Meeting other travellers brings the inevitable to and fro of tails, tips and advice on the places been and things done there. This information is invaluable (and sometimes of course completely rubbish) as most of it isn't found in a guide book. One thing I really wanted to do whilst in La Paz as a result of such stories and that's defiantly not printed in the Lonely Planet was visit the infamous San Pedro prison, located near the centre of the city.
San Pedro is what could be described as a strange mix of prison and social experiment. Guards surround the perimeter and are posted on the high, barbed walls but never set foot in the prison itself (barring extreme circumstances). Instead the inmates are left to run the workings of the prison, making their own laws, unaffected by the ones that govern the world outside. The families of the prisoners are also able to live inside and come and go for work and school. It's like a fully working micro-community. I'm unsure how it came about but either the prison or the government saw the potential of tapping the tourist pocket in the from of guided tours. These tours don't legally exist and the money you pay as an entrance goes directly to the government as a way of a bribe. Once inside tourists are encouraged to spend money on handcrafts made by some of the inmates or in the prison's numerous shops. Finally there is a whip round at the end to tip the guide and your personal guards (who are all prisoners as no actual guards enter). It's this influx of money that keeps the tourists relatively safe as if something were to happen, the tours would be forced to stop.
13/03/09
I waited with a certain level of anxiety in the square at the front of San Pedro (as instructed by former visitors working at the rumour mills). Desperately not wanting to enter alone, I introduced myself to a herd of equally sheepish looking travellers from Australia. We were then approached by Liz, a South African ex-inmate of the female prison who's job it is to shepard the groups in and collect their money. She looked on edge, speaking to the floor or the sky but never a face (like the 'handover' scene in a spy film). After we gave our details and handed over possessions, we were confronted with the central prison yard. A sense of claustrophobia closed in as space became a sparse commodity, bodies were draped on railings, sat on walls and bunched on steps. With eyes burning into us from every angle, as the large gate swung shut with a clang behind us.
We were then confronted by our assigned guide, Louis Fillipe, a Portuguese prisoner who'd been in for around a year. He could have been straight out of an Al Pacino flick with his slicked-back black hair, dark glasses and leather jacket. He spoke of 'respect' whist touching on a number of other cliches but it was impossible not to warm to his obvious charisma as he played up to the character of lovable rouge. His henchmen were four shifty inmates who communicated in nods and hand movements, these were our bodyguards.
We set off on the tour that only misses out one of the many sections due to the fact that it's home to the most homicidal prisoners! Whilst walking round, we were constantly swamped by children as young as 5 with out-stretched, open palms that tugged at the heart strings. Although these children can come and go from the prison walls, they often only have their incarcerated farther for family and will spend most of their time inside. I couldn't help thinking they'd be spending most of their lives here with a tendency to be institutionalised at an early age and being tainted by the colourful company they keep. This lack of hope it me hard and flushed me with a wave of guilt. I told myself they'd be here regardless of the tours and any money coming in would have to enhance their existence somehow.
Luis Fillipe then led us down a dark, narrow corridor (not wide enough for two people to pass without turning to the side). He then declared that this spot is used to settle differences and by the look on his face I don't think he meant in a diplomatic fashion. He attempted to raise the mood by following with a well-rehearsed wise crack which barley raised a nervous stammer throughout the group.
The next stop did elevate some tension however as we went into the cells of some of the skilled artisans amongst the confined community. Some people clearly have used the extra hours on their hands to great effect, crafting some beautiful things from whatever they can find. One guy made things from coloured wire including a two foot tall dragon, the detail was incredible.
The cells varied from four blank walls barely big enough to swing a kitten in, to miniature scale three story homes will cable tv. Prisoners are expected to buy or rent their cells with different sections offering different levels of comfort and of course cost. One man who'd finished his 35 year sentence, stayed on inside for not wanting to face the outside world and because he's no longer entitled to a cell, he sleeps in a cupboard under stone stairs. His single mattress fills the entire space and his life's belongings sit on a small shelf above his head.
After seeing each section, the gym and the church, whilst listening to Luis Fillipe's many musings, we were led into a small, windowless room. With the guards poisoned on both sides of the closed door, I knew from the stories what was coming next. As I mentioned, the prisoners operate under their own laws, detached from those on the outside. One thing that happens and has a massive influence on the levels of power and money is the production of cocaine. Each tour ends with the group being offered to buy San Pedro's biggest product, with the choice of sampling it then and there or taking it out with them (safe from any security searches due to the bribery chain). As it doesn't interest me in the slightest, I politely refused and left the gap year students to deify their over-baring parents at a safe distance.
Just as we were about to be freed, word had filtered through the bars that members of the press were outside with tv cameras because a corrupt politician ('politician' for short) was due to start his sentence within the next few hours. We had to leave in twos and if asked were instructed to say we had been visiting a friend on the inside.
Even though I'd only been in there for just under two hours, I was relived to leave and a weight seemed to lift. The sense of despair, particularly for the children, lingered a little longer however. I sat in reflection over soup, in a nearby restaurant. The tv across the room was playing the news and the familiar sight of the prison gates flashed up on the screen as San Pedro prepared to welcome it's newest member.
That night I left the electric La Paz on a night bus bound for the Southern town of Uyuni. Bolivian roads are the worst I've encountered so far, with the majority of them being bumpier than a crocodiles back it makes sleep, even for an exhausted narcoleptic, an unachievable dream.
14/02/09
I'd gone down to Uyuni to travel through the biggest salt desert in the world as they offer three day jeep explorations from there, that end up on the Chilean boarder.
I staggered off the buss, so tired that I left my tough wearing, outdoorsy shoes to walk off into the sunset as the bus pulled away. I was then accosted by a flock of tour operators offering the usual 'special deals'. I summoned the energy to refuse, drag my bags to the wall and crash in a heap. After the rabble died down, noticing I was on my own, one operator approached who had one place to fill in a six person jeep that left in an hour. Due to his need to get rid of the last ticket, he offered a really good price. Only really wanting a dark hotel room, I offered a even better price with the condition of a shower and breakfast before leaving. He met my demands (calling my bluff) and before I knew where I was, I was meeting the other five people I'd be spending the next three days, crammed in jeep with.
There were three English people; A couple, Hana and Nick and their friend Suzanne and two Canadian friends Alyece and Erin. We seemed to hit it off instantly and as they'd all been travelling together, they made me feel part of the group. Slotting into the group was a lot easier than squeezing into the back of the jeep however, where I became acquainted with everyone's knees, elbows, feet . . . .
The first stop was a train graveyard on the outskirts of town where rusted-up train carcases made for eerie climbing frames. Most of which poignantly pointed to where we were heading, a huge, dead sea of salt the 'Salar de Uyuni'. The salt desert is a colossal 10,582 km2, consisting of 10 billion tons of salt and is the result of the dried up, prehistoric 'Lake Minchin'.
Driving across the salt flats, we were soon engulfed by this glaring, white giant. Distant mountains appeared to float on air due to the strange optical effects of the heat reflecting surface. Objects would shimmer in and out of view and any pools of water mirrored the blue sky so clearly that it felt like we might fall in one.
We stopped for lunch on a raised Island of giant cacti. These prickly pylons were the size of street lamps. I truly felt as if I'd landed on another planet and half expected to find a group of hammy, lycra-clad actors to be shooting a scene for some cable Sci Fi drama.
We spent the first night in a family-run, 'Salt hostel' on the edge of the flats, where all the walls, floors and even the beds were made from blocks of salt. Outside, the glaring white of the day had turned to black and the stars were as clear as grains of salt on a black table cloth. As we were making obscure constellations of our own, we noticed two different electrical storms, flashing over the distant desert.
15/02/09
After an early breakfast from our host family, we hit the roadless desert once more.As the salt slowly turned to sand, we found ourselves in more conventional desert surroundings. To the fitting sounds of a Doors compilation on Hana's ipod, we delved deeper into the dunes. With hours of no signs of life, the thought that anything could live in such a place seemed impossible. Then out of nowhere a lake lay in front of us which was speckled pink due to hundreds of flamingos. The scenery became more surreal as we entered an area of contorted rock formations that jutted and twisted into the air. We took this opportunity to regress into a monkeys and clambered around to our hearts content.
As the day wore on, we all agreed we'd never been closer to middle of nowhere than this, with desert lining every horizon and the ones beyoned them. This made the fact that our guides had to stop every half an hour to pure more water into the continually leaking radiator, slightly unnerving to say the least. However through our guide's instinctive sense of direction, we made it to two more flamingo filled lakes (one of which was red, due to coloured bactiria beneith the water) and then on to the communal, make-shift lodge where we were to spend the night. Thoughout the day, we had been stedily climbing in altitude and the temperature had dropped significantly. So much so that a snow storm closed in, leaving us huddled round an open stove inside.
16/02/09
The day started at the ungodly hour of 4am! With blue lips and red eyes, we shivered in the back of the jeep trying to warm up (as of course being Bolivia, the heating was broken). We climbered further to reach some high-altituted gizers, which sat at around 5000 meters above sea level. To give you an idea, this is only a couple of hundred meters below both Everest base camps. We warmed ourselfes round the gizers as the hot steam blasted out into the atmospher.
As we moved on, we entered into cloud mist which cloaked everything bar our guides incrediable knowlage of the area and somehow he navigated us to our final stop, hot springs. The mist from these rocky pools seamlessly met the surrounding cloud. I found I was the only one willing to take the plundge as the others observed from the relitive warmth of the jeep. I of course then had to lie through my chattering teeth that it was well worth while and had adiquatly warmed my bones to justify my choice.
Suzanne, Nick, Hana and I then parted ways with our guides, Alyece and Erin as they dropped us at the Chilean boarder and headed back towards Uyuni. It was the most deserlate boarder crossing yet, a small wood lodge, surrounded by miles of nothing but a burnt out school bus that doubled as a toilet. A short time later, after the morning snow had started to melt, our bus arrived that would take us to civilisation in Chile. Bolivia had come and gone and I watched it grow small in the back window, as we were whisked away on a modern bus on an actual road with tarmack!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
06/02/09
I caught my first glimpse of Arequipa through blurry eyes as the night bus pulled in. The early morning sun reflected off the pearl-white buildings made from volcanic stone. The volcano itself standing, ever-present over the North of the city. Finding a hostel, I crashed for a few hours to supplement the broken bus sleep I endured the night before.
After feeling slightly more human, I decided to find Simon (the Swedish guy from my hostel in Cusco). Once I found the small hostel he was in we discovered he was sharing it with the group of Brazilians and two Austrian girls that all had come at different times from my old hostel and all happened to gravitate to the same place. Convincing each other fate had played a hand, we decided to all book a bus to the relatively close Colca Canyon. Colca and it's nearby neighbour Cotahuasi are the two deepest Canyons in the world, both being around twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.
