melting ice

the beginning of the end

Experiencing one of the most free and exciting time of my life, where the scenery, language, people, smells changed almost on a daily basis, and my choices affected nothing but my own happiness, and then returning to the previously perceived “normality” of the UK has required some adjusting.  Trying to work out how I would summarise my trip to people who asked the impossible “How was it in South America and Antarctica?” question, I came to the conclusion that it absolutely fulfilled its original purpose, which was to discover a world I’d only heard about through Dad’s stories and photos, someone whom I can no longer ask but who I visited in spirit over this trip of a lifetime.

Every time I entered a country or arrived at a new location, I knew nothing at all and a few conversations or books later I felt I knew all I needed to know for the time being.  I really felt liberated without a guide book.  Every time I would come across good advice just at the right moment to help me make my next decision.  It the most free 5 months of my life – following my nose, meeting people by hazard, being alone at perfect moments, waking up in a different place most mornings, not really knowing what I was doing but somehow ending up experiencing wonderful things, doing what I wanted to do without being judged or observed, doing things I never thought I could do alone, being the inconspicuous observer of people and their lives, seeking local friends and families, sharing experiences with new and interesting people, building my confidence and self-assurance, accepting things and people for who they are and keeping my smile even in more difficult situations.  Somehow every decision ended up being the right one, without regrets or looking back.

So, what now?

leaving on a high

Morten, Annas and I were the only ones on the bus heading all the way to Arequipa, everyone else got off and stayed at Puno.  We almost missed our connecting bus since it said “Cusco” in big bold letters on the front from a previous trip, which isn’t where we wanted to go quite yet.  We had been assured that we could sleep on this bus until a reasonable hour since it was due to arrive very early.  Of course this turned to be completely untrue and we were kicked off at Arequipa with no option other than to get our sleeping bags out and kip on the floor of the terminal for the next few hours.  At 7am we took a taxi to La Reyna hostel recommended by a fellow traveller who had enjoyed staying there.  We dumped our stuff and headed out for breakfast.  Everything seemed to be closed since it was a Sunday morning although when we asked around, people pointed us to the central market which was open, hooray!  Upstairs, a friendly lady beckoned us over for breakfast.  We asked for the most typical breakfast of the area.  Three portions of “caldo de cordero” coming right up.  This was a big bowl of lamb in thin spicy soup and lots of onions with a side plate of green chilli peppers which almost blew my head off.  The Inca Kola did little to take away the sting and I swore to check more insistently whether I was about to eat sweet peppers or chilli peppers in future.  It was a dish more appropriate for lunch or dinner in my opinion, but I asked for it!  Back at the hostel I prepared for Pauline’s arrival, starting with a much-needed wash.

Pauline and I met in Paris during my university year abroad and spent a happy year living together and talking wishfully of one day visiting Machu Picchu together.  And here we were turning it into reality!  It was surreal but amazing to see her again, having spent such a long time travelling alone.  Feeling hungry after her long bus journey all the way from Lima, she was keen to get a recommendation for the best place in town to try ceviche, a cold fish dish in a lemony soup.  The hostel manager gave us a map with a restaurant marked on it just beyond the plaza.  We were served a huge dish each of ceviche and “arroz de mariscos” (seafood rice dish), and had to take the remainder away to eat later. 

 

We only had the afternoon in Arequipa so we decided to visit the beautiful Monasterio de Santa Catalina, which was so close to the hostel the main look-out point from within the monastery looked out over our room.  It took a good while to walk around it for its sheer size, a very calm yet colourful place which took us back to another place in time.

The following morning we arrived nonchalantly at the bus terminal to get ourselves to Cusco not realising most of the buses are either overnight or leave very early in the morning.  At half 9, we were very lucky to find a company that was just about to leave.  We jumped gratefully onto the bus and settled in for the 12-hour journey ahead.  It seemed remarkably comfortable at first, and we were quite happy until we stopped and many of the original passengers got off and women with their shawls full of strong-smelling foods took their seats.  Around lunchtime, one pair unravelled their large brown paper packages and starting hacking at joints of meat into portions to sell to other passengers right in the middle of the bus.  Shortly after, a boy came on and started singing and playing the panpipes really loudly presumably to earn a few coins.  After each song I thought it must be the last one since he’d been going for over half an hour, yet he carried on and if anything got louder.  Mixed with the music playing from the mobile phone of the lady just across the aisle, it made for a headache-inducing combination, and I laughed at what a distinctly unglamorous birthday I was having!  We finally arrived in Cusco only to find that our rucksacks which should have been stowed below weren’t actually there.  I’d always been concerned that people could just run off with your bag when you put it below, and here we were presented with that very possibility.  The driver took us to the office and phoned in to his colleagues back in Arequipa.  It turns out our bags had never been put into the bus in the first place, so they were going to put them on the overnight bus and we just had to collect them in the morning.  Phew!

The hostel was recommended by a friend I met back in Uyuni in Bolivia, and we were pleasantly surprised.  It had a lovely courtyard and gallery leading up to the rooms, and it was perfectly located only a couple of blocks away from the main plaza.  In order to do one nice thing to mark my 25^th birthday that day, we decided to take our time walking around the centre to find a good but affordable place to eat.  I was surprised to find the very centre of Cusco so full of expensive wine bars and posh restaurants, and after a long time trying to find somewhere a bit more down-to-earth, we plumped for an inviting restaurant on a side street which we found to be raising money for a charity which runs projects helping children out in the nearby countryside.  It was unlike anywhere we’d ever seen in our lives, garishly bright with small children-sized tables and seats each with a big soft fluffy toy on them, and clowns dangling from the ceiling.  It sounds freaky and it was, but it was certainly cosy and the price was right.  Pauline kindly gave me some beautiful earrings and we toasted my arrival at a quarter of a century.

 

We spent the next day walking all around Cusco, moving away from the rich centre and moved quietly through the local covered markets watching men and women sitting on stools eating plates of hot food, stepping carefully around big sacks of potatoes, dried beans, anything and everything. 

Pauline was keen to try a local speciality she’d been recommended to try:  “cuy” (not to be confused with the French word pronounced the same).  Not for the faint-hearted, this dish is a whole guinea pig with head and paws still very much there, served with potatoes and corn. 

 

Asking around for the best place to try it, we were directed to a place called La Chomba.  Tucked away in an unfinished building where a woman was washing her clothes in a bucket of water and children ran around chasing a ball, this was a distinctly local joint.  We were stared at as we walked in, stared at as we ordered our food, as we ate our food, and the novelty of seeing two foreign girls in there still hadn’t worn off by the time we walked out.  I can’t say I loved the taste of guinea pig but it was all in the name of trying new things, and I was just glad it didn’t look anything like the cute guinea pigs we keep as pets in the UK.   

 

In the afternoon, we spent a few exhausting hours looking around the souvenir markets, each stall dripping with brightly coloured bags, belts, scarfs, textiles and alpaca ponchos, and spread with keyrings, hats and gloves.  “Pasa señorita, prueba sin compromiso” called out the seller ladies.  Of course, once we had been lured in and I had tried something on out of politeness, I was very much compromised and it became a question of how much I was willing to pay.  Pauline, very experienced in these matters, got herself some great bargains, whilst I bumbled through embarrassed at the necessity to talk money.  Whilst it was wonderful to be surrounded by all these attractive colours and patterns, it was impossible to browse without being immediately approached and taken through everything they had on offer.  Apparently “I’m just looking” isn’t a phrase worth taking any notice of, and after a while, Pauline and I gave up happy with our purchases.  Back at the hostel, a man came to give us our briefing for the Salkantay trek to Machu Picchu which we were due to begin the next day, after which we ran around getting last minute things and preparing our bags.  This went on late into the night and by the time the minibus came the next morning at 4am, we’d only managed a couple of hours sleep.

 

The minibus drove 3 hours to the beginning point of the trek in Mollepata.  We were surprised at how many people were in the minibus and presumed we would all be split into smaller tour groups.  On arrival, we realised the “12 personas maximum” according to the man who briefed us the night before, had grown to a group of 20!  This was very naughty on the part of the tour operators, but we just had to accept it.  After breakfast, everyone introduced themselves and fortunately it seemed to be a very friendly mix of people from all around the world: France, Denmark, Holland, Israel, Germany, Ireland, Czech Republic, England and Australia.  We started the trek and enjoyed beautifully sunny views, but by the time we got to our first overnight stop, the clouds had crept in.  One of the mules carrying our larger rucksacks had bolted earlier on in the day, and unfortunately one of the bags that was on its back belonged to Pauline.  Her very new rucksack had been aged by about twenty years and there was nothing we could do about it.

