Neruda, The Queen.

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.

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.

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

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

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)

"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

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.