Holy crap it's another blog from Dan, quick, get the family off to bed and pass me the bowl of nuts, this is one read I'm going to enjoy. Thank you Dan...thank you.
So because of all our various tenant problems, mainly that the guy won't pay his rent or move out of our house, we are currently failing miserably to pay rent in Sydney and a mortgage in London. Given our financial predicament, we thought what a cracking idea it might be to book a trip to Tasmania. After all, if you don't have the money the bastards can't make you pay for it, right?
After finding some rip-roaring fares on Virgin Blue we nip across the Tasman Sea and arrive in Launceston in Northern Tasmania. It's pretty grim, so we grab our hire car, slam it in first and get the hell out of there, leaving nothing but a trail of road kill and a whiff of burning rubber in our wake.
We opt for the scenic route taking in the Bay of Fires on the Eastern coast (nice long white sandy beach with no one on it) and Wineglass Bay further South (nice long white sandy beach with no one on it but you have to walk an hour to get there.)
All very pretty and the weather wasn't too bad either. I was fully expecting it to be chucking it down the entire time I was there, given I’d read the horrifying statistic that seven out of every ten days are rainy. Yes...I read it after I'd booked the tickets. Hey ho.
So we drive down to Port Arthur, a former convict settlement and the best preserved in Australia. It's a World Heritage site and, honestly it's pretty spectacular. They've done a spiffing job with the grounds. No one actually lives there anymore, it's just the town as it was back in the old days. We stayed at a guesthouse called Cascades (which also happens to be a convict settlement) about ten minutes up the road. Our cottage is sort-of cosy, it's where one of the soldiers used to live in the 19th century and looks like it hasn't been decorated since. There's an open fire place, a nice rocking chair and a faint hint of death about the place. Fuck, this cottage gives me the creeps. It's all decked out like a scene from Rosemary's Baby.
Alison decides this is a good opportunity to do the infamous Port Arthur Ghost Walk. I'm dubious but what the hey, not like I'm going to die or anything. So we follow this ample lady around the settlement who looked like she'd copped it in the face with a three iron. She recounts stories of death, mayhem and strange happenings to previous tour groups. All jolly scary. Of course, when the tour ends we have to jump back in our car and drive the ten minutes through pitch black forest back to the guesthouse. Meeting not a single other car on the way. Having been warned not to drive after dusk because the chances of hitting a wallaby or wombat increase tenfold. I opt to drive very slowly, the trees appearing eerily out of the shadows. Fuck this is scary. No radio. Nothing but silence. We arrive at our convict cottage. Now I'm even more spooked out. Fuck it, let's light the fire. I strike the match and watch the fire take hold. I glance around, the place is lit by one solitary light bulb in the ceiling. I glance towards Alison. I can't see her. Where the...? I suddenly realise the reason I can't see her is because the entire cottage has filled with smoke and my vision doesn't extend beyond the tears in my eyes. I start coughing, the smoke alarm beeps with a deafening blare. I start wafting a magazine near it. Nothing, blood pours down my ears. Smoke is everywhere. I open the front door. Alison goes nuts, she thinks the ghosts will get in. Outside, there’s nothing but total darkness and a lot of forest. Very Blair Witch. Whose great idea was this then? Eventually the fire righted itself and we went off to bed, wiping the soot from our faces. Neither of us slept very well that night, let me tell you.
We drove to Hobart the next day which is okay, not worth coming over the other side of the world for but there's enough to keep your interest for maybe...two hours. I kept thinking of that song Chris Tarrant used to play every day on Capital FM in the mornings. 'Hobart, Tasmania...that's my wonderful town!' It's not as wonderful as the song would have you believe. Tasmanian propaganda.
After a trip to the Cadbury’s factory (Alison's choice) and the Cascade beer factory (mine), we drove around to Cradle Mountain where it promptly rained for the rest of the trip. Nothing like going hiking in the pissing rain when you can barely see the person in front of you due to low cloud. And the cabin we stayed in there...oh don't get me started. It was called a cosy cabin and let me tell you there was nothing cosy about it. It was grimmer than a Tasmanian beauty contest.
So having had a vaguely interesting time we fly home. Now look, I know it was windy coming into Sydney airport and I understand the pilot does his best with the prevailing conditions. What I object to when we're less than two hundred feet from the ground is looking out the window and seeing ground, sky, ground, sky. I held on to Alison as hard as I could, until I realised she was sitting to my left. After apologising to the guy next to me for squeezing his hand so hard, I did a hail Mary and prayed for a positive outcome. The wheels slammed into the tarmac and I felt the aircraft swerve back towards the runway. Suddenly I was thrown forward in my seat as the pilot, apparently realising he was out of runway (and in Sydney the end of the runway is the Pacific), slammed on the brakes. The plane found its rhythm and we managed to slow. I thanked God I was still alive and had a sudden and urgent need to give money to Cancer Research or help out at a local old people's home.
So we're back in Sydney. It's a Monday night, about ten thirty and we're about to go to bed when the neighbours above us decide to have a karaoke party. Oh that's just...I sit there, stewing. Alison tries to calm me but this is not going to end well. A group of men upstairs are singing along to a Spice Girls track, and it’s by no means a decent rendition. I leave it fifteen minutes, before hopping out of bed, yanking on some clothes and walking up to their front door. I wrap three times. I can hear them inside. I wrap again. Nothing. They must be able to hear me. I knock three more times and suddenly the door is thrown open and the guy storms out saying things like 'Look we're allowed to be as noisy as we want until eleven, okay! It's just a bunch of guys having a bit of fun so don't start with your complaining because we're allowed to.' I was taken aback. I was only going to politely ask him to turn the volume down. We start arguing in the street. He's all over me, I hadn't even got a word out. Judging by the way he couldn't seem to make eye contact I surmised he must be on Ice. We argued some more. It ended with me threatening to inform the landlady, he practically chased me down the steps, berating me all the way. Jesus Christ. I got back in, slamming the door and breathing heavily. Felt like a scene out of Jurassic Park. Alison shook her head, her eyes giving me her 'told you so' look. I explained I hadn't gone off, he'd just started on me. She suggested he was probably drinking (or was on Ice). We sat there, unsure how to proceed. It had gone strangely quiet upstairs. Then I heard him come out of his front door and down our steps. Oh here we go. He probably went back to get the nine millimetre. Three knocks on our door.
'Don't you dare answer it.' Alison hisses. Three more knocks. I stand up. 'Sit down.' She says. I stand there. Three more. I go open the door, but Alison gets there before me. 'WHAT DO YOU WANT?!' She barks at him.
'Listen I just wanted to say I'm really sorry," the man stammers, ‘don't know what came over me. I'm not that type of guy normally. We'd just been drinking (or doing Ice) and I lost it. I'm really sorry.'
We accepted his apology and he asked if we fancied going out for a drink sometimes. 'Maybe' I replied, like yeah now I want to spend a couple of hours with you in an intimate setting, are you fucking insane?
Anyway, that concludes today's blog. I do hope you enjoyed it and I look forward to all your notes on grammar and spelling.
Until next time
Danster
Showing posts with label South America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label South America. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
LANDMINES, SHARKS AND SEMI-COMPLETED NOVELS
So it’s been a while since my last blog entry, mainly because I’ve been lazy and the days I could have been blogging I was actually on the beach, don’t roll your eyes, you would have done the same.
So what’s been happening Dan? How’s that building work next door? I take it they’ve finally stopped so you can get a good night’s sleep? Well actually no. Our neighbours who I refer to as Adolf and Eva are STILL bulldozing their house, in fact I reckon whatever it is they’re doing in there it would have been quicker to just bulldoze the place and start again from scratch.
We’ve had sharks at Manly beach which was all very exciting when Alison called me up to tell me. So being the dumbarse that I am, I figure I could run down there and check it out. Well I ran, for fifteen minutes straight at almost full pelt. Did I see the shark? Well yes...on the news that night. But having run all the way down there all I saw was firstly, no one in the water, no surprise there and one lifeboat going up and down the beach. Hardly Jaws. I was hoping to see an outstretched arm buried in the sand or a dodgy looking sailor with one leg saying things like ‘we’re going to need a bigger boat.’ Nothing. There’s 15 minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Nevermind.
What else, oh yeah I finished the first draft of my novel. No I won’t tell you what it’s about cos I’m superstitious and slightly anally retentive but it’s 77,000 words and now I’ve put it in a corner to ferment for a bit so I can come at it clean, so to speak.
Oh yeah, my tenant who does some sort of mysterious consulting work for the MOD in warzones has managed to step on a land mine in Afghanistan. Or he was playing Frisbee with it or something and has got himself hospitalized. So the rent, which was never really paid on the due date at the best of times, is now doubly late. Only I could find a tenant who likes to play with roadside explosives as a hobby. Typical.
Various people have come to visit out here which is interesting, as our place is the size of a small ironing board cupboard and you can just about fit four people in if everyone stands holding their breath. Alison’s parents are here at the mo, so we went up to the Whitsundays for her 30th, hired a seaplane and checked out the Great Barrier Reef which looked...great!
Then we had a little 3 day cruise around the various islands. Now the problem with cruises is, like a box of chocolates, that you never know what kind of people you’re going to get. This boat was very pleasant, expensive and for the more well-to-do. So what kind of passengers do you think we’d get? I’m timing you? Did someone shout out Commies? No. We got middle aged English people who were consistently the dullest human beings I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Seriously, I think I had more in common with Alison’s left slipper. At least you can call it names and it won’t retort with anecdotes about sailing around Greek Islands. Man these guys were boring. One kept talking about all the cruises he’d been on, another was talking about...well I’m not really sure because he was French. Frankly I couldn’t wait to get in the water, not just to see all the pretty fishes, mainly so I could have 5 minutes of listening to nothing but the screams of my co-passengers as they were repeatedly stung by the resident Box Jellyfish.
Went to Melbourne for a few days which was nice but frankly I can’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s a nice city and has a lot going for it but as far as I’m concerned - no beaches, no fun. Yes okay, it’s got trams and museums and a bit more culture but that’s no good when it’s thirty three in the shade, is it?
Also tried our hand at a bit of whale watching. Four hours of sitting on a boat watching waves the size of small buildings and Alison running to the bathroom every five minutes being violently sick. My mum and her friend who accompanied us on that journey to Hades and back haven’t quite forgiven me. I think the theory was better than the reality on that one. How many whales do you think we saw? I’ll give you a clue, it’s between 0 and 0.
Told the BBC we’re coming back which, no doubt, they were euphoric about. We fly in to London on the 7th Jan and will be back in work sometime after the 16th Jan. There’s a date for your diaries, I’m expecting tickertape and pineapple on sticks.
Can’t believe it’s October already, seriously where did this year go? Anyway, I’m running out of things to say and you’re running out of will to live. We’re heading off to New Zealand for a few days next week so I’m sure you’ll all be tuning in to hear how I got munched by malevolent dolphins or carjacked by a bunch of unruly caravaners. I’m getting in to my writing now; see all the new words I’m using.
Till next time, take care of yourselves...and each other.
So what’s been happening Dan? How’s that building work next door? I take it they’ve finally stopped so you can get a good night’s sleep? Well actually no. Our neighbours who I refer to as Adolf and Eva are STILL bulldozing their house, in fact I reckon whatever it is they’re doing in there it would have been quicker to just bulldoze the place and start again from scratch.
We’ve had sharks at Manly beach which was all very exciting when Alison called me up to tell me. So being the dumbarse that I am, I figure I could run down there and check it out. Well I ran, for fifteen minutes straight at almost full pelt. Did I see the shark? Well yes...on the news that night. But having run all the way down there all I saw was firstly, no one in the water, no surprise there and one lifeboat going up and down the beach. Hardly Jaws. I was hoping to see an outstretched arm buried in the sand or a dodgy looking sailor with one leg saying things like ‘we’re going to need a bigger boat.’ Nothing. There’s 15 minutes of my life I’ll never get back. Nevermind.
What else, oh yeah I finished the first draft of my novel. No I won’t tell you what it’s about cos I’m superstitious and slightly anally retentive but it’s 77,000 words and now I’ve put it in a corner to ferment for a bit so I can come at it clean, so to speak.
Oh yeah, my tenant who does some sort of mysterious consulting work for the MOD in warzones has managed to step on a land mine in Afghanistan. Or he was playing Frisbee with it or something and has got himself hospitalized. So the rent, which was never really paid on the due date at the best of times, is now doubly late. Only I could find a tenant who likes to play with roadside explosives as a hobby. Typical.
Various people have come to visit out here which is interesting, as our place is the size of a small ironing board cupboard and you can just about fit four people in if everyone stands holding their breath. Alison’s parents are here at the mo, so we went up to the Whitsundays for her 30th, hired a seaplane and checked out the Great Barrier Reef which looked...great!
Then we had a little 3 day cruise around the various islands. Now the problem with cruises is, like a box of chocolates, that you never know what kind of people you’re going to get. This boat was very pleasant, expensive and for the more well-to-do. So what kind of passengers do you think we’d get? I’m timing you? Did someone shout out Commies? No. We got middle aged English people who were consistently the dullest human beings I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Seriously, I think I had more in common with Alison’s left slipper. At least you can call it names and it won’t retort with anecdotes about sailing around Greek Islands. Man these guys were boring. One kept talking about all the cruises he’d been on, another was talking about...well I’m not really sure because he was French. Frankly I couldn’t wait to get in the water, not just to see all the pretty fishes, mainly so I could have 5 minutes of listening to nothing but the screams of my co-passengers as they were repeatedly stung by the resident Box Jellyfish.
Went to Melbourne for a few days which was nice but frankly I can’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s a nice city and has a lot going for it but as far as I’m concerned - no beaches, no fun. Yes okay, it’s got trams and museums and a bit more culture but that’s no good when it’s thirty three in the shade, is it?
Also tried our hand at a bit of whale watching. Four hours of sitting on a boat watching waves the size of small buildings and Alison running to the bathroom every five minutes being violently sick. My mum and her friend who accompanied us on that journey to Hades and back haven’t quite forgiven me. I think the theory was better than the reality on that one. How many whales do you think we saw? I’ll give you a clue, it’s between 0 and 0.
Told the BBC we’re coming back which, no doubt, they were euphoric about. We fly in to London on the 7th Jan and will be back in work sometime after the 16th Jan. There’s a date for your diaries, I’m expecting tickertape and pineapple on sticks.
Can’t believe it’s October already, seriously where did this year go? Anyway, I’m running out of things to say and you’re running out of will to live. We’re heading off to New Zealand for a few days next week so I’m sure you’ll all be tuning in to hear how I got munched by malevolent dolphins or carjacked by a bunch of unruly caravaners. I’m getting in to my writing now; see all the new words I’m using.
Till next time, take care of yourselves...and each other.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
RAIN, MANLY APARTMENTS AND LEADING MEN
Okay, I know I said I probably wouldn't write unless there was something to tell. Luckily, since we've arrived there have been a couple of not insignificant incidents which I thought I'd share with you. I know what you're thinking, 'No, Dan I've got myself another blogger now. You can't just drop me whenever you feel like it and expect me just to carry on where we left off, it doesn't work that way.' All I can say is...I know who you really love, it's pointless to pretend, don't fight it.
The most important and immediately pressing thing is the fact we don't have sixth months free accommodation, as I previously thought. Of course, it's totally my fault, should have really broached the subject with the guys that -
a) own the house we were staying in and
b) the people who are actually paying rent and living here.
Doh! So we discovered this minor detail about two weeks ago and I swear it felt like our trip was over. See, the thing is, we had budgeted our year away banking on the fact that we would have accommodation when we got to Sydney. So this turn up for the books put a lion amongst the pigeons. We also thought the house would be empty. When we arrived we were surprised to find there were tenants. When we revealed to them how long we were planning to stay, so were they. The people that own the house are old friends of my dad and that puts him and them in a bit of a crap situation. Alison's parents have been ridiculously kind and lent us some money so we can stay and find somewhere to live. In short, it was a bit of a mess and all pretty much my fault so I felt like poo. Alison also felt rubbish as everything we were expecting in Sydney has turned out to be something quite different, but hey, that's life. At least there's good weather here right? Well... no.
The weather has been rubbish as well. It all started nicely, I went for sunny walks along the beautifulcoastline. Life was good. Then this all happens, the weather turns crappy and it literally hasn't stopped raining since.
(As an aside, it's dinner time and my ears have picked up the TV. There's a commercial saying '...the symptoms are not always easy to identify, and what you could have is genital herpes. For more information...' I swear I nearly spat out my orange juice. I mean Jesus, I know they're trying to improve public awareness but I don't particularly want to see that stuff at this time of the day. I'm trying to eat guys...come on. Anyway...)
We meet up with my one friend who lives in Sydney, Andre. I have known this guy forever. His wife, Mel, is expecting their second kid in July. It's really nice to see them again. Not just because I haven't seen them for two years but also it's just good to see familiar faces after travelling for so long. We both loved seeing Jayden, their little boy and Bella, the dog. I'm trying to persuade Alison to get a labrador and I think all this dog mingling is working, she seems to be coming around to the idea.
Alison signed up with an extras agency because she's always wanted to be an extra on film sets (and she's sad). Her first day was working on some dodgy Ozzy film called False Witness. They were filming at the Olympic Stadium and she got to dress up as a secret agent. The best story she told me, apart from this Brazlian trying to get in her pants all day (what do you expect, he's Brazilian), was when she sat down next to a guy and said 'Hi, are you an extra as well?' To which he gave her a shocked look and, trying desperately to contain the rage welling up inside him he muttered 'No, I'm the lead.' before stomping off to his trailer. Apparently he's quite well known here but she had no idea who he was. His reaction was classic though.
So we have to find a place and quickly. We decide we want to stay in Manly. (which some of you have pointed out as perfect for someone like me). Manly is 30 minutes ferry ride from the centre of Sydney and is in my opinion, the worlds best commute. However, house prices there are ridiculously high, so that's out the window. We try looking along some of the other Northern Beaches, Curl Curl, Freshwater or Dee Why. Problem is hardly any of these places come furnished and we have, well not a lot of stuff. I do have a souvenir Mate cup and decorative wine casket but somehow I'm entirely convinced those will make the place 'feel like home.'
We visit a few estate agents, most of whom look at us like they just scraped us off their shoe. Here's a sample conversation:
Me: Hi there, we'd like to rent an apartment in the area.
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Okay.
Me: About **** a week.
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Okay.Me: Do you have anything furnished?
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: No, sorry.
Me: Nothing? I know they're hard to come by...
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Yeah, they are.
Me: Can I leave our details in case anything comes up?
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: No. We don't take people's details.
Me: Right.
It was kinda frustrating. Don't get me wrong, it may have been bad manors to interrupt her nail polishing session but I felt I had a legitimate claim to her time. So we try a few other esate agents, not much else around.
Eventually we walk back in to Manly again, about ready to offer ourselves up as quality shark food, when we pass an agent we had missed. In the window there was a sign saying 'Furnished Properties.' We wander in, see one we like and set up a viewing. It's in a place called Fairlight about 15 minutes walk from Manly...get in there!