 

The first day was definitely a warm up for today, which was mostly uphill and at altitude through scenery that reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of the Scottish Highlands.  It was pretty cold, windy and cloudy especially when we got to the top, at 4600m.  There is a tradition to carry a rock up to the top and add to the pile there, the size of which should be relative to the number of sins you need to ask forgiveness for from Pachamama (Mother Earth).  I popped a small one (haha!) in my bag to take up with me.  The main highlight of this particular trek is supposed to be an incredible view of Salkantay mountain but when we got there, all we saw was white – not the white of snow but of a huge cloud which had set in around it.  It was disappointing, of course, but you can’t control nature.  Just as we were getting to the shelter point on the way down, it started to rain heavily.  We were glad for shelter and hot tea but were worried for the Czech girls and Pauline who arrived a little later.  We all ended up getting soaked anyway since we had another few hours to walk.  It didn’t take long for our squelching shoes to be wet beyond the point of return.  At the camping spot, we hung everything out, but since the rain never stopped, the next morning we were putting on wet clothes and shoes again. 

 

The sun came out to play later on in the day and we enjoyed picturesque views along the valley.  I personally had a big burst of energy, flying along with Sina the Danish girl and enjoying the high of physical exercise.  We arrived at the next camping spot and were happy to hang our clothes out to dry in the sun.  There was another group of trekkers camping across the way.  I immediately recognised the couple and we realised we’d met months previously in the hostel in Mendoza.  These coincidences seemed to happen quite a lot, and it was fun to connect up with people who had been part of an earlier stage of my stage.

By the next day, our clothes had dried but the walking boots were still pretty unpleasant to step into. 

 

 

This was a really great day of trekking, a very jungly day where we walked in amongst coffee plants and avocados growing on trees, both of which I saw for the very first time.  Bright flowers waved around sending their strong sweet fragrances through the warm air.  Having been used to the cold and wet weather of the previous days, I soon felt stiflingly hot as I sweated up the steep jungly paths, often in the direct sun.  It was a big relief when the path finally began leading downhill and we stopped for a water break overlooking our first sighting of Machu Picchu.  After lunch alongside a wide rippling stream leading through the steep-walled valley, the boys of the group cooled off in the water.   

 

 

We got to the train station from which Mum and Dad took the train to Aguas Calientes in 1982, the tracks of which we followed by foot, arriving in Aguas Calientes as evening set in.  My feet had by this point developed rather painful blisters, so the hot shower in the hostel and opportunity to take the weight off them was very welcome.  We had dinner all together and made plans for the next day at Machu Picchu.

 

We were all up and ready to leave at 4am to begin walking the steps up to Machu Picchu.  Mysterious swirls of clouds slowly burned off as the sun came out and warmed the scene.  It was incredible to put the postcard picture I’d had in my head into context and see the remarkably intact remains of this ancient Inca civilisation for myself.  It took a while to believe what my eyes were seeing, having imagined what it would be like for so many years.  After our guide’s rather confusing talk about the history of Machu Picchu (I’m sure it would have made a lot more sense in his native Spanish), we had the rest of the day to roam around and take it all in.  In the spirit of following where Dad had been, I went up Waynapicchu with Alena and Eva, the two Czech girls in the group.  After four days trekking, we were pretty tired and had to put all our energy into getting ourselves up there.  It was absolutely worth it for the new perspective over the surrounding mountains and seeing the civilisation from higher up. 

 

 

Taking our time to enjoy the view, we climbed slowly back down again and went back up to the point from which the famous postcard picture of Machu Picchu is taken and found the sun to cast a yet more vibrant light over the maze of stone walls and bright green grass lining each level, with the tall Waynapicchu rising up beyond.  We finally headed back down to Aguas Calientes late in the afternoon.  My blisters were making regular walking almost impossible by this point and I found running much lighter on the balls of my feet, so I decided to run all the way along the road sometimes taking the steps directly down.  There was a very gradual downhill and with the sun going down the air was much fresher, making for a very energising run.  Dad was a very keen runner and I could imagine him enjoying it too.  We plonked ourselves down at the nearest restaurant, happy to finally be off our feet and celebrate the end of our long trek with a choice Peruvian tipple, the famous Pisco sour.

We got back to Cusco very late and only had a short length of time the next morning to return the equipment we’d hired and look for some hard-wearing carrier bags to use as hand luggage for all the materials and trinkets we had bought from the market and had absolutely no space for in our rucksacks.   

 

A short taxi ride took us to Cusco airport where we checked in with Star Peru.  Lima’s humidity and greyness felt heavy and stifling after such a long time up in the thin fresh air of the higher altitudes.  I knew I wouldn’t get the chance to see the city properly this time round, since I was preparing to go back home to the UK and had other things on my mind.  One of Pauline’s best friends at Duke University came from Lima arranged for us to stay with his mum and sisters.  They were so welcoming and friendly, it was a wonderful place to stay my final night.  Pauline was staying on in Lima for a few more days so we could just take it easy while I was there.

I couldn’t quite get my head round the fact that my five wonderful months had come to an end and I was getting on the plane home only in a few hours.  Checking in at the airport I met a hilarious Spanish girl who was getting on the same flight as me back to Madrid.  I was so glad for the distraction, fearing melancholy and tears on the way home!  The flight was delayed about an hour and I wondered how I would make it at the other end to my connecting flight to Heathrow.  I was concerned with reason, since by the time we arrived at Madrid we were very far behind schedule and I had under half an hour to get myself off the plane, run through the airport (momentarily halted by security), and get onto the next plane which was just closing its doors as I flew in, overheated and out of breath.  Realising I had forgotten to pick up my fleece jacket with my only bank card with money remaining attached to the inside of the pocket, back at security, I dreaded the prospect of arriving in expensive London.  Some dollars found at the bottom of my bag got me to my sister’s house, and the next day we both went to Cambridge where I found Mum and Chris waiting expectantly.

off to the capital

Ana is a fabulous girl I met very briefly in Norwich a year back at a youth project I was volunteering at, and after our conversation of no more than 10 minutes I felt sure we’d somehow meet again.  We clicked that first time of meeting and when we started chatting in the taxi to her home in Sopocachi it was as though we’d known each other for years.  Ana is from the UK but has been living and working in La Paz for the past two years and was generous in showing me round, especially taking me to places it would be impossible to know about just following a guidebook.  The very first day I was invited along to her boyfriend Michael’s grandmother’s house for a family barbeque, a regular feature of their weekends.   

 

At the Musef (Museum of Ethnology and Folklore) later on, I was fascinated to learn more about Bolivian festival costumes and masks - what they represented, and even how they were made.  Watching a video of how local craftsmen painstakingly prepared and attached feathers to the huge headdresses, I noticed some nice-looking people had joined me, equally intrigued.   

French Katya and Alex accepted my invitation to join Ana, Michael and myself to a concert just up the road at the Teatro Municipal to watch famous group Wara that evening.  It was perfect timing that I was there that weekend to watch them, since they were one of the groups Lirio had been recommending me to listen to.  A fantastic show, complete with dancers in their bright costumes showing a whole range of Bolivian dance styles, I was a very happy bunny indeed.

 

There’s a place in La Paz that only locals know about, a place where they serve the most wonderful empanadas I’ve ever tasted.  They’re called tucumanas and they’re full of spicy meat and chicken, vegetables and egg, ready to be drowned in a colourful range of label-less sauces.  We stood at the stall and ate until we could eat no more.  Bellies full, we walked along the main high street which is pedestrian-ised every Sunday and lined with artisan market stalls, music stages for live performances, and general play areas for kids. 

 

My favourite moment was spent watching around 30 older generation Bolivian men and women twirling around elegantly to the chacarera.  Such a sweet sight.  That afternoon we were invited to Michael’s mum’s house for a late lunch and I tasted yet another new dish, fricase.  This is a bowl of lamb in a watery soup with black potatoes.  These potatoes have been dehydrated frozen, dehydrated some more (until they have extracted every last nutrient from the poor thing) and then rehydrated again ready to consume.  I’m not quite sure what the point of all that is, but it was certainly nothing I’d ever seen or tasted before!

On Monday morning Ana had to go to work, so I had the day to explore places Dad had mentioned in his notes.  First stop was Calle Sagarnaga where they sell every type of ponchos, hats, gloves and general textiles you could possibly want, and where the famous Pena Naira used to be.  It was the first time for ages that I’d been surrounded by that many gringo tourists and the whole atmosphere around this tourist hot-spot was making me feel uncomfortable so I popped into the Cathedral at the bottom of the road which was suitably impressive.  Walking along the central Prado street to locate the tucumana stand again (couldn’t get enough of them), I happened to bump into Ana on her lunch break and she encouraged me to book onto the infamous Death Road cycle trip for the next day, for the amazing views if nothing else.   

