fresh n juicy chunks of oyster :: RTW travel blog

Two things have changed in the last week: 1. I am not travelling alone anymore but have teamed up with a lass from Patagonia, and 2. I am in Bolivia, moving at breakneck pace.
Because I love stating the obvious here goes: Bolivia is a completely different animal from Argentina (possibly a llama). It is spectacular here, full of contrasts, wild places that have an unexplored feel about them and one hell of a colourful carnival.

We crossed into Villazon, Bolivia late at night last Monday (a perfect, unprotected little border for drug runs or getting drunk with the guards) and walked right into the carnival with our backpacks. Amazing constumed parades were dancing down the street and folklore and symbolism was rife. The night was topped off with a wild disco night, Bolivian village style. Good stuff.
The next day we hung around Villazon and got pissed for free as everywhere we went - from the border immigration office to bus ticket offices to random places in the street - drunk party people would be forcing us to down glasses of beer and spirits. Sweet!
I honestly don't think I've ever met such hospitable people who genuinely seem to be interested in you - then again maybe they've all just had a few.
That night a bus took us to Potosí. Even though I had a seat I suffered badly. Bolivians aren't particularly tall and correspondingly their buses have 10cm of legroom. Neither do they seem to have sufficient supply to meet demand for bus travel - there were a good 20 people standing and sleeping in the aisles - I was trapped on all sides and DVT seemed a real possibility. But I mustn't complain - at least I didn't stand for 8 hours that night.
I also suspected from the carnival decorations on the bus and the state of the ticket office and its staff earlier that the bus driver was enjoying the ride over the unpaved dirt road in a state of mild intoxication, fulfilling his rally driver fantasies. Hell it was carnival, everyone was allowed to have fun!
Potosí doesn't really celebrate carnival in a major fashion but it is a very interesting town that was once made rich by silver mining and now survives mostly through tourism.
The first day we set off on a trek through the nearby highlands but I didn't get very far. With the town at around 4100m and the trek at 4500m the altitude sucker-punched me right in the chest and winded me after a short climb. My pulse hammered with the frequency of a pneumatic drill.
Since then my blood has become juicier (or something) and I've learnt how to handle climbing stairs like an old man.
So the next day we were ready for the physical exertion of a tour of the collective mines (e.g. no company owns the mine but collectives of miners rent space from the government). Being a miner in Potosí has to be one of the hardest jobs on earth: working on their own, darkness all day, narrow, cold, wet tunnels, Coca laeves as the only sustenance, frequent lethal accidents and a toxic atmosphere that has a serious effect on life expectancy.
It was a different world we had entered into, a world that was hard to properly comprehend. Making a true connection with the miners was difficult. We brought them Coca leaves, cigarettes, cookies and dynamite as gifts which seemed to be appreciated and also necessary, as mining is not very profitable anymore these days. The miners depend on tourists to lighten the financial load of their working materials.
I attempted to help Don Felipe, my namesake and an old, experienced miner, with drilling a hole for inserting the dynamite but after a minute of hammering my heart was pounding out of my chest again. My blood wasn't juicy enough yet and with my tail between my legs I admitted defeat, knowing full well Don Felipe would be doing hours more of the same work today to make a living.
It was an experience I can't quite describe but somehow I was left feeling that the world is a very, very complicated place indeed.
Very aware of our privileged position, we made our way towards a hot spring to relax while the miners were still underground grinding away. After putting those thoughts aside the hot spring was amazing. A large lake the temperature of a bathtub, outside it was nice and chilly. If I ever get a house give me a natural hot spring, damnit! It'd possibly be good to get a mine or two for humility's sake too.
Leaving all that behind we're taking a bus to Cochabamba tonight where on the weekend there'll be a massive carnival celebration. More costumes, dancing and foolishness undoubtedly. Maybe I can dress up as a llama or something...

[Pics have been uploaded, click here for Albums Bolivia 1 and 2.]

