It's the end of the road

Moving swiftly on, from politics to geography: the Iguazu Falls. Wow.

You have to see it to believe how mind-blowing it really is. It’s the kind of thing that reminds you how tiny and insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things, like, for example, nature. Nature has the tendency to make me feel about as big as an amoeba; its almighty power, size, age, in comparison to me, a whipper snapper whose time on earth is more than fleeting. But you soon forget all those thoughts when you hit Buenos Aires, and all of its buildings and shops and offices and banks and parks are all built for you and the fourteen million others that live here. You quickly get into the swing of urban things, and we were really lucky to be taken in by a lovely couple we met earlier in Cafayate over a glass or two of wine in a winery. These lovely porteños made sure we tried the most delicious of wine, beer, asados, pizza… I can’t go on because I’m too hungry. We went for a Sunday asado at their family’s home and saw how its done: pretty damn well!
     I’m writing this back in London, but I have to explain how absolutely grateful and humble I was by the end of our trip of four and a half months in Latin America. It was when we were, as my friend Facundo so eloquently put it, with one foot there and one foot back home. It wasn’t a particular place, a thing, a person, a landscape, a sunset. It was everything. It was the whole, full, wonderful experience of being able to travel and see so many different and amazing things, meet so many beautiful people that made me so aware of being a very lucky and happy person.
     In Buenos Aires, our lovely porteña host said one day, “Europe isn’t the world”. First I thought, “Well of course Europe’s not the world”. It took me a while to think about it and understand what she meant. We have it so good, crisis or no crisis, with our access to health and education, to fresh water, to hot water, with a minimum wage, housing, social security. And some people (lots of people) have it so, so bad. At one point in Bolivia, rain water was privatised.
     So yes, I am extremely lucky and privileged, and I need to remember that, always. When you’re having a bad day and everything feels a bit shit, think for a moment that you are living in an old man’s right knee, or think of how teeny tiny you are compared to this:

If you have loved the sound of any of the places I have talked about in this journey, please, go there.

This is the end of the travel road, and the beginning of another. As soon as I got back to London I landed myself a job in Madrid. The next chapter of this blog, I mean my life, will be all about that.

 

The ones who were made to disappear

After some delicious days in Mendoza we took a 17 hour bus ride to Rosario. No disrespect to Rosario or her residents but the only reason we stopped there was so as not to be on a bus for 30 hours. That just sounds like being a hamster in a cage with no wheel. I'm glad we stopped there. It's a pretty city with a river where the first Argentinian flag was raised. But more importantly, here we visited the Museo de la Memoria, or the Museum of Memory.
     I won't pretend to know what I'm talking about so I will try to describe what I learned that afternoon.
     This museum holds an exhibition about the Dirty War; the tragic days between 1976 - 1983 when men and women, mothers and fathers, mothers-to-be, children, babies and babies not yet born into the world were "made to disappear". Hearing it is horrible, but seeing puzzles of photographs of people who make up communities, families, where blank spaces mark "the disappeared" person, where there is a red line across it stating "murdered", it is made to be quite real. Or as real as it can be when you are an observer of photos on a wall.

Neither words, nor I, can describe what "the disappeared" must have gone through, or their loved ones (many of whom were made to "disappear" soon afterwards. Pregnant women were made to "disappear" and were kept prisoners in some kind of torture centre, then later killed. Or they were kept until they gave birth, were then murdered, and their new-born babies were given to military families. Some of these babies have been found, by their grandparents, perhaps, and have taken back their original name. Others can't face the reality that they were stolen, or that their parents were complicit, so opt to live on as if nothing ever happened. This way their "adoptive" parents don't go to jail.

What was the torture centre during the period of the Dirty War is now a government building and when you stand outside and look at it, you realise how recent this mass killing was by the graffitti on the road that says "Justice. Not one child less".

It is estimated that 30,000 people were made to "disappear".

Argentina: the land of vino and asados

First stop: Salta.
     Salta feels like a little Madrid or Rome - lots of Argentina does. So you understand when everyone tells Oscar that one of their grandparents or great grandparents came from any number of regions of Spain and the Basque Country. They smile with twinkly eyes as they tell you who from their family lives there now. I knew there were links, but I hadn’t imagined they were so strong and alive today.
     After three months of a pretty unvaried diet of soup, rice and potatoes you can imagine our delight at being in the land of empanadas, pizza, pasta, choripan, milanesa, provoleta, bife ancho, bife de chorizo, and vacio that looks like this:

     As if we weren’t having enough fun with food and wine, we moved on to Cafayate. Here we had a ball with wine, wine, wine, more wine, and alfajores. Yum! We hired bikes and cycled to wineries until the tyre went flat, returned the bikes and carried on by foot. We tried Torrentes, a delicious white, the only wine with 100% Argentian grape, as well as Malbec, Bonarda, Cabernet Sauvignon, Tannat in Nanni, Esteco, Etchart, Las Nubes, and other wineries. We hooked up with a couple from Buenos Aires who were having as much fun as we were trying wines, so we went to a bar and bought some really expensive ones to share. That myth about not getting a hangover from expensive alcohol was tried, tested, and failed.

     In our 19 hour bus ride to Mendoza, after the pane of glass beside me getting smashed (by thieves who wanted to rob everyone onboard), we had to change buses. I was half asleep and left my bag under the seat. I remembered half an hour later; the driver rang the station, they got my bag and gave it to the driver of the next bus to give to us in Mendoza. It found me safe and sound, with everything inside. That was a lovely moment.
     In Mendoza, with faith in the good in humankind, we continued our journey of wine, and asados with the best steak I’ve ever eaten, and facturas, and alfajores, with dulce de leche on top. We were lucky enough to be taken in by Rodolfo, with whom we ate, drank and rested like real Mendocinos. Life in Mendoza is good! Demasiado deli.

A salty end to Bolivia and - hello Malvinas!

