Street Meat

We have dined in many restaurants in the last eight months...succulent, impossibly juicy steaks in Buenos Aires, fresh ceviche in Peru - made with fish caught mere hours before - so spicy it nearly made me cry. Chicken and rice in Bolivia every day! But the true taste of South America is to be found on the streets. In every village, and every city, in every country on the continent, on most streets, the evening brings out ladies with grills, fryers, barbeques or juicers, and they cook and sell their delicious food to hungry customers.

In Bolivia, 60 pence gets you a home made hamburger with fries, made by my friend the Burger Lady. I visited her every night I was in La Paz. In Peru, skewers of cow's heart, surprisingly tender, sizzle away as a crowd of people salivate. In Chile, they spoon unhealthy amounts of guacamole on your hot dog. In Argentina, choripan - chorizo hot dog with chimichurri - is the order of the day. In Huanchaco we ate street food practically every day. Walking down the beach to the pier where the ladies with their carts congregate became a ritual in our lazy beach days. Everything was fried. Except the corn. Chips, chicken, strange things made from pumpkin drizzled with fig honey. A full menu on the pavement. As you wait for your food you chat with your chef, and, more often than not, as you sit on the kerb, munching away, when you finish you go back for more. This is true dining. 

Impressions Of Ecuador

We got stuck in Huanchaco. After trekking in Huaraz, we decided to relax on the beach for a few days before heading north to Ecuador. But, as they say, The best laid laid plans oft go awry. One or two days revisiting the sleepy fishing village, lounging on the beach, eating fresh fruit, drinking rum punch and hanging around with our old friend Veronica and our new friend Edgar turned into a week of eating fresh fruit and drinking rum punch and swinging in hammocks. Then two weeks had passed by. Then, our anniversary approached, so we might as well stay a few more days, and celebrate one year of wedded bliss (and the nuptials of our future King) somewhere we know and like. So, a two day detour turned into a three week vacation.

Sadly, staying in Huanchaco for so long meant we had to make up time by speeding through Ecuador, to spend our last few days in Colombia, on the Carribean coast. You can't see it all! So, we spent three days in the country in the middle of the world, mostly seeing said country through bus windows. But, even three days in a place can give you a sketch, a flimsy impression, of what that place is like. And these are my impressions of Ecuador:

Chicken. South Americans are fond of their poultry, but Ecuadorians LOVE chicken. Our feathered friends have no chance of survival here! Every street, every corner has a restaurant (I use that word loosely) selling chicken. KFC is ubiquitous, and you can even get chicken, rice and beans in KFC, but asides from that there are thousands of other chicken outlets. some examples: Senor Pollo (Mr. Chicken), Mas que Pollo (More Than Chicken), Super Pollo (super chicken), Mundo de Pollo (world of chicken), and so on ad nauseam.

Bananas. For hours on a bus in the South of the country, gazing out of the window, banana trees stretch to the horizon, on both sides, the road cutting a swathe through this man made jungle of fruit. A true banana Republic, the scale of which has to be seen to be believed.  It is more bizarre because this happens almost as soon as you cross the border with Peru. the North of Peru is a stark, dusty desert, and suddenly Ecuador is a verdant green, fertile paradise.

The Equator. The country takes its name from the invisible line that bisects it, and visiting the Equator, the centre of the world, was a strange experience. Like a child I leapt over the line, that by the Mitad Del Mundo (centre of the world) monument is not invisible. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, bounding from winter to summer and back again. Silly, but fun!

So, that's what I know about Ecuador. I would have known much more, and had more stories to tell, if I hadn't got stuck in Huanchaco. But, as Edith Piaf sang, je ne regrettais rien!

James Vs. The Pacific

"Let´s go for a swim," I said to my newfound friends Edgar the Norweigan Viking, and Drew. Sat around our campsite in Huanchaco, lazing in hammocks, the roar of the Pacific is audible, and we can see the sunlight glinting on the waves less than 100 metres away. A swim would be refreshing and fun.

So, we wandered down to the beach, and in we went. After 5 minutes of being rolled around in the waves, we had swum out quite a distance. It was exhausting but entertaining stuff. As the waves approached, some 2 metres in height, we swam under them for a salty rush!

But suddenly, I looked behind me and couldn´t see Tash or any of our other friends who we had left on the beach. Then I spotted them, specks in the distance. We had floated down the beach at Huanchaco some 300 metres in a couple of minutes. Where we entered the water was smooth sand. Now directly behind us were jagged rocks. I started to swim back to shore, away from the rocks. Drew followed, but Edgar was nowhere to be seen. Then I panicked, as the realisation dawned that I was swimming with all my strength and not moving.

I tried to calm down, gather my strength, and swim out again. It was hopeless. We were less than 10 metres from the shore, getting dragged around, completely at the mercy of the waves. To any spectators on the beach it looked like we were having a good time. I was getting tired, and scared. Spluttering salty water, I turned to Drew and shouted "I can´t get out." He too was struggling. Then, just when I think I was about to have a "life flashes before your eyes" moment, an almighty wave crashed over the pair of us. I was thrown around like a rag doll, but then, suddenly, felt stones under my feet, and before I knew it was on the beach, coughing, with Drew next to me looking bedraggled.

As we were catching our breath, another enormous wave was breaking behind us, so we got up and ran up the beach. So strong was the water though, that as it passed us, only at knee height, it knocked us over like bowling pins. then, as if the ocean hadn´t humiliated me enough, the current actually pulled my swimming shorts down, so I was led on the pebbles, butt naked for the whole world to see. Embarrassed, exhausted and dejected, I walked back to Tash, thankful to see her, and collapsed on my beach towel. She was building a sandcastle with some friends, laughing and joking. they had seen us, but been blissfully unaware of our peril. For a minute I had thought I was done for; the scariest moment of my whole trip.

Edgar, who had swam out the furthest, made it out of the water about five minutes after us, and looked like a broken man. But we all lived to tell the tale!
So, after that encounter, I won´t be so much as dipping a toe in the Pacific Ocean for quite some time. We are really to blame, though, because stupidly, we hadn´t seen the flag that said, quite clearly, No Swimming.

