TravelStream™ news feed for member cookage on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/cookage en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 24 Apr 2009 10:53:44 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/cookage/1/1236086280/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/cookage/1/1236086280/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/cookage/1/1236086280/tpod.html Fri, 24 Apr 2009 10:53:44 -0400 Another way of spending six months

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Bariloche, Argentina

Our dream of driving the pickup truck on Chile's Carreterra Austral has been dashed by the eruption of the Chaiten volcano. We had intended drive further south and cross back into Chile so that we could follow Pinochet's pet project along the coast, in and out of fjords, with ferry crossings and volcanic vistas, all the way back to Puerto Montt. But with the volcanic ash blowing all the way to Argentina and the evacuation of non-essential services from the town of Chaiten (through which our route was to pass), we deemed it too dangerous to go that way and did an about-face from Esquel. On the up-side, we got a beautifully clear day for driving back the same route through El Bolson to Bariloche, and marvelled at the magnificent mountain scenery that was previously enshrouded by cloud.

We stopped in El Bolson for lunch again, this time it was market day and the hippies were out in full force selling all manner of arts and crafts. A bit disappointed in the food choices at the market, considering all the organic farms that supposedly surround the town, all that was on offer was schnitzel sandwiches and empanadas (unrefrigerated), and waffles. So we bought some fresh berries to munch on as we checked out the market stalls and finally settled on our Argentinian souvenir of a hand-crafted mate gourd and a silver bombilla (straw). The man who sold them to us spoke the clearest Spanish we have heard to date and both of us understood every word of instruction about how to season the gourd before we use it. I didn't have the heart to tell him I don't really like the taste of yerba mate and it will probably sit on a shelf in my living room and collect dust.

The berries weren't enough to satisfy us so we stopped in a garden cafe beside the market and had three varieties of disappointing but filling ham and cheese sandwiches. Back in the truck and continuing to Bariloche, this time with the intent of arriving before dark. It reminded us of when we first met and were driving in the Rocky Mountains in Todd's pickup while he and Liz were in Nepal, around every turn another scene of jaw-dropping mountain scenery. We stopped beside a lake for a snack on the tailgate of the truck (at Patrick's request) and with the perfect afternoon light I think I took about twenty photos of the same range of mountains.

In Bariloche we found a great little rustic hostel about 8km out of town in a residential area. We popped down to the supermarket and got a cooked chook and salad for dinner, and spent the evening chatting with a group of Swedish boys and an American girl, while Patrick played with the resident dog and four cats.

Another slow morning the next day, a good breakfast, a bit of lounging around, and making a booking for sea-kayaking on a nearby lake for the afternoon. By noon we were out for a picnic lunch on the shore of the Lake Guiterrez and made our way to a nearby hotel to meet our kayaking guides. We were the only ones booked in for the afternoon, so we had guide Gaston all to ourselves, and were accompanied by a photographer for the whole trip. It was a gorgeous setting on a peaceful lake under the jagged peaks behind Bariloche. On the outward trip Patrick was in the front of Blair's kayak, and I was with Gaston. We paddled for about an hour and stopped on rocky beach in the forest where we were served coffee, tea and alfajores (little chocolate and caramel cookie things). The wind was brutal and I had to give Patrick my spray jacket. On the return journey we were going in to the wind, so we let Gaston take Patrick in the front of his boat so Blair and I could combine our efforts. We stayed close to the shore and only had one really challenging stretch around a point, the wind was bitter and my hands were wet and frozen, but it was all worth it. Patrick almost fell asleep. At the end of the trip, the photographer showed us a slideshow of the some 50 pictures he took, and we just had to fork out the 40 pesos for a CD, after paying over 200 pesos for the outing - one of those "it feels like a lot of money at the time but you won't notice it when you get home and would regret it later if you didn't do it" days.

