Footsteps and Thoughts

Street Meat

2011-05-07T12:16:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-07T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-04-21T10:25:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-04-12T15:09:00.000-07:00

"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

2011-04-12T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T14:37:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-04-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T14:04:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

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!

2011-03-02T15:00:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-03-02T14:50:00.000-08:00

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!

2011-02-10T14:15:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-07T08:33:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-07T08:08:00.000-08:00

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

More Photos

High Times: La Paz

2011-01-19T13:54:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-02T08:00:00.000-08:00

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,

2011-01-02T07:21:00.000-08:00

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.

Glacier Perito Moreno (13th November 2010)

2010-12-12T12:12:00.000-08:00

Weeks of debating, vacilating, arguing and dilly-dallying finally brought me, Natasha and our newfound friend Alice to El Calafate, to see the Perito Moreno glacier. This was Patagonia proper, where the wind challenges all and people are scarce. We had been debating whether to come here because it is expensive and isolated...would it be worth going South for a glacier?

We got up early on the 13th and went to get our rental car. The bus to the glacier was a rip-off, so we teamed up with a lovely American called Kate and her Argentinian boyfriend Rodrigo, and rented a sexy machine...a VW Golf! Rodrigo nicknamed it "The Landrover."

It was an incredible experience, and Tash was in her element. Freedom. No bus schedules to stick to, just open road. We took a detour before heading to the glacier, down 50km of unpaved, bumpy madness, with the road stretching ahead, and snowy peaks on the horizon. Tash was like a rally driver, loving every second. I was terrified! Our detour took us to Laguna Roca, a milky turquoise, deserted lake. We savoured the fresh air and the view, Alice found a tree stump that she was very fond of, and we had our mandatory lakeside stone-skimming competition.

Then, after the "Land Rover" did a spot of off roading, we rejoined the main road to the glacier.
The entrance fee was 75 pesos for us English, 25 for Rodrigo, and only 8 for Kate, as she was a student! Absurd! I don´t mind paying, but I do mind being ripped off just for being foreign!

So, with my wallet considerably lighter, we set off down the final stretch of winding, cliff-hugging road. Lago Argentina stretched out below us, to the feet of the towering mountains, and on the surface of the lake we could see tell-tale signs of the glacier; icebergs, solitary and somehow imposing, gleaming in the Sun as they slowly melted.

Finally, we rounded a bend and there it was; bigger than I could have imagined, like an icy tongue tearing the mountains down, 5 km wide and 60 metres high. We were still a few kilometres away, but the excitement in our car was palpable. Kate was from Montana, and had seen glaciers before, but nothing like this. We finally got to the carpark, and went to the wharf where they do boat trips to the glacier...no more boats! Dismayed but not defeated, we drove 10km to another small dock, and got our tickets with two minutes to spare.

Once on board, we jostled for a decent viewing position out on deck with the million or so other tourists, before stopping in front of the glacier. I have had a month to reflect on how I felt, staring at that geographic marvel, and I still cannot really put it into words. Not only is it one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen - a thousand blue hues, a cold-warm colour that changes constantly - it is also one of the most astonishing things I have ever heard.

Up on the balconies situated opposite the beast (I will call it that becuase it constantly moves and changes like some organic being, and its sheer size makes it a beast) you see and hear the glacier calving; blocks of ice the size of shopping centres break off the main body of the glacier and tumble into the lake, thus creating the lake. Destructive creation. After you see this unearthly spectacle, and shockwaves lap up against the shore, you begin to hear it, as the sound takes a few seconds to catch up. First, an ominous crack, as though bvehind the ice some monster prowls. Then, a creaking groan, and finally a thunderous roar. After watching, entranced, for a few hours, we began to anticipate the grand moments of calving. The sound was like mixing classical music and heavy metal. After each climax, silence would descend, and everyone would wait, wanting this natural orchestra to strike up again.

From the top of the balconies, you could see the glacier stretching back into the mountains,hidden and unaccessable. Since arriving in South America, we have seen volcanoes, deserts, mountains, and now this...all these natural phenomenon make me recall geography lessons back at LRGS, with my enthusiastic teacher, Mr. Talks, trying to persuade us how great glaciers and things really were. But black and white diagrams and technical terms do not do the natural world justice, especially not for teenagers in classrooms. You have to see it. And now, having seen it, I understand what Mr. Talks was talking about. Geography is amazing, and this continent has reignited my passion for it.

So, glacier Perito Moreno. Awesome in the truest sense of the word, but impossible to be confined by adjectives. A relic of the Ice Age, and a highlight of this trip. Definitely worth going South!

More photos Click Here!

On Words

2010-11-13T05:27:00.000-08:00

This alphabet, these lines
With meaning,
A path to the divine,
A way of gleaning
Truth, or pretending.
Giving permanency
To mind-swirls,
Or persuading fools,
Ensnaring girls,
A library, never ending.

Powerful words, you are my friends,
But you are futile in the end.

Travel Haikus 1

2010-11-13T05:12:00.000-08:00

The mountain conquered,
We descend through snowy woods,
Back to the wild world.

It´s rare in the West,
For time to be your best friend
Not an enemy.

No news today,
No morbid stories to bore me.
I feel much better.

Why do I travel?
To be happy and content,
And not ask questions.

With her at my side,
There is no road or mountain
We cannot conquer.

Daily objectives,
See the new, write, be amazed,
Are what we live by.

Sizzling asado,
Share the meat, pass round the wine,
True purpose of food!

On the road, recall
What we all take for granted:
Comfort of England!

In Argentina,
A dog rode atop a car!
It was not a dream.

New collectives form
Every day, no nucleus,
They soon will decay.

Where we will be in
A week is a mystery.
Unknown joy and fear.

I don´t know the names,
In English, at any rate,
Of creatures we see.

Naturaleza,
Fuerte y poderosa,
Mas que la gente.

She looks so serene,
Lying in ways I can not.
Asleep on the bus.

Where are the people?
Emptiness, bleak and humbling.
Patagonia.

The West would be best,
If we had a spare planet.
We will invade space.

I try to ignore this:
Ultimately in our world,
Numbers outweigh words.

With a gurgling growl,
The whale cuts through the water.
Magnificent beast.

Odd-looking dancer,
colour, your gift to this land.
Desert flamingo.

Wales And Whales

2010-11-11T05:04:00.001-08:00

Near the Patagonian coast, in a valley sheltered from the incessant winds that whip in from the Atlantic, there is a village called Gaiman. In Gaiman there are many quaint little teahouses, where one can see love spoons, teatowels adorned with stranglely named castles, and flags emblazoned with bright red dragons. Yes, Gaiman is a Welsh settlement!

We had arrived late afternoon - Tash, myself, Alice and Missy. We had been travelling together since Bariloche. They studied in Wales, so wanted to come here, and Tash and I have a good Welsh friend, so wanted to come here!

Gaiman was a bizarre little place, and nothing like what I expected. Places never are! I had an image of a charming village with sandstone houses, smoke billowing out of chimneypots and well-manicured gardens. The reality was a non-descript village that could be driven through and instantly forgotten. It was only when we looked closer that things took a turn towards the surreal. Welsh dragons above restaurant doors, street names like Juan Evans, and very Welsh teahouses everywhere. These places did have well manicured gardens! The place we went to was run by a portly, friendly lady, but sadly she spoke Spanish. I was half expecting a "hello boyo," when I stepped through the door.

We lowered the average age in the tearoom by a few decades, and ordered the mandatory huge plate of cakes. It was an insane amount of food...scones, flans, Welsh cakes, bread, all washed down with a lovely pot of tea. I think my arteries hated me that day.

After buying a postcard for our friend LLoyd, we shuffled back on the bus with bloated bellies, and headed to Puerto Madryn for the main attraction in this part of the world: Whales!

We were up at 8, as we had to get a bus early to Puerto Piramides, a tiny village on the Valdes Peninsula, from where we took our boat.

Waiting for our boat to depart, we stood on the shore and could see black shapes in the distance; fins poking out from under the waves, surely too big to be real. They seemed very close to the boats, and this got us all excited.

When we boarded, I got on first - by luck more than by planning - and secured us seats at the front of the boat before people started jostling for positions. Then we were off, racing out of the bay, the wind in our hair, eyes peeled for a glimpse of the magnificent Southern Right Whales. We had nearly two hours for our tour. I am no Ahab, and so thought it might take a while to come across a whale. Come to that, maybe we wouldn´t see anything. But, within five minutes we could see a fin the size of a man splashing playfully on the water. The guide told us that some of the whales like playing with the boats, but what this calf (yes, a calf...it looked big enough to be an adult to me, it was at least 6 metres long!) was doing was making noise to call its mother, who was plumbing the depths of the ocean for krill. After watching the fin, mesmerised, for a few minutes, we saw a gleaming ridge of a back break the surface, and then an enormous double pronged tail. It was magnificent to behold.

