This blog is the nerdiest thing I've ever done

St. Pete's

2011-10-19T18:24:00.000-07:00

ST. PETERSBURG

The Hermitage

After one last cramped but notaltogether uncomfortable sleep on a Russian train, I arrived into St.Petersburg, the second largest and most "European" Russian city. Like most places on this trip I had little understanding as to what to expect;when I was younger, Leningrad as it was then known, was synonymous with theabject failure of communism in its aftermath with breadlines and unemploymentthe telltale signs of widespread poverty.

This image was pretty much immediately dashedthe moment I emerged from the incredibly deep subway (almost as beautiful asthe Moscow metro) onto Nevsky Prospekt, the most famous street in Russia, andthe heart of St. Petersburg. I tell you, this place does not look likeit's struggling for cash. There is some serious bling in this city. Signs of an immensely wealthy past are everywhere, and make it easy toappreciate that Russia was once the wealthiest of all the European monarchies afew hundred years ago.

View from the Hermitage out onto Palace Square, with Alexander Column the focal point, built in celebration of the Russian victory over Napoleon in 1812.

St. Petersburg is actually quite young havingbeen founded only in 1703 by its namesake, Peter the Great. One mightassume with a suffix of "the Great" he did some pretty cool stuff,and young Peter was indeed quite the legendary dude, particularly when youcompare to him to many of Russia's less inspiring rulers. Peter was only 3rd or4th in line for the throne as a boy, and as such he was not subjected to thesame cotton wool protection afforded to his elder brothers. When ateenager he thus faced little resistance when he decided to essentially take agap year/gap decade where he left the decidedly medieval environment of hishomeland to explore the enlightened and progressive crowd over in WesternEurope. Along his travels he acquired some 7-8 languages, spent timebuilding ships in England, studied military history and tactics, and generallyrubbed shoulders with influential statesmen from courts across the continent. By the time he returned to his homeland, he basically pushed aside hisbrothers and was determined to drag Russia into the 18th century from the darkages.

One of his first moves was to take overleadership of the army, and in quick time he managed to push the occupyingSwedes out of Northern Russia, and he determined that Russia needed toestablish a strong Navy and coastal fortress to protect it's interests fromthose dominant Ikea folk to the west. And so he gave the order to buildSt. Petersburg from scratch on the swampy mouth of the Neva River. Ofcourse thousands of forced labourers perished in the process of converting theswamps into useable land, but Peter wouldn't be Russian without a fair share ofcivilian suffering now would he? In any case they did a fine job as overthe next century St. Petersburg soon established itself as one of the mostbeautiful cities in all of Europe, the "Venice of the North" with itsintricate series of canals linking the city.

Being a new city within a wealthy empire, itaimed to show off the best of what Europe had to offer, and its cause washelped by the widespread immigration of artists and intellectuals fleeing theuncertainty caused by the French Revolution. Soon some of the world'sforemost composers, painters, and writers called St. Petersburg home and thisis clearly evident by the vast number of galleries, opera houses, balletcompanies, museums and theatres scattered throughout the city. If youonly have a few days in St. Petersburg these attractions tend to take up mostof your time, and topping the list is the world's largest art gallery, theHermitage.

A wall full of Picassos...

The Hermitage is the former palace of Catherinethe Great (no relation technically to the other "The Great"... shewas actually German and took the throne when she killed her husband the king...)She is still considered a hero in Russia though... pretty lenient towards theirleaders it seems. It has more wall space taken up by masterpieces thanany other gallery in the world, yet it only has one tenth of it's collection,also the largest in the world, on display at any one time.

Matisse' priceless "The Dance"

It's truly a marvel to walk past a wall full ofPicasso, Monet or Matisse, but I swear the true work of art is the buildingitself. Catherine clearly believed she was deserving of the finer thingsin life and thank God for Royal budgets I say. Every room is a feast ofcraftsmanship, every corner full of precise and intricate detail, every objectcarved immaculately from timber, sculpted from marble or leafed with gold withskill that would be impossible to find in today's day and age. Truly apriceless wonder. Slightly ironic that the palace was so large when completed,that it become impossible to heat adequately during the frigid northernwinters, so Catherine preferred to live in the more modest Winter palace nextdoor.

One of the hundreds of stunning rooms throughout the Hermitage.

Not all the galleries I visited were so awe-inspiring. Now I'm not an art aficionado but seriously some painters have got to be kidding themselves with some of their "art". I mean fair suck of the sauce bottle...

This title of this painting was "Red Square (Painterly Realism of a Peasant Woman in Two Dimensions)". Of course it is. Idiot.

The architecture is truly beautiful throughoutthe city and it’s a joy to just wander about crossing over the canals andstrolling through the extensive gardens throughout the city. One of thehighlights is the St. Basil-esque Church of the Saviour on Spilt Bloodcathedral, another tremendous example of the twisted lollipop architecture ofthe Russian Orthodox Church. I found the story of this buildingparticularly fascinating as it was built to commemorate the spot where CzarAlexander II was assassinated in 1881. I have always been amazed at howthe course of history can take momentous changes in direction due to theactions of random individuals.

Church of the Saviour on Spilt Blood

Alexander II was actually quite avisionary and under his rule had already emancipated the millions of Russianserfs and had drafted plans for a Duma, an elected assembly that would havegiven a voice to his subjects. Only two days (TWO DAYS!!) before he wasdue to implement this colossal change to Russian society, he was killed byterrorists (who ironically were actually campaigning for such a Duma) as herode by in his carriage. His son Alexander III, fearful of a similarfate, abandoned the Duma and cracked down more harshly than ever on hissubjects, sowing the seeds of resentment that eventually led to the popularuprising of the communist revolution. What would the world be like hadRussia implemented such changes? Imagine if the Russian peasants had beengiven a voice? Would they have listened to Lenin when his train cameladen with gold from Germany? The world may have been a very differentplace...

A wide array of museums are at your disposal in St. Petersburg... Imperial Bicycles, or playing cards anyone?

Being in St. Petersburg in summer really is apretty special experience as the weather is wonderful, the days incrediblylong, the spectacular gardens are in bloom, cultural events are going oneverywhere, and basically everybody's happy. Some of the highlights forme were the Petroghof garden's, the grounds of Peter's summer palace, andwatching films on the canal's bridges (which are raised every night for theextensive river traffic) when the streets closed off for a huge street party ofmusic and dancing.

Again, thank God for Royal budgets back in the day. The spectacular summer gardens of Petroghof.

Alas, I was only there for a short time, but Icouldn't leave Russia without experiencing a banya, which is basically a saunawhere you get whipped with those ubiquitous birch tree leaves. It was aperfect way to spend my last night in Russia, as it provided a neat littlesummary of my whole Trans-Siberian experience... I had little clue of what wasgoing on, it was mildly uncomfortable yet not entirely unpleasant, withextensive amounts vodka and birch trees, wielded by aggressive-passive, if notopenly hostile near naked Russian men, and although I'll probably never do itagain, I'm glad I experienced it. Unfortunately the similarities endedthere, as I saw a lot of boobs in that banya...

On to Europe...

MOSCOW

2011-09-28T07:19:00.000-07:00

MOSCOW

5am is a prettymysterious and foreboding time to arrive in Moscow, the former capital of thecommunist universe and current residence of more billionaires than any othercity in the world. As I headed towards my hotel through the dim glow ofthe breaking dawn, driving through the streets of bleak architecture,revolutionary monuments and Stalin's imposing skyscrapers (see above) whose artdeco style appear to have been taken from a Batman comic, all that was missingfrom my opening montage was a clichéd Russian soundtrack like the ones in themovies any time the scene switches to Russian generals nattering about launchcodes and the like in the Kremlin.

One of the Kremlin's 20 towers along its perimeter. Moscow university, another one of Stalin's skyscrapers in the background.

Unfortunately, myintroductory drive through the streets of Moscow didn't culminate in mydisembarking in the heart of Red Square, which would have been awesome. Nomy hotel, as per normal, was way the hell out in the burbs, which was is a realshame particularly in Moscow as historically the city grew out radially fromthe Kremlin, the original fortified settlement on the banks of the Moskva river(from which it derives its name) and home to all political, commercial andreligious life. Therefore anything that is worth seeing is pretty muchwithin walking distance of the great fortress, and at least a 25 min walk and40 min on the subway from my crappy hotel. The subway at least, was quitea joy to ride, but more on that later.

The Moskva river, with the Kremlin's palaces and cathedrals clearly in view beyond the it's red brick walls.

My first stop was ofcourse the Kremlin and Red Square, home of the Russian president and some ofthe greatest cock displays of military power up until Kim Jong Il gave up hispromising golfing career in North Korea to concentrate on his annual militarymardi gras. So there I was, feeling all James Bond as I was about toenter the heart of the Cold War foe, Red Square where for over 70 years, Lenin,Stalin, Kruschev and their cronies gazed down from the mighty Kremlin wallsinspecting thousands high-stepping troops and nuclear warheads ready to wipeout the west at a moment's notice... For such a mythical reputation in mymind at least, when I finally stepped on to the cobble-stoned pavement, it wasall rather... underwhelming.

One bookend of Red Square, the State Historical Museum.

It's actually quitesmall, maybe only 400m along the face of the Kremlin, bookended by thered-bricked State Historical Museum and of course the twisted lollipopcathedral of St. Basils. And opposite the Kremlin is a departmentstore... It's like having the marines march past Macy's orBloomingdale's. To further dash my childhood fantasies, there was not anICBM, a tank, or even a frickin' AK47 to be seen anywhere, and to make mattersworse, the whole square was pretty much taken up with temporary grandstandseating ready for a performance of, get this, the Scottish tattoo. Soinstead of thousands of marching troops, they were preparing for a baton-twirlingmarching band. In skirts. Totally ruined it for me.

What is this? A square for pop concerts and cheesy stage shows? Surely Lenin would be rolling in his grave if he had one... I tried to instill some respect for history below...

St. Basil's is a prettyimpressive sight however, particular considering it recently celebrated it's450th anniversary. Incidentally, the name Red Square has nothing to dowith the predominantly red bricks surrounding it, nor it's previous communistrulers. The Russian word "Krasnaya" can actually mean either“red” or "beautiful" and was originally used only to describeSt. Basil's; the square adjacent just happened to adopt the same moniker.

The iconic and "Krasnaya" St. Basil's Cathedral, with the view of Red Square from it's windows below.

St. Basil's was actuallybuilt by the original Russian psychopathic sadist ruler from which all theothers took their lead, Ivan IV, better known as Ivan the Terrible. Oneof history's most tyrannical and cruel figures, his reign actually started outquite promisingly as he finally kicked out the Mongols from Russia aftercenturies of sub-ordinance, and he built St. Basils in celebration. Hethen went a little crazy after his wife died, although when one considers thedesign of the cathedral, he may well have already lost it much earlier...

I followed the Moskva, down to Gorky Park. I listened for the wind of change...

A typically humble and understated tribute to Peter the Great, who did much to Europeanize Russia in the 18th century. At 94m tall, it's hard to miss, and regularly voted one of the ugliest monuments in the world...

It was he coined the termCzar, which is literally "Caesar" in Russian, and he envisaged anenormous empire rivalling ancient Rome. He then went about wiping out allsigns of resistance within his kingdom through such brutal methods as impalingspikes surrounding the Kremlin walls from where his victims were thrown, andcooking his "enemies" alive in giant frying pans (and yes, he madethe oversized culinary equipment specifically for that purpose...) It washis death, and the subsequent power vacuum and turmoil that it brought about,that led to the eventual election by the nobles of the Romanov family to thethrone, who ruled for the next 300 years until Lenin made his mark in 1918.

Church of Christ the Redeemer, which was actually hollowed out and converted to a swimming pool under the anti-religious Stalin...

I decided to move hotelsto be closer to the centre of the city, so I found a neat little hostel calledNapoleon's to spend the rest of my Moscow sojourn. The biggest challengeI faced getting there was avoiding being hit by a Bentley or Aston Martinwhilst my attention was distracted by countless absolutely stunning andincredibly glamorous women. They're everywhere, both the women andludicrously expensive cars. I tell you; some of these Muscovites took tocapitalism pretty quickly... There's supposedly 79 billionaires living here... I was actually told a story by a French contractor about his experienceat trade fairs in the early 90's, where Russian businessman trying to get afoothold in the new commercial environment would attend with a horde ofbodyguards in an attempt to ward off the assassinations that were rife amongstthe new class of Russian entrepreneurs.

Thank God for the golden arches, another example of the highly confusing Russian alphabet.

Moscow is now one of themost expensive cities in the world, and its wealth is very conspicuous, withwages some 2-3 times higher than the rest of the country. A lattetypically set me back around $7-8 and I was basically resigned to eating fromthe Russian McDonald's, called Tepenok, which was fine by me as it wasdelicious. Basically pancakes with everything and anything you couldimagine. Chicken pancakes, apple pancakes, salmon, mince, caramel, mincewith caramel... all awesome. Russians love their pancakes, and I felt aspecial affinity with them in this regard.

Russian men. Dedicated followers of fashion.

They're a very glamorousbunch in Moscow also, with a great focus on their appearance. Moreso thanthe rest of Russia I found, there were just so many stunning Magazine covertype women just walking down the street. Kind of torture for someone whois retarded with women even in his own language. This was particularlyevident in the nightclubs where I went to experience the famous Moscownightlife. Like I mentioned in a previous post, Russian men are stillquite, let's say primitive, in their approach to women, so I met a bunch ofexpats in the club who were no more than an optimistic 5 out of 10, but werewith stunning perfect 10's and regularly bragged of their success in Russia. Bastards. I don't know how they did it as I couldn't even start aconversation with these mythical sirens, and after hours of vodka shots andbeing soaked up to my armpits in foam, I went home, wet and miserable. Ihope they all get dumped as soon as these women get their green card... (An extremely common occurrence I heard...)

Inside the Kremlin...

The hostel I stayed atwas actually called Napoleon’s, as was the very house the little general stayedin when he briefly occupied the city back in 1812 in his disastrous campaign. Moscow, despite being founded over 800 years ago was largely entirelyrebuilt following 1812 as over 80% of the city was burnt to the ground by theretreating Russians who left the city undefended. St. Petersburg was thecapital at this time, and it wasn't until 1918 when Lenin moved the capitalback to Moscow for strategic and military reasons. I didn't find any ofBoney's initials carved anywhere however.

Kremlin gardens, complete with quaint little icecream stand. Moscow was ridiculously hot when I was there...

Lenin is of course one ofthe most famous attractions in Moscow, his body having laid in state since hisdeath in 1924 (against his will mind you... It was Stalin's idea...) A little tip for those of you who may be visiting Moscow in the nearfuture, and wish to see one of the 20th century's most influential figuresbefore they give him the burial he had specifically requested; his mausoleum isonly open a few days of the week, and it shuts at 1pm. I of coursediscovered this information when I was standing at the mausoleum's entrance onmy last day in Moscow at 1:03pm. That's right. I was 3 minuteslate. Oh well, next time I'm in Moscow I guess, and hey, I'm not bitterat the my two travel companions I met in the hostel who insisted they stop at ashitty souvenir shop just before we got in line.

Another Kremlin cathedral

Lenin having been missed,I headed inside the Kremlin, of which I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Surprisingly old-fashioned with most of the buildings harking back toimperial Russia, with many grand old buildings, including 4 palaces, and 4cathedrals. Moscow has always been the spiritual capital of Russia, so allmonarchs were typically coronated within the Kremlin cathedrals, and they hadelaborate palaces built even when the capital was technically in St.Petersburg.

The Kremlin holds a few titles, such as the world's largest cannon, and the world's largest bell. Neither of which have ever been used. The bell for obvious reasons...

The Kremlin Palace ofCongresses, a great concrete and glass bunker that was essentially a giant hallfor communist meetings, was about the only modern building on the site, and wasrather understated considering it was the centre of all Communist power at onepoint. No doubt they must have an elaborate underground labyrinth, andthe whole thing opens up to launch the ICBMs, a la the Thunderbirds. Ihope so anyway, that would be awesome.

The Kremlin Palace of Congresses, the old Communist meeting hall (above) and the very long escalators (below) heading down into the Russian Metro.

An absolutemust-see-and-do in Moscow is riding the subway. Not to go anywhere inparticular, just to ride it for the sake of it. It must be one of theonly cities in the world where it's public transportation is one of the mostbeautiful of all it's attractions (have you been to New York? Uggh. Gross). One of the few positive reminders of Stalin's rule, hedecreed the stations be majestic statements of Communist superiority andcraftsmanship, and they are truly works of art.

With vision, determination, and an unlimited supply of forced labour, anything is possible... the glorious Moscow metro stations.

Sparkling clean, withcavernous halls of marble with dazzling mosaics depicting Russian, Communist inparticular, history. I literally spent 2 hours going in circles on themain Circle line checking out each station, and it was one of the highlights ofmy time in Moscow. Sounds lame, but you've got to see these things foryourselves. And it all costs you less than 50c a ride, anywhere you wantto go.

Murals celebrating the Communist history are amazing works of art worth the ride alone.

Alas my hatred for allthings related to trains come flooding back as I had one more leg of myTrans-Siberian adventure to go, an overnight journey to St. Petersburg. Unfortunately the aboveground stations are much less hospitable than thesubway, a fact that became particularly noticeable due to the mistakenitinerary given to me by my travel agent. 4hrs later and I was on my wayto the world's northernmost large city, and one of the most beautiful, St.Petersburg.

Waiting for trains... As always.

TRAIN LIFE

2011-09-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

TRAIN LIFE

Ok, so this was it, the longest stretch of the real Trans-Siberian, 4 days straight of life in motion. I loaded up with snacks and supplies (basically noodles and vodka) but any hopes of a repeat of the touristy "woo I'm on a train" atmosphere of the previous legs were quickly dashed as I moved in to my cabin with Anotolli, Leba, and Illia. Hmm, this is a very Russian train...

Don't be fooled. There were no other tourists on my train, this is just the only shot I have of the 4-berth cabin that was my home for some 8 nights in total...

Unlike the Mongolian and Chinese legs of the journey, the locals actually use this train as a legitimate means of transport across their country, and in typical Russian style, my cab-inmates quickly dispersed with stiff formalities such as pants, and I was soon surrounded by half-naked Russkis sprawled over my lower bunk, nattering away like henchmen in a Bond film. Of course I didn't understand a word, and beyond a daily conversation at some point in the morning along the lines of

"Privyet. Kak di la?" (Hello. How are you?)

"Khorosho, spaciba". (Fine, thank you.)

"Kak di LA?" (How are YOU?")

"Khorosho. Spaciba." (Nod, smile then return to gazing out window)

we didn't interact much. I've rarely if ever been little more than 3 feet away from somebody for 4 days and yet known absolutely nothing about them by the end of it (apart from the fact Illia prefers Y-fronts to boxers, and Anotolli has a chronic lung condition and some serious gas...)

Siberia from the window...

As the sun faded on my first evening on the train, I soaked in my first glimpses of the real Siberia, the birch trees whizzing and whirring past in kaleidoscope of brown and green as I digested the first of many beef noodle meals. I drifted off to a soundtrack of clackety-clack and Russian chit-chat (no doubt they were plotting to take over a nuclear sub or whatever it is Russians talk about), not to wake for another 10 hours. I'm not exactly sure if we kept moving during that time however as when I peered out the window everything appeared to be exactly the same. Ah yes. Siberia is a big place...

More Siberia. More little wooden houses. More trees.

Everybody knows that Siberia get's bone-chillingly cold, but I can vouch for the fact that it also has some blazing summers, which I was experiencing the last remnants of. Russians are a hard lot, and of course there's no A/C on board so your skin sticks to that God-awful brown plastic leather, which gets baking hot in the sun (it is particularly noticeable when nobody ever wears shirts...). In winter you may well get frostbite of the torso sitting on the train but at least the human funk element of the journey would probably not be so prevalent. Geez, it's the morning of day 2, and already this place is getting noxious with no shower in site for another 72 hours... Anotolli's constant farting which could wake the dead but which he never acknowledges apart from a flippant wave of the hand over his buttocks, is not helping the situation.

Old mate pretty much sums up Russian men's fashion. In fact he's overdressed.

So. What to do. I've already stared out the window for several hours, and yep, Siberia is remarkably similar along it's length so far as I can tell. Trees. Birch trees to be specific. Lots of them. Thank God I brought a fat book with me; the Count of Monte Christo proved to be my only escape from what quickly become utter boredom, the tedium only broken by regular 5min stops at some, perhaps most, of the more than 800 stops along the length of the Trans-Siberian. This fact alone gives some indication as to why it takes so bloody long to get to Moscow. It is definitely not called the Trans-Siberian EXPRESS...

Another forgettable middle of nowhere train station that we stopped at.

These regular 5 minute stops present a problem in and of themselves as belying their lack of consideration for appropriate clothing and bodily functions, the Russians are most polite when it comes to their toilet etiquette. The provodnitsa, or wagon hostess, locks the toilets half an hour before and after any stop lest any sewerage is dumped within the vicinity of the town. An honorable notion indeed but considering we were pretty much stopping every hour, it meant very tight windows of toilet availability. Consider the fact that your diet basically consists of a constant intake of instant noodles and countless cups of instant coffee and tea (think diuretics) courtesy of the samovar (hot water dispenser). I hence spent much time pleading with my provodnitsa to open the toilets via the international sign language of crossed legs and a desperate, pained expression. It was probably the most meaningful communication I enjoyed...

The samovar (hot water dispenser) found in each carriage. Guess what it's powered by? Burning wood of course. Probably birch...