The Santa Cruz Trek

"How hard can it be?" I said to Tash as our bus slowly wound its way up the steep sides of the Central Andes, on our way to the town of Huaraz. I was trying to persuade her to come on a 4 day trek through some of the most breathtaking terrain in Peru. The problem is that the trek - known as Santa Cruz - involves scaling a mountain pass 4750 metres above sea level. Being keen walkers, but not mountaineers, Tash at last (grudgingly) agreed.

One reason I was so keen to do this trek is that I tried it 6 years ago, and failed. On the very first day my head was punding, every step was agony, and then, facing a steep incline, I threw up and collapsed. Crushed, I let my friends continue, and a very kind Peruvian farmer guided me back to the main road, semi conscious on the back of a very grumpy burro (donkey)

Now, 6 years later, I want to finish what I started. So, with our backpacks suitably packed with nuts, biscuits, fruit, noodles and other essential sustenance, we set off on our way.

To arrive at the trail head, we had to take a cramped combi (minibus) over a snow topped mountain. In Peru, minibuses are: 1 - Never full. There is always room for one more person, bag of chickens etc.
                      2 - Too small for gringos, even average height gringos such as myself.
                      3 - Driven by maniacs who are not in the least perturbed when driving 60mph on a road with a  
                            200 metre drop mere inches to the right of the (nearly bald) tyre.

Then, arriving at the small town of Vaqueria in one piece, we turned left off the highway and struck out into the Peruvian countryside, for 4 days of pleasant strolling. Or so we thought.

Day 1 - The walk was easy enough, ambling between farmhouses that became more and more sparse, until we left all signs of human civilization behind. Clouds obscured the view beyond the lush green valley we were walking up. We had just passed a young campesina (peasant girl) when she told us, ominously, that rain was on the way. We picked up our pace.
Unfortunately, we were still hours from the campsite when the downpour came. It was a torrential mess, and despite our backpacks having rain covers, the contents were drenched within minutes. We marched through paths and fields that had become quagmires of mud, feeling cold and depressed. My shoulders ached and I wanted a burro again!
Then, 10 minutes from camp, two horsemen rounded a corner behind us and kindly gave us each a draught of Pisco, a strong Peruvian grape brandy. Warmed up and energised, we set off on our way, and mercifully the rain stopped just long enough for us to pitch our tent.
The night was cold, and after an unsatisfying supper of noodles, we went to sleep, shivering and wondering what the next day, the hardest by far of the trek, would bring.

Day 2 - Up at 6am, and on the road by 6:30. The dreary drenching of the day before was forgotten as we slipped into fresh, dry socks and clothes, and were greeted to a view of the enormous peaks that surrounded our camp, wreathed in cloud and glowing a fiery red in the cold dawn sun. We set off along the trail, which soon, at the head of the valley, swung left and began to climb. I stuffed my cheeks with coca leaves but the ascent was still tough, and every 5 minutes or so I had to stop to regain my breath.At about midday, we thought we were making excellent progress, when we rounded a bend and saw our destination towering above us. Punta Union - 4750 metres high, a gap in a jagged snow topped ridge like a missing tooth. It was at least another 2 hours away, all uphill, and a daunting prospect.

We had no guide on this trek. The trail was well worn and well marked, but in some places was dubious, and we had to pick a path and hope for the best. However, earlier that morning a group of trekkers who were blessed with mules and guides overtook us, unladen with backpacks as they were.
We tried our best to keep them in sight and so follow the best path up to the pass. However, when we were about 300 metres below, we found ourselves on a large expanse of rock, with no footprints to follow. Knowing the general direction, we headed that way, climbing over rock faces, when the fog came down and the hail stone began. It was a disaster. Tash fell and hurt her back, and I started to panic. She was in incredible pain, but we had to get over the pass. I shouldered what I could of her pack, but she still struggled, every step a labour, every breath a fight.

Thankfully, fortune smiled on us that day. The hail subsided after 10 very worrying minutes, and Tash, by some force of inner strength that she summoned from God knows where, forced herself to take step after agonising step until we were at Punta Union. Situated at the tip where two valleys meet, we stepped through the gash in the rock and came out on the other side to meet...the most spectacular view of our lives.
To our right was a wall of ice, a glacier groaning some kilometres away, and below it a teardrop lake of turquoise. To our left stood three spire like peaks, unhidden by cloud for mere moments, as though our arrival  was cosmically timed. Straight ahead was our path; a meandering trail down a valley splashed with the blue of lakes.Tash wept with a bittersweet mixture of tears: relief at having climbed the path, awe at the beauty of the scene before us, and anger at me for dragging her up the bloody mountain! We could see our campsite, we just had to get down.

2 hours after reaching the pass we arrived at camp, exhausted but satisfied. The trip down was obviously much easier, and for the last few hundred metres we were practically sprinting. We did 9 hours of walking that day, and from now on climbing passes is something I will restrict to doing in the Lake District, where you can always breathe and are always within walking distance of a good pub!

Day 3 - We struck our tent and were out for 6:30 again, and as today was all downhill, we felt certain we would make good progress. Straight down the valley, past one campsite, to a second camp, leaving a mere 4 hours of walking for the final day.

Well, the best laid plans oft go awry! Within two hours of setting off we stumbled upon two trekkers who had overtaken us the day before. They had lost their guide! We were discussing what to do when he came around the corner, looking none too pleased. We decided to tag along with these trekkers, which was a very fortuitous decision, for all of a sudden the guide turned from the path when we reached a flat plain between the valley sides. "The bridge is out if you carry on that way," he said cheerily.

We finally reached the river that was thundering down the plain, when our adopted guide began to take his shoes off. "We cross here," he said, "The bridge is out!" So, after much deliberation, I took the plunge, and icy water swirled around my booted feet as I waded across. I kept my boots on because I needed balance. The last thing I wanted was for my backpack to go in the river, tent and all. I´d rather have wet shoes! So we got to the other side, and then abandoned our guide. We were lucky to meet him, as later on we bumped into a few people who were not aware the bridge was out, and walked futilely in circles for hours.

The trouble was we had crossed from the path into wild land, and next stumbled into a dense patch of thorny bushes. This is where calamity befell us again. Like the graceless bull I am, I was charging through the trees when I heard Tash scream. Like in a comedy film, a branch had snapped back and caught her right in the eye. Unlike in a comedy film, it wasn´t funny. Once again, I was miles from help with an injured wife. Well, I married a woman with an immense amount of fuerza (strength). Sporting sunglasses and a walking pole, she hobbled down the valley, winking all the way.