After the kayaking there was enough daylight left for us to do a 60km driving loop called the Circuito Chico. It took us out to different lakes with different mountain vistas, one with a magnificent view of Argentina's most famous hotel, the Llao Llao. Think Banff Springs Hotel Patagonia-style. Back at the hostel we cooked up the leftover chicken and veg into a delicious risotto, had a few beers, and let Patrick watch a bit of Batman with the Swedish boys. Sitting beside them on the couch with his blond hair and blue eyes, he could have been one of them.
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Arequipa, Peru

The best way to travel from Arica in the far north of Chile, to Tacna in the far south of Peru, is in a collectivo taxi, which means a guy with a car rounds up five passengers and takes them across the border. Arriving at the collectivo terminal (yes they have their own terminal) was hilarious. We stepped out of the taxi from the hostel and the collectivo drivers swarmed around us like bees. We liked the look of a Peruvian guy who tried to carry my backpack (I insisted I take it myself) and followed him to his car, something out of a seventies bad guy show, massive, boxy, and with a bench seat in front. The prices are pretty well fixed and displayed in the windscreen of the car, so we didn't have to bargain, and Patrick rode for free on Blair's lap. We just had to wait for three more passengers to make his trip worthwhile. While we were waiting I observed some women crawl into the boot of a car and go to great lengths to hide some clothing under the spare tyre. Patrick meanwhile struck up a conversation with a black market money changer, who asked me why he didn't have a brother or sister. This would become a running theme in the coming weeks. After about 15 minutes our driver found three ladies from Arica who were going shopping for the day in Peru - apparently everything is cheaper, which makes me wonder why those women were hiding clothes in the boot of the car on the Chilean side. As we drove out I saw an alley down the back of the collectivo offices full of women in Andean dress with piles and piles and piles of clothes, exchanging with each other and with local women. If this is the level of smuggling going on in the clothing industry, imagine the drugs ....

Our driver led us through the border crossings without incident, and I chatted to one of the ladies in the back seat for the journey, she insisted on getting my email address though I'm not sure why. The drive was through the edge of the Atacama desert and there was nothing but sand dunes on one side, ocean on the other. We arrived in Tacna at its version of the collectivo terminal, perfectly located right next to the bus terminal. We changed some money at one of the many little desks in the terminal (literally a desk with a draw and a calculator), booked a bus ticket to Arequipa for later that day, and went to look for some lunch. There was a hole in the wall outside the terminal that was serving a very edible two-course lunch for six soles (about $2.50), and we realised we were going to like Peru.

The bus trip was uneventful but took us through some magnificent scenery as we entered the Andes on some rather precarious roads. The earth still look like desert, completely devoid of vegetation, but soon we started to see some cacti. We arrived in Arequipa and took a taxi to the hostel where we had a reservation, ignoring the pleas of the driver trying to encourage us to go somewhere else where he would collect a nice commission. The hostel was in an old colonial building in a charming state of disrepair, our room was massive and had a patio with a view of the neighbouring volcano Misti. We went to the main square for dinner and to get our bearings and were amazed at the fantastic Spanish colonial buildings made of white volcanic stone surrounding the beautiful plaza. The square is dominated on one side by the enormous cathedral with two towers, and the remaining three sides all identical collonaded buildings with restaurants on the upper floor balconies. We chose one with a decent set menu and sat beside a couple that looked like they were having a special night, flowers, candles, and a mexican band serenading them. They were both locals but the guy had been living in Buffalo for a year, I suppose he came back to collect his girl. I am not sure if he proposed or not, but I took lots of photos of them on their camera while they were dancing. Our dinner was a bit disappointing, but the setting was worth it, an absolutely spectacular view of the square all lit up, the lights on the white stone made it pretty special.

