27 May 2006....Cañon de Palca

The triple peaked Illimani tops out at 6439 metres

Lynne says...

The Cordillera Real (Royal Range) is a range of mountains in the Bolivian Altiplano. Every now and again, between the high rise buildings of La Paz, we could catch a glimpse of its snow-capped peaks. The highest is Nevado Illimani at 6439m and as we began our hike to the Cañon de Palca we were treated to a fantastic view of this huge mountain.


This track took us down into the Cañon with Nevado Illimani dominating the skyline

As we continued down an old Inca track we passed several small communities of rural farmers eeking out a living from the mountainside. For a while we followed two young boys guiding a sheep with a rope and stick; a couple of tiny girls sat huddled in the doorway of an adobe dwelling and were full of shy smiles as we waved at them.

After an hour or so we descended into the Cañon itself. Its red sandstone pillars towered on either side and a small river meandered between the rocks and boulders. We are in the dry season at the moment so the river was a mere trickle. Ridges along the walls indicated just how much the water level rises during the rainy months - walking along the Cañon at this time would be completely impossible.

I´ve always wanted to go the the Grand Canyon in the States and I can only imagine this is a much smaller version of what it would be like. At points the walls towered at least 100 metres above us. We walked at a leisurely pace for around an hour before the walls of the canyon grew smaller and we took a track to the left.


The dry river bed lead us between the walls of the Cañon for about 2km

After a small climb we were rewarded with a view across farmland in a neighbouring valley. Far below a much bigger river flowed and we could just about make out a man panning for gold. A lovely local lady carrying freshly cut flowers in the customary colourful cloth smiled at us in greeting as we passed her.

Our hike finished in a tiny village called Palca. We sat down on a bench in the main plaza and watched the locals going about their daily business. A mini-bus to La Paz pulled in just as we arrived but we made the fateful decision to have some lunch and wait for the next one - a decision that we would come to regret as we ended up waiting nearly four hours for the next bus.

Lesson number one: Always catch the first bus out of a tiny village in Bolivia or you could be stuck there for hours.

The women in the village were all wearing significantly more colourful versions of their usual traditional dress. Men, women and children kept disappearing into a doorway in front of us. I asked a couple of local men what was going on and they replied by saying "El Dia de Madre" - the Bolivian equivalent of Mothering Sunday (even though it was a Saturday).

My curiosity got the better of me and I walked through the doorway to take a look. It turned out to be a school playground and a few hundred adults were sitting watching a small group of girls in traditional dress performing a dance - a teacher in a white coat was encouraging them to stay in time. The celebrations continued all afternoon with various groups of adults and children performing traditional dances in colourful costumes accompanied by the inevitable out of tune brass band.


Ladies in traditional Bolivian dress watch the El dia de Madre celebrations in Palca (Bowler hat salesman just out of shot)

We´d arrived in the village at 12.30pm but we didn´t leave until after 4pm. I´d enjoyed watching the village celebrations so perhaps it wasn´t such a bad thing that we´d decided to wait for the next bus.


Local children in Palca

24-30 May... BBC - Bolivian Belly in the Capital

The view of La Paz from the start of the Cañon de Palca trek - beat that!

Matt says...

Call it what you will - Bombay Bum, Delhi Belly or Montezhuma´s revenge. It doesn´t matter because whatever you call it, we´ve got / had it. Our scheduled start for the Choro Trek has been delayed by at least 24 hours because firstly I, and then poor Lynne, have been sprinting to the loo faster than Ben Johnson on steroids. At fault lies the city of La Paz and it´s incredibly tasty, if somewhat untrustworthy, street food.

Just a five minute walk down El Prado, the city´s main street, tempts you with anything from llama meat and potato kebabs, deep-fried chicken and potato empanadas, potato salteñas, freshly squeezed fruit juices of all kinds and ice-cream of every flavour imaginable. This does not include the myriad of hamburguesa salesmen and women (nicknamed the Hamburgeezers by the two of us) who occupy every street corner.

There is really not much about La Paz that I don´t like. Its jam-packed markets simply ooze atmosphere. The hilly streets off El Prado leave you gasping for breath as you attempt to adjust to the altitude. There are a myriad of excellent points from which to look out over the city´s incredible skyline and the traditional clothing of the Bolivian ladies, all of whom look as though they are carrying their life´s posessions in slings across their backs, adds more colour to what is a vibrant, alive, living, breathing city without an ounce of pretension. It really is a fantastic place through which to wander - surprises lurk around every corner - and I have thoroughly enjoyed our wanderings over the past few days.