Up here in Tilcara it is definitely scarf territory at night and I don't think it'll get better up in Bolivia. I am hoping that layering will be key (currently at 3 shirts, 1 sweater and 2 trousers - I'll keep updating).
My body had already reacted badly and erupted in a temperature on Friday although that may also have been a by-product of the last week's exhaustion, excesses and the rain on arrival here. I prescribed myself a day of bedrest only interrupted by an afteroon stroll around town but once it started getting cold around 5 pm I slinked back to the hostel and slept till next morning.
Eureka, miracle cure! I had lulled my body into believing it was safe again, ready to take a new beating in a week of fast travelling. Indeed I'll be having to do a lot more of that in the next month otherwise I'll never make it back to London on my RTW ticket.
Sunday I then met up with some Argentines I knew from Salta and roamed around freely in Tilcara Carnival. One of the ideas of Carnival here seems to be to irresponsibly arm little kids with Super Soakers, water balloons and spray cans of some carcinogenic foam or other and to declare open season on absolutely anyone. While on Saturday, packed into my layered winter gear, I was still able to plead with them not to soak me on account of my infirmity, on Sunday and today I was a sitting duck (although revenge, when forthcoming, was all the sweeter - I love bullying little kids! :). Maybe having dressed like a bulky, layered, multi-coloured Carnival Clown with a Brasilian-flag serong draped around my neck didn't help either.
The rest of the Carnival affair involves getting very drunk (lots of locals too) and dancing through the streets all day and most of the night in a long procession. All clean, harmless fun, really!
In other news I am embarrassed to admit that in my time here in Argentina I hadn't realised how many contrasts there are in this country (this ain't Kansas or Europe no more). Gradually towards the North it has become noticeably more 'Andean' in culture. At least that is based on what my, by-definition, misinformed stereotype of stereotypically Andean countries would have me believe. But for one, they serve Llama here which seemed quite Andean (--unfortunately I had the munchies quite badly when I tried it so I can't quite recount anymore what it tasted like but I think it was good-ish).
Anyway, I'll be working more on educating myself in the Andean ways of life and Llama diet: I'll be off to Bolivia tonight - finally! :)

[Pics have now been uploaded to Album Argentina 5.
Ps.: Have my blog post titles always been this cheesy?]

