tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13124094165839101632024-03-05T21:26:50.296+00:00Slogging across the AmericasBjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.comBlogger80125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-61962798861303136322010-03-12T20:47:00.006+00:002010-04-14T03:46:39.854+01:00It rains by night at the end of the worldUshuaia usurps the title of "the world's southernmost city", sometimes dramatized as "the city at the end of the world". These slogans attracts countless crowds of tourists, hordes of them filling the local streets. For them shop displays offer goods such as North Face waterproof breathing trousers; supercomfy, also waterproof, Merrell hiking shoes; Speedo swim-suits; snowboards whose brands I don't know at all; penguins attached to pens and key-chains, hewn in wood or stuffed with foam; charming, ethereal dresses that in this climate only an Irish woman would dare wear out to the pub - in a word, everything a tourist needs. In a town of forty thousand, there are two Irish pubs, two airline offices, a few banks, several restaurants and dozens of places offering lodgings to tired travelers. Everything is expensive, more expensive than in Chile, too expensive, though - as it turns out - not everyone shares my opinion: I find a blog where an enthusiastic woman raves that goods in Ushuaia are so much cheaper than those available on-board the cruise ships. There are lots of ships in Ushuaia's harbour: alongside the fishing boats, there are container ships, tugboats, warships, cruise liners. Ushuaia is the launch point for all cruises aiming to set foot on the Antarctic.<br /><br />Though Ushuaia is not really "the city at the end of the world" (the title seems to belong to Chilean Puerto Williams), it is "the southernmost city" that can be reached by road. The town is situated some 3040 kilometers from the country's capital, Buenos Aires: to cover this distance, one has to catch a bus at 5 am from Ushuaia to Rio Gallegos (one reaches Gallegos in stages: leaving Argentina, entering Chile, crossing the rough waters of the Strait of Magellan by ferry, leaving Chile, entering Argentina again). "Those four stamps in my passport make me feel very appreciative of the open borders in the EU", I think just before reaching Rio Gallegos at 5 p.m., where you have to change buses. The one to Buenos leaves at 8 p.m., the ride lasting another 38 hours. To travel such a vast distance in only 50 hours would be impossible in Poland. In Argentina, looking out the window of your bus, you will begin to understand how they do it: the road passes through vast stretches of land that seem to have no inhabitants or distractions other than cows and sheep.<br /><br />Except for the 100km stretch between Ushuaia and little Tolhuin.<br /><br />Lakes, broken trees, forests, mountain passes, waterfalls, peaks covered with snow even in summer, storms on one side of the valley, while the sun shines on the other: this stretch of road is at least as beautiful as the route from Mendoza to Vallaparaiso. On the way South, before reaching Ushuaia, you begin to anticipate something amazing. And you aren't disappointed. Despite all the tourists, the city is charming. As we stand by the Beagle Channel, gazing at boats entering the little harbour, overhead some student pilot is practicing. The tiny plane takes off from the airport, climbing briefly into the sky only to turn back and approach for landing. Seagulls welcome the newcomer to the skies with noisy croaks. The town stretches out behind us, with its cars, colourful shops, a yellow church, the smells of barbecue and wine. It climbs upward, hikes the hills, each street higher than the next. And then suddenly, the town disappears, the rest of the hillside densely covered with green trees. But even they fail reach the peaks: Martial, Olivia, Cinco Hermanos proudly dominate the horizon.<br /><br />We spend three days in Ushuaia, wandering around, hiking in the Tierra del Fuego Park, playing pool and opting for the cheapest mode of dining: cooking in the kitchen of our hostel. The summer is just coming to an end: so I wear "only" a sweater, a scarf, a hat and gloves. I look with astonishment at local schoolgirls walking around town in their uniforms: short skirts and no tights. In the evenings rain patters on the window panes, the wooden roof of our room seems about to give way to the water, everything creaks, the wind rages outside, while inside we drink wine with our spaghetti. Even though it rains by night, torrentially, in the mornings there remain no signs. Except for the snow on the peaks that surround Ushuaia.<br /><br />For while the downpours revel in Ushuaia town, in the mountains the clouds release only bright white down. Beautiful.Ewelinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04951749865412644639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-52197811475281035812010-03-07T15:19:00.000+00:002010-04-13T23:22:26.310+01:00The end of the continent<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.633487701416016,-70.91382598876953'><b>70°54'49"W<br/>53°38'0"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>This was <a href="http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.633487701416016,-70.91382598876953">the Southernmost point</a> we reached on the South-American mainland.</p>
<p>We walked past a sign proclaiming this was the End Of The Continent, had a little race down the hill and then held hands and walked together out onto a rocky, shellfish- and barnacle-encrusted outcrop, to record this GPS point and snap a photo.</p>
<p>Our guide for this little tour said it was at least two hours hike to the actual Southernmost point of the mainland, but this was good enough for us.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-7700024994487564822010-03-07T14:21:00.000+00:002010-04-13T23:22:23.983+01:00Fuerto Bulnes<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.63023376464844,-70.91716766357422'><b>70°55'1"W<br/>53°37'48"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Fuerto Bulnes was the main destination of a little half-day tour we did from Punta Arenas.</p>
<p>The fort is a restoration/replica of the outpost established by Chile to claim the Magellan Straight as theirs. It was a cute little museum full of buildings made of wood and turf, cannons and fields.</p>
<p>It must have been a cold, unwelcoming and profoundly lonely place for the 50-or-so soldiers who used to stand watch here, entertained only by the occasional pirate ship they could shoot at... its closest neighbor is a mound of barely perceptible ruins, all that remains of a town where all the founders died of starvation.</p>
<p>Today, in weather a little less grey and drizzly than our experience, it would make a great place for a picnic, or, better yet, a game of hide-and-seek.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-53823976084411185862010-03-07T14:03:00.000+00:002010-04-13T23:22:21.394+01:00Chile's midpoint<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.598323822021484,-70.94542694091797'><b>70°56'43"W<br/>53°35'53"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Thanks to Chile's territories in Antarctica, <a href="http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.598323822021484,-70.94542694091797">this point</a>, only a few uninhabited kilometers from the southern tip of South America, is the "middle" of the country.</p>
<p>Strange, strange country.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-36274642032039876092010-03-05T16:49:00.000+00:002010-04-13T23:22:16.739+01:00Punta Arenas<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-53.162628173828125,-70.90797424316406'><b>70°54'28"W<br/>53°9'45"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Punta Arenas was our Southernmost stay on the South-American mainland. It is a port on the Magellan Straight, and one of the main attractions is the Zona Franca, a duty-free zone which seemed to primarily be full of warehouses for shipping companies, but also catered to the general public, selling electronics, cars, furniture, clothes, perfume and even food.</p>
<p>The Zona Franca was the first place we visited, mainly out of curiosity, but also to see if I could get a good deal on a replacement for my banged-up and hard-driveless Eee-PC. After much walking, we did find a potential candidate, but decided to read about it on the Internet before buying. It turned out to be cheaper to order online in Poland, so that was that.</p>
<p>After the Zona Franca we visited a couple of museums to learn about local history, saw the town cemetary and shared a local speciality featuring barbequed meat, chicken - and lots of mussels. It was a strange but good combination.</p>
<p>From Punta Arenas we took a sunday afternoon tour even further South, to Fuerto Bulnes. It was a funny tour, as we were the only ones taking it, and so our guide just drove us around in his Toyota Corolla, including a brief stop to refuel.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-55445657767333495842010-03-04T15:37:00.000+00:002010-03-08T13:51:09.214+00:00Parque National, Torres del Paine<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-51.06742477416992,-73.00621795654297'><b>73°0'22"W<br/>51°4'2"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>The reason we came to Puerta Natales, was because that is where the Navimag took us.</p>
<p>However, for most, the reason for coming here is to visit the nearby national park, Torres del Paine. We of course planned to do the same, but agonized literally for days over whether to do the multi-day "W" trek, a day-trip, or something else.</p>
<p>Whilst agonizing, we explored Natales and spent one afternoon bicycling around the vicinity. We liked it, the town was pretty and full of touristic things like good pizza and bike rentals, and the countryside we explored by bike was both pretty and flat enough to make for a good ride. Some of the views, especially in the direction of the national park, were quite amazing.</p>
<p>Our hostel, Josmar, was also pretty nice. The owners were friendly and helpful, our room was comfy, we had wifi and access to a kitchen... the only problem was that the place was full of Israelis. Not that I have anything against Israelis as individuals, but they tend to travel in groups: all young, loud, messy and generally rather inconsiderate - pretty much what you'd expect from kids enjoying their freedom after mandatory military service in a very dangerous place. Josmar had multiple groups of them; clogging the toilets, messily cooking all at once and then talking loudly right outside our bedroom door until at least 1am every night.</p>