Uyuni. A small town from which you take a tour to the famous salt flats: isolated, windy, dusty, boiling hot and freezing cold. Full of tourist agencies and, yes, tourists. Tourists hanging out on the streets in big groups like they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Suffice to say, I didn’t like Uyuni: a victim of its own salty success. Of course, the locals can’t stand the sight of the tourists, either. I got into a pickle with a man working in an internet café where everyone was paying to watch pages load. He followed on my heels as I walked out, silently threatening to hit me. That was when I realised what machism really is. I’ve seen how women sometimes barely look at you, how their man speaks for them, how the man who speaks louder gets served first. But to see a man in his forties threaten me so publicly was frightening. I couldn’t imagine what he’d be capable of behind closed doors. Sometimes I like to think I’m such a modern woman that I can break through gender barriers, that there are moments when I’m genderless, but in that incident I was reminded very clearly that I was a female, and that, in Bolivia at least, there is a marked difference between ‘her’ and ‘him’.

With the tour came other-worldly landscapes that made you feel you'd stepped off Earth, and the world's largest salt flats:

 the red, white, and coloured lagoons, the stone tree, Dali's desert, and various breeds of pink flamingo:

geysers (huge stinky holes that smell of rotten egg where sulphur is bubbling away), and a locomotive cemetry.    
     Our driver, Javier, was lovely. He drove us in a jeep for 3 days, prepared lunch at mid-day and cooked dinner as soon as we arrived at our resting place for the night. On the third day he told us about a bus accident he was in on his way home for Christmas - the brakes failed and the bus flew through the barrier and 200 metres down the mountain. Javier lost his memory, ability to speak French and English and had to have several operations. I knew buses were dangerous around these parts: I have blessed myself on more than one occasion, and we had our own scare when a chunk of the engine fell off our bus in Peru and I woke up to shouting and whistling.
     After the tour, being offered a shower by a little girl in the street and a night bus, I was on the bridge, officially in no-man’s land, waiting to get into Argentina. Standing in the queue under the scorching sun, I watched a pig eat a dead puppy. She got every bit of meat off that corpse, I can tell you.
     Stepping onto Argentian soil, after getting through with no search or questions (not everyone got through so easily), I was welcomed by a huge sign: “ The Faulklands are Argentinian”.

The poor old devils in Potosi

I wasn't going to do a tour of the mines - the LP warns you of extreme conditions like no air, darkness, lack of safety in descending etc, but the guy in our hostel was an ex-Miner and had good reports so I found myself suited and booted and ready to see the mines of Potosi.

     Potosi is where silver was mined years ago from the Cerro Rico hill when it was discovered by the Spaniards, and back in its day, was the richest, largest city in South America. Millions of African and (later) Indigenous slaves died in the mines extracting silver. Now there is none left, but there are other minerals like zinc here to be had, working underground so as not to destroy the UNESCO protected hill. The tour began in the market with how to light dynamite, then we bought gifts for the miners (who work in a cooperative - which isn't as great as it sounds) and we went in.
     Not only is it freezing, it's also pitch black, and you have to tread very carefully so as not to fall into the huge holes that are everywhere. There are 400 explosions a day, and 2 to 3 miners die per month. Before, this figure was 5 to 6 per week. Welcome to the world of the Bolivian miners.
     We saw 2 miners working, pushing a cart of 1 tonne of rock along the tracks. "Mind your feet," Antonio, the guide said, "lots of people have lost their feet this way." When the men passed, he continued to tell us they would live until about 35 years of age. Each of the men had a cheek bulging with a ball of coca leaves, and their teeth covered with a green film. Antonio told us several times of the importance of coca: it keeps them going with energy, it suppresses their appetite, and it marks the time. They chew leaves for 4 hours, then break, spit the ball out and put a fresh ball in for the remaining 4 hours. That way they break up the day and keep track of time. Why don't they have lunch? I thought. "Why don't they eat, I bet you're thinking," said Antonio on cue. "Because, with food in their bellies, they will have two problems: deadly toxins in their lungs, and in their stomachs." The air is thick with toxins, and asbestos is everywhere. The walls and roof of the mines glisten with beautiful stalactites of asbestos. And these toxins cause the fatal disease silicosis which kills the miners one by one.
     When we were buying gifts I decided not to buy cigarettes so as not to support an unhealthy habit. When I saw these men literally breaking their backs, inhaling toxins that are killing them, and chewing coca that is rotting their teeth, I realised the cigarettes are the least of their worries. It was hilariously sad.
     In the mines we saw several statues made of clay and earth. These are the devils worshipped by the miners, called "Tios".

This comes from when slaves worked the mines and the Spaniards told them that if they didn't extract minerals the devil would take them and they would never see daylight again. The devil slowly became their friend and they now worship and adore them, bringing them gifts such as cigarettes to smoke, 96% pure alcohol, and coca leaves which they sprinkle on the devils' hands, feet and penis. In return for these things they ask for the following: strong hands to work and push the carts, feet that carry them out of the mine alive, and fertility of the mountain to produce minerals, as well as their own fertility to produce more children to continue working the mines.
     Their motto: "For you today, for me tomorrow."

Sucre and the search of a better life

Weed-out and dehydrated we arrived in Sucre, with its white-washed buildings and beautiful churches on every corner. We went to see dinausaur prints here - they were the longest trail in the world until a chunk of rock fell off - oops.
     In Bolivia in general there are children everywhere. They are on corners, on streetcurbs, in plazas, selling sweets, selling on jewellery stalls, begging, working in shops, restaurants, or hotels. So you often find yourself ordering food from one, checking into a hostel with another. One little girl sold us a magazine for an organisation working with child workers, and it was only then that I realised the number of child workers there are, everywhere. I had gotten so used to it that I no longer noticed.
     We went to a museum of masks and folklore, which was filled with amazing masks of all different shapes and sizes, from the various regions and cultures of Bolivia.One was over 1 metre high. A particular person wears this mask in carnival, and afterwards, sleeps with a virgin. Much more than old fashioned fancy dress!
     Anita, the girl working in our hostel, got chatting to us about Spain. One of the wonderful things about this journey is the ability to talk to people in Spanish. In such a small moment, you can learn so much about a person, about their culture, about what it is like to be from their country. Our chat with Anita over breakfast was one of those moments. One of her brothers and two sisters moved to Spain eight years ago, leaving their children to their mother and sister Anita, to bring up. Between them, they left six children behind,including two babies. When her sister returned five years later, the babies didn´t recognise them or want to know them. Now, though, they have moved away, bought houses and are relatively well off.
     Anita´s brother, though, won´t come back. He refused to come back with his sisters, and refused still when his wife died in a car accident and left their two sons alone. He lives in Madrid with another name. His mother wants him to be thrown out of Spain so he is forced to come home and face his responsibilities. It must be so easy for him, so far away, with a new name like Miguel to help him to forget.
     Anita goes to university studying Plastic Arts. She wanted to move to Argentina to work but now has her own baby. Her mum told her to go, that she would look after her daughter, but she doesn't want to leave her. I imagine this is because she has lived it once, and she doesn't want her own child to forget her. She's not studying this year becuase she needs to work in the hostel, earning 50 euros a month. I hope she studies next year and becomes a Plastic Arts teacher. 

