PERU, Cusco, Puerto Maldonado & Jungle, Saturday 27th October
We arrived in Cusco after the 6 hour drive from Puno through valleys banked steeply by ridged and terraced hillsides, alongside meandering rivers and through small farming villages accompanied by a leaking rain cloud which finally dumped its load on us as we checked into our hotel. Cusco is a beautiful town with steep, narrow, cobbled streets still lined with huge, sturdy Inca stones, with numerous churches and a grand Plaza de Armas where the Cathedral and Jesuit church battle for attention at right angles to each other. Elegant alpaca and countless silver jewelers line the streets alongside bars, cafes, pubs and restaurants that overlook the many plazas offering views of the surrounding mountains. I was quickly captivated and resolved to stay on once the tour moved on to Arequipa.
Members of the tour had tested my patience considerably and by the time I wrote the last blog I was talking loudly about desertion.
The performance of some of them over their food at dinner, rudely dismissing food, wrinkling their noses at the poor waiter, ostentatiously coughing flapping their hands in the admittedly smoky environment of the world’s highest Irish Pub was too much for Carla and me. We exchanged glances and did not attempt to dissuade them when they left early, leaving her, Daniel and me free to go clubbing.
I danced on the bar with the owner of the club dressed as some kind of monster (he was, not me) in anticipation of the Halloween we’ll be missing and then retired reasonably early to bed.
The next morning Carla dropped us at the airport and we flew the half hour flight to Puerto Maldonado and the Amazon Jungle. I stepped from the plane sighing with relief as the familiar wave of warm heat that I had grown so used to in Asia enveloped me. My muscles relaxed, my pace slowed and my demeanor brightened.
We all gathered around a man holding a Tucan Tours sign, who introduced himself as Pedro and met our 3 final additions to our group: A vigorous-looking Canadian couple in their 40s called Dwain and Laurie and an Australian girl called Melissa.
We made a quick trip to the market, full of tropical fruit and vegetables. Cute, bare foot children slumped against doorways chewing thoughtfully on the hems of their T shirts and broke into broad grins as we passed waving. People sipped Inca Kola perched on stools at make-shift bars and fake Havaianas flip-flops were on display everywhere. We were close to Brazil.
We were then all herded into a long boat, handed hot, oversized life jackets and ferried the 30kms down stream to Amazonia Eco Lodge, where we were given passion fruit juice, sat down and briefed.
It is in a beautiful spot on the Rio Madre del Dios in the twittering and chirping Amazon Jungle. Our rooms were rather smart wooden bungalows on stilts with roofs of palm leaf set amongst gardens that attracted macaws loud in both colour and audibility.
We were given 45 minutes with which to settle and eat lunch at long, allocated tables amongst other tour groups (gah!) before it was time to visit Monkey Island. There we fed bananas to several different species of monkey and oooohed and aaaahed en masse at their antics.
Back at the lodge we had a few drinks, dinner and were obediently in bed by 10.00, Laurie and I unified under our natural aversion to Group Tours.
At 5.00am we were awoken by a cheery Pedro and at 6.00 we set off on a trek through the jungle. We tramped along, stopping to examine termite’s nests, smell fruits and listen to birds, we sat high on an observation platform and floated about a waterlilly paved lake watching turtles and searching fruitlessly for anacondas. We were back at the lodge by late morning.
As the afternoon heat claimed to sedation level we dozed in hammocks strung up on a balcony over looking the river, lulled by the melodious clicking of the yellow-tailed weaver birds as they dived in and out of their nests suspended like earrings from the trees.
Affected, perhaps, by the omnipresence of mysticism and ancient folk-lore that surrounds places like this, a stout American woman was attempting to convince a stouter American man that she was able to occupy 2 realms of existence at once. John and Daniel sipped beer and played pool while others swam and Karina, the pet Tapir, waddled about the flower bushes absorbed by some secret errand. Amongst this peculiar but harmonious scene I slunk, half awake and in vain hope of a glass of water, savoring the moment of solitude and tranquility before the lunch bell would ding, the spell would be broken and people would stream from their individual preoccupations to sit obediently in their allocated seats to partake of the midday feed.
After lunch I left the Canadians enthusing about golf and returned to my isolation spot before we were all rounded up again and taken piranha fishing.
John had been drinking beer ever since we’d returned from our morning walk and, urged on by the receptive audience of Laurie and Dwain (also Calgary dwellers) he was putting on quite a performance, made more excruciating by his deafness which seriously impaired his volume control. “Give me a hand grenade!” he kept yelling, peering into the water and leaping about the boat causing it to rock fiercely. Fishing did little to subdue him and the jungle sounds were punctured by his exclamations of “Oh! A bite!” and “Where’s the barman? I want a cerveca.”
We spent a few pleasant hours fruitlessly fishing and returned for showers ad the bar while John went to bed.
Lights out once again at 10.00 and a dramatic storm rocked the jungle mercifully not tearing through the bungalows and morning arrive without any of us being struck by lightening.
Yesterday we flew back to Cusco and were reunited with Carla.
From the Sacred Valley Tour we were to finish in Limatambo 80kms from Machu Picchu and the start of the Inca Trail so we had a few hours to sort ourselves out before it was time for dinner.
Jo is leaving us as of tomorrow and so this was her last night with us all. Carla took us out to Fallen Angels, an amazing place where you eat off tables that are old fashioned baths full of fish covered with a glass table cloth and sit on leopard-print stools. It is possible to get hitched up on all the barbed wire (used to imitate a rose bush) in the bathroom and the lights are turned low casting sultry, sexy shadows in the dim light. We had a delicious dinner of their famous steak and were sipping on fresh passion fruit martinis when the Fetish Party started…
Carla had warned us of this but we were not quite prepared for the sights that came flooding in after 10.00pm. Spandex, leather, lace, black tape and PVC were just a few items on the menu of Peruvian elite and their outfits. I was reminded of that scene from the opening of the film ´Blade´ and when the DJ actually played that particular track I just waited for blood to start pouring from the ceiling. We had a great time though, dancing around a huge metallic sculpture of a sinister-looking angel and tore ourselves reluctantly away at around 3.30am in order to be reasonably fit for the Sacred Valley today.
Tonight we enjoy our last night of civilisation in the remote little Inca town Limatambo and tomorrow, bright and early we embark on the beginning of the Inca Trail.
More to report in 4 days…
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Peru, Puno & Lake Titicaca, (written from Cusco) Wednesday 24th October
Tours everywhere, and I´m on one too... The shame of it! Oh the endless nights of stilted conversation at dinner time with people you would never choose to spend so much time with. What an odd way to travel. Some of my fellow passengers are tour veterans and never leave their country without having someone with their name on a placard waiting at the other end with an exact itinerary for the next 4 weeks. It is bringing out the rebel in me. Last night I was forced to adopt some new people purely to oil the joints of conversation once again. Carla continues to be a salvation and I am told I am not allowed back into Cusco unless I have collected a respectable amount of new play mates for us to party after the Inca Trail.
We have been joined by two Canadian girls, doctors, who have turned out to be drabness personified and refuse to eat, drink or , for the most part, talk. Yawn. Jo and Daniel continue to be the winging duo (thankfully Daniel takes my teasing graciously), John trots about after us all, hand to his ear trying to catch what is going on and I stride on ahead impatiently, looking for means of escape.
But enough of my moaning, I am a very lucky girl, I have seen a huge amount in the past few weeks, have had lots of fun and am planning to desert in a week anyway.
Continuing with the update. We crossed over the boarder into Peru from Bolivia on Sunday 21st. Most of the day was spent driving alongside Lake Titicaca, the world´s highest navigable lake. Flat farmland lay between the lake and the mountains which climbed the mountains on the Peruvian side by means of ancient terraces, some dating back to the Incas. We passed simple little farming settlements with mud brick houses and straw roofs and arrived in Puno late in the afternoon. Puno is a small lakeside city with brown buildings, tidy, narrow streets (tuk-tuks buzzing up and down) and some nice colonial buildings. Usually it is a tourist thoroughfare and the streets are full of the usual tourist gubbins, but we arrived to a ghost town. They were having their National Census and consequently the whole town was essentially under house arrest until 6.00pm that evening.
We ventured out after the appointed hour to find the streets beginning to liven up. After another dull dinner Carla produced coupons for free drinks from the bar upstairs and we proceeded to dance non-stop for 4 hours, dragging our reluctant companions with us and requesting Elvis for John who turned out to be a rather nifty jiver. Salsa lessons, the YMCA and the usual Shakira wiggling and it was high time for our bed...
We were up early, as usual, the next day and taken in a caravan of rickshaws to the port where we bought presents of rice and sugar for our ´families´ and joined the other pink, sun-hatted tourists on a boat bound for the reed islands.
Centuries ago the Uros people struck out for the middle of the lake to escape the warring Inca and Colla tribes on the shore, they adapted remarkably and having been living on floating reed islands ever since. There are between 5 and 10 families on each island and they have a shelf life of around 10 years before they have to be rebuilt.
We putted up to an island and were greeted cheerily by our hosts who stood in a line shaking our hands as we disembarked. They still live in reed huts, although they now have solar panels which provide them with electricity. Their main income is fishing and tourism and, I have to say, I was a little disheartened to see quite how many boats laden with tourists there were parked at each of the islands. The whole thing felt a little staged. But charmingly so. Our guide gave us a lively history lesson aided (or not as the case may be) by a little girl who relished the attention of these strange white visitors and nearly drove the guide to distraction, climbing all over over him and his presentation and distracting us by just being so damn cute. Little monster.