Worried about Tash´s eye, we summoned the last of our strength and by the end of the third day had not only reached the second campsite, but the end of the valley itself. We got a bus back to Huaraz, and our lovely hostel owner tended to Tash´s poorly eye. It was a long, fast-paced march through beautiful scenery, but when you´ve been rained on, hailed on, attacked by branches, slept in wet clothes, waded across ice cold rivers and got lost in a marsh, sometimes you just want a nice warm bed.

The Sacred Leaf

"La Hoja De Coca No Es Droga!"

this slogan can be seen throughout the Peruvian and Bolivian highlands, daubed on the walls of poor rural shacks, and on buses in the cities of the Andes. It means "the coca leaf is not a drug." for the coca leaf, bane of the West, is sacred in these parts. When chewed, it staves off hunger and fatigue, and prevents altitude sickness. handy when a daily stroll can take you 4000 metres above sea level.

Unfortunately, we think of the coca leaf as the mainstay ingredient in the creation of the fiendish drug cocaine. for this reason, it is illegal for Peru and Bolivia to export the leaf, and crops are regular destroyed as part of the "War On Drugs", with little regard for the farmers that grow the leaf, or the culture of the region that the leaf is grown.

Having spent months in the mountains, I have come to realise that the coca leaf is special, maybe sacred. We did a trek a week ago where we had to climb 4750 metres above sea level. If I did not have that bitter, disgusting tasting leaf packed into a ball in my cheeks like a hamster, I would not have made it.

On the same trek, Tash hurt her eye badly in a tree related incident. If we did not have coca leaves to put in boiling water and bathe her eye, the injury would have been worse.

Chewing coca predates the Incas in Peru. It is ingrained in their culture, and is as far removed from cocaine as digestive biscuits. Therefore, now I know, and say to any ignorant Westerners "La hoja de coca no es droga!"

Surfboards & Sandboards

What do you think if you hear the word Peru? Inca ruins perched atop mountains wreathed in cloud? Boats cruising lazily down rivers in the sweltering jungle? Perhaps. What about prisitine beaches, perfect for surfing, or enormous sand dunes rearing out of vast deserts, again perfect, but for the less known sport of sandboarding? Thought not!

We have spent about a month on Peru´s scorching desert coast, being beach bums in the fishing village of Huanchaco, and lazing around the desert oasis of Huacachina. It has been a very chilled, slow-paced, rum-soaked time, and we enjoyed it so much that after a month in the mountains, we are now back in Huanchaco, doing it all over again!

But first, let me tell you about the sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding, but on sand, and there you have it. It is a fun way to kill a few afternoons, but it kills your legs, and sand gets everywhere! Weeks after leaving the oasis town of Huacachina I was finding sand in places I best not mention.

Renting a sandboard costs about 1 pound for 2 or 3 hours, but the majority of that time is spent traipsing up dunes at a snail´s pace. After two days of unsuccessfully trying to descend a dune without falling, I abandoned my board and just decided to run down the dune as fast as possible. Lo and behold, it was more fun than with the board! Granted, I face planted at high speed, winded myself, ate buckets of sand and ripped my trousers, but these are the experience we cross oceans for!

After sandboarding, we had a taste for adventure, and went surfing in Huanchaco. Well, Tash went surfing. I laid down on a big plastic board and paddled around a bit. I surfed 6 years ago in Huanchaco, and was determined to do it again, as standing on the board, riding bodacious waves is an experience like no other. however, after paying for my lesson, squeezing painfully into my wetsuit and paddling into the big blue Pacific, something gave in my back. I tried to stand on my board, but it felt like an elastic band had snapped on my spine and I couldn´t stand up. No matter how hard I tried my back just twinged, refused to straighten, thus leaving me bent over like a puppet with no master, into I fell in the water, and wanted to drown from embarrassment. A 7 year old kid in my class was practically tap dancing on her board.

Tash had much more success. Not exactly like a fish in the water, I was shocked she even tried, but when she got going, she didn´t want to leave! She is now a budding surfer chick, and keeps using words like "gnarly", "radical", and "awesome".

So, Peru, surf mecca. It gave me great pleasure to know that whilst I was sat on a beach licking my ice cream, everyone back home was dreadfully cold, enduring a lovely British winter. Hahahahaha!!!

The Pub Toilet

This poem is about the two pubs where I worked during my years at university. It describes what went on in these rough drinking dens, and what I witnessed, not what I did! However, it is a rude, vulgar poem and so my family may want to give it a miss! You have been warned mother!

The Pub Toilet.

Coke snorted, pills popped, joints rolled,
Coins dropped,
Condoms in the toilet bowl.
Sticky floor mopped with piss,
Urinals adorned with fag butts,
A pimply teen sneaks in a mag
And looks at the sluts.

Thew gambler, the drunkard,
The unemplyed, the old and the bored,
The students and the dealers
Drink pint after pint,
Night after night.
They have all placed their arses
On the cold plastic that is never cleaned,
And underneath the johnny machine
Are hardened chunks of collective vomit.

As the crowds pour in and drink
With greed, not thirst,
Local feuds burst, and things are measured
As only best or worst,
And as the men, side by side converse,
They bitch more than housewives at teatime,
And blind eyes are turned to this tiled office
Of small crime.

Weekends mean profits and bad dancing, and
Cloned stories echo of macho
Conquests to be, and conquests had,
Told by every dashing lad,
Who considers himself a bit of a cad.

There are locked cubicles for cocaine and fucking,
Once someone cooked up some heroin
In a MilkyBar wrapper,
And often there´s poo outside of the crapper.
The graffitti is crude, predictable shite,
You can see if Dazzer, or Dust was here last night.

The odour lingers on your fingers, a veneer
On the cracked tiles, polluting your nostrils,
As you stand with your cock out,
Looking straight down.
This is where I work.

Cuzco

Valley of myth,
Where an empire died,
Where stories are still alive,
Whispered by the grass
You tread, histories divulged by
The living dead.

Golden, visible rays of Sun
Ignite the day and shine a path
Where priests and freaks and shamans run,
To give meaning to this cosmic laugh.

