Loose End In LatAm

Haircuts, hangovers and a dictator checking out.

Before I left the lake district I took the opportunity to get probably the worst haircut I have ever had, (somehow the sides were left long and the top short giving a strangely tonsured effect), by someone I'm not entirely convinced had ever cut hair before, and was probably just minding the place... any way all was rectified when I reached Valparaiso. The guy had certainly cut hair before, just always for the navy, but that's what you get if you go to a barber just next to the port I guess. It's a pity Carrie and I didn't manage to meet up in this part of the trip as hoped, as doubtless she would have a suitably pitiless comment.

Any way, after 11 months of getting up and either "doing" something or moving on every day I have reached saturation point, so I abandoned all plans to do anything more than move up the coast and shuttle between a couple of my favourite cities: Valparaiso and Santiago in Chile and beautiful Mendoza over the Andes.

Mendoza is just a place I find it all to easy to do absolutely nothing and consequently have nothing much to report other than I have been feeding myself on fat steaks, guzzling the local plonk, and throwing sticks for Astor, the dog in the hostel.

Valparaiso on the other hand always has something to keep me busy. Mainly it's just wandering around and seeing something new every day. There is so much public art to see (both official and unauthorised), and fantastic views over the port - it's very easy to spend time watching the port life while sipping a pisco sour. And there's always a dilapidated asensor (funicular cable car thing, that are all over the city) to trundle up a hill on, or an ancient trolley bus to ride - the trolley buses are all different having been acquired from various places in Germany and Switzerland, and one or two still have the original destinations on the front.

However, I think Valparaiso must be utterly different from any other town in the world. It may be dirty and smelly but it has so much character, not in the least by the packs of dogs that run around the place, or the gangs of sea-lions I watched sink a small boat in the harbour. And it has a particularly high number of bars you would never go into, which appear to have been named and decorated in the 70's, including the International Pink Flamingo Bar and, my favourite, Club Kenny's Disco Bar. The latter I think would make a fabulous title for some novel or concept album, but I've decide that it would be best as some sort of art-house documentary film, in which show business celebs from the 70's are filmed drying and dying in front of pitifully small, non-plussed audiences, followed by interviews of their reactions and reminiscences, spilling the beans on the heady life of being an "all round entertainer".
Interviewer: "So Brucie, not a great night. Have a drink mate"
Brucie: "Thanks, I need it after that."
Interviewer: "Well, it must happen once in a while. After all it's not the first time you been up staged, is it? Top up?"
Brucie: "W-wadaya mean?"
Interviewer: "Have another gin, and tell me in your own words, what was it like to see a camp twat like Larry Graceson beat you in the ratings on the Generation Game."
Brucie: "Sickening. What more can I say? Somehow it would have been different if it was one of my old muckers, like Tarby or Kenny [Lynch]. Or even Bobby [Monkhouse], despite the fake tan and a reputation for a back hander. But Larry... he was always...different."

...I really have got too much time on my hands.


Valparaiso is also where the Chilean Congress sits, in a building Pinochet erected on the site of one of his childhood homes...only fitting then that when the bugger died someone burnt his effigy on its steps. I'll admit, as I wandered through town on my last day in the city, I thought the noise was all about a home win for the local team, but when I saw the hammer and sickle flags out I realised what must be going on. Within a very short time the main street had been closed to traffic and a march progressed up and down it, with flags and banners, and many pictures of people with the caption "Donde Estan" (where are they?). Pinochet was responsible for the disappearance and deaths of 3000, and the torture of a further 30,000, of his own countrymen, and of course was never punished, (so nice then, that our own ex-Prime Minister Thatcher is "greatly saddened" by his death). In Santiago crowds were dispersed with tear gas, but in Valparaiso it appeared the officers and sailors were confined to their ships, and a with light police presence, the demonstrations passed off peacefully.


But now I've really only got just a few more days to wander back and forth for between the plains and the coast, and frankly doing very little...except having the odd drink here or there.

Goodbye Bolita...