We were shipped to another island, via traditional reed boats, joining a flotilla of other bobbing sun hats and whirring cameras, where we were encouraged to buy an array of handicrafts. Then we were back on our motor boat for a 3 hour ride deep into the heart of Titicaca and the island where we were to spend the night.
We were all assigned ´mothers´ from the group of traditionally dressed women squinting at us from the shade and were lead off to our ´homes´ for the night huffing and puffing up paths that wound past little houses, gardens, meadows of grazing sheep and little babbling streams. Jo, Daniel, John and myself were grouped together.
The families that take in tourists have adapted their homes accordingly, providing proper toilets (although no running water) comfy beds in separate rooms and electricity. The rest of the family seemed to live in comparative simplicity, eating by candle light and washing out of buckets (as we saw the 2 boys doing cheefully in the morning sunshine). We were given lunch of vegetable soup, potatoes and squeaky cheese in our rooms and left to rest for a while until ´Mum´ poked her head around the door and said "Vamenos?" She then lead us slowly, crocheting all the way, to the soccer court where there were about 40 other tourists ambling about awaiting further instructions. We were scooped up by our guide again and taken up the hill to a sacred sight and to witness the sunset over Titicaca. A little shaky from the altitude, we devoured hot chocolate and descended again in time for dinner with our ´families´.
We ate a dinner of soup, potatoes and onions in their tiny kitchen, watched curiously by their youngest son, a little boy of about 10, and Daniel and I attempted a patchy conversation in our limited Spanish.
Time for another rest and then ´Mum´ reappeared and solemnly dressed Jo and me up in the traditional garb: 2 knee length, full skirts (usually they were at least 5), an embodied blouse, a tight cummerbund and long black scarf to cover our heads. They boys emerged from the other room wearing woolly hats that covered their ears and ponchos and we were lead to the ´fiesta´: A room full of giggling tourists taking pictures of one another. The musicians appeared and we spent a funny couple of hours dancing to cheery Peruvian pipes, drums and guitar music. Our ´families´ dutifully invited us to dance and stood twirling us around or leading us on a dizzying turn of the room in a long line gathering speed as the music dictated.
Pancakes were wafted under our noses early the following morning to wake us up and we bid farewell to our hosts and set off for Taquile Island for lunch. The island has a few pretty squares, rolling trails, a few pre-Inca ruins, simple houses and terraces, gorgeous scenery, and not much else. We spent a quiet few hours there before the 3 hour boat ride back to Puno.
I had adopted some new friends and brought them along to dinner with us, which cheered things up hugely.
Today: Cusco and the beginning of our Amazon and Inca Trail adventures...
Tours everywhere, and I´m on one too... The shame of it! Oh the endless nights of stilted conversation at dinner time with people you would never choose to spend so much time with. What an odd way to travel. Some of my fellow passengers are tour veterans and never leave their country without having someone with their name on a placard waiting at the other end with an exact itinerary for the next 4 weeks. It is bringing out the rebel in me. Last night I was forced to adopt some new people purely to oil the joints of conversation once again. Carla continues to be a salvation and I am told I am not allowed back into Cusco unless I have collected a respectable amount of new play mates for us to party after the Inca Trail.
We have been joined by two Canadian girls, doctors, who have turned out to be drabness personified and refuse to eat, drink or , for the most part, talk. Yawn. Jo and Daniel continue to be the winging duo (thankfully Daniel takes my teasing graciously), John trots about after us all, hand to his ear trying to catch what is going on and I stride on ahead impatiently, looking for means of escape.
But enough of my moaning, I am a very lucky girl, I have seen a huge amount in the past few weeks, have had lots of fun and am planning to desert in a week anyway.
Continuing with the update. We crossed over the boarder into Peru from Bolivia on Sunday 21st. Most of the day was spent driving alongside Lake Titicaca, the world´s highest navigable lake. Flat farmland lay between the lake and the mountains which climbed the mountains on the Peruvian side by means of ancient terraces, some dating back to the Incas. We passed simple little farming settlements with mud brick houses and straw roofs and arrived in Puno late in the afternoon. Puno is a small lakeside city with brown buildings, tidy, narrow streets (tuk-tuks buzzing up and down) and some nice colonial buildings. Usually it is a tourist thoroughfare and the streets are full of the usual tourist gubbins, but we arrived to a ghost town. They were having their National Census and consequently the whole town was essentially under house arrest until 6.00pm that evening.
We ventured out after the appointed hour to find the streets beginning to liven up. After another dull dinner Carla produced coupons for free drinks from the bar upstairs and we proceeded to dance non-stop for 4 hours, dragging our reluctant companions with us and requesting Elvis for John who turned out to be a rather nifty jiver. Salsa lessons, the YMCA and the usual Shakira wiggling and it was high time for our bed...
We were up early, as usual, the next day and taken in a caravan of rickshaws to the port where we bought presents of rice and sugar for our ´families´ and joined the other pink, sun-hatted tourists on a boat bound for the reed islands.
Centuries ago the Uros people struck out for the middle of the lake to escape the warring Inca and Colla tribes on the shore, they adapted remarkably and having been living on floating reed islands ever since. There are between 5 and 10 families on each island and they have a shelf life of around 10 years before they have to be rebuilt.
We putted up to an island and were greeted cheerily by our hosts who stood in a line shaking our hands as we disembarked. They still live in reed huts, although they now have solar panels which provide them with electricity. Their main income is fishing and tourism and, I have to say, I was a little disheartened to see quite how many boats laden with tourists there were parked at each of the islands. The whole thing felt a little staged. But charmingly so. Our guide gave us a lively history lesson aided (or not as the case may be) by a little girl who relished the attention of these strange white visitors and nearly drove the guide to distraction, climbing all over over him and his presentation and distracting us by just being so damn cute. Little monster.
We were shipped to another island, via traditional reed boats, joining a flotilla of other bobbing sun hats and whirring cameras, where we were encouraged to buy an array of handicrafts. Then we were back on our motor boat for a 3 hour ride deep into the heart of Titicaca and the island where we were to spend the night.
We were all assigned ´mothers´ from the group of traditionally dressed women squinting at us from the shade and were lead off to our ´homes´ for the night huffing and puffing up paths that wound past little houses, gardens, meadows of grazing sheep and little babbling streams. Jo, Daniel, John and myself were grouped together.
The families that take in tourists have adapted their homes accordingly, providing proper toilets (although no running water) comfy beds in separate rooms and electricity. The rest of the family seemed to live in comparative simplicity, eating by candle light and washing out of buckets (as we saw the 2 boys doing cheefully in the morning sunshine). We were given lunch of vegetable soup, potatoes and squeaky cheese in our rooms and left to rest for a while until ´Mum´ poked her head around the door and said "Vamenos?" She then lead us slowly, crocheting all the way, to the soccer court where there were about 40 other tourists ambling about awaiting further instructions. We were scooped up by our guide again and taken up the hill to a sacred sight and to witness the sunset over Titicaca. A little shaky from the altitude, we devoured hot chocolate and descended again in time for dinner with our ´families´.
We ate a dinner of soup, potatoes and onions in their tiny kitchen, watched curiously by their youngest son, a little boy of about 10, and Daniel and I attempted a patchy conversation in our limited Spanish.
Time for another rest and then ´Mum´ reappeared and solemnly dressed Jo and me up in the traditional garb: 2 knee length, full skirts (usually they were at least 5), an embodied blouse, a tight cummerbund and long black scarf to cover our heads. They boys emerged from the other room wearing woolly hats that covered their ears and ponchos and we were lead to the ´fiesta´: A room full of giggling tourists taking pictures of one another. The musicians appeared and we spent a funny couple of hours dancing to cheery Peruvian pipes, drums and guitar music. Our ´families´ dutifully invited us to dance and stood twirling us around or leading us on a dizzying turn of the room in a long line gathering speed as the music dictated.
Pancakes were wafted under our noses early the following morning to wake us up and we bid farewell to our hosts and set off for Taquile Island for lunch. The island has a few pretty squares, rolling trails, a few pre-Inca ruins, simple houses and terraces, gorgeous scenery, and not much else. We spent a quiet few hours there before the 3 hour boat ride back to Puno.
I had adopted some new friends and brought them along to dinner with us, which cheered things up hugely.
Today: Cusco and the beginning of our Amazon and Inca Trail adventures...
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
BOLIVIA, La Paz (written from Puno, Peru) Tuesday 23rd October
Death Road: Pretty much what it says on the tin. The world´s most dangerous road where many a vehicle has tumbled to its doom down the 200m+ cliff faces as it struggled to pass something coming the other way. It has claimed the lives of entire bus loads of people and when offered the chance to ride down it on a mountain bike, well, how could I say no?
That isn´t exactly how it happened. I´d promised Mummy that I wouldn´t but then the whole group was doing it, I was told that it wasn´t as dangerous as all that (the road being closed to traffic now) and I am clearly very susceptible to peer pressure.
So, up bright and early, we climbed into a van laden with mountain bikes and made the 45 minutes climb up out of La Paz, over the other side of the mountain and the top of Death Road on La Cumbre. It was icy cold and there was snow at the peaks of the mountain. Brakes checked and pep-talk over, we mounted up and began our descent. The first half of the ride is easy. Not officially Death Road yet, we skimmed down the new paved road which was nice and wide with handy barriers to stop you from dropping off he edge. The downside is that it is open to traffic and I was occasionally surprised by a loud ´HONK!´ from an impatient lorry exasperated by my reluctance to hug the right side of the road (yes the one with the big cliff).
