tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62103553322349012002024-02-20T13:17:23.931-08:00aycanela, around and about...THE YEAR OF LIVING DIFFERENTLY: I am Trisha Sng, from Singapore. This blog chronicles my 1 year Round-The-World trip during April 2002 - April 2003.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-18907454217882691182003-04-26T20:38:00.000-07:002009-07-19T06:34:56.595-07:0029 - From Here to Eternity (Moorea)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Papeete to Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 21 april 2003</span><br /><br />I arrived at the ungodly hour of 2:40am. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw hefty Polynesian men playing tiny ukeleles to welcome us, and svelte gorgeous ladies in hibiscus-printed dresses distributing miniscule fragrant jasmine buds. Nice touch, but at this hour? The huge, macho Tahitian Customs guys stamping our passports all had tiny jasmine flowers tucked behind their ears too. Eeeww.<br /><br />I wanted to wait til daybreak to head to Moorea island. I tried to stay awake at the airport but finally, I fell asleep on the hard seats. When I woke up, a Tahitian woman in the typical loud hibiscus-printed primary-coloured dress sitting next to me, started telling me she had been watching my bags and that I should be careful with my stuff. I smiled sheepishly. Merci, I thanked her. OK, another language now. And one that I did not know.<br /><br />A conversation of gestures, noises and sporadic Spanish vocabulary thrown in, hoping they were similar to French, ensued. In the end, I figured she said there were buses to town, but yet she shook her head when I paraphrased my understanding. My French was limited to numbers, ‘bonbons’ and ‘champignons’. Not very useful now, I’m afraid.<br /><br />She finally waved down a guy whose job was to receive tourists at the airport for various five-star hotels and this one spoke English and instructed me accordingly.<br /><br />I headed to the main road to try and catch a Le Truck. This was the typical public transport in Tahiti. They basically looked like trucks. On the Le Truck, I asked a few other tourists if they knew where to get off for the Moorea Ferry Terminal. They were heading the same way too. Great. They were Go, Junko from Japan/USA, and Greg from Australia.<br /><br />Go and Junko had booked themselves in a US$140-per night beach bungalow in Moorea. Greg and I opted for a slightly cheaper resort - dormitory beds for US$13 a night.<br /><br />I had changed some Tahitian francs at LAX airport but I did not have enough to pay for three nights. As it was Easter weekend, everything was shut. The receptionist decided to take US dollars from me instead.<br /><br />Greg had a weird story. He brought along no US dollars or travellers’ cheques with him, relying entirely on his card. But the card could not work at any of the machines. He tried to do a cash-advance-over-the-counter at the bank at the airport and the guy claimed it was not possible at that branch. With every bank shut for Easter, Greg simply had no means of getting any francs. The guy at the bank counter amazingly LENT him 20,000 Polynesian Francs (about US$200), took a photocopy of his passport and made Greg promise to return the money just before he leaves Tahiti.<br /><br />I had worked in a bank for six years. I assure you this is the ONLY compassionate bank-related story anyone will ever get to hear.<br /><br />This was really the tail-end of my trip. I was not interested to do this or that sight, hire kayaks or snorkels, or whatever. Nonono. I just wanted to merely exist for three more days.<br /><br />We took the scenic route along the beach to walk to Go and Junko’s resort. Some places were fenced off but the sea being so shallow, we just waded across the water to get around.<br /><br />The beach in front of their resort was way better. One could not really swim because of the corals all over and the water was not deep enough to kick one’s legs properly. The water was wonderfully warm and super clear to see the fishes and corals. In the far distance, one could see the enormous crashing Pacific waves but they broke very far off because of the corals and never made it to the beach. In other words, this was paradise.<br /><br />I shut down my brain and drifted in the water.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 22 april 2003</span><br /><br />Today was the end of the Easter holidays. Greg had looked forward to going to the bank nearby and doing a cash advance so that he would have money to pay back the guy at the bank. Meanwhile, I calculated that I needed another US$15 worth of francs to survive the next few days.<br /><br />As it turned out, that bank could neither provide cash advance nor currency change. The staff was there mainly to look surly, tap something on the computer and pretend to use the telephone. We had to go to Cook’s Bay at another end of the island.<br /><br />The automatic Change Machine would zap US$5 for every transaction. If I needed US$15, I had to feed in US$20. That would be 25% commission!!!! My card could not work on the withdrawal machines either. We later learnt from a French tourist that only her French credit card worked. Most mysterious.<br /><br />To help out my situation, Greg and I decided to buy US$20 worth of groceries from the supermarket and I would pay with my credit card and he would give me francs in return. Great, we would feed on French loaves and Nutella for breakfast, and spaghetti for dinner the next few days.<br /><br />With my money issues sorted out, I shut down my brain and read thrashy novels by the beach.<br /><br />That night over spaghetti, I found out that Greg had been on five or six Round-The-World trips over the years. Gosh. He was definitely NOT a lister and was so humble and unassuming that I only learnt about this now. I had to coax stories out from him. I really appreciated him telling me this and I enjoyed his stories tremendously. I knew this Round-The-World would not be the one and only one. And to hear that he had done several really encouraged me. It might be possible for me too. Ah, a wonderful dream.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Moorea, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 23 april 2003</span><br /><br />There were too many roosters on this island.<br /><br />Some people could exist for their entire life. I existed for two days and felt I was ready to start LIVING again, but not too strenuously, sil vous plait.<br /><br />Greg read that, according to the guide-book, there was a ‘fairly easy’ walk from the Ferry Point to Cook’s Bay. 2 hours, 5 kms, that sounded alright. I asked if I could join him and so we set off on the bus to the Ferry Point.<br /><br />Unfortunately, it rained just when we arrived at the Ferry Point. We only set off after an hour’s wait when the rain subsided.<br /><br />The trail was horribly muddy right at the start. We followed the red markers painted on trees or plastic tapes tied to trunks and started ascending up a slope. Greg only had flip-flops on. With the earlier rain, the climb was difficult and very slippery. Many times, we had to use roots embedded in the mud like rungs of a ladder to climb up.<br /><br />After an hour of very sweaty and exhausting climb, we reached the top of the ridge. Walking across the edge to the left, we arrived at a view-point and found ourselves right at the bottom of two very impressive peaks.<br /><br />Moorea had some very astounding and dramatic mountain peaks scattered all over and to burst through the foliage and be met with this sight, I was utterly floored. “This is TREMENDOUSLY PHENOMENAL!!”, I yelled. We were awed by the fantastic view around us, for we could see Tahiti island, the bays and the spectacular mountains around Cook’s Bay. Yes, the tough work was all worthwhile. Greg confessed smilingly that he had started to have doubts but agreed with me this was worth it. The poor thing was suffering more from the climb because of unsuitable footwear.<br /><br />Now, we had to descend on the other side of the ridge… which was even worse. We slipped several times and Greg knocked his elbow badly. We came to a point where it was so steep it was like plunging to death. This did not look right. I saw no plastic tapes in a distance and was afraid if we went down this way and it was the wrong route, there was NO WAY we could climb back up. I got worried but there appeared to be no other route and so we carefully crawled down.<br /><br />We managed to leave the jungle without tragedy after the very stressful and difficult journey downhill. And Greg… oops, I am sorry, the Legendary Greg did it in flip-flops. ‘Fairly easy’, my foot!<br /><br />We returned to the hostel by hitching. I started to have really bad stomach aches upon our return. French loaf, Nutella and biscuits. What could go wrong?<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Moorea to Papeete, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 24 april 2003</span><br /><br />Woke up with no more stomach pains but there were still too many roosters on this island.<br /><br />After yesterday, we deserved a brainless day today at the beach. At one point, from the clear shallow water, Greg spotted a huge black something moving against the currents. It was a ray! He had spotted one two days ago but nobody was nearby for him to point it out. This time, he pointed it out from the beach and everyone saw it. It was gigantic and very graceful. I waded in the water to follow it for a while. It was fantastic to see a ray!! Wow, I was really pleased with this final, perfect present.<br /><br />I would be flying out of Tahiti tonight to Melbourne, Australia. While I would be transitting in Melbourne, I had about 4 hours to kill. Since Greg is from Melbourne, I asked him for transportation details to the city centre, if I so choose to head there from the airport. He suggested I take the SKYBUS to Spencer City Station and then, find my way to Bourke Street.<br /><br />“OK, so when I arrive at Spencer City, I just have to ask someone: ¿Dónde está Bourke Street? [‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Spanish] And I can go there by walking?” I clarified.<br /><br />“Right.”<br /><br />“Except that I have to ask that in Australian.” I pointed out.<br /><br />“Yes, that would be: ¿Dónde está Bourke Street, mate? [‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Australian]”<br /><br />I was all set to tackle Melbourne.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Papeete, FRENCH POLYNESIA to Auckland, NEW ZEALAND - 25 april 2003</span><br /><br />I sat and read at the Tahiti airport since 5pm yesterday and only boarded the plane at 1am this morning. I barely got a chance to experience 25 April before…<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Auckland, NEW ZEALAND to Melbourne, AUSTRALIA to SINGAPORE - 26 april 2003</span><br /><br />…it was zapped from me when we crossed the International Date Line.<br /><br />It was payback time. The hours I had been earning slowly the past 12 months… time to return them.<br /><br />I took a series of planes to Auckland, New Zealand and Melbourne, Australia.<br /><br />Australia was picky about everything. One of the questions on the Declaration Form was if I had any soil, or articles attached with soil with me. Sure, I had. I had gone hiking and slipped down muddy slopes a few days ago in Moorea. My sandals were still covered with mud. I very honestly ticked ‘Yes, mate’ to that and was ushered to the Quarantine Room.<br /><br />I was told to take off my sandals and take a seat. The Quarantine guy washed my sandals and returned them, dripping wet. I had a muddy dress from my hike in Viñales, Cuba and a muddy pair of pants I had on where I did several slipperoos in Moorea. Do you guys do free laundry here? Nah, I was not going to confess those and so I fled the scene.<br /><br />I found out the price of the SKYBUS to town and it was not worth it for so few hours and so I stayed put at the airport.<br /><br />And then, I took my final flight back to Singapore.<br /><br />Well, at this moment, allow me to share a few humble verses, inspired from the various points of my trip.<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />A minaret against the sunset<br />A yodelling call to the evening prayer<br />Incense smoke, lighted candles<br />Joss papers burn in the temple pyre<br /><br />Yak-butter lamps flicker on the altar<br />‘Wind horse’ papers strewn across the pass<br />Prayer wheels creak as they spin clock-wise<br />Fluttering in the wind, white and yellow scarves<br /><br />Faded Bodhisattvas with missing arms<br />A thousand Buddhas peer out of caves<br />A wall that snakes forever into the mist<br />Brick by brick, stacked up by slaves<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />Undulating grasslands<br />Stretched endlessly for miles<br />Emerging from gers,<br />Curious gentle smiles<br /><br />The shifting wind<br />The stirring dust<br />The thunderous hooves<br />The silent stars<br /><br />These meat-eaters, these warriors<br />Galloping across the hills on their stallions<br />Survived the harshness, lived the desert<br />Once widely feared and so valiant<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />Four days three nights, bulleting west<br />Siberia in my hair, soot on my face<br />Lulled by the rhythmic ‘TUK-tuk-TUK-tuk’<br />Towards the orange sunset, we chased<br /><br />‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’<br />Tongue-twisting, four syllables<br />Surly and sour looks<br />Coaxed a smile out? It’s a miracle<br /><br />Onion-domed churches, clashing in colours<br />State treasure, opulence in abundance<br />Soviet-era statues, abandoned in parks<br />Metro stations, grand and elegant<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />Sun-drenched bodies, brown and baking<br />All shapes and sizes, decked out in bikinis<br />The curved beaches, the warm Atlantic<br />The party never ends, it stretches to infinity<br /><br />In this land, the music plays on<br />Feathers and sequins gyrate to samba<br />A radio here, a street band there<br />Booming oludum alternates with suave bossa nova<br /><br />A limitless coastline, the odd mountains<br />An impenetrable jungle that knows no peers<br />Crystalline rivers, blue subterranean lakes<br />And a waterfall that brings tears<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />A gracious twirl, a sensual slide<br />Quivering voices from the cracking gramaphone<br />Passion and nostalgia, that is tango<br />Musical poetry performed with tearful moans<br /><br />Red-hot charcoal and that sizzling sound<br />Comes the smell of unmistakable asados<br />Yerba mate fills the gourd<br />The bitter the better, so prefers the gauchos<br /><br />Relentless wind beats on the pampas<br />The majestic glacier, one swoons and faints<br />Amidst the mighty Andes, emerges Aconcagua<br />Seven colours on a mountain, swirls like paints<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />Turqoise lakes patrolled by guanacos<br />Savage wind tortures and tosses<br />Vertical peaks that tower over you<br />Enigmatic ‘Horns’, sculpted by nature forces<br /><br />An island with wooden churches and palofitos<br />Good old fishermen haul in the day’s catches<br />A climb up the volcano, blinded by whiteness<br />Confused by the snow, the clouds and the smoke it belches<br /><br />Hissing and bubbling, the geysers awaken<br />In the distant salt lake, the flamingoes feast<br />Vicuñas relish the freedom of the altiplano<br />Sparsely populated by Indians who chew coca leaves<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />Stone ruins, trapping enigmas and legends<br />Messages encoded in beads and threads<br />Dried-up mummies in frozen screams<br />Intricate textiles, now in shreds<br /><br />Multiple cultures from epochs ago<br />Rose from the coast, highlands, jungles and deserts<br />Slowly taken over by the mighty Incas<br />Only to be silenced forever by the bearded Spaniards<br /><br />Mysterious drawings criss-crossed the plains<br />Boats of reed sail the highest lake<br />Silent sarcophagi perched on cliffs<br />A network of trails, through the mountains they snake<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />One country, three currencies<br />The land that is Castro and cigars<br />Crumbling colonial houses<br />And classic Chevrolet cars<br /><br />Where everyone is meant to be equal<br />Every business, state-controlled<br />Food products, weighed and rationed<br />Rules and regulations, to be followed<br /><br />Be surprised by the contrasts<br />Be shocked by the disparities<br />Be humbled by their lives<br />Be touched by their sincerities<br /><br />---- * * * ----<br /><br />If they sound incomplete, it is because they are. To be honest, I do not know how to end them. To end them with a flourish is as if to say, this is how the country is. But the truth is, I, like any other travellers, am merely a passer-by, some essence of the places at those moments rubbed off a little as I flitted around the peripherals. These are my impressions then and I am sure they will evolve.<br /><br />I hope that for the past twelve months, I had shared the flavour of things, triggered some wonderful memories, inspired a few to dust off their bags, hit the roads and have their own experiences. Only then will anyone understand what I am talking about.<br /><br />Twelve months<br />Eleven diaries<br />Ten languages<br />Nine airlines<br />Eight inspiring books<br />Seven-ty-nine rolls of films (oh well)<br />Six haircuts<br />Five visas<br />Four Equator-crossing<br />Three continents<br />Two ‘White Nights’<br />One World<br />Infinite Smiles<br /><br />Today, I complete my circle. This is not the end. This is the beginning. From here to eternity, may the magic runs to infinity.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-41798066746232901522003-04-20T20:37:00.000-07:002009-07-18T20:38:27.667-07:0029 - From Here to Eternity (Los Angeles)<span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">La Habana, CUBA to Los Angeles, USA - 19 april 2003</span><br /><br />Frankly, by the end of two weeks in Cuba, I had had up to HERE with hissings and harassments from the sleazy Cuban men. I was actually rather glad to be leaving today. But Cuba had indeed been one incredible learning experience and an appreciated challenge at this point of my trip. It had provoked me to think about the various facets of life and that many things are not what they seem. Gosh, what else is out there? The more I know, the more I realise I do not know.<br /><br />If the airport departure halls in other countries had been a tad charmless, I was pleasantly surprised by the departure hall of La Habana airport. I was greeted by a huge hall of flags from all over the world, hanging from the ceiling. I kept my eyes skyward and walked around the hall twice. I found that I could only recognise a fraction of the flags up there. Indeed, there is so much more out there.<br /><br />The plane back to Cancún was not the propeller-sort. It was bigger and less wonky. I also had the chance to practise my nearly-forgotten Russian alphabets on the seat-numbering and buttons for stewardesses. This must either be a repainted AEROFLOT or at least, it came from the same supplier.<br /><br />Upon arrival, the Mexican Customs asked if I had any cigars with me. I said ‘no’ but I actually had two. The Cuban customs had not stamped on my passport and I knew, for sure, US citizens were not supposed to declare that they had been to Cuba nor have any evidence of Cuban cigars. But I was not sure whether I could or not.<br /><br />I soon departed for Los Angeles. I was flying to Los Angeles, because to go to Tahiti, I had to fly from there. Yet I could not connect the flights and so, I needed to spend a night.<br /><br />In June last year, a lady from Los Angeles, Delara, had spotted my bootsnall articles and emailed to me, offering the chance to crash at her living-room couch if I ever drop by. I remembered her offer and had contacted her a few weeks ago. To my delight, the offer was still on and she would pick me up. Wonderful.<br /><br />However, trying to clear the US Customs was a nightmare. Firstly, I realised Mexicana flight crew had not given me the Arrival/Departure card on the flight. I was one of the first to get off the plane but by the time I filled out the Arrival/Departure card in the corner, the four planes that had arrived at the same time had unleashed the rest of the passengers.<br /><br />I queued randomly at one. The speed of clearance was moderate but when I was merely five persons away from the top of the line, the officials came and, from me onwards, gestured that we were supposed to turn back and head to other lines as they were closing our counters.<br /><br />I was at the start of this line. By the time those at the back turned around and made their way out to join other lines, I was at the end of the queue. There were perhaps forty people in front of me. Great.<br /><br />We moved along slowly and by the time I was halfway there, the officials came to shoo us to another line again. Good lord, enough already.<br /><br />Finally, finally, finally, it was my turn. Of course, the Customs guy now said I had filled out the wrong card. I should have filled out the green card, and not the white one. He paged for a Mexicana staff. After a while, she arrived and led me from Counter 64 to Counter 9 to get the green card. By then, there was only a trickle of passengers left. All the carousels had long stopped. My backpack lay abandoned in the middle of the hall.<br /><br />The Mexicana staff then fretted that she only had the green card in Spanish, not in English. I was really agitated by now. I practically snatched it from her, muttering I could read some Spanish. I feared Delara might not be waiting for me anymore. Yet, I could not appear to be nervous in front of these people.<br /><br />Then, I had to walk all the way back to Counter 64 and face the insipid questionings of the Customs guy. In my haste, at the place which asked me to list all the countries I had been to in the past X days, I wrote ‘Cuba’ and when he asked me where I had been since I left Singapore, I mentioned ‘Cuba’ too. He let me through. But later, other people warned me that I should NEVER have mentioned ‘Cuba’. If I had arrived at the Miami airport, I would be creamed for sure. Oh dear, I had no clue.<br /><br />Delara was still there, holding up the ‘TRISHA’ sign, slightly droopy by now. My angel in the City of Angels! She was just about to give up. How lucky I was. She drove me to her home to dump my bags and then, we headed to her favourite bar ‘where-everyone-knows-your-name’ for drinks. It was Saturday night. She had worked hard during the week and was dying to meet up with her friends again. In fact, she seemed to know half the people at the bar.<br /><br />I was still reeling from the shock of coming from a country with not much available to a country with everything available. The language was another thing. I could eavesdrop at other people’s conversations (and pick-up lines) without really trying. Delara is excellent. She was a chatty, confident, funny, very on-the-go, full-of-energy type of person. We talked about our travels and it was really great to learn we shared the same sort of feelings and ideas for our common passion.<br /><br />I asked her about the side order formerly known as FRENCH fries and to my surprise, Delara had no idea what I was talking about. I had heard from Liliana when I was in Mexico City about USA changing menus and other stuff to remove ‘FRENCH’ from them and replace them with ‘FREEDOM’. I had thought this was the most brainless story I had ever heard in a while.<br /><br />Guess the stupidity did not spread far from Washington DC. La La Land was safe, for now.<br /><br />I was introduced to Roy, her flat-mate. He had thought it weird she was going to the airport to pick up a person whom she had never met. Well, once a while, we have to do weird and crazy things, don’t we? Once again, I was really grateful for Delara’s help, for LA sounded rather daunting to me.<br /><br />Soon, I started to glaze over due to the body clock still set to Cuban hours. When the bar closed, Delara drove me back first before driving her tipsy friend home. Roy had returned to the apartment as well.<br /><br />Just as I was getting ready to sleep on the couch, Roy came out to the living-room, clad only in a towel. He sat down and started to ask me questions like, ‘Why did you go to Cuba?’, ‘Why choose a country such as Cuba?’, ‘Why makes you do this, travelling and this sort of shit?’.<br /><br />I explained as best as I could but he was not pleased with my answers. He kept probing - why, why, why, what f*#king difference does it make, so what if you know how life is like in those f*#king countries, so what?, you can’t change the world, you can’t change their lives, the whole world is f*#ked up. (I will have to ask readers to pardon the guy’s FRENCH, or what President B’s supporters would call, FREEDOM.)<br /><br />OK, despite the fact that Roy was very drunk and had very nearly flashed himself just now, I wanted to listen to his uninhibited opinion for it was from an angle that I never got from the usual people I met… for most of those I met while travelling are people, more or less, like me.<br /><br />He proceeded to name a few countries and claimed them to be really f*#ked up. “But here in LA, this is the place TO BE. Nothing will ever change, so I just leave the shit there and f*#k it. Here, we make money, we PRINT money. Ultimately you only have one life and you should live it well for you. Why bother with the rest of the f*#king world? I’m rich, I can do whatever I want. People go to Cuba and have a blast, spend money and do all sorts of things they can’t do here. I don’t see you as that sort of person…”<br /><br />He explained that he had a lot of respect for what I had done, he confessed he was ignorant and agreed he would never experience anything close to what I had but so what?, ultimately, I have to stop this and I would settle down and place kids on this world, live my life, earn money for my family because that is MY LIFE and this whole thing, so what if I learnt something, would just be a ‘waste of time and money’.<br /><br />And so, my entire 11-month-and-3-weeks had just been summarized as a ‘waste of time and money’.<br /><br />I seriously suspect that if this had happened in another time and place, the old me would have flared up and throttled someone’s neck. Now I know for sure, this trip had changed me.<br /><br />The words ‘compassion’ and ‘empathy’ came into my mind. These are the main concepts Buddhism tries to inculcate in us. If you have peace of mind and a good state of well-being, you will be happy. For any situation, you have to be compassionate and try and understand the other person’s angle and feel it from his or her side. Then, misunderstanding can be avoided and you keep your peace of mind and good state of well-being.<br /><br />I was glad I had this conversation for I had nearly forgotten, had hardly ever come face-to-face with people of opinions such as these, for we orbit in entirely different ellipses. If he chooses to live his life this way, it is because that is what he knows. If he is curious about this other sort of life, I think it is difficult to pick my brain just like that, to know why I do the things that I do. I can only share certain things. The rest is up to him.<br /><br />Meanwhile, he made me search deeper for my own answers. Why do I do the things that I do?<br /><br />I agree there is only one life. And this is HOW I want to lead it. He was right in some ways, there is nothing I can do to change the world. I never set out to change it or to accomplish anything noble. If anything, the world changed me. Whatever I had done, I had barely placed a dent in anyone’s lives. But the people I had met impacted me in more ways than one.<br /><br />To describe your trip by saying I have done this, this and that; I have been to here and there and everywhere; I climbed this; I visited that; I sailed down here; I crossed into there; yadda yadda yadda… sure you have, whatever… But all this LISTING just trivialized everything you had done. You cannot describe the WHOLE EXPERIENCE in this way. You can paint your impressions of certain specific and special moments, yes, but the complete experience, well… difficult.<br /><br />Its effect is private. The rush of joy, the tingle in your heart, the astonishment of setting your eyes on the amazing sights, the overwhelming feelings choking at your throat when you see the kindness in people’s soul… these are difficult to translate to the mind of another. Perhaps a person 1000 times more eloquent than I can attempt to do it but the listener, if he just listens and goes ‘uh-huh’, will 1000% never get it.<br /><br />Some of us have the GIFT of choice to decide what kind of life we want to live. Others, unfortunately, do not. I realise I am one of those with this GIFT and so I choose to go down this path of learning. Because I choose to go down this path, I KNOW others do not have this same GIFT of choice. Unfortunately, I cannot help them much. Yet from them, I now know how important ‘compassion’ and ‘empathy’ are, I now gain so much more in knowledge and memories. From them, I appreciate and treasure my GIFT so much more. The money I spent on this trip is US$XXXXX. But the return I got back is priceless. Which ‘business deal’ gets this sort of returns?<br /><br />Sure, I do not have anything tangible to show after this. I only have something invisible to hug to myself. In a month or two, my friends and family will forget this ever happened. I will have to get a job and try to place food on my table, I agree, but in my heart, these personal priceless memories and experiences, difficult to share with others (I can only try), will linger forever.<br /><br />The smile of the Tibetan woman whom I reached my hand out to to admire her turqoise ring… The near cat-fight with rogue taxi drivers at the China-Mongolia border… The final wave of farewell from the Herdsman as he crossed the rushing river on his horse… The spattering of saliva from the drunk and very happy babushka… The childish but exhilarating experience of sticking our heads out of the Trans-Mongolian train to smell the taiga and trap Siberia in our hair… The painful walk through the Polish mountains in the rain with a sprained ankle… The crazy roll down the grass-slope with Jane… The hug from the delighted old Brazilian woman just because I was a ‘china’ and simply by walking past her door, I had apparently lit up her day… The magical power of the Iguaçu Falls… The honest sincerity and unmeasurable friendships given to me by Pablo and the friends I made in my stay in Buenos Aires… The ‘Trisha’ song composed by Pablo’s niece and nephew… The huge sense of achievement of surviving Torres del Paine… The blinding climb up and down the Volcán Villarrica… The touching hospitality of the families who invited me to stay with them, to eat with them, to dance with them… The excited children who ran over to show me an insect just as we were leaving the remote Chachapoyas town of Cochane… The sweet guy who gave me money to get on a bus with him just so I would not be lost in Mexico City… The curious looks from the Cubans when I stood in line with them to eat stale bread and drink questionable syrup…<br /><br />And all the wonderful friends I met, shared my trip with (some, albeit briefly) and learnt something from… these kindred spirits whom I will always treasure.<br /><br />Well, like I said, I can only faintly paint certain moments to share. But this ‘waste of time and money’ sure makes me feel good.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">Los Angeles, USA to Papeete, FRENCH POLYNESIA - 20 april 2003</span><br /><br />Delara was highly amused this morning when she heard from Roy that he had come to the living-room, barely clad in a towel last night and said those things that he said. She wanted to apologize for his behaviour but, nah… she did not need to apologize. It was alright. If anything, it made me understand myself better.<br /><br />We had our breakfast at 1pm. After Cuban food, gosh… anything sounded wonderful… omelette with spicy sausage and baked potatoes was perfect. Yummy. Thank you!!<br /><br />I was driven to Venice Beach for my quintessential LA experience. Naturally, there were Dance-for-Peace, Skate-for-Peace, Donate-for-Peace, Art-for-Peace events organised by freaky and weird people. There were protests against the war, not unlike those I saw in Buenos Aires and Mexico City, but with a hippie-slant. Tattoo, psychics and tarot card readings, Indian incense sticks, the chance to take photos with aliens, they were all there.<br /><br />Delara had been great. She is one super cool chick. Her energy, positiveness, spontaneity, interesting and inquiring mind were just amazing. While my stay was short, not even 24 hours, I had a terrific time. So she went to the airport to pick up a stranger but life is too short to just do boring things like NOT pick up strangers from the airport, isn’t it? She deserved one of the very illegal Cuban cigars I smuggled in.<br /><br />And so I flew tonight to what President B’s supporters would call FREEDOM Polynesia Islands and would probably eat a lot of FREEDOM loaves soon.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-25413236181393171282003-04-18T20:36:00.000-07:002009-07-18T20:37:18.334-07:0028 - There's Something About Money (Trinidad, Cienfuegos)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">La Habana to Trinidad, CUBA - 11 april 2003</span><br /><br />As our bus pulled into Trinidad’s bus station, I was surprised to spot someone holding a sign with ‘TRISHA’. I told Yves I had not made any reservations with any casa. Strange.<br /><br />When we disembarked, the lady lunged at me, the only chinita, calling out and waving at me frantically, inviting me to her house. Yves had another recommendation in mind and was quite determined to check that one out first. I asked this lady, how in the world she got my name. She said she had obtained it from her friend in Viñales. Even stranger. I mentioned to my hostess in Viñales I was heading to Cienfuegos and Trinidad. But I certainly did not tell her when I would get to Trinidad. The intricate casa particulars network.<br /><br />The one that Yves wanted was full. By the time we arrived at the house of the lady with my name, hers was full too. We were brought to the house of her friend and got ourselves settled in. It is never any problem to find accommodations in small towns of Cuba.<br /><br />While this country is a socialist system, where everyone is supposed to be equal, I could feel very obviously that some Cubans were just more ‘equal’ than others. Take those who wanted to start the casa particular business and dig into the tourism pie, for example. They could not just pack their relatives into one room and release the other one for tourists just like that. They had to fix it up beautifully, install an air-conditioner and perhaps, build a tiny attached toilet. All these need DOLLARS in the first place. If they did not have relatives overseas to send dollars over, I seriously doubted they could get this infrastructure up first before their first guest. So, the richer, earning US dollars, will become ‘richer’ (by their standards) and the poor will still remain poor.<br /><br />The house I stayed in Trinidad was enormous, with a backyard and some very fine furniture. Our hostess had at least four gold chains around her neck and two fistfuls of chunky rings. The hi-fi system was no ordinary hi-fi set. Yves estimated it cost at least US$1000 for all those gizmos. I could not afford a hi-fi system at half that price. So, how did they do it?<br /><br />We also noticed that in this country where material goods were lacking and supposed to be ‘evil’ anyway, the Cubans appeared to be more materialistic than normal. They were always asking Yves what car he owned, what kind of house he lived in. OK, this could just be pure curiosity of what lie elsewhere outside the island but this was the tiny little feeling we shared.<br /><br />The streets of Trinidad were tranquil, with hardly any traffic. There were some horse carts and bicycles milling around. A world of difference from busy La Habana. One could walk in the middle of the streets. The houses were colourful and charming. This town is one of the UNESCO-protected Heritage sites, if I may add.<br /><br />When we neared the touristy area of Trinidad, we were hollered at all the time. Many were touts, wanting to offer us paladares for dinner. Others asked if we had soap for them. Soap? Gosh… we nearly always take soap for granted and here, in Cuba, they are asking for soap. I felt very regretful of those little soaps provided in hotels that were thrown away after one use. What a waste.<br /><br />‘China!!’, ‘Chinita!!’, ‘Mira, china!’ [Look, Chinese girl!]… Yes, mostly, I was the celebrity. Yves was practically ignored.<br /><br />In the residential area, the old folks sitting on the doorways or standing around, chatting, would look up, delighted at the sight of me. Some called out from inside their house and waved away. Yves, now my publicity agent, had to tell me, “Hey, there’s another in there, sitting at the door, who just called you.” I had to turn here and there and give my royal waves.<br /><br />I was taught how to smoke my first cigar tonight. Suck in, roll the smoke in my mouth and let it out. Never take it into the lungs, it burns. Hey, piece of cake.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Trinidad, CUBA - 12 april 2003</span><br /><br />Some shops sold only US$-priced items. At one, I browsed through the goods and noted the prices. Jeans cost US$19. A pair of shorts, US$8. Some fake jewellery was priced at US$10. A hi-fi radio set cost US$450. Refrigerators, someone told me, cost US$850. A million questions swam in my head. The prices of hi-fi sets and refrigerators in my country certainly did not cost so much. If a doctor earned US$20 a month, how could anyone afford such things? Yet, people were checking them out intently. There must be some very illegal things going on around here.<br /><br />I spent the day, curled up on a rocking chair and read my book. I had a long time to study the decorations around the living room and I knew that I had finally found the most kitsch country in my entire trip. Cuba is a legend in this area. The search is over.<br /><br />Every house I had peeked in or stayed in had blue-and-white porcelain statues placed evenly on their tables… porcelain statues such as Chinese fisherman, European ladies in 18th-century dresses with parasols, Smiling Buddha or cute children holding little pets.<br /><br />Then, there were the plastic flowers. It was not a case of plastic flowers with artistic arrangements set prettily on the dining room tables to adorn the house. The house-owner simply bought vases and dumped the plastic flowers in them. Way too many vases all over the house and way too many plastic flowers.<br /><br />The one that takes the cake must be the black-and-white portraits that were coloured faintly for the blush, lipstick and the background.<br /><br />I loved it here. A bug could fly into my open jaws if I was not careful enough.<br /><br />Well, I had decided to regulate my metabolic rate to one full US$5 or US$6 meal every two days now, and to fill my stomach with Cuban-Peso-priced food and biscuits the rest of the time. Since I had stuffed myself last night, tonight it would be Cuban-Peso night.<br /><br />Cuban-Peso food meant ham clasped between very stale small pieces of bread and home-made pizzas (it actually barely resembled a real pizza, the thing in common was probably the round shape and the cheese on top) cooked in converted oil-drums. These usually tasted, I will be kind here, awful. Once I ordered the ‘hamburguesa’ [hamburger]. When served, the question I had in my head was not “Gee… I wonder WHAT MEAT is this between the bread.” It was “Gee… I wonder WHAT is this between the bread.” But to me, in this condition, food was food. I reported to my stomach and not my taste-buds now. I queued for them, hung around the streets and gobbled them up just like any other good ol’ Cubans. In a way, I really admired the Cubans. I figured the awful food might be due to lack of ingredients or lack of expertise. Yet, the Cubans ate them up uncomplainingly. This was normal for them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Trinidad, CUBA - 13 april 2003</span><br /><br />My guide-book had interested us in a train-ride to the Valle de los Ingenios [Valley of the Mills]. This was the agricultural region of sugar-cane plantations and there were many sugar mills in this valley, hence, the name. The guide-book wrote the ride cost 50 cents. Yves and I decided to take the trip.<br /><br />It turned out to cost US$10. Yet another money-making enterprise for the state (remember the sneer). The train was a replica steam train with two wagons and soon, hordes of elderly tourists were unloaded from tour buses for this scenic journey. I had imagined a local train but this was obviously just catering to tourists now. This was surely one of my most embarrassing super touristy moment.<br /><br />When the Disneyland train pulled out of the station, the locals waved at us. I felt very sheepish. I did not know where to hide my face. But later, I realised the locals seemed really sincere and delighted to wave at us, especially from the plantations further out. Even guys playing baseball stopped to wave to us merrily. I found it interesting. I would never understand this country.<br /><br />We stopped at Manaca-Iznaga and we tourists alighted to visit the craft market and climb the 45-metre concrete tower (US$1, of course) to view the entire plantation. This was obviously where the masters stood to watch their slaves at work during the colonial times. Yves said one could really see everything. I would not know. I did not pay.<br /><br />Instead, I walked around the houses nearby and got to chatting with an 85-year-old elderly man and some of his neighbours’ kids. He was delighted I spoke some ‘Cubano’ and later, kept praising that I spoke ‘casi igual’ [almost the same]. He was very sweet. His name was Calendario. He had ten children, 30 over grandchildren and even great-grand children. He claimed he had heart problems but it was unoperable. He had the jovial yet resigned-to-fate attitude. I had an amazing time just sitting with him and learning.<br /><br />I realise visiting Cuba is, to me, not really to take in the sights. There were not so many impressive sights. It was more to observe the people, talk to them, learn how life is like for them. They will surprise you, shock you, touch you, humble you and delight you.<br /><br />Yet, many package-grouped tourists, unloaded from the plane, are driven straight to fancy hotels by the beach. They vegetate there for days, drink beer, attend cabaret shows, complain about whatever, and take the occasional day-trips to nearby towns. They get off the bus and are told they have 30 minutes. So, they wander to the nearby souvenir stalls, sit on the plaza and wait for the time. The segregation between locals and these tourists was even greater. I wonder if they see the side of Cuban life we independent travellers glimpse a little of. I wonder if they ask the same questions like what we have in our heads.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Trinidad, CUBA - 14 april 2003</span><br /><br />Yves would head to Playa del Este, the beach east of La Habana tomorrow for a couple of days. After he booked his hotel with a travel agency here, we decided to go lie on the beach near Trinidad, in Península Ancon. But before that, I had to use the internet to check on something urgent. Using internet here is like burning dollars, only faster.<br /><br />Ooooh, expensive day today for both of us. Yves had just plonked down US$130 for two-nights on the beach in Playa del Este. I had just spent US$2.50 for 23 minutes of excruciatingly slow internet usage. Ka-ching.<br /><br />The Carribean sea had just that perfect turqoise colour in the water. The colours shown in postcards and resort magazines are REAL! I had an awesome, incredible feeling, standing there and looking out to the sea.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Trinidad to Cienfuegos, CUBA - 15 april 2003</span><br /><br />By now, I had found out from Yves that the other bus company, Astro, which catered for locals, actually reserved up to four places for foreigners. The tourists naturally did not need to queue and would pay in dollars. While the price was perhaps 20 to 30 times more than what the Cubans pay, it was still cheaper than Viazul.<br /><br />I took the Astro bus to Cienfuegos. It felt normal again, sitting with the locals, catching the breeze from the open window, instead of sitting among tourists, listening to the guy behind me whining that the toilets at the snack break had no paper and the tap did not work.<br /><br />The number of mostachioed women in Cuba was beginning to really worry me. I hope it was not anything from the water.<br /><br />Passing a cinema along the main road of Cienfuegos, I spotted a movie for ‘Tropicana’ at 1:30pm. It was made in Cuba. I had to watch it. I waited patiently for the ticket-office to open.<br /><br />At 1:10pm, a sour-faced woman was fussing behind the counter. I asked the shabby auntie in front of me how much the price was. 1 Cuban Peso. What??? This was F-R-E-E.<br /><br />Sour-face stuck a notice on the window. Shabby Auntie read the notice and frowned, indicating my haversack. Sour-face wagged her finger at my haversack sternly too and indicated a ‘No’.<br /><br />I read the notice and realised that JUST NOW, they had decided they did not allow any form of backpacks, packages, whatever, into the cinema. Why?? Were they afraid I would bootleg the movie? Well, this is the Cuban version of the Russian ‘Nyet’. You stop asking ‘why’ after a while.<br /><br />Movie would start in 20 minutes. My casa was 10 minutes away. No biggie. Nothing stands between me and my 1-Cuban-Peso movie.<br /><br />I returned, duly unloaded, and this time, Sour-face had no excuse not to let me in. ‘Tropicana’ was set in the famous, oldest and most trashy cabaret show in the world. This was the sequinned side of Cuban tourism. The movie was ridiculous but quite funny and entertaining. Way better than the Mongolian-made ‘Nyet Porno’ I watched nearly nine months ago in Ulaan Baator.<br /><br />While there were some shops that sold US$-priced items, there were the few which were true-blue Cuban shopping centres. One third of the glass displays were perhaps broken. Some of the remaining ones were held together by duct tapes. These were lined with some clothes, the odd underwear, casettes, glorious glorious plastic flowers and the most horrible-looking mass-produced porcelain ceramic statues with misprinted eyes and lips, no less, in the world. A section had ancient, tattered, revolution-themed, multiple-hand books. One salesman tried to interest me in the last few pages of a book, showing several photos of Che Guevara, their Cuban Revolution hero, drawing my attention to those without beard. Ooo, spooky when without beard.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Cienfuegos, CUBA - 16 april 2003</span><br /><br />I boarded the catamaran to the Castillo de Jagua, a Spanish fort on the other side of the Bay of Jagua from Cienfuegos. The price written on the wall had been 0.50. As this was a catamaran for local passengers, I was sure 0.50 meant 0.50 Cuban Peso. But everyone else submitted the 1 Cuban-Peso coin and so I did likewise.<br /><br />There was only one other foreigner on the catamaran. He was an elderly German gentleman. When we arrived at the other side, we walked together to visit the fort. He then started to fret that he had only US$0.30 left, not ‘enough’ for the ride back. I realised that just now, he had paid US$0.50 for the boat ride. That was 13 Cuban Pesos. It was too much. I told him, for our return, I would pay for his ride (for he was one of those tourists who did not change any money into Cuban Pesos).<br /><br />We took the same catamaran back but because German Elderly Man got on at a later dock, he was standing away from me. When the sweaty conductor came round, I gave him a fiver and said, “Para dos personas [For two persons]”. He returned the change of three pesos to me.<br /><br />When he reached German Elderly Man, I waved to Sweaty Conductor to indicate that this was the other person I had paid for earlier. Instead, Sweaty Conductor strode over and wordlessly shove 1 peso into my palm. He demanded US$0.50 from German Elderly Man. No, this is the 1 peso for him, I insisted. He simply refused to take my money. I argued with him but he ignored me totally. He continued to bug German Elderly Man for US$0.50 and made quite a scene. A Cuban woman joined in and wanted to pay 1 peso for German Elderly Man as well. Sweaty Conductor simply asked her not to butt in. Finally, German Elderly Man had no choice but to remove a US$1 note. Sweaty Conductor then returned US$0.50 change and was finally appeased.<br /><br />I was thoroughly surprised. Obviously, German Elderly Man made the mistake earlier and was now taken advantage upon to be charged the ‘foreigner’s price’. Why then did he not ask US$0.50 from me? By my association with German Elderly Man, I was obviously a foreigner as well. Did he really think I was a Cuban Chinese? Maybe, but I doubted it. One really just stop questioning ‘why’ in Cuba after a while.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Cienfuegos to La Habana, CUBA - 17 april 2003</span><br /><br />I was the only foreigner on the Astro bus to La Habana and because I went to the special office and wrote my name down on the special book and paid the special price, they forgot I existed and booked two person for the same seat 21.