Up and down the moutains

I wish I had more to say about food. My intention for coming out here was to have the opportunity for gastronomic exploration and invention. Unfortunately to cook something different each week when you?re cooking four courses for ten people would mean that you would never leave your chalet.

This means that most of what I have to say about the food I?m cooking is how much I can?t bear eating it anymore. The pork, red wine and chorizo casserole that used to make my mouth water now makes me feel slightly nauseous; my amazing salmon dish has become a chore to eat and don?t even get me started on white chocolate cheesecake.

In fact, I have to admit, and please don?t judge me for this, is that the most exciting gastronomic moment of my week is ordering a chicken balti pie in the local bar on day off. I know what you?re thinking, because believe me, I thought the same when I first came upon these little monsters, but there is just something about cutting into soggy pastry to release the aroma of spicy curry sauce accompanied by cold beer that is more exciting than I can describe.

Have I lost my foodie status?

This could be just the debate between two planks versus one, but this particular one goes so much deeper.

My idea of a ski resort was of quite a flash place inhabited with a seasonal population of well turned out well healed public school boys and girls. However with the invention of snow boarding this all seems to have changed to include a bunch of baggy scruffy bums, or as they like to call themselves, boarders.

Boarders would (and regularly do) say, ‘you’re just jealous because we look cooler’. In this they may have a point. Mooching around with soft boots and a board slung under your arm, it’s a lot easier to look cool than having your ankles strapped into a static position, clumping around straight legged trying to hold onto two skis, two poles and an ounce of dignity.

However if you live by the adage, ‘when in Rome do as the Romans do’ then there really is only one way down the mountain, and that’s on skis. I can count the times on one hand that I’ve seen a Frenchman on a board and my reasoning is that the locals have got to know something that we don’t.

Of course it may have something to do with the fashions involved. To lope around in baggy trousers with a beany on is just not something that the French would do. Sadly though just because they haven’t adopted the scruffy bastard look doesn’t mean to say that the French reputation for chic has made it’s way to the mountains. Your French skier is more likely to be wearing an all in one diamond patterned purple ski suit from the 80’s than anything by Chanel.

But back to my point. They do say that you can’t judge a man till you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, or in this case slid a mile on his snowboard. So to this end I borrowed a friend’s board and set off up the mountain. At this point it would be very easy to start ranting about how rubbish boarding is but the truth is I sucked so badly I couldn’t even get up, let alone complete a run so until I’ve managed to do that mile, I’m afraid the jury’s out.

Having spent most of my adult life in Brighton I thought I knew what it meant to live in a small place. Oh dear god, I really didn’t have a clue about the true nature of small.

The first clue to this was after a night spent flirting outrageously with (then being rather rude to) what I thought was a random Frenchman, I found him working behind the bar of the local tavern, which has since become a local haunt. It taught me a lesson that there really is not anonymity here.

There is of course an upside to this. You can walk into literally any bar in the village and if you don’t know at least some of the patrons then you know the staff, and given the local consumption round here it’s not long before the door opens to reveal last night’s drinking buddy. It makes me wander whether there is a village in England where you could emulate this without the said drinking buddy being 50ish.

Up the mountain is a different matter. Courchevel 1850 is well known in the Alps for being bling central. It’s chock full of the Russian mafia whose ‘moles’ strole the slopes ski-less in fur coats with small yappy type dogs in tow. But the skiers are the real treat. You haven’t seen bling until you’ve seen Russian ski attire. We’re talking all in one white ski suits with motifs, chains, fur, diamante, the works (including small dog).

There are stories from up the mountain of people ordering bottles of wine at the cost of 70,000 euros for lunch and not even finishing them. There really is that much money here. Unfortunately I’ve seen it, but not had any of it spent on me.

