which was impressive, but probably shows the pitfalls of joining south americans, who are being tourists in south america. After this the Brazilian find me some pro Malvinas island graffiti, and we head off to lunch. The Brazilian are not meant to be eating meat to prepare for their yoga, but this lasts about halfway through an empanada. The waiter really likes Manchester United, and Brazilian women (although the minute they mention yoga he seems less enthusiastic.) The afternoon is spent wondering through various parks, and then a trip to a book shop in an old theatre. (Very spectacular.)
We return to the hostel for a very late supper, and then go dancing to four in the morning to Argentinian rap and electronica- interesting cultural experience.
If I have learnt one thing in the last twenty four hours it is that Argentinians like dogs. One dog however is not enough, only five or six canine pedigrees on a lead will show that you are a proper Porteños. There is one thing Argentinians do not like doing though, they appear to have a national aversion to cleaning up the dog poo. As a consequence I have spent the past day expertly dodging piles of the stuff.
I am now sitting exhausted in the bus station waiting for a bus to Salta. Had to explain to Barclays for most of this morning I was not a fraudster, and actually on holiday in Argentina. Also appear to have misplaced spanish disctionary. This is a big problem my spanish mi español es mierda.
Day 0 Buenos Aires
Day 0
I arrived at the airport on Monday evening, after a sixteen hour slog to Buenos Aires via Amsterdam. The taxi driver, who drove me to the hostel had definitely been to the beagle school of driving. I had an unnerving sense of deja vu as we speeded into the Palermo area of Buenos Aires, straddling two lanes, with no use of indicators, and Brandon Flowers blaring from the car radio. I was greeted by the owners of the hostel: the three Juans and Lucas. They cooked me supper, it soon became apparent that Juan number one was a professional chef, with a particular passion for Jamie Oliver ( apparently he has made it to Argentina.)
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