<br /><br />I was driven from my seat by the lady. I let her take it while we inquired with the bus guys about the errors. They tried to morph the 21 into a 12 but seat 12 was taken too. So, they harrassed the guy at seat 12. They also knew that as a tourist, I paid 20 to 30 times the price of the Cubans, so they quickly and apologetically asked me to take my seat. I felt bad for the lady but they were later able to place her somewhere. All’s well ends well.<br /><br />Unlike the Viazul snack stops which stopped at US$-priced cafés, the snack stops now were all Cuban eateries and street-side stalls. It was mighty affordable for me. I slurped up ice-cream just because. I ate a sandwich even when I was not hungry.<br /><br />A dog looked at me with those doggy eyes as I munched away. I dropped a piece of the stale bread on the ground for it. It sniffed the bread but refused to take it. I told you the food was bad.<br /><br />I had no idea where the Astro bus station was in La Habana but when the bus finally stopped, I looked up and saw José Marti and the pointy monument and I knew I was near Plaza de la Revolución. I knew how to walk back to my casa from here. No need for taxis, ha.<br /><br />Just the other day, Yves, being the Physicist that he is, did some reverse engineering analysis and concluded that perhaps the Viazul bus station was located quite an inconvenient distance away to give tourists no choice but to take taxis. Oh, I see… gosh, Fidel is G-O-O-D.<br /><br />If the brainy Yves ever wins the Nobel Prize for Physics in the future, I will be proud to say I had known this guy before, albeit briefly.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">La Habana, CUBA - 18 april 2003</span><br /><br />How to finish spending the rest of my Cuban Pesos? There were not many things priced in Cuban Pesos available to be bought. For those food items available, it was so cheap, it was nearly free. I busied myself stopping by every other ‘Refresco’ stalls and drinking away cups of questionable syrups just to spend the pesos. I finally located a restaurant at Barrio Chino [Chinatown] which had prices both in US$ and Cuban Pesos and splurged on a big lunch there and paid in pesos.<br /><br />I meandered to Parque Central opposite the White House lookalike, the Capitolio Nacional in Old Havana and rested under the shade. There, scores of locals, mostly men, regardless of day and time, were standing around and discussing various topics with fervor. Politics? Baseball?<br /><br />I observed a policeman checking the identity card of a guy just sitting on the bench. I had noticed how suspicious the police were of everyone and how, to a certain extent, state-fearing the locals were.<br /><br />When I went to Viñales, I had only brought along a small haversack and had left my passport in my casa in La Habana, thinking I did not need it anywhere else. My hostess wanted my passport to register me. When I said I only had a photocopy with me, she literally stopped dead in her tracks and grew worried. She said if the officials found out she registered me with a photocopy and not the original, they would be fined. She had turned rather pale. I apologized to her, cursing myself why I did not just bring my passport along. I explained I did not know of this rule and if she did not want me, I would look for another casa. This was met with feverish protests. I guess, while they were state-fearing, they took risks because of the money.<br /><br />I compared this to that old crone in the cheap hostel in St. Petersburg, Russia where two tourists and I were trying to check in. She found faults with all of our visas and simply refused to accept us. One of the guys had said to her, “If you are smart, you will take our money and let us in.” I guess, for her, she rather not take risks with foreigners and accept only Russian tourists.<br /><br />Then, I also compared the difference the police treated the tourists here in Cuba and Russia. Here in Cuba, tourists could do no wrong. You really must do something very bad, like really, really bad… perhaps, make an attempt on the life of The Bearded One (one could only attempt for this guy seemed to have ninety lives), then, you just might receive a slap on the wrist.<br /><br />In Moscow, Russia, the police were hunting down tourists. You just have to molecularly exist in approximately the same space-time spectrum as a Russian police officer to be ‘in trouble’. He would claim something is wrong with your visa and you will then be hauled to the police station, if you refuse to pay the on-the-spot fine.<br /><br />As I walked around La Habana, I really marvelled at the patience of the locals waiting for buses. When a bus arrived, the queue could be as long as thirty-five to forty people. They had obviously been waiting for a long time. The buses were also nearly always full already. In China or Mongolia, I could imagine all forty people rushing to the bus-door upon arrival of the bus, fighting and shoving to get in.<br /><br />Another scary public transport is the camello (camel). It is a very long truck. The container-part of the truck was slightly elevated at the two ends, like two humps of a camel. The container is so long that up to two hundred people can squeeze into it. Nearly every time I saw a camello, it was jam-packed to the brim with sweaty bodies. I only dared hop onto one later that evening when it was surprisingly not so crowded.<br /><br />By night, I still had 20 Cuban Pesos and decided to spend it on one final dinner. It was fried rice. It was gross. I kept washing it down with my bottle of water. When my water ran out, I tried to dry-swallow the rice. But my throat kept contracting to prevent the food-intake. I tilted my head at an angle to try and roll down the rice using gravity, much like what seals do to swallow their fish. For the life of me, I just could not swallow.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-66508055252435274122003-04-10T20:35:00.000-07:002009-07-18T20:35:58.552-07:0028 - There's Something About Money (La Habana, Vinales)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Cancún, MEXICO to La Habana, CUBA - 06 april 2003</span><br /><br />I came all the way to Cancún and left without setting eyes on the famous beaches. Will the trying-to-tan-but-burn-instead tourists ever forgive me?<br /><br />José from the travel agency had told me to get to the airport 2 hours ahead of flight, at 10am. While this short flight felt like an internal flight, it was actually international so 2 hours ahead was normal. I checked my baggage in at around 10am and wandered around the airport, snooping at the souvenir store and baulking at the prices on the stupid kitschy souvenirs made from sea-shells and brightly-painted gross ‘beach’ adornments.<br /><br />I was to board at 11:20am. I glanced at my calculator-clock, it was 10:20am. I had an hour to kill. I decided to go to some seats near the Domestic Arrival and read. But to kill more time getting to the seats, instead of taking a right turn from outside the souvenir store which would take me right there, I took a left turn to walk around the restaurant opposite. Just there, I passed a sign reading, “6 ABRIL 2003, CAMBIA LA HORA…” - 6 April, change the time forward by 1 hour. 6 April?? That’s TODAY!! Where is the information counter??? What time is it now?<br /><br />11:20am.<br /><br />Gracias. I needed to board NOW. As I cleared Customs, I marvelled at my luck - again. If I had turned right, I would have missed the sign and the flight. I realised, many times, things just fall into place for me. If I push and try to force certain things to happen, it might not work. But if I let things take its flow, usually they work out perfectly.<br /><br />The plane was one of those tiny ones with propellers at the wings. The body was the size of a bus and it was free sitting. The windows were round port-holes. Upon entering, it was stuffy and airless. But when the plane was in the air, the air felt cool and comfortable. We even had inflight service from the one steward.<br /><br />Little did I realise that the cool air circulating in the tin-can was au naturelle. Air was gushing in from outside, through the sides of the port-hole windows and possibly the connecting portions of the air-frame, barely held together by nuts and bolts. When we were landing, the cold air poured in relentlessly and we were entirely shrouded in mists. Condensation was dripping onto us. What can I say? It was one unforgettable flight.<br /><br />In Cuba, tourists are supposed to stay in state hotels. These are priced from, I don’t know, US$50 to US$ anything. Not long ago, the state had allowed some forms of private enterprises. So some Cubans had set up rooms in their house and offered accommodation, usually to independent tourists. These were known as casa particulars [private houses]. As they are in competition with the state hotels, naturally, the state will not let them off easily. They are taxed heavily, as much as 60% of what they earned ultimately returns to the state. In La Habana, these casas are usually priced US$25 to US$30. Of course, there are cheaper illegal ones (US$10 or so) but you need to be standing on the streets and waiting for a tout to find you and lead you to their houses. I had been paying between US$3 to US$6 for six months in South America. So, Cuba was certainly not cheap for me, especially now when my funds were running out.<br /><br />I hit the streets right away, for I had the excitable glee of a child let loose in a toy store. I could not believe I was in La Habana! As you can probably guess, my travelling zeal had dipped a little last week after eleven months on the road. But Cuba injected such a surprising freshness and mystery to my trip, I suddenly felt apprehensive, unsure as to what will happen, what to expect again and this was G-R-E-A-T!!<br /><br />I gaped at the crumbling and colourful (in the peeling-paint sort of way) colonial houses in Vedado, where I stayed and those that lined along the Malecón [sea-wall]. The houses were enormous and would look terrifically grand and imposing if they correct the lop-sided balconies, replace the broken window shutters, replaster the columns and basically give the house a whole fresh lick of paint. But unless the Cubans had relatives in Miami, they obviously had no chance of ever restoring their houses. And so these ancient houses retained an arresting, old-flavoured charm to them.<br /><br />Colourful laundry strung along the balconies. Bored women stared out of windows. Men gathered on the street to play dominoes. Boys flung make-shift baseballs (bottle-caps or home-made balls tied together in plastic) and used wooden sticks (perhaps yanked from park benches) to make a swing at them. Lovers relaxed by the sea-wall to soak in the sun-set. Old ladies sold plastic flowers and peanuts along the Malecón.<br /><br />There was a black-out by the time I returned to Vedado. Nelson, my host, had given me a map on where to find cheap food around my casa. Due to the black-out, several places did not appear to be serving food.<br /><br />On his map, there was a paladar nearby. Paladares are private enterprises which offer food. Again, because of the high taxes, the meals are not cheap either, costing from US$5 to US$10. As the food was prepared in houses, there were usually no obvious signs outside.<br /><br />I asked a family relaxing on rocking chairs on the porch, if their house was a paladar and one lady quickly led me in. She took me through a series of pitch-black rooms and corridors. While the colonial houses were enormous, it did not mean that only one family lived in one house. They were often sectioned up into several areas and housed multiple families. So, I found myself stumbling in the dark, passing rooms where someone was using the phone, another where children were playing, and yet another, where I crashed right into some old folks sitting and chatting in the dark. I felt like I was intruding.<br /><br />At the end of the house, the lady lit a candle and I sat in the stuffy room and was soon served my US$5 dinner. I had to admit the food was quite a spread, with rice, beans, salad, meat, but I knew I could not afford this for every meal in Cuba.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">La Habana, CUBA - 07 april 2003</span><br /><br />To up the challenge and confusion for tourists, Cuba has three currencies circulating - US dollars, Cuban Pesos and Peso Convertibles. The Cuban Peso was 26 pesos to US$1 at the time I was there. The Peso Convertible is worth the US dollar. They exist to provide change in coins or more US$ circulation without actually having US dollars. However, unlike its name, it cannot be converted to anything after you leave Cuba. It is best not to carry too much of these Monopoly money.<br /><br />I changed US$10 worth of Cuban Pesos today and could try and buy things from the Cuban-Peso places. My first try was at a stall selling bananas by the unit, 0.50 peso each. Bananas by the unit? Usually, they were sold by weight. I checked them out and realised the bananas were in various stages of rotting, that it was best to pick and choose through the lot for the best-looking ones one by one. A man bought ten and he had to carry them himself, no plastic carriers provided, of course.<br /><br />Cuba must be the American Dream Car Haven for classic-car lovers. My thoughts went to Claudio from Buenos Aires. He is the proud owner of a 1938 Chevrolet. Here, the models were mostly from the 1950s, just before the Cuban Revolution. While cars of this age had died everywhere else in the world long ago, here, because the Cubans are the best mechanics in the world (nothing is ever thrown away, everything is fixed), the cars were all given a second, third or whatever chance in life. Some grand old ladies were barely surviving. Others were mighty impressive, with fine paint jobs and smooth red, white leather upholstery inside.<br /><br />As I walked along the Malecón to La Habana Vieja (Old Havana) and around Old Havana itself, I was at the receiving end of many callings of ‘China’ [Chinese girl], ‘Chinita’ [little Chinese girl], ‘Japonésa’ [Japanese girl] and funnily, unique to Cuba because of the communist angle I supposed, ‘Mao Tse Tung’ too. Sometimes, they yelled out ‘Ching Chiang Chong’ which were what they imagined to be Chinese words! It was worse passing construction or restoration sites. In Old Havana, there are many such state-funded restorations. I was constantly harassed with hootings, hissings, odious cat-calls, disgusting flying kisses, leerings and more ‘Chinas’.<br /><br />Old Havana is the touristy area of La Habana and it is also the place where the poorest people of La Habana lived. Ironically, the decrepit houses the tourists had come to admire housed these poor people. Nelson had told me a doctor might earn US$20 a month, a lawyer US$12 and general workers, about US$6. How do people survive with this pittance of a salary?, I had asked. He had explained many had to do some sort of side-lines, like setting up make-shift stalls to sell food, drinks or whatever. But even these were taxed.<br /><br />Indeed, along the streets of Old Havana, many had opened a window on the side of their house facing the street and attached rectangular card-boards, stating whatever they had to offer. ‘Refrescos’ [cold drinks] usually go for 1 peso. ‘Pan de Jamon’ [Ham sandwich] is priced from 4 to 12 pesos. ‘Pizzas’ fetch the price of 3 to 5 pesos. My wallet was overflowing with 260 pesos. At these prices, I wondered vaguely if I could finish spending this amount by the end of my two weeks. Such was the disparities between what the tourists pay and what the Cubans pay.<br /><br />I took a seat at the counter in a café, filled with Cubans. I had been seeking out one such place for a while to ‘eat like the locals’. There was a huge crowd at the counter, with three or four lines of people waiting for the 2-peso ‘pizzeta’ [little pizza]. The woman took her time serving the pizzetas. She looked BORED. She randomly served the people and some guys yelled at her as they claimed they were there first. She was unmoved, looked right through them and continued her task languidly. The tray was finished and the rowdy crowd turned silent momentarily as we waited for the next tray to be heated up. I noticed no plates or servettes were provided. You use your own paper or hand.<br /><br />How wasteful our societies are actually. Most purchases come with a disposable something, be it a cup, a bottle, a paper plate, a plastic bag. But Cubans cannot afford waste. I ripped a page from my diary and indicated I wanted one pizzeta please. She looked right through me too and turned away unsmilingly. I remained ignored as she served all the others at the counter slowly and randomly. She finally decided to hand me a piece when the ‘queue’ was left between me and another woman who wanted three pizzetas. There was only one pizzeta left on the tray.<br /><br />Meanwhile, near the Plaza de Armas, an area filled with fancy restored hotels, package tourists were following their group leaders everywhere and dining and drinking in US$ bars and restaurants. A restaurant overlooking the plaza, had a ‘live’ band playing Cuban son. Not quite Buena Vista Social Club but the music was good and tourists were dancing and having a great time.<br /><br />You could almost never find a spot where locals and tourists mix. The price difference is just too impossibly huge. I believe the state (now it is pronounced with a more sinister sneer) is also intent on separating locals and tourists.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">La Habana to Viñales, CUBA - 08 april 2003</span><br /><br />Due to poor and expensive public transportation, lack of ability to afford cars and basically petrol shortage, hitch-hiking is a very common practice here in Cuba. My guide-book wrote that stopping for hitch-hikers was obligatory for drivers. The drivers could not ask much from the hitch-hikers because fellow Cubans simply had not much money anyway.<br /><br />Then, I wondered what if they picked up a tourist. Why get Cuban Pesos from them when they could milk US dollars?<br /><br />However, I learnt later from Nelson that if a local, and not a taxi-driver, was caught picking up tourists, he could be fined US$1500 and he might even lose the car. Tourists must take taxis and authorised buses.<br /><br />Viazul is the authorised bus company for tourists and everything is perfect about it. The buses were clean, had comfortable, adjustable seats and were air-conditioned. They left on time, the service was immaculate and the friendly staff spoke English (some form of, anyway). All for very high prices in US dollars, of course, but these are for the tourists, they had dollars to burn anyway. Er, not me, no… I paid a hefty US$12 for a 3-hour bus-ride to Viñales and my ulcer bled internally for a long time. I recalled a US$12 overnight bus-ride in Argentina, which was 8 hours long, reclined nearly all the way down and I was even served a tasty dinner. Sob.<br /><br />Viñales is a very small town west of La Habana, set amongst roundish mountains called ‘mogotes’. All the houses had porches out front and numerous rocking chairs idled there. Did rocking chairs come from Cuba? I peeped into several houses and sometimes, the entire suite of furniture inside consisted of rocking chairs only. Some were the wooden sort and others had metal frames with the colourful plastic threads strung around the frames. Very retro.<br /><br />I walked along the highway for 3km to a sight, known as The Mural of Prehistory. The mogotes reminded me of the Oriental mountains I had seen in pictures of Vietnam and Huang Shan, China. The vegetation was very tropical too and with the wooden houses, rocking chairs and relaxed, hot and humid climate, the atmosphere reminded me a lot of rural Malaysia. Malaysia… hmmm, I had not thought of this neighbouring country of mine for a while. Perhaps, it was seeing a misty-eyed Dr. Mahathir hugging Fidel Castro on TV last night.<br /><br />The Mural must be the biggest joke. It was painted rather childishly by a Cuban professor Leovigildo Gonzalez and probably under the instruction of the Commander. It had dinosaurs and stick men. How about that? Still, it was great scenery walking out here and checking out the quotable quotes from the Mighty FC, put up on sign-boards along the road.<br /><br />I returned to Viñales and spied a food ration store. This is a store that sells basic food and necessities. They are rationed on a per-person basis monthly. People who come have to buy these rationed items, bring a little passport-sized notebook for the guys at the counter to make a record.<br /><br />On the blackboard, it was written that the food and necessities ration for April 1 to 30 were six pounds of rice, five (something, I could not figure it out) of black beans, three pounds of refined sugar, two pounds of crude sugar, one kilo of salt for three months, six fine cigarettes, two cigars, one soap for bathing, one box of matches (for lighting your cigars, how thoughtful), etc…<br /><br />Of course, one could buy more of these food items at regular markets but the prices there would be higher. And not-so-necessary items like soap sold elsewhere would be priced in US dollars.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Viñales, CUBA - 09 april 2003</span><br /><br />Leoni is the cousin of the hostess of my casa. He had come over last night to try and convince me to go on a hike with three French tourists to ‘the most beautiful scenery in Latin America’, or so he claimed. I knew it was not true, for I had already seen the most beautiful scenery in Latin America - in Chile and Argentina. He wanted to charge me US$10. I could not afford this price. Since he already had the three other tourists, adding me to the list was a bonus and he did not mind a lower price from me. I wanted to see more of Viñales. Heading back to La Habana today would be a pity. He kept asking what price I was willing to pay. US$6?, I ventured. OK!, he gushed immediately. But I must not tell the French tourists anything about my price.<br /><br />Apparently, there was a very popular song beginning with ‘Tú quieres te lleva a Singapur?’ [Do you want to go to Singapore?] in Cuba lately. For the younger people, they had absolutely no idea where Singapore was and to hear that I was actually from this country, I suddenly became a legend for them. Leoni was singing this song-beginning over and over again.<br /><br />It poured very heavily just before we set off so we sat around for more than an hour and chatted til the rain stopped. The French tourists were Guillaume, Geraldine and Agathe but I must not tell them anything about my price.<br /><br />We departed on the muddy farmlands in the late afternoon when the rain subsided. The heavy rain had converted the trail into impossible nightmares. My sandals were caked with so much mud and leaves that I felt like a duck walking around with very large webbed feet. Every step resulted in flying mud that decorated the back of my dress.<br /><br />We checked out a tobacco shed with beams of drying tobacco leaves stacked from floor to ceiling. The leaves dried outside for a few months before being transferred to be dried indoors for another three or four months. The cigar-chomping owner looked in, smilingly. He had such a typical look for a tobacco farmer. He was a tanned, wrinkled, little old man, wearing a straw hat. He had probably chewed on cigars since forever so he was missing several teeth but all this meant he could tuck the cigar more securely in his mouth in-between the remaining teeth. I learnt from him that three or four leaves would roll into a cigar and they rolled them at home. He gave us one cigar each, cool.<br /><br />Leoni spied an unfriendly cow and decided we could not walk the trail ahead. Instead, he took us through the tobacco farmlands and we were soon squelching across and crashing blindly amongst what would become the world’s best cigars that, for now, were as high as our chest level.<br /><br />We entered a cave and gingerly staggered inside to find the subterranean river. Walking in the cave is much like living a life, I think. You try not to question what is up ahead, you just take each illuminated step at a time and you will be fine. Known length of the river was 18km but it remained unexplored and Leoni said this could be the largest cave in Latin America, more than 100km long. This guy had a thing for superlatives.<br /><br />By the time we popped out of the cave, it had grown dark already. Suddenly, it rained really heavily. We had to walk quickly through the mud for it was worse if you took slow steps… you might sink and get stuck. At one point, a horse cart belonging to the owner of the farm closest to the cave was waiting for us and so we got our ride out through the muddy fields. It was on very bad mud-trail and I was very bumped and bruised. But imagine, if we had to make our way back entirely by walking… it would have been worse.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 51, 102);">Viñales to La Habana, CUBA - 10 april 2003</span><br /><br />I realised that for the past few nights, the reason I could not sleep properly was because I had been doing maths in my head all the time, calculating how much I had spent and would spend for the rest of my Cuban stay. If I kept up at this rate, I would really be out-of-funds. I knew if I kept thinking about money, I could not enjoy myself. But the tourists here in Cuba were mostly just here for two weeks, ten days. They did not mind throwing money around for two weeks of comfort and luxury hotels. I was not like them. If I could not do anything about bus-rides and prices of casas, my other option was to regulate my metabolic rate down to take in only one meal a day.<br /><br />On the bus-ride back to La Habana, I spotted one other person travelling alone. At a snack break, I asked him where he was heading to in La Habana, perhaps we could share a taxi. He said he had no casa in mind but wanted to be near the bus-station in order to take the morning bus to Trinidad.<br /><br />Just as we reached La Habana, I hit upon another idea. Since he had no casa, I suggested he come to my casa and we share the room to split the cost, for I was also heading back to the bus-station in the morning for the Trinidad bus. How I plot and scheme my way to save money.<br /><br />Yves, from Switzerland, was very agreeable to that. Great! I learnt later he was thinking of staying three or four nights in Trinidad. We could share the room in Trinidad too. Excellent.<br /><br />We strolled to Plaza de la Revolución which had an ugly pointy monument and a huge statue of José Marti, Mr 1-Cuban-Peso, the guy who fought for Cuba’s independence. Opposite was an ugly Soveit-style building block which had a series of metals lined and shaped into the famous smothering look of Che Guevara, Mr 3-Cuban-Peso, the guy who fought in the Cuban Revolution, now sun-lit against a wall. Hasta la victoria siempre, [Always until the victory] it read.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-71232794916039575772003-04-05T20:33:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:34:37.766-07:0027 - Next Stop I-Wonder-Where Land (Mexico City, Cancun)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA to Mexico City, MEXICO - 27 march 2003</span><br /><br />I bid silent farewells to Plaza San Martin, Puerto Madero and other places in Buenos Aires as the airport bus pulled out of the centre and headed to the airport. I felt strangely empty now as I was leaving South America. Maybe I found it difficult to accept that I was really leaving this wonderful continent. I just did not know what to think anymore. In fact, I rather not think. Hmm… perhaps the reason why many airports look clinical and charmless is to make parting easier for us. Hasta luego, mi amor… [Until later, my love…]<br /><br />I landed in Mexico City late at night. I had been to Mexico two years ago. I know for sure Mexico is not safe at night. I had stayed in a hostel near the centre then. At 6pm or so, when the sky still had a light blue tinge, there were throngs of people on the streets, selling wares, shopping, eating from taco stalls, etc… I had ducked into a café for dinner and upon emerging from the café at 8pm, the entire streets were cleared of everyone. If the locals knew they had to disappear by night-fall, it surely was not safe there. As I walked nervously back to my hostel, I would see policemen frisking someone down this street and hear car-alarms down the other street. It had been unnerving.<br /><br />Well, this time, I would try and get an airport-taxi. I was unable to find the airport-taxi booth and after making several inquiries, I was led to a booth which read: GUIA DE TURISMO [Tourist Guide]. It did not look right. And the guy said the price to the centre was 250 Mexican Pesos (US$25). No, that was too much money! I could not believe my ears. I insisted on just 100 pesos. After a long time of haggling, they reduced it to 180 pesos. It was still too much money to pay for a taxi-ride but I gave in finally.<br /><br />The drive tried to interest me in another hostel, instead of the one in the centre I wanted to return to. OK, this one was located in Zona Rosa and from my memory of Mexico City, I recalled many embassies were located around the Zona Rosa, Paseo de la Reforma and Chapultepec area. Perhaps, it was better to stay in this region in order to track down Guatemala Embassy tomorrow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 28 march 2003</span><br /><br />I walked to Paseo de la Reforma, one of the most famous avenues of Mexico City with the impressive golden land-mark of El Angel [The Angel], to try and catch a bus to Lomas de Chapultepec, where the Guatemala Embassy was located. I was unable to spot a bus-stop and asked a señor whether I could just flag down the buses anywhere. He nodded and asked where exactly I was heading. He then explained that I needed to catch a bus that read ‘REFORMA KM13’. I had a 10-peso coin with me. I checked with him if buses provided change. No, he informed me, I needed exact change for buses. But micros would provide change. OK, I would take a micro then.<br /><br />A bus with ‘REFORMA KM13’ soon arrived. The señor turned to me, and proffered me 2 pesos, insisting that I take them. My goodness, this guy was trying to GIVE me money. “No, Señor, por favor, no puedo sacar tu dinero. [No, sir, please, I cannot take your money.]”<br /><br />But he was very insistent and practically dragged me up the bus. The reason he wanted me to be on the bus was so that he could show me where to get off and exactly where to walk thereafter. Oh, thank you very much. When I started walking, a guy who had gotten off from the same bus, muttered something to me. He pointed to the tiny piece of paper I had clasped in my hand. He repeated himself. Then, I realised he was saying the street of the Guatemala Embassy. How did he know which street I wanted to go? He must have spied it from my tiny paper while on the bus. Now, he kept directing me where to go. My gosh… barely 24 hours in Mexico, Mexicans are already fantastic to me.<br /><br />To my utter disappointment, the Guatemala Embassy informed me that I would need to wait three weeks for the processing of my visa. I only have four weeks left of my RTW trip. I could not wait three weeks for a visa. Sigh… another setback. I could not go to Guatemala afterall.<br /><br />I fell into a state of mourning not unlike the one I had when I realised my Bolivian visa was rejected. I was suddenly directionless. I had no idea what to do next. I had been so sure of getting my visa.<br /><br />I have a friend from Singapore who has been working in Mexico City for several years. I actually had not been in contact with him for eight years. It was through our common Spanish teacher in Singapore that I knew about his assignment to Mexico City. I actually had no idea if his contract had ended or not. Perhaps he was not in Mexico City anymore. Still, I tried my luck and emailed to him.<br /><br />Upon returning to my hostel, my friend Ming had called and left a message. Great! We then made arrangements to meet for dinner. This was wonderful, wonderful news!!<br /><br />Meanwhile, I turned things over in the my head and wondered where I should head off next. I felt rather tired suddenly. I decided to forget about visas and all that jazz and head to the north of Mexico. The last time I was here, I had meandered mainly in the south.<br /><br />I had a flight from Mexico City to Cancún leaving 1 April. I had charmed Sergio in the Mexicana office in Buenos Aires to grant me a few days’ stay here in Mexico City to await my Guatemala visa. I figured, if I visit the north of Mexico, then I would need to delay this Mexico City to Cancún flight til perhaps three weeks later. So, I headed to Mexicana and conned them into changing my flight to 16 April.<br /><br />That evening, Ming and his wife met me at my hostel. A beaming Ming walked towards me, proffering his hand for a hand-shake. A HAND-SHAKE?!!?? Sorry, six and a half months in South America, I had been somewhat latinized (on the contrary, three years here, Ming and his wife still had not) and I ignored the proffered hand and went up to hug him and his wife and give them kissies-on-the-right-cheek.<br /><br />Off we went to a Japanese Restaurant. I had not eaten Japanese food since way before I left Singapore. It was an excellent choice. As we chatted and caught up with one another’s lives excitedly, I found it amusing to listen to the Singaporean accent now and our very own Singlish after eleven months of travels.<br /><br />I told Ming about my Guatemala visa saga. As his job was to establish trade links between Singapore and Mexico, and some South American countries, he mentioned he might be able to help place a call on Monday to see if he could sort out this issue. Really??? Gosh, while this was no promise, I was delighted at the news and decided to stay in Mexico City for a few more days.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 29 march 2003</span><br /><br />My room-mates, Ally and George from England, had just arrived this morning. They asked me several questions about Mexico City. To my surprise, I found that I could tell them which metro station (Balderas) to get off to visit the Mercado de Artesanias de La Ciudadela (a huge market that sells gorgeous Mexican souvenirs) and how exactly to go to Teotihuacán (a very impressive group of pyramids near Mexico City), based on pure memory from my recollection of my Mexican trip two years ago. Not bad, not bad.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I headed to Coyoacan to visit Museo Frida Kahlo. In my last trip, I did not get the chance to visit it. When I was here in Mexico City then, Salma Hayek had been here at the same time to film the movie ‘Frida’, which I just watched in December in Buenos Aires. It would be interesting now to visit ‘The Blue House’ where Frida Kahlo was born and where she died.<br /><br />Indeed, it was a very interesting visit. There were displays of some of her talented artworks and Diego Rivera’s (her husband). There were numerous other art collections from other artists as well as pre-Colombian artefacts. Her studio seemed to be left as it was, with stains of paint everywhere, her wheel-chair set poignantly in front of an incomplete portrait of Stalin. There were photos of other Communist leaders like Mao, Lenin, Marx… too.<br /><br />But what was touching were the personal letters and diaries on display. Her love for her womanizing husband seemed really strong (although she was bisexual and had extra-marital affairs herself), as could be seen from the notes she wrote him. Her pillows were embroidered ‘DOS CORAZONS FELICES’ [Two happy hearts] and ‘NO ME OLVIDES MI AMOR’ [Do not forget me, my love]. In a way, it was rather heart-rending. Even her body-cast which she had to tortuously wear to heal her body sat proudly on the bed. Her kitchen and furniture with the loud, clashing colours, her ostentatious jewellery and colourful clothes, her collection of wild paper-mache ‘Day of the Dead’ skeletons all had very Mexican characters. She was truly an amazing and extremely talented woman of her times.<br /><br />That evening, I met up with my other friends in Mexico City, Mauricio and his wife, Liliana. We met in my last trip here and it was really nice to catch up with them again.<br /><br />When I returned to my hostel, I learnt that Ally and George were both pick-pocketed today at the metro. Gosh! There was a huge crowd at the door and the system was beeping, signalling that the door was about to shut. Suddenly, there was a shove and all squeezed into the metro at the last minute. The guys both knew this was the perfect pick-pocket moment and checked their pockets. Indeed, both their wallets were gone. They looked around them and some Mexicans were actually grinning at them. George asked one guy if he was the pick-pocket. The guy happily showed George his plastic bag. Right, like he would show him where he hid the wallet. Sigh… there was nothing either could do.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 30 march 2003</span><br /><br />I was picked up by Ming and his wife Hong today to go to Xochimilco. With them, was another Singaporean lady, Sue, who had come to Mexico City for work so often they had become friends and she was now staying at their apartment.<br /><br />Xochimilco is down south in Mexico City. In this area, pre-Hispanic inhabitants had piled up vegetation and lake mud to make fertile gardens called chinampas and this had been a strong economic region for the Aztec empire.<br /><br />Now, with many chinampas, there was a series of canals between them. Loads of colourful trajiñeras [gondolas] cruise down the canals with parties of happily drunk locals and tourists, especially on weekends. Amongst these trajiñeras, there were mariachi and marimba bands, hawkers of food and handicrafts and photographers with Mexican sombreros (hats) ready for tourists. It was classic Mexican kitsch.<br /><br />Two years ago, I had gone all the way to Xochimilco and as it was a Monday, it was very quiet. The punters had tried to coax me to hire the boat myself. I had imagined the mariachi bands serenading love songs to me and me only and goose-pimples had emerged rapidly. I then made a 180-degrees U-turn and fled the scene.<br /><br />Now, I am back. With Sue as a fellow tourist, I did not feel that out-of-place. Ming and Hong brought along snacks like chips, strawberries and fried chicken-wings (a Singaporean favourite!). Yippee!!<br /><br />Actually, as it turned out, Xochimilco was more over-run by locals than I had imagined. To them, this was the perfect Sunday get-together with families and friends. Some were dancing merrily to the mariachi or marimba music. Others were feasting on sweet-corns. Yet more were getting drunk on tequila. It had a very festive and delightful atmosphere.<br /><br />Some of the chinampas now sold flowers and plants. Actually, Xochimilco means ‘place where flowers grow’ in the Nahuatl language used by the Aztec. We stopped at one and Sue bought several pots of flowers. She was going to move to Mexico City soon and had started buying plants for her apartment, even before she had a chance to look for an apartment.<br /><br />From conversations with Ming, Hong and Sue, I simply could not believe my ears at the various Singlish words used by them. It was as if I was transported back to Singapore one month ahead in time. It already felt like I had returned home.<br /><br />As Sue examined a flower pot, she commented the plant looked ‘seng gnek’ [lop-sided]. Then, to her, another pot of flowers looked ‘lau hong’ [deflated]. We brushed by some flowers accidentally and one poor little flower ‘kar lout’ [fell down].<br /><br />Various people had asked me, upon learning that I was from Singapore, if we spoke an exotic language of our own. They had been disappointed to learn that we speak English. Well, actually, we do have a ‘language’ of our own - Singlish. Singlish is bad, embarrassing English; it is English spoken with Mandarin grammar; it is extremely rich in ‘words’ from a mixture of our Chinese dialects, Mandarin and Malay. In one sentence, we can have a concoction of English, Mandarin, dialects or Malay words in it. We love to add useless sounds like ‘lah’, ‘lor’, ‘leh’, ‘meh?’, ‘izit?’, ‘hor’ behind our sentences. No one else would be able to understand us.<br /><br />When we returned to Ming and Hong’s apartment, I nearly fainted upon seeing it. It was enormous and very ostentatiously furnished, thanks to their rich and generous land-lady. The rich Mexicans are profanely rich. It was perhaps eight times the size of the apartment Pablo and I had shared for two months in Buenos Aires. I could hold a ballet performance here. If I were a dog, I would not know where to begin running. The sofas, there were several of them, all looked super comfortable. I shamelessly requested if I could also crash at their apartment, so that I could save some money (accommodation in Mexico City is not cheap). Sue had taken the luxurious guest-room but to me, the sofa in the living room was already paradise itself. Sue and I had gotten along splendidly since this morning and she suggested that I share the bed in the guest-room with her. And so, it was set. I would move into the palace tomorrow.<br /><br />That evening, Hong prepared many typical Singaporean dishes, like ‘bak kut teh’ (a sort of peppery brown soup with pork spare-ribs), ‘chye por nerng’ (egg fried with little pieces of turnips) and steamed fish. Real food, at last.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 31 march 2003</span><br /><br />I chatted with my two other room-mates at my hostel, Hilda and Sofie, and found they wanted to go to Palmas 735 to try and look for KLM airline office. Ming’s apartment was near there and his chauffeur would pick me up in a few minutes’ time. But as it was not MY chauffeur (imagine that!), I did not offer them a ride.<br /><br />Later, however, from the car I spotted them on the street and hurriedly asked Ming’s chauffeur, Javier, if he could ferry them to Palmas 735, which was along the way. He was agreeable and so I called out and beckoned to the girls. When they entered the car, they were impressed. “What sort of friend do you have in Mexico City?”, they joked. Yeah, I know. Having been a backpacker for more than eleven months, scrimping and saving as much as possible, to be now in a chauffeur-driven car, on the way to where the rich and famous lived… I felt extremely odd indeed.<br /><br />Ming had placed the call to the Guatemala Embassy this morning. He then informed me that the embassy recently changed their processing policy for Asians and Africans because a huge number had entered Guatemala and disappeared. That was why it would take such a long time to process visas for Singaporeans. I assured Ming I had absolutely no intention to open up a Chinese Supermarket in Guatemala but Ming said there was nothing he could do. He promised to try and meet up with the Ambassador sometime in the future to help secure better links and relationship between Singapore and Guatemala. And Bolivia too?, I hazarded. One at a time, one at a time, he replied. OK, perhaps I was pushing it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 01 april 2003</span><br /><br />So, where do I go next? North of Mexico frankly did not appeal to me whole-heartedly. I started tossing around the idea of going to Cuba from Cancún. I trawled the internet for cheap flights to La Habana and finally found one for US$205. OK, it was a lot of money to me, especially at this point of my travels when my funds are running out. But, what were my odds of going to Cuba again before it changes (that is, before a certain Castro character dies)?<br /><br />Ming checked with the Cuban Embassy and found that we did not need visas, just an air-ticket and a tourist card. OK, Cuba is it!<br /><br />I selected to go to La Habana on 5 April and return on 19 April. The website announced that someone would reply the availability of flights within 48 hours.<br /><br />Sue wanted to go apartment-hunting today. When Ming’s chauffeur was available for a few hours, Hong, Sue and I took a spin around the Lomas de Chapultepec and Polanco area. We stuck our heads out from each window to search for ‘SE RENTA’ or ‘SE AQUILA’ [For Rent] signs pasted on the windows of apartments and noted down their numbers. Then, we returned home and Hong helped Sue place several phone calls to the agents. One agent wanted to show us some apartments right away. Hong had to cook lunch. So, I went with Sue to be her, ahem… translator.<br /><br />We were picked up by Mario in a grotty car whose back doors would not open. I had to crawl in from the front-passenger’s door. We hoped the apartments he would show us would be in better conditions. The first apartment was actually a house, sectioned out from the main house, and within walking distance from Sue’s office in Mexico City. Mario assured us this was perfect.<br /><br />Indeed, it was perfect. It had a wonderful Mexican flavour. The floor was painted orange, the kitchen was lined with the famous talavera tiles from Puebla and had a sky-light, making it bright and cheery. The bedroom was lovely white, the dining room chairs looked like cacti (without the spikes, of course). I loved it!! It was so Mexican! In my mind, I already knew how I wanted to decorate it, a splash of colour here, a hammock there, a bright clashing carpet here, some blue glass-wares there… I had to remind myself I was not the one apartment-hunting. Well, it was perfect… except for the price – US$1500 per month.<br /><br />Sue also had her heart set on this house. She was not keen to look at others anymore. We would see whether Mario could get the price lower.<br /><br />Being surrounded by Singaporeans these two days meant that the hot topic among us was the SARS virus problem in Singapore and Asia. The number of infected, many health-care workers, kept rising and rising. The stories of how the people got infected were scary and how the authorities were trying to track down certain people who might be in close contact with the infected, like missing taxi-drivers or whatever. Gosh… my friends at home were also saying that no one wanted to go out of their house unnecessarily, all wanted to avoid crowded places and air-conditioned places (which means every building and public transport in Singapore). Face masks and Chinese herbs were all sold out. I could not imagine how the panic was like back home.<br /><br />I called my mom that night. She works in a Chinese clinic which meant people with flu-symptoms might show up. And my dad drives a taxi. I was worried for them but basically, they could only try to be careful.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 02 april 2003</span><br /><br />I was really grateful to Ming and Hong for cooking Singaporean food the last few days. It had indeed been a long time. For a while now, I had wondered what I would stuff into the gap in my face upon arrival in Singapore. There had been too many delicious foods which I had missed and it would be difficult to queue them. But now, at least, with some cravings satisfied, when I got home I would tackle those not consumed here in Mexico City.<br /><br />But, seriously, when in Mexico City, I should eat some Mexican food. So, I wandered around town today with an empty stomach.<br /><br />Tortilla: Mexican’s staple food. Enchiladas, gorditas, quesadillas, tlayudas, entomatadas, tamales, tostadas, chilaquiles, tacos, burritas, sincronizadas, papadzules… All these sound like variants of the Mexican cuisine, no?<br /><br />Well, they are…<br /><br />Tortilla, folded.<br />Tortilla, rolled.<br />Tortilla, pan-fried.<br />Tortilla, pan-fried, greenish-black and gross-looking.<br />Tortilla, folded and sealed at the sides.<br />Tortilla, steamed.<br />Tortilla, crisp and open like a pizza.<br />Tortilla, small and round, order of 3 or 4.<br />Tortilla, folded in triplets, covered in ‘salsa rojo’ [red sauce].<br />Tortilla, folded in triplets, covered in ‘salsa verde’ [green sauce].<br />Tortilla, folded in triplets, covered in mole.<br />Tortilla, stuffed with eyes, tongue, brain.<br /><br />They love tortillas, don’t they?<br /><br />Two years ago, I had not liked the taste of tortilla. I felt really stupid to discover it only after arrival in Mexico.<br /><br />But this time round, I was alright with tacos from the street-side stalls. Perhaps the fillings-to-tortilla ratio was bigger, so I tasted less of the tortilla. Perhaps I was very distracted by the spicy-hot chilis, a long time since I had had anything spicy.<br /><br />Sprinkled with chopped jalapeño chilies, onions and tomatoes (green, white and red, representing the Mexican flag) or guacamole [avocado] and eaten with fingers, it was a cheap and great way to have your stomach filled. Some locals could eat the tacos expertly without spilling the contents out on the other side. A life-time of training. Well, I could not. I was a mess.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 03 april 2003</span><br /><br />A guy called Sam from the website replied that there was availability on CUBANA flights on the days I wanted. He said he would make reservations and send me the invoice and some information about a Mario (yet another) so that we would not miss each other at the airport.<br /><br />I was confused. He had not asked me for my full name. How was he to make reservations? Send me the invoice? I would be leaving in two days’ time. I emailed him back hastily to request for more information.<br /><br />With the Cancún-La Habana flight set, I returned to Mexicana to bully them into changing my Mexico City-Cancún flight again… this time to put forward to 5 April. The lady requested a charge when done. I complained I was not charged the last time I had it changed. So, she left it as it was. Phew. But I probably had my name marked down at Mexicana.