Crossing borders: to Bolivia

We went into an office for a stamp, walked up the road and went into another office for another stamp, got on a bus and drove away. All in under three minutes. I thought: if only it was this easy for anyone to cross a border. Wouldn't the world be a different place?
     We arrived in Copacabana, still beside the Lake Titicaca, still the same languages, (Spanish, Quechua, Aymara), people of the same appearance and dress, the same landscape, but - a different country. It made me think of the old days when those borders weren't there, when the Andean people were the Andean people, whether in Peru, Bolivia, Argentina.
     We brought in 2012 in Copacabana. Had a lovely dinner, wine, went to a bar that suddenly emptied. Decided to go to another and found everyone on the street getting ready for midnight. Fireworks are a huge thing around these parts and once again we saw the sky light up. Let's just say it was a great night that involved fireworks, beer, wine, cuba libres, caiphrinas, more beer, a badly cut finger and a crippling hangover: a fantastic new year.
     Day 2 of 2012 we were in La Paz and wondering around the Witches Market where you can find anything including llama foetus. A llama should have one baby but somethimes there are many foetus' so they pull out the dead ones until they get to the live one. The dried llama foetus are then for sale to be buried under your house as an offering to Pachamama for good luck. Afterwards we were nearly robbed at knifepoint but I saw the man, the scenario, the knife all beforehand and we miraculously escaped that one. Phew.
     In the Plaza de Murillo we watched the families and the children in the christmas mood. Every other child had a puppy, and the ones that didn't have a puppy were getting their photo taken with a puppy. I almost asked for a photo too but Oscar stopped me, saying, maybe I was a bit old for that? Maybe a teeny bit.
     Next: Coroico. The beginning of the tropics without the 12 hour journey to Rurrenabaque we unfortunately didn't have time for. Our first night we shared a table in a restaurant (common here if it's full) and we made friends with a lovely Swiss/Chilean/Bolivian lady who lives in Coroico, a Bolivian girl and American guy who live in Florida. The next day we went for breakfast at Doris' house (the most beautiful, peaceful, paradisiacal house I've seen) and went walking through the tropical mountains where we saw banana trees, avocado trees, coffee plantations and coca leaf plantations, ending in an animal refuge called La Senda Verde which has birds, parrots, turtles, caiman and monkies - all but the caiman are walking around freely in the large refuge. The only problem was we made a friend along the way - a dog - which got into the refuge. Suddenly all the animals started screaming and I spotted our friend. The owner started screaming at me to get him out of here now! And I said he's not our dog! and she screamed that she didn't care, that I brought him in here! Who knows how he didn't attack any of the animals - he had been pretty aggressive with all dogs and cars on the way - but we got him out. At the exit I asked the guys working there how he would have got in and they showed me the gap in the door. Well surely that's not a great idea for the door of an animal refuge...
     Oscar had a baby monkey on his shoulders which made me jealous and relieved at the same time. It came off safely.
     We headed on to Cochabamba and then to Sucre - both journeys with no toilet so I had to starve myself of liquids for several hours before and then take advantage of the driver taking a leak or checking the tyres to nip around the back of the bus and take a leak myself. Fun - not. One bus made a toilet stop at 2am in a village and everyone got off and walked down the road to a nook, cranny, tree, rock and I realised there was no actual toilet. I felt sorry for the village.
     Sucre is beautiful. More of that another day. 

Goodbye El Peru

The Uros Islands are a wonder. People living on little islands made of something like hay that is soft and spongey, and where, if you fall out with neighbours, you take out the anchor and float somewhere else. Six to seven families share an island and when young people marry they make a new one with others. There are over 60 islands and 2,000 Uros people. Amantani is further in the middle of the Lake Titicaca - it's the second highest populated place after Tibet. And it feels extreme. Surrounded by a (sea) lake, freezing temperatures, a scorching sun, barely any animals. And you see lots of women with their children but no men. Where are they? In the cities working. The people here are largely vegetarian due to the lack of access to meat. I have so much access to everything I need and want that it's a surprise to see people living without their husbands, fathers, meat, showers, hot water and who knows what else. Here we stayed with Basilia and her children. She was so untalkative and uninterested that I thought she was really rude, but with a little time I began to understand she has a whole other way of being. No questions, no conversation, very few words in general! She was actually really sweet, and danced with us when we went to this outrageously touristy dance thing dressed up (get a bucket). When we left she gave me kisses and I realised how different we can all be.
     On Amantani we walked up to Pachamama (Mother Earth) and followed the tradition of picking up four stones and walking around the ruins three times to the left. The stones represent health, love, work and wisdom, and you have to make a wish for each as you walk around, before leaving the stones at the door. It felt good thinking of my wishes and focusing on what I want. It focuses your energies and makes you think about what is really important, and what you really, really want.
     In Taquile, apparently, the men don't need to leave because this island thrives on tourism. Then you step on it and they charge you an entrance fee and a fortune for lunch and you can see why!
     On our last day in Peru we went to Sillustani where pre-Incan tombs in the shape of towers were made with huge stones and built on top of mountains. There are loads of them, dare I say hundreds, and they were once filled with VIP's remains, along with gold, silver and other artefacts, until the Spaniards came and looted it all. There are other phallic ruins (yes, stone penises) in Chocuito, but I'm sorry to say we missed them. Maybe Jesus' mother Mary went to see them because they say you just need to sit on one to get pregnant. :-)