Exploding in a culture clash,
Here stones can speak and their speech is old,
And alone, under stars that see, on streets so cold,
One converses with ghosts, and secrets are told,
And you keep them or spread them, and sell them for gold,
Or turn them to places where tickets are sold.

Cuzco, ancient navel,
Where I am able to see.
Qo´osco, fountain of harmony,
Sing me your songs
Enrapture me.

Peruvian Girl

She has the sharp eyes of one
Versed in commerce, but
The girl has dirty clothes.

She peers through the window
Into the other world,
They speak words she doesn´t know
And have infinite precious dollars
To pay for the food she will never taste.
She just wants one for the doll
She is trying to sell.

The man on the other side has a pale face,
And every day eats gourmet food.
He never sees the little Peruvian girls,
They don´t exist in his world.

Santiago Hangover (October 2010)

The strange yet familiar crescendo of drunkenness,
A dizzying spiral I climb, then stumble
 And try to maintain.
Any pillow will do
To end this nonsense.

The next day, a return to
Lucidity via egg and liquids,
Arbitrary words fired off
With no thought.
Sun, Yellow Face!
Fries the synapses
As I lie in parks with fresh grass
And creaky swings.
I have no home for now.

A few bars of music stops
All worrying, and I lie
Content. nothing to be proud of,
And nothing to repent..

Fate

The loaded dice somebody else rolls for you.
The web of steel shimmering in moonlight
That no blade can cut, no force tear asunder.
Stormclouds as menacing as menacing as a rough sea
That you walk towards, eyes wide with wonder.
Cages we build ourselves, and the ill-fitting key
We throw away before punching out.
Many believe, and still more doubt.

Blessings or curses of ancestral Gods
On dusty pages,
Young and old, more than gold,
The plight of all, and obsession of ages,
Fate. The wild plain we wish to tame,
The uncharted land we desire
To understand.

The Red Road

Haunting mirages from the dark centuries
On the other side of the window.
My hot breath clouds it over
And I lose focus.

Lost alphabets calling to us,
To ressurrect the forgotten,
Sew up the tear between time
And renewal.
Read the stones, the ancient lines,
Lead us away from man unkind
Summon the shepherd who can find,
the way out to the way in,
So we can end now, and again begin.

the Red Road is open,
But the trail is cold,
Footprints fossilized,
Wisdom grown old.

Sunrise On Uyuni

Arise, Inti orb
And paint my world,
Banish the turquoise twilight of dawn,
Highlight Earth curves,
I stand in awe, young yet infinite
As a new day is born.

I walk by the coloured lake,
This mighty dreamscape, conjured
In the minds of insane men,
And unfurled
In the high places of the world.

You can touch the horizon,
Leap from ash stained volcanoes,
See where the end of the plain goes
Gaze into pits, burned by the mud
They spew.
See the things that once
Every man knew.

And yet not find words.

Getting Horny In Peru!

Beep beep! So sounds the car horn, a sound that in the city of Lima is as common as the roar of the Pacific ocean, the cry of "Taxi!" as cabs hurtle past, and the repetitive beat of salsa music. Car horns here often make more exotic noises, such as a belching sound or a few bars of an infuriatingly catchy tune, but generally, the bulk of your daily soundtrack in Lima is "Beep! Beep!"

It gets annoying. Especially as the horns don´t stop at night. No noise pollution laws here! So, as the cacophony continues 24-7, I found myself asking the question, "why?"

The car horn, for a Peruvian, seems to be a tool of at least equal - if not more - importance than the brakes. The horn means "Get out of my way!" It also means "I´m here, please don´t crash into me," as well as "hello," or "goodbye," or even, "can I buy a pen off you please?" (That last one is not a joke. It happens.)

We British are so reserved when it comes to deplying our horns, that to me a honking sound means someone has done something extremely rash and dangerous, or someone is very angry. So, as I walk around the streets of Lima, I am constantly flinching as horns blare, and a look around preparing to do that most British things; apologise. It is a habit that I am finding it very hard to break.

Bloggito!

Peruvians are a fan of the diminutive. In their beautifully slow, simple Spanish, they often end words with the three letters "ito," signifying something to be small or short. For example, "corto" means "short," so "cortito" would be "very short." Similarly, "almuerzo" means "lunch", so "almuerzito" is a little lunch. All very simple and easy to understand for the budding linguist.

However, this trend can become confusing, as it does not just apply to adjectives, but all sorts of words. Take the word "ahora," meaning "now." Now is a word that denotes immediacy. If something is happening now, the word locks the event in the present. It can also be used with as an imperative to strenghten a command, eg. Do the dishes now!

But, in Peru, I have been left at bus stops scratching my head many a time as a cheery conductor informs me the bus will arrive "ahorita." Little now? Does that mean right now, or not quite now, or nearly now? I have not got a bloody clue, and generally, half an hour later I'm stood in exactly the same place, convinced the bus is just around the corner, scared to move because the word "now" has been uttered, but in some vexing form which I do not understand.

Sometimes the "ito" phenomenon enters the territory of the downright bizarre. For example, driving around La Paz on a smog spewing bus, our friend Maria pointed out the cemetery. A cemetery, obviously, is where the dead reside. Dead, in Spanish, is "muerto." But, bafflingly, Maria referred to them as "muertitos." Was this a cemetery of midgets? I just can´t get to grips with how the "ito" rule applies. But, although I may never understand it I find it endlessly quirky, endearing, and fun. Finito!

Throw Away Your Guidebook!

That's it! I have dumped my Lonely Planet. finally, ridding myself of the hefty tome that practically every gringo burdens themselves with. I have had enough. Lonely Planet, you officially suck. Now, time for a rant!

In bus stations across the continent you see tanned gringos with their ludicrous hippy trousers that they wouldn't be seen dead in back home, all dressed the same, "free spirits" poring through the same guidebook which tells them all to go to the same places. They rely entirely on their little book, so there is no adventure left in their "adventure". Lonely Planet is a slayer of spontaneity. What hostels to go to, where to eat, how to walk around a city, all dictated to you by the didactic book in your backpack. But guess what, the whole thing is a swindle. The listings for hostels, for example, are completely arbitrary. Places that are excellent are left out of the book, whilst the institutions of the crumby Hostelling International organisation always get a mention, despite Lonely Planet's firm assurance that they do not indulge in the unsporting practice of supporting other organisations, and are completely unbiased. Whatever.