I would have been more than satisfied with this glimpse of a calf, but soon we could see whales on all sides. See them, and hear them too. They make a thunderous, husky growling noise as they surface and breathe, blowing fountains of spray into the air. One was so close to our boat it sprayed us from its blowhole!

Just watching those creatures was beautiful, even with dozens of people on the boat, all pointing, shrieking and gasping. Despite that, there was more than one moment when everybody fell silent, and tranquility reigned as we all gazed in awe and admiration at those elegant behemoths of the deep. The adults were bigger than our boat, some 16 metres long, and moved almost in slow motion, poetically.

Often seeing wildlife is a tainted experience, as many species are endangered precisely because of our existence. As our cities grow, so their kingdoms shrink. But, the Southern Right Whales of peninsula Valdes are a heartwarming success story. Our guide bombarded us with encouraging facts. The population has grown on average 7% a year for the last 15 years, so now, in the peak breeding month of October, there are over a thousand whales in the bay. So, it was with light, not heavy hearts that we watched calves playing with their mothers, rolling and tumbling over eachother. They are noble, powerful creatures, but peaceful and graceful too.

I was upset when we had to go back to the shore.

Neruda, The Queen.

2010-11-06T08:50:00.000-07:00

In the previous post I spoke alot about Pablo Neruda. Here is a sample of his poetry. This is my favourite love poem:

I have named you Queen.
There are taller than you, taller.
There are ourer than you, purer.
There are lovlier than you, lovlier.
But you are the Queen.

When you go through the streets
No one recognises you.
No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks
At the carpet of red gold
That you tread as you pass.
The non-existent carpet.

And when you appear
All the rivers sound
In my body, bells
Shake the sky,
And a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
Only you and I, my love,
Listen to me.

PABLO NERUDA, THE QUEEN

Bariloche - Trekking, Beaches, Elves and a Shed.

2010-11-03T16:50:00.000-07:00

Bariloche. A town in the heart of the Argentine Lake District. Ski resort in the Winter, and a Mecca for trekkers in the Summer. We arrived in Spring, between the two high seasons, not knowing what to expect. Our previous two stops in the Lake District, the lakeside twin towns of Junin and San Martin de los Andes, had been relatively dull and uninspiring. San Martin especially was hard to like. It felt like it wanted to be in Switzerland, and what charm it had was consumed by its own rapid, unchecked development in the last few years. The weather was grotty and the prices high.

Coming this far South had always been my idea...I was beginning to think I had dragged Tash on an expensive detour. So we arrived in Bariloche a tad deflated. There was good weather on the horizon, but we had not set our expectations high.

However, the moment we set foot in our hostel, Pudu (named after a small Patagonian deer) things began to change. We bumped into two Irish girls, Roisin and Sarah, who we had lunch with in the Atacama and got on very well with. By chance, three weeks later and 2000 miles away, we met again. We got chatting, and as the artesanal beer got flowing, we soon had a group of friends ranging from Argentina, to New Zealand, Australia and the US.

Our second day in Bariloche, and finally some glorious weather. Tash and I took a bus to a small hill called Cerro Campanrio. National Geographic place the view from the summit in their top 10 views in the world. I am not a fan of this list-mania, or things you must do before you die! But, the view was astounding. From the top, you had a 360 degree vantage point of the enormous Nahuel Huapi lake (a 100km behemoth of a lake that could comfortably fit all of England´s quaint lakes inside it) and many tiny islands covered with pristine forests, all with a backdrop of snow-capped peaks.

That night was Halloween, and we went out hunting for cheap costumes. I managed to find a waistcoat for 30 pesos, (about a fiver) and so decided to dress up as a "duende," an elf like mythological creature that´s popular in Argentina. Tash was a duende too, and looked adorable with her rosy cheeks and painted waistcoat, but I think "idiot" would be a more fitting description for me! But, for everyone in costume there was free pizza, and travellers will definitely humiliate themselves for a meal.

After a day of recovery, our friend from New Zealand, Paul, came up with a crazy idea. Why don´t we all go off to the beach and have a swim? I agreed, as long as he got in the water first. I didn´t think he would call my bluff, a couple of hours later we were down by the lakeshore in our swimming shorts. I dipped my feet in the water. Freezing. Ice cold. Then Paul charged past me and in he went, without hesitation or thought. Not wanting to be seen as unmanly, I went in to. It was testicle shrivelling stuff, but invigorating and refreshing...so cold you felt clean when you came out. Luckily, the Sun was hot enough to warm us up quickly.

The next day, seven intrepid trekkers said goodbye to civilisation and set out for Refugio Frey, a shelter up in the mountains, where we would spend the night. I had my tent, we had food, wine, and vodka, and off we went! Our group included Jamie, a wise Australian doctor, Roisin and Sarah the crazy Irish girls, Alice and Missy, who had been travelling for a few months, Tash, and myself. We had become friends fast in the few days we spent together in Bariloche, and had decided to go on this adventure together. Sadly, Paul the Kiwi was ill, and could not come.

The first two hours of the trek was across gentle, undulating terrain, winding around the base of the mountains. We had to cross several gurgling streams, using logs as makeshift bridges. They provided good opportunities to fill our bottles...the water was fresh, sweet and delicious.

Then, the trail turned up into a valley and began to climb. I was worried about the weight of my bag (I was carrying all our equipment, and tash had nothing! Husband or pack horse?) but it was fine. Any heavier and I would have struggled though, as we wound our way through enchanting Andean forests.

As we walked, I realised being in a group was good. We could alternate who dictated the pace, and you can talk to many different people as you walk, keeping things interesting. Also, I think you subconciously spur eachother on.

The final part of the trek was the most difficult, and the most rewarding. We had reached an enormous, snow covered bowl at the head of the valley, and the trail turned sharply to the left and climbed steeply. Once past the snowline it was tough going. It was only 1km or so, but my feet kept sinking, and my meagre lunch had allowed fatigue to kick in. My pole did its job though, and kept me on my feet.

Once at the refuge we pitched our tent against a stunning backdrop - a frozen lake surrounded by jagged peaks. Our home built and ready for the challenge of a Patagonian mountain night, we went into the cosy cabin the others were sharing to warm up.

A schoolgroup of about 50 kids had arrived just after us, to our annoyance. So much for solitude! They took up the whole refugio, so we were demoted to the second, tiny kitchen. Whilst we were cooking our vegetable pasta and getting stuck into our wine, we realised that two people were sleeping on a thin platform that had been put across the roofbeams, just feet from our heads! So, we ate, and then moved to the bar, expecting to party late into the night (it was Sarah´s birthday, and mine and Tash´s 5th anniversary, so a big celebration was in order.) However, the place was so full people were sleeping in the bar too. Expecting to have to retreat to our icy tent early - it was snowing now and this was not an appealing prospect - our merrymaking was saved by Santiago, the ranger who worked on the mountain. He told us there was one last place we could go, and led us through the snow to...the toolshed.

So, at the top of a cold, lonely mountain in Argentina, a 6 foot square corrugated iron shed became a nightclub. I fetched my speakers, and teachers of the schoolgroup joined us. It was a crazy night; we had wine, music and warmth at our little shed rave. When everyone was nice and tipsy, the Irish girls, life and soul of the party, went out into the snow and performed a medley of Irish folksongs and tunes from Broadway musicals. Surreal and dangerous. Jamie and I, the most sober of a drunken bunch, were quite worried that someone would come to harm, and were relieved when Santiago sent us to bed.

In the tent, with vodka for central heating, I fell soundly asleep. Two hours later I awoke, cold and sober. The rest of the night I slept in fits and starts, jealous of Tash and her rollmat. I had forgotten my mat, and the ground was like ice. Well, it wasn´t like ice, it was ice! It was without a doubt the coldest night of my life, shivering in that tent. At dawn, the slight temperature increase given by the first rays of the Sun granted me a couple of hours comfort, but I know now...never forget your rollmat!!!

In the morning, after a nourishing breakfast of bananas, bread, scrambled eggs and cereal, we set off back down the mountain, towards a comfy bed, normality and the road ahead.

Valparaiso, Chile.