The buss, crammed to the roof with women in traditional dress and their customarily big bags, dropped us at the edge of the enormous gorge. It was like starring down the bottomless abyss from a children's fairytale. By leaning out as far as I dared, I could catch glimpses of the distant river that runs through its heart that appeared no more than a whisper-thin capillary from our bird's eye view. Birds were also on view. The giant Condor (sacred bird of the Inca culture) circled far below, soaring in and out of the bands of cloud that layered the canyon. After following the canyon's contours for a couple of miles, we hit a town where we learnt that the last bus back to Arequipa left in an hour. This gave just enough time for us to be thrashed by some locals who were playing football in a nearby road (I blame the Brazilians!).
08/02/09
I left Simon and the Brazilians in Arequipa as they were talking of ways to hit Rio in time for carnival. I headed for Puno, near the Bolivian boarder which was in the throws of it's own carnival. The small town was packed for the annual celebrations and the bus station was a chaotic clammer as word had got out that most hostels and hotels were full. I was approached by an Italian called Giovanni who'd managed to book a double room and wondered if I wanted to half the cost. Facing a long and frantic search, I gladly accepted. We dumped our stuff and headed out into the rain-driven night in search of food and refreshments, both of which were found in a small bar where we decided to pitch up.
Puno is on lake Titicaca which is the highest nagavitable lake in the world and also home to the Uros people. The Uros fled to the lake to escape the more aggressive Inkas and using the abundant water reeds, built floating Islands to live on. Their entire existence was on the lake as they built their homes and boats using the reeds. Today a few hundred Uro descendants still live on the floating Islands.
Giovanni and I decided to catch a boat out to to have a look around. It was a strange experience walking on the spongy surface and being surrounded by nothing but reeds but we were both well and truly caught in a tourist trap. I felt the whole set up was geared towards tourist tours and any existence of the authentic Uro culture had rotted away a long time ago.
I only managed to dip into their carnival for an hour or so before my booked bus to the Bolivian boarder set off. This is a shame as what I did see was quite a spectacle. The streets were an explosion of colour as everyone in the town donned elaborately lavish costumes to dance down the narrow streets. It was a fitting final testament to the Peruvian people who embrace their rich culture and traditions full heartily. Sad as I was, it was time to go as a new people awaited with a new culture and customs.
Speaking of customs, as I approached the Bolivian boarder, I noticed I had out stayed the 60 days that had been allotted to me and had actually been there for around 75. Slightly paniced by the thought of potential problems coupled by a moment of madness, I did the stupidest thing I'd done so far.
The '60' was written in black pen both in my passport and on my immigration form and as I happened to have a black pen in my pocket and pencil shavings in my brain, I decided I would cunningly change the 60s into 80s (you're usually allotted days in 30s, 60s or 90s but rarely 80s). The customs officer took one look at the changed numbers (which looked like a drunk ant had stumbled through a pool of ink and then ambled around on the pages) and silently reached for the phone.
After reading my details out to various people on the other end and with a look of impending doom on his face, he summoned over his supervisor. He in turn took me aside and asked why I had doctored the documents. I pathetically pretested my innocents (in bad Spanish), saying I remembered confusion on entering the country and the officials there had corrected the numbers to my wishes. This new, genius piece of verbal evidence only managed to convince them further that they were dealing with a floundering fool. The conversation suddenly veered in a more serious direction. From what I understood I was in big trouble, he was going to send me back to Puno to meet their senior boss and the police were going to be involved. To make sure the gravity of the situation wasn't lost in translation, he made the universal hand gesture of being beheaded!!
Images of being huddled in a ball, crying in the dark corner of a Peruvian prison, provoked beads of sweat to form on my brow. They left me to sweat like this for what seemed longer than my protruding Ponoceo nose. The second officer then took me to the end of the immigration hall and looked deep into my dilated eyes. In a low voice, he said if I admit to what I'd done, he could help me. Under pressure, it took a while for me to translate this lifeline. Once I had, I fixed his stare back and threw in the towel, 'I did it'. The result was a comparatively tiny bribe of $10 US for him and another $10 for the original officer. Feeling I'd got off lighter than OJ Simpson, I shook his hand (not really knowing the correct protocol in these situations). I entered Bolivia with the relief of a liberated man. I ran into some travellers that I'd shared the bus with, and I retold the story more times than they cared to hear over some sweet tasting beers. 'Vive la corrupcion!'
10/02/09
Copacabana is the first town along the lake on the Bolivian side. From here you can catch a boat to 'Isla del Sol', which is an Island that the Inca's believed was the birth place of the Sun. I spent a day walking round it's mazey green paths and colourful, hill side farms. Surrounded by Lake Titicaca at every horizon, you can imagine how the Inca's came to their conclusion as the Sun appears to rise from the water and finally sinks in the same way. I managed to make the last boat back and got straight onto a late bus to the Bolivian capital, La Paz.
La Paz boasts many things, one being that it's the highest capital city in the world another is it's a few miles away from the infamous 'Death Road'. This ominous sounding 63km stretch of mountain track is claimed to be the most dangerous road in the world. Realising the potential for wallies wanting a taste of that danger, tour companies take groups down on mountain bikes on a daily basis.
12/02/09
It was an early start and with the cold of the altitude and the thick, misty rain it brought back memories of the biking on the Machu Piccu trek. After enduring a punishingly cold 45 mins to reach the start of the Death Road, the Sun appeared and feeling returned to my fingers.
The road was more like a gravel track, carved into a sheer mountain side. At it's narrowest points, it's no more than 3 meters wide and has to be shared with the occasional tour bus that drives down. It snakes along the contores of the cliff with the constant threat of the dramatic drop on one side. Focusing on the stony ground in front, it's easy to zone the drop out but grave stones dotted along the sides are a stark reminder of the ever-present danger. Truth be told it's only as dangerous as you make it and a steady speed ensures a safe decent. The guide at the front set the pace and it was forbidden to overtake him which at times was frustrating but looking back, probably for the best.
Evidence of adequate adrenaline levels was displayed on the bus journey back where group sing-alongs quickly turned into ill-timed dance routines. We all bounced around the bus like a hot pan of popcorn until we reached La Paz.
I caught my first glimpse of Arequipa through blurry eyes as the night bus pulled in. The early morning sun reflected off the pearl-white buildings made from volcanic stone. The volcano itself standing, ever-present over the North of the city. Finding a hostel, I crashed for a few hours to supplement the broken bus sleep I endured the night before.
After feeling slightly more human, I decided to find Simon (the Swedish guy from my hostel in Cusco). Once I found the small hostel he was in we discovered he was sharing it with the group of Brazilians and two Austrian girls that all had come at different times from my old hostel and all happened to gravitate to the same place. Convincing each other fate had played a hand, we decided to all book a bus to the relatively close Colca Canyon. Colca and it's nearby neighbour Cotahuasi are the two deepest Canyons in the world, both being around twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.
The buss, crammed to the roof with women in traditional dress and their customarily big bags, dropped us at the edge of the enormous gorge. It was like starring down the bottomless abyss from a children's fairytale. By leaning out as far as I dared, I could catch glimpses of the distant river that runs through its heart that appeared no more than a whisper-thin capillary from our bird's eye view. Birds were also on view. The giant Condor (sacred bird of the Inca culture) circled far below, soaring in and out of the bands of cloud that layered the canyon. After following the canyon's contours for a couple of miles, we hit a town where we learnt that the last bus back to Arequipa left in an hour. This gave just enough time for us to be thrashed by some locals who were playing football in a nearby road (I blame the Brazilians!).
08/02/09
I left Simon and the Brazilians in Arequipa as they were talking of ways to hit Rio in time for carnival. I headed for Puno, near the Bolivian boarder which was in the throws of it's own carnival. The small town was packed for the annual celebrations and the bus station was a chaotic clammer as word had got out that most hostels and hotels were full. I was approached by an Italian called Giovanni who'd managed to book a double room and wondered if I wanted to half the cost. Facing a long and frantic search, I gladly accepted. We dumped our stuff and headed out into the rain-driven night in search of food and refreshments, both of which were found in a small bar where we decided to pitch up.
Puno is on lake Titicaca which is the highest nagavitable lake in the world and also home to the Uros people. The Uros fled to the lake to escape the more aggressive Inkas and using the abundant water reeds, built floating Islands to live on. Their entire existence was on the lake as they built their homes and boats using the reeds. Today a few hundred Uro descendants still live on the floating Islands.
Giovanni and I decided to catch a boat out to to have a look around. It was a strange experience walking on the spongy surface and being surrounded by nothing but reeds but we were both well and truly caught in a tourist trap. I felt the whole set up was geared towards tourist tours and any existence of the authentic Uro culture had rotted away a long time ago.
I only managed to dip into their carnival for an hour or so before my booked bus to the Bolivian boarder set off. This is a shame as what I did see was quite a spectacle. The streets were an explosion of colour as everyone in the town donned elaborately lavish costumes to dance down the narrow streets. It was a fitting final testament to the Peruvian people who embrace their rich culture and traditions full heartily. Sad as I was, it was time to go as a new people awaited with a new culture and customs.
Speaking of customs, as I approached the Bolivian boarder, I noticed I had out stayed the 60 days that had been allotted to me and had actually been there for around 75. Slightly paniced by the thought of potential problems coupled by a moment of madness, I did the stupidest thing I'd done so far.
The '60' was written in black pen both in my passport and on my immigration form and as I happened to have a black pen in my pocket and pencil shavings in my brain, I decided I would cunningly change the 60s into 80s (you're usually allotted days in 30s, 60s or 90s but rarely 80s). The customs officer took one look at the changed numbers (which looked like a drunk ant had stumbled through a pool of ink and then ambled around on the pages) and silently reached for the phone.
After reading my details out to various people on the other end and with a look of impending doom on his face, he summoned over his supervisor. He in turn took me aside and asked why I had doctored the documents. I pathetically pretested my innocents (in bad Spanish), saying I remembered confusion on entering the country and the officials there had corrected the numbers to my wishes. This new, genius piece of verbal evidence only managed to convince them further that they were dealing with a floundering fool. The conversation suddenly veered in a more serious direction. From what I understood I was in big trouble, he was going to send me back to Puno to meet their senior boss and the police were going to be involved. To make sure the gravity of the situation wasn't lost in translation, he made the universal hand gesture of being beheaded!!
