The week's adventures have been dominated by a tour of the Salar de Uyuni - a huge Bolivian salt flat in the south, near the Chilean border. Expansive and white, the Salar is a pretty surreal place to spend time. The sun reflects off the surface, making the air above shimmer and the cacti-covered mountains look as though they're floating on nothing. Yep, very beautiful - a bit hallucinogenic and altogether very cool. Many a photograph taken using the weird perspective that comes with the vast white plains. "Okay Woody you stand there and I'll make it look like I'm jumping off your head". The place is over run by tourists and the convoy of jeeps that take them from site to site, and everyone is doing pretty much the same thing. We're no different. We were part of the convoy that enjoys and destroys these natural phenomena simultaneously. It's a strange feeling, resenting the abundance of tourists but being totally hypocritcal because we're there, so we're part of the dirty tourist machine. The salt flats would be almost impossible to see on our own, and the tour companies have no control over what their drivers are doing. They cane it over the hills, scarring the landscape and dumping litter and waste where they like. We stopped once at a lookout to a volcano. The orange rock formations were incredible, like huge waves - maybe something to do with the wind. It was an amazing looking place, especially with the salt-capped volcano smoking in the background. But it looked like everyone who had passed through there had used it as a toilet - as our driver, Gavino, had also encouraged us to do. The place was pure reekin' o' pish, and there was used toilet roll blowing around like filthy streamers. Maybe most tourists don't question it - "driver says I should pee here, so i should prob'ly just pee here then". That said, we were amazed by the sweeping scenery of the tour - flamingo filled lagunas, sand dunes straight from the Sahara and the expanse of empty land as far as the eye could see was mind blowing. Well worth it.... in the end.
Gavino, as it turns out, was a bit of a moron. On the first day we didn't get why he kept rushing us on from place to place. "Ok, five or seven minutes here, take a photograph and we go". All became clear and the real adventure began on the second day. We think our jeep had been a bit dodgy on the first day, and the next it broke down between one laguna and another in the middle of the desert. "Yeah Gavino, just rev the engine - that'll fix everything..." The toothless wonder managed to limp the jeep on to our second destination, but sadly it died after four hours of evening maintenance. By 'maintenance' I mean that Gavino would rev the engine, turn it off, count to three, turn it on, rev the engine, repeat until fade. We were outside. The lack of streetlights and the empty land surrounding us made the sky so clear. We could see a million stars and I think some satellites floating past - and one shooting star. Gavino stuck his silly little head around the corner, admitting that the jeep was dead. The battery warning light had been on all day, no power for going up hills, and now we were stranded.
...and it was here that Gavino concocted his masterplan, a fullproof scheme, a work of genius that used the full capacity of his three braincells. Separate our group of six and put us in six separate jeeps to our destinations - me and Woody to Chile, and the rest back up to the town of Uyuni. Brilliant. "Gavino, just when I thought you couldn't be any dumber, you go and do something like this...........and totally redeem yourself!" But Gavino didn't redeem himself. Completely forgetting that we'd paid a not-inconsiderable amount of money to do the tour together and that we still had one more day to go, he was treating us like inconvenient cargo and he was being a dick. We explained to him that we couldn't be separated - we had no extra Bolivian cash, no idea where we were going, no trust in our driver, and no way of getting back in contact with each other if something happened (like a breakdown - prob'ly never happen). Smart and quick thinking as ever, Gavino twiddled his moustache and surpassed himself with a display of intelligence only seen once before when Judith Keppel won 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire'. We would be taking the jeep that doesn't work, driving to some unknown crossroad at four in the morning, meeting a jeep that doesn't know we're meeting it, collecting an engine piece that may or may not exist, finishing the tour and making it to San Pedro de Atacama just in time for tea. Again, brilliant.
So, with no other options we awoke at four to try out Gavino's Super Duper Flawless Mega Plan. No sign of Gavino. Asleep in the jeep...
"Oh, yes, you can go in separate jeeps to Chile, and..."
"No, no, Gavino - remember we told you we can't do that for reasons of safety? Remember last night when the jeep wouldn't start and you told us to separate and we told you we couldn't. Remember?"
"Oh, Ok, I'll take you to the crossroads."