<p>But... we felt pretty comfy anyway, largely due to our hosts being so welcoming. Coffee and hot bread for breakfast, advice on how to get around, a ride with our bags on arrival - all good. Josmar also left me with the odd feeling that my Spanish was getting better; I found myself helping our hosts and the Israelis communicate.</p>
<p>After all this fun, and an inspiring presentation about the park at a place called Base Camp, we decided to: <em>just take the touristic, one-day mini-van tour</em>. Lame, we know. But we just didn't feel like carrying loads of rented gear, wading ice-cold rivers and then sleeping in a wind-battered tent. Not to mention the fact that our budget is still in critical condition after the Navimag extravaganza - we couldn't really afford the wind-battered tent anyway.</p>
<p>So, at 7.30am we piled into a van with five young Israelis (not from our hostel - we were probably the only non-Israelis in town) and off we went.</p>
<p>Our first stop was the Cueva del Milodon, a beautiful place where they charged us 3.000 clp each to visit the cave and pose for silly pictures with their big plastic milodon statue. Here, some wild red foxes were kind enough to pose for us, and a small hawk almost hit Ewelina in the head.</p>
<p>Next, we headed towards the park proper, stopping at various viewpoints to admire the breathtaking scenery. It really is very pretty, colorful lakes, wild herds of Guanacos (llamoids) and of course the Paine Massif: 3000m of soaring peaks, cliffs and glaciers presiding over it all.</p>
<p>We had a great day, and even better, we were both satisfied and quite glad we'd opted for the tour instead of the hike. No regrets! Driving around with our camera and then returning to our cosy bed was exactly what we wanted.</p>
<p>Next stop: Punta Arenas.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-2394672206996286292010-03-01T17:45:00.000+00:002010-03-03T03:13:47.510+00:00Puerto Natales<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-51.73140335083008,-72.51600646972656'><b>72°30'57"W<br/>51°43'53"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Our fourth and final day on the boat started with a hangover, of course. We skipped breakfast and for once I was the first to get up, to listen to a 10-o'clock briefing on the disembarking process.</p>
<p>Ewelina's hangover was much worse than mine, so after the briefing, when I got excited about the amazing views, she tried to fend off my attempts to drag her out of bed. Eventually I succeeded, in time so we could stand up front together as the ship navigated the narrowest passage of our trip, only 80m wide.</p>
<p>The currents made amazing vortexes in the water and again, we saw seal(ion)s leaping in the water and staring at the boat.</p>
<p>After the passage, we showered, had lunch and packed our bags. At 14:00 sharp, three bell-rings announced that we had arrived. We watched the docking and mooring process from on deck and were then the first tourists off the boat.</p>
<p>Our Navimag journey was over!</p>
<p>Good-bye boat, we wouldn't have minded staying on-board a bit longer. All the warnings in the guidebooks and online seem either outdated or princessy to us, it was a great trip. Still expensive, but although you'd expect better service for the amount we paid, the views and overall experience made it worthwhile. We recommend it.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>Back on land, we returned to our regular routine. We walked towards the center a bit, I left Ewelina with the bags and found us a place to stay. And we sent SMS-messages home to let people know we were fine.</p>
<p>I was lucky and found us a good place: a spacious private room, kind hosts, our own bathroom, breakfast - and wi-fi, for 15000clp. Most places I visited were charging 25000 for less.</p>
<p>We spent the afternoon online, reassuring loved ones (and the Icelandic government) that we were unharmed by the quake, using Skype, Facebook and good old-fashioned e-mail.</p>
<p>Again the nerd in me was intrigued by the role modern social networking played in our little part of this event - my family and Ewelina's had found each other and people in three countries, speaking four languages, were helping each other find information about our whereabouts.</p>
<p>And now, the are "friends", in the new Facebook-altered meaning of the word. </p>
<p>Pretty cool!</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-32549291770960149772010-02-28T21:25:00.000+00:002010-03-03T03:13:44.952+00:00Pope Pius XI glacier<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-49.24517822265625,-74.02222442626953'><b>74°1'20"W<br/>49°14'42"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>After Puerto Eden, we took the only real detour of the trip, sailing to the Pope Pius XI glacier.</p>
<p>The scenery as we sailed towards the glacier, was very dramatic, with other glacial tongues visible in the mountains around, seals or sea lions playing in the water, and of course icebergs floating away from the wall of ice we were approaching.</p>
<p>Ewelina and I stood up front, staring at the ice. At one point a section collapsed, falling to the water in a white cloud. Moments later, we could hear the distant boom. The ferry kept getting closer and closer, and I began to joke that perhaps the captain had fallen asleep and we would ram it. But we didn't.</p>
<p>A dinghy left the ferry, zooming ahead to gather chunks of glacial ice for the bar. We took lots of pictures.</p>
<p>That evening, the crew organized a game of bingo (which included dancing, a first for me), which turned out to be great fun. I didn't get to play for very long though, as I was the first winner! A single diagonal line earned me a Navimag cap and the "chance" to dance for everyone. Yay? At least I avoided the fate of later winners whose soundtrack was YMCA by the Villiage People...</p>
<p>The party afterwards turned out to be not entirely lame, we had some drinks and mingled, ending up at an Irish-organized after-party where I passed around the last of the Opal I had carried all this way and the Musical Backpack got to compete with tuneless singing for people's attention.</p>
<p>It lost, obviously. Poor thing.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-15503658727654169432010-02-28T15:49:00.000+00:002010-03-03T02:10:30.755+00:00Puerto Eden<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-49.13161087036133,-74.41107177734375'><b>74°24'39"W<br/>49°7'53"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Puerto Eden was the first of two touristic stops on our third day on the Navimag.</p>
<p>We had woken up that morning early enough to have breakfast and enjoy the scenery. We were back in the channels again, after spending the night crossing the open sea - it wasn't a rough crossing, so we had slept well.</p>
<p>Lunch was served early, accompanied by announcements that it would end sooner as result, and would people <em>please</em> remember to take their dishes and trays back to the kitchen... Shortly thereafter we arrived in Puerto Eden.</p>
<p>There is no place in the tiny Puerto Eden for a ship the size of ours, the Evangelistas, to actually dock. But as soon as we got close about half a dozen little yellow and red open wood motorboats converged on the ship and clustered around the stern. These we then boarded, one at a time, and were ferried to land.</p>
<p>We were admonished that we had "one hour, or one week" to check the place out, and then we were turned loose. I doubt they actually would have left us behind, but we didn't want to find out, so we kept up a brisk pace as we explored, even running at times along the wooden boardwalks that criss-crossed the little natural park behind the village, stopping only to point our camera at things or admire gigantic bumble-bees. Lots of fun!</p>
<p>The village was much more interesting than the park, so our pace slowed when we reentered civilization, such as it was. Also, we didn't want to crash into any fellow tourists, of which there seemed far too many for this tiny place.</p>
<p>The beaches around town were littered with resting or retired fishing vessels, quite cleverly named. We saw a beached Titanic and a decrepit Rambo, but Captain Christ seemed in good shape. We saw fishing nets and workshops, a church, old houses and new... it was a pretty little place.</p>
<p>We saw signs of Internet access at the local library, and there was a call shop as well - but everything was closed. I think we had arrived during siesta.</p>
<p>Some passengers spent their time in the local police office, presumably seeking information about the quake. We decided not to worry about getting word home, assuming our families, who knew our itinerary, wouldn't be too worried and could wait until the next day to hear from us...</p>
<p>In hindsight, that may have been a miscalculation, but the quake didn't seem very real to us at the time.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-44750129489806826012010-02-27T12:37:00.001+00:002010-03-03T01:20:59.804+00:00Through the sunny channels<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-44.81077575683594,-73.50882720947266'><b>73°30'31"W<br/>44°48'38"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>We missed our first breakfast onboard, not waking up until I heard a muffled voice over the intercom, announcing that breakfast service ended at nine, and would people <em>please</em> remember to return their dishes and trays to the kitchen staff.</p>
<p>We woke up alone, as I had "solved" our little shared cabin disappointment the night before by asking the staff politely if we could move to one of the many empty rooms. At first they were hesitant, first asking the <em>jefe</em>, and then the <em>capitan</em>, but it is one of the triumphs of my poor Spanish skills that I managed to not only make myself understood, but convince them too. They just laughed when I, at one point, asked if a small tip might help. When I tried afterwards to tip the <em>jefe</em> anyway, he laughed again, refusing. I guess the money goes in the envelope on the last day, then.</p>
<p>We were very happy to have our own room.</p>
<p>As we sleepily looked out our little window, we could see land a mere stones throw away. After getting up, we discovered a similar view on the other side: we had entered the channels.</p>
<p>The weather was perfect, sunny and warm, so we spent most of the day on deck, taking some pictures and watching the land drift by. Well, actually Ewelina spent most of the day, I got bored of constant beauty and went to write code on my laptop... some of the time anyway.</p>