 

I spent the afternoon doing what I love best: exploring a museum of musical instruments, a fabulous collection of the earliest instruments made from bone, hollowed and dried fruits, and even charango guitars made from the shell of a tortoise, all the way through to present day panpipes, charangos, and bombo drums.  My imagination ran wild, envisaging which instruments I might be able to try my hand at.  I knew for now it would have to be something light and easy to fit into my rucksack…

 

 

I met Ana after work and she took me to the Zona Sur, the higher class end of town where everything is sold in dollars and the buildings and paved streets looked like they’d come straight from North America.  It was very surreal to be in such a different environment from the rest of the crazy chaos of the crowded streets of the city centre.  It was a relief to get out of this area since it felt very artificial and unfitting, and we headed back to the Calle Sagarnaga to for food followed by entertainment at one of the touristy restaurants.  It seemed the only place that evening where we could watch some folklore music.  Beggars can’t be choosers!

 

Up early the next day, I met the group of people ready to undertake the Death Road cycle ride.  We were kitted out with double-suspension state-of-the-art mountain bikes, motorbike helmets and a waterproof outfit, and piled into the minibus which climbed up to the highest point of the road.  After carefully checking the brakes on my bike (!) I set off with the rest of the group down the road.  This road got its name due to the high number of deaths occurring almost weekly on the road when it was used as a regular thoroughfare. The road is super narrow rocky, winding around the edge of the mountains.  These days, only bikes and the odd vehicle are allowed down there and of course the companies who take tourists down there have very rigorous safety procedures and controls.  Even then, accidents still happen and only the week before, an Israeli girl fell over the edge and died.  With this in mind, I took my time going down with the idea of enjoying the view and not going too fast. 

 

Back in La Paz, I met up with Ana to research the possibility of climbing the Huayna Potosi mountain which had been sitting there temptingly at the edge of the city all week, and which Ana had been raving about on the recommendation of friends who had done it.  The lady in the office quoted me a price for the trek, but said it would take three days.  I only had two days and asked if it was possible to do it a day shorter.  After a long time deliberating and being dissuaded by the company’s doctor (“you need time to acclimatise”, “you need experience with crampons” etc), I decided to go ahead with it anyway but to pay extra for a personal guide in case I couldn’t do it and needed to come down.  Feeling increasingly nervous once I’d officially booked on to the trip, I was pleased for the distraction of yet another fantastic display of folklore music and dance at the Teatro Municipal, this time watching a group called Semilla.

Another early start, nervous I’d bitten off more than I could chew by deciding to climb this mountain with its summit at 6088m (about 20,000ft), I began with Ana’s magic fruit smoothie concoction and went to the office to sort out my snow boots, crampons, jacket and trousers, harness and ice pick.  It was my first time ever to put crampons on, and I started to feel really excited.  We arrived at the starting point of the climb, where usually people spend the night acclimatising and having a training session in ice-climbing.  I had lunch with the first group, was told I was crazy to do it in two days, and headed straight up to the refugio at 5300m the final stretch of which we did on ice as my ice training.  I met the second group and was told I was crazy again.  We went to bed straight after dinner and were all up at 2.30am to set off at 3am.  A loud confident guy from Manchester had to head back after about 45 mins since the air was too thin for him to cope with. 

 

The rest of us plodded on, carefully placing each step and stopping every now and again to moderate our heart rates and breathing.  All I could see was the ice and snow twinkling under the spotlight of my headlamp, sensing big ice structures either side, and to forget the physical struggle I just kept reminding myself that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see these kinds of views.  Every step of the way, I had to do a lot of rationalising and pep-talking, thinking to myself “no daughter of David Wynn-Williams is going to be defeated by this mountain!”  It would have been so easy to give up but I kept picturing how disappointed I would be if I had to go down again and admit I didn’t make it, compared with the pure joy I would surely experience once I was at the top.  I didn’t realise the last bit of the climb would entail an extremely steep slope requiring full use of the ice pick as I dug in the front spikes of my crampons and pulled myself up.  I did it!  I experienced an amazing feeling of euphoria and basked in the moment awhile.  I abseiled down the steep section, thinking how glad I was that my mum didn’t know what I was doing at that moment in time, and trekked the long trek back down again.  Gathered all my stuff at the refugio and almost died during the three-hour walk over slippy rocks all the way back down to the bottom.  I collapsed with exhaustion at the bottom and my fellow team-mates gave me time to eat lunch and rest a little before we took the minibus back to the city.

Ana and I were up for another early bus the next morning to Copacabana.  She had managed to get the day off work and we decided to get away, plus it was on the way for me towards Peru.  We waited by the boats for our lunch of grilled trout which we were assured would come before our boat left for Isla del Sol (“Sun Island”), but which we ended up having to eat directly from a plastic bag on the boat since the restaurant wasn’t quick enough for us to be able to eat it there.  Classy!  Arriving on the island, Ana saved my weak legs from unnecessary steps by going off on a recce to find a good hostel.  It was tricky to avoid the crowds of tourists who’d just arrived at the same time, but by fantastic fortune a lady popped her head out and offered a room just as we were about to settle for a touristy hostel thinking there was no other option.  She had a spare corner room which had a beautiful view of the water, was reasonably priced and most importantly was quiet and free of tourists.  As it happened, the lady knew Ana’s boyfriend Michael from before so we had a nice link there and felt happy to enjoy the tranquility. 

 

Our main aim was to chill out and not stress about anything, which we successfully achieved!  In the morning we walked around to the other side of the island and found a restaurant serving trout overlooking a stunning view of the deep blue water and boats drifting by in the distance.  On the boat back we met Danish guys Morten and Annas who were heading to Arequipa too, so after a sad goodbye to Ana we climbed onto the bus together ready to cross the border into Peru.

following my dad's path

My first day in Cochabamba was pretty uneventful since I spent most of the day sleeping off the nausea from the night before.  I managed to stumble my way through the chaos of the roads and endless lines of market stalls to find a place to eat.  Whatever it was the market lady served me, I only managed half of it, and found every smell, sound and sight which I would ordinarily find fascinating just made me feel more and more sick.  The next day, the very same stimuli were exciting once more and I started to explore the city centre.  One thing I was very happy to come across in the archives at the British Antarctic Survey back in Cambridge before I left was a set of travel notes written during his trip through Bolivia and Peru in 1977.  It’s very typical of Dad in its no-fluff scientific style, less about feelings and impressions and more focused on details of buses, hostels and places of interest.  It was originally aimed at other BAS scientists who were considering travels in South America after their work down in Antarctica, and I loved the idea of retracing his steps where possible now I’d finally arrived in Bolivia.  He came across from Brazil, Paraguay and through Santa Cruz in the east of Bolivia, and here I was joining his route at Cochabamba.  Who needs a Lonely Planet to advise you on where to go when you’ve got travel notes from the late 1970s to follow!  Reading them made me really wish I could ask Dad about his senses and impressions of everything he experienced but I had to settle for the feeling in my heart that I was seeing, tasting, hearing and touching the same that he did all those years ago.  I hadn’t truly appreciated how important the full five months would be in discovering my Dad and unearthing childhood memories I’d forgotten.  I had a vague feeling I needed to do it this way, and each stage of my journey proved I had made the right decision.

 

I really wanted to thank Fernanda and her family for welcoming me so wholely and decided to print some of the many photos I took of our special week together.  Walking into what I considered to be a pretty professional-looking photo printing shop, I was utterly shocked when the guy returned my memory card with all its contents wiped from the memory.  He had managed to click “yes” when his computer asked if he wanted to reformat the card (the desired response would of course have been “no”) and from one moment to the next I had all my wonderful photos of my special week in Sucre and then nothing.  He claimed not to have done anything wrong and since nothing would bring back the photos, I had to just walk away and force myself to write a page of positives about the situation in my diary in order to hold back the tears.  After three unsuccessful hours traipsing round different companies with their recovery software, I admitted defeat and following my Mum’s advice I “panned for gold” and realised it was surely the perfect excuse to go back to Sucre and see the family again and take photos next time instead.

