Up and down the moutains

I´m sure the sun was shining a little brighter as I crossed the Bolivian/Argentinian boarder.

Bienvenido a Republica de Argentina (Welcome to Argentian indeed!) and i felt better the minute I stepped into the sunnier side of the 'frontear'.

One of the main reasons I had wanted to come down this way again is because of the amazing stories I had heard about an Estancia (ranch) down near a little town called Salta. Nothing could touch me as I travelled down on the bus through the beautiful green lush mountains of Northern Argentina, I was as high as a kite.

I was only marginally ruffled when the bus was pulled over by the police and we were ordered off and crowded into a little shack to be searched (obveouse drug connection as we were coming from the bolivian boarder). I wasn`t at all worried until they started separating the men from the women. (Oh dear god, I REALLY don´t want to be strip searched!) But it appears that tourists aren´t ever susspected of smuggling as all the gringos where passport checked and dismissed. The whole process did take and hour though, and to my further dismay when I started chatting to a yank apparently the whole process could well be repeated up to three times! This particular yank was garbed in a rather unusual outfit for an 18 year old, of cowboy hat and austeer shirt and tie. When asked why it turns out that it is his job was to spread the story of Jesus to the people of South America. Yay, why do I always end up stuck next to religious maniacs on long journies?

So I finally managed to get down to Enrique´s... This place really is a one off. I was greeted by Enrique´s, who was kitted out in full gaucho garb (high boots topped by veluminous trousers, with a large leather sheathed knife tucked into an ellaborate wide belt, a pristine white shirt all topped off by a full on cowboy hat), who only seemed to know profanities in English. A gabble of incomprehensible spanish would be interspersed by a string of obsenity in English. I found it best just to nod and smile.

Over the next two days I was taken out by the guide (tono) on some really fantastic horses morning and evening. We trecked in the mountains, through the fields and plantations around, to miles of flat for some awsome gallops. The country side here is just like England but bigger, better and prettier. Dark green moutains provide a backdrop to lush green tabacco fields, the hedges are chocca with a mirriad of mulit-coloured wild flowers and above an azure sky with little fluffy clouds. It was heaven.

Interspersed with these was some of the best hospitality I have recieved here. Lunch everyday comprised of a traditional Argentinian BBQ (ie about four or five different types of steak, sausages, salads, the lot), vast quantities of red wine flowed, and afterwards the guitars, drums and flutes would come out and as more wine was consumed they sung and laughed the afternoon away (before going out for the afternoon on the horses, half cut). After that much wine I also discovered how much better my spanish has got. It was wickid, I was actually able to spend the whole afternoon chatting to Tono and translating for the other tourists in the group.

On the Sunday, the entire exuberant extended familly turned up, as apparently they do every sunday from all over the province. Lunch that day consisted of about 20 people and was a boistrous crazy afaire. For four hours they all shouted, teased and laughed at each other. It was amazing to be included for the day in a family (even if it´s not your own).

I was sad to leave.

So there was a plan. There´s always a plan. But me being me, I always have problems changing it. Why change the plan? Here´s why...

I get back to Uyuni after my salt flats tour expecting to find a crisp clean bus ticket waiting for me, back to La Paz. This doesn´t happen. The tour agency who were supposed to do it hadn´t bothered, and yes, the bus was now full. Angry as hell I get a hotel room for the night, but was actually quite releived to not have to pile 12 hours more travel on top of the 7 or 8 I had already done that day. The next day was taken up by what activities there are available in Uyuni (ie, eating, drinking and internet). I arrive at the bus station to be told that no busses are going to La Paz due to a blockade on the road (quite common here by all accounts).

´Come back at 6am, we´re going to send a bus another way.´

Ok, another hotel room and a stupidly early start. I make my way to the bus stop to find... no bus... the bus office closed... and a big crowd of cold pissed off gringos. When the office finally opens,

´No bus to La Paz today, more blockades´

(note, no appology) I decided to cut my losses and at least go SOMEWHERE, so head for the worlds highest city (Potosi) where there might have been a chance to get passed the blockades, and if not then at least there was a bit more to do there.

