The middle of the world is near Quito, or at least that is what Ecuadorians say. They say it because the ecuator passes through a site about 45 minutes north of the capital. There you can find a small museum were the line is drawn on the floor with yellow paint.
A woman showed me water moving down a plughole in different directions in two identical sinks a few metres apart. She explained how the indigenous inhabitants of the site discovered it was right in the middle of both hemispheres, which is impressive given that they only used sticks and stones and stuff. They also buried women alive and cut off the faces of enemies to keep as souvenir.
After photocopying all the books I needed from my language school I left Quito and flew to Bogotá. The flying bit was the result of a carefully negotiated set of conditions under which my parents would be happy for me to be in Colombia.
Arriving at the airport I felt a little strange. This was, after all,a country where large amounts of land are out of the hands the state. To my relief there were a lot of police; I reckoned I could be pretty sure Bogotá, or at least the airport, were under government control.
I spend the morning wandering round the old town - life seemed pretty normal, but I was on my guard for guerilla fighters all the same.
Colombia´s best artist is Fernando Botero. His trademark is paintings and sculptures of fat people. Some art is undoubtedly bollocks, but I really enjoyed the work of Botero. I also enjoyed the hot chocolate and cheese followed by mango with salt and lime which I ate in the cafe opposite.
The museum of police is an interesting attraction given that the police are pretty busy most of the time. A few years ago the Medellin Cartel was offering about 10,000 dolars to anyone who could prove they had killed a policemen. As I waited for the obligatory officer to show me around I noticed the list of members of the Bogotá police killed whilst on duty. There were 36 names. All from 2007.
One of Bogotá´s richest men is a taylor who makes bulletproof clothing for other rich people. Security is the largest industry in the country - if you don´t count drugs.
The Colombian accent, at least around Bogotá, sounds just like a welsh accent. Assuming (I know) he were capable of learning it, Craig Bellamy speaking Spanish would sound like a Bogotano. That doesn´t apply on the coast - here they talk without opening their mouth. Which is a good thing, because orthodontic braces are a cool accessory amongst wealthier locals, even well into their thirties.
I wanted to avoid gringos so I phoned a friend of a friend of a friend of Bristow and a few minutes later a brand new Peugeot 306 pulled up at my hostel. Over the next two days, Adriana, a former student much like myself, drove me to malls, cinemas and restaurants in the wealthy parts of the city. If it wasn´t for the heavily armed police on most intersections and drug addicts approaching the car at traffic lights it could have been Alicia Silverstone driving me round Beverly Hills.
It was good to see another side of a city that clearly has many sides, but I couldn´t really afford the lifestyle and, in the end, was forced to escape to the coast. Parking her car for a few hours, in a heavily guarded garage, cost as much as a few days´ travel in Bolivia.
Each bus company has to display its ´road accident statistics´ on a large sign by the office in the bus station. We chose Expresso Brasilia, which boasted 3 deaths and 6 injuries in the last month. ´I can assure you that is the best record you´ll find´ asserted the women behing the counter. ´The roads here are very windy´.
She wasn´t wrong. Surprisingly though, given my concerns about hijacking or falling off a mountain or both, I slept pretty well, until we stopped a few hours short of our destination for breakfast.
In what seemed a strange selection given the 40 degree heat and high humidity, the locals on the bus all ordered deep fried meat with rice and chili. Sadly that´s also the typical lunch and dinner on the coast, give or take a few grilled bananas. It seems that, while doling out the food to Latin America, God gave anything worth eating to Argentina and Mexico.
I was excited about being by the sea and somewhere hot, and wasted no time in signing up for what claimed to be the cheapest scuba diving course in the world. It was sponsored by an organisation called PADI, which I thought, given the name, might be Irish, but is in fact American.
We spent four days sitting on the sea bed taking our flippers off and swimming without air before they gave us some paper announcing that we were qualified divers. Then we explored the nearby reefs which are home to a large amount of coloured fish and coral.
A man used to walk along the beach with a large sign that said Cocaine on one side and Hash on the other. There were police about, but they had no idea; the sign was in Hebrew. ´I got an Israeli guy to write the words and a friend painted the sign. The Jews find it hilarious to see the sign, and I sell much more than the other guys. How much did you say you wanted?´
From Santa Marta it´s a short trip to Parque National Tayrona, home to, according to the Guardian Travel Website, one of the world´s top ten beaches. We walked for two hours through thick jungle past spiders and crabs to the waterfront. Here we slept in hammocs on a windy headland from where you could see the mountains and jungle behind the palm trees at the back of beaches. The rough seas added to the wild, untamed atmosphere. It seemed a rugged, menacing sort of paradise.
As slept on the beach I was woken by a large thud. A coconut had fallen a few metres from my foot. That was lucky; if one fell on your head it would fucking hurt.
Futher up the coast is Cartagena de los Indias, reputedly the most beautiful town in Latin America, although a bit touristy by Colombian standards and home to a good amount of prostitution. The old walled city on the waterfront was certainly a stunningly colourful mix of different Spanish architecture, a bit like a Carribean Dubrovnik.
Sadly, I couldn´t afford to stay anywhere near the old town, so shacked up with other backpackers in a barrio with a slightly more, err, real feel. The pavements were home to drunks and crack addicts, although were full of other people going about their daily business and were apparently quite safe, at least in the day. A toddler in a nappy ambled past the vagrants carrying a bag of shopping towards her mum, who was sitting on the curb breastfeeding. ´I hope you got milk´ she shouted over the noise of the traffic screeching down the same road.
In what must have been a small dose of relief in a pretty awful existence, some of the street-dwellers liked to amuse themselves by jumping up at tourists and frightening them, before laughing loudly and offering their hand to apologise. When I mentioned that I was from England one got all excited and shouted ´Leicester? Birmingham? Grimsby? Luton?´.
In my hostel I met a woman who has traveled overland from the US with two large Kenyan dogs working as a writer. The van she uses is white except for a large cartoon mutt and the words On a mission from Dog. ´I guess people just think its vet supplies delivery or something' she explained.
To avoid problems at border crossings she lets the dogs off their lead and ushers them into the street while sorting out her passport. When she gets past the controls she whistles and they traipse across like strays until she ties them up out of sight of the police.
She had to put the vehicle on a cargo ship because you can´t drive from Panama to Colombia, and took the dogs on a sailing boat. She plans to write an article for a pet magazine about taking the dogs across and an article for a car magazine about taking the van.
Wednesday, 4 July 2007
Friday, 15 June 2007
Writing my journal
It was a crisp, bright afternoon much like all others. It´s like that when you´re on the Ecuator - seasons are perk this country doesn´t enjoy. From the window of the internet cafe, I watched as buses made their way up the crowded street, past the racist restaurant signs and heavily armed security guards. As always, men hung out of the doors shouting the route and urging people to get on.
This is odd - surely if you want to get on the bus, you just will. The same happens in long distance coach terminals. It´s like if you went to the station back home and there were men behind desks grabbing you and shouting Crewe or Sheffield repeatedly, in case you were still undecided.
So anyway. Ecuador is well known as a great place to write your journal and I´d been waiting for this moment since I wrote the last entry, possibly before. The music, coming from a tape recorder on the desk of the woman administering the shop, was a mix of reggaeton, salsa and the occasional Bob Marley.
For security, I wrapped my bag around my leg like it tells you to do in the Lonely Planet. Breathing heavily from a combination of anticipation and altitude, I went first to the BBC website. This was an instinctive move; I knew better than to do email first, because I might forget to do BBC but I would never forget email. Or Facebook for that matter.
News first, because you wont forget Sport. Same thinking.
While conidering the perplexing ability of ex-footballers to write numerous lines of prose without actually saying anything, something caught my eye.