We walk down the steep driveway and are greeted by Jackie, the English woman who owns the place. As we step inside, I'm confronted by the biggest plasma TV I've ever seen. The apartment is small but god it's nice. It's officially classed as a studio but it's really big and everything is new. New fridge, new kitchen, new bed, new sugar bowl. We love it immediately and hit it off with Jackie. She's going to leave us all her kitchenware and even offers to transfer the broadband to us if we want 'it's got unlimited downloads.' Man, this just gets better and better. There is a car parking space (our friends have very kindly let us have their car until they come back from London) and there's even a new mountain bike sitting in the garage just begging to be used. Outside, we're right next to a harbour and a very agreeable coastal path. You can hear the sea lapping at the rocks from our patio. Sea air permeates everywhere and the smell is amazing. We're exactly where we want to be. Fab!
So I guess things work out for the best in the end. It was pretty hairy for a while there and we actually seriously considered coming home. We even looked up the price of the flights but then realised we couldn't afford that either. But sometimes life just pulls together and things slot in to place. I'm sure next time I write there will have been some other crisis like I decide I want a sex change operation but can't front up the deposit or something. This was definitely one of the biggest we've had since leaving and I think we came out, almost untarnished. For those of you shouting at the screen sayinng 'What about Alison's hair?' I'm happy to report she went to a Toni and Guy here and the 'guy' has repaired the damage and you wouldn't know anything bad had happened. 'There is a God!' I hear you all cry. And believe me I'm with you on that. So all in all things are looking peachy again. I seem to have trouble pooing but apart from that...
The most important and immediately pressing thing is the fact we don't have sixth months free accommodation, as I previously thought. Of course, it's totally my fault, should have really broached the subject with the guys that -
a) own the house we were staying in and
b) the people who are actually paying rent and living here.
Doh! So we discovered this minor detail about two weeks ago and I swear it felt like our trip was over. See, the thing is, we had budgeted our year away banking on the fact that we would have accommodation when we got to Sydney. So this turn up for the books put a lion amongst the pigeons. We also thought the house would be empty. When we arrived we were surprised to find there were tenants. When we revealed to them how long we were planning to stay, so were they. The people that own the house are old friends of my dad and that puts him and them in a bit of a crap situation. Alison's parents have been ridiculously kind and lent us some money so we can stay and find somewhere to live. In short, it was a bit of a mess and all pretty much my fault so I felt like poo. Alison also felt rubbish as everything we were expecting in Sydney has turned out to be something quite different, but hey, that's life. At least there's good weather here right? Well... no.
The weather has been rubbish as well. It all started nicely, I went for sunny walks along the beautifulcoastline. Life was good. Then this all happens, the weather turns crappy and it literally hasn't stopped raining since.
(As an aside, it's dinner time and my ears have picked up the TV. There's a commercial saying '...the symptoms are not always easy to identify, and what you could have is genital herpes. For more information...' I swear I nearly spat out my orange juice. I mean Jesus, I know they're trying to improve public awareness but I don't particularly want to see that stuff at this time of the day. I'm trying to eat guys...come on. Anyway...)
We meet up with my one friend who lives in Sydney, Andre. I have known this guy forever. His wife, Mel, is expecting their second kid in July. It's really nice to see them again. Not just because I haven't seen them for two years but also it's just good to see familiar faces after travelling for so long. We both loved seeing Jayden, their little boy and Bella, the dog. I'm trying to persuade Alison to get a labrador and I think all this dog mingling is working, she seems to be coming around to the idea.
Alison signed up with an extras agency because she's always wanted to be an extra on film sets (and she's sad). Her first day was working on some dodgy Ozzy film called False Witness. They were filming at the Olympic Stadium and she got to dress up as a secret agent. The best story she told me, apart from this Brazlian trying to get in her pants all day (what do you expect, he's Brazilian), was when she sat down next to a guy and said 'Hi, are you an extra as well?' To which he gave her a shocked look and, trying desperately to contain the rage welling up inside him he muttered 'No, I'm the lead.' before stomping off to his trailer. Apparently he's quite well known here but she had no idea who he was. His reaction was classic though.
So we have to find a place and quickly. We decide we want to stay in Manly. (which some of you have pointed out as perfect for someone like me). Manly is 30 minutes ferry ride from the centre of Sydney and is in my opinion, the worlds best commute. However, house prices there are ridiculously high, so that's out the window. We try looking along some of the other Northern Beaches, Curl Curl, Freshwater or Dee Why. Problem is hardly any of these places come furnished and we have, well not a lot of stuff. I do have a souvenir Mate cup and decorative wine casket but somehow I'm entirely convinced those will make the place 'feel like home.'
We visit a few estate agents, most of whom look at us like they just scraped us off their shoe. Here's a sample conversation:
Me: Hi there, we'd like to rent an apartment in the area.
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Okay.
Me: About **** a week.
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Okay.Me: Do you have anything furnished?
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: No, sorry.
Me: Nothing? I know they're hard to come by...
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: Yeah, they are.
Me: Can I leave our details in case anything comes up?
Dopey Blonde Receptionist: No. We don't take people's details.
Me: Right.
It was kinda frustrating. Don't get me wrong, it may have been bad manors to interrupt her nail polishing session but I felt I had a legitimate claim to her time. So we try a few other esate agents, not much else around.
Eventually we walk back in to Manly again, about ready to offer ourselves up as quality shark food, when we pass an agent we had missed. In the window there was a sign saying 'Furnished Properties.' We wander in, see one we like and set up a viewing. It's in a place called Fairlight about 15 minutes walk from Manly...get in there!
We walk down the steep driveway and are greeted by Jackie, the English woman who owns the place. As we step inside, I'm confronted by the biggest plasma TV I've ever seen. The apartment is small but god it's nice. It's officially classed as a studio but it's really big and everything is new. New fridge, new kitchen, new bed, new sugar bowl. We love it immediately and hit it off with Jackie. She's going to leave us all her kitchenware and even offers to transfer the broadband to us if we want 'it's got unlimited downloads.' Man, this just gets better and better. There is a car parking space (our friends have very kindly let us have their car until they come back from London) and there's even a new mountain bike sitting in the garage just begging to be used. Outside, we're right next to a harbour and a very agreeable coastal path. You can hear the sea lapping at the rocks from our patio. Sea air permeates everywhere and the smell is amazing. We're exactly where we want to be. Fab!
So I guess things work out for the best in the end. It was pretty hairy for a while there and we actually seriously considered coming home. We even looked up the price of the flights but then realised we couldn't afford that either. But sometimes life just pulls together and things slot in to place. I'm sure next time I write there will have been some other crisis like I decide I want a sex change operation but can't front up the deposit or something. This was definitely one of the biggest we've had since leaving and I think we came out, almost untarnished. For those of you shouting at the screen sayinng 'What about Alison's hair?' I'm happy to report she went to a Toni and Guy here and the 'guy' has repaired the damage and you wouldn't know anything bad had happened. 'There is a God!' I hear you all cry. And believe me I'm with you on that. So all in all things are looking peachy again. I seem to have trouble pooing but apart from that...
Thursday, May 29, 2008
THE FINALE - HAIRCUTS, SUPERSHUTTLES AND MERRILLS
So having jumped on a bus back to Mendoza, a strange feeling is slowly starting to come to realisation. Our trip in South America is almost at an end. I'm not quite sure how to feel about this, afterall it seems only yesterday we were saying tearful goodbyes to our parents at the airport. Yet nearly five months later here we sit, staring out of a window on a bus heading North through the winelands of Argentina. In two days we'll be in New Zealand, strange how fast time flies.
Anyway, enough of this depressing crap. Here's a classic anecdote.
We decide that it might be cheaper to get our haircuts in Mendoza rather than waiting till we get to Sydney. So we wander along the various streets trying to find a reputable hairdresser. Eventually we come across this place, it's small and you have to be buzzed to be allowed in. Somehow the alarm bells did not ring. They didn't even ring when we saw the other clients in there and the various dodgy beehive incarnations that were being created. By now, of course we're well used to no one speaking English but one of the customers does and translates for the girl who greets us. The customer, by the way, is having her eyebrows tinted and it looked like a hammer horror movie. Something didn't feel quite right but what the hell you only live once. I immediately volunteered Alison to go first. 'How much?' I asked.
'Thirty pesos each.' The woman replied. I nodded.
Unsure, Alison went to have her hair washed. She kept glancing at me, a concerned expression on her face. I looked around telling myself this was going to be one great haircut for the both of us. I heard a yelp from Alison. The girl washing was being a little rough but I thought nothing of it. Alison was then bought over to the chair where we were introduced to this seventy year old guy, with long grey hair in a ponytail and a slight twitch in his eye. Strange, kinda assumed it would be one of the women doing it, where did this guy come from? Oh well, this is going to be great.
'They didn't condition it.' Alison whispered as she sat down on the chair. Bit strange again but my mind immediately started replaying moments from the latest Bourne film and I quickly forgot any concerns. I did notice, however, the guy take out his cut-throat razor. 'I'm sure he's a professional.' I hummed to myself. He then applied the razor...to Alisons hair. Actually started cutting it. Of course Alison, being the patient, understanding person she is put up with this for about a second before launching in to
'Uhh...no! Scissors!' The guy looked almost surprised.
'You want scissors?' He asked, no hint of irony in his voice.
'Yes please.' Alison said with a Chandler-esc incredulity. She looked at me in the mirror. You could almost see the idea forming in her head. 'I've made a terrible mistake.' She didn't move however and the guy carried on cutting. I noticed he seemed to be yanking clumps of her hair and snipping here and there with no discernible plan. 'I don't remember them doing it like that in our salon at home' I thought to myself. I noticed a line forming around the middle of her hair where he apparently wasn't bothering to make any effort in layering. It suddenly occured to me that the way the man was cutting her hair would be kinda like the way I would cut a girls hair...if I had no idea what I was doing!
Oh dear. This is going to be bad I thought. It occurred to me to raise the issue with Alison but I didn't want to get in to trouble so I kept quiet. She had only asked for a trim but as I glanced at the floor, there appeared to be great clumps of hair. Hmmm. Not good. And yet, still, I did nothing. The man started to blowdry it, Alison having to show him how to use the brush to give it a vaguely straight look. He finished, she looked at it. She knew. I knew. 'What's this?' She asked, pulling bits of her hair around and showing him. 'This bit is longer than this.' Then she noticed the line around her head, the lack of layering. Oh god.
'There's a massive line here. You've ruined my hair! I only wanted a trim!' He protested his innocence but I felt I should get involved. So I came out with the classic line 'Have you ever cut hair in your life before?'
The man seemed to take offence but I actually asked it with genuine curiosity. Alison was starting to get upset. I asked how much.
'Fifty pesos.' He replied. Say what?
'Hang on, you said thirty.'
'Blowdry, extra.' I blinked. Alison got there before me.
'So you ruin my hair, hack it to pieces and you want to charge us double the price!' She looked at me. I knew what she was expecting, be the man. Sort this dufus out. Take charge. And I did, in best way Dan can. I paid him and we left.
Alison was crying all the way back to the hotel, and pretty much the rest of the day. In fact, now I think about it most of the week. It was like she went in to some sort of weird mourning. I kept trying to reassure her. 'It's okay, it will grow back. Another hairdresser will fix this, no problem.' Nothing I said worked. In fact she came back at me with even more venom.
'It's ruined, the wedding will be ruined.' She replied.
'The wedding isn't til next year.' I attempted to say.
'Don't care, everythings ruined.' Man did she go on about it.
So we jump on another bus over the Andes leaving Argentina and most of Alison's hair behind. It's one of the most beautiful bus rides I've been on and certainly the curviest road I've ever seen. We arrived in Santiago and stayed in a nice hotel called the Orly in the rich district. I would elaborate but our last night in South America was quiet and unremarkable. We did feel sad to be leaving and as we sat on our bed watching Vote 2008 via Dominican Republic TV I thought 'I'm gonna miss this place.' Still, can't hold on to these things, I'm sure the next adventure is just around the corner.
The next day we fly to Auckland. It's another Lan flight and I hear grumbles from some of the passengers as they realise the plane doesn't have individual TV's. So we settle in, put the blanket over us and try to get some shut eye. I don't know how long I was sleeping before I was woken by the people next to me speaking rather loud Spanish. Being one not to make a fuss, I turned over and tried to carry on sleeping but damnit they had woken me up and were now speaking so loudly I thought they must have had some kind of hearing impairment. I waited about five minutes before saying 'Excuse me, would you mind keeping it down I'm trying to sleep. Sorry.' I like that little apology at the end. Gives it a kind of 'not my fault you're so bloody loud' feeling. They all turned to me, and, looking suitably miffed shut up. Nice. Of course now I was awake I couldn't get back to sleep but that's neither here nor there.
Of course it's winter in the Southern Hemisphere and we were expecting rain and nastiness but actually it was rather pleasant. We arrived at 0400 and went to our hotel right in the middle of Auckland and had a little nap. We wake up the next day and wander around the city and decide to go to Waiheke Island about 30 mins by boat from the mainland. Everyone keeps telling us it's paradise here and they were not wrong. It is absolutely stunning. Has a real community feel, nice beaches and best of all some of the most stunning views of vineyards I've ever come across. We went to this one vineyard called Mudbrick which had a 360 degree view of the island! Jealous yet? Thinking you might come out to Auckland afterall?
So when it was time to leave Auckland we got picked up by this Supershuttle van thing, where they take multiple passengers to the airport and it's less than a regular taxi. At 0625 we get a call saying the driver is going to be a little early so when we're ready just head outside. We finish packing and are outside around 0635. I say good morning to the driver. He's like 'You're going to make the other passengers late?' Huh?
'Sorry?' I replied.
'You were supposed to be out at 0625, now I'm going to be late with the drop off.' Injustice screamed out of my very being.
'We booked you for 0645! The guy on the phone said don't hurry. We're early as it is.' I tried to reason.
'0645? Well what time were you hoping to catch your flight?' He asks practically throwing my luggage in to the trailer. This guy is stirring the beast inside.
'I don't have time for this crap.' I actually said that.
'I just asked you how you thought you'd get to the airport for an 0800 flight by leaving here at 0645.' Now I'm angry.
'Our flight is at 0900! Doesn't take an hour to get to the airport on a Sunday morning and if the other people have to be at the airport for 8 then maybe you should have sent another van!' I yank open the door to the van and climb in. That shut him up. We got evils from all the other passengers.
'It's not our fault.' I pleaded. But they had already pronounced judgment. SOB's. By the time we got to the airport I think he realised the mistake was his and he started calling me sir. What a dick.
Nevermind, we got to the airport and caught the flight to Christchurch. The Supershuttle driver took us take us straight to Addington Jail. Or rather Jailhouse Hostel which used to be Addington Jail before it was converted. You actually get to sleep inside the cells. Really echoey and atmospheric. At night we sat in and watched the Shawshank Redemption. I wanted to start rattling the bars or get a tattoo but Alison didn't let me. We had our first roast for four and a half months and my first pint of Guinness in an Irish pub. Tell you what, it was great. How I've missed these little pleasures.
Then we go to the airport and catch our final flight. To Sydney. Where we will be for the next six months. As we go through New Zealand customs we get an official who looks like she's at the end of her shift. Brill.
So we approach. 'I notice you've only stayed here for four days, any reason for that?' She asks, peering over her glasses at me.
'Well, we've been travelling around South America and kinda ran out of money. We were going to spend two weeks here but we've been here before so we changed our flights.' This statement does not impress her.
'You ran out of money in South America? It's dirt cheap there.' She stares at me. What is this?
'Brazil isn't, Chile isn't...' I try to counter
'I've been there four times I know what things cost.' O..kay.
'So I see you're going to Sydney, how long are you staying there?' Bollocks.
'Uhh...six months?' I reply tentatively.
'So you're spending six months in Sydney and four days in New Zealand.' Her face looked like it was tightening up for a punch.
'Umm...yes.' I don't mean to offend you, dear woman, but can we get the passport stamped and allow me through. 'But we're planning to comeback in October, so we'll spend all the money we make in Sydney, here.' A sly grin on her face. That's more like it. STAMP, STAMP.
'Enjoy your trip to Sydney.' She says, deadpan. Thanks...I think.
A Tribute to My Merrill Ventilators
Dear Merrills, I just want to say thank you for not giving up on me, these last few months. You've been there, through thick and thin. Through hot and cold, dry and wet. You never gave me a blister even when I walked for 3 days straight. My feet were as untouched by the earth when I took them off as when I had put them on. In the heat you were cool. In the wet...well, no one's perfect. We trudged across glaciers and deserts. Hiked up mountains and down beaches. Along city streets and dusty roads. You were there for me every step of the way. No complaining, no fuss. Just there. With me. On my journey. My blister kit remained untouched as I stand in awe of your comfort. This is not an advertisement, nor is it an arse-kiss for Merrill. It is merely a thank you note from me to a very special pair of shoes.
We arrive in Sydney, the chap living at the place we're going to stay at picks us up from the airport. Mitch has the flu and has been off work all day but he still drove all the way to the airport anyway. Nice guy. We drive to the house our friends have let us stay at. It's beautiful. It's huge and has a view of the valley and in the distance, the sea. Immaculately designed and perfect for our needs, I couldn't have asked for more. They've even let us use their car. That Christmas present for them is going to have to be a sail boat or private jet or something. Mitch's girlfriend, Pipper has a lovely little dog called Audrey who I take for walks along the coast.
But this is where I leave you. I'm going to knuckle down, do some writing and enjoy life here for six months. I will post new blogs when there are stories to tell but they will not be as regular.
What's this Dan, you're leaving us? But...but...why? Did I do something? Was it something I said. No. Please! Come on, I need your blogs, what am I supposed to read when I'm bored at work and surfed every site I can think of?
Who else's writing style can I ridicule as much as yours? What am I supposed to delete if I don't get any more of those silly group messages in my inbox...crap I really enjoyed deleting those! Damnit Dan, I'm invested and you chose now to just walk away. Well screw you. You don't get to walk away from me, I'm going to unsubscribe from you HA!
Thank you for being with us on our journey, I hope I've shared some of the more quirky, entertaining stories with you. If nothing else, at least it was a way to kill time when work gets dull. Chao!
Anyway, enough of this depressing crap. Here's a classic anecdote.
We decide that it might be cheaper to get our haircuts in Mendoza rather than waiting till we get to Sydney. So we wander along the various streets trying to find a reputable hairdresser. Eventually we come across this place, it's small and you have to be buzzed to be allowed in. Somehow the alarm bells did not ring. They didn't even ring when we saw the other clients in there and the various dodgy beehive incarnations that were being created. By now, of course we're well used to no one speaking English but one of the customers does and translates for the girl who greets us. The customer, by the way, is having her eyebrows tinted and it looked like a hammer horror movie. Something didn't feel quite right but what the hell you only live once. I immediately volunteered Alison to go first. 'How much?' I asked.
'Thirty pesos each.' The woman replied. I nodded.
Unsure, Alison went to have her hair washed. She kept glancing at me, a concerned expression on her face. I looked around telling myself this was going to be one great haircut for the both of us. I heard a yelp from Alison. The girl washing was being a little rough but I thought nothing of it. Alison was then bought over to the chair where we were introduced to this seventy year old guy, with long grey hair in a ponytail and a slight twitch in his eye. Strange, kinda assumed it would be one of the women doing it, where did this guy come from? Oh well, this is going to be great.
'They didn't condition it.' Alison whispered as she sat down on the chair. Bit strange again but my mind immediately started replaying moments from the latest Bourne film and I quickly forgot any concerns. I did notice, however, the guy take out his cut-throat razor. 'I'm sure he's a professional.' I hummed to myself. He then applied the razor...to Alisons hair. Actually started cutting it. Of course Alison, being the patient, understanding person she is put up with this for about a second before launching in to
'Uhh...no! Scissors!' The guy looked almost surprised.
