(12:15, 14 July, Cafe Mirrador looking out over Sucre, Bolivia) From here up the hill, Sucre is terracotta and white and spans out into the day in all directions until it meets some flat farm-topped hills with mountains behind them. I was up here some days ago with a friend and a glass of wine. We had to rush down to confirm that we would be trekking, in the very mountains the sun had been setting behind whilst we had been distracted discussing his past and my various possible futures. We left for the hike a day later instead, which meant we had to do the 2-day, skipping the last leg so Ollie, who is of Dutch parentage, would be back in Sucre for the final. Pushing it back a day also allowed me to recruit another couple to accompany myself, Ollie and Andreas, the guy who had initiated the trip.
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Tags: Educational, Mistakes and Mishaps, Nature, soccer
(17:52, 2 July, Internet café in Uyuni, Bolivia) I considered sticking around in Tupiza for a while to ride a horse where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid met their maker but, having enquired at tour companies about tour groups with spaces for the Salar de Uyuni since we arrived that afternoon, I decided to write my name down with Rob, a guy I meet on the train, with the first very lovely woman we had spoken to. The fact that I could get to the reasonably sized town of Potosi to watch Argentina play on Saturday may have sweetened the deal. So we met, bags packed, for coffee on Tuesday morning and having introduced ourselves to the driver and cook we embarked on something my tired brain can only call indescribable.
(13:30, 3 July, Koala Cafe, Potosi, Bolivia) Honestly, I don’t know how to explain this tour to you all. We drove for 3 and a half days across the southwest of Bolivia, through some of the most incredible and surreal scenery and always up and up and up. We saw green lakes, red lakes, white lakes, multi-coloured mountains, black volcanoes, deep brown sand dunes, beige deserts. It was like the whole landscape had turned up the colour. The sky was a bluer blue, the grass more intensely golden, the weird plant that grows on the occasional rock was so dynamically green it was almost luminescent. It’s as if the normal world, where things exist at normal altitudes, is blurred and stunted by the extra layer of atmosphere it has to bear. On the antiplano, the sun is that bit nearer, the muffling insulation of air is thin, everything is crisper and sharper. Including the cold. The mornings and evenings were painfully cold! The freezing wind blows uninhibited and penetrates to your bones through the tiniest gap between scarf and hood or cuff and glove, and dare you wash your hands! Even at midday, water waits to be released by the sunshine, frozen in patches of shadow that won’t be moved until the seasons change.
And amongst the thermal pools and sulphuric geysers and the expanses of ice, are flamingos and strange rodents and llama and sheep. And people! An implausibly large number of people, growing their crops and tending their animals. There is something confused inside of me when I see a “village” of five families, a cluster of stone buildings, from which, every day, a team of men walk out to work on the tiny goldmine on their doorstep. Or when I see a woman in long socks and a traditional pleated skirt, knees bare, walking along a frozen riverbed in the frigid hours of the early morning. The tour in its entirety is one of those things that makes you wonder what it’s all for. And there’s nowhere better than sitting in the middle of a salt flat, in a dichotomy of extreme blue and extreme white, to feel like the answer must be simply insolvably simple.
Check out the enormous photoalbum on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=191761&id=504021698
Generated by Facebook Photo Fetcher
(16:25 Uruguay time, Monday 28 June, Bus between Villazon at Argentine border and Tupiza) Nearly two months into my trip and finally I’m in Bolivia! I’ve spent the whole day travelling but through the most astounding scenery. The train I am on, supposedly the best form of travel from the border, doesn’t run every day so I had to plan ahead for my trip from Salta – another reason to linger in the city which has been my longest stop by far, about 17 days.
Busing in the Quebrada (mountains) north of Salta is relatively easy and the spectacular route through coloured mountains and yellow plains, thorny with cacti, runs from one quaint montane town to the next, each with its share of tourist to-do’s and see’s and more hostels than necessary at this time of year. Despite the recommendations of most Salteños, I decided to stop in San Salvador de Juyjuy, the capital city of the northern Juyjuy province, just to check it out. Unfortunately I had stayed out clubbing until 6.30am from the night before, which had been normal for Salta, except my bus to Jujuy left at 7am.
I knew I was tired (I have a small bruise on my right eyebrow where I kept falling asleep against the window pane while I tried to watch the view from my first bus) and I had my whole pack with me, so after I walked around, went to a few museums and felt like I had had a taste of the city, I stretched out on a park bench in the sun to have a kip. Obviously, I missed my bus to Pumamarca so I bought the next ticket north, direct to Tilcara, which was supposed to be my stop for the following night. There’s a lot to do there and I could always take a local bus back to Pumamarca if I liked.