It seemed appropriate in any case to experience such suffering, as Siberia is almost synonymous with pain and human tragedy (ok, its a long bow to draw, but I needed a segue-way...). Our old friend Ghenghis Khan had swept across these lands in the 13th century displacing entire civilizations and pushing them westwards, the Magyars for example were pushed from central Asia all the way to Hungary which is why Hungarian is unlike any of the other European languages. Similarly the Turks were from modern Kazakstan before claiming Turkey for themselves. The Mongols controlled all of European Russia at their height, before their empire imploded and fractured into a disparate group of individual warlords scattered across Asia. (Some of these lasted several centuries however, for example the Moghuls who brought Islam, built the Taj Mahal and controlled most of India until the Brits arrived several hundred years later.)

More Siberia. More little wooden houses. More trees. Getting the picture?

After a fledgling Russia pushed the Mongols past the Urals, things got a little messy. A Khan descendent rose an army to claim back part of the Russian Siberian lands, and despite the Tsar ("Caesar" in Russian) doing nothing, the noble families of the conquered territories raised a private army, a ruthless band of mercenaries who proceeded to literally wipe entire civilizations off the map, committing genocide on a huge scale as they successfully forged eastward. The Tsar had joined in by this stage thinking it was a grand idea, and his successors continued Russian expansion over the ensuing centuries, usually via forced extradition for the most petty of crimes. Fyodor Dostoyevsky being one of the more famous extradites. These labour camps formed to open up Siberia for development were the first of the infamous Gulags which were to reach their zenith (or nadir you might argue) under Stalin in the 1930's. (Stalin himself had taken refuge in Siberia as a young man when suspected of his revolutionary tendencies...)

Trick photo. This is back in Mongolia. But it's such a nicer landscape...

Millions have died out here under brutal working conditions, a good chunk of them involved with building the railway I'm travelling on, and countless more from the harsh environment. Stalin famously shipped entire populations from Western Russia who he feared may be sympathetic to the Nazis following their brutal treatment at his hand, to Siberia in the height of winter and kicked them off the train to die in the -40 degree conditions. All in all, with a history like that, it's no wonder the Russians are so fricking hard. Just try drinking with them...

As alluded to earlier, I'd brought a large bottle of Baikal Vodka anticipating a continuation of the party "woo, we're on a train" atmosphere I'd shared with the other tourists on the preceding legs. Alas on my first foray to the dining car I encountered only shirtless, adidas-trackpanting, skin-headed Russian men.

Shirtless Russian #1: "Where from you?"

Me (flicking through guidebook): "Ya iz Australia."

SR#1: "Avstraliy! Good." (slams mug of vodka on table). "Drink."

Me: "Ah. Spaciba"

SR#2: "What your name?"

Me: " Um, ya Matthew."

SR#2: "Mitt-tew. Good." (slams another almost full mug in front of me). SR#3 (pointing menacingly at mug): "Drink."

Me (getting slightly scared at this point): "Ah, spaciba."

SR#1: "Mitt-tew, Russia you like?"

Me: "The birch trees are lovely..."

SR#2 (new mug already poured): "Good. Drink."

Me (trying to show a little resistance): "Hey that's a fair bit of vodka in that glass..."

SR#3 (ignoring me completely): "Good. Drink."

Me (taking my orders): "Phew. Spaciba again, but hey I think I've had enough for now..."

SR#2 (all over his refilling duties): "Good. Drink."

Me: "Wow, I might head back to my..."

SR#3: "No. Drink."

Me (resistance crushed, resigned to my fate): "Ok..."

SR (pleased): "Good Mitt-tew. Good. Drink."

And so it went. Contrary to what I had believed, Russians don't say "Nostrovia" when they toast, but "Zdarovye", which is basically "to health". Kind of counter-intuitive given the rate and volume of the hard liquour that they consume. When I did finally escape their clutches (i.e. we'd drunk all the vodka), I stumbled back along the 8 carriages that preceded my own, which is hard enough when completely sober and the train isn't moving on a circular track. Huge steel doors seperate the carriages which take a concerted effort to push open, and by God you better take a deep breath before you proceed into the smoking areas in between carriages; it's like a Jamaican limo in there, only more bitter and acrid. I swear you could smoke a fish in there and by the smell of it, I think they probably do. In fact the whole train has a distinct waft of musty, stale fish, not surprising as most Russians on the train, aside from smoking, all seem to bring of dried fish as a staple, or buy it from the platform markets that spring up at every stop. I stuck to my noodles...

Another trick photo. This is the Mongolian dining car, MUCH nicer than the Russian. I was too drunk to take any photos of the Russian dining car, and too scared to go back...

A total drunken slumber sees me wake the next morning with a pounding headache; check the view - yep, more birch trees, still in Siberia... My God, it's day 3 and we're only half way. I'm sweating vodka at 8 in the morning, and our room is getting unbearably funky. I don't know how much longer I can take this... More escapism with the Count of Monte Christo and another long day passes uneventfully, with several stops in non-descript Siberian towns full of quaint little wooden houses (of course they're made of wood) which look like they'd have the insulating properties of a mosquito net. This place must be brutal in winter...

More Siberia. But less trees.

There are a few signs of the wealth this place experienced under communism. Wages were often 2-3 times that of the major European cities during that time to encourage industry and promote migration to these remote outposts. This all collapsed of course with the end of the USSR, and now most Siberians enjoy pitiful wages compared to their big city cousins and are forced to pay a fortune for limited services. Oil on a huge scale was discovered here in the 90's making billionaires of countless Muscovites who were hard enough and ruthless enough to grab a slice of it under Boris Yeltzin's free-for-all in the early post-communism years. It seems however that most of the money gets spent on mega-yachts and English football clubs rather than invested back in the local economy.

Ok. One more of Mongolia for good measure. Ah... Mongolia.

We crossed the Urals sometime during the 3rd full day on the train and gradually the birch trees started to recede as we entered European Russia. I'd lost interest by this time, focused instead on merely surviving (it was all about the destination at this point, screw the journey...) and seeing the Count take his revenge. I smelt just as bad as anything else by this stage and your nose seems to give up protesting by this stage.

Day four - MOSCOW!! Wow, are we there already? I had my daily replica conversation with Anotolli and Leba (they were still khorosho, spaciba), and then I was off into the bowels of this mysterious world city; a wild, modern frontier territory that for me, still holds all of it enigmatic and secretive allure of years past. But first things first. I really need a shower...

Railroads. I've had my fill...

Lake Baikal

2011-09-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

LAKE BAIKAL

Whilst waiting at the platform of Ulan Bataar's main station (only station?) I was glad to rendezvous with my friends from the previous Beijing leg of the journey. Their company proved a sanity saver as save for a few precious hours of dusk twillight where I was able to soak in my last vestige of the glorious Mongolian countryside, we were soon travelling in darkness, bound for the Russian border. This meant yet another tedious immigration procedure, and changing of carriage bogeys to suit the Russian rail gauge. It transpired that the Mongol/Russian engineers are not quite so prompt as the Chinese in their endeavours... To the tune of 13 hours.

Border towns in this part of the world are hardly bustling cosmopolitan metropolii, but thankfully this particular desolate outpost had the bare essentials covered. By that I mean they had a small convenience store which sold vodka and gigantic plastic bottles of Russian beer. And so it came to pass that we had our first authentic Russian experience by getting totally hammered. As they say, when in Russia...

My Aussie mate Myles, with our industrial size beers. At 9 in the morning...

Still all in all, it was actually a great day and in the hazy beer and vodka induced fog it seemed to pass by quite quickly.

Early the next morning, we pulled into Irkutsk, the administrative, trading and cultural centre of Eastern Siberia. Irkutsk sits on the Angara river, about 70km from where it flows out from the world's greatest freshwater lake, the fan-statistical Lake Baikal. Wow, where to start for all you stats gurus out there. This is one flippin' huge body of water. For starters, it's the world's oldest lake, being formed as a giant rift valley some 30 million years ago, it's the world's deepest lake (max depth of over 1 mile), and it is by far the most voluminous lake, containing a whopping 20% of the world's unfrozen fresh water. Basically, if you stop in Irkutsk, you want to go and experience this natural wonder.

A little aside: This gets my vote for worst job in the world - Public toilet toll booth worker, they're all over Russia. I often sympathised and wondered what paths these people took to find themselves in the position where they were left with no option but to take up such a shitty job (pun slightly intended). And could you imagine the job induction?

"OK Boris, basically what I'll need you to do is sit here all day between these two heinously foul shitters and look after the finances. I apologise it does get a little smelly, and occasionally quite loud. If it get's a little slow feel free to perhaps pop your head in to monitor the paper situation, or even give them a little scrub, but certainly don't consider an essential part of your duties..." (I can assure you they didn't...)

This is most easily done by getting to the quaint little town of Listvyanka, which sits on the bank of the lake at the outflow of the Angara. It gives the impression of being a lovely little seaside town, particularly in the summer when it thrives on the lake tourists, and is full of cute BnBs and boutique hotels along the water front. With all the well kept flower gardens in bloom it creates a gorgeous setting, but I imagine it would be quite different when winter temps of -20 and below strike. Despite the balmy and warm conditions I enjoyed during my time there, the water remains incredibly frigid year round, about 4 degrees even in the height of summer. This is bloody cold, and I can personally attest to this fact.

Myles and I post "refreshing dip" in the lake. I cannot feel my limbs at this point, hence the snake-like motion up the rocks.

Listvyanka, despite it's scenic pleasures, provides little in the way of things to do, and apart taking an obligatory cruise, you don't have much on offer to really experience the lake. I decided to go scuba diving in the lake, which boasts some of the clearest water in the world. Of course, at 4 degrees, you need some serious gear, and it's strictly dry-suit scuba diving in those conditions. For those unaware, dry-suit diving requires you wear a thick thermal layer of fleece (or similar) over your normal clothes, and over the top of this you wear a fully sealed rubber suit which keeps you warm and dry by trapping an insulating layer of air between you and the water. The extra nuances and intricacies of learning to operate in these suits under such conditions is usually learnt via an intensive 3 day course, run by a professional international organization. I of course don't have any such training, but hey this is Russia...

Getting seriously geared up...

After convincing the operator that my board-short diving experience in various tropical paradises would be sufficient, I was met by our dive guides, two giant heavies with little to no English who looked like they'd just finished a job for the Russian Mafia, Sergei and Mikhail (classic!). I was joined by a fellow intrepid and similarly grossly under-qualified traveller Benn, who also not surprisingly did not speak Russian...

Benn and I getting ready for our first dry-suit dive. We were still optimistic at this stage...

So here we were getting ready for our first dry-suit experience, and getting the summary of a 3 day course given to us in about 5 minutes in thick Runglish. We had about as much success communicating above water as below, but through basic imitation we managed to get ourselves suited up with the 20 kg of gear and waddled over to the frigid water's edge. Now you have pretty much every part of your body covered by rubber, air, fleece, clothes except for parts of your face. Even with that tiny bit of exposure, my breath was taken away at the shock of how cold that lake really is. Instant ice-cream headache.

I followed Sergei into the depths, my suit sucking against my body like cling-wrap as the pressure increased. It is at this time when knowledge of how to operate dry-suits comes in handy, and coincidentally it is when it became apparent I had none. Your dry suit is attached to your tank so you can pump more air into your suit so as to let your body's heat warm the blanket of air this creates. I was frickin' freezing (despite the suit) so I was pumping air like there was no tomorrow; only thing is once it's in there, it takes a bit of a knack to get it out, a knack I most certainly didn't have. So one minute I'm floating around 25m down with Sergei, the next I notice my legs have ballooned with air, and I'm trapped suspended upside down, unable to get my legs back under me. Then as I was squirming around trying to release the air, I didn't notice my slow ascent which, as my suit expanded under the decreasing pressure, turned into a full blown bolt to the surface. I was like a beach ball released from the depths, totally out of control (and Sergei's who was frantically trying to pull me down). Most would know that going from 25m to the surface in a matter of seconds is not good for one's health, and I was fortunate to not experience any side effects. Sergei was typically forthright in his assessment when he met me at the surface. "Dry-Suit. You. No good."

Sergei was not pleased.

We did venture back down and it was a great experience overall, but despite the famed biodiversity of the lake (there are over 2600 species living in the lake, over three quarters of which are found nowhere else in the world), I pretty much saw a few shrimp, a distinctly non-endemic looking fish, and a cannon. I did get to sample some of the aquatic life at the ubiquitous street markets and restaurants in Lystvianka however where you can find the lake's produce prepared in every manner you can imagine. Their smoked omul is absolutely to die for, as is the baikal sturgeon's caviar.

Benn, his girlfriend and I share debrief coffee with the bruise brothers, Mikhail and Sergei.

I got a lift back to Irkutsk with the bruise brothers following the dive, but similar to my Mongolian experience, I was dropped off with absolutely no idea as to my bearings. True enough, I was in bustling city CBD and not on the desolate Mongolian steppe, but resolving my predicament proved just as difficult, primarily due to the cyrillic alphabet used in Russian. Despite having a map, I've rarely been more incapable of getting orientated; it's like solving some enigma code every time you just want to compare the english street name on your map with the cyrillic street signs. On top of this, English is an exceedingly rare commodity in this part of the world.

Lenin... He had such high hopes.

After a while you start to get a feel for which letters are switched for which by comparing to "control" signs, for example "Л Е Н И Н" is LENIN, which you know because it's written under the huge statue of the man with the klingon forehead who is still somewhat revered or at least commemorated in this country. You don't see too many statues of Stalin however...

The famous wooden houses Irkutsk. The town has burnt down a few times as you can imagine.

Irkutsk is quite a cosmopolitan little city of about a half million or so and it serves as the cultural and learning epicentre of the region, it's university being one of the most prestigious in Russia. This preeminence is largely due to it's history of housing one of the first waves Russian intelligentsia exiled to Siberia. Many prominent scholars, artists and nobles that were exiled in the 18th century congregated here to such an extent that 1 in 3 Urkutsk men were political refugees. Basically it was one of the first gulags, albeit much more comfortable than what was to come under Stalin in particular.

I loved this shop in downtown Irkutsk. Thought you have to drive all around town to get your music AND munition supplies? We've got you covered! Free guitar case with every machine gun purchased. Warning: Do NOT play Stairway to Heaven... serious consequences.

From my experience, those early exiles must have brought some pretty fine women along with them, because I had my first exposure to just how many spectacularly beautiful Russian women there are. I swear half the women under 30 would not look out of place on the cover of Vogue (or Sports Illustrated for that matter). They're very fashion conscious and although an obvious generalization, most young women appear to be immensely concerned with their physical appearance. Another generalization, but one that is remarkably accurate (speak to ANYONE who's been to Russia and they'll concur) is that once these beautiful goddesses turn 30 and find a husband, it's like midnight at Cinderella's ball and boom, they all turn into something resembling those babooshka dolls.

No pictures of beautiful Russian women. Just old pieces of Russian military hardware which seem to be scattered all over the place. Here is the T-34, the best tank of WW2, and chief destroyer of the German Panzers... I found it interesting at least...

A word of advice; in what I thought might have been a manna from heaven, I actually was asked out to dinner by probably one of the top 3 most beautiful women who I've ever had eye contact with. As you can imagine, I was pretty excited and things were going well when she met me that evening, looking like she'd just finished a fashion shoot, kissed me and grabbed my hand... I was somewhat delirious by this stage, and things only got more ethereal when we stopped to pick up her cousin, also spectacularly gorgeous. So here I am rattling off tales of kangaroos, snakes and sharks, sitting opposite two completely enthralled stunning 19 year olds, hanging off my every word...

...Until I mentioned that I was leaving the next day. Like a deflated balloon hurriedly zipping it's way to the floor, both girls lost interest, hurriedly finished their sushi (Irkutsk has some amazing Lake Baikal sushi incidentally...) and called their Dad's to come and pick them up... Mine was an elementary mistake in Russia it seems...

More military relics! This time the flatbed rocket launchers known as Stalin's organs due to their terrifying scream as they were launched. Woot! Who needs hot Russian women anyway...

It's still a very patriarchal society and it's widely known Russian women want to get married; if you ain't sticking around, then neither are they. This makes sense as there has to be some reason as to how the boorish Russian men are able to keep procreating with such divine beauty... Seriously the vodka-swilling, adidas-wearing, oafish and uncouth Russian male population, 90% of whom I swear still live in caves, have seriously lucked out in that department.

I don't mean to sound mean-spirited or harsh with that assessment, although it is a commonly held opinion. I try to give every person I meet the benefit of the doubt, but I pretty much become convinced of this conclusion when experiencing the next leg of the journey, a sanity challenging 4 day continuous journey to Moscow. And so I boarded the train on a Wednesday afternoon, not to disembark until a distant Sunday morning. I'd alway wanted an authentic Russian experience...

Mongolian Mishaps

2011-09-03T10:47:00.001-07:00

MONGOLIAN MISHAPS

Due to the logistical hurdles, visa red tape and the fact I had only decided to embark on the Trans-Siberian at the last minute, I had been forced to go through a travel agent to arrange all the details. Being also that laziness is my default state of being I declined to do even the most basic research under the mistaken belief that it would be fun to “wing it”.

This is not the case.

A common theme that arose was hence that more often than not, I had very little to no idea of what was going on at any given time. I found myself in a perpetual state of cluelessness, which can be particularly hard to resolve in places such as you encounter along the Trans-Siberian railway. For starters, Beijing Railway station is a nightmare and I narrowly missed a train that would have taken me to Chongdu or some other such unexceptional Chinese city of a million or 12. Thankfully I realized my mistake in time (shouldn’t there be more tourists on this train?) and did eventually find my Trans-Mongolian carriage and settled into a relatively comfortable 4-berth cabin. By this I mean comfortable relative to the battery-hen-like conditions experienced in a fully occupied cabin. Thank God I only had one other occupant as the Orient Express this most definitely is not.

China from the train

Considering you can barely get more than 2 feet away from your fellow inmates for days on end, I was lucky to have very pleasant company and so as we rolled through China with its varying scenery (a rare treat as it turns out on the Trans-Siberian) I was having a great time shooting the breeze with my fellow trainees. The first day hence became a blur of chatting, reading, window gazing, and a lot of snoozing. Something about the rhythmic click-clack of train travel that just sends you to sleep…

The Mongolian steppe

This blissful state of affairs was interrupted when we pulled up abruptly late in the day whilst I was eating my first train meal in the dining car. Incidentally, the kitchen had an elaborate and extensive menu on paper at least, but apparently only one dish is available at any one time.

“Well I guess me and my friend here will have 2 of that then.”

“Ah, sorry, we only have one dish. Of that one dish.”

And so it was that I had just commenced eating my half-serve of fried onion and rice, when on storm seemingly half the Chinese military shouting in broken English “Hurry, hurry, back to rooms, go, go, go.”

Rolling hills in Mongolia

Being that mine was the last skerrick of food on entire train, I didn’t want to waste it, but my stalling tactics were not appreciated by one particular gent, who obviously in a hurry, simply took the bowl from my hands, gave it to his colleague and proceeded to shoosh me all the way back to my room where he demanded my passport. It further aggravated him immensely as I commenced rummaging around my luggage looking for it.

Officer: “Where your form?!?!
Me: “From? I’m from Australia.”
Officer, annoyed: “No, no, your form!! Where your form?!?!”
Me: “Oh you want that little yellow form? I haven’t filled it out yet."
Officer, looking at me as if I had just pissed on his shoe: “WHY NOT! YOUNEED FILL FORM!! HURRY UP! HURRY!”
Me: “Ok, ok, just let me find a pen” (more rummaging…)
Officer, by now disgusted and looking at me as if I had just pissed on my own shoe: “Oh no, no, no, you too slow. Give me now, I do quicker.”

And with that he snatched my passport and was off into the night.

For the next 8 hours it turns out.

8hr process to change the bogeys on every carriage for the different rail gauges.

It’s little disconcerting suddenly finding yourself at night in the depths of communist China, surrounded by military, without your passport, nor any clue as to what is going on. Of course, had I read my handy travel info-pack, I would have known that we had reached the border of Mongolia and the huge delay would be due more so to the lengthy process involved with switching the rail bogeys to suit the country’s different gauges than any immigration control or espionage interrogation.

Despite being a situation where potentially one should keep their wits about them, myself and a few other equally clueless tourists, passed the time getting rather pissed on vodka and by the time we woke up rather dusty the next morning we were rollicking along the vast, beautiful and empty steppes of Mongolia (I had been visited by the passport fairy as there it was under my pillow...). For hours that day, we passed through seemingly endless undulating plains that stretched to a horizon of rolling hills, with barely a mark of civilization to be seen.

Parliament and giant communist square (again) in Ulan Bator.

The tranquil surroundings were broken when we pulled into the capital Ulan Bator for our first official stop in the early afternoon. Ulan Bator with its population of near about 1 million, is the only place you could describe as a “city” in Mongolia. Unlike most desperately poor countries, which Mongolia undoubtedly is, there is actually a significant migration of peoples away from urban areas back to the countryside, with many living a traditional, subsistent lifestyle much the same as their ancestors have done for thousands of years. Some 70% of Mongolians still live in the camel-fur tents, or gers as they are known (pronounced grrr, as in “those pesky communist oppressors, grrr…).

Typical Mongolian ger tents.

The communist oppressors it could be argued constitute the primary reason why so many are forced back to living off the land. Although never officially part of the USSR, it was subservient in all but name. After having lived through 300 years of oppressive Chinese rule, Stalin sent his Red Army under the guise of promoting the Mongolian Socialist revolution against the Chinese. Instead, the Mongolian leaders mysteriously “disappeared” and Stalin had his own puppet regime installed, under which indescribable atrocities (as was in vogue at the time) were committed in the same vein as in Russia itself (if nothing else, Stalin could not be accused of playing favourites). For the next 70 years or so, the USSR plundered much of Mongolia’s natural mineral wealth, and upon the collapse of the union, Mongolia was left with next to nothing, with no smelters or refineries to process their raw mineral wealth. To add insult, the Russians slapped them with a bill dating back to the 1920’s for all the “investment” they had made over that period.So Mongolia has been left in the all-too-common poverty trap of having to sell its assets off cheap, without the means to build the necessary infrastructure to capitalize on their resources. Hence the steady exodus back to the traditional ways of living. Well that, and the fact that the Mongolian countryside is stunningly beautiful and Ulan Bator is a shithole.