Another gripe of mine, is that Lonely Planet is badly written. The tone shifts from deadly serious to pun-ridden text, and the writers are obsessed with superlatives. The fastest this, the highest that, the deepest blah blah blah. Every single place is "magical," or "wondrous." Every site, every city, is so hyped up that being underwhelmed is depressingly common when you arrive in a new place.

This wanderer's Bible, that has the power to make or break restaurants, hotels, even entire towns, is also terribly inconsistent. One case in point is Lake Titicaca:

       In the Bolivia section of the book, it says "Lake Titicaca is often wrongly described as the highest                         navigable lake in the world."
       Then, in the Peru section of the same book, "South America's largest lake is also the world's highest navigable lake."

What drivel! Give the editor a slap, and give the person who thinks "highest navigable lake" is a worthy accolade a slap too.

Another case is Buenos Aires, which apparently has the best coffee of any capital, and pizza to rival New York or Naples. Well, the coffee tastes like sweetened piss, and I had that opinion seconded by many Italians, and I've had better pizza in the Bolivian jungle. 

On this trip of ours, every highlight has come without the aid of the Lonely Planet. The caves in Tilcara we heard of by asking locals, and I felt like a bona fide explorer of old as we scrambled up to them, panting under the baking sun, sweat dripping into the dust. The town of San Pedro, near the Iguazu waterfalls, unmentioned in the backpacker's bible, and so devoid of backpackers. The lakes near Perito Moreno that we discovered by letting Tash get behind the wheel of a car and just drive around. All without the help of a silly book. Jack Kerouac and company didn't need guidebooks, the genuine hippies in the sixties didn't need to be told how to get to India, they just jumped in their magic buses and drove. And I too have decided that I no longer require the services of Lonely Planet. I am firing my guide! A footnote in my tirade is that the book is also bloody heavy, so I want to get shut of it!  

So, Lonely Planet, you have rested on your laurels too long, and this traveller has had enough. In the bin you go, you inconsistent, uninformative, downright lying book of loo-roll. Good riddance! And I urge other travellers to do the same thing...have a real adventure, don't be told what to do by a book! You might just discover something you didn't know about, or find a town you hadn't planned on visiting, or sleep in a bed you didn't book via the book. If you get stuck, every single town has a tourist Information centre, and the people who work there are happy to help, and know what they are talking about. So, wandering gringos, I beseech you, throw away your guidebook!

At The Copacabana

Copacabana. No! I´m not in Brazil, sipping piña coladas on a beach populated by tanned beauties and samba rythyms. Sadly not today. No, we are in Copacabana, Bolivia, on the shores of the magnificent, if frigid, Lake Titicaca. A lake that, in Inca mythology, gave birth to the Sun, and the first Incas, Viracocha and Mama Ocllo. Today, the lake is no less inspiring, a vast sapphire inland ocean, situated 3800 metres above sea level, on the stark Altiplano (high plain).

We are here for yet another fiesta. Undeterred by our bad experience at Alasitas in La Paz (see previous blog) we have joined thousands of Bolivians for the biggest party in Copacabana's calendar...The Virgin Of Candelaria festival.

But first, we did some trekking. After two weeks in La Paz, a city situated in a smog filled bowl, fresh air, nature and exercise are what we needed. So, after a day of R & R, we set out with our newfound Aussie mate Grant on a 17km jaunt to Yampupata, a small village situated on a peninsula, from which we would take a boat to the isolated Isla Del Sol (Island Of The Sun).

Walking at altitude is hard. the slightest incline steals your breath immediately, and so we took the walk slow, and took a few detours. The first was to Baños Del Inca (Inca Baths), a 500 year old natural spring that had been tamed by the Incas to irrigate their land. There was also a 2 metre deep pool carved out of a single stone, which highlighted their skill at engineering. The keys to the baths were held by an enterprising kid of no more than 8, who tried to extort us by charging us entry to the baths, after we'd already paid to get into the small onsite museum . His cheeky grin gave him away though, but I'm sure in future he'll rip off many a gringo (foreigner).

The next stop, after walking 5km up a road that skirted the edge of the lake and gave us spectacular views of the two hills that towered above either side of Copacabana, were Islas Flotantes (Floating Islands). Although they may sound like something out of Gulliver's Travels, these were simple reed constructions that the inhabitants of the area have lived on for hundreds of years. Primarily, it was to escape the war-like Incas, and then the marauding Spaniards, but nowadays they attract tourists. I say the islands were made of reeds, but that was in the old days. Now, they are constructed using nets filled with plastic bottles, over which wooden planks are put, and for aesthetic value, and tradition, reeds are scattered over the wood. So, although not "authentic" they are still islands that float! After a lunch of beautiful Titicaca trout, we continued on our journey.

Another 5km brought us to an old Inca road, a handy shortcut. Imagine a Roman road, and you get the idea. The Incas built their highways to be direct, and whilst the main road for traffic looped around the surrounding hills, climbing gradually, the old Inca road went straight up. It was a tiring walk, and strange feeling that the crumbling rocks under our feet were once an artery of the greatest empire in the Western hemisphere.

From here, it was a relatively straightforward walk to Yampupata, and we were treated to views of bays and inlets that were invisible from Copacabana, shimmering under the slowly setting Sun.

Eventually, with a few hours of daylight remaining, we arrived in Yampupata, and chartered a boat with a reliable old sea-dog. At least, I thought he was reliable. I could have sailed a boat better than that old nutcase. The cabin was full of suffocating petrol fumes, and I think they went to the old man's head! He sailed side on into the waves, which, given the size of the lake, were considerable. So, with our boat rocking, and the shore retreating into the distance, I began wondering if I would be able to swim back.

Luckily, our inept captain got us to the dock on Isla Del Sol...but the wrong dock. I have been here before, in 2005, and so knew where we were supposed to be. Our destination was fuente Del Inca, the old Inca stairway and fountain, but this cowboy sailor (?) had dropped us in the middle of nowhere on a half built jetty, and tried to fob us off by telling us it was the fuente Del Inca. After a brief argument, in which we told the captain we wouldn't pay him the full amount, he sailed away, leaving us in the twilight in tierra incognito. Our celebratory end of walk beer would have to wait, there was more walking to do.