Women selling their wares - this scene is played out everywhere in La Paz

Prior to arriving in La Paz, I was absolutely certain that my favourite two capital cities were London and New York. Okay, okay, so New York isn´t the capital of the USA, but it should be, right? La Paz now joins that list and there really is nothing between the three.

Fingers crossed, we shall board the bus to La Cumbre tomorrow (Monday) to begin the Choro Trek with strong stomachs. Adios!

Lynne says...

After deciding on a rough plan for the next few weeks (a few treks and our first time in the Amazon jungle) we decided a beer was in order so we stopped off at a local joint close to our hostel. Loud music blared and the whole place was lit by super-tacky neon and flashing lights. As I sipped my beer a commotion broke out behind me. I cautiously turned round to watch a group of men squaring up to each other, chairs overturned and the obglitory female trying to calm them down. The barman walked past with a tray of drinks and didn´t even bat an eyelid.

I slowly moved my chair further away to avoid a potential battleground yet it was just a lot of hot air, puffed up chests and male bravado - a typical night in La Paz really. Around me, everyone carried on drinking as if nothing had happened.

Minutes later, a man crept up to our table holding out a mobile phone, "Llamada, llamada?" he asked (or something like that, the blaring music made it difficult to hear). Did I need to make a phone call? We shook our heads and I watched as he approached another table where a man took the phone as if he had suddenly realised he had to make an important call at that very moment. Telephone man was quickly replaced by Lime Man and then Paper Tissue Lady. The Bolivians really are an enterprising lot.

On the table next to us sat a group of rowdy teenagers. One of them staggered to his feet to order a round of beers. His lank, greasy hair, black t-shirt with cut off sleeves, tattoo and, to complete the outfit, black fingerless gloves, marked him out as the coolest of the group. It was definitely time to find another drinking hole.

22-24 May... Black Tuesday in Sucre

Lynne says...

We both had very different opinions of Sucre, probably the first time we have visited somewhere and come away with entirely different impressions. I found the city to be a beautiful, laid-back place and I could have spent more time there yet Matt has filed it unter B for Boring and couldn´t wait to get away. It probably wasn´t helped though by what we are both now referring to as Black Tuesday.

Before I go on, let me give you a small insight into Sucre itself. This beautiful colonial town lies in a valley surrounded by mountains. Its centre is a pretty, well-maintained Plaza where the locals relax and watch the world go by. Although La Paz retains most of the governmental power and is officially the capital, Sucre still retains the Supreme Court and the locals maintain that their city is the real heart of Bolivia.

It´s easy to spend a day simply wandering around, admiring the buildings, perhaps stopping off for a refreshing fruit juice in the market or a cafe con leche in one of the many cafes. Whilst we were there, Sucre was celebrating its birthday (I´ve no idea what birthday) and we were caught up in a huge street parade full of of brass bands of varying ear-crunching quality.


A school marching band during the festival in Sucre´s main plaza

So, back to Black Tuesday.

We´re nearly half way through our trip now and a combination of traveller´s fatigue and the recent death of Matt´s Mum culminated in what can only be described as the worst day of our trip so far.

Matt has been fantastic since Iris´death and despite the complete and utter shock of what happened to my fantastic mother-in-law, he has been unbeliveably strong. It was a difficult decision to continue with our planned trip after our world was completely turned upside down but we went because we knew Iris would have wanted us to go.

Grief is a terrible thing. It can hit you at the most unexpected times. One day you might feel completely fine, the next, you are completely surrounded by a dark cloud that refuses to drift - the memories are simply too painful to bare. For us, at times, it is very difficult being away from our family and family friends, knowing that everyone is slowly trying to come to turns with our shared loss.

It´s easy to feel insolated from what is happening back home and sometimes we feel guilty for not being there to help everyone through this difficult time. There have been times when we have just wanted to return and give Peter, Kate, Heath, Ben and Libby a huge big hug. We know it won´t make things better, but it helps.

What we do have are the most fantastic memories of the best mother-in-law I could have possibly hoped for. Iris was someone I could laugh with and spend time with - something often very rare in the daughter-in-law, mother-in-law relationship. I learnt a great deal from her in the twelve years I knew her and I was privileged to have her as a mother-in-law. We had a very special bond, one that both Heath and I will always share.