Here I am at 5 AM, sitting at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. My body is a wreck that is only kept moving by Coke's age-old secret ingredient, I haven't slept in a bed for three days and haven't taken a shower for four. I am wondering whether other people can tell already... How I got here I'm not quite sure and it is a long story that I'll have a hard time cutting short.
It all started last Saturday when I thought I had found the perfect guide in a tourist office. I insisted I didn't want to do 'estancia-tourism' (where they dump you on a ranch, feed you beef and after you're nice and juicy they slaught- umm sorry, send you on horseriding daytrips). The travel agent eagerly agreed and presented me with a 3 day horse-trek of some 320km from Cachi to Cafayate, two towns mostly in the middle of nowhere. I then spoke to the guide, Hugo, who explained to me for half an hour that horses could run fast and how much fun it'd be. And such is the story of how I got suckered in and booked on Monday for the following day. My skepticism was quelled by my child-hood fantasies of galloping day and night to deliver a vital warning of impending Indian attack to Fort Cafayate, Pony Express style.
Tuesday morning dark and early the guide, we caught a bus to Cachi. It turned out Hugo's newly acquired Swiss girlfriend would come along for the ride. No problem, she was great to have there actually, especially as another voice of sanity!
Once we arrived in Cachi Hugo started taking his time over things. It turned out he hadn't reserved any horses but there were some in a town called Saclantas "only 10 km away". Now, the Argentines are infamous for underjudging distances (after careful deliberation they'll tell you "four blocks that way" when it usually turns out to be 14) and in this case too I finally found out it is actually 35 km - after walking for an hour. I proposed we hitch-hike to Seclantas so as not to get there after nightfall.
An hour later we arrived but Hugo didn't know the way to the horses, at one point proposing to wade across a half-mile wide fast-flowing river. I found the farm a little later (asking directions helped) and had a chat with the owner Fido, whom I can only say amazing things about. From him I found out that the proposed trip was indeed impossible. Apparently it would take at least a week and besides the river was too powerful to cross by horse right now. I confronted Huge and after much Gollum-like twisting and squirming of his I find out that he intended to start for a day and then realise we couldn't make it to Cafayate and come back here. Charming bastard. I proposed a policy of honesty henceforth and we planned a shorter and more manageable route to Angustora, a farm another 35 km away. We spent the night in an empty house of Fido's and the next morning we were on our way.
The horseriding was amazing. The scenery was mindblowing, alternating between desert and lush green fields all the while stunning mountains as backdrop. My horse Vayo (no relation to the laptop) was high-spirited, fast and listened to most things I told him. Hugo's horse on the other hand buckled under his weight after an hour and had to be dragged half the way. We took our time and in the evening finally made it to Angustora.
The farm had no electricity or running water and sheep, goats and chickens roamed the land and lots of cattle grazed on pastures. A recommendation letter from Fido got us warmly welcomed by the family who were again, simply great (I don't want to keep waxing on about how hospitable and friendly the people in the countryside are). I had a really good time there! And I fulfilled another cowboy fantasy of mine by sleeping on the horse's blankets and saddle which actually turned out to be quite comfortable.
The next morning we left late. Too late in fact to realistically make the last bus to Salta which I needed to catch to honour the hostel reservation I had made for that night (no telephones=no cancellation). Hugo's horse started breaking down underneath him again and he was dragging it along painfully slowly.
I decided to head back by myself on Vayo. At that point Hugo started mumbling something about my having to pay extra for the horse, mumble mumble. Bollocks. After I gave him an earful about him being the most useless and disorganised guide in the world I galloped off with faithful horsey.
At this point the 'tour' as such luckily finished. And I don't want to sound whiney but I've but mentioned a fraction of Hugo's incompetence for lack of space.
Tourless, I rode back to Seclantas, only stopping for water but singing and whistling songs to Vayo to keep him in good spirits - he seemed to prefer the Monty Python theme tune and was a forgiving listener when I had to make up the lyrics to songs. Another fantasy of mine kicked in and I pretended to be the lonesome cowboy in the desert complete with flesh-wound, being carried home by my trusty steed.
Before I went mad I arrived in Seclantas but getting away from the middle of nowhere was harder than expected. After several 5-minute lifts from a pick-up truck, a van full of onions and a tractor I found myself on the main road to Cachi - only a swift 27 km walk. After an hour of mountains to my left and river to my right the first car approached. I held out my thumb full of hope but the asshole (probably tourist) behind the steering wheel of the half-empty 4WD Toyota waved at me condescendingly and cruised by in a cloud of dust.
I started feeling like a leaf in the wind happy to settle anywhere it would take me. I was getting increasingly friendly with the notion of sleeping by the side of the road huddled under my rain poncho when finally a van came - and stopped!
A husband and wife team were collecting tomatoes and onions from farmers waiting patiently at the side of the road and were driving them up North to Jujuy. None of that chain-supermarkets monopoly crap here: "local produce from local farmers" or something.
For the sake of being a leaf in the wind I decided not to be honourable, screwed the reservation in Salta and joined them on the way up towards Jujuy (if I don't chicken out I'll try to call the hostel and explain). In Jujuy state I was dropped off seven hours later not as centrally as I'd hoped and started writing this entry. But the past has caught up with the present and I'll have to ignore rules of tenses to continue.
A friendly truck driver from Buenos Aires namely took pity on me and took me to where I am now, the capital San Salvador de Jujuy. I seem to have stumbled right into the middle of carnival season so I will head further North today to some smaller village for some R&R and partying. Rio it ain't but I'll give it a chance.
Equally I'm still undecided on whether the horsetrek was the worst tour ever (in the traditional sense of the word) or the best possible 'tour' (in the non-tour sense of the word).
Or maybe it was all just an elaborate set-up and conspiracy, right from the start, planning for everything to go wrong... Maybe they knew that I am sick enough to even enjoy this sort of stuff? Well, it definitely beat getting slaughtered on an estancia with other Gringos.