The next day after breakfast we went to a local version of Starbucks (the Cusco Coffee Company) which had Starbucks prices, and had lattes in the lounge chairs for over an hour. After ablutions back at the hostel, we went out to a gringo-friendly place for lunch and had excellent Turkish food and fresh juices. Then we went to check out some of the sights of the city, and after a nice wander ended up at the Museum where Juanita the ice maiden is kept. She was found in 1995 at the top of a mountain, having been sacrificed by the Incas 500 years ago to appease an erupting volcano. There were other bodies found too, having been perfectly preserved in the ice at high altitude. The only reason they could go up there and look was because a neighbouring volcano was erupting and the hot ash had melted the ice cap on the mountain. Juanita had actually fallen out of her grave about 20 days prior to them finding her, and her face had suffered from "exposure". We didn't get to see Juanita herself because she was on a world tour, but her friend was there, so we checked her out. The compulsory tour of the museum was a bit long for Patrick, but he liked it at the end when we actually got to see the mummy.

We went back to the hostel to take a break for a couple of hours, then went back to the square to see the cathedral (it was closed in the afternoon). We just made it before it closed again - not the longest opening hours really - and were a lot more impressed with the exterior than the interior. We went to a smaller church just off the square which was a lot more genuine and was full of evening worshippers, kids running around, and people lined up for confession. We went back to the room to prepare for our early pick-up for the two-day tour of the Colca Canyon, and had an early night.
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Arica, Chile

The airport in Puerto Montt had real coffee. Rejoice. While there we were trying to figure out why it was going to take 10 hours for two flights travelling a total of 3000km. It dawned on us when we boarded the plane with about twenty other passengers and saw the plane was already almost full. It was the milk-run flight. We stopped twice on the way to Santiago and twice more between Santiago and Arica. Six take-offs and landings, my least favourite part about flying. Oh well, we got there in a day for the same price as the bus which would have taken three days. And they fed us. We were the last people out of the airport and were thankful that one taxi driver had waited for us as there was not another soul in sight, and the town was a good 20 minutes drive away. We fell into bed as soon as we arrived at the hostel around midnight.

The next day was Sunday and everything was closed when I went out to look for some breakfast supplies. I found one little store with a few tubs of yoghurt, some stale bread, juice and eggs, and with my purchases I think I reduced their inventory by about a quarter. It did make for a good breakfast though, it had been a while since we'd had scramble dambles. Before lunch we headed out to a beach we had seen on the way into town with a massive playground, only a 15 minute walk according to Kurt the owner of the hostel. It turned out to be quite a journey, crossing disused railway lines and accidentally wandering into military zones of the port. When we finally made it, it was just a little bit depressing. All the food stalls were shut down, half the playground had been roped off with what looked like police tape, the part that was open had a few stray dogs hanging around it, and the sand on the beach itself was a charming black colour. We played for a while in the playground, and then went down to have a swim. I knew this would be the last time in I don't know how long that I would be able to swim in an ocean, so despite the murky brown colour of the crashing waves, I took the plunge. And it was okay. Patrick wasn't as keen, he got his lower half wet at least, but Blair wouldn't have a bar of it. After playing in the disgusting sand for a while, we cleaned off and went to look for some lunch.

From the sidewalk tables at the one cafe that we could find, our perception changed. You couldn't tell the seafront attractions were in a state of disrepair, or really see how ugly the beach was, just the shimmering ocean through the tall palm trees. Add to that a fantastic lunch made with fresh ingredients and served with style, delicious smoothees and italian icecream .... not so depressing after all. We talked about how bizarre it was to be in the middle of a desert at the edge of an ocean - it has not rained in this town for over ten years.