I loved the street signs in Mongolia. Permission to fly for the another 3 seconds...

But no fighting...

Watch out for pedophiles??

Although having a few points of interest and some small pockets of grandeur (what is it with communists and huge f***-off squares??), Ulan Bator is not a city you want to hang around for too long. It has the air of a dying city, with old decaying communist-era buildings in a state of total disrepair in the outer suburbs. Despite being desperately poor however, everyone still seemingly has access to huge late model 4WDs. Thus imagine your typical Asian big-city traffic, only here every driver thinks his or her vehicle to be indestructible. Pedestrian crossings are a fanciful myth where you take your life in your own hands playing “frogger” to cross eight lines of traffic on a four-lane road. Adding to the confusion is that there apparently seems to be no official side of the road on which to drive judging by the fact that it’s roughly a 50-50 split between right and left-hand drive cars. Basically you want to get of the city as soon as you can.

Hmmm. Can you pick the potential problem here? Right and left hand drives are pretty much in equal distribution around UB.

Unfortunately this proved a hassle in my case. Due to my pretentious aversion to doing anything with an “organized” tour (how common!), I had rallied against the “organized” add-ons offered by my travel agent by refusing to sign up to any hokey, hackneyed, dare-I-say-it touristy activity. This is dumb for a number of reasons, not the least being that I am a tourist, a giant-Nikon-DSLR-camera-dangling one at that.

It seems every Mongolian wedding has their photos taken in front of the grand Parliament building. There were 3 other parties waiting in line after this one...

Furthermore, it just means you end up spending half your time wandering around the city trying to organize yourself to join a hokey, hackneyed, touristy activity. I don’t know what I was thinking, I mean, I’m hardly going to rent a horse and go galloping solo across the plains. On top of that, it’s usually for twice the price as was offered as part of the larger package, and most often there’s very few options available when you require them to commence in say, half an hour from now…Which leaves you with only one option and the main reason why it’s stupid to think you can organize your own “authentic” Mongolian experience; this being that you have to get the tour operator to “make something up”. In other words, you join part of one tour for a day, then get picked up, join another, and then leave the existing tour early so as to make your own way back in time for your departing train. This plan may work in say, Switzerland but in a place like Mongolia where finding someone who speaks English is like finding an Australian fluent in Inuit, it most decidedly does not work, particularly when only one of the participants knows the plan…

Seemingly endless scenery like this abounds as soon as you leave UB

…Who unfortunately wasn’t there when I returned to commence the patchwork quilt of a tour of which she apparently was the sole mastermind and possessor of any knowledge as to its existence. In her absence another guy (who was unable to find any evidence of my tour) sent me to follow some mute kid halfway across the city to catch one of those buses that departure schedule is based on waiting until it has at least twice the legal limit of passengers squeezed inside.Where am I going? What happens when I get there? What do I need? Who do I meet? All these were seemingly reasonable questions I had attempted to ask only to be consoled and cajoled into believing that everything would be alright; I just needed to “get on the bus” and everything would be ok from there… Ah. Hindsight.Having survived the bus trip out to the countryside (I know why they need 4WDs now), I stepped off the bus scanning the vacant lot for a friendly smiley face who might spark up at the sight of his fare. Hang on, I’m a blonde Caucasian tourist with a fancy camera in Mongolia, a walking dollar sign, wouldn’t every taxi driver’s face spark up at the sight of me? And so it eventuated.

Me: “Hi, I’m Matt. You pick me up for tour?”
Random Mongolian man with a car grins broadly, nods head.
Me: “You here for Matt yes? Me, Matt.”
More nodding and grinning from RMMC. Motions me into car.
Me: “Definitely you here for Matt then, yes?”
RMMC’s Head continues nodding unabated, opens door, pushes me inside.

He was the wrong guy.

"The precious human body is so badly used in mistaken ways as if it were a useless bag of urine." I love Bhuddist wisdom.

20 minutes later I’m in the middle of nowhere, he’s asking me for more money than I have on me, I can’t tell him where I want to go because I don’t know (I don’t even know where I got off the bus), and I don’t know who I’m supposed to meet or what I’m supposed to be doing. Great. On top of that, my driver spoke not a single word of English and let’s just say my Mongolian was primitive. I did gather that he was threatening to leave me there as he attempted to shoosh me out of his car, and I was having thoughts that maybe I would get my “authentic” Mongolian experience after-all. Minus the horse, of course.

I did my best to try and enjoy the comical nature of the situation at the time, but the truth is I’ve rarely felt so completely inept and helpless to change my predicament. Hardly life-threatening but I was in a pretty big shit at the time. No money, no language, no clue, and all in the middle of the Mongolian steppe miles from anywhere.Thank goodness I had kept the business card of the tour “organizer” from the previous day, as I was able to communicate via the international hand signal for phone that I meant to call someone. So off we drive to a little isolated ger, and the taxi man gets his friend to get me a phone. Saved!!

No reception!! Shit.

A two-humped camel!! Bactrian camels are only found in Mongolia and Northwestern China. And Zoos.

The three of us then continued to waltz around the steppe phone held aloft trying to get a single bar… success at last, and the matter was all fairly quickly sorted out. In fact from there on, I experienced nothing but utter kindness and generosity from every Mongolian I met from then. At least I think I did, judging by their smiles.

Another ger...

A bit of horse-riding ensued, a bit of temple visiting (Stalin wiped out the vast majority of them of course, he was nothing if not industrious in his labors), and then I was collected (correctly this time) by a Kazakh herdsman to be whisked away to his ger where I was to spend the night with his family.

Scenes from my host's camero as we tore through the steppe.

Not before driving across some of the most spectacular countryside I’ve ever seen though. Despite again not sharing more than say 5 or 6 commonly understood words, I felt I was bonding with this man as we sped over the grassy fields, a man who was roughly the same age to me, but whose life was could not have been more different. We bonded of course by drinking several litres of warm potent 10% beer on the steppe, so the surreal nature of the situation and my rapidly pissed state may have clouded my judgment. Still, it was awesome.

My host and one of his daughters.

This young man was the patriarch of a family unit that lived in several gers that included his brother’s family. I was treated as an honored guest and served a lovingly prepared feast that basically consisted of every imaginable product squeezed from a tit of some livestock animal. Goat milk yoghurt, sheep milk moldy cheese, horse milk tea… Just swallow and smile Matt…Despite a few misses on the culinary front, I had a great time there, the kids in particular were adorable.

Super cute kids.

Amazing how some kids, despite living a very basic existence that would probably be defined as poverty, are deliriously happy so long as they had some goat knuckles and a beat-up football to kick. I’m always astounded however that despite living such an ancient way of life, they all still have cellphones (they laughed hysterically when they saw my ancient nokia), listen to Jay-Z, and sport Barcelona and Man United gear.

I felt like doing the same with some of my dishes...

The gers are actually really quite comfy and snug, and most have all the basic mod cons such as fridges, electric lighting, and ipod docking stations… you know, the essentials. In fact, after spending the evening feasting on warm milk products, sitting all nice and toasty around the central wood-fire stove whilst the cold wind howled outside, amongst a tightknit and loving family full of laughter, I found myself envious to adopt this uncomplicated life of simple pleasures. Until I went to use their toilet. A potent brew a diet of milk and meat does maketh, and this family wasn’t quite as nomadic as I thought judging by the state of their facilities... Still, it really was an absolute pleasure and privilege to hang out with them even if only for one night.

Inside a typical ger...

The next day continued much the same as the last, i.e. me being chauffeured around to various beautiful and historic Mongolian sites but having absolutely no clue as to their significance or even their name. I think I went to a national park?

One site however that you didn’t need a lonely planet to explain, was a giant statue Mongolia’s favorite son, Chinggis Khan, or as westerners know him, Ghenghis Khan.

GHENGHIS!!

Now this statue is big and holds several interesting records. It is in fact the world’s largest statue of a man on horseback, and I’m pretty sure it is also the largest statue of any dude that comes from Mongolia. But it is most definitely the Guiness book of records holder for the world’s biggest statue in the middle of frickin’ nowhere. Seriously, there is nothing anywhere near it, and you can see it from absolute miles away; a giant silver shimmering beacon in an otherwise completely empty and vast plain that stretches to the mountains on the horizon.Rumors abound as to what he did at this particular site, but as very little is actually known of any of his significant locations (the whereabouts of his birthplace, grave, even his capital city are all unknown) I guess it’s as good a place as any to build a giant shiny equine sculpture.

That little speck above the horse's ear is a person... It's a big statue.

The guy is still revered around these parts and it’s easy to understand why as this simple herdsman (supposedly he raised a ragtag bunch of armed men in response to his mum being kidnapped – classic!) created the second largest empire the world has ever seen (only the British empire beat it for size) stretching from the Pacific all the way to the Danube in central Europe. His name and image were banned under Chinese and Russian rule as his image harks backs to a time when Mongolia, tiny little Mongolia, literally ruled the world, and was not subject to foreign pillagers… so he’s kind of a big deal around here… Having read a little more into him, it really is amazing the influence this guy had on shaping the modern world as we know it, with most of China, India, Eastern Europe and the middle East having all been ruled and shaped by the empire he created. But more of that later…

Middle of nowhere... Pretty much sums up Mongolia.

Alas my time in Mongolia was painfully brief and following the continuation of the theme of general cluelessness, including my driver leaving me on the side of a desolate highway with no explanation in the middle of nowhere (everywhere in Mongolia, it felt to me, is in the middle of nowhere) with only a vague hope that someone else would collect me. Somehow, as it usually does, it all worked out in the end I made it back in time to catch my train, and said goodbye to a truly beautiful, ancient, and fascinating place. At least I think it was, I was never really sure…

Beijing Beginnings

2011-09-03T09:20:00.000-07:00

Finally, the journey began with my arrival in the soon-to-be capital of the world. Beijing although not officially part of the “classic” Trans-Siberian route (Moscow-Vladivostok), was my starting point, and being that this “tourist” version of the world’s most famous railway still travels some 8000km (including some 6000km trans Siberia), I consider it mere semantics. In fact, being that it was going to take 7 full days of train travel to complete the short version via Mongolia, I came to appreciate my choice even further, particularly when I was 2 days into a 4-day continuous stretch on a sweaty, smelly Russian carriage… But more of that later.

Beijing is massive. This becomes readily apparent when you start walking to your hotel, which, whilst appearing to be quite close to the Forbidden City on my tourist map, is actually quite a ways to walk. Particularly when carrying all one’s luggage and it’s raining. The folly of my judgement of scale came about due to the tiny dot-like nature of the Forbidden City in map form, and it’s frickin’ enormous city-like nature in reality form.

The forbidden city. Much bigger than it looks on the map.

Thankfully the greeting shower I received did help to clear Beijing’s most infamous feature, the all-consuming smog, for a few days at least whilst I was there, but that was the extent of my fortuitous timing. With less than 4 days in China, I was only ever going to be able to include the big hits, namely the Forbidden City and the Great Wall, and so it was that I found myself trying to squeeze in the two most popular tourist attractions, in the most populous nation in the world, in summer, during the school holidays, on a weekend… Needless to say, it was busy.

Chinese like their umbrellas. Rain, hail, or especially shine. Very dangerous for anyone over 5'8".

For the uninitiated, the Forbidden City is the old palace built during the Ming dynasty that served as the centre of Chinese politics for some 500 years up until the establishment of the Republic of China in 1912. As alluded to earlier, it’s frickin’ huge. Despite being a palace, it’s literally about the size of a city, measuring nearly a km in both directions (this was represented by a very small square on my map…) Surprisingly enough it was called the forbidden city as it was forbidden for any commoner to enter unless you were a eunuch member of the royal guards. Probably not worth it in my opinion. I mean, it was good, but…

Inside the Forbidden City. How times have changed... Now they let any riff-raff in.

Not to big myself up, but I reckon I would have been challenging for the other most popular tourist attraction that day, at least amongst the Chinese. I don’t know how many random photo albums or mantlepieces I’ll be appearing on as I lost count of how many families wanted their picture taken with the blonde dude. And it was snowball effect; stop for one, and suddenly every passer-by wanted a piece of the action.

Tiananmen square celebrating 90 years of the communist party in China. Not a tank to be seen.

My charms weren’t limited to snap-happy locals either, I had my fair share of ladies approaching my under the auspices of “practicing English” (nudge, nudge) or “sharing a cup of tea” (wink, wink). Although come to think of it, $50 for a cup of tea does seem a little expensive. I had heard of some other poor schmucks that had been taken for a ride by some ladies who were only talking to them to scam some money, but my girl was really into me I could tell. Must have just been a really classy establishment.

Guess...

Next up was the Great Wall. Thankfully considering the peak nature of my timing, the vast majority of tourists hit up the most proximate section of the wall to Beijing rather than the region I undertook a tour to, which was a little bit more out-of-the-way. So much so that our driver got lost en route. I can only imagine the conversation he had when stopping in the middle of seemingly nowhere to enquire with several farmers and ox herders along the way…

“Hey, I’m looking for the Wall.”

“Which wall?”

“The Great Wall. You know, of China. About yay big, and really long”.

“Oh yeah. That one. I think it’s over there, beyond them hills, through that paddock, and over that dry creekbed.”

“There isn’t a highway or road at least that takes you straight there?”

“You'd have thought so.”

We did get there however, and it was well worth the 3hr detour through some stunning countryside. The wall was built during several stages over thousands of years (as is understandable when you get a close-up appreciation of just how monumental it all is) but its most durable and robust sections were built by the Ming Dynasty to repel the Mongolians, whom incidentally they had driven out from the capital that Kublai Khan (Ghenghis’ grandson) had founded, Khan-Baliq, which is today none other than Beijing. (Thanks handy trip-info pack!!).

My group did a 6km portion which was a fair workout on slopes like these. Makes you feel pretty small however considering we covered less than 0.1% of the total in the best part of an afternoon...

I’m not sure how successful it was however, as particularly when you see the incredible terrain any barbarian hordes would have to travel thousands of kilometres over, I’m not sure how much resistance a 4m high wall would have provided… (“Well that’s torn it. Alright lads, back to Mongolia and quit your grumbling”). As can be imagined, trying to maintain an 8000km frontier proved difficult, as in the end, it took only one bribed sentry to open the gates and bring about the end of the Ming dynasty.

Awesome day for it. No smog.

Incidentally, on the topic of scale, it is complete garbage that you can see it from space. I have no idea how or why that myth persists, but according to wiki, if you were standing on the moon, it is the equivalent of a identifying a human hair from 3.2 km away… you would need some 17000 times better than 20/20 vision to spot it. Yet I still learnt it in school…

Despite it’s huge size, Beijing is generally easy to get around particularly if using the modern world-class metro (which is ALWAYS packed in my experience). Not so much if you’re walking however, particularly if you start wandering around the old hutongs, or small alleys that are located all around the city centre. It’s a really nice feature to have such historical remnants of the old city with their traditional ways, and it’s great escape from the mega-buildings littered throughout the rest of the city. Of course it’s really nice until you get lost for 2 hours in stifling heat and smog. It’s a frickin’ maze in there and forget trying to ask for directions.

Typical Hutong

Another great escape is the Summer Palace, a huge expanse of man-made lakes and gardens that feels a world away from the masses of humanity right outside. The huge lake was entirely excavated by hand and the reclaimed earth was used to build the hill upon which the palace is built. Ah, what can be achieved with vast amounts of expendable labour. The smog and haze had come back with a vengeance by this time unfortunately…

Smog. With the Summer Palace in there somewhere...

They get pretty specific with there temple assignments in the Summer Palace... This was my favourite, the "Temple of Timely Rains and Extensive Moisture".

I have to mention the Chinglish signs. I’m not sure what it’s like in other parts of China, but in Beijing perhaps as part of the preparation for the Olympics, it’s generally easy to get your bearings (hutongs aside) as all the major road signs are in English, even if very few speak any English at all. But seriously, if you go to that much effort, surely you could get an advisor to do a quick once-over before putting them in place (i.e. looks great, but who are the boncos?). Some really creative advertising on the metro however, there are television screens along all the tunnels that flash images in sync as you fly by so as when you look out the window at appears as movie reel of advertisements.

Couldn't have been too hard to do a spell check surely...

You wouldn’t be in Asia without some pretty funky and out-there food stalls and Beijing’s certainly offers some pretty creepy cuisine. Beetles, scorpions of varying sizes, sharks on a stick (i.e. literally, a boiled shark on a stick), horse, and of course dog… Snake was about as out there as I got, which you guessed it, tastes like chicken…

Some of the many and colourful food stalls.

I took it as a sign of China’s continued economic growth and newfound prosperity that very little bargaining seems to take place at the stalls I frequented. If they didn’t like the price I offered, that was it. Begone with you.

Beijing Railway Station, my departure point.

Of course if fried house pets don’t appeal, you can always visit McDonalds, and you have quite the choice of outlets. I counted over 120 on my McDonald’s sponsored map of Beijing. In some places I could see four from where I standing. As they say here in China, a journey of 5000 miles starts with a single sausage mcmuffin, and so with 2 consumed for good measure at one of the multiple Beijing Railway Station McD’s, I headed onto the platform to find my home for the next few days.

All good journeys start with a Maccas breakfast...

Next stop, Mongolia!

The Trans-Mongolian!!

Andean Adventures

2006-07-31T17:37:00.000-07:00

Andean Adventures

In my own frightfully worthless opinion on an even more worthless subject matter, I tend to think my previous blog entries have been lacking somewhat due to a sequence of events that conspired against me preventing access to the source material that make for interesting entries, that source being of course my diary. It is amazing how an innocuous occurrence can seemingly shape entire months of travel and become the leading influence on my decision making for most of my time in Argentina. A simple green book with a couple of random scribblings is hence the centerpiece of this ultimate entry coming to you from the beautiful Andes.

The Andes...

A quick brief (as opposed to long one…) on my diary; I discovered I’d left it, that most precious and irreplaceable of all travel items, on a bus all the way back when I was traveling around Iguazu Falls. Coupled with the fact that I lost it whilst making the special trip to the San Ignacio ruins, (which to remind you are about as memorable as any of the previous winners of Big Brother and only slightly more worthwhile) made it a particularly frustrating turn of events. By some minor miracle the bus company found it immediately and passed it on to my hostel in Iguazu. Now assuming I was dealing with anyone with even a single competent bone in their body, one would think that 2 weeks would be ample time to slip the diary into an envelope and shoot it down to my hostel in BA (incidentally under the same management as the one in Iguazu so both hostels even had regular contact with each other). Alas no, 2 weeks passed and unable to wait any longer, I was forced to request they send it on through to yet another associated hostel in the Lake District town of Bariloche, my next destination.

Bariloche is a charming outdoorsy town at the foot of the Andes set in what must be some of the most beautiful landscapes to be seen in Argentina. It’s quite a holiday haven for gringos and Argentines alike and its reputation as one of the primo ski towns along the Andes had made it my first choice to seek employment to facilitate my remaining time in South America. Unfortunately a blindingly obvious fact I had neglected to consider was the fact that being as it was, in Argentina, wages tend to match the incredibly cheap cost of living and for most Argentines, a 3 month lift pass is certainly not typically included within the general cost of living, particularly those who try and get away with only working in hostels and bars for a few hours a day as I was naively hoping to do. I came to the conclusion after an extensive and thorough search one entire afternoon, that the chances of earning more than say a free bed and loaf of bread each day were even less than that of finding a competent hostel worker (i.e. zero) and so I decided to suck it up, spend the cash to ski at my leisure and earn the money back at 7 or 8 times the rate back in Australia.

None of these photos are mine obviously and many are thanks to this gentleman here, Andy of Texas, taken whilst skiing in Bariloche. Even if the snow was a little average at the time, the views were top shelf.

After a horrible day of skiing on the asphalt-sprinkled-with-ball-bearings that passed for snow, I decided that Bariloche wasn’t the place for me to ski. Unfortunately when not skiing, there really isn’t much to do in the town except admire the views which don’t result to much more than the fogged-up windows of your hostel when it’s raining all the time. Basically passed the time by indulging in my staple pastimes of hanging about with other similarly bored travelers, going out until ungodly hours, and eating steak, including arguably the best one I've ever had at one Alberto's (you have to eat there once in your life…) One highlight was tenpin bowling South America style. I guess I probably could have picked up a job there as one of the poor kids who sits cramped-up at the end of the lane and manually arranges all the pins and rolls the ball back to you after every bowl. Up there with toll-booth workers for worst job ever.

There were a few days of clear weather that allowed us to escape the hostel cocoon during the day and head out to experience some of the world-class lookouts that showcased the amazing landscapes on offer. One in particular, Cerro Campanario, is supposedly quoted by National Geographic, no less, as being one of the 10 greatest vistas in the world. After seeing it twice both on clear days, I will hardly disagree with their esteemed judgement. I just wish that I had my own camera to take as many shots as I had wanted to.

About 90 of the 360 degree views able to be enjoyed from Campanario. The second time I went up (I had lots of time...) was even more stunning with clear skies to the horizon.

Despite the views, my time in Bariloche was turning into a bit of a Twilight Zone as one day morphed into another as I continued to wait for word on the bloody diary. Looking for anything that might help me pass the time more effectively, I got wind of an opportunity to head down south to a little hippie town by the name of El Bolson, where the Hostel International (HI) hostel was looking for some assistance in running the place for a week or two. Generally HI hostels are buzzing and packed with interesting travelers in most instances and so the prospect of hanging about and getting free board and food to basically do what I was already doing seemed an appealing if not irresistible prospect.