Images of being huddled in a ball, crying in the dark corner of a Peruvian prison, provoked beads of sweat to form on my brow. They left me to sweat like this for what seemed longer than my protruding Ponoceo nose. The second officer then took me to the end of the immigration hall and looked deep into my dilated eyes. In a low voice, he said if I admit to what I'd done, he could help me. Under pressure, it took a while for me to translate this lifeline. Once I had, I fixed his stare back and threw in the towel, 'I did it'. The result was a comparatively tiny bribe of $10 US for him and another $10 for the original officer. Feeling I'd got off lighter than OJ Simpson, I shook his hand (not really knowing the correct protocol in these situations). I entered Bolivia with the relief of a liberated man. I ran into some travellers that I'd shared the bus with, and I retold the story more times than they cared to hear over some sweet tasting beers. 'Vive la corrupcion!'
10/02/09
Copacabana is the first town along the lake on the Bolivian side. From here you can catch a boat to 'Isla del Sol', which is an Island that the Inca's believed was the birth place of the Sun. I spent a day walking round it's mazey green paths and colourful, hill side farms. Surrounded by Lake Titicaca at every horizon, you can imagine how the Inca's came to their conclusion as the Sun appears to rise from the water and finally sinks in the same way. I managed to make the last boat back and got straight onto a late bus to the Bolivian capital, La Paz.
La Paz boasts many things, one being that it's the highest capital city in the world another is it's a few miles away from the infamous 'Death Road'. This ominous sounding 63km stretch of mountain track is claimed to be the most dangerous road in the world. Realising the potential for wallies wanting a taste of that danger, tour companies take groups down on mountain bikes on a daily basis.
12/02/09
It was an early start and with the cold of the altitude and the thick, misty rain it brought back memories of the biking on the Machu Piccu trek. After enduring a punishingly cold 45 mins to reach the start of the Death Road, the Sun appeared and feeling returned to my fingers.
The road was more like a gravel track, carved into a sheer mountain side. At it's narrowest points, it's no more than 3 meters wide and has to be shared with the occasional tour bus that drives down. It snakes along the contores of the cliff with the constant threat of the dramatic drop on one side. Focusing on the stony ground in front, it's easy to zone the drop out but grave stones dotted along the sides are a stark reminder of the ever-present danger. Truth be told it's only as dangerous as you make it and a steady speed ensures a safe decent. The guide at the front set the pace and it was forbidden to overtake him which at times was frustrating but looking back, probably for the best.
Evidence of adequate adrenaline levels was displayed on the bus journey back where group sing-alongs quickly turned into ill-timed dance routines. We all bounced around the bus like a hot pan of popcorn until we reached La Paz.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
07/01/09
My need to work was inevitable and finally my first day at Excell school, Cusco came. I've never been the worlds greatest at remembering names and this isn't helped by unusually pronounced Peruvian names. I was therefore relived and humored to find out that the four men in one class were called Willy, Eric, Ludvig and best of all . . . . Elvis!
The students are fantastic (all around 20-30 years old) and seem to put up with me. I've been taken out to dinner by one class, who kept the sangria flowing and refused to take my money.One student who's a fellow climber even gave up his Sunday to take me two hours out of Cusco to a towering rock-face where we tackled it in 40 meter sections (that happened to be at the same time as an army of biting ants decided to do the same).
Most of my free time has been spent exploring 'the sacred valley', which has enough activities to keep a recession hit bee busy. I prepared to go horse ridding by donning my fastest cowboy shirt and my meanest cowboy expression to press hard against the racing wind. I found however that my horse had not watched the same westerns as me and was more concerned with eating grass and sniffing other horses bottoms!
White water rafting was somewhat more exhilarating. Being flushed down river Chuquicahuana, buffeting every rock and rapid whilst swallowing more water than a family of thirsty elephants at an oasis, was one of my personal highlights so far.
Opportunities for trekking are almost endless. Aiden, Mattais (another guy from the hostel) and I set out for Urabamba to try to tackle the snow-capped mountain 'Checon' whilst at the same time fulfilling a promise to Paula (a woman we'd met a few weeks ago, who owns a sandwich shop in Urabamba). I'd suggested that I fix a few of the shops plumbing problems in exchange for free sandwiches. On arrival the promised tools from a neighbour weren't there and it was clear I could only do so much with head scratching, tutting and bare hands alone. After a bit of bodging, I'd done enough to earn us all discounted sandwiches and wine for the evening. Suddenly a red 4x4 screeched up outside. It was pulsating due to 'Pink Floyd' being played at full blast from it's over-sized speakers. Over the loud hum, Pauler declared it was her friend who'd come to drive us into town, we accepted and went off in the red rock concert on wheels. We landed in Pauler's Uncle's bar where we were treated to more discounted drinks.
The night didn't exactly put us in the best shape for our steep ascent. We took a taxi to the end of a dirt track, near the foot of the mountain. With only the taxi drivers guidance and friendly warnings, we headed for the clouds. Soon we came to a fast flowing river but after walking a way up the bank, we discovered an old wooden bridge. As the visible paths ran out, we persevered up sharp, steep bush-covered mountainside. Gradually the trees and bushes ebbed away and were replaced by dramatic scenery. The huge snow table cloth that was draped over the mountain top came into view and the vast valley stretched out behind us in its wake. The climbing was kept rapid and continuous, pausing for necessary re-fuels and to briefly admire our surroundings. However we soon realised how ridiculous our goal of reaching the top of a mountain (around 6000 meters above sea level) in one day was. As we would inevitably run out of light, we made the decision to turn back. Snow was agonisingly close but with the clouds of defeat beginning to blanket the sky, we could waste no more time. Due to the dimming light, we went back a slightly different way and whereupon reaching the river, we were unable to find the bridge. With time of the essence, we opted to climb a tree that helpfully leaned across towards another tree on the other side. After some near disastrous slips and casual swearing, we all made it across. We were now hit by the realisation that the great distance, covered by the taxi in the morning would now have to be done on foot, with darkness looming around the corner. We cut straight down to main road through fields and over fences. Exhausted, we were now faced with the 6km stretch to Urabamba.
Suddenly in the twilight, a fast moving car made a familiar screech to a halt after it flew past. As the screech dispersed from our ears, it was replaced by the also familiar sound of shakingly loud 'Pink Floyd'. Paula's friend had somehow recognised us in the dusky road and in an instant, towards Urabamba we sped as the victorious mountain blurred and disappeared into the darkness.
The owner of the hostel in Cusco is a young Peruvian called Miguel. Being around the same age, very laid back and having a wicked sense of humour, he's become a good friend. Being that he also used to be a tour guide, he's a useful companion when visiting the many Inca sights in and around Cusco. An impressive one that overlooks the city is named Saqsaywaman and I've derived much immature mirth from pronouncing it 'Sexy woman' to the locals.
31/01/09
Another site, which is larger than Machu Picchu and only an hour bus ride away, is Pisac. When Miguel explained that the inflated entrance fee exploits the indigenous people, who've had to give up their land to the national park, we decided to sneak in past the eagle eyed security. A good way to do this is to arrive before 7 (when the national park opens) and head up the smaller, lesser known path at the other side of the park (which covers a small mountain, which the ruins sit on top).
Miguel, Aiden, Simon (a Swed who'd been at the hostel for a couple of weeks) and I made the early attempt. The plan was going well until yells from a distant dot were heard. As the distant dot came closer, it became a small man in a wardens jacket. This particular small man was suffering from the nasty condition known as 'small-man's syndrome' and showed added sighns of 'jobs-worthness'. Upon reaching us, almost foaming at the mouth and steaming from the ears, he began to give Miguel the 3rd degree. Miguel was quick to respond (making me think that this wasn't the first time he'd been in this situation). He promptly switched to the ancient tongue of Quechuan (the Inca language) and explained we were walking to a certain small village in the hills that could be reached by one of the paths in the park. The small man, also adopting Quechuan, continued stamping his feet in defiance. This war of words went on for a while as I blankly looked on. Finally Miguel gave me the 'all clear' look and off we went with beady eyes fixated on us. As soon as we were adequately out of sight on our new, longer detour, we cut back up and headed for the ruins.
They were well worth the trouble. Unlike the pristinly kept Machu Picchu, Pisac is overgrown, with a more rustic and real effect. This allows you to imagine you're discovering it rather than it being presented to you. All the water features the Inca's made from harnessing the spring water (such as washing fountains) still function as they would have 500 years ago.
Aside from sneaking into various places, Miguel also organises weekly games of football where he and his friends take on me and whoever's staying at the hostel (this usually favours me as a lot of Brazilians and Argentineans tend to stay). This has also helped me feel more at home and not so mush of a tourist.
After just a month in Excell school, I decided that the hours that were being offered weren't enough to keep me there. As Cusco is a great launching pad to see places but really geared towards tourists rather than residents, I felt my time in the Inca city had come to an end.
05/02/09
It all happened so quickly after I made my disision and before I knew it, I'd booked a bus ticket South. The idea being that I'd work my way down seeing more of Peru, then through Bolivia and finish up in Chile (where I'd heard a lot about good teaching opportunities).
My last few hours at the hostel I'd called home for the past two and a half months were quite. Miguel and his partner had gone to Lima. Aiden and Simon had were doing a boarder run to re-new visas. Ciara amongst others had left a couple of weeks ago and a large group of Brazilians had moved out the night before. This allowed me a last quiet look over Cusco, then I was off. The buzz of travel returned, running up and down my spine as I boarded the bus for Arequipa (Peru's second largest city). I was a night bus but I knew I would get little sleep as new surroundings awaited. . . . . . . . . . . .
Note: I have had to omit details of people and places due to being slightly behind with posts
My need to work was inevitable and finally my first day at Excell school, Cusco came. I've never been the worlds greatest at remembering names and this isn't helped by unusually pronounced Peruvian names. I was therefore relived and humored to find out that the four men in one class were called Willy, Eric, Ludvig and best of all . . . . Elvis!
The students are fantastic (all around 20-30 years old) and seem to put up with me. I've been taken out to dinner by one class, who kept the sangria flowing and refused to take my money.One student who's a fellow climber even gave up his Sunday to take me two hours out of Cusco to a towering rock-face where we tackled it in 40 meter sections (that happened to be at the same time as an army of biting ants decided to do the same).
Most of my free time has been spent exploring 'the sacred valley', which has enough activities to keep a recession hit bee busy. I prepared to go horse ridding by donning my fastest cowboy shirt and my meanest cowboy expression to press hard against the racing wind. I found however that my horse had not watched the same westerns as me and was more concerned with eating grass and sniffing other horses bottoms!