Back at the hostel Patrick played with Simon, the owners' 4yo son, Blair chatted with other guests, and I vegged out in front of the telly. We had leftover pizza from lunch for dinner and had an early night. The next day was pretty lazy, some playing, some napping, some blogging, some tv, and a lovely wander through the hitherto unseen part of town which was actually quite nice. Our stroll took us down towards the port buildings, past an iron church built by Eiffel (here, of all places), through a beautiful square with gushing fountains (where do they get the water?), and along a palm tree-lined boulevard reminiscent of LA (except for the strange grunting sound of the hundreds of black birds in the trees and the smell of their shit all over the ground). We stopped for some dinner in a hotdog restaurant that had these tall towers of beer called rockets sitting on every table. Blair and Patrick both had hotdogs but I ordered a rather disappointing chicken and rice dish that came with about and eighth of a chicken breast on the plate. I reminded myself I was in a hotdog restaurant.

We went home and watched the Simpsons movie (in English!) and contemplated entering a new country the next day .... Peru!
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Ancud, Isla Chiloe, Chile

From Bariloche we drove back to Chile via the same border crossing as a few days before, less of a hassle to cross back into Chile, excepting of course the sniffer dogs looking for fruit and vegetables. I had to throw away my almonds (which I had bloody bought in Chile anyway). Mountains mountains mountains, they are just such a pleasure to drive through. Once over the border, the scenery returned to rolling farmland punctuated by the occasional perfectly cone-shaped snow-capped volcano in the distance. We stuck to the main roads and made good time while Patrick had a nap in the back, continuing all the way past Puerto Montt and down to the ferry to the island of Chiloe. We hadn't wanted get off the motorway to look for gas, so we banked on the assumption we would make it to the ferry, where, according to our map from Budget, there was a gas station. We made it okay, with the fuel light on, but there was no gas station in the town. I wish I could have seen my face when the woman we asked on the side of the road said, "No hay servicios aqui". It was 40km back to Puerto Montt, or after the ferry it was 33km to Ancud. We got on the ferry and I asked a truck driver if there was a servo closer than Ancud and he said no, but kindly told us to go ahead of him and said he would look out for us on the side of the road if we ran out of gas. We didn't, but I swear we rolled into that Shell on vapour. On the ferry ride, we saw several groups of sea lions frolicking in the waters.

We found a nice, Swiss-owned hostel (at Swiss prices unfortunately) in a great building overlooking the harbour. Having gone without lunch due to Patrick's sleeping and Blair's questionable stomach, I was voracious by 5.30pm and we went straight to local (non-tourist) restaurant and had a great meal in a somewhat dodgy environment. We virtally ate alone because all the locals avoided the main dining room (it was early) and went into the glassed-off smoking salon for jugs of beer and a spot of lung cancer.

The next morning the breakfast table at the hostel was full of Germans so they set up a table for us in the sunroom/patio, yet to be warmed up by the morning sun. The only disappointing thing about breakfast was the bloody instant coffee, and it wasn't even real instant coffee, it was some substitute crap that I couldn't identify. Back to tea. After several days of driving we were knackered and spent the morning holed up in the room watching telly, playing Lego, dozing and reading. In the afternoon we got in the truck and made our way to the west coast of the island and the Valley of the Dead Trees, a forest drowned by a devastating tsunami in 1960. Cool. We couldn't face any more time in the car and went back to the hostel via a few sights in the town of Ancud, including the site where Spain finally surrendered Chile to its revolutionaries. We cooked spaghetti bolognaise at the hostel and drank a couple of bottles of wine with some lovely Swiss Germans, Sam and Sabina.

We took breakfast as early as possible the next day (to beat the rush of Germans) and packed everything up ready to return the car at the airport for our flight up north. On the way to the ferry we picked up a couple of crusty hitchhikers from Viña del Mar (I didn't let on how I felt about their home town), and after they had flanked Patrick in the backseat a kitten appeared from underneath the girl's jumper. Patrick was overjoyed. The ferry ride back to the mainland was equally full of sea lion sightings, and we drove the crusties as far as the turnoff for the airport. With no issues we said goodbye to our faithful pickup truck at the airport and were all set for our flight via Santiago to Arica, in the far north of Chile, one of the driest cities on earth.
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Esquel, Patagonia, Argentina

The drive to El Bolson was pretty drab, we were sure there were spectacular mountains to be seen but it pissed rain the whole way, so we all we saw was clouds. El Bolson is Argentina's answer to Nimbin, a town full of hippies and organic farms, with a nice semi-circle shaped town square (I know that's an oxymoron), and some excellent public artwork. We splurged on lunch at a parrilla with rustic furnishings, delicious Argentinian beef, oh how we have missed you.