In the corner of the screen was the logo for MSN Messenger. - Let me see. You never know...
Boring. Almost nobody. Shit, I haven´t spoken to her in ages. Do they take it personally when you sign straight out like that? -
Thankfully, for the sake of my journal, email brought almost nothing save the usual eight offerings from the Graduate Recruitment Bureau encouraging me to sign up for a position in a tax company. I say almost nothing because there was also a second invitation to join ´Save Somerville Formal Hall on a Thursday´. It currently has 14 members.
I know that information because I could´t resist signing in, ostensibly to turn the invitation down. In reality I wasted 45 minutes looking at photos of a girl I haven´t seen since primary school.
And I didn´t even know there was a university in Grimsby.
As darkness fell (in about 3 minutes) outside, I focused my mind on the task in hand. I collected my thoughts before forgetting what I was doing and going back to the BBC website. I knew this was wrong, and so stared blankly at the Ñ key before trying once again to get the AT sign. This is never easy because it´s on the same key as both 2 and " so shift never works. In the end you sometimes have to copy and paste AT from a website. As I did this, Sean Paul came on the radio.
I thought to myself - this is what travel is all about. -
A group of teenage school-children bundled in and occupied most of the spare machines playing network games. At the back of the room I could make out the faint noise of a guy talking on the phone from whithin a calling booth. And, spectacularly, the girl next to me appeared to be having a video-phone conversation.
I wrote, and the words came out quickly. Without being able to explain why, I realised the experience was completely different from writing my journal in Peru or Bolivia or Argentina. Maybe it was the speed of the conection. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn´t watch videos on YouTube because FlashPlayer wasn´t installed.
After barely a few hours, I had finished my entry. I felt almost a sense of loss. I looked at the window at the bottom of the screen, which said $1.24. Then I walked slowly to the woman at the desk, and at the same time instinctively checked my valuables were still there in my money belt.
I said ´listo´, which means ready or clever but in this case ready. She said $1.24, except in words not numbers and in Spanish. This wasn´t a surprise, as I had already seen the amount on the screen.
I almost had the right change, but not quite. I had $1.21. When I realised this I wasn´t sure whether she´d prefer that or my $10 note because people are funny here about change so I showed her the coins and the note and let her decide. After a few moments she
This is odd - surely if you want to get on the bus, you just will. The same happens in long distance coach terminals. It´s like if you went to the station back home and there were men behind desks grabbing you and shouting Crewe or Sheffield repeatedly, in case you were still undecided.
So anyway. Ecuador is well known as a great place to write your journal and I´d been waiting for this moment since I wrote the last entry, possibly before. The music, coming from a tape recorder on the desk of the woman administering the shop, was a mix of reggaeton, salsa and the occasional Bob Marley.
For security, I wrapped my bag around my leg like it tells you to do in the Lonely Planet. Breathing heavily from a combination of anticipation and altitude, I went first to the BBC website. This was an instinctive move; I knew better than to do email first, because I might forget to do BBC but I would never forget email. Or Facebook for that matter.
News first, because you wont forget Sport. Same thinking.
While conidering the perplexing ability of ex-footballers to write numerous lines of prose without actually saying anything, something caught my eye.
In the corner of the screen was the logo for MSN Messenger. - Let me see. You never know...
Boring. Almost nobody. Shit, I haven´t spoken to her in ages. Do they take it personally when you sign straight out like that? -
Thankfully, for the sake of my journal, email brought almost nothing save the usual eight offerings from the Graduate Recruitment Bureau encouraging me to sign up for a position in a tax company. I say almost nothing because there was also a second invitation to join ´Save Somerville Formal Hall on a Thursday´. It currently has 14 members.
I know that information because I could´t resist signing in, ostensibly to turn the invitation down. In reality I wasted 45 minutes looking at photos of a girl I haven´t seen since primary school.
And I didn´t even know there was a university in Grimsby.
As darkness fell (in about 3 minutes) outside, I focused my mind on the task in hand. I collected my thoughts before forgetting what I was doing and going back to the BBC website. I knew this was wrong, and so stared blankly at the Ñ key before trying once again to get the AT sign. This is never easy because it´s on the same key as both 2 and " so shift never works. In the end you sometimes have to copy and paste AT from a website. As I did this, Sean Paul came on the radio.
I thought to myself - this is what travel is all about. -
A group of teenage school-children bundled in and occupied most of the spare machines playing network games. At the back of the room I could make out the faint noise of a guy talking on the phone from whithin a calling booth. And, spectacularly, the girl next to me appeared to be having a video-phone conversation.
I wrote, and the words came out quickly. Without being able to explain why, I realised the experience was completely different from writing my journal in Peru or Bolivia or Argentina. Maybe it was the speed of the conection. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn´t watch videos on YouTube because FlashPlayer wasn´t installed.
After barely a few hours, I had finished my entry. I felt almost a sense of loss. I looked at the window at the bottom of the screen, which said $1.24. Then I walked slowly to the woman at the desk, and at the same time instinctively checked my valuables were still there in my money belt.
I said ´listo´, which means ready or clever but in this case ready. She said $1.24, except in words not numbers and in Spanish. This wasn´t a surprise, as I had already seen the amount on the screen.
I almost had the right change, but not quite. I had $1.21. When I realised this I wasn´t sure whether she´d prefer that or my $10 note because people are funny here about change so I showed her the coins and the note and let her decide. After a few moments she
Friday, 8 June 2007
Getting off the bus at Quito bus station, I thought ´what the fuck did you just do that for´. Having been over 2000m up for over two months I was pumped about being at the coast, being at sea level, being able to walk around at night without a large coat, being able to walk around in the day without my face burning and being able to run for ten minutes without collapsing in a heap. Yet after a week or so at the beach, I drove back up a mountain.
I´m not the only one with a problem here. Fifa have banned all international matches at altitude, which has really pissed people off. I went to watch the end of the Quito half-marathon and every other runner seemed to be wearing a T-shirt expressing a desire to fight the decision, or else do something horrible to those who made it.
¨I mean it´s like people wont even believe you can live at altitude. I mean, look - if you´re in England and you hear this, you´re going to think it´s impossible to play at altitude. You might even be amazed life functions at all up here. But it´s bollocks. Look at these runners¨ said some bloke I met by the finish line.
There´s fanatacism everywhere, and certainly in Europe, but here football is the business of everyone; from the man selling barbecued guinea-pig on the corner by my language school to senior politicians, everyone has an opinion. The same opinion.
The Ecuadorian president has flipped on the issue. The Peruvian sports minister unveiled a huge banner at Machu Picchu condemning the decision, apparently suggesting that if the Incas can lift huge rocks to the top of steep mountains at 3000m then Brazilians can certainly run around a bit chasing a ball. And Evo Morales, the overweight Bolivian premier, did some bad keepy-ups in La Paz, definitely settling the argument in my opinion.
In other football news, most of the continent is getting pretty excited about the upcoming Copa America. I say most because Brazil have left out Kaka and Ronaldinho, which sort of suggests they aren´t.
To prepare, Ecuador played two friendlies against Peru, with the matches broadcast on a giant screen in the centre of town. Oddly, someone had chosen to put the screen in front of a large traffic intersection without closing the roads, so that the audience had to squeeze onto the pavements, or climb traffic lights. ¨It´s new technology for us¨ explained the guy next to me, from on top of a road-sign, when I suggested they might have used the nearby park.
Before getting to Quito, I´d been first in Montanita and then Banos, two fun tourist destinations.