2010-11-03T16:42:00.000-07:00

There is a city on the Chilean coast, midway down that long, sinuous country, that breaks the rules set by most South American cities. Here there is no mundane grid system, no predictable central plaza. Instead the layout of the place, dictated by geography, is a labyrinth of stairways and winding roads that spread across dozens of small hills that encircle the bay. It is reminiscent of the chaos of English city planning. And the grafitti in this place, instead of scrawls on walls, has been raised to the level of art, with abstract and political murals splashing colour across the already colourful buildings. This place is Valparaiso, darling city of Pablo Neruda, my favourite poet, and my favourite city so far on our trip around South America.

As is mine and Tash´s custom now, once we had checked into the Hostel, we went to explore the city with no particular objective in mind. After wandering around for an hour or so, marvelling at how photogenic the place was, we met a man called Antonio. He told us where to take a good panoramic view of the city, and then took us on an impromptu tour of his town. He must have been about 70, and had a long ponytail and a cheeky smile. He told me he was a better poet than Neruda, and recounted the history of Valparaiso. For a moment I saw the city through his eyes. A bustling port in his youth, then the bohemian, cultural days of Neruda, then, in the 70´s, the excitement of Salvadaor Allende´s democratic, reforming socialism. Then came the dark days of Pinochet, before, in his twilight years, Antonio saw the tourists arrive. We said farewell to our guide, grateful for his kindness, and touched by his pride for his home. After just a day, Valparaiso was growing on me.

The next day we explored again. We rode up one of the steep hills - Cerro Alegre - in one of Valpo´s 15 acensores; clunky, ancient elevators that take you uphill at impossible angles. It is an ingenious way to travel, and gives you brilliant views of the outlandishly designed houses that claw for space on the cluttered hillsides. All unique, these houses are built practically on top of eachother. It looks as if the whole city has somehow fallen uphill and is as fragile as a house of cards.

Of all the houses in Valpo, however, the best is that of Pablo Neruda. It was a pleasure and a privilege to wander around the poet´s home, examining all his trinkets that were left exactly as they were when he was alive. He had a carousel horse from France, a see-through toilet door for brave (or drunk!) guests, an armchair overlooking the ocean he called "el nube" (the cloud), and ancient maps, amongst a host of other things. Every object had its place and history, and through them we got a real feel for the poet; he was a quirky, playful joker, who loved his women as passionately as a teenager, and his home like a child. The eclectic objects were brought together by the nautical theme of the house. Neruda liked to think of himself as a "land navigator!"

The hostel we stayed at was more akin to a student house than a hostel. It was a really friendly, (if a bit grubby, as student houses tend to be!) place to stay. There were only 4 travellers - ourselves and two Danish girls, Luna and Anna, the other people staying there were all permanent...a mix of students and travellers who had fallen under the spell of the place and been stuck there for months. On the second night we were all invited out with this eclectic bunch, and we went to our first nightclub of the trip. It was an absolute cheesefest, with old classic tunes and new songs like the ubiquitous "we no speak Americano", which seems to be the soundtrack of the trip, but it was great fun.

So, Valparaiso. Rough around the edges, scruffy and stunning. A city of poets, artists, travellers and vagbonds. A party town so full of energy it cancels out the sterile, bland nature of its inland neighbour, Santiago, Chile´s capital. It is a city I will miss, and a city I feel like I know, after only three days.

Atacama

2010-10-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

Bland land of a thousand colours,
Ever changing, always the same.
Earth-moon, otra planeta,
Atacama.

Volcanic sunsets on the freezing,
Windswept dunes.
Dusty tourists gazing,
Gasping "It's amazing,"
they can conjure no other adjectives
In this land of warped perspectives.
Crystalline lakes, Earth shakes,
Rocks sing, the water brings
Life, hard to find...
Bright pink flamingoes dancing
In the salt,
Desert fox posing
For the cameras,
We are imposing
In their land. No man's land.
Clamber on the bus, and back to
Our oasis, smiles on our faces.
The invading tourists in an
Unconquered, unchanging land and time.

Donde hay agua hay vida.
Aqui hay algo diferente.
Atacama.

The Storytellers

2010-10-28T10:34:00.000-07:00

They bring to the table
Nothing except a smile, and a
Few facts they have
Moulded into stories and myths.
They recite their tales,
Altering nothing every time,
As over years the rhythm has been
Perfected.

A new audience, new reactions,
Keep things fresh.
They ask for no reward, no applause
For their words as the night draws on,
The Earth turns, and
Moon or no moon,
The glasses slowly drain,
Ashtrays fill
And the stories continue.
They speak for the sake of it.
The joy of communion,
Talking and listening,
Being human.

The next day the table stands empty,
A stained, ignored protagonist in
A thousand dramas.
A single ray of light shines on a half full
Glass of stale beer.

The Weyra Caves (8th October 2010)

2010-10-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

"This used to be under the Sea," our guide, Carlitos, said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Hard to believe. We were walking up a river that had dried up decades, centuries or millenia ago. The only water for kilometres around was the river at the bottom of this arid valley, now a thin, mirage like ribbon, and the liquid in our bottles. The sun was relentless, the mountain itself brittle and dry. How could this have once been sea. How could this environment, Martian red and lifeless, have once hosted life so abundant?
Further up the riverbed that is now our path, clambering over giant boulders, Carlitos shows us proof that annihilates my doubt. Pouring precious water over a seemingly innocuous stone, he reveals one of the secrets of the mountain. Seaweed, fossilised in the rock. Out here in the emptiness of the Argentinian North West, in the isolation of the Andes, it is other worldly. Just this one fossil proves to us the vastness of time...millions of years ago, a breath in the age of the Earth, fish swam here. Thoughts like that always leave me dumbfounded. But today, I would see things more spectacular than that lonely piece of seaweed. On we walked...

Half an hour later we reached our destination, a yawning gap in the side of the mountain, like a mouth making an ugly grimace. These were the mysterious Weyra Caves. Luckily for us, they have avoided becoming a major tourist attraction. We clambered inside, and took a minute to catch our breath. The view was magnificent.

At the start of the trek up the arid valley, the same feelings I get at the beginning of any trek were surfacing: namely, why am I doing this? the altitude and the heat, the 0% humidity, were making what in england would be an easy ramble extremely difficult. But, once I had got into my stride, and the town was far below, out of sight, I was happy. Vale la pena!

After a few minutes perched at the cave entrance, Carlitos lit a candle and we ventured inside. The tiny flame seemed weak against the totality of the still darkness, but Carlitos assured us that this place was the den of no beast...there was no water. After no time at all we emerged on the other side of the mountain, with sheer drops below and an almighty nothingness of a thousand colours of rock, stretching all around. In that place, I experienced probably the most total silence of my life. On that mountainside, where no living thing could be seen, you could see past, present and future. Tash described the experience as "religious."
Carlitos simply said "buen momento."

I thought we had got our money's worth, and Carlitos would lead us back down the valley. But, he had always mentioned "caves" in the plural, and sure enough he led us over a narrow precipice to another mouth in the mountain. this one immediately looked deeper and more menacing. Carlitos demonstrated how to enter...he sprang up onto a rock, and then pushed his legs against the wall opposite, and shimmied across.
"Hombre de arana!" I said (Spider Man!) As I shimmied across, I made the mistake of looking down. Below was a crevasse about the width of my leg and then utter blackness. Somehow I made it across, hiding my fear from Tash and Carlitos, who made it seem so effortless!
I'm glad I conquered my fear, as the next moment was truly special. Carlitos led us through the cave, every few metres lighting candles that had been placed there by previous adventurers. We reached the end of the cavern, looking back along the path we had taken. the candlelight made it look like a sacred place in some bygone era. I have no photos of that place, but it will stay with me forever.

Morchillero

2010-10-03T21:23:00.000-07:00

Soy morchillero ahora,
con mi passaporte, sin mi pais,
Yo voy por cualquiera lugar
con mis sueños y pensamientos,
Para ver,
Y disfrutar cada momento
De mi vida simplista.
Nada mas.

Patience

2010-09-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

Sat on my bag,
In a dusty station, waiting
For a bus that never comes,
Watching time drag,
And twiddling my thumbs.

Patience, you are a stranger,
What other virtues, have I lost
In the West?
Do I court danger, with my machines,
GPS and texts.

The cost of now, now. now,
Is time and thought.
Immediacy has no future,
I have been bought.

What I Miss About England

2010-09-30T14:07:00.000-07:00

My friends and family.
Baked Beans.
Radio 2.
Radio 4.
English Breakfast.
Proper Tea.
Baths.
Cheddar cheese.
Pubs.
Ale.
Open fires in The Winter.
Pies.
Bicuits.
Freshly mown grass in the summer.
The Lake District (when it isn't raining.)
Talking about the Premiership (although with Liverpool's performance this season maybe not!)
Egham.
Pilling.
Ice cold, fresh milk.
Hot, reliable showers.
Good museums.
The British sense of humour!