Turned out to be not quite so much a typical HI venue but more similar to that hotel in the Shining, or even Norman Bates’ cozy venue of Psycho fame. Firstly the place was a 4.5km muddy trail walk to the town, (a trail required to be traversed anytime you needed anything, food for example), there were no facilities whatsoever, and quite disturbingly, I was the ONLY guest. Yesiree, just me and the slightly crazy manager who sat rocking away in front of the fire drinking mat´e and playing Crosby, Stills and Nash exclusively on his guitar (quite well I might add. Must have plenty of time to practice…). Fearing for my sanity and wondering what would happen when I went for a shower, I needless to say hightailed it out of that place back to civilization.

More shots of mountains (all I have really...), this time again from the ski-fields in Bariloche.

Writing of slightly weird hostel experiences, I was lucky or unlucky enough (I’m yet to decide) to enjoy undoubtedly the most surreal series of events I’ve yet encountered in a hostel when staying in Bariloche. It is said that love is blind, but on this particular occasion I discovered rather hilariously that lust is clearly both deaf and mute. At 6:30am one morning I was awoken by the typically counterproductive efforts of completely twatted drunks trying to keep silent by “shusshhhing” each other at incredibly loud volumes, provided in this case by a kiwi guy and his date for the evening, a Bariloche local. It became pretty obvious that the kiwi did not speak a lick of Spanish and the woman was equally mute with English. This of course didn’t stop him from giving her the old leg-up to the top bunk so he could then proceed to get his leg-over. Somewhat mortified and completely at a loss as what to do, I continued to feign sleep during round 1 of these proceedings, at the end of which the remaining 2 occupants of the intimate 4 bed room stumbled in at around 7am.

The two lovebirds commenced round 2 blissfully ignorant to the rest of us and it was only after a sublimely timed “¿Contento?” posed by Jessie below me at the end of proceedings did the ice break. I won’t describe the theatrics that followed for the next hour in the room but I believe the 3 of us innocent (some more so than others) bystanders have a special bond after the experience. Was certainly great incentive to practice your Spanish with a beautiful woman walking about unashamedly naked in your room… (“¿Donde esta mi mombachas?” means “Where is my underwear....”).

Michaelangelo's David was on a brief tour of South America from Florence... A plastered reproduction inexplicably found at a lookout complex in Bariloche.

I finally got confirmation that my diary had definitely been sent a mere four weeks after it was found and that it would arriving the next day. Knowing this to be an optimistic proposition, I booked my ticket out of the town four days later to allow for any further (and inevitable) Argentinean incompetency. As predicted, promises of “mañana, mañana”, continued unabated with no sign of the diary. Then on the day of my bus, I was assured that the girl had just spoken to the bus station and they had it there waiting for me, all I needed to do was pick it up, get on my bus, and everything would be apples. Needless to say, the bus company had positively no idea what I was talking about and I once again failed the patience and calmness test that seem to get thrown at me disproportionately often. Even more frustratingly so, turns out that the diary had been there, only they had sent it on to the hostel and somehow neither party knew this was the case. I can just imagine that my diary passed me in some vehicle heading to the hostel whilst I was gleefully making my way to pick the damn thing up.

Anyways, that bus took me alongside the Andes all the way to Los Leñas, the biggest, best and most expensive ski resort in all of Argentina, the Aspen of the Andes. Well technically I headed for Malarque, a backpacker haven which was a lazy 2.5hr drive to the slopes each day but had the distinct plus of offering 50% off your lift pass in addition to offering far more affordable accommodation. Being very close to the end of my trip, I was planning on a solid 5 or 6 days of good skiing to celebrate. The first two days were a little sketchy weather-wise, but the third day was glorious. That is until I somehow completely snapped my decrepit rental ski (from Malarque) on the softest piste known to man.

More Andes... I'm really stretched for photographic material here.

Man I was pissed. Not only did it take me an hour to walk down the mountain during perfect skiing conditions, I had pay an extra 50 pesos to rent more for the rest of the day. Well I kept the rage up until I arrived back in Malarque ready to storm into the rental place and demand some money back for renting out such obviously haggard and worn equipment. The response I received was slightly different to my hopeful expectations to say the least. Hmmm, it seems I didn't/couldn't read the fine print on the contract I had signed...

Seems I owed some US$300 for a ski which would barely fetch 20 bucks at a garage sale (in its unbroken state…). What started as calm and collected discussion regarding various matters such as the obvious repairs and damage sustained previously to the equipment, my inability to read the contract and the failure on their part (despite several English-speaking staff) to explain the lack of insurance, quickly escalated when my explanations were met only with a continual shaking of the head, accusations and name-calling, and threats to call the police. Arguably the most rude and vile man I encountered in all of the world and had I not been up for a further 300 bucks I may well have attempted to break the other ski on his skull.

Suffice to say, that little episode led to a premature end to my ski holiday but whilst making a VERY firm complaint to the tourist office, I was fortunate enough to experience the flip-side of such obstinate and foul behaviour. In light of my problem, EVERY single person I encountered was sympathetic to my plight and went out of their way to offer advice and assistance, but one family in particular, the Kesslers of Buenos Aires, overheard my ranting and offered to assist me in negotiating a more reasonable outcome. For the next hour or more, they drove me around, sought the opinions of other rental stores and eventually through teamwork consisting of me raving furiously in English to Carolina, the daughter, followed by her translation to her dad, who then forcefully duked it out with the boor of a man at the ski rental and got my price down to a third of what was asked originally. An incredible example of kindness and hospitality for a complete stranger unlike anything I experienced outside of South America.

With broken skis in tow (they were after all the most expensive souvenir I’ve ever bought) I headed north to Mendoza, supposedly an adventure-loaded city that also has the added benefit of being the producer of some 70% of Argentina's wine. Unfortunately the quality of their wine tours is not quite up to scratch (I got offered to try only 3 tiny glasses!! Outrageous), but their wine is typically cheap and very good. Any bottle of $5 or more was pretty much guaranteed to be good or it least it was in my experience. Another upside of Mendoza was that I was joined by the only female seemingly able to put up with my company for extended periods, the delightful Ana whom I had met in Buenos Aires (incidentally the same venue where my camera was stolen meaning that I have no proof and all those mates of mine who doubt the possibility of such an outcome occurring will have to take my word for it...)

And one more, again taken from the top-10 lookout at Campanario.

The next few days were spent indulging in such romantic pastimes as drinking the above said cheap wine, going on horse rides (or more appropriately titled lumbering mule processions) through the beautiful Andean landscapes, eating fine meals and watching Scrubs on tele (my personal favourite). A fabulous time indeed but alas I needed to head back to Santiago whilst the temperamental mountain pass was temporarily clear of snow. This done, it was then a merely a waiting game for a day or two in Santiago before completing the final leg of my whole journey all the way back to Brisbane. Without my diary of course…

At this time of closure to my little adventure, if you have made it this far, may I thank you all for at least looking at the photos every now and then and responding to my emails, it made the world a much smaller and welcoming place... til next time, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Vamos Argentina!!

2006-07-10T09:13:00.001-07:00

VAMOS ARGENTINA!!

Two famous sights of Argentina, the mega 16-lane Avenue 9 de Julio of Buenos Aires with its famous obelisk and below the impressive Iguazu Falls.

With my aspirations and dreams of attaining some tangible benefits from my journey shattered in Chile, I managed to regroup and refocus with alarming rapidity and was off the next day with my contingency plan. It's amazing what the lure of copious amounts of steak at a traditional Argentinean “Asado” put on by my Argie girls from the Inca trek can do for one's motivation. Of course Argentina has far more to offer than simply great-tasting and cheap meat (though it has to be asked, what more does one need?) as it is after all, since the great peso crash of several years ago at least, the most first-world third-world economy in the ummm, world. Basically it’s like travelling around Western Europe at south-east Asian prices. So for great food, great wine, ridiculously cheap beer, stunning women, and a world cup atmosphere more soccer-mad than the Berlin Olympic stadium, one needed look no further than just across the border. Vamos Argentina.

Arguably the three most famous Argentineans, Astor Piazzolla, Maria Eva Duarte "Evita" Peron, and of course, Maradona represented in the colourful Caminito region of La Boca, Buenos Aires.

So over the Andes I went on a 20-hr bus journey to Cordoba , the second largest city in Argentina and the home of my two favourite Argies, Jo and Sole, who had snapped me out my half-day case of depression with the promise of an all-I-could-eat meat fiesta. As you can imagine, I have plenty of experience with buffets, so after arriving freshly rejuvenated after a comfortable night's sleep in my buscama, along with a steak meal and wine of course, I commenced my pre-buffet routine of drinking copious amounts to swell the stomach and steering clear of any food.

The wide, leafy avenues so typical of so many Argentinean cities.

Unfortunately my best laid plans didn't account for Argentinean schedules. Whereas Eric C likes to let it all hang down, after midnight Argentinians prefer to only perhaps start thinking about the possibility of getting the bloody bbq started. I was nearly dead of calorie depletion by that stage and it was only the unbelievable smells wafting from the massive grill that seem to come standard with every Argie house that kept me going. And so the pattern of upside down hours in Argentina had begun and I saw more than my fair share of sunrises over the coming weeks.

The "pink house" in Beunos Aires from where Evita used to make her impassioned speeches to her adoring crowds.

Heading out to a restaurant for dinner was even more ridiculous. My second night there I headed out with the girls and we didn't even sit down, let alone order and eat, until 1:30 in the bloody morning. It took all my willpower not to use my mashed potatoes as a pillow but still we had to head out and dance until the really wee hours. It may have been my almost hallucinogenic state at the time but I swear being in some of those clubs was like being on Jimi Hendrix's "Electric Ladyland" album cover. The women were clothed of course, but my goodness, if I were a fisher of women, I would have been in some bountiful waters. None were as stunning as my two amigas of course (I have to assume they're still reading this...) but I would have been hard-pressed to even find even a lowly 7.

Chilling in Cordoba with Sol and Jo's friends.

Cordoba is a university town so that may have skewed the results in its favour but I very much convinced of the fact that it is a sin to be fat in Argentina (I was surprised not be excommunicated myself... the novelty blonde factor may have saved me). How all these women stay so slim and tanned is beyond me however, as very few of the girls I met seem to exercise (or admit to it at least) and eating copious amounts of meat and pastries seems to be the national past-time, surpassing soccer even. Dulche de Leche (plain caramel) in particular seems to be the staple condiment, and they eat it on anything, pancakes, toast, cakes, pastries, steak...

My fabulous hosts, Jo and her parents in Cordoba.

By the way, if you're ever over here, don't mention the war. I might have mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it... I made a few innocent gaffes with my gracious host, a veteran, (I inadvertently wore my Ghurka regiment shirt from Nepal...) but I was at least glad not to be an Englishman over here during the world cup. Of course it's pretty good natured now but most Argentinians are still adamant that the English started the Falklands War when they invaded 150 years ago. Not surprisingly you can buy all sorts of soccer jerseys in the stores, Japan, Netherlands, France, Brazil, Nigeria even for crying out loud, but you've got about the same chance as the Argies had back in '82 of finding an English shirt.

Jo's dog, arguably the ugliest I've yet seen. She is supposedly "smiling" here...

What you will have no problem whatsoever of finding however are all sorts of paraphernalia sporting the "greatest number 10 that ever lived", the Mano de Dios, Diego Maradona. They just can't seem to get over him over here, his image is everywhere, every sports store is full of shirts, scarves, hats, jumpers, jackets all plastered with his image (his image circa '86 of course, they don't mention his post '94 problems; it's like nobody remember the fat Elvis, they just remember the good times) and if you don't like the number 10 on your jersey, you're out of luck I'm afraid. Anyways, I bypassed the Argie supporter fare and went for a Dutch jersey instead because of all the Dutchies I'd met in South America and in honour of my nomination for quasi-Australian of the year, Guus Hiddink. That and I now have a guaranteed winner in the office ugly shirt competition every year.

La Boca Stadium, Buenos Aires, sight of a young Maradona's finest exploits.

By the way, I got a taste of just how soccer mad the Argentinians are a week or so out from the world cup commencing when driving through Cordoba one evening. Cordoba, despite being the second largest city in Argentina, has only two large soccer clubs, neither of which regularly feature in the top flight domestic comp dominated by the likes of La Boca Juniors and Riverplate. However, within only 5 minutes of a game being completed that resulted in one of the teams being promoted to the premier grade, all the streets were awash with flags, streamers, half-naked painted lunatics and manic drivers honking incessantly for hours. Furthermore, the next day they shut down central Cordoba for a massive celebration; it was like London shutting down because Crystal Palace made the premier league. Ridiculous.

Puerto Iguazu, located on the border of three countries.

After a week or more of lapping up the unbelievable hospitality put on by my overly generous hosts (whom I could never thank enough), I left Cordoba on a high having just seen Australia smash Japan and caught a bus to arguably Argentina's most popular natural tourist attraction, Iguazu Falls in the far north east of the country. Now I've raved about the buses already but deadset, it just cannot be overstated how good they are. The bus to Iguazu came with pillows, blankets, English-speaking films (ok, so Vinnie Jones has only ever made two good films…), snacks, hot meals, wine, champagne, and even whiskey for Pete's sake as a nightcap. A holiday in its own right.

Iguazu Falls... some of it at least.

Although it doesn't have any claims to being the highest, widest or most voluminous waterfalls in the world, Iguazu must be in line for the prettiest waterfalls. It marks the convergence of three borders between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay but Argentina certainly has the best access to all the beautiful little cataracts that make up the majority of the falls. Brazil may have the best vantage point for viewing them as a whole but you can't beat the elevated catwalks on the Argentinean side which take you right above and between them all. Stunning.

The prettiest falls in the world?

The Iguazu River (which obviously feeds the falls) is actually suffering an acute shortage of flow at present but if what if I saw were the falls at their weakest, it must truly be a sight to behold when at full strength. The star of the show is undoubtedly the Garganta Diablo, or Devil's Throat, a giant horseshoe whose lip over which the water falls its greatest height, looks like what most would have imagined the edge of the world to be like.

The awesome Devil's Throat above and below the only half-decent facade to be seen at San Ignacio.

I made a brief stop at San Ignacio, one of the most impressive Jesuit missionary ruins sites in South America just south of the falls and if I wasn't all ruined out before that experience, I certainly was afterwards. What it lacks for in the superb natural wonder and tourist pulling power of Iguazu falls, it more than makes up for with a bunch of rocks with a bit of moss on them strewn across a big paddock. The only reason I mention it is that it was on the crappy bus to this otherwise unnoteworthy location that I lost my diary, a costly mistake that was to have ramifications that require a separate blog entry to detail. Oh the things to look forward to...

The very impressive architecture prevelant throughout Buenos Aires. A most beautiful city.

For me the only positive about San Ignacio was that I caught a bus from there, which took me to another bus (again with whiskey...) to Buenos Aires, what was to become my favourite city of South America, if not the whole trip. No doubt it is an amazingly vibrant and pulsing city at any time of year, but during a World Cup, the atmosphere is positively electric. I checked into the Tango City Hostel-Inn which was to become my home for the next two weeks as I, like so many others, struggled to escape the gravitational pull of this fabulous city.

Part of the Aussie crew passing through BA, the French sisters, Mel&Bec. Like the Argintinean wine...

Two weeks pass surprisingly easily in Buenos Aires. Obviously in a city of some 12 million, there is a lot to see and do, with many distinct, fascinating and varied suburbs such as Recoleta and La Boca to be explored, but in my experience at least, most of one's time is frittered away through a combination of watching football, drinking beer, going to restaurants, watching football, going to tango shows, drinking beer, waiting at police stations to lodge stolen property reports, watching football, sampling all the really, really cheap wine, eating lots of steak of course, going out all night to clubs and finally drinking beer.

Brazilians in BA going nuts after cheating their way to victory over the Socceroos.

Being world cup and all, a typical day was to wake up well into the afternoon (unless an important game was on in the 10am slot), eat, watch football until about 6 at a local pub, realise you have no time left to do anything that day, sit around talking with your mates at the hostel about how you are definitely going to see some sights the next day but in the meantime, yeah, I'll have a beer, but don't worry, I've got this one, you get the next etc, and before you know it, you're out eating a steak and either staying up all night playing pool in the hostel or dancing until 7 in the morning at some fancy club. A vicious cycle...

Blue Steel...my wannebe-Brazilian mate from Israel with an incredible resemblance to the merman himself.

There was a lot of shouting going on in Buenos Aires because beer was just so damn cheap. You can't say no when you can get litre of quality domestic beer for less than $1. Even in a pub you would pay no more than $2 for a tallie and so if you start having a few quiet ones at say 9ish, by the time anyone is even thinking about heading out (generally about 2ish), you've knocked off several litres and spent less than what you pay for pint back home. 'Twasn't only the beer either, quality wine set you back only about $3-4 and a bottle of the not-quite-so-finest vodka required only Argentinean spare change... All in all, when you're only spending $6 a night on the hostel, what else are you to spend your money on?

Some more very European architecture in B.A. Couldn't get over just how rich this city and country must have been back in the day, evidence of wealth everywhere.

It was of course nice to have a stable crew at the hostel who were all stuck in a similar sort of twilight zone of planning itineraries around football results. I dare say the economy would have faced a serious downturn once Argentina were knocked out of the cup and thousands of backpackers gave up the dream of being present for the biggest party ever. Of course, having Australia in the cup gave it extra value this time and it was always a fabulous time when we got a crew together at a local venue, particularly when we were winning, or drawing at least. The ecstasy and the agony, Harry's goal vs Croatia and that bloody dive by Italy respectively....

My second-favourite Brasilian fan.

The best game for me however was definitely the Brazil game particularly because I was one of only three Australians in the biggest Brazilian bar in Buenos Aires. We had been wandering about with a few folks from the hostel in an absolutely dead-end part of town looking for a non-existent "great Aussie pub" when by chance we stumbled upon a small bar packed with Brazilians. Unfortunately it was a private party but one gent kindly directed a taxi for us to a packed out big-screen bonanza complete with 1000 or so scantily clad, yellow painted, drum-beating absolutely crazy Brazilians.

One of my four half-time expert commentaries.

Being easily the most vocal of the Aussie tribe and the only one who could "speak Spanish", I proved quite the novelty and was interviewed at half-time for Argentinean television no less than 4 times, all in Spanish. I daresay there were some very confused Argentinians after trying to comprehend those half-time analyses. The fact I had my bright orange Dutch jersey on (in support of my new idol Guus of course) and a Brisbane Lions scarf very similar to Ronaldhino's Barcelona didn't help. And whilst we may have ultimately lost the game, I enjoyed arguably the proudest moment of my life when, live to air throughout Argentina, I was challenged to a beer-skulling/chugging competition with a Brazilian dude. Needless to say, I pumped him by a good 2 seconds. Never have I been prouder to be Australian.

My about 5 seconds after finishing my beer with the Brazilian guy about 3 seconds after he finished his...

Was also fortunate enough to be in Buenos Aires for two international rugby matches, one entirely despicable performance from Wales first up, and then the following week, the mighty All Blacks whom I saw live for the first time for a total of about $8. Super quality match as well, los Pumas had about 10 phases on the kiwi line in the last 5 minutes when only 6 points down.

The All-Blacks during the haka. This, like many of the photos on this page, are not mine due to my camera being stolen. During this time, I was down with plebs almost getting crushed to death.

Obviously the stadium in which the games took place is primarily a soccer stadium and it was amusing to see the efforts they had made in the name of crowd control. In Australia, we have a copper sitting on a fold-up stool on the boundary; in Argentina, they have a moat.... Mind you when making our way to the outer seats when the All Blacks commenced their haka (without the throat-slitting of course...) the moat counted for nothing as we were nearly crushed to death by marauding Argentinians desperate to see the action. Scary stuff.

During the Wales match. Notice the moat running down the side from which some guy had to scoop the ball out with a 5m pole any time someone kicked for touch. You certainly didn't want to cop a fierce covering tackle whilst dashing down the sideline.

Despite all this football and beer, I did actually get around to seeing some of the fabulous locations and meet some of the local Porteños (residents of Buenos Aires) which thoroughly enriched my experience. One thing I definitely took away from my interaction with these folk, both from Buenos Aires and all over South America for that matter, was a new appreciation for just how lucky those of us from Australia, Europe, U.S.A. and the like are to be able to sample all that these great countries have to offer on a relative whim.

The vibrant colours of Caminito, an avenue in the working class La Boca district.

Not to get all preachy or anything, but the fact is I was able to travel as I have for almost a year after saving for only one year as a graduate pretty much straight out of university. So many people in Argentina especially, equally well-educated if not more so, can only dream of such possibilities due to factors completely out of their control. A qualified gynecologist I met for example, someone who delivers babies every day, was earning around US$5 an hour. A sad reflection of a country which only five years ago had a peso valued more than 3 times what it is now. Still, means a lot of cheap beer for us backpackers....

The famous and overly ostentatious cemetery in Recoleta, final resting place of the very rich and famous.

Unfortunately that newfound appreciation didn't last very long as I a) had my camera stolen no doubt by one those I had been earlier been feeling sorry for and b) I was about to embark on a journey towards the beautiful Lakes District town of Bariloche at the foot of the Andes where events dictated by factors out of my control were to slowly sap my appreciation for being here in this fabulous country.

Eva Peron's grave in the same Recoleta cemetery.

Til next time....