Even though we are far away from the family we love so much, we remain as close as a family could possibly be. We love you very much.

So, we officially name this day, Black Tuesday. Matt and I continue to talk about and share our feelings and it helps a great deal. It also helps knowing that in a few months we will be back home with our friends and family having shared an amazing six months together.

18-22 May...more bangs for your bucks in Potosi

Lynne says...

Not only can we now say we have been to the southern most city in the world, we can also say we´ve been to the highest. Potosi sits at a breathtaking 4060 metres above sea level and even a gentle stoll up a hill leaves the most active person out of breath.

The main reason why people venture to Potosi is to visit the working mines. In 1545, silver was discovered in the huge Cerro Rico mountain that dominates the skyline and Potosi quickly became the richest city in Latin America - at times it was bigger than London or Paris. Historically, indigenous and African slaves were forced to work in terrible conditions and many millions died as a result.


Miners buy their Coca leaves at the early morning market

Today the rich silver seams have all but disappeared but the world demand for lead and zinc mean the mines are still profitable. Potosi remains a working mine but conditions remain atrocious. They have also become a slightly twisted and macabre tourist attraction for travellers on the gringo trail. I was nervous about what lay ahead yet I still found myself signing my life away on a slip of paper.

Just after 8am on our second day in the town we piled onto an old mini-bus that we had to push to start - not a good sign. After changing into full protective clothing including hard hats, headlamps and wellington boots we stopped at the Miners´ Market to buy gifts - it is customary to give a group of men a gift such as coca leaves, dynamite or a soft drink when you visit them at work.


Lynne goes ´native´ and buys a bag of Coca

The street near many of the mineral processing plants has many small stalls and shops selling everything a miner could possibly need for his work including shovels, hammers, huge chisels, sticks of dynamite, detonaters, fuses and amonium nitrate for a really big bang. Anyone can buy the material to destroy a house, including children, yet Efra, our guide for the day, helpfully explained that Potosi has no problems with terrorism, unlike Europe and the USA. I half expected a bomb to go off in the street at any minute.

The coca leaf is an extremely important part of the miners life. When chewed with an alkali catalyst the resulting juice numbs the senses and helps the miners tolerate altitude and the atrocious working conditions. The bulge in every miners cheek indicates just how important the leaf is to them - each one chews through around 30 grams a day. Ominously, Efra also explained that the miners drink a 96% proof alcohol made from sugar cane to help them forget about the work they do. I tried a mouthful and it nearly evaporated before I swallowed it.


96%? That´ll do nicely

The miners work in groups of between 10 and 30 often consisiting of family members; fathers, sons and uncles. Each group is completely independent and must buy all the equipment they need - profits are shared out equally and the average monthly wage is $80 US. They also pay the Bolivian government an 18% levy.

Before entering the mine itself we spent around 20 minutes in the processing plant. Here, the minerals are extracted from the rubble through a variety of processes. The machines looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel and the smell of poisonous chemical filled the air. Miners eagerly crowded around us to receive a handful of coca leaves.

Our next stop was the mine itself. We waited outside the tiny entrance as Efra ran through the safety instructions - basically, touch nothing, including the cables which carry compressed air and electricity. The first few minutes inside were fine. The tunnel was big enough to stand upright and was well ventilated. We stopped at the museum, a small cave filled with various faded pictures and information about the history of the mines. This was far enough for a few people in a group and so we were reduced to four.

The tunnel grew narrower and dustier as we progressed and we were forced to advance by a combination of walking, stooping and crawling. Several times we had to dodge out of the way as carts, heavily laden with rubble, came hurtling out of the darkness, pushed by a couple of miners whose clothes were wringing with sweat. It started to get warmer and stuffier and as the level of oxygen decreased Matt found it hard to breathe and suffered a small panic attack. Our group sat down as we needed to rest after no more than two minutes walking - the lads pushing the carts run for ten minutes at a time.

The minimum legal age limit for a miner is fifteen but nobody checks and boys as young as twelve have worked in the deep tunnels and shafts. Most deaths are caused by the poisonous gases which are released when the dynamite is detonated. Many miners die from respiritory diseases after several years of continuous work although some do go on to work here for up to forty years. Each group chooses how many hours and how many days a week they work. If they don´t work they don´t get paid and as a result they normally work ten hours a day, six days a week.

