TravelStream™ news feed for member claude_and_iain on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/claude_and_iain en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:27:04 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1196938080/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1196938080/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1196938080/tpod.html Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:27:04 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Amedzofe, Ghana

The trotro is the standard mode of public transport in Ghana. Picture your average, everyday 12 seater peoplemover with about, say, 27 people inside. Strip out all the upholstery, shower the chassis with an acid bath, throw large rocks at every window and then tie the sliding door onto the van with frayed rope. There you have it. Trotro transport! Not quite travelling in style - but definitely an unforgettable experience.

Of course, you can also take a car to any place you plan to visit. This mode of transport will charge a significant premium as they can only fit about 9 people inside. No, it is a standard 5 seater car - just older and more broken and rusty The tip here is to avoid the front seat. You start out feeling like a hero, turning around and watching your friends cramped up and sitting on each other's laps. Then the driver begins to pick up one and then two extra people and guess what - they are both getting into the front with you. The next thing you know, you are suspended between seats with a gear stick firmly inserted into your rear. Even this is tolerable until the driver needs to change into fourth! <Yelp> Did I mention the road is one giant pothole?

The trotros all seem to screen their employees: must be excitable, short tempered and in a hurry. The money collector guy is the guy who loads luggage, gets on while the van is moving (at rapid pace), tells people to get on "quickly, quickly" and also is responsible for the handsignals thrust out the window at every passerby and the constant "cry" shouted outside the window. These replace any text sign on the front of the vehicle as I think the high illiteracy rate over here would make them completely redundant.

Many of the shops have picture signs in addition to text. This is OK when you have your local mobile phone shop with pictures of mobiles; your hairdresser with images of nice looking people with fashionable haircuts, etc. This is less enjoyable when you stumble onto the town's lone combined gynaecologist and proctologist health clinic. I found the sign quite, erm, insightful and gruesome.

A few of the volunteers decided to take a trip on the weekend to see some sights of Ghana, particularly around the Volta Region. We decided upon Amedzofe because it was supposed to be beautiful, high in the mountains and most importantly it was said to be cold and mosquito free! What a wild ride. This was a series of trotro trips that I will never forget. The last stretch was a very steep incline in a vehicle that had lost its suspension back years before I was born. The rusty screws poking through the ceiling (from the retro fit, homemade roof racks), the van wall which felt like it would fall off any moment and the ability to see the road through the "virtual" floor made us feel grateful when we finally arrived in one piece. [Not to mention the passing by the numerous toppled trotros and trucks scattered along the highways].

We set off at about 10am and only 9hrs later we had arrived. [This is particularly interesting as the return trip was about 4.5hrs]. It is all quite random as you take a trotro to one location to then connect with another trotro and then another until you reach your final destination. There are no schedules, timetables nor plans. It all operates in Ghana time. You turn up and wait for one to arrive, then you wait for it to fill up with 27 passengers and then you're off. Waiting on the stationary trotro is even hotter than when it is moving as there is no refreshing breeze, just you pressed up against a large, hot, sweaty man with some luggage from the boot precariously resting on your head.

We finally arrived at Amedzofe and for the first time in what felt like years I felt cold. I pulled out a sarong to wrap around my arms and was ecstatic over this new necessity. We were unable to secure our chosen accomodation and ended up staying the night at a Missionary Rest House. We were all a little suprised to meet up with a real, live, excitable, young, American missionary who was also staying that night. I suppose I am showing my ignorance, but I didn't realise that being a Missionary was still something that young people aspired towards. She had just returned from a long day at church and was excited to meet us (I suppose assuming that the 3 of us were also here to convert the villagers). She was mistaken.

It was here in Amedzofe that we found ourselves in a slightly awkward situation. As tourists we needed to register at the local Tourist Welcoming Office but as we had arrived late in the evening this was something we would have to do the next morning. We wandered through the town and eventually made our way to the Office as we were planning to leave.

"So are you planning to take the (exorbitantly overpriced) tour of the Amedzofe Waterfalls and the (overpriced) climbing tour up Mount Gemi?"

"Erm, no"

"Well, then why have you come here?"

"We just wanted to see the village and escape the heat. We live in Sega."

[Rapid chatter between the two guides in Avatime language]. "Ok, if you will not take the tours, you will donate money to our village"

Everywhere we travelled in Ghana, people came quickly to our aid to help us with directions, language, prices, etc. Even to the extent that people would bring out stools for us when we were waiting by the side of the road for a trotro or scream at the driver when they thought we were being overcharged (on my way to the airport "That is not right! That is not right!"). Everywhere we travelled people were friendly and welcoming. However, there were a few "tourist" sites where attempting to fleece tourists seemed to be the local past time.

Anyhow, we decided that we would walk to the next town, Ferme, so that we could catch a trotro to take us to Tafe Aguife, a Kente cloth weaving village we had read about. Tourist Information instructed us to take the short cut by following a path across a field until we met an old man who would tell us where to go next.

They didn't mention that this old man was the keeper of the Garden Of Deliverance. Hmmm. This was a small garden with numerous wooden signs about Jesus nailed onto trees. His garden also had one of the most incredible views of the valley so we stayed for a look.

He told us to follow the path through the jungle and not deviate until we found the lorry road. Great advice except that he didn't mention how many forked junctions we would be faced with and have to guess which way to go. Nor did he mention that this was going to be about a 2.5 hour walk through thick, humid jungle where we would pass absolutely nobody to reassure us that we were going the correct way and we would not end up dying in the jungle never to be found again.

Anyhow, after an incredibly scorching journey we made it to the bottom of the mountain. Just approaching the base we met up with some people carrying baskets of heavy food on their heads and babies on their backs. They were beginning the climb up the mountain. We stopped complaining.

Eventually we reached Tafe Aguife where we saw Kente cloth being woven all over the village. Astoundingly many of the weavers were extremely young. We were told that children start to weave at 7yrs of age. Based on the children we saw working on the looms this was not an exaggeration, leading me to the realisation that anti-child labour sentiment is an affluent luxury. Child labour over here is a way of life. Almost a reason to have kids.

Our "guide" in Tafe Aguife showed us a piece of laminated paper which had a special tourist package offer neatly typed up in a clear, bold font. "Visit the kente weavers, stay the night in a homestay in the village where dinner and breakfast will be served". This sounded good.

Unfortunately, our guide was not too sure what the offer seemed to include and apparently we were the first tourists that had arrived since this sheet had been produced (by whom we were not too sure). There was a great deal of confusion until we worked out that the price was just for accomodation and all meals would be a separate cost. No problem, we were still keen. [In hindsight, they did seem a little confused by our enthusiasm].

One ran ahead to set something up while the other led us extremely slowly through the village. Finally we arrived at a house with a spare room which looked like it had been vacated about 7 seconds ago by a family of 12. There was a dirty mattress on the floor with old sheets covered in blood alongside a bed with a mosquito net covered in sheets that had never been washed. Hmmmm.

We had a last minute change of heart and set off for Tafe Atome, the nearby town (with a famed monkey population) and therefore hopefully a tourist trade and then even more hopefully a bed for the night. It worked. We saw some monkeys in the morning and we were able to sleep somewhere with mosquito nets that night!

After an intensive few days we were ready to head home!

To be continued....

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1204072500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1204072500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1204072500/tpod.html Wed, 05 Mar 2008 14:29:10 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Buenos Aires, Argentina

What a great place to spend our final days.

