Buenos Aires to Brazil

I got to Buenos Aires on a night bus from Cordoba and made straight for the airport. i wasn´t in much shape to make smalltalk with my Uruguayan taxi driver, and the conversation stalled fatally on the topic of Argentine prostitutes, partly due to language difficulties and partly due to my ignorance of a subject which interested the Uruguayan greatly.

I´ve waited for Neasa in a couple of international airports this year, and have enjoyed passing the time watching the other people waiting. Something of a nations character can be seen in the way returning loved ones are met at the airport. The Danes bring their national pride with them, greeting passengers with a flurry of flag waving (the newsagent in the airport sells flags in case you forgot yours, and also stocks flags of other selected nations in a nod to multiculturalism). Argentine arrivals is a different story. Here it´s all raw emotion: the recently landed are hugged and kissed vigorously (men kissing each other freely on the cheeks), tears are shed, and children are frightened by being man-handled by relatives they don´t recognise.

We spent a very pleasant 6 days in Buenos Aires (I´ll come back to that), and have covered some serious territory in the week since. Having travelled more or less south since I left Dublin, I took my first turn north towards the Iguazu falls, where Argentina meets Brazil and Paraguay looks on. We spent one night in the town and an afternoon and morning at the falls, then over the border for the night bus to Sao Paulo, another 16 hours (and not nearly as nice as the Argentine bus, which made the journey surprisingly easy). The land borders I´d crossed up to then had been unremarkable affairs, generally little more than a small building in the middle of barren wasteland. The Argentina-Brazil frontier is a cracker: a short drive along a bridge spanning a river (the natural border) overlooked by forested slopes and then a sign saying "Bemvenidos a Brasil". Yeah!

Sao Paulo was just a stop-off on the way to the seaside, but luckily it coincided with Lynam and Kelly´s passing through in the other direction, so we met up for our dinner, a strange concert by a very eccentric 70 year old Brazilian folk music hero, and beers in a little gay bar in the red light district (Lynam´s idea, and a good one at that). The following day we left for Paraty, where we stayed for three nights, and now we´re in Ilha Grande where we´re staying put for a while to let our brains catch up with us as we lie on the beach. I´m sitting in an internet place sweating so much that I look like I´ve recently done something I really shouldn´t have done, so I´ll fill in some of the blanks some other time and go next door for a Caiprinha with Neasa.

Southwest Bolivia

That bus from La Paz to Uyuni really was horrendous. I knew that only 10% of Bolivia's roads are paved, but I didn't know that in the stoney desert areas the sand and stones can create a surface like a very long draining board. I remember at some stage in the middle of the night, in a half-sleep exhausted daze, thinking that the constant violent rattling couldn't really, in all seriousness, continue for much longer. But it could. And it did. For christ himself only knows how long.

Thankfully negotiations with Alberto, our shady Bolivian tour operator of choice, were led by Charlotte and Christine, two take-no-shit ladies (from england/denmark and germany respectively) who were inventing fake appointments and flights in order to ensure a speedy departure from the dusty little desert town of Uyuni, leaving myself and David (the frenchman) to attempt to recover our mental and physical composure. Once Alberto had scrounged around for a tank of petrol for the 4x4, we were joined by an Austrian couple and took off for a 2 day drive across the deserted wilds of southwest Bolivia.

The first stop was the train cemetery, where the abandoned hulks of Bolivia's first locomotives rest and rust in the desert, though their peace is regularly disturbed by the tourists than run around and climb on them like it's a grown-up's playground.

Pretending to drive a choo-choo train

We arrived at the main event later that day: Salar de Uyuni, 12,000 square kilometres of the largest and highest salt flats in the world, and one of the strangest places I've ever seen (the Bierhaus at 5am not included). The blinding white surface seems to stretch on indefinitely, and it plays tricks with your eyes so that it seems that the mountains at its edge are actually floating just above the ground. It took a few hours to cross it with a couple of stops along the way, including one to climb the Isla de Pescado, a cactus island rising out of the flats, and several attempts at taking goofy pictures of perspective tricks, with varying levels of success.