White water rafting was somewhat more exhilarating. Being flushed down river Chuquicahuana, buffeting every rock and rapid whilst swallowing more water than a family of thirsty elephants at an oasis, was one of my personal highlights so far.
Opportunities for trekking are almost endless. Aiden, Mattais (another guy from the hostel) and I set out for Urabamba to try to tackle the snow-capped mountain 'Checon' whilst at the same time fulfilling a promise to Paula (a woman we'd met a few weeks ago, who owns a sandwich shop in Urabamba). I'd suggested that I fix a few of the shops plumbing problems in exchange for free sandwiches. On arrival the promised tools from a neighbour weren't there and it was clear I could only do so much with head scratching, tutting and bare hands alone. After a bit of bodging, I'd done enough to earn us all discounted sandwiches and wine for the evening. Suddenly a red 4x4 screeched up outside. It was pulsating due to 'Pink Floyd' being played at full blast from it's over-sized speakers. Over the loud hum, Pauler declared it was her friend who'd come to drive us into town, we accepted and went off in the red rock concert on wheels. We landed in Pauler's Uncle's bar where we were treated to more discounted drinks.
The night didn't exactly put us in the best shape for our steep ascent. We took a taxi to the end of a dirt track, near the foot of the mountain. With only the taxi drivers guidance and friendly warnings, we headed for the clouds. Soon we came to a fast flowing river but after walking a way up the bank, we discovered an old wooden bridge. As the visible paths ran out, we persevered up sharp, steep bush-covered mountainside. Gradually the trees and bushes ebbed away and were replaced by dramatic scenery. The huge snow table cloth that was draped over the mountain top came into view and the vast valley stretched out behind us in its wake. The climbing was kept rapid and continuous, pausing for necessary re-fuels and to briefly admire our surroundings. However we soon realised how ridiculous our goal of reaching the top of a mountain (around 6000 meters above sea level) in one day was. As we would inevitably run out of light, we made the decision to turn back. Snow was agonisingly close but with the clouds of defeat beginning to blanket the sky, we could waste no more time. Due to the dimming light, we went back a slightly different way and whereupon reaching the river, we were unable to find the bridge. With time of the essence, we opted to climb a tree that helpfully leaned across towards another tree on the other side. After some near disastrous slips and casual swearing, we all made it across. We were now hit by the realisation that the great distance, covered by the taxi in the morning would now have to be done on foot, with darkness looming around the corner. We cut straight down to main road through fields and over fences. Exhausted, we were now faced with the 6km stretch to Urabamba.
Suddenly in the twilight, a fast moving car made a familiar screech to a halt after it flew past. As the screech dispersed from our ears, it was replaced by the also familiar sound of shakingly loud 'Pink Floyd'. Paula's friend had somehow recognised us in the dusky road and in an instant, towards Urabamba we sped as the victorious mountain blurred and disappeared into the darkness.
The owner of the hostel in Cusco is a young Peruvian called Miguel. Being around the same age, very laid back and having a wicked sense of humour, he's become a good friend. Being that he also used to be a tour guide, he's a useful companion when visiting the many Inca sights in and around Cusco. An impressive one that overlooks the city is named Saqsaywaman and I've derived much immature mirth from pronouncing it 'Sexy woman' to the locals.
31/01/09
Another site, which is larger than Machu Picchu and only an hour bus ride away, is Pisac. When Miguel explained that the inflated entrance fee exploits the indigenous people, who've had to give up their land to the national park, we decided to sneak in past the eagle eyed security. A good way to do this is to arrive before 7 (when the national park opens) and head up the smaller, lesser known path at the other side of the park (which covers a small mountain, which the ruins sit on top).
Miguel, Aiden, Simon (a Swed who'd been at the hostel for a couple of weeks) and I made the early attempt. The plan was going well until yells from a distant dot were heard. As the distant dot came closer, it became a small man in a wardens jacket. This particular small man was suffering from the nasty condition known as 'small-man's syndrome' and showed added sighns of 'jobs-worthness'. Upon reaching us, almost foaming at the mouth and steaming from the ears, he began to give Miguel the 3rd degree. Miguel was quick to respond (making me think that this wasn't the first time he'd been in this situation). He promptly switched to the ancient tongue of Quechuan (the Inca language) and explained we were walking to a certain small village in the hills that could be reached by one of the paths in the park. The small man, also adopting Quechuan, continued stamping his feet in defiance. This war of words went on for a while as I blankly looked on. Finally Miguel gave me the 'all clear' look and off we went with beady eyes fixated on us. As soon as we were adequately out of sight on our new, longer detour, we cut back up and headed for the ruins.
They were well worth the trouble. Unlike the pristinly kept Machu Picchu, Pisac is overgrown, with a more rustic and real effect. This allows you to imagine you're discovering it rather than it being presented to you. All the water features the Inca's made from harnessing the spring water (such as washing fountains) still function as they would have 500 years ago.
Aside from sneaking into various places, Miguel also organises weekly games of football where he and his friends take on me and whoever's staying at the hostel (this usually favours me as a lot of Brazilians and Argentineans tend to stay). This has also helped me feel more at home and not so mush of a tourist.
After just a month in Excell school, I decided that the hours that were being offered weren't enough to keep me there. As Cusco is a great launching pad to see places but really geared towards tourists rather than residents, I felt my time in the Inca city had come to an end.
05/02/09
It all happened so quickly after I made my disision and before I knew it, I'd booked a bus ticket South. The idea being that I'd work my way down seeing more of Peru, then through Bolivia and finish up in Chile (where I'd heard a lot about good teaching opportunities).
My last few hours at the hostel I'd called home for the past two and a half months were quite. Miguel and his partner had gone to Lima. Aiden and Simon had were doing a boarder run to re-new visas. Ciara amongst others had left a couple of weeks ago and a large group of Brazilians had moved out the night before. This allowed me a last quiet look over Cusco, then I was off. The buzz of travel returned, running up and down my spine as I boarded the bus for Arequipa (Peru's second largest city). I was a night bus but I knew I would get little sleep as new surroundings awaited. . . . . . . . . . . .
Note: I have had to omit details of people and places due to being slightly behind with posts
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Over the past few weeks, I've begun to feel more grounded, swapping the fast paced traveling for a slower more indepth approach to exploring a single place. My small hostel has grown into my temporary home which is helped by the fact that I have my own room and more or less free reign of the kitchen. The intimate dining-come common area has a wall of windows overlooking the outstreached valley of Cusco that's forever overlooked by an ominous backdrop of Andean mountains. With such a location and the means to cook, it's become an ideal place for entertaining and socializing.
25/12/08
Christmas was no different and Aiden (a very Irish, Irish guy who works in an Irish bar in town) and I decided we'd get the biggest Turkey we could carry from the fantastic San Pedro market.
The San Pedro market, close to the heart of Cusco, is a never ending frenzy of activity, with a hubbub of optimistic haggeling throughout. Cheap but amazingly tasty food is serverd at bar-like counters with everything from fruit smoothies, raw fish prepared in lime juice to the local speciality of Guinea pig. For the more adventuros chefs, cows heads, hoofs, spines and tounges are waiting to be made into who knows what. But for the most part the fresh smells and spices intice and turn heads in every direction.
Having bought a Turkey big enough to get a part as the Trojan horse in a school play, we quickly realised our kitchen lacked one vital ingredient . . . . . . an oven. With the prospect of chewing on boiled bird for the next month, we asked around to see what a local might do in our situation. To our suprise ovens are exclusivly status symbols of the Peruvian upper class and the vast majority think 'Russel and Hobbs' is a bad comedy duo. The result is an act of community, now lost in most parts of the West. The local bakeries offer up their gigantic clay ovens for one day only to anyone and everyone who need them.
We found ourselfves standing amoungst a gaggle of middle-aged Peruvian women, turkeys in hand, everyone with elbows out (chicken style), fighting for position. The man who carried the fate of a hundred families Christmasses on his shoulders was the sweat soaked baker, who had reportedly been working for 24 hours straight. We watched in amazment as he expertly shuffled and juggled each dinner to be, with a long wooden paddle that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Viking gallion. After three hours we returned to a perfectly cooked Turkey and a baker, continuing to shovel in new ones like coal into a steam engine. After a quick thank you toast, we headed back for a few unhealthly hours of indulgence.
Later we were joined by a few others from the hostal and Ciara and Harriet, who I'd met a week before. Fuelled by mulled wine and The Pogues singing in the background, much nonsense was talked and aimless games played. To get a taste of what was happening in the centre, we headed for a late night bar, leaving behined our still relativly untouched tasty turkey and a small bomb sight of drinks and candle wax. The bad singing to bad Christmas songs (Pogues excluded) continued where they left off, stopping only to say goodnight to a Kiwi from the hostal named Nick, who left declaring hunger had found him again.
A few of us, back in front of the panoramic view of the hostal windows, watched the sun slowly melt the top of the mountains. The moment was broken by Aiden's cry of 'what the #&€%!!' as he presented us with a completely stripped carcus, that a forensic scientist would have trouble identifying as our once plump turkey. To get to the bottom of this culinary crime, the next few minutes followed like the final scene of an episoed of Columbo with the conclusion coming down to a break-in by a pack of street dogs or our peckish companion from New Zealand. But it was agreed best left, till sleep could clarify the final finger point.
Around midday, the culprit turned himself in, red faced and apologetic. It turned out it was Nick after all and not the wild dogs (as was the popular opinion). Like a wise man, he came baring gifts, a box of chocolates and a cooked, ready to eat chicken. In the spirit of Christmas, all was forgiven and we wished him well as he left for pastures more plentiful. The extent of his gorging only became fully apparent later on, when the hostel owner discovered that his chicken leftovers had also been devouered. The man had eaten more than a herd of hungry hippos at a cheap buffet.
31/12/08
Fireworks are a common commodity in Cusco and most mornings you are woken up with the horrific thought that your neighbour has just faced a firing squad. New Years eve is slightly special though, anyone with a patch of land to there name (and ones without) stock up with any and every type of explosive they can get there three fingered hands on. An hour before the turn of the year, at eleven on the dot, every house, church, workplace, barn and park plays host to a display. I was fortunate enough to witness these displays from the top of a large hill, overlooking the entire town. I can honestly say it was one of the most encredible sights I've ever witnessed, it was too much to take in with one pair of eyes. The valley became a glow as a million multicoloured explosions filled the air in a relentless 10 minute cycle where new flashes replaced dying embers over evey square inch of the city. The effect was like a night sea swamped with glowing jellyfish, speaking in a jumbled morse code.
