Pictures from another world: Part Two

As promised, all my photos are now up to date and on Flickr. Below I present to you some of the finer snaps from the second part of the Bolivian salt flat tour.


Alfredo reveals his secret stash of Kendal mint cakes.


Somebody pass me the salt please. Funny, in that the table is made of salt.


A denim dream but for the one in green.


Even the AA don´t make it look this easy.


Almost but not quite. Don´t ask what the frick the Canadian´s doing at the back.


I really struggled to get into this book, so I got on it.


A Salt lake sitting.


Global warming hits Manchester Piccadilly.


More reliable than a Virgin train in so much as you know this train isn´t going anywhere.

Pictures from another world: Part One

What a lovely Christmas surprise this is. Below we have a fine selection images from Chile and the crossing into Bolivia. While in La Paz, I shall try and get all the images up to date so we´re ready to roll once more in the New Year. I love captions.


Solar power. Useful when the sun´s shining.


This is what we did one Monday morning. Smug. Very smug.


You thought walking on water was impressive? Try reading.


These tourists came to see some amazing sights but not such bravery.


Similar to the moon but without an American flag on it. So, better.


Even the Megane would find this tough going.


This dancefloor was hot.


Welcome to Bolivia: the restroom at the border-crossing.


Swim in this stuff and you´ll have a mountain of problems.


A great place for sightseeing but not breaking down.


Hot springs, especially when you get it in your face. And on your hand. And in your hair. With people laughing.


Three´s a crowd? They seem happy enough.


Beats a zoo.


They beat sheep.


The party bus. Or just party boy. Bless.


Mmm. Fresh Bolivian spring water. Go on, take a sip...


If ever there was a sight to make a lazy traveller feel guilty...


Glass bottles provide the green space.


No dripping clocks but still a little weird.


Yours truly looking rock solid and wishing everyone a very Merry Christmas. Genuinely, that´s what I was thinking.

For the rest of my snapshots of mankind, please visit flickr.com/jmage right now. Entry is free and all positive comments will boost my ego.

PS Maybe this is better than a blog? I had more fun.

Taking a break

For one reason or another, I find myself having to write my latest post about the entire previous week. A grim task lays ahead but at least I´ve at last found a haven of calm where I can gather my thoughts. That place is La Paz.

Following my days in the desert, last Saturday I caught an early bus with Max and Sascha to the town of Tupiza, some seven hours away from Uyuni. The time it took isn´t so important however the experience was.

Starting off by descending into a dried up river bed, we soon enjoyed a break in a small town where the centrepiece was a Cesna plane impaled on a post and then it was the harsh climb up into the mountains. With no tarmac in sight or barriers to halt any possible disasters, we crawled along the dirt track for several hours, squeezing past other buses as they perched on the cliffs edge. A couple of times I dozed off and woke up with a four hundred foot drop staring back up at me. Despite containing no caffeine, this form of sharpening your senses was far more powerful than a cup of coffee.

Happily we made it in one piece and soon found our comfotable hostel in the centre of town. We bought our bus tickets for the Monday morning trip to Potosi and in the evening enjoyed pasta at one of the many Italian restaurants and a panoramic view over the city at sunset.

Sunday was another glorious day in the wild west-esque town of Tupiza, famed for the setting of where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their fate around a century ago. With this in mind, I set my sights on riding a horse through this rugged and fantastic scenery. Sascha agreed to join me and so for around five pounds, we set off behind our guide into the wild. Along the way we saw peculiar rock formations, cacti and a site which was once used as a refuge by the Incas. I got to ride a horse and wear a cowboy hat so that was job done. In the afternoon I slept then awoke for more excellent Italian food and another sunset stroll.

Although we were at the bus station on Monday morning, our bus wasn´t. It was soon clear that we would never be introduced to one another that morning so instead we rescheduled for the evening bus some ten hours later. In that void of time and space, we lounged by a hotel pool, had a read and a dip and said farewell with another wonderfully executed Italian meal. I kid you not, the food here in Bolivia is actually very good.

By nightfall we and our bus were at last united and on we hopped to endure nine hours of bumps, baby screams and black holes below.