Buones Aires is Europe, only cheaper. Beautiful old structures, plazas, fountains and wide tree-lined streets jam packed with fashionable city folk. Iain managed to satisfy all his steaky cravings here, while I went shopping (well I figure as long as I can lug my overflowing bag to the airport I will be OK).

Next stop - much anticipated - Sydney.

See you all soon!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679440/tpod.html Wed, 05 Mar 2008 14:22:18 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Santiago, Chile

As you may have noticed we have given up on writing comprehensive blog updates.

The trip from here is just Santiago and then we will spend our last week in Buones Aires before heading home!

For those interested parties, I have posted a handful of photos. However, this was a challenge as the city was not extremely photogenic.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1203679380/tpod.html Sat, 01 Mar 2008 10:37:36 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Antofagasta, Chile

A short stay. A skippable location.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202835120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202835120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202835120/tpod.html Sat, 01 Mar 2008 10:26:31 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Uyuni, Bolivia

To get to Uyuni, it is said the train is the only way to go. This is partially accurate.

We had got a bus down to Oruro, a town notable solely for being totally nondescript. It was another place that reinfoirced for me that mankind is not as far advanced of the animal kingdom as we would like to think: the structures and food that we saw probably came a distant third to the kingdoms established by bees and ants. Its a little disquieting.

It was in this reflective frame of mind that we went to the station. We were unofrtunate enough to come on a day that is one of Bolivia's 312 annual public holidays, and thus the station was closed - as it had been for a number of days the prior week as well. The sign said it would reopen at 8:15a.m., but signs say a lot of things, and in Bolivia, they rarely mean it.

We managed to speak to a couple of lounging police, daring to briefly interrupt them from their focus on playing the Find-a-Word and sleeping. They were desperate to communicate to us that 6a.m. was the key time, and they wrote down for us some key Spanish directions as we were alearly too dense to understand the spoken word.

Thankfully, our hotel hostess spoke perfect English and was able to translate. The crux of the situation was that the aggregation of consecutive fiestas, public holidays, rain and a general reluctance to work meant that the ticket office on the following day would be a shitfight on a royal scale. As a result, wouldbe passengers were invited to go to the station at 6a.m. to get a number in the queue, then return at 8:15 when the ticket office opened in earnest.

In theory, yes.

It should be noted by the reader that there are only four trains a week here. It should not be that hard to smooth demand to a managable level. "Should" not.

Claude and I democratically split the task. I would do the dawn shift, then return to bed and allow Claude to negotiate the riot, although at least at a respectable hour.

The alarm went at 5:10a.m., and all would have gone quite well but for the standard practice of locking you in. Good luck finding the night attendant to let you out... I went everywhere and eventually found he had a little campbed under the stairs. But it was still 5:45a.m. I was still well ahead of the game.

Locals queue from 8p.m. the night prior. So arriving on scene, my first reaction was that either Bon Jovi or the Spice Girls were due to play Uyuni (yayy!!!). But no, this was the queue to get your little Coles deli counter style numbered ticket.

To Be Continued....................

* * *

Uyuni is famous for only one thing: Salar de Uyuni.

The town is small and incredibly missable but this attraction is truly incredible. When first we heard of the Salar de Uyuni, it was from the mouth of another tourist who was flagrantly outraged that we had never even heard of them. "This is the only reason I came to this continent. I just can´t believe that you don´t know about these Salt Flats" she chastised us struggling to contain her outrage (and spittle).

Who would have thought someone so desperately in need of anger management would be so right.

We were heading south from the base of Bolivia to northern Chile and this meant that we would travel directly across this region. We decided to take the tour which would neatly pop us out at San Pedro De Atacama in northern Chile.

After speaking to a few, we decided on one of the 70 tour companies at Uyuni who took the daily tour. Our choice ultimately fell to the giggliest guide who managed to speak to us in basic English to lock in the sale and then avoided the English language for the subsequent three days.

The tour was incredible and the landscapes we passed through were more like life on another planet then anywhere I have been before. We visited these famed salt plains during the rainy season which meant that the surface salt was drowned under a permanent lustrous liquid layer. The horizon, the sky and the salt were one indefinable mass which sparkled and shone for as far as the eye could see.

We passed through rock tree regions, incredible desertscapes, red lakes, green lakes, geysers and bubbling, hot springs. Even through an interesting rocky,desertscape which was called Dali Desert after the shapes and formations of rock which looked just like Dali´s paintings.

Anyhow, I could write about it for hours, but pictures speak a thousand words.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202158860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202158860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1202158860/tpod.html Tue, 12 Feb 2008 13:07:52 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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La Paz, Bolivia

La Paz is topographically unlike any other city we have visited.

We have travelled to cities ringed by hills but La Paz is a large city which creeps up the side of one mountain and down the side of another. It's as if a giant picnic blanket has been shaken and outstretched on this larger than life, up and down landscape. Wherever this blanket has touched the earth a zillion dwellings have been erected. Looking up the walls of this mountain you can see the morass of lower socioeconomic residencies climbing up the escarpment creating a sea of red brick. Jutting out between these homes are earthy cliffs, a few parks and a river. In the distance is an incredible snow capped volcano, Illimani, which peeps out whenever the sky is blue.

Lower down the mountain in the flatter, centre of town are much more affluent buildings. These are ornate, rendered structures intermingled with plazas and decorative floral road adornments. The city is one of the highest in the world at 3,600m and the steep edges mean the temperature in the city varies by how far up the mountainside you live. Combine this altitude's incredible lack of oxygen with the city's steep staircases and precipitous roadways and you can see why I spent most of my time here short of breath. Word to the wise: don't eat empanadas while walking up La Paz' stairways. I spent a few convulsive minutes recuperating while gasping for air amidst the flaky empanada pastry.

La Paz was a significant stop for a number of reasons. This was where Pete would fly out, it was also the entry point for Liz to take her Amazon Adventure and lastly it was where Iain was diagnosed with Salmonella poisoning. This explained why he had been ailing on again, off again. However, after much needed bedrest and medication I am happy to report he is A-OK!

Whilst at first I was very reluctant to stay over a week here, due to my general aversion to large cities, it eventuated in a week well spent. We stayed in a nice hotel which was the renovated former residence of a Bolivian President. This meant it had a few sunny courtyards and lots of comfortable padded chairs with which to lounge around in the sun. There were a number of museums (although many weren't in English we often learned after purchasing the tickets), parks and plazas to occupy your time and lets not forget the millions of places you could lose yourself walking off maps and up and down staircases to get the best views of the basin city and Illimani.

This was less of a tourist destination and more of a place for us to simply hang out sampling the local wines and freshly baked saltenas. There are so many fantastic (and highly economical) restaurants in La Paz that we seemed to spend our days exploring the city, reading in the sunny courtyard, playing Settlers (I know, I know, we are all obsessed) and then deciding which of the many fine restaurants we would eat in after the sun set.

A relaxing, lounge lizard, overindulging, mellowing sanctuary.

* * *

What do you expect from the capital* of the poorest capital in South America? We weren't quite sure, but if its Bolivia you want to see, then surely the capital should be its best foot forward.

Is it ever.