If you read my entry on Parque Ambue Ari, (June), you may remember Bolita, the baby Giant Anteater, for whom I built a house, while Norwegian Chris nursed her. I have just heard that Bolita has died. I find it desperately sad that such a wonderful creature that showed so much personality and potential has been lost.

In the intervening months, between leaving the park and this news, both Chris and I had many email exchanges with the Inti Wara Yassi representative in London. We objectively expressed concerns over the issues we had found at the park, but ultimately we wanted to let IWY know that we were concerned that the park did not have the right facilities or skills to offer the best care for Bolita. We sent information, hard copies direct to the park, and in English and Spanish via the representative in London, electronically. It all seems to have been for nought.

My first reaction was to tell people not to support this organisation, but in reality this will only mean the animals suffer. Unfortunately I would not be at all surprised if this organisation stutters and fails at some point, with ultimately the animals being the victims any way. However should you decide to volunteer at either of the IWY parks I hope you have a positive experience and help the animals you work with. If you ever have any suggestions to make don't make the mistake I made of going through the representative in London, not very helpful, and ultimately utterly futile.

Being Prepared

When I was about 9 or 10 years old I turned up at the church hall one evening to be told my presence was no longer required at Cub Scouts. The official reason was that I had failed to show up for the previous 8 weeks and therefore hadn't obtained my Bronze Award - tie a reef knot, make a cup of tea that sort of stuff... However in reality I actually think it was more to do with the reason that I had absented myself for those 8 weeks: that is, I had encourage the other members of my 6 (although there were only 4 of us) plus a few others to abscond from a ramble across Hampstead Heath... Anyway, scouting, trekking and camping have hardly been something I've been particularly interested in since. However for some reason I decided to make a 5 day trek through chilly Chilean Torres Del Paine National Park.

You will not be surprised that I was fully prepared for this trek through the wintry wilderness. My list of equipment included the following:

• One whistle, donated by Norwegian Chris, for drawing attention to myself in case of emergency. However it doesn't have a pea and sounded more like an asthmatic mouse than a whistle.
• One compass, a present from Karen and Alex, unfortunately it got cracked at some point in Colombia, and therefore had the unique feature of placing North wherever you think it might be really.
• One Swiss Army Knife, slightly inhibited by a superglue accident preventing full (well, any) blade usage...but you ought to have one, right?
• One length of parachute chord, donated by Matt Belcher, that has proved its usefulness time and again. However with a Swiss Army Knife rendered useless by the superglue accident, it was of fixed length. My advice, don't ever bother trying to gnaw through parachute chord.
• One pair of glasses, although they were blown off my face (did I mention it was a bit windy there) on my second to last day, never to be found again.
• One sleeping bag, of which I was convinced was suitable for temperatures as low as minus 6 degrees, until I read the bit that said "From + 7 to - 6 : RISK"
• One tent, rented, the down side of the luxurious space of a two man tent with just one of you in it is that the lack of second body actually makes the whole thing colder...
• 4 days worth of packet soup, dried noodles, dried sauces, dried potatoes, dried bloody everything... it was actually this aspect, the relentless aspartame and mono-sodium glutamate gruel that was the only real down side of the trip.
• And of course, one roll gaffer tape...once again a saviour. Every home should have it!

Despite having a bit of stinking cold all the way round, the whole thing was fantastic. Great weather and good company (including Kylie who made friends with all the park rangers, so got us cooking privileges - and therefore warmth - in their shacks where there was no kind of refugio) and utterly stunning scenes.

Generally the whole thing is one of those spectacular sights that defy description. All I know is I've earned my trekking badge so that'll be that for a while.

If you are heading for this part of the world, even if you don't stay at either of the Erratic Rock Hostels, in Puerto Nateles, go to their briefings (3pm every day), it's open to anyone who shows up. Shed loads of really useful info all worth taking note of, from people who, despite having hostel, hire and guide services, don't get pushy with them at all. They simply seem genuinely interested in helping budget travellers get the most of a visit to Torres Del Paine. Just be aware, if you get Bill started on how the park should attract the "right" kind of visitor you'll be there for hours...