We arrived in Potosi with the sunrise on Tuesday and the world´s highest city did not disappoint. Colonial and largely indigenous, it sits snug amongt a range of mountains some four thousand metres above sea level. Hanging over it, the haunting presence of Cerro Rico, a mountain that´s been mined for the last five hundred years and sadly is still to this day.

After an afternoon sleep in our room, we surfaced for some lunch then visited the city´s museum which centres around the fact that it was South America´s first city to mint a coin. I joined in with this and minted my own coin with a large hammer.

Back at the hostel we watched an excellent documentary film called The Devil´s Miner, a story of two young brothers condemned to a life working in the town´s mines. Some say as many as eight million men have died in Cerro Rico (Rich Mountain) since it was first discovered for it´s wealth and the life expectancy for a worker now lies no higher than forty five. One day before we were due to visit this Bolivian institution, the film made quite an impact on us.

The next day we and another thirty backpackers piled into a ´Greengo Tours´ minbus and headed north towards the mountain. First we were stopped off to pick up our kit and miners hats and then it was to the miners market. Here with instruction from our guide Julio, we bought gifts that we were to give to the miners as we passed through on our third-world tour. On offer were cigarettes, fruit juice, coca leaves (the leaf from which cocaine is controversially produced), a ninety-six percent alcoholic spirit, beer and dynamite. I went for the cigarette/fruit juice/dynamite combination. Sadly, our colourful but clearly weathered guide soon backed out of the tour which seemed to be down to a mix of fear and mental instability.

We joined another guide though and after a brief look at a procerssing plant, we entered the mine.

Inside we were treated to a labyrinth of dark passages, runaway mine trains, toxic dust and a whole load of fear. To see men actually working in these awful conditions just beggared belief. With twenty-four -hour shifts a reality, cave-ins common, alcohol abuse an inevitability and one death every eight days a fact, it´s no wonder the people of Potosi fear this piece of rock so much. Twenty years ago things were slightly different as at least then it was government owned and the miners had some forms of protection. Now the co-operative mines are run soley by the miners themselves and all that separates them from a lucrative success or an untimely death is, as they believe, the will of Tio (the devil of the mines).

Through the clouds of arsenic and asbestos we eventually emerged some three hours later. Outside, the guides put on a display to outline the power of the dynamite sticks we´d just handed over, by carrying out a couple of controlled explosions.

Physically and emotionally shattered we returned to Amigo Hostal for showers although this did little to dislodge the smells we´d inherited. In the evening we refelected greatly and had beers with cheesy nachos.

On Thursday we made a slow start, having late breakfast before catching a lunctime bus to the judicial capital of Bolivia, Sucre.

We landed on schedule and went for a leisurely afternoon wander around the pretty and quiet streets. The whitewashed buildings the city is famed for really do make it stand out against the other places I´ve seen so far in Bolivia. I think mainly because it looks clean.

For supper we went to a supermarket and picked up some cheap salad which we mashed together later on.

Friday is a bit of a guess as I haven´t entered it yet into my diary and my memories are sketchy. The highlight as I remember was a visit to the city museum where the Bolivian declaration of independance was originally signed and a decent portrait of the ´Libertador´, Simon Bolivar, hangs today. We also climbed a bell tower and ate some good cuisine at a German restaurant.

Yesterday I was supposed to be going to Santa Cruz, some twenty hours from where I now sit but with Christmas and New Year looming I thought it best to make a change of plan and come here to La Paz for some festive fun. When it´s over, I shall head to Santa Cruz then amble my way back here before heading north to Peru.

Prior to getting the bus here yesterday, I managed to fit in an intense four-hour Spanish lesson with a friendly native called Isaac. Then it was a bit of lunch before hopping aboard the finest Bolivian bus I´ve seen to date.

And here I am in the countries capital perched over three and a half thousand metres above sea level where the air is thin but the pace of life is thick and fast. During the next couple of weeks I intend to relax a little, scale the world´s most dangerous road, have a party and then leave.

Meanwhile my pictures are still proving a bit of an achilles heal. Hopefully they´ll be ready in time for Christmas.