My application of the brakes at every turn soon dropped me behind Daniel, Flo, Martin and the two Canadian guys who´d joined us for the day. They whooshed on ahead fearlessly. Jo and John were even more cautious than me and I found myself in the middle of the group and largely alone, which was wonderful. I had fantastic views down the mountain side and valleys clad in dense green jungle, as I glided along.
There was an option of hopping into the van that always trailed us for the uphill bit but I am never to be out done so I joined the die-hards on he uphill slog at around 3,200 metres above sea level.
I thought I was going to die. I had to undo my helmet in order to allow my mouth to gape wide enough to take in the maximum oxygen and I kept putting my hand on my heart to reassure myself that it hadn´t exploded. I found this calming. Still, I did it, wheeling my bike up the final pinnacle to join the other riders gasping on the roadside. We were rewarded with bananas and energy bars and then told: "Right, now we are going to do Death Road." Our guide pointed to a narrow track that lead away from the main road and zig-zagged its way out of sight down the mountainside, loose grass and crumbly-looking stones the only thing between road and a sheer drop. It was potted and bumpy with large loose rocks and plenty of opportunities for skidding (especially if you planned to apply the brakes as fiercely and relentlessly as I did).
Well, here goes nothin´. Our guide pointed out that buses and lorries used to pass each other on this road and they didn´t always fall off so we would be fine.
Righty Ho then... Daniel, Martin, Flo and the Canadians disappeared in a cloud of gravel and gingerly I began my descent, hugging the non-sheer-drop side and squeezing the brakes so hard that my hands were aching by the time we came to our first stop. But Wow. What a view! As we descended he climate became warmer and more tropical, waterfalls spattered the road, the air became denser and more humid, flowers appeared and the great ravine yawned below us thick with jungle.
It took us 4 hours all together to get from around 3,700 to 1, 300m, stopping regularly for photos and snacks. I gained confidence and discovered that loose stones where better negotiated at a speed and soon got into the rhythm of swerving pot-holes, building up speed, reducing speed and consequently finished a very respectable 5th (1st girl, hee hee). We arrived at the bottom elated and buzzing, we drank a celebratory beer and then went to a pretty little restaurant with a tropical garden, swimming pool and much needed showeres for lunch.
Back to La Paz and out to celebrate our survial and comeserate Martin and Flo´s departure. A lively dinner, followed by dancing to the tunes of a schitzophrenic DJ, cheered on by enthusiastic Brazillians who towered over the Bolivians on the dance floor. Then off to another club where the creme de la creme of La Paz gyrated and sniffed conspicuously to equally unpredictable music.
Too soon it was time to leave La Paz. It is a nice city. It sprawls across a large valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The streets are a chaos of traffic and market stalls selling anything from deodorant to car parts. Smart, suited people pick their way between vendors in traditional clothes and men in balaklavas crouch by the side of the road ready to pounce and try and clean your shoes.
There is a handsome cathedral and elegant Plaza de Armas where at 6.00pm every day, solom faced boys doing military service marched to a badly played bugal in a ceremony that involves taking down and folding up flags. There were classy cafes serving proper coffee (very exciting, amazingly the coffee in South America is usually awful) and good cheap shopping.
But onwards onwards as usual, I am running out of time and Peru is a calling...
Death Road: Pretty much what it says on the tin. The world´s most dangerous road where many a vehicle has tumbled to its doom down the 200m+ cliff faces as it struggled to pass something coming the other way. It has claimed the lives of entire bus loads of people and when offered the chance to ride down it on a mountain bike, well, how could I say no?
That isn´t exactly how it happened. I´d promised Mummy that I wouldn´t but then the whole group was doing it, I was told that it wasn´t as dangerous as all that (the road being closed to traffic now) and I am clearly very susceptible to peer pressure.
So, up bright and early, we climbed into a van laden with mountain bikes and made the 45 minutes climb up out of La Paz, over the other side of the mountain and the top of Death Road on La Cumbre. It was icy cold and there was snow at the peaks of the mountain. Brakes checked and pep-talk over, we mounted up and began our descent. The first half of the ride is easy. Not officially Death Road yet, we skimmed down the new paved road which was nice and wide with handy barriers to stop you from dropping off he edge. The downside is that it is open to traffic and I was occasionally surprised by a loud ´HONK!´ from an impatient lorry exasperated by my reluctance to hug the right side of the road (yes the one with the big cliff).
My application of the brakes at every turn soon dropped me behind Daniel, Flo, Martin and the two Canadian guys who´d joined us for the day. They whooshed on ahead fearlessly. Jo and John were even more cautious than me and I found myself in the middle of the group and largely alone, which was wonderful. I had fantastic views down the mountain side and valleys clad in dense green jungle, as I glided along.
There was an option of hopping into the van that always trailed us for the uphill bit but I am never to be out done so I joined the die-hards on he uphill slog at around 3,200 metres above sea level.
I thought I was going to die. I had to undo my helmet in order to allow my mouth to gape wide enough to take in the maximum oxygen and I kept putting my hand on my heart to reassure myself that it hadn´t exploded. I found this calming. Still, I did it, wheeling my bike up the final pinnacle to join the other riders gasping on the roadside. We were rewarded with bananas and energy bars and then told: "Right, now we are going to do Death Road." Our guide pointed to a narrow track that lead away from the main road and zig-zagged its way out of sight down the mountainside, loose grass and crumbly-looking stones the only thing between road and a sheer drop. It was potted and bumpy with large loose rocks and plenty of opportunities for skidding (especially if you planned to apply the brakes as fiercely and relentlessly as I did).
Well, here goes nothin´. Our guide pointed out that buses and lorries used to pass each other on this road and they didn´t always fall off so we would be fine.
Righty Ho then... Daniel, Martin, Flo and the Canadians disappeared in a cloud of gravel and gingerly I began my descent, hugging the non-sheer-drop side and squeezing the brakes so hard that my hands were aching by the time we came to our first stop. But Wow. What a view! As we descended he climate became warmer and more tropical, waterfalls spattered the road, the air became denser and more humid, flowers appeared and the great ravine yawned below us thick with jungle.
It took us 4 hours all together to get from around 3,700 to 1, 300m, stopping regularly for photos and snacks. I gained confidence and discovered that loose stones where better negotiated at a speed and soon got into the rhythm of swerving pot-holes, building up speed, reducing speed and consequently finished a very respectable 5th (1st girl, hee hee). We arrived at the bottom elated and buzzing, we drank a celebratory beer and then went to a pretty little restaurant with a tropical garden, swimming pool and much needed showeres for lunch.
Back to La Paz and out to celebrate our survial and comeserate Martin and Flo´s departure. A lively dinner, followed by dancing to the tunes of a schitzophrenic DJ, cheered on by enthusiastic Brazillians who towered over the Bolivians on the dance floor. Then off to another club where the creme de la creme of La Paz gyrated and sniffed conspicuously to equally unpredictable music.
Too soon it was time to leave La Paz. It is a nice city. It sprawls across a large valley, surrounded on all sides by mountains. The streets are a chaos of traffic and market stalls selling anything from deodorant to car parts. Smart, suited people pick their way between vendors in traditional clothes and men in balaklavas crouch by the side of the road ready to pounce and try and clean your shoes.
There is a handsome cathedral and elegant Plaza de Armas where at 6.00pm every day, solom faced boys doing military service marched to a badly played bugal in a ceremony that involves taking down and folding up flags. There were classy cafes serving proper coffee (very exciting, amazingly the coffee in South America is usually awful) and good cheap shopping.
But onwards onwards as usual, I am running out of time and Peru is a calling...
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
BOLIVIA, Potosi, Wednesday 17th October
Once upon a time, there was a big hill that was full of silver. The Incas named it a sacred place, extracted the silver and paid homage to Pachamama (Mother Earth) appeasing her with sacrifices of lamas (and the occasional virgin) but generally living a peaceful existence. Then the Spanish arrived. They soon sniffed out the silver and began to mine it forcing the Indians into slavery. The missionaries flooded in and informed the Indians that they were evil to worship Pachamama and the only way they could save themselves from eternal damnation was to work in the silver mines. To avoid confusion as to who was boss, the Spanish put up a large, ugly church on top of the hill.
By the 18th Century Potosi was one of the richest towns in the world. The Spanish built according to their wealth, throwing up elegant mansions, grand churches and pretty plazas on the money they were making off the backs of the Indians.
Millions of Indians died in the silver mines and during the transportation of silver and other toxic minerals. Imported African slaves were also put to work but soon died of altitude and the cold.
An African slave was the most expensive commodity; a horse second; a lama third and an Indian fourth, being free. They were forced to hand over 35% of their local population for use in the mines, under pain of death. But that's ok, everyone knows that Indians don't have souls anyway right?
No Spanish man would enter the mines, the fumes and frequency of accidents being a little off-putting to a cultured gentleman. So, in order to keep them in check, they invented Tio. Tio was the Indians' pronunciation of Dios: God, but also translated into Uncle. The Spanish invented a God that would watch over the miners and kill any who were not working hard enough, attributing any accidents to the laziness of the miners and the anger of Tio.
The greed of the Spanish was such that, inevitably, they killed the Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs and the mine was emptied of silver.