Fjords and Ice Bergs

From Puerto Natales Mike, my trek companion, and I headed up north on the Navimag ferry, passing more incredible landscapes. And drinking quite a bit, especially at the last night's Bingo Fiesta!!! This is Mike helping some college girls with their homework. Are you surprised he couldn't find his glasses in the morning?

When I got back to Puerto Montt I was able to capture on film something I spotted last time I was here, and as a few people I have told thought it was just talking rubbish as usual, here is the proof: Some enterprising young fella attempts to beat the "Nuts-4-Nuts" company, and go one better.


Collective noun of the month:

A puddle of Old Aged Pensioners


Now I'm back in the Chilean Lake District and seriously considering doing nothing for the next few weeks until I fly home...

On the way back and forth to El Chalten our cowboy-hat-wearing bus driver played country and western music and looked as if he'd be all the more happier with a big truck, with an air-horn, (although he did have a CB radio), rather than driving a bus load of gringos around. Having now listened to a huge chunk of non-stop C&W songs I have come to the conclusion that the lyrics can be split into just a few topics, which are solely dependant on speed and gender. It needs a bit of work, but so far my hypothesis is panning out like this:
Slow songs are sad. If sung by a man they are about how he got drunk and left his woman, or his woman left him because he was a drunk. If sung by a woman they are about how her man got drunk and left her, or about being a single mom, (although these generally end with her meeting a real good man, but by the next track he's got drunk and left her). Fast songs are happy. If sung by either sex, and they are about a girl dancing or a pick up truck, or a girl dancing in the back of a pick up truck. I imagine very few Country lyrics are about having a fulfilling life being black and/or gay.


Tomorrow I head for what will probably be my last border crossing of this trip, until I return home, to the snowy wastes of Chilean Patagonia...brrrr. So tonight, Bryan and Gillian, (my glacier trekking pals) and I, will head out so I can say farewell to Argentina with a huge plate of meat...mmmm.

New Friends, Old Friends


My last stop in Peru, before heading into the north of Chile, was Arequipa, one of the more beautiful cities in Peru, which was in the throws of a religious festival, like most of Peru, but included a Mr South America show...lots of guys with make up and tight t-shirts preening themselves on a make shift stage in the main square - really can't say what the supposed relevance was. From here I embarked on a trek to the Colca Canyon. Apparently, although this is occasionally disputed, it was recently verified as the world's deepest canyon. All I know is I had very achy legs afterwards. The canyon is also famed for its condors which occasionally swoop down and pluck tourists from the miradors...OK that bit's a lie, but there are a lot of condors. The accompanying photo is a reconstruction of a real event, no birds were hurt during the making of this picture.

I have been extremely fortunate on all the tours and treks I've taken part in on my trip to have had some of the most excellent companions. This trip was no exception, consisting of a gang of Dutch people, that once again proved to me that the Dutch are amongst the nicest people you could hope to meet; an Australian armed with more film trivia than any one person should have a license to carry; a couple of cool Americans with eco-credentials you don't mess with; two very lovely Brits, Laura, who became my drinking buddy, while we left her friend, Belinda, to languish in bed with altitude sickness; and Ralph Wiggum, from the Simpsons.

OK, that's probably desperately cruel and unnecessary, but here's the quiz:
Which one is responsible for which statement, Ralph or my canyon companion?
1) And, when the doctor said I didn't have worms any more, that was the happiest day of my life.
2) Maybe you've got amoebas. I got amoebas once. Sometimes I still have them.

Once we had descended and ascended the canyon over a couple of days, (spending the night in an isolated village where I asked useless questions like "what do you make out of the furs of the guinea pigs you eat?" and sampled snake juice - a bit like meaty vodka), we stayed in another little village in the arse end of nowhere. While everyone else took themselves to bed with fatigue or altitude sickness, Laura and I found a great little bar, where we could put the world to rights whilst letting one of the Paccha Mama's greatest gifts numb our achy limbs. The bar had mud brick walls, candles for lighting, a fire and of course beer. But, it wouldn't have been out of place in North London's more fashionable night spots, and it's given me the inspiration for a fabulous scheme for my return...

