Turkish Bath

 

Turkish bath:

Upon leaving a sauna, sweating copiously, and adorned only in a modestly sized towel, I am summoned to a steam filled chamber. Here I am subject to a thorough rinsing before undergoing the following ritual: 

 A hairy man rubbing, slapping and essentially tickling me whilst I am covered in suds. There are four of us victims on a square slab enduring this invigorating, revitalising, altogether weird experience. We are arranged so that if I look to the right I cop an eyeful. I keep my eyes closed and fight back tears and laughter in equal amount. I enjoy it. 

Alternative Turkish bath: Me in a shoddy hotel room. The plug doesn’t work so the tub slowly leaks until I resemble a hippo in the dry season, thrashing around in my own filth. I do not enjoy it.

I'm back!

So! After several years of indolence and wanton avoidance, I have taken it upon myself to continue writing my blog. For those of you (un)fortunate enough to stumble upon these musings, you will not find a coherent stream of witty thought or provocative discussions about this economic crisis or that political upheaval.

Mainly you will find a sometimes messy distillation of what I think and do during my existence. Poems, thoughts, anecdotes of funny happenings around this bizarre planet. A diary of drivel to some, no doubt, but, as I say, after years of sitting dormant, absorbing what is now horribly called content, I thought I would fling some of my own content back into the world.

 

PS Upon reading this, my wife asked why I had been avoiding wantons! Lovely.

Street Meat

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

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

Impressions Of Ecuador

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

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

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

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

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

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

James Vs. The Pacific

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Santa Cruz Trek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sacred Leaf

"La Hoja De Coca No Es Droga!"

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

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

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

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

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