Today the mine is still being worked by the Indians and, tragically, their conditions are little improved. They are self employed and pay the owners of the mine $25 a month for the privilege of mining. There is no pure silver anymore but minerals such as zinc, copper, tin, and some that can be separated to make silver. They have to buy all their own equipment such as boots, helmets, lamps and dynamite and if they wish to use the digging machines they have to pay the mine owners a further $10 for every 2 hours of use. This means that most of the digging is still done by hand as it was in the colonial times. The miners work an average of 15 hours a day from 7pm to 12pm, more if they are not finding enough minerals. They send the minerals to the owners of the mine who also own the labs that test the quality of the minerals and therefore dictate how much they should pay the miners. Once they've bought the minerals from the miners they separate them and sell them on for a tidy profit.
Miners still die from the toxic gasses in the mine and the irreparable damage done to their lungs by the dust from drilling. There is no compensation and no allowance for ill health.
Dressed in bright yellow boiler suits and armed with dynamite, coca leaves and cigarettes for the miners we cheerfully made our way up to the mine, giggling at our outfits and posing for photos with dynamite. We were soon sobered, however, by the enclosed darkness of the mine and the shadowy figures of the miners, working tirelessly in the gloom, their cheeks puffed out with coca leaves, accepting our gifts with a nod and back to work. They live on a diet of coca leaves, 95% alcohol and cigarettes while they are down in the mines. They still make offerings to Pachamama and Tio to keep them safe and yield the minerals they are looking for.
It was a relief to return to the sunlight, I can not imagine what it would be like to spend 15 hours a day down there.
We were a silent group descending the mountain and returning back to the elegant, colonial side of town where our hotel was. Back in our 4 star hotel I washed off the dust and reflected on the injustice of it all. What decides that I can return to such comfort when people are living in such crippling poverty, forced to work under such conditions?
So that was Potosi. We arrived yesterday from Uyuni and pottered around the centre of town, which still reflects the slendor of the 'glory days' during the Spanish occupation. The parts of town that were reserved for the Indian slaves are no-go areas still.
We had an entertaining evening drinking jugs of Carpirinha. As a group we get on pretty well but I shall miss Martin and Flo, who are leaving us in La Paz. Jo is prone to moan about things and I still haven't forgiven John after an argument we had over pisco sours about the 'white picket fence' and how I was young and foolish not to know that it is the only existence worth persuing. Hmmmm. Daniel, however, has improved hugely on closer aquanitance once I was able to attribute his creepiness with shyness and eccentricity. Carla continues to be brilliant. So, funny group of missmatches we are, we make our way up to La Paz tomorrow and pick up a few more people before heading off to Lake Titicaca and Peru. How time flies.
Once upon a time, there was a big hill that was full of silver. The Incas named it a sacred place, extracted the silver and paid homage to Pachamama (Mother Earth) appeasing her with sacrifices of lamas (and the occasional virgin) but generally living a peaceful existence. Then the Spanish arrived. They soon sniffed out the silver and began to mine it forcing the Indians into slavery. The missionaries flooded in and informed the Indians that they were evil to worship Pachamama and the only way they could save themselves from eternal damnation was to work in the silver mines. To avoid confusion as to who was boss, the Spanish put up a large, ugly church on top of the hill.
By the 18th Century Potosi was one of the richest towns in the world. The Spanish built according to their wealth, throwing up elegant mansions, grand churches and pretty plazas on the money they were making off the backs of the Indians.
Millions of Indians died in the silver mines and during the transportation of silver and other toxic minerals. Imported African slaves were also put to work but soon died of altitude and the cold.
An African slave was the most expensive commodity; a horse second; a lama third and an Indian fourth, being free. They were forced to hand over 35% of their local population for use in the mines, under pain of death. But that's ok, everyone knows that Indians don't have souls anyway right?
No Spanish man would enter the mines, the fumes and frequency of accidents being a little off-putting to a cultured gentleman. So, in order to keep them in check, they invented Tio. Tio was the Indians' pronunciation of Dios: God, but also translated into Uncle. The Spanish invented a God that would watch over the miners and kill any who were not working hard enough, attributing any accidents to the laziness of the miners and the anger of Tio.
The greed of the Spanish was such that, inevitably, they killed the Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs and the mine was emptied of silver.
Today the mine is still being worked by the Indians and, tragically, their conditions are little improved. They are self employed and pay the owners of the mine $25 a month for the privilege of mining. There is no pure silver anymore but minerals such as zinc, copper, tin, and some that can be separated to make silver. They have to buy all their own equipment such as boots, helmets, lamps and dynamite and if they wish to use the digging machines they have to pay the mine owners a further $10 for every 2 hours of use. This means that most of the digging is still done by hand as it was in the colonial times. The miners work an average of 15 hours a day from 7pm to 12pm, more if they are not finding enough minerals. They send the minerals to the owners of the mine who also own the labs that test the quality of the minerals and therefore dictate how much they should pay the miners. Once they've bought the minerals from the miners they separate them and sell them on for a tidy profit.
Miners still die from the toxic gasses in the mine and the irreparable damage done to their lungs by the dust from drilling. There is no compensation and no allowance for ill health.
Dressed in bright yellow boiler suits and armed with dynamite, coca leaves and cigarettes for the miners we cheerfully made our way up to the mine, giggling at our outfits and posing for photos with dynamite. We were soon sobered, however, by the enclosed darkness of the mine and the shadowy figures of the miners, working tirelessly in the gloom, their cheeks puffed out with coca leaves, accepting our gifts with a nod and back to work. They live on a diet of coca leaves, 95% alcohol and cigarettes while they are down in the mines. They still make offerings to Pachamama and Tio to keep them safe and yield the minerals they are looking for.
It was a relief to return to the sunlight, I can not imagine what it would be like to spend 15 hours a day down there.
We were a silent group descending the mountain and returning back to the elegant, colonial side of town where our hotel was. Back in our 4 star hotel I washed off the dust and reflected on the injustice of it all. What decides that I can return to such comfort when people are living in such crippling poverty, forced to work under such conditions?
So that was Potosi. We arrived yesterday from Uyuni and pottered around the centre of town, which still reflects the slendor of the 'glory days' during the Spanish occupation. The parts of town that were reserved for the Indian slaves are no-go areas still.
We had an entertaining evening drinking jugs of Carpirinha. As a group we get on pretty well but I shall miss Martin and Flo, who are leaving us in La Paz. Jo is prone to moan about things and I still haven't forgiven John after an argument we had over pisco sours about the 'white picket fence' and how I was young and foolish not to know that it is the only existence worth persuing. Hmmmm. Daniel, however, has improved hugely on closer aquanitance once I was able to attribute his creepiness with shyness and eccentricity. Carla continues to be brilliant. So, funny group of missmatches we are, we make our way up to La Paz tomorrow and pick up a few more people before heading off to Lake Titicaca and Peru. How time flies.
Monday, October 15, 2007
BOLIVIA, Uyuni , Monday 15th October
Dust everywhere! I opened my bag to find that it had got right into the middle of my clothes. That and my shampoo had exploded again from the constant varying of altitudes. Humph.
But what an amazing 3 days we have just had. I sat down at the end of day 1 to find my words swimming on the page in front of me and concluded that I was not yet qualified to write coherently at 4,300 meters above sea level. As a result my note book is a series of bullet points saying: "Dust", "tired", "red lake" and the like. I'll now attempt to join up the dots.
Day 1
We crossed the boarder into Bolivia in the morning, a rickety little windswept shack greeted us and our passports were stamped. I began to wish that I had not been so optimistic in getting dressed, we had ascended considerably already and the wind was icy. Our cheery tour guide Roberto met us at the boarder with 2 4WDs (very luxurious for 7 of us) and breakfast. "Welcome to Bolivia, here we have lots of cocaine!" He said waving coca leaves at us and chuckling to himself.
From the boarder we drove through a red, dusty, volcanic desert. Our 'road' (dirt track at best) wound between volcanoes and passed lagoons of unbelievable colours. Lagoon Blanco, Lagoon Verde (the colour of a swimming pool due to the magnesium particles being stirred up by the winds) and settled for the night at Lagoon Colorada which was the colour of rust. A red lake gleaming in the evening night, dotted with pink flamingos... I have run out of adjectives again.
Before reaching the lake we drove through Salvador Dali country, named so because of the likeness to the landscapes he used in his dream-like surrealist paintings. Sweeping hillsides of red sand punctuated with strange rock formations, seemingly baring no relation to their surroundings. And we got to climb out of the car and go for a walk amongst sulphur stenching craters of bubbling grey mud...
Our digs for the 1st night were basic dorms in a drafty building. The altitude was getting to some of us by this point, Jo was being sick, Martin had a headache and John spent a restless breathless night gasping for air. Aside from the inability to write and dizziness I seem to have escaped unscathed (so far). Coca leaf tea was distributed as a remedy. It has a bland taste put it does perk you up, especially if you chew the leaves. A slightly numb mouth and a foul taste in my mouth was all I had to show for my experimental chomping, I didn't chew for long enough apparently. Funny to think that that bitter, harmless-looking little leaf is the cause of so much trouble...
Day 2.
Dropping 1,000 metres seemed to help my writing abilities so I was able to scribble more yesterday evening. I felt a great deal more like me after a shower and putting on clean clothes.
We were up at 5.30am and dragged our sleepy, headachy selves into the 4WDs for a long day of driving. The first half of the day took us through some more stunning scenery. We stopped at a couple of lakes, still frozen from the night's minus 7 temperatures, and poka-dotted with clumps of flamingos. We were lucky, it is the season for them now. Lots of photos taken.