But halfway between the two, a little town called Maimara had beautiful vegetables growing along what is literally called ” The Painted Mountain” for its colouration. A Hostelling International sign provoked the idea and given a couple of metres to remember it had been some time since my last spontaneous decision, I sprung up to tell the driver I planned to stay. Having checked in as the only guest at the Flor de Maimara, without doubt one of the loveliest hostels I have stayed in, with the most helpful receptionist, I walked through the “rural sector” on my way to the the local vineyard and indeed the vegetables were lush and large. I slept when I sat down at a table overlooking the fields of grape vines, and I slept when I sat down on the lazyman’s mirrador (the real one looked a bit ambitious in my state) so it seemed if I stopped moving at all, I slept. Personally I blame it on the altitude. After about 12 hours without movement, in my hostel bed, I felt much more acclimatized!
I shared a taxi to Pumamarca with five locals (too many) to see the famous Cerro de Seite Colores (Hill of the Seven Colours), collected my things and thoughts back in Maimara and headed to Tilcara with only enough time to hurriedly hike to the waterfalls and back before the Argentina Mexico match. Considering the victory, the cold and the fact that it was Sunday, it is understandable that none of the museums I had wanted to see were open.
Unlike before, it seems most people are now heading in the same direction as me at the moment, so I caught a bus to the border with most of the other 18-odd guests staying at my hostel. Having waiting some time for the Bolivian border control to get more of the papers they needed to print my visa, I arrived at the train terminal to find the only tickets left were first class (Ejectivo) to Tupiza. Whilst it cost about three times the popular class, I’m secretly thrilled because I’ve had an extremely comfortable trip with lots of legroom, big windows and enough free seats to switch around when the view’s better on the other side. And I would never have paid the extra given a choice. Plus the complimentary ham and cheese roll and coke is almost all I’ve eaten all day. The only question now that I’m finally in Bolivia is which soccer team to support!
I took a bunch of photots out of the bus window, check out the album on facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/stacey.hopebailie#!/album.php?aid=189493&id=504021698
- Front seat on the bus! Yay for big windows!
- Sunset from the train
- Funeral procession down the streets of Villazon, amongst the buses
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Tags: Mistakes and Mishaps, Nature, Nightlife, soccer
(15:05, Mon 14 June, Plaza Belgrano, Salta Argentina) I knew I had to get to a big city for the World Cup so I skipped the Quilmes Ruins and caught the afternoon bus to Salta from Cafayate. No less than 5 exactly the same offers and fliers from hostels awaited me at the bus station and in my indecision I turned down their free taxis to walk to the main plaza and think. Still walking around, with all my kit, I ran into Alon from Cafayate about 2 hours later. He had gone with the first hostel who approached him and whilst he wasn’t that impressed with it, I took his advice about checking in somewhere before walking around the city any longer, to at least put down my backpack – one can always change hostels the following day if need be. I headed for the nearest one, and it turned out to be awesome. There has been a party practically every night just up the road in Balcarce Street (where all clubs and bars are) and Mariana, who works at the hostel organizes free entrance and free drinks and we all go out as a big group. The other guests have all been fantastic people so far and the staff are awesome.
I forgot about the time zone issue and missed the opening concert which was showing early on Thurs here, so I was a bit moapy but by Friday morning I was in good spirits with my SA flag tied around my neck ready to find a pub to watch the game. I rounded up a few people and we set out down Balcarce Street to find, in horror, that they were all closed. We had walked about 10 blocks and the kickoff was drawing nearer so I abandoned the others and ran (yes, ran) down the street to get back to the hostel for the anthems. The few people shouting Sudafrica as I sprinted by in my flag kept me feeling excitedly anxious and the other guests helped by fussing over me as we sat ourselves down in front of the hostel television. Fox Sports showed a split screen with fans in a Gringo bar in Buenos Aires and the fan fest in Johannesburg on the other – not helpful in soothing the pang of regret, but exciting indeed. A clock in the corner of the screen showed 5:15 which we rationalized as being the time in South Africa (5 hour difference, the game was scheduled to begin at 11am here). But when the anthems hadn’t even started by 11:07, the excuses about African timing were sounding unlikely and it suddenly dawned on me that the clock in the corner was showing the minutes into the match! We were watching a channel that was showing people WATCHING the game! So I missed the first few minutes but the match was amazing and aside from our little defense mishap (a little disappointing) I was beaming with pride. It may have been better for me to miss the anthem because I would unboubtedly have been in tears.