Another world

If ever I needed vindication of why I'm travelling, these last five days have provided it. Travelling through the deserts of Chile and Bolivia opened my eyes to amazing new sights while also consigning any doubts or fears for my trip to dust.

Last Sunday I began this journey by leaving the town of Salta, heading straight towards and then through the Andes. The coach ride alone was a memory in itself. Through Argentina and Brazil I've lived many a long journey but none so which have kept me as captivated as I was en route to San Pedro de Atacama. Pervesely seated beside a charming blind man called Ricardo, the coach snaked up high through the rugged mountains (like the Trough of Bowland after a steroids overdose) and then eventually down through the Atacama Desert via my first encounter with a salt flat that this part of the world is synonymous with. A little drama aided us on our way when crossing the Argetine/Chilean border as a flat tyre was disovered but then reinflated.

We landed in San Pedro some nine hours after our 7AM departure and the bus terminal as marked out on my map was little more than an open area of dust. As is becoming frequently the case, I took more time than neccessary in locating my hostel and this delay was fuelled by a lack of Chilean currency, choosing a hostel out of the centre and failing to summon enough energy at such a high altitude. (2,436 m)

Dazed and confused I rang the hostel and within a few minutes, the owner and his family had arrived to collect me in their pick-up.

After I'd unpacked and settled in at my hostel, I picked up a bike and cycled back into the centre where I joined a couple of Dutch friends; Max and Sasha; and an Aussie and Canadian called Mark and Robin. We found a cheap little restaurant and enjoyed a three course meal, followed by some Chilean beers at a nearby bar.

On the Monday, little was planned but in the end it was a day of great adventure. After making my way over to the hostel where the aforementioned were staying, it was soon agreed that a jeep ride to a nearby salt lagoon was a good way of letting the hours pass by. With the hostel owner at the wheel, me, Max, Sasha, Robin and a Welsh lady called Karam all piled into the back of his truck and set off into the baking desert. After around half an hour we arrived in this surreal oasis where against the baron landscape there were two deep blue lagoons and a handful of flamingoes.

Being no ordinary pools and with such a high salt content, we were able to float on the surface unaided and did so for a good hour, marvelling at the absurd nature in which we spending our Monday lunchtime. While there, I posed while reading a book and was then then washed down thoroughly with clean water as not to look like a man sized salt sculpture upon disembarkation.

We returned to the town invigorated but with slightly scented towels. After a shower and crisps, I, along with Max and Sasha joined the tourist brigade for a late afternoon excursion to the Valley of the Moon. Fairly self-descriptive, the trip took in a number of valleys and rock formations caused by the volcanic activity in the area and was finished off with a panormic view across the mountains at sunset.

Once back in San Pedro and suitably fed, myself and Sasha agreed on finishing our stay with a late night trip to a party in the Death Valley, a short ride out of town. After a couple of beers in a cosy bar, we jumped in a jeep and headed for the strobe lights in the desert. The scene was as expected with people around a fire, a DJ spinning some tunes and a bar to keep you tanked up until the early hours, AND it was all set in a naturally formed discotheque with the lights bouncing off the rock faces surrounding us. Gradually the numbers swelled and by 5AM wed had enough beers, rum and pisco to last us until Bolivia. By 5.30AM I was tucked up in bed awaiting my alarm some one and a half hours later.

Not surprsingly it came and was most unwelcomed. In part this was due to my lack of sleep but more so that the upcoming day was to be the start of the three day trip across the Bolivian salt flats. Our jeep group was composed of me, Robin, the Dutch guys and another couple from Vancouver. We crossed the border with little problems although Sasha was beginning to pay for the previous nights excess and the increasing altitude was providing little sympathy.

Once into Bolivia, we were treated to a few stops at some large and colourful lagoons, one against the backdrop of an impressive volcano, before we rolled up at some thermal pools for a recharge followed by hotdogs and salad for lunch.

In the afternoon, we visited some geysers where I got too close and was ambushed by some volcanic mud. Largely happy that it missed my eyes, it did however leave its sulphiric mark on my sleeve, camera, eye lid and hair.

