Ah cherubs, il tempo passo as my dad will no doubt be saying very soon (if he isn’t already saying every day along with ah, il vento di odgi and other misspelt (by me) words of Italian wisdom) and indeed the time has passed and I have become overfond of the italic key but you know what? Patience. For I have recently cheated death and you should all be happy that I’ve got the laptop to tell the tale, never mind the fingers to do it with.
So let’s not get bogged down in details about Brazil and its impossibly hot and happy inhabitants. Let’s talk no more about the surliness of porteños in spring and the strange, grey light that fills BsAs as summer edges closer. Let us never mention argentine taxi drivers who, on seeing a fare shed a tear at the departure of a boyfriend, offer strange and potentially stalkerish services that inspire a whole new vocabulary of previously unknown Spanish from the fare in question. Let us, in particular, not dwell upon New York. There is nothing that can be said about New York that hasn’t been said by someone else. I refuse to be drawn further.
Let us instead think about the amazing adventure of Aruba and the fact that although I have no real love for the letter A (apart from how it pertains to A*) I have luckily found myself here instead of, oh, say, I don’t know…the Dominican Republic. Where 45 people died recently as a result of an unexpected hurricane. 45 people (at least) died in the city that I was planning on staying in.
So the situation was like this – I had a few days to get the hell out of the states. I had been planning on a red-leaf filled train ride up to see my kanuk friends but suddenly at the last minute the whole thing was thrown into doubt. And as I lounged against the till for my last ever shift as a waitress my friend wandered in and said “why not go somewhere warm? Fuck Canada!”
Indeed. Why the fuck not go somewhere warm? I have never been as cold, as hairy or as depressed as I was in New York from the end of November on. Nor did it help that every time I tottered out into the snow lined outdoors and gasped and coughed at the cold any local near me would turn around and mutter (through the three layers of wool and the scarf wrapped around their face) “its only going to get worse you know”. You know what I know? You can all get fucked, all you crazy northerners. It’s not normal to live like this. It isn’t. Don’t look at me like that; it is simply not natural to be this cold.
So visa time came and although part of me regretted not being able to book a ticket back to Oz another part of me was astounded at how far I could go for so cheap and how…warm I could be. Waking up on a hungover Sunday I asked my friend C where Aruba was. She didn’t know either but assured me it was somewhere warm. Wtf I thought, it has to be better than Montreal (although...can anywhere be better than Montreal? The jury is still out). After booking my ticket I discovered that Aruba was worse, even, than Fiji. There is nowhere “cheap” to stay in Aruba. It is a resort island from start to finish. It is never really not tourist season. The beach is ringed by enormous, castle-like high rise resort hotels to such an extent that taxi fares are divided up between “low rise hotels” and “high rise hotels” (high rise hotels are further away from the main shopping strip). It has its own currency but you can pay for everything in American dollars because so many Americans come here every week. Because it was technically a part of the Dutch colonies for years all the local speak English as well as Dutch, Spanish and the local patois which is a mix of Dutch, English, Spanish and Portuguese. The development of the island is such that no American tourist need ever be too far from a fast-food franchise, an enormous hotel chain or, failing the first two, a massive restaurant designed to make one feel as if one were right back in the suburbs one had just left. Aruba has everything.
It also has some of the most beautiful beaches (although…not as good as the ones near Cartagena) and the most amazing weather of anywhere I’ve been in a long long time. Today I tried to walk to the lighthouse (deeply unsuccessful. No one walks here. There are no footpaths, to begin with, and even if you can find a flat path to walk on everyone has to beep at you as they pass) and then I had a swim. In the afternoon. After 5pm, in fact, although it was still light (two things that it would be impossible to say in New York). I watched a swim school of little kids try to learn how to dive off some structure a couple of meters from the shore that I had already swum out to, lounged on and then swam back to shore from. I stared at the sky and thought about how warm I was and how beautiful everything was and vowed that I would never, ever, live in the north when I grew up.
Unfortunately airfares wait for no malingerer and so I must bid adieu to my friendly band of lizards and tree dwelling iguanas that greet me every morning when I sit outside my room drinking coffee. I must say goodbye to the roosters and chickens that occupy the same trees in the afternoons and cluck and squawk through the lazy daylight hours. I have to go back to the land of ice and snow but only for a few more weeks and then its back to my travelling ways.
Catch you in Italy, suckers
Monday, December 17, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Jumbo
Since BFG has requested tales of my supermarket adventures and since I, your writer, clearly exist only to serve - check (no pun intended) this shit out for the next exciting non-travel installment of my adventures.
So Saturday found me walking through a beautiful afternoon with not much to fill it. Since I had no frisbee and, even if I had a frisbee, no friends functioning at this hour to throw it too, I decided to walk through the parks near my house and launch my second, full scale assault on Jumbo, the biggest freaking supermarket I have ever been into.
The first time I attempted Jumbo I was at a distinct disadvantage. I had only been awake a few hours. I was feeling delicate. I had grossly underestimated the size of my prey and I was also kind of starving. Jumbo loomed up at me out of the dark, like a sudden Northland which was built only to house a supermarket and a sort of backyard-furniture type store. The first time, I followed the crowds whilst wondering if perhaps I should be dropping stones on the floor, hansel and gretel style, so that I could find my way out. The supermarket, once I found it, was so enormous that initially I wasnt even sure it was a supermarket because the food was hidden behind fifty lanes containing stockings, beds, office chairs and mattresses. Taking a breath and walking in I was unable to even find a basket (I assumed this was because Jumbo patrons shopped on a similar scale to their surroundings) and so spent forty minutes roaming amongst the endless cheese aisles and "food of the world" (where "world" was understood to be primarily America and "food" understood to be either tea, jam or, in America´s overrepresented case, endless packets of taco seasoning and mexican salsas in a can. A can?) aisles, not being offered any food from any of the sundry tasting stands scattered through the aisles, and attempting to balance my meagre stash of instant noodles and fresh bread rolls together. Eventually I conceded defeat and fled through the checkout and back into a more human sized world.
This time though, this time would be different. Armed with knowledge gleaned from Miranda French´s excellent "Bad Times in Buenos Aires" I was on the look out for trolley filled with meat dripping blood on the supermarket floor. I was keeping my eyes peeled for outbreaks of bronca amongst the natives and for trolleys deserted midshop because their owners simply could not take it anymore.
Disappointingly I found that meat seems to be much better clingwrapped now than back in the mid-90s and the lack of dripping blood really did manage to keep the shopping mood on the up and up. I did find a few abandoned shopping trolleys though and snagged on so as to keep my disguise as a regular shopper together. I wandered the aisle luxuriating in the ability to pick packets up and then put them back again. I thought dreamily about Muriel´s mother from Muriel´s Wedding and was glad I was wearing better shoes. I prodded the meat in each of the three epic rows of freezers that it was kept in and wondered what "16%" gaseoses meant.
I fondled the cheese in the four different places it was kept, spending special time with the real, actual, rounds of camembert and brie that I found. And little roles of goats cheese! Chevre! The fetta was the same shitty cubes that they have everywhere else though, unfortunately.
Eventually I got tired of pushing my trolley, filled with a single bottle of canola oil that I had no intention of buying, around and ditched it near the checkout without a backwards glance. Pretending to be like some 21st century version of Barthes is awesome.
So Saturday found me walking through a beautiful afternoon with not much to fill it. Since I had no frisbee and, even if I had a frisbee, no friends functioning at this hour to throw it too, I decided to walk through the parks near my house and launch my second, full scale assault on Jumbo, the biggest freaking supermarket I have ever been into.
The first time I attempted Jumbo I was at a distinct disadvantage. I had only been awake a few hours. I was feeling delicate. I had grossly underestimated the size of my prey and I was also kind of starving. Jumbo loomed up at me out of the dark, like a sudden Northland which was built only to house a supermarket and a sort of backyard-furniture type store. The first time, I followed the crowds whilst wondering if perhaps I should be dropping stones on the floor, hansel and gretel style, so that I could find my way out. The supermarket, once I found it, was so enormous that initially I wasnt even sure it was a supermarket because the food was hidden behind fifty lanes containing stockings, beds, office chairs and mattresses. Taking a breath and walking in I was unable to even find a basket (I assumed this was because Jumbo patrons shopped on a similar scale to their surroundings) and so spent forty minutes roaming amongst the endless cheese aisles and "food of the world" (where "world" was understood to be primarily America and "food" understood to be either tea, jam or, in America´s overrepresented case, endless packets of taco seasoning and mexican salsas in a can. A can?) aisles, not being offered any food from any of the sundry tasting stands scattered through the aisles, and attempting to balance my meagre stash of instant noodles and fresh bread rolls together. Eventually I conceded defeat and fled through the checkout and back into a more human sized world.
This time though, this time would be different. Armed with knowledge gleaned from Miranda French´s excellent "Bad Times in Buenos Aires" I was on the look out for trolley filled with meat dripping blood on the supermarket floor. I was keeping my eyes peeled for outbreaks of bronca amongst the natives and for trolleys deserted midshop because their owners simply could not take it anymore.
Disappointingly I found that meat seems to be much better clingwrapped now than back in the mid-90s and the lack of dripping blood really did manage to keep the shopping mood on the up and up. I did find a few abandoned shopping trolleys though and snagged on so as to keep my disguise as a regular shopper together. I wandered the aisle luxuriating in the ability to pick packets up and then put them back again. I thought dreamily about Muriel´s mother from Muriel´s Wedding and was glad I was wearing better shoes. I prodded the meat in each of the three epic rows of freezers that it was kept in and wondered what "16%" gaseoses meant.
I fondled the cheese in the four different places it was kept, spending special time with the real, actual, rounds of camembert and brie that I found. And little roles of goats cheese! Chevre! The fetta was the same shitty cubes that they have everywhere else though, unfortunately.
Eventually I got tired of pushing my trolley, filled with a single bottle of canola oil that I had no intention of buying, around and ditched it near the checkout without a backwards glance. Pretending to be like some 21st century version of Barthes is awesome.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Argentine Dilemma
I have been in Argentina, and specifically Bs.As. (I still can't reliably spell the name of this town. ¡Puta!) for quite awhile but only recently have I noticed the change this stay has wrought in me.
Before I left Australia I would find myself on the outside of many a laydeeez circle where everyone else would talk about how much they loooved sweet things and how none of them could ever say no to chocolate and I would find myself examining my shoes and wondering if I had accidentally smuggled an Y choromsome in on them because I felt nothing for sweet things and could say "no" to chocolate on a pretty regular basis.
But that was then.
Now, after just over a month in this bitcharse cold town, I find myself not just embracing the dolce but inviting it home on a regular basis. It started with slices of cake being served with coffee. Initially I thought 'wtf do I want with this day old cake, pah?!' and then I found myself here where, for 40 centavos one can buy a chococalte coated wagon wheeled sized sweet except that it is twice as thick as any wagonwheel and it is just...so...damn...sweet. But one ceases to notice anymore. After free pouring sugar into coffee, after eating the "special breakfast" (which equaled sweet pastries) at various hostels it is impossible to pretend that The Change has not occured. So the dilemma I dedicate this particular post to is not one I thought I would ever encounter but there you go.