With flames still dancing in my eyes, I headed down to the main square for the countdown. Suddenly, as if the sky was replying to the earlier barrage the rain started to fall. However the downpour didn't seem to dampen the spirits, and a massive crowd had gathered in expectency. In keeping with Latin America's relaxed approach to the concept of time, there was no countdown, nor did anyone really know when it started to be 2009. This led to a prefered sucession of multiple celebrations that culminated in a mass movement of people walking, jumping and skipping in a anti-clockwise flow around the main square. The rest of the night is patchy.
03/01/09
Cusco has a relatively big football club, Cienciano, who in 2003 won the Copa Sudamericana (the equivilant of the Champions Leauge in Europe) against River Plate. So they seemed an obvious candidate for some fickel fan adoption. Aiden and I went down to the stadium, deep into the valley. After chatting with the security guard, we soon found to our disapointment, that the season didn't start till February. He did however seem quite proud of the footballing fortress he defended and insisted we come in and look around. We walked around the empty stands, hearing the ghostly raw of an imaginary crowd. We then found the grounds man tentativly preparing the seemingly perfect pitch for the coming season. Once we'd complemented his handy work a couple of times, he agreed to let us on to the sacred turf. I suddenly remembered seeing the security guard's dog chewing on an old football back at the entrance so with the guards help, I destracted the giant German Shepard and grabbed the slobber soaked ball from under its nose. What followed was a two grown men running around like idiots, fulfilling their schoolboy dreams. After unsuccessfully replicating some of the great moments of footballs past, undeservedly complimented by some ridiculous over-the-top goal celebrations, the grounds man had seen enough. We left, clapping to our imaginary crowd and offering to exchange shirts with a team that wasn't there. The grounds man, rolling his eyes, said goodbye through his teeth. The next set of teeth I encountered belonged to the guard dog so I willingly handed him the match ball.
We left with smiles cemented on our faces and commenting on what the reaction might be back home if we tried the same, we started to wonder where else we could get into . . . . . . . .
25/12/08
Christmas was no different and Aiden (a very Irish, Irish guy who works in an Irish bar in town) and I decided we'd get the biggest Turkey we could carry from the fantastic San Pedro market.
The San Pedro market, close to the heart of Cusco, is a never ending frenzy of activity, with a hubbub of optimistic haggeling throughout. Cheap but amazingly tasty food is serverd at bar-like counters with everything from fruit smoothies, raw fish prepared in lime juice to the local speciality of Guinea pig. For the more adventuros chefs, cows heads, hoofs, spines and tounges are waiting to be made into who knows what. But for the most part the fresh smells and spices intice and turn heads in every direction.
Having bought a Turkey big enough to get a part as the Trojan horse in a school play, we quickly realised our kitchen lacked one vital ingredient . . . . . . an oven. With the prospect of chewing on boiled bird for the next month, we asked around to see what a local might do in our situation. To our suprise ovens are exclusivly status symbols of the Peruvian upper class and the vast majority think 'Russel and Hobbs' is a bad comedy duo. The result is an act of community, now lost in most parts of the West. The local bakeries offer up their gigantic clay ovens for one day only to anyone and everyone who need them.
We found ourselfves standing amoungst a gaggle of middle-aged Peruvian women, turkeys in hand, everyone with elbows out (chicken style), fighting for position. The man who carried the fate of a hundred families Christmasses on his shoulders was the sweat soaked baker, who had reportedly been working for 24 hours straight. We watched in amazment as he expertly shuffled and juggled each dinner to be, with a long wooden paddle that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Viking gallion. After three hours we returned to a perfectly cooked Turkey and a baker, continuing to shovel in new ones like coal into a steam engine. After a quick thank you toast, we headed back for a few unhealthly hours of indulgence.
Later we were joined by a few others from the hostal and Ciara and Harriet, who I'd met a week before. Fuelled by mulled wine and The Pogues singing in the background, much nonsense was talked and aimless games played. To get a taste of what was happening in the centre, we headed for a late night bar, leaving behined our still relativly untouched tasty turkey and a small bomb sight of drinks and candle wax. The bad singing to bad Christmas songs (Pogues excluded) continued where they left off, stopping only to say goodnight to a Kiwi from the hostal named Nick, who left declaring hunger had found him again.
A few of us, back in front of the panoramic view of the hostal windows, watched the sun slowly melt the top of the mountains. The moment was broken by Aiden's cry of 'what the #&€%!!' as he presented us with a completely stripped carcus, that a forensic scientist would have trouble identifying as our once plump turkey. To get to the bottom of this culinary crime, the next few minutes followed like the final scene of an episoed of Columbo with the conclusion coming down to a break-in by a pack of street dogs or our peckish companion from New Zealand. But it was agreed best left, till sleep could clarify the final finger point.
Around midday, the culprit turned himself in, red faced and apologetic. It turned out it was Nick after all and not the wild dogs (as was the popular opinion). Like a wise man, he came baring gifts, a box of chocolates and a cooked, ready to eat chicken. In the spirit of Christmas, all was forgiven and we wished him well as he left for pastures more plentiful. The extent of his gorging only became fully apparent later on, when the hostel owner discovered that his chicken leftovers had also been devouered. The man had eaten more than a herd of hungry hippos at a cheap buffet.
31/12/08
Fireworks are a common commodity in Cusco and most mornings you are woken up with the horrific thought that your neighbour has just faced a firing squad. New Years eve is slightly special though, anyone with a patch of land to there name (and ones without) stock up with any and every type of explosive they can get there three fingered hands on. An hour before the turn of the year, at eleven on the dot, every house, church, workplace, barn and park plays host to a display. I was fortunate enough to witness these displays from the top of a large hill, overlooking the entire town. I can honestly say it was one of the most encredible sights I've ever witnessed, it was too much to take in with one pair of eyes. The valley became a glow as a million multicoloured explosions filled the air in a relentless 10 minute cycle where new flashes replaced dying embers over evey square inch of the city. The effect was like a night sea swamped with glowing jellyfish, speaking in a jumbled morse code.
With flames still dancing in my eyes, I headed down to the main square for the countdown. Suddenly, as if the sky was replying to the earlier barrage the rain started to fall. However the downpour didn't seem to dampen the spirits, and a massive crowd had gathered in expectency. In keeping with Latin America's relaxed approach to the concept of time, there was no countdown, nor did anyone really know when it started to be 2009. This led to a prefered sucession of multiple celebrations that culminated in a mass movement of people walking, jumping and skipping in a anti-clockwise flow around the main square. The rest of the night is patchy.
03/01/09
Cusco has a relatively big football club, Cienciano, who in 2003 won the Copa Sudamericana (the equivilant of the Champions Leauge in Europe) against River Plate. So they seemed an obvious candidate for some fickel fan adoption. Aiden and I went down to the stadium, deep into the valley. After chatting with the security guard, we soon found to our disapointment, that the season didn't start till February. He did however seem quite proud of the footballing fortress he defended and insisted we come in and look around. We walked around the empty stands, hearing the ghostly raw of an imaginary crowd. We then found the grounds man tentativly preparing the seemingly perfect pitch for the coming season. Once we'd complemented his handy work a couple of times, he agreed to let us on to the sacred turf. I suddenly remembered seeing the security guard's dog chewing on an old football back at the entrance so with the guards help, I destracted the giant German Shepard and grabbed the slobber soaked ball from under its nose. What followed was a two grown men running around like idiots, fulfilling their schoolboy dreams. After unsuccessfully replicating some of the great moments of footballs past, undeservedly complimented by some ridiculous over-the-top goal celebrations, the grounds man had seen enough. We left, clapping to our imaginary crowd and offering to exchange shirts with a team that wasn't there. The grounds man, rolling his eyes, said goodbye through his teeth. The next set of teeth I encountered belonged to the guard dog so I willingly handed him the match ball.
We left with smiles cemented on our faces and commenting on what the reaction might be back home if we tried the same, we started to wonder where else we could get into . . . . . . . .
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Cuzco sits at a dizzy 3400m above sea level. Nestled deep in the Andies and higher than Machu Picchu, it makes for the ideal place to acclimatize to the altitude before endeavoring to trek anywhere. As it slides down into a valley, you can't walk anywhere without tackling a hill or two and as my hostel is positioned on top of one the biggest hills, my lungs were put to the test immediately.
In the first few days I frequently found myself stopping to catch my breath only to be overtaken by small, hunched-over women in their late 70s, carrying a bundles on their backs the size of a small cars. I would be left helplessly panting like a over-worked husky stranded in the Sahara Dessert.
After crawling up a hill in search of breakfast on my first morning, I chose a place that looked popular with the locals. Upon hearing the list of dishes they served and not recognizing any of them, I agreed to the first one mentioned. I noticed catching some surprised glances and could hear faint chuckles coming from the kitchen but thought nothing of it. Then placed in front of me was a large bowl of soap with half a sheep's head blankly staring back at me (flesh, eye and teeth included). Feeling like I was in a Indiana Jones movie, I gingerly picked round my fleece ridden friend and politely reflected the beaming smile of the young man who'd joyfully served me the dish. Feeling decidedly sheepish (oh dear), I left with dreams of scrabbled egg, hash browns and baked beans.
After feeling marginally fitter Nick, Rob (an Aussie from my hostel) and I booked a three day trek including a day biking down a mountain, lots of jungle walking and a relaxing session in some natural hot springs before reaching our goal of Machu Picchu.
08/12/08
The morning was overcast as the minibus set off with us and the rest of our group to the top of a mountain near the Inca village of Ollantaytambo. The higher we drove, the deeper into the clouds we were and rain started to lash against the windows. On the advice of our guides we were dressed more like a beach volleyball team then people about to be thrown down a wet, wind swept mountain. After a couple of gear changes, we realised the bikes were a health and safety nightmare but what was more apparent was the freezing, stinging wind and rain which soon turned my exposed skin as red as a slapped bottom. This also made visibility virtually impossible and with no lights, left us at the mercy of any oncoming traffic on the narrow mountain roads. In this uninhabited wilderness, territory is divided up between the wild dogs, who don't take kindly to visitors. On a number of occasions I found a hairy hound barking and yapping at my ever more frantically peddling heels.
After thawing out with a hot cup of coca tea (coca being the base ingredient of cocaine but in its leaf form is a regularly taken, legal stimulant that supposedly helps with altitude sickness), we explored the small town of Santa Maria. We soon found that the majority of the towns people had taken to the streets in celebration and some had assembled a bands to which the locals were dancing and drinking an orange throthy liquid to. The liquid was later discovered to be a plant thats alcohol is extracted by chewing it and spitting it out (the throth being saliver). Due to our ignorance we were unaware that it was the Independence from Spain day which didn't stop us (along with two Spanish from our group) joining in the celebrations. With the confidence that can only be gained by a few cups of saliver, a few of us tried to take on some local youngsters in a highly competitive kick-about. Night had fallen and a mere sliver of moon and street light provided a convenient excuse that a bunch of 11 year olds completely embarrassed us with their South American trickery. We begrudgingly shook their tiny hands and left whist vocalizing complaints of flaws in the perfectly flat, concrete pitch.