<p>The channels were very narrow at some points, bringing land close enough on either side for us to make out some details in the dense forest. The area looks wild, uninhabited - the only signs we saw of humans were other boats and a salmon farm with a crazy house built <em>on the water</em> instead of on a nearby island. Perhaps the land is protected?</p>
<p>That afternoon a meeting was called in the ship's pub: a major earthquake had occured in Chile, about 90 km off the coast from Concepcion: they said it was about 9 on the Richter-scale, at the epicenter. It hit the most densely popolated part of Chile the hardest, including Santiago. Some lives were lost, lots of property damaged, Australia and Japan were expecting a tsunami and apparently Castro, where we were less than a week ago, was evacuated for the same reason. Nothing like Haiti, from the sounds of it, but a big deal all the same.</p>
<p>(The nerd in me was, somewhat perversely, fascinated to see that the news printout posted in the mess-hall quoted Twitter users as a news source in a multiple places.)</p>
<p>It was weird to think how in the last couple of months we have been trailed by disaster while we blithely enjoy our sunny, incident-free holiday. Mud-slides in Machu Picchu last month, a tourist died of fumes climbing some nearby volcano (I thought it was the same one, but Ewelina just corrected me) only days after our aborted climb and now this... We decided to, if possible, send word home from Puerto Eden to reassure people we are fine and happy as usual.</p>
<p>Dinner on our second night was, as predicted by our guide-book, spaghetti bolognaise. Tasty! That evening and during the night is when we ventured out into the open Pacific and had some actual waves: for this only part of the journey where sea-sickness was a possibility, they fed us food that looks the same coming up as it did going down. Ha ha!</p>
<p>Neither of us got sea-sick, but we did have a nice nap before going back outside to gaze at the stars and have the deck all to ourselves for a bit. We both liked the waves and the gentle rocking of the boat, at last it felt like we were at sea.</p>
<p>We were glad we were in the channels when the tsunami (if there was one) passed by though, we don't know what those look like at sea and would rather read about it on Wikipedia than experience one first-hand.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-85460159440838622982010-02-26T21:12:00.000+00:002010-03-02T22:47:57.207+00:00Leaving Puerto Montt<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-41.787567138671875,-72.8951416015625'><b>72°53'42"W<br/>41°47'15"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Our first day on the Navimag ferry was mostly spent on land, in Puerto Montt.</p>
<p>Much to Ewelina's surprise, I woke up early, too excited to sleep. We showered, put our laptops in the window to check the internets, had some breakfast and packed our stuff. We were checked out and on a bus to Puerto Montt before 9am.</p>
<p>Busses here in Chile are wonderfully South American - probably one of the things we will miss back in Europe. Most are privately owned and run (or at least look that way), so the service is excellent. They stop anywhere to pick you up: just wave or nod when the driver honks at you. You pay whenever you like, when you get on, as you get off, or at any time in between. And you can leave where-ever you like too, once you have mustered the courage and Spanish to just ask.</p>
<p>Ewelina cleverly asked our driver to let us off at the corner nearest the Navimag offices, saving us at least half an hour of walking with our backpacks full of red wine. We got there around 10. We checked in and left our big packs with some porters - and then we were free until 14.30 that afternoon.</p>
<p>So we wandered around downtown Puerto Montt, had lunch and wifi and browsed some used-clothes shops. We still failed to find the main square, but we did find some beer to take with us on the boat.</p>
<p>After a brief intro at the Navimag offices, we boarded our ferry around 3pm. We found our cabin, disappointed to find we were sharing the tiny little room with another couple. When we bought our tickets, we had been told that the boat was only half-full, so we had foolishly gotten our hopes up that we would have some privacy...</p>
<p>Ah well. We explored the boat, ending up on deck with most of the other passengers, enjoying the beautiful weather and waiting for our voyage to begin.</p>
<p>Around half past four, it did!</p>
<p>As we slowly left the harbour, the big boat tooted its deep horn a few times, to the delight of three boys jumping and splashing and waving in the surf.</p>
<p>We waved back.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-13825352738663355102010-02-26T03:22:00.002+00:002010-03-03T01:26:30.091+00:00The Navimag routeHere is a nice map I stole online, of the Navimag itinerary:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR72uTvdAtWz-1l_0ONFkZ4gLs0hEtdJyKhXXaevJNBq1J50oBVs42C_hP18lwQIm9aNvpfyKGdwtyJrMMkdsa2oL1bnxn3_7bd86ntOacYQJmtR0kCe0uRTang_pfP5VyFJLSqa2wfI/s1600-h/navimag-route.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 313px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR72uTvdAtWz-1l_0ONFkZ4gLs0hEtdJyKhXXaevJNBq1J50oBVs42C_hP18lwQIm9aNvpfyKGdwtyJrMMkdsa2oL1bnxn3_7bd86ntOacYQJmtR0kCe0uRTang_pfP5VyFJLSqa2wfI/s320/navimag-route.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442387958662610786" /></a><br /><br />We leave tomorrow - we are supposed to be on-board by noon, and should leave Puerto Montt sometime around 4pm. After that... well, that's what the map is for!<br /><br />We'll be back online in a few days, see you then! :-)Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-30551819843419449142010-02-22T21:53:00.001+00:002010-03-03T01:28:42.844+00:00Puerto Varas<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-41.31673049926758,-72.983642578125'><b>72°59'1"W<br/>41°19'0"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>To Navimag, or not to Navimag?</p>
<p>That was the question that kept us awake at night while we were in Castro. <a href="http://www.navimag.cl/">The Navimag ferry</a> is ridiculously overpriced and the reviews it gets online are mixed to say the least. But sailing to the Southern tip of Patagonia, past glaciers and between islands... looking at satellite photos of the region (on Google Maps) sealed the deal for me. We have to go, and the budget will just have to recover later.</p>
<p>On the way from Castro to Puerto Varas we stopped in Puerto Montt and bought our tickets. We're going on a boat!</p>
<p>So, with Navimag always on my mind, I hadn't really given Puerto Varas much thought. For me it was a place to hang out while we waited for our boat to leave, maybe we could go rafting or something, maybe catch up on our digital blogging and photo-publishing chores.</p>
<p>And we have done that; this post brings our blog fully up to date, and <a href="http://photos.sacrifiction.net/">all our best photos are online</a>. Rafting turned out to bee too expensive for a too-tame and too-short experience, but to my surprise, Puerto Varas and surroundings have been lots of fun.</p>
<p>The town itself is cute, our B&B (Hospedaje Ellenhaus) is cheap, central and really cosy. We've had excellent food served by a cheerfully weird waitress, made friends with local canines, and gone on day trips by bus to nearby towns; Puerto Montt and Frutillas.</p>
<p>Puerto Montt was the typical mix of charming and ugly you expect from a busy port; the Angelmó harbour is gorgeous and full of markets and crafts and smiling holidaymakers, the downtown area sports the ugliest mall I have seen and a central square we either couldn't find or was so insignificant we didn't notice it. Just outside the center are cosy little residential areas with pretty houses. It was fun to walk around, but we were both glad we stayed in Puerto Varas instead.</p>
<p>Frutillas for us was just two streets and a pretty beach, pretty guesthouses and happy tourists; we skipped the commercial part of Frutillas, 2km up the hill. We had a picnic on the beach, taking in the view of the lake and the amazing volcano Osorno, sitting under a tree to avoid the blazing sun. Then we visited the fascinating Museo Histórico Colonial Alemán, learned all about German colonization of the region and discovered that Ewelina's goal in life is to live in a German colonial mansion.</p>
<p>Back in Puerto Varas, we have fetched our clean laundry, had an amazing veggieburger at the cute Hollyfood across the street, published our lives to the Internet and now are pondering what sort of food and drinks to take with us on the boat tomorrow. Life is good.</p>
<p>We're going on a boat!</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-5282434163663959232010-02-20T22:31:00.002+00:002010-02-26T03:08:26.843+00:00Like home... almostA bus drives kilometer after kilometer towards Castro: a journey that should last some eight hours, including a short ferry passage. Castro is on the island of Chiloé, the largest in an archipelago of the same name: there's no other way to reach the place, than to park your vehicle on a ferry and patiently wait for it to finish the crossing. But I don't know that yet: my bus still has its wheels on the road, slowly distancing itself from Valdivia and the surrounding lakes. In the busses belly I sit, sounds of my favorite band filling my headphone-plugged ears. Next to me, Bjarni listens to his own music, pounding something into the keyboard of his tiny laptop. Outside the window, the sun tries to penetrate dense layers of rain-filled clouds, that only occasionally part to reveal a speck of pale blue sky. The monotonous landscape makes a welcome change from what we have seen so far, reminding me of home. Green everywhere, trees covering huge stretches of land, the smell of damp earth entering the bus, dandelions glittering on meadows, wild fowl flying low over marshlands, kayaks gliding over lakes, bales of hay on fields here and there, although on most it is still not the right time for haymaking. Bjarni is reminded of home by local houses: wooden, with sloping tin roofs, corroded by rust.