By mid afternoon we'd arrived at our accomodation for the night which was no more than a scattering of buildings in the middle of the desert. After a brief rest we checked out one more lagoon which was home to many a flamingo.

That night, with no showers and the temperatures plummeting, we wrapped ourselves up in everything and enjoyed a hearty meal of soup and spaghetti, served by our lovely guide, Alfredo.
The next day involved a little more time on the road but a touch less interesting sights to observe. Nevertheless, it was stunning with more lagoons and flamingoes as well as a stop at an area covered in crazy rock formations. With the day drawing to a close we arrived in a little village where we to stay but our jeep route was blocked down a backstreet by another jeep so Freddie took a detour. Sadly when we were facing up a narrow street, his brakes failed him and slowly we rolled backwards with only a wall and our fears standing in the way. After a few seconds, we collided with the wall but there was minimum damage and we all lived to tell the tale. Alfredo was temporarily upset but soon regrouped and made us chicken for tea. That evening I was last in the shower queue and missed out on a hot shower to my utter outrage.

Thursday was to be our last day of the trip and also the longest. With my alarm torturing me at 4AM we were all out and in the jeep within forty five minutes in search of sunrise over the Salar de Uyuni. Though Freddie took his time getting up then also running into another couple of village roadblocks, we did make it in time and had plenty of laughs jumping around taking pictures on the enormous and earie salt flats. Warn out and only 7AM, we were driven to an island in the centre of the lake where we had breakfast on salt chairs and tables, then climbed to the summit for pictures and little air.

With the sun now shining brightly we drove to the middle of the blindingly white expanse and tried our hand at doing the usual photo trickery with mixed results.

From here we visited the Salt Hotel, made completely from salt, and then had more chicken for lunch.

Our trip was concluded with a visit to a train cemetery on the outskirts of Uyuni before we were dropped at a hostel in the town. For tea I had a llama burger which went down well, mainly becuase of the comedy rather than it's taste and our group had a toast to an excellent few days together. Robin waved goodbye and Sasha was sick.

Today the plan was to be in Tupiza, some seven hours of cliff hanging roads away but due to Sashas illness, this has been postponed until tomorrow, when herself and Max will be able to join me. Until then, a trip to a local town has been earmarked so this should tie me over although after such an amazing few days, I'm happy to just reflect for a while.

At this point it may have dawned on you that you are now the blind man on the bus. Despite all these lovely pictures I have painted, you will not be able to see them, at least in this post, as the internet here is achingly slow and I' lost 45 minutes of my life trying to fight this. When I arrive in a town where the internet moves faster than a Bolivian pentioner, I'll be sure to put them up. Until then just use your imagination, ci?

Latin love affair

After forty six days of intimacy with this country, my relationship with Argentina is finally all but at an end. Though we have shared many happy times together, it is now time to move on and allow myself to become embroiled with the volatile offerings of Bolivia.

I eventually bid farewell to Buenos Aires last Wednesday afternoon aboard a none-too-flamboyant ´Brown´ coach. I opted for this company to bring me to Salta, not because I understood the words´ meaning, but because they had the shortest queue at the bus station. I queried the decision at the time but when I actually got to the bus and found my seat, I cursed it. Of all the seats on the coach, mine was the one directly beneath a constantly rattling panel and this melodic nightmare was to follow me through each of the twenty hours that finally landed me here in this city, albeit with a slightly wired mind. Not everything was a dark shade of brown however. Lighter tones were found in the form of free meals and regular snacks.

Looking to save costs, I set about finding my hostel on foot but my efforts were thwarted by my inept map reading skills which led me ten blocks in the wrong direction. I had a brief regroup though with some agua to help soothe the pain and within another half hour, I was at last in sight of Backpackers´ Home.

I´d heard good things about the city of Salta but despite a vigorous walk around the centre, that also included a museum visit, I was left unconvinced. It´s farely pretty as far as Argentine cities go but I wouldn´t like to add much more.

For (free) supper, I shared empanadas with a group of guys of which one was a geologist and who had an interesting plan up his sleeve. It was no less than aiming to scale a nearby volcano. The greatest alarm came at hearing it is still regularly active and its peak is around six thousand metres up in the sky. It´s fair to say, I´m still weighing this up as I speak.