I will confess to having a high degree of antipathy in my first hour in the city. The bus enters through a cavalcade of red brick disasters that need considerable remedial work to be merely rendered eyesores. In concert with this, we entered in the middle of a great religious festival which involves honouring the Lord Thy God by trying to drench people and cover them with shaving cream. I couldn't help but look at this and make the associated calculation that a good percentage of national income was being spent on stuff to hurl, and possibly that percentage would have been better spent at Bunnings.

We got to our hotel unscathed, though in the mood for a little confrontation. Having been unsportingly drenched (carrying a diary and a digital camera, so yeah, we are obviously involved in your dumbass water fight) in Copacabana, when our break from the bus en route to La Paz was punctuated by a rooftop shot hitting Claude at high velocity in the back of the neck we were ready to hit back with full shock and awe tactics.

Claude had marched straight to the ground floor shop from where the offenders had attacked and must have looked ready to execute a comprehensive Mob style demolition. This caused the 10 year old shopkeeper to point to an adjacent iron door hanging from centuries old stonework as the way to the offenders.

Using some of the techniques and all of the sensitivity of US Special Forces Claude kicked the door open and we swept up the stairs together, hearts pumping ready for the impending confrontation. Somewhere in this Claude had a small problem with linking the fact that the roof was most likely at the top of the structure and broke off after one flight of stairs and burst into an empty hallway. Having reached the roof first to find a couple of loping late 20s too cool for school assassins I commenced a frank and forthright summation of their shortcomings, and proceeded to knock over their waterbuckets laden with ammunition.

I was a paragon of cultural sensitivity compared with Claudine. One of the youths was foolishly trying to preserve a filled balloon by hovering his foot over it, and this was no match for her quest to destroy every balloon and every part of that rooftop, leading to her delivering a crushing foot shattering stomp on his foot as a way to enjoyably crush the last of the ammunition. As a piece de resistance, Claude hoofed the family bucket off the roof and landed it a few houses over. The miscreants were clearly stunned and offered not a peep.

It may seem overly harsh to seek redress in this way. But wait until you get hit with a few waterbombs from cowardly rooftop positions. I feel that after enough times they may take my constructive feedback about the need to prioritise achieving drinkable water, functional hot water and flushing toilets and emerge in a better life sans picking on tourists.

But I have digressed.

The view on entering La Paz is amazing, and it truly seems like the world's best setting for a city. Sitting at a lung popping 3600m in a bowl surrounded by snowcapped volcanic peaks its a dramatic setting for a dramatic place. But as mentioned, the clash of nature's power with man's ability to construct endless red brick cubes is a little jarring.

The downtown district disregards any notion of its continental poverty lead ranking. Its beautiful, an order of magnitude ahead of what we saw in (apparently richer) Lima. The Spanish colonial buildings are lovingly maintained, and the style isn't contained to just a few blocks, it wanders on quite a distance.

Style central is Plaza Murillo, where the President's Palace and the Cathedral are located. The President's Palace is apparently riddled with bullet holes, the legacy of a national history that has averaged more than one president per year for the last 150 years.

Disappointingly, I couldn't find any bullet holes, and I dont think they'll be creating any new ones for a while yet. In part this is because everyone seems to think Evo Morales is such a gosh darn nice fella. In second part its because you wouldn't back that the guns held by the guards still fire. Perhaps in fear of being found out about this, you can walk on the pavement past the palace during the day, but after dinner you are escorted into the extended extra six feet width of perimeter for added presidential security. Its mystifying, and I have noted that the daytime guards added sense of confidence can only come from the fact they get bayonets.

Bolivia is the nation named after the liberator of South America, Simon Bolivar. Its also the place where Che Guevera met a sticky end after a fairly comical attempt to start a continent wide revolution yielded only enough support that he could have bought all his conspiratorial guerrilla army a happy meal and still had change from $200. None of this history is to be found in La Paz though: no grand national museums, no minor museums, no nothing for these guys. Aggravating.

What Bolivia does exhibit well is coca. Coca is central to the Andean people's way of life and they now have a former farmer as president who isnt just going to allow coca spraying and eradication because the US will pay him squid loads of dollars for it. The museum, thoughtfully translated into English, makes a lot of good points and a few crazy ones. Firstly, they are still exporting leaves to Coca Cola (good point), though in curiously small volumes given how much of this stuff the world consumes every day. Secondly, cocaine is just one thing you can make from the leaves (good point). Thirdly, the early Bolivians made the best boats in the world allowing them to travel across the Pacific before anyone else and this is only possible because they chewed leaves while European settlers did not. Hmmm. There's that loopiness again. This is a gentle example: I liked the illustration of early Bolivian brain surgery (another world first!) made possible using coca as an anaesthetic. It pictured a sleeping man attended to by a man holding a sharpened stone to his forehead ready to bang his skull open by striking said sharp stone with a round boulder.

Another museum highlight was once again delivered to us by our good friends at the Catholic Church. Arriving as evangelists, they banned and cursed coca as the devil in leafy form. They then learned from generous donor mine owners that the mild stimulant effect derived from chewing it kept the slaves working in the silver mines for longer hours with less food. Coca was then sanctified and held up as evidence of His Providence. God indeed works in mysterious ways.

Aside from coca, the museums were bewildering. We thought we had got the deal of the century with a four museum pass for 4 bolivianos (about 60c). Having seen the four museums, I can assure you they got the better deal. Much promise seemed to be held by the Museum of the Litoral explaining how they had lost their Pacific Coast to Chile in the 19th century: but with no translations and limited exhibits, the only conclusions I was able to reach were that poorly dressed GI Joe dolls played some significant role at the time.

La Paz, it gives me enormous pleasure to report, is a global dining mecca. Its not something I had even begun to expect, so as excellent dessert followed superlative main - day after day - my surprise gave way to expectation. Most restaurants offer a quality three course lunch special for somewhere between 16 and 22 bolivianos (so $2.50 to $3.50). Its just amazing. For the first time in more than a year now I have had an honest to God high quality perfectly cooked steak. Thats not quite accurate: for the first, second, third, fourth and fifth times in a year I have now had a quality steak.

We have stayed a little longer in La Paz partly because its so liveable and partly because one of our party headed up for an Amazon adventure. Mike vetoed his candidacy because of his hourly voiced fear of incurable dengue fever, Claude thought it all a bit expensive and an eco-rort, and I just couldn't see the fuss about a big bunch of trees. There is a lot of controversy about the saving of the Amazon and the use of ecotourism as a way to make the forest profitable but then I get lost as to who is on which side and then I realise that all that land clearing is for cattle, and then, ooh, pass the pepper sauce and another Chilean vino tinto por favor.

As Liz departed to head north to the jungle, her flight was delayed a day as the airport at Rurrenabaque was closed for a horse race´on the grassy landing strip. You don't need to be here that long before this stops seeming odd.

La Paz is a beautiful and happy little city, but where are we to go to learn a little more about its founders and its liberators?

* * *

* La Paz not technically the capital, nitpickers. Sucre is the legal capital, La Paz the economic capital. But La Paz gets marked with a little star in Lonely Planet so its the capital in my book.

* * *
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201872480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201872480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201872480/tpod.html Thu, 07 Feb 2008 09:31:18 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Copacabana, Bolivia

We timed our visit to Copacabana to coincide with the local Virgin del Candelaria festival. No Barry Manilow at all. Disappointing.