 

Another day a new beginning and all that, my first stop the next day was the much-talked-about Palacio del Api.  Lirio had told me roughly where it was and I assumed it was at least in a building and would have a sign offering some indication of its existence, but there was nothing.  I asked a passerby who pointed to the other side of the street and said “esta alli”.  Bueno, this “palace” was no more than a couple of ladies ladling api from a huge saucepan with big puffy cheese empanadas, sheltered by a bright yellow tent out on the street, but the api absolutely lived up to expectations.  It’s a combination of the tojori I’d already tried in Sucre and api which is a dark natural purple made from the purple variety of maize, the warm mix of which formed a lovely marbled effect in the glass and filled me up for most of the day.

 

Dad mentioned the archaeological museum in his notes and I immediately got a lump in my throat as I went in.  It was so Dad to come to a place like this.  There was no-one else around presumably because it’s not deemed the most exciting place to visit, but as he said, it’s very interesting.  It was full of artefacts from pre-historic times right up until the Spanish came along.  Textiles, metal objects, ceramics, musical instruments and even gory-looking mummies from different Inca tribes filled the display cabinets.  I then walked up Avenida Heroinas as Dad did and up the steps all the way to the huge cristo at the top.  A passerby told me the steps and cristo were a relatively recent addition, back in the 70s people would have had to scramble up.  I wondered if Dad had to apply cream ten times as I did, to avoid burning from the sun!

 

At 6am the next morning I woke to a loud aggressive banging on my hostel room door.  A group of no fewer than eight policemen came barging into the room, barking questions at me “Where are you from? Why are you here?” as one of them starting emptying my recently packed rucksack and rifling through its contents.  I had no idea what they were looking for and they seemed to enjoy the fact that I couldn’t understand everything of their flurry of shout.  They left without offering any form of explanation and when I woke up for the second time I asked at reception what it had all been about.  There was a big climate change summit due the following week and apparently they were going round carrying out unannounced checks to make sure everyone had their papers and wasn’t there illegally.   

After quickly putting my rucksack back together again, I got on the first bus to La Paz.  Going past miles and miles of crop fields watching the people work their land I drifted in and out of sleep contemplating everything I’d seen and experienced so far.  We arrived in the city and inched forward through the traffic for what seemed like an eternity.  Without notice it all cleared and suddenly we were making a big wide arc around what I realised was the city proper, sitting cosy in amongst incredible multi-coloured multi-shaped mountains.  I had no idea to expect such a dramatic backdrop to Bolivia’s capital city.  We finally made it to the terminal, an impressive imposing yellow building at the entrance of which my friend Ana was waiting for me.

a week with a family

The fastest and not much more expensive way of arriving at Sucre from Potosi is by “colectivo” taxi which leaves when it has enough passengers.  Assuring me that he knew the address I’d stated of Rodrigo’s mother in Sucre, the taxi driver turned up the cumbia music and navigated his way round the winding roads encircling the mountains for the next few hours.  Finally heading into the city centre, he suddenly announced he didn’t in fact know Sucre at all so we had to call Fernanda and arrange a meeting point.  She needn’t have worried about recognising me, since I was most definitely the tallest girl around with my foreign-looking rucksack and lost look on my face.  I was happy to find she didn’t speak a word of English so it was the perfect opportunity to practise all the Spanish I had learned over the past few months.  She kept talking about how simple her house was and how I wasn’t to expect too much, but when we stepped into the mini courtyard shared by her brother and his family, I instantly felt welcomed and safe and wondered whether I would ever want to leave.

 

Over the first few evenings Fernanda would invite me to her room and we’d sit and watch Bolivian folklore music and dance on a TV channel devoted to Bolivian culture and arts.  It was all so familiar from cassette tapes Dad had brought back all those years ago, and a real bonding point with Fernanda since she was delighted I was so interested in her culture.  I was only intending to stay in Sucre for a couple of days but the week rolled on and I realised I was learning so much it would be crazy to rush off.  She took me to the famous Casa de la Libertad, one of the most important places in Sucre since it is where the declaration of independence was signed in 1825.  We then went to visit the magnificent city cemetery, with important dead people such as presidents and national heroes, lining the main walkway with their mini temples and immaculately maintained gardens and bobble-shaped trees.  We walked quietly through the cemetery and listened to the birds singing and the general tranquillity warmed by the afternoon sun.  Further along there were walls of glass cases, rows and rows, one on top of the other, each dedicated to and decorated for the beloved deceased.  I’d never seen anything quite like it.  Fernanda stopped abruptly in front of one of the cases and I realised it was that of her late brother (Lirio’s father) who died only a year ago.  Over the week, I really felt the absence of Boly, even though I’d never met him, since he was always talked about and clearly very sorely missed.  A steep rocky short-cut brought us out in front of the school where Fernanda works as a history and geography teacher.  She took me up through the school as tiny kids raced round excitedly ready to go home and be replaced by the older teenagers for the afternoon.  The building itself was somewhat half-baked, super impressive in some areas, dishevelled and barely built in others: a far cry from the multi-media suites enjoyed by our schoolchildren in the UK.

 

Lirio, one of Rodrigo’s cousins came round several times in the afternoon to pick me up and show me around.  It was wonderful to meet someone with so much energy and positivity, and someone who was willing to make time to welcome me to her home town.  We visited the dinosaur park which has allegedly genuine original dinosaur prints which I just couldn’t quite believe, round town and up to the mirador in the old part of town which looks out over the city and lends a lovely view down the old cobbled streets with all their myths and legends of people who once died there and remain in the form of ghosts and spirits, making noises at night and scaring the locals.  In the evening I met even more of the family and took the opportunity to show them photos of Rodrigo and his brothers in Salta and play them my recordings of Rodrigo performing at La Casona.  It’s a shame they live so far apart from each other, since they only see each other once a year, if that.  So it felt good to be able to give them an update by proxy!

 

Lirio’s mission during my stay in Sucre was to get me to try every typical Bolivian dish and drink available, starting with a thick warm maize drink for breakfast at the local market called tojori with a bunuelo, a sweet batter snack.  When you hold your empty glass out and smile sweetly for “yapa”, the lady pours you another ladleful.  At a place called “7 lunares” by the market we had amazing chorizo buns, seriously strong but seriously yummy.  At only the equivalent of 10p per glass and with a seller on every street corner, I drank lots of mocachinchi over the week which is a deliciously sweet peach drink made from dried peaches which after time spent in hot sugary water flavoured with cinnamon expand and each glass is served with a peach in the bottom which drops into your mouth as the final treat.  In the evenings, Lirio and her friends would seek out the best chicha in town, a pale yellow milky drink made from fermented corn, and garrapina, a bright pink drink sprinkled with dessicated coconut, drinks which are almost always shared round the whole group as a form of showing friendship and community.  It’s impossible not to end up drinking loads of the stuff since even if you’ve had enough, it’s rude to refuse when someone offers it to you with a friendly “saluuuud!” (“cheers!”).  Chicha is notoriously deceptive since it doesn’t taste too strong but when you try to stand up from your chair after several rounds, you notice the effects…

 

Fernanda back at home was also keen for me to try their national food, including spicy “fideos” (noodles), papas rellenas (potato dumplings with meat inside), and picante de pollo (spicy chicken stew).  Late in the afternoon we would get the “mate” set out and enjoy the distinctive herby drink and pastries spread with avocado paste.  I loved her mate since instead of adding regular hot water, she would pour in her magical combination of local herbs I’d never come across before and a handful of huge naturally sweetening sultanas.  One day we decided to make homemade soya milk from the beans we’d been soaking the night before, so after an early morning walk up a nearby hill for some nice views of the city, I got to work milling the beans with a huge rock and millstone just underneath the steps leading to Mario’s apartment above.  There was just enough space for someone teeny weeny like Fernanda; I on the other hand almost did my back in leaning over to fit underneath.  I loved getting to know her more and more as the week went on, sharing stories and even one evening giggling as she plaited my hair into 2 long tresses either side, true Bolivian style.  We spent hours sitting in her kitchen chatting and laughing with our favourite Bolivian and Argentinian folklore music blaring out from her hi-fi.  We agreed she’s my Bolivian mother and I’m her “t’ulunka” daughter (a word in Quechua which roughly translates as “dopey”, since she decided I crossed the roads too slowly like the “t’ulunka” dogs).  Whenever I cracked a joke, her face would light up in pure delight and she would laugh a full belly laugh that would make me feel as though I could seriously consider a career in stand-up comedy.  I think she was easily pleased but it still made me feel good!