Most of this list is food!!!

A Long Bus Journey

2010-09-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

On Monday we undertook our first mammoth bus journey, from Buenos Aires to Tafi del Valle. The length, about 1000 miles. The time. About 20 hours. It was the first of many bus jorneys we will take across the continent, and had good, bad and ugly points.

The Good - Seeing a gaucho galloping on horseback across an open plain, or eagles soaring overhead. About 15 hours in something began to loom on the horizon, like an immense black shadow; the Andes. As we approached, they grew bigger and bigger until suddenly we were winding slowly up a precipitous road through sub tropical forest, with every bend bringing treacherous drops, and spectacular views.

The Bad - At times the scenery on the drive from BA to the mountains became so repetitive it felt like I was trapped in a ´50s cartoon like The Flintstones. It seemed we weren´t making any progress, and I´m amazed the driver stayed awake.
But, the worst thing about the journey was the haunting amount of roadside crosses, placed in memory of those who have died on these routes. As we approached the Andes, we passed these crosses more often. The number is staggering, over the years probably amounting to the number of casualties in a small war, and it is a stark reminder of the perils of daily travel in these parts, and the sheer power of the mountains.

The Ugly - The depressing amount of litter strewn by the side of the road near some settlements; plastic bags hanging off cacti, coke bottles everywhere, permanently tainting the landscape.

All in all though, the good far outweighed the bad, and it was an exhilerating journey. Hopefully the first of many.

The Best Laid Plans...

2010-09-30T13:37:00.001-07:00

We are now in the North West of Argentina, in a small village called Tafi Del Valle. It is a barren and dry, yet starkly beautiful place in the Andean foothills. I´m still not sure whether it´s hot or cold (even Tash has sunburn, but jumpers are a necessity?)Nonetheless it is an amazing place. I have tried local beer (I knew Argentinians had made a name for themselves in the world of wine, but I was unaware they made ale! And good ale, too!), a local dish called locro, which can best be described as innards soup, and made Tash nearly vomit everywhere. We have climbed our first mountain, and we have been attacked by birds for straying too close to their nest. All this and we had no intention of ever coming here. How did this happen?

Well, as I have mentioned in other posts, we are not restricted by time, and at the moment the South of Argentina, where we intended to go, is ridiculously cold. So we decided to come to the North West, where it is ridiculously cold. Or hot. I don´t know. Nonetheless, my months of meticulous research has gone out of the window! However, the change to our plans has not in any way depressed or deterred me. In a way, it makes the whole trip seem more exciting, more of an adventure. I am reminded of the words of Ernesto "Che" Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries;

"The trip was decided...and it never erred from the basic principle laid down in that moment - improvisation."

So, waiting for the South to warm up, we are wandering aimlessly, the road ahead snaking slowly towards Bolivia. The next stop is Cafayate, one of Argentina´s premier wine regions, and there is a festival there on Monday, which promises much dancing, drinking and merrymaking. And after that...who knows?

The Free Circulation Of Scandal And Noise - A Week In Uruguay.

2010-09-26T09:26:00.000-07:00

Hello. I´m writing this from Buenos Aires. It is a hot, Sunday afternoon, and we´re waiting for our train tomorrow morning. We arrived back here on Friday morning, from the tiny country across the Rio De La Plata, sandwiched between it´s two massive neighbours, Brazil and Argentina. That country is Uruguay, and what a great place it is.

Getting there was a bit of a fiasco. We took a ferry across the river (50 miles wide at this point! Hardly a river!) but at the check in, the X-ray of my bag looked suspicious. First, my walking pole looked like some sort of sharp pointy weapon. I explained what it was, but they wanted me to send my bag through again. The second time, something even more suspicious appeared on the security guard´s screen. It looked like a gun. I explained I wasn´t carrying a gun, but the x-ray looked so much like a gun, I wasn´t convinced myself! Had I gone Jason Bourne on the Argentinians? An unkowing super spy?
So began the humiliating process of unpacking everything in my bag, whilst the guards chuckled away. They thought the fact I had a head torch, a tent and a tiny frying pan was hilarious. Eventually they were satisfied, and I was allowed on the boat. Amazing that a hipflask and a pack of malaria tablets can look like a Colt .45!

As the ferry rocked slowly across the murky waters, the excitement of entering a new country began. We finally arrived in Colonia del Sacremento. As we walked to the hostel I noticed something...blissful silence. After the 24 hour noisy metropolis of Buenos Aires, Colonia was a welcome break.

We wandered around Colonia´s old quarter, a big draw for tourists. But, although some places get swamped by visitors and so lose what it was that made people want to go there, Colonia has retained it´s charm. Historically it was an old smuggler´s port and thorn in the side of Spanish owned Buenos Aires, and the cobbled streets and old colonial ruins bring the history alive. But, I´m a historian, so I like that kind of thing! I don´t want to bore my audience, however, so I´ll move on.

We spent the rest of our first day in Uruguay relaxing by the seafront, watching the spectacular sunset as house martins swirled above the water and people chattered at nearby cafes. On our second night in Colonia, which was a Saturday and much busier, people actually applauded the sunset, which was a bit bizarre. I wanted to point out that this kind of thing happens every day, but didn´t want to spoil their fun.

So, after two days of small-town relaxation and recuperation, we took a bus to Uruguay´s capital, Montevideo, a city that cannot avoid being compared with it´s riverside rival, Buenos Aires.

Montevideo is smaller, cleaner and more picturesque than Buenos Aires. At some points you can see the sea (or river apparently) on 3 sides. But for some reason, I didn´t like it as much. I still had a great time, discovering the works of Uruguays premier artist Torres Garcia, or strolling along Pocitos beach, and leafing through dusty books in one of the city´s many bookstores (Uruguayans seem to be incredibly well read).

It was also interesting to note the subtle differences between Uruguay and Argentina. Urugayans are more humble and easy going, and drink comical amounts of mate. Litres of the stuff. Mate is basically the bitter herbal tea they drink here, in a little gourd called a bombilla. It is as common in Argentina as our delicious milky tea in England. But everywhere in Uruguay people have a thermos under one arm, and their bombilla in one hand. How they do anything is beyond me? Waiters in restaurants will be drinking it as they serve you, footballers being interviewed post-match will be sucking away at the metal straw they use to drain every last drop out of their bombilla. Even TV presenters had it!

A Uruguayan bloke I met in Colonia had recommended the national dish, Chivito, to me. So, once in Montevideo, I had to try it. I was expecting meat, obviously, but something classy, a delicate balance of flavours, perhaps. What I was presented with can only be described as a heart attack on a plate. It made a full English look like the new diet for health obsessed women. Steak, ham, cheese, egg, olives(?) and a single peiece of greasy, sorrowful lettuce stuffed between two slices of bread, accompanied with a mountain of chips. Of course, I ate it all. And then had another one two days later. When in Montevideo...

It is a shame that we won´t be in Montevideo in February, which is Carnaval season, because apparently here they throw a party that rival´s Rio´s. Urugayan´s definitely love their live music. In Colonia we were treated to a big brass band right outside our hostel, as well as a cool guitar playing singer called Donatto in a restaurant inexplicably called El Drugstore. And we went to Montevideo´s Festival of Percussion, which was the biggest anticlimax ever. Expecting heavy Latin beats, we were subject to a group of pretentious "musicians" banging their instruments one note at a time. It sounded like a zoo had been let loose in a recording studio. One guy gave a standing ovation, everyone else looked like they were trying hard not to cry.

We got some sense of the Uruguayan party spirit in the Carnaval museum, where costumes and masks are on display. The influences come from Africa, with tribal drumbeats, Venetian comedy of arts, with various masks and characters, and indigenous Latin American cultures, with Pachamama (Mother Earth) making an appearance. It is a triumph of multiculturalism, and in the English translation Carnaval was amusingly described as "the free circulation of scandal and noise," which sounds fun to me! I hope we are somewhere equally as exciting and vibrant when Carnaval season arrives.

We were going to go to the Eastern beaches of Uruguay, which are apparently wild, remote, and starkly beautiful. But, many travellers told us it was cold. Very cold. So, not fancying camping in a climate similar to a December in Blackpool, we are back here in BA.

Buenos Aires

2010-09-17T12:15:00.001-07:00

Hello! My first blog post on our tour of South America is coming to you from Colonia del Sacremento, in Uruguay. From here, on the horizon, across the enormous mouth of the Rio de la Plata, you can see the skyline of Buenos Aires. It looks like a distant, floating city, and it was our first destination. Now we have put some distance between ourselves and that sprawling, manic metropolis, I thought I´d write about it.