Having been told we were to wake up at a dream shattering 3:30am to catch a bus to the start of our trek, we waited out in the cold, dark morning...........waited and waited some more. Three hours later our hung over guide surfaced, with his saliver smelling strongly of saliver he made up some story about a lost bus driver and put us into a taxi. The taxi driver then proceeded to drive like a man possessed around mountain, cliff edge roads, barely wide enough for a bike with stabilizers. We were hurtling around for around 40 mins, by which time he had picked up 7 hitchhikers, 2 squeezed in the back seat and 5 in the boot! Once dropped at Santa Taressa we waited a further two hours until our new guide and group showed up. On arrival the guide broke the news that the planned and eagerly awaited hot springs were not on his schedule. This coupled with sleep deprivation made for an interesting Spanglish argument which in the end, as we had no idea where we were, we gave up and settled for the new trek to Aguas Calientes (the town at the foot of Machu Picchu).
Although not wanting to admit it at first, the trek was fantastic. We followed disused railway tracks that snaked into the Andies, running parallel to and criss crossing a huge turbulent river that further down became the Amazon. I had to crane my neck back full tilt to catch a glimpse of the ever present mountain peaks that loomed over us. The sun too had decided to make an appearance, soon the memories of the morning evaporated in the midday air.
It wasn't till we were well relaxed into our meal that night, that the guide broke further bad news that our money for the entrance to M P had not been transferred and would have to be paid again. This issue took the rest of the evening to resolve by which time Spanglish had dissolved into hysterics and just thinking of the pile up of blunders sent everyone into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
10/12/09
The morning (4:00am) brought no reprieve. We discovered we weren't getting breakfast and my lunch bag was half missing. Faced with the prospect of climbing up M P on a chocolate bar and carton of juice, I was helplessly gripped by the giggles once more. Deciding we'd pool our food resources, we began to tackle the steep Inca steps as a group brought closer together by the shared mishaps. The morning mist was dense but as we approached the top, the days fresh air moved in and blew the mist away like dust from and old, well-known photograph. We had found the lost city of the Incas. As we had set off so early we were treated to it before the waves of tourist buses began crashing through the turnstiles and through squinted eyes could look on it as it may have been 500 years ago.
The sense of achievement was high and six of us decided to treat ourselves to three courses and a few bottles at a recommended restaurant back in Aguas Calientes. A train then buss whisked us back to Cuzco for around 10 where with new-found energy we continued the celebrations late into the night, reliving moments from the past few days to the bored expressions of locals who'd heard it all before.
In the first few days I frequently found myself stopping to catch my breath only to be overtaken by small, hunched-over women in their late 70s, carrying a bundles on their backs the size of a small cars. I would be left helplessly panting like a over-worked husky stranded in the Sahara Dessert.
After crawling up a hill in search of breakfast on my first morning, I chose a place that looked popular with the locals. Upon hearing the list of dishes they served and not recognizing any of them, I agreed to the first one mentioned. I noticed catching some surprised glances and could hear faint chuckles coming from the kitchen but thought nothing of it. Then placed in front of me was a large bowl of soap with half a sheep's head blankly staring back at me (flesh, eye and teeth included). Feeling like I was in a Indiana Jones movie, I gingerly picked round my fleece ridden friend and politely reflected the beaming smile of the young man who'd joyfully served me the dish. Feeling decidedly sheepish (oh dear), I left with dreams of scrabbled egg, hash browns and baked beans.
After feeling marginally fitter Nick, Rob (an Aussie from my hostel) and I booked a three day trek including a day biking down a mountain, lots of jungle walking and a relaxing session in some natural hot springs before reaching our goal of Machu Picchu.
08/12/08
The morning was overcast as the minibus set off with us and the rest of our group to the top of a mountain near the Inca village of Ollantaytambo. The higher we drove, the deeper into the clouds we were and rain started to lash against the windows. On the advice of our guides we were dressed more like a beach volleyball team then people about to be thrown down a wet, wind swept mountain. After a couple of gear changes, we realised the bikes were a health and safety nightmare but what was more apparent was the freezing, stinging wind and rain which soon turned my exposed skin as red as a slapped bottom. This also made visibility virtually impossible and with no lights, left us at the mercy of any oncoming traffic on the narrow mountain roads. In this uninhabited wilderness, territory is divided up between the wild dogs, who don't take kindly to visitors. On a number of occasions I found a hairy hound barking and yapping at my ever more frantically peddling heels.
After thawing out with a hot cup of coca tea (coca being the base ingredient of cocaine but in its leaf form is a regularly taken, legal stimulant that supposedly helps with altitude sickness), we explored the small town of Santa Maria. We soon found that the majority of the towns people had taken to the streets in celebration and some had assembled a bands to which the locals were dancing and drinking an orange throthy liquid to. The liquid was later discovered to be a plant thats alcohol is extracted by chewing it and spitting it out (the throth being saliver). Due to our ignorance we were unaware that it was the Independence from Spain day which didn't stop us (along with two Spanish from our group) joining in the celebrations. With the confidence that can only be gained by a few cups of saliver, a few of us tried to take on some local youngsters in a highly competitive kick-about. Night had fallen and a mere sliver of moon and street light provided a convenient excuse that a bunch of 11 year olds completely embarrassed us with their South American trickery. We begrudgingly shook their tiny hands and left whist vocalizing complaints of flaws in the perfectly flat, concrete pitch.
Having been told we were to wake up at a dream shattering 3:30am to catch a bus to the start of our trek, we waited out in the cold, dark morning...........waited and waited some more. Three hours later our hung over guide surfaced, with his saliver smelling strongly of saliver he made up some story about a lost bus driver and put us into a taxi. The taxi driver then proceeded to drive like a man possessed around mountain, cliff edge roads, barely wide enough for a bike with stabilizers. We were hurtling around for around 40 mins, by which time he had picked up 7 hitchhikers, 2 squeezed in the back seat and 5 in the boot! Once dropped at Santa Taressa we waited a further two hours until our new guide and group showed up. On arrival the guide broke the news that the planned and eagerly awaited hot springs were not on his schedule. This coupled with sleep deprivation made for an interesting Spanglish argument which in the end, as we had no idea where we were, we gave up and settled for the new trek to Aguas Calientes (the town at the foot of Machu Picchu).
Although not wanting to admit it at first, the trek was fantastic. We followed disused railway tracks that snaked into the Andies, running parallel to and criss crossing a huge turbulent river that further down became the Amazon. I had to crane my neck back full tilt to catch a glimpse of the ever present mountain peaks that loomed over us. The sun too had decided to make an appearance, soon the memories of the morning evaporated in the midday air.
It wasn't till we were well relaxed into our meal that night, that the guide broke further bad news that our money for the entrance to M P had not been transferred and would have to be paid again. This issue took the rest of the evening to resolve by which time Spanglish had dissolved into hysterics and just thinking of the pile up of blunders sent everyone into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
10/12/09
The morning (4:00am) brought no reprieve. We discovered we weren't getting breakfast and my lunch bag was half missing. Faced with the prospect of climbing up M P on a chocolate bar and carton of juice, I was helplessly gripped by the giggles once more. Deciding we'd pool our food resources, we began to tackle the steep Inca steps as a group brought closer together by the shared mishaps. The morning mist was dense but as we approached the top, the days fresh air moved in and blew the mist away like dust from and old, well-known photograph. We had found the lost city of the Incas. As we had set off so early we were treated to it before the waves of tourist buses began crashing through the turnstiles and through squinted eyes could look on it as it may have been 500 years ago.
The sense of achievement was high and six of us decided to treat ourselves to three courses and a few bottles at a recommended restaurant back in Aguas Calientes. A train then buss whisked us back to Cuzco for around 10 where with new-found energy we continued the celebrations late into the night, reliving moments from the past few days to the bored expressions of locals who'd heard it all before.
Monday, December 1, 2008
I shot though El Salvador and Honduras, barely stopping to breath. In the former I did get find time to experience the best street food I've ever had. A plate piled high with amongst other things finger size prawns.
18/11/08
Once in Nicaragua, I was welcomed with a bang! The revolutionary party, the Sandinistas were demonstrating on the streets after a recent election controversially ended with half the votes being found in a bin. Their colours of red and black were splashed everywhere. Fireworks and flares were firing, flags were flying. People crammed onto car roofs (both stationary and moving) and milled in large groups, taking over much of Managua (the capital).
As I headed towards the smaller city of Granada I noticed another thing taking over Nicaragua, nature. Through every crack, gap and hole in the walls, pavements and roads was bursting with grassy weeds. Vines strangled and hung from every telephone wire. Branches buffeted the passing cars as they reached out into the road.
I checked into a hostel on the basis that it had the best name in my book, 'The bearded Monkey'. Got talking to some other travellers and wasted away the rest of the evening exchanging stories and suggestions.
One suggeation was the hostel's sister lodge, 'The Monkey Hut', which is on the edge of a lake inside a old volcanic crater. A group of us headed out the next morning. The crater lake was vast with the steep crater walls surrounding it like a panoramic mountain range. It took me and a guy named Simon an hour of continuous paddling in kayaks to reach the other side. Once there we found large rocks, which led to much plunging into the deep water.
That night back in Granada we all found a Music bar where the salsa was in full swing. A small group of us, Emily, Mikel, Trevour and I talked about a plan to head to the Island of Ometepe the following morning.
After a bus to the tiny port town San Jorge, we crossed lake Nicaragua by ferry to reach the Island. Ometepe is the biggest fresh water Island in the world with much of it taken up by two volcanoes. It's engulfed by the enormous lake Nicaragua which is so big it produces surfable waves and is the only lake in the world home to fresh water sharks. Darkness had closed in by the time we reached a place to stay so I went for a night walk, lit only by the night sky and accompanied by unidentified sounds piercing through the continuous rustling of the wind swept trees.
The next day we hired bikes. Mine had around one a half gears, brakes that worked intermittently and when did, wouldn't release and a buckled back wheel that rubbed against the frame. All in all it didn't live up to it's name of 'Torpedo'. Every bike we came across was equally poor. This really reflects the state Nicaragua's in, it's slowly running down with most of the people living in poverty, bike parts are low on their list of essentials.
On a small dirt track road I bumped into Guy and Ruth again cycling the other way. After the obligatory 'small world' comment, we had a quick catch up and said we'd try and meet in Panama at some point.