'You want scissors?' He asked, no hint of irony in his voice.
'Yes please.' Alison said with a Chandler-esc incredulity. She looked at me in the mirror. You could almost see the idea forming in her head. 'I've made a terrible mistake.' She didn't move however and the guy carried on cutting. I noticed he seemed to be yanking clumps of her hair and snipping here and there with no discernible plan. 'I don't remember them doing it like that in our salon at home' I thought to myself. I noticed a line forming around the middle of her hair where he apparently wasn't bothering to make any effort in layering. It suddenly occured to me that the way the man was cutting her hair would be kinda like the way I would cut a girls hair...if I had no idea what I was doing!
Oh dear. This is going to be bad I thought. It occurred to me to raise the issue with Alison but I didn't want to get in to trouble so I kept quiet. She had only asked for a trim but as I glanced at the floor, there appeared to be great clumps of hair. Hmmm. Not good. And yet, still, I did nothing. The man started to blowdry it, Alison having to show him how to use the brush to give it a vaguely straight look. He finished, she looked at it. She knew. I knew. 'What's this?' She asked, pulling bits of her hair around and showing him. 'This bit is longer than this.' Then she noticed the line around her head, the lack of layering. Oh god.
'There's a massive line here. You've ruined my hair! I only wanted a trim!' He protested his innocence but I felt I should get involved. So I came out with the classic line 'Have you ever cut hair in your life before?'
The man seemed to take offence but I actually asked it with genuine curiosity. Alison was starting to get upset. I asked how much.
'Fifty pesos.' He replied. Say what?
'Hang on, you said thirty.'
'Blowdry, extra.' I blinked. Alison got there before me.
'So you ruin my hair, hack it to pieces and you want to charge us double the price!' She looked at me. I knew what she was expecting, be the man. Sort this dufus out. Take charge. And I did, in best way Dan can. I paid him and we left.
Alison was crying all the way back to the hotel, and pretty much the rest of the day. In fact, now I think about it most of the week. It was like she went in to some sort of weird mourning. I kept trying to reassure her. 'It's okay, it will grow back. Another hairdresser will fix this, no problem.' Nothing I said worked. In fact she came back at me with even more venom.
'It's ruined, the wedding will be ruined.' She replied.
'The wedding isn't til next year.' I attempted to say.
'Don't care, everythings ruined.' Man did she go on about it.
So we jump on another bus over the Andes leaving Argentina and most of Alison's hair behind. It's one of the most beautiful bus rides I've been on and certainly the curviest road I've ever seen. We arrived in Santiago and stayed in a nice hotel called the Orly in the rich district. I would elaborate but our last night in South America was quiet and unremarkable. We did feel sad to be leaving and as we sat on our bed watching Vote 2008 via Dominican Republic TV I thought 'I'm gonna miss this place.' Still, can't hold on to these things, I'm sure the next adventure is just around the corner.
The next day we fly to Auckland. It's another Lan flight and I hear grumbles from some of the passengers as they realise the plane doesn't have individual TV's. So we settle in, put the blanket over us and try to get some shut eye. I don't know how long I was sleeping before I was woken by the people next to me speaking rather loud Spanish. Being one not to make a fuss, I turned over and tried to carry on sleeping but damnit they had woken me up and were now speaking so loudly I thought they must have had some kind of hearing impairment. I waited about five minutes before saying 'Excuse me, would you mind keeping it down I'm trying to sleep. Sorry.' I like that little apology at the end. Gives it a kind of 'not my fault you're so bloody loud' feeling. They all turned to me, and, looking suitably miffed shut up. Nice. Of course now I was awake I couldn't get back to sleep but that's neither here nor there.
Of course it's winter in the Southern Hemisphere and we were expecting rain and nastiness but actually it was rather pleasant. We arrived at 0400 and went to our hotel right in the middle of Auckland and had a little nap. We wake up the next day and wander around the city and decide to go to Waiheke Island about 30 mins by boat from the mainland. Everyone keeps telling us it's paradise here and they were not wrong. It is absolutely stunning. Has a real community feel, nice beaches and best of all some of the most stunning views of vineyards I've ever come across. We went to this one vineyard called Mudbrick which had a 360 degree view of the island! Jealous yet? Thinking you might come out to Auckland afterall?
So when it was time to leave Auckland we got picked up by this Supershuttle van thing, where they take multiple passengers to the airport and it's less than a regular taxi. At 0625 we get a call saying the driver is going to be a little early so when we're ready just head outside. We finish packing and are outside around 0635. I say good morning to the driver. He's like 'You're going to make the other passengers late?' Huh?
'Sorry?' I replied.
'You were supposed to be out at 0625, now I'm going to be late with the drop off.' Injustice screamed out of my very being.
'We booked you for 0645! The guy on the phone said don't hurry. We're early as it is.' I tried to reason.
'0645? Well what time were you hoping to catch your flight?' He asks practically throwing my luggage in to the trailer. This guy is stirring the beast inside.
'I don't have time for this crap.' I actually said that.
'I just asked you how you thought you'd get to the airport for an 0800 flight by leaving here at 0645.' Now I'm angry.
'Our flight is at 0900! Doesn't take an hour to get to the airport on a Sunday morning and if the other people have to be at the airport for 8 then maybe you should have sent another van!' I yank open the door to the van and climb in. That shut him up. We got evils from all the other passengers.
'It's not our fault.' I pleaded. But they had already pronounced judgment. SOB's. By the time we got to the airport I think he realised the mistake was his and he started calling me sir. What a dick.
Nevermind, we got to the airport and caught the flight to Christchurch. The Supershuttle driver took us take us straight to Addington Jail. Or rather Jailhouse Hostel which used to be Addington Jail before it was converted. You actually get to sleep inside the cells. Really echoey and atmospheric. At night we sat in and watched the Shawshank Redemption. I wanted to start rattling the bars or get a tattoo but Alison didn't let me. We had our first roast for four and a half months and my first pint of Guinness in an Irish pub. Tell you what, it was great. How I've missed these little pleasures.
Then we go to the airport and catch our final flight. To Sydney. Where we will be for the next six months. As we go through New Zealand customs we get an official who looks like she's at the end of her shift. Brill.
So we approach. 'I notice you've only stayed here for four days, any reason for that?' She asks, peering over her glasses at me.
'Well, we've been travelling around South America and kinda ran out of money. We were going to spend two weeks here but we've been here before so we changed our flights.' This statement does not impress her.
'You ran out of money in South America? It's dirt cheap there.' She stares at me. What is this?
'Brazil isn't, Chile isn't...' I try to counter
'I've been there four times I know what things cost.' O..kay.
'So I see you're going to Sydney, how long are you staying there?' Bollocks.
'Uhh...six months?' I reply tentatively.
'So you're spending six months in Sydney and four days in New Zealand.' Her face looked like it was tightening up for a punch.
'Umm...yes.' I don't mean to offend you, dear woman, but can we get the passport stamped and allow me through. 'But we're planning to comeback in October, so we'll spend all the money we make in Sydney, here.' A sly grin on her face. That's more like it. STAMP, STAMP.
'Enjoy your trip to Sydney.' She says, deadpan. Thanks...I think.
A Tribute to My Merrill Ventilators
Dear Merrills, I just want to say thank you for not giving up on me, these last few months. You've been there, through thick and thin. Through hot and cold, dry and wet. You never gave me a blister even when I walked for 3 days straight. My feet were as untouched by the earth when I took them off as when I had put them on. In the heat you were cool. In the wet...well, no one's perfect. We trudged across glaciers and deserts. Hiked up mountains and down beaches. Along city streets and dusty roads. You were there for me every step of the way. No complaining, no fuss. Just there. With me. On my journey. My blister kit remained untouched as I stand in awe of your comfort. This is not an advertisement, nor is it an arse-kiss for Merrill. It is merely a thank you note from me to a very special pair of shoes.
We arrive in Sydney, the chap living at the place we're going to stay at picks us up from the airport. Mitch has the flu and has been off work all day but he still drove all the way to the airport anyway. Nice guy. We drive to the house our friends have let us stay at. It's beautiful. It's huge and has a view of the valley and in the distance, the sea. Immaculately designed and perfect for our needs, I couldn't have asked for more. They've even let us use their car. That Christmas present for them is going to have to be a sail boat or private jet or something. Mitch's girlfriend, Pipper has a lovely little dog called Audrey who I take for walks along the coast.
But this is where I leave you. I'm going to knuckle down, do some writing and enjoy life here for six months. I will post new blogs when there are stories to tell but they will not be as regular.
What's this Dan, you're leaving us? But...but...why? Did I do something? Was it something I said. No. Please! Come on, I need your blogs, what am I supposed to read when I'm bored at work and surfed every site I can think of?
Who else's writing style can I ridicule as much as yours? What am I supposed to delete if I don't get any more of those silly group messages in my inbox...crap I really enjoyed deleting those! Damnit Dan, I'm invested and you chose now to just walk away. Well screw you. You don't get to walk away from me, I'm going to unsubscribe from you HA!
Thank you for being with us on our journey, I hope I've shared some of the more quirky, entertaining stories with you. If nothing else, at least it was a way to kill time when work gets dull. Chao!
Friday, April 25, 2008
ESTATE AGENTS, GLACIERS AND HIKING
So I wake up to the sound of an alarm clock the day after the proposal. I´m utterly hungover, one might even go as far as to say I was still drunk. It´s 0500 in the morning, we have an 0800 flight to catch to El Calafate in Argentinian Patagonia. I move slowly to turn the alarm off and get myself out of bed. Alison looks almost as bad as me. We have to pack and be ready for some guy from the estate agency who´s coming round to check the apartment. He´s going to make sure we haven´t trashed it or anything. So we have a bit of work to do. It feels as if someone is ice fishing in my head.
We get everything ready and wait. 0530 comes and goes. It gets to 0545. We have to leave at 0600 to get to the airport in time. 0555, where the hell is he? At 0600 we are about to leave when the buzzer goes. He´s sorry, he went to the wrong place or some other equally unlikely story. I bark at him that we have to go or we will miss our plane. He tries to reassure me, there´s no traffic, it won´t take that long. He´s got thick glasses and he looks like he likes those Argentinian steaks a bit too much. He runs around the apartment looking through cupboards and making notes. He then says he will take us to the airport. Great. So we jump in his car and he floors it to the airport.
Now I think most Argentinians would agree with me when I say they can´t drive or perhaps more accurately they have a complete disregard for other users of the road. Not as bad as some countries but let´s say they´re in the top 5. I´m pondering on this as we speed through another red light and nearly end up on the other side of the in the central reservation. We are going so fast I can´t even see things through the window. Everything´s just a blur. I do notice, however, an ambulance. It´s lights are flashing, it´s siren is on and it´s in a hurry. We, it seems, are in more of a hurry because we race passed it! Let me repeat that for those that had nodded off. We overtook a speeding ambulance! I had to blink twice to make sure what I was witnessing to be true. Again, like Juan, our Bolivian taxi driver all those months ago, I wanted to tell our man to slow down. Did I know the Spanish? Nope. So in typical English fashion I sat there terrified to my very soul until at last he bounced the car up on the curb outside departures and we got out, shakily. He said goodbye and screeched away. It was then I realised he´d dropped us at the wrong terminal. Bastard. We trundled the fifteen minute walk to the other terminal, checked in and made our flight. No thanks to to our bumbling estate agent man.
So we arrive at El Calafate and immediately I´m hit with a cool blast of air. The temperature is markedly different from the seventy degrees in Buenos Aires. We jump in a cab to our hostel which is little like being in a school dorm but okay (as long as they don´t keep me up at night everything will be fine.)
Now bear in mind we´d just got engaged, what was the first thing we wanted to do? Yep, tell everyone we´d ever met. So we mosey on down to the nearest telephone and Internet places and we have a bit of a shock. First the Internet is painfully slow so Skype´s out of the question and second the telephones are painfully expensive.
It costs one pound forty per minute to make a call from mobile! Damnit. Well I have to call my brother and sister which I do but in terms of friends it seemed to take ages to actually find a way to tell people. Every time I wrote an e-mail and tried to send it was like waiting for a second Ice Age. Anyway, finally we told everyone that needed to know. Alison´s mum was particularly happy as the day we had got engaged was also her sixtieth birthday. Smooth!
So what is there to do in El Calafate? Glaciers. Big, crashing, noisy. They´re a bit cool (apologies for that one). We pay a quite insultingly large amount of money to go ice trekking on this one glacier called Perito Moreno. They strap on these iron claws on to our shoes called crampons and we go walking on the ice. It´s a beautiful day and whilst some of our group are behaving like children by throwing snowballs (Alison) I enjoy bumming around on the ice. It´s like looking at blue mountain peaks. The ice is so heavily compacted that when the sun shines through, it makes them look bright blue. I know what you´re thinking. Dan, I didn´t read this for some goddamn geology lesson, I read it to be entertain so entertain me, bitch. Okay. Man, you guys are a hard audience.
So as we finish walking down a steep bit we come across a table with lots of glasses set upon it. Hmm, I wonder. I can tell you´re thinking the same thing. Our guide then produces a bottle of ´Famous Grouse´ whiskey and smiles. I like his thinking. Then, just for a little extra class he takes his ice pick and hacks off some thousand year old ice from the glacier and tips it in to our glasses, quickly followed by the whiskey. Nicely done!
The next day we jump on a catamaran and see other glaciers and mountains. This time I get to play my favourite role by standing on the front of the catamaran and shouting "Ice berg right ahead!" Also Alison and I held our arms outstretched as the catamaran zipped along the water. I could almost feel Celine Dion behind me.
The day after we took a bus to a place called El Chalten about 3 hours north of Calafate. The Argentians wanted to incorporate the beautiful mountain range called Fitz Roy next to El Chalten into their territory in 1985. Chile wasn´t too happy about this, so they had a little race as to who could get there first. The sneaky Argentinians only went and built El Chalten as a way to say "Hey Chiliean neighbour, our towns already here, can´t have this slice." And the Chileans were like ´´Dude, this is so not cool.´´ But the Argentinians were already sitting down to dinner and had a bottle of wine open so the Chileans thought they´d let this one slide rather than cause a fuss.
So El Chalten is the youngest town in Argentina. I tell you this because I want you to be cultured so that next time someone stops you in the street and asks you "Do you know the story of El Chalten?" You say hold your head up high and say "Yes, Dan Grant told me." Anyway, we stayed in a nice cabin with a little kitchen and all was well with the world. We would do a few hours of hiking then come back to our cabin and get stupidly drunk on Argentinian wine.
So after all this fun we jump on another bus to a place called Puerto Natales (I hope you´re paying attention to all these names cos there´s going to be a test at the end). Natales is just over the border in to Chile and represents the gateway to the most impressive national park in all of South America called Torres Del Paine (roughly translated to Towers of Paine, or pain as we would soon discover). Natales used to be an old fishing village but now depends mostly on tourism. I have to say the weather here holds no punches. It´s rainy and windy and sunny, and snowy and did I mention windy? It´s like living in a hurricane 24 hours a day. I think bleak is a more descriptive word perhaps. I kept thinking, why would anyone settle here? The first Europeans to arrive must have actually thought "It´s crappy, rainy, cold and miserable. Perfect! Let´s build our houses right here." I think, good job we´re going hiking in this sort of weather, I love a challenge.
However...
Such is the way things turn out we had decided to do this famous trek for 5 days in the national park called the ´W´. It´s called this because the trail takes you in roughly the shape of a ´W´. Anyway we start the walk. 4 hours north to a glacier and a hut-like structure that we would stay the night in. Of course, nothing is ever simple. Half way to our hut, the path is cut off by a running stream. In the middle is a large log. It looks stable. I take one step on to it. It rocks a little. But I´ve committed myself now so the next foot steps forward. The log flips and throws me straight in to the stream, my big backpack and everything. I lie on my back, water flowing around me. Alison is saying something to the effect of "Are you okay?" But I´m a man. And I´ve just made a fool of myself. So I immediately stand up, swear and carry on. I´m soaked, I think I´ve busted my knee and my pride is in little pieces next to that bloody log.
Alison, wisely leaves me to it for ten minutes before attempting communication again. By which like I´ve come off the boil a little and can communicate back. "I´m fine, just so stupid."
Anyway we reach the hut and stay the night. It´s rustic but not particularly endearing. Alison had banged her toe rather badly on the Inca Trail and the nail had turned a rather dashing shade of purple. It hadn´t really been causing any problems on our trip but the cold must have awoken the beast inside. Because the next day she could barely walk. And just to make matters worse it rained, hard. All day. And it was cold. And just not that pleasant. So by the time we got to the next camp we had decided we couldn´t carry on.
Back to Puerto Natales we go. Our hostel is somewhat surprised to see us but accommodate us. So we get to our room and settle in for all-night results coverage of the Paraguayan election. Man, why don´t we get this in England.
We get everything ready and wait. 0530 comes and goes. It gets to 0545. We have to leave at 0600 to get to the airport in time. 0555, where the hell is he? At 0600 we are about to leave when the buzzer goes. He´s sorry, he went to the wrong place or some other equally unlikely story. I bark at him that we have to go or we will miss our plane. He tries to reassure me, there´s no traffic, it won´t take that long. He´s got thick glasses and he looks like he likes those Argentinian steaks a bit too much. He runs around the apartment looking through cupboards and making notes. He then says he will take us to the airport. Great. So we jump in his car and he floors it to the airport.
Now I think most Argentinians would agree with me when I say they can´t drive or perhaps more accurately they have a complete disregard for other users of the road. Not as bad as some countries but let´s say they´re in the top 5. I´m pondering on this as we speed through another red light and nearly end up on the other side of the in the central reservation. We are going so fast I can´t even see things through the window. Everything´s just a blur. I do notice, however, an ambulance. It´s lights are flashing, it´s siren is on and it´s in a hurry. We, it seems, are in more of a hurry because we race passed it! Let me repeat that for those that had nodded off. We overtook a speeding ambulance! I had to blink twice to make sure what I was witnessing to be true. Again, like Juan, our Bolivian taxi driver all those months ago, I wanted to tell our man to slow down. Did I know the Spanish? Nope. So in typical English fashion I sat there terrified to my very soul until at last he bounced the car up on the curb outside departures and we got out, shakily. He said goodbye and screeched away. It was then I realised he´d dropped us at the wrong terminal. Bastard. We trundled the fifteen minute walk to the other terminal, checked in and made our flight. No thanks to to our bumbling estate agent man.
So we arrive at El Calafate and immediately I´m hit with a cool blast of air. The temperature is markedly different from the seventy degrees in Buenos Aires. We jump in a cab to our hostel which is little like being in a school dorm but okay (as long as they don´t keep me up at night everything will be fine.)
Now bear in mind we´d just got engaged, what was the first thing we wanted to do? Yep, tell everyone we´d ever met. So we mosey on down to the nearest telephone and Internet places and we have a bit of a shock. First the Internet is painfully slow so Skype´s out of the question and second the telephones are painfully expensive.
It costs one pound forty per minute to make a call from mobile! Damnit. Well I have to call my brother and sister which I do but in terms of friends it seemed to take ages to actually find a way to tell people. Every time I wrote an e-mail and tried to send it was like waiting for a second Ice Age. Anyway, finally we told everyone that needed to know. Alison´s mum was particularly happy as the day we had got engaged was also her sixtieth birthday. Smooth!