<br /><br />It is here that I realised for the first time how much Bjarni misses Iceland: as we step back on dry land, after a short ride on a small cutter-cum-ferry, far from Valdivia, Corral seems to be a place transported in its entirety from the other hemisphere. The very same buildings, the same boats, the same wind, the same grey clouds overhead, cold air, the same smell of the ocean. The feeling of returning home is misleading though: we are soon reminded that we're in Chile, we're reminded by local plants, by hills covered densly with tall, strange trees and the remains of a fort, a hangout of locals dressed like pirates. Corral is a part of a XVII-century Spanish fortification system, as are Niebla and Isla Mancera. The latter, Isla Mancera, can be circled on foot in only forty minutes: we take bit little longer as our time is consumed by a detour to the beach. We have to turn back after a few minutes of exploring though, the stones are too slippery, the wind too strong and neither of us wants to end up in the foamy, cold waves that batter the shore harder and harder and harder. Also, we don't know the local tides, and a dense, high wall of thorny bushes wouldn't let us - if necessary - escape the shore. The boom of the wind is muted as, separated from the water by those bushes and tall trees, we head back to the ferry. Sea gulls and some birds of prey circle overhead. A rain is brewing.<br /><br />In Valdivia, it rained almost constantly: it rains when we fall asleep, when we wake up, when we eat breakfast, when we make our dinner. And yet, the rains somehow always relent when we leave the house. Valdivia seems to like us, and we like her back. Three rivers cross in this place, the ocean is just around the corner, a submarine rests in the port, sea lions swimming around it. We spent a lot of time in the local market's concrete shell: we eat fried hakes and salmon, washed down with beer, in a restaurant upstairs. We buy a sweater and a hat for Bjarni, we look for something interesting for me. We go seeking more beer in a famous German brewery a few kilometers away, but as our Lonely Planet gives us misleading information, we wander aimlessly around the suburbs before we finally find the right road, walk for an hour and reach the Kunstmann brew-pub. The beer is good, but the staff can't count and, while pouring someone a meter of beer, poor at least 50 cm all over me. We complain over the bill, gaining a 10% discount, but even after this rebate, our bill is too high. I point out things we didn't even order and one of the staff apologises and takes the bill away. After a while yet another person brings the exact same bill back again, but without the discount. We complain some more - and get yet another bill, with the highest number we've seen so far. As we have had enough of this, having fought about the bill for over half an hour, we write ourselves a proper bill, give ourselves a 10% discount, leave the right amount and walk away. We cannot believe how complicated adding up a few simple numbers turned out be... back in Valdivia I laugh at Bjarni, remembering his face, so full of frustration and disbelief when we got the third, highest bill.<br /><br />After a few days in Valdivia it was finally time to leave. Now, on the bus to Castro, we wait for it to take its place on the ferry...<br /><br />...<br /><br />It is festival time in Castro, so when Bjarni walks around looking for a place to stay, everyone just shakes their heads or asks for too much money. One nice old lady - as she closes the door behind him - whispers sadly: "poor gringito". The words somehow reach Bjarni's ears and his calm search becomes more paniced: we end up in a room we would probably never choose otherwise. The room itself is not that bad: it is in the centre so we're close to everything; it has wifi; it is cheap and quite spacious. It has its downsides though: it is in the centre so it smells of car exhaust and the ecstatic singing from the local church penetrates our windows late at night; it is incredibly cold (especially in the mornings, we shiver); in the next room, the owners run an internet cafe, so more than once, wearing only my pyjamas, I have to sneak past men in jackets to reach the bathroom. The bathroom is another story: apparently used not only by the owners who share their house with us, but also by the guests of the cafe and the people staying in the other rooms, is eternally occupied. When I finally fight my way there, there is no hot water. The mirror constantly murky, the washing machine either covered with dust or with drying dishes, in a dirty clothes' basket in the corner something smells bad, paint peels from the bathtub, the shower barely works and the floor sticks to my bare feet.<br /><br />Somehow, it all has a charm of its own, I think later, as I enjoy delicious grilled meat and sip cheap red wine at the festival. It was supposed to be Argentina that delighted me with its food, yet instead in Chile I finally learn what a good steak is. A few hours earlier I was admiring riders at the rodeo, and even went on stage myself, which I am now incredibly proud of. A bottle of Licor de Oro, a local specialty, sits in our backpack: we hope to carry at least some of it all the way home. The festival causes a small hangover the next day, but the sun shines so brightly that we go sightseeing the archipelago and its wooden churches anyway. We travel to Dalcahue, from where another bus and another ferry take us to Curaco de Vélez and Achao, tiny towns located on Isla Quinchao. The day is amazing, the weather cooperates, we eat ice-cream, fried fish, fries, we drink white wine and watch horses being tamed on the beach.<br /><br />I feel at home.Ewelinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04951749865412644639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-24161032847042129072010-02-13T12:02:00.001+00:002010-03-03T01:28:37.027+00:00Pucon<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-39.27604675292969,-71.97392272949219'><b>71°58'26"W<br/>39°16'33"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Pucon is a lovely little town, all wood houses and lush gardens, resting on the black banks of a lake, with the stunning Villarica volcano dominating the background with its constantly smoking cone and glacier.</p>
<p>We arrived early in the morning, before the town had properly woken up. We sat for a bit, drinking instant coffee and eating microwaved cheese sandwiches from a small shop, while we waited for the town to wake up enough for me to go looking for accomodation.</p>
<p>By noon, I had explored what felt like the entire town, and had found some options - not as expensive as we had feared, but not as cheap as we'd hoped. We ended up at Hospedaje Gonzales, spending half our daily budget on half a cabin in the back, with no keys to the front gate and no hot water to bathe without asking permission first. It was cosy enough, but the restrictions, and the price, grated.</p>
<p>The first day was spent napping and wandering around. We found a tour operator and booked an expensive hike up the volcano, for day two.</p>
<p>The hike started with a gathering in the Aguaventura office at 6.30 am, putting on mountain boots and packing our backpacks. Half the group piled into a big white van, towing our packs in a trailer behind. The other half milled about a bit, until three taxis showed up. Apparently the driver of the other van had had a bit too much to drink the night before...</p>
<p>Our ascent up the mountain started at the ski resort on its slopes, riding a chairlift up to 1800m. Then we put on some protective clothing, listened to poorly presented instructions on how to use our ice-picks (I repeated and demonstrated the main points to Ewelina afterwards), and began to climb.</p>
<p>It was a pretty slow, easy hike. Due to the van/taxi snafu, our group was one of the last, so there were about a hundred tourists ahead of us, helpfully compacting a path through the snow - and sending the occaisional stone rolling our way. There were quite a few stops on the way, so many in fact that I was a bit impatient at the slow pace, I was barely working hard enough to stay warm. But the view was amazing, so there was no risk of boredom. As we climbed higher, we began to smell hints of sulfer, and the guides began to prepare us for disappointment, as apparently the direction of the wind meant fumes and gasses might prevent us from reaching the top.</p>
<p>Sure enough, at 2440m we stopped and sat on a pile of black rocks for almost an hour before our guide announced that we would have to turn back, the fumes above were too bad to continue and the weather wasn't changing. We reluctantly swallowed our disappointment, and a big lump of jealousy as well: many of the less cautious groups ahead of us had forged onward and we could see people approaching the peak. Without knowing more about the risks, we couldn't decide whether to be disappointed or relieved to be turning back.</p>
<p>The trip down was much faster, lots of fun. We had put on all our protective clothing, including a thick ass-protector. Then we sat on bum-shaped pieces of plastic and careened down the slopes, using our ice-picks as breaks. Whee!</p>
<p>Overall, it was a great experience, which we totally enjoyed. We would have been happier if we had reached the top - the mountain seemed to be mocking us for the rest of our stay in Pucon - but we were glad we went. Ewelina wants to do more mountaineering in the near future...</p>
<p>The next day we slept in, eventually getting up to go buy bus tickets onward for the day after and book a tour to nearby thermal baths for the evening. After that we had a cheap but satisfying lunch at one of the places on our street and changed into our bathing clothes before heading to the beach.</p>
<p>The weather had changed though, and it wasn't really sunny enough for sitting by the water. We rented a bicycle-boat and paddled around the lake for half an hour, but that was it.</p>
<p>The high point of our day came that evening, as we piled into a van with four young Chileans on vacation, heading for the Los Pozones baths.</p>
<p>The baths were wonderful. We tried six different primitive pools made of rough stone, full of naturally warm water. The baths were next to a boisterous river and surrounded by forest. The sky was clear, and by the time we arrived it was already dark, as it got darker still our view of the stars became really quite amazing.</p>
<p>The first thing I noticed about the sky, was that Orion was upside-down - we are finally far enough South for the change to be very noticable. The we saw satellites zipping around, and finally the Milky Way and more stars than we could count. It was just perfect.</p>
<p>The two hours passed quickly, we ran out of beer and reluctantly had to leave the water and ride back to town. Ewelina, who hadn't wanted to leave only moments earlier, fell asleep almost instantly and slept all the way back with her head in my lap. That was nice too.</p>