The other day, weakned by flu and poverty I found myself in the local supermarket, thiking vaguely that I hadn't eaten anything of substance for awhile, I found myself 'out the back' with the small goods section. And yet... "nah, I can't be bothered with the blue cheese... its almost a whole AUD$1, I think I'll just take that packet of chocolate coated donut shaped biscuits instead."
And I was happy to have to break a note to get change for the bus the other day - it meant I got to bite into a stupidly sweet-upon-layer-of-sweet chocolate, coated around a crumbly chocolate cakey centre (that was also lined with caramel dulce de leche) alfajore because it was the cheapest thing in the kiosko and, surprise, the sweetest.
Most recently I found myself with a severe attack of Argentine specific bronca (this is a type of furious anger that can sweep over you only in Argentina after hours of confronting services that wilfully withold the service they are meant to provide, and smug cashiers that reject your cash) which, I discovered, could only be soothed by buying and consuming in less than one minute, the most ridiculously outsized alfajore I have ever seen.
So it looks as though the Argentine dilemma of sweet vs sweet is now no dilemma at all. Forget superpanchos, I´m off to find an alfajore
Before I left Australia I would find myself on the outside of many a laydeeez circle where everyone else would talk about how much they loooved sweet things and how none of them could ever say no to chocolate and I would find myself examining my shoes and wondering if I had accidentally smuggled an Y choromsome in on them because I felt nothing for sweet things and could say "no" to chocolate on a pretty regular basis.
But that was then.
Now, after just over a month in this bitcharse cold town, I find myself not just embracing the dolce but inviting it home on a regular basis. It started with slices of cake being served with coffee. Initially I thought 'wtf do I want with this day old cake, pah?!' and then I found myself here where, for 40 centavos one can buy a chococalte coated wagon wheeled sized sweet except that it is twice as thick as any wagonwheel and it is just...so...damn...sweet. But one ceases to notice anymore. After free pouring sugar into coffee, after eating the "special breakfast" (which equaled sweet pastries) at various hostels it is impossible to pretend that The Change has not occured. So the dilemma I dedicate this particular post to is not one I thought I would ever encounter but there you go.
The other day, weakned by flu and poverty I found myself in the local supermarket, thiking vaguely that I hadn't eaten anything of substance for awhile, I found myself 'out the back' with the small goods section. And yet... "nah, I can't be bothered with the blue cheese... its almost a whole AUD$1, I think I'll just take that packet of chocolate coated donut shaped biscuits instead."
And I was happy to have to break a note to get change for the bus the other day - it meant I got to bite into a stupidly sweet-upon-layer-of-sweet chocolate, coated around a crumbly chocolate cakey centre (that was also lined with caramel dulce de leche) alfajore because it was the cheapest thing in the kiosko and, surprise, the sweetest.
Most recently I found myself with a severe attack of Argentine specific bronca (this is a type of furious anger that can sweep over you only in Argentina after hours of confronting services that wilfully withold the service they are meant to provide, and smug cashiers that reject your cash) which, I discovered, could only be soothed by buying and consuming in less than one minute, the most ridiculously outsized alfajore I have ever seen.
So it looks as though the Argentine dilemma of sweet vs sweet is now no dilemma at all. Forget superpanchos, I´m off to find an alfajore
Sunday, June 10, 2007
You want the realness? Well I gotcha
Bet you thought this was a travelling blog didnt you?
Since I am on hiatus from travelling I have no overwrought descriptive pieces for you, no railings against bus trips for you (except peak hour bus trips. Ay ay ay. Still better than peak hour subte trips. Japan has nothing on BA for ridiculous squashing on train carriages) no fear of woollen jumpers to share with you. Nada.
Instead I find myself sleeping competitively (every day, a new hour past 12 hours of solid sleep, soon I should crack the 18 hour barrier - exciting, no?) and wandering aimlessly around Palermo, a trendy suburb that is hard to get to and hard to get out of but has an inordinate number of bars and shops and, thankfully, when you look close enough, also a large number of kioskos selling super panchos.
My current habitation also has an incredible (to me) number of jocktastic americans (ok, one jocktastic american) and an alleged san fransican with a deeply corny accent who listens to rap and is quite the whitest person I've met here in some time. Also lurking out there somewhere is a lawyer from Washington, who prosecutes people who download movies and music illegally. Naturally he has not been invited to any parties nor has he been offered the use of the host's computer which is, of course, full of downloaded music and movies. There is also a tall black man from south africa who informed me sternly that I would get cancer from reheating things in the microwave without covering them properly and a wussy male pre-med student from minnesoater who keeps on getting drunk and being surprised that at 4 in the morning, your friend is not your friend if you are both trying to pick up the same girl in the bar.
Last night I found myself in an inpromptu United Nations Women Stylee gathering in some friend of a friend's apartment where only the two male hosts were from Argentina and the nine girls there were from all over the world. Claire (UK) and I (AUST) were most fascinated by the belgian Paris Hilton who, unlike the real paris hilton, could speak three languages and wear kickarse stockings. Amazing.
The night ended with a porteño and I writing swears in the dirt on the back of some car window while we waited for our friends. Some of you will remember that I have done similar things in frost back home so isn't it good to know that no matter how far you travel some things never change? It is annoying though that people only try to teach me bad words at the end of nights where I invariably forget them. Was it cajero? or hodjero? Damnit!
Since I am on hiatus from travelling I have no overwrought descriptive pieces for you, no railings against bus trips for you (except peak hour bus trips. Ay ay ay. Still better than peak hour subte trips. Japan has nothing on BA for ridiculous squashing on train carriages) no fear of woollen jumpers to share with you. Nada.
Instead I find myself sleeping competitively (every day, a new hour past 12 hours of solid sleep, soon I should crack the 18 hour barrier - exciting, no?) and wandering aimlessly around Palermo, a trendy suburb that is hard to get to and hard to get out of but has an inordinate number of bars and shops and, thankfully, when you look close enough, also a large number of kioskos selling super panchos.
My current habitation also has an incredible (to me) number of jocktastic americans (ok, one jocktastic american) and an alleged san fransican with a deeply corny accent who listens to rap and is quite the whitest person I've met here in some time. Also lurking out there somewhere is a lawyer from Washington, who prosecutes people who download movies and music illegally. Naturally he has not been invited to any parties nor has he been offered the use of the host's computer which is, of course, full of downloaded music and movies. There is also a tall black man from south africa who informed me sternly that I would get cancer from reheating things in the microwave without covering them properly and a wussy male pre-med student from minnesoater who keeps on getting drunk and being surprised that at 4 in the morning, your friend is not your friend if you are both trying to pick up the same girl in the bar.
Last night I found myself in an inpromptu United Nations Women Stylee gathering in some friend of a friend's apartment where only the two male hosts were from Argentina and the nine girls there were from all over the world. Claire (UK) and I (AUST) were most fascinated by the belgian Paris Hilton who, unlike the real paris hilton, could speak three languages and wear kickarse stockings. Amazing.
The night ended with a porteño and I writing swears in the dirt on the back of some car window while we waited for our friends. Some of you will remember that I have done similar things in frost back home so isn't it good to know that no matter how far you travel some things never change? It is annoying though that people only try to teach me bad words at the end of nights where I invariably forget them. Was it cajero? or hodjero? Damnit!
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
The Attraction of Bolivia...
...someone's mum told me, is that it is close to Argentina.
Having finally made it to Argentina I can now safely say "Word, Mother of jz, word"
Yes, I found a country which made me feel uncomfortably like the spolied, obsessed with flat paved roads and foods-that-are-not-fried-chicken, whiny, bourgeois white girl that I am.
Bolivia was... bolivia was... Bolivia was mainly just "there". It had some mountains, sort of like Peru, it had a capital that was kind of like Bogotá but uglier and, when we first arrived, in total lockdown for the 1st of May. It had a shitload of icecreameries which Carly found joyous and which I appreciated since they helped to pass the time.
The two of us strayed from the typical gringo route of seeing Bolivia. Instead of heading for the salt fields and taking photos of each other in glittering whiteness, we headed towards Paraguay to try to find some warmth, perhaps some enormous cocktails, perhaps some rivers... mainly just some damn warmth though since I had been denied any in Peru and was totally fed up with my meagre number of warm clothes and my dependence on woollen jumpers. (Yes! I know! Woolly jumpers! And I'm not even in New Zealand!)
So from La Paz we headed to Cochabamba, a town I was informed was integral to the movie Scarface, once I had reached it and which I could only assume was so because the writers of said film had been high on the subject matter and had just thrown a dart at a map of Bolivia and gotten the giggles when they landed on that one. So yes, Cochabamba was warmer than, say, La Paz. And it was the town from which the dude from Scarface was from. And it had a really really really massive statute of Jesus on one of its hills that you could reach by taking a teleferica which takes my teleferica riding tally up to three (3). Cochabamba also had... a market which sold... all the shit you would usually find at a market. It also had cheap internet. And we saw Spiderman 3 there so I can also tell you that Cochabamba had a cinema. (Actually, it had several but we picked the darkets and most rundown one because it was nearest to our hostal. It had a massive screen but really old seats and they seemed to save energy by refusing to turn on the foyer lights on if a)a film was screening b)if it was between film screenings c)you needed to go to the toilet).
After becoming thoroughly depressed and ringing people back home we got out of Cochabamba and headed to the apparently largest city in Bolivia, Santa Cruz.
Santa Cruz was even warmer than Cochabamba (yay!) and we saw a toucan chilling in a hostal's communal garden on our first day there. I also saw: a family of three that employed two nannies and back to back episodes of Pimp My Ride. We also found a cool bar which was attached to some LA Mama-esque theater or some shit. It was interesting to note that "artistic" bars are the same all over the world, complete with over-priced drinks, uppity waiters (faux-crying waitor from Cuba, I will never miss you), slightly drunk people talking loudly about the Truth of their Vision and fucking awesome toilets (so massive! So clean! So enowed with sweet smelling soap, just like the Malthouse. Kind of.).
However, lured by the promise of a train to the boarder, Carly and I decided it was time to go back to the crazy bimodial station and try to get closer to Argentina. Plus we'd tried on all the jeans we liked in town and they were either too small or made in Argentina.
Unfortunately the train wasnt running so we decided to splurge on a cama bus all the way to the Argentinian town of Salta, 20 hours away.
Some important questions I have learnt to ask since that decision:
1)Is it one bus direct to [town]?
2)Is it cama all the way?
3)How long is it expected to take?
If I had asked any of those questions I might've been surprised to learn that the answer was
1)No - it is a series of whichever buses will be running whenever you get to bus terminals (disperate) throughout Argentina
2)No - see above. Also, some shitty buses, missing windows and sections of seats, will be used to ferry you and your fellow passengers through burning road blocks and massive prickly branches that will be strewn on Argentinian roads for no reason that will ever be explained to you
3)That depends on whether you count the amount of time it takes to get off a bus on the hour, every hour, once in Argentina to have your bags and every other bag on the bus searched by police and have them go through your passport and peer suspiciously at a stamp that was placed within it mere hours before.