We hadn't been on the move for two minutes when he stopped in the middle of the road and flagged down two other jeeps...
"Oh, yes, you can go in separate jeeps to Chile, and..."
"No, no, Gavino - remember two minutes ago when we told you we couldn't separate? That still holds true. You may think that since it was a whole two minutes ago, and being further out in the desert in the pitch black middle of the night that we'd be more likely to separate, but actually the opposite is true. Isn't that weird? We're just strange like that..."
That's difficult to say in Spanish. Three hours later "Ok, I'll take you to the crossroads". Gavino spun his web of lies, saying this and that and basically he was too scared to call the company and ask for help. That would be the company's fault. Obviously they should support their drivers, not make them fearful, but Gavino did so much lying and misdirection that the sympathy we felt for him initially, evaporated. We were waiting on the shore of Laguna Colorada. As places to be frustrated and annoyed go, it must be one of the greatest. All the volcanic minerals in the earth have turned the water a rusty red colour and it was a beautiful place to wait. We found a lot of dead flamingos, and one flamingo egg. And our jeep never turned up. In fact no jeeps turned up. Oh, fucking quel surprise Gavino! Back at the ranch, Gavino did the smartest thing he'd done in the whole trip. He abandoned us all. He just left. There we are, stranded in a four house village in the middle of the desert, no food, no nothing. To this day we have no idea what happened to our driver. We had no explanation. We keep expecting him to turn up driving one of our buses, a toothless smile and an evil laugh as he drives off a cliff side. Prob'ly never happen.
The tiny village had no telephone, but it did have a radio - like a trucker's radio "ten-four rubber ducky over and out" kind of radio. It was located in a deserted hospital building above the village. Very much like a horror film we trooped up the hill, unlocked the door and went in to the silent building. It looks like it was abandoned in the eighties, but spookily it had the only running water in the village. The beds were pristine, the toilets flushed, and there was some food in the kitchen, but nobody was there. We found some shipping documents from 1986, some prescriptions, a cabinet full of drugs, a laboratory, loads of rock samples from the lake, and a machine that Blofeld could very well use to blow up the world. Dead strange, but we also found the radio. One of the villagers hooked it up to a car battery and started to try and reach Uyuni. It appears that you do this by shouting "Uyuni Uyuni Uyuni" into the microphone until someone in Uyuni picks up. Then you tell them to run down to the tour company and get them to send another jeep because there are four flippin' gringos in the village and they won't stop playing 'Yahtzy'...
Luckily we had some great company while we waited an extra night and a day for our transport. Dutch Luna and Swedish Johan were hilarious and two very good people to waste time with. Thrown together by Gavino and his special brain, we had good fun sneaking around the secret hospital and throwing stones at flamingos (to make them fly - they're so boring when they just stand still. But flamingos - amazing). And playing 'Yahtzy'. Johan - "I'ma gonna be a good player - I'ma gonna getta 'Yahtzy!'"
By hook and by crook we made it to San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, only to find out that this desert oasis is the most expensive place we've been. Chileans seem like lovely people, but Miami prices for a hostel - so we took a nightbus south to Santiago, another south to Osorno and the crossed the Andes into Argentina. Bariloche, to be a little more precise. Flippin' lovely it is as well. Woody's had about six cups of coffee and the only thing to stop the caffeine shakes is the exquisite local chocolate - some of the best in the world. Seriously, it's like being kissed by Jesus. She's making me my tea. I love it here....
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Sunday, 14 February 2010
Kid, the next time I say "Let's go someplace like Bolivia"...
...let's GO someplace like Bolivia.
Potosi, Bolivia - warzone. As we walked down the narrow cobbled streets of the highest city in the world, we had a constant eye on the balconies and rooftops for snipers. We approached every corner slowly and cautiously, trying to identify potential attackers while always keeping a watch over our shoulders for backdoor bandits. Our aim - to reach the arms dealers slap bang in the most volatile parts of town. Supersoakers and waterballoons. That's what's up. The warm up to the weekend's Carnaval was well and truly under way, taking the form of a massive sprawling waterfight over the town. Everyone plays, whether they know it or not, and 'gringos' are a prized target.