We arrived last Saturday at midday, in a dazed blur of jet-lagged excitement and nerves. We took the local bus from the airport to the city centre, which took two hours. It felt dreamlike as we meandered through the dust filled streets, our bus gliding past other cars and missing them by mere inches. I still couldn´t believe after two years of saving up, we were finally here. When we arrived at our hostel, my body was screaming, "Lie down!" but my head would not let me. We had to explore the city. And what a city Buenos Aires is.

Buenos Aires is a chaotic, loud, dirty, brilliant place. It looks like a run down, beaten up Paris, like it´s been slapped around a bit. Stunning colonial architecture is dotted amongst crumbling tenements and cracked pavements. But Buenos Aires is not about aesthetics, it is about ambience and atmosphere, and that atmosphere oozes class, chaos and fun. Immaculately dressed women chatter in 19th century malls that put our drab, sterile behemoths like Bluewater to shame. Sparrows chirp in the Plaza de Mayo as bank employees march through the street, chanting and letting off booming explosives. People sit outside the cafés on the Plaza Dorrego, watching the world go by over a delicious café con crema" The smell of caramelized nuts mingles with the stench of fumes from the seemingly innumerable yellow and black taxis, buzzing about like bees. It is manic, it is mental, it is awesome.

As I said, BA is a city reminiscent of Paris, but it does not have the arrogance of Paris. It has the sophistication, but not the snobbery. And it definitely, absolutely has better food.

I could write an entire post about the food, but I´ll try and sum it up in a short paragraph. Carnivores will be in paradise here, and vegetarians will be cured! The steak melts in your mouth, the choripan (a chorizo hotdog) is ridiculously succulent, and it is all extremely good value. Eat a steak in Buenos Aires, and you´ll spit every other steak you have out! You will mourn our poor, tasteless British cows, who simply cannot compete. But it´s not all about the steak. The salads are good too...only joking, it is all about the steak! If anyone is coming to BA in the near future, I highly reccomend La Posada de 1820. It´s in the centre, and always full of locals.
Argentinian wine is also a treat for the palate and the wallet. 95% of the wine remains in Argentina - like the beef, Argentinians know a good thing when they see it, and they keep hold of it. So to fully experience the culinary delights, you have to come here.

I, James Bradley, man with two left feet and inventor of the world famous "drunken shuffle," tried to dance the Tango. It is hard. Harder than salsa. Harder than algebra. Harder than a drunk Glasweigan. You get the point. But Tango is also fun. Tash and I went to "La Catedral," a trendy old warehouse where everyone dresses casual, and tourists make fools out of themselves en masse. I am determined to learn the dance as our journey through Argentina continues, as watching those with expertise was a great experience. It is a seductive, sensual, complex dance with rules, but when two people who know what they´re doing Tango, it is truly beautiful.

Buenos Aires is, to conclude, an incredible place. Cosmopolitan but friendly. It is the biggest city I have ever visited, and one of the easiest to get to know. It is, no word of a lie, no exaggeration, one of the greatest cities in the world.

Me, Howling.

2010-08-18T05:31:00.000-07:00

this is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago. It's inspired by Howl, by Allan Ginsberg. Not sure what people will think of it, but it's about time I put it out there.

ME, HOWLING.

I have seen the best minds of my generation
Cannibalised, anaesthetised by mundane mechanical
Monotony, engaged in worship of Macchiavelli
Without statues; clear headed confused fools
With mindless intelligence, only perpetuating the self,
Lodged in the present, over-caffeinated maniacs
So simple, so dull, an army of individuals,
Legions of learned people who refuse
To overtake their teachers,
Won't evolve, conscience absolved
In a sea of wires.

On the streets there is nothing.
Broken bottles are metaphors for nothing.
Forests of concrete symbolise nothing.

I have seen
Feminism flogged by its own advocates
Sluts stumbling with vomit in hair,
"How dare you stare!" they screech like harpies.
Graduation next week.

I have seen
Racism sidelined to subtlety and flashing,
Angry rants in explored but forgotten corners.
The march stopped. Everyone at ease for how long?

I have seen the non-conformists conform; everyone sucked back up.

I have seen men embark on quests and run aground on their
Own minds only to find they never left; they proclaim
Insanity but it is just vanity, the domain of fools making rules
With useless tools.

Skulls bashed in by bureaucracy and the ones who scream
Scream alone and silently on islands of distress and understanding.

I have seen conspiracy theories become reality and remain
Untrue.

So many invisible bonds of hope,
Strands of like minds
Severed by the hive mind,
And when new eyes
Peruse this page
They will burn with rage,
And criticise
My naiveté.

I have seen prescription drugs pumped into healthy bodies,
Whilst mind-openers are closed and sold by thugs, thus
misunderstood.

I have seen feral youths with blades become gangsters,
Haunting middle England so far away. But are we not all feral,
Collectively, sipping wine and using
Long words?
Devouring trees,
Slaughtering animals,
Towers everywhere
Up, up, up.
Bloated, scarring continents and
Choking skies.

We would rape the Sun if it were within our reach.

I have seen British blood valued more than
that of an anonymous child murdered
By bombs and greed. I have seen a
Nation too scared to look in the mirror,
But content to write
Vainglorious history,
Ignoring scribes who don't stick to the script.

the wise lay paths before the new batch
With clumsy hands, and hammer in
Signposts that scream destiny
In all directions.

I have seen
Angels demonised
By devils with dove wings
And plastic smiles
to hide hideous grins. Blind guides
Flapping forcing incoherent instructions
And rigid etiquette.
Nothing better yet.

I have seen men
Hypnotise the Gods and forget sobriety.

Just walk, walk
Until you find something
You were never looking for; dreams
Refrigerated or locked in dingy
Cupboards.

This is what I have seen.
Tell me, friend, what have you seen,
Beyond what you were taught,
And what you have bought?

The Quest.

2010-08-14T06:11:00.000-07:00

I was watching an excellent documentary about Bruce Chatwin the other day on BBC 4, when the great travel writer said something that stuck with me. He said it is necessary to have an objective when one travels; a goal to work towards, however trivial it may seem. These words got me thinking. My objective was simply to meander around the continent of South America, essentially hopping from one tourist destination to another, and perhaps do some volunteer work. None of these plans were set in stone, and I certainly didn't consider any of them as an "objective."

So, I have drawn up a list of quests which we must complete during my time in South America. They are relatively understated and definitely achievable, (I have written previously about how much I despise ludicrous challenge setting!) but there will be no penalty if I "fail." It's just a bit of fun.

So, here's the list of my quests:

- Hold a monkey.
- Visit the ancient fortress of Kuelap in Northern Peru.
- With the exception of seeing the Nazca lines, air travel is forbidden.
- Learn at least one Latin dance to a credible level of proficiency.
- Bird watch on the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, in the Andes and the Amazon.
- Complete a trek in Patagonia, and in the Cordillera Blanca.
- Visit the town of Mompos in Colombia, a place where time has stood still.
- Volunteer with WWOOF in Argentina, and Inti Wari Yassi in Bolivia.
- Reach Tierra Del Fuego, the end of the world.
- Travel down the Amazon river in a boat.

If anyone has any suggestions for more quests, (within reason - I'm not going to wrestle a crocodile or try and find El Dorado!) let me know and I'll endeavour to accomplish it!

Inventory

2010-08-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

I have been perusing a lot of traveller's blogs and home-made travel websites, and it seems the travelling community likes nothing more than to tell people what to take with them on their journeys. What to take ranks as one of the most popular subjects for didactic, patronising people to spout their "wisdom," advising people on the most inane matters, like whether taking shoes to Thailand is a good idea. But, it seems that people do actually need help. One poor sod, writing on Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree forum, asked whether taking a backpack to Peru was a good idea, and as his backpack was orange, would it attract thieves? WTF!? Backpacks, I informed him, are a waste of time compared to a stick and a bundle like old tramps used to have, and yes, thieves, like magpies, are drawn to shiny objects.

So, with people clearly in dire need, I thought I would share my thoughts with that most tricky of matters: the inventory.

Reams of advice on the net and in books range from the obvious to the absurd - one bloke somewhere on our planet is so obsessed with having a lighter rucksack than everyone else he actually tears pages out of books as he reads. The obscenity! If I ever see anyone doing that I will mumble under my breath at them so much they will rue the day.

My own big weakness when travelling is the amount of books I carry. I always have at least five, and even the thin ones are heavy blighters, filled as they are with words and such. But, I'd rather have something to read (and swap with other travellers) than be able to boast about how many kilograms I shaved off my total weight.