When we actually arrived in Salta (a mere 20 hours, as predicted, later) both of us refused to believe we had actually made it. We asked not only the bus driver but the guy unloading our bags and anyone else we could grab if we really, truly, were, RIGHT NOW, in Salta (yes, this is Salta. Yes. Right here. This place. Now).
And then we went out to dinner and enjoyed a complimentary entree of small dishes the kitchen had made for the sheer hell of it and the satisfaction of knowing that a quater of a bottle of wine was cheaper than a bottle of water.
Ah Bolivia. Close to Argentina indeed
Having finally made it to Argentina I can now safely say "Word, Mother of jz, word"
Yes, I found a country which made me feel uncomfortably like the spolied, obsessed with flat paved roads and foods-that-are-not-fried-chicken, whiny, bourgeois white girl that I am.
Bolivia was... bolivia was... Bolivia was mainly just "there". It had some mountains, sort of like Peru, it had a capital that was kind of like Bogotá but uglier and, when we first arrived, in total lockdown for the 1st of May. It had a shitload of icecreameries which Carly found joyous and which I appreciated since they helped to pass the time.
The two of us strayed from the typical gringo route of seeing Bolivia. Instead of heading for the salt fields and taking photos of each other in glittering whiteness, we headed towards Paraguay to try to find some warmth, perhaps some enormous cocktails, perhaps some rivers... mainly just some damn warmth though since I had been denied any in Peru and was totally fed up with my meagre number of warm clothes and my dependence on woollen jumpers. (Yes! I know! Woolly jumpers! And I'm not even in New Zealand!)
So from La Paz we headed to Cochabamba, a town I was informed was integral to the movie Scarface, once I had reached it and which I could only assume was so because the writers of said film had been high on the subject matter and had just thrown a dart at a map of Bolivia and gotten the giggles when they landed on that one. So yes, Cochabamba was warmer than, say, La Paz. And it was the town from which the dude from Scarface was from. And it had a really really really massive statute of Jesus on one of its hills that you could reach by taking a teleferica which takes my teleferica riding tally up to three (3). Cochabamba also had... a market which sold... all the shit you would usually find at a market. It also had cheap internet. And we saw Spiderman 3 there so I can also tell you that Cochabamba had a cinema. (Actually, it had several but we picked the darkets and most rundown one because it was nearest to our hostal. It had a massive screen but really old seats and they seemed to save energy by refusing to turn on the foyer lights on if a)a film was screening b)if it was between film screenings c)you needed to go to the toilet).
After becoming thoroughly depressed and ringing people back home we got out of Cochabamba and headed to the apparently largest city in Bolivia, Santa Cruz.
Santa Cruz was even warmer than Cochabamba (yay!) and we saw a toucan chilling in a hostal's communal garden on our first day there. I also saw: a family of three that employed two nannies and back to back episodes of Pimp My Ride. We also found a cool bar which was attached to some LA Mama-esque theater or some shit. It was interesting to note that "artistic" bars are the same all over the world, complete with over-priced drinks, uppity waiters (faux-crying waitor from Cuba, I will never miss you), slightly drunk people talking loudly about the Truth of their Vision and fucking awesome toilets (so massive! So clean! So enowed with sweet smelling soap, just like the Malthouse. Kind of.).
However, lured by the promise of a train to the boarder, Carly and I decided it was time to go back to the crazy bimodial station and try to get closer to Argentina. Plus we'd tried on all the jeans we liked in town and they were either too small or made in Argentina.
Unfortunately the train wasnt running so we decided to splurge on a cama bus all the way to the Argentinian town of Salta, 20 hours away.
Some important questions I have learnt to ask since that decision:
1)Is it one bus direct to [town]?
2)Is it cama all the way?
3)How long is it expected to take?
If I had asked any of those questions I might've been surprised to learn that the answer was
1)No - it is a series of whichever buses will be running whenever you get to bus terminals (disperate) throughout Argentina
2)No - see above. Also, some shitty buses, missing windows and sections of seats, will be used to ferry you and your fellow passengers through burning road blocks and massive prickly branches that will be strewn on Argentinian roads for no reason that will ever be explained to you
3)That depends on whether you count the amount of time it takes to get off a bus on the hour, every hour, once in Argentina to have your bags and every other bag on the bus searched by police and have them go through your passport and peer suspiciously at a stamp that was placed within it mere hours before.
When we actually arrived in Salta (a mere 20 hours, as predicted, later) both of us refused to believe we had actually made it. We asked not only the bus driver but the guy unloading our bags and anyone else we could grab if we really, truly, were, RIGHT NOW, in Salta (yes, this is Salta. Yes. Right here. This place. Now).
And then we went out to dinner and enjoyed a complimentary entree of small dishes the kitchen had made for the sheer hell of it and the satisfaction of knowing that a quater of a bottle of wine was cheaper than a bottle of water.
Ah Bolivia. Close to Argentina indeed
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Y Tu Mamá También, Peru
As noted earlier, Peru annonced its antipathy towards sleep early. Through the type of intelligent timetabling that left me speechless (running out of words has become something of a recurring theme during my stay here), it is only possible to fly to Cusco first thing in the morning. Ok, fine, no problem I understand theres some issue with airflows over mountains or some shit, I get that mountains are hard to deal with, that's why I wanted to fly over as many of them as possible. Only, the cheapest flight from Ecuador to Cusco got into Lima at 8pm on Tuesday afternoon and didnt leave until 6am the next morning.
What to do? After no serious consideration and some reference to people getting kidnapped from taxis in Lima, Carly and I decided the only sensible thing to do would be to stay up all night at the airport. And so it began.
It started off alright. We chatted to a thai-boxing instructor who was on his way to meet his financee in London. He left us a bottle of pisco and paid for our hot chocolates. So far, so good. But it was only midnight. There were hours of aimless wandering left to go. Reading a pamphlet on the links between architecture and fashion became impossible. The fact that I had worn my glasses for two hours without noticing that I was missing the lense in the right eye became hilarious all over again. Macdonalds started to exert an impossible-to-deny allure over Carly. The knitwear displayed in the stores started to look strange. Even the 24 hours massuese ladies gave up and went to sleep. We went to the internet thing and wrote sometimes unsendable emails to friends around the world.
And then we started playing "You must..." This game started after we'd already photographed me pushing the luggage trolley over a prone Carly and involved either of us pointing at various items of Forbidden Knitwear and saying "you must put that on" and then taking a photo. I ended up looking like Michael Moore craddling a stuffed green iguana.
Eventually we made it to Cusco. We were greeted by a traditional band playing right by the baggage carosel, a cheery sound at 7.30am after no sleep - just like the band at the Vic Markets only, you know, right there. Playing pipes. Next to your backpack.
By the time we had stumbled out to the taxis we had aquired a new friend in Dave the Californian bartender/history teacher. He was tall. He wore Certified Travelling Gear. He refused to speak Spanish or spill the beans on the story of how he came to be in Cusco waiting for a girl he didnt seem to know that well so that they could go hiking together. The only thing either of us ever learnt about him was that he and I shared a taste for 60s and 70s funk and soul and that he owned a turntable. But what about the girl??? (We met her before we left. She was hot. We tried to see if they'd moved into a room with a double bed in it but were thwarted by the gloom of the hostal.)
Cusco was full of cobblestones, toutes, tourists and bars showing free dvds. We spent three days "acclimatising" which meant checking out the free dvds, dying my hair and reading endless shitty books. It also meant being woken up 6.20am by some guy with our laundry. I have never been so angry to see my clothes in my life. In no time zone or country that I know of is it necessary to receive freshly washed clothes at that hour.
Eventually we realised we'd seen all the good films and it might be time to move on to that place that all those annoying backpackers kept on talking about. Mashu pish something or other. We heard there were rocks or stones or something.
Getting there seemed, considering the popularity of the destination, surprisingly hard. One travel agent told us it was impossible to go there on a Sunday. Another said it was possible but it was cheaper to go for three days than it was for one. Also, that we would have to meet him at 6.45am on Sunday morning with our passports for some sort of check for PeruRail. Why?? I demanded. Because. But that's totally stupid. Yes. Yes it is - see you tomorrow at 6.45. And thus I was introduced to one of the things that made my time in Peru so special. There is no answer to the question "why". There is only "because". And how could that possibly get annoying, right?
6.45am on a Sunday in Cusco is not a good time. The only people on the streets were people coming home. And four guys who knew enough english to offer painful anal sex with us if we'd only stop and talk to them. 6.45am was also not a good time for finding travel agents. So we cursed him soundly and went back to the hostal. Where he appeared ten minutes after we had crawled back into bed. And insisted that we follow him into a taxi. Carly was convinced that we were about to get kidnapped and killed and although I agreed with her I figured we may as well resign ourselves to fate anyway and get into the freaking car. And wait at PeruRail. And show our passports for five seconds. And then be sent off back into a taxi again. Why was that necessary?? [Because!]
After a soothing breakfast we started off for Macchu Picchu by way of some other ruins. The guide on our bus suggested if we were going to Macchu Picchu we might want to skip the first lot altogether and stay at the markets. Faced with the choice betweenshopping gaining an insight into the local culture at one of the largest markets in Peru or looking at rocks, we chose the more culturally sensitive option, feeling smug for about an hour until we realised that the market was enormous and there were only so many ugly hats you could try on and laugh about before the joke stopped being funny.
That afternoon we were dropped off at another fascinating stone-based thingo which we totally checked out from the comfort of a cafe which made one of the best hot chocolates I have ever drunk in my life. As was the way in Ecuador, however, just when I was hoping I could sensitively participate in a Peruvian Sunday afternoon by reading trashy UK magazines and drinking hot chocolate and try not to fall asleep on the table, my spanish was tested by the friendly proprietor who wanted to know where we were from, where we were going and what we thought of the ruins (oh great! the view was fantastic!).
After a dinner of vegemite and bread we headed off into the dark for the train to Aqua Caliente, the town at the bottom of Macchu Picchu. It was dark by then. We had been up for many hours and were dreading the prospect of being woken up at 5am the next day (Why did we have to get up so early? Because!). I was also dreading the prospect of sitting next to the crazy girl from dinner who had loudly proclaimed that Monsanto was the reason why chinese children were obese. Ok. Luckily for us, we sat across from Lolita and Ana, two girls from Spain by way of several other continents who, like us, regretted not bringing a hipflask on the train and who had their eyes peeled for unnecessarily ugly backpackers (as Ana said, where do they even get the clothes? And how much do you bet they go home, cut off the manky hair and turn back into stock brokers?)
Everything was going well until suddenly the train stopped. For once, this wasnt one of those "why/because" moments. No, it turned out that the train stopped because there had been a slight avalanche over the tracks and we'd have to wait awhile for the rocks to get cleared. Fine. Great. Only four hours of potential sleep remained for us by the time we got to the town since we'd both foolishly agreed to walk up to Macchu Picchu in the dark to suprise it in the sunrise, as it were.