It was still raining as we left town after lunch, but it soon cleared enough for us to see the landscape change from Andean forest to Patagonian steppe. The scrubby mountains were devoid of trees and multi-coloured, making for bleak but dramatic scenery. We arrived in Esquel late afternoon and found a cabaña (cottage) and booked in for two nights, then went out for a walk to find a supermarket. The setting sun cast a glow on the awesome sky, with the remnants of the day's wispy clouds changing colour by the minute. We cooked dinner in our toasty little kitchen and went to bed early.

The next morning we took our time with breakfast, and finally got kicked out by the cleaning lady at about 11am. After dropping off our laundry, picking up some fresh bread for lunch, and filling up the truck with over-priced diesel (if you are not Argentinian you pay 50% more for diesel in Patagonia), we headed south-west for a day-trip in the Parque Nacional de los Alerces. We stopped for info at the park entrance but the rangers were on lunch for three hours, so we just took a photo of the map on the wall and chose an appropriate hike from that. When we got to the trail head, we saw a fox pass in front of us and disappear into the forest. The hike we chose was called Cinco Saltos (five waterfalls), and it was pretty much all uphill. Thankfully we had an excellent "guide" in young Patrick, who advised us where to be careful and which were the tricky bits. He was also a good source of information about the vegetation in the park, in particular the really old trees (los alerces) and the impenetrable bamboo-like undergrowth. When we got to the top, we could see maybe two of the five falls carving a steep gorge into the side of the mountain, and we stopped in the shade of the massive trees for a picnic lunch. Guide Patrick got us down safely, stopping for views of the lake below, and the three-hour round trip was delightful, not to mention impressive for a four-year-old.

On the way back to Esquel we intended to stop in Trevellin for a Welsh afternoon tea, but everything seemed to be closed. It didn't look very Welsh to me. That night we had a basic dinner of fruit salad and yoghurt, just enough to give Blair and Patrick for the long-anticipated wrestling finals, which surprisingly ended in a draw.
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Bariloche, Argentina

We picked up the pick-up (ha!) just after noon and set off for our first destination of Bariloche, Argentina. We got off the main roads perhaps a little to early, so it was slow going on some rough roads around lakes and through farmland. We stopped for a picnic lunch in the back of the truck in a forgettable town, and remarked at the obvious German influences in the architecture, the names, and the wide availability of kuchen.
Crossing the border into Argentina was quite a process, having to show proof to both sides of authority to take the vehicle out of Chile. The out of Chile bit and the into Argentina bit were about 50km apart and we stopped at to take photos of the awesome mountains. Once in Argentina the scenery became even more spectacular with jagged peaks and clear lakes, the sky cooperating with some ominous clouds for the late afternoon sun to peek through.
We passed through a cutesy little tourist town and contemplated stopping due to the fading light, but decided to press on for Bariloche. Patrick fell asleep in the last stretch and we spent close to an hour driving around looking for a place with enough beds for us. Bariloche is one of Argentina's most popular destinations, and it was a Saturday night to boot. We finally found digs halfway up the hill at a Swiss-looking house (like most of the town's buildings) owned by an old couple who looked German and spoke Spanish. Patrick didn't wake up on the transfer into the room, so rather than send one of us out to a bank and to search for food in the dark, we decided to go to bed hungry. It was already 10pm.
The next morning we (well, I) delighted in the delicious Argentine coffee served at breakfast, while Patrick delighted in his beloved medialunas (mini sweet croissants). The breakfast room was dominated by a huge black chimney coming down from the ceiling over an open fireplace on a platform in the middle of the room. Very cool, but Blair noted it was probably not a very efficient heating system.
We checked out and wandered around Salzburg, I mean Bariloche, for about and hour, bought some chocolate and a road map of Patagonia, then jumped in the truck and headed south, bound for Esquel.
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Puerto Montt, Chile