We set off towards the other end of the island, through pathless fields, and after another hour of walking, a child ran towards us, and guided us to a hostel, situated on the stairway where we were supposed to be. I flopped own on my bed, exhausted; the Isla Del Sol is a hilly, windswept place, and despite its small size, spanning the island on foot is deceptively arduous.

After another day of trekking, and a night in which Grant was attacked by a mouse in his bed in pitch black darkness, it was time to leave the Island. At 7am we made our way down the ancient inca stairs, which directly faced the rising Sun (no coincidence), and got a boat piloted by a responsible man back to Copacabana. And then, the party began...

Ostensibly, the Virgen De Candelaria is a religious festival. During the daytime, this is true. Many pilgrims come from all over Bolivia and neighbouring Peru to see the model of the Virgin displayed in front of the Moorish Cathedral in Copacabana, which is an architectural gem, with mosaic covered domes atop gleaming white walls. Makeshift stands for spectators had been erected in front of the Church to see the many processions that would pass in front of the virgin and offer prayers. We had front row seats.

At 2pm the marching bands struck up, and the procession began. First came the band...a mix of brass and percussion, and old traditional Bolivian instruments such as panpipes and flutes. Then, following came the dancers...women, young and old, in a dizzying array of costumes and colours. After half an hour of incessant playing, the band moved on down the street, followed by the fatigued dancers. Show's over, we thought, ready to leave our seats. Then, blaring from the corner of the plaza, another band's trumpets sounded, and another wave of dancers came. These dancers sported different costumes. Then, another lot, and another, all afternoon, bands and dancers in swift succession. The costumes were as varied as they were fanciful...some dresses looked like three tiered wedding cakes, there were men adorned in suits of shiny gold (plastic), men dressed as condors, conquistadors, slaves, dragons. there was a man in a (literally) explosive firework suit, there were cars ornately decorated, all accompanied by jovial big band music. It was an amazing specatacle.

Then, as the final dancers shuffled away and the sun set, all thoughts of religious practice were lost, as beer started to flow. An endless river of beer. Streetside stalls had piled crates of the amber nectar 5 deep and 5 high. Figuring that one crate contains 12 bottles, one bottle is 620 mililitres, and these stalls must have numbered over 100, that is an immense amount of beer.

Such drunkenness I have never before witnessed. The Bolivians, dressed so sharply and parading so proudly hours before, became a shambolic, messy, gregariously brilliant rabble. The stern women in their traditional dress cut loose and started dancing, men literally drank until they dropped, and children carried those who went too far to bed. Grant, Natasha and I were in the middle of the madness, dancing away merrily.

The bands tried to play, but their perfect rythym of the afternoon became garbled, and instruments were out of tune. But, dancing like an idiot, it sounded brilliant!

Towards the end of the night, I was walking across the grassy plaza, and noticed that the grass squelched underfoot. Sodden. But it had not rained all day. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man "watering" this lawn. then I realised that I was walking across the toilet, men everywhere hosing the plaza down. the streets too were awash with a cocktail of urine and spilt booze. Such debauchery! It reminded me of something of the days of Dickens! I ignored it, and carried on dancing!

I woke up with a bad head. I groaned, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. Then, suddenly, I heard a familiar sound. The sound of drums and trumpets. Was I in Groundhog Day? No, I was not. The party was starting all over again. We joined in again, but with much less enthusiasm. And then, on the third day, when it started all over again, again, we decided that it was time to leave Copacabana, and say hello to a new country, the real land of the Incas...Peru.

More Dispatches From On High: La Paz Part 2

The old woman takes my suitcase, measuring about 4 inches wide by 2 high, and places it over the slightly acrid smelling smoke billowing from the stove in front of her. Then, she sprinkles alcohol over the suitcase, pours grains of rice over it, mumbles an incantation I don´t understand, and hands it back. The suitcase is stuffed with rolls of fake euros and dollars, and this blessing it has just been given will bring me wealth and good fortune over the coming year.

This is the Alasitas Festival, the Festival of Abundance. Hordes of Bolivians crowd the streets, coming to buy their miniature desires and have them blessed in a curious mix of Christian and Pre-Colombian beliefs. Market stalls sell miniature cars, houses, shops, farms, university degrees, literally anything, and people buy them, hoping to acquire the real thing later in the year. It is a curious and chaotic time. My suitcase, I hope, will ensure I stay safe on my journey.

But today I am going to receive a lesson in irony. After my suitcase was blessed, we went into the cathedral on Plaza Murillo...the most crowded house of God I have ever entered. The pews had been removed, and a swarming mass of people were pushing and shoving in a most unholy fashion, trying to enter the radius of the Holy Water that priests were showering everywhere. I was sucked into this crowd, and felt like I was in a rock gig, not a church, as I was shoved towards the priest. The Holy Water splashed my tiny suitcase, and, feeling like the congregation might stampede at any moment, I battled my way out of the cathedral. By the main door, I turned to get a photo of the insanity. I reached in my back for my camera, but my bag was empty. No camera, no wallet.

Being well aware that thieves abound in South America, I had attached two carabinas to my bag, to stop any would-be pickpockets. I looked down...my bag was empty, but the carabinas were still secure. How the hell? I turned my bag upside down, and there it was...a four inch wide slash across the bottom of my bag. I turned a burning crimson colour. How could I not notice somebody hacking away at my bag? They had taken our camera, and my wallet, which luckily had no bank cards, and only 15 pounds worth of cash. Even luckier, my dear Natasha diligently uploads our photos onto facebook once or twice a week, so we only lost a few snaps. But I didn´t feel lucky. I felt angry, and foolish. At least, even as an atheist, I felt sure that whoever had just robbed me, in the middle of La Paz´s most sacred cathedral, was going straight to hell.

It turned out I was not the only victim. A Bolivian man ran up to Natasha and I when he saw us talking to a policeman. The inside pocket of his suit jacket had been slashed in the same manner as my bag. They may be wretched little thieves, but they are good at what they do.

So, what is the lesson? I guess, no matter how careful you are, if someone wants to steal from you, they will. Or maybe the lesson is always be wary, especially at church? Not particularly heartening lessons. What I think I have learnt from that day instead, is, forgive, but do not forget.