We learned our lesson quickly, after being pelted from windows with waterballoons within about an hour - attack is the best form of defence. Groups of high school children smirk at you coyly as they stroll past with their water pistols and 'globos de agua'. Just as we think we're safe, the attack comes from behind. Or we're the victims of a drive-by, the giggles fading into the distance. Or simply caught in the crossfire. Paranoia takes over until we find the friendly neighbourhood Lord of War - one of the nice Quechuan ladies selling ready made, ready-to-lob water balloons. From that point onwards, ammo in hand the tables are turned. The hunted becomes the hunter and suchlike - a gringo with a waterballoon!
'Gringo' has probably been one of the strangest South American terms that we've encountered. We're assured that it's a term of endearment, just means 'foreign'. Not like us - blue eyes, white skin, tall. I find it difficult to accept the word, though. Groups of children giggle "Gringo!" which you can deal with, but it's when adult sized men walk past, they don't say "Buenas dias" or "Hola" - just "Gringo". Depending on the source it can be a bit intimidating, and usually when we hear that word we don't need reminding that we're foreign or 'not like us'. Is this the closest my tiny white face has come to some kind of, dare I say it.......racism? Oh, shut up Whiteford.
Potosi was a great time. The city was once the richest in the world due to the abundance of silver and minerals in them thar' hills, namely the Cerro Rico. Slaves and indigenous miners died in their millions extracting the silver in horrific conditions from inside 'The Mountain That Eats Men'. So, on with the helmet and headtorch we headed into the belly of the beast. An eye opening experience - within five minutes the silica dust was making it difficult to breathe in my little asthmatic lungs and the further we delved the worse it was, especially as we crawled on hands and knees in the dust avoiding the two ton trolleys being pulled by hand by the miners. They are exceptional human beings. Working for 12, 14, 16 hours a day - the only breaks they take are when they wait for the dust to settle after a dynamite blast; they use this time to fill their mouths with coca leaves - among the effects of chewing coca are reduction of appetite and increased awareness. Perfect for working in these conditions. Our knowledgeable guide Ronald (a former miner who 'loves his little Gringitos from GringoLand') told us that these conditions have barely changed in the four hundred years that the mine has been open. Being around asbestos and silica dust, most miners will die of silicosis pneumonia. Life expectancy about 50 years. Considering the wages they receive, the juice doesn't seem to be worth the squeeze, but they have few other choices. The hardest workers (14-16 hours a day, sometimes more) will earn about $200 a month. To put that in perspective, the average Premiership footballer earns in a week what it would take two miners an entire lifetime to earn. Sickening really. Ashley Cole? Exactly. By the time we emerged into the sunshine it was humbling to think that these men (no women allowed in the mine - bad luck) will sometimes spend days on end underground, and we were struggling to deal with it for only one hour. But then we got to blow up dynamite on the hillside, so I soon forgot about all that...
Prior to all this shafting about we spent time hiking on Isla Del Sol in Lake Titicaca - many an Incan ruin to be seen, as well as some crazy little kids fascinated by Woody's camera "señorita, señorita!". She crouched to help them take photos and they jumped on her back and held my hands - just happy for the attention I think. Captain of our boat almost couped it on the way back as the wind whipped the waves into a bit of a frenzy - some tears and many a Bolivian crossing themselves (spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch) made for an exciting last hour or so. Back on dry land we headed for La Paz and the Witches' Market. What do you buy for the girl who has everything? Dried llama fetus maybe? For luck apparently, although not so much for the fetus. Lots of good witchery abound - talismans (talismen?), vials of home protection, love potions... but no 'Instant Death Powder', no voodoo dolls. I was imagining a potion that for every positive effect it had on me, it had the equal and opposite effect on my mortal enemies. I get happy, they get sad. I get lucky, they get most unlucky. I get a delicious meal, they loudly crap themselves in public. Genius, available only at the Witches' Market, La Paz...
After a cultural Sunday morning of coffee, an impromptu orchestra recital in a colonial garden and a visit to the Coca Museum, we trucked on to Sucre - The White City. One of the prettier cities on our travels and a relaxing place to explore for a couple of days. The Dino Truck took us up to Cal Orcko, a cement quarry where they stumbled upon real dinosaur footprints. "Guys, we asked Swiss geologists to come and verify if they were real. The result was positive. They were real." Our trusty guide Juan Carlos, somewhere between Loyd Grossman and Penfold from Danger Mouse. His accent and mannerisms were so completely hilarious that an infectious bout of The Giggles spread through the group like wildfire, the supressed laughter reminiscent of an over-excited classroom when the teacher's back is turned. Ironically enough I'm sure it was Woody who was the first to crack. Anyway, saw some real dinosaur footprints...which was nice. On the way back the bus was bombarded by water missiles, which brings us nicely back to....