We had initially hoped to get in the day earlier, but the bus heading for Lake Titicaca ran late and left us in danger of arriving at a closed and lonely Bolivian border post. A tiny but entertaining **IN RETROSPECT ONLY** part of our delay came as Liz succumbed to the bodily punishment epidemic mid bus trip, necessitating a negotiated comfort stop. The driver had initially been reluctant to stop as I fumbled some Spanish "Amigo senorita mucho infirmer" and handed a small black plastic bag as a solution. It took charades for me to convince the driving team this would not be a solution, and as I returned to my seat Claudine noted that they were still laughing, possibly to the detriment of their driving skills.

I am a little put out that I did receive a round of applause for negotiating this banio stop. For not only did the one under the weather westerner alight, so too did 25 of the locals, who proceeded to conduct a mass vomitathon outside the bus. There had also been a horrific bowel related incident to the passenger directly behind me that I dared not look around to confirm the nature of which. I guess we were all just glad the windows were welded shut to avoid air circulating the various diseases more fully around the bus.

Puno, the Peruvian attempt to extract every possible tourist dollar from Lake Titicaca, we essentially skipped - arriving late and leaving early. While Claudine, with absolutely good and fair reason, has chosen to castigate some of my dietary selections over the course of this trip, the presence of Mike has been an unexpected ally and diversion. As he tucks into a pre dinner Snickers before embarking on a half dinner chicken and chips it is a joy to me to see Claude shocked into silence. Both feats take a stellar effort, and I would invite all readers to share in showing gratitude and hope that Mike gets better one day.

Copacabana, Bolivia, is nicer than I had expected in many ways. The food (though clearly more Mexican than local) has been a positive surprise, and the parade through town was more fun than I had believed was going to be possible. Central to my enjoyment, Bolivia has been the true spiritual home of the old ladies in excellent bowler hats phenomenon that I had thought was a Peruvian tradition. Photos are the only way to do this justice.

On our third day here Claude and I took a long walk out of town, which proved to be a strong decision. Firstly, its immensely scenic, with enough craggy cliffs and crystal waters to make a visit to Croatia entirely unnecessary. Secondly, we saw trees: really the first in a long time, and I had thought there was some problem with them growing at this altitude. Its also nice as a place where every single person you pass says hello.

Bolivia is ridiculously cheap, but signs of economic failure poke there head through here and there by way of partial explanation. Counterfeit money is an immense problem. Mike was passed a Peruvian five sol coin (AUD$2), and we have been unable to simply move it on as one gets rid of NZ money in Australia, as everyone knows to check every piece of currency to check its real. I paid for breakfast this morning with a heartstarting 200 bolivians note (about AUD$28) and the lady checked it endlessly and offered us a soliloquy on the perils of being in a part of the country adjacent to the Forgers of Peru. Why just recently a major bust had been made and 30,000 bols seized. Hardly seems worth the risk for $4000.

I am forced to recall that when Liz first suggested (months ago) that we include Bolivia I had included a single provision in my acceptance that if we ended up kidnapped and hanging by our ankles being tortured by piano wire then I would be entitled to an enormous I-Told-You-So. As it has happened, I only got the instrument incorrect, and torture has come in the form of a brass band. For festival, they play all night. All night, uno hundred percento del noche.

But on balance it seems worth it.

* * *

We timed our visit to Copacabana to align with the 'Fiesta de la Candelaria'. This was supposed to be a huge 2 day festival commemorating the Virgin Mary.

We were not let down. Scores of locals dressed up in glittering outfits marched throughout the town clutching beer bottles whilst spinning left and right to a repetitive drum beat. These outfits sparkled. These outfits gleamed. One thing I have learned about Copacabana is that The Bedazzler sold astronomically over here. The one Bolivian Fiesta song played over and over and over. This was not limited to the daylight hours nor was it limited to the sweet-spot party period pre-2am. This rhythm played repetitively all night long. At about 5.30am we turned on the TV as loudly as possible so that we could drown out the sounds of the nearby drums with the hope of sleeping a little better through TV noises.

I still haven't managed to understand what the various costumes represent. Nor the relevance of the dancing masked men with spurs to the Virgin Mary, or what the decorative bronze trays represent. I'm not sure the function of the troops of men with bells up and down their legs either. You would think they danced, but they never actually did. This naivete is not for lack of asking. We were informed many times that this was a Bolivian religious festival. This is just what apparently what happens in Bolivian religious festivals.

At no time at all while we have been here has any hospedaje, cafe or restaurant played any Barry Manilow nor made any reference to the classic song that has put this town on the map. This too has been extremely disappointing as it was one of the reasons I wanted to come here. :)

Copacabana translates from an Aymara word meaning 'view of the lake'. This lake is Lake Titicaca. An enormous, brilliant blue lake surrounded by hazy islands. Copacabana itself is nestled on a peninsular which is surrounded entirely by the lake. This means there are always fantastic water views. Astoundingly, the town´s main coastal stretch is so cluttered up with thousands of peddle-powered giant plastic swans that the best views can only be seen from nearby villages or on a boat in the middle of the lake.

Liz, Mike, Pete and I travelled as a group to Isla del Sol, the island supposedly home to the birth of the Incan Sun God. This island contains a number of Incan ruins, however we chose to simply climb to the top and admire the views.

After our three travel companions left for La Paz, Iain and I set out on an 18km trek from Copacabana to Yampupata traversing the entire coastline to reach the closest point to the Isla del Sol. Despite the low hanging ominous grey clouds, this was some of the most beautiful scenery I have seen in South America. We passed a few small villages, friendly men on bicycles, plantations of what looked like coloured flowers, farm animals and little children playing in the dirt. The early morning rain meant we started the walk later than planned. We were informed that the 'movilidada' (transport) returning to Copacabana would dry up after lunch. So at about 2pm when we saw the fourth vehicle on the road making its way to Copacabana we hailed it and headed back. We had probably walked about 10km at that stage.

Sitting in an internet cafe soaked to the bone by local kids who choose to celebrate 'Fiesta de la Candelaria' by super-soaking defenseless tourists, I am looking forward to catching the bus out of here. However, Mike has just emailed that La Paz locals seem to celebrate this festival with shaving cream instead. Hmmm, I think I am fiesta-ed out.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201473360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201473360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1201473360/tpod.html Mon, 04 Feb 2008 12:04:14 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Arequipa, Peru

Arequipa, without question, is an immense Peruvian highlight.

We were here principally because it is the jumping off point for the Colca Canyon: the world's largest canyon, a canyon of such grandeur that The Grand Canyon quivers in its presence, and proud overlays showing the relative grandeur/ dwarveness of the two are proudly offered.

Courtesy of this long voyage of self discovery, I have come to learn that I actually care very little about all the parts of nature I don't get to eat. But Colca would be epic, like an Empire State Building of, um, holes, so I led the charge to visit.

The city of Arequipa is beautiful with its grand square, classic buildings and lots of restaurants in the upper level of the surrounding arcades to allow for very elegant afternoons. We also managed to secure a hotel with more timeless beauty, inspiring views and quality service than should reasonably be expected for 12 bucks a night.

Getting here was also more fun than an 8 hour bus should be, even if we were promised a 6 hour trip. What's not to like when the lady selling roast pork sandwiches doesn't make them at home but just brings a 2ft side of pork on the bus and a very serious meat cleaver and just hacks away in the aisles of the rocking bus? Peruvians seem fairly easygoing, as at one point I turned round to see one fenale passenger cheerily asking for her to lift the plastic pork liner just slightly and making no direct remarks about the litany of pork fat flecks across her face and hair.