We bounced and bumped along for about 6 hours altogether, stopping in a remote little village for lunch. Soaking up the sun to warmed chilled bones, I sat on the dusty pavement and pondered on the outfits worn by the local women. It seems that they wear the same clothes no matter what age thy are and, given the standard solid build and customary long black plaits, hung with tassels down their backs, it is impossible to tell from behind what age they are. They all wear these full knee-length skirts, puffed out from wide waists by 100s of petticoats which peak out from under the hem line. Their little legs are clad in crude knee-length stockings, often rolling down and on their heads are perched funny little bowler hats that do not sit on the head but almost hover above it (Charlie Chaplin style) sometimes with a ribbon of flower stuck in the brim for decoration. Carla says that they have been dressing this way since the Incas.
We arrived at our Salt Hotel to hot showers and warm(er) rooms. The whole hotel is made of bricks of salt including the bed bases, tables, stools and floors. We were fed another good meal by our cook Jacqueline and were delighted to be able to buy some wine to go with it. Bolivian, not as good as Chilean but much cheaper!
Day 3.
And a lie in until 8.00. Bliss. We did not have to drive far until we got to our destination of the day: The Salt Flats. Once another large inland lake like Titicaca it now stands as an empty flatland of shimmering salt that stretches on for miles. It is so flat and so white that there is no perspective so we entertained ourselves for ages taking photos of each other climbing out of shoes, hats and wine bottles or sitting in each other's hands. We then drove to what was once an island in the lake for a BBQ lunch set in the middle of the salt complete with frilled table cloth. The island offered wonderful views from between its cacti. We went digging for salt crystals and then drove on to a salt 'factory' (a family home where the entire family works on breaking down and packaging the salt for sale to the markets). Restraining ourselves from purchasing salt lamas, ash trays or pen stands, we made our way on to Uyuni, a little town on the edge of the salt flats and home to a train cemetry. It is said that the train company never recovered from its robbery by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, on the run from the law in North America, and was reduced to the sad pile of rusting engines that lie there today.
A few photos taken and then time for hot showers and de-dusting before a dinner of pizza that I am promised is the best in Bolivia and a well earned beer I think. Onwards to Potosi tomorrow...
Dust everywhere! I opened my bag to find that it had got right into the middle of my clothes. That and my shampoo had exploded again from the constant varying of altitudes. Humph.
But what an amazing 3 days we have just had. I sat down at the end of day 1 to find my words swimming on the page in front of me and concluded that I was not yet qualified to write coherently at 4,300 meters above sea level. As a result my note book is a series of bullet points saying: "Dust", "tired", "red lake" and the like. I'll now attempt to join up the dots.
Day 1
We crossed the boarder into Bolivia in the morning, a rickety little windswept shack greeted us and our passports were stamped. I began to wish that I had not been so optimistic in getting dressed, we had ascended considerably already and the wind was icy. Our cheery tour guide Roberto met us at the boarder with 2 4WDs (very luxurious for 7 of us) and breakfast. "Welcome to Bolivia, here we have lots of cocaine!" He said waving coca leaves at us and chuckling to himself.
From the boarder we drove through a red, dusty, volcanic desert. Our 'road' (dirt track at best) wound between volcanoes and passed lagoons of unbelievable colours. Lagoon Blanco, Lagoon Verde (the colour of a swimming pool due to the magnesium particles being stirred up by the winds) and settled for the night at Lagoon Colorada which was the colour of rust. A red lake gleaming in the evening night, dotted with pink flamingos... I have run out of adjectives again.
Before reaching the lake we drove through Salvador Dali country, named so because of the likeness to the landscapes he used in his dream-like surrealist paintings. Sweeping hillsides of red sand punctuated with strange rock formations, seemingly baring no relation to their surroundings. And we got to climb out of the car and go for a walk amongst sulphur stenching craters of bubbling grey mud...
Our digs for the 1st night were basic dorms in a drafty building. The altitude was getting to some of us by this point, Jo was being sick, Martin had a headache and John spent a restless breathless night gasping for air. Aside from the inability to write and dizziness I seem to have escaped unscathed (so far). Coca leaf tea was distributed as a remedy. It has a bland taste put it does perk you up, especially if you chew the leaves. A slightly numb mouth and a foul taste in my mouth was all I had to show for my experimental chomping, I didn't chew for long enough apparently. Funny to think that that bitter, harmless-looking little leaf is the cause of so much trouble...
Day 2.
Dropping 1,000 metres seemed to help my writing abilities so I was able to scribble more yesterday evening. I felt a great deal more like me after a shower and putting on clean clothes.
We were up at 5.30am and dragged our sleepy, headachy selves into the 4WDs for a long day of driving. The first half of the day took us through some more stunning scenery. We stopped at a couple of lakes, still frozen from the night's minus 7 temperatures, and poka-dotted with clumps of flamingos. We were lucky, it is the season for them now. Lots of photos taken.
We bounced and bumped along for about 6 hours altogether, stopping in a remote little village for lunch. Soaking up the sun to warmed chilled bones, I sat on the dusty pavement and pondered on the outfits worn by the local women. It seems that they wear the same clothes no matter what age thy are and, given the standard solid build and customary long black plaits, hung with tassels down their backs, it is impossible to tell from behind what age they are. They all wear these full knee-length skirts, puffed out from wide waists by 100s of petticoats which peak out from under the hem line. Their little legs are clad in crude knee-length stockings, often rolling down and on their heads are perched funny little bowler hats that do not sit on the head but almost hover above it (Charlie Chaplin style) sometimes with a ribbon of flower stuck in the brim for decoration. Carla says that they have been dressing this way since the Incas.
We arrived at our Salt Hotel to hot showers and warm(er) rooms. The whole hotel is made of bricks of salt including the bed bases, tables, stools and floors. We were fed another good meal by our cook Jacqueline and were delighted to be able to buy some wine to go with it. Bolivian, not as good as Chilean but much cheaper!
Day 3.
And a lie in until 8.00. Bliss. We did not have to drive far until we got to our destination of the day: The Salt Flats. Once another large inland lake like Titicaca it now stands as an empty flatland of shimmering salt that stretches on for miles. It is so flat and so white that there is no perspective so we entertained ourselves for ages taking photos of each other climbing out of shoes, hats and wine bottles or sitting in each other's hands. We then drove to what was once an island in the lake for a BBQ lunch set in the middle of the salt complete with frilled table cloth. The island offered wonderful views from between its cacti. We went digging for salt crystals and then drove on to a salt 'factory' (a family home where the entire family works on breaking down and packaging the salt for sale to the markets). Restraining ourselves from purchasing salt lamas, ash trays or pen stands, we made our way on to Uyuni, a little town on the edge of the salt flats and home to a train cemetry. It is said that the train company never recovered from its robbery by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, on the run from the law in North America, and was reduced to the sad pile of rusting engines that lie there today.
A few photos taken and then time for hot showers and de-dusting before a dinner of pizza that I am promised is the best in Bolivia and a well earned beer I think. Onwards to Potosi tomorrow...
Friday, October 12, 2007
CHILE, North towards Bolivia, Friday 12th October
I am rather warming to this. As we continue our journey northwards I am reconciling myself to the whole tour idea with the novelty of constant company and the comfy beds and private bathrooms of 3 star hotels...
Heads light from pisco sours drunk at the Barrio Inglesa of Coquimbo, a little fishing port close to La Serena, 7 of us were piled into a truck driven by the owner of our La Serena hotel. The deal was he´d drive us there if we bought him drinks. Hmmm, I could spot a flaw in the logic there. So with Tango blaring, we made our cramped and merry way to the bus station to catch our midnight bus to Antofagasta.
Stirring from a fitful sleep, I opened my eyes to find a very different world speeding past us. We were deep in a bleak, brown desert of rocky hills and dust storms. At midday we pulled into Antofagasta, a busy little city further up the coast with a cathedral that looked like it was made of icing sugar and plenty of cafes in which to while away the day. We were just treading water to break up the bus journeys.
After a hearty parrilla dinner Carla, Martin, Flo and I decided that 9.00pm really was too early to retire, even if sleep deprived like me, and so we set off in search of nightlife. Carla has a remarkable nose for a Happy Hour. So that was Antofagasta: Sugary architecture, a healthy cafe society, good pisco sours and awful 90s dance music.
And off again. Our bus took up further north the following morning and turned inland to San Pedro de Atacama an oasis town in the middle of a sparce but dramatic wilderness. What had previously been a small town for cattle farmers has become a tourist hot-spot, attracting those on route to Bolivar and the salt flats or those who have just come to see some of the strange and wonderful volcanic, desert surroundings. There are salty lagoons in which to float, eerie moon-like landscapes and volcanic geysers spurting towers of steam into the air. Plenty to keep a photo-opp-hungry tourist happy.
After 5 hours of relentless, never changing desert we arrived in the dusty little town which is mostly constructed with clay bricks bound with straw. "This place would melt in the rain." I pondered aloud before Carla pointed out that we were in the desert and it never did. There we dusty streets over populated with tourist offices and restaurants, a lovely little plaza with a pretty white-washed church, shady spots to sit and generally a feeling of holidays. Cap and short wearing tourists of all ages tramped about in the sleepy siesta heat lured into to shady courtyards for ´cervesas´ or ´cafe´ or were piling into minibuses to visit the nearby attractions. The identy of the town has transformed to one of total homage to the tourist dollar, real estate prices have rocketed and the original inhabitants have been pushed out into the desert to make room for the socks and sandels crew. Ho hum. Having said that though, it has remained picturesque and I am always loathe to condemn a place for providing what I have come for as much as anyone else...