Huffing and puffing in Peru

Where were we? Oh yes, trying to leave Lima with all our belongings… Well, we finally got on the bus, only to stay on it all day due to a strike in a town we had to pass through. Strikers in Canete were against the development of a prison in their small town, which, they said, was to house all the criminals from Lima. I doubt I would be happy. So, they burnt things, including passing buses, threw stones at the windows (while the passengers were inside), and rocked them. Thankfully it was night and they had gone home by the time we were allowed through. That was a long day.
     The next day we went to las Islas Ballestas, known as the poor man’s Galapagos islands. We saw dolphins, penguins, sea lions, and thousands and thousands of birds. It was amazing, and being the poor man’s version, only cost 10 euros! That same day we moved on to Huacachina, an oasis in the middle of the desert, with sand dunes as far as the eye can see, and Julio, an 80 year old sand buggy driver who was full of life and had as much, if not more, fun as us by driving like a lunatic and flying us through the air.
     If you go to Peru, you must try the chocatejas: the typical chocolate, with pecan and dulce de leche….yum! And the best are in Ica, so when we passed through Ica, we undoubtedly stopped to buy some (as you do). And when we were there we discovered that Ica suffered a big earthquake in 2007, and all over the region, many towns are in rubble. In the main plaza there were empty spaces in every block. The line of arches suddenly stopped mid-arch. It was the first time I saw a place devastated by natural disaster and it was weird and very sad. The Cathedral was in ruins, and the people were gathered around the corner in a hall to celebrate mass. There is no money to restore and rebuild, apparently, so the ruins sit there untouched, being walked around every day.
     On our way to Arequipa we stopped at Nazca to see the famous lines. We didn’t fly, but spent the afternoon in town and got a bus out to the mirador where you climb up to see two of the images. You really do wonder, where on earth did they come from? Who made them? Why? And then you leave, with all of your questions unanswered.
     After a few days in the lovely white city of Arequipa we did a trek to the Colca Canyon, the deepest canyon in the world (tick). We saw condors of 3 metres sail through the air, although at that distance and height, they could have been red breast robins, haha. We climbed, descended, suffered altitude sickness, sucked on coca sweets, chewed on coca leaves, and huffed and puffed our way through pure nature, amazed that people actually live out there, isolated and surrounded by walls of mountains, leaving you only with a patch of sky. Children leave this region at ten years of age to go to secondary school, working by day and studying by night. I realised that these children must be some of the ones you see working on the streets, selling sweets, cleaning shoes, washing windscreens, or, maybe later, begging or stealing. We were told afterwards when we were in Cusco that the night education is sub-standard, and so, even though these children try to learn and develop further, it’s impossible for them to get out of the vicious poverty cycle.
   

I don't like Alpaca

In case you're interested, it's tough and chewy. No fun at all. I wasn't brave enough to try cuy (guinea pig), but though those who were have told me it's disgusting and smells really strong and bad! And yes, guinea pig is quite the trendy thing to eat over this way. It arrives on the table with fried paws, head, teeth and all.

     More on Peru. The ceviche is delicious, as is the pisco sour. Peruvian wine can be really good but is expensive to buy so it's safer to go for the Argy Bargy. 

     We started in Lima, where a clever little duo decided to rob me in the bus station. Oh how they underestimated the Foley! One of the scoundrels knocked on the window when Oscar went to the loo asking for the time. I told him I didn't have it, but he kept knocking on the window and was mumbling away, holding my attention, as I'm sure you're now guessing. I turned around and scoundrel number 2 is walking away with my bag. I screamed 'LADRON! QUE TIENE MI BOLSO!' (THIEF! HE HAS MY BAG!) Anyone who has heard me get a fright or squeal in general can only imagine. I jumped up and ran after him, and everyone else jumped up and ran after him, too (Thank you Limeños). He dashed out the door, throwing a rucksack down on the floor. A man picked up the bag and said 'here's your bag,' but I said, 'that's not my bag. This is my bag.' Scoundrel number 2 had dropped my bag right near where he had picked it up, but I hadn't seen that. Because he was being followed, he dropped his bag too! The thief who lost his bag. Ha.
     Now, don't mistakenly associate Peru with thieves because those scoundrels were the only rotten eggs we've come across so far and we're almost leaving (touch wood - about the scoundrels not leaving). Much more detail on the beautiful Peru next. To wet your senses (don't be naughty), did you know Peru has desert? Good wine? Alpaca and Guinea pig? The deepest canyon in the world and the largest lake at high altitude?     