<p>The next morning we packed up our things and got on a bus to Valdivia.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-34924374100995336732010-02-09T18:00:00.000+00:002010-02-25T22:59:03.968+00:00Santiago<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-33.45439147949219,-70.68882751464844'><b>70°41'19"W<br/>33°27'15"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>We stayed in Santiago for three nights, getting on a night-bus to Pucon on the fourth.</p>
<p>Not much noteworthy happened in Santiago, we mainly wandered around the city. It was a bit of a let-down after Valparaiso, too big, too expensive, too busy and nowhere near as charming. I suspect we might have appreciated the place more if we had come here first. The bohemian Bellavista neighborhood in particular had lots of potential - pretty tree lined streets, many bars and cafes and lots of elaborate, pretty graffiti. But we just weren't in the mood.</p>
<p>We probably saw the president at one point, judging by the barricades, media and cheering crowds, but we did not recognize him.</p>
<p>The most dramatic events were unrelated to the city, and all occurred on the last day: my laptop misbehaved badly, my tenants announced that they would like to move out as soon as possible and I had a bit of a migraine. </p>
<p>Ah well.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-86075336685475497452010-02-05T20:00:00.000+00:002010-02-25T22:59:00.861+00:00Valparaiso<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-33.04366683959961,-71.62714385986328'><b>71°37'37"W<br/>33°2'37"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Valparaiso was Ewelina's turn to find a hotel, so I just sat at a bar with a beer and a laptop after a short taxi-ride from the bus terminal to a nicer neighborhood.</p>
<p>She found us a place very quickly, almost too quickly... I suspected she might have just chosen the first place that had room, because she didn't feel like walking. She doesn't really like looking for accomodation.</p>
<p>But it turned out to be a very nice place: La Bicicleta, a B&B run by a funny frenchman, his little boy and (we presume) his wife. We had a comfy, spacious room to ourselves and breakfast every morning out in their sunny front yard. Usually the boy was out playing as we ate - as far as we could tell, water balloons were his favorite thing in the whole world, with his dad coming in at a close second. It was all very charming.</p>
<p>And that was how we felt about the rest of Valparaiso too: charmed. It is a city of crazy hills, a beach with amazing waves, a harbour full of navy vessels and houses built in funny shapes or covered with colorful graffiti. We had lots of fun just walking around with our camera, as we always do, but we also enjoyed a random marionette museum, a clown show later at the same venue and a day of just sitting on the beach watching the waves and reading.</p>
<p>One of the main attractions of Valparaiso is the <em>ascensores</em>, 100-plus year old elevators that shake and rattle as they carry you up or down the steep cliffs that surround the city center. We rode a few, one of which - the city's oldest - was well over a century old and originally powered by a steam engine. Great fun, and like everything else here, really charming.</p>
<p>We liked Valparaiso a lot.</p>
<p>The only negative thing about our stay here, was me freaking out a bit about money. The prices in Argentina and now Chile, combined with our habits from further North, meant we were at this point constantly over the budget set by our almighty Spreadsheet. This meant we both had no money to spare for tours or activities, and would probably also run out of cash before getting back to "the real world". Eeek!</p>
<p>We talked about it, and decided to revise our expectations a bit. Restaurants (except for lunch specials) could no longer be an everyday thing, private bathrooms and wifi were now a luxury, not a goal. We decided to start carrying less cash, so daily goals would feel more like actual limits.</p>
<p>... and so I stopped freaking out, and we got back to enjoying our trip.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>As this is written, a couple of weeks later, I can spare you the suspense and report that we are back on budget and perfectly happy.</p>
<p>It turns out the standard of living in Chile is so much higher than it was further North, that these changes aren't really much of a sacrifice. Budget accomodation here is much, much nicer than the "bargains" we had learned to avoid elsewhere. And the same can be said of the food and drink. Finally, to our surprise, Chile actually feels a bit cheaper than Argentina did.</p>
<p>This is probably good practice for real life too - we know we won't be able to go out to eat every single day when we get back home...</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-58223276946692089762010-02-02T04:37:00.000+00:002010-02-26T14:45:09.776+00:00Where the wine flowsMendoza comes to life only twice a day: in the morning, when everybody rushes to work, and in the evening, when everybody rushes out to meet their friends. Dusk is just falling behind the window. Lights combine: the headlights of passing cars, restaurants' neon signs, street lanterns. The wide streets are lined with tall trees, whose crowns obscure buildings' windows. Mere metres away is the biggest square I have ever seen in a city centre: it is not a mere square, it is more like a small park. In 1861, a great earthquake destroyed Mendoza completely: the town had to be rebuilt from scratch. Mindful of the recent disaster, it was decided to implement some innovations that - if necessary - would make it possible to survive another quake. That's the reason for the wide streets and the huge central square, it will serve as an evacuation point when the worst happens. For now though, in the evenings, local craftsmen display their goods here. Everything is for sale: jewelry, kaleidoscopes, leather bags and wallets, wooden bowls for dips, colourful masks, sweets, dolls, jams. Enthusiastic kids run from stall to stall, peer into the fountains, play hide-and-seek between the trees. The main square is surrounded by four smaller ones, each a few blocks away. Fountains, canals, continuously watered lawns, trees - ubiquitous presence of water and green makes one forget that Mendoza is built in a desert. Thanks to the constant irrigation, life in the city is very pleasant - one doesn't feel the heat that burns the surrounding land.<br /><br />We're sitting in one of many local restobars: the places where nice, relaxing music flows from the speakers, food is never consumed without wine and wifi is free for all. We're resting after a day spent in Maipu, a small town a couple of kilometers away from Mendoza itself. We're resting after a day spent conquering a few kilometers of asphalt road in unbearable sunshine, on shoddy bicycles, with occasional breaks for wine, olives and even more wine. It's amazing how much better it tastes after learning the secrets of its production.<br /><br />Until now, wine for me was just wine: cheap or expensive, but lacking any important meaning, really. I could even be called a <em>wine blasphemer</em>. Even though, having watched so many movies, in my heart I've dreamt of having my own vineyard (somewhere in the hills of France, in a small town where everyone knows each other, with a big old house...), somehow I've never even had the will to at least read some Wikipedia pages about wine. Today I have a splitting headache from an overload of interesting information. I now know how rose wine comes to be. I know that every kind of grape requires slightly different irrigation. I know the difference between young wine, reserva, gran reserva and premium. I know what the tools used in production of the beverage look like. I know that a barrel should be turned into furniture after its third use. I know that corks are brought to Mendoza from Portugal. I know one mustn't drink Malbec in France and that this kind of wine tastes the best in Argentina. Gorging myself with olives produced in a neighbouring factory, and hoping to prove to Bjarni how much I know already, I joke that in 2004 they surely had a sensational harvest here, the best one in years. The laugh gets caught in my throat at the Di Tomasi vineyard, where our female guide shows us shelves stocked with their most expensive wine. Only four thousands bottles were made and they were personally numbered by the owner of the wineyard and are sold only here, in this place. As the grapes were from the best possible harvest, it was decided to limit their sale to at most a thousand bottles per year - the rest collect dust on the shelves, which only adds to their charm. The year of that harvest? 2004... We buy a bottle, planning to drink the contents on a special occasion, and return to the city. We stop on the way, glancing at Aconcagua, the highest peak of the Andes. The mountain delights and intimidates at the same time - one can feel its power from afar. We return our rented bikes and catch a bus going in our direction. A few minutes later we reach our place and now, here we are, resting in the restobar.<br /><br />I'm sitting with my legs extended in front of me, listening to jazz and thinking about our day. Though so far Argentina fails to charm me, this, one of the most incredible views of our trip, made it worth coming: <em>vineyards stretching towards the horizon, towards the snow-capped peak of the amazing Aconcagua</em>.Ewelinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04951749865412644639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-46151460073176396562010-01-29T19:23:00.000+00:002010-02-25T02:23:16.724+00:00Cosquin<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-31.243898391723633,-64.46580505371094'><b>64°27'56"W<br/>31°14'38"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Cosquin is a small town, an hour away from Cordoba by local bus. We visited this town because of a music festival there, which a Swedish couple at our hostel told us about.</p>
<p>They were absolutely charmed by the dancing they saw and the attention they got as foreigners. We figured it couldn't hurt to check it out.</p>
<p>When we got to Cosquin, around 4pm, it took us a little while to find the action.</p>
<p>Near the bus terminal we came across an abandoned stage and some limp banners advertising the festival, but there was no one around. I asked a police lady if it was over, or when it would begin... when she realized what I was going on about, she pointed down the road, said I needed to walk 5 more blocks.</p>