I was already predisposed to like San Pedro de Atacama anyway, it is hot! I happily swapped flip flops, loose skirts and vest tops for fleece jackets, alpaca gloves and wooly socks. The heat seems to be suit me best.
We explored, drank fruit shakes, booked ourselves onto some tours for the following days and went out for dinner at one of the many restaurants. Desert being desert, the temperature cruely plummets as soon as the sun goes down, so no balmy evenings for me alas. Fortunately most of the restaurants provide an open fire as the center point of their dining areas so I was able to avoid the woolies for the time being.
What I took at first to be a tourist trap turned out to be full of locals (I was relieved to discover that there was such a thing) and Carla seemed to know them all so we were soon dancing around the fire to a mix of Latin and European beats. Being in the middle of nowhere puts no dampener on the Chilian party spirit and so once the bars were closed we set off into the desert to buy wine (?!) and then we trundled off to ´Sophies´s House´, Sophie leading, a group of revelers, and some dogs, trotting obediantly in her wake. We finally arrived at Sophie´s half-built dwelling under a stunning blanket of stars unlike anything I have ever seen before. The blackness of the desert night showed off the constlations of the Southern Hemasphere beautifully and I kept nearly falling in holes as I walked along gaping at the heavens.
A fire was lit, warming us but extinguishing the stars and our music filled the desert with the cheery but intrusvie noise of human-ness.
A lazy morning followed our revels and in the afternoon we were packed in a minibus and taken off to float about in salty lagoons. Oddly, as you lower yourself into the icy water, your feet are scalded by the piping hot water at the bottom. A strange reversal that had us bobbing about desperately trying to mix the hot water below us with the icy water that lapped at our shoulders. We watched a stunning sunset over the salt encrused plains and tourquise lagoons, illuminating a back-drop of mountains and volcanoes in a purple light. We sipped our complimentary pisco sours and felt serene.
An early night and up at what some of my fellow travellers have elegantly dubbed ´The sparrow´s fart´ ie. very early in the morning. 3.30am infact. I´m not sure even a sparrow is doing whatever sparrows do at that un-Godly hour. We piled into another minibus and set off on a 2 hour journey through the darkness up to an icy 4000 metres above sea level. The windows frosted and I began to wish I was wearing more clothes. Minus 7?! You have got to be kidding me. What in the name of anything reasonable would posess anyone to get up at 3.30am and go and shiver at dizzying altitudes, I wondered. But the sight of the geysers belching forth boiling water and towers of steam into the icy early morning air almost made it worth while. Dangling my frozen feet in some hot springs to thaw out, although excrusiating, cheered me up no end and I began to feel better about the whole venture. More pictures were taken, of course, and we decended to a more reasonable altitude where we could feel the sun and people were less likely to pass out or throw up. It is a funny sensation being so high, taking 3 steps too fast can have you gasping for air and your head spinning. Oxygen had to be administered to one girl and others felt painfully nauseaus. Once back in oxygen plentiful air we sampled lama kebabs (delicious) and made our way back to San Pedro before midday but totally exhausted.
Tonight is our last night of comfort before we hop over the boarder to Bolivia and embark on our 4 day safari to the famous salt flats which, I have been promised, are stunning and quite often the highlight of people´s South America travels. I have also been promised a minus 15 night tomorrow as we sleep out somewhere open and very basic and plenty of dust...
A half frozen, dusty, unshowered but satisfied Katie should emmerge in 4 or 5 days so watch this space...
I am rather warming to this. As we continue our journey northwards I am reconciling myself to the whole tour idea with the novelty of constant company and the comfy beds and private bathrooms of 3 star hotels...
Heads light from pisco sours drunk at the Barrio Inglesa of Coquimbo, a little fishing port close to La Serena, 7 of us were piled into a truck driven by the owner of our La Serena hotel. The deal was he´d drive us there if we bought him drinks. Hmmm, I could spot a flaw in the logic there. So with Tango blaring, we made our cramped and merry way to the bus station to catch our midnight bus to Antofagasta.
Stirring from a fitful sleep, I opened my eyes to find a very different world speeding past us. We were deep in a bleak, brown desert of rocky hills and dust storms. At midday we pulled into Antofagasta, a busy little city further up the coast with a cathedral that looked like it was made of icing sugar and plenty of cafes in which to while away the day. We were just treading water to break up the bus journeys.
After a hearty parrilla dinner Carla, Martin, Flo and I decided that 9.00pm really was too early to retire, even if sleep deprived like me, and so we set off in search of nightlife. Carla has a remarkable nose for a Happy Hour. So that was Antofagasta: Sugary architecture, a healthy cafe society, good pisco sours and awful 90s dance music.
And off again. Our bus took up further north the following morning and turned inland to San Pedro de Atacama an oasis town in the middle of a sparce but dramatic wilderness. What had previously been a small town for cattle farmers has become a tourist hot-spot, attracting those on route to Bolivar and the salt flats or those who have just come to see some of the strange and wonderful volcanic, desert surroundings. There are salty lagoons in which to float, eerie moon-like landscapes and volcanic geysers spurting towers of steam into the air. Plenty to keep a photo-opp-hungry tourist happy.
After 5 hours of relentless, never changing desert we arrived in the dusty little town which is mostly constructed with clay bricks bound with straw. "This place would melt in the rain." I pondered aloud before Carla pointed out that we were in the desert and it never did. There we dusty streets over populated with tourist offices and restaurants, a lovely little plaza with a pretty white-washed church, shady spots to sit and generally a feeling of holidays. Cap and short wearing tourists of all ages tramped about in the sleepy siesta heat lured into to shady courtyards for ´cervesas´ or ´cafe´ or were piling into minibuses to visit the nearby attractions. The identy of the town has transformed to one of total homage to the tourist dollar, real estate prices have rocketed and the original inhabitants have been pushed out into the desert to make room for the socks and sandels crew. Ho hum. Having said that though, it has remained picturesque and I am always loathe to condemn a place for providing what I have come for as much as anyone else...
I was already predisposed to like San Pedro de Atacama anyway, it is hot! I happily swapped flip flops, loose skirts and vest tops for fleece jackets, alpaca gloves and wooly socks. The heat seems to be suit me best.
We explored, drank fruit shakes, booked ourselves onto some tours for the following days and went out for dinner at one of the many restaurants. Desert being desert, the temperature cruely plummets as soon as the sun goes down, so no balmy evenings for me alas. Fortunately most of the restaurants provide an open fire as the center point of their dining areas so I was able to avoid the woolies for the time being.
What I took at first to be a tourist trap turned out to be full of locals (I was relieved to discover that there was such a thing) and Carla seemed to know them all so we were soon dancing around the fire to a mix of Latin and European beats. Being in the middle of nowhere puts no dampener on the Chilian party spirit and so once the bars were closed we set off into the desert to buy wine (?!) and then we trundled off to ´Sophies´s House´, Sophie leading, a group of revelers, and some dogs, trotting obediantly in her wake. We finally arrived at Sophie´s half-built dwelling under a stunning blanket of stars unlike anything I have ever seen before. The blackness of the desert night showed off the constlations of the Southern Hemasphere beautifully and I kept nearly falling in holes as I walked along gaping at the heavens.
A fire was lit, warming us but extinguishing the stars and our music filled the desert with the cheery but intrusvie noise of human-ness.
A lazy morning followed our revels and in the afternoon we were packed in a minibus and taken off to float about in salty lagoons. Oddly, as you lower yourself into the icy water, your feet are scalded by the piping hot water at the bottom. A strange reversal that had us bobbing about desperately trying to mix the hot water below us with the icy water that lapped at our shoulders. We watched a stunning sunset over the salt encrused plains and tourquise lagoons, illuminating a back-drop of mountains and volcanoes in a purple light. We sipped our complimentary pisco sours and felt serene.
An early night and up at what some of my fellow travellers have elegantly dubbed ´The sparrow´s fart´ ie. very early in the morning. 3.30am infact. I´m not sure even a sparrow is doing whatever sparrows do at that un-Godly hour. We piled into another minibus and set off on a 2 hour journey through the darkness up to an icy 4000 metres above sea level. The windows frosted and I began to wish I was wearing more clothes. Minus 7?! You have got to be kidding me. What in the name of anything reasonable would posess anyone to get up at 3.30am and go and shiver at dizzying altitudes, I wondered. But the sight of the geysers belching forth boiling water and towers of steam into the icy early morning air almost made it worth while. Dangling my frozen feet in some hot springs to thaw out, although excrusiating, cheered me up no end and I began to feel better about the whole venture. More pictures were taken, of course, and we decended to a more reasonable altitude where we could feel the sun and people were less likely to pass out or throw up. It is a funny sensation being so high, taking 3 steps too fast can have you gasping for air and your head spinning. Oxygen had to be administered to one girl and others felt painfully nauseaus. Once back in oxygen plentiful air we sampled lama kebabs (delicious) and made our way back to San Pedro before midday but totally exhausted.
Tonight is our last night of comfort before we hop over the boarder to Bolivia and embark on our 4 day safari to the famous salt flats which, I have been promised, are stunning and quite often the highlight of people´s South America travels. I have also been promised a minus 15 night tomorrow as we sleep out somewhere open and very basic and plenty of dust...
A half frozen, dusty, unshowered but satisfied Katie should emmerge in 4 or 5 days so watch this space...