So what is there to do in El Calafate? Glaciers. Big, crashing, noisy. They´re a bit cool (apologies for that one). We pay a quite insultingly large amount of money to go ice trekking on this one glacier called Perito Moreno. They strap on these iron claws on to our shoes called crampons and we go walking on the ice. It´s a beautiful day and whilst some of our group are behaving like children by throwing snowballs (Alison) I enjoy bumming around on the ice. It´s like looking at blue mountain peaks. The ice is so heavily compacted that when the sun shines through, it makes them look bright blue. I know what you´re thinking. Dan, I didn´t read this for some goddamn geology lesson, I read it to be entertain so entertain me, bitch. Okay. Man, you guys are a hard audience.
So as we finish walking down a steep bit we come across a table with lots of glasses set upon it. Hmm, I wonder. I can tell you´re thinking the same thing. Our guide then produces a bottle of ´Famous Grouse´ whiskey and smiles. I like his thinking. Then, just for a little extra class he takes his ice pick and hacks off some thousand year old ice from the glacier and tips it in to our glasses, quickly followed by the whiskey. Nicely done!
The next day we jump on a catamaran and see other glaciers and mountains. This time I get to play my favourite role by standing on the front of the catamaran and shouting "Ice berg right ahead!" Also Alison and I held our arms outstretched as the catamaran zipped along the water. I could almost feel Celine Dion behind me.
The day after we took a bus to a place called El Chalten about 3 hours north of Calafate. The Argentians wanted to incorporate the beautiful mountain range called Fitz Roy next to El Chalten into their territory in 1985. Chile wasn´t too happy about this, so they had a little race as to who could get there first. The sneaky Argentinians only went and built El Chalten as a way to say "Hey Chiliean neighbour, our towns already here, can´t have this slice." And the Chileans were like ´´Dude, this is so not cool.´´ But the Argentinians were already sitting down to dinner and had a bottle of wine open so the Chileans thought they´d let this one slide rather than cause a fuss.
So El Chalten is the youngest town in Argentina. I tell you this because I want you to be cultured so that next time someone stops you in the street and asks you "Do you know the story of El Chalten?" You say hold your head up high and say "Yes, Dan Grant told me." Anyway, we stayed in a nice cabin with a little kitchen and all was well with the world. We would do a few hours of hiking then come back to our cabin and get stupidly drunk on Argentinian wine.
So after all this fun we jump on another bus to a place called Puerto Natales (I hope you´re paying attention to all these names cos there´s going to be a test at the end). Natales is just over the border in to Chile and represents the gateway to the most impressive national park in all of South America called Torres Del Paine (roughly translated to Towers of Paine, or pain as we would soon discover). Natales used to be an old fishing village but now depends mostly on tourism. I have to say the weather here holds no punches. It´s rainy and windy and sunny, and snowy and did I mention windy? It´s like living in a hurricane 24 hours a day. I think bleak is a more descriptive word perhaps. I kept thinking, why would anyone settle here? The first Europeans to arrive must have actually thought "It´s crappy, rainy, cold and miserable. Perfect! Let´s build our houses right here." I think, good job we´re going hiking in this sort of weather, I love a challenge.
However...
Such is the way things turn out we had decided to do this famous trek for 5 days in the national park called the ´W´. It´s called this because the trail takes you in roughly the shape of a ´W´. Anyway we start the walk. 4 hours north to a glacier and a hut-like structure that we would stay the night in. Of course, nothing is ever simple. Half way to our hut, the path is cut off by a running stream. In the middle is a large log. It looks stable. I take one step on to it. It rocks a little. But I´ve committed myself now so the next foot steps forward. The log flips and throws me straight in to the stream, my big backpack and everything. I lie on my back, water flowing around me. Alison is saying something to the effect of "Are you okay?" But I´m a man. And I´ve just made a fool of myself. So I immediately stand up, swear and carry on. I´m soaked, I think I´ve busted my knee and my pride is in little pieces next to that bloody log.
Alison, wisely leaves me to it for ten minutes before attempting communication again. By which like I´ve come off the boil a little and can communicate back. "I´m fine, just so stupid."
Anyway we reach the hut and stay the night. It´s rustic but not particularly endearing. Alison had banged her toe rather badly on the Inca Trail and the nail had turned a rather dashing shade of purple. It hadn´t really been causing any problems on our trip but the cold must have awoken the beast inside. Because the next day she could barely walk. And just to make matters worse it rained, hard. All day. And it was cold. And just not that pleasant. So by the time we got to the next camp we had decided we couldn´t carry on.
Back to Puerto Natales we go. Our hostel is somewhat surprised to see us but accommodate us. So we get to our room and settle in for all-night results coverage of the Paraguayan election. Man, why don´t we get this in England.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
BROKEN TOILETS, CUBIERTOS AND HIGH JUMPING
Another blog in such quick succession? What is he, on drugs? Alas, my friends he is not. I wrote the last blog and it was so long I thought it might throw you in to the depths of despair by publishing it all in one go. I didn’t want to be responsible for a spate of suicides in the Greater London area so here is what I affectionately label Part 2.
So we spent Easter in Rosario and the day after our little ordeal with Luis the psychopathic nightman we get up at two in the afternoon and decide to go for a walk. I have to say it’s great being back in Argentina. It’s cheap, the people are friendly, you don’t feel like you’re going to be raped every time you step out of your door. It’s just a great country. We find a restaurant for dinner and I’m pumped. I want a good Argentinean steak and now. And get it I do. The food is impeccable, the service is good, the wine is divine. The only issue came when they delivered the bill. Something called Cubiertos for 5 pesos. Interesting. What’s that? I didn’t order any Cubiertos, whatever it was. So we ask the waiter, who can’t speak English, so he runs away and comes back with someone who can. Here’s how the conversation went:
Me: Hi there, (showing the bill) what’s this…cubiertos?
Waiter: It’s for this (he points at the knife.)
Me: The knife?
Waiter: For the cutlery.
Me: You’re charging me for the cutlery?
Waiter: (Nods and smiles)
Me: 5 pesos…to use the cutlery? What did you expect me to eat the steak with…my hands?
Waiter: (Smiles some more and shrugs) I’m sorry I’m from Germany...(leaves)
Rosario was nice but we were definitely ready to go after 4 days. So we jump on another bus back to Buenos Aires. Because we love this city, we have decided to rent an apartment in the San Telmo area. I had this idea that we would eat steak, drink wine, go jogging along the river, do some writing and just relax before we head off to Patagonia for a couple of weeks. Well the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. You’ll think I’m making this up but I assure you everything I write is from truth (or truth as I recall it)
So it was Friday and we get to our apartment and immediately I’m worried. There’s these hippie student types just hanging around outside the building which is an old big window jobbie. So after clearing them off the steps to the door, we go in with the agent. First impressions? Nice, big, modern. Upstairs bit has bedroom and bathroom. Downstairs - kitchen, living area. It’s on the ground floor so when you open the windows, there’s the street…with the hippies. Not to worry, I’m sure they’re just there during the week. There was no fan or air con (bear in mind it’s 85 outside, I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me because I know in England it’s pissing it down and cold but stay with me if you will). The gas oven took as long to light as it takes to read the Book of Genesis out loud and the bed didn’t have sheets on it.
Also the agent wanted us to pay in cash, a fact they had omitted to tell us. So I had to go traipsing around San Telmo looking for a cash point that would accept my card (most of them didn’t), then when I finally found one, it would only let me take out a maximum of 250 pounds. So I come back sweating like a fat man who’d been chasing a runaway M&M and I’m not happy. After much discussion they agreed to let us pay the rest on Monday. The agent leaves. It’s not two minutes she’s gone when Alison yells downstairs ‘The toilet doesn’t work.’ She was right, it didn’t flush. More phone calls. The agency said they could get a plumber round tomorrow. I asked where I was supposed to take a dump in the meantime. She didn’t have an answer.
Then Friday night comes and San Telmo becomes a party town. Revellers out till late, drunks, noise. Brilliant. And it’s hot. I can’t open the windows without letting the whole street see my arse so I just have to lump it.
The following night, our neighbours upstairs decide to throw a party and are shouting and screaming until four in the morning! I mean literally screaming. And the jumping as well, let me not forget that. Were they engaged in some sort of crude high jumping competition? Who knows? All I do know as I gaze at the clock through cracked, sore eyes is that I want to kill people, but I haven’t got the energy or tools at my disposal. Then just as I’m starting to nod off (bearing in mind it’s now 0530) there’s noise outside. A different kind of noise. I crawl on all fours to the window, beaten. I look out to see, a market. They are setting up a market outside our apartment. With all the metal banging and yelling. What…the…hell.
So come Monday we take a trip to the ‘Agency’ (Sounds like the CIA but I assure you it’s a lot less impressive). And after barking at them for half an hour they eventually offer us another apartment in a district called Palermo. This place is nice and it is where I am writing to you now with a glass of Malbec at my side. It’s on the 5th floor, it has a sunny balcony, it’s quiet and…it’s got a toilet that works! It even has a remote to close the shutters, nice. So things at the moment are very satisfactory.
I suppose I’d better sign off, this has been far too long-winded. I need to learn the ancient art of editing. Well at least I didn’t leave it open ended like last time, although I know you secretly love those Eastender cliff hanger writings.
And so, with a heavy heart and even heavier stomach (need to lay off those steaks) I say Adieu.
Dan
So we spent Easter in Rosario and the day after our little ordeal with Luis the psychopathic nightman we get up at two in the afternoon and decide to go for a walk. I have to say it’s great being back in Argentina. It’s cheap, the people are friendly, you don’t feel like you’re going to be raped every time you step out of your door. It’s just a great country. We find a restaurant for dinner and I’m pumped. I want a good Argentinean steak and now. And get it I do. The food is impeccable, the service is good, the wine is divine. The only issue came when they delivered the bill. Something called Cubiertos for 5 pesos. Interesting. What’s that? I didn’t order any Cubiertos, whatever it was. So we ask the waiter, who can’t speak English, so he runs away and comes back with someone who can. Here’s how the conversation went:
Me: Hi there, (showing the bill) what’s this…cubiertos?
Waiter: It’s for this (he points at the knife.)
Me: The knife?
Waiter: For the cutlery.
Me: You’re charging me for the cutlery?
Waiter: (Nods and smiles)
Me: 5 pesos…to use the cutlery? What did you expect me to eat the steak with…my hands?
Waiter: (Smiles some more and shrugs) I’m sorry I’m from Germany...(leaves)
Rosario was nice but we were definitely ready to go after 4 days. So we jump on another bus back to Buenos Aires. Because we love this city, we have decided to rent an apartment in the San Telmo area. I had this idea that we would eat steak, drink wine, go jogging along the river, do some writing and just relax before we head off to Patagonia for a couple of weeks. Well the reality couldn’t have been further from the truth. You’ll think I’m making this up but I assure you everything I write is from truth (or truth as I recall it)
So it was Friday and we get to our apartment and immediately I’m worried. There’s these hippie student types just hanging around outside the building which is an old big window jobbie. So after clearing them off the steps to the door, we go in with the agent. First impressions? Nice, big, modern. Upstairs bit has bedroom and bathroom. Downstairs - kitchen, living area. It’s on the ground floor so when you open the windows, there’s the street…with the hippies. Not to worry, I’m sure they’re just there during the week. There was no fan or air con (bear in mind it’s 85 outside, I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me because I know in England it’s pissing it down and cold but stay with me if you will). The gas oven took as long to light as it takes to read the Book of Genesis out loud and the bed didn’t have sheets on it.
Also the agent wanted us to pay in cash, a fact they had omitted to tell us. So I had to go traipsing around San Telmo looking for a cash point that would accept my card (most of them didn’t), then when I finally found one, it would only let me take out a maximum of 250 pounds. So I come back sweating like a fat man who’d been chasing a runaway M&M and I’m not happy. After much discussion they agreed to let us pay the rest on Monday. The agent leaves. It’s not two minutes she’s gone when Alison yells downstairs ‘The toilet doesn’t work.’ She was right, it didn’t flush. More phone calls. The agency said they could get a plumber round tomorrow. I asked where I was supposed to take a dump in the meantime. She didn’t have an answer.
Then Friday night comes and San Telmo becomes a party town. Revellers out till late, drunks, noise. Brilliant. And it’s hot. I can’t open the windows without letting the whole street see my arse so I just have to lump it.
The following night, our neighbours upstairs decide to throw a party and are shouting and screaming until four in the morning! I mean literally screaming. And the jumping as well, let me not forget that. Were they engaged in some sort of crude high jumping competition? Who knows? All I do know as I gaze at the clock through cracked, sore eyes is that I want to kill people, but I haven’t got the energy or tools at my disposal. Then just as I’m starting to nod off (bearing in mind it’s now 0530) there’s noise outside. A different kind of noise. I crawl on all fours to the window, beaten. I look out to see, a market. They are setting up a market outside our apartment. With all the metal banging and yelling. What…the…hell.
So come Monday we take a trip to the ‘Agency’ (Sounds like the CIA but I assure you it’s a lot less impressive). And after barking at them for half an hour they eventually offer us another apartment in a district called Palermo. This place is nice and it is where I am writing to you now with a glass of Malbec at my side. It’s on the 5th floor, it has a sunny balcony, it’s quiet and…it’s got a toilet that works! It even has a remote to close the shutters, nice. So things at the moment are very satisfactory.
I suppose I’d better sign off, this has been far too long-winded. I need to learn the ancient art of editing. Well at least I didn’t leave it open ended like last time, although I know you secretly love those Eastender cliff hanger writings.
And so, with a heavy heart and even heavier stomach (need to lay off those steaks) I say Adieu.
Dan
Thursday, April 3, 2008
BUS RIDES, FIZZY DRINKS AND EASTER EGGS
So I’m back. You probably all moved on since the last blog. Probably thought that Dan Grant has just given up on us. Maybe I should do something more useful than sit here hour after hour waiting for a new blog to come out.
Well here it is! Sit back and enjoy.
So we jump on possibly the longest bus ride I have ever known and frankly have no intention of repeating. It’s a 6 hour journey to Sao Paulo from Paraty and it’s just about bearable. The bus stops every couple of hours at these ridiculously remote service stops that look like someone’s house and appear only to bother opening when this particular bus pulls in.
Anyway we begin to see built up areas and I realise we are nearing Sao Paulo. Allow me to read to you what the Lonely Planet says about Sao Paulo.
DANGERS AND ANNOYANCES
Reports of crime in the city have increased and Sao Paulo is said to be less safe than Rio…if you’re driving, be aware that carjackings and red-light robberies are common after dark. It’s so bad that Sao Paulo recently changed a traffic law – it’s now legal (and recommended) to just slow down at red lights at night. If there’s no traffic, continue without stopping…
What the..? Don’t stop at red lights, crime worse than Rio?? Well that little paragraph had us scanning every car and every person as we rode along towards the bus station. Who was suspicious? That man with the hood, too obvious? What about that pregnant lady…a cunning disguise perhaps? Who knows? So we arrive fully prepared for urban combat. Unfortunately we have to stay at the bus station for 5 hours to wait for the night bus to take us to Florianopolis (which is a 12 hour drive).
Sao Paulo has the worlds biggest bus station. It’s like an airport - shops, fast food chains, internet cafes all very nice. But I swear there are some distinctly dodgy people walking around that place. Every time I made eye contact with someone I pictured them shoving a gun in my face and demanding my Lonely Planet Brazil (which they can have as far as I’m concerned). My mind then draws a picture of me unable to understand what they are after so I try desperately to do a translation exercise with the help of my phrasebook before they pull the trigger.
So for 5 hours we sat and ate then after we finished eating we ate some more. We don’t smoke, so what the hell else are we supposed to do? One thing I’ve noticed here. When you ask for something in English, even though the name of what you are asking for is the same in both English and Portuguese they just don’t understand. So I say ‘Sprite por favour.’ And the two-star Bob’s Burger employee stares straight back at me with a sort of cross eyed expression and says ‘Sprite?’ I look up at the menu lit up in front of me, a beautifully lit photo of a large cup of Sprite with ice cubes and a straw with big letters on the side saying Sprite. I look down at our missing link friend. ‘Yes Sprite.’ The mongoloid shakes his head and smiles. Then I do what so many of my compatriots do. I start saying it over and over again, varying things like volume, speed, pitch. Nothing. He asks his manager. I say ‘Sprite?’ The manager shakes his head, then an idea. I see it forming in his brain. ‘Ohhh…Sprite?’ I stare at him, a small frown on my now sweating forehead. ‘Yes, Sprite.’ And let me tell you, dear readers, he said Sprite in exactly the same way I’d had and I finally got my goddamn beverage.
Finally the time came and we got on the bus. Which was, I have to admit, quite funky. They had these chairs that turned in to beds. Actual flat beds with sheets and pillows. Brilliant. I actually slept for some of the way. Wayhay!!
So we arrive in Florianopolis at 6 Am, another beach location. Our guest house is lovely, the owner was slightly surprised to see us so early but offered us breakfast and spoke excellent English. Great, we’re winning. What wasn’t winning, however, was the weather. It was still raining. You may remember how I told you it rained the whole time we were in Paraty. Well it carried on here. Fab. So what do you do when it rains here? We thought let’s take a bus downtown and go see a movie at the multiplex. So that’s what we did. The ticket cost about 2 pounds each cos it was a matinee and we saw Charlie Wilson’s War which was not bad at all.
Whilst walking around the mall something else occurred to me. Brazilians don’t wear glasses. Seriously I have not seen one Brazilian wearing them. Maybe they don’t like being called four eyes. Maybe they all have perfect 20x20 vision. Maybe there’s a trade embargo on them, who knows? I have yet to see one pair, weird no?
Anyway, the weather improves and we have a nice few days on the beach. Then it’s time to go and we’ve booked a flight from Florianopolis to Rosario in Argentina. So it’s farewell Brazil. Well not quite, because the flight we booked doesn’t leave Florianopolis till 1800, then it flies one hour south to a place called Porto Alegre where we then have to wait 5 hours until we leave (around midnight) for Rosario thus arriving at 0155 in the morning. Confused? We were.
As I’m sitting on the plane watching the sunset I look down and see the baggage guys loading the plane with various pieces of luggage. As usual they are in that ‘couldn’t give a toss mode’ throwing it around, kicking it etc. However I quickly realise there’s no conveyer belt taking the luggage up in to the plane; they are lifting each piece individually. And all I could think was the airport surely could afford to buy them one conveyor belt. They could even share it when there’s more than one flight. It would be good for them, and it would be good for me so I don’t spend my time with this stuff running around my head and we could get on our way!
So we arrive in Porto Alegre airport and here we must wait and wait and wait some more. We wander around looking at shops pondering how we are going to kill this much time when Alison notices there’s a cinema on the top floor. A cinema! In an airport. Brilliant! What an inspired idea. So we amble up there and guess what there’s a movie starting in 20 minutes. Hallelujah! We buy tickets to see a film called Vantage Point. Not bad, bit like a long episode of 24. Anyway, that kills a couple of hours straight off. Before you know it we’re boarding our next plane to Rosario.