[Would you believe it, I've edited out about half the photos this time and still ended up with loads. Find them in Albums Argentina 2 and 3.
Oh, and if anyone can come up with a less cheesy title to this post please suggest, I'll take the first option. I'm way too tired right now to think of silly puns on Westerns... ;)]

From Cordoba to Salta (further up North) I decided to treat myself. Instead of opting for the cheapest bus available (which have all so far been much more comfortable than buses in Europe or the infamous Greyhound) I decided to experience the luxury of Argentine 1st class bus travel (for a price hike of $3). Unfortunately none left at a convenient time so I settled for semi-cama class instead (first class is called cama, i.e. 'bed').
I was welcomed on the bus by a friendly stewardess in uniform who would put most grumpy airline staff to shame. I munched on the complementary sweet, reclined my seat to 30 degrees off the horizontal, put up the leg rest and went to sleep straight away.
An unknown time later I was woken by the friendly stewardess with a meal that was up there with airline food (which in actual fact should read 'down there' but I like the pun).
Just as I was about to nip off a video was slapped in starring 'J-Lo'. It began predictably enough as a badly written romantic chick-flick, then out of nothing pops a made-for-US-TV domestic violence drama (with of course a disgustingly cute daughter involved). Then the scriptwriters struggled to come up with an ending suitable for a pop-princess and had a 6ft 6 Yoda instruct Ms Lopez in the art of self-defence and Jedi mind-tricks within 3 minutes of screen time. Et voila, she turns into Tom Cruise from Mission Impossible, complete with gadgetry. She then proceeds to assassinate her husband in hand to hand combat in an elaborate fashion. No apologies for spoiling the plot. And no, it wasn't a comedy.
Anyone who hadn't fallen asleep through 'J-Lo's' antics earlier was then treated to an encore of frustration. A guy several seats in front of me was evidently really enjoying the reclining seats and snoring like a mammoth giving birth. To a space shuttle. Indeed, there will be no more silence from me on the topic of public snoring - I've suffered enough. A spouse at least you can lovingly suffocate in their sleep with a pillow, blame it on Sleep Apnea and live happily ever after on the life insurance payout. Lack of kinship and proximity prevented me from doing the same in this case. In youth hostels kicking a snorer's bed hard usually buys you a several-minute window of falling into a death-like sleep. On the bus, however, he was in control. Snoring, just like a baby crying in the middle of the night, has an organic, grating quality to it and a chaotic irregularity in its melody that constantly raises the irrational conviction that there is malicious intent involved. The bastard. He was teasing me, playing with me like a spider with its defenceless prey that is being kept barely alive on the hope its tormenter will stop the torture or die swiftly and violently.
"Ah, no snores for the last minute," I'd keep saying to myself, "quick, go to sleep sleep sleeeep..."
I'd ignore the slight grunt that was meant to remind me he was aware of my plans and could slowly feel my mind flirting with the line between this world and my dreams. Then, suddenly, a sound like a pigsty during mating season would make my heart jump with fear and my mind race with helpless fury.
I had to proceed with the last resort that I will in future make my first: the uncomfortable sonic bubble that is earplugs. The snores now sounded miles away but the hope they might cease kept me awake for longer. I should really have known better.
I arrived in Salta the next morning exhausted. Fascinatingly, Salta is neither Rotterdam nor Germany but refreshingly it feels more like what I'd imagine Bolivia to be like. I may of course be completely wrong in that assumption, but I was welcomed by Coca leaves that are sold on every street corner. Between masticating cow-like on that and drinking copious amounts of mate (hot, caffeinated, tea-like national drink) it was no problem staying up for 24 hours or more. Even after a night of sleeping with mammoth-boy.
On Tuesday I shall hopefully live out my childhood John Wayne fantasies and go horseback riding for a couple of days. My ass and legs are expecting heavy punishment. If I'll be able to walk to an internet cafe I'll post again on my return. Hopefully about something more eventful than bodily functions and bad movies. :)

[Pictures have been posted, but just to warn, they're not very interesting... Unless if you're into train stations and cities from above that is.]