Also on the bus was a super slick representative of the Coca Cola Company, trying to evangelise the miraculous properties of his wonder drink and get the locals off Inca Cola, remarkable both for its awfulness and its 90% market share. He was polished and preened, and his voice projection was far too good given that we were in an ear splittingly adjacent row to his standing presence. His pitch was basically sound: Coke's great for the whole family (yep), contains absolutely no milk (?), filled with antioxidants (hmmm), and no sugar (just making it up now). While his audience slept soundly through what was an excellent demonstration, there were lots of nodding heads when he moved onto Continental rice sauce, and positive raptures when he demonstrated some kind of menthol healing balm which fought the good fight with the remainder of the chicharron (roast pork) aroma.

Noticable from the bus is that Peru appears to have no trees, and a super abundance of 25cm rocks. Its desolate, and empty in a way that only hundreds of treeless kilometres can be. Adding to this is the apparent Peruvian disdain for all forms of architecture and finishing anything. On the former point, I call as evidence several hundred thousand bare red brick and breeze block cubes that are truly breathtaking in both their nationwide ubiquity and ugliness. I feel confident in issuing an open challenge to nominate a single Peruvian building of the last century that does not belong to the 1970's Public Toilet School of architecture.

As to the unfinished buildings, our Colca tour guide let us in on a bit of trivia: the Peruvian government charges significantly lower property taxes on buildings while they are being erected. Go on, guess how many buildings look finshed as a result of this piece of government genius. Every single building has a cultivated still in construction look as a result: reinforcements exposed for a hypothetical second story, random bits of red brick wall left around, you name it.

Venturing onto the tourist trail in town, our first stop was the eminently well finished Santa Caterina Convent. While I had some doubts as to how energising a convent visit could be, this is a blinder for numerous reasons. It started life as a very well endowed convent for the well healed among the called of Spain's elite families. The local Spanish installed bishop variously took a dim view of proceedings there, and over time various rules were introduced to limit the nuns to one servant each in their pursuit of their vow of poverty, and later on to discourage the practice of using the convent as a brothel given that whole vow of chastity thing they'd signed up to.

Its a grand and sprawling complex, replete with outdoor works in oils that surround every little courtyard. Having been built around 500 years ago its confronting that this would still be some fairly opulent digs today.

Later that day we went to visit the University Museum to view The Ice Maiden Juanita. Juanita is the signature discovery among 20 or so uncovered Inca child sacrifices, and courtesy of being sacrificed atop the local dominant icy peaked volcano, she is ridiculously well preserved (as are most of the others). Claude positively cooed over her lustrous shiny hair, not washed or Pantened in 500 years. While Juanita herself was in a big freezer, she was at least replaced by an equally astounding frozen kiddie still with skin and organs intact.

The Incas reverence for the volcanoes was pretty logical: even viewing Mt Misti today there is a keen sense that it is very much in charge, and the town and its occupants are there very much as short term guests. The Incas believed that an erupting volcano was a sign of angry gods, and that a hot 16y.o. girl was required to keep the gods happy (solid logic again). We wondered how the sacrifice was performed and learned from the guide that they were simply given a good lash of booze (at altitude as well remember), then given a good solid whack in the back of the head. No unnecessary stuff that could let your sacrifice escape or question how happy the gods would be to get a whole priest or two as a sacrifice instead. Logical to the end.

The Inca gods were believed to have also valued the local llamas and alpacas. Quite understandably, it proved challenging to get your sacrificial beasts to climb up the 5800m mountain, so Inca chiefs adjudged it acceptable to sacrifice the beasts back at home, and carry just a little one inch replica up for burial with the child sacrifice. God may be omniscient, but everyone needs their memory jogged a little as to the llama bodycount offered in thy name now and again.

The following day we headed out for our two day Colca canyon experience. The guide, Irene, was worth the price of the tour alone. She filled in all sorts of gaps our (far more expensive) Inca Trail guide could not, and she dabbled a little into contemporary politics and policies giving us a good insight as to some elements of everyday life.

Heading through the passes of the Central Andes was my first real experience of altitude (4900m) clubbing me over the head. Well rested, but I just could not stay awake. I slept on the bus. I fell asleep at 5pm on reaching the hotel, got woken for dinner, then fell asleep again and slept 12 more hours. Really quite pleasurable as a symptom.

For the small amount I was awake, we were pointed out mountains that we were told are the origin of the Amazon, although it must be said that most maps I look at seem to vigorously dispute this. What we can agree on is that the Central Andres were all very pretty. Moreover, the Andes are also packed full with (largely legally inedible) animals. We saw pink flamingos, we saw ducks with baby blue bills, we saw (just!) highly camouflaged rock rabbits, and of course we saw enough four footed woolly beasts to form Llamarama.

Later in the day we saw a pre-Inca burial site and learned about the locals preference for deforming the children's skulls into a completely coneheaded shape. When the Incas took over they let it go on, and it was only the Spanish Missionaries who put a stop to it, a rare instance of the church interfering with children for the better. Aside from this mandate, the spread of Spanish Catholicism appears to have been marked by some excellent compromises. The early churches are all very Christian in their use of standard symbols, but they discreetly face the local volcanic deity out of longheld respect. Local Pachamama (Mother Earth) symbols also get a start in the relief sculptures, unless it really is true that the virgin Mary had a pet puma.

I am enjoying the local religious interpretation quite a lot. The Spanish seem to have been very flexible: when the locals asked if they could still dress up in spangly outfits and dance in the streets to celebrate various feast days, it was thought that Jesus would approve. Visitors looking back from centuries hence may may easily confuse the founding deities of South American religious observation to be discoverable solely among Christina Aguilera's backup dancers. Nice entymological link to Christinaanity too.

Back on the tour, we eventually made it to Colca Canyon. There appears to have been a very fluid definition of the term "canyon" applied. I thought I had paid my $20 for a 3km deep hole. 'Canyon' in Peru seems to refer to "change in elevation between two fundamentally unrelated points": we ended up at a quite nice 1000m deep hole, only to learn that the depth measurement was from that bottom to the the top of a peak set quite far back from either edge. Shonky.

Also at the canyon was the lookout for condors. Refer to my earlier opinions about nature. They were nice enough, but there was no KFC* around to let me fully enjoy their large succulent bodies. (* Kentucky Fried Condor...mmm..)

Arequipa, depsite the occasional canyon related disappointment, has been a fine stop: enough crazy human behaviour left over to provide a nice balance with the crazy bits of nature on the itinerary.

* * *

We left Liz and Mike to rest and recuperate in Cuzco and headed to Arequipa as a pintsized threesome. The sickness had managed to circle the group and land abruptly on Liz' shoulders whilst walloping Mike for the second time. Pete, Iain and I decided to make the most of our good health and explore the 'White City' of Arequipa.

It was nice to arrive somewhere new where the sun was shining after a few grey, recovery days in Cuzco post Inca Trail. We disembarked in Arequipa a little hotter and hungrier than prior to boarding our enlightening local bus. Unlike the tourist buses this didn't stop for food nor bathroom breaks so when the bus pulled over to pick up new passengers I took my chance. Afterwards, I raced back to the bus to find that it had pulled out and had begun to drive away and had only stopped after Pete and Iain's screeching (well anyway Pete's - as Iain was busy eating at the time). After boarding there was much local merriment that the gringo had almost been left behind.