A gringo with a waterballoon! The smirks fade, fear appears where once there was confidence. Oh yes, Latin America knows just how merciless and brutal The West was once before. By this point we've joined force with a fun Belgian couple, thus doubling our firepower. Let's have you! A staring contest ensues until both parties are either out of sight or out of range...
Currently we're in Tupiza, a small town which sits with a dramatic Wild West backdrop and stunning cowboy country scenery all around. It's also not far from where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their demise at the hands of the Bolivian army. Legend has it that they robbed a payroll between here and San Vicente some 60 miles away. Depending on which story you want to believe, it was in San Vicente that the two bandits sheltered before being identified and trapped by Bolivian soldiers. One of the bandits shot his mortally wounded partner before turning the gun on himself. I'll stick with thinking that it was there that they faded into their sepia freeze frame before going on to make their organic salad dressings and International Film Festivals respectively.
...and so as we walked up the street, our two last pieces of ammunition ready to be launched, we see a group of bandits armed to the teeth. They've got guns this time. Outnumbered and outpositioned, we are. So me and The Kid crouch behind a market stall, steeling ourselves for the final attack. "You didn't see Lefors out there, did you?"
"Lefors? No."
"Oh good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble..."
Potosi, Bolivia - warzone. As we walked down the narrow cobbled streets of the highest city in the world, we had a constant eye on the balconies and rooftops for snipers. We approached every corner slowly and cautiously, trying to identify potential attackers while always keeping a watch over our shoulders for backdoor bandits. Our aim - to reach the arms dealers slap bang in the most volatile parts of town. Supersoakers and waterballoons. That's what's up. The warm up to the weekend's Carnaval was well and truly under way, taking the form of a massive sprawling waterfight over the town. Everyone plays, whether they know it or not, and 'gringos' are a prized target.
We learned our lesson quickly, after being pelted from windows with waterballoons within about an hour - attack is the best form of defence. Groups of high school children smirk at you coyly as they stroll past with their water pistols and 'globos de agua'. Just as we think we're safe, the attack comes from behind. Or we're the victims of a drive-by, the giggles fading into the distance. Or simply caught in the crossfire. Paranoia takes over until we find the friendly neighbourhood Lord of War - one of the nice Quechuan ladies selling ready made, ready-to-lob water balloons. From that point onwards, ammo in hand the tables are turned. The hunted becomes the hunter and suchlike - a gringo with a waterballoon!
'Gringo' has probably been one of the strangest South American terms that we've encountered. We're assured that it's a term of endearment, just means 'foreign'. Not like us - blue eyes, white skin, tall. I find it difficult to accept the word, though. Groups of children giggle "Gringo!" which you can deal with, but it's when adult sized men walk past, they don't say "Buenas dias" or "Hola" - just "Gringo". Depending on the source it can be a bit intimidating, and usually when we hear that word we don't need reminding that we're foreign or 'not like us'. Is this the closest my tiny white face has come to some kind of, dare I say it.......racism? Oh, shut up Whiteford.