I have packed for my trip in September, and most of what I have suits the kind of stuff I'll be doing. I wouldn't expect anyone else to have the same inventory as me, because nobody else will be doing exactly what I will be doing. I am a big camper, so obviously I have my tent, stove and sleeping bag. I know the climate of the areas I will be visiting, so I have corresponding clothing. It's common sense.

A lot of horror stories about robberies and even gruesome murders are circulating the web alongside these ridiculous assertions about what to take. South America still suffers from a misconception about crime. Mention Colombia to someone and their eyes will widen with fear. This leads to people not wanting to take expensive or sentimental items away with them, and being scared of straying too far from tourist areas. So, backpackers are shepherded around countries, and they are not as independent and free as they like to think. Obviously bad things happen to good people, I'm not that naive, but the stories of kindness and courage, heroism and compassion that occur so much more often on the road seem to be overshadowed by the tales of disaster and misfortune. We honour virtue but do not talk about it. This is a shame. I know many people who judge a country based on the actions of one individual who robbed or conned them. I was robbed 4 times in 5 months when I was last in Peru, and people tried to rob me many more times. But, Peru is still one of the most beautiful, wondrously enchanting places I have ever been. I love the country, I love the people, and I can't wait to return. An open mind is what is needed.

Travelling is not difficult. This is a truth that a lot of traveller's don't want to accept. Waiting around for a bus that never arrives, or walking around a city looking for a hostel in the dead of night is frustrating, and can be wearisome, but it is not hard. Trekking is hard, travelling is easy. People try to make out that backpacking is such a testing endeavour, and spouting nonsense about the fabricated difficulties of packing is a symptom of this. You just need patience to be able to travel.

Surely the best advice is take what you want, what you will need, and how much you can carry? People sneer at others who bring luxury items on their travels, but if you can't live without straight hair, put your straighteners in your backpack! Who cares what anyone else thinks. If you can't survive in the wilderness without a laptop, bring it along. There are no rules, yet travellers insist on trying to invent them.

So, to conclude, the most important things you need to take with you when travelling are: common sense, an open mind and patience.

Spanish 101

2010-08-03T11:35:00.000-07:00

Hola! The title of this post may be a little misleading; I'm not actually going to teach you any Spanish. If you want to learn, buy a dictionary, join a class or Californian gang, or travel to a Spanish speaking nation! What this post is about is what I believe, in my modest opinion, to be the best way to learn Spanish, or most languages for that matter.

When I first went to Peru, as I have already said in an earlier post, I didn't know any Spanish. My linguistic ability comprised the following: a C in A level French, (which is about as unimpressive as it sounds...I can tell you where my pencil case is, what time the train leaves and directions to the swimming pool!) an A* in Latin GCSE, (I remember practically no Latin except baculum - a stick) and a native speaker's grasp of English!

So, before we began teaching English in Pacaran, we had a two week crash course in elementary Spanish, but essentially we had to pick the language up as we went along. This is the best way to learn any language in my opinion. Within 6 months my Spanish ability was vastly superior to my French, which I had studied in stifling classrooms for seven years. I am astonished at how quickly immigrants in Britain pick up our language, even complex slang, but after learning Spanish in similar circumstances - not in class but on the streets and in everyday situations - it is easy to see how people learn languages so quickly - it's simply about survival.

My friend Will and I became part of our village community because we could interact with the locals. The two girls who were teaching in the neighbouring village struggled to fit in because they could not speak Spanish. We all started out as equals - no experience with the language whatsoever, but where Will and I thrived, the girls failed. I believe the reason for this is what is most crucial when learning a new language: confidence.

I wasn't confident when I first started speaking Spanish, until an elderly gentleman in Pacaran said I'd enjoy myself more if I wasn't scared of making mistakes. Hearing that was a revelation. It struck me that most foreigners speaking English will make grammatical slip-ups (my Iranian mother-in-law still gets he/she confused after 25 years!) or use the wrong words, but because of context, intonation and the instinct to know where a conversation is going, it is relatively unimportant. It is the same with Spanish...Will and I knew that we weren't speaking perfectly, but the locals understood, and we weren't embarrassed. The girls, on the other hand, suffered from a crippling shyness and would clam up and not speak unless absolutely necessary. In Lima and more cosmopolitan areas they would simply revert to English. Will and I however would carry on with our broken Spanish, making mistake after mistake. Below are some highlights:

* Asking for a slice of kaka instead of queque (pronounced keke). Queque is cake. Kaka is Peruvian Spanish for shit. The woman simply stared.

* When telling someone my age, I said "tengo 18 annos," which means "I have 18 arseholes." I was trying to say "I am 18 years old."

* Papa rellena (stuffed potato) is a Peruvian delicacy. It is simply a baked potato hollowed out and stuffed with your filling of choice. Papa is a Quechua word, and half a millennium after the conquistadores vanquished the Incas, the Peruvian vernacular is still littered with indigenous words. Papa in Spanish is colloquial for Father. the intonation differs between papa (potato) and Papa (father). therefore, I asked for a stuffed Father.

So, that's Spanish 101. Just throw yourself in and have a go! It doesn't matter if you make a fool out of yourself, talk jibberish or go round in circles. The locals will find it endearing and every conversation you have takes you one step closer to being proficient at the language.

Late For School (Peru, 2004)

2010-07-31T07:08:00.000-07:00

Liliana was late for school. She walked in at about 11am, her usual beaming smile replaced by a stoical demeanour that is always sorrowful to see in a child. Not happy, not sad, just normal and numb, like an adult in any metropolis on a Monday morning.

We had been teaching the class about family that day. Simple words, like Mum, Dad, sister, brother, would accompany anecdotes about mine and Will's (the guy I was teaching with)families. The kids were keen to learn about my two sisters; how old they were and what they did. I had promised my younger sister, Tasmin, who was in primary school, that her Peruvian counterparts in Pacaran would write letters. The girls in Pacaran were excited to hear about what a "chica inglesa" would be up to.

But Liliana was late. This was unlike her; she was studious, bright and enthusiastic. Jokingly, I rounded on her as she shuffled in and shouted, "Why are you late?"

There are moments in life that catapult you from adolescence into adulthood. Often you may not notice these moments occurring until years afterwards. The pace of life leaves little time for reflection. But now, six years later, I know that Liliana's response to my mocking question made me grow up a little. Maybe a lot. How do you quantify these things?
She simply looked at me, and replied "My Dad died," then went and sat down in her place and unpacked her things.

I couldn't believe what I had just heard, but I didn't pursue it. I was in shock.
Why was she here if that had just happened? The unspeakable. Will and I blundered through the rest of our lesson, and then began our walk home in the burning afternoon Sun.

Halfway home we passed Liliana's house. Elvis, her older brother, was outside, looking forlorn. He apologised for his absence from school that day. He had been working, looking after the farm. That was his future now. As we passed the door he ushered us towards the room where his father lay. My first encounter with death, the inevitable end of things. I don't know why, but I felt strange that it should be on a sunny afternoon. I always thought of cold when I thought of death. We did not linger in the house. In Britain, we shy away from the dead, we do not look at them. It is as though we feel it is a defeat.

Questions swirled in my mind as I walked home, smashing my preconceptions and putting in their place flimsy foundations of things I had never thought about. How much do we take for granted? How lucky we are, to have safety nets when the unspeakable happens? For all I know, Liliana's Dad may have been struck down by an illness we in England deem trivial. How many times are we blessed by the NHS in our lives? Even when our time is up, we have a place to go, and be at peace in the end. But Peru is a poor country, with no NHS. Liliana's father (I never knew his name) had a cold table.

We did not speak much on that walk home.

Death is normal here.