Its been really difficult to be here, so far from the vibe at home. Regret lurks heavy in my heart all the time. Especially because, to most tourists’ dismay, the Salteños don’t seem to be interested in any matches that Argentina aren’t playing. Sadder still, even the first Argentinian match on Saturday morning involved none of the big screens in the plaza or pubs overflowing with drunken celebrations that I had expected. Festivities heightened with the win and we joined the 100 odd spectators dancing around the main square at close of play. But even there it was mostly teenage boys dotted conspicuously with gringos. I had met a number of them along my travels and when I went to greet them, many shared in my confusion about the lack of fanfare. No-one had managed to find a cozy pub to watch the games – the Irish pub in Salta does’t even have a tv- so I decided something had to be done. I did a short scout around and found a restaurant/patiserie with a decently sized television and spread the word that, even if no Argentinians would be watching, we would all meet up to watch the England USA match that afternoon.
So although it wasn’t the most enchanting match, at least we had a decent beer-drinking crowd throwing insults at each other about their goalie being “Green with envy”.
I’ve squeezed a few touristy things in between partying, recovering and watching soccer matches, but I’ve been taking the tourist thing pretty easy here. I’ve decided to stay on for a celebration on Thursday in honour of General Guemes who saved the city during the Wars of Independence, which promised to involve bonfires, dancing and 2000 cowboys. So I took this morning off to catch up on my planning and blogging. Tomorrow I tackle some more of the city sights and at some point I’ll head northwards and upwards to aclimatize for the altitiude in Bolivia.
(12:20, Wed 23 June, computer in house of couchsurfer, outskirts of Salta, Argentina) It became something of a joke at the Sol Huasi hostel in Salta centro. Every morning a few people’s bags stood in the reception, because they had checked out and would be leaving Salta that day. The next morning the same bags returned to their post, or something even more common, someone stumbled from their dorm room blinking at the afternoon sun having missed check-out. Again.
It had its perks because the people who were staying at the hostel with me were all such great people and we partied and cooked and chatted and laughed together for more than a week. But not unlike a couple of others, I have now been in Salta for two full weeks. The World Cup has undoubtedly played its role. The three matches take place here at 8.30am, 11am and 3.30pm. By the time you’ve seen them, you have a few hours to spare before supper starts and the drinking begins.
Aside from just enjoying the city and the people and doing some of the things that travellers who are slowing down do, I’ve been to two awesome events that were worth a Salta stop.
Not long after I had arrived in Salta I heard about the Guemes Festival on the 17th June. I hadn’t thought I would still be around but as the day grew closer and my clothes remained comfortably unpacked on the floor at the foot of the bed (It’s tough with bunkbeds, cos top bunks have to share floorspace with their lower neighbour. In exchange I had perfected hoisting myself onto my bed in the wee hours with absolute minimal noise) the temptation to stay for the festivities grew more appealing.
I must still tell you about the Guemes Fest and the awesome event I went to on a WOOFFing farm south of the city with this great couchsurfer I met. I’ll post about it soon.
For now here are a couple of pics from the facebook album:
http://www.facebook.com/stacey.hopebailie#!/album.php?aid=183977&id=504021698
- Partying in the Plaza when Argentina won
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Tags: Nightlife, soccer, South Africa
(17:50, Tues 17 May, standing on a concrete block randomly on unused roof of Che Lagarto Hostel, over-looking Plaza Independencia, Montevideo, Uruguay) Cool! Some soldiers are marching across the square down below… They’re doing a big regimented taking down of these three big flags… Sucks to have to fold them in steps like that – taking ages. There are these random bouts of shouting and bus hooting, not sure if its related. Anyway, the sun has set and I’m getting pretty chilly up here in the wind. Will go downstairs to write my story.
(09:25, 21 May) Just to follow up on the hooting and shouts. The soccer team from Montevideo won the national soccer league so people went bos here. They were going crazy and even attacked the statue of Artigas in Plaza Independencia that my hostel overlooked. We went to have a look before it got cleaned up, they had painted insults and stuff all over it. Football hooliganism is literally a paying career here. A story for another time perhaps.
(18:15, 17 May, Bar of Che Lagarto, Montevideo) Better. So I smiled a lot yesterday. The museums in Montevideo are all closed on a Monday and after making up my mind that I wouldn’t go far along the coast to one of the big resort towns because its so cold, I decided to rather head to Piriapolis for a short trip. It’s a little beach town with a zoological reserve on a hill nearby, I had read about some cool things to keep me busy for a day. Plus there was an HI (Hostelling International) hostel there with great rates because I’m a member. Learning from my mistakes, I took down the address and caught an evening bus so I could cook and eat supper in Montevideo but still arrive with a good few hours to find the hostel and sleep before morning. I left my big pack at Red Hostel and packed a very well-strategized minimalist day pack and got directed and then redirected to the bus terminal.