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City, MEXICO - 04 april 2003</span><br /><br />Sue and I went to La Ciudadela, the huge artesan market, to shop. She was already getting some ideas on how to decorate her house. I bought a rug and some talavera tiles, which I loved from two years ago but never bought. As this was my second time here, I could not bear NOT to buy them now. But with not enough money to post things home, I would have to carry everything back.<br /><br />I visited Mauricio and Liliana at their apartment, located at the south of Mexico City. They cooked nopales (a kind of cactus) for dinner. I had never tasted this before. It actually tasted pretty good. And they gave me a present… a porcelain plate, the shape of a fish and larger than a keyboard. I loved it but I would have to be really careful to carry this all the way home. Wish me luck.<br /><br />By mid-night, I still had not received any email from Sam about how I was to meet Mario at the airport to collect my air-ticket to La Habana and pay up. Gosh, I was flying off tomorrow morning to Cancún but I had no idea if I would make the connecting flight to La Habana.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">Mexico City to Cancún, MEXICO - 05 april 2003</span><br /><br />I arrived at Cancún, hoping to see a ‘TRISHA’ sign held by someone at the arrival hall. No, no and no. There were only signs for people staying in 5-star hotels and driven by limousines.<br /><br />I had no idea what to do now. I spent about half a week in Mexico City, arranging this and all for nothing. Sheesh… OK, there were actually 3 hours to go before the CUBANA flight departed. I decided to take a bus to town, to see if I could locate an internet café and check if Sam had replied.<br /><br />Nothing in my mailbox. Well, at least I did not make any payment. So, it was not too bad.<br /><br />I decided I would go to Belize. I did not need a visa, so why not just catch a bus to Chetumal, the border town in Mexico, stay a night and cross into Belize tomorrow. I finally made up my mind.<br /><br />But when I was back on the street, still carrying my backpack, I passed by a travel agency and wandered in. I made inquiries for the price to La Habana and asked, as a joke, whether I could leave for Cuba today. José told me, it was 1pm now, the flight would leave in 1 hour… but tomorrow, I could go. Seriously?? The price was even better than the one on the internet. Gosh, I should have just come to Cancún to sort things out here, instead of waiting for that website to handle my flight. Actually, it was just stupid stupid me! And so I changed my mind again and paid up. I would fly to Cuba tomorrow.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-70587670793389914752003-03-26T20:31:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:32:36.636-07:0026 - Farewell, My Amigos (Buenos Aires)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Salta to Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 18 march 2003</span><br /><br />Gilles had asked me the other day, if I was flying from Salta to Buenos Aires. “Fly??? No, I am going by bus, of course. It’s only 20, 22 hours… Flying is too fast.”<br /><br />Besides the toddler who wailed and screamed as if there was no tomorrow every 2 hours or so, it was a pleasant ride, through very flat grounds, on excellent highways with the full moon in the sky. Beyond the Andes, Argentina is just flat all the way to the coastline.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 19 march 2003</span><br /><br />The movie-selector actually did not do a bad job, choosing movies with recognisable actors and coincidentally, all had a word beginning with the letter ‘P’ (the stupid things I noticed!): Payback, Patroit Games, Clear and Present Danger, The Perfect Storm. The 22-hour bus-ride did not appear to pass by that slowly.<br /><br />When the bus pulled into the bus terminal in Retiro, it crawled so slowly around it as if it was an air-plane cruising on the taxi-way, waiting for instructions on which platform to pull in. Wait, I believed they were indeed waiting for instructions for there was a tiny phone which the driver had to pick up, before he could drive to the platform. Gosh, the bus terminal was THAT big.<br /><br />Hola, Retiro. Hola, English clock tower. Hola, Buenos Aires.<br /><br />Oh… really great to arrive at a city and know exactly where to go to take a bus to my hostel, how much to pay, where to get off, etc… all without a glance at any map or looking sky-wards for street-signs or asking someone for directions. I just walked to my hostel from pure memory of the streets. It felt just like coming home, my second home. I would be staying in a hostel this time because Pablo’s cousin had moved in with him in his apartment and there was not enough room for me.<br /><br />I eagerly skipped out to town after I got settled. Oh, Buenos Aires… I had really missed you!! What were different? What were the same? There were many new graffiti on the ground and on the doors of banks, in English too, BANKS + GOVERNMENT MURDERERS, THIEVES. There were many new posters for President Candidates for the upcoming Argentinian election which would be in April. At one point, I observed a guy walk up to a series of MENEM’s posters and rip them off one by one. My sentiments too. The street-vendors on Calle Florida were gone again. There were also posters against the upcoming Iraqi war, ¡QUÉ HIJO DE BUSH! [instead of ‘son-of-a-bitch’, it was ‘son-of-Bush’] and NO SANGRE POR PETROLEO [No blood for oil].<br /><br />The past few months, my entire world had consisted of canyons, glaciers, mountains, altiplano, ruins, museums, mummies, muddy roads… and frankly, I was a little taken aback when I met up with Pablo later that evening and he gravely told me the Iraq War might start tonight.<br /><br />Oh, great to see Pablo again. He had gone skinnier and fairer. Sigh, he had lost the traveller’s tan. I guess I would too, soon… He wanted to know every single thing that happened to me during my three-month trip around South America. He refused to look at my latino souvenirs. He was afraid he might die laughing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 20 march 2003</span><br /><br />I was told that the price of my hostel included breakfast. I found nothing in the kitchen and made inquires at the Reception. I was given an triple-layered, dunk in white chocolate, spread with dulce de leche alfajor. What the…??? I recalled the bygone days in Brazil where, for breakfast, I had a whole basket of fruits, a buffet selection of cakes, tarts and pies and three flasks - one for coffee, one for milk, one for hot water for tea, to feast on. Heaven on Earth. Those were the days. Here in Buenos Aires… one alfajor. I would be staying eight nights here. I wonder if I would be ‘alfajored’ to death.<br /><br />The main reason for returning to Buenos Aires was to catch up with my friends, of course. The other was to try and apply for my visa to Guatemala, my next destination.<br /><br />When I arrived at the Embassy of Guatemala, the lady gave me a list of items I needed to produce and they must all be present before they would consider my application. Three photos, photocopy of DNI (Argentina’s Identity Card), photocopy of every page of the passport, air-tickets in and out of Guatemala and employment documentation. I pointed out that I did not have a DNI and employment documentation for I am not from Argentina, I am a tourist and I was not working here in Argentina. My air-tickets are in and out of Mexico, not Guatemala. She stopped short but told me to produce whatever I could and she would check with the Ambassador later.<br /><br />I photocopied every page of my passport (gosh!!!) and returned to the Embassy. She made me wait for 1 hour before asking me to fill out the form. Just then, the Ambassador passed by and she explained to him my situation. To my utter surprise, the Ambassador said, without the DNI and the employment documentation, he could not process for me. What? I politely inquired if they had another set of requirements for tourists. No.<br /><br />Argh. Now I had to go to Mexico City to get my visa done there. But the problem was - I fly to Cancún but transit in Mexico City. I do not have a few days there in Mexico City to sort out this visa issue. There is no Guatemala Embassy in Cancún, they told me.<br /><br />I tracked down Mexicana and explained my situation. Could I change my transit in Mexico City, into two separate flights… Buenos Aires to Mexico City, stay a few days in Mexico City and then, Mexico City to Cancún, please? Sergio said maybe not, but he needed to check with his supervisor and his supervisor was not around. I should return tomorrow to get my answer.<br /><br />Administration days! Pooh!!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 21 march 2003</span><br /><br />Guess what I had for breakfast… alfajor.<br /><br />I returned to Mexicana and to my surprise, my dear Sergio had consulted his supervisor and they could make my tickets separate at no extra charges. Acknowledging my delighted gratitude, he added, “¿Argentina bueno, huh? [Argentina good, huh?]” I totally agreed.<br /><br />I went to my language centre to collect my long overdue certificate for completing my Spanish Level 3 and chatted with the admin guy Carlos and my teacher Ariel. There, I also ran into one of my ex-classmates, Per, from Denmark, now in Level 4. We caught up with each other and he invited me to visit the new house he and his girlfriend were living now. His girlfriend Maria had just inherited it. Great idea! I would go there tomorrow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 22 march 2003</span><br /><br />I refused to eat the alfajor today and bought some other lovely pastries.<br /><br />During my two months here in Buenos Aires, I had visited the weekend fair at Plaza Francia, near Recoleta, and had spotted some things that I might like to get for my friends. I was there rather early and the stall-owners had not arrived yet. I waited and waited for that particular stall-owner to come but by 1pm, I still could not find it.<br /><br />Oh, forget it… I took a bus to Per’s house at Villa Elisa, in a southern suburb of Buenos Aires. It had a very nice, tranquil small-town feel to it. The inherited property was huge and lovely. There was underground water beneath the house and they could just draw water from there to drink! I live in a high-rise apartment all my life. To me, water means coming from the tap. Drinking from the ground and right from below your house too, was really interesting. I spent a lovely afternoon with them, asado included, of course.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 23 march 2003</span><br /><br />I had taken some black-and-white photographs at San Telmo with my Australian friends Carolyn and Lydia, way back on a December Sunday before my camera was stolen from me that fateful day. So, with it, gone too were the captured images.<br /><br />Today was my last Sunday in Buenos Aires. Pablo and I returned to San Telmo for a second chance at it. We continued to be thoroughly amused by the kitsch antiques, ancient toys, ridiculous wares up for sale. We were giggling and giggling non-stop. Who would buy this? Oh, look at that, look at that… My goodness!<br /><br />My incredulous facial expression, according to him, was priceless. San Telmo was kitsch wonderland.<br /><br />The funny thing was, in Chile, I had spotted a common practice of putting little things, grossly kitsch stuff, on their window panes… things like little plastic tiger or dinosaur, porcelain dolls holding parasols, cheap mass-produced figurines holding signs saying ‘TE AMO’, souvenirs from sea-side resorts made from tiny shells, faded plush toys, ARGH… I told Pablo, maybe he could buy them from San Telmo and export them to Chile.<br /><br />That evening, I had an appointment with Claudio, whom I met in Mendoza. Yes, Claudio of the 1938 Chevrolet fame. I told him I would give him a call around 9pm and we would arrange where to meet. But I tried and tried and tried his cell phone and I kept getting no reception.<br /><br />Frankly, I was a little frustrated. Disappointed, I plodded back to my hostel. To my surprise, I spied a 1938 Chevrolet parked in front of my hostel. I felt the boot, still warm. Claudio was coming down the hostel just as I was hurrying up to look for him. It was also great to meet up with him again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 24 march 2003</span><br /><br />I was really sewing up all my loose ends here in Buenos Aires. The other friend I had to meet… Francisca, yes, la chica loca.<br /><br />She was now learning circus acrobats and juggling so that she could go and perform them in front of stopped traffic, she explained. Yeah, that sort of busking was rather common here in South America. She was also making candles and tie-dye skirts to sell.<br /><br />She would dye one skirt for me today. Great, I get to choose the colour too. The skirt had to be worn from head-down. The skirt she had selected for me was a little small. No Argentinians would be able to fit into it, she told me. Maybe I could. Well, it got stuck at my breast level and I had to deflate them slightly to yank it down. I must never put on any weight in the future. But, it was really nice, especially as it was made by a wonderful friend. How I would miss her when I leave.<br /><br />When we parted ways late that night, she kept saying she still could not believe that I would really, really be gone from Buenos Aires soon. Somehow, we had the feeling that we would see each other again. Yeah, I felt that way too.<br /><br />I would definitely return to Argentina one day. The warm affection not just from her, but from her friends… and from precious Pablo and his family members were uncomparable. I tried to imagine introducing them to my family and friends if they ever come to Singapore. And I seriously doubt my family and friends would be able to give them the same level of warmth, affection and hospitality I got from them. It is not that my family and friends are not nice. It is just a different culture. Asians are really a lot more reserved, distant, restrained and they tend to keep a respectful distance until some time later. Here, Argentinians are just overflowing with affection.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 march 2003</span><br /><br />As I had barely eaten anything yesterday at Francisca’s house, I was famished this morning. OK, one alfajor please.<br /><br />Gosh, I had just a few days left in Argentina. I counted my remaining pesos and my Argentinian assets stood at 40 pesos.<br /><br />Remember the bunch of souvenirs I bought and which Pablo refused to look at? I had to send those back. I feared the worst, heading to the Post Office. To my supreme astonishment, it was a breeze. The Customs Officer barely glanced at my souvenirs and gave it an OK at once. I had brought along brown paper and tape, but those were not required. The guy who did the weighing, helpfully taped up my box without fuss. Now, this is what I call - happy postal workers. It was grossly expensive but I had no choice, I could not carry everything. Surprisingly, I could pay with MasterCard too.<br /><br />So, now, without withdrawing any more pesos, I really only had 40 pesos for the next three days. I wanted to go to Tigre tomorrow and I needed to save some pesos for my taxi ride to the airport the day after. I deducted those from my 40 pesos, and budgeted some for my trip to Tigre tomorrow and realised I would be left with 3 pesos today.<br /><br />3 pesos??? That's US$1. I was still hungry now. I had a packet of rice in my bag. Alright, I decided to cook rice and eat it plain for sustenance. After the first plate, I was still hungry and weak. So, I cooked another plate. Plain rice was actually quite disgusting to Latin Americans. Well, I survived them. What can I say? I am Chinese afterall.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 26 march 2003</span><br /><br />Tigre is in the northern end of Buenos Aires. It felt a little strange to emerge from the bustling, polluted Buenos Aires centre and arrive at the clean, tranquil, modern suburb of Tigre.<br /><br />Tigre is a delta region and is criss-crossed by rivers and made up of islands everywhere. Some called it the ‘Venice of South America’. No, it did not feel quite like that to me. I took a boat-ride and we passed by houses with, instead of garages, their personal docks in front, for here, the only means of transportation was by boats. It was a lovely place and a lovely day. I spent a quiet time on one of those islands, reading, taking in the sun and supplying blood to the mosquitoes.<br /><br />I was to meet Pablo today at Plaza de Mayo… my final farewell to my favourite Argentinian, my wonderful, best friend from my trip. He really made a difference to how I saw things around me and how I travelled.<br /><br />I had met his niece and nephews for a few days around Christmas last year, just before I left Buenos Aires. I had thought they would not remember much about me but Pablo told me that they asked about me often and even invented a song for me, something like ‘Trisha Trisha…’. My jaws dropped when I heard this. I had never, never, never ever been so honoured and touched in my entire life! Such ANGELS!! I really did not understand how I deserved this.<br /><br />Well, Pablo did not remember the lyrics. He said he would ask his nephews to write to me. How sweet they are all to me.<br /><br />I made them a present. I used the photographs I took of them during the Christmas celebration and made a montage on a poster. The montage had the shape of Argentina. My angel Nicolás grins from Iguazú. Pablo’s parents, Virgilio and Ana Maria, are at Missiones. Sweet Natalia looks up from Salta and Jujuy. Shy Matias shows off his football at Mendoza. Cheeky Emiliano sticks his tongue out at Córdoba. Pablo’s sister Gabriela, brother Sergi and in-laws Raúl and Fabiana ham it up at Bariloche. Little Tomás poses at Puerto Madryn. Pablo is located at Calafate, Chaltén. And the very handsome Santiago swings his tennis racket at the other side of the wind-swept southern Patagonia, around Comodora Rivadavia, I supposed. A group photo at Ushuaia and Tierra del Fuego and a picture of Pablo and I at Islas Malvinas (or Falkland Islands, the Argentinians still maintain they are theirs, I agree with them).<br /><br />I asked Pablo how he felt when his 8-month trip was coming to an end, how he felt right after it ended, and how he felt now. He tried to share as much as possible. He said I might plunge into a state of depression one day, just as he had. He said I should write to him when I felt that way and he promised to try and console and help me to get over it. I really had cold feet now. My one-year trip… now, just one month left. I could not believe it!<br /><br />Parting with Pablo was a difficult. But, somehow, we also had the feelings that we would see each other again. Such is life. Everything is a cycle. Something must end, in order for something else to begin. Sometimes, certain thing comes back in a circle. Other times, they branch off into other paths.<br /><br />Returning to Buenos Aires was a very personal thing to me. (I am sorry if I had bored readers to tears with these last days in Buenos Aires.) Returning to Buenos Aires was like completing a smaller circle, inside my wider circle of my round-the-world trip. What would returning home be like? Gosh, what is home? Home can be anywhere now.<br /><br />I had seen and done so many things, I had previously thought not possible. Breathing in the sprays of Iguaçu Falls, trekking on the Perito Moreno glacier, naïvely doing the Torres del Paine hike by myself and not dying, hiking up that Villarrica volcano in horrible weather and not dying again, twisting my way in and out of altiplanos and seeing vicuñas, visiting the sarcophagi in Chachapoyas… I recall the words a friend once told me, “You can do anything you want as long as you set your mind to it.” There.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-83538390738029854972003-03-17T20:30:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:31:32.683-07:0026 - Farewell, My Amigos (Humahuaca, Iruya, Tilcara)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Arica to Calama, CHILE - 11 march 2003</span><br /><br />I cannot stand the last days in a country when you want to have enough money to last until you are REALLY out of the country but do not want to have TOO MUCH left. And if you have a little extra and you decide to stay one day longer or visit yet another sight during the last day, you just might run out and then, you have to withdraw MORE.<br /><br />So, I was struggling with counting my Chilean Pesos all morning today. Do I do some more shopping to get rid of these pesos? Or do I change them back to dollars? Do I have enough money for an ice-cream now? I wonder what’s for dinner?<br /><br />I decided to restrict myself to an X-amount and change 12,000 pesos back. To my surprise, the Chilean Pesos had slid down against the US Dollar by quite a bit since my withdrawal and I was left with a pathetic amount of dollars.<br /><br />Coming into Chile, from Peru, the first question the Customs Officer had asked me was if I had fruits with me. Now, leaving Arica, at the bus terminal, inexplicably, I also had to go through Customs. Again, the Officer asked if I had any fruits with me. They checked my big backpack thoroughly but left my hand-luggage alone.<br /><br />I was comfortably asleep on the bus when at around midnight or so, in the middle of nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage X-rayed. Now, why couldn’t the Customs Officers have checked them back at Arica’s bus terminal?<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Calama, CHILE to San Salvador de Jujuy, ARGENTINA - 12 march 2003</span><br /><br />Again, I was comfortably asleep on the bus (which was rather rare) when at around 5am or so, in the middle of another nowhere, we were hauled out of the bus… this time, to have our hand-luggage manually checked. What the…???? Three times?? Just for leaving Arica?<br /><br />It reminded me of the time when I was returning from a business trip in Manila, Philippines. Only ticket-holders could enter the Manila airport. Then, our hand-luggage had to go through FIVE X-ray machines and finally, manually checked before boarding the plane.<br /><br />OK, that was Manila. When my Filipino colleagues took me to the shopping centre, as a form of a ‘tour’, they had dutifully informed me, “Over here, there was a bomb attack in May last year. And there… the cinema, there was another bomb explosion just in December… And…”<br /><br />But what were the Chilean Customs after? F-R-U-I-T-S???? Did the last Customs Officer hope to find the one grape missed out by the X-ray machine? Here, you can have my banana… go ahead, take it.<br /><br />At Calama, we stopped to change buses. I managed to finish up all my Chilean pesos on breakfast and toilet and boarded another bus to Argentina later.<br /><br />This was the same altiplano route coming into Chile about three weeks ago. Well, Bolivia was right smack in the middle of South America and since I could not cut across it, I had to double-back the same way, skirting around Bolivia.<br /><br />Strangely, this time, I found it terribly difficult to cope with the altitude. I suffered from a bad headache from the Argentinian border onwards. I could not sleep. I could not get comfortable in any position. I felt marginally better after they stopped at that same restuarant-in-the-middle-of-nowhere and fed us some bread and tea. Then, I started to smell the horrible odour of exposed shoes. Oh yucks. I thought it was just me and my super-sensitive nose and tried to tolerate it as best as I could. I was ready to puke any moment.<br /><br />Then, the bus driver stopped and he stood up and announced something about ‘zapatos’ [shoes]. Oh no, he had smelled it too and actually refused to drive on until the person who took off his shoes put them on again. Well, this is the altiplano. Fresh air is precious.<br /><br />The driver assistant then walked down the aisle to check who was the culprit. Several snapped open their Rexona and sprayed the disgusting air around them. He stopped in front of the Japanese tourist and spoke to him sternly.<br /><br />Shoeless Ninja, however, could not understand a word beyond ‘zapatos’. He looked a little puzzled, reached down, picked up his shoe and held it in front of the driver assistant. “¿Zapatos?” he queried. The driver assistant was not amused. We were.<br /><br />Finally, another tourist half-yelled, half-giggled in English, “Put them on!!” Shoeless Ninja never struck again. And so, we breathed.<br /><br />I was tremendously relieved to arrive in Jujuy after the tortuous 24-hour bus-journey. During my near-midnight dinner of a ‘SuperPancho’ (fancy name for long hot-dog), the lady rejected my 1 Argentinian Peso as ‘falso’. Here in Argentina too? I was here three months and did not notice anything.<br /><br />Now, I studied all my pesos and indeed, trained from Peru, I spotted two types of ‘falsos’. One had the wrong font for ‘UN PESO’ (I told you…) and the smiley sun had an outline around its face. The other, the fraudster did a better job, was the same in every sense, except the colour of the ‘gold’ centre was a bit more ‘yellow’ and the coin felt lighter.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca, ARGENTINA - 13 march 2003</span><br /><br />I was awakened by a morning-call knock on a neighbouring door. “Son las 8.” the receptionist had announced. I groggily glanced at my clock, it read ‘7:00am’.<br /><br />Hmmm… I opened my door, shocking the receptionist with my hair in the meantime, to confirm if it was indeed 8am.<br /><br />Oh, I guess, life was fair. The 2 hours I had gained in Peru, I had given 1 back in Chile a few days ago and apparently, I had to give back the remaining 1 to Argentina now. Chile changed their time but Argentina did not.<br /><br />Good thing to find out about it now, for I had a morning bus to catch to Humahuaca.<br /><br />Humahuaca is an Andean town, full of Bolivian flavour, further north of Jujuy. The route to get here was along another amazing Quebrada de la Humahuaca. Argentina can only outdo itself in amazing quebradas [canyons].<br /><br />I spent the day, relaxing around the charming little town and buying souvenirs. I was feeling a tinge of sadness now. I had been in South America for nearly six months and it was coming to an end soon.<br /><br />South America is truly at the other end of the world from my country. It is extremely expensive to fly here. And perhaps, it might be a long time before I can afford another visit here. To my friends and family, South America is like MAGIC, impossible to imagine. And so, I was now buying up souvenirs as if I was not returning for a long time.<br /><br />Way back in June, when Pablo and I had gone shopping for souvenirs in China, I had only bought three snuff bottles for my friends but he had gone crazy snapping up the Oriental souvenirs, the more Oriental-looking, the better. Several looked really kitsch to me, although I had helped him pick the least kitsch-looking of them all. I had cringed, snickered at some of them and had gone ‘eewww’ secretly.<br /><br />Now, when I show Pablo my latino souvenirs when I reach Buenos Aires, I suspect he would also cringe, snicker at them and go ‘eewww’ secretly.<br /><br />Ah, cultural differences. How wonderful they exist!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Humahuaca, Iruya to Tilcara ARGENTINA - 14 march 2003</span><br /><br />I took the only daily bus to another tiny town, called Iruya, 3 hours away from Humahuaca. I had not known what to expect in Iruya. I heard it was really pretty but I was not sure what I could do there. I decided to check out of my hostel, leave my backpack there, catch the bus to Iruya, stay a few hours and catch the same bus back to Humahuaca later.<br /><br />The road to Iruya was paved for about 1 hour before turning into dirt tracks that rounded mountains after mountains and crossed river beds occasionally. While the road was not that great, it was WONDERFUL compared to Peru and I suspect, Bolivia, and so one knew that one was still in Argentina.<br /><br />We stopped at a huge Pachamama shrine of rocks, with abandoned bottles of alcohol and tetra-packs of wine, a scattering of coca-leaves. I learnt later this spot was at 4000+m.<br /><br />Later, we headed downhill for 1220m in about 20km. There were many hair-pin turns and the view was terrific! The gorges, the river-bed, the sheer drops, the hidden valleys, the slopes spotted with rocks… Sometimes, one could spot a few horses or even a few children walking on the huge river-bed, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Naturally, there would be peasants who would get on or off the bus, leaving you to wonder… Where did they come from? Where in the world are they going?<br /><br />From this point onwards, my eyes were glued to the window to absorb the fantastic scenery and so I could not understand why Elena, from Belguim, sitting next to me, fell asleep on the bus.<br /><br />Finally, Iruya came into view and the best view of Iruya was actually quite a distance from it. It looked like a magical tiny town set amongst brilliantly-coloured towering triangular mountains, perched at a cliff, above the river-bed. My jaws remained open for a good minute.<br /><br />Elena and I walked around the hilly little town and stopped for a bit of food to fill our stomach. I really liked it here. It was so tranquil, so hidden. It really felt like a town at the end of the road. For the road ended in front of the church and beyond that, around the town, one could only walk. So, I suspect, there were really no roads BEHIND or AROUND Iruya. I regretted my decision to take the same bus out today but it was already made.<br /><br />Elena had travelled from Tilcara, about 1 hour south of Humahuaca. I intended to go there later today.<br /><br />When we arrived back at Humahuaca, we tried to find out the next bus to Tilcara and just then, a bus with ‘TILCARA’ written in front pulled up. It looked like a hop-on-and-pay-later bus but my backpack was still back at the hostel. I left my small bag with Elena and hurried back to grab my backpack.<br /><br />Running at 3000+m altitude, on wet cobbled-stoned streets (it had rained in Humahuaca) is never a good idea but thankfully, I returned without a broken bone or tooth and not that out-of-breath to a bus that was very kind to wait for me.<br /><br />Elena took me to Malka Hostel which was quite a hike away from the centre of Tilcara. I made friends with the rest of my house-mates, Gilles from France, Olga, Sebastian and Javier from Buenos Aires and we had a sumptuous dinner together.<br /><br />Gilles is a very interesting Zen-like person. For the past four years, he had come to Tilcara and stayed here for one month each time. He would spend his days, walking around the mountains, visiting schools in the tiniest village bringing along chalks, pens and talking to the locals in other obscure valleys… To him, Tilcara is the most perfect place in the world.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tilcara, ARGENTINA - 15 march 2003</span><br /><br />Elena was sitting near the window of the dining room, having breakfast, when I walked over to chat with her. I had barely completed my first line when I stopped short suddenly and stared out of the window. I staggered a little too.<br /><br />“Oh my god… Oh my god…” I gasped, stupefied, totally blown away. The view was INCREDIBLE! Malka Hostel, being such a hike away, was sitting at the top of a hill and from here, one could see right across Tilcara to the range of colourful mountains with its swirls of paints and now, they were gloriously basking in the morning sun.<br /><br />“Now, I understand why Gilles stay here for one month every year. Oh, I want to get married here in Tilcara.” I said.<br /><br />Later, at the centre, Olga, Sebastian and I went looking for a guide to take us hiking and we passed by café after café, playing cumbia, and I changed my mind right away. “Nope, I do not want to get married here in Tilcara.”<br /><br />We were unable to find the guide. He was probably drunk from last night’s party of Carnaval. Apparently, Carnaval had not really ended in Tilcara.<br /><br />We decided to head out hiking by ourselves. There appeared to be yet another 'La Garganta del Diablo' (The Devil's Throat) to check out. If we find it, we find it. If not, we would still have a nice day hiking in the mountains.<br /><br />We asked several locals along the way and soon, had to start climbing up the side of a mountain. The view behind us was truly fantastic. We could see the meandering river in the wide river valley, with the red, ochre, purplish mountains by the side.<br /><br />A few German tourists passed by and two explained in English how exactly to get to the 'Garganta', which I translated for Olga and Sebastian. It was a waterfall, as it turned out. We had not been sure. Could be a cave, could be whatever. And then, it dawned on me, hmmm… if my Spanish would get better, with English, Mandarin and Spanish, I could potentially talk to quite a lot of people around the world. Cool…<br /><br />We walked along the canyon for a while, hopping across the tiny river here and there and finally, arrived at the waterfall. No one else was here. It was great.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tilcara to Salta, ARGENTINA - 16 march 2003</span><br /><br />Today, the weather was cloudy and rainy which left me really appreciating the excellent weather we had yesterday for hiking.<br /><br />I walked out to Pukara, a pre-Incas fortress on top of a hill not far from Tilcara. Although it was a fortress, being on an inaccessible hill, it actually had no high walls around it. Several stone-houses had been reconstructed, with the mud-and-straw roofs too.<br /><br />However, stupidly, the authorities had gone and constructed a ‘monument’ to pay tribute to the archaeologists at the top of the hill. Gosh, this ‘monument’ had absolutely no relation to the ruins around it. It was not even done in the style of the ruins. It was just an ugly pyramid. But some tourists asked me to take a picture of them in front of this stupid ‘monument’. Err…<br /><br />I made my way to Salta that afternoon. Well, I had to go to a bigger town to catch a good bus to Buenos Aires. I did not know San Salvador de Jujuy well but I had stayed in Salta for a few days and had really liked my hostel. So, I decided to go there.<br /><br />Great to be in a city where you know exactly where to walk to your hostel.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Salta, ARGENTINA - 17 march 2003</span><br /><br />Nothing earth-shattering happened. Just another day to do nothing. Poked my nose into furniture stores, browsed through trashy discount shops, checked out the geese swimming at the lake, observed some plants in the plaza, listened to CDs without buying, you know, the usual suspects.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-88479617247013710032003-03-10T20:28:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:30:07.493-07:0025 - Mission Inca-Kola (Chachapoyas)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chiclayo to Chachapoyas, PERU - 03 march 2003</span><br /><br />I headed to Pimental, the coastal town near Chiclayo. There was a very long wooden jetty that cut across the beach and stretched way into the ocean. It provided good shade and I rested under it for a while, studying all the happy Peruvian families out to enjoy the sun, the sea and the sand.<br /><br />I did not bring my swim-wear. I was catching the night-bus out and had checked out of my hotel. I did not fancy sleeping on the bus with a sticky body. I had forgotten public bathrooms might exist for me to shower. So, later when I felt like some sun, I lay fully-clothed on the sand. Unlike in Brazil, no one stared at me.<br /><br />Later, I crossed the beach and walked towards a hive of activity. Upon nearing it, I realised the same sort of totora-reed caballitos were parked all over the beach and there was a fish sale going on. The fish were laid out on the reed-boats. The crabs were squirming inside the hollowed-out ends. Locals were everywhere, buying the fish, washing the fish, gutting the fish. There were shouts here and there. Sea-gulls dived down to make a grab for the discarded guts. It had such a wonderful energy here.<br /><br />Food in Peru offered a lot more varieties than in Chile and Argentina. Cerviche was raw fish or seafood, served in lime, onions and chilli. On my last trip, I had been surprised by it for I had had no idea what it was before ordering. This time, I relished it.<br /><br />I grabbed the night-bus to Chachapoyas that evening. The first 5 hours or so were on rather smooth roads but the latter 5, from 12 midnight onwards, were on terribly bumpy roads. It was impossible to sleep.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chachapoyas, PERU - 04 march 2003</span><br /><br />It was 5am or so when I lumbered into town. I blindly followed a hostel tout to his hostel. Argh, I was issued a prison-cell with no ventilation. There was a musty smell. It was awful. But it was now raining and I had already paid up so I decided to sleep for a while and hunt for another one later.<br /><br />Usually after night-buses, I would have some difficulty peeling myself off the bed before 12 noon but I was up and about by 10am, swearing I would not enter my room until bed-time tonight.<br /><br />It was raining and raining in Chachapoyas and all the streets transformed themselves into rivers. I waded to another hotel nearby and had the presence of mind to inspect the room first. It was perfect. Yes, I would change to this one tomorrow.<br /><br />I usually could not be bothered to change my hotel, even if I found the mattress too hard, too soft or had killed two cockroaches already (but the third one got away, darn!). I usually would have made friends with the receptionist, the man with the mop at the lobby, the guy manning the counter at the adjoining bar, whatever, and it would be like a betrayal to them to abandon them for someone else.<br /><br />But, well, some people ascertain the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets, the colour of the carpet of the hotel… they are, as we know, the Famas… but I go for the smell of the room.<br /><br />The receptionist of this hotel tried to hook me up with a few other tourists for a shared taxi to Karajia tomorrow. I told her I would think about it.<br /><br />I spent the rest of the afternoon, gathering information from the tourist office and various combi (van) providers to try and find out how I could reach the various sights around Chachapoyas.<br /><br />In Trujillo and Chiclayo, the sights were also around and NOT IN these towns, but they were merely 10 to 30 minutes away on colectivos. But, the sights in Chachapoyas were 2½ hours to 3½ hours one-way on very harsh road conditions. It was quite difficult to go on public transportations. In the end, I agreed to the Karajia trip in shared taxi with the two other tourists, just to make my life less complicated.<br /><br />Later that evening, there was a crowd gathered at a road junction where two trees of the type ‘yunsa’ or ‘umisha’ had been moved there. On these two tall trees, the locals had hung clothes, toys and balloons. This was part of the celebration for the end of Carnaval. Passing this spot earlier today, I had been attacked by a water-balloon. Now, amongst the crowd, one could see flying water-balloons everywhere, some even hitting poor, little old wrinkled ladies.<br /><br />OK, it had been raining. We were wet anyway. Water-ballons just contained water. But, the nastier ones were smearing other people with black motor-oil and coloured paints that appeared to be impossible to remove. This did not appeal to me, not when I was living out of a backpack. I kept watching my back for possible attackers.<br /><br />A group of people around the trees took turns to chop the trees down. When the first one fell, people pounced forward to grab the clothes and toys. The second one fell after a while, this time amidst an even crazier mob with flying flour and bursting water-balloons.<br /><br />Hey, readers, Carnaval in Chachapoyas, Amazonas Province, Peru is strictly NOT to be confused with Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. There are no jiggly breasts here. Repeat: there are no jiggly breasts here. Do not show up with your sequined and translucent costume and that feathery thing on your head.<br /><br />I later learnt that the one who managed the last chop that fell the tree would be the boss for next year’s Carnaval, paying for party, food and drinks.<br /><br />A parade went around the square later with a coffin and an effigy on it, representing Carnavalon or ‘Mr Carnaval’. After a long but apparently funny speech in front of the Municipal, made by Mr Carnaval (to much puzzlement amongst the toddlers who veered near to check out where the voice could possibly come from), they set fire to the coffin and Mr Carnaval. Well, until next year, Mr Carnaval.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chachapoyas, PERU - 05 march 2003</span><br /><br />The other two tourists sharing the taxi to Karajia were Femke from The Netherlands and Glenn from Australia. They had previously engaged Edwin, the taxi-driver, to Kuelap two days ago. And apparently, Edwin was now ‘in love’ with Femke.<br /><br />Poor Femke, she was just into her first week in Peru when she had her bag and camera stolen in a café in Trujillo. I had thought Trujillo was safe but one really had to be careful everywhere. Glenn mentioned that he had been to Latin America (including Mexico and Central America) six times and had been robbed eight times. Hmm… when you are able to hold conversations, saying, “And… my eighth robbery happened in…” you are SURELY NOT doing so well in the department of travelling. Still, he persevered. You go, Glenn.<br /><br />The drive to Karajia was about 2½ hours, through very windy, treacherous mountainous road. The road was sometimes just wide enough for one vehicle. One had to be careful to avoid a head-on collision as there were numerous blind and very sharp bends. Whenever another vehicle in the opposite direction was spotted, the one closer to a ‘spare’ area would stop and let the other pass. The road was also full of pot-holes and with the rain, utterly muddy and wet. It was very terrible and dangerous road conditions.<br /><br />During the ride, I asked Edwin if it would be safe to go to Kuelap by myself tomorrow, on public colectivo and then trek to a tiny town, Tingo, for 3 hours, as suggested by the tourist office.<br /><br />He did not find it wise to do this alone but agreed that there were no robbers in Chachapoyas, only robbers of your heart, turning to glance at Femke. “Oh, mi corazon roto…” [Oh, my broken heart]<br /><br />Edwin really resembled the amorous Pepe Le Pew, of Warner Brothers cartoon.<br /><br />We finally arrived at a tiny town Cochane and I tumbled out of the taxi in relief. My lower back was very sore from all the bumps we had gone through. This was the furthest we could go by car. The rest would be on foot to Karajia. Edwin Le Pew would go with us and he offered to carry ‘mi amor Femke’ [my love Femke] on his back.<br /><br />Three smiley old men sitting in front of an adobe house assured us Karajia was very near. Sure, with their evolved campo (country) feet and iron-lungs, it would be near to them.<br /><br />We descended and climbed up undulating hills for the next 2½ hours, squelching in the terrible mud, balancing ourselves on slippery rocks. There were green farm-lands everywhere, amidst the clouds. It looked really peaceful. We passed by even tinier villages. Oh, it was so great. There were many locals dressed in their traditional ponchos, riding donkeys, spinning yarns, whatever… They were rather reserved however. They were not so smiley, unlike the old men in Cochane. But there would be the few who would greet us and some bolder children would smile and wave.<br /><br />We stopped by a church which was having a mass for Ash Wednesday, which was today. Children came running out to check us out. Some had an ash-cross drawn on their foreheads. Peruvian children were really beautiful.<br /><br />After a lot of huffing and puffing, with me and Edwin Le Pew, surprisingly, way WAY ahead of Glenn and Femke, we arrived at Karajia.<br /><br />Karajia is the place where several sarcophagi from the Chachapoyas culture (which was in the north-eastern region of Peru in the mountains, before the Incas culture) were found standing on the side of the cliff. Just twenty years ago, there had been rows and rows of these sarcophagi. But now, only a set of three and another of six were left. The rest had been plundered and destroyed.<br /><br />The sarcophagi were made of cane for the outer structure and mud to mould it into the shape of a man with a head. Some of them were painted with red, white and ochre colours. Inside the cane structure were mummies, laid in foetal position and wrapped in bamboo or cloth. The natural roof of the cliff had protected them from rain all these years. The Chachapoyas selected this inaccessible cliff to preserve the peace of the dead, until, of course, it was discovered by ‘modern men’.<br /><br />I had seen these sarcophagi in a magazine once and I had read that it was very difficult to reach. Indeed, it was a supreme honour for me to be here at last and have a glimpse of these unmeasurable treasures, these remaining Chachapoyas sarcophagi.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chachapoyas, PERU - 06 march 2003</span><br /><br />Last night, my receptionist and Edwin Le Pew had scurried around town to help me find more tourists to share his taxi to Kuelap today. But they were unsuccessful.<br /><br />I was walking along the market in the morning when I heard, “Kuelap! Kuelap!”. I made inquiries and a guy driving a combi, was taking three tourists to Kuelap today and they would be leaving in half an hour’s time. Price was also much cheaper than a taxi. Just perfect. Things always have a way of falling into place for me.<br /><br />Soon, we were off, on more bumpy, windy, muddy roads to Kuelap… a whopping 3½ hours away. My spine was badly rattled, my lower back bruised. We passed by many little villages, some I would even hesitate to call them villages. For example, at a very sharp hair-pin turn, there were perhaps three or four houses on the outer curve and two houses on the INNER curve of the hair-pin turn. Imagine that!<br /><br />Many of the villages had houses made from mud. A good number of them were painted with election campaigns from the past. ‘FUJIMORI PRESIDENTE’ was spotted. There were many pictorial representation of the parties’ logos painted three times and marked with an ‘X’ across to try and educate the campesinos [country-folks] which to select. One political logo apparently had the side profile of a rooster! Pictorial representations were essential, I supposed, due to the lack of literacy in this region.<br /><br />Kuelap is at 3000m. The other tourists, three Colombians, had stopped to buy coca leaves. I felt fine then. But, during the 20-minute climb up to Kuelap, I felt rather out-of-breath.<br /><br />I engaged a guide and he was also excellent in explaining everything to me, very slowly and clearly. Kuelap was a fortress built by the Chachapoyans and later, it was briefly conquered and used by the Incas. The 420 houses in this fortress were mainly round, stone huts with conical straw roofs (the straw-roofs were no longer existing, of course). A few rectangular houses were attributed to the Incas. There was a burial site and a ‘hospital’ where skulls had been found with holes cut out, a form of ancient brain surgery, performed in Central and South America by several cultures, including the Mayans in Central America, the Paracas and Nazca in southern Peru. He showed me various adornments that represented the eyes of jaguar, puma, serpent and condor, the four animals worshipped by the Chachapoyas. There were some astrological and calendar structures too. It was very interesting and thoroughly worth the bumpy ride here.<br /><br />That evening, I decided to try the other typical dish of Peru - the cuy or guinea pig. Three years ago, I did not get the chance to try it, feeling that it was too expensive. But this was my second time in Peru… what were the odds there might be a third time soon?<br /><br />Glenn had been grossed out the other day when I told him I would be ordering a cuy one of these days. “ARRRGH… it’s so small, full of bones. It looks so gross… it’s like eating a rat!”<br /><br />OK, he got me. Unlike him, I had never eaten a rat before. And so I ordered one tonight and took a picture of it before wrecking its tiny little bones as I devoured it. It was suprisingly meatier than I thought. The taste was not too bad but the skin, although deep-fried, remained very tough and after chewing it for a long time unsuccessfully, I had to spit it out. I then felt a tad grossed-out when I examined the chewed skin closely later.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chachapoyas to Lemeybamba, PERU - 07 march 2003</span><br /><br />Lemeybamba had a museum that contained the wonderful finds from another site down south of Chachapoyas, the Laguna de los Condores. It was also from the Chachapoya culture, but of a different region, compared to Karajia.<br /><br />Again, Lemeybamba was not merely 30 minutes away. It was 3 hours away. I bought a bus-ticket out of Chachapoyas tonight, leaving at 8pm for Trujillo with the intention to change to another bus to Cajamarca upon arrival at Trujillo.