Trains, Planes and an Imbecile (Part 2)

2010-07-30T06:19:00.001-07:00

One of the main problems with the London underground is the lack of toilets. In fact, in that sprawling network of tunnels, where millions of people are transported every day - such a massive volume of people - there is a complete absence of toilets. Not one.
Two of the main problems with alcohol are that it makes the most nonsensical, ludicrous ideas seem veritably plausible and really quite clever, and that it makes one urinate far too often. Hence, being on the London Underground whilst under the influence of alcohol is inadvisable.
With my head spinning as the train zoomed (I know trains in England have never zoomed, and never will zoom, but I'm being dramatic) towards Heathrow, my bladder decided it had had enough, and gave up. I needed to piss - then and there. I was fidgeting like a child caught short, doing the desperate man's shuffle as I searched the carriage frantically. No toilet. I wasn't in London often, and this seemed insane. I looked for some sort of stealthy corner where I could do the deed, but everywhere I went I was greeted with stern stares. I had to think quickly, but being drunk was making that difficult. I narrowed down my options: get off the train, or humiliate myself in front of these strangers, and possibly traumatise some innocent people. I chose the former option, but my plan of action couldn't have been more poorly executed.
My intention was to jump off the train at a station, quickly piss in a corner, amd, once relieved, hop back on the train, with no one the wiser. It was a flawless plan.
So, as the train pulled into some random suburban station I announced loudly, "Don't worry, this bag is NOT a bomb," before stepping onto the platform. No sooner had I done this than I heard the familiar hissing of the doors, and the rumble of the train pulling away. I turned around and my jaw dropped. Before me was an empty railway line. And I still needed a piss.
I took stock of my situation. I was drunk, I had a plane to catch, and my backpack, containing all the items that were to be my life for the next 7 months, was travelling across London unattended.
I set off at a sprint, looking for someone who could help me out of this ridiculous situation. I found one of those help points and jabbed maniacally at the button. Earlier in the day I'd commented to my friend how much of an utter moron you'd have to be to ever need a help point.
There was a crackle, followed by a man's voice on the other end of the line.
"Hello," he said, warily, as though he knew help points were reserved solely for idiots.
"Left my bag on train!" I blurted out incoherently.
"Why?" came the exasperated reply.
"Err, because I need a wee," I said. I was so embarrassed, I felt like a humiliated schoolboy.
"Right," he replied, as though this was an everyday occurrence. He directed me to his office, and when I finally got there I explained I needed my bag back desperately, as I was leaving the country in a few hours. Luckily, he called ahead a few stations and the staff there secured my bag. After thanking my hero graciously, both for getting my bag back and finally letting me use a toilet, I made my way to the next station, where my bag was waiting, along with a rather displeased looking Fat Controller type chap.
"Why?" he asked sternly.
"I don't know," was the best answer I could muster. Not even an attempt at an excuse.
"You could've brought the whole of London to a standstill!" he added.
I laughed. He didn't. "Sorry," I said, still not really understanding the severity of what I had done.
"it's okay," he said, changing his tone. "Just be careful in the future." I felt like I was being lectured by one of my old teachers. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"Peru."
"Aaah, travelling," he said, and I thought I was finally gaining some respect.
"Yeah, and teaching," I replied.
He coughed. "You...teaching. Very...good?"
"Yeah. Okay, goodbye and thankyou very much," I replied courteously, ignoring his complete lack of faith in my ability.
"Bye," he said, "and say hello to Paddington for me!"
I forced a laugh and as I left the station, I made a promise to myself to throttle the next person who told me a fucking Paddington bear joke.
There were no more dramas on the way to Heathrow. I spent a few hours there trying to sleep, but gave up and played cards with a lovely old American lady.
I left for Lima at 7am on 7th September 2004, still very much a boy, with no conception of how the world we inhabit really works.

Trains, Planes and an Imbecile (Part 1)

2010-07-30T03:55:00.001-07:00

6th September 2004

The alcohol slowly diffused into my bloodstream, and the veil of drunkenness was lifted as I tried to accomplish what I now know is the impossible feat of getting comfortable in Terminal 2 of Heathrow Airport. Three more hours to wait.
Countless cocktails and my first encounter with snakebite in Walkabout a few hours earlier had now triggered a question that I asked myself over and over again - What the hell was I doing? Of course, I was already fully aware of the answer to the above question, but it had taken a healthy dose of alcohol, and a frantic train ride to Heathrow to realise the impact that the answer was going to have on my previously simple, sheltered life.
I was about to fly half way around the world to Peru, with six people I had only met once before. Once in Peru, (which conjured up images of grinding poverty, and mysterious culture before I arrived)I was going to teach English in a rural school for three months, before embarking on the most popular backpacking trail in South America; Southern Peru's gringo trail.
I was the first of our group to arrive at the airport, about four hours before we were scheduled to leave. However, events that night could easily have conspired to prevent me from ever leaving jolly old England.
I had travelled from Lancaster to London that morning to say my farewells to some good friends, and instead of opting for a quiet last night, preparing for my first long-haul flight, I was (easily) co-erced into a drinking binge.
We had spent the day chatting about nothing much whilst wandering around London, sucking in the atmosphere. The London Eye, Westminster and The Tower Of London were amongst the last sights of England I saw, instilling me with a sense of patriotism and wistfulness.
So, after meandering down the south bank, we went for a meal at TGI Friday's, and this is where I first put my foot on the slippery slope to disaster. I had a cocktail to wash down my burger and chips. One cocktail soon turned into two, and then three. And TGI Friday's cocktails are more akin to buckets than glasses. All feeling very merry, we paid the extortionate bill before moving on for "just one more."
We arrived at Walkabout, where I was kindly allowed to store my stupidly large backpack. Unshackled from having the equivalent of a hefty child strapped to my back, I completely let myself go. Soon we were all extremely drunk, dancing and having a good time. The fact that it was 11pm and I had a flight to catch at 7am didn't matter anymore. I was blissfully unaware that my cavalier attitude and over-indulgence would lead to me being punished severely later on.
I vaguely remember a conversation I had with a complete stranger as I staggered ungracefully around the dancefloor. "I hear you're the adventurous traveller who's off to Peru?" he asked. "Yep!" I boasted, proudly, although at that point I wouldn't have used the words adventurous or traveller to describe myself! "When do you go?" he asked. I checked my watch. "Fuck. I have to leave for Heathrow in ten minutes."
"Cool. How long are you going for?"
"7 months," I replied, and sat down before I fell down. That statement struck me dumb. I suddenly realised that I would be 19 when I returned to England. That I was going to miss my friends and family sorely. That I know absolutely fuck all about Peru. The unknown stretched before me like a daunting, gaping chasm, and for that moment I was terrified. Considering the longest time I had left Lancashire for previous to that night was 2 weeks, 8 months seemed like a very long time. Luckily, I was confusing a moment of clarity with a moment of weakness.
We finally managed to drag ourselves away from the bar, and set off for the underground. I remember standing on the platform, waiting for the train to come and sever my ties with all that I knew...

The Real Voyage Of Discovery Is Not In Discovering New Lands, But In Seeing With New Eyes.

2010-07-19T12:28:00.000-07:00

When I taught English in Peru in 2004, the village Will and I stayed in, called Pacaran, seemed a million miles away from Pilling, the village in Lancashire where I had lived for my entire life. Geographically they were completely different...Pilling is a wet (perhaps too wet!), flat, fertile place, famous for its potatoes. Pacaran, by contrast, was a dry, rugged village set in the Canete valley, two hours south of Lima, in the foothills of the Andes. The villages dotted along the valley hug the Canete river, where the nearby land is fertile enough for mangoes, papayas, avocados and other mysterious fruits we deem exotic to grow.

But after spending three months in Pacaran I did notice similarities between the two places. The church and the bars were both the focal points of village life, with the vicars and landlords being well known and well liked. Pacaran was essentially a village that I imagine Pilling would have been like a century ago. The roads were unpaved, and the rumble of a car passing through was an event. Everyone knew everyone else, news spread so fast that Twitter and Facebook would be envious, and there were feuds and friendships that resonated through the entire community.

Many of the villagers spent one day a week in the coastal town of Canete, but few ventured the 200 kilometres or so to Lima more than once a year. This reminded me of a story my Grandma told me about an old neighbour she had called Abe Jenkinson. When she and my Grandad bought their plot of land in Pilling in the 1970s, they asked Abe what he thought of Lancaster, the nearest town, about 10 miles away. "Been there once," he replied in his almost indecipherable broad Lancashire accent, "Didn't think much of it." People like Abe don't exist in this country anymore, in the age of cheap flights and long commutes. But in Pacaran, the valley and, for a few, the capital, represented the geographical experience of practically everyone. Flor, our host, was the only villager who had ever been abroad.

So, it was with a sense of guilt that I would talk to Juan, Flor's son-in-law, about all the places Will and I would go to on our weekends off. Juan was a combi driver, and spent his days ferrying people up and down the valley. Often he would drive us to Canete, where we would hop on one of the huge buses that cruise down the Panamerican highway. Juan had never been on one of those buses. He was unable to be a traveller in his own country. Wealth shrinks distances that seem colossal to the villagers.

I hope this does not come across as patronising...my intentions are solely observational. The chasm between the developed (horrible term - as though we in the West have somehow reached some state of perfection) and developing worlds is startling to see first-hand. But, I was somewhat envious of the social cohesion that wee sacrificed in Britain for bigger houses, faster cars, and the impulse to fly the nest and settle elsewhere, in the mad dash for property and money. It is interesting to see what we threw away, and whether what we have got in return means we lead more fulfilled, happier lives. In Pacaran the community was, although poor, far more intact than it was in Pilling. There would be a party involving literally everyone every weekend, for no reason other than to have a good time. In Pilling we had a Coffee Feast once a year. Once a year to bring a village together is not enough, and it had nothing to do with coffee, or feasting!