We arrived in Puerto Montt at a reasonable hour and set about finding digs, not too difficult as there were a plethora of places not far from the bus terminal. Blair misread the street number of a place recommended in one of our books, and we needlessly climbed a set of 119 steps (Patrick counted) to discover it was actually at the bottom. So we counted them on the way down too (in Spanish), just to be sure it was 119. It was a big wooden house painted in a charming shade of pink called Hospedaje Betty, and our room looked out on the back garden where some beautiful white hydrangea bushes were in full bloom.

We dumped our gear and went out to find breakfast. It was awful and expensive and included that Nescafé thing, this time brought to us as a cup of hot milk/water and a sachet of the cursed stuff. And only one sachet to boot, so I couldn't even make it strong bad coffee. But it did the trick. We then started searching for a rental car and settled on a pick-up truck from Budget, figuring one of the bigger companies would have the resources to rescue us if we got stranded somewhere in Patagonia.

While Blair did all the official car stuff, Patrick and I walked 2km to the port offices to check out ferry crossings for the missing bits of the Carreterra Austral. There was a notice on the wall of one of the offices from the Chilean government saying that due to the eruption of a volcano near Chaitén, one of the principal towns on our route, they could not guarantee the safety of anyone who chose to visit there. Hm. Plans to change again perhaps?

For dinner Blair tried the local specialty of seafood stew, which had some unidentifiable fruits of the sea in it. Ew. That night back at Betty's, Blair and Patrick engaged in a long and bitter wrestling match on the bed which was thereafter dubbed "The Semi-Finals", which Patrick won of course. He threw down the gauntlet for the finals, to be staged in two days time. The next morning Betty served some delicious homemade jams, which almost made me forgive her for the Nescafé. I vow to drink only tea in Chile from here on.
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Santiago, Chile

Overnight bus to Santiago was great, we were downstairs in the plush bit, wide seats and three meals. We went through the Andes on some pretty awesome roads, and I swear I saw the peak of South America's highest mountain, Aconcagua, for a few fleeting moments in between switchbacks. Crossing the border was interesting, after everybody went through immigration we had to have all our bags checked out for fruit, veg, and animal products. Considering that in Canada in winter most of our fruit comes from Chile, we were happy to oblige, but we were a bit sore about having to hand over an almost full bottle of honey.

In Santiago, we were compelled to stay at a Sheraton-affiliated hotel so that Blair could get back all the leftover hotel points from his Subway days, they had expired due to inactivity in his account (all we have done since then is redeem them, not create more). The other motive was so that we could leave our extra bag behind, to collect in April before we fly home. By the time we got there and had showers it was late afternoon, so we went out for a bit of a walk, cruised by the sculpture park (closed, had to peer through the fence) and tried to find a spot for a simple dinner. We stopped in the full-on bar area and were about to order some drinks, but I had to ixnay it after visiting the bathroom and passing by the kitchen on the way. Gross. So we ended up having cheeseburgers back at the hotel, with some nice live music and a couple of local beers.