Grinding my way to 29

Cartagena, the most expensive place in Colombia, is a wonderful bubble of wealth. Undoubtedly beautiful within the stone walls, this is where the cruisers stop to let the tourists have their peek at Colombia. On the other side of the walls is where the real life is. We happened to go to a carnival in that area and celebrated my birthday there! Music pumping and vibrating its way from car boots, flour being thrown into people’s faces, foam being sprayed everywhere, car body paint being rubbed into your skin, and bodies, everywhere, grinding, slowly, in ways I have never seen before. And let me not forget the fireworks being thrown on the ground, burning whoever was near their landing point. Oscar was on one side of the street with people showing him how to dance, and I was on the other side with my own group of teachers. Mine were 13 and 14 years old, and spoke with a wisdom and knowledge that made me feel like the child. They moved my hips, my waist, my legs like I was their doll-that-didn’t-know-how-to-dance. I don’t know if it’s coming across but it was SO much fun. Everyone stopped to talk to us with such an openness and interest. My dance teacher told me that music is the food for the soul, that on a bad day, she walks onto the street, finds her friends, listens to the music, and dances. And she told me never to forget.
     A huge Colombian asked me to dance. Nothing strange about that, you think, but you don’t know how the bodies move here on the coast of Colombia! As we danced, I nervously told him that my boyfriend was “over there”, which, of course, had two knock-on effects: 1. He thought I was crazy and 2. He made best friends with Oscar. Dancing with everyone is the way it is, and I knew that, but my modest European self couldn’t handle it.
     With a hangover we made it to Taganga. (This has mixed reviews in the Lonely Planet so it’s just as well we don’t take much notice of it. I’ve decided some typical Gringo wrote it, who likes to eat burgers and pizza and vegetarian lasagna.) Taganga is a fishing village, where normal life goes on and where tourists come to hang out and live for a while. I can see why people stop here. It has another rhythm, the fishermen fish and come to shore at 6pm where the village congregates to buy fresh fish off the boat. The people are lovely. Our hostel was called Happy Hostel, which says it all. If you go to Taganga, stay there. We met the following characters: 1. An English girl who had been there 3 months and had a puppy and a Tagangan  fiancé. 2. An Irish guy with springy curly hair and a mad laugh, who had been there for a month and was, let’s say, taking it easy. 3. A Colombian 37 year old who had been travelling for 13 years around Colombia, and next year is starting with the rest of South America. We spent our days on a tiny cove with a beautiful view called “Big Beach”, eating the regional fish called cojinoa. Yum. No pups or engagement for us.
      We left our rucksacks in Happy and headed to Tayrona National Park, only with Danielle’s small rucksack (thanks Danielle). Let’s say we were travelling very light, and very dirty, for 5 days. We got to the park and walked to a beach called Arrecifes. Here is when it became official that Colombian timing is about a third of (my) reality. Either they make huge estimates or they run everywhere. Going by what I’ve seen, I’d say it’s the former. We stayed at Don Pedro’s campsite. Mr Pedro is 78 years old and only leaves the park when he has to, about once a year. The next day we went to the beach.
     Tayrona National Park is famous for “The Lost City” ruins left by its indigenous people. What isn’t so well known is that these indigenous peoples’ descendents are still alive (Kogi people), and they lived in the park until they were made to leave to make room for tourism. The park is owned and run by a French company. If I had known this I wouldn't have paid the expensive fee to get in. One thing I will say is that we went to Pueblito, a smaller version of The Lost City, and it was the physically hardest thing I’ve ever done, and one of the most amazing.
     Palomino is a small village nearby, where you see the Kogi's throughout the day, walking around in complete families (they always go everywhere together). It had a mystic, magical feel and there we slept in hammocks on the beach and woke up to the crash of the waves (but couldn't go in because the crash was too strong!). From there we went to Uribia, which is right up near Venezuela, and it feels like you've left Colombia. Here, goats are still used in trade, marriage and disagreements. Uribia is a small, crazy town where I was scared to cross the road, where lame dogs are hopping everywhere and where taxis are beeping their way through to show that they're available. It was an amazing place to see, and the food was not good. We got a shared jeep to Cabo de la Vela, one of the most amazing beaches I've seen, where you can walk 300 metres into the sea and it's still up to your tummy: perfect for me and the abuelos! It was amazing, and very quiet, the only bad thing was that money was taken from our wallet in our room, probably from the family (I think it was the son) which is a shame. It was also the only money we had left so we couldn't eat for a day and a half in order to pay for the transport on the way back (no cash machines here...)
     We travelled south, stopping in San Gil on the way, popping into Bogota again to see Angelina and David and visiting Andres Carne de Res, an AMAZING place worth a stop and some cash to see.

Next stop, El Peru.

ColOmbia

I can't seem to keep on top of my updates, and to think that before we started travelling I worried in case I would get bored. No chance! It's a struggle even to check email, write the diary, write on here every now and again, book hostels for where we're headed and read up on them. It's amazing how far from your life you become, and how quickly you get used to it: following basic needs like eating, sleeping, excreting, seeing and learning. A huge indulgence, where your time, your day, tomorrow, is all your own. 

     In every hostel you have to fill in your name, age, occupation and passport number. Marketing and communications feels very alien right now. Once I wrote Engineer. I think I'll make up a new occupation wherever I go, ha!

     Once we left our adoptive Colombian family we headed for Salento, in the coffee region; a tiny little town beside the Cocora Valley, where the wax palm trees are that are symbolic of Colombia. We spent a day walking through the mountains, crossing rivers on bouncy bridges and jumping over cow pats and horse pats (can you call horse poo pat?). After a few days here and lots of rain, we went to Medellin, the land of the Paisas. I learnt afterwards that the Paisas get their name from back in the day when Antioqiua wanted independence from Colombia, they wanted to become 'Paisa A', 'Country A' with A for Antioquia. Interesting huh? And the Paisas are different. They have a recognisably different accent and are uber friendly. I also later learnt that in this region a strain of Alzheimers is common here, possible due to a Basque back in the 18th century who moved here and who had over a hundred children. The family is now up to 5,000 members and through them and lots of intermarriage, the strain has grown. There is now a study here into Alzheimers. That's my lot for silly information for today.

     Two interesting things to tell of our experience in Medellin are that we went up the cable car to Santo Domingo which was a day to remember. Walking down that slope gave me thighs of steel (if momentarily). It was a gradient of 50 degrees I swear. Later we were told that walking down there a few years ago we would have come out naked. I'm glad it was this year we did it. This change may well have something to do with the fact that a huge library of modern architecture has been built here and a metrocable developed to join this poor area with the city. The mayor invested a lot of money in improving the situation for the less fortunate, which not many mayors around this neck of the woods do. 

     The other thing of interest is that we had a run-in with a mad American off his head on drugs at 10 am on Sunday morning. It was like seeing someone thinking he was in a computer game, scarey at the time, sad in retrospect.

     From Medellin we went north to the Carribbean, Yeah baby. 

More of that soon.

Colombia: a blissful month (Part 1 or it will be too long!)