Monday, October 08, 2007
CHILE, onwards and upwards, Monday 8th October
My most recent self discovery is that I have a commitment phobia. The idea of a solid month (no, more) with the same people, being shepherded around by the same guide through me into such a panic that I was forced to go for a walk and take deep breaths. 7 months of self determination and suddenly I´m in a box, on a conveyor belt, I´m a name on a long suffering tour guide´s list. What am I doing?! A deep revulsion was stirred within me and I resolved to break fee and run for the hills as quickly as possible. Still, as I was out taking my deep breaths, I took stock. I have paid for this after all, it will take me to some amazing places that I otherwise might not visit (into the Amazon, for example) and it will save me the angst of arriving at places like La Paz at 4.00 in the morning and trying to figure out which of the taxi drivers were legit and worrying if they will take me to my hotel as asked or just drive me around from ATM to ATM at gun point as I have told is a nasty habit of some of them... To be relieved of that is a definite advantage, no doubt for my parents too. Plus, it might not really be all that bad. The jury is out.
Since my last entry, I was scooped up from Puerto Montt by Pachamama Tours again and joined a lively group of Australians, lead by our guide (a Bob Marley enthusiast called Hector) who took us back up North to Santiago stopping at a few journey breaking fill-ins on route to admire a waterfall and do a spot of wine tasting.
We were back in Santiago by Wednesday and I settled back into the Casa Roja way of life: Pottering to the fridge in reception at around 7pm for a bottle of beer, being transferred to the bar/building site at the back of the hostel at around 10.30, either heading out to Bellavista in search of nightclubs or just sitting in the bar wondering how it got to be 6.00 in the morning. A new group of friends and some funny stories to show for my days back in Santiago. On my last night my two friends from Patagonia, Mike and Matt materialised again, as did a few other familiar faces so it was only fair to go out and celebrate. On Saturday I tore myself away from the sun bathing and post-Rugby celebrations to make my way over to Hotel Libertador in the centre of town to hook up with my Tucan Tour. I sat on my bed in my 3 star hotel room with a sinking heart, talking to Jo, my New Zealand roommate and veteran of Tucan Tours, this being her 3rd.
That evening I met the rest of the group: A nice Swiss couple, around my age, Flo and Martin, a lively 65 year old Canadian gentleman called John and another Swiss guy called Daniel who seems world weary, bored and creepy. Hmmm, perhaps better if I don´t mention this blog to any of them... It will make the character studies more entertaining anyway. Our guide is a nice young Peruvian girl called Carla who took us out for dinner in a buzzy area of town, had us drinking happyhour pisco sours and, surprisingly, singing karaoke. Even Daniel, who announced that he just didn´t ´Do That' was up crooning ´Creep´ into the microphone by the end and I have some great pictures of a vigorous performance of 'Like a Virgin' by Carla, Jo and Martin. John announced that this was why he travelled with young people and hated 'oldies', he rejoiced in the fact that he was off travelling the world while his children worried about him and is so obsessed by the idea that he has to do What The Locals Do that Carla has to order everything for him.
On arrival back at our hotel I found that Carla and Martin had been plotting and we were back in taxis and back to Bellavista to go clubbing.
"Last night in Santiago" Carla explained. We chose a club with the largest queue that was busy IDing everyone as they walked in (a sure warning sign to the age group of the clientele). Carla managed to jump the queue for us and we were in straight away and bumping and grinding with the youngsters of Santiago. We watched the humiliation of 3 couples who were dragged up on stage to prove how sexy they were by means of the girls performing lap-dances and provocative banana eating on their grinning boyfriends and decided by 2am that enough was enough. We were being bashed on all sides by grinding teenagers and we had a 6.30 start the following morning.
I went to bed feeling better about things but still hatching a plan for an early escape. If I follow this tour all the way to Lima I´ll only have 10 more days before I fly home and the idea that my independent wanderings have come to an end is just too depressing. I think I might ditch these guys at Cuzco, after Machu Picchu, and rocket up north towards Equador and some sunny beaches before I return to an English winter...
However, it is early days. So far we are up as far as La Serena. A night bus will take us up to Antofagasta tonight an onwards towards the start of the silver route in Calama. Then on to the driest desert in the world and the stunning Salar de Uyuni before pikcing up a whole new group of people in La Paz. It can´t all be that bad...
My most recent self discovery is that I have a commitment phobia. The idea of a solid month (no, more) with the same people, being shepherded around by the same guide through me into such a panic that I was forced to go for a walk and take deep breaths. 7 months of self determination and suddenly I´m in a box, on a conveyor belt, I´m a name on a long suffering tour guide´s list. What am I doing?! A deep revulsion was stirred within me and I resolved to break fee and run for the hills as quickly as possible. Still, as I was out taking my deep breaths, I took stock. I have paid for this after all, it will take me to some amazing places that I otherwise might not visit (into the Amazon, for example) and it will save me the angst of arriving at places like La Paz at 4.00 in the morning and trying to figure out which of the taxi drivers were legit and worrying if they will take me to my hotel as asked or just drive me around from ATM to ATM at gun point as I have told is a nasty habit of some of them... To be relieved of that is a definite advantage, no doubt for my parents too. Plus, it might not really be all that bad. The jury is out.
Since my last entry, I was scooped up from Puerto Montt by Pachamama Tours again and joined a lively group of Australians, lead by our guide (a Bob Marley enthusiast called Hector) who took us back up North to Santiago stopping at a few journey breaking fill-ins on route to admire a waterfall and do a spot of wine tasting.
We were back in Santiago by Wednesday and I settled back into the Casa Roja way of life: Pottering to the fridge in reception at around 7pm for a bottle of beer, being transferred to the bar/building site at the back of the hostel at around 10.30, either heading out to Bellavista in search of nightclubs or just sitting in the bar wondering how it got to be 6.00 in the morning. A new group of friends and some funny stories to show for my days back in Santiago. On my last night my two friends from Patagonia, Mike and Matt materialised again, as did a few other familiar faces so it was only fair to go out and celebrate. On Saturday I tore myself away from the sun bathing and post-Rugby celebrations to make my way over to Hotel Libertador in the centre of town to hook up with my Tucan Tour. I sat on my bed in my 3 star hotel room with a sinking heart, talking to Jo, my New Zealand roommate and veteran of Tucan Tours, this being her 3rd.
That evening I met the rest of the group: A nice Swiss couple, around my age, Flo and Martin, a lively 65 year old Canadian gentleman called John and another Swiss guy called Daniel who seems world weary, bored and creepy. Hmmm, perhaps better if I don´t mention this blog to any of them... It will make the character studies more entertaining anyway. Our guide is a nice young Peruvian girl called Carla who took us out for dinner in a buzzy area of town, had us drinking happyhour pisco sours and, surprisingly, singing karaoke. Even Daniel, who announced that he just didn´t ´Do That' was up crooning ´Creep´ into the microphone by the end and I have some great pictures of a vigorous performance of 'Like a Virgin' by Carla, Jo and Martin. John announced that this was why he travelled with young people and hated 'oldies', he rejoiced in the fact that he was off travelling the world while his children worried about him and is so obsessed by the idea that he has to do What The Locals Do that Carla has to order everything for him.
On arrival back at our hotel I found that Carla and Martin had been plotting and we were back in taxis and back to Bellavista to go clubbing.
"Last night in Santiago" Carla explained. We chose a club with the largest queue that was busy IDing everyone as they walked in (a sure warning sign to the age group of the clientele). Carla managed to jump the queue for us and we were in straight away and bumping and grinding with the youngsters of Santiago. We watched the humiliation of 3 couples who were dragged up on stage to prove how sexy they were by means of the girls performing lap-dances and provocative banana eating on their grinning boyfriends and decided by 2am that enough was enough. We were being bashed on all sides by grinding teenagers and we had a 6.30 start the following morning.
I went to bed feeling better about things but still hatching a plan for an early escape. If I follow this tour all the way to Lima I´ll only have 10 more days before I fly home and the idea that my independent wanderings have come to an end is just too depressing. I think I might ditch these guys at Cuzco, after Machu Picchu, and rocket up north towards Equador and some sunny beaches before I return to an English winter...
However, it is early days. So far we are up as far as La Serena. A night bus will take us up to Antofagasta tonight an onwards towards the start of the silver route in Calama. Then on to the driest desert in the world and the stunning Salar de Uyuni before pikcing up a whole new group of people in La Paz. It can´t all be that bad...
Monday, October 01, 2007
CHILE, Patagonia, Monday 1st October
It is easy, when travelling, to become a little nonchalant about your destinations after a while. You are constantly on the move and constantly being impressed. You can take it for granted. Touching down in Patagonia, however, brought home to me the true magnitude of my trip. From deserts to ice bergs. I had made it to Patagonia! I was beside myself with excitement and trundled along the long, deserted road from Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales grinning stupidly out at the greyish-brown expanse of scrubby nothingness, dotted with the occasional sheep. I felt extremely pleased with myself.
Puerto Natales is a small, boxy town with pastel corrugated tin houses. It has been forced to scrub up its act since it became the last port of call for hikers on their way to Parque National Torres del Paine. The streets are a gortex and fleece hub of trekkers, tour shops and equipment rentals. I knew I wanted to see Torres del Paine but wasn´t sure how I was supposed to go about it; so I did what I normally do and just turned up.
I checked into a cosy hostel and spent the remainder of the day quizzing the owner and other hikers re. suggested routes, stocking up on dried fruit, nuts and chocolate and generally readying myself for the off the next day. In the evening I went out for dinner with 2 nice Chileans and a Cambridge boy, ate an huge amount of lamb and went early to bed.