Yesterday, having at last received my deposit from my flat on Darlington Road, I chose to splash the cash and spend a day seeing the nearby rock formations while tasting the local wines.

The 7.30AM start seemed a little brutal but I was in good shape and the mini-bus journey throughout the day was a breeze. In the morning we travelled some two hundred kilometres taking in the incredible Quebrada de Cafayate, a mountainous gorge that runs parrallel with the Andes. This range is noted for it´s bright red rock and unearthly formations which me and fourteen others were duly treated to. Prior to encountering such wonders, we saw the dramatic change in landscape as in a matter of minutes it went from lush, rainy, tree-covered mountains, to a dry, sun-soaked and barron plateau, high up in the clouds.

Our first port of call was the Garganta del Diablo (The Devil´s Throat), a deep canyon which was once a waterfall but is now an earie hole where us travellers revel in photographic bliss.

Along the next stretch of tarmac, we were lucky enough to survey some condors as they circled above the landscape, before meeting some llamas and then catching a glimpse of a rock known as ´The Titanic.´

By early afternoon we were in the scenic town of Cafayate where we visited a couple of wineries, had a steak dinner, tried red wine ice cream and played table football with locals in the town square. After some ´free time´ we stopped off at a castle formation and a natural amphitheatre, where hippies played folk music for us in what was similar to the Albert Hall but much taller and with far less seats.

By 7PM we were back in Salta, where I had a nap on my bunk ahead of free pizza for dinner.

Today I´ve been preparing for my next phase of the trip which involves a brief passing through Chile tomorrow (and maybe THAT volcano) and then across the Atacama Desert and salt falts into Bolivia and the town of Uyuni. This evening myself and a Dane called Christian hope to take a cable-car up above the city to get some nice panoramic views then it´s one final asado steak dinner back at the hostel to draw things to a close. I have a ten hour bus trip to look forward to tomorrow which takes me to San Pedro de Atacama which I hope is more pink than brown.

Back to basics

Two months into my trip, I almost feel like I'm starting over. Almost.

With Kobus having left this continent yesterday, I now encounter a brief period in which I aim to get a firm grip once more of the backpacking baton. Having spent 10 days with a true friend from home, my mental proximity to what I've left behind seemed somewhat closer in this period than what it has the sixty days or so prior to this. In order to get into this travelling scene, it's important that too a degree, you put your home life to the back of your mind. Seven months of travel is enough a challenge without worrying excessively about the realities of your impending return. In saying this, the contrast in my mind which Kobus' visit has triggered is of great use to me as it's come at a great time and allowed me to step back from my travels that otherwise I would not have been able to do.

Coincidentally, our last few days in Buenos Aires started off with an evening trip to see the movie Luna Nueva (New Moon) which I believe has had plenty of hype back home but was utter rubbish. Seeing films like this give me hope that if I don't make it in graphic design when I return, at least I'd have a chance of becoming a film director. After recovering from my disbelieving state, we went back to Bobo Hotel for a few Quilmes' on our balcony.

Friday got under way slowly and again we got sidetracked by cinema. This time it was an equally nonsensical but entertaining flick called The Atomic Train. Despite the pouring rain, we did eventually take stock that we were in Buenos Aires and staying in watching runaway trains was no way of doing the city justice.

Our first stop was El Monumental, home to River Plate where we picked up a couple of tickets for Saturday nights game against Estudiantes. We did ask at the hotel whether they could get the tickets for us but we were told they didn't offer seats in this area as they are the cheapest and most dangerously positioned within the stadium. Like previously, the tickets I got cost a fiver whereas the package they offered cost just over fifty quid. Bourgeois 0 Bohemian 1.

Mixing things up a little we made our way to Recoleta and the famous cemetery where Evita is buried. Labelled 'a city within a city', this mini-metropolis houses whole families in eleborate mausoleums, many with front doors, statues and basements. Although most were in immaculate condition, a fair number had fallen into disrepair and through the cracked windows, the stench of death was palpable.