Our driver wasn't one to disclose information, and decided to keep to himself the reasons for driving around for an hour on the other side of the Salar trying to find someone to whom he had to deliver what seemed to be a bag of meat. He wasn't too forthcoming with an explanation for his two hours of tinkering with the jeep that evening either, and after another couple of hours tinkering the following morning (during which we saw various parts being extracted from the engine), he informed us that there was a "defecto". No shit, sherlocko. This was not a place to be driving around in a dodgy truck. Anyway, Wildur (some strange names around these parts) eventually got the defecto fixed (allegedly), and we were off for another day driving across the wilds. The landscape around here is incredible: the desert is sprinkled with extinct and active volcanoes and lagoons populated with flamingoes. Different mineral concentrations in different areas combine with the glaring high-altitude sun to create amazingly vivid colours and contrasts, while the wind would cut the nose straight off your face.

Flamingoes!

We got to our lodgings just before dusk, a cluster of small buildings at about 4,500m surrounded
by miles and miles of nothing. Another jeep had apparently broken down and there was a hurry on to get another one out to them before it got seriously cold. Having anticipated a night of limb-deadening cold, it was actually fine thanks to a sleeping bag, a pile of blankets, and several layers of clothes. Getting up in the dark at 4.30 wasn't a whole lot of fun, but the early start was necesary to see the geysers at their best (this really is high-altitude endurance tourism).

The geysers were going off like billy-o, and by 7am we were in our swimming togs getting nicely warmed up in the nearby thermal springs, with the sun still low in the sky and the air clouded with misty vapour.By 10am we'd been dropped off at the Chilean border and were on our way to San Pedro de Atacama.

Coyote and bus at the Bolivie/Chile border

The remoteness of the area meant that we had no idea who'd won the big vote in America. At the entrance to a national park we met a Bolivian lady who'd been in La Paz that morning who told us that the "el moreno" (the brown one) had won. Viva el moreno!

Where's Willie? (2: Chile to Argentina)

We seem to be on the move a lot the past week. For a few hours it looked as if we'd be stuck in San Pedro de Atacama (a funny little Chilean desert town that's full of tourists and has an unreal feel about it, not somewhere you'd particularly want to be stuck), because the bus tickets we'd been promised in Uyuni didn't seem to exist. Thankfully it was a false alarm and the following morning (after 24 hours in Chile) we were on the bus for the crossing of the Andes and the Argentinian border via el Paso de Jama to Salta (other people we met ended up hiring a truck to get them over the border). So nice to get to Salta: it's a lovely city, nice and warm due to the much lower altitude, and the food is great. No more high-altitude endurance tourism!

After a few days in Salta, largely spent drinking great wine, coffee and beer and eating steaks and empañadas (little pastries filled with meat, cheese or chicken), we went south to Cafayate for a couple of nights. This is a small town surrounded by mountains and vineyards in the north-western wine producing region of Argentina, and it's highly relaxing. Since then, we've been working our way south-east towards Buenos Aires, with a stop in Córdoba to break up the journey. And that's where I'm at right now. It's a big, busy, modern city and it's hot as hell. Looking forward to staying put for a few days in Buenos Aires and enjoying the sea breeze. I'm heading straight to the airport to meet the Peggie Martinez to my Willie Gonzalez, Neasa, who's joining me for three weeks of 24-carat relaxation.

I seem to be experiencing some luck in dodging transport strikes. In Cusco I happened to see something on the news about road blocks near Puno, and in the space of an hour and a half I'd somehow ended up with a plane ticket to La Paz for the following morning (I later heard stories of people being stuck for days in Cusco and of tourist buses being stoned near Puno). Today my friend Christine had to go to the doctor where she found out that there was a bus strike tonight which we'd heard nothing about and would seriously disrupt our Buenos Aires travel plans. An hour later we'd been able to change our tickets to a different company, getting seats on a nearly full bus, and were back on track. So lucky, we could very easily have been standing in the bus terminal like gobshites tonight. We could be yet, so say nathin'.