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, our bus picked us up and took us off to Torres del Paine. It was a spectacular drive through the valleys, the giant, craggy Torres looming above us, past grazing herds of lamas and along breath-taking turquoise lakes of icy glacier water. This looked promising.
I had adopted 2 boys (are there no female travellers in South America?) who were doing a similar route to me and so, laden with gear, we set off in the direction of our first ´refugio´ set on the banks of Largo Pehoe. The sun was shining but the wind was brutal. Leaning into it we struggled through open grass land, along rivers and up hills, stopping every so often to refuel on chocolate. Our last couple of hours were spent traversing the hillside that overlooked the lake, which was stunning. I have never seen water that blue, almost luminous. Apparently it has something to do with the fine sediment that reflects the light in a certain way... Whatever, it is beautiful.
We arrived at the refugio late in the afternoon to find it expensive, cold and seriously lacking in hot water. It was very smart though, with big windows over looking the lake, just not quite up and running yet being so early in the season. Shared hardship united us hikers and we all snuggled around the fire, swapping stories and comparing notes, blisters and muscle ache. Quite a little comunity.
We were up early the next day and soon swish-swishing in our waterproofs through a damp, grey morning towards Largo Grey and the Glacier. It was a long day walking through woods and scrambling up and down stoney mountain sides, the peaks of which where hidden from us in thick grey cloud. Still, it was worth it. The Glacier lay there enticingly in the distance, appearing closer than it was due to sheer size. Like a great white tongue pertruding down the mountain side, its ragged edges glowing blue like the crystals we used to make in science class. We scrambled about by the waters edge, posing for photos and attempting arty shots before the long walk back to the refugio. We returned to find that there had been an uprising among the guests and we had all been bribed into silence with a free dinner. Splendid. So we all ate a hearty 3 course meal, rounded off by a much applauded chocolate flan from one of the hikers (who received almost celeb status for this generous act) and followed by stretching lessons from an Adonis-like Italian physiotherapist. Very amusing.
Up again at an early hour and our longest walk yet to refugio Las Torres, 24kms away. It was a beautiful day and we spent most of it walking alongside Largo Nordenskjold. We had sparkling blue water to our right and snow capped mountains above us to our left. In the sunshine it was hot and we ambled along in t-shirts, stopping to take photos, eat toffee and fill up our water bottles from the icy, pure mountain streams.
Exhausted we arrived at the refugio which was in better working order. We chatted to a nice couple who assured us that the Torres, our final venture and climax of our trip was beautiful and well worth the pain of getting there. It turned out that the guy is my friend´s boss in London (small world) so we gossiped about him (sorry Alan!) while waiting for dinner. Another 3 course meal and another early night.
At 5.50am I was shaken awake and we bleerily stepped into a grey, drizzally morning. We had to catch a shuttle back to town at 2.00 so we had to haul ass up Las Torres in order to make it back down on tie. Half awake and with indignant, overworked muscles screaming at us, we plodded doggedly uphill for 2 hours. It was hard workd and our energy was at a very low ebb. That is why people climb Las Torres first, they have the strength... But it was the weather that did it. Driving, slanted rain, fierce winds and no sign of Las Torres buried deeply in the clounds. The path took us along a narrow ledge over a gorge and the wind was such that I was worried that I would get blown off. Half way up we sheltered in the doorway of a closed refugio and took stock. We were cold, wet and exhausted. The weather was relentless and unchanging so we took an executive desicion to return to base where it was warm. There was tea and the liklihood of being whisked off a mountain by a gust of wind was more remote. We laboured back down to the refugio dissppointed but a little relieved. I tucked myself into a corner by the fire and thawed out. Nevermind. Next time.
Back in Puerto Natales for laundry, internet and another good dinner. We bumped into a few of our fellow hikers and had a nice evening drinking well deserved beer.
What a wonderful few days. I am much appriciative of my 2 escorts Matt and Mike, who kept me going on bribes of toffee, made sure I was heading in the right direction (thankfully) and pulled me out of bogs. I hope that the photos and endless stream of entertainment I provided made it all worhtwhile...
I am now back in Puerto Montt and awaiting a pick up that will take me back in the direction of Santiago. Goodbye Southern Chile and Patagonia, it has been an adventure.
It is easy, when travelling, to become a little nonchalant about your destinations after a while. You are constantly on the move and constantly being impressed. You can take it for granted. Touching down in Patagonia, however, brought home to me the true magnitude of my trip. From deserts to ice bergs. I had made it to Patagonia! I was beside myself with excitement and trundled along the long, deserted road from Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales grinning stupidly out at the greyish-brown expanse of scrubby nothingness, dotted with the occasional sheep. I felt extremely pleased with myself.
Puerto Natales is a small, boxy town with pastel corrugated tin houses. It has been forced to scrub up its act since it became the last port of call for hikers on their way to Parque National Torres del Paine. The streets are a gortex and fleece hub of trekkers, tour shops and equipment rentals. I knew I wanted to see Torres del Paine but wasn´t sure how I was supposed to go about it; so I did what I normally do and just turned up.
I checked into a cosy hostel and spent the remainder of the day quizzing the owner and other hikers re. suggested routes, stocking up on dried fruit, nuts and chocolate and generally readying myself for the off the next day. In the evening I went out for dinner with 2 nice Chileans and a Cambridge boy, ate an huge amount of lamb and went early to bed.
The following morning, after a hearty breakfast, our bus picked us up and took us off to Torres del Paine. It was a spectacular drive through the valleys, the giant, craggy Torres looming above us, past grazing herds of lamas and along breath-taking turquoise lakes of icy glacier water. This looked promising.
I had adopted 2 boys (are there no female travellers in South America?) who were doing a similar route to me and so, laden with gear, we set off in the direction of our first ´refugio´ set on the banks of Largo Pehoe. The sun was shining but the wind was brutal. Leaning into it we struggled through open grass land, along rivers and up hills, stopping every so often to refuel on chocolate. Our last couple of hours were spent traversing the hillside that overlooked the lake, which was stunning. I have never seen water that blue, almost luminous. Apparently it has something to do with the fine sediment that reflects the light in a certain way... Whatever, it is beautiful.
We arrived at the refugio late in the afternoon to find it expensive, cold and seriously lacking in hot water. It was very smart though, with big windows over looking the lake, just not quite up and running yet being so early in the season. Shared hardship united us hikers and we all snuggled around the fire, swapping stories and comparing notes, blisters and muscle ache. Quite a little comunity.
We were up early the next day and soon swish-swishing in our waterproofs through a damp, grey morning towards Largo Grey and the Glacier. It was a long day walking through woods and scrambling up and down stoney mountain sides, the peaks of which where hidden from us in thick grey cloud. Still, it was worth it. The Glacier lay there enticingly in the distance, appearing closer than it was due to sheer size. Like a great white tongue pertruding down the mountain side, its ragged edges glowing blue like the crystals we used to make in science class. We scrambled about by the waters edge, posing for photos and attempting arty shots before the long walk back to the refugio. We returned to find that there had been an uprising among the guests and we had all been bribed into silence with a free dinner. Splendid. So we all ate a hearty 3 course meal, rounded off by a much applauded chocolate flan from one of the hikers (who received almost celeb status for this generous act) and followed by stretching lessons from an Adonis-like Italian physiotherapist. Very amusing.
Up again at an early hour and our longest walk yet to refugio Las Torres, 24kms away. It was a beautiful day and we spent most of it walking alongside Largo Nordenskjold. We had sparkling blue water to our right and snow capped mountains above us to our left. In the sunshine it was hot and we ambled along in t-shirts, stopping to take photos, eat toffee and fill up our water bottles from the icy, pure mountain streams.
Exhausted we arrived at the refugio which was in better working order. We chatted to a nice couple who assured us that the Torres, our final venture and climax of our trip was beautiful and well worth the pain of getting there. It turned out that the guy is my friend´s boss in London (small world) so we gossiped about him (sorry Alan!) while waiting for dinner. Another 3 course meal and another early night.
At 5.50am I was shaken awake and we bleerily stepped into a grey, drizzally morning. We had to catch a shuttle back to town at 2.00 so we had to haul ass up Las Torres in order to make it back down on tie. Half awake and with indignant, overworked muscles screaming at us, we plodded doggedly uphill for 2 hours. It was hard workd and our energy was at a very low ebb. That is why people climb Las Torres first, they have the strength... But it was the weather that did it. Driving, slanted rain, fierce winds and no sign of Las Torres buried deeply in the clounds. The path took us along a narrow ledge over a gorge and the wind was such that I was worried that I would get blown off. Half way up we sheltered in the doorway of a closed refugio and took stock. We were cold, wet and exhausted. The weather was relentless and unchanging so we took an executive desicion to return to base where it was warm. There was tea and the liklihood of being whisked off a mountain by a gust of wind was more remote. We laboured back down to the refugio dissppointed but a little relieved. I tucked myself into a corner by the fire and thawed out. Nevermind. Next time.
Back in Puerto Natales for laundry, internet and another good dinner. We bumped into a few of our fellow hikers and had a nice evening drinking well deserved beer.
What a wonderful few days. I am much appriciative of my 2 escorts Matt and Mike, who kept me going on bribes of toffee, made sure I was heading in the right direction (thankfully) and pulled me out of bogs. I hope that the photos and endless stream of entertainment I provided made it all worhtwhile...
I am now back in Puerto Montt and awaiting a pick up that will take me back in the direction of Santiago. Goodbye Southern Chile and Patagonia, it has been an adventure.
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