We scrambled down a steep, dusty tunnel to a lower level, choking on the dust. We rested for a while with a small group of miners taking a lunch break. Their dark, dusty faces stared out at us from the darkness. The miners don´t eat any food inside the mine as it causes them to be sick. Instead, they chew silently on their coca leaves.


Miners take their midday break to chew fresh coca

Each group has an experienced, older miner. In this particular group it was a forty-four year old man who had been working in the mines for thirty years. His twenty-two year old son sat next to him; his face completely blank and his cheek bulging with coca leaves. We gave them a bottle of fizzy drink and a stick of dynamite as a gift which the elder miner silently took.

We descended two more levels down a rickety ladder with loose rungs. The only way I could cope was by blanking my mind to the thought of how dangerous a situation we would be in if a tunnel collapsed.

Finally we reached the fourth and lowest level. A solitary miner sat with a hammer and chisel, creating a metre long hole for the dynamite. If the rock was particularly hard, it might take him ten hours to create a single hole. The majority of dynamite is detonated at 6pm every day to allow the dust to settle overnight. Arguments and fights sometimes break out if different groups discover the same mineral seam. Instead of using fists, they use their tools and occasionally dynamite to decide who will take ownership.

After two and a half hours underground it was time to leave. Surprisingly, climbing upwards was much easier and faster. Gradually the air grew fresher and we were back in the open air, shocked at what we had just witnessed. Conditions in the mines are primitive and dangerous yet the miners are prepared to risk their lives every day. Efra had promised to give us the details of past accidents after our tour but conveniently he forgot - I was probably better off not knowing.


Lighting the fuses to detonate the ´tourist´ dynamite at the conclusion of the tour


Probably the most bizarre sight on our whole trip. Run man, run!

Matt says...

The tour of the mines was undoubtedly the highlight of our stay in Potosi but it was also a town with bags of atmosphere which made our whole stay incredibly enjoyable. The Koala Den hostel is my idea of how all hostels should be run - friendly staff, a good breakfast, fantastic showers and an excellent DVD collection makes for a happy band of travellers and a good hostel atmosphere.

Such an atmosphere was conducive to myself and an American lad called Dave cleaning up at Texas Hold 'Em one night where we took on all-comers and I won the princely sum of 50 Bolivianos (approximately 3 quid). It must have been beginners luck.

After the flat, fairly uninspiring town centres of Uyuni and Tupiza it was good to be somewhere with hilly, winding pedestrian lanes, a sizeable market area, plenty of bars and restaurants and a general atmosphere of uniqueness. Particularly memorable was my haircut one morning. The barber was lacking a regular electric shaver and delicately gave me my regular grade two crew cut with a pair of what can only be described as hand shears. Potosi, I salute you.

16-18 May....Tupiza - all this way just to ride a horse?

Lynne says...

Our alarm went off in Uyuni at 4.30am and by 4.45am we were standing in the bus company waiting room with the locals - a couple of them were wrapped up in blankets and looked as if they had spent the night there. Outside, a few women stood around a fire, warming their hands against the biting cold air.

Our bus turned out to be a jeep and we were crammed in with no room to move. Behind me, three men joked around with cries of "vamos, vamos" until a rather large lady with a huge bag squeezed herself into a non-existent space and they soon fell silent.

Eventually we arrived in Tupiza in the far south of Bolivia. Our reason for enduring such an uncomfortable journey was to fulfill our cowboy fantasies and ride on horseback through the area´s badlands.


Big, big rocks in the amazing countryside near Tupiza

It didn´t take me long to realise that "Tonto", our guide for the day, wasn´t the broody, silent cowboy type I had hoped for. Instead, he was a sixteen-year-old moody teenager who only succeeded in making me feel old.

The adrenaline cursed through my veins as my horse first cantered and then broke into a gallop. After seconds I was out of breath and clutching hold of my saddle for dear life. For a split second I started to worry about my lack of helmet but the thought was quickly brushed aside as I concentrated on staying upright.


The smile stayed on Lynne´s face all day

After a few minutes my horse slowed down on his own accord - I hadn´t quite managed to take a hand off the saddle to pull back the reins - and I started to appreciate the surroundings. Strange formations of red-brown rock rose on either side of us as we passed cactus covered hills. Ahead, the track was dry and dusty and we were completely alone.