Or anywhere... But enough of the cheesy pop music and besides, I'm getting ahead of myself...
Cordoba could not be Germany (but it could be in Spain!). Even though I had just been there for a couple of days, I've nothing but praise for the place. I'd always assumed that as far as cities go, bigger is better. I have had to live and learn. Albeit Cordoba being only Argentina's second city after Buenos Aires I find it a lot more cool (though it is still scorching hot during the day!). For starters, Cordoba central area is eminently walkable and to anywhere else you can catch a taxi for the price of a cheap burger - the meters here move in units of $0.05 or so. The streets are narrow and lined with trees providing a degree of shade all day long to prevent the severe burnage that would otherwise ensue. There are loads of parks, pedestrianised areas, shady plazas, shops, lovely buildings, restaurants and anything else you could desire for. On top of that it is a university town loaded with students and corresponding facilities like lots of bars and clubs and finally it also has the widespread reputation of being home to the most beautiful girls in Argentina and so far I can do nothing but corroborate.
In short, Cordoba is an exceedingly pleasant and laid back place to spend time in; even though there isn't as much stylish Tango as in Buenos Aires. I did finally understand a large part of the appeal of the dance though: there are few things old, balding men can do to get this close to consenting, young, pretty girls and feel like a macho again, Viagra notwithstanding and also a possible exception.
The area surrounding Cordoba has the Sierras, a series of hills and lush green valleys. One of the villages nearby is Villa General Belgrano and that's where the title of this post comes in. Around the second world war most of the crew of a German war ship, the Graf Spee, made their home in this village. Correspondingly, it is essentially German and seems to have a reputation amongst some Argentines for being full of old Nazis.
Basically, the place is quite unremarkable and I'm only using that word because I didn't want to use 'shithole'. Its essence is that of a backwater village your dog wouldn't want to get lost in and of those there are hundreds in Germany. Apart from being in a pretty area its German-ness slap-bang in the centre of Argentina, however, is the only redeeming feature which makes it attractively exploitable for tourism. Thus, in the last twenty years the main road has sprouted over-priced Artesania shops, over-priced kiddies and stylish women's clothes shops, dozens of ice-cream parlours for the children and lots of Argentine steak restaurants that serve over-priced faux-German food as novelty 'typical dishes' of the region [see picture for an appetising example of 'livercheese']. Thus it has made a perfect holiday destination for the average Argentine family (many of whom have preferred staying within their country and currency after the financial disaster of the last few years).
But no, I'm being a tad too scathing here. It is cute if you look past the tourist traps and there is some authentic food including good Black Forest Gateaux and some good local beer. And they have an Oktoberfest! And Sauerkraut, that only German dish of international fame - or more probably infamy - which, in a linguistic twist of Argentine Sperman (yes, that does look bad!), they have called Chukrut. And they have houses here that from the inside look more yester-year-German than most in Germany, complete with Formica kitchen tables! Yes, it's been a bit of a trip for me! :)

[Ok, so I uploaded loads of pictures of random things this time (Albums Argentina 2 and 3) and I'm sensing there may be some more voices of dissent. Please vote on the poll on the right (again?) to let me know whether they're too many to handle and next time I'll do more editing. That's the problem with digital cameras and large mem cards, I start playing around too much... :)]

Or anywhere, actually. Like Liverpool (ok, so not really!) or Rome. I'll put Paris and Madrid up there too for good measure. Yes, it was easy feeling at home in Buenos Aires. It only takes a tiny stretch of the imagination to turn BA into most European cities so South America seems further away to me than Tony Blair right now.
However, BA is possibly more beautiful than most European cities. Wide streets (including the world's widest with a good 20 or so lanes), a lot of public parks, tons of restaurants with the juiciest beef tastable by man and/or woman and cafés on every street corner. Nightlife here is happening and mostly happens at night - mostly... Going out before 2am is a little pointless unless your idea of fun is dancing by yourself outside a shut club.
So far so good. There is however, one thing that seems absolutely unique to me about here: Tango. People of all ages seem to be into it, tangoing the night away cheek to cheek, letting the music flow through them in stylish and atmospheric joints. And then there are the professionals - never have I seen any professional - actor, singer, dancer or otherwise - convey so much passion through singing and dancing. Acrobatics, drama, sex, passion and legs swinging everywhere, what more can you ask for in a dance?
So I guess it's not quite Rotterdam here, although I want to make clear that I'm in no way making a statement about the dancing ability of the Dutch.