Arequipa was an interesting stop for a variety of enticements. Not limited to the fact that the polished city slumbers in the shadows of a number of enormous, snow-capped volcanoes. Amongst others, the majestic 5800m high El Misti towers over the city whenever the sky is clear and blue. Standing awestruck looking at this beautiful volcano you could almost understand why the Incans felt a powerful reverence to these volcanoes and treated them like invincible gods to be worshipped via all kinds of sacrifice. We learned all there is to know about Incan child sacrifices when we visited the local museum which houses a number of frozen, sacrificial children discovered well-preserved atop the volcanoes under a thick bed of icy rock. It is an astounding thought that these troops of Incans climbed the same mountains that today's climbers ascend with the help of ice axes, crampons and high-tech goretex wet weather gear, wearing only leather sandals and a few layered alpacca ponchos.

We visited the 500 year old Convento de Santa Catalina which allowed visitors to stroll through this 'city within a city'. We roamed through the nun's quarters and could see how they had lived (and were currently living as nuns still lived in the restricted access areas of the convent). It was nice to see the simple, yet stylish, stone living quarters each with what looked like a mandatory stone, wood fired pizza oven. The narrow, winding paths were eclipsed by flower pots, brightly coloured walls and outdoor, religious oil paintings. It made for a very nice morning's exploring.

By far the highlight was venturing out of town to see the Colca Canyon on a two day tour. The Canyon region was dotted with alluring scenery but the journey to the canyon was made all the better by our knowledgable guide, Irene. She pointed out pink flamingoes (coloured by their local food supply: shallow dwelling pink shrimp); vicunas (a wild relative of alpacas and llamas living at altitude); explained how the Incan tiered agricultural landscape helped cold-hating corn grow with reckless abandon despite being at altitude (walls of stacked rocks were used to release the day's heat to prevent the frost from affecting the plants); explained why the locals wear different shaped bowler hats (because they used to deform their children's skulls to reflect the shape of their local deified volcano until the Spanish arrived and suggested they just wear funny shaped hats instead). This was a worthwhile tour if only just for all the information she managed to relay to us in 48 hours.

This was a great wrap-up of our Peruvian adventure. Next stop: the Bolivian side of Lake Titicaca.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200936000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200936000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200936000/tpod.html Sun, 03 Feb 2008 16:13:41 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Aguas Calientes, Peru

As an aside....

For those of you who felt that my 5 travelpod entries and 200 photos weren't enough to quench your thirst for all things Ghana, then take a look at this cool video:

http://web.mac.com/sashadunlop/Ghana

One of the volunteers, Sasha, created this 26 minute video from various pieces of footage she took while we were in Sega. If you have some spare time, a fast computer and a solid internet connection (none of which I have managed to locate in Eastern Europe or South America) you can take a look. From the bits of pieces I have actually managed to see of this video it has definitely worked to make me Ghana homesick.

* * *

It was always going to be an impossible task convincing Iain to participate in a four day trek which involved:

1. camping
2. trekking
3. nature in all its glory.

So I really have to be grateful for the effects of 4 person peer group pressure which managed to coerce him into thinking that a couple of strenuous days of hiking through forest from the small village of Ollantaytambo to the Lost City of the Incas would be enjoyable. Well, peer pressure helped but I think the fact that we had 21 porters to carry our bags and set up the tents and a dedicated chef to prepare all our meals really swung the decision for him. I sold it as "camping, but without all the hassle" and somehow it worked. He agreed. We were locked and loaded.

You can probably understand my concern that he was a little unwell before we set out. My concern was partly due to the fact that if he couldn't complete the trek he may have required a medical evacuation, but the majority of my concern was that this sickness would mean he would be complaining even more than normal about camping and trekking. Now that's a lot of complaining.

No doubt he will regale you with his own view of the trek (mostly from the toilet) and mention that he was considering a medical evacuation just to avoid having to sleep another night on the thin camp mats in the tents, but from my point of view it was a worthwhile and unique experience.

We all knew that we were taking on this arduous trek in the rainy season and more importantly in January, the rainiest of months in the rainy season. It was forecasted to rain 18 days of 31 during the month of January and Pachamama (Mother Nature) didn't let us down. It rained on and off for the entire 4 days of the trek but only the third day was an arctic, windy, Take Me Indoors Put Me On A Couch And Serve Me Hot Chocolate With Floating Marshmallows type of rain. Unfortunately this was also the day with (apparently) the most breathtaking views. We didn't actually see them because along with the rain came fog. Lots of thick, white, impenetrable fog. We could see the path as it coiled up the hills but that was all we could see. Looking over the mountain edge was just a sea of brilliant white.

The remaining days were much more enjoyable. Even day two - the day of the killer ascent - was cool and drizzly ensuring the climb was relaxed and achievable. Despite being a party of 16 on the hike the trail allows you to roam at your own pace (whatever speed that is) and then catch up to resting group members every time the guide has something to explain to the pack. Furthermore, when climbing at altitude it is encouraged that you don't push yourself, rather ease yourself into the hike. For these reasons, along with the chef's sumptuous meals and snacks, the trail was not overly challenging which meant you were able to admire the unique orchids, scattered ruins and beautiful scenery along the way.

We chose a tour company that was particularly benevolent to porter staff, but it was still heart-breaking to see these 21 men (some aged 55 years old) stacking up propane gas bottles, chairs and silver service sugar bowls to bundle into 25kg packs which they then attached to their backs to cart up the mountainside. These men were extremely fit as they hiked the Inca Trail close to four times per month, but also because they had to run the trail to beat us to campsite to erect tents, prepare meals and shamefully applaud us when we finally made it to base camp.
Machu Picchu was a beautiful site, helped by the fact that soon after arrival the sun came out from behind the clouds for the very first time in four days. However, the warm sun, the early start and the fatigue setting in from trekking for four consecutive days meant that I was tired. My elation upon reaching Machu Picchu had much more to do with the fact that we had survived the Trail and reached our goal rather than the magnificence of the ruins. In fact, in retrospect, I preferred the impressive Incan ruins we visited on day three of the Trail at Winay Wayna as well as our day trip to the understated yet picturesque Pisaq ruins more than Mach Picchu.

¿Would I do it again? Probably not, because I have already done it. ¿Did I enjoy doing it? Yes!

* * *

(Warning: the following contains some scatalogical references. You may wish to skip this entirely and just enjoy your day. Please.)

The alarm goes at a dark hour for your 5:20a.m. pickup. With one more day of recovery, I would be looking forward to this, as much as one looks forward to three days of camp food and sleeping on the ground. But there are no days of recovery, for Peru Treks brooks no delays once your US dollars are safely squirrelled away.

So it was that I became a cog in their admittedly super slick operation. They had 16 of us picked up from a motley array of hospedajes in around 10 minutes, then got on the road out of town, all the time picking up porters and cooks who would form our 21 man entourage for the trip. I know it doesn't sound like roughing it, but in my book, it still is.

Departing our nice little bus at Km82 was the cue for the rain, our new constant companion. In truth, most of the time a little rain is a far better companion than heat as you go through so much less water - water that you have to carry.

Crossing through the first checkpoint with the group it rapidly becomes clear that I am not the only one under the weather. Indeed, our first morning passed very slowly with one member of the group spending more time in the bushes than on the trail. It wasn't just the sickness that earned him my pity, it was the knowledge that with his wife departing with him they had just spent an unrefundable $1000 to shit in the woods for two hours.