After a few hours we stopped for lunch in a beautiful clearing next to a glistening river. We had a brief discussion with "Tonto" about the length of our lunch break - he was clearly after an easy ride. Young, lazy and no doubt completely exploited by several people taking a cut from the cost of the day, he was definitely wishing he was somewhere else.


"Man, I´m on this damn horse, in the wild west, and I still don´t look like Robert Redford..."

Thankfully our surroundings were simply too beautiful for a moody teenager to spoil it for us. During the afternoon we rode through gargantuan canyons and crossed several rivers - by now my now my confidence had grown and galloping became a real thrill.

Seven hours on horseback was enough for the two of us and by the end of the day we were saddle sore, dusty and weary yet completely exhilerated by what we had seen - Butch and Sundance, eat your heart out.


Late evening sun makes for poncey self-portrait shadow pictures

13-15 May...a pinch of salt

Lynne says... Uyuni is a small dusty Bolivian desert town which offers a complete contrast to anything we experienced in Chile or Argentina. The streets are dusty and empty of cars and the shops are basic. The European faces we had grown used to have been replaced by the distinctive features of the Bolivianos - dark hair and dark skin. It´s great to be here. The women stand out the most as many wear traditional clothes; pinafore style dresses tied at the waist and thick, woolly tights and shawls. Their thick black hair is long and plaited and they wear either black top hats or straw hats with colourful ribbons - there are no white haired people in this country. Many of the older ladies carry babies or toddlers on their backs, wrapped up tightly in colourful cloth. We spent a day wandering around, taking in the sounds and sights of this completely different country. Everything is so cheap - our twin room in a hostel cost us just four pounds and a decent sized breakfast with bread, eggs and coffee cost less than a pound each. Street sellers offer delicious fruit shakes and salteñas (potato pasties) for a few pence. Our desert pals, from left, Emily from the USA, Christine and Lise from Denmark and Jill from The Netherlands The main reason travellers make their way to this isolated town is to go on a three or four day tour of the area in a jeep. We had heard very mixed reports about the quality of the tours - anything ranging from drunken drivers to food poisoning and breakdowns so I was fairly nervous about what to expect. Lynne experiences a prickly throat After a few hours of research and conversations with fellow travellers we chose an agency and waited with anticipation to see who we would be spending the next few days. Luckily, our fellow travel companions were four girls; Gill from Amsterdam, Emily from Chicago and Lise and Christine from Denmark - Matt was delighted. Big Lynne, little Matt. The salt flats were great for daft perspective pictures Pictures really don´t do justice to the barren beauty of the salt flats During the next three days we experienced spectacular, contrasting scenery. We drove along salt flats and desert and stopped at beautiful lagoons where elegant flamingos grazed on the floating algae that turns them pink. Lynne got to fulfill one of her ambitions when we saw flamingos in the wild Conditions in the jeep varied from freezing cold to red hot. If a window was opened we were immediately engulfed in dust so it was a case of either roasting or choking. Accommodation was very basic - no hot water and no electricity after 9pm - still, we were in the middle of nowhere. Sunrise at the geysers while the moon was still up. Simply breathtaking. Lynne stands in the shade as the sun hits the geyser steam The two highlights of the trip were the time we spent on the salt flats and our freezing experience watching the sun rise over steamy geysers - the photos only go so far to portray just how memorable this part of our trip has been. Damn! We forgot our bathers, but some brave souls braved the freezing air to get into the hot pools

11 May... one long train journey to Bolivia

Lynne enjoys the scenery from the comfort of her sleeping bag. Temperatures dropped to below zero during the night

Lynne says...

I had to fight my way through the crowds (see previous picture) to secure our tickets to Uyini, Bolivia. Maybe everyone else knew something that we didn´t? Our train was due to leave at 11pm so we spent the day wandering around Calama, buying supplies whilst I psyched myself up for what lay ahead.

We weren´t the only crazy people who had chosen the less traversed route from Chile to Bolivia. A local lady sat in the waiting room surrounded by her life posessions in various sized boxes and carrier bags; a Swiss couple huddled in the corner, probably trying to avoid the nasty smell eminating from a well-travelled German lad with holes in his boots.

The train clunked into the station on time and we climbed aboard the solitary carriage at the back. The dreaded wooden seats were clearly just a rumour aimed at discouraging gringos from choosing this route. Instead, they were fairly comfortable and as there were only six of us, we could spread out.