Change of Plans in Chile

2006-07-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

Change of Plans in Chile

At last the time had come, after many delays and deliberation, I was heading to what I was hoping to be my ultimate destination of this little jaunt, Chile. The whole premise of this trip, apart from having a great time experiencing the world, was to land both some quality work and personal experience with my Australian company GHD in their office in Santiago. I was still hopeful of a positive outcome and was looking forward to the opportunity to working and living in the city and all that it entailed; finally my spanish would improve, I'd learn how to dance the tango, I'd be able to write off my self-indulgent holiday as professional overseas experience, you know, that sort of thing. Yep, I was in Chile for the slightly-longer-than-short-haul.

Upon my arrival into San Pedro de Atacama, my first port-of-call upon departing Bolivia, one thing became abundantly clear, I certainly wasn't to be staying in Chile without finding some way of earning some cash. I have never experienced such a shock by simply passing a few kilometres over a land border. After enjoying my complementary ransacking by drug authorities, I was surprised, not to say extremely disappointed to discover that prices had suddenly increased fourfold or thereabouts for most typical items.

One of the main tourist attractions in San Pedro, the three sisters. Fascinating...

Bottled water suddenly cost more than fine Bolivian wine, I was paying far more for a dorm than a private hotel room and spending time writing this overly time-consuming blog became a serious financial outlay. No more restaurants unfortunately as well and I was forced to commence my staple diet of banana hotdogs for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not surprisingly, there were very few Bolivians about (as evident by my newfound total lack of ability to understand a single word of the high-speed garble of Chilean spanish); I dare say the cost of living is more effective than the Berlin wall at keeping Bolivians out of this most prosperous nation in South America.

Some of the landscapes typical of the Valle de la Luna just outside San Pedro de Atacama.

Not only were the costs of everything astronomically higher, but I found San Pedro, the bee's knees so far as tourist hotspots of northern Chile are concerned to be pretty lifeless and bereft of unmissable sites. Admittedly the Atacama Desert, which I bypassed due to its similarity to my much cheaper Salt Flats tour, may be somewhat impressive but if like me, you're not keen for several more days of bum-numbing 4-wheel-driving, there isn't a whole lot to do. So with the decision to hightail it out of there made remarkably easily, I had only one afternoon during which I needed to occupy myself. The Valle de la Luna (another one) was only 20 odd km away (a short distance in theory) and so with yet another Dutchie I met in the hostel, Saco, it was on yer bike off to catch the "unforgettable" sunset.

My Dutch (as usual) mate Saco, exploring the tunnels in and around the Valle de la Luna.

Hmmm, so 20km is not quite as short as I had convinced myself, particularly considering my bizarro athlete state of being, and the high altitude we were still at. I was relieved to firstly get there without suffering coronary failure, and secondly to discover that it was actually worth the pain I was no doubt to feel the next day. An impressive tunnel tour through the incredible sculpted rock features was first up and then it was a further ride into the park to appreciate the stark landscape which stretched off until the Andes.

Our vantage point from where the sunset would have been great...

We completed our tour with a far more difficult than it looked hike up an impressive sand dune to a great vantage point where we missed the sunset by that much. Still the dusk light did nothing to diminish the eerie landscape that stretched on around us as far as the eye could see. And then it was an entirely unpleasant uphill ride back to San Pedro...

The dune which further convinced me I never wish to have to hike out of a desert.

With memories of my bus adventures in Bolivia fresh in my mind, the prospect of a 24 hour bus trip to Santiago was not one I looked forward to with eager anticipation but I was pleasantly surprised to find the quality matched the prices here in Chile. Climate control, personal headsets, films in english, food and even a complimentary lost luggage service. By that I mean they actually lose all your luggage at no extra cost (I seriously recommend you tip the guys who pack your gear under the bus). Thankfully I only had two days in Santiago having to wear the same clothes until my pack finally arrived, minus a commission fee of one small black bag containing all my electronic gear, mobile, chargers, connections etc. Sneaky bastards.

Hardly budget backpacker style, more like business class in a plane. Better yet was to come in Argentina.

Santiago is as first world as they come, very modern with, to my disappointment very modern prices, reflective of its thriving economy. Mind you, despite its economic success, I think they must have had a major devaluation of their currency in recent times as they still hand out 1 peso coins. Considering there are more than 500 pesos to one dollar, you'd pretty much need a life-size piggy bank to save up for that bicycle you've always wanted. It also feels quite different to any other major South American city I've yet visited in that it appears at least to be absent of regions of absolute poverty, and feels quite European almost. That and the fact that its main street is named after its liberator, the decidedly un-South American sounding Bernard O'Higgins.

Pretty much my only photo in Santiago, I was hoping to stay longer and choose when to take my shots... Above is the military barracks.

Kind of reminded me of my hometown of Brisbane; similar size, similar cost of living etc, and like Brisbane, Santiago really has bugger all to offer tourists as far as I could tell. So with little further ado, I headed straight for GHD to discover my fate. Unlike Brisbane, Santiago has an extremely efficient public transport system and holy crap, the suburb where the GHD office is, Los Condors, might as well by uptown Manhattan with all its schmick apartment blocks, wide tree-lined avenues and expensive cars.

My gracious hosts Christina, Maule and Ian on their last day in Talca.

Anyways, following a chat with the very accommodating director of the office, Roberto, it was decided I should return in a week to allow him to see what might be available. In the meantime it was off to Talca, a smallish city about 3 hrs south of Santiago to kill a few days with my "inside man" of GHD Santiago, Ian Spruce (the guy who had been telling me all along I really had bugger all chance of work...) and his girlfriend Christina and overly-large but beautiful dog Maule. After spending only three days in Talca, and enjoying their incredibly generous hospitality over that time, I have newfound respect for how Ian managed to put up with living there for over a year....

One of the days I was in Santiago they had a free cultural day (finally something cheap in Chile!!) where there was all sorts of musuems and performances available to the public, including these dancing cowboys, who as far as I could tell were limited to performing the ol' Heel and Toe whilst waving about a hankie above their heads.

So, back to Santiago for a few days where I enjoyed the company of Nicki, a lovely Australian girl from the office who only a month or two prior, through a much more concerted display of pragmatism, diligence and, dare I say it, planning, had scored the exact position I had been hoping for myself. The writing was definitely on the wall, but still I persevered and it was off to see Roberto to find out my destiny, to achieve my ultimate goal, to fulfil the driving ambition, the culmination of my travels, to realise the very reason for my embarking on this journey around the world....

Umm, no? Nothing? Hey, that's cool, just figured I'd pop round since I was in the area and all...

Hmmmm. So with pride shattered and feelings of complete failure and inadequacy, I had to summon all my willpower to look beyond the hazy fog of depression that had descended upon my mind and try to see the positives of not having to sit in an office for 10 hours a day for the next several months. But what to do? Well, the world cup was approaching, I had several friends to visit, and I do really, really like steak.

Entonces, VAMOS ARGENTINA!!

Budget Bolivia

2006-06-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

Budget Bolivia

Bolivia - An exciting place

When I first arrived in South America, I had no intentions of seeing Bolivia due to my carefully formulated and foolproof plan to simply knock on the door and gain employment with my company GHD in Chile. Over the course of my time during Peru however I had been picking up distinctly non-good vibrations, and certainly no excitations from the Santiago office and with seemingly less onorous demands on my time of arrival in Chile as a result of that diminishing likelihood, Bolivia came distinctly within the radar for a number of reasons. Obviously I was keen to check out this relatively unknown country of high plateaus, Andean mountains, Amazonian jungle and blinding salt flats but I was also fortunate enough to have the chance to travel with yet more Dutch friends of mine who had coinciding plans. Of course the fact that it was dirt cheap added to its appeal. That and the cocaine...

One last day of shopping for gringo goodies with my beuna amiga, Devin, one of several folk whom made my time in Cusco so enjoyable.

It was hardly as if I'd been living an exorbitant existence in Cusco, a thoroughly affordable place in it's own right, but tales abounded from many a traveller of just how much bang your buck could achieve in Bolivia. High adventure for low cost was the general gist of it and so, following a few days completing a few essential Cusco experiences (I finally bought a damn finger puppet...) and saying goodbye to all the great folk I had met there, I headed south towards the Bolivian border.

Puno, the Monte Carlo of the Andes, only with much shittier boats.

Of course there was one more stop to make before leaving Peru indefinitely; one can hardly ignore the essential experience of Lake Titicaca, which at 3800m is the world's highest navigable lake and straddles the border between Peru and Bolivia. Its a pretty important place supposedly as Indian legend says the sun god had his children, Manco Capac and his sister Mama Ocilo, spring from the frigid waters of the lake to found Cuzco and the beginning of the Inca dynasty. The majority of the lake actually falls in Bolivian territory but the Peruvian town of Puno is considered the best site from which to embark on a tour of the Lake's islands, both those formed by natural and man-made processes.

Several of the some 40-odd floating islands near Puno.

There are a number of floating islands made up of the reeds that grow abundantly in the lake's shallows which have been habituated and continually replenished with fresh top layers of reeds by the Uros people who initially settled on them to escape those land-lubbering and war-mongering Incas some 500 years ago. These islands in particular are the main attraction of the countless tours of the lake that as always are shoved in your face immediately upon disembarking your bus.

Close up of the islands - like walking on a big spongy mattress and below, a touch of home. Not only did I spot the Aussie flag in one of the few residences on the island, there was also a huge number of eucalyptus gum trees, supposedly imported from Oz for their erosion prevention qualities and the islander's thriving trade in koala skins.

Tis certainly amazing how dexterous the folk who continue to reside permanently on the islands are with their reeds. They eat them, drink them, live under them (all their shelters are constructed from the reeds), sleep on them, and of course they use them to make useless trinkets that tourists lap up by the dozen. Another blatant tourist trap those crafty islanders employ are trips in their admittedly impressive reed boats, reminiscent of old Viking ships. I unfortunately fell for this one expecting to cross over to one of the main islands and forked out 5 sol (ok, it was only like $2) which is still quite a lot to sit in a boat over what eventuated to be a distance that Thorpie could cover in about 24 seconds.

Alas the ride to the main island on the agenda, Isla Taquille, was undertaken in the far less exotic diesel engined tour boat which was only marginally more hasty than the long-pole powered reed boats. After some 90 minutes of puttering across the open expanse of water (early suspicions that the lake was in fact quite large, proved correct), we finally arrived at Isla Taquille supposedly for a true Titicaca experience. Seemingly this simply involves hanging out with a whole bunch of gringos in the town square for an hour whilst the locals try to flog you stuff that isn't even half as impressive as the little reed keyrings on the other island. Alas this memorable encounter had to end, and so it was then another 3 hour journey spluttering back to the mainland.

Scenes from Cocacabana town, our first stop in Bolivia. Another example of whacked or spot-on priorities depending on your point of view.

The next morning I was met by one of my many Dutch friends, Charlotte, and the two of us headed to the border where I left Peru with the distinct hope of returning some day. We didn't move much beyond the border as we chose to stay at another Lake town, the infinitely prettier Cocacabana (the highest port south of Havana...). Our first impression of Bolivia was certainly a positive one, a fabulous trout meal (a Titicaca specialty), sunny weather, and a beautiful hotel with stunning views of the lake (and hot showers with PRESSURE!!) for around $6 each. A highlight was the hike up the neighbouring mountain which provided views over the town and a spectacular vantage point for watching the sunset over the lake which stretched beyond the horizon.

Cheap wine and a three month growth. Enjoying the sunset over Titicaca.

Alas our Coca experience proved to be a blip on the radar so far as quality is concerned for it seems the deeper you head into Bolivia, the drop in standards more than keeps pace with the dropping prices. Our rickety bus to La Paz was a case in point and proved two things; the lake is even bigger than I had imagined, and the buses in Bolivia are entirely shithouse. At least the same cannot be said of the vista one experiences when first driving into La Paz, the highest capital city in the world and surely also one of the most spectacularly located. Basically a huge depression surrounded by a ring of Andean peaks with the city sprawling up the slopes seemingly until they become too steep to support any more dwellings.

The spectacular setting of La Paz.

(Below left) Maybe they're taking things a bit far when they start counterfeiting cars as this "Toyosa" suggests. The bowling ball shaped woman aptly sporting a bowler hat is also a very common sight in Bolivia.

We checked into the first of several dive hotels in central La Paz (again super cheap - we had a room for four people to ourselves for around $10 - of course only two could safely support the weight of a human body) and headed out to start making the most of the cheap luxuries on offer, namely the restaurants with meals for which we paid only between $3 and $4. Certainly not fine dining by any standards but thoroughly edible and undeniably good value for the cost.

(Below) Myself, Joram and Charlotte eating out again at the markets in La Paz.

Or so I thought. As a further example of my inability to escape the company of those from the Nether regions, I met up with two good mates from Cusco, Joppe and Joram, who took the stereotype of the "tight Dutchman" to an altogether new level. They swore by eating only at the giant markets in the centre of town where you could buy a tasty chicken and rice meal for 60c, or a choripan for half that. I was quickly convinced of their logic and was soon eating there at every opportunity as well. My favourite were the incredible amount of fruit stalls served by the typically rotund fruit ladies who could whip up a monstrous fruit salad totally from fresh produce of your choice again for less than a dollar. A litre of fruit juice made to your specifications set you back a ridiculous 2 bolivianos.

Considering there are more than 6 Bolivianos to one Aussie dollar, 2 Bolivianos is hardly a noteworthy sum but it of course still represents a not inconsequential amount to locals. There seems to a spate of counterfeiting currency in Bolivia at present and one ultra-suspicious gentleman refused to accept a slightly tarnished 2 Boliviano coin I presented as payment. My seemingly logic arguments of the futility of counterfeiting such an inconsequential sum fell on deaf ears and I was forced to find an alternative note to pay for my internet.

My beloved fruit ladies...

All that eating at local markets complete with their non-existent practices of hygiene did of course catch up with me when a 25c hotdog played havoc with my bowels preventing me from heading out on the popular Choro trek just outside of La Paz. The disappointment of that missed opportunity was softened by the knowledge that we experienced more or less the same environment whilst completing arguably one of the most enjoyable experiences I've had on my entire trip.

The money shot of the bike ride down the "World's Most Dangerous" road.

I write of the WMD, or World's Most Dangerous road where the only weapons of mass destruction to be found were the madcap Bolivian trucks hurtling down the 65km stretch towards Brazil. It's a lot safer than it sounds, it merely has the title because it was officially listed by the WHO or some other international organisation of repute as being the road with the most fatalities in a particular year. Of course it also lures a lot of tourists to buy a T-shirt of the "I did it" ilk. I also picked one of these up (it was included in the cost!!) and it is amazing how many people you run into all over the continent all sporting similar apparel.

Obviously it is not the safest road but I get the feeling that most of those fatalities were the result of coked-up Bolivian truck drivers trying to deliver their "merchandise" across the border as quickly as possible, a risky proposition on a single lane, two-way dirt road winding down some 3.5 vertical kilometres on the sides of mountains. All in all it makes for one hell of bike-ride.

A shot of whiskey/straight metho to toast to our hopefully good health before commencing. Thankfully nobody rode off the edge that day.

Apart from a brief stretch of up-hill riding (ridiculously exhausting at some 4000m) it's pretty much just a point your wheels down and hold on tight situation. The first 25km or so are on pavement where you actually dodge in and out of the slower moving traffic but the real fun begins when you hit the 40km+ of dusty gravel road with the side of a mountain on your right, and a several hundred metre vertical drop on your left for much of the time. Being the vehicle descending, the rules of the road are of course that you need to remain on the left. Being that it is barely wide enough to support one vehicle width, it is a slightly nerve-wracking experience when passing an oncoming vehicle....

Some of the unnecessarily distracting scenery encountered on the way down. Below is me watching the second guy make it up the tough up-hill section. That's right, estoy numero uno...

The amount of commemorative crosses you pass on the way down is enough to keep your wits about you but I have rarely had more fun than when just going flat out down that hill, sliding round corners and letting go of the brakes, all the while trying not to be distracted by the incredible scenery all around me. I seriously recommend anyone passing through Bolivia to make it one of your priorities. An exhausting, dusty, exhilarating and entirely satisfying experience I will remember for a long time.

A very dusty but satisfied crowd at the end of the ride. Next was the dangerous part; driving back up the road...

(Below) Me and Charlotte at the ridiculously schmick dessert restaurant in La Paz complete with classy faux waterfalls.

Following this we had a few more days in around La Paz where we were eventually joined by our other Dutch friend Danielle, and spent our time in a variety of pursuits such as a hiking a beautiful local day trek, exploring the bizarre Valle de la Luna (valley of the moon), having our shoes cleaned by the terrorist-looking shoe shiners (they all wear balaclavas supposedly to avoid being recognised and thus avoid bringing "shame" on their family due to their lowly-esteemed profession), and also eating copious amounts of the best icecream I've ever had for a fifth of the price that you would pay at Cold Rock.

Some views from the day hike I did with Charlotte, Joram and Joppe. You can see the first stretch of the bike ride winding down in the the background. Below is the view out towards Brazil and the beginning of the Amazon rainforest. I think.

The other activity that preoccupied much of my time in La Paz was shopping for the ridiculous amounts of Alpaca wool clothes that I made the mistake of offering to buy for my family. Once this two day mission (which they better be especially grateful for) was over, I left myself a good two hours to simply put all 11kg of the stuff in a box and post it back to Australia before with immaculate timing, jumping on a night bus heading for Uyuni. Like my Mumbai experience, this was to prove frightfully insufficient.

Another shot from our lookout point of the WMD road.

Who'd want to be an electrician in La Paz? Typical of the chaotic disorganised feel of the city, these wire criss-crossed all over the city and often were directly under roof water discharges. Crazy.

For starters, the amount of money I had planned for posting turned out to be horribly short due to the fact that the information lady, upon confirming my quoted price from my previous questioning, had never in fact even heard of Australia. Austria sure, but Australia was evidently one of those mysterious countries in the "rest of the world" category which happen to be double the price. Setback number two was that the box lady was adamant that the cost of postage would be the same whether I put my cargo in one large box as in two smaller ones. I was sceptical but assumed that, being that it was her profession, she may have some idea what she was talking about.

Taking the concept of the zebra crossing to the next level. Supposedly these crazy dancing zebras are necessary to ensure the drivers stop at the lights. That or it's a novel way of reducing unemployment.

Umm, no. After filling in all the forms with a detailed description of all the items and wrapping up the boxes up securely and addressing them ready for postage I was informed that I would be of course required to pay the postage for two 6kg packages rather than one large 11kg package. Apart from being some $50 or so more expensive, it was also highly time consuming and damaging to my best laid plans of catching an imminently departing bus. Once again I failed the patience and calmness test in dismal fashion. Despite my pidgeon spanglish rants of "not my fault, not my fault. Your fault. Me no pay more!!" I was eventually forced to fork out the cash and sprint back to my hotel which quickly turned into a forlorn power walk considering the difficulty of physical exertion at that altitude...

Main governing square of La Paz.

Of course despite my panic, turns out I had nothing to worry about as I had yet again overestimated the quality of service availabe in these countries. The Bolivian time lag constant was in my favour on this occasion and despite turning up 20 minutes late to the bus station, where I found that my bus in fact was leaving from the train station (of course, how stupid of me...) and hence was forty minutes late, I still had to wait for another half hour before we headed off. And this was the only bus for that entire day that ran arguably the most popular tourist route from La Paz to Uyuni, the launching pad for tours of the famous salt plains.

More tastes of home, the green and gold of the Aussie wattle plant with some gum trees in the background. Both are pretty common around La Paz.

They should really issue public health warnings to all those considering travelling by bus in that part of the world. Firstly the engine was exposed in the driver's cabin and one was required to step over the gaping hole when boarding and for the rest of the night an unfortunate Brit had to keep the door closed with his leg to prevent the fumes billowing through to the rest of us. Much worse was the fact that despite wearing a three layers, not to mention a down jacket and complimentary blanket, and taking TWO valiums, I couldn't get an ounce of sleep primarily due to the deafening chatter of teeth and knocking of knees. I'm talking serious arctic conditions, the windows were completely iced over and I had no feeling in my face, hands and feet for most of what was a very ordinary journey.

The reason why people go to Uyuni, the trippy landscapes of the salt plains.

After enduring such a painful trip it was entirely disheartening to disembark in what must be one of the most unwelcoming, desolate places on the continent. Understandably at 7am on a freezing morning (well below zero), the place gave the impression of a deserted ghost town; one almost expected some tumbleweed to blow down the dusty streets but I dare say the place was too arid for any vegetation to grow at all. And in truth, it wasn't entirely deserted, we were of course met by an armada of tour operators all plying their trade of flogging the only reason why anyone would want to pass through such a place.

A Toyota, or possibly a Toyosa, speeding across the seemingly endless expanse of the Salar de Uyuni.

Thus loaded up with 12 flyers that I was too debilitated to resist, I hobbled away on my numb stumps for legs to another dingy Bolivian hotel wondering how I was going to fill up a whole day in this place before being joined by my Dutch girls the next day. After lying comatose under 6 blankets for several hours, I spent the rest of the day sifting through the dozens of tour operators (I think there are more than 50 companies in a town of only a few thousand people) and ultimately flipped a coin to break the deadlock between the companies offering the best deals. This more or less required about 50 coin tosses as there is little discernible difference between any of them and its pretty much luck of the draw as to whether you get a pimped up beast-from-the-east (i.e. a landcruiser) or a clapped-up pickup truck running on it's third engine.

Charlotte and I atop some of the memorable rock sculptures encountered during our 3-day salt plains tour.

A quick aside, I mentioned that the giant pimple that is Uyuni only exists on the tourist radar for its proximity to the salt planes, but there is one other redeeming feature which almost makes Uyuni a worthwhile destination in it's own right. MinuteMan Pizza. A super restaurant run by an American expat with his Bolivian wife which makes the best pizza I've had in my life. Period. Had I stayed any longer in Uyuni I may have considered setting up camp on the street outside.