Montanita is a surf town with a long beach. It was cloudy, but a national holiday so the beach was crowded. I ate a lot of oysters, with lime and chili, in an attempt to transform myself into (even more of) a sexual powerhouse. In a similar vain I went running for miles barefoot along the waterfront, came accross a swarm of vultures tucking into a (dead) giant sea-turtle and then frolicked in the agressively high waves to cool off.
Banos is an outdoor activity haven next to a huge active volcano. Some time ago, the government chucked everyone, including the locals, out because it was going to errupt, but it never did, so they all moved back. Now, every other shop has a sign offering a volcano erruption at 9pm -apparently they take you up to see the lava jumping around at the top. Unfortunately, the bad weather at the coast caused me to get lashed three days in a row, and by the time I was in Banos I was good for the thermal baths and no more.
In Ecuador, hair gel is big. A lot of people look like Mark Lammarr with browner skin.
Back in Quito, I stayed in a hostal where they give you free rum and Coke every other night -as much as you can drink. Initially I couldnt see what the hostel got out of such a move. They were paying for a lot of booze. But after a while I realised why it works. Nobody leaves because they´re either awaiting the free booze or far too hungover to get up before the check-out time.
Ecuador has the largest black population of the countries I've been to. The football team's best players are black and there's people of varing shapes, colours and backgrounds all over Quito, something you definitely wouldn't see in Buenos Aires or La Paz. But despite the diversity, there's a slightly different standard of political correctness when it comes to race.
Menestra is a popular local dish, a bit like a lentil stew. There's a large chain of fast food restaurants in Quito called Menestra del Negro. The slogan - Menestra just like Mama used to make. The company logo - a large, smiling, child-friendly monkey.
Colombia
Ever since Buenos Aires, there´s been a, well, a rumour. Or maybe it´s a myth, or a legend. Stories of other places spread like wildfire amongst travellers - sometimes all you talk about is where you have been. But the most common, by far, especially if you are moving in my direction, is that Colombia is amazing.
Everything is so colourful, apparently. The cities are beatiful, the people cross the street to help you, the women throw themselves in the direction of, well, anyone and it´s always sunny. One girl told a tale of a city so clean that local delinquents spray grafiti onto pieces of paper and then stick them to the walls. And although most of those I meet seem to have been, there are hardly any tourists. They say.
Of course, Columbia has a different reputation too. Drugs and guns and kidnapping and stuff like that. But apparently that´s all blown over. One guy I met asserted that it´s definitely safer than any other country he´s ever been to. His mate, after three weeks there, described it as "well safe".
Top 5 most interesting things people have come on a bus to try to sell me half-way through the journey.
Pack some food for the journey?.....no need.
I´m not the only one with a problem here. Fifa have banned all international matches at altitude, which has really pissed people off. I went to watch the end of the Quito half-marathon and every other runner seemed to be wearing a T-shirt expressing a desire to fight the decision, or else do something horrible to those who made it.
¨I mean it´s like people wont even believe you can live at altitude. I mean, look - if you´re in England and you hear this, you´re going to think it´s impossible to play at altitude. You might even be amazed life functions at all up here. But it´s bollocks. Look at these runners¨ said some bloke I met by the finish line.
There´s fanatacism everywhere, and certainly in Europe, but here football is the business of everyone; from the man selling barbecued guinea-pig on the corner by my language school to senior politicians, everyone has an opinion. The same opinion.
The Ecuadorian president has flipped on the issue. The Peruvian sports minister unveiled a huge banner at Machu Picchu condemning the decision, apparently suggesting that if the Incas can lift huge rocks to the top of steep mountains at 3000m then Brazilians can certainly run around a bit chasing a ball. And Evo Morales, the overweight Bolivian premier, did some bad keepy-ups in La Paz, definitely settling the argument in my opinion.
In other football news, most of the continent is getting pretty excited about the upcoming Copa America. I say most because Brazil have left out Kaka and Ronaldinho, which sort of suggests they aren´t.
To prepare, Ecuador played two friendlies against Peru, with the matches broadcast on a giant screen in the centre of town. Oddly, someone had chosen to put the screen in front of a large traffic intersection without closing the roads, so that the audience had to squeeze onto the pavements, or climb traffic lights. ¨It´s new technology for us¨ explained the guy next to me, from on top of a road-sign, when I suggested they might have used the nearby park.
Before getting to Quito, I´d been first in Montanita and then Banos, two fun tourist destinations.
Montanita is a surf town with a long beach. It was cloudy, but a national holiday so the beach was crowded. I ate a lot of oysters, with lime and chili, in an attempt to transform myself into (even more of) a sexual powerhouse. In a similar vain I went running for miles barefoot along the waterfront, came accross a swarm of vultures tucking into a (dead) giant sea-turtle and then frolicked in the agressively high waves to cool off.
Banos is an outdoor activity haven next to a huge active volcano. Some time ago, the government chucked everyone, including the locals, out because it was going to errupt, but it never did, so they all moved back. Now, every other shop has a sign offering a volcano erruption at 9pm -apparently they take you up to see the lava jumping around at the top. Unfortunately, the bad weather at the coast caused me to get lashed three days in a row, and by the time I was in Banos I was good for the thermal baths and no more.
In Ecuador, hair gel is big. A lot of people look like Mark Lammarr with browner skin.
Back in Quito, I stayed in a hostal where they give you free rum and Coke every other night -as much as you can drink. Initially I couldnt see what the hostel got out of such a move. They were paying for a lot of booze. But after a while I realised why it works. Nobody leaves because they´re either awaiting the free booze or far too hungover to get up before the check-out time.
Ecuador has the largest black population of the countries I've been to. The football team's best players are black and there's people of varing shapes, colours and backgrounds all over Quito, something you definitely wouldn't see in Buenos Aires or La Paz. But despite the diversity, there's a slightly different standard of political correctness when it comes to race.
Menestra is a popular local dish, a bit like a lentil stew. There's a large chain of fast food restaurants in Quito called Menestra del Negro. The slogan - Menestra just like Mama used to make. The company logo - a large, smiling, child-friendly monkey.
Colombia
Ever since Buenos Aires, there´s been a, well, a rumour. Or maybe it´s a myth, or a legend. Stories of other places spread like wildfire amongst travellers - sometimes all you talk about is where you have been. But the most common, by far, especially if you are moving in my direction, is that Colombia is amazing.
Everything is so colourful, apparently. The cities are beatiful, the people cross the street to help you, the women throw themselves in the direction of, well, anyone and it´s always sunny. One girl told a tale of a city so clean that local delinquents spray grafiti onto pieces of paper and then stick them to the walls. And although most of those I meet seem to have been, there are hardly any tourists. They say.
Of course, Columbia has a different reputation too. Drugs and guns and kidnapping and stuff like that. But apparently that´s all blown over. One guy I met asserted that it´s definitely safer than any other country he´s ever been to. His mate, after three weeks there, described it as "well safe".
Top 5 most interesting things people have come on a bus to try to sell me half-way through the journey.
Pack some food for the journey?.....no need.
- Potatoes stuffed with meat or cheese or both
- Corn on the cob with cheese
- Chicken and chips
- Coat hangers, combs, soap or all three for a reduction
- A three course meal, including soup, all in plastic bags
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
Pisco Sour
When you travel you get some ups and downs. As is often said, its better than being it work, but there´s still a few times when you really wish you were at home, with a base, a routine, a bedroom, TV, traffic lights, trains, toilets that flush, police that help, a face that fits.....
Standing in a pharmacy in the Peruvian town of Pisco having just had my taxi hijacked and my large rucksack stolen was a low point for me. I considered my remaining possesions; fortunately they included my photos, my passport and my bank card. Unfortunately, what I was wearing - a T-shirt, some trainers, some shorts and some socks - were my only clothes. I chose a bad day to go commando.