Happy to have a pulse, we trotted on to have a look round the Buenos Aires Design Centre and ended up at Hard Rock Cafe. Kobus being his giddy self ordererd nachos with pork and ten minutes later we were joined by a plate of the stuff big enough to feed a Mexican family of five. This wasn't so much of a problem in itself but we'd booked ourselves in that evening at one of the cities premium steak restaurants, so I hope you can understand the frustrations I had at this point. Eager not to waste money though, we had a good go at it regardless and handed back the waiter a near-empty plate.



In order to make space for the steak that night, we did walk all the way back to the hotel which took a good hour and once back safely, enjoyed some much needed rest, beers and a bath apiece.





Before we knew it, the time had arrived. Not as hungry as we'd have liked, we walked seven blocks to La Cabrera. Soon we located the star of the show, which was the eight hundred gram Bife de Chorizo (rump steak) and nervously we waited.

Although I've had plenty of steak so far on this trip, nothing could have prepared me for what parked itself on our table. The only thing I can find comparable in my mind was the first witnessing of Iguazu Falls. Epic, enormous and overwhelming. The piece of meat was roughly the size of three of my fists and was accompanied by a huge range of side pots. We went on to somehow finish our steak, marvelling constantly at what we were experiencing and also guzzle down a couple bottles of Argentine red.

Eventually we dragged ourselves back to BoBo for some reflective chats and beer.

Slightly worse for wear, we ambled towards the Japanese Gardens on Saturday morning. These provided me with the exact opposite emotions that I'd encountererd the night before at La Cabrera. Fortunately Parque Tres de Febrero was next door and with it's abundance of trees, greenery and a lovely lake to enjoy, slowly our enthusiasm for life was restored. To make the most of the park, we tracked down boats and set out for a good half an hour of leisurely rowing.





After a lengthy afternoon nap in our room, it was back to Recoleta and the Alvear Palace Hotel where afternoon tea was on the cards. Along with the expected cup of tea, we were also served champagne, pastries, sandwiches, cakes and scones, all in a ridiculously elaborate dining hall while being flanked by a wee lady on a harp.







With this very odd mix digested, we lept into a cab to make the short trip uptown to El Monumental in readiness for the evenings football.



Prior to kick-off I was dealt a huge blow as I got my camera batteries confiscated by security as they could be used as missiles once inside the stadium. I was utterly bewlidered and I tried to outline that I was both a tourist and that the idea of throwing rechargable batteries on my budget was an absolutely ridiculous concept. With no sympathy from the man in riot gear and an orange vest, I threw my batteries away. Fortunately, Kobus was still armed.





Inside the stadium, the numbers swelled and with minutes until kick-off, the marching band of drummers duly arrived. From this moment on, me and Kobus were treated to ninety minutes of musical fury. The game offered less but a last-minute equaliser for River Plate from former Argentine star Ariel Ortega ensured all the fans went home happy.

Hit this link for a sense of the bedlum, courtesy of Kobus' camera...



With Kobus' departure iminent, it was only logical that Sunday involved a trip to the San Telmo market where he could pick up a few gifts for friends and family back home. The rain came and went but on the whole we stayed fairly dry. Also jammed into the schedule was a one-stop trip up the old 'Linea A' so Kobus could get a quick pic.



For tea it was a final farewell at La Cabrera for one more mind-blowing steak. Although it didn´t quite reach the heights of our first visit, it was still delicious and the American couple next to us kept us suitably entertained with their characterstic observations.

Yesterday, we packed our bags and said cheerio to BoBo and the collision of our two worlds. After dropping my bags at Palermo House Hostel, we got a cab to the airport and embraced for one final time. The rest of my day was rather subdued and involved little more than writing the odd email and rounding things up in my diary.

Today I caught the Subte to the main bus terminal where I bought my ticket to Salta, the final destination of my stay in Argentina. Another twenty hour journey awaits, as does some time to myself and preparation for this second part of my trip.

Although Kobus may feel lucky in being able to piggy-back my trip and see South America for the very first time, I feel sincerely grateful and fortunate that my time with him has shown me a different side to travelling and given me a greater perspective of how I can go on to enjoy this trip even more.

See you soon buddy.