<br /><br />I thought I could catch a early shared taxi to Lemeybamba, visit the museum, catch another shared taxi back to Chachapoyas, in time for my night bus.<br /><br />We needed four to go on the shared taxi. But I waited for more than 1 hour and still, no one showed up. People in the campo had time. On the shared taxi, it was 12 Soles. On the combi, 8 Soles. They would rather take the combi.<br /><br />Jorge, a guy who passed by the shared-taxi stop, stopped to chat with me. He insisted that even if I found a ride to Lemeybamba earlier than the combi, it would be impossible to find enough people to return to Chachapoyas later. “¿En serio? [Really?]” I asked, in doubt. Immediately, he proffered his hand and said, “Soy de Lemeybamba. Soy policia. [I am from Lemeybamba. I am a police.]”<br /><br />A little too suave. A little too packaged. I asked the taxi-driver. If he could not find four to return to Chachapoyas this afternoon, would he spend the night in Lemeybamba? Or would he finally ‘give up’ and drive back here? He said he would stay the night in Lemeybamba.<br /><br />OK, indeed I did not feel secure about being able to return in time for my bus tonight. I decided to change my bus-ticket to Trujillo to leave tomorrow.<br /><br />I would take the combi instead. The problems with the combis were that they leave rather late from Chachapoyas, noon and later. And the next morning, they left Lemeybamba really early, like 3am to 5am.<br /><br />Jorge followed me to pick up my backpack and he suggested the 1pm combi, as he was returning to Lemeybamba too.<br /><br />There was a 12 noon combi which would place me in Lemeybamba at 3pm, which would give me about 1½ hours to visit the museum before it closed. The 1pm combi would be too late. But he was insistent. I told him he was free to take the other one. I signed up for the noon combi, meaning to ignore him. He then decided to take the same one with me. He wanted to hang around with me until noon too but I told him I would rather be alone. Somehow, I did not trust him.<br /><br />Naturally, by 12:30pm, the driver and the assistant were still struggling to pack the baggages at the top of the combi. Campesinos do not travel light. If they travel, sacks of potatoes, fruits, sand-bags, gigantic bags of clothes for sale, the occasional live-stock and that wheel-barrow go along too.<br /><br />By 12:45pm, I started to regret my decision. I felt a very negative feeling around me. Was it really worth the trouble to travel 3 hours just to see a museum for barely 1 hour?<br /><br />By 1pm, they finally got that wheel-barrow secure and we left Chachapoyas. I tried to evoke the Zen in me to remain in peace, for there was no use getting impatient and trying to force the situation. Whatever will be, will be… Qué sera, sera. Then, the driver popped in his cumbia cassette and ‘ping!’, Zen vapourised.<br /><br />We pulled in at Lemeybamba at 4:30pm. Jorge told me his aunt worked at the museum, he would go with me to explain to her to open it up a little longer for me. Darn, we needed to take another taxi to reach the museum which was way, way off the village too.<br /><br />Indeed, Jorge’s aunt was the sweet, matronly sort and she was very kind and patient and explained the museum very clearly and thoroughly for me and some late-comers.<br /><br />While the Chachapoyas up north, for example, from Karajia buried their dead individually in sarcophagi, the ones from Laguna de los Condores buried them in groups of ‘houses’ built on the side of cliffs.<br /><br />In this museum, were 219 mummies, some still wrapped up in their original material, some with the picture of a face (rather cartoonish) painted on them.<br /><br />It was a fantastic museum. I learnt a lot from her, even about those mummies in Karajia. Edwin Le Pew was a driver, not a guide after all. While I was in a foul mood upon arrival in Lemeybamba, walking around the beautiful museum with the wonderful guide put me at peace once again.<br /><br />On the way down, the taxi-driver packed the other late-comers, two ladies and two children, Jorge’s aunt, Jorge and I, into his taxi and we returned to Lemeybamba.<br /><br />I saw Jorge’s aunt give him 1 Sol and the driver smiled, “Suficiente. [Sufficient]” Plus whatever the other two ladies had given him and my 1 Sol, I reckoned it would make up the right price, if not more. But when I got off, he wanted 3 Soles.<br /><br />I: “¿Por que? [Why?]”<br />Driver: “Porque xxxxxxxxx [Because xxxxxxxxx]”<br />I: “¿POR QUE?”<br />D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”<br />I: “¿POR QUE?? Somos muchos. (WHY?? We were many.] ”<br />D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”<br />I: “¿POR QUE?? ¡SOMOS MUCHOS!”<br /><br />I did not look but I was sure the bored aunties, the deaf old men and the shrunken grannies sitting along the streets must have all turned to stare at us.<br /><br />D: “OK, OK… 2 Soles.”<br /><br />I was mad. I hated it when they wanted more from foreigners. It was the principle behind it. I slammed 2 Soles in his palm and walked off. By the time I got to the other side, he had handed 1 Sol back to Jorge to return to me.<br /><br />Sorry, I was sssooo NOT Miss Congeniality today. Might be the cumbia talking.<br /><br />That evening, another guy from the combi, Manuel, started chatting with me at the plaza. From the questions he was asking, I sort of knew where it was heading. So, when it came to “How can someone as beautiful as you still be single… Oh, when you leave tomorrow, I will feel very sad… You don’t believe me?? Why don’t you believe me??”, I knew it was time to roll my eye balls, shut down, pack up and leave. Bye, Manuel.<br /><br />Gosh, do such guys really think this sort of crap would work? Have they ever worked? Gimme a break. I liked to talk to locals and learn more about their cultures and stuff but I could not stand this sort of talk.<br /><br />Me? Beautiful? When I find myself a facial and unclog my pores of 10½ months’ worth of grime, then I show you beautiful!<br /><br />FOUL MOOD: DO NOT CROSS<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Lemeybamba to Lima, PERU - 08 march 2003</span><br /><br />The combi back to Chachapoyas was rumoured to leave at 3am, 4am and finally, a guy who seemed to know what he was talking about, confirmed it would leave at 5am. He would come round to the hotel and blast his horn.<br /><br />You know how it is like when you know that you have to get up at an ungodly hour and you really need to sleep as much as possible now, but because you are waiting for that ungodly hour to come, you cannot sleep properly?<br /><br />So, when someone from the hospedaje said, “Habitación 8”, I stirred and woke up at once. That was my room.<br /><br />Someone knocked on the door and said he was Jorge and that it was time to go. It was 3:30am. Now?? I was puzzled. For a moment, I thought maybe the combi was leaving earlier. I thanked him and started to pack my backpack.<br /><br />There was a window with frosted glass next to the door. I saw Jorge trying to peer in. He also tried the door-knob a few times.<br /><br />I: “Un momentito. Estoy haciendo la maleta. [In a minute. I am packing my bag.]”<br /><br />Jorge continued to jiggle the door-knob.<br /><br />I: “¡Por favor! ¡Un momento! [Please! In a minute!]”<br /><br />He stopped but pressed his face to the window. I did not like him waiting outside and looking in. I opened the door to tell him to knock it off, give me a minute.<br /><br />The smell of alcohol hit me like a boxing glove and I slammed the door and locked it even before I knew what I was doing. I saw his hands reach for the door. So, he had the intention to push his way in but was not fast enough.<br /><br />Shit!!! Shit!! SHIT!!! S-H-I-T!!!!!<br /><br />I then realised… he was FROM Lemeybamba. Why was he the one waking me up to tell me about the combi? Yesterday, he did not indicate that he was going back to Chachapoyas today. Also, NOBODY would arrive so late in Lemeybamba yesterday and then, immediately take the early-morning bus out of Lemeybamba today. NOBODY except me.<br /><br />I: “No me esperes, por favor. ¿Por que me esperas? [Don’t wait for me, please. Why are you waiting for me?]”<br />J: “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]”<br />I: “¿Por que?? ¿Por que vas conmigo? No, por favor. ¡No me esperes! [Why?? Why are you going with me? No, please. Don't wait for me.]”<br />J: “…”<br />I (at the top of my voice): “¡SAL!!!!! [L-E-A-V-E!!!!!]”<br /><br />He finally slithered away.<br /><br />The señora from the hospedaje then came knocking at my door furtively. She informed me the combi was still leaving at 5am. Then, why did Jorge wake me up now?<br /><br />Señora: “Quiere ir contigo en un taxi. [He wanted to go with you in taxi.]”<br />I: “¡Por favor!!! ¡Está loco!! ¡Mucho alcohol!!! [Please!!! He is crazy!! So much alcohol!!!]”<br />S: “Sí… sí… [Yes… yes…]”<br />I: “¡Señora, por favor… protegeme por favor! Gracias. [Madam, please… protect me please! Thank you.]”<br />S: “Sí… sí…”<br /><br />The señora also needed her neck wrung. How could she let a man who showed up at 3:30am, reeking of alcohol, into the hospedaje and tell him my room number? She herself knew I was taking the combi at 5am.<br /><br />I was really mad.<br /><br />Later, on the ride back to Chachapoyas, I suddenly made up my mind to leave Peru. I did not think this morning’s incident was the main reason. Although nothing happened, it frightened me a little, thinking of what could have happened. But, for a few days now in Chachapoyas, when I mentally decided to include a short visit to Cajamarca, I had felt uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. My instinct seemed to be telling me, “It’s time to leave Peru. You have been lucky so far. Do not prolong it.”<br /><br />I wanted to see as much of Peru as possible. So, I had tried to ignore the odd feeling. But now, I told myself to listen to it. My gut feelings had, after all, been right about Jorge.<br /><br />Instinct, sixth-sense… call it what you want. I want to learn to recognise it and follow it. For I do not want something to happen to me and then, it regrettably becomes HINDSIGHT.<br /><br />The first time I was robbed in Peru, I felt something strange that morning. I had taken more money out to change and I remember telling myself, “So much money? Bound to be robbed today.” And?<br /><br />The second time in Buenos Aires, just before reaching that robbery spot, I had warned Lydia and Carolyn that this was a poor neighbourhood, we had to be careful here for robberies could happen. They had looked at me with a skeptical look. I advised Lydia against carrying her camera outside her bag, thinking more of the slash-and-grab robbery. Indeed we were robbed later, but instead, from another kind of robbery.<br /><br />So, I made up my mind. I would leave Peru now. Immediately after that, my heart felt so much lighter. Hmmm… to simplify Jorge Luis Borges (and I mean to r-e-a-l-l-y simplify Borges), there are so many forking paths in one’s life where one decision leads down one path and another leads down a separate path, forever forking into more and more paths, perhaps into an infinite number of paths; sometimes, there is the off chance that some paths might meet back again to the same situation, creating some sort of complicated labyrinths. Life is a labyrinth. (OK, I apologise… Borges sound WAY more intellectual than this.)<br /><br />What would happen if I go to Cajamarca? I will never know. Have you ever wondered what if there are many little ‘yous’ each taking a different path as it forks, how would each of the ‘yous’ have turned out?<br /><br />And so, when I arrived at Chachapoyas, I changed my ticket to leave for Lima at 1pm today.<br /><br />The road was as usual, terribly bumpy and winding. We finally reached paved roads after 5 hours. Still, winding and winding around the mountains but on PAVED ROADS! From this point onwards, the stewardess strangely issued us with plastic bags to puke in.<br /><br />Indeed, the Chachapoyan locals could not cope well on paved roads and many were throwing up into their plastic bags for the rest of the ride. Eeeww…<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Lima, PERU to Arica, CHILE - 09 march 2003</span><br /><br />Surprisingly, I slept rather well last night. It might be the straight Pan-American highway that was working for me.<br /><br />I arrived in Lima at around 11am, after the 22-hour bus-ride. One did not go ‘wow’ upon arrival at Lima. One goes ‘uh-huh’ upon arrival at Lima.<br /><br />Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh.<br /><br />Half an hour later, I had made my way to another bus-company and coincidentally, the bus going to Tacna was leaving at noon and so I was barely on steady ground for 30 minutes before embarking on another 20-hour bus ride to Tacna.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Arica, CHILE - 10 march 2003</span><br /><br />Now, this night-bus did not work well for me. I was on the Economy bus and there were people who climbed on the bus even though there were no seats left. The poor things would rather stand.<br /><br />I was sitting right in front of the on-board toilet, so it was rather stinky already and quite annoying with the constant usage throughout the night. Those people without seats were all gathered at the back, standing around me. A few held onto my head-rest, trapping my hair under their grasps throughout the night, their plastic bags hitting my face.<br /><br />There was no air-con on this bus. All the windows were shut (because opening it a little would be noisy) and I could feel myself dying of lack of oxygen right there and then. I felt really claustrophobic. I had to ask the guy next to me to open the window a crack to survive the night. I think I sprained my neck too.<br /><br />Amazingly, the bus arrived 2 hours earlier than planned in Tacna, ending my 40-hour bus marathon and beginning my 2-hour border-crossing procedure. I felt a sense of relief when I crossed the border.<br /><br />I had gained 2 hours entering Peru two weeks ago. But back to Chile now, I only had to return 1 hour for they had just advanced the clocks two days ago.<br /><br />I had more Argentinian Pesos with me and so I decided to try and go to Argentina as soon as possible. The first bus company said they would leave tonight.<br /><br />TONIGHT! No, ¡no puedo! [I can’t!]. I cannot take another bus-ride tonight! I had not seen my toes for… let me count… since 5am in Lemeybamba, that’s what? 51, 52 hours??? I needed to be horizontal for at least 8 hours before I could embark on another overnight bus.<br /><br />Thank goodness, another company would leave tomorrow. Hello, toes.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-77495757203688955222003-03-02T20:27:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:28:44.850-07:0025 - Mission Inca-Kola (Trujillo, Chiclayo)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Arica, CHILE to Lima, PERU - 26 february 2003</span><br /><br />For the past two days in Arica, I had been considering if I should cross over to Peru as this was probably the closest I would get to Peru in a long time. I was there three years ago and had visited the southern bits of Peru.<br /><br />Yesterday, I received an email from Fanny from France. She and her friends, Nathalie and Nadege, were with me in China on the 4-day horse-trek in Songpan way back in May last year. They had just completed their 1-year trip. However, during the last few weeks of their trip, in Ecuador and Peru, they all separately had their bags and cameras stolen.<br /><br />It was so sad. Both countries have amazing cultures and tremendously interesting history. But security is always a problem. I had heard many, many, many stories from various travellers who either had bad things happened to them or knew someone who had bad things happened to them in Ecuador or Peru.<br /><br />Three years ago in Peru, I was violently robbed as well, knocked unconscious and left lying on the pavement. It was horrible.<br /><br />Sigh… when you are able to hold conversations, stating, “My first robbery happened in… And my second robbery happened in…”, you should really consider switching your interest from travelling to cross-stitching.<br /><br />Well, tempting as it is, I am struggling now but… I think I will stick to travelling. You go, girl.<br /><br />And so, I crossed over to Peru with a heavy heart.<br /><br />Various Peruvians at the International Terminal in Arica harrassed me to take their colectivos [shared car]. After filling out the Immigration Form, I could not locate the driver whom I had originally agreed to, for the Peruvians still looked alike to me. So, I went with another who already had two passengers in his car.<br /><br />At the Peru customs, the Customs Officer asked me how long I wanted to stay in Peru. Two weeks. He gave me two months, muttering that he did not want to see me married in Peru.<br /><br />Hey, don’t worry. My betrothed is in Cafayate, Argentina, busy turning five.<br /><br />And so, I was soon placed at the bus terminal in Tacna, Peru’s border town with Chile and I had scarcely filled my lungs with Peruvian air before I was harrassed by a tout who wanted to bring me to buy a bus-ticket although it was a task I could very well manage myself. ‘1:15pm’ means bus would leave at 1:15pm. ‘Arequipa’ means bus would leave for Arequipa.<br /><br />He refused to leave me alone and remained unnecessarily earnest and helpful until I tipped him. Well, he performed one useful task – he informed me Peru was 2 hours behind Chile. Hence, I left my hotel in Chile at 12:30pm and arrived in Peru at 12:15pm.<br /><br />With the robbery stories nagging in my head (all happened in bus terminals and buses), I paid for a relatively expensive bus to Lima. The price was comparable to those in Chile and Argentina.<br /><br />The bus terminal was full of Peruvians with really, really huge bags of goods, stuffed with shoes, electronic products, toys, etc… These items were obviously bought in Arica, the duty-free port and consumer-goods heaven.<br /><br />I did not think double-decker comfortable semi-cama [semi-bed] buses existed in Peru three years ago. Now, they do. The bus indeed felt secure and was very comfortable, with dinner, continuous movies on working TV sets and even a game of bingo. Didn’t win though.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Lima to Trujillo, PERU - 27 february 2003</span><br /><br />Unbelievably, I actually slept very well on the bus last night.<br /><br />Upon reaching Lima, I stayed put at the bus terminal to wait for my connection to Trujillo. I did not remember much about Lima from my last trip but, Lima is Lima. Hardly anyone I know who had been here liked it. I did not then and I do not particularly now. The sky was very Lima too, entirely and depressingly shrouded with clouds.<br /><br />Really long day on the bus yesterday and today. Gosh, this was such a last minute decision. In Tacna, I had actually bought a ticket to Arequipa, a city at the southern end of Peru but half an hour before my bus left, I changed it to Trujillo, at the northern end of Peru. Up til the last minute, I was still unsure where I wanted to go. But I was CRAZY! For the further north I go in Peru, the longer the distance I would need to cover to back-track to Buenos Aires for my flight out of the continent.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Trujillo, PERU - 28 february 2003</span><br /><br />Chan Chan ruin is the famous ruin near Trujillo which I set off to visit early in the morning. We were only able to visit Palacio [Palace] Tschudi for the rest were pretty much left in crumbles.<br /><br />It is a fascinating Chimu ruin, rather well-restored. There are motifs artistically representing sea-lions, fish, pelicans, etc… The diamond-shaped adobe structures represent nets used for fishing, which was very important to the Chimu culture. Everything was related to some aspect of their lives. A better understanding can be attained when one employs a guide and is able to UNDERSTAND the guide. My guide was very kind to speak slowly for my benefit.<br /><br />Chan Chan was the most important city from the Chimu culture which existed around 1200 to 1400 AD, before the Incas conquered them. Unlike the Incas where the sun was the most important god, the Chimus worshipped the god of the moon, the sea, the land and the stars.<br /><br />I later caught the colectivo to Huanchaco, a nearby fishing village where the locals used totora reeds to mould and tie into boats with one pointy end and a hollowed-end at the other side for a person to sit in. They paddled the tiny boats in the sea in the early morning to fish. They are called caballitos [little horses].<br /><br />The totora reed boats in Lago Titicaca way down south, on the other hand, are shaped differently, very much bigger with two pointy ends and with a hollow-centre for a whole family to sit in.<br /><br />During my forays around the centre of Trujillo, I spotted many rather well-preserved colonial houses. The Plaza de Armas of Trujillo is truly one of the most beautiful I had seen in a while. The houses surrounding it were all colourfully painted. The windows had white-painted grilles with the top bit shaped like the top half of a tear-drop. Very charming. Many houses had wooden balcony boxes hanging out of the sides. Some of these colonial houses were open to the public for visit for free.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Trujillo to Chiclayo, PERU - 01 march 2003</span><br /><br />I caught a bus to Chiclayo, a few hours north of Trujillo.<br /><br />Gosh, Peru is so different. Really, every country has its own little distinctive flavours. Here in Peru, there were many more unfinished buildings, with bricks exposed, with the metal rods sticking out of beams on the top storey as the families ran out of money after constructing the bottom stories; there was a lot more rubbish on the streets; there were many more chifas; there was a lot more cumbia music, a personal ‘favourite’; there were many more street-vendors hawking sweets on trays, fly-swatters, cotton-buds, whatever; there were a lot more ‘¡China!!’, ‘¡Chinita!’, ‘¡Japonésa!’ hissed at me when I walked past people (which were alright until it came to ‘¡Jackie Chan!’); there were many more shoe-shiners and these were mainly young boys; there were many more money-changers-on-stools with huge stacks of cash clasped in one hand and a calculator on the other, sitting along the streets, calling out ‘Cambio Cambio’ [Money Changer]; there were many more taxis.<br /><br />On the streets of Trujillo and Chiclayo, at one glance, it seemed 80% of the vehicles were yellow taxis and perhaps, 80% of these taxis were empty.<br /><br />I remembered from my last trip here, that in Lima, Arequipa, Cuzco, anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers could be a taxi driver. From what I saw out of the bus-window in Lima, it apparently was still like this. But in Trujillo and Chiclayo, there seemed to be more control: anyone who owned a car and could print out ‘TAXI’ on fluorescent stickers and PAINT their cars yellow could be a taxi driver.<br /><br />They were tooting their horns all the time, whistling at you, beckoning you, enticing you. I was browsing in a shop and I kept hearing a insistent tooting and whistling amongst the mêlée of tootings and I happened to look up. Indeed, through the shop’s door, on the road, a taxi driver was gesturing to me and giving me the ‘you-want-taxi?’ look. What the…? I was shopping!<br /><br />And not to forget, the Peruvian’s own brand of cola - the Inca-Kola, the sickly yellowish, urine-coloured, chemically-flavoured cola that they are so proud of. Adverts everywhere. Bottles on sale everywhere.<br /><br />Ah, Peru… how I had missed you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(153, 102, 51);">Chiclayo, PERU - 02 march 2003</span><br /><br />The tourist office of Chiclayo had been closed yesterday for it was Saturday. The tourist police were right next door and I had popped in to ask when the tourist office would be opened.<br /><br />Instead, a guy, I was not even sure if he was a tourist police as he was not in uniform, very earnestly helped me with all my inquiries, even took the trouble to go out on the street to photocopy a map of Chiclayo for me. He pointed out all the places where I could take colectivos [shared taxis, a car or a van] to visit the museums and ruins around Chiclayo. Peruvians were really helpful.<br /><br />I got into a colectivo and headed to Lambayeque, a small town near Chiclayo which had two reputable archaeological museums.<br /><br />The first one I visited was Museo Arqueologico Nacional Bruning de Lambayeque. It was alright, not super impressive.<br /><br />But the next one was amazing! Museo Tumbas Reales de Sipan is the museum that housed the entire collection of the treasures discovered in the tombs of a ‘Lord of Sipan’ from the Moche culture (around 100 BC to about 700 AD). The items uncovered were incredible. There were tiny, intricate, gold figurines that needed to be assembled (with dangling ear-rings and minuscule ornaments); many gold and turquoise round ear-rings; necklaces made from micro-sized shells; other gold and silver chunky jewellery shaped like peanuts, heads of men, spiders, etc; enough pottery to cook and feed Calcutta; many, many more. It held a stupendous collection!<br /><br />Besides the treasure on display, the museum had very good representation of the tomb of the lord, buried with eight people, a few llamas and dog, and lots of pottery and treasures. There were wonderful replicas everywhere to present to us how life was like in that epoch.<br /><br />This was truly one of the most impressive museums I had been to. Personally, I felt the treasures here were comparable to those unearthed in Tutankhamen’s tomb in Egypt. This made coming to northern Peru all worthwhile already. The rest would just be bonus.<br /><br />After lunch, I went further north on another colectivo to Túcume. Here were 26 adobe pyramids from the Lambayeque culture (which was before the Chimu culture).<br /><br />As these pyramids were made from adobe, or mud, unlike stone-pyramids in Egypt or Mexico, these did not last very long. It apparently did not rain that often in this region at that time, but occasionally, the El Niño phenomenon would arrive to wreck havoc with the weather. And so, these pyramids basically looked like muddy mountains, with signs of erosion caused by rivulets running off at the base.<br /><br />I was perhaps the only tourist there and I was totally alone when I walked up to the mirador for a view around the pyramids. That was nice. Later, I saw many broken ceramics amongst the ruins too. No, I guess it was not possible to pick up everything and try and piece them together.<br /><br />To go to these little towns, there were no set schedules for buses whatsoever. Anyone with a vehicle could supply the transportation. Usually, there would be an assistant hanging at the door, shouting out the locations they were heading. This was required because, while there were signs in front of the car or van, many people were illiterate or some, so old and blind, they could not read anything.<br /><br />Usually, I did not know where to catch the colectivo-vans but people on the streets would point me to the place where the colectivo-cars waited. They would wait until five people show up and then, they were off.<br /><br />The colectivo-vans were easier to catch back to the main town, like Chiclayo and they usually tried to pile as many people in as possible. I was standing with my back bowed for a good distance before someone got off and I could snuggle my butt between two locals.<br /><br />The 1 Sol and 50 centavos coins I handed over were declared ‘falsos’ [counterfeits] and I had to fish out other coins for payment.<br /><br />OK, I was warned about counterfeit coins on my first day in Peru. Every time I received change, I studied them closely. But I had no idea what to look out for. I was just pretending. Sometimes, I would mutter something and return a nearly smoothened-out coin to the shop-owners and they usually changed it without a word. Now, with a few days into Peru, I might have accumulated a handful of these falsies and it was time to study the differences.<br /><br />I spread all my coins at the reception of my hotel for my receptionist to analyse. However, he passed the ‘rejected’ 1 Sol and 50 centavos. I pointed out the different fonts. He said, yeah, but these were the new ones issued from 2000 onwards. Some folks still had not caught on. Well, he detected a false 2 Soles coin. The font-size for the two ‘S’ in SOLES were larger than the other letters.<br /><br />Hmmmm… I had worked in a credit-card centre for six years and I had seen MASTERCARD printed as MASTECARD on some counterfeit cards and seen a fax of a passport once, with PASSPORT spelled as PASPORT. What was wrong with these fraudsters with their mis-spellings and font-size mistakes? Were they not afraid of counterfeit laws but of copyright laws?<br /><br />I spent my fake 2 Soles on a bus-ticket later.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-24968781412573407252003-02-25T20:26:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:27:34.969-07:0024 - Run Llama Run (San Pedro de Atacama, Arica)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Salta, ARGENTINA to San Pedro de Atacama, CHILE - 21 february 2003</span><br /><br />I would cross back to Chile today, after a 12-hour trip through the altiplano. Today, there was no annoying second layer of clouds and so it was brilliantly white and beautifully ‘salty’ as we cut right across the Salinas Grande. Oh, it was really gorgeous!<br /><br />For lunch, we stopped in the middle of NOWHERE. There was just a restaurant and a gas-pump here. It was not even a village. I had made friends with the guy sitting next to me, Juan from Salta and the guys sitting behind me - Jakob from Germany and Asier from Spain. Jakob and Juan were heading to Arica to go to Peru and Asier would get off with me at San Pedro de Atacama.<br /><br />We cleared the Argentinian customs in the middle of another NOWHERE and had another 4 hours or so of altiplano to clear. To my extreme delight, besides llamas, I started to spot a few vicuñas too! I was stabbing at the window and going “Vicuñas!… Vicuñas!… Vicuñas!”<br /><br />Vicuñas are the rarest of the four types from the llama family here in South America.<br /><br />Llamas are rather common, mostly domesticated and used for carrying loads and sadly, so tame that some are brought down to lower towns (too hot for them) for tourist photography. Alpacas are slightly smaller, just as woolly and mostly reared for their wool.<br /><br />Guanacos, as seen in southern Patagonia, are wild. They are brownish in colour and do not do the ‘W’ Circuit in Torres del Paine. Vicuñas, also wild, are the smallest of the four and its colour is the sort of brown that looks almost golden. Wool from vicuñas is the softest and most precious of all and because of it, they had been killed off for many, many years by the natives. Hence, they are the rarest now.<br /><br />And they look the most elegant, delicate, feathery and graceful of all.<br /><br />We finally reached San Pedro de Atacama at 7pm and we had to open up all our baggage for inspection at the Chilean Customs. Entering Punta Arenas way down south, no one checked our bags. Entering Puerto Natales later, the Custom Officers went through hand luggages only. Now, here, up north, everything had to be opened up and inspected because we were closer to Bolivia, I supposed. I guess, cocaine trafficking was feared. Even having a few coca leaves was prohibited. It was a long, tedious affair.<br /><br />We were more or less packed back into the bus when a Customs officer came out with a pine. Besides drugs, the Chilean Customs were picky about fruits, plants, seeds, animals and some dairy products too. He sternly announced that he had found it on the floor inside the office, so it must have rolled out from one of our baggages. Confess or everyone’s bags would have to be searched again.<br /><br />Soon (I did not know how), a whole plastic bag of pines was discovered and a señora finally admitted it was hers. She was led into the office and frankly, we had no idea what happened to her after that. Back on the bus, Juan threatened to turn me in for smuggling an ‘animal’ across into Chile, my llamanita, the toy-llama I bought in San Antonio.<br /><br />A change in country, a change in currency and a change in ‘language’? Nah, I will keep my Argentinian Spanish for now. It’s the altiplano, please. Not. E. Nough. Oxy. Gen. Nou. Rish. Brain.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">San Pedro de Atacama, CHILE - 22 february 2003</span><br /><br />At 4am, Asier and I were picked up by our tour to go to El Tatio’s Geysers. The geysers were best seen in the early morning at sunrise and as it was more than 2 hours away on harsh road conditions, we had to leave at 4am.<br /><br />Despite the very bumpy road, I slept all the way until we arrived at the geysers at 4500m, at 6:30am. Gosh, it was TERRIBLY COLD. My thermometer, which I brought along for my year-long trip to record how much I was suffering at each place, showed -5°C! Now was THE ONE TIME to use my pretty scarf from Chiloé and I left it in the hostel.<br /><br />We walked around the geysers and heard bubbling, hissing sounds everywhere. A guy told me an egg could be cooked in 1 second with the water here. Some areas were fragile and could break right through. Apparently, some tourists had fallen through and died. As the sun rose, more and more hot boiling water from the various geysers sprouted into the sky. Some holes were really deep. Some were very colourful, stained from the various mineral deposits. To obtain some warmth, we risked being scalded alive by standing amongst the sprays of the geysers.<br /><br />It was so so so fantastic out here. I loved it very much but was too freezing cold then to fully appreciate it. My toes were thoroughly numb and I was wearing my boots too.<br /><br />We were brought to a thermal pool and now, at 5°C, it was ‘warm’ enough to strip into our swimming gear for a quick dip. Then, we headed back to San Pedro de Atacama, making various stops here and there to view a village, some llamas, vizcachas (looked like a rabbit but with a long tail) and flamingoes.<br /><br />Asier would leave for Santiago this evening but I signed up for a second tour leaving in the afternoon for Salar de Atacama. Yeah, a long day of sight-seeing for me today.<br /><br />The various stops along the route to Salar de Atacama were somewhat perplexing for all of us tourists had that ‘why-are-we-here-again?’ look.<br /><br />For me, the Salar de Atacama was very different from the Salinas Grande in Argentina. In Salinas Grande, the grounds were flat and white with rough crystals forming along the sides of hexagon shapes. In Salar de Atacama, the salt-pan ground was uneven, dried up and brown, all the crystals were huge, jagged, lumpy rocks. It was impossible to walk on them. A path had been flattened out for us to walk across the salar. The flamingoes, which I had come to see, were unfortunately slurping up the acidic lake miles away, tiny little dots in the distance. Then, we stayed for sunset.<br /><br />Wow, I was awake to see the sunrise and the sunset on the same day today.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">San Pedro de Atacama to Arica, CHILE - 23 february 2003</span><br /><br />A day to laze around San Pedro de Atacama. The sun had finished updating my Brazilian tan by now. But wait, it might have surpassed it… but I still had not reached the heights of altiplano tan yet.<br /><br />San Pedro is also a tiny desert town, with rows of adobe houses, mostly painted white. Many houses have brown adobe ‘paint’ dripping from the roofs.<br /><br />While it could be charming, I felt it a tad pretentious as many restaurants had been converted into fancy theme restaurants, with cave-like seats and pretend-geoglyphs on the walls, all for the sake of tourism. I guess, it could not be helped… with such astounding sights nearby.<br /><br />It is also hippie-land. Bob Marley wannabes, tie-dyes, multiple trinkets, and that wind instrument from Australia - didgeridoo, were popularly featured here.<br /><br />Off to Arica on the night bus.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Arica, CHILE - 24 february 2003</span><br /><br />Off the night bus and as you know my bus-sleeping history, on to a bed for half a day to catch up on my sleep.<br /><br />Arica has a rather decadent feel of a port town and it being a border town too (with Peru), makes it a lot seedier and somewhat amusing. All border towns are amusing. I detected a nice, trashy vibe here and I liked its unpretentiousness but being near to Peru, I must stay alert.<br /><br />Perhaps because it is a port town, Arica is consumer goods heaven. There are many, many, many ‘CENTRO COMERCIAL’ or covered shopping centres selling all sorts of trashy consumer goods like notebooks, towels, plastic flowers, shoes, clothes, bags, hair-curlers, plush toys, shampoo… Even away from these centres, along the streets, there are loads of shops selling these cheesy household items.<br /><br />I was also delighted to see many chifas. When I was in Peru three years ago, I remembered seeing many chifas, which were Chinese restaurants, everywhere. Why ‘chifa’? No one could tell me then. Here’s my two-cents: In Mandarin, to ‘eat rice’ or ‘have a meal’ is ‘Chi Fan’. So, perhaps, it became twisted to become chifa to represent Chinese restaurants here.<br /><br />In Buenos Aires’ Chinese neighbourhood in Belgrano, yes, there were Chinese restaurants but since then, I had not seen ONE Chinese restaurant in Argentina and Chile. And so, Arica, with spill-over influence from Peru, has many appreciated chifas.<br /><br />I had dinner at one and it was REAL Chinese food.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Parque Nacional Lauca, CHILE - 25 february 2003</span><br /><br />Today, the tour to Parque Nacional Lauca would ferry us from sea-level to 4500+m. All tour vans were required to carry oxygen masks to resuscitate any dying tourists.<br /><br />For me, having ascended to and descended from the altiplano several times the last few days, I was alright. The tour made many stops along the way to spot some geoglyphs on the hills, visit adobe churches in tiny towns and the odd ruins, so the ascent was done slowly. Later for breakfast, we were all served coca tea. Todo bien. [Everything OK]<br /><br />The ground turned very barren after we reached a certain altitude but somehow, beyond 4000m, the entire place turned green again. Here, apparently, due to their microclimate, it actually rained pretty frequently. So, the grounds were covered with a type of green moss and had shrubs all over. Gosh, I had expected dry, desert altiplano I saw coming from Salta to San Pedro but the altiplano here was different.<br /><br />Because of the greenery, we spotted many, many vicuñas, guanacos, alpacas and llamas. Paradise!<br /><br />We finally reached Lago Chungara, which at 4515m, is the highest lake in the world. The Parinacota volcano is set against the lake, just dying to be photographed. Behind the lake, lies Bolivia - unattainable to me.<br /><br />I was previously at Lago Titicaca in Peru. It was 3800+m and was touted as the highest navigable lake in the world. Then, I had vaguely wondered which was the highest lake and apparently, I just found out now. There were some flamingoes in the distance and soon, it started to rain slush.<br /><br />We visited a few bleak, isolated miniscule towns on our way down, Parinocato (4300+m) and Putre (3500+m).<br /><br />It was freezing cold now, even in summer. How do they survive here in winter? Drink 96% PURE ALCOHOL.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-39225895299945047092003-02-20T20:25:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:26:13.434-07:0024 - Run Llama Run (Salta)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Cachí to Salta, ARGENTINA - 18 february 2003</span><br /><br />The route from Cachí to Salta is along another legendarily spectacular highway. We passed by Parque Nacional de Cardones which was a flattish area entirely grown with candelabra cacti. Then, after the highest peak, Piedra del Molino, about 3600m, I was suddenly looking down at a very winding road through green mountains. It was another surreal scene. I love being above the clouds. The winding route, Cuesta de Obispo, had many treacherous curves downhill and we had to go slow.<br /><br />By the time we reached the bottom of the mountains, along Quebrada de Escoipe, the vegetation had changed from grassy shrubs to tall, sub-tropical trees and we soon turned into Salta.<br /><br />Salta is a rather pleasant and unassuming city. I liked it. Not in-your-face beautiful but pleasant enough. The city has a very cosy feel, with a hill, a huge park and a pleasant plaza right in the busy centre. And now that we are at the northern bit of Argentina, the locals here are predominantly Indian-looking.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Salta, ARGENTINA - 19 February, 2003</span><br /><br />There had been a whole bunch of sights suggested by the earnest staff at the tourist office but no, after so many hot, dusty, giddy, windy roads lately, I just wanted to take it easy in Salta today.<br /><br />I ended up shopping for books, and if I may add, books in Spanish, to practise later in my life if I ever become more proficient.<br /><br />I had actually been attempting to read a book in Spanish the last few days - Historias de Cronopios y de Famas [Stories of Cronopios and Famas] by another Buenos Aires genius, Julio Cortázar.<br /><br />Whenever I mentioned to the other Argentinians that I was struggling with this book, they all agreed it would be very, very, VERY tough for me.<br /><br />Well, tough as it is, it is such a sweet book, I just have to share it with you. Allow me to attempt to translate two of my favourite little tales (amongst the very few that I managed to complete). If they sound whimsical, it is not due to bad translation. If they sound like bad translation, it is due to bad translation… it’s me.<br /><br /><br />--- Travels - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans ---<br /><br />When the Famas travel, their customs to spend a night in a city are the following: One Fama goes to the hotel and ascertains cautiously the prices, the quality of the bed-sheets and the colour of the carpets. The second goes to the commissariat and declares all the assets of the three, like the inventory of the contents in their suitcases. The third Fama goes to the hospital and copies the list of doctors and their specialties.<br /><br />Upon finishing these tasks diligently, the travellers reunite at the main plaza of the city, inform one another about their observations and enter a café to drink an aperitif. But before, they hold hands and dance in a circle. This dance is given the name ‘Happiness of the Famas’.<br /><br />When the Cronopios travel, they find hotels full, trains that have already left, that it rains like cats and dogs, and the taxis do not want to take them or charge them very high prices. The Cronopios are not disheartened because they believe firmly that these things happen to all, and at the hour of sleeping, they tell one another, “The beautiful city, the very beautiful city.” And they dream all night that in the city, there are great fiestas and that they are invited. The next day, they wake up very contented and this is how the Cronopios travel.<br /><br />The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.<br /><br /><br />--- Business - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans ---<br /><br />The Famas had set up a factory of garden hoses and employed many Cronopios to do the rolling and storage. As soon as the Cronopios were at the place of work, they became very, very happy. There were green, red, blue, yellow and violet garden hoses. They were transparent and upon testing them, one could see running water with all the bubbles and at times, a surprised insect. The Cronopios started to shout and wanted to dance tregua and dance catala instead of working. The Famas were furious with them and applied the following articles 21, 22 and 23 of the internal rules to avoid a repetition of these bad jobs.<br /><br />However, the Famas are very careless, the Cronopios waited for favourable circumstances and carried many garden hoses off in a car. When they met a little girl, they cut a piece of the blue garden hose and gave it to her so that she could jump with the garden hose. So, in all the street-corners, one started to see lovely blue and transparent bubbles, with a little girl inside like a squirrel in a cage. The parents of the little girl aspired to take away the garden hose in order to water the garden, but one knew that the astute Cronopios had punctured the hoses such that water would drop out from them and they serve no purpose. In the end, the parents became tired and the little girl went back to the street-corner and jumped and jumped.<br /><br />With the yellow garden hoses, the Cronopios adorned diverse monuments, and with the green garden hoses, they made traps of African type in the middle of the pathway, in order to see the Esperanzas fall one by one. All around the fallen Esperanzas, the Cronopios danced tregua and danced catala, and the Esperanzas reproached them for their action, saying: “Cruel Cronopios bloody. Cruel!”<br /><br />The Cronopios, who desired no harm to the Esperanzas, helped them up and gave them pieces of the red garden hoses. So the Esperanzas could go to their houses and complete the most intense of their yearnings: to water their green gardens with red garden hoses.<br /><br />The Famas closed the factory and gave a banquet full of funereal speeches, with waiters serving the fish in great whispers. And they did not invite any Cronopio, and only those Esperanzas who had not fallen in the traps in the pathway, because the others who did were left with pieces of garden hoses and the Famas were angry with these Esperanzas.<br /><br />------<br /><br />Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Salta, ARGENTINA - 20 february 2003</span><br /><br />I signed up for a day-tour to visit the areas north of Salta. The morning today was, however, rainy and cloudy. The other tourists in my tour were Tom and Jenny from France.<br /><br />My guide, Billy, wanted to do the route the reverse direction so that we would arrive at Purmamarca in the morning and be able to see the Seven-Colours Mountain with the sun shining right at them. He hoped that we would get the sun by then, that is.<br /><br />We took the scenic mountainous route, Route 9, also called the Cornisa (all the roads along this region seemed to have fancy names), to San Salvador de Jujuy, the capital of Jujuy Province. The vegetation here was luscious, sub-tropical thick forests, dripping with ferns and climbers. This was a really old route used by the Indians and had apparently existed for a thousand years.<br /><br />Along the route, there were shrines set up for ‘saint-like’ heroes, one of them being Gauchito Gil, to pray for safe journeys. Sometimes, the drivers left things like spare tyres, bottles of water, extra stuff they did not need, for the next driver who might need them.<br /><br />Soon, we arrived at Purmamarca but alas, the sun still remained behind the clouds and we could not get the brilliance of the colours of the Seven-Colours Mountain so famous in all the postcards. Purmamarca is the little Andean town set right against the mountain, all the houses were of the adobe sort. Very photogenic.<br /><br />We climbed further up from 2000+m to 4000+m in the following section of the route. Here, Billy thought that we would see the sun once we cleared the cloud-layer and reach altiplano [high plains]. To our surprise, after clearing the cloud-layer, there was ANOTHER cloud-layer above the altiplano. Now, this was impossible to clear and so, the elusive sun remained hidden from us.<br /><br />The altiplano was a plateau at around 4000m and it was flattish, dry desert all the way. In the distance, we could see the white colour of the salt-pan. Approaching the salt-pan, known as Salinas Grande, I could see from the windscreen of the car, one side was entirely grey with a brewing storm and the other was slightly cloudy but with pockets of blue sky.<br /><br />Usually, there were workers working on the salt-pan but due to the coming storm, all had cleared out. So, we arrived to an abandoned salt mining site. The salt-pan had strange hexagon shapes on the plains. The edges of the hexagon shapes were crumbles of raw salt crystals. There were some blue pools of water where salt crystals were formed and where the mining was done.<br /><br />I had expected strong harsh rays famous of the altiplano sun and blinding whiteness reflected from the mirror-like salt pans and had prepared to slather myself with sunscreen, but not today, honey. There was nothing bright here. Instead, we managed a few photos before being pelted by the storm and raged by the strong, cold wind, and had to scramble back into the car and flee.<br /><br />Billy strongly recommended us to visit Salar de Uyuni in Bolivia which was five times the size of Salinas Grande and even more impressive. Yes, I K-N-O-W… but I cannot go to Bolivia. Sigh… Here’s the wound. Here’s the salt-pan. Now rub.<br /><br />We passed by several llamas on the rest of the desert altiplano before reaching a very sorry-looking, desolate mining town San Antonio de Los Cobres for lunch. We were all more or less suffering slightly from the altitude now. Well, here at the restaurant, they served coca tea and so we ordered the tea to fortify ourselves. I even bought a tiny little toy-llama. So kitsch, I love it.