Upon returning from the ride, we saw people clearing streets and setting up a huge wall of speakers in the middle of the road. Word had reached the Island that the results of the election recount were in and the Sandinistas had won. After eating in darkness due to all street lights being turned off to accommodate the power needed for the party, we joined the celebrations. The energy and pace of the revelers went unchanged for hours with a somewhat eclectic DJ, playing everything from Traditional Nicaraguan music to the Venga Boys!
Next day was our last on the Island and we decided we wanted to go right around the south section, seeing as much as we could. We decided the best way to do this would be to hitch hike as far as drivers would take us. We managed to get three rides in all, the first being a pick up truck that dropped us at a small intersection. We had to walk for an hour till the next came but it was worth it. It was a large truck of banana farmers. We climbed in the back and held onto the metal frame. The driver then proceeded to thunder down the bumpy road at around 60mph, sending us all in the air each time he hit one of the violent ditches. With white faces we waved goodbye and walked off, shaken and quite stirred by the experience. The last was another truck but we had to hold on the outside. With no room on the back, I took one side where I was battered buy branches brushing past. The vibrations shook our breakfast pineapple from it's bag and we helplessly watched it bounce of into the dust.
After catching a ferry back we all went our separate ways. I found a cheap hotel in Rivas and planned to head for the southern boarder to cross into Costa Rica.
25/11/08
After a day looking round the North West town of Liberia, Costa Rica, I booked to go on a jungle trek in Rincon national park which boasts one of the most varied eco systems in the country. A small group of us were dropped at a meeting point and were told we'd be picked up in 8 hours. As each of us had a map I decided to go off alone to find the biggest waterfall in the area. The trek took me through varying terrain, from dense jungle, to open grassy plane. White faced monkeys swung from the trees and mongoose like animals (that might have been mongooses) ran across my path. On reaching the 80ft waterfall that fiercely cascaded into a turquoise blue plunge pool, I decided the only thing to do was to go for a refreshing skinny-dip. I can tell you now it was more refreshing than flipping over the pillow to the cold side on a Sunday morning. After trekking some more and seeing mud-bubbling, volcanic gazers, the driver fulfilled his promise of picking us up.
28/11/08
I caught the bus to Panama which felt like an escape from the Costa Rican capital, San Jose where I had the misfortune of spending a night and can safely say is the armpit of the Earth. I'd arranged to stay with another couch surfer, 'Benny' (Who I called 'Pueblo' for the first 5 hours, until realising this was the first line of his address!). Benny told me he was a bird watcher. Now I don't usually prescribe to stereotypes but Benny, a 200lb black guy with braided hair and a healthy appetite for loud, basey ragga music didn't quite fit with my idea of your average bird watcher. So the next day I agreed to join Benny and some bird watching buddies for my first taste of the niche pastime. We went deep into the jungles north of the city that run parallel with the Panama canal. With a pair of binoculars and an army of trained eyes and ears at my aid, I was able experience wildlife I'd have never known was there. Sloths draped over branches, monkeys passing overhead and rivers of leaf cutter ants were just some of the things that accompanied the many colourfully exotic birds I saw that day.
03/12/08
After realising the only job opportunities in Panama seemed to be in the city and the weight of South America pulling me towards it like a tug of war team, I decided to book a flight to Lima, Peru.
Preferring the local bus to the far more expensive taxi option, I headed for the airport. The driver saw I was more weighed down by bags than a single Mum after her monthly shop for her family of 5 but I still let him know I was stopping at the airport. With no road signs and no sign of an airport, I waited. After a couple of hours the drivers eyes widened and the bus screeched to the side of the road. Telling me we'd passed the airport, he let me off on a long stretch of open road. Luckily as fears of being stranded started to manifest, so did the earlier avoided taxi option. After the flurry of checking in I boarded just in time for my plane food to turn cold.
04/12/08
I spent a day in Lima then jumped on a 24 hour bus to Cuzco (the oldest city in South America and once capital of the Inca empire). I was sat next to the only other English person on the bus, Nick. As the bus company attempted to easy away the 24 hours with bus bingo (the prize being another bus journey!) and a DVD of Pavarotti and friends, we talked about the must-do trek to the lost city of the Incas Machu Picchu.
18/11/08
Once in Nicaragua, I was welcomed with a bang! The revolutionary party, the Sandinistas were demonstrating on the streets after a recent election controversially ended with half the votes being found in a bin. Their colours of red and black were splashed everywhere. Fireworks and flares were firing, flags were flying. People crammed onto car roofs (both stationary and moving) and milled in large groups, taking over much of Managua (the capital).
As I headed towards the smaller city of Granada I noticed another thing taking over Nicaragua, nature. Through every crack, gap and hole in the walls, pavements and roads was bursting with grassy weeds. Vines strangled and hung from every telephone wire. Branches buffeted the passing cars as they reached out into the road.
I checked into a hostel on the basis that it had the best name in my book, 'The bearded Monkey'. Got talking to some other travellers and wasted away the rest of the evening exchanging stories and suggestions.
One suggeation was the hostel's sister lodge, 'The Monkey Hut', which is on the edge of a lake inside a old volcanic crater. A group of us headed out the next morning. The crater lake was vast with the steep crater walls surrounding it like a panoramic mountain range. It took me and a guy named Simon an hour of continuous paddling in kayaks to reach the other side. Once there we found large rocks, which led to much plunging into the deep water.
That night back in Granada we all found a Music bar where the salsa was in full swing. A small group of us, Emily, Mikel, Trevour and I talked about a plan to head to the Island of Ometepe the following morning.
After a bus to the tiny port town San Jorge, we crossed lake Nicaragua by ferry to reach the Island. Ometepe is the biggest fresh water Island in the world with much of it taken up by two volcanoes. It's engulfed by the enormous lake Nicaragua which is so big it produces surfable waves and is the only lake in the world home to fresh water sharks. Darkness had closed in by the time we reached a place to stay so I went for a night walk, lit only by the night sky and accompanied by unidentified sounds piercing through the continuous rustling of the wind swept trees.
The next day we hired bikes. Mine had around one a half gears, brakes that worked intermittently and when did, wouldn't release and a buckled back wheel that rubbed against the frame. All in all it didn't live up to it's name of 'Torpedo'. Every bike we came across was equally poor. This really reflects the state Nicaragua's in, it's slowly running down with most of the people living in poverty, bike parts are low on their list of essentials.
On a small dirt track road I bumped into Guy and Ruth again cycling the other way. After the obligatory 'small world' comment, we had a quick catch up and said we'd try and meet in Panama at some point.
Upon returning from the ride, we saw people clearing streets and setting up a huge wall of speakers in the middle of the road. Word had reached the Island that the results of the election recount were in and the Sandinistas had won. After eating in darkness due to all street lights being turned off to accommodate the power needed for the party, we joined the celebrations. The energy and pace of the revelers went unchanged for hours with a somewhat eclectic DJ, playing everything from Traditional Nicaraguan music to the Venga Boys!
Next day was our last on the Island and we decided we wanted to go right around the south section, seeing as much as we could. We decided the best way to do this would be to hitch hike as far as drivers would take us. We managed to get three rides in all, the first being a pick up truck that dropped us at a small intersection. We had to walk for an hour till the next came but it was worth it. It was a large truck of banana farmers. We climbed in the back and held onto the metal frame. The driver then proceeded to thunder down the bumpy road at around 60mph, sending us all in the air each time he hit one of the violent ditches. With white faces we waved goodbye and walked off, shaken and quite stirred by the experience. The last was another truck but we had to hold on the outside. With no room on the back, I took one side where I was battered buy branches brushing past. The vibrations shook our breakfast pineapple from it's bag and we helplessly watched it bounce of into the dust.
After catching a ferry back we all went our separate ways. I found a cheap hotel in Rivas and planned to head for the southern boarder to cross into Costa Rica.
25/11/08
After a day looking round the North West town of Liberia, Costa Rica, I booked to go on a jungle trek in Rincon national park which boasts one of the most varied eco systems in the country. A small group of us were dropped at a meeting point and were told we'd be picked up in 8 hours. As each of us had a map I decided to go off alone to find the biggest waterfall in the area. The trek took me through varying terrain, from dense jungle, to open grassy plane. White faced monkeys swung from the trees and mongoose like animals (that might have been mongooses) ran across my path. On reaching the 80ft waterfall that fiercely cascaded into a turquoise blue plunge pool, I decided the only thing to do was to go for a refreshing skinny-dip. I can tell you now it was more refreshing than flipping over the pillow to the cold side on a Sunday morning. After trekking some more and seeing mud-bubbling, volcanic gazers, the driver fulfilled his promise of picking us up.
28/11/08
I caught the bus to Panama which felt like an escape from the Costa Rican capital, San Jose where I had the misfortune of spending a night and can safely say is the armpit of the Earth. I'd arranged to stay with another couch surfer, 'Benny' (Who I called 'Pueblo' for the first 5 hours, until realising this was the first line of his address!). Benny told me he was a bird watcher. Now I don't usually prescribe to stereotypes but Benny, a 200lb black guy with braided hair and a healthy appetite for loud, basey ragga music didn't quite fit with my idea of your average bird watcher. So the next day I agreed to join Benny and some bird watching buddies for my first taste of the niche pastime. We went deep into the jungles north of the city that run parallel with the Panama canal. With a pair of binoculars and an army of trained eyes and ears at my aid, I was able experience wildlife I'd have never known was there. Sloths draped over branches, monkeys passing overhead and rivers of leaf cutter ants were just some of the things that accompanied the many colourfully exotic birds I saw that day.
03/12/08
After realising the only job opportunities in Panama seemed to be in the city and the weight of South America pulling me towards it like a tug of war team, I decided to book a flight to Lima, Peru.
Preferring the local bus to the far more expensive taxi option, I headed for the airport. The driver saw I was more weighed down by bags than a single Mum after her monthly shop for her family of 5 but I still let him know I was stopping at the airport. With no road signs and no sign of an airport, I waited. After a couple of hours the drivers eyes widened and the bus screeched to the side of the road. Telling me we'd passed the airport, he let me off on a long stretch of open road. Luckily as fears of being stranded started to manifest, so did the earlier avoided taxi option. After the flurry of checking in I boarded just in time for my plane food to turn cold.