Anyways, with a tour booked and stomach still in shock from the previous night's feast, I met the girls early the next morning, by the state of them they had also neglected to bring their fur-lined down suits on board the arctic express from La Paz. Unfortunately for them they pretty much had to jump straight into our cramped 4WD (there were two more Dutchies in our group, they're a virus I swear) and head out to the flats. We at least had time to squeeze in a quick breakfast as MinuteMan's. They also make arguably the best pancakes....

Aww, he's so cute. I'm referring to the llama if there's any confusion. Which there is not...

From Uyuni, it was pretty much straight out to the surreal and blindingly white expanses of the Salar de Uyuni, via a quick stop at the unique Cemeterio del Locomotivos and several tourist trinket traps. I did at least fulfill one of my main South American ambitions in that I got to hold a llama.

Me at the helm of one of the many locomotive corpses scattered about the Cemeterio de Locomotivos.

The interior of the salt hotel, constructed inside and out, furniture and all, of yep, you guessed it, salt.

The Salar de Uyuni is huge and you essentially spend half a day driving across its seemingly endless plains all the while attempting to set new land speed records for 1990 model Toyota (and Toyosa one suspects) landcruisers. Two noteworthy stops are however the impressive and aptly named Salt hotel, and the distinctly inappropriately named Isla Pescado (Island of fish). Where the hell any fish were in one of the driest places on earth I have no idea, I personally think the title of Isla de Fálico Cactos would have been more suitable.

Me standing on the mysteriously titled Isla Pescado with the many cacti which cover the island in the background. I guess there may have been fish about there at some stage for below is some fossilized coral which was somehow under water a long long time ago.

The next few days followed a similar theme of surreal out-of-this-world landscapes interspersed with long periods of mind-numbing driving followed by freezing nights in dive hotels in the middle of nowhere. The highlights package was worth it however and you tend to forget the hours of pent-up tedium when reflecting upon the many impressive landscapes we encountered.

Me, Danielle and Charlotte above Laguna Colorado and below is the aptly if not overly imaginatively named Laguna Verde, or Green Lake with a big volcano in the background which I cannot remember the name of.

Of particular note were the numorous coloured lakes, Lagunas Colorado and Verde in particular, and the Desierto de Salvador Dalí, the scene of (many of?) his most famous paintings, with its incredible naturally sculpted rock features including the immediately recognisable rock tree.

I tried to recreate the scene of Dali´s famous melting clocks with my watch but it just didn't quite fit the scale....

People went bananas about the flamingoes as well but I shall again be one of those irritating traveller types and express my distinct lack of enthusiasm for this "highlight" of the tour. When you have seen several million of the things lining a lake in Kenya, you are hardly quick draw McGraw with the camera upon the distant sighting of anything pink.

Alas the end of the tour for me also signalled the end of my oh-so-brief jaunt through Bolivia and also this oh-too-bloated blog entry. One last and typically freezing night in Bolivia was followed by pre-dawn excursion to the geysers, which I enjoyed for all of the 15 seconds I could bare to be out of the car, and then the infinitely more pleasurable and sirenesque hot springs which they almost had to winch me out of. It was then to the drop off point where a bus was waiting to make the short trip over the nearby Chilean border.

Me and an entirely fake geyser. There were real ones however.

It was certainly said to say goodbye to Charlotte and Danielle, the last of my many good Dutch friends from Cusco but it was just as sad to say goodbye to the Boliviano and all it entailed. Gone for good were those 30c juices and $4 hotel rooms; I was in for some serious culture shock in Chile. But at last the time had come to get to Santiago and achieve my main ambition and inspiration for this entire trip. Time to get a job....

Goodbye Bolivia...

Deepest Darkest Peru

2006-06-02T09:11:00.000-07:00

Deepest Darkest Peru

Having successfully completed the Inca Trail (kind of...) and hence the essential Gringo experience of Peru, I figured it was time to explore a little further into deepest, darkest Peru, to get out of Cusco for a while if nothing else. Whilst I was disappointed in the ensuing weeks not to run into a single talking bear (let alone one with a trenchcoat and a liking for marmalade sandwiches) I did however make a number of other discoveries during my two week road trip around the southern half of Peru such as the benefits of valiumon long bus trips, the potency of donkey flatulence, and the disturbing malleability of human skulls amongst other things which I will endeavour to describe in the following entry.

Above are all photos taken during the Santa Cruz trek in Cordillera Blanca.

When hastily cobbling together a rough itinerary for this trip the night before departing, I may have been a tad adventurous and dismissive of a few logistical obstacles that were to cause much discomfort and require military efficiency and execution to achieve. Primarily I refer to the distances involved to traverse half a country that is 5 times the size of Great Britain. First up, a lazy 21 hour bus ride back to Lima where I enjoyed a respite of some 2 hrs before boarding another 8 hr ride to the first destination on my list, Huaraz, the gateway to the Cordillera Blanca national park. Fortunately I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of buses, at least those servicing the gringo rich centres such as Cusco, Titicaca and Lima. Quite a holiday in themselves with food, wine, movies, "relaxing ambient music for a relaxing ambience" (as one bus company eloquently boasted), and best of all the coche cama, or the fully reclining bed seat with which I was to have a love affair that continued throughout my travels in South America.

More scenes from the Santa Cruz trek.

Huaraz and the Cordillera Blanca are quite the adventure hubs with hiking being the order of the day, or days (4 to be exact) in my case. I had heard incredible reports from other travellers waxing lyrically with dreamy reflection about hiking the most accessible trail in the region, the Santa Cruz loop which follows a path amongst some of the highest and most spectacular mountains in all of the Andes. If anything, I think the reports I received may have understated just how good this trek is.

(Left) From the first day of the trek through the valley approaching Punta Union.

Having had no time to waste, I set off the morning after my late-night arrival with the first company I found, or at least the first company I had forced in my face upon stepping off the bus. Despite my hardline bargaining, I was pretty annoyed to find I had paid $20 more than some others in my group. Having paid $20 more, I was thus further annoyed to discover that they had not packed enough tents, and being the only single male, I was shunted to the cramped supply tent with both the guide and donkey leader, who not surprisingly for one who walks behind donkeys all day for a living, permeated quite a pungent odour through the tent.

Glacial lake (above) and below is me in front of a big mountain if it needed any explaining.

This was particularly unfortunate due to the fact that, with no light source of substance, we were forced to retire soon after the sun set behind the mountains towering around us and were not to emerge from our cocoons for some 12 hours every night (I fortunately had slightly less time to kill as I had to wait until the stove was finished with and removed to make way for my "bed").

Every campsite was brilliant, I didn't mind so much waiting outside for the cooking to be done when I was able to enjoy views such as this at every camp.

Fortunately the other 12 hours of the day more than made up for the tedium of hours vainly attempting to find a half comfortable position so as allow even a skerrick of sleep. The whole trek was absolutely spectacular and often reminded me of the amazing treks in Nepal, the diversity of environments encountered being very similar to the Annapurna circuit, only compressed into 4 days as opposed to 16. Lush vegetation, beautiful lakes and expansive valleys made way for cracking glaciers and towering peaks as we ascended over the high pass of Punta Union and more beautiful valleys with paths winding adjacent to crystal clear streams awaited us again on the other side. Absolutely stunning....

Above is a side trip we did to the glacial lake and below is the valley through whence we came.

An interesting little aside which gives further evidence of the park's natural beauty, which I have yet to confirm beyond doubt, is that we walked around a peak by the name of Artesonraju, a beautiful mountain which supposedly is the same mountain as seen in the famous logo of Paramount Pictures, the one with the stars that circle it just before a film starts.

(Above) The Paramount mountain? It kind of looks like it, would help if the stars were there.

One of the many nice places at which to take a break.

Unfortunately the notion of a four day trek is a bit misleading as I was disappointed to discover our last day consisted of barely an hour of humid, sweaty slog through thick vegetation, (an inconcievable thought having been colder than a brass monkey's only the day before) which we completed by 9am. Having been told we were not arrive back in Huaraz (not even 100km away) until late that evening, we were slightly stumped as to how we could take that long to get back.

Our donkey friends, slightly stinky but very friendly and overly inquisitive. Will eat anything in your hands.

Peruvian timing and punctuality of course played their significant part (some 5 hours of waiting on the side of the road) but considering the nature of the road required to be traversed, I was more than happy for the driver to take his time and utilise all of his concentration and (hopefully) extensive experience. Absolutely terrifying but exhilarating without doubt, the road kept winding up and up until one thought we may drive straight over the summit of Huascaran, which at 6768m, is the second highest mountain in all of the Andes.

The valley on the other side of the pass at Punta Union.

The descent from the high pass of nearly 5000m, was even worse, a single lane, two-way road that only barely hugged the incredibly steep slope of the mountain and wound down for a vertical drop of over a kilometre. The road was so narrow at the hairpin switch-back turns that when looking out the window, I could see the front tyre passing within millimetres of the edge. Hair-raising stuff for sure but we safely made it back to Huaraz. Two hours late.

Scenes from the ultimate and most green day.

Unfortunately I have no photos of this particular road as our designated photographer of the group (my camera was stored away in my pack on the roof) had his camera stolen in that evening in one of the most deft pieces of thievery I have yet encountered. Whilst eating at the flashiest polleria (omnipresent chicken restaurants) in town, some little devil managed to dash off with a bag slung over my mate's chair, which he was not only sitting on at the time, but which two of us were facing directly when it occurred. Writing of pollerias, I think Peru would probably implode if bird flu were ever to strike the country, chicken and chicken restaraunts are positively everywhere, and being that a half chicken, salad, chips, drink and desert will cost you about $2.50, I ate at them far more often than my weak stomach wished of me.

This isn't my photo, I pinched it from the web but is the same road we descended in the van.

Next stop, via another overnight bus (in 12 days I slept in a tent 3 nights, and a bus 5 nights... thankfully I discovered valium during the course of these relentless travels and have been dependent ever since) was the town of coastal town of Pisco. Pisco doesn't really have a lot going for it unless you like dried fish, or particularly the smell of it which is unsuprisingly potent considering there are drying beds that line the highway in and out of town. It is however a popular point for tourists due to its proximity to Islas Ballestas, a small island only a few kilometres off the coast of Pisco which has been dubbed the "poor man's Galapagos". As I fitted that bill quite nicely, I figured it was worth forking out my 25 sol (about $10 as opposed to a typical $1000 Galapagos trip) for a brief but fascinating boat trip.

Lots of seals and birds. Below is the "famous" candelabra, supposedly made many hundreds of years ago but just looks like the work of a bunch of Peruvians with shovels to me.

Well if value for money was to be measured by the amount of seals and birds on display, I dare say I picked up a pretty fair deal. The birds were so numerous as to give the entire craggy island a splotchy black coat, such was their density. The seals were similarly prevalent and not only clogged the limited beach areas, but were lazing on any available piece of flat rock and yet still the water around our boat seemed to be crowded with them. Quite the nature-lover's delight.

Like the Gold Coast during school holidays.

Immediately following the return to dry land, a short bus trip whisked me away to Ica, another entirely unappealing town again with only the attraction as I far as I could gather being its proximity to my desired destination of Huacacina. Flat, barren desert plains surrounded us as we drove into Ica but a hard right, another 3 or 4 km over a sand dune or two and suddenly I found myself in the middle of the most stereotypical desert oasis I could have imagined.

Huacacina at dusk.

Huacacina (the oasis) is a great place to do nothing and take in the surroundings, but as ever on a tight budget of time, I immediately signed up to partake of the most popular activity in town; sandboarding the monstrous dunes. Thankfully we were chauffeured to the appropriate spot avoiding the need to trudge deliriously up each slope (after attempting to ascend only a pathetically small dune, I have decided against ever getting myself lost in a desert) but I had been expecting a tranquil ride, a ferry service of sorts that would just take us back to the top a few times. I was thus pleasantly surprised upon the discovery that our ferry was in fact a very loud and very fast beast of a dune buggy complete with roll cage and completely manic driver.

A fine place to chill, my American mate Dave contemplates a crossword puzzle.

Slightly terrifying at times when our driver nearly lost it several times on the steep slopes, but it was unbelievably fun to tear up a massive dune and teeter on the lip before plummeting down a 60 degree slope at ridiculous speeds, much like a rollercoaster but without the assurance that you would stay on the rail... We had so much fun burning around the dunes that we barely got a few runs completed on the sandboard. 'Twas sufficient however to humiliate myself with the most inept display of co-ordination of our group and to lodge fine sand in every imaginable orifice that remained for days.

Dave, his girlfriend Vanessa and me aboard our dune beast.

By this stage I was lacking a little culture in my activities diet so I headed along the Ica museum, supposedly a treasure-trove of pre-Incan and Incan artefacts. Was slightly disappointed to discover many of the displays were actually empty except for a tag describing in spanish what I could only assume used to be there. In some cases, colour photos were on display of various tapestries and rugs that had also "used" to have been there but were stolen.

The dunes surrounding Huacacina, like a scene out of Star Wars. Unfortunately, even out in the middle of the dunes there was still garbage everywhere.

Thankfully the exorbitant entry fee for a relatively artefact-free museum was not entirely wasted due to the disturbing array of deformed and mutilated shrunken heads and various other mummified remains. I wouldn't be surprised if the creators of the Alien movie franchise took inspiration from some of the skulls on display, it really is quite disturbing what results when a wooden board is strapped to the forehead from birth....

The volcano El Misti that dwarves the city of Arequipa on the other side.

Anyways, with the museum done and hence all activities available in Ica exhausted, I was off to Arequipa. I was filthy to discover no Coche Cama was available and was hence forced to slum it with the locals on a regular seat that barely reclined even 45 degrees. Barbaric. Seats aside, it was arguably the worst bus trip ever as not only was the bus overflowing its capacity, so to was the mid-section of the overly rotund gentleman sitting next to me, crushing me against the window with his bulk. So 13 hours of no toilets, dubbed movies, sweltering temperatures, a snoring walrus as my neighbour all resulted in a particularly forgettable experience. Once again valium saved my sanity.

Scene from the drive out to the Cañon del Colca.

I nevertheless arrived safely in Arequipa, a beautiful colonial town which boasts beautiful architecture, easily summited 6000m peaks in the immediate vicinity and the far less physically challenging opportunity to park your arse on a ubiquitious tour bus for a tour out to the Cañon del Colca, the premier location for viewing condors, arguably the ugliest bird/animal/thing on the planet. I of course chose the later as I still had some sort of preoccupation with seeing some condors in the wild, probably a result of watching Cities of Gold too much as a kid. I can say the golden condor is infinitely prettier than the real thing....

Above was about as close as I got to a Condor. Still, it was spectacular scenery.

To be honest, I'm not really sure why everyone lists the Cañon del Colca as a must do, you basically drive for the 2 days there and back to sneak an hour or two at the canyon (admittedly a spectacular one, debate continues as to whether it is in fact the world's deepest) where you might see a dozen of the incredibly ugly things flying about in the distance. I think we saw about 8 and everyone was pretty stoked but having seen hundreds of vultures (which look very much like condors, only slightly smaller) a few months previously in Kenya and Tanzania, I felt an overwhelming sense of being underwhelmed. Very pretty area however and the I'll never tire of drinking a cold beer in a hot spring as we were fortunate enough to include in the tour.

Me about 20m down the canyon. Only about 2000m more to go.

With an impending departure date for Bolivia rapidly approaching I was forced to hightail it back to Cusco upon arriving back in Arequipa from the canyon, thus bringing my tour de Peru to an end. Fortunately I was back in business with a full cama seat but all that greasy polleria dining came back to haunt me as I probably spent most of the journey on the white porcelain seat downstairs which didn't even recline at all...

Another American friend Libby from the canyon tour trying out a Peruvian specialty, fried guinea pig. You can still see it's little claw all covered with fur in her left hand.

Til next time.

Inca Trials...

2006-05-29T17:06:00.000-07:00

INCA TRIALS...

Oh how original, I changed the word trail for trial, how utterly witty and incisive of me. The phrase has of course been used many times before in the context of the purported difficulty of hiking the famous Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, arguably the most visited and hence overrun tourist site in all of South America. I however am utilizing this crafty little pun with respect to the incredible amount of difficulties and frustrations I seemingly always endure when dealing with the cheapest and nastiest tourist operators possible. I never learn.

Me at Machu Picchu doing an "Ogston".

After weeks of staying relatively put in my incompetent attempt to learn Spanish, I was very keen to hit the proverbial road again, or trail in this case. Fortunately for myself, I had shown a rare glimpse of forethought and planning by having booked my place over a month before commencing. I say fortunately because despite there being vacancies for some 500 people per day to start the "official" trail (there are many other alternative trails available that all lead to Macchu Pichu), within days of reserving my place, the months of April through to the end of July were totally booked out. In addition to the hordes who ascend upon the ruins by train every day, that's a lot of people milling about the place.

Machu Picchu in all its glory on a spectacular day before its daily inundation of tourists.

Anyway clearly the experience is a popular one and I was excited at the prospect particularly because a friend of mine had raved about how great the whole experience was with the company she recommended me. The fact that it was also the cheapest didn't ring any alarm bells, nor the fact that it was run out the back of a pokey trinket store which also quadrupled as a money exchange, a book store and a clothes outlet. Furthermore my friend was Brazillian...

In any case, I made my reservation without reservation and promptly headed down to the Plaza de Armas on the designated day of departure to await my bus scheduled for a 6:00am departure. Despite being assured several times over the next four hours that the bus was arriving "muy pronto" by Walter of the aforementioned company, I was eventually put in the clearly negligent care of one Edgar, a manic taxi driver who was charged with the responsibility of getting me to Ollantaytambo, the departure point for the Inca Trail, in double quick time. This he promptly did at speeds of over 140km/hr, speeds I rarely like to travel when in a well maintained, reliable vehicle on a straight concrete highway let alone in a beat-up, rusted out bomb along roads precariously hugging jagged mountain sides. Credit to him however, he didn't send us plummeting to an incendiary death at any point during the hell and hair raising journey AND he got me there on time.

Some of the scenery enjoyed from a speeding taxi...

Once I was able to prise my fingers open from their death grip of the dashboard, I met my guide Maria Sol and before exchanging even a few basic pleasantries, she requested that I produce my unfortunately absent passport. I was quickly made aware that having this document on one's self is more important for completing the trail than say bringing shoes or water, a fact that was unfortunately overlooked by my agency when quizzed by yours truly w.r.t. essential items. Fortunately I had a copy in my posession which Maria just needed to confirm was sufficient via a phone call. All seemed according to plan, I heard lots of "si, claro, no problemas", and when she hung up she said all was fine and I was ready to go. So long as I paid US$175 of course.

Some typically impressive scenery from the trek.

Seems that Maria Sol's company had not received a dime from the little agency I had booked through but had neglected to inform anyone of such an oversight until my arrival in Ollantaytambo despite some four weeks since issuing my ticket. Maria Sol claimed it was an easy solution of me simply paying again but I was clearly not in posession of a) another lazy $175 nor more importantly b) a desire to hand it over even if I did. Although surprised by my disinclination at such a "comprimise", she did agree to search for an alternate resolution.

More impressive scenery. Clearly I am not referring to myself.

Unfortunately our discussion with tourist police was somewhat brief when I realised that my receipt was in the same place as my passport (i.e. not in Ollantaytambo) and for the life of me I couldn't remember the name of the agency apart from the fact that it included the word “Inca” which, as you can imagine when trying to isolate a tourist operator in Cusco is like refining a search for a website by remembering it finishes with a .com.

My other problem was that if I failed to commence the tour that day, which was looking increasingly unlikely, I would not be able to start again until sometime in late July. As a result I was left with no option but to return all the way to Cusco, a journey which when taken by buses not driven by Edgar, is decidedly longer, 2 and 1/2 hours in fact compared to Edgar's 45 minutes on the same road.

The beautiful craggy green mountains so associated with the trail.

With receipt in hand I made my way to Maria Sol's company in Cusco that afternoon and somehow everything seemed to be resolved soon after my arrival. Turns out they had been speaking to the wrong agency altogether and had simply failed to ask the right one for the money. This they said they would do promptly and in the meantime I was able to return to commence the trail that afternoon. They were of course very sorry and extended the gracious offer of allowing me to pay for another taxi back to Ollaytaytambo.

The starting point of the trail, somewhere I wasn't expecting to see beyond following my first day dramas.

As you might suspect it was getting rather late in the day by the time I arrived back to the starting point. Actually the day was pretty much over so far as sunlight was concerned, I didn't even start until 5:30pm but thankfully the first day is only some 11km long. The magnificent vistas normally enjoyed during this section were limited however to the tiny patch of blue light provided by my headlamp, sufficient only to place my next step and prevent me falling off the side of the mountain.

Machu Picchu aren't the only ruins seen during the trek, they're actually quite frequent along the trail.

Things at least started to look up when I finally met up with the rest of the group at our first campsite. Not only was I the solitary Australian but also the only non-Argentine and the only person in possession of a Y-chromosome. Awesome. Several advantages of hiking with 9 other Argentinian women became immediately apparent, firstly and most importantly, there is much more food available. They also tend to think Australian men are far more interesting than they really are and generally improve the view, which is quite a feat considering the surroundings. Another advantage of being the only male is that you get a tent to yourself, but I can assure you it didn't stay that way for long...

Mountains...

I'd like to leave it at that and have you assume that I am inferring that I seduced one of the Argies but apart from clearly being a preposterous notion in my case, the reality is a much more unpleasant one in that one of the porters, obviously averse to personal hygiene, took it upon himself to make use of the extra space. Not only did he stink terribly, but he also knocked over his water bottle in the tent soaking my sleeping bag AND he woke me up an hour early (at 4:00am) in the freezing mornings, nearly knocking the tent over when departing to start breakfast.