 

A few times we visited the local market (mercado campesino) which spreads through a large mesh of streets on the outskirts of the city centre.  Fernanda led me through the maze of spices, meats, sacks of vegetables, lentils and potatoes, to the line of ladies with mixed fruits piled high in front of them and small blender ready to mix together your dream combination at the press of a button (don't forget the “yapa”!) Smells of cooking chicken, popcorn, roasting salted potatoes, sacks of coca leaves, and raw meat, wafted through the air as I obediently trotted after Fernanda through the mad chaos of the market passageways, punctuated by a gruff “vamos” if I stopped to long and got in the way of a lady carrying her wares in that distinctive colourful shawl secured in a knot around her neck.  The markets reminded me of the bustle of Ghanaian markets except the characters selling from their waist-high sacks of rice/flour/sugar/anything and everything you could possibly need, were very distinctive ladies with their two long black plaits running down their backs joined at the ends by a black hair toggle, round bowlers hats either grey or brown, warm alpaca shawls and knee-length pleated skirts.

 

If I thought the market ladies were wearing very traditional clothes here in Sucre I hadn’t seen anything until we went to Tarabuco, a village about an hour away from the city.  We set off early and began to wander up and down the streets admiring stall after stall of Tarabucan textiles and thick heavy ponchos, as well as the standard selection of hats, bags and touristy trinkets.  For a place so clearly set up for tourist purchases, I was surprised to be the only foreigner there.  Instead there were men all around dressed in bright but clearly well-worn heavy full-length ponchos with what looked like a hard helmet on their heads.  The women wore their distinctive shawls and either a brightly tassled and sequinned top hat or a flatter but equally brightly decorated rimmed hat which I later learned marked the difference between the solteras (single ladies) and the casadas (married ladies).  I guess it’s easier than trying to catch a subtle glimpse of the fourth finger for any sign of a wedding ring.  My assumption was that to be wearing such fancy clothes, it must have been a special occasion, but Fernanda told me they wear the same every day.

 

We sat down to a nice hearty meal at the local market washed down with a refreshing mocachinchi and watched the world go by, taking the odd sly photo of the traditionally-clothed locals.  On our way back to the colectivo point, we noticed a sudden influx of tourists who had all arrived in big tourist buses, and we knew we’d picked the best moment to leave.  Fernanda remarked how funny it was that there were no tourists in the marketplace where the food is rich, hearty and cheap, but rather in the tourist restaurants round the corner where the food is three times the price and three times poorer quality.  Back in Sucre we went via the Mercado campesino once more which felt busier and hotter than ever before and I was very ready to go home.  To my dismay, Fernanda suddenly announced that we were going to see her brother “quickly” and not only did we find her brother at the house, but a whole part of the family I hadn’t yet met was there, all up on the roof having a huge barbeque.  Clearly it would be rude to refuse food so I tucked into my second lunch of the day and accepted we would be there a while.  Uncle Carlos and his son Checho got out their guitars, panpipes and quenas (recorder that sounds like a flute) and entertained us with a medley of songs with various combinations of instruments.  This really is a family of musicians!

 

Mario, Fernanda’s brother, was working throughout the week on a furniture project which he claimed was just for fun but which looked pretty impressive to me.  Every day I would try to strike up conversation with him but found it difficult to understand his replies, mostly because he’d often reply in Quechua just to confuse me (considering himself quite the comedy character).  One afternoon I had my Dad’s travel notes from 1977 out on the table to work out a path which would lead me to places he visited back then and see what they are like now.  One place that interested me in particular was La Peña Naira in La Paz on Calle Sagarnaga which Dad mentioned as being “expensive but has top quality folk music”.  Since Rodrigo had mentioned his family was very musical, I thought Mario might know where it was and be able to tell me more about it.  Not only did he know the place, it’s very likely that when Dad went there in 1977, he would have watched Mario, his brothers Boly and Carlos and co. in the famous Chuquisaqueñan group (Sucre is the capital of the Chuquisaca region) : Los Primos.

 

I couldn’t believe the coincidence and wondered how luck or fate, or whatever you want to call it, could have brought me to the home of the very musicians Dad would have enjoyed all those years ago playing the music he loved so very much.  La Peña Naira closed in 1985 and apparently nowhere exists quite like it in now La Paz.  Once Mario realised my connection and genuine interest, he really started opening up and explaining how they had played for decades touring Bolivia and the whole of South America, but that when Boly died, everything changed and they haven’t really played since.  One evening I sat and watched the DVD of their last concert together with him and his family, and I suddenly felt a real sadness for their loss and for my own personal loss.  A big wave of tears came over me and I had to go downstairs to sort myself out.  It was so rare for me to cry on this trip since I’d been bouncing around happy and free, and so it really took me by surprise.  It must have been a result of all the emotion building up over the past few months searching for an opportunity to be released. Fernanda ordered me to take sugar water and some fresh air, and took me back upstairs where we all laughed at how embarrassed I was.  I felt so grateful to be part of such a warm Bolivian family who had taken me in as their own and accepted me for who I am.

 

I started to learn more and more about Bolivian music and asked Lirio, a musician herself, to explain more about the instruments and about the music specific to their regions, and groups I could look up so I could take some of the music home with me.  I recorded a wonderful session with her taking me through her collection of Bolivian folklore music and even teaching me to play the different bombo (huge drum) rhythms along to some of our favourite songs.  It was a real challenge to loosen up to the relaxed rolling beat of the music, setting myself free from the strictly straight 1-2-3-4 of my classical upbringing.  There were particular tunes I had in my head from my childhood and after singing them to Lirio she looked them up and we sang along to them together, a strange sensation building in me as I was transported back to younger days of Dad’s cassette tapes.  Lirio plays in an all-female folklore group who have been invited to play in Shanghai later on this year to represent Bolivian music and culture.  I went along to one of their rehearsals and once again was in seventh heaven having my ears filled with the mesmerising rhythms of the bombo, the fluttering of the charango strings and a breathy duet between the larger and smaller panpipes (zampoñas).  That very evening we went to a folklore night at a local outdoor restaurant called Mundito where a fabulous trio were singing and playing, with locals taking it in turns to get up and perform the traditional dance.  It didn’t take long after they’d packed up for people to start bringing out their guitars and charangos and come together in song.  I just couldn’t imagine that happening in the UK quite in the same way.

 

At the end of the week I got myself to the terminal and waited for Fernanda to come and wave me off.  The time came for my bus to leave and she still l hadn’t come which was very worrying since I still had her keys!  I found my seat and just as the bus doors were closing I heard a loud shout “Roxana! Roxana!” and there she was clambering onto the bus oblivious to the bus driver’s protests.  Lots of waves, kisses, hugs, tears goodbye and we swerved out of sight.  There’s little point in recounting the rather traumatic overnight journey to Cochabamba: an interminable night of swerving side to side dodging the potholes and mounds of rocks round the winding roads, dealt more than my fragile stomach could handle, so I arrived in the morning pretty dead.

new country, new faces

An early bus from Salta took me 8 hours north to La Quiaca which lies on the border between Argentina and Bolivia.  I waited an age to get my exit stamp, crossed the bridge over to Villazón in Bolivia and found myself having to wait yet again behind a whole bus-load of people to get my entry stamp.  Disorientated, light-headed and finding the air too thin to breathe, my first experience of stepping foot into Bolivia wasn't quite the romantic ideal I'd been holding onto up until that point.  I walked clumsily up the street to a cluster of buses that looked like they might take me to Tupiza, my next destination.  I bought myself a little bag of hoja de coca and felt immediately relieved of my uncharacteristically panicky hyperventilation.  I'd tried hoja de coca in Salta and really liked the taste, and was told that it would definitely help alleviate the effects of altitude and now I was really putting it to the test.  Like mate, there are a few different ways to take coca leaves, but the general idea is to place about 10 leaves in your cheek pouch and let the juices infuse into your gums.  A two-hour bus ride later, I arrived in Tupiza to the sound of a steam train tooting like in an old black and white film, and people bustling around selling their wares.  It was dark by that point, and I was keen to find somewhere to stay.  An English guy suggested a good hostel which also offered tours to Uyuni the very next morning.  Perfect!

The next morning I met my tour companions - Martina from Tuscany in Italy, Carolina from Buenos Aires, and Molly and Jessie from Brighton.  I was lucky to have two Spanish-speakers in my Jeep so I could keep practising Spanish.  In our pair Jeep, there were three English people, one girl from NZ and a guy from Holland, all speaking English.  Sergio our driver and guide, and Elena our cook, didn't speak a word of English so I turned into the Jeep translator! 