<br /><br />On our way down, we passed another shrine but this one for Pachamama [Mother Earth]. The Indians who passed by here would leave their bottles of alcohol that they were drinking, some coca leaves, cigarettes, etc… to worship Pachamama and ask for a safe journey. One type of bottles read: PURE ALCOHOL 96%. Gosh, mere mortals like us use 90% alcohol to disinfect wounds. But 96%??!? Imagine drinking that!<br /><br />We crossed the railway track of the famous ‘Tren a las Nubes’ [Train of the Clouds] several times on our way back to Salta along Quebrada del Toro. This railway track was used more often by regular cargo trains which carried gas and fuel to export to Chile.<br /><br />Up until now, all the produce from North-east Argentina could not be exported through the ports of Chile. All had to be brought to the Buenos Aires port, on the Atlantic side, although they were physically closer to the ports of Chile. Billy explained that soon this would change and it would be easier to export products out across the Pacific Ocean to Asia and Russia.<br /><br />Would dulce de leche be one of the products? Dulce de leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making dulce de leche.<br /><br />Boil a pot of water slowly and put the can of sweet condensed milk inside without opening the can. This is called Baño Maria [Maria’s Bath]. Keep the can in the pot of slowly-boiling water for 2 to 3 hours and, voila!, dulce de leche!<br /><br />My saviour!aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-78110190152424298252003-02-17T20:24:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:25:09.625-07:0024 - Run Llama Run (Cafayate, Cachi)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tafí del Valle to Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 14 february 2003</span><br /><br />I left Tafí del Valle and kissed cool, alpine weather goodbye. The route to Cafayate was as I had previously described going to Amaicha del Valle and from there, the surrounding areas turned semi-arid, brown, dry and dusty. The whole place continued to be spotted with candalabra cacti, called cardones, posing in various amusing contortions, heeding Madonna’s advice of ‘don’t-just-stand-there, let’s-get-to-it, strike-a-pose-there’s-nothing-to-it, vogue’.<br /><br />Cafayate is one dusty, hot little town, set amongst mountains. Similar to Mendoza, Cafayate is also famous of its wine production and is surrounded by fields of vineyards as well.<br /><br />I hid from the sun until late afternoon before venturing to walk along Route 40 to try and get out of town to better view the mountains. Route 40 is the famous highway that, at about 3500km long, nearly crossed the entire length of Argentina.<br /><br />From the map I was issued at the tourist office, there was an El Molino, 3km off the highway, which from the legend, appeared to be an archaeological site or something and I decided to walk there just for the sake of walking.<br /><br />The sun was in my face when I veered left off the highway. I passed by numerous vineyards and later, bare, dry grounds spotted with your garden variety of prickly, desert flora. Although not as high as Tafí del Valle, at 1660m, the sun in Cafayate still boasted harsh rays.<br /><br />Behind me, I could see gorgeously red mountain ranges with strips of beige and orange. As the afternoon sun was shining right at them, the view was perfect. I frequently walked backwards just to admire the view. That was Quebrada de Los Conchas along Route 68.<br /><br />An hour later, not unexpected, I could not find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate.<br /><br />Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 15 february 2003</span><br /><br />By 10am, the heat was already intolerable. I bought some pastries and found a shady spot in the plaza to sit and eat. I was onto my second pastry when I heard a crack and a crash. Not more than five metres from me, a whole HUGE branch of a big tree, previously some six metres above ground, had broken off and crashed onto the plaza, taking along branches from neighbouring trees. It was an utter mess.<br /><br />Upon inspection later, nosy as I am, I realised the branch was of the type with thousands of spikes and thorns! Oh no!! IMAGINE if I had chosen to sit under THAT tree! No one would be updating this article anymore.<br /><br />Then, I met THE GUY to marry in Argentina. As soon as he set eyes on me, he could not stop giggling and smiling. I squatted alongside him and started chatting him up. He was playing with two coins and I asked if they were for me. “NNNNNOOOOO”, still giggling, still smiling.<br /><br />One coin rolled under the car. He asked for my help to retrieve it, still giggling, still smiling. I retrieved it but “NNNNOOOOO” the coin was still not for me.<br /><br />“Me voy [I go]” he announced, still giggling, still smiling. “¿Para dónde? [To where?]” “Mi casa [My house]” “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]” I suggested. “¡NNNNOOOOOO!!”, mildly horrified but still giggling, still smiling. Playing hard-to-get.<br /><br />Oh, my heart totally melted. His angelic eyes, his impish grin, his adorable dimples. My ANGEL!!! He is Ezekiel. He is four. Sound the wedding bells.<br /><br />I made a slow walk to a tiny hill 2km away, Cerro Santa Teresita. At the top was an altar which provided much-needed shelter from the sun. Gracias, Santa Teresita. From there, we were offered a view of Cafayate and the surrounding mountains.<br /><br />I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.<br /><br />On my way down, I met Nelson who is a ceramic-potter. He chatted with me and upon learning that I wanted to walk to Rio Colorado, 5km away, tomorrow, he suggested coming along with me. Sure, why not? He said 7am. 7am!!!!! Unless it was to catch a bus, I had not woken up so early in a LONG time. But I guess it was necessary to beat the heat. OK.<br /><br />I had booked for an excursion to visit Quebrada de Los Conchas in the late afternoon and this was one of the best things I had done in Argentina.<br /><br />If I had written that the mountain scenery from Mendoza to Chile, passing Puente del Inca was GORGEOUS, then, I am sorry, but this one TAKES THE CAKE, man.<br /><br />The view along this route was ASTOUNDING, BREATHTAKING, STUPEFYING, MARVELLOUS, IMPRESSIVE, SPECTACULAR, etc… and yes, I am using the Thesaurus to help churn out these adjectives. Otherwise, I would have to resort to SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS.<br /><br />The various oddly sculpted mountain formations are of red, ochre, yellow, beige, orange, coral, sienna, brown, grey, hint of lavendar, etc… a sea of wondrous colours. When I am back to the civilised world and doing stupid things like buying lipsticks named Sienna or Terracotta, I will surely remember this incredible route.<br /><br />For eons, wind and water had eroded and twisted the mountains into structures with names like ‘Los Castillos’ [The Castles, they looked like…], ‘El Sapo’ [The Frog, it looked like…], ‘El Obelisco’ [The Obelisk, make a guess…], etc… But those other poor nameless ones were equally jaw-dropping. My head was turning here and there and everywhere to savour the views.<br /><br />The ‘Anfiteatro’ [Amphitheatre] is a narrow gorge between two walls before opening up into a ‘stage’ of sorts with very high walls of great acoustics. We were leaving this place, when a lady, thinking that she was alone with her family, started to sing in the middle of the ‘stage’. She sang a familiar little opera tune, starting and ending with ‘M-M-aaaaaa-ah---RRRRIIII-y-YAAA’, probably titled ‘Maria’.<br /><br />Her rich, moving voice resonated on the ‘stage’. All of us stood in silence, utterly stupefied. I closed my eyes and indeed, I felt myself soar into the sky with her voice. I seriously sensed that I was floating. My eyes brimmed with tears when I re-opened them. This was so special. She had a gift and unwittingly, she had shared it with all of us that afternoon in this amazing place.<br /><br />After spending some time climbing into and out of ‘La Garganta del Diablo’ [another ‘The Devil’s Throat’], we headed back. A pity the sun had started to set by now, for there were some other sights we had driven by just now without stopping, meaning to stop by later. Still, my guide drove us off-road at one point and told us to walk in the desert.<br /><br />The moon was almost full (it would be full tomorrow), so it was more or less bright enough to navigate but some small cacti and thorny bushes were not so easy to avoid. We kept getting lanced.<br /><br />We arrived at ‘Las Ventanas’ [The Windows] and the almost-full moon could be seen beyond the ‘windows’. How wonderful! It was so beautiful to be out here in the desert at night with the moon and the stars above.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Cafayate to Angastaco, ARGENTINA - 16 february 2003</span><br /><br />The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.<br /><br />The river was just a trickle but I was not keen to hike further out to the waterfalls. So, Nelson and I sat under a tree and enjoyed the tranquility and the view. We had arrived at the edge of the mountain range around Cafayate.<br /><br />I learnt from Nelson that one group of Indians that used to settle here were called Calchaqui, hence the area here was named ‘El Valle Calchaqui’. They were here even before the Incas arrived. There were some traces of their settlement nearby. For example, on some rocks there were holes which the Calchaqui Indians had used to pound maize. They resisted the colonization of the Spanish bravely but many died when they were brought to Buenos Aires to build the city there. I believe the race is now extinct.<br /><br />Today was Sunday and soon, many families, armed with picnic baskets, came trotting by to find good spots by the river for a picnic. Nice.<br /><br />I wanted to stop by Cachí, a little town further north but to get there, I had to first go to Angastaco, spend a night there and catch the 5:30am bus the next day to Cachí and this was what I did. In this ‘rural’ part of Argentina, to Angastaco, I encountered the oldest, dustiest, most broken-looking bus I had been on since China.<br /><br />Though the sun had set, because of the full moon, I could still make out the shapes of more fantastic rock formations. There were many ‘Las Flechas’ [The Arrows] abound. They were sharp and pointing in one direction at an angle, with a vengeance, like arrows. Amazing view through and through.<br /><br />Unfortunately for me, Angastaco was having a festival that night. Not another folkloric festival, I feared. No, this was worse. After the folkloric bit ended by 10pm or so, the plaza was blasted with loud, throbbing cumbia… continuous, repetitive, ‘happy happy’ cumbia. My WORST nightmare!<br /><br />As you already know my sentiments on this, I LOATHED cumbia! The repetitive bass POM-pom-POM-pom remained indifferent as the cheesy songs changed from one to another, with a highly-excitable DJ-sort screaming and shouting delirious nonsense in between. I feared this would be another ‘until-daybreak’ party and I was proven right.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Angastaco to Cachí, ARGENTINA - 17 february 2003</span><br /><br />I did not sleep at all. By 5am, I grumbly dragged myself to the plaza to check out the party. To my surprise, the plaza was deserted!! Yet, the HORRIBLE cumbia was still blaring away from the plaza’s loudspeakers. If I had a bazooka with me, I would have blasted the loudspeakers away. I could not believe that there was no one in the plaza and yet, the party music was carrying on and on.<br /><br />The two Buenos Aires girls in my room, also going to Cachí, told me the party was held in a house, not in the plaza. OK, fine. But if it was held in a house, why not just blast the stupid music in that house? Why keep the entire town awake with stupid stupid stupid cumbia?!??! Get me out of Angastaco.<br /><br />The route to Cachí is along the beautiful Valle Calchaqui but I could not vouch for it for I was catching up on my sleep.<br /><br />Cachí is an even smaller, even dustier little desert town, at 2280m. Nearby are peaks like Nevado de Cachí which had altitudes of above 6300m. Cachí is very quiet, tranquil and time seems to stand still here. It retained an authentic colonial flavour. I read that people here died of old age because there was nothing else to die of.<br /><br />Too hot. Too sleepy. I slept a great deal in Cachí, I am afraid, but while not sleeping, I walked around town, to a little peak nearby and a miniscule archaeological site, to amuse myself.<br /><br />The houses were mainly painted white or beige. Many were made of adobe, or mud. There were little iron lamps outside the houses. Some windows, doors and street signs were made of the light-weight wood from dried-up cacti.<br /><br />I was also spotting more gauchos in this part of my trip. These are Argentinian cowboys, who wear black, flattish hats and sometimes, colourfully weaved belts. Yeah, they ride horses occasionally too.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-21032554018416757682003-02-13T20:23:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:24:04.765-07:0023 - Planet of the Asados (La Rioja, Tafi del Valle)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Mendoza to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 07 february 2003</span><br /><br />Yair had explained to me that he did not believe my theory on the Argentinian postage cost, i.e. that if 20g costs US$1.50, 2kg would cost US$150. He claimed that postage costs did not follow linear proportions.<br /><br />Half-believing him, I had gone and bought a bunch of souvenirs last night. Yep, when you are making a list and checking it twice, it really means the trip is coming to an end soon. Sob.<br /><br />At the post office, the lady motor-mouthed rapidly something to me. I heard ‘Aduana’ [Customs], ‘revisar’ [check] and ‘caja’ [box]. My short-term memory only retained ‘caja’ and realised I had to find a box myself. If I bought one of those postal boxes from the post office, she said it would be MORE expensive.<br /><br />Hmmm… because of the economic down-fall, I remembered spotting many poor folks going through garbage bags along the streets collecting boxes. Should I do the same? Or should I go to one of these guys to try and buy one off them? I had just decided to head back to the hostel to see if anyone had a box when I spotted a box under a tree. I peeped. It was empty and the right size. Box was mine.<br /><br />But, back at the post office, the lady re-explained that I had to go to the Customs for them to check the items before I could seal up the box. Unfortunately, the Customs office was closed now and would only be opened on Monday morning. It was Friday.<br /><br />Oh dear, how inconvenient this was turning out to be. I lugged the box to La Rioja.<br /><br />On the luxurious overnight bus to La Rioja, the steward served dinner to us. I had forgotten this sort of service existed in Argentina. The last time I took such a bus in Argentina was more than three months ago heading to Buenos Aires. I grumbled to the guy next to me that what a shame, I had already eaten dinner. In response, he smiled and did a very typical Argentinian hand gesture to me.<br /><br />The gesture: With the right hand facing up, place all fingers together. Hold the fingers at an angle and rock to-and-fro a few times.<br /><br />Oh, how I had missed this since Buenos Aires! This gesture can be used to mean anything… from ‘You look like crap, everything OK?’ to ‘HEY, hey, what you are talking about? I disagree with that…’ to ‘What? I don’t get you. Explain that again?’ to ‘Oh, it is the most gorgeous place in the world! Precioso!’ to ‘Hahaa, what a toad you are.’<br /><br />For my case now, it would be the last meaning.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">La Rioja to Los Molinos, ARGENTINA - 08 february 2003</span><br /><br />My objective of coming to La Rioja was to visit Parque Nacional de Talampaya nearby. I had read somewhere that it was advisable NOT to head out there during summer. This was summer. Hmmm… I made inquiries at the tourist office.<br /><br />The lady gravely warned me it was 45 to 50°C a few days ago in town. So, she reckoned it would be about 60°C in the desert. Oh nooooo… I would NOT be heading there.<br /><br />However, she tried to interest me to go to Los Molinos, a small town 2 hours away, which would have a festival tonight. Fine.<br /><br />This was the first time in a long, long time there was cable-TV in my hotel room and the remote control belonged to me and me only. I stayed in bed and channel-surfed the entire afternoon. 52 channels and there was nothing on TV.<br /><br />I caught the bus to Los Molinos that evening. The small town was fenced up with garbage bags so that anyone entering the main plaza would have to fork out 7 Arg Pesos. The stage was set up at the plaza with many tables and chairs. I really had no clue what sort of festival this was. Because of Mexico, I had imagined the festival to be full of folkloric music and assorted colourful traditional dances.<br /><br />Well, there were only two dances and they were put up by children, a little hurried and inexperienced. The next 2 hours though, had brilliant bands playing folkloric music which I enjoyed thoroughly.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Los Molinos to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 09 february 2003</span><br /><br />OK, I stand corrected. Let’s face it. 2, 3 hours of folkloric music was fine. But 8 hours of it was a bit of an overkill to the untrained ears, don’t you agree? I had not slept well on the bus last night and so, I found myself dozing off in the middle of the loud, booming party.<br /><br />The locals were having great fun though. They sang along to every folk song and danced. They bought flour and foam-spray and it was a free-for-all fight as everyone tossed or sprayed everyone else. Two kids next to me eyed me for a while. I braced myself and indeed, they sprayed me entirely with foam.<br /><br />Finally, F-I-N-A-L-LY, the party ended at day-break. Enough of folkloric music! I was very relieved to catch my bus back to La Rioja for a much-needed sleep.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">La Rioja to Tucumán, ARGENTINA - 10 february 2003</span><br /><br />The Customs office of La Rioja was way out of town, along one of the highways. I optimistically made my way there by taxi. There, I realised that the officers wanted the box to be wrapped up with brown paper after checking and that I had to provide the brown paper. But, where can I buy brown paper? Back at the town centre.<br /><br />Argh. For a moment, I wanted to give up and lug all the stuff until I crossed back into Chile. Then, I thought I would stick it through, just to see how low it could go.<br /><br />Back to the town centre and back to the Customs office with brown paper. The guy asked me to go ahead and wrap the box. But… but… don’t you want to CHECK the contents first? That was the POINT of bringing the box all the way to Customs for inspection before wrapping, wasn’t it?<br /><br />The guy gave me an ‘oh yeah’ look, gave the contents a cursory glace, barely lifting the plastic bags to check the insides. OK, now wrap it.<br /><br />I cursed the day I decided to post things home from Argentina.<br /><br />I arrived at Tucumán late at night and had my first diarrhoea since China.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tucumán to Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 11 february 2003</span><br /><br />The route from Tucumán to Tafí del Valle was amazing. As we climbed up the mountains, the surrounding vegetation looked like tropical forests. The entire mountains were packed with trees and the trees were fully grown with climbers and ferns. Impressive. The bus made turns after turns towards the cloud level. Sit on the left side.<br /><br />Once we burst out of the clouds, the vegetation changed to grassy mountains, spotted with pine forests. Tafí del Valle looked very agreeable to me. It was no longer harsh desert weather. It was alpine weather.<br /><br />The tremors in my stomach and the very windy road made me feel queasy upon arrival. I had a headache too which I attributed to ‘altitude sickness’. Strange, this was only 2050m. When I was at Puente del Inca, it was 2700m and I did not feel weird then. Maybe the difference in altitude between Tucumán and Tafí was greater. I decided to take it really easy today.<br /><br />The view around this pretty town in the valley was wonderful. We were surrounded by green mountains all over, half immersed in clouds. In the distance, we could see a lake. There were llamas too. Tourists could rent horses to visit the area but the local gauchos were using horses for regular transportation as well. Tafí was tranquil and pretty. I really liked it here.<br /><br />I soon got to chatting with a couple of old men who wanted me to stay in Argentina and get married. Get married with whom? The cheeky toothless one offered to be my groom at once. Right.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 12 february 2003</span><br /><br />I had been crapping everything I ate. I took some medication and gingerly had some empanadas at a restaurant. I chatted to the owner of the restaurant, Julio. He suggested to me that later at 5pm, if I wanted, I could join him and his family for a drive to the neighbouring town El Mollar and he would drive me to the top of a mountain for a great viewing spot to take pictures of the valley. That sounded fantastic. I agreed to it at once.<br /><br />I took a walk along the rocky river bed but soon, found that I was too sick and still had not enough energy today. I was still crapping, by the way. I decided to head back to my hotel to sleep.<br /><br />By 5pm, I met up with Julio, his wife Gracilia and his son Cecil. We got into his car but the weather had turned rainy by then and it was not possible to go to any viewing spot for any photos.<br /><br />Julio was very nice. He kept apologizing about the missed opportunity to me. How sweet. Gracilia then suggested that we drive to another town, Amaicha del Valle, more than 50km away, to have an asado with her sister’s family.<br /><br />Amaicha del Valle, although also a charming town in the valley, had a climate entirely different from Tafí. It was dry there. It rained perhaps five days a year, I was informed by Cecil. We climbed up more curvy roads and hit the highest point of El Infiernillo 3045m. Beyond that, the vegetation indeed took a change. Now, instead of pine forests, we could see scores of candelabra cacti, 2 to 4 metres tall. Many seemed to be giving us the third finger. It was a near-desert climate here. How odd.<br /><br />Soon, despite my weak stomach conditions, I found myself gnawing at various cow parts at the house of Gracilia’s sister. I met many relatives too.<br /><br />They showed me the backroom where they made bread and wine. There was a cow’s belly, where the four stomaches used to be, tied to four poles. Inside the belly, they would put grapes and then, they would step on them - the first step towards wine-making. How delightful to see this er… ‘container’. I had heard this explanation in the bodega tour in Mendoza but they had said this was the ‘old’ practice for everything was mechanised now. I had just found a place that still did it the ‘old’ way in a cow’s belly.<br /><br />Again, I must say I was very lucky to have met such a wonderful family, entirely by chance.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 13 february 2003</span><br /><br />I stayed another day here in Tafí. Just to gain more strength.<br /><br />I visited the nearby town El Mollar which had a Parque Nacional Menhires with stone menhirs, some with carvings. It was not very impressive and not well-maintained too as many of the stones were, sadly, vandalised by amorous Argentinians proclaiming this love and that.<br /><br />I hitched a ride back to Tafí and dropped by Julio’s restaurant for a visit again. Now, he wanted to invite me to another asado with his cousin tonight. He had been very kind to me and I was very touched. Cecil’s eyes lit up when I agreed to the invitation.<br /><br />Asados. Asados. Only the Argentinians know how to make a real asado. I subsisted on more meat today. But I swear I would NOT be having another asado for a long time.<br /><br />By the end of the dinner, the family put some folkloric music on and the assorted aunts, uncles, this cousin and that, started doing folkloric dances, with swing handkerchiefs in the air and arms held high, curved like candalabras. I joined in one dance, to some applause and much delight as the ‘ambassador from China’, as I was known to them, with some clumsy, embarrassing foot-work.<br /><br />But I drew the line at cumbia. The horrible cumbia. This is happy-peppy music with repetitive POM-pom-POM-pom bass beats, highly excitable electronic tunes and LEVEL INFINITY KITSCH. It is HORRIBLE!! Unfortunately, the Andean folks love it.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-8657254887887837142003-02-06T20:22:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:23:14.539-07:0023 - Planet of the Asados (Mendoza)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Viña del Mar, CHILE to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 02 february 2003</span><br /><br />I took the day bus to Mendoza because the view across the Andes from Chile to Argentina was reputedly amazing. I sometimes had problems sleeping in night buses. But I apparently had NO PROBLEM sleeping in day buses. Go figure.<br /><br />So, while I tried my utmost best to keep my eyes open to appreciate the view, I dozed off constantly throughout the ride.<br /><br />Still, from my vague sporadic memory, I could recall, at first, layers of hazy mountains in various shades of grey, lined up one layer after another against the horizon. Then, the valley narrowed and the mountains rose up all around us, very brown, very dry. In the distance, snow was spotted on the higher continuous Andes mountains. We made a slow climb up one mountain and at one point, I counted at least 20 hair-pin turns down below. It was unnerving looking down the steep mountain and be able to trace the ribbony road.<br /><br />We soon crossed into Argentina and the spectacular Quebrada de Los Horcones, as this valley is known, continued to amaze us with its colours and peaks. But my eye-lids turned to lead soon after and I could not recall much until we cleared the mountains and passed through plains and plains of vineyards. Mendoza has a reputation for its wine production. We had arrived.<br /><br />A change of country, a change of currency, a change of ‘language’.<br /><br />In Chile, to convert Chilean pesos into Singaporean dollars, I had to (more or less) divide everything by 350, which involved a healthy multiplication table of 350, borrowing from here, carrying forward there… a lot of brain cells died in Chile. In Argentina, I simply had to (more or less) divide by two. What a relief.<br /><br />In Chile, I had to drop my ‘sh’ pronunciation in all the words with ‘y’ and ‘ll’ and changed them to a soft ‘j’ sound.<br /><br />Also, the Argentinians use ‘vos’ in place of ‘tu’ for ‘YOU’. Apparently, only the Argentinians (and maybe the Uruguayians) use ‘vos’. It does not really exist in any Spanish language books or dictionary.<br /><br />The conjugation for ‘vos’ is different from ‘tu’ for its present tense. But for the other tenses, like past tense, future tense, etc… they are the same as ‘tu’. It is as if after struggling through the present tense to create something different (just for the sake of it), the inventors of ‘vos’ decided to take a break and enjoy some mate and then, they suffered a major case of the Mañana Syndrome and never got back to figuring out the rest of the tenses for ‘vos’.<br /><br />And NOW, back in Argentina, I had to ‘sh’ more often and use ‘vos’ and its respective conjugated present tense. I was pausing more often and tongue-twisting over everything again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 03 february 2003</span><br /><br />My room-mates, Claudio, from Argentina and Yair, from Israeli, were heading to the bodegas (wine-yards and factories) to see how wine was produced. They asked if I wanted to join them.<br /><br />Claudio added he had his own wheels. Oh, vamos. ¿Como no? [Oh, let’s go. Why not?] And it was not just any car… it was a 1938 Chevrolet, in regal maroon shade and with its original horn (a deep resounding ‘MOOO’).<br /><br />We struggled to drive out of Mendoza city. We passed by the same streets a few times as Claudio made wrong turns here and there. Maybe he did it on purpose, for everywhere, nearly everyone’s eyeballs were glued to his car.<br /><br />Men driving in the opposite direction or at a right angle to us, kept their admiring eyes on the car, risking lives and limbs. Curious cyclists stopped by Claudio’s side and made inquiries about the model. Eager street window-cleaners insisted on the honour of wiping the windscreens although they had just been cleaned at the last junction. Later at the bodegas, tourists wanted to pose for a picture. The car was a chico [guy] magnet.<br /><br />We visited three bodegas. Bodega GIOL has a long history and a huge ancient wine-yard but only 10% is still functioning. The next was very exclusive, Bodega Artesania, where they claim to do everything as personal as possible, hand-picking the grapes, hand-labelling each bottle. Only two restaurants in Buenos Aires serve their wine. One could only buy their wine from this bodega and nowhere else. The third is very modern, with high-technology and metallic pipes all over. All were different and thanks to Yair’s translation (he spoke superb Spanish) to English for me, rather interesting.<br /><br />We twirled, sniffed and spread fermented grapes over our taste buds (evenly). Hmmm… looks like wine, smells like wine, tastes like wine… I wonder…<br /><br />There was an asado at my hostel that night, i.e. we ate barbecued cows. Yes!! How I missed Argentina. The excellent juicy bifes… I had indeed suffered in Chile.<br /><br />Good meat, good music, good Mendoza wine. This is the life.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 04 february 2003</span><br /><br />The lady at the tourist office had told Yair there were two buses to Puente del Inca, 6am and 10:15am. But another lady had told me there were five buses, 6am, 10:15am, 1:20pm, 3+pm, etc…<br /><br />We had, of course, overslept and missed the morning buses totally. Now, confused about the different information we were given, we called the telephone number the lady at the tourist office had given me. We were told there were buses at 6am, 10:15am and 1:20pm. Nothing more.<br /><br />We thought, how misinformed we were.<br /><br />Alright. We decided to go together and catch the 1:20pm bus. But upon arrival at the terminal, we were told there were only two buses: 6am and 10:15am. What the…!!!???<br /><br />We realised, HOW MISINFORMED WE WERE.<br /><br />We had no choice but to return to the hostel and undo all the ‘goodbyes’ we did earlier.<br /><br />I thus spent the entire day today exploring Mendoza’s city centre. Mendoza is much smaller, quieter and less polluted than Buenos Aires, with merely 700,000 inhabitants. Despite the more-than-35ºC heat, it could be pleasant to walk around at certain places, for many had trees by the sides that somehow grew in such a way that they meet with those on the opposite sides, forming a wonderful shade under the foliage. They called these the ‘tree-lined avenues’.<br /><br />The reason why Mendoza was quieter was also due to the ‘siesta time’. Nearly all the shops closed from 1pm to 5pm. How very inconvenient.<br /><br />I visited a hairdresser to maintain my slick urban look. It was interesting to compare the various experiences I had had with hairdressers in different countries.<br /><br />In China, before I knew it, the lady massaged my head, chopped my back, wrung my arms ruthlessly as part of the massage package that came with the price. Very good massages. Then, the hairdresser proceeded to do an atrocious haircut.<br /><br />In Germany, the hairdresser flipped through hair-stylist magazines to look for pictures for me to pick how I wanted my back and sides to be like. After ascertaining them, she fled to a screen behind worriedly. A long pause followed. Later, another lady came to attend to me, her head shaking. Hmmm… apparently, the first hairdresser was so nervous, uptight and traumatised that I spoke no German that she dared not cut my hair.<br /><br />In Brazil, the hairdresser had looked me up and down and asked, “Fala Português? [Speak Portuguese?]” “Não [No]” Without batting an eyelid, he nonchalantly proceeded entirely in Portuguese to explain how he would cut my hair, his hands rustling my hair (like how they did in Vidal Sassoon ads) and ending with the typical thumbs-up, “Tudo bem? [Everything OK?]” I shrugged, “Tudo bem! [Everything OK!]”. How laid-back Brazilians are.<br /><br />And now, as my hair was being cut, I got to chatting with the hairdresser and then, the owner of the saloon. By the time the cut was over, the two shampoo girls had joined in and all four wanted me to write my Chinese name for them to see, asked me why we eat rice everyday and how to say ‘kiss’ (so typical of Argentinians!) in Mandarin. Before I left, we exchanged kissies-on-the-right-cheek, hugged and wished one another eternal happiness.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Mendoza to Puente del Inca, ARGENTINA - 05 february 2003</span><br /><br />Today, having bought our tickets yesterday, Yair and I managed to drag ourselves out of the bed in the morning. We dragged Claudio along too.<br /><br />We sat in the first row. So instead of the usual view-by-the-side, we had an amazing view-in-front. This was the same route coming from Chile and as I had guiltily missed out on the scenery earlier, my eyes remained peeled the entire trip this time. It was a gorgeous journey. GORGEOUS (if I may add, with capital G, O, R, G, etc…)!!!!<br /><br />The Puente del Inca is a natural bridge formed from the calcium, sulphur and other minerals of the underground water. Years ago, a hotel had built thermal baths under the bridge. An earthquake or avalanche (I am not sure) destroyed the hotel and the abandoned thermal baths remained somewhat in ruins now. Underground water still sprouted in the baths. The rocks around were covered in yellow and white.<br /><br />Someone had once told me the Puente del Inca was not that impressive. Hey, I disagreed. Sure, it was perhaps not as impressive as his ingrown toe-nail, but I loved it here. Claudio was also a photo-buff and we spent a long time exploring the baths and under the natural bridge slowly, snapping away merrily.<br /><br />Later, we followed the abandoned rail-track towards Chile and murdered many frames with, what we hoped to be, artistic and creative shots of the railway tracks, dilapidated tunnels, using shadow and light. Ahem.<br /><br />We came upon a bridge. The pedestrian walkway had long eroded away. We decided to walk on the metal tracks slowly to cross it. Stand By Me flashbacks. Halfway through, we yelled, “¡Tren!! ¡Tren! [Train!]” and giggled away. No one would believe we are both in our late twenties.<br /><br />At midnight, despite the cold wind (altitude of Puente del Inca is 2700+m), we made our way out gingerly to the natural thermal pool near the natural bridge.<br /><br />OK, with the Andean wind blowing away, we had to be mentally STRONG to strip down quickly to our swimwear and plunge in. There was a pool which had somewhat warm water and a natural ‘jacuzzi’ which was continuously bubbling out warmer water.<br /><br />Ahhh… what I did not get to do in Villarrica, I got to do it here. And with stars, no… the entire Milky Way in the sky too. This IS the life!<br /><br />We stayed in there for a long time, dozing off at times, contemplating the Milky Way, wrinkling ourselves into prunes and soaking in the smell of rotten eggs.<br /><br />We must have been in there for an hour and a half before Yair suggested we should be heading back soon. “Vamos a salir.” [Let’s leave] was repeated for the next 2½ hours. We just COULD NOT make ourselves leave the pool. We had to be mentally MUCH STRONGER. It would be TOO COLD to get up and dry ourselves.<br /><br />Soon, more people joined us in the pool and it became difficult to leave.<br /><br />Finally, at 3am or so, I decided to JUST DO IT. I bravely took a deep breath, dashed out, nearly died of hypothermia trying to dry myself and shivered back to the hostel. Brrrr…<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Puente del Inca to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 06 february 2003</span><br /><br />As it turned out, Claudio only left the bath at 5am. And Yair, who had been the first to suggest leaving, actually stayed in there with the other late-comers until 7:30am this morning when the sun popped up. He was in the thermal pool for more than 8 hours! He was now a walking, wrinkly, stinky rotten egg.<br /><br />Claudio took the earlier bus back to Mendoza. Yair had heard there was a laguna nearby and I decided to follow him to try and find it. Just a little further from where Claudio and I had stopped yesterday, we spotted Aconcagua. I was looking for a laguna and instead, I came upon Aconcagua! What a wonderful surprise!<br /><br />Sheesh, if we had known yesterday, we would have walked further and Claudio would not have left without seeing Aconcagua. You see, Aconcagua is the highest peak in America at 6900+m.<br /><br />We were joined later by more hostel-mates, one, a Norwegian guy in his 50s. He is a mountaineer, with 18 4000+m peaks under his belt. He had arrived with a climbing team but LANCHILE had lost his bag with his climbing gear. So, his friends left to climb the peak while he remained here, waiting for his luggage to show up. And it did not appear to be showing up at all for no one at LANCHILE seemed to care.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-18354228166619999592003-02-01T20:21:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:21:54.781-07:0022 - Trisha vs. The Volcano (Santiago, Valparaiso, Vina del Mar)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Santiago, CHILE - 29 january 2003</span><br /><br />I originally had an air-ticket flying from Buenos Aires to Cancún. But apparently, during my intended time of travel later in March, Mexicana would have cancelled the route. My travel agent in Singapore had advised me to go to the nearest Mexicana office to get a re-routed ticket.<br /><br />That was why I was heading to Santiago, which was originally not my intention. I guess that was why people made plans… so that we would have something to change from.<br /><br />I awoke just as the bus passed by tiny houses with a small-town feel and entered a bus terminal. I remained seated, thinking that this was perhaps a small town before Santiago. Then, I noticed everyone was getting off. OK, joke’s over. Now take me to the REAL Santiago.<br /><br />Well, apparently, this was it. As I stumbled off with a confused look, I was accosted by a few taxi drivers. Fine, in a city with no map and a vague idea of which hostel I wanted to go to, and still very sleepy, I guess a taxi would be the solution.<br /><br />The driver suggested two hostels near the centre and he was very kind to radio back to the head office to ask them to give the hostels a call. Full, full. He drove to another hostel and knocked on the door. Full too. I proffered the telephone number of the hostel I had. Full again! Finally, after a tour de Santiago, we arrived at La Casa Roja and it was NOT full. Great, the cost of my taxi ride was nearly the cost of my hostel. But the driver was very nice.<br /><br />You can take a girl out of a city but you cannot take the city out of a girl. Give her a couple of metro lines and todo bien [everything OK]… until she came upon her first turnstile and could not locate the hole to stick her ticket through. She then wondered if she had been ‘naturised’.<br /><br />But give her another hour and the chameleon adapted faultlessly. Stony looks, no eye-contacts, brisk pace of walking amongst the suits, a need to dodge traffic (human and vehicular), no saying ‘hola’ to strangers if you did not want them to give you a suspicious look, massive breathing in of smog. Instead of settling for a cheapie-looking café that sold, yet again, pizza, empanada or hamburger, the cosmopolitan organism scrunched up her face and sniffed affectedly, “I want to eat sushi.” The girl was back in town!<br /><br />I sorted out my air-ticket stuff and wandered along the main avenue back to the centre, passing Cerro San Cristobal and Cerro Santa Lucia. Boy, it was blazing hot, more than 35°C. Like, NOW I own a scarf?<br /><br />Wonderful about Santiago are the water dispensers available on the streets. A heaven-sent in this summer heat. People were queuing to take sips. Some even took to turning on taps in drains and drinking from there or splashing their faces. Children were playing in the fountain as if it was a swimming pool.<br /><br />There were people playing chess (with time-clocks too, how exciting) at the Plaza de Armas, under a pavilion. This place must have the highest level of brain activity ever recorded at this temperature. An old man was sitting alone at his table and gave me a quizzical look to ask if I wanted to spar with him. Err… no, I cannot play Chess, I can only spell C-H-E-S-S.<br /><br />Before coming to Santiago, loads of people down south, including the Viña del Mar family, had warned me about robberies and told me to be careful here. I guess the faint STUPID sign on my forehead was still lingering. At the metro station, for example, there were warnings, telling people that it was FORBIDDEN to carry their bags on their backs. Forbidden?!? Indeed, some locals were walking with their bags in front.<br /><br />As I did not sleep well on the bus last night, at one point, I sat on a bench on Paseo Ahumada and inadvertently dozed for 40 minutes. Talk about warning me about robberies!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Santiago to Viña del Mar, CHILE - 30 january 2003</span><br /><br />With the heat, one tended to be lethargic. I sat in the shade in Plaza de Armas and turned to stone for an hour or so.<br /><br />I later visited the very good Museo del Arte Precolombiano [Museum of Pre-Colombian Art]. So far in Chile, I had not really been exposed to the cultural bits of the country. This was a good change and allowed me to revisit the potteries, sculptures, statues, jars, masks, etc… of Mexico and Peru too.<br /><br />I arrived in Viña del Mar at around 7:30pm. I was lucky for the family had just arrived home from their vacation merely half an hour earlier. Jessica then picked me up from the bus-station.<br /><br />They had asked me if I missed my parents and how often I called home. They were scandalised when I said four times in nine months. I mentioned tomorrow was Chinese New Year’s Eve. They were delighted. They made me promise to call home for this special occasion and even calculated the best time to do so (9am for 8pm in Singapore) so that everyone would be at home.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Valparaíso, Viña del Mar, CHILE - 31 january 2003</span><br /><br />Despite their multiple reminders last night, I still overslept and in the end, at 10am, Adriana had to wake me up and make me call home.<br /><br />Katya took me to Valparaíso for a quick walk around the old port town which had lost its importance after the Panama Canal was built. The town had steeper hills and ascensors which were antique rickety funiculars to reach the top of the hills. Colourful houses built on stilts could be found at the sides of the hills. It is a rather charming place.<br /><br />Adriana, Katya and I later took a stroll along the beach area of Viña del Mar to watch the fantastically orange sunset across the cloudless sky. The weather in Viña del Mar was much easier to tolerate than Santiago’s because of the fresh sea breeze.<br /><br />Viña del Mar is a modern sea-side resort town and tourism is a rather huge industry. I later learnt that because of the Argentinian economic crisis, hardly any Argentinians made their way across the Andes to Viña this year. And also because of the same crisis, the Chileans were making their way across the Andes to Argentina for their summer holidays. Viña del Mar is apparently quieter this year.<br /><br />But what was great was to stay with a family up on one of those residential hills in the outskirts of town and experience a little of their lifestyles. It was also weird to hear the family call my Chinese name for I had not heard it in a long time… and in Chile too. I was soon known as ‘La Wei Xin’.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Viña del Mar, CHILE - 01 february 2003</span><br /><br />I soon realised Adriana has the kindest heart in the world.<br /><br />Pretending to be making casual conversation, Adriana had asked me how I would cook rice. Usually plain, I had replied (just as I had told that Argentinian woman in Villarrica who refused to believe me).<br /><br />The next thing I know, plain rice was served with some delicious pork for lunch.<br /><br />Then, last evening, she asked me if we Chinese eat chicken. Of course we do. And… I was served chicken today.<br /><br />Because of the summer heat, the family did not usually take dinner, just some bread and butter known as once [eleven]. But again, through ‘casual’ conversation, she had learnt that dinner was the most important meal in our Chinese culture and so, because of me, they made sure I was fed before bed-time.<br /><br />I was SUPER touched by their gestures! Surely, I did not deserve these kind acts.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-74807766070030035242003-01-28T20:20:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:20:47.913-07:0022 - Trisha vs. The Volcano (Villarrica)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Villarrica, CHILE - 25 january 2003</span><br /><br />This morning, the sky was still cloudy but everything cleared up by noon. I could see the bottom flattish cone shape of the volcano but the top bit was still immersed in clouds.<br /><br />I spent this very beautiful summer day, walking around the town, sitting in parks and reading. Finally, ladies here were showing off their figures, whether they should or not, in skimpy, sexy summer tops. Like, NOW I own a scarf?<br /><br />From the park, I kept an eye out for the top of the volcano and when it peered from the clouds, I headed to the beach to sit by there and enjoy the view. Volcán Villarrica is one of the active volcanoes in Chile. It last erupted in 1984. The crater was smoking away sinisterly. Tomorrow, I would try and climb it.<br /><br />Well, to me, food in Chile was rather expensive. I could be Empanada Girl (empanada is meat, veggie or cheese pastry) or I could cook occasionally.<br /><br />That evening as I prepared dinner, an inquisitive Argentinian middle-aged lady hovered around the kitchen, seemingly spying on me. Finally, she confessed to trying to learn the finer tips of Chinese cooking from me.<br /><br />Who?? Me?? Er… before this trip, I DID NOT DO kitchen. I grabbed Coca-Cola from the fridge, I reached for a fruit but I DID NOT DO kitchen.<br /><br />She then asked me the name of the dish. What?? This t-h-i-n-g?? It’s called go-to-supermercado-buy-some-veggies-n-sausage-stir-fry-n-pray. I had no soy sauce, no pepper, no sesame oil, no sweet and sour sauce, no chili paste, no corn-starch, no oyster sauce, no curry powder, no BBQ sauce, no salt even… NOTHING. This must be the most bastardized Chinese cooking in the entire world.<br /><br />She pressed on, asking if I had added salt to my rice. No, rice is eaten plain. She started to frown slightly. Not even a LITTLE salt? I think she suspected that I was not being honest with her and that I was trying to keep the finer tips of Chinese cooking from her.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Villarrica, CHILE - 26 january 2003</span><br /><br />Today, Volcán Villarrica. It was perfect weather this morning when my travel agency picked me up at 6:30am. The view of pink clouds and orange sky as the sun rose behind the volcano was gorgeous.<br /><br />Our group was driven to Pucon, a more touristy town nearer to the volcano, and spent some time trying out the jackets and pants. We would be issued water-proof boots if we wanted.<br /><br />My boots had sprung two leaks so far on this trip. The leather had long withered away. Please last another three months to the end of my trip and then, they would turn eight years old, which in HUMAN years would be… eight years old, and I would write them off. They were so not water-proof and hence, I changed into these chunky ones that the company issued. They were really tough and inflexible. They seriously wanted to protect our ankles. I could hardly walk in them when heading down steps.<br /><br />At around 9am, we arrived at the base of the volcano. The sky still looked gorgeous. We had congratulated ourselves about our good fortune with the weather but the guides informed us the weather was going to turn bad soon. There was a forecast of rain and clouds. Gosh, we would never have guessed.<br /><br />Juan, one of the guides, explained that we would take the chairlift higher up and then, take about 3 to 4 hours to climb up to the crater. As this was a tourist group, we would go slow and stop every 30 or 45 minutes to drink some water, eat energy bars, apply sun-screen, take photos.<br /><br />However, the first guide leading the way, Claudio, was marching up at an incredible speed and very soon, the group was split into two. I was at the end of the first group. We zigzagged up the snow without rest. He explained to us that because of the coming foul weather, he would prefer to walk really fast. We would stop after 1 hour of hiking at a lava section, rest for 10 minutes and then, head off again. At this speed, he explained, we could summit in 2 hours. 