Chiclayo to Chachapoyas, PERU - 03 march 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 04 march 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 05 march 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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]
Edwin really resembled the amorous Pepe Le Pew, of Warner Brothers cartoon.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
Chachapoyas, PERU - 06 march 2003
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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?
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!”
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.
Chachapoyas to Lemeybamba, PERU - 07 march 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.]”
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.
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.
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.
Jorge followed me to pick up my backpack and he suggested the 1pm combi, as he was returning to Lemeybamba too.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I: “¿Por que? [Why?]”
Driver: “Porque xxxxxxxxx [Because xxxxxxxxx]”
I: “¿POR QUE?”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? Somos muchos. (WHY?? We were many.] ”
D: “Porque xxxxxxxxx”
I: “¿POR QUE?? ¡SOMOS MUCHOS!”
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.
D: “OK, OK… 2 Soles.”
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.
Sorry, I was sssooo NOT Miss Congeniality today. Might be the cumbia talking.
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.
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.
Me? Beautiful? When I find myself a facial and unclog my pores of 10½ months’ worth of grime, then I show you beautiful!
FOUL MOOD: DO NOT CROSS
Lemeybamba to Lima, PERU - 08 march 2003
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.
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?
So, when someone from the hospedaje said, “Habitación 8”, I stirred and woke up at once. That was my room.
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.
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.
I: “Un momentito. Estoy haciendo la maleta. [In a minute. I am packing my bag.]”
Jorge continued to jiggle the door-knob.
I: “¡Por favor! ¡Un momento! [Please! In a minute!]”
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.
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.
Shit!!! Shit!! SHIT!!! S-H-I-T!!!!!
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.
I: “No me esperes, por favor. ¿Por que me esperas? [Don’t wait for me, please. Why are you waiting for me?]”
J: “Voy contigo. [I go with you.]”
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.]”
J: “…”
I (at the top of my voice): “¡SAL!!!!! [L-E-A-V-E!!!!!]”
He finally slithered away.
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?
Señora: “Quiere ir contigo en un taxi. [He wanted to go with you in taxi.]”
I: “¡Por favor!!! ¡Está loco!! ¡Mucho alcohol!!! [Please!!! He is crazy!! So much alcohol!!!]”
S: “Sí… sí… [Yes… yes…]”
I: “¡Señora, por favor… protegeme por favor! Gracias. [Madam, please… protect me please! Thank you.]”
S: “Sí… sí…”
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.
I was really mad.
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.”
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.)
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?
And so, when I arrived at Chachapoyas, I changed my ticket to leave for Lima at 1pm today.
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.
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…
Lima, PERU to Arica, CHILE - 09 march 2003
Surprisingly, I slept rather well last night. It might be the straight Pan-American highway that was working for me.
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.
Uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh.
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.
Arica, CHILE - 10 march 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thank goodness, another company would leave tomorrow. Hello, toes.
Monday, March 10, 2003
Sunday, March 2, 2003
25 - Mission Inca-Kola (Trujillo, Chiclayo)
Arica, CHILE to Lima, PERU - 26 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
Three years ago in Peru, I was violently robbed as well, knocked unconscious and left lying on the pavement. It was horrible.
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.
Well, tempting as it is, I am struggling now but… I think I will stick to travelling. You go, girl.
And so, I crossed over to Peru with a heavy heart.
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.
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.
Hey, don’t worry. My betrothed is in Cafayate, Argentina, busy turning five.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Lima to Trujillo, PERU - 27 february 2003
Unbelievably, I actually slept very well on the bus last night.
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.
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.
Trujillo, PERU - 28 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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].
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.
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.
Trujillo to Chiclayo, PERU - 01 march 2003
I caught a bus to Chiclayo, a few hours north of Trujillo.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Ah, Peru… how I had missed you.
Chiclayo, PERU - 02 march 2003
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.
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.
I got into a colectivo and headed to Lambayeque, a small town near Chiclayo which had two reputable archaeological museums.
The first one I visited was Museo Arqueologico Nacional Bruning de Lambayeque. It was alright, not super impressive.
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!
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The 1 Sol and 50 centavos coins I handed over were declared ‘falsos’ [counterfeits] and I had to fish out other coins for payment.
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.
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.
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?
I spent my fake 2 Soles on a bus-ticket later.
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.
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.
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.
Three years ago in Peru, I was violently robbed as well, knocked unconscious and left lying on the pavement. It was horrible.
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.
Well, tempting as it is, I am struggling now but… I think I will stick to travelling. You go, girl.