I´ve now spent two days here and there are still no busses. I´ve done pretty much all there is to do here too, which is visit the silver mines. This was possibley one of the most terrifying experiences of my life...

Your kitted up with protective cloting and a head lamp and lead down a pitch black tunnel which is barely high enough to stand upright. There is no light except that cast by the headlamps, pipes and cables dangle way down into the passage which we are told not to touch as they could be electrified. We are walking down a track that every few minutes a cart weighing a ton hurtles down with no breaks, requiring us to press ourselves against the walls of the tunnel until it has passed. The air is unbelivabley thin, and full of dust. Walking a few meters leaves you panting and your heart racing. As the minors hurtle out of the dark their faces bulge groutesquely with massive quantities of coca leaves that they have to chew to get through the day. The tunnel gets lower and lower and darker and darker (I have to admit that i chickened out and had to leave), but for those left behind they were taken down four levels to where they had to crawl on their hand and knees.*shudder*

The minors work in these conditions for 12 hour days and start working in them as young as 13 years old. All this for a wage of approximatly 100-130 pounds a month. It really makes you think that I get paid over 10 times what they do, for essentially sitting on my arse and talking bullshit! *shamed*

After a few days here, and still no bus to La Paz (four days stranded), I´ve decided to cut my losses and head back to Argentina for the rest of my trip.

When I came to think about it why on earth would I go anywhere else? Exchange lack of oxygen, freezing cold, grumpey locals and a joke of a public transport system, for.... Great steak, warm weather, fantastic wine, friendly locals and mountains of a sensible height (thank you very much).

Get the hell out of dodge, that´s what I say! Argentina here I come (again).

So I head south into Bolivia towards a tiny town called Uyuni. Uyuni has nothing to recomend it except it`s proximity to the largest salt lake in the world. This is really obveouse from the minute you get off the bus. In fact, I think if this town ever had one horse, they probably shot it and ate it a while ago.

Luckilly I managed to get onto a three day trip that left a few hours later and headed off with another five people in a 4x4 with a cook at the worlds most misserable guide.

When you approach the salar, at first you don`t realise how close you are to it. Instead you just think the horrizon has gone a bit funny. The mountains look as if they`re floating. Then you realise that instead you see an expanse of glittering white as far at the eye can see, and because it is the rainy season here the surface is covered in water effectivly turning it into a mirror.

I`ve been told that it`s actually really dangerous to drive on the salar during rainy season as the surface salt is only six meters deep and it is entirely possible to fall through to the water below. But hey, this is bolivia! This is not a country where every ideal is not suppassed by the necessity for safety. So on we drove.

We drove across the salt for about an hour to the point where you couldn`t see anything in any direction accept the solar. This effectly renders the horrizon meaningless. This was until we reached an island populated entirely by cachti some measuring three or four meters in hight. A brief clamber to the top of the island (mind you nothing feels like a brief clamber at this altitude) and all you could see around you was the sky or the sky`s reflection in the lake around us. It felt like being on an island in the sky. I think it might actually be the most beatiful thing I`ve ever seen.

At the end of the day we were driven to where we were to stay for the first night. A building where everything (literally) was made of salt. The building it`s self, the beds, the light fittings, the tables, the chairs. Maybe a gimik, but cool none the less.

Day two was to take us to a red lake (stained by the minerals in the surrounding moutains) and to see flamingos, but day three was the real treat.

As day three (well, i can`t say it actually dawned, but we got up anyway). It`s never easy to see the point of getting up at four thirty, but when your somewhere around 4500 meters altitude and about minus 5 it`s even harder.

Bundleing into the jeep and trying to stay warm and catch up one some sleep, this was made harder when the car was flagged down by a group in camoflauge gear and baloklavas. I swear, I thought we were going to be dragged out of the car and never seen again. It turns out they just wanted to check how many people where in the car. Maybe not one told them that wandering round in the dark in balaklavas is in some circles considered a little intimidating.