In our time waiting for Charlie to decide to turn back, the rain took the opportunity to really belt down. Claude's $6 heavy duty rain poncho investment decision took on all the hallmarks of a moment of genius, as did my reluctant decision to also buy one purely to avoid any potential warmth and dryness oneupmanship. Unfortunately, Liz was not part of this poncho arms race, and her thinner $2 rain poncho hit its 2 hour lifetime warranty and moved immediately into the process of biodegradability.

After some very easy walking (actually ponderously paced, even in my laggardly state), we reached lunch. Silverware. Entrees. Little quartered avocados with a delicate tomato and lemon juice salsa. Trout with warm spring vegetables. We checked our notes, and it clearly said "cook", not "mobile restaurant". The man could put Jamie Oliver in the shade, and all after having to carry the same allocation of 25kg as every other porter and run ahead of the fat westerners to assemble the kitchen and dining area before we arrive.

Dinner would prove to be even better: is there any better way to end a day's camping than with lightly sauteed bananas in brandy served a flambe?

I had made it through day 1, and was feeling fairly well and thinking that my recovery process had not been hampered by a day's rainy exertions. This was to prove incorrect.

On the little guide the trekking companies provide, day one is marked as "easy", while day two earns the label "challenging". Central to this is the requirement to cover 1100m vertically, moving from a very cosy 3100m campsite through a 4200m pass.

I awoke with the first light. Awoke is somewhat misleading, as it infers a level of lost consciousness which cannot be achieved in a tent. But my body had held together, and I was ready to embrace the day. Positive thoughts left me rapdily about 20 minutes into the day when I all but seized our guide, "Puma", and urgently requsted the banio. The Lord smiled fairly upon me, for we were close to a ranger station, and that ranger was clearly expecting Queen Elizabeth at some point midmorning, such was the quality of the facilities. Rarely on entering public facilities does one feel obliged to remove shoes in order to maintain the elegance of one's surroundings, but that was the quality of this installation. It had everything bar Vivaldi´s Four Seasons playing in the background, but my body chimed in to provide the music, much to the ranger's audible, wincing disgust as he lingered immediately outside the door. He had clearly not been appraised of the magnitude of horror about to befall his little corner of respite.

Problems multiplied here. I was now 15 minutes behind the group, and not feeling a whole lot like walking. What I was feeling was a whole lot like curling up and going to sleep in the rain. The effect of this is that on catching the group at the first designated rest break on the ascent, my rest was curtailed to about 90 seconds before pushing on. Punishing.

We reached our second break point at 3800m, and my ego was taking a bruising. I am not used to being in the fat old people's group in areas of physical fitness, and whats's worse, it was taking everything I had just to keep up with them. At the break I was careful to ostentatiously request a second cup of tea and in so doing subtly extend the break and our time out of a wind that was now ripping across the mountains.

Surprisingly, the ascent has very few steps and is actually pretty easy. We had climbed a mountain in China on this trip that was a pure lactic acid nightmare of thousands of knee destroying stairs, and I had visions of this being equally painful. In truth, my legs and lungs never cared. Other parts of my body were caring enough for everybody.

As a constant companion, the chef needs all provisible plaudits. Flavoursome vegetable soups and light fresh salads were psychologically imperative to help me ignore the excellent other foods that were available that I just knew I had to stay away from.

After another night with all the restful properties of sleeping in a shopping trolley at Westfields, I merely lay awake waiting for the light. War had been declared, and I did not feel like allowing the battle to commence with absence of light an added factor. As soon as th peering sun permitted (about 5a.m.) I moved with undue haste to the western toilet thoughtfully installed at the campsite a few years ago, and never cleaned since.

Fiddling with the banio door, I failed to note that the prior occupant of the facilities appeared to have been a bovine who'd had a dodgy curry. It was despicable, but my die was cast and I had no further metres I was able to traverse. And so began day 3, labelled with startling insight "Breathtaking and Spectacular".

The views on this day of the trek, I am told, are quite good. But alas fog was our friend today, and the views - the payoff - was minimal. But quiet time with one's thoughts in the eerily, beautifully silent mountains is equally enjoyable, allowing one to reflect on exactly why one just didn't catch the damn train in the first place, thereby avoiding 45km of walking, in the rain, without views, with, um, "body issues".

My time for reflection ended promptly after our combined morning tea/ lunch break. The sick hiker has no activity he wishes to do less than surrender and acknowledge a bacterial victory somewhere adjacent to the trail. But there was nought for it, and I conferred with Mike (Claudine being NOWHERE in sight, which has been noted for future reference), and advised him of the full horror of the situation at hand.

Perhaps not ackowledging the import of the full horror described, Mike rocked back and forth in decidedly unsympathetic laughter as I passed him, with due speed and alacrity, my hiking stick, daypack, rain poncho, and dignity.

If there is one thing worse than proceeding into the woods for an emergency of this nature, its being the fourth person to proceed into that same patch of woods for the same emergency. Once again, the onward march of downstairs urgency meant there was no time for new site selection.

Initially, the gentle summer rain brushing the buttocks of he indoorsy office worker is refreshing and invigorating. Less invigorating is the quick changeover to driving rain and the realisation that total relief of the crunching stomach cramps will require the same 15 minutes as the prior day. No Vivaldi either. One compensation is that one grunt of pain I emitted led a passing French lady to spin around with her Nikon thinking she had captured some kind of Andean Bear.

Indeed, when I joined the group at the next break, I noted some other long faces, faces whose length could only have one cause. "May I ask if you also recently joined The Bear Club?" I delicately asked of Kyla. Indeed she had. One who has joined the club can instinctively unravel the riddle and return your knowing look.

The Bear Club derives its name from the answer to the rhetorical question given in response to an earlier question with an obviously positive answer. As an example, Claudine may ask "Iain, do you feel like a Sausage and Egg McMuffin?" which has the matching response "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

Today was the day that the rain became really and truly unpleasant for all concerned. However, it did at least end well, with a visit to Huinay Huayna (translates as 'Forever Young'). This is the classically styled terraced agriculture implausibly built into a 60 degree steep hill. Claude can tell you more about it as I was drawn away from the guide's explanation for bodily failure numero cinqo. You will note in the photos that I stopped bothering to deponcho. If I had to leave, in each instance it would be without ado.

A horrible 3:45a.m. start for the group kicked off the fourth and final day. I actually enjoyed the earlier commencement, as it simply meant two fewer hours of lying on the hard ground wondering why on earth people went camping for fun when smashing your teeth with a hammer was a cheaper and more entertaining alternative.

Arriving at the Sun Gate was quite cool. I am not throwing around phrases like "made it all worthwhile" as the old ducks passing us walking back the kilometre from Machu Picchu to the Gate reinforced that this key trek highlight was equally enjoyable from the train.

Machu Picchu itself is a grand spectacle. Critically, it has that ridiculously, crazy bigness that leaves you wondering how on earth anyone decided to build it. Surprisingly, very little is known about what purpose it served: was it the centre of the Inca Empire? was it just Pachamac's beach house and summer palace that was rarely used? I had expected to get some answers to this, but apparently this secret has not been able to be revealed.