Lake Titicaca

Lake Titicaca is one of those places I've always wanted to visit, mainly because it sounds so exotic and far away, like Tierra del Fuego, or Cabra (which, incidentally, has become known as Fabra in certain circles due to its popularity as a residential location for homosexual couples. Apparently). The bus trip from La Paz took an interesting twist at the Straits of Tiquina, where we disembarked and were herded onto a little launch that ferried us across the narrow straits to the other side of the lake, while our bus nosed its way onto a wooden barge for the crossing. The return journey took an even more interesting twist when the motor failed and el capitan had to signal for another launch to come over and tow us.
The last stop, Copacabana, was all I hoped it would be: a relaxed little town on the shores of the lake with a rundown seaside resort feel (Chile robbed Bolivia's coastline in the Pacific war in the 1870's, so in the absence of a seaside of their own Bolivians have to make do with the lake. They could do worse, but they're still a bit touchy with Chile.) The following morning I rented a bike for the 35km round trip to Yampupata, a little village of 80 families at the end of the peninsula beside Copacabana. If i'd realised it would involve long steep ascents (at 4000m altitude don't forget) that would reduce me to trudging along on foot for long periods I may not have been so enthusiastic.
What I found at the end of the road made it worthwhile though. I sat down to recover against a stone wall facing the little harbour and was soon joined by 3 local men of three different generations with whom I shared 30 of the most relaxing minutes I've ever known. We chatted a bit, but mainly we just sat there in the sun listening to the brightly coloured rowing boats bobbing up and down in the water and watching a little girl and a dog bring a small herd of sheep to the water's edge to graze. This tranquil scene was briefly interrupted when a donkey came thundering down the hill all het up about something, but he too was soon overcome by the serenity. As Darryl Kerrigan of The Castle would say: "So much serenity".

Here's a llama I passed on the way home who seemed to be contemplating the nature of his existence.
The next morning me and my saddle-sore arse got the boat to Isla del Sol, the site of one of the main Inca creation myths, 2 hours out into the lake. The morning boat drops you off at the northern end so you can hike for a couple of hours down the spine of the island to the southern harbour for the afternoon boat home. During the walk there are great views over the bright blue waters of the lake to the Bolivian and Peruvian shores and the Uros islands. Plus I got another good donkey photo. I'm also working on a photo series called "Dogs of Latin America".








I was hanging around with an Italian guy in Copacabana who has been travelling around South America speaking Italian with a vaguely Latin American accent and has managed to communicate with a lot of success. More power to him.

Where's Willie?

If not hearing from me for a few days isn't going to cause you to lose sleep, then you probably don't need to read this, as it's just another practicalities post so that anyone who might be concerned will know where I am (you have to do this when you're on your tod, don't ya know).
Got laid up for a couple of days in La Paz with altitude sickness (with a wolfish demeanour), and wasn't feeling particularly bloggy, hence no updates for a little while. Got the bus from La Paz last night to Uyuni (the last three hours of the journey felt like we were driving over an unending cattle grate), and we're getting in a jeep at noon for a three day tour of the salt flats. This will end up in a previously unplanned crossing of the Chilean border to San Pedro de Atacama, then on the following day (Friday) to Salta in Argentina. Thats the plan anyway. So now you know.
I'm not actually on my tod at the moment, a little group has coalesced for this bit of the trip, comprising myself, a french guy, a german girl and a danish/english girl. My hopes for mirth are high.

Normal photo/flowery language service will be resumed presently.