We poured ourselves a rum and coke in our chipped enamel mugs and settled back as the train pulled out of the station. There was nothing to see outside apart from blackness and by 12pm the cold had started to set in so we settled down in our sleeping bags and woolly hats and curled up on the seats.

After a surprisingly good night´s sleep we were woken up by the dawn light. It was cold enough to see our breath, despite the sun´s rays. A stark, barren landscape spread out before us, framed by snowcapped mountains and a smoking volcano far in the distance. We trundled slowly past an abandoned mining village. Empty brick buildings and rusty machinery lay scattered around and a cemetary of wooden crosses marked the final resting place of miners who had worked the slat flats.

We arrived at the Chilean border at around 9.30am. A suave, gum chewing guard with a silver chain processed all six passengers in a few minutes but we had to wait around for about an hour whilst the cargo was shifted around by the huge engine. To ease the boredom I perfected my Penelope Pittstop impressions to the amusement of the train driver.


Downtown Ollague on the Chilean side of the Bolivian border

The Bolivian border crossing was very different. We were now at 3660 metres and the few buildings dotted around indicated that people actually lived here.

We entered a tiny hut where an official in a khaki uniform examined our passports in great detail before giviung us a form to fill in. We also had to pay an entry tax; it probably went straight into his pocket. Outside, Matt tried to take a picture but a serious looking man with a rifle turned him away. I´m not quite sure what they were worried about as there is nothing much to see at this lonely outpost.

We brewed up by the railway track and waited, and waited, and waited. A small boy on a huge bicycle and his fluffy white dog appeared from nowhere and regarded us with mild curiosity. Out of sheer boredom we climbed back on the train and fell asleep. We were woken up at around 4pm as the train juddered to a noisy start.


Matt brews up at 4,000 metres above sea level. A high tea, perhaps? (sorry)

The next few hours were spent alternatively dozing, reading or listening to music. As the sun set behind the mountains and we were once again in darkness. The train stopped at a few isolated stations and more people boarded. Matt started to feel the effects of altitude and the only option was to curl up in his sleeping bag and go to sleep.

We finally arrived in Uyini at around 9pm, twenty-two hours after leaving Calama. It had been a memorable train journey and I was glad Matt had insisted we chose the alternative border crossing. We are finally in Bolivia so things should really start to get interesting.


Heylp, heylp! Lynne perfects her Penelope Pitstop impression

10 May... Calama, Chile

Lynne bravely fights off the thousands of fellow travelers in the cauldron of fear that is the Calama railway station ticket office....

Lynne says...

The only reason we are in Calama, northern Chile, is to catch the weekly train to Uyuni, Bolivia. For the record, the train is Matt´s idea. It involves a 20-40(!) hour journey on a cargo train with one passenger carriage. The seats are wooden and we have to bring all our own supplies. It leaves at 11pm this evening (Wednesday) and, if all goes to plan, we should arrive in Uyuni at around 7pm tomorrow.

The thought of sleeping on wooden seats reminds me of a journey in China a few years ago that reduced Lotto to tears. That particular journey proved to be one of the most memorable of that particular trip. I only hope this one will be the same.

Watch this space.

6 - 9 May... Salta, Argentina

Oranges grow in the shadow of Salta's Iglesia Catedral in the Plaza 9 de Julio

Matt says...

We decided to treat ourselves to one of Argentina's fantastic Coche Cama class buses for our sixteen hour journey from Mendoza to Salta. To briefly explain - travelling Coche Cama is probably the equivalent of flying club class. The coach is a huge double-decker with a toilet downstairs and video screens dotted throughout. Your seat reclines back to virtually become a bed, you have trouble touching the back of the seat in front of you even when fully stretched, the movies begin as soon as you leave your point of departure and they serve you either whisky or champagne after your evening meal. Basically, it's a perfect way to travel and makes a long road journey fly by.

So, it was a mightily refreshed pair of Fearns that arrived in Salta on Sunday lunchtime. A good job it proved to be too as we then participated in what can only be described as a 24 hour charade to purchase our onward tickets to Calama, Chile. We tried to buy the things before we left the bus station but in uncharacteristic style both of the bus companies who travel to Calama were closed. So we wandered through a picturesque town park towards the centre to find a hostel.