2 hours??? Back in town, my hostel lady had said 5 hours. Then, Juan said 3 to 4 hours and now, Claudio expected us to get there in 2 hours. Those who were slow, he said, should drop back and join Juan’s group.<br /><br />At the first stop after 1 hour of climbing, we paused for a while to enjoy the view of being above the clouds. The view was incredible. We could see a few lakes from up there and right opposite us, another volcano. Some tourists joked that we would climb the other one in the afternoon.<br /><br />I barely had time for two squares of my chocolate bar before Claudio commanded, “¡Vamos! [Let’s go!]”. I waited for the rest of the ‘fast’ group to go ahead before walking behind them. Soon, the ‘fast’ group was also split into two. The rest were way up there but there were four stragglers. One German middle-aged guy, Uli, told me he would stay with me. He explained, “Rule #1 in Mountaineering: Never walk alone.”<br /><br />Well, I could cope at Uli’s pace as he was very kind to walk moderately and stop occasionally to wait for me. I was not so much winded from the climb. I was just nervous about the snow, afraid of the wind and physically very tired. We pressed on.<br /><br />Unlike glacier which was compacted snow, normal snow could give way under your weight. And with all the chunkiness on me, I sometimes could not get the momentum to climb up the next steeper step. A few times, I slipped.<br /><br />I was very inexperienced with snow. I had seen snow, of course, a few times… and I had stepped on and off snow twice or so but seriously walking up a snowy slope - first time. Yeah, I had been really deprived, hadn’t I? Just my luck to be born and raised in a tropical, sun-drenched island paradise.<br /><br />Soon, we overtook the other two stragglers - a Dutch guy and a Swiss girl. At least they were still walking together. See Rule #1 in Mountaineering. It got very cold and windy. The wind was not the sudden gusts of surprises like in Torres del Paine. It was consistent, relentless, and freezing cold.<br /><br />I fought against the icy wind and coped with the slippery, unsteady snow as best as I could. We were soon surrounded by clouds. Everything was white. I looked up and we had totally lost sight of the ‘fast’ group. Many times, I was not even sure which was the trail. There was a sense of panic rising within me.<br /><br />My hands had turned black. I had no idea what the first symptons of frostbite were and I did not wish to find out. It was only when we arrived at some exposed lava that I felt safe enough to stand on it (for, unlike snow, it would not give way easily), set my backpack down and frantically hunt for my gloves.<br /><br />Another tour group was right behind us and the tour guide of that group told us it was 15 minutes to the crater. This was excellent news! But, down below, Uli saw the Dutch guy and Swiss girl turn back. The slower group with Juan had also U-turned. Another tour group which we had passed by earlier had long disappeared from sight. It was very unnerving to stand unsteadily on a snowy slope, being whipped around by the harsh wind, unsure if you could make it up to the top safely and yet, see little dots of people heading back. And when you looked up, you could see nothing ahead for everything WAS white.<br /><br />We trailed behind the guide of this group for security and cleared the rest of the steep slope slowly until we detected the smell of sulphur. Officially, I was the LAST person of that day to arrive at the crater. Gosh, we departed from sea-level at around 8+am and reached 2800+m now!<br /><br />A Scottish lady told us that yesterday’s group had reached the crater at 1:15pm. Our group arrived at 11:10am. It had been a very punishing hike for us all. But the weather yesterday had been great.<br /><br />Surrounded by clouds, we could see nothing. The crater looked a little smokey but it could just be the moving clouds. I hugged Uli. He was my angel. Without him, I would not have made it. It was rather dangerous for the group to split up with no person officially taking on the ‘last man’ role. Uli, with his experience in mountaineering, had installed himself as so for my sake.<br /><br />After ONE empanada, Claudio commanded, “¡Vamos!” again. If I did not eat, how was I to get energy? I guessed he had to hurry for fear of the safety of the group. The weather was really terrible now. He was now alone with us. Mónica, the third guide, had long turned back with Uli’s wife before the first hour of climbing. Juan was with the second group. He made an English guy the last man this time, and then he said the slowest one would go first. That sounded like me. I was making my way forward when he called out, “Singapore! Where are you? Come!”<br /><br />I was a disaster at going down. Was it just me? Say, if you need to take a step down, the other leg would need to bend at the knee but in such a way that the shin is slightly forward, at an angle to the foot, right? But I could not get my shin forward at an angle because the chunky boots were tough. I also needed to slam with my heels down first. But, to me, the steps were too low for me to reach it with my heels down first without falling over. I just could not balance myself nor walk down. I was a complete disaster!<br /><br />My left knee, busted in Torres del Paine, returned to haunt me. My right knee simply froze up. At one point, I slipped down the slope quite a distance. Ice-axe or not, I had no idea how to use it to stop the sliding. Claudio had to come rescue me.<br /><br />We arrived at one point and Claudio said, “OK, everyone hold the ice-axe this way and slide down the slope! GO!!” We took turns and slid down. We alternated between sliding and walking. During the walking bit, I was literally dragged down the slope by Claudio.<br /><br />Sliding down was really an incredible experience. Sometimes, it was steep, we flew down effortlessly but barely able to keep in line. The wall next to us at some sections were rather high. Other times, it was not very steep and with the accumulated snow in front of our butts, we could not slide further. Momentum, if my Physics did not fail me, required mass multiplied by speed or something. With a smallish mass, I did not have the momentum to slide down some slope and needed a boost from behind. At one point, the Scottish lady attached herself behind me and together, we flew down at an amazing speed. I had no idea which was the sky, which was the snow.<br /><br />Claudio was standing at the distance and he yelled, “STOP!!”. The Scottish lady skewed to the left. I skidded to the right, only to land mere inches from a STEEP snow cliff! A Danish guy totally flew off the cliff and tumbled about 2 metres down!<br /><br />My goodness… it was really scary. Finally, at long last, we made it to the chairlift. Another Danish guy, this one with Juan’s group, was being strapped up there. He had twisted his ankle while trying to slow down at one of the slopes. He had used his ankle against the wall of the snow. Nope, guess that was not the way.<br /><br />We all lived to tell. I, barely. But all of us agreed, it was an extremely amazing experience, albeit a little dangerous too.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Villarrica, CHILE - 27 january 2003</span><br /><br />My ninth month anniversary today. Battered, busted and bruised from nine months of travelling and especially from yesterday’s tortuous climb, what should I treat myself to today? A thermal, relaxing pool in this volcanic region of Chile sounded like a splendid idea.<br /><br />The problem was the thermal pools were all out of the way, a huge distance from the main highways and hidden amidst the woods. One needed one’s own transportation. In the end, the only option open to me was to take a bus to Pucon, another bus towards Curarrehue, hop off at Catripulli and walk 2 km to Termas San Luis.<br /><br />Normally, I would not really recommend Termas San Luis for it was a like a luxurious resort and the pools were those proper swimming pool-sort. I would have preferred to bathe in a natural pool. But I had no choice.<br /><br />I got my money’s worth by submerging as long as possible in the warm mineral waters. They promised something about rejuvenation of muscles and eternal youth, didn’t they? Sulphates, chlorides, nitrates, magnesium… HEAL.<br /><br />Soon, I got to chatting with two Chilean families, one from Viña del Mar and the other from Valdivia, who were very curious about me and were delighted that I spoke some Spanish. They made many inquiries… and no, I do not know kung fu.<br /><br />The pool was rather small. At one point, I noticed that half the people at the swimming pool were chuckling and nodding away at the same time as these two families and realised nearly everyone was listening in. Sheesh…<br /><br />The Viña del Mar family gave me their contact just in case I decided to hop by Viña del Mar. The Valdivia family offered to give me a lift back to Pucon. Even standing at the gate, waiting for the Valdivia family to be ready, a few fellow pool-sharers came up to me to wish me all the best for the rest of my trip! Chileans were really sweet.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Lican Ray, Villarrica to Santiago, CHILE - 28 january 2003</span><br /><br />I decided to spend the day at a town south of Villarrica, Lican Ray. This town, although lacking a volcano view in front, had a great black sand beach, in front of Lago Calafquen.<br /><br />I had just sat down for 2 minutes before spotting the Viña del Mar family amongst the hundreds of Chilean bathers at the beach. What a coincidence!<br /><br />They were granny Adriana, daddy Enríque, wife Fabiola, daughter Katya, son Sebastian and sister of Enríque, Jessica. They were fantastic. Tremendously friendly and kind.<br /><br />They struggled with my name ‘Trisha’, for in Spanish, except for ‘h’ behind ‘c’ which forms a separate alphabet ‘ch’, ‘h’ is always silent. They twisted and tripped their tongues over it. But they had no problems with my Chinese name ‘Wei Xin’, and they pronounced merrily with the right intonation too.<br /><br />They kept encouraging me to go to Viña del Mar and that they would put me up at their house. OK, as I was going to Santiago tonight to settle some business, I would indeed make the detour to Viña del Mar for a visit. Gosh, everyone had been great to me.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-67540421455578636592003-01-24T20:19:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:19:44.371-07:0022 - Trisha vs. The Volcano (Chiloe Island)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Castro (Chiloé Island), CHILE - 21 january 2003</span><br /><br />Chiloé is an island off Puerto Montt, 50 km by 200 km, with a distinct culture compared to the rest of Chile. It has undulating green hills, peppered with sheep and cattle and it rains and rains.<br /><br />The unique thing about Chiloé are the many churches made of wood. In fact, the entire island is dotted with colourful wooden houses. The walls of the houses have what I called ‘fish-scales’ designs as pieces of wood are laid side by side across the wall and then, another section on top would overlap the bottom section a little… like ‘fish-scales’. The traditional industry on this island is, naturally, fishing.<br /><br />Very charming are the palofitos, which are wooden houses on stilts built along the banks of rivers.<br /><br />And the locals here are superbly friendly. Just a few steps from the hospedaje (some locals offer accommodations in their houses) where I was staying, I was already bouncing ‘holas’ [hello] with nearly everyone I passed. I seemed a somewhat curious sight for many did double-takes when they spotted me and then, huge smiles emerged.<br /><br />One comes to Chiloé Island to relax, soak in the charm, admire the wooden churches and houses, walk around doing nothing, enjoy the seafood. I call this place a hibernating spot.<br /><br />I bought a scarf. Why did she buy a scarf now that she had left Patagonia and was heading to the northern desert? Well, it WAS a very pretty scarf.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Parque Nacional Chiloé (Chiloé Island), CHILE - 22 january 2003</span><br /><br />Castro is on the east side of the island, facing the sheltered channels. I crossed to the west side of Chiloé to Cucao to visit the Parque Nacional Chiloé. There was a path that led one to the beach.<br /><br />I made my way there, climbed up a sand-dune and my pulse quickened as I anticipated the sight I would see. Yes, my first proper sighting of the Pacific Ocean on this trip. It looked magnificent. It had seven or eight layers of foamy waves crashing towards the empty beach. In the distance on one side, the rocky headlands looked misty and mysterious. On the other side of the beach, I could barely make out what it was for the beach seemed to stretch forever.<br /><br />Well, I had indeed hauled myself across the world to see this side of the Pacific Ocean. In a way, the Pacific Ocean, although still a third of the world away, seriously meant I was on my way home. This was the last hurdle to cross to get home and complete my year of travelling. Frankly, I did not want to cross it.<br /><br />I sat on a log at the beach, ate my lunch, observed the oyster-catchers, seagulls and other birds and pondered for a long time.<br /><br />The next path took me to the interesting forest of the national park - the Tepaul. Because of the humidity here, the forest was absolutely impenetrable. Tree trunks were covered in ferns. Fallen trees criss-crossed the entire forest. The soil was entirely grown with moss. Gosh, all national parks are different.<br /><br />One really could not say, “Oh, I have been to this one. There is no need to go to the other one.” No, they are all different. Of course, one could not visit ALL the national parks. I just appreciated each and every of them for its own characteristics.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Dalcahue (Chiloe Island), CHILE - 23 january 2003</span><br /><br />I made my way to another charming little town nearby, Dalcahue. It was a smaller town than Castro and had more of the colourful wooden houses and fishing boats. Facing the town on an island off Dalcahue was another town, Achao, which I was recommended to visit.<br /><br />I took a bus out there but apparently got off at the wrong town for later, when I returned, I saw a sign that read ‘Dalcahue’ with an arrow to the left and ‘Achao’ with an arrow to the right. Ooops.<br /><br />Still, Achao or not, it was fine by me. It also had a simple, tranquil charm. And it was smelly too, for it had a fishing industry as well. I saw bales and bales of fishing nets laid out by the beach. There were scores of black-necked swans bobbing on the sea too. What a pleasant surprise. I last saw them in the ecological reserve in Buenos Aires. They looked really regal.<br /><br />Then, I spotted a sign ‘OSTRAS’ (Oysters). Back home, oysters are so-called ‘luxury’ food items and here, they were rather cheap. Each was the size of half my palm. I happily gobbled up two.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Castro (Chiloé Island) to Villarrica, CHILE - 24 january 2003</span><br /><br />The Chile-Argentina Spanish guide-book I bought had been terrible. I only used it now and then to improve my vocabulary. I was told restaurants that had been closed for SIX years still appeared in the guide-book.<br /><br />So, without consulting it anymore (it would not have advised me anyway), I was under the misguided notion that Villarrica which I was heading next was merely 2 hours or so from Puerto Montt which was 4 hours from Castro. Nononono… It was a whooping 12 hours away from Castro. If I had known, I would have taken the night bus.<br /><br />Hence, I spent the entire day on the bus to Temuco, 10 hours away, before changing to another bus to Villarrica. I also now learnt that Chilean buses did not stop for lunch.<br /><br />Upon arrival, although still unfed since morning, I was excited to see Volcán Villarrica. I headed out to Lago Villarrica. The entire sky was cloudy. I asked a local where the volcano was and he pointed to the clouds. Right.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-59241013636817062722003-01-20T20:18:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:19:00.937-07:0021 - (Nearly) Gone with the Wind (Puerto Natales, Chilean Fjords)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Puerto Natales, CHILE - 15 january 2003</span><br /><br />Thigh muscles or no, they remained covered up, tucked behind, layered in the cold and windy Puerto Natales. But after the wind in Torres del Paine, nonono… I shall not complain about the wind in Puerto Natales.<br /><br />My pants, unwashed since a few weeks before I left Buenos Aires, could probably stand on their own now. My socks… dare I admit they are mine? I left them to the professionals.<br /><br />I had some leftover bread from my hike. I remembered there were many stray dogs all over Puerto Natales, hiding from the wind and searching for food-scraps. I would feed them with my bread. But it was always the case, wasn’t it? Now, armed with bread, I could not find the dogs.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt, CHILE - 16 january 2003</span><br /><br />I made another attempt covering more blocks to find the famished dogs and managed to toss the bread to some dogs today.<br /><br />I would take the Navimag ferry this evening. It would be a three-night cruise through the Chilean fjords, arriving at Puerto Montt on Monday morning. Coincidentally, Koen and his girlfriend (who had skipped the Torres del Paine) would also be taking the same ferry. He had pointed out, “I heard it will be cold on the cruise.”<br /><br />R-E-A-L-L-Y????? C-O-L-D in PATAGONIA?? Who would have imagined THAT???<br /><br />We were told we could board by 9pm. But it was later dragged to 11:30pm. And finally, at 12:30am, we climbed onboard the ferry.<br /><br />There was some mayhem at the storage area as a long truck had overturned. This was going to take a while…<br /><br />We were all booked for Cabin ‘C’. ‘C’ for CONTAINER?, we feared. Nah, we had a little comfortable bed with curtains for privacy and a locker for our bag. Nice. We wondered if we would get a chance to dine at the captain’s table though.<br /><br />I explored the ferry. Dining room was self-service and utilitarian, with plastic chairs and tables. No freaky chandeliers. No thick-woven Persian carpets. No Greek naked statues. No gold-guilded curved stairways. No stupid fountains. Wait, I was unable to locate the sun-deck, swimming pool and the mini golf-course.<br /><br />A middle-aged tourist was verbally abusing a hapless crew-member and passing snide, sarcastic remarks. “Where’s my baggage?? Can I get it tonight? Tomorrow, maybe? This year??? Huh?? I WANT TO GET TO BED! Hey! Hey! That’s MY CABIN! What do YOU want?!!”<br /><br />I re-entered my 22-man ‘C’ cabin and another middle-aged tourist asked me in a tired but worried tone, “Do you know WHEN we can get our baggage?”<br /><br />Paradigm shift, geezers. Who is the one going to bed? You or your baggage? If you are here, the bed is here… GO TO BED!<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">To Puerto Montt, CHILE - 17 january 2003</span><br /><br />We awoke this morning and found that we were still tethered to Puerto Natales. We did not awake voluntarily. We had all slept early this morning but the breakfast announcement said that breakfast was only served between 8 and 9am. Just 1 hour. So, we all dragged ourselves up to chomp down some food, and headed back to bed.<br /><br />We finally left at around 10+am. Gisela, the middle-aged tourist sleeping below me totally missed breakfast. She claimed she did not hear the announcement because of her GOOD ear-plugs. OK, another fancy-gear alert.<br /><br />We passed by the narrowest strait today. The crew tried to get us all excited about it. This section was 80 metres wide and could only be attempted in daylight. It was thoroughly COLD and WET standing at the deck to witness this ‘memorable’ moment. We later passed by a glacier that came nearly down to the fjords too.<br /><br />Somehow, I had expected the scenery to be with deeper fjords and more dramatic gorges, maybe even with ice-bergs floating around. But it was generally flattish and roundish green islands scattered here and there along the channels. Well, if you have watched ‘Titanic’, maybe having no ice-bergs around is a GOOD thing.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">To Puerto Montt, CHILE - 18 january 2003</span><br /><br />Gisela’s alarm clock beeped for an eternity. Guess she did not want to miss breakfast today. But, what happens when you pitch a GOOD alarm clock against GOOD ear-plugs? The whole cabin woke up except the intended.<br /><br />We passed by Puerto Eden today. This is a port-town with a population of about 200 people and their only contact with the outside world is via the Navimag ferries.<br /><br />This bleak port-town, located in this icy-cold, wind-swept, forever rainy, impossible channels of the Chilean fjords contained the last few remaining people (about 10) of the Kawascar indigeneous race. It was so sad to hear that a particular human race was about to be extinct. Actually, there are several other races down south in Tierra del Fuego which are extinct or on the verge of disappearing too.<br /><br />The Navimag ferries provide them with some supplies and take those in need of medical help to Puerto Natales or Puerto Montt. Many boats rowed out towards the ferry to meet us. With pattering rain on my face and my frozen nose about to fall off, I could only stand there in the rain and admire the resilience and adaptability of the people living out here.<br /><br />Later, we passed by an abandoned rusty ship which had run aground 30 or 40 years ago. Again, this was another moment the crew got us all excited about. I stood inside by the window and waited for the rusty ship. Then, I got impatient and went out.<br /><br />It was so easy to type ‘went out’ but it took a lot of force, heaving and shoving, to push the door open against the ferocious wind. I was out there for 20 seconds and had to force the door (the handle outside was barely held in place) open again. I re-entered clumsily and now looked like a soaked chicken.<br /><br />We would cross the aptly named Golf de Penas (Gulf of Pains) tonight. This is the only section where we had to sail around a peninsula, across a gulf and then on open sea around the peninsula before heading back into the channels. This was the legendary bit of the cruise. The pukability meter would rank high tonight.<br /><br />We were watching ‘The Matrix’ when IT began. The slow, continuous swaying of the boat, the special high-tech effects of the movie as we traversed through wormholes and into virtual reality and the ‘charm’ of Keanu Reeves, one got nauseous really quickly. Many left before the movie ended.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">To Puerto Montt, CHILE - 19 january 2003</span><br /><br />There was a loud crash in the middle of the night and everyone woke up. The swaying and rocking had gotten worse through the night. Some people feared the worst. Gisela started to panic and demanded to know from a crew-member if a truck tied to the ferry had fallen down. No, it was probably much worse, dear. Then, she insisted that if there was a fire on the ferry, they MUST sound the alarm and let us know. OK, but if you continue to wear those GOOD ear-plugs…<br /><br />By breakfast, I staggered, held onto beams and walls and made my way to the dining-room. A section of the ceiling was on the floor. All the tables and chairs were tied up. We were getting sandwiches today, nothing of the sumptuous breakfast we had had yesterday.<br /><br />I looked out through the window. The entire view showed the sea one moment and then, the ship rocked to reveal the sky the next. I felt woozy and headed back to bed. Lying down, one seemed to cope better.<br /><br />By lunch, in order not to let my new muscles waste away, I again made my way to the dining-room for some exercise. At one point, a surreal scene happened in front of me that seemed to be in slow-motion. It looked unreal. Tables skidded and people fell off their chairs. Food flew. Beets spattered. Oranges rolled. Beef-steaks slid across the room. Rice scattered. Even after it was over, I still could not register this scene properly. It felt like all of us were in orbit, floating around.<br /><br />After lunch, I stared out of the window again and observed the waves. Everything indeed was in slow-motion. The swelling and troughing of the waves, the breaking of the waves, the spreading of the waves, the rocking of the ferry… everything took its time and appeared to be placid and peaceful. It was so surreal. But, now that they had fed me, maybe I should not be staring at the waves.<br /><br />We finally re-entered the channels late afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Puerto Montt to Castro (Chiloé Island), CHILE - 20 january 2003</span><br /><br />Miyako, a Japanese lady travelling alone, joined me at lunch again. She is very sweet and nice but we could not really communicate for her English was rather bad and my Japanese was limited to ‘Arigato’ and ‘Sayonara’. Half the time, she gave me blank looks and I was never sure if she understood what I was saying. Most of the time, she did not talk to me but when she did, she used sporadic words and some noises disguised as words and I usually did not understand her.<br /><br />With her, came an elderly Japanese man surgically attached to his Sony digi-cam. This one spoke neither English nor Spanish.<br /><br />With him, came another Japanese young guy who now lives in London. He could speak English but was rather shy and did not have much to say to me.<br /><br />So, together, we formed ‘little Asia’ at the dining-room. As three of them chatted away in Japanese, nodded earnestly and took photographs, I ate up my lunch in silence. Next to me sat two Mexicans, conversing in Spanish. This was so funny. I looked like the Japanese but I could not understand a word. Yet, I could understand 80% of what the Mexicans were talking about and I very much wanted to join in their conversation. However, they were trying their best to ignore ‘little Asia’, especially Grandpa Sony who was filming his lunch for the third time.<br /><br />We finally docked at Puerto Montt around 4pm. We bid farewells to those we got to know on the boat and everyone headed to the bus terminal to catch a bus out rightaway. I journeyed straight to Castro, a town in the middle of a nearby island, Chiloé. The rain pattered on…aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-57938062284508494682003-01-14T20:17:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:17:57.788-07:0021 - (Nearly) Gone with the Wind (Parque Nacional Torres del Paine)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Puerto Natales to Torres del Paine, CHILE - 10 january 2003</span><br /><br />I would be attempting to do the ‘W’ circuit of Torres del Paine. Allow me to elaborate a little on the ‘W’ circuit.<br /><br />Starting from right to left of the alphabet ‘W’, the first vertical section up is to view the three famous towering, near-vertical mountains that give the name Torres del Paine the ‘Torres’ bit for they are called Las Torres [The Towers]. This would be, to many, the HIGHLIGHT of their hike here.<br /><br />Then, one heads west, walking the horizontal bit of the ‘W’. After that, the second vertical section is along Valle de Francés, where one could see beautiful ranges of mountains, including the unique-looking Los Cuernos [The Horns].<br /><br />Finally, after heading west again and up to the third vertical section of ‘W’, one can see the impressive Glacier Grey. At the bottom of this third vertical section is Refugio Pehoe where one can take a boat ride back to Refugio Pudeto to catch a bus back to Puerto Natales.<br /><br />As for me, I had no idea which portion I could complete. I just told myself, I would do as much as I could. I knew I had to haul myself to the Refugio Pehoe eventually. That was the promise I made to myself. Hey, this was a vacation for me. Not a race. Not an expedition. I was not one of those Goretex-attired-SuperHikers-on-steroids. I did not need to over-achieve. Just stay alive.<br /><br />Somehow, three of us single hikers, Koen from Netherlands, Angela from Brazil and I, met on the bus, pitched our tents nearby one another and seemed to have a tacit agreement to try and do the Las Torres section together today.<br /><br />We were on the wrong track 10 minutes into the trail as we appeared to be heading towards Los Cuernos instead. We had to retrace our steps and follow others heading up a gravel slope. I had been warned that the first 2 hours of this trail was difficult, uphill all the way. We made our way up slowly. I eyed each orange-marked pole as a finishing line, personally congratulating myself whenever I crossed one.<br /><br />It was slow plodding uphill. I guess the scary thing about Torre del Paine was the WIND. So many times, especially when I had one foot in the air, about to take a step, I would be blown off-track and would stumble off the trail. Then, it got worse as I literally felt like I was being blown away, even with two feet on the ground. After each sudden gust, I ended up standing on tip-toe and flailing my arms around to try to return my heels back to Earth! My jacket flapped around noisily. I felt like a kite, barely held down by the invisible string of gravity and I did not have much confidence in gravity anymore.<br /><br />We all walked at an angle against the wind. But suddenly, the wind would stop and we would stumble forward in surprise. Good thing we did not fall flat on our faces. Little grains of sand were blown into our eyes all the time. Sometimes, it was best NOT to fight the wind and to just stand there, balance ourselves, have our faces turned away from the flying grains, and wait for the wind to stop.<br /><br />Upon reaching Refugio Chileno, we had a brief stop and looked up ahead. Las Torres were heavily shrouded in clouds in the background. Koen, Angela and I merely rested half an hour before heading up the next section.<br /><br />Ooo, fancy-gear alert! Koen had a straw-filter thingie which he could place it in the river and suck up water through it, filtering the water right there and then. If you ask me, why filter glacial water? I joked with him that the straw probably contaminated the water!<br /><br />This section was easier through sheltered woods and some exposed rocky plains. Still, the wind was relentless. My fingers felt numb from the wind. It did not help that it started to snow and rain hailstones as well.<br /><br />By the final section, the sign read ‘45 MINUTOS’ to the Mirador. How could anyone turn back now? This was the most difficult part of the trek today as there was a lot of scrambling up rocks which were unsheltered from the woods. Normally, one might rock-hop. But here, imagine, you have one foot on one rock and about to leap to the next and then, a strong gust of wind (here, it might reach more than 100kms/hr, I read) from any direction, arrives, you either crash backwards and crack your skull… or you pitch forward and crack your skull. Either way, you become veggie… if you are lucky.<br /><br />I tried to keep my centre of gravity low but I could not duck-walk my way up to Las Torres. I crouched forward and kept my hands in front to ensure that I had some cushioning effect. A few times, I was indeed blown against some huge boulders suddenly and barely prevented being a nasty crash-test-dummy subject.<br /><br />Finally, at the top, pantingly, I looked up and saw… POETRY. Las Torres stood there, waiting for me, and had commanded the clouds to disappear on time. I could not believe the stunning sight before me. The grandeur of it all was surreal. I was speechless. My eyes smarted with tears. (I am getting so emotional now, I know.) I gaped with my jaws open. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” was all I could utter as I stumbled around the remaining rocks. I made eye contact with a few people up there and everyone just grinned and nodded. We made it. It was tremendously awe-inspiring.<br /><br />I guess, for Mount Fitzroy, throughout the hike, one could see it. One was just getting closer and closer to it. But Las Torres remained half-hidden or totally out-of-sight the entire hike, revealing themselves only to those who made it this far. So, the reward was greater, more mind-blowing. I tottered around at the pass as the wind whipped me around like a rag-doll.<br /><br />Koen was making his lunch there in a so-called ‘sheltered’ place. I joined him. I could not tear my eyes away from Las Torres. It was snowing all around me. Las Torres are so steep no snow stuck to them. This was the second time I had seen falling snow in my life. Oh, what a special moment!<br /><br />Too bad I could not stay up there for long because of the wind. My fingers were numblingly ice-cold. I was wearing two fleece jackets and a wind-breaker and yet I was shivering and my teeth were chattering away.<br /><br />Some people do the ‘W’ circuit from left to right, leaving Las Torres at the end, calling it ‘Saving the BEST for LAST’. For me, not knowing which day of my trek I might perish in Torres del Paine, it was better to save the BEST for FIRST, just to be sure.<br /><br />We finally returned to our camp-site by 8pm. My tent and Angela’s had been devastated by the wind. Koen’s still stood upright though.<br /><br />When I studied the wreckage, I realised the savage wind had snapped two of my poles at the pole-connectors! Gosh! Duct-tape, please.<br />Cooking dinner was an ordeal. I placed a rock on top of the lid of my pot to prevent the lid from flying. The wind still managed to lift the rock and sweep the lid into the far distance. The rock then plunged into my pot of rice.<br /><br />My tent was higher on one end, enough height for a person to sit and then it tapered down at the other end. I was sleeping with my head at the higher end and yet that night, the wind blew my tent so low, I was kissing it. No kidding.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Torres del Paine, CHILE - 11 january 2003</span><br /><br />The first hour or so of the hike today was pretty easy, on flattish plains. But I did not appreciate it then, for I was constantly struggling with and thinking about my full backpack.<br /><br />We came upon the turqoise-coloured Lake Nordenskjold. It looked so calm and perfect. We took a moment to savour the amazing view before plodding off. Another hour passed before I found an excellent spot under some incredible mountains for a bite of lunch.<br /><br />As I knew my limitations, whenever I heard noises behind me, I stopped to let the other hikers pass. Everyone overtook me. I overtook no one. It was a nice and peaceful walk along the trails, getting used to my backpack… until we came upon a cascade.<br /><br />Everyone stopped and puzzled over it. There MUST be a simple way to hop across it. Several headed further up or down the bank to analyse the rocks. Nope, no way out… boots off!<br /><br />I placed my bare feet in the glacial-cold running water. Gosh, the water forces were strong and the rocks slippery. Again, I realised I could not just walk across the cascade for my centre of gravity was high and any mis-step might tumble me down the river. I decided to crouch low and keep one hand on the boulders with the rushing cold water as I crab-walked my way across.<br /><br />I numbed my mind and tried not to think of the tiredness, the wobbly legs, the burden behind me. I just focused on the next section of the path I could see before me and targetted at getting there. I kept looking out for a peninsula at the lake, for, from the map, I knew if I passed it, I would have about 1 more hour of walking to get to Refugio Los Cuernos.<br /><br />Indeed, I finally spotted the peninsula and took another breather there to appreciate the lake before me. The lake appeared to be less calm now, compared to earlier. I saw countless waves generating from the centre of the lake.<br /><br />I grew really tired. I knew I had to keep it all mental. It was all up here in my head. Just keep telling myself that I could do it and I would be able to do it. I walked slowly around bends of mountains, across shrublands, up and down slopes. I kept my head down most of the time to try and concentrate on conquering each section of the trail.<br /><br />Suddenly, for no reason, I looked up and gasped. I was nearly floored by the majestically silent Los Cuernos. For how long they had been looking upon me, I had no idea.<br /><br />This range of mountains was as impressive as Las Torres but more unique. The mountains had three sections of colours. The top and bottom sections are black: sedimentary rocks. The middle section is grey: granite. One fine day, a couple of years (at least) ago, the granite came and thrust up through the sedimentary rock, taking the top bit along. And so, Los Cuernos exist to quicken your pulse-beats just a little. Really Impressive!<br /><br />The going got tougher after this. The wind was getting more savage and vicious. Once, with my full backpack of tent, sleeping bag, 4 days’ of food, and BOTH feet on the ground, I was blown two inches off towards the drop-off and it was a STEEP drop-off! I was spooked and many cuss words flew.<br /><br />Many times, I would tumble into bushes or fall on rocks suddenly because of the tossing wind. The lake was perhaps 100 to 150 metres below us and yet, when the wind whipped up the water, I could literally see the sprays fly and twist up from the lake like a tornado and coming down on us as rain.<br /><br />I was so desperate even ONE SKINNY TREE was considered as a shelter. Whenever I could feel, hear or see the wind coming, I tried to get myself to one of these ‘shelters’. Sometimes, it was not possible and I just had to try and maintain my balance desperately. I was alone and I did not fancy being blown backwards and landing on my backpack, like a turn-turtle for no one would be able to help me! I muttered some Buddhist prayers during these moments.<br /><br />Oftentimes, around a bend, downslope, on a slippery rocky path, with wobbly legs, I had to wait for the wind to die down momentarily and psyche myself to make the walk round the bend quickly, without being blown off into the abyss. “OK, now! Go!”<br /><br />Finally, I arrived at Refugio Los Cuernos just as it started to pour. Gosh, at the refugio, even full-grown men were complaining about being blown off the trails! I met up with Koen who had been there for an hour and Angela who arrived just a little after me. Koen left soon in the rain. Angela and I busied ourselves resting.<br /><br />We left after a while with two Israeli guys. I had put a rain-cover on my backpack to protect it from the rain but I had actually inadvertently just converted my backpack into a SAIL. The wind caught the rain-cover and unable to blow right through, took me along and tossed me repeatedly. It was worse at one section as we were right on the beach, next to the lake. I had to remove it in the end.<br /><br />The last 2 hours were the toughest for me. Hurben, the guy at my hostel, had pointed out, “You can camp at Refugio Los Cuernos or you can walk a bit more to Camp Italiano, free camping.” A BIT MORE, my foot!! It felt like an eternity! There was a lot more uphill on this section and after so many hours of walking and fighting against the wind, it was not appreciated at all.<br /><br />I was actually very glad that the two Israeli guys were kind enough to wait for Angela and I and help us along the route, giving us a hand at the steeper portions. I guess, by then, I was quite used to the weight of the backpack and did not think about it anymore. I just concentrated on worrying about the wind.<br /><br />I finally staggered, into Camp Italiano at 8pm, extremely fatigued… but incredibly relieved. Koen had to help me with my tent for I was just staring into space like a veggie.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Torres del Paine, CHILE - 12 january 2003</span><br /><br />It was only today that I took a good look around Camp Italiano and had to agree that this was a great campsite. It was very sheltered, the wind was not as bad as the first campsite. There was a beautiful rushing river in front of us. Behind us were the incredible Los Cuernos. Wonderful locale.<br /><br />Lots of people at the campsite were now complaining of sore backs, busted knees and twisted ankles. Maybe Torres del Paine is a mis-print. It should have been Torres del PAIN.<br /><br />Koen and I took an early slow walk up through the Valle de Francés. There was a stunning snow-covered mountain with melting glacier right next to the path. Hence, there were magnificent views throughout as we meandered next to the river on the rocks or through the forests to try and get behind this mountain.<br /><br />After about 3 hours, we finally arrived at the Mirador. Surrounding us, nearly 300 degrees of view, was a near-continuous range of extra-ordinary mountains. I spun slowly clock-wise, soaking in the amazing view. It was a symphony. What a reward!<br /><br />There was not much room at the Mirador and when it started to fill up with people, we made our descent.<br /><br />Now, suddenly, my busted left knee just would not cooperate with me. It was painful to bend it. I had probably twisted it when I was blown around yesterday. It was very, very difficult for me to walk down the valley now. I tried to keep my knee straight as far as possible. I cringed in pain whenever I bent it.<br /><br />It took me forever to arrive back at the campsite. I had wanted to go on to Refugio Pehoe today, which was reportedly 2½ hours away but Koen suggested I should rest today. Yeah, it had been like a race the last two days, hurrying to the towers and back and then, too windy and freezing cold to enjoy dinner and yesterday… need I say more? This was a holiday for us. Hooray Hooray, it’s a holi-holiday, we reminded ourselves.<br /><br />We stayed one more night at this great campsite, made tea, cooked dinner, chatted with other hikers. It was a very pleasant evening.<br /><br />Then, it rained.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Torres del Paine, CHILE - 13 january 2003</span><br /><br />It was still raining and rather windy this morning. I got up to pee. Koen, who had wanted to catch the 10am boat from Refugio Pehoe, said he would leave at 8am this morning. I looked. Indeed, his tent was gone. I returned to my tent and made breakfast. Then, with nothing else to do, I returned to sleep.<br /><br />I woke up at around 1pm and listened. It was still pattering away quietly but there was NO WIND. I peeped out. Several tents were gone now. I knew I had to take advantage of the lack of wind to pack. For if it was windy and I was alone, it would be difficult to pack the tent.<br /><br />I shoved everything into my backpack in half an hour’s time and left in the rain. The route was muddy and slippery. I realised I still had a little phobia of the wind. But this route was just through undulating, gentle hills and swampy places with board-walks. Nothing as tough as Day 2.<br /><br />2½ shivering-cold hours of walking in the cold rain with numb fingers and muddy wet boots was just about enough for today. The minute I arrived at Refugio Pehoe, I knew I was not going anywhere anymore. I found a sheltered spot and hurriedly pitched my tent.<br /><br />Just when I finished it, I realised hoards of tourists, many on guided trips, were arriving at that moment and there was a mad scramble for camping spots. Where did they all come from?<br /><br />A group of French tourists on a guided trip hovered near my tent and envied my choice-spot. They then pitched their tents all around me. There was even a dining-room tent with tables and chairs inside.<br /><br />The rain continued incessantly. Everything was wet and cold. After making dinner inside my tent, I just sat there and tried to keep warm while I waited for nightfall. Meanwhile, the French had their four-course dinner served, drank some Bordeaux wine and chatted about bonbons and champignons in the dining-room tent.<br /><br />That night, I wore my two fleece jackets to sleep. I felt very warm and claustrophobic. In fact, I felt as if I was perspiring profusely. Yet, I was shivering non-stop. WHY? I do not understand COLD! Beam me back to Brazil, Scottie.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Torres del Paine to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 14 january 2003</span><br /><br />After nearly 24 hours of rain, I woke up to a beautiful blue sky and a bright sunny day. I even found 5000 Chilean Pesos (about US$7) near my tent. Some discerning readers might think I lost that 5000 Pesos myself last evening. But I could account for all of my pesos. It might be the 5000 Pesos I used to pay for the campsite (3000 Pesos). If so, the guy collecting the payment lost it. Or it might be dropped by one of the French tourists. Viva la France.<br /><br />It was actually great weather for hiking today. But I just had no inclination to do the last bit to see Glacier Grey. I was exhausted. I had already achieved beyond my wildest expectation and lived to see Refugio Pehoe.<br /><br />Taking advantage of the bright clear sky, I knew there would be a great view on the boat-ride to Refugio Pudeto and quickly took the 10am boat. Ah, just as I had hoped, Los Cuernos, seen from various angles, remained just as majestic and astounding.<br /><br />A hiker was transported back on the same boat on a stretcher and in a neck-brace.<br /><br />Sheesh… Having a neck-brace meant she did not just trip over a rock and fall. She FELL a large distance, probably tumbling down a mountain, I reckoned. The wind… It was indeed dangerous.<br /><br />I stayed on at Refugio Pudeto until 2:30pm for my bus back to Puerto Natales. There was another boat leaving from Refugio Pehoe at 12:30pm which, by right, I could catch it and still be in time for my bus. But, guess what? By 12:30pm, the entire sky had turned cloudy and there was not a stitch of blue left in the sky. Los Cuernos was lost in the clouds by then. I was lucky.<br /><br />It started to rain again after I got on my bus. The weather changed so quickly here. I had wanted to take a picture of a guanaco during my hike. I had seen several of them on the bus ride coming into Torres del Paine and now, on the ride out, I spotted them again. Guess they did not do the ‘W’ circuit.<br /><br />Well, I was mighty pleased that I did the hike by myself and safely too. Can’t wait to rip off my pants and check out my new thigh muscles!aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-70723952607447202512003-01-09T20:16:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:16:51.597-07:0020 - Where the Penguins Roam (Puerto Natales, El Chalten, El Calafate)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Punta Arenas to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 03 january 2003</span><br /><br />The Germans were heading to Ushuaia today and I, to Puerto Natales. Kai and Udo had been in Punta Arenas for two weeks, waiting for Kai’s new passport. He had carelessly left it on a bus, two weeks into their trip. They were here so long they seemed to be running the hostel, for the hostel guys, Caco and Jorge, were hardly ever around.<br /><br />The hostel guys would appear suddenly to fetch something from their rooms, exchange a few quick words with us and disappear. They would return at perhaps 10+pm and ask us to wake them up at 12 midnight so that they could go out to party. They were supposed to be at the bus-station all day, hoping to bait a tourist, like what they did me. Only last night did we have new guests but they were walk-ins.<br /><br />We all seriously wondered if Caco could manage the hostel with the Germans gone. Just after they left for the bus-station, I asked Caco if he had taken the keys back from the Germans. He let out a scream and ran out to chase after the Germans. Later, he returned with the keys and pantingly told me that when the hostel was opened two months ago, he had twelve keys, and now, only three were left. Yeah, we should not worry, they would do a good job running their hostel.<br /><br />I arrived at a yet another very windy and cold Chilean town, Puerto Natales. Maybe even windier and colder than what I remembered of Punta Arenas. And this was supposed to be SUMMER!<br /><br />I made arrangements for my boat trip to Puerto Montt by ferry in two weeks’ time and had a discussion with Hurben, my hostel owner, about the Torres del Paine hike. He suggested I do it alone by renting a tent and a stove and bringing my own food. Urrmmm… I was not sure if I could do it but I would worry about that later. Tomorrow, I wanted to cross back into Argentina to visit a few places first, before returning to do the Torres del Paine trek.<br /><br />When I was out about in town, I could not really go far for the wind was really very strong. It was better to stay huddled in a café or the hostel. At a café, I overheard a group of Western tourists, very seriously and studiously discussing the Torres del Paine hike, commenting about ‘4 hours on this trail’, and ‘the contours looked steep here’.<br /><br />Actually, for a while now, since I arrived in Punta Arenas, I had already began to feel that the backpackers here appeared to be all out for an expedition, very equipped for trekking. Afterall, they had flown all the way from Europe purely to do some serious hikings. Most had gigantic backpacks, with rolled-up tents, mattresses, warm sleeping bags and other high-tech gears tied to them. Many also had the mean-looking walking poles, which if not used properly, could take an eye or two out. At every free time, they could be spotted poring over hiking maps, mapping out trails and discussing their routes. All very SERIOUS.