Sufficed to say 1850 is not really my speed, but the occasional excursions up there generally end up at the local ‘discotech’ Kalico’s. The main danger with this is getting a bit over excited and deciding to let the last bus home go without you. The late night public transport round here is limited to say the least and on our wage the local taxis are just not an option. This means that the only way home is down the piste… in a bin bag. This sounds like a really good laugh unless, as was the case the night I tried it, the snow has turned to mush, turned into massive lumps and re-frozen meaning that you’re bin bag gets shredded to pieces in 3 minutes and you have to come down it on your heals down a red run falling every few steps for an hour and a half. The ice cuts on my hands have only really just healed.

Best leave the excursions to 1850 well alone, they’re dangerous.

I was going to blog about booze, drinking and the general merriment, humiliation and injury that comes attached to this. However everyone knows what it’s like to be drunk. Sufficed to say the evening life of a ski resort focuses on little else but chucking large quantities of booze down your neck and trying to get home over great expanses of ice and snow.

However, far and away the highlight of the drinking week at Courchevel 1550 is Flugel night. At first glance Flugel night might be just another one of those ploys by the local bar to get you to spend far too much money on vast quantities of another novelty beverage (essentially a shot of vodka Redbull in a little bottle). This is in fact until you walk into said bar on said night. It can only be described as total carnage.

On my first Flugel night we arrived, and I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s a fairly dingy filthy little place at the best of times, always full of seasonires spending their pitiful earnings on strong larger, but on this particular night someone seemed to have turned most of the lights off, turned on the pumping techno and thought it a good idea to throw most of the contents of the bar all over the floor. Clustered round the bar were about 20 people, smashed out of their heads and buzzing their tits off, banging out what can only be described as a primal beat on the bar with the little empty Flugel bottles they clutched in their hands. The same bottles are what littered the floor. It was actually rather feral and disturbing. Needless to say I joined them immediately.

When drinking Flugel one must: Bang the bottle repeatedly on the table; place the bottle on the table; remove the lid and place it on your nose; pick the bottle up with your mouth; drink the contents and replace the bottle on the table without using your hands; place the cap facing upwards on the top of the bottle (again without use of your hands); throw the bottle on the flour with great relish; repeat ad-infenitum until you’ve got the shakes and you can barely remember your own name. This process can then be followed by yattering randomly to anyone who’ll listen, jumping up and down like a loon, crawling around on the floor, or boy hunting. None of which matter cos the next day it will all be a blur.

Arrr, Flugel night. How I love you. Believe me when you live somewhere this small something like Flugel night coming around is enough to make your whole week.

Well… this should be a major part of this blog. After all it’s what most people out here come out for. It’s pretty hard to know what to say about it because I know how dull I found people talking to me about it before I came out. After all, I just came out to cook and get drunk right?

To be honest I learnt to ski mainly cos I knew how bored I’d be out here if I didn’t, oh, and because it was free. The first of these reasons is the only thing that kept on the slopes for the first week. I think I can safely say that I sucked… big time! Moving at a snail’s pace down a gradual incline shitting myself and then going flying (into the rest of the class most of the time was a particular specialty of mine), was really not my idea of fun.

Then when you watch other people doing it, my thoughts were not, Oh I wish I could do it like that’ but more like, ‘What a bunch of crazy bastards! Why on earth would anyone want to chuck themselves down something that looks like a cliff face at about 40 miles an hour?!??!’

The one positive thing I can say about learning to ski was that my legs NEVER hurt. This can not however be said about EVERY other muscle in my body! Spending the best part of two weeks bodily pushing myself up off the ground about 4 times an hour meant that sometimes even thinking hurt. I’m not joking! You can’t use your legs to get you up at all because there two big bastard slidey things attached to them, so you literally have to support your whole body weight with your upper body. I had pistols like boy band heart throb at one point ;-). One day I couldn’t brush my hair because my neck muscles hurt to much brace against the brush.

Luckily things changed and I am now captain speedy and loving it. In fact I can’t imagine what it will be like to come home and not ski now. I’ve not been out for about four days now because I’ve been ill and I’m already really twitchy.

It’s incredible that your perception on these things can change. A green slope that used to take me 20 minutes zig-zagging across to get down, I can now almost go straight down in about 30 seconds. I red run that I used to look up and get a lump in my throat I can now get down with no trouble. But the weirdest thing is that they actually look different gradients to me now. This is why it’s so nice to progress so far in one place because you know that even though they look like different slopes they are defiantly the ones that used to terrify you.