We drove higher and higher and as we came over the brow of the hill we were confronted with the sight of steam billowing out of the ground from the geysers a few hundred meters in front of us.

We got out, shivering, to explore this totally bizzar landscape. The rucked and cratered ground was streaked red and covered in steaming craters. When you got to a crater and looked inside at the bottom was a pool of either red or grey boiling mud. At certain points you could only see for a few meters, people would loom up unexpectidly from the nebulas clouds around you. The air thick with sulphur fumes which added to the altidude (now about 5000 meters), made breathing less something you take for granted and more of an actual pass time.

It was as if I`d stepped into a sci-fi novel and at any moment tri-pods or triphids might start to appear over the summit of the surrounding mountains, and an epic battle to commence.

I would fight them with the materials I had to hand in a desparate fight to the death. They would cower at the sight of my trusty... my trusty... autobiography of Rupert Everate (choices are limited here when it comes to lituriture), they would flee at the sight of my digital camera (´say cheese now monsters´), on second thoughts, maybe I should leave the monsters out of this.

Anyway, I was walking round in awe, but still thinking how bloody freezing it was, when I finally realised why we were here at this time, as the sun started rising over the siloetted ridge of the nearby mountain. First blue, then pink, then golden light started to streem through the jets of steam that surrounded us. As the sun rose it illumiated even more the bizzar red streaked earth and craters around, Then cast a bright, warm glow on the terricotta mountains behind.

It was AMAZING. and not only that, but it was also warm again... hurrah!

If all of this wasn`t enough, when we got back into the jeep we were driven 20 minutes down the road to a set of thermal baths were we could sit in the steaming waters looking out over the mountains watching the remainder of the sunrise.

Not a bad set of events to happen before breakfast (which incidentally was banana pancakes, which just makes it EVEN better).

I`m now sitting back in Uyuni, after having been stranded here last night. My next stop is one of the great lakes, Lake Titticacca, before heading into my final country, Peru.

Sorry... I know it was childish, but it had to be done.

So anyway. La Paz.

In some ways I was really keen to come to this city and in others, I was a bit aprehensive. I knew this would be the place where all my preconceptions about South America would actually come true. It would be poor, crazy, busy, fasinating, full of atmosphere, a complete eye opener, but at the same time totally exhausting.

Maybe it seemed more of all of these things because I really don`t know anyone here and being totally on your own does seem to make things more intense.

The first thing you notice is the number of people in traditional clothes. Upon further investigation (thanks Mish) it seems that these people are the majority of the population and suffer on the rough side of the class divide. The upper and middle classes tend to be of Spanish or mixed decent and the majority of the rest of the indigenous population are the working lower class, who are apparently treated like cattal.

These are the people in the street begging (always old women, which i find strange) and also selling all sorts of peculiarities in markets all over town. In fact it`s actually quite hard in some places to find a normal shop.

Yesterday I found the witches market, which offers a selection of potions, tallesmans, llamas foetuses, dried frogs and the like. Easy to think that this is just a tourist trap but apparently it´s the real deal.

There are people sitting on the sides of the roads eating bowels of rice and what looks like chicken inards and selling pigs trotters (which i found myself looking at this morning with genuin interest thinking they were some sort of pastry, before realising and having to run away... fast)

I just paid a trip to the coca museum which was facinating. You know that urban myth about there being cocaine in coca cola. It´s only bloody true!

The parent of coca cola was called coca wine (12g or cocaine to 28g of wine!!), but when prohibition came about in America they had to find a non-alcholic alternative, thus coca cola was born. To be precise about this, there used to be actual cocaine, but this was stopped (within my life time), but they still use coca leaves to flavour the drink. Crazy! I was thinking about bringing some leaves back but we coudldn´t work out if it was illegal or not.

Everything is so fast paced and if you`re a new arrival and don`t speak fluent Spanish it`s easy to get lost and confused. Asking locals where things are is a classic example of this. No one seems to really know where things like the post office really are and it´s easy to get directed to 2 or 3 diffent destinations before finally getting where you were going. If any one thing has taught me to relax and go with the flow, it really is this crazy little city.