Another incident of my lack of sophisticated charm (if one is neccessary)occurred when during a typical breather waiting for one of the girls labouring up the hill I light-heartedly shared my observation that cardio was evidently not one of her strongest traits. She then politely informed me that she suffered acute Asthma. Oops. Thankfully the girl Jo turned out to be much more gracious than myself...

Fortunately for me, the women were all lovely and two in particular, the delightful Jo and Sol, showed more patience than was necessary and I was lucky enough to enjoy their company in particular for the entire duration of the trip during which time they summarily and regularly destroyed my attempts at Spanish. Even phrases and words I had learned in my classes and textbooks were deemed stupid and incorrect leaving me utterly bewildered most of the time. Immersion however does wonders for your spanish (the girls might disagree in my case) for following the trek I could sucessfully describe the intricacies of AFL in spanish, a feat which I never tire of performing for anyone interested enough to listen. And those who are not, which is the majority...

My two favourite Argentinians; the beautiful, graceful, witty and intelligent Maria-Josephine Dominguez and Soledad Merkau,who due to the fact I was staying with them in Argentina at the time of writing demanded I give favourable descriptions.

Anyway, a little about the trek itself. In a word, beautiful. The whole time you enjoy spectacular panoramic vistas of snow-capped peaks perched upon the craggy green slopes so synonymous with the trail and we were particularly blessed by perfect weather. Every day leading up to the trek, it was absolutely pouring in Cusco and surrounding areas but we didn't endure a single drop of rain, and barely a cloud was seen for the four days. I personally didn't think that it was all that demanding physically but our slow pace and having spent a month living at some 3300m prior certainly aided me compared to many trekkers. That and my superb physical conditioning and natural athletic ability of course.

The impressive scenery surrounding MP soon after sunrise (above) and yo con mi amigos otra vez (abajo).

The main event and star of the show is of course Machu Picchu itself. One of the main advantages of doing the trek is that it allows an early arrival to MP at sunrise on the fourth day ensuring you beat the hordes of lazybone train tourists who swarm the place daily come about 10:00am. The ruins are of course impressive and extensive but it is the the incredible surroundings and location of the place that make it such an unforgettable sight, particuarly when relatively free of tourists and on a perfect day as we were fortunate enough to enjoy.

The tour of the ruins proved a little difficult. I could (and can incidentally) barely hold a decent conversation about the weather in spanish let alone a understand a detailed description of Incan history and architecture.

Typically Peruvian. Huayna Picchu taken from the main courtyard of MP complete with llamas.

It's possible to climb the neigbouring mountain Huayna Picchu (the nose of a giant incan face in the eyes of the overly imaginative Peruvians) for a special view overlooking MP and the surrounding valleys. Great views, a great workout and I was fortunate to be stuck on the way down the single file path behind a riotous and sharp-witted American chap, who never tired in his selfless quest to provide mirth to every hiker who was fortunate to cross his path. Most would eventually tire of telling the same joke (he informed breathless hikers within vicinity of the top that it was “only one more mile” to go, hilarious AND original) but considering the pleasure that he no doubt assumed this brought everyone he forged on gallantly. I of course was fortunate to witness all 14 occasions.

The impressive view over MP from the peak of Huayna Picchu. Supposedly the ruins are built in the shape of a condor, a crocodile, a jaguar and any other South American animal you care to think of.

Despite the fair weather, beautiful scenery and fine company, my dramas were not limited to my first day fiasco. For instance the night before heading up to Machu Pichu we had been required to stay in the town of Aqua Callientes (Hot Waters) due to the lack of available campsites. This was to be an extra cost despite our tour clearly including the third night's accommodation. Particularly in light of paying some $40 extra already for other party's faults, I was fairly insistent on my right to a "free" bed for the evening. Maria Sol eventually relented and offered me a few square feet of concrete floor space in the storage area which would be available once the occupying stove was removed after dinner. The fact that it was outside, on the roof seemed an inconsequential detail to her and I was tempted to freeze to death just for the story. I insisted once again however and a real bed within a real room complete with a roof and walls was eventually provided.

Me and my girls. 8 of them at least. The big incan dude can be seen beyond, complete with chin, lips and nose (Huayna Picchu).

Worse was to come the next day when I was casually informed by Maria Sol that I no longer had a train ticket back to Cusco, despite it very much being an included cost within the tour. By the way, I’m not talking about a QR citytrain $2.40 zone 2 fare, it is more around the ridiculously expensive US$55 mark one-way to Cusco (the train is, unfortunately for Peru, owned by the crafty Chileans who not surprisingly make an absolute killing on the venture). Of course I was pretty annoyed about the whole situation but my anger was nothing compared to the fury unleashed by the Argentines upon their discovery that the company had also forgotten to book all of their tickets for any of the trains which were booked out for the entire day.

Truly a sight to behold (hell hath no fury etc); cocked hips, pointing fingers, and glares that wounded several people in the vicinity. I have to say spanish really is a most beautiful language when spoken at such speeds as to convey pure rage. The tactic was obviously a successful one however as they somehow managed to get on the train leaving my state of awe and wonder (and amusement) to dissolve into a frustrated reality that I was alone without my translators and in need of paying for a ticket that was supposedly not available...

Sol and Jo in particular put on quite a show at the train station. I could listen to angry spanish all day.

Now it is hard enough to remain calm and coherent, and express ones feelings of immense dissatisfaction in english when in the state that I found myself in, so you can imagine what a trainwreck results in spanish. Basically feels like you have slid back several thousand years on the evolutionary scale and are limited to communicating with basic grunts and chest thumping. In reflection, my only half decipherable attempts at communication amounted to little more than "Me angry. No, me VERY angry. And you stupid. You VERY stupid." I believe I may also have banged my stick several times forcefully on the ground for extra emphasis. (Amazingly, although never having had any lessons, in my frustration I also found myself speaking fluent French...).

From the top of Huayna Picchu.

I have found many times when dealing with tour operators particularly in these countries, it's very much a game of chicken, they probe and test you out hoping that you just give up in exasperation and pay the extra cash, accept the poor service, or neglect the omitted promise etc, anything to make an extra buck. For example, I was at first required to pay the full $55, then following my steadfast refusal (indicated by aggressively thumping the ground with my stick), miraculously I needed only 50 soles, or around $20. After another display of percussive rage, the price was then reduced to 10 soles which I accepted against my principles due to the fact several hours had passed already and train after train were blowing their whistles and heading off. Being that Aqua Callientes has very few redeeming features other than a proximity to MP, I was none to happy with prospect of spending another whole day there at my own expense and the facing the likely probability of having to pay the full amount for the train in the absence of Maria Sol.

The long and winding road that leads to MP's door. An easy way up for your average tourist via bus or a sweaty slog up for your budget travellers such as moi.

The last train for the day was actually blowing its whistle to depart when Maria Sol, within seconds of meeting a pulpy death via repeated clubbing with my stick, suddenly sprung into action and within about 15 seconds I was boarding the already moving train. It may have been that she saw the genuine homicidal rage in my eyes that transcends languages, I'm not sure, but Peruvian railworkers can exceptionally efficient when they want to be.

But aside from these little slip-ups which I'm sure everyone on the trail experiences, it was altogether a great trek and if I could remember the name of the company, I couldn't recommend them highly enough. If you ever go to Cusco just look for a company with the word "Inca" somewhere in the name. You'll have no problems finding it.

Til next time...

Doin' it for the kids...

2006-05-06T15:51:00.000-07:00

Doin it for the kids…

The after-school program in the tiny village of Cai Cay, about an hour outside of Cusco.

After about three weeks of bastardizing the Spanish language by hanging about in Cusco I decided to head for the voluntary work project (for the comparatively bargain price of US$15 per day – yes you actually have to pay to volunteer in most circumstances…) in the tiny pueblo of Cai Cay, about an hour outside Cusco on the advice of some Belgian friends who were working there also. I’d like to think my reasons for heading there were along the lines of a genuine desire to make an impact on the lives of the children attending the project in question but in all honesty it was more just a lack of something to do, a chance to practise my Spanish (or so I thought) and the fact it provided alternative accommodation in light of Jodie’s return and hence my prompt eviction. I guess I wanted also to actually see if I had a paternal side, or at least a penchant for education and role-modelling for young people. At the risk of ruining the suspense of this entry, I can tell you now. I don’t.

Emilie, in the orange, at work with the kids. The girls were much better at than I was...

Well, I can’t say that for absolute certain because despite the purpose of work being to provide an after-school program for the entire village, there were hardly extensive opportunities for deaf mutes, which for all intents and purposes, I was, to test out their softer sides. The main responsibility of the volunteers (which during my time were two Dutch guys and two Belgians, from the bloody Dutch speaking part, so essentially all bloody dutch…) were to run various educational classes and activities every day after school for all ages ranging from as young as 3 years to the oldest of around 16. These ranged from english classes to sex-ed, to standing around watching the kids paint rocks (my specialty) or colour in pictures (I can't remember how many times I said "Ah, muy bien, me gusta!!").

The other "project", completing another wing for the school to house future volunteers.

Fortunately for me considering my aforesaid effectiveness in communication, or distinct lack thereof, there was also another task requiring only a small amount of elbow grease and no Spanish whatsoever. Even more fortunately, this task consisting of carting clay bricks over a ridiculously impractical distance of some 300m, which was impossible after rain (which occurred most nights) and had largely been completed by luckless Simon who had been at the project some two weeks already.

Even when I was there, it appears that Simon still did most of the work. My encouragement and moral support should not be underestimated however.

So what does one do when unable to shift bricks and has only two hours in the late afternoon which could even remotely be called work? Well, pretty much bugger all and therein you have a succinct synopsis of my time in Cai Cay. Yep, pretty much we had all day to ourselves up until 3:00pm every day to whatever we wanted, which, considering the town consisted of 1 semi-paved street still in construction, didn’t amount to too much at all. The fact that we had over 70 kids turning up from such a small village paid testament to the fact that even the populace had come to the conclusion that there was nothing better to do in this village with little to no communication with the outside world.

The main drag of Cai Cay. There was one other mud street but it was more a garden path than a trafficable highway.

With not even the baby-making pastime available to us, we basically passed the long hours either playing guitar in my case (thank god for the guitar…), discussing the internal family politics and drama of the director which put Dynasty to considerable shame, or hanging around waiting for the always late meals which in nearly every case proved hardly worth waiting for. The exception being for those among us who enjoyed a watery broth before every meal or plain syrup for desert….mmmm. Syrup.

Good times...An attempt to pass some of the overlong periods of boredom. Note the incredible lack of interest shown by everybody in my musical endeavours. Dina (far left) at least tried to humour me and requested Hotel California some 57 times. On Wednesday alone...

Before I set everyone, (which at this late stage of my blog updates, basically refers solely to my parents) to sleep with this seemingly non-eventful entry, I will say that Cai Cay was a beautiful place. What it lacked in traffic lights, telephones and contraceptives, it more than made up for with its spectacular surroundings, incredibly friendly inhabitants and particularly impressive Catholic church which indicated, depending on your point of view, that they either had their priorities spot on or completely whacked. Being that the village was situated in the Sacred Valley of the Inca, the same geographical feature containing Cusco and nearly all significant Incan sites, it was surrounded by beautiful peaks, raging rivers and very few indicators of western civilization making it perfect for long walks in the countryside, often needed in times of immense frustration.

There was some beautiful scenery around the village through which one could wander and get horrifically sunburnt.

Cai Cay was indeed an immensely frustrating experience on the whole for me. Apart from the fact we were essentially doing nothing for much of the time, frustrating in itself, I had little idea of how bad I would be with trying to cope not speaking my “Aussie” English for even 5 days consecutively. The Dutchies could obviously speak fluent English as well but it was exceptionally annoying feeling when surrounded by other languages I didn’t understand in the majority and I felt like a retarded three-year-old most of the time particularly when doing the classes.

Scenery continued.

Furthermore, my interaction with the kids, especially the very young ones, was doing nothing for my Spanish as even when I was saying the right thing I’d be hard-pressed for more than inquisitive stares as a response which in turn led me to doubt what I had just said and basically led to me being more confused than when I started. My yeti-like appearance may have had something to do with their often paralyzed reactions but I can only imagine what they must have thought when I first arrived and had to give a speech to introduce myself. Quite the rambling monologue to a tough crowd, in a 1 minute speech I somehow managed to traverse such disparate topics as Kilimanjaro, the Beatles, kangaroos and AFL, basically anything I could relay a skerrick of information about in Spanish. At least I think that's what I was talking about, no-one really knows. No doubt it came across as the incoherent ranting of a jibbering madman.

An afternoon spent drawing the scenery of Cai Cay and further practise for me to say "Ah, muy bien, me gusta".

I was once at least able to teach them how to play touch football (i.e. touch rugby) totally in spanish of which I was quite proud although they never did fully grasp the concept of passing the ball backwards nor of stopping when they tagged. Needless to say they were quite pleased when I let them continue they game of normal football (i.e. soccer).

Fun little game of twister. I include this picture primarily to show that I did occasionally take off my beanie.

Other instances of frustration were entirely more self induced. As mentioned in my previous entry and which is painfully clear to those who know me well, I have an in-built lack of charm, faux paus being my specialty, but I can’t escape my genetics. Story goes my dad actually proposed while covered in oil under the hood of his monaro and suggested the marriage because he didn’t really have much to do in the month of December. With heritage like that its understandable that I make such mistakes as inadvertently suggesting (jokingly of course) that girls wouldn’t want to/couldn't climb one of the surrounding peaks overlooking Cai Cay. Ordinarily not a problem but sarcasm supposedly doesn’t always transcend language barriers nor goes down well with a girl I suspect to be Germaine Greer’s lovechild.

An artist's reproduction of cave drawings found near the Jackson ancestral homeland of Mt. Whitestone near Gatton, Queensland, giving evidence that the (in)famous Jackson charm dates back tens of years.

Furthermore, my prickly relationship with the Belgians (entirely one-way, mind you, I love these girls, both great fun, they just happen to despise me) was subjected to further tension on my birthday, which happened to fall on one of these non-eventful days in Cai Cay, when I was extremely blessed by the generous efforts of Dina, the most lovely wife of the director (most lovely as in very lovely, Ernesto has only one wife…I think), who made a special trip all the way from Cusco with a beautiful cake just for me. Now having been gone for some 7 months, I could have explained my slightly depressed mood in any number of ways in English, i.e. I was a little more homesick than usual, I wanted to speak to family, catch up with mates etc. but I made a poor choice in Spanish, I believe I said I was bored. And with that, the mood of my party of well-wishers deflated like a pricked balloon and my fate as an object of contempt and scorn in the eyes of my Belgian co-inhabitants was sealed.

A Peruvian tradition on one's birthday is to dunk the celebrant's face in the cake. You better hope that you sucessfully blow out ALL the candles.

I'd like to hope that I'm slightly over-dramatising the whole situation but the point is, its hard learning a new language, particularly your first other than your native tongue at the age of 24 as I recently became. I didn't realise how difficult it can be when you just can't get your point across or express yourself as you would like, or when people don't get your jokes although many would suggest I should be entirely used to that. But for example, one of the girls spilt her drink all over the table one day and Dani, a Dutchie, was trying to block the path of the liquid with his hands, much like his famous imaginary countryman who prevented the flood by blocking the dykes with his fingers. When I observantly pointed this out by commenting "Wow, you're like the little Dutch boy", the irony being of course that Dani is in fact a little Dutch boy, hence the mildly amusing aspect (for me at least), nobody laughed nor had any clue what I was talking about. And they were from Holland!! (Ishint dat vierd!) Frustrating...

Ernesto, the director, and his wife Dinah, who in particular was very kind to me during my entire stay in Cusco. She is very much a mother figure to many from my school and a wonderful woman.

Suffice to say, I was glad for the weekend breaks where I would catch up with my all English-speaking friends, particularly Devin who took the bulk of my whinging for which I thank her now, and enjoy sumptuous, soupless meals with actual fruit included in the syrup. But still, before I give the impression that the whole experience was a write-off, I have to say, Cai Cay was fun for a whole number of reasons.

The team, from left, Veerle, Emilie, moi, Dani, Simon, Ernesto and somehow the evil wench who was our cook snuck into the photo as well. I can't even remember her name but she got sacked the week after I left...

Apart from the great company of the Simon, Dani, Veerle and Emilie, the kids were great. They were always laughing and despite my inability to communicate to any great depth with them, they did seem to tolerate my presence due to my supposed resemblance to a jungle gym and purported usefulness as a provider of gyroscopic force (a.k.a. helicopter rides...). The fact that Cai Cay was so small and that every kid in the village turned up to our program meant that you basically attained rock star status and could hardly walk 5m without giving your best pied piper impersonation.

Action shot...

They loved bashing my guitar whilst I made the chords with my left hand (I think "happy birthday" was about our only common musical ground, they didn't even know Enrique, the hero himself!!), they were fascinated with stroking the hairs on my legs (sounds dodgy I know) and they sure loved a big all-in tickling session (sounds worse...). And despite my real lack of impact, it was nice to know that for a short time at least I was aiding the genuinely important work of Ernesto and Dina which I think is having a real effect on those kids. As our T-shirt says, "Cai Cay es la Putre Madre", or in english, Cai Cay is the mother whore. Loses a bit in translation methinks but I have been assured that it is a good thing.

Simon (above) and Dani keeping the kids utterly amused with bits of furry wire. As I said, they were much better at it than me.

As for my legacy, when looking back on my highly non-eventful time in Cai Cay, I'd like to think that one day in the future when the kids of the village are discussing economic or health policies at the highest level of government, playing soccer in the world cup or just spinning the next generation of kids helicopter style, they'll think back to their formative days in the after-school program and say "Remember that long-haired tit who stood around looking lost whilst we painted rocks?" and in the highly unlikely event that one of them says "yes", I hope they'll reflect with a touch of longing "Man, that guy couldn't speak spanish for shit..."

Simon and I with Ernesto on our last day. I think my impact was such that my name was added to the farewell posters often as a squished afterthought...

Who could want for more?

Til next time from the famous Inca Trail.

Dutchies, Dames, Dogs and Drizzle

2006-04-15T10:37:00.000-07:00

Llamas!! Or Alpacas, I still don't know the difference...

Dutchies, Dames, Dogs and Drizzle

South America at last. I refer not so much my arrival there after nearly six months of travel but the fact that I'm finally writing my first installment regarding this fabulous continent some 2 and a half months following my arrival. And what an arrival...

The beautiful Plaza de Armas of the ancient Incan capital, Cusco.

The thing is, after such a long time of travelling comfortably in the practical and knowledgeable company of Pat and Tim, I viewed South America as the opportunity I had craved to step out on my own, a time to see how I handled myself when left to my own devices, a chance to rely on my own initiative, basically I wanted to discover just how well Matt Jackson could handle himself on his own in the world.

First up, Rio de Janiero.

Now I would love to tell you all about the famous golden beaches, the spectacular city setting, the bossa-novan music and samba beats permeating from the pulsating clubs populated by gorgeous bronzed women wearing next to nothing... but the fact is, I can't. What I can tell you is that Rio International Airport is extremely inefficient when dealing with arrivals, has grey linoleum floors, is slighty damp and extremely intolerant of stupid, disorganised Australians who fail to prearrange a very necessary visa prior to their arrival. Despite the best persuasive efforts of my little green friends, Grant, Jackson, even Franklin for crying out loud, I was informed with little delicacy and scant regard for my foolish innocence that I was in fact not welcome within the country and following several hours waiting in the dunce's corner, would need to take the early plane back to London. The man in the mac told me I'd have to go back, you know he didn't even give me a chance. Christo Blanco, you know it ain't easy, you know how hard it can be. The way things were going, they were going to crucify me.

Well at least I got to see Ipanema (top beach) and Cococabana (left beach) and Sugarloaf from the plane. And there were some pretty attractive girls wandering about the airport as well.

Completely irrelevant and unnecessary paraphrasing of Beatles songs aside, the above example of warm Brazilian charm and hospitality was about the extent of my Rio experience. Thank God I had a round the world ticket and I was able to convince those charitable souls at Rio International, of the merits of simply bringing my onward flight to Lima forward a few days to which they begrudgingly accepted. Despite this allowance, suffice to say I hope Ronaldhino trips on his stupid ponytail, breaks both his legs and has to rely on a modelling career after Australia destroy Brazil in the first round of Germany '06.

The entirely first world suburb of Miraflores, Lima, complete with beautiful Spanish architecture.

So suddenly I found myself in Lima at 2:00am, not ideal circumstances if reputations are to be believed. As is evident by the above little episode, I had done very little research, particularly regarding a city I hadn't anticipated arriving in for another few days. I was fortunate however, in that by simply following the directions of the many touts milling about the airport hunting dumb prey such as myself, I ended up in a suburb called Miraflores. I'm not sure what I had been expecting of Lima, but Miraflores was not it. No floods of humanity, no corregated iron shanty towns, just trendy department stores, fancy restaurants and schmick boulevards running along the impressive coastal cliffs. Clearly Miraflores was the touristy well-to-do part of town but it proved to be the first of many ignorant pre-concieved ideas I had of South America that were dashed upon closer inspection (second if you count the cheery, casual and friendly nature of Brazillians...)

More Miraflores, striking coastal cliffs popular obiously with the wealthy elite and paragliders.

Lima itself was a little more abuzz with frantic activity and teeming masses but still I was surprised at just how first-world the place was, and stunning to boot, incredible Spanish architecture dominated the streetscapes around central Lima and provide some beautiful scenes when lit up at night (unfortunately I have no shots of this as I was correct for once in believing that Lima has a nasty rep for crime, hence no camera whilst downtown...). Anyways, I had few days decompressing my brain trying to figure out just what I'd do in this continent and hanging out with, of all people an old mate from primary school. (i.e. Keith! What's it been, 8? 9 years? Fancy catching up over a beer at the R.E.? Regatta? No? How about downtown Lima...)