Iglesia San Francisco by night

Thinking the ticket offices may have been closed for siesta (usually between midday and 4pm) we ventured back through the park to the bus station but alas, the both ticket offices still remained shuttered. We managed to find a very helpful man from one of the companies, Pullman Buses, who made a few phone calls and suggested we return at 9pm to see if we could buy the tickets when a bus was due in from Calama and the driver and purser would have access to the office. After thanking him for his help we wandered a different route through the same park back to the hostel and traipsed back again at 9pm to be told about half an hour later that the computers were all shut down so it was impossible to make reservations.

Salta was, quite literally, turning out to be a walk in the park. Five of them, in fact. And it hadn't ended there.

The next morning we decided to forgo a planned day trip to many interesting spots around Salta to try and secure the damned tickets. Catching the Monday night bus was pretty crucial to our plans because of connecting with a once a week train which journeys from Calama, Chile, to Uyuni, Bolivia. So, when we arrived at the bus station we were ecstatic to see the Pullman Buses ticket booth open. Our ecstasy lasted precisely 2.461 seconds as the ticket seller informed us that although there were plenty of tickets left, it was cash only. I sensed that Lynne was almost ready to chin somenody as we both knew that we didn't have enough readies and a trip to the cashpoint was required.

"No problem," I told her cheerily. "There's a cashpoint right outside." Would that cashpoint give us any money? Would it heck as like.


The 16th century Convento de San Bernardo - home to Carmelite nuns

So (yep, you've guessed it) it was another walk through the park to town and back to secure the relevant funds and after we finally had the flamin' tickets in our hands we celebrated by (yep, you've guessed correctly again) walking back through the park to get some breakfast in town.

So, after one final walk through the unmentionable area of green grass early the following morning to get back to the bus station and board the bus, we waved farewell to Salta, a city which will remain ingrained on our brains as having loads of parks, whereas in reality, it only has one.

Time spent in Salta = 72 hours.
Walks through the same park = 10.


PS - We did have a great time in Salta apart from the above mentioned debacle. We hadn't wandered much around South America's churches and the like until that point so we did a bit of that. Also, we picked up some great Bolivia tips from Kiwi couple Sue and her nameless (we've forgotten!) husband. Cheers!

3 - 6 May... Mendoza, Argentina. Wine and hangovers - such a great combination

Lynne says...

In Rapa Nui we had treated ourselves to a hand carved, three foot tall wooden moai, affectionately named David (think about it). It was for David´s sake that we decided to stay in Santiago for another night to ensure his safe passage across the Atlantic courtesy of FedEx.

As we walked along the streets of Santiago early on Monday morning, we realised that something wasn´t quite right. It was 9am yet the place was deserted apart from the usual stray dogs that seem to populate every town in South America. Something was definitely wrong. After a while scratching our heads we thought about the date and realised it was the 1st May, Dia del Trabajador, Labour Day or, in Britain, May Day. Every worker in the city was either protesting voiciferously against their capitalist bosses or, more probably, lying in bed enjoying a nice day off work. Nothing was open. We were destined to stay in Santiago for yet another day.

We finally made it to Mendoza, Argentina, after a 12 hour overnight bus journey that included two hours hanging around at border crossings in the wee small hours.


Backpacker's lunch - Mendoza style

The Mendoza region produces around 70% of Argentina´s wine and we decided to visit a few of the vineyards on pushbike. We caught a local bus to the Maipu region, around an hour away, where we found ourselves alone with a dusty, busy road and a very basic map. I had visions of endless rows of vines, beautiful views and friendly, enthusiastic winemakers. Surprisingly, Maipu is not a pretty place. We visited a few wineries but the staff were not as passionate or enthusiastic as I had expected and at one vineyard, Tempus Alba, we weren´t even offered a tasting but had to buy a glass.

The highlight of the day was a long, leisurely lunch at Alamacen del Sur, a delicatessen that grows, prepares and bottles its produce by hand. We enjoyed a fabulous platter of meat, bread, sun dried tomatoes, aubergine, olives and various dips. You´ll soon be able to purchase its delicious food at Harrods.

Friday night was asado (barbecue) night at the hostel. We´d fallen in with a great crowd of people and we all headed out to the bars. Several drinks later and we crawled into bed at around 6.30am. Checkout time was 10.30am. I´ll let you imagine how Matt coped the next day, homeless, with an 18 hour bus journey to Salta ahead of him.