04/12/08
I spent a day in Lima then jumped on a 24 hour bus to Cuzco (the oldest city in South America and once capital of the Inca empire). I was sat next to the only other English person on the bus, Nick. As the bus company attempted to easy away the 24 hours with bus bingo (the prize being another bus journey!) and a DVD of Pavarotti and friends, we talked about the must-do trek to the lost city of the Incas Machu Picchu.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
11/11/08
I'm currently staying in Guatemala's old capital Antigua, under an hour from the country's current, pollution stained, charmless, Mcdonalds laden capital, Guatemala city. I've decided to take another much needed Spanish course, giving me time to send further applications to various countries as the time where I'll have to face reality and start work draws ever closer.
My last days in Oaxaca, celebrating the 'day (three days) of the dead' were a blast. After partaking in some Mexican traditions like listening to music in the cemeteries and some traditions closer to home like dancing badly to music whilst boozing, Felix and I got the opportunity to experience what very few other tourists would. One of his Mexican work colleagues lives in the remote town of Mazultapec, in the middle of the Oaxacan sticks. She invited us and another friend, Fiona to join her families/towns shindig.
A big brass band started it off in a back garden, all dressed as various monsters or clowns playing at a frantic pace whilst a raucous crowd, equally dress up, jumped around in mezcal fulled merriment. A stern looking Mexican, dressed in full cowboy suit moved in and out the crowd handing out beers and tequila. As soon as the band played what we learned to be the 'leaving tune', the crowd poured out the garden like beer from a upturned bottle, spilling into the street. From this the party turned into a procession that swaggered around the streets until choosing another garden to crash. This continued in twenty minute cycles, broken only when the procession came face to face with a rival procession on the street whereupon the bands would have a play-off, the most frantic claimed the win and continued off into the night. The lack of electric street lighting added to the strangeness along with adding a dense ceiling of stars. We soon noticed we were truly the only white people there and that this wasn't being done as a tourist attraction. We in fact were the novelty and were dragged in to dance or be ridiculed by the clowns.
I said my goodbyes on the Tuesday and slunk off into the night to catch the overnight bus to San Cristolbal for one night then on to catch a series of buses to Guatemala. I was welcomed to Guatemala by the border town of Le Mesilla which is one long, narrow road of market stools where anything (including cheep kitchen sinks) could be bought. Sellers were swarming on all sides of the rocking buss, giving the impression we were being passed along the street like crowd surfing our way to the exit.
Speaking of surfing, I'd decided to look into 'couch surfing', a website where people advertise there couch for people to stay on for a night or two and supposedly meet interesting travelers in exchange. After getting a few replies, I opted for an English teacher in Guatemala city named Harold as he offered a spare bed and room and the idea of waking up, having slipped down the back of someones sofa and playing guess the long lost objects didn't appeal. I did however decide to take up an offer of being shown the city on a Friday night by another CS, Chrissy as she'd lived there for three years.
Harold lives in a private road, with a shotgun wheeling guard at the end who scrutinises anyone who passes. Harold had to leave for a couple of hours, locking the 10ft iron gate behind him. Leaving me needing to contact Chrissy by the number she'd given me. This meant having to scale the gate and finding a pay-phone in a strange city at night. The iron gate clunked and creaked as I started to climb and I felt the eyes of the guard (shotgun in hand) burn into me. I hurriedly walked past with a plastered smile and gave a 'buenas noches', through a breaking voice. Found a nearby phone, made the arrangement then had to repeat the whole saga again, gate shaking back and fourth as I wobbled on top. I can only assume I was saved by my pasty gringo skin.
The next day Harold, his girlfriend (another Steffane) and I climbed Pacaya (an active volcano, an hour from the city). Guides were only taking people half way up due there being recent activity around the crater. Looking at it from a the safe altitude difference of 2,552m, it seemed fairly at peace with it's surroundings so we decided to take a closer peek at the peak.
Walking up the top section, a steep, charcoal black lava graveyard was the closest I'd felt to being on a different planet. The surface is brittle and razor sharp like dried sea corral and through it's lifeless features and twisting cracks, warm air rises, turning to mist as it meets the cool surface air. Approaching the crater I heard blasts of hot air firing to the sky and once reached, the blasts could be felt, shaking the ground and punching the air. Peeking over the edge inbetween blasts I saw the fiery glow of what lay beneath. I don't wear rings but if I did, the urge to throw one in, whilst reenacting a scene from Lord of the rings would have been too strong to resist.
Getting down was trickier then getting up and I spent most of the time sliding (both in and out of control) down the steep scree. The last hour back to the car was done in the dark and suddenly fire flies became visible, ambling across our path with their intermittent glow.
Antigua is a fascinating place. It's survived countless earthquakes over the years which has left most of the oldest buildings and churches half collapsed and are untouched for people to walk and climb around. Not only is the earthquake threat ongoing, it is surrounded by three Volcanos that are constantly viable for the colonial streets.
15/11/08
I experienced my first earthquake the other day (I say earthquake but it was more of a light tremor). I happened at school. As my teacher, an oldish woman around 5ft nothing simply held her tea cup steady, she had to convince me to release my white knuckled grip on the desk some minuets after it had passed.
It's a relatively small place and I managed to bump into a guy I met on the bus down a few times who also turns out to live in Oaxaca. Over a drink he told me he was a musician who made 'lounge music', he said he was traveling down to Machu Pcchu to record the ambient sounds of the air there. What he'll probably get is the sound of a tourist bus pulling up and the yells of a man selling 'authentic' Machu Pcchu peanuts but I didn't have the heart to tell him.
As my time here probably comes to a close, I'm wondering what to make my next stop which could be Nicaragua, El Salvador or Costa Rica but right now I just don't know.
I'm currently staying in Guatemala's old capital Antigua, under an hour from the country's current, pollution stained, charmless, Mcdonalds laden capital, Guatemala city. I've decided to take another much needed Spanish course, giving me time to send further applications to various countries as the time where I'll have to face reality and start work draws ever closer.
My last days in Oaxaca, celebrating the 'day (three days) of the dead' were a blast. After partaking in some Mexican traditions like listening to music in the cemeteries and some traditions closer to home like dancing badly to music whilst boozing, Felix and I got the opportunity to experience what very few other tourists would. One of his Mexican work colleagues lives in the remote town of Mazultapec, in the middle of the Oaxacan sticks. She invited us and another friend, Fiona to join her families/towns shindig.
A big brass band started it off in a back garden, all dressed as various monsters or clowns playing at a frantic pace whilst a raucous crowd, equally dress up, jumped around in mezcal fulled merriment. A stern looking Mexican, dressed in full cowboy suit moved in and out the crowd handing out beers and tequila. As soon as the band played what we learned to be the 'leaving tune', the crowd poured out the garden like beer from a upturned bottle, spilling into the street. From this the party turned into a procession that swaggered around the streets until choosing another garden to crash. This continued in twenty minute cycles, broken only when the procession came face to face with a rival procession on the street whereupon the bands would have a play-off, the most frantic claimed the win and continued off into the night. The lack of electric street lighting added to the strangeness along with adding a dense ceiling of stars. We soon noticed we were truly the only white people there and that this wasn't being done as a tourist attraction. We in fact were the novelty and were dragged in to dance or be ridiculed by the clowns.
I said my goodbyes on the Tuesday and slunk off into the night to catch the overnight bus to San Cristolbal for one night then on to catch a series of buses to Guatemala. I was welcomed to Guatemala by the border town of Le Mesilla which is one long, narrow road of market stools where anything (including cheep kitchen sinks) could be bought. Sellers were swarming on all sides of the rocking buss, giving the impression we were being passed along the street like crowd surfing our way to the exit.
Speaking of surfing, I'd decided to look into 'couch surfing', a website where people advertise there couch for people to stay on for a night or two and supposedly meet interesting travelers in exchange. After getting a few replies, I opted for an English teacher in Guatemala city named Harold as he offered a spare bed and room and the idea of waking up, having slipped down the back of someones sofa and playing guess the long lost objects didn't appeal. I did however decide to take up an offer of being shown the city on a Friday night by another CS, Chrissy as she'd lived there for three years.
Harold lives in a private road, with a shotgun wheeling guard at the end who scrutinises anyone who passes. Harold had to leave for a couple of hours, locking the 10ft iron gate behind him. Leaving me needing to contact Chrissy by the number she'd given me. This meant having to scale the gate and finding a pay-phone in a strange city at night. The iron gate clunked and creaked as I started to climb and I felt the eyes of the guard (shotgun in hand) burn into me. I hurriedly walked past with a plastered smile and gave a 'buenas noches', through a breaking voice. Found a nearby phone, made the arrangement then had to repeat the whole saga again, gate shaking back and fourth as I wobbled on top. I can only assume I was saved by my pasty gringo skin.
The next day Harold, his girlfriend (another Steffane) and I climbed Pacaya (an active volcano, an hour from the city). Guides were only taking people half way up due there being recent activity around the crater. Looking at it from a the safe altitude difference of 2,552m, it seemed fairly at peace with it's surroundings so we decided to take a closer peek at the peak.
Walking up the top section, a steep, charcoal black lava graveyard was the closest I'd felt to being on a different planet. The surface is brittle and razor sharp like dried sea corral and through it's lifeless features and twisting cracks, warm air rises, turning to mist as it meets the cool surface air. Approaching the crater I heard blasts of hot air firing to the sky and once reached, the blasts could be felt, shaking the ground and punching the air. Peeking over the edge inbetween blasts I saw the fiery glow of what lay beneath. I don't wear rings but if I did, the urge to throw one in, whilst reenacting a scene from Lord of the rings would have been too strong to resist.
Getting down was trickier then getting up and I spent most of the time sliding (both in and out of control) down the steep scree. The last hour back to the car was done in the dark and suddenly fire flies became visible, ambling across our path with their intermittent glow.
Antigua is a fascinating place. It's survived countless earthquakes over the years which has left most of the oldest buildings and churches half collapsed and are untouched for people to walk and climb around. Not only is the earthquake threat ongoing, it is surrounded by three Volcanos that are constantly viable for the colonial streets.
15/11/08
I experienced my first earthquake the other day (I say earthquake but it was more of a light tremor). I happened at school. As my teacher, an oldish woman around 5ft nothing simply held her tea cup steady, she had to convince me to release my white knuckled grip on the desk some minuets after it had passed.
It's a relatively small place and I managed to bump into a guy I met on the bus down a few times who also turns out to live in Oaxaca. Over a drink he told me he was a musician who made 'lounge music', he said he was traveling down to Machu Pcchu to record the ambient sounds of the air there. What he'll probably get is the sound of a tourist bus pulling up and the yells of a man selling 'authentic' Machu Pcchu peanuts but I didn't have the heart to tell him.
As my time here probably comes to a close, I'm wondering what to make my next stop which could be Nicaragua, El Salvador or Costa Rica but right now I just don't know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)