Driving into the wilderness from Tupiza towards Uyuni was an absolutely fantastic experience, winding higher and higher through the mountains, passing miniscule villages housing the people working in the local mineral mines, leading into the middle of nowhere.  The first night we spent in a simple building with a bed each and after a nice filling dinner, we settled down to sleep.  A combination of the altitude and cold air led to a fairly sleepless night.  It was really interesting to feel the effects of thin air on my body - if I didn't breathe regularly enough, I found myself gulping for air!  The next morning the other group were all ill from the food/water/altitude but I couldn't quite understand why, since we'd all had the same.

Crossing vast expanses of desert the next day, it felt like we were on a truly adventurous road-trip, barely following a track.  We stopped to look at flamingoes lounging in multi-coloured lakes (caused by the different minerals in the earth below), volcanoes looming over fields where lamas alpacas and vicuñas were grazing, crazy rock shapes in the middle of hot orange desert, immersing myself in the hot thermal pool after admiring steaming geisers.  Every day it just got better and better.  I never imagined I could be surrounded by such surreal views, and our final day topped it all off as we entered the understandably famous Salar de Uyuni. 

Having spent the night before in a hostel made of salt, we set off at about 5am to enjoy the sun rising over the salt plain, in all its pinky bluey hues.  We then drove over to the Isla de Pescado and walked up to the top, passing huge cacti some of which were over 100 years old.  At the top, I noticed a guy taking a photo who looked very familiar.  Turns out we went to school together in Cambridge, between the ages of 2 and 18, and have a very good friend in common.  We had a quick chat and marvelled at the coincidence before heading back to our respective Jeeps to grab some breakfast. 

We drove over to our next spot where we had an hour or two to enjoy playing with the illusion of perspectives, where you can make people look larger or smaller depending on how close they are to the camera.  A typical tourist thing to do, but very fun!  I took my shoes off to feel the odd sensation of the salt - sharp like gravel but standing in one place for a few seconds, I felt it disintegrate and soften under my feet.

The vast number of Jeeps leaving each day means that at the end in Uyuni, all the faces you've seen over the previous few days all reunite and even if you wanted to escape them, it just isn't possible.  We bought our tickets to Potosí (everyone seems to head in the same direction) and stayed overnight in a hostel near the terminal.  A great evening was spent in a local bar with a group of Uruguayans and Brazilians before they took their bus up to La Paz.  Having stayed in a new and relatively unknown hostel in Montevideo back in December, I was surprised to find the Uruguayans actually knew where I was talking about since they had not long ago been to a surreal wacky party there which had left their heads spinning.  Definitely the same place!  Again, I was glad to have the option to speak Spanish, since Uyuni seemed to hold a hub of English-speaking tourists and I wanted to experience being in South America, not back in the UK.

A six-hour bus trip the next day took us up to Potosí, us being the whole load of English-speaking tourists who had just finished their tour to Uyuni - argh!  And guess what, the hostel we ended up staying in was full of...English-speaking tourists.  I shared with Martina and Carolina and was relieved to be able to keep listening to Spanish.  The bus trip took us even higher than the salt plains to the highest city in the world, at 4070 metres.  Cheek stuffed with hoja de coca, we headed to the shops to get some grub in anticipation of everywhere being shut the next day for Easter Sunday.  I was hoping to see what a church mass would be like here on Easter Day, but it turns out there weren't any masses going on since they were holding local elections instead.

I left the hostel map-less and decided to follow my nose for the next few hours and see what sights it would offer of the city.  I headed far away from the centre into areas where only locals could be found and felt glad to be alone and a relatively inconspicuous outsider.  I loved observing normal Potosina life - barking dogs trotting around like they own the streets, kids running around chasing a ball, old people sitting quietly at the side of the street, a man carrying a huge iced cake back to the house, music playing from inside shut-up houses, ladies with their characteristically Bolivian two long black plaits carrying their wares in brightly patterned sling-like pouches on their backs, people queuing up to vote for the elections and then tucking into food sizzling temptingly on street barbeques, people setting up their boxes to lay out their food to sell for the day, a woman suddenly appearing from behind a wooden door and chucking a bucketful of dirty water out into the street (a near miss!) and slamming the door shut again a second later... It's a truly beautiful city with every street lined with colourful buildings in varying states of repair, leading to a beautiful view of the surrounding multi-coloured mountains.

In the afternoon, I joined the English speakers to walk up the main mountains (more like a very large hill) to get a view of the sunset over the city.  I'd been admiring it that morning and wondered what it would be like to go up it, so I jumped at the chance to have a go.  The altitude caused much huffing and puffing, but we made it pretty much to the top after passing lots of kids with their parents flying kites (apparently an Easter Day tradition, a scene of which reminded me a lot of The Kiterunner!)  Instead of following the road, we climbed directly up the gravel and grit, and certainly weren't disappointed by the view.  We got back to the hostel satisfied at the end of a full day and very ready for dinner.

Rodrigo from La Casona in Salta had mentioned that his mother and cousins lived in Sucre and that if I was going to Bolivia, I should definitely stay with them.  So I gave Fernanda a ring and was delighted to hear that she was ready and waiting for my arrival early the next morning!

salta reloaded

Having phoned my friend only the day before to say I was coming to Salta, I was delighted to know she was free and happy to take me in.  I met Daniela on the ship to Antarctica and was keen to see her again to share our experiences post-Antarctica.  It was wonderful to be back in Salta again.  One of my best memories had been that evening at La Casona del Molino where musicians come to eat, drink and play folklore music, and I had it in my head that I just had to go back.  Daniela's apartment is very central so I had the luxury of feeling like I was living like a local in the centre of town, and I was able to avoid the hoards of tourists.  

Working in tourism, Dani was able to pull some strings to get us invited onto a tour to Cafayate, the journey to which winds through breath-taking scenery of towering red dusty and rocky mountains.  On the way back, we wandered round a big natural amphitheatre where I heard musicians playing.  I recognised the singer immediately as one of the musicians who had been at La Casona that night I was there on New Year's Day the first time I went to Salta.  Ariel said he would be there again on Tuesday (it's closed on Mondays) and I walked away excited at the coincidence and prospect of going back to that magical place.

La Casona is a fabulous place where people of all ages come with their guitars, charangos, bombos and voices to join together with typical local music.  Rodrigo starts every evening off with songs to get people singing and clapping and soon in every room there are groups starting up their own music.  I felt so at home there and ended up going five times in a row that week, staying until the end at 5am most nights.  Every night was different, sometimes with Dani and other times I just went alone and joined familiar faces.  I asked if Rodrigo wouldn't mind me recording some of his songs and he said it was no problem at all, so I went away with some wonderful songs which will always remind me of my happy days in Salta, and which I was able to put straight onto his computer so now he has good quality recordings of his performances.  Both parties happy!   It's the kind of place you can turn up by yourself and somehow you end up chatting with everyone and making friends with the regular faces.  There was one particular character called Sammy who comes from Yorkshire but has lived in La Casona for about 14 years.  It was very surreal to be surrounded by Salteñans plus a Yorkshire Salteñan who knows all the words to all the songs and despite being now more Argentinian than  English still talks with a soft Yorkshire lilt.  It's a place I know I'll go back to, and one day I'll have the words to the songs down pat and will be able to sing along myself!

Singer by night, Rodrigo is also a tour guide at the Quebrada de San Lorenzo which is a beautiful reserve where you can walk up through the lush green wet forest to a beautiful mirador looking out over the city.  Dani, Rodrigo, his brother Horacio and I went up there to enjoy the view.  I went back a few days later and was treated to a go on the zip-line which was really good fun.  Salta seems to always be blessed by pinky purply clouds which fluff prettily over the city, and even on a more grey day, the green mountains and light-coloured buildings still look picturesque.  I got to know the city centre really well and even started to get used to the scary crossroads at every block.  There are no traffic lights, and there's no official rule about the right of way, other than the hierarchy of vehicle size: buses go before 4x4s which in turn push in front of large estate cars, which never stop for small cars or taxis.  The time it takes to cross from one end of the city to the other seems to depend very much on the size of your wheels!  Needless to say, pedestrians just have to make a run for it and avoid cars swerving round the corners.

Dani had been talking all week about a fantastic restaurant called La Candelária where you can order a set formula which involves course after course of every cut of meat from a cow you can think of.  And being recommended by her keenly carnivorous father as the best meat he'd ever tasted, we had a light breakfast and lunch in preparation for our evening feast.  It more than lived up to expectations, and it was all so delicious that we kept eating and eating til about 1 in the morning and finished off with complimentary cocktails.  It was the only place that kept me from going to La Casona again.  A truly spectacular evening in great company!