<br /><br />I bit into my bread and considered about ME. Gee… I, thoroughly ill-equipped, seemed to be heading off to do some trekking with nothing but a backpack of optimism.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Puerto Natales, CHILE to El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 04 january 2003</span><br /><br />Long day of travel today as I crossed the border back to Argentina. Strange that after the border, the clouds disappeared and the sky was beautifully blue. A huge difference from Puerto Natales.<br /><br />We stopped at a toilet / snack stop in the middle of nowhere. I know I am repeating myself but the wind was really, really vicious. I did not walk back to the bus later. I kinda floated-landed-floated-landed.<br /><br />As I looked out of the window and saw the whipping wind thrashing the scrublands, I realised this must be the part of the world where the locals had twenty different names for ‘wind’ and if I mentioned ‘árbol’ [tree] to them, they would need to look it up in the dictionary for they had long forgotten that trees exist on this planet.<br /><br />We arrived at El Calafate, near the famous Argentinian glaciers, 7½ hours later. I bought another bus-ticket out to El Chaltén later this evening. Again, the journey to El Chaltén was through barren, wind-swept moonscape. However, the sky was so crisp and clear that day that when we were perhaps more than 100 km from El Chaltén, we were able to spot some sudden pointy intrusions from the plains - the mountains of Cerro Torres and Fitzroy in the distance.<br /><br />Gosh, they were just spectacular, even from such a distance. Amidst the flatlands, it was weird to see such sharp peaks jutting out suddenly. That was why some mountains were named after impressive figures of our past and others are simply known as ‘mere mountains’.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">El Chaltén, ARGENTINA - 05 january 2003</span><br /><br />Such was my luck that today, the selected day for my hike to view Mount Fitzroy, it was cloudy the entire morning.<br /><br />The clouds nested around Mount Fitzroy the entire time I was heading towards it, never quite lifting away. I was walking with Britta, a Canadian, who did not mind some company. The majority of the hike was through rather easy flattish woods. It was gorgeous all around, with pine trees and reddish shrubs and glaciers and snowy mountains in the distance.<br /><br />The last bit of the hike, about 1 hour or so, was up a hill, rather steep and stony the entire way. I got really winded in a while. Seriously, can I do the Torres del Paine hike by myself?<br /><br />But, naturally, once you reached the top, the reward was stupendous and you forget all the pains and troubles at once. Mount Fitzroy and company were picture-perfect behind Lago a los Tres, a glacier lake. OK, they would be picture-perfect if the clouds would lift. We stayed up there for more than an hour, basking in the radiant beauty of the surrounding mountains and the icy lake, waiting and waiting for the clouds.<br /><br />Finally, we did a few snappies, filled up our bottles with glacier water and embarked on the walk down.<br /><br />On the way back, we kept turning around to look at Mount Fitzroy. Slowly, the clouds WERE lifting! At each strategic spot, we took a picture, just in case this was the BEST Mount Fitzroy we could get. Actually, by then, I thought, with the clouds almost floating away, some parts of it clinging to the mountain, the tail-ends of it fluttering in the wind, somewhat caressing the sky… it actually made Mount Fitzroy look alive!<br /><br />In the end, we probably had enough Mount Fitzroy photos to last a lifetime. Well, I was thoroughly impressed by the immense beauty of the park. Gosh, how can you NOT LOVE this country!!! No wonder they make great calendars.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">El Chaltén to El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 06 january 2003</span><br /><br />Today, heading out of El Chaltén, the sky was once again clear, cloudless and wondrously blue. Oh well. Mount Fitzroy posed eternally and stoically in the background as I departed.<br /><br />Back in El Calafate that afternoon, I walked around the touristy little town and poked my nose into those touristy little shops selling touristy little souvenirs.<br /><br />Now back in Argentina, which was cheaper than Chile, I decided to purchase some grocery supplies for my Torres del Paine hike which I still was not sure if I could do it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">El Calafate, ARGENTINA - 07 january 2003</span><br /><br />I joined an excursion to do a minitrekking on Perito Moreno Glacier today. We were all bundled into a huge tourist bus and it spun through the woods and mountains for about 2 hours before turning a corner and lo and behold, the VERY IMPRESSIVE Perito Moreno Glacier stretched out ahead of us! What a VIEW!<br /><br />Then, we were transported to a ferry that brought us to the western end of the glacier.<br /><br />We were met by dashing-looking glacier-trekking guides. All of them were wearing cool sun-shades, were dressed in cool blue jackets, were slightly unshaven. They were just posing by the rocks, muttering ‘Buen dia’ [Good morning] and ‘Hola’ [Hello] and looking dashing.<br /><br />They reminded me of the dashing-looking abseiling guides I had in Bonito, Brazil. Guess it came with the job description… Only the dashing-lookings need apply.<br /><br />Luki, our English-speaking and dashing-looking guide, proceeded to explain how glaciers are formed to us English-speakers. The group of ice here in Southern Patagonia is the third largest in the world, after Antarctica and Greenland. The ice here is not very old, perhaps four or five centuries old, but it was difficult to estimate. See? Despite being slightly distracted, I paid attention.<br /><br />Just then, we heard a crack and a groan and some chunks of ice fell off round the corner. It created a series of waves that washed up to our feet.<br /><br />We donned crampons and followed José, another dashing-looking dude, up the undulating ice. It was not very difficult to walk on ice, with crampons. Just stomp around. It was better to walk with feet apart and flat-down.<br /><br />Occasionally, there were deep, blue, beautiful crevices or holes inside the glacier. The ‘blueness’ was an optical illusion caused by the lack of oxygen in the ice further below.<br /><br />When we were done, we were brought to another viewpoint right in front of the HUGE glacier. It was really very impressive. How blue it all looked. I could not believe I was staring right at a glacier!! I had long since run out of adjectives. I waited for the chance to see a whole wall of ice fall off. So, whenever there was a crack and a groan, we all looked around desperately, “Where? Where?” It was a AMAZING excursion. I probably had enough glacier photos to last two lifetimes.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">El Calafate, ARGENTINA to Puerto Natales, CHILE - 08 january 2003</span><br /><br />We crossed the border back to Chile. The Customs guys at the Chilean border wanted to check our bags. Ooops. We were not supposed to bring in fruits, meat and some stuff. I was not sure if the groceries I picked up were alright. He rummaged through my bag, fondled my cans of pate and my packet of rice and said nothing. He missed my carton of Dulce de leche (but of course!). Phew.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Puerto Natales, CHILE - 09 january 2003</span><br /><br />I bought more groceries, rented a one-man tent and a stove, shopped around and found a cheap canister of gas and shoved everything into my backpack. Yet, I still was not sure if I could do the Torres del Paine hike myself.<br /><br />By evening, I chatted with a Swiss couple, Thomas and Silvie, and a Dutch girl, Hannake, in the hostel. Thomas and Silvie were also heading to Torres del Paine tomorrow. Hanna was waiting for some Dutch friends to show up tonight and they would hit Torres del Paine the day after.<br /><br />Thomas: “Do you have rain gear?”<br />Me: “Just a jacket.”<br />Silvie: “Nothing for your pants??”<br />Me: “No… nothing.”<br />Thomas: “Oh, everyone on the trip says it will definitely RAIN and RAIN!”<br /><br />Silvie: “How about thermal underwear?”<br />Me: “Nope, I don’t have that either.”<br />Silvie, concerned: “But it will be VERY COLD!”<br /><br />Thomas: “What temperature can your sleeping bag take?”<br />Me: “It says on the label 1°C to 8°C.”<br />Thomas, now very concerned: “Oh no… That means you will only be barely comfortable at 8°C. It is not warm enough.”<br /><br />Hanna: “WHAT? You don’t even have a map???”<br />Me: “Well. No. I suppose I can borrow, if I want.”<br /><br />The three were very sweet and very kind and very concerned for me. I knew I was ill-equipped but I just did not possess the fancy gears that Europeans do and I could not BUY everything.<br /><br />They have these gizmos because they are experienced hikers and they come from cold countries and use them anyway. For my tropical country - Sarong? Yes… Cute spaghetti-straped sundresses? Yes… Thermal underwear? Afraid not.<br /><br />I guessed they probably said a silent prayer for me that evening.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-64828641897832546462003-01-02T20:15:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:15:37.740-07:0020 - Where the Penguins Roam (Punta Arenas)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Ushuaia, ARGENTINA to Punta Arenas, CHILE - 31 december 2002</span><br /><br />I had been warned by Carolyn and Lydia (who had visited me in Buenos Aires) that I ought to try and buy my bus-ticket out of Ushuaia as soon as I arrive as they were hard to come by.<br /><br />For novelty, I had wanted to spend New Year’s Eve at the ‘end of the world’ but it was either a bus out of Ushuaia today or a bus out of Ushuaia many many days later. So, instead, I would be spending New Year’s Eve in Punta Arenas, Chile later this evening.<br /><br />I got the last but one seat on the bus to Punta Arenas, next to the onboard toilet. My neighbour (who got the last seat) was an American but a more mature guy, i.e. he had grey hair and smoked a pipe.<br /><br />Guess what, he had also just returned from a 10-day Antarctica cruise. OK, here I go again… rubbed shoulders one more time. And that was not all, he was going to Punta Arenas to fly to the Falkland Islands. Gee, Grey Piper was going places!<br /><br />He then proceeded to ask me which countries I had ever been to in my LIFE. Er… I found this question awkward to answer. I hate being a lister. To rattle off the countries that I had been to in my life? That was so boring! Since this was what he asked, I guess I had to answer something. But I just knew that he was actually not interested in listening. So I replied sparingly.<br /><br />Grey Piper selected some countries and zoomed in further. Which cities? This was beyond weird. As I gingerly made my replies again, he interrupted ever so often to say “Ah, I’ve been there, in ’76”, “Oh, been there, 12 years ago”, “Uh-huh, was there, summer of ’83”…<br /><br />As this was a long, boring bus journey through bleak, desolate landscape, I shall interrupt to give my observations of the myriad travellers around that make up this weird and wonderful world.<br /><br />The below are all true examples, I swear.<br /><br /><br />TYPE: THE WAITING-TO-EXHALE<br /><br />Example 1<br /><br />Someone: “How long did you travel?”<br />Guy: “I went to 26 countries in 21 months.”<br />Someone: “Wow… how much did you spend?”<br /><br />The Guy actually proceeded to reply an amount, right up to the CENTS! It was like this guy had had all his answers prepared in his mind, just waiting… W-A-I-T-I-N-G for someone to ask him those questions.<br /><br />Example 2<br /><br />Then, there were those like Grey Piper who sought for the chance to interrupt and drop hints of where HE had been to, in the disguise that he was interested in knowing where YOU had been to. At the merest hint or flicker from your eyes or sometimes, even utterly unsolicited, he would proceed to extrapolate on his travels, furnishing you with details and anecdotes. He shoved everything down your throat the first 5 minutes of meeting you.<br /><br /><br />TYPE: THE ANYTHING-YOU-DID-I-DID-IT-BETTER<br /><br />Example 1<br /><br />The below conversation actually happened to me and I write it now, verbatim. Note that there was no pause between each question.<br /><br />2 points – Win; 0 point – Lose; 1 point - Draw.<br /><br />Guy: “Have you been to Jordan?”<br />Me: “Yes”<br />Score, Me vs Guy - 1 : 1<br /><br />Guy: “Did you go to Petra?”<br />Me: “Er… Yes”<br />Score, Me vs Guy - 2 : 2<br /><br />Guy: “How many days did you spend there?”<br />Me: “4 days”<br />Score, Me vs Guy - 3 : 3<br /><br />(OK, if I was this TYPE of traveller, I would argue that the guy did not proffer HIS number of days spent in Petra, and hence we could not verify if this was indeed a DRAW situation. But since I was not this TYPE of traveller, I let it slide, haha.)<br /><br />Guy: “Did you go to Wadi Rum?”<br />Me: “Wadi Rum? No…”<br />Guy, with a flourish: “I spent ONE NIGHT in the Wadi Rum desert under the stars.”<br />Score, Me vs Guy - 3 : 5<br /><br />Stand back, we have a winner…<br /><br />Example 2<br /><br />Pablo and I were sitting behind a guy at the National Stadium of Ulaan Baator, watching the wrestling match during Naadam Festival. Guy turned around and started a conversation with Pablo. He finally asked, “So, how many days have you been in Mongolia?”<br /><br />Pablo racked his brain, “Er… I think, 8…10 days?”<br />Guy: “For me, THREE months.”<br /><br />With a flourish (this type usually ended with flourishes), he swung his bag and strode out of our lives. Pablo and I looked at each other, incredulous. Like, what J-U-S-T happened?<br /><br /><br />TYPE : THE LISTER or LIST-BUILDER<br /><br />Example 1<br /><br />Guy: “I just crossed the border to Argentina to visit the Iguaçu Falls. Does that mean I have entered my 31st country?… Yeah, I think it counts.”<br /><br />This would also be someone like Regi who was planning on going to Antarctica because that was the last continent he had not set foot on. It was those who wanted to be able to say that they had been there, done that, to put a ‘tick’ against the country or continent.<br /><br />Example 2<br /><br />Then there are those who simply rattled off the countries they had been to, whether called for or not. They can sometimes be confused with the WAITING-TO-EXHALE but that specimen usually provided more details while this just go for IMPACT and love to bask in the awe-struck after-effect of the listener.<br /><br /><br />The bleak, desolate landscape of southern Patagonia continued in front of me. For the next few hours, I dozed and woke, read and stared out of the window.<br /><br />Suddenly, out of the blue, Grey Piper proclaimed, “It would be great to be able to go to Spitzburgen.”<br /><br />We were not talking about anything prior to this for hours. It was not a case of talking about the north, south, east or west of some places that triggered him to be reminded of Spitzburgen.<br /><br />I knew he was saying this for IMPACT. He must have calculated that the listener had an 80% chance of not knowing where or what Spitzburgen was and that the listener would get all flustered and would implore, “Huh?? Spitzburgen?? Where’s that? What’s that? I don’t know this place.” And he would then proceed, with swollen ego, to enlighten the pitiful listener.<br /><br />The above thought processed in my head in a few micro-seconds. He had also misjudged me to be one of the 80% statistic, for I knew where Spitzburgen was. I refused to grant him the pleasure.<br /><br />“Spitzburgen? North of Norway? That’s an idea…” I smiled nonchalantly, unimpressed, and returned to the wonderfully bleak and desolate landscape of southern Patagonia.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, I admire well-travelled people and love to hear their stories. But there are just some who… irk me.<br /><br />We paused by the Magellanes Straits to await the vehicle-ferry to transport us across. The tortured Chilean flag fluttering nearby had been thoroughly abused, harshly blown. The flag now remained half the length of what it used to be, its ends totally in shreds.<br /><br />I guess, this was how it was like in Southern Patagonia, always freakingly cold, rainy and windy. What a savage place to live in…<br /><br />There were a few hostel touters at the bus-station when we arrived at Punta Arenas. I followed a guy named Caco back to his hostel. The hostel had four other guests, all Germans. Guess who was the odd one out?<br /><br />Oh, I did not mind them speaking in German among themselves. For now, I still enjoy listening to another language other than English. It sounded beautifully harsh. Occasionally, one of them would do me the favour by translating what they were saying. The joke was usually lost by then.<br /><br />A few minutes before midnight, the Germans, Kai, Udo, Thomas and Nadia, and I headed to the Plaza de Armas to look for a party. Amazingly, the entire town was dead. No lights shone through the houses we passed by. When we arrived at the Plaza, there were a few sparse groups loitering around. I counted about 15 of us, perhaps all tourists.<br /><br />We all had different times on us. Someone quipped, “3 minutes left!” Others argued, “No, 1 minute!” In the end, when our ‘New Year celebrations’ began was dependent on when the corks of our respective champagne bottles popped out into the air. There were waves of ‘FELIZ AÑO NEUVO’ [Happy New Year] called out at different times.<br /><br />We hopped up and down the square, trying to make as much noise as possible in this lifeless town. We all agreed this was the weirdest and most silent New Year ‘party’ we had had in a while. We hugged strangers, wished one another well, took swigs out of the cheap champagne. Then… the town clock struck ‘12’ and chimed away. Oops, we were a tad early. Alas, no fireworks either.<br /><br />A party was held in one of the buildings facing the square and the merrily drunk people leaned out of the balcony and started throwing streamers down and waving at us to run up and join them. We did, only to be turned away by the waiters!<br /><br />The tourists hung around the square and figured, well, we just had to move on, for NOTHING was happening down there. The Germans and I walked to another hostel. This was also quiet but it had more people in the hostel and there were music and food.<br /><br />We invited ourselves in and the drunk and cheery lady-in-charge placed five bottles of wine on our table. We later furtively took their plates of leftover pear crumble and chocolate cake and scraped up everything with our fingers.<br /><br />We talked and drank until 4:30am when the sky turned blue again. It had turned dark at 10:30pm last year, just 6 hours ago and now, ah… a brand new year begins…<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Punta Arenas, CHILE - 01 january 2003</span><br /><br />Punta Arenas looked wind-swept and desolate today as well. No cars passed by our hostel. No one walked by either.<br /><br />I curled up on the sofa, and spent New Year’s Day reading a book by Argentina’s most intellectual writer Jorge Luis Borges - ‘Labyrinths’.<br /><br />I realised, a little giddily, Borges and I share the same birthdate – 24 August. How lucky I am! But, I am the living proof that sharing the same birthdate has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with sharing similar intellectual levels.<br /><br />I needed full concentration to read his book. I pored over it studiously, frequently re-reading certain paragraphs. All the stories revolved around somewhat magical themes that took you far away from reality and yet, seemingly and confusingly so dead-pan and real. Magical words like ‘infinity’, ‘cyclical’, ‘limitless’, ‘eternity’ and of course, ‘labyrinth’ featured prominently in all the stories.<br /><br />There are many ways to travel and I had just been exposed to yet another way by Borges… travelling of the mind to magical places.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Punta Arenas, CHILE - 02 january 2003</span><br /><br />I paid my visit to the Penguin’s Colony near Punta Arenas in the afternoon. As the tour van drove around to pick up tourists from their hotels, an American lady asked the driver, “Hay más personas para coger? [Are there more people to pick up?]” I looked up, nearly bursting into laughter. Er… in Latin America, that phrase would have meant: “Are there more people to f*#k?” Snickersnickersnicker…<br /><br />It was about one and a half hour’s drive through more wind-swept plains, dotted with the occasional rheas (ostrich-like birds found in South America), to arrive at Seno Otway, some 70 or so km out of Punta Arenas.<br /><br />The Magellanic Penguins returned to this site from October to March to breed and raise their babies. And January was the month to see the baby penguins.<br /><br />We walked on boardwalks through the nature reserve. I hurried along as I figured the penguins would be near to the coast. Suddenly, I spied a penguin casually standing outside a burrow. Then, a few more steps took me merely one metre from two penguins, lying huddled together on the grass. I was totally amazed by how close we could be to them and yet, they did not seem to be spooked by us.<br /><br />Near the coast, there were many families standing and lying outside their burrows. The babies were still in baby fur, but they looked as big as their parents. Some were cleaning their wings. Some appeared to be dozing. Others were just standing around, penguin-watching.<br /><br />Groups of three or four were toddling their way up from or down to the coast. At the coast, which we could peer out from a hide, tonnes of them were standing around or plunging into the water. It was wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!!<br /><br />The last time I saw penguins was in Krakow, Poland when the penguin-nuns flocked to Krakow to await the arrival of the Pope Mobile, back in August. So, this was an incredible experience for me. Penguins just crack me up. They look so cute and funny. I guess it was from all ‘The Far Side’ comics I had read.<br /><br />Maybe the persistent wind blew and stretched the two ends of my mouth to the sides for I had a permanent grin fixated on my face for the rest of the walk around the reserve. I was freezing cold, blown senseless by the southern wind, but I guess I was more dizzy with the euphoric feeling of being present in such an extreme location to see a colony of penguins.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-47895636338624772792002-12-30T20:14:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:14:38.300-07:0020 - Where the Penguins Roam (Ushuaia)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires to Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 28 december 2002</span><br /><br />Pablo and I had yet another farewell hug at yet another airport. The last time was in Moscow, Russia when I saw him off at the airport and then, I had made my way to the nothernmost town of my entire trip - St. Petersburg.<br /><br />Now, in turn, he saw me off at the airport and I would be making my way to the southernmost town of my entire trip - Ushuaia.<br /><br />As the plane flew over Ushuaia, getting ready to land, I saw before me the most beautiful landscape I could ever recall from the air.<br /><br />The snowy and craggy mountains stretched nearly to the edge of the bay. The mountains were simply breath-taking and I was lost for words. I gaped from my window, stupefied. The lady from my next seat had to ask me to sit back so that she could partake of the view as well. The pretty little town of Ushuaia sat at the bottom of the mountains, in front of the bay. I kept thinking where exactly I was on the map and I just could not get used to it.<br /><br />I got off the plane and studied the people around me. I figured that this was probably the closest I ever got to rubbing shoulders with polar explorers, research biologists and people rich enough to afford the Antarctica cruises.<br /><br />The air was absolutely crisp, fresh and cool. I left a 35°C Buenos Aires and arrived at a 7°C Ushuaia. I was enchanted by the colourful flowers all over town. I later learnt from a Chiliean that they are called ‘chochos’, they look like ears of corns in purple, pink, orange, etc… Delightful.<br /><br />The sun was shining but the wind vicious. Many Argentine flags had tattered ends as they probably had been subjected to the relentless wind for ages.<br /><br />Taking out my wind-breaker, I nearly lost it to oblivion. Standing by the dock, I nearly got tossed into the Beagle Channel. I tried to enjoy the outdoors and the sunshine by walking around but it was a tad difficult when you imagined your eye-lashes could be swept out to Antarctica any moment.<br /><br />As I had just rejoined the ‘backpackers’ circuit after a two-month hiatus, frankly, I needed some time to get used to it again. I was not in the mood yet to chat with anybody… you know, the usual backpackers’ talk… “So, where are you from?”, “Are you just doing South America?”, “How long are you travelling for?”, “Where are you heading off next?”… In fact, listening to English being spoken in the next table in the café I was in, already disorientated me.<br /><br />Here in Ushuaia, the sun set at around 10:30pm or 11pm. Yet another near ‘White Night’. I remember writing about this phenomenon when I was in St. Petersburg in summer. Then, I had giggled from my bed when I looked out of the window at midnight and could still observe the after-sunset blue. Now, nearly half a year later, I was in Ushuaia, in summer again, and experiencing the same phenomenon.<br /><br />Two near ‘White Nights’ in one year. For someone whose natural habitat is on the Equator where the sun rises and sets at the same time everyday of the year, this was really a fantastic experience!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 29 december 2002</span><br /><br />I headed to Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego in the morning. I had wanted to do this trek alone. I figured it would be a nice walk in the woods, totally immersed with nature.<br /><br />I got off at the start of the trail with Paul, from England. He had just returned from a US$4000 10-day Antarctica cruise. See, I told you I would be rubbing shoulders with one of these luminaries.<br /><br />We did the first 2km or so of the Coastal Path together. He did not mind doing this stretch of the trail with me but I feared I was slowing him down as he still wanted to conquer other more strenuous trails later. I kept urging him to feel free to move on ahead. In the end, he disappeared into the woods, never to be spotted by me again.<br /><br />As I made my way through the woods by myself, I realised THIS was the way to enjoy nature. Ever so often, I stopped dead in my tracks and listened. The gentle lapping of the waves from the bay… the occasional distant songs from birds… the rustling of the leaves as the shifting wind blew over… the soft pecking of the trunks by invisible woodpeckers… I would miss all these if I had been walking with someone. We would be chatting away, totally clueless. Even if we did not talk and I had stopped in my track, the sound of the other person’s movements, the rubbing of his pants as he walked, his footsteps, would drown these subtle and gentle natural melodies.<br /><br />I finished the Coastal Path and sat in front of the Lapataia Bay and had a sandwich. There were two possible trails from here and I tried to decide which one I would take. I decided to walk the Lago Roca trail to the border of Chile-Argentina. Hmmm… to walk through the woods to the border of two countries… Yep, there was a nice frontier ring to it.<br /><br />I made my way along the lake and at some point, got myself a little lost. When you start having to turn away from sheer drops, or crawling through very narrow gaps between huge boulders, or getting pricked every so often, you could pretty much guess you had strayed from the required trail.<br /><br />I could see no yellow poles for a while now. Either I turned back or I persevered on, hoping the yellow pole was just around the corner. In the end, to my relief, I spotted the ‘3km’ sign some distance away but I had to clamber on top of huge boulders and slide down a little slope unglamourously to reach it.<br /><br />At the end of the trail, there was an orange obelisk-thingie and a sign ‘LIMITE INTERNACIONAL - NO PASAR / NO TRESPASSING’. I was naughty, I crossed into Chile illegally and did a wander around to test if there were hidden snipers or laser-triggered machine guns. Nope.<br /><br />I sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite. The wind was extremely strong by the lake. I stood up, put on my Peruvian ‘alpaca, baby alpaca’ woolly cap and my Langmusi (Tibetan town in China) fashion-challenged gloves. Then, I re-sat by the lake and stared ahead of me at the mountains opposite.<br /><br />I mentally noted my geographical location on the globe. This was a moment to treasure, to savour.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Ushuaia, ARGENTINA - 30 december 2002</span><br /><br />I had complained about the high cost of sending post from Argentina but I made an exception today. I wrote a postcard to myself, a ‘Happy New Year’ greeting and sent it from el fin del mundo [the end of the world]. I wonder what I would make of it when I return home in a few months and read this postcard.<br /><br />I took a boat ride down the Beagle Channel to veer near islands with resting cormorants and lounging sea-lions.<br /><br />The way cormorants fly is great. They flutter their wings desperately ever so close to the water as they try to gain height and swoop away. I loved watching them take off. If I was not misinformed, their wings are not waterproof, hence, they need to stand around the island and dry their wings after that… which was what they were doing most of the time on the islands.<br /><br />The sea-lions dozed away and lumbered around sleepily and grumpily. A few babies clustered together near their mommies.<br /><br />On the boat was this guy, with a Texan drawl, from my hostel – Regi. He told me he had been doing some research to see how he could get to the Antarctica cheaply. He claimed that he always wanted to head out there because it was the last continent he had not set foot on. He was not too keen on those 10-day cruises, he just wanted to set foot on Antarctica.<br /><br />Oh, sigh… I guess, all sorts of travellers exist. I did not agree with what he was saying but I exercised supreme self-control by clamming up, not saying a word and simply nodding away politely. Unsolicited, he went on to fortify my knowledge with his past trips and adventures. Well, once everything was out of the way, I guess I should be nice to say he was NOT THAT BAD a company.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-19232120403272986932002-12-27T20:13:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:13:51.739-07:0019 - The Great Stain Robbery (Buenos Aires)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 05 - 07 december 2002</span><br /><br />The street vendors and buskers have been back along Calles Florida and Lavalle for the past week now. I am not sure if the police had lifted the ‘ban’ (which lasted a whopping 10 days or so) or the vendors just kept coming back that the police had given up trying to fight them.<br /><br />I also saw children 8 to 10 years old, trying to play accordions for pesos. The poor dears, they had barely mastered the instruments and now they were most likely sent to the streets by their parents to make a living.<br /><br />At many traffic junctions, one could see jugglers, clowns or performers who twirled a stick with two sticks. They would rush to the front of traffic at each red-light and perform their routines. Then, the guys went around to collect some change from the drivers before they drove off. Again, it pained me to see children jugglers.<br /><br />The Argentinian government had introduced two new ‘currencies’ since the crisis - the patacones and lecops. One could see some shops stating that they accepted patacones and lecops, while others claimed they did not accept patacones and lecops.<br /><br />These ‘currencies’ looked like Monopoly play-money. People would earn their salary in combinations of pesos, patacones and lecops. These are paper-money printed for the sake of increasing circulation without having real Arg Pesos. However, only certain shops accept patacones and lecops and these currencies exist only in Buenos Aires. One could not spend them in other parts of Argentina.<br /><br />Frida baby had grown to a whooping 10.5 inches long and seemed to be holding for now.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 08 december 2002</span><br /><br />I had met an Australian girl briefly in Mexico in 2000. Carolyn was then on a RTW trip for about a year. She had returned to Australia to work for a few months and was now on another long trip of about eight months. To my surprise, she had written that she was coming to Buenos Aires with her friend, Lydia!<br /><br />They arrived last night and we arranged to meet today. Imagine, we had kept in touch via email since we first met very briefly in Mexico and now we were meeting each other again, not in HER city not in MY city but in ANOTHER city on the other side of the globe, again! It was incredible.<br /><br />Lydia, Carolyn and I clicked immediately. Lydia had just started on her one-year RTW trip too. The three of us had many things in common, our frequencies were exactly the same, we could not stop talking and sharing our experiences. They were both well-travelled and had tons of stories to share. We were laughing all the time.<br /><br />It would had been a wonderful, perfect day had it not been spoiled later by a robbery.<br /><br />First, we noticed a smell. Lydia felt her hair and out came a gooey, oily stuff with a horrible stench. I checked my bag. It was similarly stained with that gross stuff. Lydia figured someone threw something out of the window. I set my bag down to clean it. Carolyn had that stuff trickling down her back.<br /><br />Two women were nearby and appeared to be similarly stained. They came over, asking if we had paper or water. Naturally, we opened our bags to retrieve them for the women. Soon, they got us checking their backs and one women stood between me and my bag and started wiping my back.<br /><br />Then, they were gone. I looked at my bag. It was open and I was now missing my camera!<br /><br />AARRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! This was the famous stain-and-distract trick! We had all heard about it. We had all been warned about it. Carolyn had had been stained once in her trip and she was quick enough then to disengage herself from the culprits. We were all relatively experienced travellers. Because we were in a group, we felt secure, we felt that we could watch one another’s back. So, when it happened to us, we were all fooled blind. We were SO STUPID!!!<br /><br />I could not stop kicking myself. I could not believe it all happened so fast. We could not even remember how the women looked like. I felt suspicious that she was so agitated about wiping my back and getting me to check Carolyn’s head. Yet, it just did not occur to me to shove her out of my way between me and my bag.<br /><br />I want to believe in the goodness and kindness of people. I hate to travel and live a life, forever suspicious of everyone and cyncical and sceptical about everything. But the truth is… some people are just not nice.<br /><br />Oh, I LOVE my camera! I L-O-V-E IT! It had brought me so much joy on this trip. I learnt to express myself with it. I could not accept that it was now gone. People would say, it is just a camera, you can replace it. Sure, that will come later…<br /><br />I realise now I have to live with my stupidity forever.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 09 december 2002</span><br /><br />I did not sleep a wink last night. Sometimes, when people complained that they did not sleep a wink last night, they actually fell asleep by 4am or so. But, I DID NOT SLEEP a wink last night. I tossed and turned, I thought and wept the entire night. I looked up and it was morning, time to go to school.<br /><br />I had not come to terms with my loss yet. I know I still felt horrible most likely because I could not forgive myself.<br /><br />If it had been an attack-and-grab robbery, it would have been easier to forgive myself for it was not my fault. For sure, there was a high chance of being hurt but it would have been easier to forgive myself. But this was just O-U-R fault.<br /><br />I met up with Lydia and Carolyn after class. They too did not sleep well last night, replaying the scene in their heads over and over again. We were still thoroughly devastated.<br /><br />We could wallow in grief forever but we tried not to. We had to do something to distract ourselves. We visited the grand Teatro Colón which was rather interesting, with its multi-level basements of costumes, head-gears, props and shoes and even a replica of the stage for rehearsal, below Avenida 9 de Julio.<br /><br />Avenida 9 de Julio is reputedly the ‘widest avenue in the world’. The landmark of Buenos Aires, the Obelisk, is in the middle of this avenue.<br /><br />For several evenings the past week, I had set my camera (back when I used to own a camera) on my tripod, in the middle of the sixteen lanes of traffic, on a tiny island, trying to capture night shots with the Obelisk in the background, and the streaks of yellow and red lights by the sides and hopefully, the perfect orange across the evening sky.<br /><br />Ah, those were the good old days when I had a camera… A-R-G-H!!!!<br /><br />We headed to El Ateneo, a bookshop in Avenida Santa Fe which is a fully restored, converted theatre. It is elegant, exquisite and looks very, very grand. Everyone should check this bookshop out when in Buenos Aires. We sat in the café which was at the ‘stage’ area and had all the spotlights shining on our pallid faces. We simply stayed there and chatted for hours. To me, there would always be hidden gems in Buenos Aires like this, slowly to be uncovered.<br /><br />That evening, over parilla a la carbon [barbecued meat], we more or less managed to hold a conversation in Spanish with a guy from the next table. Horacio actually asked if I was the translator for Carolyn and Lydia.<br /><br />Whoa… first, people mistook me for the Chinese translator for Jane when we were in China. And now, even with my wonky-tonky Spanish, I was again mistaken for the translator. I guess since I looked different from the usual Western tourists, the locals just found it difficult to classify me.<br /><br />Horacio is from Ushuaia or thereabouts. He offered to show me around when I get there after Christmas. Great. I mentioned that Carolyn and Lydia had just arrived from Ushuaia. His eyes lit up.<br /><br />Carolyn had had some weeks of Spanish lessons in Guatemala under her belt. When asked which was her favourite place down south in Tierra del Fuego, she turned to me at once, uncertainly, “What’s… ‘we went’?” “Fuimos” I replied. Right, she explained she always used ‘I’ since she usually travelled alone, and now, ‘we’ was a problem. She turned back to Horacio and began her long, stuttering tedious hike of an answer, using the pronoun ‘we’.<br /><br />I glanced around and noticed an amused old man, giggling at our struggles with conjugation and past tense. Horacio wiped tears from his eyes as he tried to stifle his laughter.<br /><br />We, the tourists,<br />pledge to provide<br />entertainment<br />and constant merriment<br />to the bemused locals<br />so as to achieve happiness<br />and progress<br />in human communications.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 10 - 12 december 2002</span><br /><br />I would be joking to say that I got over the incident easily. It took me days and many sleepless nights. I plunged into a state of depression that surprised even me. I wanted to throw myself in front of traffic. I would burst into tears suddenly while on the bus, in the middle of a queue at the supermarket or cooking dinner. Despite my allergy to alcohol, I took to drinking wine to get myself to sleep.<br /><br />I visited Mr Huang, my acupuncturist and told him about the incident and the sleepless nights. Yes, I had gotten that settled in Buenos Aires that I had been frequenting a Chinese acupuncturist for my back problem. He stuck needles at two new spots. I barely made it home before throwing myself onto the bed and snoozing 5 hours straight that afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 13 december 2002</span><br /><br />I passed by CITIBANK along Avenida Corrientes today. It was shuttered up and smeared senseless with graffiti. Protesters were banging the metallic shutters and nearby lamp-posts with kitchen utensils. They were chanting and yelling.<br /><br />OK, ‘me robaron’ [They robbed me] vs ‘Argentina robaron’ [They robbed Argentina]. Seeing this, I realised my grieving period had come to an end.<br /><br />It was time to look at the silver lining. I REALLY ought to be glad it was a stain-and-distract robbery and not an attack-and-grab robbery. Now, I just walked around with the sign ‘STUPID’ on my forehead, instead of a 3-inch scar (always assuming I could still walk).<br /><br />I REALLY ought to be glad they just took the camera and left my bag. Otherwise, my journal and my little book of contacts and scribbles which I had earned along the way, including addresses written in Krygzy, Uyghur, Mongolian and Russian would be gone too. And thos TREASURED notes would be irreplaceable.<br /><br />I recalled Goretti (whom I travelled with in Mongolia) who had had her entire bag stolen at the Ulaan Baator train station. I remembered Ben (whom I travelled with briefly in Russia) who had had his camera relieved from his bag when he went to the toilet and had left the bag on the bus in Nepal. Yeah, it would be great if this sort of things do not happen but they do… sometimes. That is the risk one takes while travelling.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 14 - 15 december 2002</span><br /><br />Pablo had returned from his Patagonia trip with the Italian tourists. It was a success and he was really pleased with everything. It was his first time guiding as a tour guide, instead of as a nature guide. It was also with adult tourists, instead of children and educational groups that he was used to and it was guided entirely in Italian. Not the easiest job for there were also group dynamics to worry about and politics among the drivers and his assistant to handle. Well, the tourists loved what he had done for them and tipped him well. That was great!<br /><br />He was also happy to see that Frida Baby which had been merely a bud when he left for the trip was now 12 inches long. I did not kill her.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 16 december 2002</span><br /><br />Well, my stay in Buenos Aires would be coming to an end. I would start travelling again after Christmas. While here in Buenos Aires, I had been visiting bookshops to look for Lonely Planet guidebooks for Argentina and Chile.<br /><br />I preferred LP because of the tiny maps. It was always easier to have a guideline of where to head off once outside the bus station.<br /><br />But because of the economic crisis, no LP guidebooks appeared to be imported to Argentina anymore. In fact, even if I was not picky, there were hardly any proper guidebooks in English for South America.<br /><br />In the end, I settled on an Argentina-Chile guidebook, printed in Spanish. It was not very good, but what could I do? I skimmed through it. Skipping those words I did not know, I more or less could still figure out what was written. I had to concentrate on every word though. It was not possible to speed-read it.<br /><br />Back in Singapore, I had learnt the Spanish word ‘coger’ which means ‘to take’, ‘to catch’, ‘to grasp’, ‘to seize’, ‘to take hold of’. Innocent enough. Yet, somehow, the Latin Americans had twisted its meaning that it means ‘to f*#k’ here.<br /><br />I had known this before and had simply not used this word. Pablo even forbade me to use ‘escoger’ which was ‘to choose’ for it sounded like ‘coger’. I had to choose another word for ‘to choose’.<br /><br />So, it was to my greatest amusement to read the guidebook, printed innocently in Spain, and constantly spot ‘se puede coger un autobus para xxx’ [one can f*#k a bus towards xxx], ‘coged vuestros trajes de baño’ [f*#k your bathing suits], ‘coged la carretera xxx’ [f*#k the highway xxx].<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 17 december 2002</span><br /><br />I went and bought an air-ticket to Ushuaia, leaving after Christmas. Gosh… how ARE air-tickets priced? I first asked for an air-ticket from Puerto Madryn (near Peninsula Valdez, which I wanted to go first from Buenos Aires) to Ushuaia. It would cost me 500+ Arg Pesos. But if I flew from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia, with a stop-over in Puerto Madryn (which I could not get off), it would cost 300+ Arg Pesos. Longer distance for 200 Arg Pesos less.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 18 - 19 december 2002</span><br /><br />I had my end-of-course test and I passed with flying colours… ahem!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 20 december 2002</span><br /><br />Today was the first-year anniversary of the history-changing events when the President of Argentina (a few of them consecutively, actually) resigned, when the Argentinian Peso plummeted, when Argentinians’ savings were robbed from them. Some people had literally dropped dead at the banks when told of the news. There had been massive demonstrations and violence on the streets, lootings, burning, beatings, killings…<br /><br />A few days before, things had been a little tense around town, as many wondered if history would repeat itself this year. There were posters and graffiti telling people to hit the streets on 19 and 20 December to remember the events of last year. There were also rumours that there would be transportation strikes.<br /><br />I was in Burger King when a march went by. Fearing the protesters might storm in to plunder the beef patties, lettuce and ketchup sachets, the security guards hastened to lock us in. But I wanted to go out and see the march. At the door, the guard stared at me and asked in an incredulous tone, “¿Querés salir???? [You want to leave????]” “Sí.”<br /><br />Well, nothing bad happened that day. There were peaceful marches down by the Plaza de Mayo and probably, near the Palacio de Congreso to remember last year’s horrific event and to continue the ‘fight’.<br /><br />Pablo and I headed to Jardín Japonés [Japanese Garden] in the evening, because Marcelo, the photographer whom I met last month, had informed me by email last week that his slide-show would be held ‘el viernes que viene’ [the coming Friday]. But to our disappointment, we could not locate anything.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 21 - 23 december 2002</span><br /><br />I emailed to Marcelo to tell him that we went to the Jardín Japonés on Friday but could not find him. His nonchalant reply was, “Oh, what a shame. It was actually held on Thursday, not Friday.”<br /><br />I did not know if I should laugh or cry. In a way, Pablo and I were very disappointed he gave me the wrong day and we did not get the chance to see the slide-show of his excellent photos.<br /><br />But, on the other hand, this type of mix-up was so latino, if I may say so. Back in my country, I would have found it unforgiveable. But here, I just felt somewhat amused by it all.<br /><br />Promises, appointments, plans were peppered vaguely with ‘Quizás’ [Perhaps], ‘Tal vez’ [Maybe], ‘Creo que si’ (I believe so), ‘No seguro' [Not sure], ‘No sé’ [I do not know], ‘Puede ser’ [Can be], ‘Nos vemos’ [We shall see each other…] and a personal favourite ‘Mañana’ [Tomorrow].<br /><br />If they say they will call at 8pm, they mean about 2 hours after 8pm, if at all. If they say they want to do this thing today, they mean they want to do this thing… in this lifetime… or tomorrow, if it is possible… I learnt that this had been diagnosed by others before me as the Mañana syndrome.<br /><br />Nothing is ever certain. Life remains a constant mystery. I have to get used to this but I like it… maybe… I think so…<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 24 december 2002</span><br /><br />Over the past few days, from a Sunday lunch to a nephew’s birthday, I had slowly met the rest of Pablo’s wonderful family members.<br /><br />It would be excellent to spend Christmas Eve with his nephews and niece.<br /><br />I was surprised to learn that his youngest nephews still believed in Santa Claus. I myself cannot remember if I ever believed in Santa Claus. In Asian culture, or at least in my family, we just did not grow up with the Santa Claus myth, ever.<br /><br />So, the rest of the family had to put up a ‘show’ for them tonight. OK, Tomás is two, practically a baby. So, I was looking forward to seeing Nicolás’ (who is six) reaction when Papa Noel arrive tonight. Between drinks and cakes, the boys ran around the house, chanting “¡Faltan 25 / 14 / 5 minutos!” [25 / 14 / 5 minutes left!]<br /><br />We counted down to Christmas. Buenos Aires burst into life with fireworks all around. We distracted the children by taking them up to the roof to look at the fireworks and the stars. Meanwhile, the adults downstairs laid out the gifts and Pablo’s brother, Sergio transformed himself into Papa Noel.