Yeah, so it’s half way through the season on Saturday and I now sort of feel that I’ve got enough perspective on life out here to start blogging. I know it seems strange because a blog should really be a week by week account of the things that happen to you as they happen but life out here is just so different from travelling life that I’ve found it almost impossible to collect together enough things of interest to make it worth your while reading.

A day to day account would probably read something along the lines of cook, clean, chat, ski, sleep, eat cake, cook, talk talk talk, drink, sleep. All this interspersed with endless discussions of the snow conditions, which runs are best/iciest/bumpiest/steepest and why, what’s the best way to clean a toilet/oven/stone floor/fire place and whose guests are dullest/oddest/most likely to be caught wandering the chalet in tighty-whities. See… aren’t you glad that I’ve not been filling cyber space with this inane shit?

This all makes it sound like life out here is rubbish. It’s not at all; it’s just so very hard to understand why monotony is so very enjoyable.

So, two months on, here’s what it was like…

IN THE BEGINNING…

The beginning was pretty rubbish actually. Nothing was open, we weren’t allowed to ski, cleaning was constant and 12 hour work days were common. None of the public transport networks were open and even if they were we had no idea where we were going anyway. Life consisted of being driven between different chalets (none of which were mine) and having to clean them despite the fact that they looked totally spotless to me (urgh!!).

On the upside I was surrounded by a bunch of people who had all been hired due to their ability to be friendly and smiley no matter what and to talk to anyone. I’ve never seen anything like the first night when I looked around to see everyone chatting ten to the dozen having known each other for about 6 hours. Of course we do have to take into account that this is a job which includes pretty much unlimited (and more importantly, unmonitored) wine ;-), which I think helped.

Once all the chalets were opened up and the guests started coming we had to contend with Christmas and New Year, which when you don’t really know anyone that well is a little weird. The third meal I had to cook was a full Christmas roast, in a kitchen which I don’t even have to spread my arms in to touch the walls. I also started to realise the problems associated with working for a small company when half the staff came down with bronchitis and there was absolutely no cover available and everyone had to keep on working through fevers and coughing fits.

Christmas was also not helped by the fact that the mother of the family I had seemed to get all competitive with me on Christmas day. I’ve heard this is not uncommon in a chalet where women can suddenly seem to take offence at the fact that you’ve the audacity to look after their family instead of them. What a bitch I am?

I tried writing this all at the time but it all seemed so depressing and negative and the only reason that I can write it now is because it all seems so long ago and things are so different now that it doesn’t seem to matter. Also there were some really nice bits. Fancy dressing skiing on Christmas day (after a bottle of champagne… weeee!), sharing a room with three other girls has actually been a real giggle and meant that we’ve got an awful lot closer than most other people, pulling yourself up every now and again and realising that you can see Mont Blanc from your window surrounded by snow capped, pine speckled peaks, chatting for a living, free wine and discovering how nice afternoon naps can be a Thursday (… Friday/Monday/Wednesday…) …. Oh, and skiing…. That’s a laugh too ;-)

But more on that later.

To sum up now… up until now I’ve not wanted to come home at all, quite the opposite in fact. There is a bit of me that thinks I may have found Mecca (and no, not the bingo hall). But half way is really big mental point, so literally today, writing this, I’ve started missing home, family and friends. It makes you think that maybe applying a time restrictions to time away is a bad idea…

I'm off again... and yes I know I'm heading more East than I am South, but I really couldn't be bothered to set up a new blog.

But look ^^ I changed the title!

I'll start updating it when I leave (8th December), so watch this space!

Considering how much I've slated Chile the whole way through my trip it seemed an odd choice to decide to have my birthday there. But hey, after 21 they all just blend into each other anyway so what the hey.

Seeing as I was in Chile we thought we might as well indulge in a few local offerings... But you see Chile is a big thieving country. They steel their surrounding countries culture and imitate it, badly. So Chile's national drink, the Pisco Sour (stolen from Peru); they serve up empanadas and steak (stolen from Argentina); and if that wasn't enough they apparently stole Bolivia's coast line too (that's just mean!)