Adios Peru

I accidentally stumbled across a Cusco league basketball game just before I left. The venue was just around the corner from where I was staying, an outdoor natural amphitheatre complete with bleachers, glass backboards, and an electronic scoreboard. All it was missing was a roof. The team benches and official's table were the kind of shelters used in soccer. Strange to see official outdoor basketball, and it was a little nippy at night, but the standard was still pretty good, and all the teams had really fancy gear (though one team had some problems warming up since they didn't have a ball).



Was delighted to encounter another street parade the day before I left, with a brass band playing the same tune that so caught my ear they day I arrived (though they weren't always in tune). Turns out it's a regional variation of a Huayla, a kind of big band tune originating from the central highlands. It really is a barn-burner (check out the video clip I posted a while ago and see if it doesn't get stuck in your head). Saw a number of other street marches during my short time in Cusco, many of them made up of primary school kids in their fancy dress outfits (lots of Spidermen) carrying little placards with slogans like "Look after me" and "I have the right to eat/learn/be happy". It would break your heart to see these little tots out on the street demanding the most basic things.



I'm ashamed to admit that it took me a couple of days to realise why so many of the little mud-brick buildings on the road south from Lima through the province of Ica were either partially or entirely in ruins. An earthquake of magnitude 7.9 devastated Ica in August 2007, and its legacy is still plain to see.

On a lighter note, I had the misfortune to encounter an Israeli guy with ridiculous pants and an even more riduculous head playing medleys on his guitar in Cusco airport on Sunday. He managed to combine "La Bamba" and "An Englishman in New York", among others, into a single amorphous dirge. You have to admire the ingenuity with which the world can conjure up annoyances.

The flight from Cusco to La Paz was supposed to leave at 8.45 am, and it eventually took off around noon, without a hint of explanation, which caused the Dutch and Scandinavian passengers to get all hot under the collar. I had my book (Truman Capote's "In Cold Blood", which I was lucky enough to get as a present from two different people), and by this time I was well out of earshot of Ritchie Goldberg and his guitar of misery, so I wasn't too bothered.

Great two weeks in Peru, though the ever-present push to get as much money out of tourists as possible can get irritating. Met some very nice Peruvians, especially the travel agency and hostal I stayed with in Cusco (Wayki), really nice people who were really helpful, and were well up for helping me practice my Spanish. Nice to stay somewhere where you know everyone´s name and they know yours (oh-oh, I'm heading into Cheers territory, time to wrap this up and go swallow a couple of crispy cold ones.)

Ruckus in Puno

I had planned to get the bus to Puno, a Peruvian town on the shores of Lake Titticaca, from Cusco, and then to travel across the border to Bolivia and on to La Paz. But a chance look at the local TV news revealed that the Cusco-Puno road has been closed for a few days due to protests and roadblocks. It's unclear what the protests are about. There have been numerous strikes and protests in Peru over the past couple of years over the expansion of the Free Trade Agreement that Peru has with the US, which forces neo-liberal economic policies on the Peruvian people that many of them, particularly the poorer indigenous peoples who make up the majority of the population, don't want (one example of steps that the government has tried to take is the sale to private investors of communally-held land that has traditionally belonged to campesino communities and formed the backbone of their way of life). There has also been miner's strikes, and I think there is also a heated dispute over a proposed hydroelectric plant in the Puno region. It's hard to get concrete information, but apparently a couple of people have been killed (according to my taxi driver this morning), including a policeman. In a protest in another part of the country recently, the town's mayor was held hostage and the townspeople threatened to lynch him. These people don't mess around.

Anyway, in light of these ructions, I seized the opportunity of an affordable flight from Cusco to the Bolivian capital La Paz, where I arrived this afternoon. I just bought a bus ticket from a wonderfully pleasant and wonderfully deranged Bolivian lady, so tomorrow I'll be hightailing it to Copacabana, a small town on the Bolivian shores of Lake Titticaca. We flew over the lake this morning, it's pretty damn big.

So, that's where I'm at. I'm lining up a final post on Peru, and one on the spicy sausage that is the current political situation in Bolivia. Que caliente!