And so, I crossed over to Peru with a heavy heart.
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.
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.
Hey, don’t worry. My betrothed is in Cafayate, Argentina, busy turning five.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Lima to Trujillo, PERU - 27 february 2003
Unbelievably, I actually slept very well on the bus last night.
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.
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.
Trujillo, PERU - 28 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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].
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.
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.
Trujillo to Chiclayo, PERU - 01 march 2003
I caught a bus to Chiclayo, a few hours north of Trujillo.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Ah, Peru… how I had missed you.
Chiclayo, PERU - 02 march 2003
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.
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.
I got into a colectivo and headed to Lambayeque, a small town near Chiclayo which had two reputable archaeological museums.
The first one I visited was Museo Arqueologico Nacional Bruning de Lambayeque. It was alright, not super impressive.
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!
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.
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.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The 1 Sol and 50 centavos coins I handed over were declared ‘falsos’ [counterfeits] and I had to fish out other coins for payment.
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.
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.
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?
I spent my fake 2 Soles on a bus-ticket later.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
24 - Run Llama Run (San Pedro de Atacama, Arica)
Salta, ARGENTINA to San Pedro de Atacama, CHILE - 21 february 2003
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!
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.
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!”
Vicuñas are the rarest of the four types from the llama family here in South America.
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.
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.
And they look the most elegant, delicate, feathery and graceful of all.
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.
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.
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.
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.
San Pedro de Atacama, CHILE - 22 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wow, I was awake to see the sunrise and the sunset on the same day today.
San Pedro de Atacama to Arica, CHILE - 23 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
It is also hippie-land. Bob Marley wannabes, tie-dyes, multiple trinkets, and that wind instrument from Australia - didgeridoo, were popularly featured here.
Off to Arica on the night bus.
Arica, CHILE - 24 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I had dinner at one and it was REAL Chinese food.
Parque Nacional Lauca, CHILE - 25 february 2003
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.
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]
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.
Because of the greenery, we spotted many, many vicuñas, guanacos, alpacas and llamas. Paradise!
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.
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.
We visited a few bleak, isolated miniscule towns on our way down, Parinocato (4300+m) and Putre (3500+m).
It was freezing cold now, even in summer. How do they survive here in winter? Drink 96% PURE ALCOHOL.
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!
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.
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!”
Vicuñas are the rarest of the four types from the llama family here in South America.
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.
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.
And they look the most elegant, delicate, feathery and graceful of all.
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.
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.
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.
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.
San Pedro de Atacama, CHILE - 22 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wow, I was awake to see the sunrise and the sunset on the same day today.
San Pedro de Atacama to Arica, CHILE - 23 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
It is also hippie-land. Bob Marley wannabes, tie-dyes, multiple trinkets, and that wind instrument from Australia - didgeridoo, were popularly featured here.
Off to Arica on the night bus.
Arica, CHILE - 24 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I had dinner at one and it was REAL Chinese food.
Parque Nacional Lauca, CHILE - 25 february 2003
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.
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]
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.
Because of the greenery, we spotted many, many vicuñas, guanacos, alpacas and llamas. Paradise!
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.
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.
We visited a few bleak, isolated miniscule towns on our way down, Parinocato (4300+m) and Putre (3500+m).
It was freezing cold now, even in summer. How do they survive here in winter? Drink 96% PURE ALCOHOL.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
24 - Run Llama Run (Salta)
Cachí to Salta, ARGENTINA - 18 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 19 February, 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
--- Travels - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans ---
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.
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’.
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.
The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.
--- Business - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans ---
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
------
Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?
Salta, ARGENTINA - 20 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Would dulce de leche be one of the products? Dulce de leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making dulce de leche.
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!
My saviour!
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.
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.
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.
Salta, ARGENTINA - 19 February, 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
--- Travels - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with BIG apologies to fans ---
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.
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’.
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.
The Esperanzas, sedentary, leave travelling to the men, and are like statues that people come to see, for they cannot be bothered.
--- Business - by Julio Cortázar, translated by me, with even BIGGER apologies to fans ---
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.
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.
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!”
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.
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.
------
Now, don’t they leave you slightly stupefied but grinning?
Salta, ARGENTINA - 20 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Would dulce de leche be one of the products? Dulce de leche? Billy then proceeded to reveal the secret of making dulce de leche.
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!
My saviour!
Monday, February 17, 2003
24 - Run Llama Run (Cafayate, Cachi)
Tafí del Valle to Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 14 february 2003
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
An hour later, not unexpected, I could not find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate.
Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.
Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 15 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Cafayate to Angastaco, ARGENTINA - 16 february 2003
The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Angastaco to Cachí, ARGENTINA - 17 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
An hour later, not unexpected, I could not find any archaeological site whatsoever and after a nonchalant shrug, I returned to Cafayate.
Well, at least, the walk had touched up on my fading Brazilian tan.
Cafayate, ARGENTINA - 15 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
I somehow became the photographer for three families as they each sought me out for their ‘top-of-the-world’ shots.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Cafayate to Angastaco, ARGENTINA - 16 february 2003
The early morning sun was hidden behind clouds and it was indeed a very nice, cool walk to Rio Colorado.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
Angastaco to Cachí, ARGENTINA - 17 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
23 - Planet of the Asados (La Rioja, Tafi del Valle)
Mendoza to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 07 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh dear, how inconvenient this was turning out to be. I lugged the box to La Rioja.
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.
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.
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.’
For my case now, it would be the last meaning.
La Rioja to Los Molinos, ARGENTINA - 08 february 2003
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.
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.
However, she tried to interest me to go to Los Molinos, a small town 2 hours away, which would have a festival tonight. Fine.
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.
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.
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.
Los Molinos to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 09 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
La Rioja to Tucumán, ARGENTINA - 10 february 2003
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.
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.
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?
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.
I cursed the day I decided to post things home from Argentina.
I arrived at Tucumán late at night and had my first diarrhoea since China.
Tucumán to Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 11 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 12 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Again, I must say I was very lucky to have met such a wonderful family, entirely by chance.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 13 february 2003
I stayed another day here in Tafí. Just to gain more strength.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Oh dear, how inconvenient this was turning out to be. I lugged the box to La Rioja.
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.
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.
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.’
For my case now, it would be the last meaning.
La Rioja to Los Molinos, ARGENTINA - 08 february 2003
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.
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.
However, she tried to interest me to go to Los Molinos, a small town 2 hours away, which would have a festival tonight. Fine.
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.
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.
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.
Los Molinos to La Rioja, ARGENTINA - 09 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
La Rioja to Tucumán, ARGENTINA - 10 february 2003
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.
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.
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?
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.
I cursed the day I decided to post things home from Argentina.
I arrived at Tucumán late at night and had my first diarrhoea since China.
Tucumán to Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 11 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 12 february 2003
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Again, I must say I was very lucky to have met such a wonderful family, entirely by chance.
Tafí del Valle, ARGENTINA - 13 february 2003
I stayed another day here in Tafí. Just to gain more strength.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 6, 2003
23 - Planet of the Asados (Mendoza)
Viña del Mar, CHILE to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 02 february 2003
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.
So, while I tried my utmost best to keep my eyes open to appreciate the view, I dozed off constantly throughout the ride.
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.
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.
A change of country, a change of currency, a change of ‘language’.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 03 february 2003
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.
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’).
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.
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.
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.
We twirled, sniffed and spread fermented grapes over our taste buds (evenly). Hmmm… looks like wine, smells like wine, tastes like wine… I wonder…
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.
Good meat, good music, good Mendoza wine. This is the life.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 04 february 2003
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…
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.
We thought, how misinformed we were.
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…!!!???
We realised, HOW MISINFORMED WE WERE.
We had no choice but to return to the hostel and undo all the ‘goodbyes’ we did earlier.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Mendoza to Puente del Inca, ARGENTINA - 05 february 2003
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.
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…)!!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Soon, more people joined us in the pool and it became difficult to leave.
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…
Puente del Inca to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 06 february 2003
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
So, while I tried my utmost best to keep my eyes open to appreciate the view, I dozed off constantly throughout the ride.
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.
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.
A change of country, a change of currency, a change of ‘language’.
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.
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.
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.
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’.
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.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 03 february 2003
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.
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’).
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.
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.
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.
We twirled, sniffed and spread fermented grapes over our taste buds (evenly). Hmmm… looks like wine, smells like wine, tastes like wine… I wonder…
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.
Good meat, good music, good Mendoza wine. This is the life.
Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 04 february 2003
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…
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.
We thought, how misinformed we were.
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…!!!???
We realised, HOW MISINFORMED WE WERE.
We had no choice but to return to the hostel and undo all the ‘goodbyes’ we did earlier.
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’.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Mendoza to Puente del Inca, ARGENTINA - 05 february 2003
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.
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…)!!!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
Soon, more people joined us in the pool and it became difficult to leave.
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…
Puente del Inca to Mendoza, ARGENTINA - 06 february 2003
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.
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!
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.
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.
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