Getting to our hotel as the rain started we... did not find our guide. Where was our guide, I asked. He was coming, in half an hour. Ok he was coming later. Ok, it was midnight and he... was coming at 5am. WTF? A heated argument ensued between me and the hotel clerk where I demanded he call the guide and find out what the hell was going on and he, waking us up four hours later, told us we had no guide and would have to beg for one at the bus stop in another few hours time. Then he woke us up again half an hour later with the mythical guide in tow who told us he'd be back in an hour. By this time we had given up all thoughts of walking to Macchu Picchu since it was bucketing down outside and what the hell was the point of walking through torrents of rain when there wasnt going to be any sunrise to see at the end of it?
As the guide told us, several times, as we eventually trailed after him through the ruins of Macchu Picchu, we were being treated to the "magic and mystical" view of Macchu Picchu. Not everyone got to see it, we were lucky.
Indeed.
After two days of arse-crack early starts and a week of cold weather and rain I had decided that enough was enough and after all the Quechera admiring and stone-staring and terrace-appreciating it was time to head to the jungle, find a hammock and do nothing but get warm for awhile.
So the day after Macchu Picchu we found ourselves back on the (avalanche-free) train at 5.45am looking forward to a short bus ride down to the edge of the amazon jungle. Maybe there would be monkeys! Or butterflies!
Or maybe there would be....getting off the train to an hysterical swarm of bus and taxi and collectivo drivers trying to get people back to Cusco. And one driver who assured me that actually, to get to the jungle we had to backtrack to another little town where he dropped us off and assured us that we just had to cross the street and, look! the sign said the bus would be there in a few minutes. The lady sitting next to the sign told me it would be more like an hour but nontheless, the bus to the jungle would totes be coming past here. Oh, and did we want tickets? Because she had tickets. She never moved to show us these tickets but she did say there were tickets there. For the bus. Somewhere. I figured she'd help us when the time came but until then we would wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And stare in horror at a local's toenails which were so... I cant... there were no words. And no buses. Until, after three hours, there was a bus. Only they said we needed tickets. And maybe it wasnt even the bus we wanted anyway. But did we have tickets? (The ticket lady had totally disappeared at this point.) And then it drove away.
And then I cracked it.
So we crossed the street and asked some incredibly nice lady on the other side if buses to cusco stopped there and she told us yes, and then some nattily dressed old gentleman came out and told us about the buses to Cusco as well and, in our weakend state, we asked him if he could flag one down for us which he agreed to and then he and I chatted about how beautiful the town in the jungle that I was no longer going to was and how I couldnt stand waiting anymore and how apparently Bolivia was also quite nice too.
Four hours after everyone else, we get back to Cusco and are dropped off half way across town in the only private bus terminal there. After being ignored by several taxis, we finally get to the proper bus terminal and are again confronted by people yelling at us for differnt towns. By this stage we are both exhausted, annoyed, kind of hungry and I am desperate to get out of Cusco since I relate it to all the ills and evils I have suffered in the past three days, plus, it is bloody cold. And Bolivia must be better than this, right?
So we decide to catch a bus to Puno that the lady promises is direct and has a toilet and will leave at 1.15.
The bus to Puno, it turns out, does indeed have a toilet which is locked, the entire trip, and leaves at 1.45 and takes the long, unpaved road to Puno so instead of a 5 or 6 hour bus ride, it takes us nearly 8 with lots of stops in strange and deserted towns along the way.
By the time we reached Puno, at 9pm after starting the day travelling at 5.45am, Carly and I had run out of words. We stopped really being able to speak half an hour out of Puno as we pulled into yet another desolate town, this one even more post-apocolyptic looking than any we had been through before. The whole day had been so hellish that there was simply nothing left to say. And Puno itself turned out to be cold and ugly and everyone appeared vaguely grumpy (in appearance anyway)and the place we are stayed at, although warm, was noisy and the guy who checked us in appeared to be a relative of the 6.20am laundry deliverer - waking us up at twenty to eight on our first morning trying to take us on a tour of the islands in Lake Titicaca which he had, apparently, tried to sell to us the night before (I thought I had told him that we were hungry, not that we were hungry for a tour...).
After another night though, our amigas from Macchu Picchu blew into town and together we found the fiesta that Puno had failed to show us before. Naturally, our timing being as impeccable as ever, we found this party the night before we were meant to get up early to go on a boat tour of the floating islands. We also found that the party consisted possibly solely of me, Carly and AC/DC at a bar somewhere on the main pedestrian street in Puno. But who can fight the power of american thighs shaking someone all night long? Not true Australians, thank you. Ana provided another fiesta after the bar which for some reason involved hanging out the hotel window and two out of three people falling asleep with their clothes on (No Mum, I have no idea what might've happened).
So the dancing and then the boat tour, whilst not possibly being the best of all possible combinations, almost endeared Peru to me. Almost. The floating islands really were fascinating, the tour guide lady was genial, the touristy things, whilst being touristy were also kind of fun and the sun was shining. And in the afternoon we were off to Bolivia - what could possibly be better (certainly not the salchipapas at Riko's Pan, the best freaking bakery in Peru) than that? Or, to put it another way, what could possibly go wrong?
Oh, I dont know, how about being stopped at the boarder by bored Peruvian police who went through my handbag, demanded to know why I hadnt changed all my money (because!) and asked me repeatedly if I had ever done drugs (actually that part was cool because I got to use a new spanish word - nunca! [that means never, mum]). Or how about finding out I had lost a slip of paper from my passport in The Great Perpetual Flood of Macchu Picchu and running around in the rain trying to find change for the fee of losing the paper since the man demanding the fee apparently had none. And having the bus attempt to leave without me. And then having the wizened, evil, crabbed and hunchbacked old man who sent me chasing through the rain try to stop me from leaving on the bus because the fiver I gave him had a rip in it. Well ¡no my problema señor!
And finally we were out of Peru.
Sans any forbidden knitwear (take that LeAnn Rhimes), con some bracelets that had brought me no luck whatsoever despite the number of Peruvians who assured me that they would and also still with Ana and Lolita who joined me in my tourette like swearing at key moments on our journey and who also promised to make us do more than just watch shitty dvds and drink red wine.
What to do? After no serious consideration and some reference to people getting kidnapped from taxis in Lima, Carly and I decided the only sensible thing to do would be to stay up all night at the airport. And so it began.
It started off alright. We chatted to a thai-boxing instructor who was on his way to meet his financee in London. He left us a bottle of pisco and paid for our hot chocolates. So far, so good. But it was only midnight. There were hours of aimless wandering left to go. Reading a pamphlet on the links between architecture and fashion became impossible. The fact that I had worn my glasses for two hours without noticing that I was missing the lense in the right eye became hilarious all over again. Macdonalds started to exert an impossible-to-deny allure over Carly. The knitwear displayed in the stores started to look strange. Even the 24 hours massuese ladies gave up and went to sleep. We went to the internet thing and wrote sometimes unsendable emails to friends around the world.
And then we started playing "You must..." This game started after we'd already photographed me pushing the luggage trolley over a prone Carly and involved either of us pointing at various items of Forbidden Knitwear and saying "you must put that on" and then taking a photo. I ended up looking like Michael Moore craddling a stuffed green iguana.
Eventually we made it to Cusco. We were greeted by a traditional band playing right by the baggage carosel, a cheery sound at 7.30am after no sleep - just like the band at the Vic Markets only, you know, right there. Playing pipes. Next to your backpack.
By the time we had stumbled out to the taxis we had aquired a new friend in Dave the Californian bartender/history teacher. He was tall. He wore Certified Travelling Gear. He refused to speak Spanish or spill the beans on the story of how he came to be in Cusco waiting for a girl he didnt seem to know that well so that they could go hiking together. The only thing either of us ever learnt about him was that he and I shared a taste for 60s and 70s funk and soul and that he owned a turntable. But what about the girl??? (We met her before we left. She was hot. We tried to see if they'd moved into a room with a double bed in it but were thwarted by the gloom of the hostal.)
Cusco was full of cobblestones, toutes, tourists and bars showing free dvds. We spent three days "acclimatising" which meant checking out the free dvds, dying my hair and reading endless shitty books. It also meant being woken up 6.20am by some guy with our laundry. I have never been so angry to see my clothes in my life. In no time zone or country that I know of is it necessary to receive freshly washed clothes at that hour.
Eventually we realised we'd seen all the good films and it might be time to move on to that place that all those annoying backpackers kept on talking about. Mashu pish something or other. We heard there were rocks or stones or something.
Getting there seemed, considering the popularity of the destination, surprisingly hard. One travel agent told us it was impossible to go there on a Sunday. Another said it was possible but it was cheaper to go for three days than it was for one. Also, that we would have to meet him at 6.45am on Sunday morning with our passports for some sort of check for PeruRail. Why?? I demanded. Because. But that's totally stupid. Yes. Yes it is - see you tomorrow at 6.45. And thus I was introduced to one of the things that made my time in Peru so special. There is no answer to the question "why". There is only "because". And how could that possibly get annoying, right?
6.45am on a Sunday in Cusco is not a good time. The only people on the streets were people coming home. And four guys who knew enough english to offer painful anal sex with us if we'd only stop and talk to them. 6.45am was also not a good time for finding travel agents. So we cursed him soundly and went back to the hostal. Where he appeared ten minutes after we had crawled back into bed. And insisted that we follow him into a taxi. Carly was convinced that we were about to get kidnapped and killed and although I agreed with her I figured we may as well resign ourselves to fate anyway and get into the freaking car. And wait at PeruRail. And show our passports for five seconds. And then be sent off back into a taxi again. Why was that necessary?? [Because!]
After a soothing breakfast we started off for Macchu Picchu by way of some other ruins. The guide on our bus suggested if we were going to Macchu Picchu we might want to skip the first lot altogether and stay at the markets. Faced with the choice between
That afternoon we were dropped off at another fascinating stone-based thingo which we totally checked out from the comfort of a cafe which made one of the best hot chocolates I have ever drunk in my life. As was the way in Ecuador, however, just when I was hoping I could sensitively participate in a Peruvian Sunday afternoon by reading trashy UK magazines and drinking hot chocolate and try not to fall asleep on the table, my spanish was tested by the friendly proprietor who wanted to know where we were from, where we were going and what we thought of the ruins (oh great! the view was fantastic!).
After a dinner of vegemite and bread we headed off into the dark for the train to Aqua Caliente, the town at the bottom of Macchu Picchu. It was dark by then. We had been up for many hours and were dreading the prospect of being woken up at 5am the next day (Why did we have to get up so early? Because!). I was also dreading the prospect of sitting next to the crazy girl from dinner who had loudly proclaimed that Monsanto was the reason why chinese children were obese. Ok. Luckily for us, we sat across from Lolita and Ana, two girls from Spain by way of several other continents who, like us, regretted not bringing a hipflask on the train and who had their eyes peeled for unnecessarily ugly backpackers (as Ana said, where do they even get the clothes? And how much do you bet they go home, cut off the manky hair and turn back into stock brokers?)