Potosi was a great time. The city was once the richest in the world due to the abundance of silver and minerals in them thar' hills, namely the Cerro Rico. Slaves and indigenous miners died in their millions extracting the silver in horrific conditions from inside 'The Mountain That Eats Men'. So, on with the helmet and headtorch we headed into the belly of the beast. An eye opening experience - within five minutes the silica dust was making it difficult to breathe in my little asthmatic lungs and the further we delved the worse it was, especially as we crawled on hands and knees in the dust avoiding the two ton trolleys being pulled by hand by the miners. They are exceptional human beings. Working for 12, 14, 16 hours a day - the only breaks they take are when they wait for the dust to settle after a dynamite blast; they use this time to fill their mouths with coca leaves - among the effects of chewing coca are reduction of appetite and increased awareness. Perfect for working in these conditions. Our knowledgeable guide Ronald (a former miner who 'loves his little Gringitos from GringoLand') told us that these conditions have barely changed in the four hundred years that the mine has been open. Being around asbestos and silica dust, most miners will die of silicosis pneumonia. Life expectancy about 50 years. Considering the wages they receive, the juice doesn't seem to be worth the squeeze, but they have few other choices. The hardest workers (14-16 hours a day, sometimes more) will earn about $200 a month. To put that in perspective, the average Premiership footballer earns in a week what it would take two miners an entire lifetime to earn. Sickening really. Ashley Cole? Exactly. By the time we emerged into the sunshine it was humbling to think that these men (no women allowed in the mine - bad luck) will sometimes spend days on end underground, and we were struggling to deal with it for only one hour. But then we got to blow up dynamite on the hillside, so I soon forgot about all that...
Prior to all this shafting about we spent time hiking on Isla Del Sol in Lake Titicaca - many an Incan ruin to be seen, as well as some crazy little kids fascinated by Woody's camera "señorita, señorita!". She crouched to help them take photos and they jumped on her back and held my hands - just happy for the attention I think. Captain of our boat almost couped it on the way back as the wind whipped the waves into a bit of a frenzy - some tears and many a Bolivian crossing themselves (spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch) made for an exciting last hour or so. Back on dry land we headed for La Paz and the Witches' Market. What do you buy for the girl who has everything? Dried llama fetus maybe? For luck apparently, although not so much for the fetus. Lots of good witchery abound - talismans (talismen?), vials of home protection, love potions... but no 'Instant Death Powder', no voodoo dolls. I was imagining a potion that for every positive effect it had on me, it had the equal and opposite effect on my mortal enemies. I get happy, they get sad. I get lucky, they get most unlucky. I get a delicious meal, they loudly crap themselves in public. Genius, available only at the Witches' Market, La Paz...
After a cultural Sunday morning of coffee, an impromptu orchestra recital in a colonial garden and a visit to the Coca Museum, we trucked on to Sucre - The White City. One of the prettier cities on our travels and a relaxing place to explore for a couple of days. The Dino Truck took us up to Cal Orcko, a cement quarry where they stumbled upon real dinosaur footprints. "Guys, we asked Swiss geologists to come and verify if they were real. The result was positive. They were real." Our trusty guide Juan Carlos, somewhere between Loyd Grossman and Penfold from Danger Mouse. His accent and mannerisms were so completely hilarious that an infectious bout of The Giggles spread through the group like wildfire, the supressed laughter reminiscent of an over-excited classroom when the teacher's back is turned. Ironically enough I'm sure it was Woody who was the first to crack. Anyway, saw some real dinosaur footprints...which was nice. On the way back the bus was bombarded by water missiles, which brings us nicely back to....
A gringo with a waterballoon! The smirks fade, fear appears where once there was confidence. Oh yes, Latin America knows just how merciless and brutal The West was once before. By this point we've joined force with a fun Belgian couple, thus doubling our firepower. Let's have you! A staring contest ensues until both parties are either out of sight or out of range...
Currently we're in Tupiza, a small town which sits with a dramatic Wild West backdrop and stunning cowboy country scenery all around. It's also not far from where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their demise at the hands of the Bolivian army. Legend has it that they robbed a payroll between here and San Vicente some 60 miles away. Depending on which story you want to believe, it was in San Vicente that the two bandits sheltered before being identified and trapped by Bolivian soldiers. One of the bandits shot his mortally wounded partner before turning the gun on himself. I'll stick with thinking that it was there that they faded into their sepia freeze frame before going on to make their organic salad dressings and International Film Festivals respectively.
...and so as we walked up the street, our two last pieces of ammunition ready to be launched, we see a group of bandits armed to the teeth. They've got guns this time. Outnumbered and outpositioned, we are. So me and The Kid crouch behind a market stall, steeling ourselves for the final attack. "You didn't see Lefors out there, did you?"
"Lefors? No."
"Oh good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble..."
Saturday, 6 February 2010
It's only Quiloto-a (but I like it)...