All I need is venture capitalist with more money than sense (think that's a possible definition any way), and the world can be ready for "Adobe"...hear me out. A bar restaurant specialising in beers, wines, cocktails and food from all over South America. In the morning we can open up as a juice bar and serve various breakfasts, from stale bread and gluey jam (a bit of a staple in the North) to fried fish and yucca for those with an appetite; lunch will be the classic "almuerzo", a set menu of soup, main course, pud and juice, dependent on the previous nights left overs to afford a budget price; dinner has a wider menu to suit either the adventurous or or more pedestrian tastes. Set it up in a painfully trendy area and even non-meal times will do a rip roaring trade with music execs and advertising creative teams pretentiously sharing mate or a pot of coca tea, whilst musing over how they will exploit their next unsuspecting target market. I can only see a couple of supply issues standing in the way: HM Customs may not run with the coca imports, but I reckon I could get away with substituting bay-leaves in Lemsip, and the animal rights may not go a bundle on me farming guinea pigs for the pot, but if you cut the feet, wings and head off poussin and run them through a mangle the punters will get a better tasting meal and wont know the difference. As long as I make sure the fruitarian-macrobiotic-wheat-intolerant-vegetarians are covered off with a few options, I think it's got legs... Who's in??

We celebrated our return to Arequipa with dinner and drinks, enough so that I managed to get lumbered with giving my Aretha (Say A Little Prayer) to a thankfully all but empty karaoke bar. Once again Laura and I found ourselves the only participants with any back bone and finished the night with a line of pisco sours, leaving in the wee small hours with loose plans to meet in Santiago at some point in December. And I hope we do, as without a doubt Laura is up there with Matt, Tone and Poe, Carrie and Katharina (star billing reserved for Norwegian Chris, obviously) at the top of a list of the very many fabulous people I have met as I have been trundling round this bit of the world.

Speaking of Katharina, one of a triumvirate of Swiss guys that NC and I crossed the Salar with and met up with throughout Bolivia - which helped me to concluded that the Swiss are also amongst the nicest people in the world you could hope to meet - she put me up for the night in Santiago, where I sought refuge from a very cloudy north Chile. I'm sure you wont be surprised to know that pisco sours featured heavily in the evening. Santiago was the first city I rolled up in on this trip and a place I love, although I think I've realised why many people don't like it all that much. It's modern - if you arrive from else where in LatAm it must just feel very European, and if you make it your first stop it just doesn't feel like what you might feel South America should do: very little in the way of historical buildings, not a gaucho to be seen, no jungle, no blokes with blow-pipes etc. I had also forgotten how impenetrable the accent here is. Katharina says they swallow their words, but they wolf them down, biting off the ends, and peppering their language with a vocabulary all their own.

I then crossed over the Andes to another of my favourite cities Mendoza to wander around in the sunshine for a couple of days, before heading for the chilly southern spring. I left with perfect timing, as the heavens opened and must have delivered more than the average 200mm of annual rainfall Mendoza receives each year, filling the ancient canal-like drains and flooding the town's roads.

If you're planning on visiting Mendoza, stay at the Lao Hostal, (Rioja 771). Started by Mike and Celeste (a Anglo-Argentine couple), a year ago, it's got a great location between bus station, micro-centre and nightlife, clean, with chilled areas if that's what you crave, not to mention great communal areas including a mini swimming pool, and an attention seeking dog. And they can help arrange tours and all that sort of stuff, as well as occasionally throwing booze on the table and stakes on the BBQ, for a small contribution to the collective. The best place I've stayed in Mendoza...and I've stayed in a few.

Right now I find myself in waiting for a connecting bus in a non-descript town of Cipolletti, not far from Neuquen. Around the town the flat landscape stretches out for miles and the water-foul are flying in huge flocks south, and sometimes you have pinch yourself to remember just where you are. But this place seems like the sort of town most teenagers would hope to escape as soon as possible, hence the bus station is plastered with posters asking for information about a 16 year old girl who has gone missing. I just hope for her sake she's safe, working behind a bar or cleaning rooms in Bariloche or Buenos Aires, and not in a hole in the ground or enslaved, in one way or another, like too many other children find themselves in South America.