Now because it’s Easter and everything was booked in Rosario we ended up booking a Holiday Inn. We didn’t want to, but everywhere else was full. So we arrive at Rosario Airport at 2 in the morning, only to find it’s so late all the immigration people have gone home. I mean, what the hell! So we’re herded in to this room for about the length of the Bronze Age. Then a guy from the airline comes out and makes an announcement, in Spanish. Everyone groans. Then 5 minutes later he comes out again and makes another announcement, suddenly everyone stands up and heads back towards the immigration area. We, like the sheep that we are, followed them. They had located some passport people who were now under so much pressure to get the queue moving I swear they would have let Osama Bin Laden in.
Anyway, exhausted and more than a little tetchy we emerge through arrivals fully expecting no one to be there, but to our great surprise there was a guy holding a sign with my name on it. Ace. He drove us (like the absolute lunatic he was), to the Holiday Inn. We walk through reception and we meet the man who is going to have a great impact on our lives. He is called Luis. We explain that we have been trying to let the Holiday Inn know for the last week that we were coming at 3am. They had booked the transfer so surely they wouldn’t do that if we didn’t have a reservation, right? Wrong. Luis was possibly the most unhelpful, couldn’t-give-a-toss nightman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He said our room would not be ready until 3pm, then just looked at us. So we said ‘Fine, we’ll sit in reception and wait.’ And that’s what we did looking like a couple of Albanian goat herders we sat and dozed and tried to avoid the mozzies. From 3 in the morning until 9 we sat there. He didn’t offer us a damn thing unless you count strange looks. Only when the day staff started to come in did he bother to say ‘You can get some breakfast, the restaurant has opened now.’ I wanted to tell him where he could stick his breakfast but I was hungry and coffee sounded nice.
Eventually the manager came over. Totally different attitude. Very sorry, totally understood our position. Offered us a nicer room etc etc. Luis by that time had gone home. I thought about leaving him a special ‘Easter egg’ of my own but what the hell, life’s too short.
And here is where I must leave you. With that thought of my ‘special’ Easter egg. There’s more, much more. And I shall be posting it as soon as I figure out how to get out of the Tango lessons Alison has planned for me.
Until that time.
Arive Derche
The Dan
Well here it is! Sit back and enjoy.
So we jump on possibly the longest bus ride I have ever known and frankly have no intention of repeating. It’s a 6 hour journey to Sao Paulo from Paraty and it’s just about bearable. The bus stops every couple of hours at these ridiculously remote service stops that look like someone’s house and appear only to bother opening when this particular bus pulls in.
Anyway we begin to see built up areas and I realise we are nearing Sao Paulo. Allow me to read to you what the Lonely Planet says about Sao Paulo.
DANGERS AND ANNOYANCES
Reports of crime in the city have increased and Sao Paulo is said to be less safe than Rio…if you’re driving, be aware that carjackings and red-light robberies are common after dark. It’s so bad that Sao Paulo recently changed a traffic law – it’s now legal (and recommended) to just slow down at red lights at night. If there’s no traffic, continue without stopping…
What the..? Don’t stop at red lights, crime worse than Rio?? Well that little paragraph had us scanning every car and every person as we rode along towards the bus station. Who was suspicious? That man with the hood, too obvious? What about that pregnant lady…a cunning disguise perhaps? Who knows? So we arrive fully prepared for urban combat. Unfortunately we have to stay at the bus station for 5 hours to wait for the night bus to take us to Florianopolis (which is a 12 hour drive).
Sao Paulo has the worlds biggest bus station. It’s like an airport - shops, fast food chains, internet cafes all very nice. But I swear there are some distinctly dodgy people walking around that place. Every time I made eye contact with someone I pictured them shoving a gun in my face and demanding my Lonely Planet Brazil (which they can have as far as I’m concerned). My mind then draws a picture of me unable to understand what they are after so I try desperately to do a translation exercise with the help of my phrasebook before they pull the trigger.
So for 5 hours we sat and ate then after we finished eating we ate some more. We don’t smoke, so what the hell else are we supposed to do? One thing I’ve noticed here. When you ask for something in English, even though the name of what you are asking for is the same in both English and Portuguese they just don’t understand. So I say ‘Sprite por favour.’ And the two-star Bob’s Burger employee stares straight back at me with a sort of cross eyed expression and says ‘Sprite?’ I look up at the menu lit up in front of me, a beautifully lit photo of a large cup of Sprite with ice cubes and a straw with big letters on the side saying Sprite. I look down at our missing link friend. ‘Yes Sprite.’ The mongoloid shakes his head and smiles. Then I do what so many of my compatriots do. I start saying it over and over again, varying things like volume, speed, pitch. Nothing. He asks his manager. I say ‘Sprite?’ The manager shakes his head, then an idea. I see it forming in his brain. ‘Ohhh…Sprite?’ I stare at him, a small frown on my now sweating forehead. ‘Yes, Sprite.’ And let me tell you, dear readers, he said Sprite in exactly the same way I’d had and I finally got my goddamn beverage.
Finally the time came and we got on the bus. Which was, I have to admit, quite funky. They had these chairs that turned in to beds. Actual flat beds with sheets and pillows. Brilliant. I actually slept for some of the way. Wayhay!!
So we arrive in Florianopolis at 6 Am, another beach location. Our guest house is lovely, the owner was slightly surprised to see us so early but offered us breakfast and spoke excellent English. Great, we’re winning. What wasn’t winning, however, was the weather. It was still raining. You may remember how I told you it rained the whole time we were in Paraty. Well it carried on here. Fab. So what do you do when it rains here? We thought let’s take a bus downtown and go see a movie at the multiplex. So that’s what we did. The ticket cost about 2 pounds each cos it was a matinee and we saw Charlie Wilson’s War which was not bad at all.
Whilst walking around the mall something else occurred to me. Brazilians don’t wear glasses. Seriously I have not seen one Brazilian wearing them. Maybe they don’t like being called four eyes. Maybe they all have perfect 20x20 vision. Maybe there’s a trade embargo on them, who knows? I have yet to see one pair, weird no?
Anyway, the weather improves and we have a nice few days on the beach. Then it’s time to go and we’ve booked a flight from Florianopolis to Rosario in Argentina. So it’s farewell Brazil. Well not quite, because the flight we booked doesn’t leave Florianopolis till 1800, then it flies one hour south to a place called Porto Alegre where we then have to wait 5 hours until we leave (around midnight) for Rosario thus arriving at 0155 in the morning. Confused? We were.
As I’m sitting on the plane watching the sunset I look down and see the baggage guys loading the plane with various pieces of luggage. As usual they are in that ‘couldn’t give a toss mode’ throwing it around, kicking it etc. However I quickly realise there’s no conveyer belt taking the luggage up in to the plane; they are lifting each piece individually. And all I could think was the airport surely could afford to buy them one conveyor belt. They could even share it when there’s more than one flight. It would be good for them, and it would be good for me so I don’t spend my time with this stuff running around my head and we could get on our way!
So we arrive in Porto Alegre airport and here we must wait and wait and wait some more. We wander around looking at shops pondering how we are going to kill this much time when Alison notices there’s a cinema on the top floor. A cinema! In an airport. Brilliant! What an inspired idea. So we amble up there and guess what there’s a movie starting in 20 minutes. Hallelujah! We buy tickets to see a film called Vantage Point. Not bad, bit like a long episode of 24. Anyway, that kills a couple of hours straight off. Before you know it we’re boarding our next plane to Rosario.
Now because it’s Easter and everything was booked in Rosario we ended up booking a Holiday Inn. We didn’t want to, but everywhere else was full. So we arrive at Rosario Airport at 2 in the morning, only to find it’s so late all the immigration people have gone home. I mean, what the hell! So we’re herded in to this room for about the length of the Bronze Age. Then a guy from the airline comes out and makes an announcement, in Spanish. Everyone groans. Then 5 minutes later he comes out again and makes another announcement, suddenly everyone stands up and heads back towards the immigration area. We, like the sheep that we are, followed them. They had located some passport people who were now under so much pressure to get the queue moving I swear they would have let Osama Bin Laden in.
Anyway, exhausted and more than a little tetchy we emerge through arrivals fully expecting no one to be there, but to our great surprise there was a guy holding a sign with my name on it. Ace. He drove us (like the absolute lunatic he was), to the Holiday Inn. We walk through reception and we meet the man who is going to have a great impact on our lives. He is called Luis. We explain that we have been trying to let the Holiday Inn know for the last week that we were coming at 3am. They had booked the transfer so surely they wouldn’t do that if we didn’t have a reservation, right? Wrong. Luis was possibly the most unhelpful, couldn’t-give-a-toss nightman I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He said our room would not be ready until 3pm, then just looked at us. So we said ‘Fine, we’ll sit in reception and wait.’ And that’s what we did looking like a couple of Albanian goat herders we sat and dozed and tried to avoid the mozzies. From 3 in the morning until 9 we sat there. He didn’t offer us a damn thing unless you count strange looks. Only when the day staff started to come in did he bother to say ‘You can get some breakfast, the restaurant has opened now.’ I wanted to tell him where he could stick his breakfast but I was hungry and coffee sounded nice.
Eventually the manager came over. Totally different attitude. Very sorry, totally understood our position. Offered us a nicer room etc etc. Luis by that time had gone home. I thought about leaving him a special ‘Easter egg’ of my own but what the hell, life’s too short.
And here is where I must leave you. With that thought of my ‘special’ Easter egg. There’s more, much more. And I shall be posting it as soon as I figure out how to get out of the Tango lessons Alison has planned for me.
Until that time.
Arive Derche
The Dan
Monday, March 17, 2008
SNAKES, AMPHIBIOUS NAVAL BOARDING TEAMS AND RAIN
Yep here it is. I know you´ve spent the weekend trying not to take out your frustrations on your nearest and dearest at the way I left the last blog hanging. I know that the tantrum in the living room and subsequent argument was not really about which movie to go see. Fear not, here is the thrilling conclusion to the previous ramblings.
So we opt for the 3 hour walk to the beach on Ilha Grande. And as a snake thrashes away unseen through the greenery, bear in mind I´m wearing sandals, I am beginning to think this wasn´t the best idea I´ve had. I look around at the jungle canopy above us. The air is hot and thick, it feels like there´s an Iguassu (waterfall) pouring down my back. There are snakes and spiders and all kinds of other nasty things here and we still have 2 hours to go. You´ll be pleased to know we made it. Was it worth it? Was it fuck.
Okay first, the beach. It was stunning. About a mile of pure white sand bending to the right. In fact the sand was so fine that when you walked on it it let out a squeaking sound. I just thought it was Alison´s runs coming back but nope, it was the sand. There are no boats allowed to pick up and drop off here and no parasols or chairs. No sunbathing, no swimming no breathing. Just kidding about the last three.
Now because you can´t get boats from here you have to walk 20 minutes back to another beach to get the boat back to town. In that walk you are gently raped by monkeys and scratched by palm trees with a grudge against white folk with no tops on. So after our 15 minutes of enjoying the beach we wander back to catch the last boat back to town. And we sit at the back of the boat for what seems like an hour still tied to the pier. People are getting annoyed, nothing is happening. Eventually the captain decides (under threat of mutiny) to cast off. We just get underway when I hear someone whistling. I look back to see a guy waving. He wears silly Brazilian trucks with a girly pattern on them. He has perfected the surf-dude look down to a tee. He seems to be trying to attract attention. ´Don´t go! Wait...´ He barks in Portuguese. He´s obviously got there a fraction too late and don´t forget this is the last boat back to town. I look at him, then I turn to the captain who´s got Bob Marley blaring out of the stereo and is blissfully unaware of what is going on behind him. I look back at the man, this poor guy who´d missed the boat by the slightest of margins.
You know what I did. What any normal, sane, right-thinking person would do in that situation. Nothing. I actually sat there and just stared at him. He carried on shouting and whistling. I just couldn´t bring myself to do anything about it. My mind began justifying my actions by saying things like ´Well he should have got there earlier.´ But as we sailed away, knowing full well that chap had a 3 hour walk, in the dark, with the snakes and other nasties back to town, I heard a strange voice in my head. I can´t remember the details but the basic gist was ´You´re going to hell Daniel Grant´.
So the next day, for lack of a better idea we decide to go back to the same beach, Lopez Mendes. Why not. It wasn´t a bad beach by any stretch of the imagination and now that we´d learned the hard way, we decided to take the boat there...AND back. Good thinking Sherlock.
I almost gave it no attention whatsoever when I saw the large Brazilian Naval battle cruiser parked in our bay. I just thought ´Hey look, a warship.´ Then went back to the brainal equivalent of the television colour bars. But as our boat pulled away I heard what sounded suspiciously like a siren. Sure enough a smaller patrol boat was speeding its way towards us. Lights flashing, the whole show. People looked at each other, I glanced at the battle cruiser, wondering if she was preparing to blow us out of the water with those two big cannons sitting on her deck.
The patrol boat pulled up alongside our little innocent tourist boat and (I kid you not) a guy called Ronaldo boarded with his crack amphibious search team and announced something to us in Portuguese.Boy I sure was glad I didn´t speak the language cos he sounded pissed.
So I sat there in blissful ignorance until a small thought came across me. Had I remembered to hide my stash?
Ronaldo finished making his speech and then went to the ´bridge´ or as I prefer to call it, the little hut where the captain sat and steered the boat. The captain translated what Ronaldo has said in to English.
´They´re just making sure everything is in order on the boat, please wait 10 minutes.´ Like a bunch of Goofies we nodded in earnest agreement with the plan. 45 minutes later Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team were still serving the Captain his own six-pack for dinner and we were still bobbling around on the sea like a shark with no fins. Every so often, out of view of Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team, the captain would give a look to us that said he´d been given such a severe bollocking, I thought the boys were going to take him round the back and give him thirty lashes. So what did I do whilst all this seriousness was going on? What any decent, western tourist does in these situations...I got out my camera and filmed the whole thing for the benefit of you. See video.
After an hour Ronaldo was happy to let us carry on to the beach. The captain by this point had soiled himself, he´d obviously not filled in the right form or failed to make sure the boat had life vests or some other trivial failing. I found myself feeling sorry for the poor chap and as we motored passed the Oil Tanker Terminal on the way to the beach all I could think of was, I don´t think I want to be a ship captain after all.
So after all that excitement it was time to leave Ilha Grande. So we caught the ferry to the mainland and then a taxi to the bus terminal. After waiting an inexcusably long time the bus rolled in and we got on. Except this bus was like a citybus not like the coaches we´d been using thus far. And it was packed. So packed that we didn´t have a seat. So for 2 hours I had to stand to get to our next destination of Paraty. Was I amused? Was I fuck. However as it turned out I thought Alison had paid for the tickets. Only when we got off, stiff as a randy elephant, did we realise that neither of us had paid for our tickets. I´m sure you´re assuming I went straight up to the bus driver, money in hand to correct the mistake immediately. Well you´d be wrong. We scarpered to a waiting taxi who floored it to our guesthouse. Ha. Every so often the good guys triumph over the commies!
And thus, here we are. Paraty is a beautiful colonial town with cobbled streets and a lovely harbour. It has over a hundred beaches in its vicinity and is one of the most beautiful places in all of southern Brazil. Of course I don´t know this first hand because ever since we arrived it hasn´t stopped bloody raining. I mean it started raining four days ago and it literally hasn´t stopped since. At one stage I was walking back to the guesthouse, drenched, cold and rapidly losing my tan, I started conversing with God.
´´God´´ I said ´´You promised you wouldn´t flood mankind again after Noah, what gives?´´
God replied ´´You believed me on that? HA! Dickhead.´´
So yes, here we are stuck in a beautiful beach location with sod all to do except write these bloody blogs. Well we leave tomorrow for a 24 hour bus journey to Florianopolis. That´ll be a hoot!
When I have more, dear readers, you will too.
Until that time, live long and prosper.
Dan
So we opt for the 3 hour walk to the beach on Ilha Grande. And as a snake thrashes away unseen through the greenery, bear in mind I´m wearing sandals, I am beginning to think this wasn´t the best idea I´ve had. I look around at the jungle canopy above us. The air is hot and thick, it feels like there´s an Iguassu (waterfall) pouring down my back. There are snakes and spiders and all kinds of other nasty things here and we still have 2 hours to go. You´ll be pleased to know we made it. Was it worth it? Was it fuck.
Okay first, the beach. It was stunning. About a mile of pure white sand bending to the right. In fact the sand was so fine that when you walked on it it let out a squeaking sound. I just thought it was Alison´s runs coming back but nope, it was the sand. There are no boats allowed to pick up and drop off here and no parasols or chairs. No sunbathing, no swimming no breathing. Just kidding about the last three.
Now because you can´t get boats from here you have to walk 20 minutes back to another beach to get the boat back to town. In that walk you are gently raped by monkeys and scratched by palm trees with a grudge against white folk with no tops on. So after our 15 minutes of enjoying the beach we wander back to catch the last boat back to town. And we sit at the back of the boat for what seems like an hour still tied to the pier. People are getting annoyed, nothing is happening. Eventually the captain decides (under threat of mutiny) to cast off. We just get underway when I hear someone whistling. I look back to see a guy waving. He wears silly Brazilian trucks with a girly pattern on them. He has perfected the surf-dude look down to a tee. He seems to be trying to attract attention. ´Don´t go! Wait...´ He barks in Portuguese. He´s obviously got there a fraction too late and don´t forget this is the last boat back to town. I look at him, then I turn to the captain who´s got Bob Marley blaring out of the stereo and is blissfully unaware of what is going on behind him. I look back at the man, this poor guy who´d missed the boat by the slightest of margins.
You know what I did. What any normal, sane, right-thinking person would do in that situation. Nothing. I actually sat there and just stared at him. He carried on shouting and whistling. I just couldn´t bring myself to do anything about it. My mind began justifying my actions by saying things like ´Well he should have got there earlier.´ But as we sailed away, knowing full well that chap had a 3 hour walk, in the dark, with the snakes and other nasties back to town, I heard a strange voice in my head. I can´t remember the details but the basic gist was ´You´re going to hell Daniel Grant´.
So the next day, for lack of a better idea we decide to go back to the same beach, Lopez Mendes. Why not. It wasn´t a bad beach by any stretch of the imagination and now that we´d learned the hard way, we decided to take the boat there...AND back. Good thinking Sherlock.
I almost gave it no attention whatsoever when I saw the large Brazilian Naval battle cruiser parked in our bay. I just thought ´Hey look, a warship.´ Then went back to the brainal equivalent of the television colour bars. But as our boat pulled away I heard what sounded suspiciously like a siren. Sure enough a smaller patrol boat was speeding its way towards us. Lights flashing, the whole show. People looked at each other, I glanced at the battle cruiser, wondering if she was preparing to blow us out of the water with those two big cannons sitting on her deck.
The patrol boat pulled up alongside our little innocent tourist boat and (I kid you not) a guy called Ronaldo boarded with his crack amphibious search team and announced something to us in Portuguese.Boy I sure was glad I didn´t speak the language cos he sounded pissed.
So I sat there in blissful ignorance until a small thought came across me. Had I remembered to hide my stash?
Ronaldo finished making his speech and then went to the ´bridge´ or as I prefer to call it, the little hut where the captain sat and steered the boat. The captain translated what Ronaldo has said in to English.
´They´re just making sure everything is in order on the boat, please wait 10 minutes.´ Like a bunch of Goofies we nodded in earnest agreement with the plan. 45 minutes later Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team were still serving the Captain his own six-pack for dinner and we were still bobbling around on the sea like a shark with no fins. Every so often, out of view of Ronaldo and his crack amphibious team, the captain would give a look to us that said he´d been given such a severe bollocking, I thought the boys were going to take him round the back and give him thirty lashes. So what did I do whilst all this seriousness was going on? What any decent, western tourist does in these situations...I got out my camera and filmed the whole thing for the benefit of you. See video.