Some of the stories we were given were somewhat illogical. The Inca managed to outsmart the Spanish by leading them away from Machu Picchu and they never found it. At the same time, we were told, the Inca chose to abandon this seemingly impervious citadel in the face of a few advancing Spanish. Huh? Other elements revealed considerable genius and deft agricultural touch: stones that emit a perpendicular shadow only at the Summer Solstice being the best example.

In some ways, my central memory of seeing Machu Picchu was a sense of relief that the ordeal was over, which is a bit of a shame. Adding insult to injury, we caught the train back to civilisation the following day: glass roofed, waiter service, seats plush as a thousand dollar teddybear. Woe betide he who passes up the train.


]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200595140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200595140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/claude_and_iain/off_we_go_2007/1200595140/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jan 2008 19:19:29 -0500 Claudine & Iain's Excellent Adventure!!

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Cusco, Peru

Cuzco looks and feels much more like a Peruvian town should. Our brutally early flight from Lima meant that when we eventually arrived in Cuszco we weren't sure whether our general malaise was due to waking at 3am, the infamous altitude sickness we had heard so much about or just the horrendous set of stairs we had to climb to reach our new home.

Cuzco is located about 3,300 metres above sea level. This may not sound very high but it is enough to wreak havoc on your body, particularly if you fly into the city rather take the much recommended prolonged bus journey which acclimatises you en route. Symptoms vary from a seemingly universal constant headache to dehydration, fatigue, disturbed sleep and feelings of nausea. The sole remedy is coca leaf tea. Coca is grown in the lowland jungles of Peru and is an apparent cure-all for every type of ailment. Peruvians swear by the tea to aid altitude sickness. I'm not sure whether it did anything particularly therapeutic, but adding the dried leaves to a cup of boiling water was captivating, diverting all attention away from your incessant headache and shortness of breath.

Driving through the town on day one it was instantly apparent that Cuzco was an appealing little place to spend some time acclimatising before our much anticipated Inca Trail. We passed Plaza De Armas (every city has at least one of these) and it was spectacular. Neat, tidy, awash with flowers and trees and bordered by churches and other majestic structures. We would be happy to call this place home for a little while.

It's lucky we were all so fond of the place as a horrible affliction struck almost every member of our party of five. On day one Mike was floored and spent a few consecutive days in bed. Next Iain was struck - unfortunately on the same day he had quietly boasted to me of his apparent lack of any remaining altitide symptoms. And so it continued.

The one positive was that we always seemed to have 4 people available to play Settlers the board game we had planned to play during our 3 day acclimatisation period. Our reunion with this game (after one year's isolation) was much anticipated and the perfect time waster when we were supposed to be conserving energy and accommodating our new environment.

Our four day stint was wracked with turmoil as each person fell sick and we communally wondered whether they would be fit enough to set out on the trekking adventure. Iain's 48 straight hours in bed the days preceding our journey looked like the answer would be "no" but somehow he pulled through and was ready the night before. It may have had something to do with the fact that the trekking agency had a policy of "100% no refunds".

Our only day venturing out of Cuzco after 3 days of cabin fever was a day trip to the beginning of the Sacred Valley. We visited the colourful Pisac Sunday markets and aquainted ourselves with the colourful outfits that the locals wore to attract photographs from tourists. The encouraging suggestions of "¿photo amigo?" from groups of little girls with flowers in their hair and baby alpaccas clutched tightly in colourful sacks were soon followed up with "one sol each!". Four of us ventured out to explore the Pisac Inca ruins up in the nearby mountains. These date back to the same age as the more well-known Machu Picchu ruins and were an impressive site set amongst rolling hills, rocky edifices and unique Incan agricultural tiered landscape.

A great warm-up for the main event!


* * *

Cusco is, at 3200m, officially "at altitude", and is a required three day acclimatisation stop for those wishing to take the Inca Trail, a journey on which you will go through 4200m.

Altitude, shmaltitude was my body's reaction. I noticed very little breathlessness, sleeplessness, headaches or any other symptoms. This Inca Trail was going to be a breeze as my super fit athlete's physique was absolutely in sync with the challenge at hand.

Having to stay three days in Cusco is no hardship. The old quarter has been lovingly preserved and is full of nice places to wander. Tourist trap it may well seem likely to be, but competition is fierce among the restauranteurs, such that the only loser on the ten sol three course menu is the alpaca that is delicately grilled to act as its centrepiece.

The Spanish architecture wrapping the main square with arches is wonderfully elegant, and forms a perfect stage for traditionally dressed women of all ages to wander around with alpacas and llamas of various ages. Its easy to tell those who are trying hard for the tourist dollar without sufficient investment: they offer you a photo attempting to pass off what is clearly a puppy as the signature baby llama cutesy shot.

Three days prior to departure we settled all our bills for the trek, had our briefing and headed out for yet more decadent dining - all under the guise of building adequate fat reserves for our 32, 39 or 45 km journey. Depends who you ask.

The prospect of our best meal yet and the knowledge of parting with US$500 just minutes earlier sent my body into convolutions. I managed to proceed rapidly from a status of happily-menu-in-hand-ready-to-gorge, through I-think-I-need-some-air in just seconds, before a flat sprint into the toilets. In my haste I failed to notice it was the ladies' toilets, much to the amusement of my fellow diners.

Their amusement was to be shortlived however, as thin walls and inadequate background music ensured they caught all three acts of both ends of my body in a comprehensive expulsion and meltdown. I emerged a broken, shattered, shaking, chilly shadow, ready for a cab to the hotel.

Of our fellow travellers, Liz, Mike, Pete (and of course Claude) - only Mike had been heavily ill, an illness that seemed the result of a poor pizza decision in Lima. It would seem this was not the case. My wellknown Florence Nightingale streak which extended to making the desperately ill Mike one (1) cup of tea I place as the core of how I got sick. I must stop being so damn nice.

Our cheery trekking company got a whole lot less cheery at the prospect of any refund - although technically the penatly for a cancellation 48hrs prior was only partial. I got the message: get better or get poorer.

The first night of my fever was quite entertaining in retrospect. I was freezing, and Claude did well to locate 8-10 blankets to keep me warm. Sometime in the middle of that night, my body fought back and I found myself superheatedly hot and not cogent enough to figure the one foot thickness of blanket may be a factor. Somewhere in that haze I thought I had discovered the secret to intrabody nuclear fusion. No kidding, I even took furtive notes.

Upon regaining sensibility about 30 hours later, I didn't tell anyone about my revelation. Not because it was nuts, but because I wanted to guard my secret. Let me tell you, the notes you take in that state are pretty special. I looked at them on my final night before our trail departure. They do not even constitute handwriting... just lots of squiggly lines. I don't think I was very well.

Be that as it was, I still had to get well or face another tedious travel insurance claim. On my side was the positive that I wasn't altogether that unhappy at getting out of four days trekking that I had only agreed to in a seemingly similar bout of madness.

On our final day before departure Little Mrs Til-Death-Do-Us-Part took an all day trip around the surrounding areas of Cusco, leaving me to fend for myself. Fend I did, making the signature medical decision to try to have four meals that day in an effort to rebuild some strength. By this time of the illness (and eating nothing in 36 hours) I was sufficiently weak that climbing stairs was murderous. Perfect preparation for a four day trek. At some point the local pumpkin soup - seasoned with three metric cups of salt, as are most Peruvian dishes, kicked me back alive. As ever, the good folks at Lipton deserve appropriate kudos for the medicinal properties of their elixir.

This is as ready as I get. Now onward, upward, and hopefully not outward.
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