On closer inspection of the guidebook we found there was a local delicacy in which we could indulge (for the life of me I can't remember the name), a genuine slice of Chilean culture with which to celebrate my 27th year. It turned out to be chips with stuff on it (specifically, fried onions, eggs and bits of sausage).

That's right folks, I managed to have a birthday meal on the other side of the world of sausage, egg and chips. Classy? (Ps, was actually really tasty and may get served up round my house in the near future)

This was pretty much the last main event before my journey home, which was an emotional event.

When the plane touched down in Heathrow, 24 hours of no sleep, 7 hours with out food or water, and three and a half months of no England all kind of impacted and I found my hands shaking and my eyes glistening as I walked through customs (not a good look if you are trying to avoid looking like your up to something).

Worryingly having now been back about 4 hours it all seems bizarrely normal here and South America already seems like a hazy memory. I think it's all going to take a while to settle in before I know how I feel about the whole thing, but for now a brief summary...

I have:

-Danced in the street at Rio Carnival
-Walked on a glacier
-Stared into the crater of a live volcano
-Been soaked under Iguazu Falls
-Ridden horses through the Argentinean mountains
-Danced the Salsa in Santiago
-Drunk cocktails all night in Buenos Aires
-Tasted wine in the vineyard where it was grown
-Cried at a beautiful puddle
-Had some of the worlds best steak
-Been to 5000 meters altitude
-Eaten fresh seafood on the beach in Brazil
-Been to the end of the world
-Seen the Tango danced on the streets of Buenos Aires
-Eaten a million asado barbeques
-Stood on the Salt Flats in Bolivia
-Been to the worlds highest city
-Been in a hot tub with two fit lesbians
-Seen a football (futbol) match in Brazil
-Lain on Coppacabana beach
-Seen the sunrise over steaming geysers
-Been bloody freezing
-Been bloody boiling
-Been so high and so remote that the sky literally shines with a million stars
-Received a proposal of marriage
-Laughed till I cried
-Seen a meteor
-Eaten Llama
-Been all the way there
-And all the way back
-Been totally stranded
-Been totally alone
-Been totally happy

Over and out.

Heading further south so a town I had heard fantastic things about, Mendoza. Even people from Buenos Aries rave about this place and as that`s the best place I´ve been to so far I was excited.

On our first night we met a crazy Chinese boy (who is quite possibly the most enthusiastic person I have ever met), a couple of English girls, a scotsman with crazy eyes, a Belgum boy who`s name neither of us could remember (and thus dubbed Belgy), and a yank called Andrew who became yanky doodle Andy (yak yak yak). This was the group that we took with us on our tour of the local wineries.

Trying to organise this many people to do anything always turns into a nightmare, and I realised how relaxed I must have become when I only got a tiny bit irritable and snippy... what a result.

The day consists of hireing bikes and cycling round the numerous vinyards and wineries around Mendoza. It`s supposed to be a nice leisurely day out but of course ended up being a mad dash through the rain to try and get as much red down you in the small amount of time we had left of the day.

We were however rewarded for this at the end of the day by the most beautiful rainbow I`ve ever seen.

Next on the agenda was more white water rafting. After hours of typical South American waiting around we set of with a guide who seemed to think it was a great idea to wear his shorts over his trousers. This should have been a warning. This guy turned out to be a world class nutter.

We launched ourselves onto the water and rowed along for a while, skitting over a few sections of rapids. After every rapid the guides would yell, 'celebration', to which we were supposed to bash our paddles together in the air and cheer. Fine. Our guide however seemed to tire of this after a while.

After the next rapid he stands up on the sides of the boat and trys to get us all to do the same. Four people all balanced precariously on a raft heading swiftly for the next rapids. The next one was to stand up and slap our arses at the bemused looking fisherman on the banks of the river. And as we finished the course he had us all wedged into the front of the boat, sitting on top of each other in what appeard to be an attempted to flip the ratt.