Every now and then I forgot where we were, and I thought, this is Colombia. We're so used to hearing about it in terms of cocaine, Farc, guerilla, kidnapping, danger, that when we were wondering around this paradisiacal place, where the people are as warm as the sun, I thought what a shame it is how we pick up the crumbs from the media and take it as wheat. There is so much more to Colombia than cocaine.
        In Bogota, the capital of over 10 million, the people are so nice and friendly. People hold things for you on the Transmilenio if you're standing, they offer you their map if you ask them which bus to take. They take you there. Then you step out of Bogota and the people are even more delightful, as is the weather. (Bogota is known in Colombia as the fridge. It seems a little like London - clouds - sun - clouds - rain - clouds - ). From there we went to Ana Poima with a buddy Angelina from Barcelona and her lovely family, all of which were as excited as we were for us to be there (the Colombians in general are delighted to have visitors in their country - a sign of the times changing at last I imagine). The grounds around the house were filled with lime trees, mango trees,  flowers of all kinds. We drank margheritas with the limes still hot from the trees - delicious! I have to say here that Colombian limes are as big as oranges. Avocados are like mini rugby balls, mangos like melons... There is also every type of fruit imaginable. Just a few we've tried are papaya, maracuya, lulo, zapote, guanabana, mora, tomate del arbol, granadilla, and more that I can't remember the name of... there are so so many! And you have them in juice, every day. I bet that has something to do with my new, untroubled, tummy.
        After delicious days in Ana Poima, being looked after with yummy typical food from the region, roasting sun and a swimming pool surrounded by palm trees, the two birds left the nest...

Summary of the rest of Mexico

I got carried away with travelling... it's unreal how busy you get hehehe. So here is a summary of the rest of Mexico...

San Juan de Chamula, Chiapas. The highlight of Chiapas. A small village near San Cristobal, it gives a glimpse into the native life here. The plaza is beautiful for the church that stands colourfully to one side. Once inside...candles. Everywhere. Rows and rows of them in every corner, at every metre, with families sitting or kneeling before them, chanting, or praying aloud. Like mini alters, the squares of candles of different colours and sizes, are lit in order, from furthest away to finally, the row before the family. The elder woman of the group then rubs a hen along the tops of the candles and pulls its neck until it breaks. This ritual is a mixture of mayan belief with catholicism and can be done any day of the year. The hen is sacrificed and eaten after in stew. It’s a hen for the women and a cock for the men; the same is carried out for new babies (and the placenta is buried under the house).

Palenque - ruins. We walked there from the town which took 2 hours and was lovely. We got a guide called Miguel Angel, a local whose first language was indigenous, and whose parents were potters. There are about 26 ruins here, and another 1000 yet to be uncovered. After a tour of the temples present, the ball courts etc it’s hard to fathom another 1000. Miguel Angel told us about King Pakal, who reigned for over 60 years since he was 12, how his servants were killed upon his death so that they accompany him, and that this is an honour. They surround him in their burial, along with his jewels and valuable possessions.

Merida. The people here were very different to other parts of Mexico. Everyone wanted to talk to us, and stopped us to do so on the street. It highlighted how different people are from state to state, with their own traditions, food, music, histories. We saw traditional Yucatecan dance and music in typical dress which was beautiful (in a square surrounded by police as there was a government event going on around the corner). Police are everywhere in Mexico. You get used to it after a while.

An education in Akumal. We went turtle spotting as were told this is where you see turtles over 1 metre long. But after an afternoon on the beach around the nests and waiting for the big moment, we saw none! On return to the hostel everyone laughed their titties off at us because… you can only see turtles in the sea! We didn’t know! In fact, male turtles never touch land after they are born and go to sea for the first time. Haha. So the next day we went back and snorkelled and yes, we swam with turtles and sting rays and it was fantastic, seeing them dance and swim effortlessly around you. On our second day at the same beach we ran into a protest by the local Mexicans. CEA (Centro Ecologico de Akumal) that works for the protection of the turtles, wants to privatise the beach. The thing is, this has been done before by supposed Ecogocial centres, and really, they are in cahoots with the Americans that have bought houses all along the coast, as well as other business owners. It’s dressed up as protection but it’s about tourism and money, and while we were there, chatting to the people, they told us how their town was moved to the other side of the bridge, far from the beach, to make way for the businesses that now occupy it. Back at the hostel, Cynthia the owner, told us this has happened all over the coast; the same thing happened in Tulum - an organisation for turtles ended up building a 5 star hotel. It seems that the locals fear that other parts will become like Cancun and Playa del Carmen (or Playa del Crimen, as they call it): taken over by Gringos. Mexicans have to pay the same as tourists to visit the water caves, when, some years ago, that’s where they showered when there was no running water in houses. Also, where there are hotels and bars, you cannot access the beach at all as it is private property, so in Tulum you can go a few kilometres and not access the beach at all.

Coba - more ruins, but different. The main temple is so high! You can literally see they were trying to get as close as they could to the sky/sun. Poor Oscar had a hard time up there. But the view was beautiful. Pure jungle for miles and miles, and the tips of other ruins poking through. (A little like Tikal in Guatamala).

Santa Fe - a beautiful, little visited, wide beach with hardly anyone, near the Tulum ruins, which we saw from the sea. Oscar saw more than I did because he swam further out ;-)

Pancakes and syrup - was our last breaky in Tulum, and I piled on the syrup like there was no tomorrow because it was so yummy. Within an hour I was puking. And an hour later I was on the bus for Playa del Carmen, puking! We planned to go to Isla Mujeres but a hurricane was coming and they were evacuating the island so no chance there. For the next two days I was in bed, let’s say, sick. And it was great timing because the weather was horrid and all we had to do was eat chocolate and watch films and wait for the rain to stop and for a plane to fly. (Nb. Do not eat chocolate with a bad tummy = not good).