Got some great photos coming, but am currently cableless.

Next stop the salt flats at Uyuni.

Again I have been caught out by the mith that South America is hot and sunny. After a month at 30 degrees plus in Brazil I'd got a bit complacent, so touching down in the Bolivian capital La Paz, was a bit of a shock. I`ve heard lots of claims about Bolivia, that it´s the highest country in the world, that it has the highest percent of it at altitude, that La Paz is the worlds highest capital city, etc etc. This may or may not be true, but I can certainly vouch for the fact that there are a shit load of massive old mountains round here and it`s bloody freezing.

Coming from England you never really have the oportunity to come to terms with, 'up high, means really cold', (La Paz being at 3500 meters altitude) as for the fact that it's rainy season here, well that, I'd just chosen to ignore. As I stood there in skirt and flip flops I started mentally going through the rest of my bag and realising that I really don 't have enough of the right clothes to get me through the next month.

Being up this high is very strange. Your body just stops working in the way you've come to expect. Things like climbing a flight of stairs becomes a real challenge.

This wasn`t the only shock I was about to recive about Bolivia. Over the past few months I`d kind of aclimatised to what the latin look was (tallish, tannedish, and pretty sexy) and kind of expected it to be this the whole way round. Not here. Oh my god, I`m actually in the land of the little people. Nothing is built for people of my height and even my friend Laura (a self confessed short arse) has admitted to feeling somewhat lofty.

[D, never come here, you might die.]

What I had not realised is that Bolivia bosts the most indiginous (ie: not of Spanish decent) inhabitants in all of South America, about 80%. So instead of the population looking Latin, they look more what you would think an North American Indian would look like(and did I mention, fucking tiny?).

So, the first thing on the agenda was to meet up with my friends Katie and Laura and go on a three day treck in the mountains around La Paz. It all sounded so easy at the start. Get driven up to 4900 meters, and then simply walk back down to 1100 meters over the next three days. Down hill sailing so to speak, anyone could do that.

The next time you try walking solidly down steap slopes for three days, let me know how you feel. I swear, it has the ability to turn you into the equivelant of a 26 year old pensioner.

But really, all that aside, it was fantastic.

We started in driving sleet at 4900 meters on a rock face that didn`t have a thing growing on it, surrounded by cloud. Honestly, it looked like the moon. Within half an hour we had decended into a slightly less bleak landscape, which at least bosted grass and thinks to look at like Llamas (in spanish prounounced yammas, which caused much amusment). Below us in the valley snaked a silver stream that over the course of the next few days we were to see grown into a enourmous thundering river.

The path was completely deserted apart from the three of us and two guides, except for when a local would appear from nowhere behind us, walk with us for a bit and then just tear off again. These people live in the villages along the way which can`t be accessed by car and are 1 or 2 days walk from the nearest town, so I suppose they have to be a bit quick at the old walking.

Did I mention it was the rainy season? It rained. Alot, and by the end of the first day we squelched in to a village consisting of about 7 houses where we were to camp the first night. We really where in the middle of nowhere. It´s amazing how doing a walk like that can make you appreaciate the most mundane of things: sitting down, being dry, having a cup of tea (first time trying bolivias famous coca tea) and some biscuits. But I did have serious doubts about being able to walk atall the next day.

Next day, and hurrah, my legs worked once again and today was not only dry but not all down hill. I never thought I would be so extatic at the thought of climbing a huge hill, but it was like bliss! Today was when you started to notice the effects of decending from altitude. The climate became more temperate and humid, and the landscape around us became less like craggy mountains and more like jungle. We spotted puma tracks and some kick arse massive slugs (2cms wide by 15cms long). Unfortunatly it was also the longest days walk and after seven and a half hours of walking even things like moving your leg to see if you`re being bitten become a struggle.

We kept on decending lower and lower, and I kept on being totally amazed that we were STILL above the clouds. I really don`t think i had any concept of how high we really started off.