What an awsome time! I don`t think I stoped smilling once. Topped by going arse over tit into the water and being bodily hauled out by the guide, after which I don`t think I could actually stop giggleing.

I think Mendoza is now definatly my favouite place of my whole trip. Every one of it`s wide avenues is lined with beautiful trees, all the people we met were awesome, it`s full of beautiful plazas with fountains and little markets, just outside are some of the most fantastic mountains, our hostal had a pool and a great garden, your stopped by men on the street at least three times a day just so they can tell you how beautiful you are.

I even recieved a marrage proposal when I was there. A man who must of been at least 60 stopped us in the street and told the belgum boy I was with that I was 'bonita', and that I should marry him as he was single and had lots of money. He then proceeded to get caught up in a playful tussle with his friend and run off giggleing. I love this place!

My last night there (as well as my last in Argentina) was marked in the only way it could have been, by a huge amount of steak and red wine. Today we caught a bus back to Chile. The road to the boarder is one of the most beatiful I´ve travelled. Scores of weeping willows and bright green and golden poplars sat onto rich red earth and intense greens of the plains. This on a backdrop of dark green mountain with snow capped peaks visible behind all lit with the warm golden sunshine of the start of the Argentinian autum. There were tears as I crossed the boarder and a heart felt promise to myself to return.

I really can`t describe how I feel about this country except to say that it`s a feeling as close to romantic love as I can imagine. It has so many levels of warmth it`s almost tangible. I can`t imagine a better place to be.

So left Salta with another English girl (Rachel) in tow, who through complete lack of planning didn`t really know where she was going so decided to come with me on the rest of my trip. It`s nice to have the company but I was just getting into staring at the sky for hours on end and not talking much.

So we head south to a little town called Tucaman where there wasn`t much to do but wander round in the rain and eat empanadas (an Argentinian delicacy, kind of like a pasty but better). We got a hotel room but on the first attempt to lock it realised that it was stuck. Litterally seconds after this discovery, the Argentinian boys from next door came stampeeding out of their room to come to our aid. Then afterwards seemed intent on acting as tourist information for us.

We ended up meeting them for a drink later but seeing as the one I was chatting to spoke no English what so ever and an almost incomprehensible accent conversation was somewhat limited. I got a huge amount of millage on how beautiful the mountains of Argentina are. Every now an again I would glance jelously over to the other one who was speaking in perfect English to Rachel and having a conversation that extended beyond the present tense and wasn't punctuated with hand waving and blank looks.

Despite the limited depth of our conversation `Gastone` seemed to become rather attached to me over the next hour and a half and when we told them that we were leaving on the bus the next evening I found my hand clasped to his face which was wearing an expression of deep hurt. This was followed by lengthy protestations and offers to cook me the best empendadas I`d ever had. This was repeted for the rest of the evening accompanied by cries of, 'no no no, you can`t leave´.

Bless him, but it was very hard not to laugh. I mean I suppose that I had known him the sum total of about four hours.

The next stop was a town called Cordoba which is famous for outdoor activities. However as we arrived we realised that the rain had followed us. When we finally managed to get out into the country side, we went quad biking. As we rode up into the hills I couldn`t help but compare it to the horse trek we`d been doing the week before. As we passed through the beautiful unspoilt moutains we ripped into the calm with the roar of four noisy, dirty, polution belching beasts. In stead of the smiles and salutations of passing locals you are met with scouls and silence (I don`t blame them). However as time wore on you do get kind of into the raw power of these little beasts, it`s easy to see how you could become a bit of a petrol head.

That afternoon when we returned to Cordoba we were wandering around looking at what we though were parades for the start of holy week. It was strange though to see such a large military presence. Rachel was really keen to take some snaps of the hords or uniforms standing around the main plaza. We thought better of it and headed home.

It was here that we finally discovered what the parades were actually for. Comemorations for 25 years since the end of the Falklands war. Oh my god! I`m amazed we didn`t get linched. Note to self, read the history section in my guidebook next time. We stayed in for the rest of the evening.