A few days before, in Huacachina, a strangely relaxed traveller town in the desert south of Lima, I had met a crazy group of scandanavians with a beat-up hire care and hours worth of stories, Our hotel had a garden full of parrots, some that said ´hello´, some that said ´hola´and one that said both.
The town was surrounded by tall sand dunes and tour agencies took groups on a crazy ride up and down the peaks in dune buggies. We stopped a few times to try sandboarding, which was hard. After a few-high speed crashes I took the recommended option of going down head-first on my chest, which was easier, but at times even more painful.
There was a bar where you could ask for chocolate and they gave you a bag full of hash. For free.The floor was covered in cushions and beanbags, with playstations, which you could use for as long as you wanted. It was just like being at university.
Profits came (thick and fast) courtesy of the steeply priced range of sweet and savoury snacks on offer. Oddly enough, when sitting on a bean-bag playing your 12th match of Pro-Evo with a slightly cloudy head and pants full of sand at three in the afternoon on a hot day, a chocolate pizza with bananas on for 18 Soles is exactly what you want. The girl next to me swore she hadn´t moved for three days.
So anyway, the relaxed atmosphere and compelling company meant that I ended up leaving for Pisco a little later than I had planned, and arrived after dark. I jumped in a taxi to get to a hostal, and it was promptly surrounded by two smaller tuk-tuk style taxis, full of guys shouting at my driver. After a while, it was clear they weren´t asking directions.
We went down a quiet side street and the other cars pulled in front. I tried to get out, but couldnt, and a big guy with scruffy hair and tight jeans reached in the passenger door and grabbed my rucksack. We had a little jostle, before another man appeared and shouted very loudly (so that saliva went on my face). I was worried about my valuables, so I let him have it (the bag), wrenched my door open and legged in to the nearest lit street.
I looked back to see the bigger guy scampering up the road with my (possibly unecessarily) heavy bag. Obviously unfamiliar with the Berghaus Back-Eeze quad-strap system (with seventeen and a half points of adjustment), he carried it perched half on his head and half on his shoulder. Little did he know that the joke was (sort of) on him: there was nothing good inside, and I hadn´t done my washing since the Inca Trail.
So it was off to the police station for the second time in my trip - this time it was a huge empty room, save a couple of desks in one corner and a typewriter.
The guy was sympathetic:
´ahh, that again. Why do travellers even come here?´
´err...to visit the islands. It´s on the way to Lima, too´
´Well you shouldn´t´
´Did he have a gun?´
´I didn´t see one´
´lucky´
´England, eh. This wouldn´t happen over there, would it? You have cameras in the street and stuff´
´I know... Thanks´
He wrote down the details of what happened and then produced a scruffy looking A3 scrapbook with photos of local criminals sellotaped to the pages. They were all scruffily dressed with black hair, brown skin and jeans. And there were hundreds - I had no chance. Without wanting to admit that I can only tell one Peruvian from another by what there are wearing, I told him that, apart from one apparently in his eighties, it could have been any of them.
At this point another man walked in with some new information, and showed me a page with only four faces on. Amongst these I was pretty sure, but not certain.
´how sure´
´it´s hard. About 90 percent I reckon´
´Ok, tomorrow I want you to come back here. There will be a judge here, and I want you to be 100 percent certain´
´but I´m not´
´you cant be indecisive in front of a judge´
´but what if i´m not sure...If say it was him, what will happen´
He answered that by moving his fingers accross his throat and smiling warmly.
Having been told that there was no chance of getting the bag back and slightly unnerved by the power of retribution that in my hands, I decided not to grass the guy up. I did have to go back for a full report for the insurance: having told the police that there was little of value in the bag, it was pretty embarrassing explaining that the rucksack cost about 200 dolars the value of the clothes if bought new in England would be over 1000 pounds.
The two policemen in the room couldn´t really comprehend that much money, so I changed the subject to Nolberto Solano. Talking about football works time and time again when dealing with angry men on this continent.
At this point, another man, who appeared not be a policeman, came over and explained that creating such a report was not in the officer´s job description and that, since he wasn´t getting paid, I should at least offer a tip.
Embarrassed by my obvious relative wealth, I went to hand over the coins in my wallet:
´no, not like that, his boss can see. Put it between the pages of the book on the table´
Serving the community. South American style.
I was a little shaken up by the whole thing, and, with nothing to wear, decided to scrap my plans to go trekking in northern Peru. Instead, I went briefly to Lima - and the coast for the first time since Buenos Aires. I managed a run along the world´s smelliest beach (I could sense the dissapointment amongst the groups of youths under the pier when it became clear that, wearing nothing but some hastily purchased Peruvian swimming trunks, I was not worth mugging), and ate mountains of Ceviche (a local breakfast of raw fish with lime and chili).
From Lima we headed north, narrowly missing an all expenses paid piss up on Nobby Solano in north peru, before crossing the border and reaching the grimy Ecuadorian city of Guayaquil. Ecuador certainly feels different, though it´s hard to say exactly how. It seems similarly shady at times: beside every cashpoint is a guard with a metre-long sawn-off shotgun.
Despite being near the sea, Guayaquil doesn´t have a coastline (Southampton with malaria). It is surrounded by a large swampy marsh, though, and the urban planners have decided to capitalise. This morning, I ran along the newly developed swamp-front, including macdonalds, a designer mall and views of the mud below.
I watched a man for a good half hour as he practised football skills the park:
´do you play football - for a team´
´no, I just do tricks. I training for the local championships´
´do you do it in a team or something´
´no. On my own. I went to Chile, but they wouldn´t let me in because I couldn´t prove that I could make a living out of it. So I came back, but I´m going to work more´
´I´m from Southampton. Do you know Augustin Delga...´
´Sorry, It´s nice to talk, but I have to go. I´ve got to work´
He returned to the grass with the ball balanced on his head.
Top 5 bargains to be found this week in a flea market somewhere in southern Peru.
Standing in a pharmacy in the Peruvian town of Pisco having just had my taxi hijacked and my large rucksack stolen was a low point for me. I considered my remaining possesions; fortunately they included my photos, my passport and my bank card. Unfortunately, what I was wearing - a T-shirt, some trainers, some shorts and some socks - were my only clothes. I chose a bad day to go commando.
A few days before, in Huacachina, a strangely relaxed traveller town in the desert south of Lima, I had met a crazy group of scandanavians with a beat-up hire care and hours worth of stories, Our hotel had a garden full of parrots, some that said ´hello´, some that said ´hola´and one that said both.
The town was surrounded by tall sand dunes and tour agencies took groups on a crazy ride up and down the peaks in dune buggies. We stopped a few times to try sandboarding, which was hard. After a few-high speed crashes I took the recommended option of going down head-first on my chest, which was easier, but at times even more painful.
There was a bar where you could ask for chocolate and they gave you a bag full of hash. For free.The floor was covered in cushions and beanbags, with playstations, which you could use for as long as you wanted. It was just like being at university.
Profits came (thick and fast) courtesy of the steeply priced range of sweet and savoury snacks on offer. Oddly enough, when sitting on a bean-bag playing your 12th match of Pro-Evo with a slightly cloudy head and pants full of sand at three in the afternoon on a hot day, a chocolate pizza with bananas on for 18 Soles is exactly what you want. The girl next to me swore she hadn´t moved for three days.
So anyway, the relaxed atmosphere and compelling company meant that I ended up leaving for Pisco a little later than I had planned, and arrived after dark. I jumped in a taxi to get to a hostal, and it was promptly surrounded by two smaller tuk-tuk style taxis, full of guys shouting at my driver. After a while, it was clear they weren´t asking directions.