Mexico City - the Mexican monster.  It’s not necessarily the size that is scarey. I’d say it’s the population. At over 21 million, and the 3rd biggest city in the world, there are people EVERYWHERE. There are also taco stalls on every corner, in the dozen or hundred, so you can barely walk on the pavement. There are cars and traffic jams at all times. You go to sleep hearing honking horns and the honking horns wake you up before your alarm clock does. (As do swerving cars, men kicking cars as they nearly ran over their child…). Am I making myself clear? We’re talking high impact. The metro is always busy and people literally run for the seats and push their way on and off (I have to admit that I was good at this - it must be in the blood!). Oh, and there are pregnant women everywhere, and children too, and toddlers, and babies. For the first time I was struck by such young mothers and fathers…women much younger than me and pregnant, with a couple of little ones running around already.
        Of course, along with this is that there was loads to see there. It is full to the brim with everything you could think of seeing. Top visits were: Museo de Dolores Olmedo, Museo de Frida Kahlo, Museo Antropologico, Teotihaucan, Museo de Bellas Artes, the area of Coyoacan and of course El dia de los muertos, when everyone dresses up and walks in the centre and there are alters everywhere remembering loved ones and their favourite things.
The posh parts are posh. Posh parts are always pretty, rosy, smell nice, have parks, big shiny cars, nice restaurants. And the poor parts are pretty damn shocking. The thing is, we ended up in a Women’s Christian Centre (don’t ask), and it was all a bit random. We were near the zocalo, and right around the corner a group of young people had set up home in the shape of plastic sheets and matresses and sofas on the footpath. They were all teenagers and getting high on glue all day and all night. Outside our hostel on the footpath every morning were several new turds that you had to avoid. One night I got to see one being done in action. The smell of the street was intoxicating: a mixture of faeces, glue, and many other bodily functions long ago had. Apparently the state won't do anything to help or move the youngsters, but receives grants for having them there. Another day we saw an elderly lady go to the loo into her hand and throw it in the bin. It was disturbing to see how expert and dignified she was, at the same time as watching the traffic pass by.

Day 2: San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas

First stop: Na Bolom: House of the Jaguar, created by two explorers, Franz and Trudy, that bought it to keep the Indigenous cultures alive. They came many years ago to explore Chiapas, making first contact with many groups of Indigenous to find out what they needed, communicating on behalf of the government.

The house was amazing, filled with photographs, artefacts, Indigenous instruments, clothing, maps of the exploration excursions. Photos of Franz and Trudy, sculptures  of jaguars and other animals. It felt really spiritual and warm, and respectful to the Indigenous people, who can be so marginalised, and it made me feel so insignificant and lame... just another traveller that comes to take a look but doesn't contribute in any positive way. It made me feel very humble.

After that we'd worked up a (humble) hunger. On the way to Na Bolom we'd seen a sign for a restaurant so we went in and were happy to find a really tiny place for...Mexicans. (They're hard to come by). It was the front room of a house with a few tables, a few locals, and us. We were all served at the same time like in a big event, five people in this small room. Delicious soup with pasta to start, and the most delicious salsa verde ever, which we ate in tortillas (copying a local). Yum! Then we had pollo en mole. Yum, yum, yum! Cleaned the plate without looking up or talking once (oops!). And I mustn't forget the agua de fresa - also delicious. All for 35 pesos - about 2 quid.

Next on the agenda was the Museo de Medicina Maya, about Mayan belief, medicine and practice. It showed all types of plants and animals that are used for various ailments and illnesses, and we watched a video about motherhood, more specifically, giving birth. The woman is on her knees, leaning forwards against her husband who is sitting in front of her. The partera, (the midwife with no medican qualifications) pulls the sash tight across her tummy to help the baby come out, continuing to do so, each time lower and tighter. If the baby doesn't come, she gives her a raw egg and other things I can't remember. Watching it, I thought how incredibly dignified: fully dressed, on your knees when the baby pops out into the hands of the partera, who is standing behind the Mother-to-be.

Next, we searched for the Museo de trajes regionales, and when we had given up and were going, we looked through a doorway and it was the museum. When we walked through the courtyard, we passed by a group of people sitting together, one with his leg out and another man, apparently treating it. I didn't see anything apart from a bare leg and lots of bottles. I thought, someone's curing someone, and then I thought, how random - in the middle of a museum!

There was a room filled with traditional Indigenous costumes, from head to toe, maybe thirty or forty, and they were beautiful. Handmade bags, shirts, shawls, coats, with feathers. Animal skins, intricately weaved with colours. Here were more photos of men, women, groups, of Indigenous. We went from room to room (the curing group moved to a more secluded area), and then we got to a room, of which an entire wall was covered with pictures of burn injuries, and severe injuries that must have come from infections or diseases. There were newspaper articles and thank you letters. It turns out that Sergio Castro is an engineer, but has dedicated his life to treating Indigenous people for free. In one article, I read that the Indigenous don't trust whites or Mestizos (European and Latin mix), or even other Indigenous groups, but many come looking for help from Castro. It described one man who had fallen into a fire and had both legs amputated, and post-op was sent home from the hospital. Three weeks later, when Sergio visited him, his wounds were rotting.

He is something of a guardian angel to those people, with no money and little access to healthcare. He is Godfather to over 60 children - the people's way of honouring him as it is a huge honour to be Godfather in the Indigenous culture. There isn't much information on that museum, but it was so educational and touching, and, I guess, saddening. But with a silver lining. 

Day 1: San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas

What struck me as we wondered around the huge market by the church, seeing whole families behind their market stall: Father, Mother, two, three, four children of all different ages (seemingly but a year apart), running around, playing, crying, looking after each other, Mothers with babies wrapped up in blankets and tied to their waists, sewing cushions, tops, dresses that dangle infront of you, ... what struck me is how far away I am from the world of the i. iphones, ipads, ipods, wiis, the lot. I have only seen one and it belonged to a Japanese tourist that was using it to get to his hostel.

The artesania is beautiful here, and so is the family life you see everywhere, and the mountains that surround the centre, covered with mist. It rained throughout our stay there, but it only made it all the more picturesque. Which is just as well because we were told by a local that it rains eleven months of the year (rock on London!)

There was a trade fair going on while we were there, on tourism. Bizarrely, they decided to close down the market for the days it was on, to clean up the main plaza, which is such a shame. Of course for all the indigenous that come from their villages to sell, but for the tourists too. I reckon you could sign up to a different tour every day but still not get anywhere close to this beautiful rich, poor world.

Guadalajara and on to Oaxaca

I left out some bits on Guadalajara with all the storytelling of our little drama and have decided to continue from there. I lived in Guadalajara ten years ago and have been dying to go back ever since and find the family I lived with, because the fact that I never rang them when I got to London has always haunted me.