I was only going to stay a few days so I could get up to Bolivia, but I ended up staying a full week and it was certainly a great week to remember...

chile to argentina

I opted to take the bus during the day since I'd heard the crossing through the Andes between Santiago in Chile and Mendoza in Argentina was spectacular, and I certainly wasn't disappointed.  I made sure I had the front seat, and was wowed at every turn for about 6 hours.  The mountains were dramatically dry and multi-coloured and textured, with hot desert greys reds and yellows and I just had this feeling I needed to get out there and walk amongst them.  Towards the end, we turned a corner and suddenly appeared a bright turquoise lake that I just wanted to jump in.  Heading into Mendoza, we passed endless vineyards, and of course the famous thing to do here is hire a bicycle and go round them sampling the wine along the way.  My friend, Tate from Oregon, and I finally found each other after a bit of confusion as to when I was due to arrive, and after checking in at a hostel I found recommended by someone back in Valparaiso, we grabbed some food and worked out what we were going to do for the next few days.  We both agreed that the cycle tour of the vineyards was too cliché and preferred a mountain option.  So we got some recommendations from the hostel and packed up some food supplies, sleeping bag and mat, and took the first bus the next day back to that gorgeous blue lake I'd seen on my way in to Mendoza.  We'd heard the national park of Aconcagua had some good walks so we embarked upon a hitching mission up the road leading back to Chile until we finally reached the park.  It was our first experience in such huge cargo trucks and we loved every minute of it.

At the park, there was no easy cheap camping option so we had to just walk around there and head back out again in the early evening.  It was a great view of Aconcagua mountain, though, the highest mountain outside the Himalayas, reaching just under 7000 metres.  We camped tentless at the nearby Puente del Inca using Tate's plastic sheet to protect our sleeping bags from the dusty ground.  I had my blue buff around my head and over my eyes all night and when morning came, I lifted it slightly disorientated and wondered who on earth had turned the bright light on.  Realising where I was and that the bright light was the sun, I grabbed my camera to capture the amazing view of the cloud-rippled sky framed by pretty trees next to a big mountain.  I think I could get used to sleeping out in the open more often!  The Puente del Inca just beyond is a naturally formed bridge reputedly the result of the interaction between the ice and the nearby hot springs.  Scientists suppose that in ancient times ice covered the river and acted as support for avalanches of snow, dust and rocks. So the dust over the ice over the river would have served as a path for the sulfurous water and petrified the surface, so when the snow melted, the bridge remained by itself.  Its striking yellow and orange stripy surface made it look as though the rock had been painted on.  A very strange but awesome sight.

A few hours back down to the Lago Potrerillos, we found a place we could "camp" for free, and satisfied we could relax until dark, we walked along to the lake to see if we couldn't cool our feet in the lovely deep blue.  The road actually led straight into the lake and whilst it was swampy elsewhere, here was a perfectly safe spot to go into the warm water.  We met a great character called Paco who must have been in his seventies or eighties, but who had the energy and jokes of a 20-year old!  His two friends were doing tricks in their kayaks and one offered for me to kayak across the lake with him.  He didn't need to ask me twice!  Unfortunately they were small play kayaks for doing tricks and Tate was too tall to fit in, so I just went out with Ali and enjoyed the ripples of the lake in the picturesque scene.  When we got back, Tate had started talking with a couple from the US who had come down to the lake to enjoy it one last time with their baby Arthur before they went back to Mendoza.  Jeremy and Melody kindly offered for us to stay in their cabaña rather than rough it again, and we happily accepted.  We were so grateful for their generosity, and couldn't believe we'd met such kind people.  We chatted for ages over dinner, mostly laughing at how differently we talk, both in words and accent.  Breakfast was wonderfully American, with spongy pancakes and jam (or is it jello?), and Tate and I went off for a walk in the dry hot mountains.  In the afternoon, they drove us back to Mendoza and took us to meet the rest of their family and then dropped us off at the bus terminal where we bought our tickets for the next stage of our journeys:  to Santiago for Tate, and to Salta for me.

up to valparaiso

It took a little while to decide whether it was a good idea to head up north so close to the big earthquake, but I was really keen to reunite with Antoine, a French guy I met with his parents in Iguazú, and meet his girlfriend Elsa.  They have now settled for a bit in Valparaiso and I wanted to see what had made them choose this particular city over all the others.  I was intrigued!  A lovely weekend spent in Puerto Varas with a group of Germans in my hostel, I packed my things together ready for the night bus up to Valparaiso via Santiago.

I was half expecting diversions and long waits and delays on the way since the route went all the way up past Concepción where the epicentre earthquake was, but all the buses seemed to be running fine and we arrived in Santiago and left for Valparaiso perfectly on time.  The only evidence I saw of a big event having occurred was the writing painted across the rear window of many cars on the road: Fuerza Chile ("Be strong, Chile")  Walking up to the hostel, I occasionally saw cracks in walls and piles of broken wood and plaster, but I couldn't be sure what was the result of the earthquake, and what was there anyway.  I had the address of the hostel jotted down on a scrap of paper in my pocket and was happy to finally locate the place and find myself given a big warm welcome from Pilar and Gustavo, owners of the place.  I was made to feel immediately at home, and enjoyed meeting the other people there, mostly young Chileans who are living there semi-permanently.

I went for a bit of a wander into town to get a feel for the place.  It's a bustling city which spreads out from its impressive port in a grid of streets with shops and markets, and leads steeply up the hills where people's colourful houses overlook the bay.  Most people lay out their assorted wares on the pavement, and those with shops offer a similarly random collection of goods for purchase.  I loved the relaxed and ramshackle feel as I walked around.  There aren't big sightseeing landmarks as such, it's much more about soaking up the atmosphere and enjoying the beautiful colours and street art that bring its unique charm.  I came acorrs the Museo del Cielo Abierto (literally "Museum of the Open Sky") which is a network of streets winding up the hills with huge murals and graffiti art everywhere you look.  In fact, there's graffiti on just about every spare bit of wall everywhere since there are no laws to prohibit it.  The result is a fantastic rainbow effect of colourful swirls, bold icons and cartoon-like characters which lead you through the city.  Just my kind of place!

Back at Hostal Nuevamente, we all clubbed together for a big disco that night.  My initial understanding of this was soom kind of party, but it turns out it was a big homestyle "curanto" made in a huge wok-style pan which is called a "disco".  Meat, chorizo, shellfish and mussels, and big potatoes all got chucked in and bubbled away enticingly for what seemed like an age before it was ready to eat.  Ten of us gathered round the long table and ate contentedly, chatting away in Spanish until my brain got so tired I turned English again.  I love the culture here of sharing everything without a second thought.  It really was like being in one big happy family, and I soon wondered if I was going to be able to leave!

After an early start calling in to Radio Norfolk to give my impressions of the earthquake and its aftermath for the afternoon show, I jumped into a collectivo to head down to a place Antoine had recommended as a beautiful quiet spot called Quintay.  I spent a few hours alone on the beach there listening to the loud crashing waves and walked up to a higher spot to get a better view of the coast.  Walking through the actual village of Quintay was a very different experience from the impression the map gave at the entrance.  With all its places of interests, cafes, internet centres marked on the big wide streets on the map, you'd think it was a pretty full and vibrant place.  Instead it took about ten minutes to cover the length of every street there and the one place I found to be open so I could get some water, closed as soon as I left.  I walked down to the sea to visit the "ballerena", former whaling station, and found it to be so well-done that I stayed a good hour or so reading all of the information points and gradually grasping the importance of this place in the region's whaling history.  It was quite sickening to be standing on the ramp upon which blue whales used to be hauled waiting for the next stage of their fate.  All around the walls, there were beautiful poems and quotations from famous writers in memory of the great sea creatures we've now lost.

Walking through the pine forest to the Playa Chica (small beach), I enjoyed the pine-flavoured breeze in perfect solitude, and childhood days of walking amongst pines near where my grandmother used to live, came flooding back to me.  Coming down the fern-lined sandy path to the beach below brought back memories of family holidays on St Agnes in the Isles of Scilly, and I was so glad to be alone at this moment in time to let the memories waft around me.  Still not a person in sight, I walked along and up to a higher point to watch the sea gulls swoop around me.  I hadn't worked out where I was going to stay that night and so reluctantly I left this beautiful spot and headed back to Quintay to see if there was anywhere to accommodate me.  Apart from expensive cabañas there was nowhere for me to stay, so instead of heading further down along the coast which would have taken too long at this later hour, I hitched back to Valparaiso, and was so glad I did when the next day we all experienced a strong earthquake aftershock.  It was an important day for the whole of Chile, being the inauguration of their new president Piñera, and here we were, feeling tremors all morning and through the afternoon.  It felt like the whole building had turned into a moving vehicle, a very strange sensation.  Political events take place in the Congress in Valparaiso, not in Santiago, so the inauguration was going on just a couple of blocks away from where we were in the hostel.  We watched the events as they happened on the TV, and after the first tremor, they suddenly sent out a tsunami alert, telling us all to run for the hills.  I wasn't too keen on all the hysteria, and we all stayed where we were.  The tsunami never came, and people gradually stopped panicking, and everything went back to normal, as I thought it would.