After an hour Ronaldo was happy to let us carry on to the beach. The captain by this point had soiled himself, he´d obviously not filled in the right form or failed to make sure the boat had life vests or some other trivial failing. I found myself feeling sorry for the poor chap and as we motored passed the Oil Tanker Terminal on the way to the beach all I could think of was, I don´t think I want to be a ship captain after all.
So after all that excitement it was time to leave Ilha Grande. So we caught the ferry to the mainland and then a taxi to the bus terminal. After waiting an inexcusably long time the bus rolled in and we got on. Except this bus was like a citybus not like the coaches we´d been using thus far. And it was packed. So packed that we didn´t have a seat. So for 2 hours I had to stand to get to our next destination of Paraty. Was I amused? Was I fuck. However as it turned out I thought Alison had paid for the tickets. Only when we got off, stiff as a randy elephant, did we realise that neither of us had paid for our tickets. I´m sure you´re assuming I went straight up to the bus driver, money in hand to correct the mistake immediately. Well you´d be wrong. We scarpered to a waiting taxi who floored it to our guesthouse. Ha. Every so often the good guys triumph over the commies!
And thus, here we are. Paraty is a beautiful colonial town with cobbled streets and a lovely harbour. It has over a hundred beaches in its vicinity and is one of the most beautiful places in all of southern Brazil. Of course I don´t know this first hand because ever since we arrived it hasn´t stopped bloody raining. I mean it started raining four days ago and it literally hasn´t stopped since. At one stage I was walking back to the guesthouse, drenched, cold and rapidly losing my tan, I started conversing with God.
´´God´´ I said ´´You promised you wouldn´t flood mankind again after Noah, what gives?´´
God replied ´´You believed me on that? HA! Dickhead.´´
So yes, here we are stuck in a beautiful beach location with sod all to do except write these bloody blogs. Well we leave tomorrow for a 24 hour bus journey to Florianopolis. That´ll be a hoot!
When I have more, dear readers, you will too.
Until that time, live long and prosper.
Dan
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE, FAT LADIES NOT SINGING AND COTTON TAX
I know what you´re thinking. Dan´s blogs are like buses, you wait couple of weeks for one then two come along in the same week! I know but so much has happened I figured I needed to get myself bang up to date so I shall carry on from whence I left off.
So we check out of the crap hostel in Buenos Aires cursing the day the owner was ever born and we jump in a cab and hop foot it to the airport where the airline, Aerolineas Argentineas (never heard of it either, I swear these guys just make up these companies) decides, in their infinite wisdom, to not sit us together. Like we pissed them off or something, so one of us had to sit in front of the one another other, like we´d misbehaved or something. They claimed it was something to do with having no available seats. I just thought it was because I was wearing shorts.
So the flight takes us to Iguassu Falls which are arguably the most beautiful falls in the world. I´ve only ever seen Niagara and they beat the hell out of them. The Argentian / Brazilian border goes right through the middle giving Argentina the lion share of the falls.
So we are picked up on the Argentinian side by a guy with shaved head and sun glasses and built like a stone toilet. And he speaks English, bonus! He´s going to take us to our hotel...in Brazil. So we speed to the border and before you can say ´Some guy called Hose asked me to carry the package for him´we were across the checkpoint. CLICK. The locks on the doors locked simultaneously. I looked and Alison, she just looked straight back at me, I thought she was thinking ´Do I have something on my face´but actually she was also concerned with the door locking situation. We both turned to the driver, he just smiled and said ´Welcome to Brazil.´
We went to both sides of the Falls. Brazilian and Argentinian. I preferred the Argentinian, Alison preferred the Brazilian (because you didn´t get wet, sissy) and we had a jolly good time cavorting around in the mist and seeing them from every angle possible. Lovely.
In the evening we found a goldmine of a restaurant. Don´t ask me what it was called or where it is, because we spent about 2 hours trying to find the damn place. Bloody Lonely Planet and their devilishly incorrect mapping department. But once we got there it was great. You ordered your wine, then these guys would start coming around with metal kebabs. Upon each was a different sort of meat. ´Sirloin sir?´ to which the reply is´of course´. He would then cut off a generous portion and move to the next table. Then another guy would come along and say something like ´chicken hearts sir?´ to which I said ´Yes of course.´ It was only after he´d put it on my plate did I replay the conversation and...did he say chicken hearts? I stared at it, pondering on my next course of action. Another waiter interrupted my thoughts. ´Pork chop sir?´ Well it would be rude not to. And so it went on...and on...and on. Within ten minutes I had a pile of meat that I could accurately describe as a pyramid. Great. But really, chicken hearts?
When we got to Rio, things changed. Firstly I was very disappointed in Rio. I was really looking forward to it but it just feels like someone will grab your stuff at the first given opportunity. Also the Lonely Planet scares the crap out of you with the ´Dangers and Annoyances´ section so when you arrive you´re primed for gang-rape, murder, torture and carjackings. The Brazilians ar very conscious of their appearance, non so as people in Rio. The beach, Ipanema was like a fashion parade...of not a lot. I think there´s some sort of massive tax embargo on importing Lycra or cotton here. Because everyone has almost nothing on. Seriously, they must have to make the most out of the little material each shop is ´rationioned´ so they create these bikinis and ´trunks´ that really leave nothing to the imagination at all. I must say I felt completely at home with my bleach-white complexion and scraggly legs as I walked along the beach trying to find a spot where the guy´s next to me biceps wouldn´t push me in to the sea every time he sneezed. We found a spot and made camp. Not in the least self conscious as I examined my slightly wobbly belly and looked at the abundance of six packs stomping past me and thought ´ooo you´re just like everyone else, who wants that?´
I tell you another thing. There´s nothing I like more that coming to a yellow sandy beach and looking out over the surf to see...three oil supertankers sat on the horizon. Last one to the sea´s a sissy.
We wanted to know about the Brazilian psyche, so Alison had a chat to the girl on reception at our hostel. We wanted some travel advice and the Lonely Planet (don´t trust it, it lies and deceives) said some town north of Rio called Nova Frigburgo was nice. The girl stared at Alison and said ´ Why would you want to go there, doesn´t even have a beach.´ Like a place that doesn´t have a beach was the most ridiculous thing in the world. She also said ´Brazilians don´t like anything unless it is beautiful. Brazilian don´t go anywhere unless it is beautiful. Brazilians need to be surrounded by beautiful things and beautiful people.´ I guess that´s why there aren´t many Brazilians in Sherpherds Bush.
A word about Brazilian TV as well. Not to put too finer point on it, it´s shit. And it´s all in Portuguese!? So one evening we´re flicking through the channels and we come across a 24 hour news station so we think ´let´s watch this for a laugh.´ The picture showed a news helicopter pumping out live pictures of what appeared to be a police rescue. They were on the top floor of a block of flats. Onlookers were staring from the street. Police were trying to keep order. On closer inspection however we realised it was the fire brigade. They use the term Bombardiers for fireman, really helpful. We thought it might have been the bomb squad. No. What they were doing was helping a rather overweight lady from her flat to an ambulance. That´s it. Fat lady needs crane shocker. Send the copter, we´ve got a breaker!!! We sat in awe for over an hour, transfixed. We were hungry but we just couldn´t leave. Enthralling. Eventually they got the poor dear in to the ambulance and drove away , the back throwing out sparks. And we thought, it´s only a matter of time before this comes to the UK. Can´t wait.
You know they have a channel here where all they show, 24 hours a day is...wait for it...pictures of cows. Cows eating. Cows mooing. Cows shitting. Seriously the camera follows the cow around the field and they pump this out to cable! Someone somewhere must be getting off on this. Me, I just thought it was weird.
´What comes next after the cows?´ Alison asks, eager for us to leave this Internet cafe to go to dinner. A good question and the answer is coming next.
We move to an island 4 hours southwest of Rio called Ilha Grande. For those with non-degree level Portuguese, ala me, this roughly translates to Big Island. Boy they must have been up all night thinking of that one!
So we check in to our hostel where I am promptly nearly whacked in the face by a bat and not the baseball variety either. I yell ´Look where you´re going! What are you, blind?´
So Ilha Grande has one of Brazils most beautiful beaches but...and here´s the kicker...you have to walk 3 hours through the jungle to get to it. Or...(there are no cars on the island) you can take a boat which takes an hour. So what do you think we opted for, easiness or snakes and monkeys? Yep, jungle it was. And it was a grueling hour and a half up, then another hour and a half down. And the humidity...Jesus I´ve never sweated like I have here. It runs down my body like a waterfall. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter to Sure deodorant when I get back.
So we walk and walk, and just for good measure we walk some more and...you´ll have to wait till next time because I´m out of time.
What a cliffhanger. God I bet you can´t wait for the next installment. I can´t. Wow. Brilliant.
Until next time my friends,
Dan
So we check out of the crap hostel in Buenos Aires cursing the day the owner was ever born and we jump in a cab and hop foot it to the airport where the airline, Aerolineas Argentineas (never heard of it either, I swear these guys just make up these companies) decides, in their infinite wisdom, to not sit us together. Like we pissed them off or something, so one of us had to sit in front of the one another other, like we´d misbehaved or something. They claimed it was something to do with having no available seats. I just thought it was because I was wearing shorts.
So the flight takes us to Iguassu Falls which are arguably the most beautiful falls in the world. I´ve only ever seen Niagara and they beat the hell out of them. The Argentian / Brazilian border goes right through the middle giving Argentina the lion share of the falls.
So we are picked up on the Argentinian side by a guy with shaved head and sun glasses and built like a stone toilet. And he speaks English, bonus! He´s going to take us to our hotel...in Brazil. So we speed to the border and before you can say ´Some guy called Hose asked me to carry the package for him´we were across the checkpoint. CLICK. The locks on the doors locked simultaneously. I looked and Alison, she just looked straight back at me, I thought she was thinking ´Do I have something on my face´but actually she was also concerned with the door locking situation. We both turned to the driver, he just smiled and said ´Welcome to Brazil.´
We went to both sides of the Falls. Brazilian and Argentinian. I preferred the Argentinian, Alison preferred the Brazilian (because you didn´t get wet, sissy) and we had a jolly good time cavorting around in the mist and seeing them from every angle possible. Lovely.
In the evening we found a goldmine of a restaurant. Don´t ask me what it was called or where it is, because we spent about 2 hours trying to find the damn place. Bloody Lonely Planet and their devilishly incorrect mapping department. But once we got there it was great. You ordered your wine, then these guys would start coming around with metal kebabs. Upon each was a different sort of meat. ´Sirloin sir?´ to which the reply is´of course´. He would then cut off a generous portion and move to the next table. Then another guy would come along and say something like ´chicken hearts sir?´ to which I said ´Yes of course.´ It was only after he´d put it on my plate did I replay the conversation and...did he say chicken hearts? I stared at it, pondering on my next course of action. Another waiter interrupted my thoughts. ´Pork chop sir?´ Well it would be rude not to. And so it went on...and on...and on. Within ten minutes I had a pile of meat that I could accurately describe as a pyramid. Great. But really, chicken hearts?
When we got to Rio, things changed. Firstly I was very disappointed in Rio. I was really looking forward to it but it just feels like someone will grab your stuff at the first given opportunity. Also the Lonely Planet scares the crap out of you with the ´Dangers and Annoyances´ section so when you arrive you´re primed for gang-rape, murder, torture and carjackings. The Brazilians ar very conscious of their appearance, non so as people in Rio. The beach, Ipanema was like a fashion parade...of not a lot. I think there´s some sort of massive tax embargo on importing Lycra or cotton here. Because everyone has almost nothing on. Seriously, they must have to make the most out of the little material each shop is ´rationioned´ so they create these bikinis and ´trunks´ that really leave nothing to the imagination at all. I must say I felt completely at home with my bleach-white complexion and scraggly legs as I walked along the beach trying to find a spot where the guy´s next to me biceps wouldn´t push me in to the sea every time he sneezed. We found a spot and made camp. Not in the least self conscious as I examined my slightly wobbly belly and looked at the abundance of six packs stomping past me and thought ´ooo you´re just like everyone else, who wants that?´
I tell you another thing. There´s nothing I like more that coming to a yellow sandy beach and looking out over the surf to see...three oil supertankers sat on the horizon. Last one to the sea´s a sissy.
We wanted to know about the Brazilian psyche, so Alison had a chat to the girl on reception at our hostel. We wanted some travel advice and the Lonely Planet (don´t trust it, it lies and deceives) said some town north of Rio called Nova Frigburgo was nice. The girl stared at Alison and said ´ Why would you want to go there, doesn´t even have a beach.´ Like a place that doesn´t have a beach was the most ridiculous thing in the world. She also said ´Brazilians don´t like anything unless it is beautiful. Brazilian don´t go anywhere unless it is beautiful. Brazilians need to be surrounded by beautiful things and beautiful people.´ I guess that´s why there aren´t many Brazilians in Sherpherds Bush.
A word about Brazilian TV as well. Not to put too finer point on it, it´s shit. And it´s all in Portuguese!? So one evening we´re flicking through the channels and we come across a 24 hour news station so we think ´let´s watch this for a laugh.´ The picture showed a news helicopter pumping out live pictures of what appeared to be a police rescue. They were on the top floor of a block of flats. Onlookers were staring from the street. Police were trying to keep order. On closer inspection however we realised it was the fire brigade. They use the term Bombardiers for fireman, really helpful. We thought it might have been the bomb squad. No. What they were doing was helping a rather overweight lady from her flat to an ambulance. That´s it. Fat lady needs crane shocker. Send the copter, we´ve got a breaker!!! We sat in awe for over an hour, transfixed. We were hungry but we just couldn´t leave. Enthralling. Eventually they got the poor dear in to the ambulance and drove away , the back throwing out sparks. And we thought, it´s only a matter of time before this comes to the UK. Can´t wait.
You know they have a channel here where all they show, 24 hours a day is...wait for it...pictures of cows. Cows eating. Cows mooing. Cows shitting. Seriously the camera follows the cow around the field and they pump this out to cable! Someone somewhere must be getting off on this. Me, I just thought it was weird.
´What comes next after the cows?´ Alison asks, eager for us to leave this Internet cafe to go to dinner. A good question and the answer is coming next.
We move to an island 4 hours southwest of Rio called Ilha Grande. For those with non-degree level Portuguese, ala me, this roughly translates to Big Island. Boy they must have been up all night thinking of that one!
So we check in to our hostel where I am promptly nearly whacked in the face by a bat and not the baseball variety either. I yell ´Look where you´re going! What are you, blind?´
So Ilha Grande has one of Brazils most beautiful beaches but...and here´s the kicker...you have to walk 3 hours through the jungle to get to it. Or...(there are no cars on the island) you can take a boat which takes an hour. So what do you think we opted for, easiness or snakes and monkeys? Yep, jungle it was. And it was a grueling hour and a half up, then another hour and a half down. And the humidity...Jesus I´ve never sweated like I have here. It runs down my body like a waterfall. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter to Sure deodorant when I get back.
So we walk and walk, and just for good measure we walk some more and...you´ll have to wait till next time because I´m out of time.
What a cliffhanger. God I bet you can´t wait for the next installment. I can´t. Wow. Brilliant.
Until next time my friends,
Dan
Sunday, March 9, 2008
SMASHED GLASSES, LOVE HANDLES AND DUBIOUS HAIRCUTS
So it´s been a little while since last I wrote. I quickly discovered that Brazil is expensive! Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted.
Ah yes La Paz. Well just before we left I had a little run in with a rather strange German guy, (we´ll call him Adolf for the sake of this story) who threatened to ´Smash your glasses in to your face!´ Not very nice I thought. I know what you´re thinking. You´re pondering what could have got this guy, who had obviously not heard of the English word deodorant, so worked up. The answer was strangely simple. I was using the computer a little too much. See, the hotel we were in had a free Internet connection, an invaluable tool in my burgeoning blogging career such as it is.
So Adolf decides I´m on the ´good´ computer and wants it for himself. So he starts off all nice but when I inform him I had only just sat down and ´I´m terribly sorry ol chap but I might be here for 15 minutes or so´, our villain decides to morph in to a German translation of Jekyll and Hyde. It was like I´d pressed all the right buttons, immediately hitting Def con 1. I´m like, hey what happened to Def con 4,3 and 2? Of course he wasn´t interested in having that sort of conversation which is when I suggested to him that he may be being an ´impatient prick.´
Sometimes my emotions get the better of me and I fear this was one of those occasions. And so, inevitably this is not what Adolf wants to hear and he promptly turns a light shade of purple and explodes at me. He got close to my face to really push home the point of how serious he was. I thought about offering him a Tic Tac but didn´t think this was the moment.
I chuckled at this silly foreigner and went back to the computer. As he jumped up and down, I started to fear he may just combust in front of me. When he realised I had no intention of moving he suddenly just gave up. Although as a parting shot he said ´If you ever call me a prick again I´ll...(here it comes) smash your glasses in to your face.´ What he didn´t realise is that my eyesight is so bad, I need really, really thick glasses, also I have titanium frame, almost indestructible. Who´s laughing now Jack? Or Adolf or whatever you´re stupid name is.
So after that little bit of fun we try and check out of the hotel to catch the plane to Buenos Aires. Except, of course, there´s always something. The hotel accused us of not paying our phone bill. We had, of course, but the fuckwit on the desk hadn´t put the piece of paper with the rest of our bills. So Reception Guy says he has to call his boss, bear in mind this is 5 in the morning on a Sunday. Oh this is going to be good. After a couple of minutes talking Spanish to one another, he hands the phone to me where the manager says he doesn´t remember us paying for the calls. I say ´Well I did.´To which he says ´You didn´t.´ This Bolivian version of Wimbledon goes back and forth for a time until I run out of patience. So I counter his version with the best thing a customer can say in these situations. I said ´Are you calling me a liar´ He started backtracking immediately. ´No sir, I just can´t remember...´ I said ´That´s not my fault, we paid yesterday blah, blah.´ You get the picture. Man I´m on fire today.
On the taxi ride to the airport we were both like ´La Paz sure likes its confrontations. Don´t think I´ll recommend it to my mum.´ And I didn´t. Not that Bolivia was high on her list of worldwide destinations.
So we get to the airport and fly to Buenos Aires via another Bolivian city called Santa Cruz. Of course they don´t have a connections corridor. Oh no. You have to come out to the check in area and go back through security again. Perfect! Except...this airport hasn´t seen fit to invest in X-Ray machines or metal detectors, no, far too simple. This airport has to search everyone and everything...by hand.
I´ve never been patted down so thoroughly in my life. At one point I even thought I was guilty. The guy went through our bags with such meticulous detail I thought, shit he´s going to find that suntan lotion I didn´t pack and think its liquid mercury or something. After about 15 minutes of ball-cupping and making me feel shitty about my love handles he let us through.
So we get to Buenos Aires on a Sunday. And as we drive in I know I´m going to love this city. It just has such a cool vibe. Feels like Spain or France or somewhere.