<p>Ok! Off we went.</p>
<p>Five blocks later, we came to a large stadium with even more banners. Closed. The tourist info was also closed. The streets weren't quite empty, but it was very quiet. Hmm. We could see that there were people in the stadium, on stage, rehearsing something, so this was definitely more promising, although it still failed to live up to the Swede's enthusiasm.</p>
<p>We remembered they had mentioned the river as well, so after a beer and a sandwich, we headed downhill to see what we might find. And there it was!</p>
<p>A river! With people in it! Quite a few people, mostly women tanning themselves and letting the shallow water keep them cool.</p>
<p>But still no music. We walked some more, stopping to buy a bottle of wine so we could have a picnic by the water, if the music festival turned out to be a merely a myth. The guy who sold me our cheap fun-in-a-bottle said we should keep walking upstream, there was a small stage around the bend. He also told me the big show in town (in the stadium) wouldn't start until ten. Overall, the information was probably worth more than the wine.</p>
<p>We happily walked around the bend, found the stage and joined the small group of spectators, drank our wine and watched the locals dance, 2, 8, 20 at a time. It was a small, relaxed party, kids and dogs running around, adults bathing in the river, people-watching or dancing. The dancing was very fun to see - worth the trip for me, even though the crowd only seemed to know one dance. Apparently the event was sponsered by some company that makes Yerba Mate - bags of the stuff were given away as prizes, or for no reason at all. We got one.</p>
<p>Ewelina said the whole scene reminded her a lot of some of the country festivals back in Poland, for me the experience was more novel.</p>
<p>The most interesting event was a traditional dance-off between a young man, a boy, an even younger boy, and a drunk man. They took turns waving their legs around and stomping so frantically one almost expected a limb to come flying off into the crowd. It was a bit like Irish traditional dances on speed. Happily no one lost a leg, although the drunk dude did loose his balance more than once, much to the crowd's delight. One of the little boys won, we clapped a lot.</p>
<p>This was followed by a poetry competition that went right over our heads, and some more dancing.</p>
<p>Eventually, the sun went behind a mountain, it got colder and we ran out of wine. We slowly made our way back up the hill and pushed our way through the throngs of people that had suddenly filled the streets, found a bus and made it back to our hostel in Cordoba.</p>
<p>We never did figure out what got the Swedes so excited, but it was a good, fun day all the same.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-28780231796685170352010-01-27T12:01:00.000+00:002010-02-24T15:10:25.183+00:00Cordoba<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-31.417213439941406,-64.18297576904297'><b>64°10'58"W<br/>31°25'1"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Cordoba was a pretty, very European-feeling city, full of students and bars. We were still reeling a bit from the Argentinian prices, so we mostly just wandered around looking at things and people, window-shopping.</p>
<p>We stayed in a the very nice Grand Hostel, which actually <em>was</em> a hostel, not a B&B or small hotel as we had become used to. There was a TV room, a little cybercafe, a kitchen and an small courtyard with a ping-pong table. The staff were very friendly and helpful.</p>
<p>We cooked and played ping-pong, and sweated in the heat. Unfortunately, the internet access and TV room weren't of much use to us, as usually when we felt like using them, there was no electricity: our neighborhood at least had scheduled power outages every afternoon - exactly when we wanted nothing more than to hide from the midday heat and be nerds with air-con. Or at least a fan...</p>
<p>After walking around town we discovered that it wasn't just our neighborhood. The entire city seemed to be run on generators. Shops either closed in the afternoon or put small diesel generators out on the sidewalk and burned oil to keep the lights on and the freezers frozen. Weird.</p>
<p>Aside from wandering around, our Cordoba activities included a long morning at the post office, a long night at a local bar, and a day trip to nearby Cosquin. But the most memorable thing was definitely the ubiquitous generators. :-)</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-14632706746233938472010-01-24T17:59:00.000+00:002010-02-18T22:24:52.513+00:00Salta<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-24.84619140625,-65.44097900390625'><b>65°26'27"W<br/>24°50'46"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>We arrived in Salta rather late, too late to go looking for my friend Mario, who had offered us a place to stay. So I walked around the center, looking for alternatives. The pickings were slim, and expensive.</p>
<p>Eventually, after much failure, it started to rain and we decided to just take whatever; we ended up in an expensive, small room in a fancy downtown hotel. But at least they had a good breakfast and wifi - we were able to get in touch with Mario.</p>
<p>That first night our late-night dinner was Parilla, a collection of meat, internal organs and sausages off the grill, which is apparently a local standard/speciality. We didn't like it much.</p>
<p>The next day we met Mario in the city center and took a cab to his place, which was about 15 minutes away. He made us feel very welcome, very at home. It nice to see him and catch up, discuss some tech and gossip about Iceland - Mario and I used to work together in Iceland, at Frisk, so we had lots to talk about. In keeping with the geeky atmosphere, Mario also lent me his soldering iron and I performed surgery on my laptop.</p>
<p>Overall, Salta was a quiet stop for us - the main impression was one of reverse culture shock: the city felt so European after Bolivia, Peru and Ecuador. We could even throw toilet paper <em>in the toilet</em> some of the time! It took us a while just to recognize again the characteristically South American things; the chaotic busses, crazy market and shops that seemed to be nothing more than glass display cases.</p>
<p>We walked around a lot, discovered medialunes (sweet crescent shaped breakfast pastries), figured out the city busses, saw a local crafts market, visited a museum to see more Inca mountaintop mummies, and played quite a few games of pool with Mario. He also made sure we tasted a local cake with icing made of sugar-cane and took us out one night for typical empanadas, which was followed by an exciting taxi ride through torrential rain and completely flooded streets back to his place.</p>
<p>We still had such camera-hangover after our tour of Southern Bolivia, that we hardly took any pictures - a week later when we went through our photos we realized we hadn't even a single photo of our host! Oops...</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-58964030957195356712010-01-22T11:24:00.000+00:002010-02-07T20:03:42.434+00:00Border crossing<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-22.09660530090332,-65.59635925292969'><b>65°35'46"W<br/>22°5'47"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>We reached the Bolivian/Argentinian border around 7.30 in the morning, after catching a 4am bus from Tupiza.</p>
<p>There was a bit of a queue on the Bolivian side, to get an exit-stamp, and the tiny building was so poorly suited to the task of handling all the traffic that for a while we couldn't figure out where to go.</p>
<p>Once we got that sorted out, got our stamps, we crossed the bridge over to the Argentinian side. That is where the fun began.</p>
<p>First we queued for an hour and a half, to get our passports stamped. While waiting, we watched with confusion as border guards picked people at random from the queue, took their documents and sent them to <em>another</em> queue, to have their bags searched. They would then return with the stamped documents a few minutes later. The confusing thing was, that apparently many people <em>wanted</em> to be searched, shouting at the guards and demanding to be moved. Weird.</p>
<p>After finally getting our stamps, we realized why: <em>everyone</em> had to be searched. After standing patiently in one queue, not arguing with anyone, we were rewarded for our coopertation by being sent to the end of the other queue, while the pushy and greedy and lucky had long since passed us by.</p>
<p>It was really quite infuriating - our first day in Argentina wasn't off to a very good start.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-5558762902804443602010-01-20T10:33:00.000+00:002010-02-07T19:43:12.656+00:00Salar de Uyuni<div style='margin: 0px 0px 5px 10px; text-align: right; float: right' class='wbBox'><a class='wbLoc' title='Open map ...' href='http://maps.google.com/?q=-20.24140739440918,-67.6277084350586'><b>67°37'39"W<br/>20°14'29"S</b></a><br/><a class='wbLink' href='http://whereblogger.klaki.net/'><small><i>WhereBlogger!</i></small></a></div><p>Upon arrival in Tupiza, after securing a room for the night, our first priority was to visit the El Grano de Oro tour operator and see about booking a tour of the Uyuni salt flat.</p>
<p>El Grano de Oro had been recommended to us by a pair of South-African girls on the little boat that evacuated me, my poor elbow and the worried Ewelina from Isla del Sol. We passed the agency as we walked into town looking for accomodation, so we didn't even have to look for it, and when we asked about the tour, we were told that a French couple had been there shortly before us, asking for the same thing, a tour the next morning. The couple was staying in our hotel, so we just walked back, found them and everything was settled. The price: 1150 Bs each, everything except tips and one park entrance fee included. It would be the four of us in a jeep, along with a cook and a driver/guide.</p>
<p>We left the next morning around 9am.</p>
<p>The tour was fantastic: colorful mountains, deserts, weird rock formations, beautiful lakes, hot springs, a natural bath, museums, adobe huts, hotels made of salt, a public phone ringing on a deserted villiage square, a cemetary in a lava field, a flat tire, flamingoes, llamas, wild vicuñas, little rabbit-creatures... and of course the salt flat itself.</p>
<p>The say a picture is worth a thousand words, and we took almost a thousand pictures - <a href="http://photos.sacrifiction.net/Keywords/Salar de Uyuni/">the best of which we put online</a>.</p>