Everything was going well until suddenly the train stopped. For once, this wasnt one of those "why/because" moments. No, it turned out that the train stopped because there had been a slight avalanche over the tracks and we'd have to wait awhile for the rocks to get cleared. Fine. Great. Only four hours of potential sleep remained for us by the time we got to the town since we'd both foolishly agreed to walk up to Macchu Picchu in the dark to suprise it in the sunrise, as it were.
Getting to our hotel as the rain started we... did not find our guide. Where was our guide, I asked. He was coming, in half an hour. Ok he was coming later. Ok, it was midnight and he... was coming at 5am. WTF? A heated argument ensued between me and the hotel clerk where I demanded he call the guide and find out what the hell was going on and he, waking us up four hours later, told us we had no guide and would have to beg for one at the bus stop in another few hours time. Then he woke us up again half an hour later with the mythical guide in tow who told us he'd be back in an hour. By this time we had given up all thoughts of walking to Macchu Picchu since it was bucketing down outside and what the hell was the point of walking through torrents of rain when there wasnt going to be any sunrise to see at the end of it?
As the guide told us, several times, as we eventually trailed after him through the ruins of Macchu Picchu, we were being treated to the "magic and mystical" view of Macchu Picchu. Not everyone got to see it, we were lucky.
Indeed.
After two days of arse-crack early starts and a week of cold weather and rain I had decided that enough was enough and after all the Quechera admiring and stone-staring and terrace-appreciating it was time to head to the jungle, find a hammock and do nothing but get warm for awhile.
So the day after Macchu Picchu we found ourselves back on the (avalanche-free) train at 5.45am looking forward to a short bus ride down to the edge of the amazon jungle. Maybe there would be monkeys! Or butterflies!
Or maybe there would be....getting off the train to an hysterical swarm of bus and taxi and collectivo drivers trying to get people back to Cusco. And one driver who assured me that actually, to get to the jungle we had to backtrack to another little town where he dropped us off and assured us that we just had to cross the street and, look! the sign said the bus would be there in a few minutes. The lady sitting next to the sign told me it would be more like an hour but nontheless, the bus to the jungle would totes be coming past here. Oh, and did we want tickets? Because she had tickets. She never moved to show us these tickets but she did say there were tickets there. For the bus. Somewhere. I figured she'd help us when the time came but until then we would wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And stare in horror at a local's toenails which were so... I cant... there were no words. And no buses. Until, after three hours, there was a bus. Only they said we needed tickets. And maybe it wasnt even the bus we wanted anyway. But did we have tickets? (The ticket lady had totally disappeared at this point.) And then it drove away.
And then I cracked it.
So we crossed the street and asked some incredibly nice lady on the other side if buses to cusco stopped there and she told us yes, and then some nattily dressed old gentleman came out and told us about the buses to Cusco as well and, in our weakend state, we asked him if he could flag one down for us which he agreed to and then he and I chatted about how beautiful the town in the jungle that I was no longer going to was and how I couldnt stand waiting anymore and how apparently Bolivia was also quite nice too.
Four hours after everyone else, we get back to Cusco and are dropped off half way across town in the only private bus terminal there. After being ignored by several taxis, we finally get to the proper bus terminal and are again confronted by people yelling at us for differnt towns. By this stage we are both exhausted, annoyed, kind of hungry and I am desperate to get out of Cusco since I relate it to all the ills and evils I have suffered in the past three days, plus, it is bloody cold. And Bolivia must be better than this, right?
So we decide to catch a bus to Puno that the lady promises is direct and has a toilet and will leave at 1.15.
The bus to Puno, it turns out, does indeed have a toilet which is locked, the entire trip, and leaves at 1.45 and takes the long, unpaved road to Puno so instead of a 5 or 6 hour bus ride, it takes us nearly 8 with lots of stops in strange and deserted towns along the way.
By the time we reached Puno, at 9pm after starting the day travelling at 5.45am, Carly and I had run out of words. We stopped really being able to speak half an hour out of Puno as we pulled into yet another desolate town, this one even more post-apocolyptic looking than any we had been through before. The whole day had been so hellish that there was simply nothing left to say. And Puno itself turned out to be cold and ugly and everyone appeared vaguely grumpy (in appearance anyway)and the place we are stayed at, although warm, was noisy and the guy who checked us in appeared to be a relative of the 6.20am laundry deliverer - waking us up at twenty to eight on our first morning trying to take us on a tour of the islands in Lake Titicaca which he had, apparently, tried to sell to us the night before (I thought I had told him that we were hungry, not that we were hungry for a tour...).
After another night though, our amigas from Macchu Picchu blew into town and together we found the fiesta that Puno had failed to show us before. Naturally, our timing being as impeccable as ever, we found this party the night before we were meant to get up early to go on a boat tour of the floating islands. We also found that the party consisted possibly solely of me, Carly and AC/DC at a bar somewhere on the main pedestrian street in Puno. But who can fight the power of american thighs shaking someone all night long? Not true Australians, thank you. Ana provided another fiesta after the bar which for some reason involved hanging out the hotel window and two out of three people falling asleep with their clothes on (No Mum, I have no idea what might've happened).
So the dancing and then the boat tour, whilst not possibly being the best of all possible combinations, almost endeared Peru to me. Almost. The floating islands really were fascinating, the tour guide lady was genial, the touristy things, whilst being touristy were also kind of fun and the sun was shining. And in the afternoon we were off to Bolivia - what could possibly be better (certainly not the salchipapas at Riko's Pan, the best freaking bakery in Peru) than that? Or, to put it another way, what could possibly go wrong?
Oh, I dont know, how about being stopped at the boarder by bored Peruvian police who went through my handbag, demanded to know why I hadnt changed all my money (because!) and asked me repeatedly if I had ever done drugs (actually that part was cool because I got to use a new spanish word - nunca! [that means never, mum]). Or how about finding out I had lost a slip of paper from my passport in The Great Perpetual Flood of Macchu Picchu and running around in the rain trying to find change for the fee of losing the paper since the man demanding the fee apparently had none. And having the bus attempt to leave without me. And then having the wizened, evil, crabbed and hunchbacked old man who sent me chasing through the rain try to stop me from leaving on the bus because the fiver I gave him had a rip in it. Well ¡no my problema señor!
And finally we were out of Peru.
Sans any forbidden knitwear (take that LeAnn Rhimes), con some bracelets that had brought me no luck whatsoever despite the number of Peruvians who assured me that they would and also still with Ana and Lolita who joined me in my tourette like swearing at key moments on our journey and who also promised to make us do more than just watch shitty dvds and drink red wine.
Monday, April 23, 2007
I've Been To Bali! Er, Ecuador
So when last I wrote, I was grumpy and waterlogged in Quito. Quito will never be invited to any parties of mine, I've decided, since it lacks direction and a clear centre and its buildings are always in the completely opposite direction to that indicated in the tiny little Lonely Planet Map. The only thing in Quito's favour is its plethora of second hand book shops and its well educated checkout boys at its supermarkets who can attempt to flirt in two (2) languages whilst simultaneously scanning items. Not good enough though, Quito, I'm afraid. You and your high altitudes and dreary weather can get stuffed.
Deciding to condemn any and all of Ecuador's remaining Mountain Charms to the bin, I set off for the coast for a week of doing nothing at all except working on my tan and eating fish. I accomplished these lofty ambitions admirably and although I suspect that great weather and cheap food may make one a lessintelligent introspective and morose person, being able to ponder which cheesy mills and boones-esque adjective for "tanned" I would choose to describe myself each day (would it be caramel? toffee? honey? and if honey, which type? blue gum? So many questions) certainly made the time pass pleasantly. As did unexpectedly meeting a fellow Melbourne girl named Carly who understood the need to dress well even while backpacking and has been a total convert to the Vigilant Society Against Forbidden Knitwear. So Pacific coast of Ecuador with your sleepy seaside towns and persistantly chatty locals (how many times can a girl say "no se!" before one gives up? Approximately 30minutes), I salute you!
Currently I am in Peru, home of all the most forbidden of Forbidden Knitwear and a country that seems determined to make sure I do not sleep whilst I am here. Since homicide seems frowned upon I will attempt to leave after not contracting malaria on the edge of The Jungle and not buying anything with an alpaca on it.
Wish me luck
Deciding to condemn any and all of Ecuador's remaining Mountain Charms to the bin, I set off for the coast for a week of doing nothing at all except working on my tan and eating fish. I accomplished these lofty ambitions admirably and although I suspect that great weather and cheap food may make one a less
Currently I am in Peru, home of all the most forbidden of Forbidden Knitwear and a country that seems determined to make sure I do not sleep whilst I am here. Since homicide seems frowned upon I will attempt to leave after not contracting malaria on the edge of The Jungle and not buying anything with an alpaca on it.
Wish me luck
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Pause in Transmission
Oh you knew it was going to happen.
I cant be bothered talking about my journey through the rest of Columbia.
I went to Medellín, the transport wasn't free, I saw the two doves of peace by Botero, I saw nine Irish men make irish stew with hash in it and then watch Hotel Rwanda (why would you do that stoned? Why?).
I went to Santa Fe in Antiquoa and was beaten by the heat and the hotels that wouldnt let anyone swim in their pools. I managed not to trip over any of the many, many men with machine guns that were stationed around this sleepy market-town´s square.
I went to Bogota and stayed in La Candelaria which is small and cobblestoned in part and covered in stencils just like Fitzroy and had friendly people and a cobbler who fixed two pairs of shoes for me*. I also wandered into a European film festival and found myself watching a german film from 1954 about... a bridge... or some freedom fighters from Belarus... or Yukoslavia...or somewhere and something about Germans and "tife" which I only worked out afterwards was typhoid. And then I watched an impossibly french film called "The Page Turner" which I would advise no one to ever watch unless drunk or stoned. Those irish from Medellín are probably hiring it right now.
And I went up another teleferica and realised that there were miles and miles and miles of Bogota that I would never know and probably it was better that way.
And then I travelled for four days straight to wind up in Ecuador where I'm now. In the mountains. It is high up. And cold. It rains every day. There are Indians. And markets. I have bargained and purchased unnecessary things. The beer comes in one litre bottles but the money is all American dollars so suddenly I'm not a millionaire anymore.
Tomorrow I'm off to Quito, hopefully to not get robbed or pickpocketed. I have already had my bag searched and aired my dirty undies in the customs office.
For desperate picture loving losers out there, check out this rather good flikr site for photos somewhat relevant to some of my observations:
Katie's Flikr Site
Soon I will unleash my "El Sabor de la Sandia" photo on this blog. Soon.
*that link includes a picture of the hostal that I stayed in, too, although I never went up that staircase and the hostal was mainly cold, dark and damp. Ah well.
I cant be bothered talking about my journey through the rest of Columbia.