Anyway, we get to the hostel which, at first, looks great. Bit too colourful for my tastes, a real YOUTH hostel but not offensive. So the child on reception, who still has braces on her teeth, shows us to our room. We´re trying to save a bit of money and this place is a bargain. We find out why when she opens the door to our room. First, it´s not a double bed it´s two singles. Okay not what we asked for but I can live with it for a short while. The room had no windows however and the two beds were the most basic I´d ever seen. I thought, this is perfect for Mother Teresa but I need something a little softer than concrete to lie on. Seriously, it looked like a jail cell and when she closed the door I felt like banging a tin cup against the door or whistling. I made a mental note to buy some cigarettes as soon as possible for protection. When we looked at the shared bathroom I immediately wished I hadn´t. Hair in the plughole, water and something else (let´s not go in to details, we all know what we´re talking about) everywhere, no toilet paper, kind of slippy, lovely.
That wasn´t the best of it though. Nope. The best was to come at 0600AM when the we heard children playing outside, screaming, shouting at the top of their sweet little voices. The property was next to a fucking nursery or something and the nursery opened early. Of course the hostel had failed to mention this when we checked in. Mistake.
So with bloodshot eyes we ´spoke´ to the child on reception and asked to move. To be fair she was very helpful and said we could relocate to another room. Great! Still looked like prison (no windows) but at least it had a double bed with a matress.
So we went and explored Buenos Aires. Gotta say, one of my favourite places I´ve been yet. It´s got steaks to die for, some of the best wine, all for the price of a doughnut in England! Fab. We did a lot of walking in the two days we were there which was fun. Alison had the shits, which wasn´t.
It really feels like London and then you turn a street and you swear you´re in Paris. Then you get to a park and it feels like Sydney. It´s great. Had a little haircut which turned in to a committee. Let me explain. Because no one speaks English trying to tell them what I want involved about 4 people. So the guy would cut and then the others (hairdresser, receptionist, Alison, random bloke in the next chair and dog) would discuss it. Then he would cut some more. Of course whenever you turn these things over to a democracy it always ends up being a compromise with everyone going away not really happy and that´s what happened. Because when I say a little haircut, I mean it´s been two weeks now I need another bloody one! NOTE TO SELF: Next time I need a haircut try not to do it through a branch of the United Nations. I don´t know what the Spanish is for ´Get a haircut´ but I´m sure that´s what people are saying as I walk passed them. I look like a Fraggle.
Buenos Aires has the widest street in the world (16 lanes of shimmering concrete). All very impressive until, that is, you have to cross it. Oh sure they have zebra crossings but why would anyone pay any attention to those. It´s a bit like trying to cross the M25 during rush hour with nothing but your outstretched hand and the occasional ´Whoa! WHOA!´ Boy that was a fun, underpant-changing situation.
All in all though we liked it. So much so that we have booked ourselves an apartment for 2 weeks at the end of March. We need a holiday from our holiday. All this travelling is getting a bit tiring.
There´s more to tell but the guy who owns the Internet cafe is growling at me, maybe he´s just hungry but with an ugly tattoo like that I´m not taking any chances. I will write soon, because I know you all log on every day to check if Dan´s written another blog and try to cover the bitter disappointment when there isn´t one. Then things start getting smashed and you shout at your boss for no real reason. It turns you nasty and I understand that. So here´s part one of this particular blog. Not sure how many more parts are coming but what the hell, numbers were never really my strong part.
Adios
Dan
Ah yes La Paz. Well just before we left I had a little run in with a rather strange German guy, (we´ll call him Adolf for the sake of this story) who threatened to ´Smash your glasses in to your face!´ Not very nice I thought. I know what you´re thinking. You´re pondering what could have got this guy, who had obviously not heard of the English word deodorant, so worked up. The answer was strangely simple. I was using the computer a little too much. See, the hotel we were in had a free Internet connection, an invaluable tool in my burgeoning blogging career such as it is.
So Adolf decides I´m on the ´good´ computer and wants it for himself. So he starts off all nice but when I inform him I had only just sat down and ´I´m terribly sorry ol chap but I might be here for 15 minutes or so´, our villain decides to morph in to a German translation of Jekyll and Hyde. It was like I´d pressed all the right buttons, immediately hitting Def con 1. I´m like, hey what happened to Def con 4,3 and 2? Of course he wasn´t interested in having that sort of conversation which is when I suggested to him that he may be being an ´impatient prick.´
Sometimes my emotions get the better of me and I fear this was one of those occasions. And so, inevitably this is not what Adolf wants to hear and he promptly turns a light shade of purple and explodes at me. He got close to my face to really push home the point of how serious he was. I thought about offering him a Tic Tac but didn´t think this was the moment.
I chuckled at this silly foreigner and went back to the computer. As he jumped up and down, I started to fear he may just combust in front of me. When he realised I had no intention of moving he suddenly just gave up. Although as a parting shot he said ´If you ever call me a prick again I´ll...(here it comes) smash your glasses in to your face.´ What he didn´t realise is that my eyesight is so bad, I need really, really thick glasses, also I have titanium frame, almost indestructible. Who´s laughing now Jack? Or Adolf or whatever you´re stupid name is.
So after that little bit of fun we try and check out of the hotel to catch the plane to Buenos Aires. Except, of course, there´s always something. The hotel accused us of not paying our phone bill. We had, of course, but the fuckwit on the desk hadn´t put the piece of paper with the rest of our bills. So Reception Guy says he has to call his boss, bear in mind this is 5 in the morning on a Sunday. Oh this is going to be good. After a couple of minutes talking Spanish to one another, he hands the phone to me where the manager says he doesn´t remember us paying for the calls. I say ´Well I did.´To which he says ´You didn´t.´ This Bolivian version of Wimbledon goes back and forth for a time until I run out of patience. So I counter his version with the best thing a customer can say in these situations. I said ´Are you calling me a liar´ He started backtracking immediately. ´No sir, I just can´t remember...´ I said ´That´s not my fault, we paid yesterday blah, blah.´ You get the picture. Man I´m on fire today.
On the taxi ride to the airport we were both like ´La Paz sure likes its confrontations. Don´t think I´ll recommend it to my mum.´ And I didn´t. Not that Bolivia was high on her list of worldwide destinations.
So we get to the airport and fly to Buenos Aires via another Bolivian city called Santa Cruz. Of course they don´t have a connections corridor. Oh no. You have to come out to the check in area and go back through security again. Perfect! Except...this airport hasn´t seen fit to invest in X-Ray machines or metal detectors, no, far too simple. This airport has to search everyone and everything...by hand.
I´ve never been patted down so thoroughly in my life. At one point I even thought I was guilty. The guy went through our bags with such meticulous detail I thought, shit he´s going to find that suntan lotion I didn´t pack and think its liquid mercury or something. After about 15 minutes of ball-cupping and making me feel shitty about my love handles he let us through.
So we get to Buenos Aires on a Sunday. And as we drive in I know I´m going to love this city. It just has such a cool vibe. Feels like Spain or France or somewhere.
Anyway, we get to the hostel which, at first, looks great. Bit too colourful for my tastes, a real YOUTH hostel but not offensive. So the child on reception, who still has braces on her teeth, shows us to our room. We´re trying to save a bit of money and this place is a bargain. We find out why when she opens the door to our room. First, it´s not a double bed it´s two singles. Okay not what we asked for but I can live with it for a short while. The room had no windows however and the two beds were the most basic I´d ever seen. I thought, this is perfect for Mother Teresa but I need something a little softer than concrete to lie on. Seriously, it looked like a jail cell and when she closed the door I felt like banging a tin cup against the door or whistling. I made a mental note to buy some cigarettes as soon as possible for protection. When we looked at the shared bathroom I immediately wished I hadn´t. Hair in the plughole, water and something else (let´s not go in to details, we all know what we´re talking about) everywhere, no toilet paper, kind of slippy, lovely.
That wasn´t the best of it though. Nope. The best was to come at 0600AM when the we heard children playing outside, screaming, shouting at the top of their sweet little voices. The property was next to a fucking nursery or something and the nursery opened early. Of course the hostel had failed to mention this when we checked in. Mistake.
So with bloodshot eyes we ´spoke´ to the child on reception and asked to move. To be fair she was very helpful and said we could relocate to another room. Great! Still looked like prison (no windows) but at least it had a double bed with a matress.
So we went and explored Buenos Aires. Gotta say, one of my favourite places I´ve been yet. It´s got steaks to die for, some of the best wine, all for the price of a doughnut in England! Fab. We did a lot of walking in the two days we were there which was fun. Alison had the shits, which wasn´t.
It really feels like London and then you turn a street and you swear you´re in Paris. Then you get to a park and it feels like Sydney. It´s great. Had a little haircut which turned in to a committee. Let me explain. Because no one speaks English trying to tell them what I want involved about 4 people. So the guy would cut and then the others (hairdresser, receptionist, Alison, random bloke in the next chair and dog) would discuss it. Then he would cut some more. Of course whenever you turn these things over to a democracy it always ends up being a compromise with everyone going away not really happy and that´s what happened. Because when I say a little haircut, I mean it´s been two weeks now I need another bloody one! NOTE TO SELF: Next time I need a haircut try not to do it through a branch of the United Nations. I don´t know what the Spanish is for ´Get a haircut´ but I´m sure that´s what people are saying as I walk passed them. I look like a Fraggle.
Buenos Aires has the widest street in the world (16 lanes of shimmering concrete). All very impressive until, that is, you have to cross it. Oh sure they have zebra crossings but why would anyone pay any attention to those. It´s a bit like trying to cross the M25 during rush hour with nothing but your outstretched hand and the occasional ´Whoa! WHOA!´ Boy that was a fun, underpant-changing situation.
All in all though we liked it. So much so that we have booked ourselves an apartment for 2 weeks at the end of March. We need a holiday from our holiday. All this travelling is getting a bit tiring.
There´s more to tell but the guy who owns the Internet cafe is growling at me, maybe he´s just hungry but with an ugly tattoo like that I´m not taking any chances. I will write soon, because I know you all log on every day to check if Dan´s written another blog and try to cover the bitter disappointment when there isn´t one. Then things start getting smashed and you shout at your boss for no real reason. It turns you nasty and I understand that. So here´s part one of this particular blog. Not sure how many more parts are coming but what the hell, numbers were never really my strong part.
Adios
Dan
Sunday, February 24, 2008
BIG BANGS, ILLEGAL TOUR GUIDES, RECKLESS CABBIES
Hello once more from La Paz, the world´s highest capital...like you care!
It´s been suggested by some that my blogs have been in the glass-half-empty category of writing. So with that in mind I will try to make my inane ramblings a little more positive. So here goes...
Half our group on our tour of Bolivia had diarrhoea, a few had to travel back to La Paz early to see an emergency doctor. The tour leader was about as useful as a chocolate tea pot and some of the places we stayed didn´t have running water. I could write an entire piece just on the quality of the toilets... I won´t though, you would think I was making it up.
So let´s start where I left off before. Travelling from beautiful Copacabana to La Paz (not quite so beautiful but interesting in its own way). We arrive at the hotel, very nice 3 star job, meet our two other companions an English girl called Charlotte who knows my dad and has met him, weird! And a Swiss girl who liked to order cheese cake at every given opportunity called Barbara.
So we take a flight the next day to Bolivia´s second city Sucre. Spanish colonial stuff etc. Met our hotpant-stringy-vest-wearing tour guide who is also called Barbara. Right away we´re thinking she´s not really putting out that air of ´´this girl knows what she´s doing´´ and she didn´t disappoint. We found out that she wasn´t technically able to work as a tour gude legally in Bolvia, nice one boys! I won´t bore you with how much this ´tour´cost but we debated over whether we really needed a tour here or not. As it turns out we didn´t. We spent 3 days in Sucre, our only source of information was the Lonely Planet. Did some horse riding to a nice waterfall where we all put ourselves in mortal danger by jumping off the top of it in to a slightly muddied pool. Our Spanish-speaking horse riding leader merely watched from the sides, chewing coca leaves, occasionally spitting them on to his horse.
So then we meet the rest of ´the group´all of whom are in the middle of a 45 day trip around South America. Mixed up of English, Danish, Australian and Northern Irish. All very nice but then our fuckwit of a tour leader gets involved and things rapidly descend in to...well fuckwitness.
We discover she has a penchant for going to the Spa, not telling anyone what the plan for the day is, whether the towns and citys we stay in are safe and a general feeling of ´fuck you guys it´s my holiday too.´ I had to pinch myself every so often and remind myself that she was not a petulant twelve year old, she was in fact our tour leader.
So we travel to Potasi (the worlds highest city) via these taxis. It takes 3 hours and here´s where I need to tell
THE STORY OF JUAN
Juan grew up in a small Bolivian village just on the outskirts of Sucre. He had strict parents who used to beat him with long sticks made of Llama dung. Juan harboured an ambition, he wanted more than anything to be a racing car driver. Everytime his head hit the pillow (also made of Llama dung) he dreamt of winning the Bolivian Grand Prix (well first he dreamt there was a Bolivian Grand Prix then he dreamt of winning it).
Juan tried as a kid to make it, borrowing his fathers donkey cart and attempting to do doughnuts in the back yard. But as Juan grew up he realised his dream could not come true. He spent years feeling down, his life meant nothing. Then one day as he was taking the donkey for spins when he saw a Toyota dealership. His mind raced, maybe just maybe he could do something about his dream. He bought himself a 90´s white Toyota Corolla. A thing of beauty, now he could finally realise his dream. With no qualifications or testing he immediately became a taxi driver ferrying unsuspecting tourists from Sucre to Potasi. Oh boy he loved seeing the incomprehensible terror on his passengers faces. That delicate smell that would emanate from the back seats as he overtook the fourteen wheeler on a blind corner with a thousand foot drop and no crash barriers.
Juan just loved the challenge of Bolivian roads. Everytime he set off he would say a little prayer thanking his God that the Bolivian government hadn´t discovered the heretical English words ´road resurfacing.´ He loved to chew coca leaves, spitting them out his window utterly unaware they would fly in to the face of the person sitting in the left back seat.
And his love, more than anything, was to get to Potasi before his other Taxi driver comrades. It was competitive and they made it difficult for him but Juan lwas a born risk-taker. He simply had to cross that finish line first, it didn´t matter how many Llama or Alpacas he would instantly turn in to dog food. Nor would he consider minor adjustments to his beloved vehicle like seat belts or workable brake pads. If God wanted him dead, he would have crashed already surely.
He could see the tourists sitting behind him trying to work out the Spanish for ´Slow the fuck down´ but he knew that even if they found the words in their Latin American Spanish Phrasebook the sheer terror would be too much for them to utter the words. Only mumbles and high pitched whimpers would be the only sound that would emanate from their stupid white mouths.
And so ends the Story of Juan. We must assume that he still drives with the same disregard for others and we salute his God for having the power to keep him alive in the face of such reckless abandon. Chao Juan!
So we arrive in Potasi looking for a toilet and a new bum. The Spanish discovered silver in Potasi and decided it would a spiffing idea to send hundreds of thousands of African slaves and local Bolivians down in to the mines to go get it for them. 8 million people died in these mines under some of the most atrocious conditions imaginable. So now they send tourists down there, each happy because they are allowed to buy a stick of, wait for it...DYNAMITE with them. Yes dynamite is a readily available commodity in Potasi. You can walk in to a store, buy a couple of sticks under the guise of ´I´m taking it to the miners as a present.´ HA, they are so gullible. So the tour leader (not Barbara, this one is competent) asks if we want to set a stick off (I remind you we are still talking about DYNAMITE...whilst down in the mine! I mean...do Llama attempt to kill themselves when they cross roads...fuck yeah! So we go in to the mines all singing ´´Hi Ho´´ our dynamite and matches at the ready and basically we are happy campers. See attached video for what actually happened when it when bang!
Once we´re finished blowing up parts of Potasi we get a bus to the worlds largest salt flat and the small town of Uyani which looks like some old fool was walking through the desert and thought ´´No water, utterly exposed to the elements, temperatures reaching -20. You know what, this is the perfect place for a town.´´
So we jump in some slightly dubious 4x4´s and drive up to the 12,000 square kilometer salt flat which is simply one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever seen. And because it was flooded, this being the rainy season, the blue sky was perfectly reflected in the water making you feel like you were on some other planet, strange.
Then we spend the next few days driving around the superlative-exhausting Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa with some of the most stunning landscapes I´ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. Truly it was like a safari for landscapes, with every turn of a corner we´d see a new canyon or snow-capped mountain. Bear in mind we are over 4000m above sea level at all times. Deserts, laguna, flamingos more Llamas. Lovely. There was a particularly stunning volcano and turquoise lake called Laguna Verde which I couldn´t help myself I had to take some video of, have a look.
What wasn´t lovely however was the places we were staying in. The bed on the first night was like being strapped to a silver birch tree trunk, the toilet smelled of...words can´t even describe what it smelled of. There were flies, dogs and babies crying in no particular order. The food was simple but as we found out later totally unfit for human consumption. We´ve used up most of our emergency supply of Imodium. On the plus side though I think I´m losing weight.
Second place we stayed in was worse than the first, don´t get me wrong I´m all for character building exercises but really, do I have to pee next to a pile of rotting rubbish which should have been the shower. Seriously guys...come on now, maybe start with the mantra ´let´s not make the tourists (our biggest source of income) sick to the point of emergency evacuation. I tell you, that night was like an orchestra of flatulence. I understood why they had no smoking signs all over the place. And to top it all off no running water, good effort chaps.
So with everyone feeling tickety boo and some of our gang speeding back to La Paz with critical stomach issues we hop in to the landcruiser and see some more rock formations. Then head back to Uyani and a night train. I won´t bore you with all the things that went wrong after that suffice to say it ended with one of our group in tears because our fuckwit tour leader was nasty to her. We had to all sit down and have it out with her. It was like Tour Group Therapy.
So we catch the night train back which was actually pretty decent and now we´re back in La Paz awaiting a flight to Buenos Aires which we should catch tomorrow. So Bolivia has been eventful and beautiful and stomach challenging. I sure won´t forget her in a hurry.
I just read this back, is it me or do these things get longer and longer. Must try the ancient art of subbing down my ramblings to something easy to read, with grammar people can actually decipher. Oh well, there´s always next time.
Chao!
Dan
It´s been suggested by some that my blogs have been in the glass-half-empty category of writing. So with that in mind I will try to make my inane ramblings a little more positive. So here goes...
Half our group on our tour of Bolivia had diarrhoea, a few had to travel back to La Paz early to see an emergency doctor. The tour leader was about as useful as a chocolate tea pot and some of the places we stayed didn´t have running water. I could write an entire piece just on the quality of the toilets... I won´t though, you would think I was making it up.
So let´s start where I left off before. Travelling from beautiful Copacabana to La Paz (not quite so beautiful but interesting in its own way). We arrive at the hotel, very nice 3 star job, meet our two other companions an English girl called Charlotte who knows my dad and has met him, weird! And a Swiss girl who liked to order cheese cake at every given opportunity called Barbara.
So we take a flight the next day to Bolivia´s second city Sucre. Spanish colonial stuff etc. Met our hotpant-stringy-vest-wearing tour guide who is also called Barbara. Right away we´re thinking she´s not really putting out that air of ´´this girl knows what she´s doing´´ and she didn´t disappoint. We found out that she wasn´t technically able to work as a tour gude legally in Bolvia, nice one boys! I won´t bore you with how much this ´tour´cost but we debated over whether we really needed a tour here or not. As it turns out we didn´t. We spent 3 days in Sucre, our only source of information was the Lonely Planet. Did some horse riding to a nice waterfall where we all put ourselves in mortal danger by jumping off the top of it in to a slightly muddied pool. Our Spanish-speaking horse riding leader merely watched from the sides, chewing coca leaves, occasionally spitting them on to his horse.