We went down a quiet side street and the other cars pulled in front. I tried to get out, but couldnt, and a big guy with scruffy hair and tight jeans reached in the passenger door and grabbed my rucksack. We had a little jostle, before another man appeared and shouted very loudly (so that saliva went on my face). I was worried about my valuables, so I let him have it (the bag), wrenched my door open and legged in to the nearest lit street.
I looked back to see the bigger guy scampering up the road with my (possibly unecessarily) heavy bag. Obviously unfamiliar with the Berghaus Back-Eeze quad-strap system (with seventeen and a half points of adjustment), he carried it perched half on his head and half on his shoulder. Little did he know that the joke was (sort of) on him: there was nothing good inside, and I hadn´t done my washing since the Inca Trail.
So it was off to the police station for the second time in my trip - this time it was a huge empty room, save a couple of desks in one corner and a typewriter.
The guy was sympathetic:
´ahh, that again. Why do travellers even come here?´
´err...to visit the islands. It´s on the way to Lima, too´
´Well you shouldn´t´
´Did he have a gun?´
´I didn´t see one´
´lucky´
´England, eh. This wouldn´t happen over there, would it? You have cameras in the street and stuff´
´I know... Thanks´
He wrote down the details of what happened and then produced a scruffy looking A3 scrapbook with photos of local criminals sellotaped to the pages. They were all scruffily dressed with black hair, brown skin and jeans. And there were hundreds - I had no chance. Without wanting to admit that I can only tell one Peruvian from another by what there are wearing, I told him that, apart from one apparently in his eighties, it could have been any of them.
At this point another man walked in with some new information, and showed me a page with only four faces on. Amongst these I was pretty sure, but not certain.
´how sure´
´it´s hard. About 90 percent I reckon´
´Ok, tomorrow I want you to come back here. There will be a judge here, and I want you to be 100 percent certain´
´but I´m not´
´you cant be indecisive in front of a judge´
´but what if i´m not sure...If say it was him, what will happen´
He answered that by moving his fingers accross his throat and smiling warmly.
Having been told that there was no chance of getting the bag back and slightly unnerved by the power of retribution that in my hands, I decided not to grass the guy up. I did have to go back for a full report for the insurance: having told the police that there was little of value in the bag, it was pretty embarrassing explaining that the rucksack cost about 200 dolars the value of the clothes if bought new in England would be over 1000 pounds.
The two policemen in the room couldn´t really comprehend that much money, so I changed the subject to Nolberto Solano. Talking about football works time and time again when dealing with angry men on this continent.
At this point, another man, who appeared not be a policeman, came over and explained that creating such a report was not in the officer´s job description and that, since he wasn´t getting paid, I should at least offer a tip.
Embarrassed by my obvious relative wealth, I went to hand over the coins in my wallet:
´no, not like that, his boss can see. Put it between the pages of the book on the table´
Serving the community. South American style.
I was a little shaken up by the whole thing, and, with nothing to wear, decided to scrap my plans to go trekking in northern Peru. Instead, I went briefly to Lima - and the coast for the first time since Buenos Aires. I managed a run along the world´s smelliest beach (I could sense the dissapointment amongst the groups of youths under the pier when it became clear that, wearing nothing but some hastily purchased Peruvian swimming trunks, I was not worth mugging), and ate mountains of Ceviche (a local breakfast of raw fish with lime and chili).
From Lima we headed north, narrowly missing an all expenses paid piss up on Nobby Solano in north peru, before crossing the border and reaching the grimy Ecuadorian city of Guayaquil. Ecuador certainly feels different, though it´s hard to say exactly how. It seems similarly shady at times: beside every cashpoint is a guard with a metre-long sawn-off shotgun.
Despite being near the sea, Guayaquil doesn´t have a coastline (Southampton with malaria). It is surrounded by a large swampy marsh, though, and the urban planners have decided to capitalise. This morning, I ran along the newly developed swamp-front, including macdonalds, a designer mall and views of the mud below.
I watched a man for a good half hour as he practised football skills the park:
´do you play football - for a team´
´no, I just do tricks. I training for the local championships´
´do you do it in a team or something´
´no. On my own. I went to Chile, but they wouldn´t let me in because I couldn´t prove that I could make a living out of it. So I came back, but I´m going to work more´
´I´m from Southampton. Do you know Augustin Delga...´
´Sorry, It´s nice to talk, but I have to go. I´ve got to work´
He returned to the grass with the ball balanced on his head.
Top 5 bargains to be found this week in a flea market somewhere in southern Peru.
- Nike Pro tight-fitting performance sweat top. Slightly stretched around the bicep area. Previously subjected to dangerously high speeds. Sweaty.
- Terracotta combat trousers. Liable to instill a desire to dance like nobody is watching. Ripped from riding a bike when drunk.
- White boxer shorts replete with skid marks - curse of too much street food.
- Inflatable travel pillow and travel washing line combo.
- A large amount of unused condoms.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
The new legacy of the Incas
Cuzco is the former capital of the Inca empire and current capital of the gringo trail in South America. Most trips by Europeans to the continent seem to include a visit to the city at some stage.
Though no historian, I´ve enjoyed reading a little about the story of the Incas.Despite their downfall at the hands of the Spanish over 500 years ago, their influence can be felt all over the region.
Tourism has also changed the face of this area, though in a much less appealing way. It seems that everyone in Cuzco is now an attempted English speaker, and I've lost count of the number of times I've been referred to as 'mister' or offered a massage.
Almost as common a sight as the tour bus of middle aged North Americans is the posh English Gap Year Student. Recognisable by the pashmina or floppy hair and slightly skinnier than adult build, they prowl the nightspots in a cocaine fuelled attempt to stumble accross a first sexual experience that wasn't with their housemaster.
Typically, these attempts to find themselves before starting at Bristol in September are funded by a huge charity fete in the local village. It's charity because they'l spend a week building a shelter for poor people later in the trip.
Though there are impressive churches in the centre and some ruins nearby, the reason for Cuzco's popularity is the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, a 4 day trek finishing at the most impressive and famous of the few Inca Cities not destroyed by the Spanish. Unfortunately, it's a journey of discovery that 70 year olds from Kentucky and 18 year old's from Esher enjoy in equal measure, and there used to be so much litter on the route that the Peruvian government introduced strict controls. Now, it books up faster than you can say 'Raleigh International', and a number of alternative, less well-trodden routes have emerged to satisfy the excess demand.
I opted for a longer trek than the Inca Trail, featuring less ruins, much less people, and at a quarter of the price. The scenery was supposedly more beautiful, the trekking certainly more extreme, and the destination was still Machu Picchu.
The first challenge for anyone booking a trek from Cusco is choosing one of the three hundred or so registered tour agencies. In the end, I was seduced by the promise of a group featuring three Irish girls and two Canadian guys ('all in their twenties'), paid my money and packed my bags for a 4am start the next day.
When we assembled as a group after a bus ride up a steep mountain, it became clear that the three Irish girls were actually a couple in their late thirties from Cumbria, and the Canadians were in fact an even older Dutch pair. Still, it was a small group and the guide, Fernando, seemed good fun. Over breakfast it emerged that, thanks to the dark arts practiced by Cuzco tour agencies, the others had conspired to pay almost twice as much as me for the same experience. I didn't tell them, and felt very lucky.
Mules carried the tents and cooking equipment, and we carried our clothes. The first day was 25km uphill through the steepest farmland I have ever seen. Constantly on the lookout for falling cows, we pitched our tents and slept in the shadow of the Salkantay mountain, aware that the next day would be by far the hardest.