The next morning we had room service breakfast (ah, luxury) and dawdled about until being forced to check out by noon. We left the duffle bag in the storage room, slung on our backpacks (we are really quite a sight actually, with our papa bear, mama bear and baby bear-sized packs) and caught the metro to one of santiago's gazillion bus terminals. Back on budget, leaving luxury behind, see you again in April.
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Valparaiso, Chile

Valparaíso is SOOOOOOOOO cool. It's walled in on three sides by something like 20 little mountains with a big flat bit in the middle and an active port on the coast. To get up the hills, besides the stairs and really steep streets, there are 14 funicular railways and one 100-year old elevator at the end of a long tunnel that drives deep under the mountain. The architecture is wildly contrasting: some reminiscent of the grand old days before the Panama Canal was built and it was one of the richest and busiest ports in the region; others patched together with found materials, clinging to the hillside and housing the city's poorest people. Our hotel was in an old grand house with long wooden staircases, 14-foot ceilings, and creaky floorboards. Patrick liked to think it was where the pirates used to stay after plundering the ships filled with new world booty set for Spain - we allowed that bubble to remain intact and occasionally said "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum" under our breath to resurrect their ghosts. Valpo is also the seat of Chile's national congress, a big new square-ish building that casts a shadow on the square where the old men sit and play chess at all hours. And among other pluses in this city are its cheap lodging and food; but among it's minuses are some pretty dodgy neighbourhoods and an all-pervading stench of fish, dog, and urine. It was where we also discovered the unfortunate truth about Chilean coffee: all they serve is instant Nescafé.

We played good tourists and went up a few of the ascensores, including the one with the cool tunnel, took a little walking tour of the old posh bits to admire the variety of architecture, went on a boat tour of the harbour, ate in a traditional restaurant, went on the old trolley bus (like Vancouver's electric buses but they only run on one route now), and wandered around the seafood market. While in Valpo we realised that it was the final week of school holidays and every bus heading north, was booked for days. So we decided, yet again, boy are we flexible, to change direction and go south. We bought our tickets for a night bus to Puerto Montt, and made plans to spend a week in southern Chile and Argentina with a rental car.

The day of the bus we spent in neighbouring Viña del Mar, which is apparently a playground of the rich and famous, Chile's answer to Uruguay's Punta del Este. Rich or poor, if you ask me, it's a shithole. The restaurants had ludicrous prices and when we settled on a place that wouldn't break the bank, they served us some very disappointing pasta dishes in teeny tiny little bowls. The beach was indescribably gross, the high-rises were decaying, and the aforementioned all-pervading stench present in Valpo was even worse here. There was an inlet from the ocean that had been completely blocked off from it, turning it into a fetid swamp. A carpark right in between said swamp and a famous casino was the staging area for horses and carriages that carried tourists around the city, it was where they were fed and watered and where I assume they did a lot of their shitting (the horses, not the tourists). Add to that the lack of public toilets and the local trend to just piss wherever you feel like it and you might get close to how bad the smell was. I get shivers just thinking about it. It is one of the most depressing places I have ever been, ranking right up there with Great Yarmouth on the east coast of England.

To cut a long story short, Valparaíso is excellent, Viña del Mar is not.
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Buenos Aires, Argentina

Arriving back in BA was a bit like coming home. Back to the same neighbourhood, albeit in a different apartment, hanging out with Andy and Toni, eating empanadas and dulce de leche flavoured icecream, even dining at our favourite parrilla again, the magnificent El Campo Chico. We were chronically jetlagged however, and found it difficult to get out of bed before 2pm after lying awake half the night in frustration. In this instance, the blackout blinds we love so much were a bit of a curse because they did not help us one little bit to overcome the time difference. And then there were the jackhammers. They were demolishing a building across the street and our vantage point on the 9th floor allowed great views, and the concrete jungle of Recoleta amplified the sounds of destruction. Great. We barely left the flat, apart from going to the indoor play place at the shopping mall, and were glad we had booked in for a week to allow ourselves time to recover the journey back from Oz. We were also grateful that our television had the special SAP function that allowed us to view most channels in English. We watched a lot of late night movies. Andy fell ill towards the end of the week, so we couldn't play with him anymore for fear of catching something right before we set off on the next phase of our adventure, and we had to settle for a bizarre farewell of waving at each other across the street, before we went to catch our bus to Santiago.
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