Photos

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High Times: La Paz

La Paz. The highest capital city in the world. I have been here for nearly two weeks now. Usually, tourists get stuck here because of Bolivia´s notorious roadblocks. But Tash and I are stuck here because we can´t bring ourselves to leave.

We arrived on the 9th January, and immediately began our customary exploration of the town on foot. I had been before, in 2005, and not much has changed. There is less litter, less visible poverty, less strange smells, and more tourists. We soon bumped into two friends we met on the farm where we worked in Argentina, who informed us of a very good, cheap alojamiento (very basic hostel) only two blocks from our expensive, draughty place. So, we changed hostels, and we are still here!

So, for the last week or so, we have been based in the ominous sounding, but completely harmless Witches Market. The witches are a nice bunch actually. A few of them look like centuries old hags, and they are very brash and sometimes downright rude to foreigners, but I like them. One sold me a bag full of leaves from the forest to help with a sore throat I had, and, despite my scepticism, it worked! (Or maybe it was the antibiotics Maria, our hostel owner, gave me?)

On Friday night, we went to a peña in a cobbled street that has been standing since the 1700s. I was nervous, as the audience looked upmarket and old aged, and I felt ridiculously underdressed, but as soon as the lights went down, and the party started it was brilliant.

A peña is essentially a working men´s club for Bolivians, except the entertainment is good. We were treated to traditional dances from all over Bolivia, including one in which a man dressed as a giant devil did battle with a camp-looking angel. The angel won unfortunately.

Then, once the dancing stopped, on came Pepe Murillo and his Bolivians. Pepe is a charango (like a ukulele) player who knows how to work a crowd. He looked like a cross between Adrien Brody and The Fonz, and, after asking everyone in the audience where they were from, he and his band would play a song from that country. He amazingly sang in Japanese and German, and his bassist played a killer rock´n´roll bassline by Bill Haley and The Comets. No surprises who they chose to cover when we said we were from England! (you guessed it, Los Beatles) After Pepe had wrapped up with some Latin American classics, I thought the show was over. But, never!

People coming from Bolivia into Argentina always talked about how they despised the food here. In fact, they launched so much invective at bolivian cuisine I was worried I might actually become thin when I came here. But, they lie! The food here is absolutely...adequate.You can get a decent meal in a restaurant for about a fiver, or go for cheap eats, on the street or with a traditional almuerzo. Almuerzo (lunch) in La Paz is a three course carbrohydrate bonanza. After the starter soup, which always contains potatoes, rice or pasta, some floating vegetables and a bone, what´s for mains? Potatoes, rice, pasta? How about all three, accompanied with a big piece of fried chicken? But, for between 50 - 80 pence, you can´t complain. In fact, I love it! What lets the almuerzo down is the postre (dessert). Usually chocolate that looks (and tastes) like another brown sticky substance, or, my favourite, a banana with a dollop of marmalade. Yum! I usually skip dessert.

The alternative to almuerzo is the street food, which is greasy, cheap, ridden with diseases, and delicious. You can get salteñas (like chicken pasties) for breakfast, burgers for lunch and empañadas (like beef pasties!) for dinner; all three for ten shiny Bolivianos. (one shiny pound)

The other day Maria took us to the market in El Alto. El Alto (literally - high) is the city above La Paz, on a high plateau at the head of the valley that La Paz spills down. Walking around the market, led by a 4" Bolivian, we four gringos (we went with samson and Merlin, our friends from the farm) stood out like four sore thumbs. There were no other gringos for miles, and we were sandwiched into narrow alleyways. I was sure a pickpocket was going to relieve me of my wallet. Sure enough, an old man "accidentally" spilled dirt on my backpack. I knew this was a distraction, so reached for my pocket. Someone elses hand was trying to furtively weasel his way in there! I yanked the thief´s hand away and started yelling "F Off" in the angriest, scariest Spanish voice I could muster. When we got out of the crowd, my hand practically glued to my pocket, I checked my backpack. All present and correct. They had tried to steal from Merlin´s bacpack as well, but everyone knows you can´t steal from a wizard. It´s impossible. Despite nothing being taken, Maria was very upset, and ashamed of her countrymen.

But, other than the near-robbery, the market was brilliant. Without Maria to lead us through the labyrinthine maze of streets, we would have become very, very lost. They had 4 streets of mobile phones, about 5 city blocks crammed with clothes (all genuine designer of course), you could purchase puppies if you so desire, chickens, (dead or alive) car parts, flags, police uniforms, TVs, buttons, amplifiers, cheese, llama wool, llama foetus, llama jumpers or llama meat. Anything! It was a hectic, chaotic place. Like a giant Argos superstore with no rules, and a million checkouts. Madness.

We have been culture vultures in La Paz too. It´s not all greasy food and crime fighting! We went to the excellent National Art Museum, which displayed works by Bolivia´s Indigenous Movement, who, instead of placing light bulbs on the floor, chopping sharks in half or flinging poo at the ceiling, make real art that says something.

There are many more tales to come from La Paz, but for now, I´m off to haggle with a witch about a llama foetus.

La Paz - Me Encanta

Bolivia: Counting Condors.

The Condor. It is, essentially, a big vulture. It is, therefore, an ugly bird. Its head is bald, and its beak hooked, so it can rummage through the carcasses of fallen animals without blood congealing on its feathers. However, when I use the word big, read, absolutely bloody huge. Yes, it is the size of the bird that makes it magnificent, and beautiful.

The first Condor we saw was with Rufo, when we were doing the Che Guevara tour (blog on that coming soon!) In the distance we saw a bird, gliding on unseen thermals. To my untrained eye it seemed like any other bird of prey. Elegant and menacing on the wind. But Rufo knew it was a Condor. We had been driving down a perilous, cliff hugging stretch of road, with Rufo cautiously guiding the 4x4. As soon as he saw the bird though, he threw caution off the cliff, and accelerated to a speed that nearly changed the colour of my pants. The condor was descending, and Rufo wanted to race it to get a good view. I would like to see a condor, I thought, as we sped around a tight hairpin bend, but I would also like to survive. When I tried to voice my thoughts, however, they came out in nothing but a whimper. When we got to the point where the bird should have been, we saw the last of it's tail feathers float behind a wall of rock.