And so it proved, as we climbed for three hours through thick snow and strong winds to an altitude of 4800m, before descending in heavy rain. Covered in mud, wet and cold, we camped on a clearing in thick forest. The next day included another 5 hours of walking, before we squeezed on to the back of a truck with thirty or so locals and rattled down through dense, cloud-filled jungle, heading to some natural hot-springs and then our night´s camp.
I thought we were getting on quite well with the locals, but somebody through a dead rat at an Israeli man as we passed through a village, so maybe not.
On the fourth day, we walked for three hours up a railway line and took our first glimpse at Machu Picchu from below. Ruins aren´t really my thing, but I was amazed by the effort required to get so many big stones up such a steep hill.
The next day I climbed the same hill and fought my way through dense swathes of American tour groups in time to see the city emerge from the morning fog. Some things are touristy for a reason, and, despite overhearing more than I would have liked about Gary from Idaho´s work-life balance, it was impossible not to be affected by an unforgettable creation in an unbelievable setting.
Though no historian, I´ve enjoyed reading a little about the story of the Incas.Despite their downfall at the hands of the Spanish over 500 years ago, their influence can be felt all over the region.
Tourism has also changed the face of this area, though in a much less appealing way. It seems that everyone in Cuzco is now an attempted English speaker, and I've lost count of the number of times I've been referred to as 'mister' or offered a massage.
Almost as common a sight as the tour bus of middle aged North Americans is the posh English Gap Year Student. Recognisable by the pashmina or floppy hair and slightly skinnier than adult build, they prowl the nightspots in a cocaine fuelled attempt to stumble accross a first sexual experience that wasn't with their housemaster.
Typically, these attempts to find themselves before starting at Bristol in September are funded by a huge charity fete in the local village. It's charity because they'l spend a week building a shelter for poor people later in the trip.
Though there are impressive churches in the centre and some ruins nearby, the reason for Cuzco's popularity is the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, a 4 day trek finishing at the most impressive and famous of the few Inca Cities not destroyed by the Spanish. Unfortunately, it's a journey of discovery that 70 year olds from Kentucky and 18 year old's from Esher enjoy in equal measure, and there used to be so much litter on the route that the Peruvian government introduced strict controls. Now, it books up faster than you can say 'Raleigh International', and a number of alternative, less well-trodden routes have emerged to satisfy the excess demand.
I opted for a longer trek than the Inca Trail, featuring less ruins, much less people, and at a quarter of the price. The scenery was supposedly more beautiful, the trekking certainly more extreme, and the destination was still Machu Picchu.
The first challenge for anyone booking a trek from Cusco is choosing one of the three hundred or so registered tour agencies. In the end, I was seduced by the promise of a group featuring three Irish girls and two Canadian guys ('all in their twenties'), paid my money and packed my bags for a 4am start the next day.
When we assembled as a group after a bus ride up a steep mountain, it became clear that the three Irish girls were actually a couple in their late thirties from Cumbria, and the Canadians were in fact an even older Dutch pair. Still, it was a small group and the guide, Fernando, seemed good fun. Over breakfast it emerged that, thanks to the dark arts practiced by Cuzco tour agencies, the others had conspired to pay almost twice as much as me for the same experience. I didn't tell them, and felt very lucky.
Mules carried the tents and cooking equipment, and we carried our clothes. The first day was 25km uphill through the steepest farmland I have ever seen. Constantly on the lookout for falling cows, we pitched our tents and slept in the shadow of the Salkantay mountain, aware that the next day would be by far the hardest.
And so it proved, as we climbed for three hours through thick snow and strong winds to an altitude of 4800m, before descending in heavy rain. Covered in mud, wet and cold, we camped on a clearing in thick forest. The next day included another 5 hours of walking, before we squeezed on to the back of a truck with thirty or so locals and rattled down through dense, cloud-filled jungle, heading to some natural hot-springs and then our night´s camp.
I thought we were getting on quite well with the locals, but somebody through a dead rat at an Israeli man as we passed through a village, so maybe not.
On the fourth day, we walked for three hours up a railway line and took our first glimpse at Machu Picchu from below. Ruins aren´t really my thing, but I was amazed by the effort required to get so many big stones up such a steep hill.
The next day I climbed the same hill and fought my way through dense swathes of American tour groups in time to see the city emerge from the morning fog. Some things are touristy for a reason, and, despite overhearing more than I would have liked about Gary from Idaho´s work-life balance, it was impossible not to be affected by an unforgettable creation in an unbelievable setting.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
El Condor Pasa
In La Paz I stayed in a huge hostel with cable television, DVD library, free internet and rooftop bar. There are a few such places, and, with the help of the lonely planet, they have created a traveller´s recipe to keep everyone happy:
1. if arriving by plane, feel terrible because of the altitude. try to drink through it. sleep through free breakfast.
2. get lashed in hostal bar. get taxi to one of 3 gringo-only clubs. enjoy cheap drinks and cheaper cocaine.
3. wake up and feel terrible. order pizza or chinese from nearby overpriced takeaway. watch DVD from library.
4. repeat 2 and 3
5. maybe fly to the pampas to do a tour. maybe cycle down the world´s most dangerous road in a large group.
6. repeat 2 and 3
7. walk through the market. lose bags or wallet to pickpocket whilst trying on ridiculous alpaca sweater. spend next day in police station. await temporary passport.
8. repeat 2 and 3 before moving south to Uyuni or north to Lake Titicaca.
I did most of the above, and had a fantastic time. An interesting twist was a weekend excursion to Cholita Wrestling - sort of budget WWF in a draughty sports hall where women in traditional Bolivian dress top the bill.
This was fucking nuts - the wrestlers attacked people in the crowd, the crowd threw food, drink and plastic bottles at the fighters, real blood was spilled on numerous occasions and the gringos in the best seats found it all hillarious. I liked observing the locals and their reactions. I didn´t like the bus loads of Europeans shipped in from the hostels. But I was very much one of them.
One day, possibly whilst following point 3 of the recipe, I spent a few hours watching an elderly woman in the street facing the rooftop terrace of the hostel. Presumably she had been there since early morning, and she simply sat in on the pavement with a small pile of potatoes in front of here, occasionally gesturing at passers-by if they showed a brief interest. In three hours she sold no potatoes: it looked like a shit life. Its so obvious here how detached most travellers are from the people who actually live in the places through which they pass.
Bollocks creative writing warning:
Let´s say you wanted to visit the ocean. You can never really get to know the ocean, because you don´t live underwater. But you can get some idea, taking some scuba gear and swimming with the creatures. Or you could go snorkelling or, at the very least, you could get a small boat and try to peer over the edge into the water below.
But if you went in a cruise ship and spent the whole time in the bar or the disco as the ship sped accross the waters below, you wouldn´t really see any of the ocean at all. It might not even matter which ocean the boat was sailing on, except that some waters are a bit cheaper than others.
A common response when I ask people what the best thing to do in Bolivia: ´mountain bike the world´s most dangerous road´. Peru?: ´sandboarding in Huachachina´. But really those things aren´t in Bolivia or Peru - they, like me for the last few weeks at least, are on board the traveller ship that passes over those countries. I bet that woman in the street doesn´t sanboard.
Inspired by Nick Hornby, some lists:
Top five Bolivian street foods:
Top six reputed affects of altitude:
1. if arriving by plane, feel terrible because of the altitude. try to drink through it. sleep through free breakfast.
2. get lashed in hostal bar. get taxi to one of 3 gringo-only clubs. enjoy cheap drinks and cheaper cocaine.
3. wake up and feel terrible. order pizza or chinese from nearby overpriced takeaway. watch DVD from library.
4. repeat 2 and 3
5. maybe fly to the pampas to do a tour. maybe cycle down the world´s most dangerous road in a large group.