I went to Medellín, the transport wasn't free, I saw the two doves of peace by Botero, I saw nine Irish men make irish stew with hash in it and then watch Hotel Rwanda (why would you do that stoned? Why?).
I went to Santa Fe in Antiquoa and was beaten by the heat and the hotels that wouldnt let anyone swim in their pools. I managed not to trip over any of the many, many men with machine guns that were stationed around this sleepy market-town´s square.
I went to Bogota and stayed in La Candelaria which is small and cobblestoned in part and covered in stencils just like Fitzroy and had friendly people and a cobbler who fixed two pairs of shoes for me*. I also wandered into a European film festival and found myself watching a german film from 1954 about... a bridge... or some freedom fighters from Belarus... or Yukoslavia...or somewhere and something about Germans and "tife" which I only worked out afterwards was typhoid. And then I watched an impossibly french film called "The Page Turner" which I would advise no one to ever watch unless drunk or stoned. Those irish from Medellín are probably hiring it right now.
And I went up another teleferica and realised that there were miles and miles and miles of Bogota that I would never know and probably it was better that way.
And then I travelled for four days straight to wind up in Ecuador where I'm now. In the mountains. It is high up. And cold. It rains every day. There are Indians. And markets. I have bargained and purchased unnecessary things. The beer comes in one litre bottles but the money is all American dollars so suddenly I'm not a millionaire anymore.
Tomorrow I'm off to Quito, hopefully to not get robbed or pickpocketed. I have already had my bag searched and aired my dirty undies in the customs office.
For desperate picture loving losers out there, check out this rather good flikr site for photos somewhat relevant to some of my observations:
Katie's Flikr Site
Soon I will unleash my "El Sabor de la Sandia" photo on this blog. Soon.
*that link includes a picture of the hostal that I stayed in, too, although I never went up that staircase and the hostal was mainly cold, dark and damp. Ah well.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside
Before departing for Medellín we found ourselves with a Sunday to kill in Cartagena. And what could be nicer than going to the legendarily beautiful beach of Playa Blanca on a Sunday? We even rose early for the pleasure of it. Plus, The Book had blandly informed us that on Sundays, the trip to the beach was just one direct bus ride away. How hard could it be?
Talking to the hotel man before we left we became aware that getting the beach actually involved a busride, a ferry ride and then a strange other ride at the end after that that could involve 4WDs or an immense rolling of rrrs or, well, some other form of transport. Still, straightforward no?
After wandering through the firmly closed Old City looking for coffee and baked goods, we finally threw ourselves on the right bus to get to the beach. Only the bus didnt seem in any hurry to get directly there. First it stopped for twenty minutes in a marketplace so people could climb aboard and sell peanuts, watches, orange drinks, packets of chips etc. Then the bus needed to stop at many friends' stalls along the way so that the driver or his mate could climb down, place a bet, drink another orange drink, chat a bit and then climb back on. Finally the bus needed to drive past the deserted and slightly eerie petrol factories along the seaside. Finally the bus kicked us off and left us to walk up a dusty main road that seemed far away from any type of water, never mind a ferry which was apparently around somewhere.
The ferry, an old rusted contraption that was powered by a little outboard motorboat that was strapped to the side of it, soon swung into view and we walked on to join the crowd of beer drinking men and a few children and mothers who all seemed to be heading to the sea. We thought the ferry would take us up the river a bit but instead it just swung around and crossed the sluggish brown expense of the river in about five minutes flat. For this we, the gringos, paid $2000 each while the locals only shelled out 300. This news was brought to us by one of the Isralies who were heading to the beach with us too. One of them challenged the ferryman at the end of the trip about the price discrepancy and called him a liar. Unmoved the ferryman directed him to the exit.
Standing on another empty, dusty road with a shack to our left we watched the only 4WD we'd seen all day (which was full with a columbian family) head off up the track and away. So how did we get to the beach exactly?
Word went around that there would be a collectívo soon but there was no bus and the ferry didnt seem to be up to much. In fact the only vehicle around was a smallish truck with a large rectangular metal box on its back. It pulled up, already crammed with the beer drinking men and the women and children and that when we realised it was the collectivo.
The "bus"ride took about forty minutes and during it we aged 40 years. This was due to the incredible quantity of white dust that everyone inhaled from the open door of the holdthingy. One of the locals laughingly proclaimed at one point that he was so dusty he was now white like a gringo. Us gringos merely stared at our newly aquired grey hair and thought about what we'd look like when we got old. And wondered when the jolting would stop. Or if I would ever be able to feel my arse ever again. The heat, as well, was immense. I sweated so much I thought I may as well've been in a pool.
Eventually the truck stopped (permanently this time, unlike the other pauses) and again we were hustled out and down another dusty road. Luckily this one lead us straight to the beach.
And honestly, it was the most beautiful beach I've seen. Soft white sand, clear aqua water ringed by darker bits where the reef stopped. Small waves. Drooping palm trees. Clear blue skies. The whole cliched thing. The water was perfect. It even managed to clear away the dust of the three hour journey.
Gorgeous.
It did make me appreciate how much easier it was to get to Williamstown though
Talking to the hotel man before we left we became aware that getting the beach actually involved a busride, a ferry ride and then a strange other ride at the end after that that could involve 4WDs or an immense rolling of rrrs or, well, some other form of transport. Still, straightforward no?
After wandering through the firmly closed Old City looking for coffee and baked goods, we finally threw ourselves on the right bus to get to the beach. Only the bus didnt seem in any hurry to get directly there. First it stopped for twenty minutes in a marketplace so people could climb aboard and sell peanuts, watches, orange drinks, packets of chips etc. Then the bus needed to stop at many friends' stalls along the way so that the driver or his mate could climb down, place a bet, drink another orange drink, chat a bit and then climb back on. Finally the bus needed to drive past the deserted and slightly eerie petrol factories along the seaside. Finally the bus kicked us off and left us to walk up a dusty main road that seemed far away from any type of water, never mind a ferry which was apparently around somewhere.
The ferry, an old rusted contraption that was powered by a little outboard motorboat that was strapped to the side of it, soon swung into view and we walked on to join the crowd of beer drinking men and a few children and mothers who all seemed to be heading to the sea. We thought the ferry would take us up the river a bit but instead it just swung around and crossed the sluggish brown expense of the river in about five minutes flat. For this we, the gringos, paid $2000 each while the locals only shelled out 300. This news was brought to us by one of the Isralies who were heading to the beach with us too. One of them challenged the ferryman at the end of the trip about the price discrepancy and called him a liar. Unmoved the ferryman directed him to the exit.
Standing on another empty, dusty road with a shack to our left we watched the only 4WD we'd seen all day (which was full with a columbian family) head off up the track and away. So how did we get to the beach exactly?
Word went around that there would be a collectívo soon but there was no bus and the ferry didnt seem to be up to much. In fact the only vehicle around was a smallish truck with a large rectangular metal box on its back. It pulled up, already crammed with the beer drinking men and the women and children and that when we realised it was the collectivo.
The "bus"ride took about forty minutes and during it we aged 40 years. This was due to the incredible quantity of white dust that everyone inhaled from the open door of the holdthingy. One of the locals laughingly proclaimed at one point that he was so dusty he was now white like a gringo. Us gringos merely stared at our newly aquired grey hair and thought about what we'd look like when we got old. And wondered when the jolting would stop. Or if I would ever be able to feel my arse ever again. The heat, as well, was immense. I sweated so much I thought I may as well've been in a pool.
Eventually the truck stopped (permanently this time, unlike the other pauses) and again we were hustled out and down another dusty road. Luckily this one lead us straight to the beach.
And honestly, it was the most beautiful beach I've seen. Soft white sand, clear aqua water ringed by darker bits where the reef stopped. Small waves. Drooping palm trees. Clear blue skies. The whole cliched thing. The water was perfect. It even managed to clear away the dust of the three hour journey.
Gorgeous.
It did make me appreciate how much easier it was to get to Williamstown though
Friday, March 23, 2007
Hamaca
Having been in Columbia for a few weeks now I can say categorically that happiness is a hammock. Not for me your fancy ideologies, your grand theories to help me make sense of my life and my place in it. My place is in a hammock, most perfectly with a beer. And that is all there is to it.
Our first night in Columbia was spent in Santa Marta, a smallish seaside town on the Carribean. Although the waves broke loudly they were no match for me. I had succeeded in dominating the Carribean. Columbia was looking good.
We had dinner down by the playa and then spied a bar right on the edge of the sea. Getting there involved walking past two men, one with a machine gun, so we were sure it was going to be worth it. The bar was in fact deserted so we lounged on the strange day beds they had set up, in the prime position right by the sea. Watching a ship come in, even when not sitting on the dock of the bay is still good. Especially with a cocktail in hand.
The next day, after swimming a little bit, we decided to head over the hill and swim some more in the tiny fishing village of Tanganga. Although only ten minutes by minibus away from Santa Marta the whole pace of life there was much slower. And our hotel was accessed only by trudging across the hot sand of the beach, past the families of Columbians who stared with some amusement at the red faced turtles panting past them or more politely tried not to see us at all. Our rooms, though, were sea facing and came with their own hamaca which started my obsession. Being able to either glare down at the burning isralis on the beach from the swaying confines of the hammock or, tiring of them, turning you back and simply staring out to sea, is totally fucking awesome.
The whole town was hammock obsessed. Hammocks were strung everywhere. After eating a large lunch, the only natural thing to do was to crawl into the handily located hammock and swing/nap through the digestion process until one felt strong enough to get up and pay for the food.
Finally tiring of the sting of the sea water, however, we decided to take a chance on an amusingly title finka we'd read about back in Santa Marta. Finkas are old coffee farms that owners have turned into bed and breakfast style places for tight arsed backpackers or families to stay in. This one was called Carpe Diem and apparently offered belgium hospitality.
Getting there, Evan (who was in charge of directions) realised he had misread them. We stayed on the minibus all the way to the end of the line and then halfway back again before we got off. Then, standing by the side of the road on a corner which seemed to attract all types of vehicle who delighted in slowing down, waiting to see if either of us would run up to it and then speeding off again just before we got there, we were to wait for the mysterious Motor Taxi which was apparently the only form of transport to the finka.
Motor Taxi turned out to be a little motorbike. That I was to sit on. With my backpack. And it would take me up the hill, down the other side and eventually to the finka.
I couldn't feel anything in my arms for about ten minutes after I got off that bike and I'm pretty sure the driver had bruises on his shoulders for days.
I also burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe getting off and it is currently an angry yellow and white colour and weeping puss. Good times!
So the drive up there involved me clutching the driver as tightly as I could and mentally debating whether it was better or worse when I had my eyes shut. I would've sworn to you, at the conclusion of that drive, that the road there had been little more than a dried out river bed, paved only with broken stones, gravel, hillocks and sticks and other frightening things that were going to throw me off.
On the drive back when my bag was slung across the handlebars for me, I was able to lean back and observe that in fact the road was wide and quite well maintained and the countryside was beautiful.