<p>The tour was excellent, and although it wasn't the cheapest, during our last meal, in a hotel made of salt, French girls from another tour convinced us we had gotten our money's worth: they literally begged for scraps of our lasagne and wine - they were about to have chicken and rice for the third night in a row. Their guide was a young boy, probably not even 20 years old - ours had been doing the tour for years. We only paid about 100Bs more than they did.</p>
<p>Our main regret was that, due to not doing our homework properly, we didn't realize that the tour we signed up for was mostly about the amazing landscapes South of the salt flats, the flats themselves only got one morning out of the four days we spent on the road. Not that the other three days were wasted - but if we had realized, we might have stayed in Uyuni after the tour, instead of returning to Tupiza, so we could do <em>another</em> tour and spend more time on the salt.</p>
<p>It's an amazing place.</p>
Bjarni Rúnarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409296389395181848noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-52379663911193261552010-01-13T14:08:00.006+00:002010-02-07T18:57:45.556+00:00Legends of the Cordillera de los FrailesNot far from Sucre, in the mountains of Cordillera de los Frailes, on the banks of the Mama Huasi river, there is a deserted Spanish hacienda. Three household buildings and a small church remember the times when, on the slopes of the surrounding mountains, battles were fought for Bolivia's independance. The white walls of the homestead listened to the bang of consecutive rifle volleys; volleys fired by Spaniards towards rebels hiding in the mountains. They, however, soon realized that their enemies in the valley couldn't see who they were aiming at. A trap was prepared: local costumes were put on trees, in the hope that, due to the height, the Spaniards wouldn't see the difference. While the gunshots continued, the rebels crept down the mountain and surrounded their enemies, killing them all very quickly. Winning that battle didn't end the fighting though: the Spaniards soon caught one of the uprising's leaders. In front of the locals, his arms and legs were tied to four horses that were then whipped to the four directions. The man died a martyr's death, dismembered alive.<br /><br />Revenge had to come quickly. The indigenous, indignant at the brutal treatment of their hero and used to being treated as slavish man-power on the Spanish hacienda, decided to rebel against its residents. On an autumn night in the eighteenth century, the Spaniards were woken by Quechuan screams outside their home. The smell of burning grass wafted through the air, smoke squeezing itself into the white buildings, wood crackling. When members of the family rushed towards windows and doors, they were already all very well barricaded. Fire was ravaging the hacienda, the bamboo roof caving in under its power, the Spanish family slowly dying inside their own four walls. Whether it was the grandmother, or her daughter, nobody knows today, but one thing is for sure: amidst the stench of burning skin, under the yellow-red sky, somebody cursed the locals. The curse prevailed over the hacienda for a few centuries, causing people to avoid the place. And though a few years ago the buildings were restored, today serving as someone's granary, still none of the locals are brave enough to spend the night. Supposedly, one can hear inhuman screams, cracks of broken roofs, Quechuan chants; supposedly fire will squeeze itself into your nostrils: you will wake up the next morning, having lost all your senses.<br /><br />Some time ago a small boy got lost in the area, and, too exhausted to continue walking, he fell asleep against the walls of the hacienda's. The very next day, when he was found, he couldn't even recognise his own family, "he went crazy". Today he is a grown man, living high in the mountains, next to a cemetery, along with his father (or grandfather, nobody is sure anymore); supposedly every night he screams wildly, unable to fall asleep..<br /><br />...<br /><br />Cordillera de los Frailes hides many incredible stories. Locals say that once a year, on an August night, its slopes shine with gold and silver. Spaniards, fleeing from the rebels, supposedly hid their treasure high in the mountains, not wanting its weight to slow them down. Deeply convinced that they would return for it as soon as they crushed the rebellion, the Spaniards buried their blood money in the ground. Life had different plans though: Bolivia gained its independence and the Spaniards never returned for their gold. The treasure is still there, waiting to be discovered.<br /><br />They say that one who is lucky enough to be in that area on a special August night, will see blue flames lighting up the slopes. If he wants to be rich, he should then, as soon as possible, head toward the flames, thrust a knife into the source of the fire, and leave without delay. The next day, the knife will mark the location of the treasure. Locals will also happily lead people to the gold, running away as soon as they start digging. Careful though! Before reaching the treasure, a deadly gas will erupt from the ground, killing the unprepared. Without a human sacrifice to Pachamama, the valuables cannot be touched... Supposedly, every now and then, families of local farmers build impressive buildings in the centre of Sucre. Nobody knows where these recently-poor people get the money for these projects. Do they find Spanish gold, after sacrificing someone's life to Pachamama?<br /><br />...<br /><br />Or do they have luck talking to the Devil? <br /><br />Supay Huasi, the Devil's Cave, is hidden between rocks high in the mountains. Rain and snow washed away the path that, until only a few years ago, led through the area, quite close to the cave itself. Today one has to climb slippery rocks, with the remains of the old trail barely visible. Without a guide this is impossible. When a tenacious wanderer finally reaches this cave, he will see red paintings on the walls. They show small figures that represent the pre-Inca underworld. One of the paintings represents the Devil. It is He who rules this place, feasting here once every year with His entourage.<br /><br />Once upon a time, a young man was returning home, following the path that has since been washed away. Accompanying him was a donkey burdened with a huge bag of coal, bought by Uruchi in a village a few kilometers away. There was a smell of frost in the air, foreshadowing the rapit onset of winter. The coal was crucial to Uruchi's large family's survival. The prices in the village had gone up and the boy spent more time than usual haggling, now it was getting dark and he still had a fair distance to cover. He knew he wouldn't reach home by nightfall, and even if he hadn't been so tired, a hike in the darkness wouldn't be the best idea: hordes of wild animals were roaming the area, eager to tear to pieces anyone foolish enough to cross their path. Uruchi knew that, aside from the cave around the bend, there was no shelter nearby. The cave always terrified him, even when passing it in daylight, because of all the horrible stories people told about it. Supposedly, once a year, right about this time, residents of the valley below saw lights in the hills, where the cave could be seen by day. Incoherant screams and loud singing began around midnight, keeping people awake for what seemed like forever, but was probably only an hour or so. And after things quieted down, there was a distinct smell of sulphur in the air. Supposedly. Uruchi had never heard those songs, never seen the lights, his house was a few kilometers up the valley. Tonight though, he felt he didn't have much choice, he had to seek shelter within the walls of the cave. Maybe he would have some luck, and tonight wouldn't be that mysterious night?<br /><br />The cave was enveloped in darkness, but Uruchi somehow managed to untie the bag of coal from the tired donkey's back. The animal thanked him with a twitch of its ears and made its way to the other end of the cave. Shivering with cold, exhausted by the hours of hiking uphill, terrified at this place he found himself in, Uruchi huddled in a corner and hid under a blanket. The blanket slowly became damp, as water dripped off the wall of the cave. Uruchi must had fallen asleep, as he was awakened by chaotic song. The cave had changed beyond all recognition: its walls were lit by the flames of massive candles, a huge monster was seated on a throne that appeared out of nowhere, and horrifying creatures danced around the embers of a slowly fading coal fire. The unbearable music abated, as the monster rose to his feet. Uruchi tried to pretend he wasn't there, but he knew he had been noticed. The monster approached the boy: "The coal that lies in the corner, is it yours?" "Yes, my lord", the scared boy somehow managed to mumble. "As you can see, ours is about finished. Shall we trade?", asked the monster, pointing at a similarly sized bag beside his throne. Uruchi could only nod, too afraid to upset the creature with a refusal. "Fine then, put my bag on your donkey tomorrow morning. But don't you dare look inside before you reach your house, no matter what!", the monster turned his back to Uruchi, snapped all three of his fingers and disappeared together with his entire entourage. The cave looked as before and only a foul smell remained as evidence that something strange had happened here. Dawn was breaking. Uruchi rubbed his tired eyes and, still not sure whether he had just awoken from the weirdest dream of his life, or whether he had met the Devil himself, fastened his sack to the back of the donkey. The coal seemed unusually light, the walk home unexpectedly easy and finally, much sooner than he had expected, Uruchi reached his home. Inside the small house, his older brother sat by the hearth. Seeing Uruchi, he shouted: "Why so late?! And why do you bring such a small bag?! I am doing everything I can here, and you can't even handle the simple task of purchasing coal! I bet this stupid donkey could have carried twice as much!". Uruchi hid his head in his arms, as Thaluki grabbed the bag and dumped its contents on the floor. The little house was suddenly lit up by glittering reflections: gold brightened the room much more than the fire of the hearth ever could. Thaluki forced the astounded Uruchi to spit out the story of his unexpected meeting, and at that moment the older brother swore he would seek even more riches next year.