Vegetable rights and peace, OK.

How much time can one man spend on a bus..?

I decided to zip straight through Ecuador and head straight for Peru, only I did it the long way round. After flying out of Cali to Tulcan, and getting x-rayed to see if I was a drugs mule into the deal (they asked me if I'd swallowed any coins lately before I signed the consent form???) - I took a bus to Quito, changed onto an overnight bus to Loja, and then got a bus to a little place called Zumba, a garrison town with only very nasty hotels. The next day I journeyed across the border to Chachapoyas in Peru - this meant travelling in 3 collectivos, 1 minivan, 1 flatbed truck and 2 moto-taxis, all so I could visit the ruins at Kuelap.

To some extent, Norwegian Chris and I sped through Peru the first time, so I'm now mopping up some of the places I missed, now that I'm on my way back down. This includes 4 places of archaeological interest, all billed, as most of the sites I've visited are, as the most important in South America.

Kuelap is a stunning hill top fortress, once home to Inca-hating folk who then fell foul of their supposed conquistador alies, and so there is little other trace of them. It's huge undulating walls enclose numerous circular buildings, not totally unlike those in Colombia's Lost City. Again, like most in South America, the site is as yet mostly un-excavated, however, unlike most there is good preservation and reconstruction work underway.

From Kuelap I moved down to Chiclayo, to visit the Sipán. The huacas, (pyramids) having been built of adobe millennia ago, are fairly shabby, and I didn't think they were as impressive as those of Chan Chan and Sol y Luna, down the road in Trujillo. However the treasures uncovered in the burial grounds are spectacular, (beating the pants off European found grave goods, like Sutton Hoo), and probably worth visiting the museums for than the pyramids themselves. There isn't much to the town of Chiclayo itself, but it does have a great and extensive market, where you can buy all the usual foods and goods, including great fish and black maize, but also curative potions, huge lumps of charcoal from a choice of 50 vendors, and where I almost got abducted by some stall holders attempting to sell me a belt I really didn't want.

The next set of buses, including one that took 8 hours instead of the normal 3, due to break downs and closed roads, at 4000 meters above sea level, (personally I felt sorriest for the chickens stuck on the top all that time), finally got me to Chavin. At first sight the ruins don't seem like all that much: a set of dilapidated ramparts surrounding a sunken central plaza, but within the ramparts are a series of labyrinthine tunnels, one of which leads to El Lanzon, a knife shaped obelisk. Several intricate carvings of gods, men and monsters survive. On the bus back to Huaraz I kept thinking we were passing a lot of sheep until I realised the bleating was coming from one we were carrying in the boot.

From Huaraz, I bussed, via a connection in Lima all the way down to a little oasis town, Huacachina, near Ica to rest up for a night, take in a dune buggy ride and some rather unsatisfying sand-boarding (it just ain't the same as snow: not much speed and little manoeuvrability by comparison), before heading down to Nazca, and its famous lines.

Nazca is another lesson in not listening to the dissenters. I've just heard too much "don't know what all the fuss is about" from fellow travellers I've encountered on my journey. I suppose it's not going to be everyones' cup of tea, but then it's no more or less than advertised either. Etched by the drought besieged Nazcans having abandoned their temples to appeal directly to their gods for rain, spectacularly straight lines and stretch out across the desert plain bisecting shamanic inspired geomorphic figures, (or if you listen to some, they're landing sites for space ships - yeah, right).

The Nazca Lines, like Easter Island and Machu Picchu are places I've wanted to visit since I was a child, are another highlight of my trip. But they are also the last of the major Archaeological sites I shall visit, as I will now head back along the Pan American, into Chile heading yet further south.

Meanwhile, I've also found a candidate for the most un-PC sweet wrapper award. Dona Pepa is a chocolate biscuit bar made by Kraft subsidery Lacta:


...oh, and on the "musical differences" front, I finally got Wang Chunged in the taxi this morning, and currently a Flock of Seaguls are on the radio...