So then we meet the rest of ´the group´all of whom are in the middle of a 45 day trip around South America. Mixed up of English, Danish, Australian and Northern Irish. All very nice but then our fuckwit of a tour leader gets involved and things rapidly descend in to...well fuckwitness.
We discover she has a penchant for going to the Spa, not telling anyone what the plan for the day is, whether the towns and citys we stay in are safe and a general feeling of ´fuck you guys it´s my holiday too.´ I had to pinch myself every so often and remind myself that she was not a petulant twelve year old, she was in fact our tour leader.
So we travel to Potasi (the worlds highest city) via these taxis. It takes 3 hours and here´s where I need to tell
THE STORY OF JUAN
Juan grew up in a small Bolivian village just on the outskirts of Sucre. He had strict parents who used to beat him with long sticks made of Llama dung. Juan harboured an ambition, he wanted more than anything to be a racing car driver. Everytime his head hit the pillow (also made of Llama dung) he dreamt of winning the Bolivian Grand Prix (well first he dreamt there was a Bolivian Grand Prix then he dreamt of winning it).
Juan tried as a kid to make it, borrowing his fathers donkey cart and attempting to do doughnuts in the back yard. But as Juan grew up he realised his dream could not come true. He spent years feeling down, his life meant nothing. Then one day as he was taking the donkey for spins when he saw a Toyota dealership. His mind raced, maybe just maybe he could do something about his dream. He bought himself a 90´s white Toyota Corolla. A thing of beauty, now he could finally realise his dream. With no qualifications or testing he immediately became a taxi driver ferrying unsuspecting tourists from Sucre to Potasi. Oh boy he loved seeing the incomprehensible terror on his passengers faces. That delicate smell that would emanate from the back seats as he overtook the fourteen wheeler on a blind corner with a thousand foot drop and no crash barriers.
Juan just loved the challenge of Bolivian roads. Everytime he set off he would say a little prayer thanking his God that the Bolivian government hadn´t discovered the heretical English words ´road resurfacing.´ He loved to chew coca leaves, spitting them out his window utterly unaware they would fly in to the face of the person sitting in the left back seat.
And his love, more than anything, was to get to Potasi before his other Taxi driver comrades. It was competitive and they made it difficult for him but Juan lwas a born risk-taker. He simply had to cross that finish line first, it didn´t matter how many Llama or Alpacas he would instantly turn in to dog food. Nor would he consider minor adjustments to his beloved vehicle like seat belts or workable brake pads. If God wanted him dead, he would have crashed already surely.
He could see the tourists sitting behind him trying to work out the Spanish for ´Slow the fuck down´ but he knew that even if they found the words in their Latin American Spanish Phrasebook the sheer terror would be too much for them to utter the words. Only mumbles and high pitched whimpers would be the only sound that would emanate from their stupid white mouths.
And so ends the Story of Juan. We must assume that he still drives with the same disregard for others and we salute his God for having the power to keep him alive in the face of such reckless abandon. Chao Juan!
So we arrive in Potasi looking for a toilet and a new bum. The Spanish discovered silver in Potasi and decided it would a spiffing idea to send hundreds of thousands of African slaves and local Bolivians down in to the mines to go get it for them. 8 million people died in these mines under some of the most atrocious conditions imaginable. So now they send tourists down there, each happy because they are allowed to buy a stick of, wait for it...DYNAMITE with them. Yes dynamite is a readily available commodity in Potasi. You can walk in to a store, buy a couple of sticks under the guise of ´I´m taking it to the miners as a present.´ HA, they are so gullible. So the tour leader (not Barbara, this one is competent) asks if we want to set a stick off (I remind you we are still talking about DYNAMITE...whilst down in the mine! I mean...do Llama attempt to kill themselves when they cross roads...fuck yeah! So we go in to the mines all singing ´´Hi Ho´´ our dynamite and matches at the ready and basically we are happy campers. See attached video for what actually happened when it when bang!
Once we´re finished blowing up parts of Potasi we get a bus to the worlds largest salt flat and the small town of Uyani which looks like some old fool was walking through the desert and thought ´´No water, utterly exposed to the elements, temperatures reaching -20. You know what, this is the perfect place for a town.´´
So we jump in some slightly dubious 4x4´s and drive up to the 12,000 square kilometer salt flat which is simply one of the most breathtaking sights I have ever seen. And because it was flooded, this being the rainy season, the blue sky was perfectly reflected in the water making you feel like you were on some other planet, strange.
Then we spend the next few days driving around the superlative-exhausting Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa with some of the most stunning landscapes I´ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. Truly it was like a safari for landscapes, with every turn of a corner we´d see a new canyon or snow-capped mountain. Bear in mind we are over 4000m above sea level at all times. Deserts, laguna, flamingos more Llamas. Lovely. There was a particularly stunning volcano and turquoise lake called Laguna Verde which I couldn´t help myself I had to take some video of, have a look.
What wasn´t lovely however was the places we were staying in. The bed on the first night was like being strapped to a silver birch tree trunk, the toilet smelled of...words can´t even describe what it smelled of. There were flies, dogs and babies crying in no particular order. The food was simple but as we found out later totally unfit for human consumption. We´ve used up most of our emergency supply of Imodium. On the plus side though I think I´m losing weight.
Second place we stayed in was worse than the first, don´t get me wrong I´m all for character building exercises but really, do I have to pee next to a pile of rotting rubbish which should have been the shower. Seriously guys...come on now, maybe start with the mantra ´let´s not make the tourists (our biggest source of income) sick to the point of emergency evacuation. I tell you, that night was like an orchestra of flatulence. I understood why they had no smoking signs all over the place. And to top it all off no running water, good effort chaps.
So with everyone feeling tickety boo and some of our gang speeding back to La Paz with critical stomach issues we hop in to the landcruiser and see some more rock formations. Then head back to Uyani and a night train. I won´t bore you with all the things that went wrong after that suffice to say it ended with one of our group in tears because our fuckwit tour leader was nasty to her. We had to all sit down and have it out with her. It was like Tour Group Therapy.
So we catch the night train back which was actually pretty decent and now we´re back in La Paz awaiting a flight to Buenos Aires which we should catch tomorrow. So Bolivia has been eventful and beautiful and stomach challenging. I sure won´t forget her in a hurry.
I just read this back, is it me or do these things get longer and longer. Must try the ancient art of subbing down my ramblings to something easy to read, with grammar people can actually decipher. Oh well, there´s always next time.
Chao!
Dan
POO-HOLES AND PHOTOCOPIERS
Well hi there,
So after the long and somewhat laborious Inca Trail thing, seriously there's a train, why would you walk it?
So we leave the tourist empty Cuzco and jump on a bus to Arequipa, Peru's second biggest city, next to, wait for it, two active volcanoes. Nice. It's all white stone and not an unpleasant place to be for a few days. Wondered around a monastery or two, ate some local food which was fine. Although because we're totally stuck if we get to a restaurant and actually decide this isn't the place for us. By that time we've already sat down they've already started to wait on us. I kid you not, we went to three, yes three different restaurants. All of whom we sat down in and were given menu's. All of whom we decided weren't right and had to stand up in front of everyone else eating there and leave. I do love those uncomfortable, awkward moments.
Then we booked a little two day trip to the Colca Canyon which is supposedly twice the size of the Grand Canyon and whilst it was impressive I kept thinking to myself ''What's the difference between a canyon and a valley cos this sure looks like a valley.''
Anyway spotted some condors from miles away drifting on the currents and whilst I had to contend with some very loud Canadians on the bus there and back, it was all I could do from turning around and saying ''Why can't you say it quietly, she's sitting right next to you for Christ sake!''
So we jump on another bus to Puno, on Lake Titicaca which, frankly is a bit of a poo hole. It basically has one street where you get harassed by every restaurant, Internet cafe and local wanting to sell you something. We have a good deal on a hostel, only $20 a night, bargain, although the smell of raw sewage makes my eyes water somewhat. Also there seems to be a disproportionate amount of photocopiers in this town. It's only small but seemingly every shop has a photocopier. I swear if I needed to photocopy something this would be the place, the competition was fierce.
So to get ourselves out of this Poohole, Puno, and we book a little trip to a couple of Lake Titicaca's islands. Once we're on the lake, I relax and slap on the suncream. Damn that sun is strong. We're at 4000m and in the shade you feel like you might lose one of your testicles and in the sun you burn within 3 minutes, can't win.
We arrive on Amantani, I won't bore you with the introductory crap suffice to say it looked very picturesque and met the family we were to stay with. Buenos Dias I said friendly. Nothing. The old woman with black headscarf just started walking up the impossibly steep hill towards her 'house'. Then I realise she only speaks Quecha. Not even Spanish. Ace.
It wasn't an unpleasant place, the room was basic but functional. The toilet however was something altogether different. An outdoor shed hiding what was basically a hole. And the smell. If there were words in English I would use them but I've wracked my brain and I just seem to locate them. Fun for all during the night when realised you needed to go. Oh sure the stars were amazing but trying to find the shed with no power, holding your nose and aiming accurately. Frankly it all got the better of me.
So after that fun little episode we visit another island, do a bit of sight seeing, meet a very nice Israeli girl with her tagalong friend from New York and we have a very nice dinner with them.
Next day we head over the border to Bolivia and a town still on Lake Titicaca called Copacabana. A nice little place and our hotel is stunning. A large domed shaped building with perfect views of the lake from our room. And the room is enormous. It has 4 beds. Two twins and a double up a ladder. So we've basically been bumming around, sitting in the sun, reading. I've been listening to my Spanish CD and keep getting weird looks from other guests as I recite ''No Habla Espanol.''
We move to La Paz, the capital, tomorrow where we start our 11 day tour of Bolivia. We are having a truly great time, and whilst there are moments of challenge, bus stations to name but a few, my impressions of South America seem to get better and better.
I hope you are all well and I shall write soon to bore you all stupid with more inane tales from the Southern continent. Frankly if you're read this far you're either really bored at work or are doing it out of politeness. I appreciate either reason.
Till next time.
Dan
So after the long and somewhat laborious Inca Trail thing, seriously there's a train, why would you walk it?
So we leave the tourist empty Cuzco and jump on a bus to Arequipa, Peru's second biggest city, next to, wait for it, two active volcanoes. Nice. It's all white stone and not an unpleasant place to be for a few days. Wondered around a monastery or two, ate some local food which was fine. Although because we're totally stuck if we get to a restaurant and actually decide this isn't the place for us. By that time we've already sat down they've already started to wait on us. I kid you not, we went to three, yes three different restaurants. All of whom we sat down in and were given menu's. All of whom we decided weren't right and had to stand up in front of everyone else eating there and leave. I do love those uncomfortable, awkward moments.
Then we booked a little two day trip to the Colca Canyon which is supposedly twice the size of the Grand Canyon and whilst it was impressive I kept thinking to myself ''What's the difference between a canyon and a valley cos this sure looks like a valley.''
Anyway spotted some condors from miles away drifting on the currents and whilst I had to contend with some very loud Canadians on the bus there and back, it was all I could do from turning around and saying ''Why can't you say it quietly, she's sitting right next to you for Christ sake!''
So we jump on another bus to Puno, on Lake Titicaca which, frankly is a bit of a poo hole. It basically has one street where you get harassed by every restaurant, Internet cafe and local wanting to sell you something. We have a good deal on a hostel, only $20 a night, bargain, although the smell of raw sewage makes my eyes water somewhat. Also there seems to be a disproportionate amount of photocopiers in this town. It's only small but seemingly every shop has a photocopier. I swear if I needed to photocopy something this would be the place, the competition was fierce.
So to get ourselves out of this Poohole, Puno, and we book a little trip to a couple of Lake Titicaca's islands. Once we're on the lake, I relax and slap on the suncream. Damn that sun is strong. We're at 4000m and in the shade you feel like you might lose one of your testicles and in the sun you burn within 3 minutes, can't win.
We arrive on Amantani, I won't bore you with the introductory crap suffice to say it looked very picturesque and met the family we were to stay with. Buenos Dias I said friendly. Nothing. The old woman with black headscarf just started walking up the impossibly steep hill towards her 'house'. Then I realise she only speaks Quecha. Not even Spanish. Ace.
It wasn't an unpleasant place, the room was basic but functional. The toilet however was something altogether different. An outdoor shed hiding what was basically a hole. And the smell. If there were words in English I would use them but I've wracked my brain and I just seem to locate them. Fun for all during the night when realised you needed to go. Oh sure the stars were amazing but trying to find the shed with no power, holding your nose and aiming accurately. Frankly it all got the better of me.
So after that fun little episode we visit another island, do a bit of sight seeing, meet a very nice Israeli girl with her tagalong friend from New York and we have a very nice dinner with them.
Next day we head over the border to Bolivia and a town still on Lake Titicaca called Copacabana. A nice little place and our hotel is stunning. A large domed shaped building with perfect views of the lake from our room. And the room is enormous. It has 4 beds. Two twins and a double up a ladder. So we've basically been bumming around, sitting in the sun, reading. I've been listening to my Spanish CD and keep getting weird looks from other guests as I recite ''No Habla Espanol.''
We move to La Paz, the capital, tomorrow where we start our 11 day tour of Bolivia. We are having a truly great time, and whilst there are moments of challenge, bus stations to name but a few, my impressions of South America seem to get better and better.
I hope you are all well and I shall write soon to bore you all stupid with more inane tales from the Southern continent. Frankly if you're read this far you're either really bored at work or are doing it out of politeness. I appreciate either reason.
Till next time.
Dan
Inca Trail
Guten tag,
After the relative calm of the Galapagos we jetted off to Lima which, if I´m completely honest is a bit of a shit hole. The traffic and general feeling of impending doom to the tourist kinda wears you down. There were a couple of nice churches and Alison started hearing voices in her ears inside one of the catacombs which I just took as being the dodgy llama she´d had for lunch. So from Lima we join up with a bunch of children who all want to walk the Inca trail with us. They´re all gap yearers or students and I feel about as old as God. But they´re pleasant enough so we all catch a flight to Cusco which is in the mountains. A nice main square, not much oxygen etc etc. The first hotel we stay in is nice. A cross between a youth hostel for the under 25´s and a 10 year old Travel Inn. Not bad and as we settled down to sleep we wondered why we hadn´t said anything to the 20 people downstairs getting pissed, their voices gently echoing up the stairs almost nestling between myself and Alison.
So with bloodshot eyes we drove to some other Inca place, I wasn´t paying much attention at this point. All very impressive and old. Not sure why the Inca´s decided to live up the top of mountains. Obviously their town planning hadn´t gotten as far as worrying about skanky students doing a 4 day walk to get up to the damn place. Camping is not my thing. If I was in any doubt about that, the Inca Trail (God bless you) finalised it. It was cold, you could barely get in and out of the things, and Alison kept taking up my side which I really hate. So we walk. And walk. And walk some more. Up and up and up, then a little down, then up some more. Frankly it all got a bit tiresome and we started getting a bit ratty with other members of the group who all seemed to be from Norway or Sweden and seemed to be world-class hikers. And as they raced passed us for the 30th time leaving us in their dust I wondered if they´d be able to down a cup of tea nearly as fast as me. I doubt it! Ha. Obviously to our Scandinavian chums it was a race and they won, by a country mile and then some. (In fact they even had time for coffee and biscuits and a little snooze by the time we racked up)
So the guide comes up with the genius plan to try and to the 4 day hike in 3 days. Marvellous. And I thought this just couldn´t get any more fun. So we do it and through the cries of misery, 3 day old underwear and tears of abject hopelessness we finally make it to Machu Picchu which, to be fair is pretty spectacular. Could we have taken the train? Yes. And we should have. And so, on the way down (on the train) I have to resist the urge to scream from the window at those who are just setting off on their wet, ´life-enhancing´ journey. "For God sake, turn back!" I could not, however bring myself to carry it through. A nice touch on the train is the airline service you are treated to. A box of sandwiches, drinks...then, the train hostess (I assume that´s what she was called) treated us to a fashion show. Music started to blare out of speakers and she and her male colleague started cat- walking along the ´isle´ showcasing the best in Peruvian Alpaca (bit like Llama wool stuff). I was lost for words as the entire carriage started whooping and whistling at them. As the train pulled in to the station I started to wonder what other comedy life events the Sun God got in store for us.
Stay tuned for more rambling dispatches from the Southern American continent.
Dan
After the relative calm of the Galapagos we jetted off to Lima which, if I´m completely honest is a bit of a shit hole. The traffic and general feeling of impending doom to the tourist kinda wears you down. There were a couple of nice churches and Alison started hearing voices in her ears inside one of the catacombs which I just took as being the dodgy llama she´d had for lunch. So from Lima we join up with a bunch of children who all want to walk the Inca trail with us. They´re all gap yearers or students and I feel about as old as God. But they´re pleasant enough so we all catch a flight to Cusco which is in the mountains. A nice main square, not much oxygen etc etc. The first hotel we stay in is nice. A cross between a youth hostel for the under 25´s and a 10 year old Travel Inn. Not bad and as we settled down to sleep we wondered why we hadn´t said anything to the 20 people downstairs getting pissed, their voices gently echoing up the stairs almost nestling between myself and Alison.
So with bloodshot eyes we drove to some other Inca place, I wasn´t paying much attention at this point. All very impressive and old. Not sure why the Inca´s decided to live up the top of mountains. Obviously their town planning hadn´t gotten as far as worrying about skanky students doing a 4 day walk to get up to the damn place. Camping is not my thing. If I was in any doubt about that, the Inca Trail (God bless you) finalised it. It was cold, you could barely get in and out of the things, and Alison kept taking up my side which I really hate. So we walk. And walk. And walk some more. Up and up and up, then a little down, then up some more. Frankly it all got a bit tiresome and we started getting a bit ratty with other members of the group who all seemed to be from Norway or Sweden and seemed to be world-class hikers. And as they raced passed us for the 30th time leaving us in their dust I wondered if they´d be able to down a cup of tea nearly as fast as me. I doubt it! Ha. Obviously to our Scandinavian chums it was a race and they won, by a country mile and then some. (In fact they even had time for coffee and biscuits and a little snooze by the time we racked up)
So the guide comes up with the genius plan to try and to the 4 day hike in 3 days. Marvellous. And I thought this just couldn´t get any more fun. So we do it and through the cries of misery, 3 day old underwear and tears of abject hopelessness we finally make it to Machu Picchu which, to be fair is pretty spectacular. Could we have taken the train? Yes. And we should have. And so, on the way down (on the train) I have to resist the urge to scream from the window at those who are just setting off on their wet, ´life-enhancing´ journey. "For God sake, turn back!" I could not, however bring myself to carry it through. A nice touch on the train is the airline service you are treated to. A box of sandwiches, drinks...then, the train hostess (I assume that´s what she was called) treated us to a fashion show. Music started to blare out of speakers and she and her male colleague started cat- walking along the ´isle´ showcasing the best in Peruvian Alpaca (bit like Llama wool stuff). I was lost for words as the entire carriage started whooping and whistling at them. As the train pulled in to the station I started to wonder what other comedy life events the Sun God got in store for us.
Stay tuned for more rambling dispatches from the Southern American continent.
Dan
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