6. repeat 2 and 3
7. walk through the market. lose bags or wallet to pickpocket whilst trying on ridiculous alpaca sweater. spend next day in police station. await temporary passport.
8. repeat 2 and 3 before moving south to Uyuni or north to Lake Titicaca.
I did most of the above, and had a fantastic time. An interesting twist was a weekend excursion to Cholita Wrestling - sort of budget WWF in a draughty sports hall where women in traditional Bolivian dress top the bill.
This was fucking nuts - the wrestlers attacked people in the crowd, the crowd threw food, drink and plastic bottles at the fighters, real blood was spilled on numerous occasions and the gringos in the best seats found it all hillarious. I liked observing the locals and their reactions. I didn´t like the bus loads of Europeans shipped in from the hostels. But I was very much one of them.
One day, possibly whilst following point 3 of the recipe, I spent a few hours watching an elderly woman in the street facing the rooftop terrace of the hostel. Presumably she had been there since early morning, and she simply sat in on the pavement with a small pile of potatoes in front of here, occasionally gesturing at passers-by if they showed a brief interest. In three hours she sold no potatoes: it looked like a shit life. Its so obvious here how detached most travellers are from the people who actually live in the places through which they pass.
Bollocks creative writing warning:
Let´s say you wanted to visit the ocean. You can never really get to know the ocean, because you don´t live underwater. But you can get some idea, taking some scuba gear and swimming with the creatures. Or you could go snorkelling or, at the very least, you could get a small boat and try to peer over the edge into the water below.
But if you went in a cruise ship and spent the whole time in the bar or the disco as the ship sped accross the waters below, you wouldn´t really see any of the ocean at all. It might not even matter which ocean the boat was sailing on, except that some waters are a bit cheaper than others.
A common response when I ask people what the best thing to do in Bolivia: ´mountain bike the world´s most dangerous road´. Peru?: ´sandboarding in Huachachina´. But really those things aren´t in Bolivia or Peru - they, like me for the last few weeks at least, are on board the traveller ship that passes over those countries. I bet that woman in the street doesn´t sanboard.
Inspired by Nick Hornby, some lists:
Top five Bolivian street foods:
- Saltenas: like a cornish pasty but a wetter filling and olives.
- Jugo de Quinoa: hot, thick, slightly sweet corn-based breakfast drink
- Rellenos: potatoes or rice mashed and made into a ball with meat in the middle. Deep fried.
- Jugo Multivitamina: loads of different tropical fruits blended together with some herbs and cereals. Reputed to help between the sheets.
- Almuerzo Familiar: three-course fixed menu home-cooked lunch. Typical cost 45p.
Top six reputed affects of altitude:
- needing to piss more: ironic (and painful at times) in a country with few toilets.
- cold tea (boils at 80 degrees)
- dry skin (copious amounts of moisturiser, at least amongst travellers. Bolivian faces just flake off)
- sickness, dull headache.
- shortness of breath (lung capacity of Frank Butcher in Eastenders)
- very fizzy beer (foam with beer at the bottom)
Top things Bolivians are bad at:
- Transport: buses that overbook. Buses that don´t leave until they´re full despite the timetable. Planes that land in gardens....
- Football at sea level: Bolivar - (Bolivian representative in the Copa Libertadores this season) Home (altitude 4200m): won 3 drawn 2 lost 1. Away: won 0 drawn 1 lost 4
- Territorial wars: since the mid 19th century, Bolivia have lost large amounts of land to Peru in the north and Paraguay in the east. They used to have a coast, but they lent it Chile to look after and it was promptly annexed, leaving them landlocked. This seems to have caused a nation-wide state of greiving, in some cases denial and a slightly strange obsession with beaches. Bolivia still has a Navy (what looked like four fishing boats on the shore of lake Titicaca), and even has a national Day of the Sea. Typical Bolivian banter:
´Where the fuck have you been?´
´Where do you think I´ve been. The beach?´ - Music: Simon Cowell couldn´t make money out of the Bolivian music industry.
From La Paz, we went north towards Lake Titicaca - reputedly the world´s highest lake and definitely the closest Bolivians get to a seaside. It´s full of trout, which you can eat very cheaply, and fishing boats, which you can´t eat at all. We based ourselves in Copacabana - home to the Bolivian navy, a small stony beach and a few pedalos.
After hiking for a day along the rocky shore of the lake, and a short boat ride, we reached Isla Del Sol - according to the Incas the birthplace of the sun. That the sun was ´born´ on earth seems a little far-fetched to me, but it was very sunny and I got a burned nose, so you never know.
We slept in a tiny hostal with beatiful views of the lake and the mountain range behind. The communities that live on the island have a very basic way of life. It appeared that the men sit around all day whilst the women beat herds of weak-looking sheep with long sticks.
From the Southern shore we took a bus across the border to Puno in Peru, gateway to the floating islands on the same lake.
One of the striking things about the places I have been is the amount of times I have come across people living in astonishingly stupid places. Straight in at first place: islands made entirely of reeds and home to a few thousand indigenous people.
Apparently, a long time ago, a local tribe were escaping from Incas by boat on the lake, found themselves with nowhere to go, laid reeds on their boats and decided to live there. They have stayed for hundreds of years, the male population constantly occupied by the need to repair and renew the reeds as they rot.
As you might imagine, the people eat a lot of fish, and not much else. The combination of unbalanced diet and the labour required to repair the floor mean that most islanders suffer accute rheumatism. And because their world is only a few metres across, they have severe difficulties walking even short distances whenever they venture to the mainland.
The locals were ready for our tour group, and keen to make whatever they could from us - selling the usual tat shipped in straight from Puno, as well as a ride in a reed boat that was actually made from plastic coke bottles left by travellers.
Presumably becafrom the proceeds of such enterprise, some are able to afford solar panels and televisions - a slightly strange sight in a hut made entirely of dead plants. Without tourists, I suspected they might well have packed it in years ago, learned to walk and moved back to dry land.
Next we moved on to Arequipa, an impressive colonial city, from where we took a two day tour of the Colca Canyon, allegedly the world´s deepest. Some trekking would have been nice, but we needed to get back for the football, so opted for a shorter trip in a bus.
What followed was a formulaic, bus-about tour that gave short shrift to the actual canyon in preference to touristy, slightly false, displays of local culture in nearby villages. I chatted with a young girl in traditional dress who kept up an unspectacular, repetetive dance routine for a good hour while a huge speaker nearby played the relevant folk tune. Her favourite music: Eminem.
On the plus side, it meant we spent an evening sipping beer in a local thermal baths, and still got to see close up the condors that swoop over the canyon scavenging for dead prey on the sides.
Travelling is all about learning things about yourself and others which might benefit you upon returning. Watching European football in hostels full of travelers has taught me an invaluable lesson: if you want to find out if somebody is a twat, watch them watch football.
Monday, 23 April 2007
All Mine
After two weeks I decided to leave Sucre. It was a little less interesting than I had hoped - the most European of Bolivian towns wasn´t Bolivian enough to excite, I guess. The irritating Brummie couple sharing my homestay didn´t help either. So much for immersion in the language and culture.
The sad bit was that I had to leave the kids at the orphanage. They seemed to look forward to me coming, and I hope I was able to make a small difference. In the end though, as a witty Dutch friend pointed out, the only difference I definitely made was that I didn´t stay as long as the other volunteers.
Moving north, I passed briefly through the world´s highest city, Potosi. Two hundred years ago, it was one of the richest in the world, but the Silver in the imposing peak that towers over the city has long since run out. A huge co-operative mining operation remains, however, because, at least for the next few years, there´s still rubble in there worth something.
I took a tour of the mines with four other European guys, led by a supposed former miner. We spent just three hours underground, but the conditions were so disgusting that we emerged into the light physically and mentally shot.