On my big return last week, I was constantly looking for signs, street corners, puestos de tacos, places I'd been, but I couldn't find any. It left me a little confused and sad, wondering where I'd spent those three months and if it really was the same place. In a teeny weeny way I could begin to empathise with people who leave their home countries and go back five, ten, twenty years later to a place they do not recognise. In some way I can understand why some choose not to go back. We went on a mission to find the house I lived in, and I was delighted that I found my way, only to get to the house, now empty with a big 'To Rent' sign. We tried calling the number to trace the owner, Uncle of the Dad of the family I stayed with, but they moved to Michoacan six years ago and there was no way of getting in touch. I can't help but feel angry at my younger self for not ringing a long, long time ago.

Another thing I wanted to say about Guadalajara was the presence of DEATH. Yes, Death. Hundreds and thousands of skeletons called Katrinas, and skull heads and faces are everywhere: in bars, markets, shops, homes, offices, for sale, for decoration, made of wood, of stone, of plastic, of sugar. Dressed up as bride and groom, with friends' names on, with family titles on, eg. Tia, Hermana, Amiga. I found it all pretty bizarre and morbid and funny, and got talking about it with Natalia. Death is something embraced, celebrated, remembered. It is part of life. El dia de los Muertos on 31st October is a day specifically to remember the dead, take out their favourite possessions, instruments, drink and food. Although I think it's beautiful, I still couldn't understand it, and Natalia found it hard to understand that I couldn't understand. I explained that death is something that I fear, that saddens me, that I try not to be so afraid of. I do love the idea of celebration of life past, in one's present. That another's life can be celebrated and brought into the today.

Moving on to Oaxaca, where we went to the MACO, Museo de Arte Contemporaneo de Oaxaca, where we stumbled across an exhibition called Materia Oscura, by Daniel Guzman. The introduction to the exhibition left its mark on me. It lies much closer to the way I feel about death, about life, about journeys. It was as follows (yes, I took a photograph and copied it out):

Es poco mas de un ano del fallecimiento de mi madre, y el viaje a su pueblo en Oaxaca todavia duele, y todo lo que me rodea ahi: la casa de mi abuela, el paisaje, la gente, la luz, la comida, el olor del campo, me traen su imagen, su recuerdo. Con el paso del tiempo esa imagen y recuerdo se han convertido en materia oscura. Una interrogante acerca del sentido de las cosas que hago, del rumbo que ha tomado mi vida, de como me relaciono con la gente, con mis deseos y mis sentimientos, siempre me he sentido un extrano en esa tierra al igual que en la ciudad de Mexico, pero es algo dentro de mi, y no de la geografia ni de la gente con la que me ha tocado vivir lo que escinde mi ser, nada de lo que haga o diga con mi trabajo o con este texto podra evocar de una manera plena lo que siento. 

It is little more than a year since the death of my mother, and the trip to her village in Oaxaca still hurts,and everything around me there: my grandmother's house, the landscape, the people, the light, the food, the smell of the country, they bring her image, her memory. With the passage of time that image and memory have become dark matter. A question around the meaning of the things I do, the direction my life has taken, how I interact with people, with my wishes and my feelings, I have always felt a stranger in that land as in the city of Mexico, but it's something inside me, not the geography or the people with whom I have lived that splits my being, nothing I say or do with my work or this text may fully evoke how I feel.

Little Poet hits Mexico

Well, after time out in London to complete the second draft of my novel, I am now in Mexico. The plan is to go from here to Colombia, Peru, Bolivia and Argentina in the next four and a half months.

We arrived in Mexico City and headed for San Luis de la Paz, where a friend of Oscars' lives. From there we went to Queretaro, then Guanajuato (saw the smallest Mommy in the world - a six month old feotus). The first things to strike me were the colours. Red and yellow and pink and blue, orange and purple and green.... Literally, it's so colourful and magical and vibrant and full of life, and reflects the culture through colours: passion, love, laughter, tears, drama, music and pain. Because it's all here and by the tonne.

After a few days we came to Guadalajara, where I lived for a few months ten years ago, and where a friend of ours, Natalia, lives. On the fourth day of our trip we went to a beautiful artesanal town outside called Tlaquepaque, accompanied by Natalia and her boyfriend, who seemed to know everyone, and who was greeted in the street with hugs and kisses by the chef of the restaurant we were headed for (El Sope). I wondered what was going on. I thought they must be old family friends: all the staff in the restaurant spent the entire meal coming to the table and telling him how to eat everything and asking if he wanted more goat's head. Now I know that he is a well known public person in the state of Jalisco, so, while I thought he knew everyone, it was everyone that knew him. If I'd known, I would have dressed up.

We ate a dish called Birria, beef with lots of salsa and spices and lime and onion and tortillas. Tortillas go with everything. It was delicious, and, I believe, a dish to try when you're in Mexico. Afterwards, we visited a beautiful little hotel called La casa de las flores, charming and authentic. If my budget was higher I would love to stay there (60 euros per night which is great value - my budget's very low).

The next morning I woke up desperate for the loo. I mean desperate. I darted for the toilet, next door to the bedroom, but realised I didn't make it when I woke up on the floor with a pounding head and Oscar leaning over me, shouting my name. I told him to take me to the loo, and he carried me the metre or two, when I fainted again. Let's say it wasn't the highest point of Week One. It was quite the 'out of body' experience; aware of everything but not able to do a thing: speak, move, or see. The only thing that was moving was my tummy: violently expelling the offender.

In the hospital, the doctor didn't seem too interested in me, but gave me saline and antibiotics through a drip none the less. He wasn't impressed when I told him I was English (having thought I was Spanish) and when he spoke, it was to tell Oscar every city he'd been to in Spain, and where the best lamb is eaten. Oscar wasn't too impressed as he wanted to hear about me, and I wasn't impressed as I wanted him to talk about England.

Now, after a day of rest we're back on it. Yesterday went to Tequila, a lovely town where, guess what, Tequila comes from. Today we went to Tonala and ate a torta ahogada - drowned sandwich... so far so good...