It is a Gap year cliché to say that people in developing countries are "happier" than those in the developed world, and it can sound like spurious hippie nonsense as happiness is an unquantifiable state of mind, but the people of Pacaran were more relaxed, at ease with their lot in life and more amicable with those they lived around than their counterparts in Pilling. I believe that goes a long way to becoming truly fulfilled and happy, and it is a shame we are losing that cohesiveness in British communities. It has not gone - it would be alarmist and false to claim there is no community in Britain - but we are sacrificing it slowly for selfishness and greed. I guess sacrifice is the wrong word...and Pilling is no better or worse than Pacaran...it is just a difference.

No More Age Of Discovery?

2010-07-11T15:43:00.000-07:00

The map is filled in. The 20th century saw the last of the Earth's great wildernesses, with the exception of the deep ocean, conquered by man. But the innate restlessness of our kind could not be sated. Bruce Chatwin said of Patagonia that it called to him because it was the last place that mankind settled...still to him a kind of 20th century frontier. But 35 years on from Chatwin's wanderings in the wilderness, Patagonia is high on the hit-lists of intrepid backpackers...I don't blame them, and I will soon be one of them. We set foot on the moon in 1969, and apparently now, in the infancy of the new millennium, we have our sights set on Mars.

But we cannot all be astronauts. What of the desire in normal men to seek new horizons, and that primal impulse to explore? The impulse that sent impoverished men like Francisco Pizarro across the Atlantic to eventually conquer an empire. Or Captain Cook across the globe to strange, uncharted lands. In the world of the GPS, how do we find the unknown?

Some people have decided, it seems, to try and improve on the past achievements of pioneers, in increasingly bizarre and meaningless ways. It started with Scott, whose Antarctic expedition became a perverse sort of race with his other competitors, and since than exploration has become some sort of ego-massaging sport. Recently Jordan Romero, aged 13, reached the summit of Everest. Why? Fuck knows? It's madness. the kid sounds like a wanker, and he'll never shut up about it ever again! Other bizarre records, or "triumphs" are being undertaken every day. Who can be the first man to walk across the Sahara, without turning left? Who will be the first toddler to circumnavigate the globe in an armchair?

Others, as I mentioned above, have turned to the stars. Since the moon landings, people have paid attention to all our excursions into space. It is as though we are collectively willing mankind to discover something new, and push the boundaries of where we know, as well as what we know. Incredible stuff, but I do think we have more pressing matters to deal with here on Earth, it's a colossal waste of money, and as the American government are at the forefront of space exploration, it will probably all end in some sort of inter-galactic war!

I know I may come across as snobbish, like I want to hog the world for myself, but that is not my intention. I fully understand why people travel, and I applaud them for it. But I do genuinely feel a pang of sadness knowing that there is no corner that I can uncover, and nothing I can discover that is new in Patagonia, or anywhere else. Or maybe I can't fill in a map, but I can discover a place for myself? The world will always be big enough for that, and that is a heartening thought.

We carry within us wonders we seek without us.

2010-07-10T03:59:00.001-07:00

I am happy to say that my friends and family have been incredibly supportive of my eccentric travel plans. My parents kindly kitted me out with invaluable equipment, and Tasha's family have been equally enthusiastic. It is an encouraging thought, that when you set off halfway across the world with nought but a backpack on your shoulders, you have the blessings of your nearest and dearest.

However, the one question most strangers ask when I tell them my wife and I are going to travel around South America for an indefinite period of time, with no set route, is why? Or rather a veiled "why?", lurking behind some innocuous question or statement.

It is a question that I cannot answer, and have no reason to, but I often offer them some perfunctory response. "Why not?" I sometimes blurt on my more irascible days. Or, feeling pretentious, why not fire off a quote from wiser men than myself. "i was not born for one corner; the whole world is my native land," said Seneca. Or Byron, "the world, which is a curious sight, and very much unlike what people write." I believe wholeheartedly in both these sentiments, but neither answer the question: why?

There is no answer to that question that can be pinned down in one eloquent sentence or fixed in the permanency of words. Every day I have a different reason to go. Sometimes I have no reason. The reason is impulse, desire, wanderlust, a hunger to see new things, speak with new people, retrace old steps from 5 years ago. It is the desire to see alien landscapes that set off sparks in the imagination. It is selfish and selfless. It is wanting to experience poverty and luxury in a matter of hours. It is the Sun, the sky at night with no street lights, where galaxies swirl above. It is humbling oneself, making the world big again, and learning patience. It is new food, new thoughts, new dreams that could not be born at home. that is why we travel. If you have to ask why, you do not understand. This does not make we who travel aloof; it just makes us different.

Itinerary

2010-07-06T05:30:00.000-07:00

Our itinerary for our South American adventure is dictated by two things. The first is our budget. We want to live frugally but not be stingy, so as to see and do as much as possible before our bank balance nears the dreaded zero and the long flight home beckons. But being too strict with a budget, restricting your spending too much, will inevitably restrict your enjoyment. So I anticipate splurges, days of luxury to balance out days camping for free in the unnamed wilderness. Days waking up and mourning that wasted 100 pesos, but at the time, spending it felt so good! I anticipate that, and relish it.

The second, more important thing to consider when planning a trip around an entire continent, is Mother Nature. In a wild land like South America, she will hinder you, and timing is everything. that is why we aim (roughly) to head to Patagonia during the Southern hemisphere's spring, and make our way North, into the Peruvian Andes, for the Andean dry season. I am certain our timing will not be perfect, but at least an awareness of the region's climate and weather is necesary if you don't want to be caught out.

We are lucky, that the third factor that often plays a part in backpacking, that of time, does not play a part in our planning. We have a one way ticket, so our time in South America is dictated by how long our money lasts, not by the date on an airline ticket, or a distant monday morning, where an office chair awaits at 9am for the return to work and the "real world." This to me, being unshackled by time, will be the ultimate freedom.

I have had experience of time constraints during a trip before. Last time I was travelling in South America, in 2005, I had meandered through Bolivia into North Eastern Argentina with my friend Will. As I had initially travelled out to Peru with an extortionate Gap Year company (more on those another time) I had booked the default flight, returning from Lima. this left me tied to a time and date that I had to be back in Peru. It constantly nagged at the back of my mind, getting stronger with every mile further from Lima. I felt like a child who knows he has strayed to far from home, and will be called back any minute. it essentially closed the open road that lay before me. So, Will, who had the foresight to arrange his flight independently, carried on to Buenos Aires. I, bound by time, made my way back to Peru, a lonely 3 day bus journey of retraced steps and dreams of "what if". I will not make that mistake again, hence the one way ticket. To be able to ignore time is a luxury rarely afforded in our world.

So, with these factors considered, our itinerary can be as loose and freewheeling as the climate of the area determines. An exciting prospect.

Preparation.

2010-07-06T05:07:00.000-07:00

Two months and counting until I return to South America. Two years of arduous saving, preparations and fantasising over landscapes and stories in books, about to come to fruition. Excited? Definitely. Nervous? Definitely.

It is strange. 5 years ago I travelled to South America with a group of people I didn't know, to teach English in rural Peru before backpacking around the famous gringo trail, and getting as far as Mendoza in Central Argentina to the South, and Montanita on the Ecuadorean coast to the North. Back then I was an immature, impetuous teenager, with next to no experience of foreign countries, and no grasp of Spanish. I was flinging myself fearlessly into the unknown. Yet for some reason now, returning to a place I have a degree of familiarity with, accompanied by my wife, and able to speak Spanish, my apprehension is greater.

I think one reason for this is that my expectations are greater...as i mentioned above, I have been working for two years towards this trip, and I want it to be incredible. I have also pored over books about the countries we are visiting (first stop, Argentina!) and this perhaps has led to me over-thinking the trip! Another reason is that now, as a (mostly) responsible adult, I am much more concerned about the impact of tourism on developing countries, and being an ethical tourist can be difficult. It is difficult to know whether the money you spend will help, or help to impoverish the people you meet along the way. With tourism burgeoning worldwide, and the problems of climate change looming, this pressure on the individual to act, spend and think responsibly will increase as the 21st century runs its course.

But my nervousness and apprehension is far outweighed by my own excitement and fervent imaginings, and the enthusiasm of my beautiful wife Natasha. She has never travelled to South America, and I am sure she will love it. We have a modest budget, a one way ticket to Buenos Aires...and heads full of dreams!!!