An exceptional three days exploring tiny indigenous villages in the Andes. Truly an outstanding highlight of the trip so far. We made a circuit of the Andean villages, beginning in a near-deserted place, Saquisili. Strolling into the tiny town on the Wednesday we found it to be a nice wee place, but no great shakes. 'Twas on the Thursday, however, that Saquisili erupted with the weekly market which sprawls across the whole town. Entire families of Quechuan people come from the neighbouring villages, almost anything can be bought in this market. The usual fruit, veg, meat, fish and flowers were surrounded by traditional thick ponchos, clothes, jewellery, household goods, baskets, fencing, metal doors, and parts for cars, bikes and carts. The really exciting things about the market are the animals for sale. Guinea pigs and rabbits were picked from their buckets by the ears, sold for modest sums for stews, soups and pies. Live chickens were grabbed out of tiny cages by head, wing or foot and thrown to the crowds. Chicks were grabbed by the fistful and chucked into sacks to join the rest of the menagerie, which rolled and pulsated in the back of pick up trucks as far as the eye could see. Skinned chickens hung up in plastic bags with blood dripping into the corners beside open pots of boiling pig's heads, trotters and tails (not so twirly in the cooking process it seems). At one point I negotiated the purchase of a blue-eyed Golden Retriever for the princely sum of $5. When i say negotiated, I mean that I asked the owner how much, he said "$6", I widened my eyes in disbelief and repeated "$6?", and he smirked and said "Oh, ok, $5". Textbook really. But unfortunately a puppy is for life, not just for a day at the market - although at that price the saying might need a rethink. I would have called him Tinger y'know...
Many of the Quechuan women charge a dollar for a photo, needless to say Woody would have been in grave danger of blowing the whole travel budget by lunchtime. Luckily with the long lens and a bit of stealth many an action photo was taken - unposed and natural. Take THAT indigenous culture trying to make an honest living for itself!
That afternoon we trundled on up the road to Zumbahua where we'd find a cheeky chap with a pickup truck to take us an extra ten miles to the volcanic crater of Quilotoa. We wound through the valleys and over the mountain passes watching the green patchwork of fields unfold in front of us. Llamas stared down with their glaekit expressions as we rumbled into the small settlement of only 100 people. The crater lake is magnificent - a humble gem which seems to be vastly overlooked by most tourists. The ol' dusty trail down to the shore is good fun, the water is aquamarine and the view up the crater walls and the rock formations make you feel tiny. Walk back up's a bit of a bitch, mind you. 3850 metres elevation is no joke. We stayed with a warm Quechuan family, eating soup and rice by the stove. We spoke to the daughter - basic Spanish conversation for dummies: "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Four. "What do you want to study at university?" Medicine. Great fun to sit in a family environment, 'specially when you've got a big fat plate of piping soup inches from your face. They took delight in learning Scottish phrases... "Cheers for that Maria, what an absolute stoater of a meal!"
At night we went back to the edge of the volcano to take some spooky photographs. It was deathly quiet, and eerie panpipe music drifted over the valley. In the moonlight it felt like the most wild and interesting place. We followed our ears, tracing the music to a small garage where about a dozen men of all different ages were practicing. We peeked through a window before shyly knocking on the door and sitting in the corner to watch. The band was called 'La Voz de Quirotoa' and they loved to play. They were so enthusiastic in practice and it was a delight to watch them play their native music in the native setting. A fantastic Ecuador day.
With Andean spirit flowing in our veins we decided to seize the day, accepting the challenge to walk the 9 miles through the valley to the next town of Chugchilan (shortened to 'Chug' as the day went on). It turned out to be one of the most difficult but rewarding of our adventures thus far. With all our kit in tow, walking at altitude wasn't easy but the feeling of trekking into the Andean wilderness was exhilarating; scenery and adrenaline took as the first few miles in a blink. We passed a few isolated farmhouses, some of which had mangy dogs on alert. These dogs were really wild - not used to many people passing through - and on more than one occassion they took exception to our clanking, clunking amble through their territory. One little bastard chased us, gnashing his teeth and barking ("Will I kick it? Will I kick it? I'm gonna kick it"). As we stood trying to calm it and back away, Woody with her accident prone reputation at stake lost her footing and the enormous weight of her bag pulled her backwards down the slope some ten feet and scuffing her arm. At this point the owner arrived and grabbed our tormentor. First time I've ever heard Woody threaten a dog with brutal murder. This process of wild dog harrassment repeated itself throughout, although we quickly took to arming ourselves. Woody tooled up with some rocks and a pair of nail scissors (for thrusting into the jugular of the beast as dramatic music reaches crescendo), and I procured a large stick with which to beat them off if required. As the Gods would have it, no animal required beating off. Bit of blue, there. Bit of blue for the dads.