The finka itself was a charming place right by the river and we were the only ones staying there. It was managed by two men, one middle-agedish and lean who had been married to an irish lady and spoke some english. The other man was round like a bowling ball and was older and in charge of the cooking. He stuffed us with regular meals, so much so that on the final day when I learned he was serving us lunch only two hours after we'd finished eating breakfast I broke down and cried that I could not eat any more. He accepted that with grace but insisted that I try just one tiny bit of the local dish he had prepared especially. The dish turned out to be fresh green beans and onions floating in little lake of oil. It was delicious but the serve was enormous. Of course.
Days at the finka were totally demanding and strenuous. After eating breakfast we would usually swing in the hammocks for a bit until it got too hot and then we would walk up hill for a little bit, usually through the ecological reserve that was further up the road, and then swim in the river for a few hours. Then we would go back, eat some more, swing in the hammocks until we could move again and return to swimming. It was super tough.
Finishing one book meant it was time to move on so we headed back to the hustle of Santa Marta and caught a bus to Cartagena.
Cartagena is large, hot and has a walled city that has been here since Columbia was settled and was built to fight off the pirates. It is kind of cool but when we first got here it seemed very sterile and designed to gouge tourists. I now realise it is designed to gouge rich columbians and tourists alike but still, it is more fun to stay in the scungy old quater which is only five minutes walk away.
So far I've been to a dive bar and listend to drunk men sing along with incredibly cheesy Spanish music clips, I've been to the modern art museum (small) and I've walked in circles in the old city trying to find an internet cafe.
To view my sillhouette and my horrible, hungover hair: click here
Next stop is Medellîn where the public transport is free cos it was built and maintained by Pablo Escobar.
Our first night in Columbia was spent in Santa Marta, a smallish seaside town on the Carribean. Although the waves broke loudly they were no match for me. I had succeeded in dominating the Carribean. Columbia was looking good.
We had dinner down by the playa and then spied a bar right on the edge of the sea. Getting there involved walking past two men, one with a machine gun, so we were sure it was going to be worth it. The bar was in fact deserted so we lounged on the strange day beds they had set up, in the prime position right by the sea. Watching a ship come in, even when not sitting on the dock of the bay is still good. Especially with a cocktail in hand.
The next day, after swimming a little bit, we decided to head over the hill and swim some more in the tiny fishing village of Tanganga. Although only ten minutes by minibus away from Santa Marta the whole pace of life there was much slower. And our hotel was accessed only by trudging across the hot sand of the beach, past the families of Columbians who stared with some amusement at the red faced turtles panting past them or more politely tried not to see us at all. Our rooms, though, were sea facing and came with their own hamaca which started my obsession. Being able to either glare down at the burning isralis on the beach from the swaying confines of the hammock or, tiring of them, turning you back and simply staring out to sea, is totally fucking awesome.
The whole town was hammock obsessed. Hammocks were strung everywhere. After eating a large lunch, the only natural thing to do was to crawl into the handily located hammock and swing/nap through the digestion process until one felt strong enough to get up and pay for the food.
Finally tiring of the sting of the sea water, however, we decided to take a chance on an amusingly title finka we'd read about back in Santa Marta. Finkas are old coffee farms that owners have turned into bed and breakfast style places for tight arsed backpackers or families to stay in. This one was called Carpe Diem and apparently offered belgium hospitality.
Getting there, Evan (who was in charge of directions) realised he had misread them. We stayed on the minibus all the way to the end of the line and then halfway back again before we got off. Then, standing by the side of the road on a corner which seemed to attract all types of vehicle who delighted in slowing down, waiting to see if either of us would run up to it and then speeding off again just before we got there, we were to wait for the mysterious Motor Taxi which was apparently the only form of transport to the finka.
Motor Taxi turned out to be a little motorbike. That I was to sit on. With my backpack. And it would take me up the hill, down the other side and eventually to the finka.
I couldn't feel anything in my arms for about ten minutes after I got off that bike and I'm pretty sure the driver had bruises on his shoulders for days.
I also burnt my leg on the exhaust pipe getting off and it is currently an angry yellow and white colour and weeping puss. Good times!
So the drive up there involved me clutching the driver as tightly as I could and mentally debating whether it was better or worse when I had my eyes shut. I would've sworn to you, at the conclusion of that drive, that the road there had been little more than a dried out river bed, paved only with broken stones, gravel, hillocks and sticks and other frightening things that were going to throw me off.
On the drive back when my bag was slung across the handlebars for me, I was able to lean back and observe that in fact the road was wide and quite well maintained and the countryside was beautiful.
The finka itself was a charming place right by the river and we were the only ones staying there. It was managed by two men, one middle-agedish and lean who had been married to an irish lady and spoke some english. The other man was round like a bowling ball and was older and in charge of the cooking. He stuffed us with regular meals, so much so that on the final day when I learned he was serving us lunch only two hours after we'd finished eating breakfast I broke down and cried that I could not eat any more. He accepted that with grace but insisted that I try just one tiny bit of the local dish he had prepared especially. The dish turned out to be fresh green beans and onions floating in little lake of oil. It was delicious but the serve was enormous. Of course.
Days at the finka were totally demanding and strenuous. After eating breakfast we would usually swing in the hammocks for a bit until it got too hot and then we would walk up hill for a little bit, usually through the ecological reserve that was further up the road, and then swim in the river for a few hours. Then we would go back, eat some more, swing in the hammocks until we could move again and return to swimming. It was super tough.
Finishing one book meant it was time to move on so we headed back to the hustle of Santa Marta and caught a bus to Cartagena.
Cartagena is large, hot and has a walled city that has been here since Columbia was settled and was built to fight off the pirates. It is kind of cool but when we first got here it seemed very sterile and designed to gouge tourists. I now realise it is designed to gouge rich columbians and tourists alike but still, it is more fun to stay in the scungy old quater which is only five minutes walk away.
So far I've been to a dive bar and listend to drunk men sing along with incredibly cheesy Spanish music clips, I've been to the modern art museum (small) and I've walked in circles in the old city trying to find an internet cafe.
To view my sillhouette and my horrible, hungover hair: click here
Next stop is Medellîn where the public transport is free cos it was built and maintained by Pablo Escobar.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Magic Bus
So it has been a little while and currently there is a tall fat man wearing nothing but small black speedos, a bum bag and some faux TEVAs standing in front of me so I may be a bit distracted. Also, as far as I've noticed so far, this town has no coffee and I am suffering. Fresh mango milkshakes just dont cut it sometimes.
Anyway.
stock footage to help you picture my travels for all you word-hating readers our there:
Mèrida was like being stuck in a suburb like, say, moonee ponds. There is nothing inherently wrong with moonee ponds but why would you want to spend a huge amount of time there? By the time our posada had been annexed by a huge crowd of wholesome American missonairies I was in a confirmed bad mood. We decided to cut short our stay by a day and head for the wilds of Columbia.
Before we did that, may I present some links to others' photos to help all you word-hating readers out there:
Dive bar where we saw a Venezuelan ska/hip hop band who had a guest MC who was german
The teleferica which took me and my hangover up 4000 meters
The Parque Zoological which had this particular Oso, and which took over an hour to get due to the mysterious disappearance of all buses headed in that direction. We saw breakdaners in the park on the way down. Possibly one of the best sightings in Mérida.
The magic bus which spirted us out of Mérida to Maracaibo was too tight to even provide a movie but did provide extra seating for all. It also ran an hour ahead of schedule so we were in Maracaibo by 4am. Unsurprisingly nothing much was open, it was pitch black and we didnt have enough money for the only bus that was leaving for Santa Marta (in Columbia) in fifteen minutes. And the bus company didnt have credit card facilities.
After sitting on the bags, staring mournfully at the men walking in and out of the toilets directly opposite me and being yelled at by the bus driver who wanted ot know why I wasnt on the bus that was leaving (all I could do was gesture at the bags and suggest "dos person" to him which didnt seem to help) while Evan searched for an ATM that worked.
The bus left and Evan left to get a taxi to an ATM. I moved into the offical, brightly lit waiting room and watched early morning tv with the heavily armed local military. It seemed safer somehow.
The new plan, armed with money, was to catch a taxi from Maracaibo to Maicao, the nearest town on the other side of the Columbian boarer.
The taxi was cheaper than the bus but involved me stumbling behind Evan and the taxi driver (a portly, silver haired man) through the dark, past the unlit local buses, past the taxi rank, past other parked cars, on and on to the furtherest darkest corner of the bus station and the man's decript old Ford which already had three people sprawled out asleep in it.
We made it through about fifty billion local police checks and finally through the boarder and out the other side. Our first stop in the apparently "lawless" town of Maicao was people being friendly to us and pulling faces to make me laugh (after 12 hours of travelling, no mean feat).
Then it was bus tickets, air con and men with machine guns periodically checking the toilet on the bus to make sure it wasnt harbouring any fugitives. Ah Columbia.
Anyway.
stock footage to help you picture my travels for all you word-hating readers our there:
Mèrida was like being stuck in a suburb like, say, moonee ponds. There is nothing inherently wrong with moonee ponds but why would you want to spend a huge amount of time there? By the time our posada had been annexed by a huge crowd of wholesome American missonairies I was in a confirmed bad mood. We decided to cut short our stay by a day and head for the wilds of Columbia.
Before we did that, may I present some links to others' photos to help all you word-hating readers out there:
Dive bar where we saw a Venezuelan ska/hip hop band who had a guest MC who was german
The teleferica which took me and my hangover up 4000 meters
The Parque Zoological which had this particular Oso, and which took over an hour to get due to the mysterious disappearance of all buses headed in that direction. We saw breakdaners in the park on the way down. Possibly one of the best sightings in Mérida.
The magic bus which spirted us out of Mérida to Maracaibo was too tight to even provide a movie but did provide extra seating for all. It also ran an hour ahead of schedule so we were in Maracaibo by 4am. Unsurprisingly nothing much was open, it was pitch black and we didnt have enough money for the only bus that was leaving for Santa Marta (in Columbia) in fifteen minutes. And the bus company didnt have credit card facilities.
After sitting on the bags, staring mournfully at the men walking in and out of the toilets directly opposite me and being yelled at by the bus driver who wanted ot know why I wasnt on the bus that was leaving (all I could do was gesture at the bags and suggest "dos person" to him which didnt seem to help) while Evan searched for an ATM that worked.
The bus left and Evan left to get a taxi to an ATM. I moved into the offical, brightly lit waiting room and watched early morning tv with the heavily armed local military. It seemed safer somehow.
The new plan, armed with money, was to catch a taxi from Maracaibo to Maicao, the nearest town on the other side of the Columbian boarer.
The taxi was cheaper than the bus but involved me stumbling behind Evan and the taxi driver (a portly, silver haired man) through the dark, past the unlit local buses, past the taxi rank, past other parked cars, on and on to the furtherest darkest corner of the bus station and the man's decript old Ford which already had three people sprawled out asleep in it.
We made it through about fifty billion local police checks and finally through the boarder and out the other side. Our first stop in the apparently "lawless" town of Maicao was people being friendly to us and pulling faces to make me laugh (after 12 hours of travelling, no mean feat).