Antoine finally arrived at the hostel from Buenos Aires (I'd spent the past few days just with Elsa and everyone else at the hostel) and we went out for the day to catch up on everything that had happened since Iguazú and see a bit more of his favourite parts of Valparaiso.  My personal highlight was the rollercoaster ride through the residential area up in the hills leading from east to west.  We had to hold on so tight, and there were so many near misses with children and old people crossing the street as the bus lurched round the corners that after a while I just couldn't watch anymore.  It was a tiring day walking around in the heat and, feeling a bit listless when we arrived back at the hostel, I was surprised to find myself agreeing to go for a run with Pablo, one of the Chileans living in the hostel who guides adventure sports here.  Putting on his old trainers which needed 3 pairs of socks to make sure they didn't slip, I wasn't sure it was a great idea, but as soon as we got going winding through the streets to the port on the other side of the city, and along the coast all the way to a lighthouse some few kilometres down, I felt absolutely fantastic.  I realised I much prefer seeing sights at a running or cycling speed, somehow I get out of breath walking but not running.  Having to take deeper breaths, my nostrils were filled with every smell (sweet and not so sweet) of Valparaiso - from petrol fumes to fresh oranges, older rotting fruit to candyfloss, salt water and seaweed to fish markets... Experiencing the city through different senses.  Running into the sun, I had to half-close my eyes, and my senses became even more heightened.  The sun was starting to set, and stretching at the lighthouse gave the perfect opportunity to enjoy the view before we headed back along the coast to the city.

The next day, Antoine Elsa and I borrowed bikes from the hostel and cycled along the coast in the opposite direction up to Viña del Mar to have some time at the beach.  Because of the earthquake, the sand was all piled up high and the water got very deep very quickly, so I didn't go in far, especially because the current was strong and the seemingly calm sea at first turned into a surfer's dream.  My last day in Valparaiso was Elsa's birthday, and while she went off to enjoy her surprise present of a 24m dive to a shipwreck from Antoine (nice!), I went back up into the hills and their beautiful winding streets one last time.  I could see exactly why they wanted to stop here for some time, and having spent a fair few days here, I found it harder to leave than the places where I only stayed a couple of days.  Pablo, Antoine, Elsa and I enjoyed a bottle of champers and nibbles by candelight (the electricity had cut across the city for some reason), and the next morning Antoine accompanied me to the bus station to see me onto my bus to Mendoza, crossing from Chile back into Argentina.

cochamó valley on horseback

On from Puerto Montt to Puerto Varas, I booked on to a Campo Aventura horseback trail through the Cochamó Valley for 5 days which was recommended to me over a month ago by the lovely French girl Aude who I met on the bus from Bariloche back in Argentina.  Cochamó lies on the fjord Reloncavi in the lake district of Chilean Patagonia.  The valley itself is 50 km long and the trail was famously used in 1902 by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to bring their cattle to the Cochamó slaughterhouse.  Manuel the driver took me on a stunning drive round the lakes and past two huge volcanoes Osorno and Calbuco, to Campo Aventura where the owners Armin and Kurt welcomed me to their base camp. 

 

It didn't take long to feel utterly relaxed and at peace here in this tranquil haven.  I took time to wander through the trees and sit surrounded by the mountains cooling my feet in a stream before heading back for dinner where I was introduced to one of the guides, Charlotte.  The next morning I met my main guide Cochelo who's a real "huaso" (Chilean gaucho) with impressive "pierneras" made from goat to protect his legs.  After a quick rundown of how to handle the ride, I mounted my horse Flecha which worryingly means "arrow" in Spanish.  I was assured she was very trained and responsive and unlikely to dart like an arrow.  It's been years since I last rode a horse and it took a little while to get used to being so high up, but soon I felt completely safe and in control.

 

We set off into the pristine temperate rainforest of Cochamó Valley and found ourselves immediately shaded by the bright green canopies extending from the tall tree trunks covered in mosses, crawlers, lichens, ferns, thorns...I loved the intoxicating sweet smell of the fresh wet air, with the leaves brushing past my skin as Flecha paced steadily and at times awkwardly forward, over stony uphill paths and high gnarly tree roots, through mud-walled trenches and rivers.  It was incredible how well the horses managed the tricky terrain since attempting hike it on foot would have been a real challenge, certainly for me in the mud.  Trailing round the through the forest with the sounds of insects buzzing, birds flitting and cooing, and rushing water in all directions at different volumes, I was so glad to have brought the recorder with me to capture some of it.  Suddenly we would come to a clearing and huge granite towers glistening in sun filled the view and all was quiet, apart from my whispered "wow".  We reached the mountain lodge in the late afternoon and, after tea and cake, Tate the hiking guide from Oregan took me up through a nature trail to two beautiful waterfalls.

 

In the morning Cochelo and I headed out back into the forest to trek further along the trail to El Arco which is full of coigüe and mañío trees, and most importantly, home to the ancient Alerce tree, recognised by the UNO as one of the wonders of the world.  These straight-grained red-brown trees are over 3000 years old and grow something like 1mm per year.  They were used for the shingles of the houses in the region for years until the importance of preserving and protecting them was finally recognised.  It was truly humbling being in the midst of such ancient natural history.  I was amazed by the number of huge fallen trees we saw, the result of old age combined with the powerful winter winds and their necessarily shallow roots because of the layer of granite rock not far below.  Cochelo said it was not possible to enter the forest during the winter for this very reason.  He didn't speak a word of English and I enjoyed the opportunity to speak only in Spanish. 

 

Up at El Arco, we set out my tent and Cochelo prepared his outdoor bed under the trees.  I headed out for a walk further along the path and found myself crouching by an area with still water smooth as glass reflecting the darkening sky and set the nagra recording.  Before long, I was hearing the tiniest twitters of birds punctuated every now and again by the call of the chucao bird which apparently is a rather plain looking small bird but which produces a distinctive tropical sounding call.  Huge electric blue dragon flies whizzed around and came to hover near the recorder which I was holding out, and I spied small lizards darting along horizontal tree trunks and cramming themselves into holes in the bark.  It's amazing what you can notice when you stop, listen and really look.  I got back to find Cochelo had got the fire going and a flash of his machete produced a selection of perfectly whittled branches to form the spit on which to roast big hunks of pork, a Chilean style asado.  An impressive feat which clearly was a very normal affair for him, and quite spectacular for me.

 

I woke up in the morning to the sound of the horses munching loudly right outside my tent.  Mono and Pichi the dogs accompanying us lay in the sun waiting for us to get ready to leave.  We were very lucky to get bright clear skies every day and setting off once more into the forest back to the mountain lodge at La Junta, my senses were even more heightened to the colours, sounds and smells of the forest.  The more I heard the call of the chucao, the more I was desperate to actually see what it looked like, but I never did get to see it.  It was a fine balance between admiring the beauty of the forest and staying balanced on the horse as it tramped awkwardly through the stony-bedded rivers and streams and lolloped down the steep gnarly rooted paths When we stopped for lunch, we found ourselves swatting at the big horse flies landing on us.  The big one with a bit of orange is a "távano" and the smaller grey one is a "pedro".  They go for dark colours and fortunately they couldn't get through my clothing so I was able to admire them unharmed.

 

We were welcomed back to the lodge with homemade bread and locally produced Ulmo honey (from the white-blossomed Ulmo tree), and Tate led us along a windy path to a big wide waterfall leading down to the emerald green water below.  Perfect natural waterslide!  Tate went first and after cautiously following suit wondering whether I was going to hurt myself, I found myself flat on my face sliding down anyway.  I went back for lots more goes, and couldn't stop laughing at how difficult I found it to stay upright.  After dinner, the sky was so clear it was possible to see the whole mass of stars carpeting the sky, with Orion's Belt gleaming bright and a bright milky way smearing through.  The final day was spent trailing back down to base camp, and I said a sad goodbye to the horses and everyone who had helped to make my experience such a special one.