We also got lost, but in a good way. Up and down the valley we hiked, Woody coming undone in some solid looking mud up to her knees, until we realised that we had been at the right junction some two hours previous. In searching for this right path, I'm confident I set foot where no Scotsman ever has before - maybe even no person - for the sole reason that nobody of sane mind would enter these lands to look for another path. Felt like an old time highland clansman running up and down the precipices to scout the direction. We meandered down a spectacular canyon, up an old river bed, through a graveyard and trudged into Chug by dusk. An amazing day hiking, rewarded with a cold beer in the Andean fog, and some homecooked soup and potatoes. Dancer.
After a solid night's sleep and an exciting hot/cold shower (there was once a theory that 'Hell' as we know it was the constant alternating of the human body temperature between extreme heat and extreme cold on an eternal scale. This was quickly dispelled due to the reasoning that there would be a very brief moment of bliss when the temperatures balance out, on the way from one extreme to the other..... This was that shower) we hopped aboard the morning milk truck to Sigchos. The truck trundled along the mountain path, stopping to collect milk from the isolated farms (right hand side bucket) and delivering ot others (left hand side bucket). The whole journey felt like a real authentic Quechuan experience, similar to that of maybe fifty or one hundred years ago. Loved it.
We made it back to Latacunga where we began, and then set the ball rolling for 60 hours of bus within a 72 hour period. We decided that since the Machu Picchu debacle will warrant a return visit to Peru at some stage, we would try to blast through and into Bolivia by the weekend. Having read and heard so many good things about Bolivia, we got carried away and decided to hardcore it for the border. Although there is much to do in Peru, our wee hearts felt like Bolivia would just be a bit more unique (for us anyway). Whether this decision will prove to have been genius or shortsighted remains to be seen. I think in a way it reinforces that this whole experience is unique in itself. We're not trying to copy an adventure, we're trying to create one. We own it, it belongs to us - it's a journey we have complete control over (save for the odd natural disaster) and we will answer to nobody in that.
So after nine buses, all of varying quality - one had reclining seats, another had a drunk guy spewing out the window - some questionable towns (including one known only as '26K', which looked like the world's biggest bar room brawl) and wearing the same shoes for 60 hours we claimed the Bolivian border like a couple of outlaws at 7.29pm, one minute before the post closes for the night. We rolled into Copacabana as sundown set fire to the clouds above Lake Titicaca, the dulcet tones of Manilow ringing in our ears...
Many of the Quechuan women charge a dollar for a photo, needless to say Woody would have been in grave danger of blowing the whole travel budget by lunchtime. Luckily with the long lens and a bit of stealth many an action photo was taken - unposed and natural. Take THAT indigenous culture trying to make an honest living for itself!
That afternoon we trundled on up the road to Zumbahua where we'd find a cheeky chap with a pickup truck to take us an extra ten miles to the volcanic crater of Quilotoa. We wound through the valleys and over the mountain passes watching the green patchwork of fields unfold in front of us. Llamas stared down with their glaekit expressions as we rumbled into the small settlement of only 100 people. The crater lake is magnificent - a humble gem which seems to be vastly overlooked by most tourists. The ol' dusty trail down to the shore is good fun, the water is aquamarine and the view up the crater walls and the rock formations make you feel tiny. Walk back up's a bit of a bitch, mind you. 3850 metres elevation is no joke. We stayed with a warm Quechuan family, eating soup and rice by the stove. We spoke to the daughter - basic Spanish conversation for dummies: "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Four. "What do you want to study at university?" Medicine. Great fun to sit in a family environment, 'specially when you've got a big fat plate of piping soup inches from your face. They took delight in learning Scottish phrases... "Cheers for that Maria, what an absolute stoater of a meal!"