Most passages are only small enought to crawl on your stomach, which disturbed large amounts of dust into the air making it hard to breath. The dust contained asbestos, arsenic and other toxic minerals, and the smell was ubearable. Together with the stifling heat and altitude, it created a hellish atmosphere.
We had bought gifts for the miners - large amounts of Coca leaves, as well as dynamite and fizzy drinks. By the time we bumped into a group shovelling rubble into a large container, most of the Coca was gone - chewed by us in a desperate attempt to fight the effects of the altitude. Some of the miners were drunk - celebrating the end of another torturous week - while others were covered in sweat from the shovelling and lifting. One told me that he had been working down there for 10 years. He was 22 years old.
The miners are completely self-employed. If you fancy a spot of digging, you just organise yourself into groups, buy some dynamite, a helmet, a torch and a large breakfast and head underground. As a group, you sell the rubble you collect to local companies, the price depending on the quality of the rock. If you work hard, you can earn around five pounds per (very long) day, not bad for Bolivia.
Of the 15,000 miners in the hill, around 30 die from accidents each year - hardly surprising since there´s no rules about where or when you dig or blow up dinamite, little communication between the groups and certainly no engineers. The survivors rarely live beyond 50, poisoned by constant exposure to toxic fumes.
Hours are long: a group we met had started at 8.00 that morning and were to work without a break until 7pm, when their wives would meet them at the entrance of the mine with dinner prepared. After an hour they were to start again and work through until the morning. Arguably, Goldman Sachs has a healthier work-life balance, and the ceilings are undoubtedly higher.
I was curious about the psychology behind this self-imposed life-sentence (the mines, not Investment Banking). Asking around, there seemed to be a feeling that miner is like a religion or race. One very dusty worker told me that he knew how to light dynamite before he could walk. His friend added that he was born in the mine and would be happy to die there.
After a (possibly life-saving) shower, longer than Steve´s average, I jumped on a bus an headed to La Paz. From there I flew in a 12 seater plane from the Bolivian capital at 4200m over some mountains and down a very long way to Rurrenabaque, a small town in the tropical lowlands at height 100m. We landed in what appeared to be someone´s garden. The stifling heat and humidity was immediately obvious a real contrast from the fresh days and cold nights at altitude.
The purpose of all this was to do a three day tour of the nearby pampus wetlands - reputedly a great opportunity to witness unique wildlife. Essentially we took a boat a very long way up a river, slept in a jungle lodge (sometimes in hammocs) and took the same boat on day trips to try and find particular delights from the animal kingdom.
On the plus side, we saw (and fed, and sometimes touched) loads of types of monkeys, alligators, capybaras (guinea pig meets hippo), eagles, sloths, large ostrich-like flying bird things, fat crawling grey things (mouse meets cow) and (despite the river looking dirtier than the Oxford Canal) swam with pink river dolphins. We also sank a few beers at the river-side bar (a naturally occuring natural phenomenon dotted throughout the amazon) before floating down the river at night, gazing at stunningly bright starts and listening to the cacophony of frogs and monkeys lining the river bank.
On the down side, our most frequent animal companion was the mosquito (they never advertise ´swimming with mosquitos´), closely followed by humans, which could regularly be seen coming in the other direction in a similar sort of boat to ours. Still, it was wild-enough for now, and I´ll seek out a similar, less touristy excursion elsewhere.
I plan to spend a few days in La Paz now, before heading north towards Lake Titicaca and Peru. I hope you are all well - please keep me updated with stories and gossip.
Kate Middleton
The sad bit was that I had to leave the kids at the orphanage. They seemed to look forward to me coming, and I hope I was able to make a small difference. In the end though, as a witty Dutch friend pointed out, the only difference I definitely made was that I didn´t stay as long as the other volunteers.
Moving north, I passed briefly through the world´s highest city, Potosi. Two hundred years ago, it was one of the richest in the world, but the Silver in the imposing peak that towers over the city has long since run out. A huge co-operative mining operation remains, however, because, at least for the next few years, there´s still rubble in there worth something.
I took a tour of the mines with four other European guys, led by a supposed former miner. We spent just three hours underground, but the conditions were so disgusting that we emerged into the light physically and mentally shot.
Most passages are only small enought to crawl on your stomach, which disturbed large amounts of dust into the air making it hard to breath. The dust contained asbestos, arsenic and other toxic minerals, and the smell was ubearable. Together with the stifling heat and altitude, it created a hellish atmosphere.
We had bought gifts for the miners - large amounts of Coca leaves, as well as dynamite and fizzy drinks. By the time we bumped into a group shovelling rubble into a large container, most of the Coca was gone - chewed by us in a desperate attempt to fight the effects of the altitude. Some of the miners were drunk - celebrating the end of another torturous week - while others were covered in sweat from the shovelling and lifting. One told me that he had been working down there for 10 years. He was 22 years old.
The miners are completely self-employed. If you fancy a spot of digging, you just organise yourself into groups, buy some dynamite, a helmet, a torch and a large breakfast and head underground. As a group, you sell the rubble you collect to local companies, the price depending on the quality of the rock. If you work hard, you can earn around five pounds per (very long) day, not bad for Bolivia.
Of the 15,000 miners in the hill, around 30 die from accidents each year - hardly surprising since there´s no rules about where or when you dig or blow up dinamite, little communication between the groups and certainly no engineers. The survivors rarely live beyond 50, poisoned by constant exposure to toxic fumes.
Hours are long: a group we met had started at 8.00 that morning and were to work without a break until 7pm, when their wives would meet them at the entrance of the mine with dinner prepared. After an hour they were to start again and work through until the morning. Arguably, Goldman Sachs has a healthier work-life balance, and the ceilings are undoubtedly higher.
I was curious about the psychology behind this self-imposed life-sentence (the mines, not Investment Banking). Asking around, there seemed to be a feeling that miner is like a religion or race. One very dusty worker told me that he knew how to light dynamite before he could walk. His friend added that he was born in the mine and would be happy to die there.
After a (possibly life-saving) shower, longer than Steve´s average, I jumped on a bus an headed to La Paz. From there I flew in a 12 seater plane from the Bolivian capital at 4200m over some mountains and down a very long way to Rurrenabaque, a small town in the tropical lowlands at height 100m. We landed in what appeared to be someone´s garden. The stifling heat and humidity was immediately obvious a real contrast from the fresh days and cold nights at altitude.
The purpose of all this was to do a three day tour of the nearby pampus wetlands - reputedly a great opportunity to witness unique wildlife. Essentially we took a boat a very long way up a river, slept in a jungle lodge (sometimes in hammocs) and took the same boat on day trips to try and find particular delights from the animal kingdom.
On the plus side, we saw (and fed, and sometimes touched) loads of types of monkeys, alligators, capybaras (guinea pig meets hippo), eagles, sloths, large ostrich-like flying bird things, fat crawling grey things (mouse meets cow) and (despite the river looking dirtier than the Oxford Canal) swam with pink river dolphins. We also sank a few beers at the river-side bar (a naturally occuring natural phenomenon dotted throughout the amazon) before floating down the river at night, gazing at stunningly bright starts and listening to the cacophony of frogs and monkeys lining the river bank.
On the down side, our most frequent animal companion was the mosquito (they never advertise ´swimming with mosquitos´), closely followed by humans, which could regularly be seen coming in the other direction in a similar sort of boat to ours. Still, it was wild-enough for now, and I´ll seek out a similar, less touristy excursion elsewhere.
I plan to spend a few days in La Paz now, before heading north towards Lake Titicaca and Peru. I hope you are all well - please keep me updated with stories and gossip.
Kate Middleton
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