Our campsite tonight was litterally a ledge cut from the side of the mountain, and as we walked into it we were greeted by the site of a flock of bright green macaws. Amazing. Then by the site of two of the worlds most filthy children hurtleing towards us like we were the best new toys ever. Which lets face it we probably were seeing as the only other toys i saw there was a disinbodied doll which was seriously creapy.

Day three.... hmmm, rain. Loads more down hill... bad mood.

Finished... Yay!

We then rewarded ourselves with a two day stay in Chororico, a lovely little town at lower altitude where we rented two little bungelows and indulged in sitting around in hot tubs over looking the mountain (still looking down on the clouds) and eating pizza.

Next stop, back to La Paz, solo this time...

This month that I’m currently having in Brazil is really the only time my whole trip that I’m going to get the opportunity to go to the beach (not to mention two of the worlds most famous beaches, Copacabana and Ipanima). Going to the beach isn’t normally something that I’d consider note worthy. For those of you who have been to the ‘ultimate’ beaches (aka Thailand) will know that they are beautiful, relaxed, full of irritating wankers and for all intents and purposes dull as shit.

But this is Brazil we are talking about.

During my trips to the beach in this country I have discovered why the Brazilian wax has come into being. The bikinis in this country defy belief… they are tiny! You think I’m exaggerating? No… they don’t appear to have any concept of different sizes. You simply select the three tiny triangles of fabric that most appeal to you, tie them round yourself with the strings provided and off you go! This extends to (and I REALLY mean this) … EVERY lady on the beach!

The women are not the only ones to be encompassed by the mantra of ‘less is more’, no, the men are there too in the tiniest pair of Speedos, and Brazil being Brazil, the beach wear inevitably spills out onto the street. This can make an afternoon spent shopping an interesting experience.

My friend Miska (who’s (UK) laptop I am currently writing this on – thus the improved spelling) once said to me, ‘In Brazil, if you’ve got it flaunt it. If you don’t have it, flaunt it even more.’

I don’t know if I entirely sign up to this theory.

The people here just seem to have a really great attitude to their bodies. I mean think about it, if you’re funny looking, old or fat, people know about it. It’s not as if you can hide it. So by trying to conceal it you are actually doing nothing other than calling attention to the fact and therefore, making it something to be ashamed of.

Here no one seems to care. The middle aged woman with the bingo wings from hell, the old man with the patchy back hair, the young girl with the huge tummy. They are all there in the smallest clothes imaginable, and why not, it’s bloody hot, and they’re on the bloody beach aren’t they?

Hats off to the Brazilians, I think they’ve got it sussed.

However, they do also have some of the worlds most beautiful people. The kind of confident, relaxed, happy and cool people that make you squirm, just for the fact that you’re English. The boys who mess around in the waves trying to impress girls are actually impressive… I never thought I’d see the day when people like that weren’t instantly dismissed as idiots, but I’m sorry… pulling off full unassisted back flips in the breakers is pretty dammed cool! Well, put it this way… I took a book to the beach in Salvador, not much of it got read.

The final beach location before I jet off back towards the mountains to continue ‘proper travelling’ again has been Recife, to see the aforementioned Mishka. I can’t tell you how nice it is after two months of being away to be staying in someone’s actual home. Little things like being able to get your own breakfast and mooch around on the sofa and cook are like bliss to me this week.

Also the fact that she is actually living here for a while means that it’s the first time I’ve had the chance to hang out with locals in Brazil. I can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying, but with some of my ‘translator’s’ help I’ve been taken to some truly fantastic places that one would simply not find as a regular tourist. The other day was a local seafood restaurant where you got to pick your dinner from a tank before smashing it to smithereens with a blunt instrument. Crab is the best food ever. Absolutely delicious, a total challenge and so much work to eat that by the time you’ve finished you have worked off every calorie you’ve just eaten.

Then today we were driven out to a resort almost entirely inhabited by Brazilians to spend the day on the beach sporadically being brought fresh seafood and local delicacies, all of which were absolutely fantastic.