Then it was bus tickets, air con and men with machine guns periodically checking the toilet on the bus to make sure it wasnt harbouring any fugitives. Ah Columbia.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Kate vs The Caribbean
After engaging with the black market and being locked into a literal 'front' for the exchange of american dollars into bolivars it was decided that we should get the hell out of sweaty, concrete Caracas and head to the coast and the mythical Caribbean.
The first bus ride involved being filmed by a lady with a video camera for security reasons and having our passports checked repeatedly. I was also chided for my attempts to open the curtains on the bus. We travel coffin style in Venezuela or not at all!
The second bus ride, on the local bus to the coast, involved a woman collecting money for the enormous goiter on her face and us making up our passport numbers because we couldn't´t be bothered getting them from our bags. It also involved a three hour ride on a little bus up the side of one mountain and then back down the other side. The bus driver leaned on his horn whenever he rocketed up one of the many blind corners to let cars coming the other way know of our approach. When there were vehicles coming towards us, the standoff usually seemed resolved based on relative size and strength of horn. Another bus, for example, would only be allowed to pass if their horn was better than ours (that only happened once).
Our destination, Peurto Columbia, turned out to be a sleepy little fishing town. Being a monday it was mostly deserted and we stayed in a much nicer place than I think we would´ve been able to afford otherwise. The manager was a lovely lady who expressed concern that we were so young (she took three years off the ages we gave her for the check in cards) and that perhaps we did not have enough money. The place itself had a large courtyard in the center with rooms running around the side. It also had television and my first hot shower. Ahhh.
The next day we found the beach, complete with palm trees and umberllas with banana lounges beneath them. We also found a new place to stay, with a strange German named Hubert who responded to most direct questions (what is the beach like? How often do the buses run back to Marakay?) with long stories about 'yeah ok, so I know, I am on a tourist visa at the moment but, you know, it is ok...Yeah ok, there are no real animals around here although, yeah ok, sometimes in the morning you will see the little ones? The zees? They will wash their face in the river. But no apes you know? No real monkeys'
Leaving Hubert, we went back to the beach so I could fulfil my dream of floating in the Caribbean and maybe drinking a cocktail out of a coconut. Instead I found that the Caribbean was a harsh and fickle sea which wanted to steal the pants from my bikini and twist my top inside out. Then it wanted to shove me down and stuff sand up my nose. It did this several times before I admitted temporary defeat and retreated to the shore where I proceeded to become rather significantly burnt.
We decided to try Hubert and his second beach the next day. Hubert had a friend staying with him and on the morning of our trek to the beach I was greeted by the sight of two middle aged german men in sensible walking shoes and t-shirts and backpacks. They could've been about to hike for days, they could've been about to go camping in the forests. I felt momentary unease about my miniskirt and sandals. They expressed greater unease, particularly about my footwear (I thought the sandals made my toes look kind of pretty).
Waving aside their concerns we started walking to the beach. It was only 10am but the heat had already started and the walk seemed to involve walking through a valley of white, reflecting dirt. I thought I might actually turn into a mushy puddle and disappear.
The beach when we finally saw it was tiny and edged by rocks on one side and sheer cliffs on the other. The waves boomed all around and I thought briefly of how enjoyable it would be to watch our german hosts drown (oh you know I only thought that briefly. I was more thankful that, when they removed their clothes they still had bathers on underneath). Venturing out past the surf I experienced a brief moment of actually floating in the Caribbean before I was picked up by two successive waves and beaten into the floor of the beach again.
Gasping, hacking and spitting on the beach again I had to conclude that the score so far was Caribbean 2, Kate 0.
The first bus ride involved being filmed by a lady with a video camera for security reasons and having our passports checked repeatedly. I was also chided for my attempts to open the curtains on the bus. We travel coffin style in Venezuela or not at all!
The second bus ride, on the local bus to the coast, involved a woman collecting money for the enormous goiter on her face and us making up our passport numbers because we couldn't´t be bothered getting them from our bags. It also involved a three hour ride on a little bus up the side of one mountain and then back down the other side. The bus driver leaned on his horn whenever he rocketed up one of the many blind corners to let cars coming the other way know of our approach. When there were vehicles coming towards us, the standoff usually seemed resolved based on relative size and strength of horn. Another bus, for example, would only be allowed to pass if their horn was better than ours (that only happened once).
Our destination, Peurto Columbia, turned out to be a sleepy little fishing town. Being a monday it was mostly deserted and we stayed in a much nicer place than I think we would´ve been able to afford otherwise. The manager was a lovely lady who expressed concern that we were so young (she took three years off the ages we gave her for the check in cards) and that perhaps we did not have enough money. The place itself had a large courtyard in the center with rooms running around the side. It also had television and my first hot shower. Ahhh.
The next day we found the beach, complete with palm trees and umberllas with banana lounges beneath them. We also found a new place to stay, with a strange German named Hubert who responded to most direct questions (what is the beach like? How often do the buses run back to Marakay?) with long stories about 'yeah ok, so I know, I am on a tourist visa at the moment but, you know, it is ok...Yeah ok, there are no real animals around here although, yeah ok, sometimes in the morning you will see the little ones? The zees? They will wash their face in the river. But no apes you know? No real monkeys'
Leaving Hubert, we went back to the beach so I could fulfil my dream of floating in the Caribbean and maybe drinking a cocktail out of a coconut. Instead I found that the Caribbean was a harsh and fickle sea which wanted to steal the pants from my bikini and twist my top inside out. Then it wanted to shove me down and stuff sand up my nose. It did this several times before I admitted temporary defeat and retreated to the shore where I proceeded to become rather significantly burnt.
We decided to try Hubert and his second beach the next day. Hubert had a friend staying with him and on the morning of our trek to the beach I was greeted by the sight of two middle aged german men in sensible walking shoes and t-shirts and backpacks. They could've been about to hike for days, they could've been about to go camping in the forests. I felt momentary unease about my miniskirt and sandals. They expressed greater unease, particularly about my footwear (I thought the sandals made my toes look kind of pretty).
Waving aside their concerns we started walking to the beach. It was only 10am but the heat had already started and the walk seemed to involve walking through a valley of white, reflecting dirt. I thought I might actually turn into a mushy puddle and disappear.
The beach when we finally saw it was tiny and edged by rocks on one side and sheer cliffs on the other. The waves boomed all around and I thought briefly of how enjoyable it would be to watch our german hosts drown (oh you know I only thought that briefly. I was more thankful that, when they removed their clothes they still had bathers on underneath). Venturing out past the surf I experienced a brief moment of actually floating in the Caribbean before I was picked up by two successive waves and beaten into the floor of the beach again.
Gasping, hacking and spitting on the beach again I had to conclude that the score so far was Caribbean 2, Kate 0.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Day Zero
If Pol Pot had just stuffed every single Cambodian on a plane, flown them around the dark half of the map that usually faces the wall, left them in L.A. for a day and then kicked them out again in Cambodia, I think his Year Zero plans would´ve had far more success.
After flying through the dark side of the world, hanging out at Venice beach, chatting to bus drivers who found it hilarious that I thought the weekend could mean a day different to a weekday (Australians are so slack!) and swapping plans in Guatamala, I eventually found myself in Caracas, Venezuala. By this stage I was unsure of my own name or if Melbourne even existed anymore. If someone had told me history started on Sunday I probably would´ve said¨"ok".
Luckily for my wallet, my bag and probably my wellbeing, Evan met me at the airport and carried my bag up and down as we searched for an exit to the hell that was the airport terminal. Eventually we found the bus to Caracas, an hour and half drive away - including the apparently inevitable traffic jam that occurs on the one road out of the city to the coast every day as fat, semi naked venezualans make their way home from the beach.
Although the bus was very airconned (a standard practice, I was to find, for all Venezualan buses of a certain class), the heat outside was sweltering and oppresive. The city itself was sprawling and shuttered (it being sunday evening) and seemed to have a deep love of brutal, towering, concrete structures.
Evan handed the haggling with the taxi driver that occured at the dark underpass that doubled as the bus terminal. It was only about 7pm but I had been warned previously about how dangerous venezuala was and the idea of being stranded in the dark with my overstuffed bag and my crippling jetlag seemed somehow unappealing. Eventually a price was agreed upon and we followed an elderly gentleman to his huge, 70s era Ford. It had no seatbelt and no aircon and, it turned out, he had no idea where we were going either. Getting to the hostal involved him stopping at every place that was open (thankfully not that many on a sunday) and asking directions for the street on which the hostel was situated. No one seemed to know.
Eventually Evan recognised a street corner and we ditched the Ford and walked to the concrete, barred, barbed-wired enclosedforthostel that was to be my first resting place. Apparently it doubled as a by-the-hour stay for sex starved young Venezualeans during the week (there was a roll of toilet paper by the bed in the room to remind of this) as well as providing "honest" backpackers for a place to stay. As well as providing spare rolls of loo paper, the owners had gone through the bathroom and systematically removed anything that might provide one with hot water. Tap heads were removed, pipes were sealed over in lead, whatever it took to ensure that the only water available was from the cold tap and that it came out in a trickle. After 36 hours I kind of didnt give a shit and after a meal of The Best Charcoal Chicken I have Ever Eaten (ever), I threw myself on that sin soaked mattress and slept for 12 hours.
After flying through the dark side of the world, hanging out at Venice beach, chatting to bus drivers who found it hilarious that I thought the weekend could mean a day different to a weekday (Australians are so slack!) and swapping plans in Guatamala, I eventually found myself in Caracas, Venezuala. By this stage I was unsure of my own name or if Melbourne even existed anymore. If someone had told me history started on Sunday I probably would´ve said¨"ok".
Luckily for my wallet, my bag and probably my wellbeing, Evan met me at the airport and carried my bag up and down as we searched for an exit to the hell that was the airport terminal. Eventually we found the bus to Caracas, an hour and half drive away - including the apparently inevitable traffic jam that occurs on the one road out of the city to the coast every day as fat, semi naked venezualans make their way home from the beach.
Although the bus was very airconned (a standard practice, I was to find, for all Venezualan buses of a certain class), the heat outside was sweltering and oppresive. The city itself was sprawling and shuttered (it being sunday evening) and seemed to have a deep love of brutal, towering, concrete structures.
Evan handed the haggling with the taxi driver that occured at the dark underpass that doubled as the bus terminal. It was only about 7pm but I had been warned previously about how dangerous venezuala was and the idea of being stranded in the dark with my overstuffed bag and my crippling jetlag seemed somehow unappealing. Eventually a price was agreed upon and we followed an elderly gentleman to his huge, 70s era Ford. It had no seatbelt and no aircon and, it turned out, he had no idea where we were going either. Getting to the hostal involved him stopping at every place that was open (thankfully not that many on a sunday) and asking directions for the street on which the hostel was situated. No one seemed to know.
Eventually Evan recognised a street corner and we ditched the Ford and walked to the concrete, barred, barbed-wired enclosed
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