Prepared with my address, I quickly found Hostel Piriapolis and rang the bell. I had read about it in my guidebook and on a bunch of websites. I had been too late to book online for that night, but it was supposedly a very big hostel and I knew it would be quiet enough to have spare beds.
But this was very quiet. I checked my watch: 20h45 – most South Americans were just finishing off dinner. The lights weren’t on at reception. I kbnocked on the door, looked through the glass, shouted the best “Hola!” I could muster… Nothing. I laughed as I walked around to the side. A wooden door with a light above it yielded a little boy but we had trouble communicating, even after he went back inside a few times to get feedback. Eventually his mom came to the door and explained that the hostel was closed. Since September! She suggested I try the main drag along the beachfront where there were loads of hotels. No hostels.
So, haha, I’m learning. I walked down a way next to the beach and then back up smiling at myself. Strolling the beaches of Uruguay in the starlight – homeless. I was so glad I had only had a daypack, but in all my consideration and wisdom I had left my great big guidebook behind. It certainly didn’t have a map, even of a piece of Piriapolis, but it had listed the prices of recommended hotels. An occasseional party-goer zoomed by on his motorcycle with a cat call now and then; all fairly benign. I wasn’t keen to fork out for one of the many hotels and pondered on sleeping in my towel and sarong at the camp site I had passed near the teminal. If my mom found out she’d kill me. After deciding I’d be unlikely to find a café open near midnight on a Sunday. I turned back for the only hotel which had people sitting at reception. At least it was 2-star unlike all the 3-stars and boutique hotels along the street.
I think the guy at reception guessed my desperation when I excitedly handed him a 200peso note, equivalent to USD10. “Ochiciente,” he repeated, stifling a smile. Ah, 800, not 180. “Do you take Visa?”
All I could do as I fell across my double bed, my minimalist bag unpacked over the extra single bed behind me, was laugh. I had a tv. I didn’t turn it on cos I couldn’t understand the Spanish sign on the door and it sounded suspiciously like they would charge me extra. I had a private bathroom. I had only really brought soap, a facecloth and suncream in my compact toiletry kit though. So I had a good long shower in the morning making good use of the four complimentary towels, but I couldn’t wash my hair or do a pedicure. I warmed my feet in the beeday but not before I sprayed myself in the face.
All in all it was very funny and a really great experience. A door opened onto a teeny balcony looking over the beach but there was a shutter over the top half I couldn’t get open. So I lay horizontally over my bed and drifted between sleep and watching the early morning sunlight over the sea. A chairlift, a trek up a big hill, two treks down hills, statues of San Miguel and Our Lady of the Pescadores (Fishermen, I think), a giant cross, some crazy cool zoo animals, an adrenhilin boosting encounter with an angry dog, a few short bus-trips and some absolutely incredible views later: I would recommend Piriaplois and the Cerro Pan de Azúcar to anyone.
Tags: Mistakes and Mishaps, soccer
(19:50, Monday 11 May, lobby of Tango Backpackers, Palermo, Buenos Aires) I get a surge of pride when people ask where I am from, because they are usually particularly impressed and excited to hear it is Johannesburg, South Africa. There is an almost ritualistic conversation in hostels and amongst travellers which begins with where you are from, and moves on to where you have been and where you’re going. Sometimes you will swop names but thankfully no-one seems to pay much attention so its common enough to have to ask again, even days later when, having shared a few conversations, you’ve decided that the person is worth knowing. (Sounds harsh, but it seems to be the accepted norm)
I love this exchange because, not only am I from South Africa, and more than happy to tell everyone that it’s the best place in the whole world if they follow by asking whether or not I like living there, but I can keep beaming as I explain that I still have almost 12 months (sounds cooler than ‘one year’) to travel in Latin America.
The smile fades when the new acquaintence puts two and two together: “So you’re missing the World Cup?!”
Sigh… My heart drops at the reminder.
I won’t go through the next few minutes here, when I try to convince both them and myself that it’s not a big deal and that I’m very excited for everyone back home.
But on the stands amidst the shouting fans and hyper-involved spectators at a Boca Juniors soccer game in their home stadium, that spindly reasoning lost a lot of its already limited muscle. The visiting side’s spectators sat in a separate section above us, facing the “La Doce” – where the most vocal and energetic fans stand with the drums and the band shouting songs of encouragement or insult down to the field.
Despite their standing singing through the whole match (and about 45 minutes afterwards) their team struggled to change the scoreboard from 1 to 2 no matter how close they came. There is a rule that the home side has to wait for the visitors to leave, which seems strangely well accepted. Possibly because as the winning team’s supporters walked down their separate entrance behind us, the Boca fans had a chance to hurl obscenities at them in Spanish.
Tags: soccer, South Africa
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