Three days later, we were off with Rufo again, this time with the sole purpose of seeing condors. It was our third tour with the great "gordito (chubby)" guide, and this time we had an Australian couple, a Mexican, an American and a highly irritating German girl in tow.

It was a 4 hour trek across a ridge, up steep hills that Rufo, in the traditional Bolivian manner, assured us were "slight inclines." (It is a strange quirk with Bolivians, that distances and measurements seem to mean nothing to them. They are not trying to annoy or fool you when they say the shop is 5 minutes away, and 2 hours later you're gasping for water in the peaks of the Andes. They just measure things in their own, speecial way. Similarly, if you ask a Bolivian for directions, they will give you them, whether they know where your intended dedstination is or not. So, you have to ask half a dozen people the same question, and cross reference the answers!)
The walk, however, was beautiful. Every dozen metres you climbed, the landscape seemed to change, becoming less green, more harsh. Eventually, we got to our vantage point. On a narrow ledge, we looked down to a small rock escarpment, a hundred metres below. A waterfall plunged over the edge, and huddled around the rocks were the birds.

The place Rufo led us to was like an airport for Andean Condors. At any one time there were seven or eight birds by the waterfall, playing with eachother, drinking and pruning themselves. All the time there were new arrivals, or departures. Condors would swoop down the valley, circle once or twice, and come in to land. They were enormous. We were close enough to appreciate their size as they flew overhead. The wingspan can reach three metres. You can see the shadow of a condor on the valley floor as it glides imperiously hundreds of metres above. And they are masters of the air...some would take off in twos, and fly around the valley in tandem, in a formation sychronised to a perfection that would impress the Red Arrows. Rarely flapping their wings, they can glide for hundreds of kilometres without stopping. Some of the condors we were watching may have flown to that point, in landlocked Bolivia, from the Pacific ocean. As they glide, you can appreciate their size and formidable weight, as they are not buffeted by the wind, as the other smaller birds we saw (vultures and hawks) were. They have an elegance and a grace incongruous with their ugly features. In flight they are stunning, but on the ground they are horrendous.

Apparently, the place we were that day, deserted and isolated, is the best place to see Condors in the world. I wasn't sure, until rufo said, "Vamos" (Let's go!) As if on cue the condors begin their grand finale. Four or five would take to the sky at once. Above and below, and on every side there were condors. I was trying to count them, but in the end we could only estimate. We saw between 40 and 50 of the birds that day. We had to walk for seven hours, and the 3 hour descent was through a rainstorm that turned the pathway to a river, but I was grinning like a maniac all the way down. Drenched but happy. Becuase, like seeing the ferns in Amboro, seeing condors brought me close to nature, and close to a presious animal that we almost wiped out. to see so many, flying with a liberty we can only dream of, was an amazing experience. They are sky-kings, giants of the air, the mightiest birds of all. Condors.

Bolivia: Dinosaur Food,

We arrived in Bolivia through the dust of the Chaco. A 26 hour slog on a rudimentary bus brought us from Asuncion in Paraguay, through the forested desert wilderness that is the Chaco (accounting for 60% of Paraguays territory, but only 3% of its population,) to the idyllic Eden that is the village of Samaipata.

Three hours from the oil boomtown of Santa Cruz, Samaipata is a village nestled where the Andes meet the Amazon. We arrived on 17th December. "Samaipata" in the Inca language, Quechua, means "rest in the high place." And that is exactly what we did. We spent 12 days in that paradise, and, when we did leave, it was hard to wrench ourselves away.

That 12 days was not all rest and relaxation, however. The first thing we did, after checking into our hostel, La Posada Del Sol, was contact a local guide named Rufo, and visit the ancient cloud forest in Parque Nacional Amboro.

About an hour from Samaipata, we left the road and within five minutes were in the eery silence of the forest. Five minutes after that we were gazing in wonder at the Park's horticultural showpiece..."lecho gigante" giant ferns! They lived up to their name, towering above us and providing shade, like enormous, organic umbrellas. Some were over a thousand years old, and they have been growing in that part of Bolivia since the time of the lumbering giants that ate them for breakfast - the dinosaurs. In Australia and New Zealand, the only other part of the world where they grow, they are known, therefore, as "dinosaur food." It may sound corny, but walking in that forest, surrounded by oversized plants, and deaf to the noises of man far away, it felt like walking back in time. We were walking with dinosaurs, conquistadors, and the enigmantic revolutionary Che Guevara.

Rufo's grandmother was a traditional healer, and so he knew the names and uses of many of the plants we passed as we walked under the great canopy of trees. One, called boldo, was a treatment for asthmatics, and immediately slowed our breathing rate as we climbed through the clammy undergrowth towards a "mirador" (viewpoint). Another medicinal plant was altogether more sinister...Rufo told us many Bolivian women had died after ingesting the innocuous looking, but highly toxic leaves to perform home abortions. For that reason, it was called "trebo maldito," or "god damned trebo."

Rufo said that it was an unusually silent day. Indeed, aside from the occasional bird call, we did seem to be alone. However, rounding a corner and chatting, we came face to face with a metallic blue humming bird, hovering in the centre of the machete made trail. The way it stayed perfectly still, its wings beating in a motionless blur, had a surreal beauty.

Eventually, after following a smooth stream that was like a water park slide up a steep valley, we reached the mirador. The view was worth the walk. A perfectly clear sky, light blue and shimmering in the midday heat, stretched out over an infinity of unbroken forest. To the other side, row after row of formidable mountains, gradually getting higher. It was a humbling sight; the kind of view that makes you feel small, and wonder at the majesty of the natural world. In the 21st century, the power of nature is diminishing...or we are forgetting how to listen to, and live in harmony with, nature. But on that grassy clearing, surrounded by a sea of trees and a wall of stone, I felt a kind of primal connection to the world we live in, the world we rely on, that we are poisoning slowly. Like I said, it was humbling, but in a way empowering too. I felt, seeing that forest that no chainsaw will ever touch, that it isn't too late to learn, and to change, the way we are. For that, just being able to feel that, the call and voice of nature, when I usually live next to London (the Big Smoke) and Heathrow, was a privilege I will never forget, and an experience I will cherish forever.