At night we went back to the edge of the volcano to take some spooky photographs. It was deathly quiet, and eerie panpipe music drifted over the valley. In the moonlight it felt like the most wild and interesting place. We followed our ears, tracing the music to a small garage where about a dozen men of all different ages were practicing. We peeked through a window before shyly knocking on the door and sitting in the corner to watch. The band was called 'La Voz de Quirotoa' and they loved to play. They were so enthusiastic in practice and it was a delight to watch them play their native music in the native setting. A fantastic Ecuador day.
With Andean spirit flowing in our veins we decided to seize the day, accepting the challenge to walk the 9 miles through the valley to the next town of Chugchilan (shortened to 'Chug' as the day went on). It turned out to be one of the most difficult but rewarding of our adventures thus far. With all our kit in tow, walking at altitude wasn't easy but the feeling of trekking into the Andean wilderness was exhilarating; scenery and adrenaline took as the first few miles in a blink. We passed a few isolated farmhouses, some of which had mangy dogs on alert. These dogs were really wild - not used to many people passing through - and on more than one occassion they took exception to our clanking, clunking amble through their territory. One little bastard chased us, gnashing his teeth and barking ("Will I kick it? Will I kick it? I'm gonna kick it"). As we stood trying to calm it and back away, Woody with her accident prone reputation at stake lost her footing and the enormous weight of her bag pulled her backwards down the slope some ten feet and scuffing her arm. At this point the owner arrived and grabbed our tormentor. First time I've ever heard Woody threaten a dog with brutal murder. This process of wild dog harrassment repeated itself throughout, although we quickly took to arming ourselves. Woody tooled up with some rocks and a pair of nail scissors (for thrusting into the jugular of the beast as dramatic music reaches crescendo), and I procured a large stick with which to beat them off if required. As the Gods would have it, no animal required beating off. Bit of blue, there. Bit of blue for the dads.
We also got lost, but in a good way. Up and down the valley we hiked, Woody coming undone in some solid looking mud up to her knees, until we realised that we had been at the right junction some two hours previous. In searching for this right path, I'm confident I set foot where no Scotsman ever has before - maybe even no person - for the sole reason that nobody of sane mind would enter these lands to look for another path. Felt like an old time highland clansman running up and down the precipices to scout the direction. We meandered down a spectacular canyon, up an old river bed, through a graveyard and trudged into Chug by dusk. An amazing day hiking, rewarded with a cold beer in the Andean fog, and some homecooked soup and potatoes. Dancer.
After a solid night's sleep and an exciting hot/cold shower (there was once a theory that 'Hell' as we know it was the constant alternating of the human body temperature between extreme heat and extreme cold on an eternal scale. This was quickly dispelled due to the reasoning that there would be a very brief moment of bliss when the temperatures balance out, on the way from one extreme to the other..... This was that shower) we hopped aboard the morning milk truck to Sigchos. The truck trundled along the mountain path, stopping to collect milk from the isolated farms (right hand side bucket) and delivering ot others (left hand side bucket). The whole journey felt like a real authentic Quechuan experience, similar to that of maybe fifty or one hundred years ago. Loved it.
We made it back to Latacunga where we began, and then set the ball rolling for 60 hours of bus within a 72 hour period. We decided that since the Machu Picchu debacle will warrant a return visit to Peru at some stage, we would try to blast through and into Bolivia by the weekend. Having read and heard so many good things about Bolivia, we got carried away and decided to hardcore it for the border. Although there is much to do in Peru, our wee hearts felt like Bolivia would just be a bit more unique (for us anyway). Whether this decision will prove to have been genius or shortsighted remains to be seen. I think in a way it reinforces that this whole experience is unique in itself. We're not trying to copy an adventure, we're trying to create one. We own it, it belongs to us - it's a journey we have complete control over (save for the odd natural disaster) and we will answer to nobody in that.
So after nine buses, all of varying quality - one had reclining seats, another had a drunk guy spewing out the window - some questionable towns (including one known only as '26K', which looked like the world's biggest bar room brawl) and wearing the same shoes for 60 hours we claimed the Bolivian border like a couple of outlaws at 7.29pm, one minute before the post closes for the night. We rolled into Copacabana as sundown set fire to the clouds above Lake Titicaca, the dulcet tones of Manilow ringing in our ears...
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