<br /><br />Pablo got them to shout for Papa Noel over and over again up on the roof. Then, we spread rumours that Papa Noel was already here.<br /><br />The children rushed downstairs to the living room excitedly. The lights were off. A very ugly Papa Noel stood next to the Christmas tree.<br /><br />Gosh, I would never forget the look on Nicolás’ face as he gazed in amazement at Papa Noel. The perfect ‘O’-shape formed on his mouth. His eyes practically popped out and glowed in awe. He was hopping up and down in pure excitement. He was trying to see Papa Noel clearly. Yet, he dared not approach him.<br /><br />A few quick words, ho-ho-ho… a show of the presents, Papa Noel waved goodbye and left. Nicolás tried to run after him, but some relative blocked his way. The lights came on and everyone pounced on the presents, searching for their names.<br /><br />Oh, the precious look on Nicolás’ face will symbolise, to me, the magic that we still want to believe in life. How wonderful things (like presents) will continue to fall in our ways. How wishes and dreams will happen if we work towards them (like behaving yourself, for Papa Noel is watching). He is so sweet. What an angel!<br /><br />To my surprise, there were presents for me too.<br /><br />In the rest of the Spanish-speaking world, the pronunciation for ‘y’ and ‘ll’ was ‘y’ (or a soft ‘j’). So, ‘yo’ would be ‘yo’ (or ‘jo’) and ‘llave’ would be ‘ya-vey’ (or ‘ja-vey’).<br /><br />In Argentina, I do not know why but they were pronounced as ‘sh’. So, ‘yo’ was ‘sho’ and ‘llave’ was ‘sha-vey’.<br /><br />Imagine, I had to convert in my mind all the words with ‘y’ and ‘ll’ I learnt previously to what were used here in Buenos Aires. I had to mind-map everything when I listened to the Argentinians. And I would have to undo all these changes once I leave Argentina.<br /><br />And so, my presents were addressed to ‘TRILLA’ - my Argentinian name.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 - 26 december 2002</span><br /><br />I decided to stock up on books here for my coming three-month trip toggling between Argentina and Chile. I did not plan on going to Santiago, Chile. Hence, my chance of obtaining good English books later on in my trip in the nature reserves, national parks and Andean towns appeared to hover around ‘zero’.<br /><br />I had mentioned that intellectual Buenos Aires is a bookstore paradise. The choice of good Spanish books was incredible. If I could read decent Spanish, I would have stuffed myself silly, swiftly devoured the books long ago. But I could not.<br /><br />The choice of English books here was not too bad, frankly, compared to, say, Moscow. But one thing very obvious in the bookstores I found in Russia, Brazil and now, Argentina, was the sheer number of classics available.<br /><br />Did the non-English-as-first-language population seriously think we read ‘Bleak House’ for leisure? The huge variety of classics (and extremely cheap too) on sale seemed to perpetuate a myth that we could quote Shakespeare in our everyday conversations (“Is this a butter knife I see before me? Come, let me clutch thee.”), boast of the entire Jane Austen collection on our shelves and know of the intimate details of 18th century country-living and ways and means to procure husbands for our daughters.<br /><br />Just a thought, wouldn’t the poor dears be so discouraged from ever picking up an English book, if their first exposure to English books had been these classics?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 27 december 2002</span><br /><br />I bought a new camera today. Finally. On my last day in Buenos Aires too.<br /><br />To be honest, for the past two weeks, I had been scouting around. I poked my nose into camera shops. I made inquiries. I lusted after lenses. I baulked at the prices. I kicked myself again. I turned to Buddha to remind myself ‘Craving causes suffering’. I readjusted the ‘STUPID’ sign on my forehead lest people should miss it. I made mental sums. I rolled my eyeballs. Yeah, the works.<br /><br />I settled on a particular shop because Rodrigo, the salesman, had appeared to be helpful and trustworthy. However, Rodrigo, or his supplier as he would have me believed, suffered from the Mañana syndrome. So, mañana became ‘Sunday’ became mañana became ‘Christmas Eve’ became ‘Christmas Day’ became mañana became ‘my last day in Buenos Aires’.<br /><br />When faced with the mañana man, one had to douse oneself with a generous spray of the ‘Qué sera sera’ [Whatever will be will be] attitude.<br /><br />I had earned myself the ‘Most Frequent Visitor’ title that when the sale was finally executed, Rodrigo gave me a strong hug, kissed my cheek and made me promise to visit the shop with my photos when I returned to Buenos Aires in March. Then, he just had to reach over and give me another hug and plant another smacker on my cheek.<br /><br />Well, sometimes one did not know what one might miss until one had left the place. I spent today wandering around my old haunts, lunching on a bife (beef-steak) which I had not had for a while, splurging on yet another helado (ice-cream) and taking stock of the idiosyncracies of Buenos Aires again.<br /><br />Buenos Aires has been great. Truly a city that never sleeps. It has its dark sides and I had had a bad incident but Buenos Aires has really been wonderful. I truly love it here. I hope I had managed to convey the essence of Buenos Aires to the readers over these two months. There would be plenty of things I would miss, for sure.<br /><br />Well, hasta luego, nos vemos… [Until later, we see each other…]aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-22933925811980839572002-12-04T20:11:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:12:43.615-07:0018 - Much Ado About Buenos Aires (Buenos Aires)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 11 - 13 november 2002</span><br /><br />Every other day, there appeared to be street protests and demonstrations somewhere. Occasionally, after my classes, I would stumble upon a group waving flags, shouting into loud-hailers and preparing to march down the streets. Some groups drew messages on the ground or pinned up notices on the walls, lambasting the government and the president. Others made lots of noise with brass bands and drums. The police would always be lined up nearby, in their bullet-proof vests, ready and waiting.<br /><br />The street-wares for sale on Calle Florida which I had noted when I first arrived in Buenos Aires had also been disallowed recently. These people were trying their utmost to earn just that little more money selling something but no… they could not do that anymore. As expected, the street vendors protested against this issue too.<br /><br />But the worst must be the news that in Tucuman province, there were children who had died of starvation because of the economic crisis and possibly, corruption. Gosh, this was horrible news! From the news on TV, I saw many protesters confronting the officials and the president outside government buildings and screaming, “Have you read the papers today? HAVE YOU?!!?!!!”<br /><br />I bought ‘Clarin’, an Argentinian newspaper, hoping to understand more about the politics and economics situations in Argentina. I nearly dissolved in tears. I was checking the dictionary after every two words. Pablo told me to stop, for I would be discouraged from reading anything Spanish in the future. Even HE did not understand the politics and economics of Argentina.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 14 november 2002</span><br /><br />I donned my tourist garb, grabbed my camera and headed out to San Telmo and La Boca today. The sun was brilliant; the sky, a perfect blue.<br /><br />I made my way slowly along Calle La Defensa in the San Telmo region. This place has charming old buildings with wooden doors and iron balconies, and some streets remain cobbled-stoned. This is a traditional corner of Buenos Aires, peppered with many of those lovely, traditional bar-cafés I had written about. There are also numerous antique shops selling all sorts of, well, antiques - old record players, Baroque-style furniture, vases, discoloured posters of Che Guevara, Eva Perón and the likes, glass-wares and crystals, terribly kitsch plastic toys, ancient books and mate cups, etc… Kitschy but charming.<br /><br />I spotted two decorative statues, the size of my hands, to be placed, preferably, on a piano or mantlepiece. What of them, you ask? They were the heads of two chimpanzees, one male, one female and dressed like what the costume designer had in mind for Glenn Close and John Malkovich in ‘The Age of Innocence’. Yes, they had white wigs and powdered faces. The female chimpanzee even had a tiny heart painted on her cheek. Like, W-H-O would BUY these?<br /><br />Outside one house, I saw the owner had artistically-bent spoons and forks and other metallic kitchen wares as his window grilles. I was taking a photo of it when a boy and a girl appeared in my frame. They peered out of the window at me curiously. We chatted. Well, I could only ask them for their names and ages while they chatted on and on to me… Argh, I really kicked myself. I had no idea what the sweet dears were talking about. Like all children, they did not understand why someone else could not speak their language and prattled on innocently. They were beautiful. I love them!<br /><br />Along one of the roads nearing La Boca, there were colourfully-painted caricature-dummies looking out of fake windows of fake houses. The walls by the side of the road were also painted with the legendary (to me, I would put inverted commas on) ‘heroes’ of Argentina like a very stocky Maradona.<br /><br />Then, when I arrived at La Boca, I realised the stretch around the famous Caminito was similarly decorated with such caricature-dummies, including more ‘heroes’ like Juan and Eva Perón and Maradona waving down from a balcony.<br /><br />La Boca is at the south of Buenos Aires, next to the smelly river Riachuela. It had gloriously colourful wooden buildings. I understood from Pablo that the reason the buildings were so colourful was because this region was previously populated by sailors who had to paint boats. And what did they do with the left-over paint? They painted their houses with them.<br /><br />The fire department of La Boca was also rather famous because of the frequent fires here due to the wooden houses. In fact, a cluster of houses had been burnt down perhaps a week or so earlier.<br /><br />This place was quite a tourist playground. There were many souvenir stalls and shops. There were expensive cafés and restaurants. And there were cut-out boards where one could place one’s face against the hole and pretend to be playing football with, yes, again… Maradona or doing a sensual tango with a babe they would NEVER get the chance to do so in real life. Argentine kitsch. But a pretty place to take photos if the sun is right.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 15 - 16 november 2002</span><br /><br />I was informed that the Recoleta area is the place where the rich and shameless hang out. True, the streets were lined with very, very fashionable international branded shops like Christian Dior, Armani, etc… and chic, fancy clubs and restaurants. Shiny and posh, well-coiffed and immaculately-dressed porteños walked around with… well, scowls on their faces.<br /><br />The Recoleta Cemetery is unexpectedly delightful. I came to Argentina without a guidebook, so in a way, I was quite clueless about what to visit in Buenos Aires. I merely flipped through some guide-books from bookstores about places to check out in Buenos Aires and the Recoleta Cemetery was mentioned.<br /><br />The coffins were not buried in the ground. The families of the departed constructed little mausoleums to hold the coffins, sometimes the mausoleums were constructed for a couple; others seemed to be for the entire family. As a result, the entire cemetery was lined with little mausoleums and not gravestones. It felt a little like walking down narrow streets with small houses by the side.<br /><br />Some of the mausoleums were more elaborately done up than others. They had sculptures, gigantic crucifixes, plaques denoting the life history of the dead, intricate wrought-iron grilles… Others were a little run-down with broken glass, cobwebbed gate, dusty windows. It was one incredibly surreal cemetery, well worth the visit.<br /><br />There was a park in front of the cemetery with a weekend fair. I spotted a sign from a Tarot-card reader – ‘ENGLISH SPOKEN’. Hmmm… I had never had my fortune read. I had been a little curious about Tarot cards. Oh well, yes… if not here, where? If not now, when?<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 17 november 2002</span><br /><br />My school had organised a gathering to attend a ‘Tango y Poesia’ [Tango and Poetry] performance by an actress and a guitarist in Bar Seddon today. Bar Seddon is located in San Telmo.<br /><br />I asked Pablo to join me. To my surprise, he had never attended such a tango-cum-guitar session in a traditional bar-café before. Naturally, I could not understand a word. Pablo told me too many Argentine slangs were used. He would not even try to explain them to me. So, I just sat there and enjoyed the performance.<br /><br />The actress was seated on a bar-stool and she either read the poetry or she sang the songs. My goodness, from such an immobile position, I was utterly floored by the range of emotions and expressions she was able to convey. Her deep melodious voice trembled at the emotional bits or soared like a bird at the happy bits. Her clenched fists shook with anger or her fluid hands flowed with grace. Her performance was stunning, captivating. The guitarist was terrific. The nostalgic ambience in the bar was another strong factor. What an excellent way to experience a unique culture of Buenos Aires.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 18 - 20 november 2002</span><br /><br />I had previously mentioned about dulce de leche but I feared I did not grant it enough print space.<br /><br />I do not know if I suddenly turned into a pastry-and-pie person recently but no place within a city could, well… now at least, stop me dead in my tracks than the confiterias [confectionaries] of Buenos Aires.<br /><br />I racked my brain for confectionaries in China (forget about Mongolia), Europe and Brazil… Hmmm… not many mouth-watering memories surfaced.<br /><br />I recalled the Chinese baked huge tiered cakes and then, creamed it entirely with white, pastel-pink, lilac and sky-blue colours, wedding-cake style, that just grossed me out. In Europe, yes, in Austria, there were many charming confectionaries with pretty little cakes but nothing earth-shattering. In Brazil, I apologize, I was checking out other yummy stuff like tanned, bare-chested men.<br /><br />But here in Buenos Aires, my goodness… I would stop suddenly and stare at the assortments of sweets, cakes, pies, pastries, alfajores (typically Argentine, shaped like a yo-yo with dulce de leche in the middle of two cake-biscuit thingies), cookies, chocolates, etc… laid out at the window displays to tempt us mere mortals. Sometimes, people behind me would crash right into me when I stopped. I would examine the cakes from different angles, tilting my head as perverts do when studying the pictures from Playboy magazines. I would check out the windows on the other side, lest I missed out some yummy pastries. I would pretend to be buying and enter the store for a quick up-close-and-personal browse. And dulce de leche was almost always prominently featured in these goodies. I must think of ways to import dulce de leche back to my country.<br /><br />Speaking of ‘import’, I had written some post-cards, slotted them into envelopes and attempted to buy stamps for them. To my horrors, the price of each stamp was 5.25 Arg Pesos, that was about US$1.50. For something less than 20 grams, it was US$1.50?? It was incredibly expensive! I now understood why Sheena, this lady I met in Pantanal, told me she crossed over to Paraguay in order to post things she bought from Argentina home. If I had a package of 2 kg, would it cost more than US$150? Gosh, I sent a box weighing more than 2 kg from Brazil and it cost me merely US$15. I refused to send my post-cards. How could the Argentinians afford to send ANYTHING out of the country? My hope for importing dulce de leche dimmed.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 21 november 2002</span><br /><br />Francisca brought me to experience another Buenos Aires high today.<br /><br />I supposed, with cattle as the main industry here, cattle-related products like bife and dulce de leche (translated as ‘sweet from milk’) would be cheap and excellent. The other amazing ‘sweet from milk’ would be ice-cream, wouldn’t it? And as you know, I have always been an aficionada of ice-cream.<br /><br />The city is strewn with brightly-lit heladerias [ice-cream parlours]. We went to a very posh heladeria in a very posh corner of Buenos Aires. The very posh price of the cone of ice-cream was 7 Arg Pesos. Gulp! Francisca insisted it was her treat, paid with her mom’s money.<br /><br />As the master ice-cream scooper piled on the second scoop of ice-cream of the flavour dulce de leche (but of course), he turned the ice-cream cone upside-down and proceeded to elongate the ice-cream. It was of such rich, thick texture, the ice-cream would not flop down and die. It merely extended in length. Then, Master-Ice-Cream-Scooper dipped the ice-cream cone into liquid chocolate and placed the cone in a freezer for a few seconds to harden the chocolate.<br /><br />We were now looking at the tallest ice-cream cone I had ever laid my eyes on, all of 1-metre high. We wielded it like it was the light sabre. As we proceeded to eat it, WE stopped traffic as five-year-olds just back from nursery schools stopped and gaped in awe. I offered them a bite but their mothers declined and hurried them along. They left but their eyes remained fixed on our posh ice-cream cone.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 22 - 24 november 2002</span><br /><br />Pablo had to go to Patagonia on 24 November for three weeks, guiding a group of Italians. The past two weeks he had stressed himself out, revising his Italian, learning all the biological terms in Italian, trying to find out information about the trip which the company he worked for did not even know themselves.<br /><br />Three days before his trip, he was then informed he would be going to Trelew by bus one day before the Italians arrived to sort things out with the drivers. Suddenly, he was told he would be doing the cooking for some of the days. He had to go shopping with the boss’s mom for groceries, by the way.<br /><br />Then, the company informed him maybe he ought to find out about restaurants along the main routes of Patagonia to see if the group would be able to arrive there by meal-times. And ooops, the company had booked the hotels and restaurants for the wrong dates, they had booked one day in advance for the entire three-week trip.<br /><br />Pablo was frustrated, jumpy, tense and very, very stressed out. But what could he do? In a country with so much unemployment now, everyone had looked at him with envy of having a job.<br /><br />I would be apartment-sitting for him for the next three weeks. Remember to water the plants everyday.<br /><br />The last plant I had, ten years ago, was a little cactus, reputedly the most resilient plant in the world. I probably killed it within weeks of procuring it. But I was so numb-skulled I did not realise it until months later when I touched it and it keeled over, revealing just an empty shell. The entire succulent insides had died out long ago. I thereby promised myself never to be in charge of the lives of another living thing… until now.<br /><br />I had named one of the plants ‘Frida’. No, I was not cashing on the fame of the current movie by Salma Hayek. I love Frida Kahlo’s works. The plant looked radiant at the top but had some tortured-looking leaves at the bottom. So, it reminded me of how Frida Kahlo was radiant on the outside but tortured with pain on the inside.<br /><br />On 20 November, Frida had sprouted a new bud. By 24 November, Frida Baby was 2.5 inches long.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 25 - 27 november 2002</span><br /><br />A quick observation about the mental health of the Buenos Aires inhabitants. Apparently, it is really popular here to visit psychologists. Nearly everyone, especially those from the middle and upper classes, visits psychologists. They even send their children to such sessions. It is so common in Buenos Aires that there is absolutely no stigma with regards to this issue.<br /><br />A classmate of mine has a psychologist girl-friend and her young patients’ mood-swings were like yo-yos. They could be partying one moment and then, 2 hours later, would call up my friend’s girlfriend, crying their eyes out, feeling utterly depressed. They were really reliant on her.<br /><br />Francisca told me her friend visited one three times a week. She is just 21 years old. Gosh, I wonder what sort of problems she has? I suspect boy-girl relationships, friendships, insecurity, jealousy, etc… Stuff we used to solve by ourselves and grow up in the meantime.<br /><br />Of course, in some cases, there are people who really needed help or at least, the sessions could help to improve self-awareness but, to me, the psychologist mania sounded a little excessive.<br /><br />Frida baby was 4.5 inches long now.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 28 november 2002</span><br /><br />I was having my lunch in a Chinese Restaurant in the ‘Chinatown’ of Buenos Aires in Belgrano. A toddler veered near to check me out. I made monkey faces at her. The guy sitting behind me, made goo-goo noises too and he greeted her, “Ni Hao Ma? [How are you? -- in Mandarin]”<br /><br />I turned to look at him curiously. He was Argentinian, not Chinese. Then, I spotted some photographs on the table which his friend was looking through. I gasped at the photos. They were gorgeous! And they looked strangely familiar too.<br /><br />I asked him, in Spanish, ha ha, where they were taken. He said the ones I pointed to were taken in the western part of China, near Tibet.<br /><br />“Langmusi?” I ventured. His eyes lit up, “Yes! Langmusi!!”<br /><br />Oh my goodness!!! Imagine, meeting another person here in Argentina who had been to the obscure Tibetan town of Langmusi in China, where my best memories of China were from! The guy is Marcelo, he is a photographer and had been in Asia for one year on assignment.<br /><br />As I went through the stack of photographs, I realised he had been to South East Asia, India, Nepal, China and Mongolia!! His photographs of China and Mongolia were especially precious to me for I had seen somewhat the same things. They were artfully captured with amazing spontaneity, skill and mood.<br /><br />Marcelo pointed out one photo which was the niece of Leisha, of ‘Leisha’s Café’ fame in Langmusi. I had previously mentioned her in my article. Yes, she was the one who churned out apple pies and yak burgers. I nearly fainted with delight.<br /><br />Marcelo’s photographs would appear in a magazine (free too!) in the middle of next month and he would also have a slide-show presentation soon. Pablo had been to India and Nepal as well and had loved those countries intensely. We would be delighted to see his presentation. I obtained his contact eagerly and promised to write him for more details. ¡Qué suerte! [Such luck!]<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 29 november 2002 - 03 december 2002</span><br /><br />Professional dog walkers. I am not sure if they exist in such abundance in other countries but here in Buenos Aires, everyday, I saw at least one such dog-walker. People who did not have time to walk their dogs would enlist such a professional. The guy could have up to twelve huge dogs tied to his waist as he careened down the streets. Quite a sight!<br /><br />With the dogs, came the poo on the streets. No, they did not clean up after their dogs.<br /><br />While Buenos Aires has enchanting cupolas at the top of some corner blocks, I do not suggest you stare skywards when you walk. Watch out for the poo.<br /><br />Frida baby was 6.5 inches long. I was really proud of her!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 04 december 2002</span><br /><br />On one of the evenings when Pablo was still in town, we had gone to watch the movie ‘Kamchatka’. It was an Argentinian movie about the military repression period in the late 1970s.<br /><br />My Spanish was terrible then, so half the time, I had no idea what exactly was exchanged between the characters. But the story was about a family who had to hide in the countryside after the colleagues of the father, a university lecturer, were kidnapped by the military. Then, finally, when all hope was lost, the father and the mother left the kids with the grandparents and they drove away, never to be seen again.<br /><br />The horrific actions from the military were never spelled out in the movie. They were hinted at, suggested and implied. The movie was very intellectually, tastefully and subtly done, in that sense. However, to someone not familiar with this dark period in the history of South America, the impact might be lost. This, respectfully, was my humble two-cents’ worth.<br /><br />After the movie, tears had streamed down Pablo’s face. He was between four and ten years at that time. It was the age of ‘Why?’ and ‘Why not?’. Yet, no one could explain why he could not do this, why he could not do that. Everything was hush-hush, lest there were spies.<br /><br />The movie reminded him so much of his childhood, right down to the bag the boy was carrying and the sunglasses worn by the mother. Like the movie, there were suggestions at one point, to change their names and they also had a command that when uttered, all had to abandon everything and run out of the house to escape. It was a frightening and very dark period.<br /><br />Pablo explained as much as he could about that period to me. I turned things over in my head. While my heart was heavy, my eyes had remained dry.<br /><br />Today, tears flowed freely down my cheeks. By chance, I had strolled to Plaza de Mayo in the afternoon.<br /><br />The square had painted white headscarves on the ground. The headscarves symbolised the mothers of that period, who had had their children kidnapped and who were left, asking ‘Why?’, ‘What happened?’, ‘Where are they?’<br /><br />Today, in front of the government building ‘Casa Rosada’ [Pink House], police in full gear, including shields, were lining up and waiting for action.<br /><br />25 years had passed. Nothing was forgotten. The square was lined with black-and-white photographs of the disappeareds. The parents, grandparents and even children of the disappeareds had prepared posters to commemorate their loved ones. Posters with the songs and poetry composed by them during their teenage years, the last letters written to their mothers or sisters, photographs of their first toddle, their 15th birthday, their wedding.<br /><br />I circled the square several times and read the touching posters. My Spanish was more or less alright for reading. I recalled Pablo’s words and the movie. I blinked and tears streamed down.<br /><br />The words ‘DETENIDA’ [detained], ‘SECUESTRADO’ [kidnapped], ‘DESPARECIDO’ [disappeared], ‘ASESINADO’ [murdered] screamed at me. The charming, good-looking faces of these people my age smiled back at me.<br /><br />30,000 disappeared. Ariel Horacio Gabriel Roman Franco Manuel Adriana Omar Ernesto Álvaro Gustavo Eduardo Carlos Susana Norberto Hector Fernando Roberto Antonio Luis Graciela Stella Mario José Gisela Julio Nora Claudio Elena Alejandra Beatriz Teresa Samuel Rubén Nestor Nina Maria Rodolfo Ricardo Claudia Clara Juan Daniel Pablo Alicia Laura Jorge Rosalba Agustina Alejandro Cecilia Laura Margarita Mónica… No one was forgotten.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6210355332234901200.post-68131948408492689182002-11-10T20:10:00.000-08:002009-07-18T20:11:26.898-07:0017 - Tango and Not Enough Cash (Puerto Iguazu, Buenos Aires)<span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Puerto Iguazú to Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 29 october 2002</span><br /><br />I had to really wash ‘OBRIGADA’ out of my hair. I am now in Argentina, speak Spanish, por favor! Yet, over and over, from Iguazú Falls to this morning, I blurted out “Obrigada… [Thank you -- in Portuguese]” repeatedly.<br /><br />I had written an email to Pablo whom I had met in Beijing way back in June and travelled together for one month, crossing three countries to Moscow. I told him I was coming to Argentina and he had replied that he was in Buenos Aires and was looking forward to meeting me. He could even put me up at his apartment. Excelente!!<br /><br />I informed him I would arrive in Buenos Aires on 31 October, as I wanted to spend a day at San Ignacio first.<br /><br />However, when I arrived at San Ignacio at 3pm or so, it was raining cats and dogs. Suddenly, I did not feel like staying in this miserable-looking drenched town. I made inquiries in a hotel if there was a night-bus to Buenos Aires leaving that night. The lady told me to phone an affiliated company selling bus-tickets.<br /><br />OK, major test here. Speaking face-to-face in my so-called Spanish was moderately OK for one could still use sign languages, the magic of a smile, a knowing look, pointing and hand gestures. But to speak in Spanish on the phone to someone and to understand him was a little trickier. Well, I did a not-bad job. I managed to figure out there was one bus leaving at 6pm. I thanked the guy and said I would walk to his office now to make the purchase. Unfortunately, the office was ten blocks away and it was pouring! But he kept saying something about a ‘coche’ [car]. I declined the offer but he insisted, “Gratis. [Free]” “¿Gratis? Oh, obrigada… er, muchas gracias… Por favor, gracias.”<br /><br />I set the phone down, wondering if I had misunderstood him. Did such excellent service exist? Was he driving over to the hotel in the rain just to pick me up to go to his office?<br /><br />Indeed he arrived and later, after I purchased the ticket, I took out the wet map and wondered if I could still squeeze in some time to visit the San Ignacio Ruinas in the meantime. Again, the guy offered to drive me to the ruins! I was speechless for a moment. He hurried out to the car just when the heaven opened up some more and POURED all its sorrows out. The rain was torrential. It was certainly not a good idea to visit the ruins at all but my declines now appeared to him to be just trying not to trouble him. And he was very willing to be troubled and would not take ‘no’ for an answer. It rained so hard we could not see out of the car windows. But he was so kind, I had to at least pretend I would visit the ruins.<br /><br />I stood at the ticket counter of the ruins for a long time before telling myself, “Hey, whatever… Stop being such a wimp. Enjoy the rain as one enjoys the sun.” and bought a ticket.<br /><br />I sloshed through the gates of the ruins with ankle-deep water to the museum. A curator working there asked “¿De dónde sos? [Where are you from?]”. I peered down at his notebook and found him recording which country crazy tourists who visited ruins in torrential rain came from. I replied, “Singapur”. He neatly wrote down, “Japon”. I threw him a look, took his pen from him and corrected it solemnly. If anything, for the record, I had to make sure that it be noted that this crazy tourist came from the right country.<br /><br />He then asked if I needed a guide. Oh no, obrigada… er, gracias… How could I bear to make someone else come out in this awful rain with me?<br /><br />My feet were totally submerged in the flooded field. I waded through the grass and rivulets. I was surprised to see two other crazy tourists visiting the ruins as well. Visibility was so low, I could not see far. When I lifted my head to look at the walls, my eyes were closed because of the pelting rain.<br /><br />I returned to the museum, wonderfully wet, and beamed at the bemused curator, “¡Qué lindo! ¡Qué bueno! [How pretty! How nice!]”<br /><br />I dried myself in the restaurant opposite and ordered a bife [beef steak]. This would start my streak of bife-eating in this country. While I complained about the over-done, tough, tasteless beef in Brazil, here… just right across the imaginary line called the border, the Argentinians made the most gorgeous, juicy, mouth-watering piece of steak in the entire world. I praised the chef and muttered many thanks to the waitress.<br /><br />Later, as I prepared to brave the rain once again to walk eight blocks back to the bus office, the owner of the restaurant stopped me. She refused to let me go out in the rain. The husband of the waitress had coincidentally just arrived to pick her up. The owner thus asked the waitress to get her husband to drop me off at the office. Oh my goodness!!! The Brazilians had been wonderfully friendly… and the Argentinians appeared to be even more hospitable and kind! I had just gotten three free lifts in a day!<br /><br />Then, at 6pm, the most perfectly-evolved double-decker bus arrived to pick me up. There were three seats per row. The seat was as spacious as a business-class seat on airplanes. It could recline until almost horizontal. A set of pillow and blanket were provided. A pretty little stewardess came up and served cookies, drinks, dinner… I could not believe it! After all those horrendous bus-rides in China and Mongolia, this specimen of bus was utopia itself.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 30 october 2002</span><br /><br />By the way, we were even served breakfast too this morning! Incredible.<br /><br />Throughout the ride, however, police constantly got on the bus to check our documents and possessions. I noted I was singled out to be checked all the time. It felt a little weird for in Brazil, nothing like this ever happened.<br /><br />So I arrived in Buenos Aires, one day earlier than the date I had informed Pablo. Upon arrival, I could not get him on the phone so I tried to contact him via email.<br /><br />He later told me that when he realised I was already in Buenos Aires, his first reaction was sheer panic: “Oh my God!! Trisha is ALONE in my city!!!!” Through a comedy of errors of when, where and how to meet, communicated entirely by emails as he and I strove to log-in multiple times that day to check each other’s replies, we finally met at 6pm at the correct McDonald’s.<br /><br />It was pure joy. We were thrilled to see each other again!! We jumped up and down in delight and gushed about what we had been doing the past months after we separated in Moscow, Russia. We talked excitedly about our trip together in China, Mongolia and the Trans-Mongolian Railway. “Remember this… Remember that…” It was fantastic to be reunited with Pablo again. And thoroughly unexpectedly soon too, for I had not intended to come to Buenos Aires until perhaps next March. Ah, yes, that guitar-pick we snapped into two in Mongolia… they would soon be united too.<br /><br />We paced up and down Calle Florida, the main pedestrian mall in the centre of Buenos Aires, many many times. We were totally oblivious to the surroundings and thoroughly distracted as we yakked non-stop for five hours or so.<br /><br />Like Jane when I was in Ireland, he felt extremely responsible for my safety and comfort. I felt as if I was a baby. He feared that the Buenos Aires traffic would crash into me; he feared that I would crash into the Buenos Aires lamp-posts and telephone booths, and loaded me with warnings and be-carefuls here and there. “Gee, Pablo, thank you for being so sweet and nice but I crossed the horrid China-Mongolian border by myself and didn’t die, remember??”<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 31 october 2002</span><br /><br />Pablo and I met up in Café Tortoni after his work and I was introduced to the most famous and charmingly traditional café in Buenos Aires.<br /><br />The bar/café culture is a quintessential aspect of Buenos Aires. All over Buenos Aires were these traditional bars-cum-cafés which are usually located at the corners of streets. While many had closed, the few which remained were, to me, thoroughly charming. They had high ceilings, ancient iron-fans, antique lamp-shades shaped like flowers, black-and-white checkered floors, wooden tables and chairs and little old men for waiters.<br /><br />For individuals, they are great places to sit and while away the time as one reads or ponders over various questions in life. For friends, they are excellent places to talk, discuss, reminisce, laugh, share, grow.<br /><br />They are nostalgic and inspirational. And for many decades, poets, writers, political revolutionists, tango composers, the intellects of Buenos Aires, had pined for love, debated over ideas, grieved over disillusions, hoped for a new way of life, drowned their sorrows, praised their good fortune, recollected their pasts… and in turn, churned out the tremendously excellent culture of Buenos Aires - the poetry, the literature, the music, the tango dance of Argentina.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 01 november 2002</span><br /><br />As I learn about the Argentinian way of life, allow me to introduce to the readers: Mate and dulce de leche.<br /><br />Mate (pronounced Ma-tey) is the typical drink of the Argentinians. It is served in special cups made from round gourds or a vase-shaped silver vessel.<br /><br />The mate leaves are not just a couple of wimpy leaves swimming at the bottom of the cups. The leaves and sometimes stems are crushed up really small and filled to the brim of the cups. To drink it, one needed a bamboo or usually a metal straw with tiny holes at the bottom to filter out the tiny leaves.<br /><br />One could only pour enough water into the cup for one suck. The water, and this is very important as imparted gravely by Pablo, must be about 80°C or so. Never to 100°C. It is all alchemy. Mate is strong stuff.<br /><br />So, all over Buenos Aires, one could see the locals holding their mate in one hand and a flask of hot-water in the other, refilling, sipping, refilling, sipping… It is a social drink too, meant for sharing among friends.<br /><br />Dulce de leche (Dool-say dey ley-chey) is heaven. Yes, it is. I cannot explain what goes inside it for Pablo was unable or perhaps unwilling to part with this secret knowledge. It seemed to be a cross between chocolate cream and caramel. It is brown, sticky and gorgeously sweet. Every other pastries and desserts, magnificently and lovingly prepared by the wondrous chefs of Argentina, had fillings of dulce de leche. Cartons of dulce de leche are sold everywhere and people have been known, for example Pablo, to finish up a carton of dulce de leche in one day. I had grown to love it too. There was always a carton ever-ready in our refrigerator.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 02 november 2002</span><br /><br />I had passed by many banks which were either shuttered up entirely or had a small door furtively left open for their employees to enter. Harsh graffiti messages like ‘CHORROS!!’ (Argentinians’ slang for ‘Thieves!’) were spray-painted on the walls and shutters.<br /><br />Today, we spotted some people cleaning the wall of yet another disfigured bank.<br /><br />When Pablo left his country in December last year (2001), Argentina was going through a major economic crisis. When he returned eight months later, he returned to a country totally unrecognisable to him. The Argentinian Peso had been devalued from US$1 = 1 Argentinian Peso to US$1 = 3.5 Argentinian Pesos now, ‘mas o menos’ [more or less]. So, imagine the mentality of the people… what they earn now appeared to be 3.5 times LESS than before. 100 Argentinian Pesos is now US$28.50, no longer US$100.<br /><br />And I am sure the readers know that Argentinians who had savings in banks had had all their money robbed. Their money gone just like that. Disappeared. The middle-class basically went bankrupt, in a sense.<br /><br />I tried to imagine how it would be like if the bank where my rapidly-depleting life-savings are stored now, suddenly announced that they have my money now and sorry, you have nothing anymore. I tried to imagine how it would be like to be in my 50s, to have worked my entire life, saving up my money for a nice retirement and then, to receive this piece of news. I could not imagine it. People would go mad, some could kill themselves and I am sure, a few had.<br /><br />I do not claim to understand ‘Economics’ very well. I mean, amongst my er… ahem, considerably wide knowledge, my weaker subjects were ‘Neuro Brain Surgery’, ‘Myths and Practices of Ancient Mesopotamia and Sumerian cuneiform decipherment’ and I’m afraid, ‘Economics’.<br /><br />But I looked at Buenos Aires now with a tinge of sadness. I spotted beggars on the streets, people going through every coin-drop of the telephones to see if there were any change, families pushing shopping carts and collecting and sorting out cardboard boxes, poor children busking, old men or women sleeping on the streets.<br /><br />Along Calle Florida, a new phenomenon, even for Pablo, was people lining up wares, crafts, clothes, mates, souvenirs, kitsch Spiderman costumes, etc… in the middle of the pedestrian mall. All to earn just that little more cash.<br /><br />On the other hand, the posh shops, trendy boutiques and chic cafés remained in the background. After all, (I believe) Buenos Aires had been the most expensive city to live in here in South America. The mighty rich who have savings in US dollars are 3.5 times richer now, if you think about it. They are still shopping in Emporio Armani and attending performances at Teatro Colón.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 03 november 2002</span><br /><br />Being a Sunday today and being Italians, Pablo took me to his parents’ apartment for a wonderful pasta lunch (and some nagging on his side). I did not always understand what was being said among them. But through Pablo’s dad, I really found myself admiring the resilience of the Argentinians in such a sore period of the economic crisis. He had said he had lost everything but poof, what was he to do, he had to stay happy and ‘life goes on’.<br /><br />Indeed, I had been thoroughly impressed with the general good nature of the locals here (not those getting ready for another protest on the street, of course). They are civil, polite, friendly, and very sweet. They bounce “Hola” off one another everywhere. The men almost always let ladies get on buses first. If they bump into one another, a profusion of apologies emerge. A picture of cultured behaviour.<br /><br />I had come across a few street performances of tango by now. The couple whom I thoroughly loved watching could usually be found at the intersection of Calle Florida and Calle Lavalle in the centre of Buenos Aires.<br /><br />Tango is sensual, beautiful, fluid. The music always nostalgic, always romantic. The dancers are the key-stones to my enjoyment of the art. The couple I love was perfect together. The lady appeared to be feather-light as she was lifted, pulled (as she leaned towards the man until her body was at an angle of 40 degrees) and twirled around seemingly effortlessly by her partner. The kicks between each other’s legs were swift and exact, in other words, no… they never tripped over each other. Their precise movements were perfectly synchronised. The mood was sometimes serious, sometimes playful, always enchanting.<br /><br />I always stayed for a while whenever I passed by to admire them. I always had a huge smile on my face as I watched, with great excitement, as they expressed their craft so beautifully and passionately. I always willingly forked out money for them. Bravo.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA - 04 november 2002</span><br /><br />I had decided to stay on in Buenos Aires to study Spanish.<br /><br />I had wanted to do this in Bolivia before I embarked on the rest of my trip around South America. But since I could not go to Bolivia, I had headed south to Argentina. To be very frank, after the ‘high’ of the Iguaçu Falls, I felt a little drained now. I know the rest of Patagonia would be even more spectacular, so I decided I needed a breather for a moment before I pop a vessel with too many overwhelming experiences.<br /><br />After travelling for six months, I also felt a need to stay longer at a place to get to know it better, instead of packing up every three days or so. And these few days had been great. I had grown to love Buenos Aires. Hence, I signed up for a Spanish course and would be here until Christmas.<br /><br />I had contacted my other Argentinian friend - Francisca, whom I met in my Pantanal trip. She could not believe her ears when she learnt that I was already here in Buenos Aires and would be staying for two months. She squealed in delight over the phone. We arranged to meet at the McDonald’s at the Obelisk at 5:30pm this evening.<br /><br />I waited for her at a McDonald’s, facing the Obelisk, for half an hour. I got suspicious and decided to pop my head out and see if there was another McDonald’s near the Obelisk. In the city with the most number of McDonald’s per square area… sure, why not? Not more than 100 metres away, I spotted a strangely familiar yellow curve of an arch! Argh!!! I quickly hurried over there and waited.<br /><br />An old man came over and asked if I was Trisha. He took me over to the side of the road and there was Francisca, waiting in the car. She had been driving round and round for half an hour as she could not stop her car here. She drove so many times, the old man standing at the road recognised her and so she enlisted his help to look for me, la china.<br /><br />We exchanged the typical Argentinian kissie-on-the-right-cheek. As she pulled away into the busy traffic, cars blared their horns at her and drivers shook their fists. An excitable Francisaca screamed and wailed, “Too many cars!!! I hate coming to the centre!! Oh, where do I go? I don’t know the centre!! AHHH!!! Sorry… sorry… Where to go?” Great to be united with la chica loca.<br /><br />As I feared for our lives, I suggested that we should keep quiet while she concentrated on her driving but she would have none of it and chatted away, bombarding me with questions and enriching my knowledge with her life story. More cars whizzed by narrowly. More taxi-drivers cursed us.<br /><br />Our conversation was peppered with, “Oh!!! Oh!! What street was that?? What street?? Did you see???? Oh… I want to go there… I want to turn there… Now, I cannot turn…” She was looking for Shamrocks, an Irish pub. She said she had been craving for their bruschettas. But she had no idea where it was.<br /><br />We spun around in circles, she made left turn when she was on the right side of the street, she stopped suddenly to ask for directions, her engine stalled at traffic lights… When we found the pub, we spun around some more to look for FREE parking. In total, we had been driving around for more than 2 hours. And I was amazed we were still alive. I offered to pay for parking so as to get out of the car some time this century.<br /><br />The biggest joke must be that Shamrocks did not serve bruschettas anymore. Ha. It was so fun to catch up with her.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 05 - 08 november 2002</span><br /><br />I spent the days either going for my Spanish classes, doing my homework and wandering the streets of Buenos Aires.<br /><br />I had really grown to love the hustle and bustle of Buenos Aires. The city seems to have everything.<br /><br />The fine architecture of most older buildings in the beautiful city centre reminded me a little of the splendour of St. Petersburg’s architecture in Russia. Very pretty are the cupolas found at the top of some corner blocks.<br /><br />The busy avenues, the wares sold on the streets, the high energy level reminded me a little of Mexico City in Mexico.<br /><br />The charming cafés, posh bookshops, theatres reminded me a little of classy London in United Kingdom, lending a very intellectual feel to the city. I love book-stores and Buenos Aires is full of them. I frequently popped into them. Oh, I wished I knew Spanish well enough to devour the huge range of books. Sadly, I could only head towards the English section, if any, and browsed through what they had to offer.<br /><br />I really love it here. All sort of shops are found iin every other block. There are kioscos selling snacks and drinks, locutorios which offered telephone cabins and computers for internet use, stationery shops, laundries, clothing stores, garages, butcheries, pastry shops, grocery stores, hair-dressers, video-rentals, supermarkets, photo studios… everything was available. You never needed to go far to get something you want.<br /><br />And what is best about the city is that it is a city that never sleeps. Late at night, many restaurants and cafés stay open. People show up for dinner at 11pm. And to us tourists, things now are cheaper. For example, a bife, and not just any bife: a thick, juicy slap of delicious beef steak, costs a little more than US$1 to US$3.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA – 09 - 10 november 2002</span><br /><br />I hung out with Francisca over the weekend, meeting her friend, her friend’s mom and then, her family. I had never been hugged so hard in my life, thanks to Francisca’s grandmother. Gosh, Argentinians are simply so passionate and wonderful. I felt great to have made the decision to stay longer here in Buenos Aires.aycanelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17018641514674804856noreply@blogger.com0