Not Keith, but my Guatamalan American buddy/interpreter/guitar protege Elijio.

The second largest church surrounding the Plaza de Armas in Cusco.

I eventually decided to head to for arguably the Gringo (tourist) capital of Peru, if not all of South America, the ancient capital of the Incan Empire, Cusco. No other reason really apart from the fact that it had cheap Spanish schools and I figured I'd have to see Machu Pichu at some stage. Great decision as I knew as soon as I stepped off the plane I would love this city.

Christo Blanco (White Jesus) watching over Cusco which is nestled in the valley below him.

Further evidence (if any is actually necessary) of my ill preparation, was I had no idea just how high the city is. I can assure you it is bloody high, 3300m in fact, and hence I nearly died from from exhertion just making it up a flight of stairs with my backpack. Compounding the lung-busting nature of the city, is the fact that it is spectacularly located in a valley surrounded by beautiful craggy green peaks, up which the expansive suburbs sprawl, including unfortunately the one in which my school and eventually my accommodation was situated. End result, a dickload of stairs.

Obviously to get pictures like this one overlooking the Plaza de Armas, one needs to climb a bloody lot of stairs. Notice the incredible proliferation of eucalyptus trees imported from Australian. Just like home...

The place is unashamedly touristy, as was evident when I disembarked my plane to the sounds of panpipes played by folks dressed in traditional Incan gear and Nikes but I actually found it added to its charm. One couldn't walk more than 5m when in the vicinity of the main square, the Plaza de Armas, without being accosted by kids trying to sell finger puppets or postcards, an "artist" trying to hawk some impressionist paintings of Machu Pichu, a squat cannonball-shaped woman dressed in fluoro pink traditional gear touting a llama for photo op, or having a shoe shiner offer to polish your flip-flops. And never have I seen 3 laundromats, 4 hostels, 3 tour agents, 5 restaurants and maybe 17 internet facilities on one block except on just about every street in central Cusco.

Yet another shot of the Plaza. Its just so pretty...

My favourite however was the poor sod who every day had to dress up as the great Incan warrior Pachacuti and look mean in photos taken exclusively it seemed with middled-aged Japanese and American tourists beside the fabled 12-sided stone, supposedly one of the premier sites to see in Cusco. The guy, who quite understandably gave the impression of someone utterly sick of living, was extremely protective of his stone, and forbade anybody to touch it lest irreversable damage was inflicted upon it by stray hands. It was after all, an extremely fragile 10 tonne ROCK which had only stood in exactly the same position for over 500 years. Handle with care...

Admittedly, the craftsmenship involved in placing a perfectly interconnected 12-sided masonry component is noteworthy, but its still just a frickin stone. The premier site to see according to some within downtown Cusco, I give you the aptly named 12-sided stone...

Ah yes, there is certainly a distinct lack of entreprenaurial skills and flagrant disregard for the basic laws of supply and demand in Cusco, but what it lacks in sound business acumen and genuine snapshots of traditional Peruvian life, it more than makes up with its friendly and welcoming atmosphere, beautiful scenery and incredible density of historical hotspots. And of course stairs.

The reason is it so touristy, dodecagons and Machu Pichu aside, is that it really is the heart of the former Incan Empire. Most of the significant Incan structures are within a stone's throw (albeit, a much smaller, less intricately carved one) of the city from where the Incan emperors once ruled their empire stretching over much of the western coast of South America. Mind you the mighty Incan empire as we know it, really only lasted for less than one hundred years. Seems pretty much as soon as Pachacuti's successors were putting their feet up and congratulating themselves on establishing a sizeable empire, they had an entirely boorish and uncouth house guest by the name of one Francisco Pizarro of Spain who rather than bringing a bottle of red, brought the plague, and showed a distinct lack of courtesy when, upon inviting the emperor Atahualpa to his camp, had him executed. This all occurred only some 90 years after Pachacuti began his empire renovations that took the Incas to preeminence in the area but long story short, they built a lot of pretty stuff in a short time and although largely destroyed by the ill-mannered Spanish, there is still much to see.

The seductively titled Sacsahuaman (aka "sexy woman"), some of the most significant ruins within close proximity of Cusco. The Incans have particularly good imaginations, supposedly what you see above are the teeth of a giant puma. Meanwhile the head is some 100m away. Hmmm.

My main priority of course was to learn Spanish and hence communicate with people through more than just wild hand gestures. I chose the San Blas Spanish School, located funnily enough in the San Blas district and run by certainly not the first nor the last Dutch man to have fallen for a Peruvian, by the name of Manfred. He certainly seemed to have the Dutch market cornered and hence the first word in the title of this entry. I swear from my experience at least, there are more Dutch people living in Cusco then there are in the Netherlands and I can say with utmost conviction that I'm glad I was there to learn the Spanish language and not Dutch, which most of the time gives one the impression of speaking to a cat with a sizeable hairball problem. Great people though.

Devin, my all-american, all-english speaking friend who saved my sanity countless times when the all spanish/dutch situations became too much for me. At one of the many very nice and very cheap restaurants we regularly frequented. Notice the my beanie which might as well have been welded to my head as the following pictures support...

Cusco by virtue of having a large population of foreign tourists studying spanish and volunteering, provides a quite a welcoming expatriate community (mostly Dutch it seems) and I was fortunate enough to meet a great group of people, on the whole females (hence the second subject of my title), who put up with me for far longer than was politely necessary. This started almost as soon as I arrived and moved into a wonderful host family's house in my first week when I met another Aussie, Jodie who was also residing in the same house, and was quite the social magnet, introducing me to a great many other females.

Above, some of the many fantastic girls who were kind enough to put up with me at match between Cusco (WORLD champions in 2003) and Caracas. Helena, the most Brazillian looking one in both photos went some way to restoring my shattered impression of Brazillians...

Living with the family was great (particularly if you liked watery soup with EVERY meal, which incidentally I didn't) but unfortunately I did everything in the reverse order to what was logical, in that I couldn't speak a word of spanish when I first arrived and just as I was starting to learn something and could have made use of the practise with the family, I moved out to an apartment with Jodie to save my dwindling cash. Not to indicate that Cusco was all that expensive but its amazing how your perspectives can change. Only a few weeks prior, I had been in London and performed a jaunty jig in the street if I managed to spot a meal for 5 quid. Here you could eat a 3 course meal for 5 soles, which is around the $2 mark, or well under £1. Geez, for £5 you could eat for a week at the best restarant in Cusco, which on most occasions was determined to be the oh-so-tasty and just-like-my-momma-makes-it Jack's Cafe. Mmmm....

My delightful house family with whom I had many horrible exchanges that could barely constitute conversation, and Aussie girl Jodie who had the unfortunate task of trying to decipher them...

Now before all of you who know me back home start wondering what is going on with me referring to all these women who were somehow putting up with me, an absurd proposition for me back in Oz, rest assured, the famed Jackson anti-charm, although slightly delayed in its effect, was still in good working order. It may have taken Jodie nearly 5 hours after moving out together to realise that she couldn't live with me in the same apartment, but she still came to the same conclusion that most would only take five minutes.

Jodie and boyfriend Josh in the delightfully compact apartment we shared for all of say 5 hours... she said having an imminently arriving boyfriend made her feel uncomfortable sharing a one-bedroom apartment. I tell you, women just can't control themselves around me...

Fortunately for me Jodie took the extreme measure of leaving Cusco for nearly two weeks (she tried to ease my feelings by saying it was a pre-planned holiday to see southern Peru...) leaving me alone in the sweet apartment with its magnificent views over Cusco and overly inquisitive dogs to boot. (to boot as in, in addition to, although I did occasionally kick them, they were bloody annoying, followed me everywhere....)

The awesome view at night from our apartment overlooking pretty much all of Cusco.

Now onto dogs, my third topic and arguably the most tenuous link in my attempt at an alliterative title, and a completely different and in no way related matter to my previous topic of dames. Not much to say, basically, there were an incredible number of dogs in Cusco. Everywhere there were all sorts of wierd and wonderful mongrel breeds roaming the cobbled streets seemingly without masters and generally running amok. The dogs from my apartment "complex" were no exception, they would without fail bust through the gate every morning I left and follow me to all parts of town.

One of the few very cute examples of the omnipresent mutts and mongrels infesting Cusco, I looked to forward to seeing him every day at my Spanish classes.

Finally, drizzle. It rains all the bloody time, at least in March and April when I was there, it does. Credit however must be given for the highly effective drainage system in place, the steep narrow cobblestone streets which run through the entire city and are finely polished by the ubiquitous taxis which incidentally can take you anywhere in the city (except ironically the area of my apartment) for about 80 cents, become deathtraps during a downpour, a veritable health and safety nightmare. Five minutes later however, they're dry and back to normal as if nothing has happened.

An impending shower descending on Cusco. Shame...

Drizzle could also refer to the pathetic amount of water pressure experienced when having a shower in Cusco. You were basically assured of enjoying more consistent pressure and warmer temperatures by just standing outside in the daily squall. The idea of a gas or solar-heated water supply is quite a foreign concept in all of Peru it seems and most establishments come equipped only with an electric system which heats the water as it passes through the solenoid within the plastic head. As a result, it can only properly heat a finite amount of water, resulting in a mere trickle should one desire even mildly lukewarm/tepid water which is usually conducting an electrical current which is zapped straight into your skull (it was advisable not to leave the sponge on your head...) An altogether unpleasant experience.

Music in Peru I find to be only marginally better than say Hindi or Canto-pop. Whilst enjoying a picnic, my friend Rosa and I were interrupted by these natural born entertainers as they filmed their no-doubt big budget video on a handy cam for their upcoming smash hit. I dare say the film clip will be as bad as the song was...

Incidentally, for all those who enjoyed my overly descriptive umm... descriptions of gastro intestinal malfunctions in Asia, well you'll be glad to know they were back with a vengeance in South America. Not quite as extreme but in keeping with my earlier Holland theme, dutch ovens were the order of most nights considering the amount of noxcious gases I was producing. Pretty cold in Cusco so the extra warmth under the blankets was not entirely unwelcome but apart from seeing my beloved lions get thrashed every week in the AFL, a settled stomach is arguably what I miss most about being back in Australia.

The peaceful scene before the musical interlude, me and Rosa (Dutch incidentally) enjoying the fine views over Cusco.

Apart from the showers and stomach problems, living in Cusco was fantastic. The ex-pat style community from my school provided great company, good restaurants were cheaper than cooking your own meals, the gringo infested nightclubs provided free drinks and all the stairs actually helped me burn off some of the christmas kilos I'd piled on. After a few weeks of this however and with a greater confidence in my spanish ability (i.e. I was confident that it was still absolutely shithouse) I decided it was time to give back something to those less fortunate among us, time to invest in our future, time to find somewhere else to stay considering Jodie was coming back and I no longer had accommodation....

Me and Jodie, a great help and friend to me during my time in Cusco, her knowledge and networks allowed to me to get so much more out of my stay than I would have managed by myself and I thank her for it.

It was time to do something for the kids...Til next time, from the tiny village of Cai Cay.

Why not... one of more shot of the illuminated Plaza. I love Cusco.

Continental Capers

2006-04-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

Continental Capers

Well after a 16hr bus trip and only 2hrs of sleep followed by sleepless 9hr flight in the evening, I arrived in London positively stuffed. Still I was glad to be back in ‘Ol Blighty as I had a fantastic few weeks lined up catching up with various familiar faces in both the UK and on the continent starting with my bueno amigo de Universidad Tex, or Miguel, who was passing through after completing 6 months of study in Mexico. Having only 2 days together we had little time to waste and so we headed out to experience London despite my zombie-like state. Unfortunately waste time we did as it took us an hour of waiting outside Buckingham Palace to realize that the changing of the guards takes place every other day. We did however get the chance to heckle those damn Poms who won the ashes as they entered to collect their OBEs or MBEs for winning 2 bloody games of cricket.

I know, not technically continental... Tex and I at London tower bridge.

Having been to London previously and completed the obligatory bus tours of the sights, we pretty much spent time catching up on respective adventures and generally avoiding sleep until we headed to West End in the evening to catch a performance of the Lion King. Now for the life of me I cannot understand why I cannot get a wink when reclining during a 34 hour bus trip, or a 9hr flight but when I desperately want to stay awake to enjoy an award-winning musical, I can fall into a deep sleep whilst sitting bolt upright in a cramped theatre stall. Suffice to say I woke up with the theatre completely empty except for a few ushers and Tex laughing hysterically at the end of our row. I can only assume that Scar dies?

We passed the rest of our time together with a little museum hopping including the typically impressive British museum with its incredible collection of ripped off and stolen artifacts from around the world. More to my liking however was the Imperial War Museum with its interactive displays, tanks, guns and very realistic reproductions or “experiences” of life in a WWI trench (complete with funky trench odours) and Blitz-era London (“Lots of damage, yeah? All caused by the blitz, yeah?” Our guide was at pains to convince us of the authenticity of the scene we surveyed….). A few delicious strawberry Belgian beers in the evening to say farewell and then it was another measly 2hrs of sleep before catching a ridiculously early flight to Copenhagen, immediately putting me on the back foot again so far as energy levels go.

Tim, Chris and myself, good times in Copenhagen. Notice my semi-beard!! It only took like 5 months.

I was in Denmark to pay a visit to an old school mate of mine, Chris, who following a whirlwind romance with his girlfriend, also called Chris (quite the weird coincidence) is now living in central Copenhagen and I was joined also by another mate from school, Tim. Anyway, as a result of my extremely lethargic state and the vile weather we experienced the whole time, I was hardly in the mood for hardcore touring and so as far as I can tell from my experience, life in Denmark pretty much consists of drinking lots of beer and watching numerous episodes of Scrubs. So yep, a pretty bloody fantastic country by my reckoning, built on the pillars of any vibrant and interesting culture. That and insulting entire religious communities of course...

Copenhagen. It was cold.

Speaking, or writing at least, of beers, one of my most pleasant discoveries, especially considering the horror stories one hears about the ridiculously expensive nature of Scandinavian countries, was that of the exceptionally cheap price of a carton of beer from the supermarket, a paltry 50 Danish Kroners, or roughly AU$11 after conversion for 24 beers!! Gold. Unfortunately, as we discovered when heading out on the town later, there is a huge discrepancy between such drinks prices and those at licensed establishments and we actually ended up paying the same for a single pint of guiness as we did for the 24. Furthermore evidence of this ridiculous practice was the fact that I had to pay AU$5 for a glass of bloody tap water at a restaurant we visited. Tap water!! Tight bloody Danes.

Above is the house where eventually "our Mary" will live with ol mate Freddy. Below is the main square of Copenhagen.

Another problem which I became increasingly aware of now that I was no longer traveling with my original amigos, Pat and Tim (Porter), was that I now required to do my own photography as, in Denmark at least, I only had the other Tim (Ogston) to rely on for scabbing photos from. Now not to say that Ogston is not a fine lensman in his own right but if one was to scroll through a photo album of his own 6 month stint in Europe, you would basically find about 2000 self-portraits of Tim pulling a stupid face and making the “rock on” devil’s horns hand symbol in multiple nightclubs around the continent, taken with his aptly monikered “party” camera. Anyway, suffice to say my only photos of Denmark are essentially of this nature and hardly representative of all that Denmark has to offer. Still I had a great time….

The Ogston (above). Below is some examples of the party camera at work. Notice again, if you will, the semi-beard.

Me too. And I also love Sweden. This is the first thing I saw once stepping off the train on Swedish soil. Ah, stereotypes.

Next up was an entirely comfortable train journey over the bridge to southern Sweden to catch up with my former housemate Janne, who is currently living and working near the little town of Angëlholm. Now most people of only 24 years would generally stick to a similar profession as the one they had studied when seeking work in another country but not Janne, he ditched his electrical engineering skills altogether and is now building a house. For someone else. By himself. And I’m not talking about some shanty town style shack with fibro walls and iron sheeting, this house is a work of art, which I think is pretty amazing especially considering I can barely hammer a nail in straight. Actually I can't even do that.

My mate Janne and below, the house that Janne built. Ridiculously good.

Janne lives with his Aunt and Uncle (Janne grew up in the area by the way) in a beautiful traditional Swedish farmhouse and I was extremely fortunate to enjoy the tremendous hospitality of Britt and Karl respectively in such beautiful surroundings for several days. I can only imagine how pretty the place must be during the summer.

My entirely comfortable Swedish farmhouse lodgings.

It wasn’t all lazing about getting waited on however, and Janne and I partook in some typically Swedish activities including some ice fishing on a frozen lake complete with sausages (in the distinct absence of any fish) cooked on our little “fire on ice”, and of course we had to visit a Swedish sauna (men only) located right on the coast of the frigid Baltic Sea.

Fire on ice... Obviously the sausages tasted better than any fish would anyway.

Now I consider myself a pretty conservative bloke and I can assure you it takes some getting used to get right down in the buff, particularly so in the company of a good mate let alone many strange old Swedes, but by the end I was loving it (not in that way however). It was incredibly “invigorating” to cook yourself in 90 degrees and then run outside and dunk yourself in the Baltic which must have been approaching zero. I can assure you there was no room for self consciousness or concerns over one’s “manliness” after riding the Baltic Bronco for 8 seconds, and it was at times like that at which point I was particularly glad for the absence of any females (“but I was in the pool…”). I think most females would have been glad for their own absence in any case as most patrons in there seemed to be of the elderly, overly hirsute and obese variety, not that I was one to speak considering the state of my body following several months of my all beer and no exercise lifestyle.

The frozen lake was only marginally cooler than the Baltic sea outside the sauna below, I can guarantee you.

Writing of unhealthy lifestyles, next up was Amsterdam where I was to meet up with Tim Porter over a long weekend and catch up with our good friends Joost and Ashley whom we had met during our time in Nepal on the Annapurna circuit. They actually live in the Hague, or Den Haag, and we enjoyed several days out there catching up and generally enjoying their fine company once again. Unfortunately Ashley’s much hyped quest to round up some beautiful dutch women who may have been interested in meeting and providing some Aussie lads with a European visa, (an admittedly impossible task in my case), proved too much for her and her much vaunted single friends pretty much consisted of one Manchurian whose closest relation with anything resembling a “babe” was that of a porcine nature who has a liking for rounding up sheep. But thanks for trying Ashley…

Our incredibly gracious and generous hosts, Joost and Ashley.

Tim and I of course had to make an obligatory tour of Amsterdam, complete with its mandatory canal tour however I believe that we may have been the only two single males to have ever visited Amsterdam and not smoked some sort of drug nor pay for some form of sex show or service. I would like to think that I did so out of reasons of taking the higher moral ground but in all honesty I think it was primarily due to budgetary constraints and an initial inability to find any coffeeshops. Now any one who has been to Amsterdam is probably thinking that I must be pretty bloody useless not to be able to find a coffeeshop in Amsterdam, it is after all, hardly the needle and haystack scenario (moreso a giant pink elepahant and haystack as I later discovered) but it was not until Tim and “inadvertently stumbled” upon the infamous red light district that we became convinced that you can actually buy drugs in Amsterdam.

Typically Amsterdam.

Prior to this, we essentially spent our day touring around the beautiful canal belt, over the thousand + bridges within the city and around the numerous parks on our very Dutch single gear bicycles. We also spent much of our time abusing the stupid and oblivious tourists who would walk straight out into the bike lanes without looking or alternatively getting abused by others for doing the exactly the same thing.

Me on a bike.

I must admit, I tell a little lie in saying we didn’t engage in any hedonistic activities during our time in Amsterdam. Tim and I had decided that we couldn’t very well have been in Amsterdam and completely ignored all that it had to offer and so we agreed to check out a show of the €2 for 2 minute variety. I don’t think it really counts however as I pretty much walked out after about 15 seconds. Positively filthy, it was hardly Tommy Lee and Pamela going at it, moreso it was like walking in on your parents. Some of these clubs around Amsterdam obviously do not have stringent employment standards….

Ok, so we did do a little bit of "sightseeing". But "Shooters" (above) was just a regular pub that happened to have, completely to our surprise, beautiful women dancing on the bars.

Like moths to a flame. Amsterdam at night.

After this “cultural experience”, Tim and I headed to various jazz and live music venues where the anomaly of European beer prices continued as I discovered much to my chagrin and displeasure at one particular piano bar. €8 for one beer!! And it was my shout!! I would have been ropeable if I paid the equivalent of AU$14 for a jug of import in an Australian beer let alone for a single pint of local tap beer. Bloody tight Dutchmen…

Just when I thought I'd thought I'd scored a cheap meal. False advertising in the extreme.

A few more days with Joost and Ashley in Den Haag and then it was back to London for another week or so to catch up with several of the 300,000 Aussies reputedly living there at any one time. I really enjoyed myself during this time, it was nothing but museums, shows, pubs, beers, reminiscing and thankfully many couches and spare beds (I appreciated this particularly so due to my discovery that I was $1300 poorer than I thought due to an overpayment from my work…) Still despite my financial concerns, I managed to convince myself of the absolute necessity of buying a guitar to accompany me on my tour of South America. I was heading to Brazil next of course, the home of Bossa Nova and Samba….I couldn´t wait.

Just a few of the kind folk who helped me out during my time in Europe. Britt and Karl in their Swedish farmhouse.

Before finishing up this entry, I would just like to express my sincere gratitude to all those who showed me such utmost kindness and hospitality during my time in and around Europe, in no particular order, the two Chris’ in Copenhagen, Janne, Britt and Karl in Sweden, Joost and Ashley in the Netherlands, Amy and Michael Davis, Tim Ogston, Dave Johnson, Tim Porter, Hamish Chalmers and definitely not least of all Sarah and Simon, all of whom made my time much more enjoyable and affordable. Thanks to you all.

Until next time.