Next step is to leave this sheltered little haven, which is my last little piece of luxury before home and head to South America’s poorest country, Bolivia. At last heading back to a Spanish speaking country where I’ll at least stand a snow balls chance in hell of being understood. A welcome relief after today being asked by one of the local girls I’ve been spending time with whether ‘thank you’ was the only Portuguese word I knew. As if anything else would confirm what a cultural stereotype I really am. *Shamed*

(thank you, sorry, sorry, thank you... only if it´s no problem)

(sorry)

Everyone who has done any travelling in South America will know that the long distance bus is a way of life. They will also know that generally the standard is extremely high and that things like fully reclining seats, free coffee and even waiter service are not uncommon.

So in a way I was kind of looking forward to my first long haul bus experience (26 hours from Rio to Salvador). This is partly because I was coming to it after a busy and quite stressful week in Rio, but also because this type of trip does seem to be so firmly rooted in the South American experience. This was also the first real part of my trip which was genuinely alone. So it was in good (if a little nervous) spirits that I said a rushed goodbye to Sarah and set out for the bus station.

Since my arrival in Brazil I have approached the problem of not speaking Portuguese with a big smile, a bit of Spanish, lots of arm waving and a sense of stoicism, and if it hasn’t actually served me well, then it’s got me by without too much bother. Things were about to change.

The first few hours on the bus (number one) passed pleasantly enough. There were big comfy seats, there was carpet, there was free coffee, there was no one beside me. This was the first thing to change. A man with the most pungent aftershave I have ever smelt gets on and sits in the seat next to me. Also to get on at this stop was the biggest, noisiest Brazilian family with the most stuff in the world (bags, giant pink teddies, boxes, the works!) who insisted on trying to shoehorn themselves and their possessions into every last available centimetre on the bus. It was at this point that my new neighbour decides to plug himself into the on-bus entertainment system and starts listening to a wailing Brazilian female vocalist at full volume. He then starts singing along with all his heart… Then half the bus (also plugged in) joins in! I hope they didn’t think I was rude when I spent the next ten minutes giggling.

The next few hours pass without incident. The bus stops. Lots of people start getting their bags and getting off the bus. This must be a popular stop… In fact, everyone is getting off the bus with all their possessions, except the man who sits beside me (because I’m blocking him in), he’s no longer singing (thank god for small mercies), but he’s now looking at me like I’m a total moron. He then starts gabbling at me in Portuguese, then the driver comes over and starts babbling at me in Portuguese. It becomes clear that they really think I should get off the bus too. Being pretty sure I wasn’t yet in Salvador, I wasn’t over keen on their opinion as you can understand, but what are you to do?

I gather together my possessions and, trying really hard not to burst into tears, I get off the bus and am herded onto one of two very small, very cramped, very hot minibuses (bus number two). It’s at this point that I start making up all sorts of theories why this is happening, not many of them are positive. All I know for sure is that I REALLY don’t want to spend the night here.

These theories become more weird and wonderful over the next hour as we are driven through some random Brazilian town. After this I was very relieved to be herded back on board another big air-conditioned bus with nice reclining seats (bus number three). I try not to notice that it’s not quite as nice at the first one and in fact smells a bit funny. Over the next few hours, I start to notice the smell more and more. When the air conditioning breaks down a few hours later and the smell takes over the entire bus it become apparent that it is in fact the smell of the on-board toilet. The smell gradually builds up to a stench as it is impossible to open any windows or any doors.

At six in the morning the driver (in his own separate little compartment) finally clocks what’s going on (by which time I’m sitting holding my nose and breathing through a blanket) and we are again instructed (in what I’m sure would have been very concise Portuguese, if only I understood it) that we are to move buses, again (bus number four).

You can imagine that after this, every time we stopped I was engulfed by a wave of paranoia that had me packing all my things back into my bag ready to make a dash for the next bus to appear. Luckily this never actually happened again.

Eventually after 28 and a half hours we finally roll into Salvador. Not quite the relaxing experience I was hoping for. Get me to a beach… I’m a nervous wreck!