<br /><br />The year seemed like an eternity for the impatient Thaluki. Disgusted by the stupidity of his brother, who kept wasting his money helping others, Thaluki dreamt of a bigger house and purchasing hundreds of donkeys and lamas. The field was spoiling unused, but Thaluki did not care: soon he would be rich. When the right time finally arrived, he set off for the village to buy coal. By the time Thaluki finally reached the cave, his poor donkey could barely move under the weight of two gigantic sacks, but Thaluki was too excited to unload the creature. Hurrying in his younger brother's footsteps, he went inside and huddled against the wall, covering himself with a blanket. He didn't fall asleep though, he waited patiently for the party to appear. At last, around midnight, candles lit up, a camp-fire burned, and the cave became full of dancing demons. As soon as the Devil appeared on His throne, Thaluki threw off his blanket and ran towards Him. He was brought to an abrupt halt by dozens of spears, and only their master's rough voice prevented disgusting creatures from impaling him right there. "What do you want?", asked the monster. "I have a proposal for you. I want to exchange those two bags my donkey is carrying, for two bags of yours!", Thaluki responded without needless ceremony. "Oh, really? That is good, we need coal!', the monster laughed, and the deal was made. The lights went out, the singing silenced, the hellish ballroom became merely a cave once again. Thaluki couldn't believe it was that easy, that he himself had just talked to the Devil. He called for the donkey, but couldn't hear it braying anywhere in response. He searched the immediate vicinity, but to no avail. The stupid donkey, finally relieved of its load, must have wandered off foraging for food. Well, or it might itself have been eaten. Thaluki promised himself that as soon as he found it, he would give it a good beating, but until then he would have to carry the bags of gold himself. He struggled with the load, the sacks seemed to get heavier and heavier with every step. He could barely breathe when he finally reached his house, much later than usual. Drenched in sweat, he threw the bags to the ground and tore them open. Then he fell to the ground beside them, vomiting helplessly in disgust: inside, instead of the anticipated gold, were the bowels of his hapless donkey. The Devil mocked Thaluki, teaching him a lesson: it is not a man who chooses to deal with the Devil, but the Devil - a man.<br /><br />...<br /><br />I pass the hacienda, I walk by the crazy man's house, I pause by the cemetery on my way to Supay Huasi, the cave hidden in the hills. Luckily it is a hot day, the sun blazing overhead in a cloudless sky, so I am not at all frightened by the stories I hear on my way. It is a beautiful landscape: birds singing in the trees, majestic mountains towering over the river winding through the valley, their slopes are covered with green. A few hours of hiking through surroundings like this, is a pleasure. During lunch, our guide tells a tale of himself and his friend getting lost in the area. Fortunately, they had a tent, when they stumbled across a clearing, so they pitched it in the darkness and slept. In the middle of the night they were woken up by voices outside. Neither of them was brave enough to check what was going on. When the first reys of sun finally entered the tent, the boys left the tent and spent an hour looking for signs of human presence in the area, but to no avail: there wasn't even a single footprint on the ground... I laugh at the story, it seems strangly unlikely to me.<br /><br />It's odd though, on this long a long hike, I only find four-leaves clovers in places belonging to the dead: near the cemetery and on the hacienda...Ewelinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04951749865412644639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1312409416583910163.post-77791481742679004302010-01-12T20:16:00.006+00:002010-02-03T19:53:55.307+00:00BoliviaOur three weeks in Bolivia have passed very quickly. We arrived here on the 29th of December: our bus stopped before the Peruvian-Bolivian bridge, ejected its human cargo and, empty, drove across as we approached at a slow walk. Stamps at the Peruvian police and customs offices, a mark in our passports on the Bolivian side. Without any problems, without our bags even being checked, passing policemen lazily gazing at the bikes and carriages of the locals, we crossed the bridge as if it were the most natural thing in the world.<br /><br />Finally, our bus reached Copacabana, on the shores of Lake Titikaka. A man wearing a baseball cap welcomed us, charging every single passenger a small fee for entry to the town, before going back to reading his newspaper on a little folding chair by the road-side. We drove off, only to stop again a few metres up the road: we had reached our destination. We soon discovered that Copacabana, the only beach town in Bolivia, had no cash machine. Luckily, we had some dollars with us, which we exchanged for local currency. We didn't stay in town for long though: we caught a boat to Isla del Sol, the island where the sun was born. The island greeted us with a long flight of Inca stairs, for me much more difficult than the four-day Machu Picchu hike, which we had to slowly climb with our backpacks before reaching the village above. We found shelter for the coming night in one of the many guesthouses and spent the rest of the day getting lost in the fields and admiring the views. The evening was spent on delicious pizza in a very romantic setting, followed by a bit of a panic when Bjarni injured his elbow. Early the next morning, by a normal, aquatic means of transport, we evacuated the complaining Bjarni from the island that had no medical facilities, returning to Copacabana and boarding a bus destined for La Paz. After a few kilometres the road ended and a serious obstacle appeared: a river. Bolivians had found a way to deal with it though, more innovative than the usual bridge: the bus was placed on a barge and its passengers, on a boat. The two were reunited on the other side.<br /><br />As we approached La Paz, everyone rushed toward the windows on the right side of the vehicle. The view was amazing, this huge city covered a vast area, houses blanketing the hills in all directions. As we drove down, into the valley, the bus started to make terrifying sounds and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air. We stopped by a petrol station: the driver and his assistant checked whether they could squeeze any more out of our poor bus. After some fifteen minutes we moved again, climbing a small hill: we stopped again at the top, mere meters away from our first unexpected stop. The driver opened the door and informed us that this was the end, we wouldn't go any further. People started laughing, but he was right: it really was the end, they had driven right to their office; exactly as planned. La Paz turned out to be incredibly noisy, polluted, masses of people flowing like rivers and uncountable stalls everywhere. At least, that was how the historical centre looked; when we went sightseeing in other parts of the city, our impressions were slightly different: the city seemed full of parks where whole families enjoyed ice-cream. We also stumbled upon a small church and at least four weddings in rapid succession, entertained by the same group of mariachis. They gave us their business-card, just in case... We spent New Year's Eve on the roof of one of the local hostels, staring as fireworks colored the sky above this city of millions, and then we followed the crowd to some random disco. In La Paz we also visited the wonderful Dr. Orellano, who fixed Bjarni's elbow.<br /><br />After a few days in La Paz, it was high time to move on. We went to Cochabamba, from where we planned to visit the Torotoro National Park, famously full of dinosaur footprints. The trip didn't work out though: travel agencies were charging much higher prices than we expected, and when we went looking for the only bus company able to get us to Torotoro (some 140 kilometers away from Cochabamba, the journey lasts - if one is lucky - a mere seven hours), its office magically vanished from the face of the earth. After a few hours of being lost in infinite rows of stalls (Cochabamba has the biggest martket I have ever seen in my life), between clothes, CDs, jewelry, books, shoes, appliances, fruit, computers, tyres; after getting a massive headache and panicing that there was no way out of this place; we gave up and instead of Torotoro, we decided to go to the city of Oruro.<br /><br />Oruro was boring: for two days Bjarni suffered from fever, which didn't help with sightseeing at all. On the second day, we decided to pay a visit to a doctor. He, apparently in a hurry to be elsewhere, sat Bjarni on a hospital bed, looked in his mouth, listened to his lungs and promptly prescribed a few days worth of antibiotics for what was apparently a throat infection. He also recommended we visit him again, for an injection, two hours later, after the pharmacy's siesta. Bjarni toughly refused to come back, refused all drugs, and spent the rest of the day in bed. He was miraculously cured the very next day. We could travel further, onwards to Sucre.<br /><br />Sucre turned out to be the most beautiful town in Bolivia. Well-kept houses, tall palm trees towering over the main plaza, a fountain around which children joyeously laughed and chased balloons, eldery couples resting on benches - everything here made it very difficult to leave this town of roses and dinosaurs (dinosaurs lined the streets, hiding public phones in their bellies). When we finally managed to leave, we ended up in Potosi. The town, at 4000 metres above sea level, was cold: there was no point in leaving the house without a scarf. We had considered visiting the silver mines here, but instead we spent our days riding local vans to the bus station and back and eating pizza, delivered to our table by two twelve-year-olds.<br /><br />After Potosi there was also Tupiza, but that is another story...<br /><br />...<br /><br />Anyway, three weeks in Bolivia made me fall in love with this place, feeling for the first time that I had found a South American country I would really like to return to. Smiling and helpful people, local women wearing completely impractical felt hats (when it rained, they wrapped them in plastic), beautiful landscapes, an atmosphere of otherness...Ewelinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04951749865412644639noreply@blogger.com0