Barely out of Bolivia

Dessert breakdown

In order to make the connections we'd planned on, we reached the frigid border of Bolivia several hours before sunrise. We rubbed each other’s backs and wore all the clothes we had, including socks on our hands, as we shivered in wait for the first officials to show up and give us the necessary entry stamps.

Two hours later it was still so cold that the ink in our ballpoint pen was frozen. Only once the sun had risen and we had cursed the low temperatures of high altitudes, could we fill out the immigration forms and proceed.

Our first Bolivian destination was the Salt Flats of Uyuni, a mind altering 10 000 square kilometres of bright white, ancient lakebed, an area so evenly flat that allegedly satellites are calibrated as they pass overhead.

As gringos race around in 4x4 jeeps, hardened locals make their living here, painstakingly scooping 6 centimeters of salt a year, for which they earn a measly few cents per kilo.


Stylish

With 70% of locals living under the poverty line, Bolivia is by far the poorest country in South America, a reality emphasized by the fact that it took us three whole days of travelling before we even saw our first paved road.

That’s why, making our way north through the country, we bumped, rattled and jittered along some of the worst roads known to mankind. Semi dry riverbeds have been the best highways, with crowded, geriatric buses rarely averaging above 20 miles an hour.

To make matters worse, public transport around here is largely an unpadded affair. In addition to this discomfort, our stunt driver on one of the ‘river roads’ also chose to experiment with some daring shortcuts, at one point with the whole bus screaming in fear of toppling over. Later, as we could just about see our remote destination on the horizon, the bus spluttered to a dead halt, having simply run out of petrol.


Train cemetery

The next day we visited a phototastic dessert train cemetery, a barren outdoor showroom of rust and dust, where for more than a hundred years outdated Bolivian locomotives have come to die.

After this we made our way to La Paz, a capital that resides at an exhausting altitude of 12 000 feet - more than a third of Mount Everest.

The air is so thin that every few minutes one needs to take a couple of extra breaths, just to make up for the lack of oxygen. The simple task of walking a few floors upstairs requires several breaks, to stop heart palpitations and embarrassing wheezing. Any sustained activity, such as climbing steep city streets, feels like running a marathon.


La Paz

But for all the useless roads and lack of oxygen, Bolivia is beautiful. Breath taking, as it were, in many ways. The landscape is dramatic, the culture is vivid and the people are very friendly. They are also very short (ten bucks says no Bolivian will ever play in the NBA).

The traditional skirted lady with platted hair and bowler hat can be seen in almost every doorway, selling peanuts, chewing coca leaves and generally looking fetching. Propaganda and graffiti is all over, with most surfaces covered in either a face of Evo Morales (the first ever indigenous president of South America) or hand painted murals for everything from spark plugs to fruit drinks.

National politics are notoriously complicated. Bolivia is featured in the Guinness Book of Records for its 188 coups d’etat in 157 years.


Endless

In response to becoming an increasingly popular travel destination, the streets are lined with tourist shops selling an abundance of ubiquitous trinkets – colourful textiles and pan-pipes, as well as daring novelties such as hairy llama fetuses.

Even the tackier side of things is done with style. Che Guevara merchandise, for instance, have been sold in every country we’ve been to so far. But Bolivia actually has a good reason (the CIA executed him here in 1967).


Chores

The day before yesterday we headed for the La Paz airport, at the ungodly hour of 4am, to catch a flight to Sao Paulo. Unfortunately it didn’t quite turn out like we had hoped. Flying in Bolivia wasn’t one of our wisest decisions.

A word of advice if you’ve ever thought of flying with ‘AeroSur’ - don’t. Because within a space of a very frustrating 12 hours we had experienced 4 airplanes, 3 mechanical failures, 2 cancellations and one emergency landing.

On the first flight, from La Paz to Cochabamba, we evacuated our plane on the runway, to facilitate ‘necessary engine repairs’ (which meant a that small man on a tall wooden step ladder appeared and literally took the jet engine apart).

For the second flight, we never even made it into our actual plane, but instead got a ride with another airliner going our way.


Transport

Then, in Santa Cruz, we waited for 4 hours as a gaggle of mechanics tried to 'secure' the door of the third plane, to the plane. When they’d fiddled and banged the door and scratched their heads, and seemed reasonably satisfied that the job was done, an announcement was made that we could board the plane.

Ten minutes after take off, as we’d just cleared the clouds and were about to indulge in a small packet of peanuts, we heard some loud clunks from the fuselage. Aw, shucks, the plane door was loose. The captain executed a dramatic u-turn and the stewardesses started putting trays in the upright position. Uh-oh.

From our small window we could see thousands of gallons of jet fuel pouring from the wings, being hastily dumped in preparation for the sudden emergency landing. Although strangely beautiful, this is a sight no air passenger ever wants to see.

The plane was silent. We banked towards the very airport that we had just left. Everyone held someone’s hand, even if it was a stranger’s.

We hit the runway a little too fast, bounced precariously a few times and then let out a collective sigh of relief. Then, in that well trained tone of voice, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, the stewardesses casually requested that we remain seated until the captain turns the seat belt sign off. Bing.


Town square

A little while later we’d been given consolatory Subway sandwiches and small plastic cups of Coca Cola. It’s amazing how a free snack makes you forgive someone nearly killing you.

Finally, after one more failed attempt at securing the loose door, we were allocated another plane to take us the remaining way to Sao Paulo. We did not object.

According to common safety projections, the average lifespan of a Boeing 727 jet is about 30 years. Ours was 27 year old (we looked it up on the internet). Once upon a time it had been owned by United, but had switched hands several times, eventually ending up in the outback of Bolivia, a place where air safety requirements are clearly liberal enough for operators to inherit such elderly hand-me-downs.

As of last night we're in Brazil, our visit to Bolivia only as short and sweet as its people. Despite our near disaster it was well worth the time and effort.

To explore Brazil, as well as celebrate being alive, we’ve made it to Paraty, an adorable little coastal town, for what promises to be a highly lethargic beach bonanza.

And what could be better than that?


Illusion

Recent photos

Late night snack


Birds of prey


Sitting off


Two religions


Black and white


Cut throat trimmage

Hasta Luego, Argentina

Beautiful

The happiness we felt in our first week as fiancés more than compensated for the sadness we felt having to leave Argentina.
We’ve had a great time, and would have loved to stay longer. But as we have limited time left, we had to push on.

As one last thrill, however, to further celebrate our metaphorical leap into engagement, we got into the pimped out, natural gas powered roadster of a coco leaf chewing teenager and went to a nearby lake for our first ever (and quite possibly our last ever) bungee jump.


Leap

Other than the slight head ache that lingered for several days after the jump, it was nearly as good as the brochure had promised. After a nerve-racking drive from Salta, our teenage driver parked by a custom built metal ledge on a concrete bridge. Before we had time to say ‘No way, this is crazy’ we had had our shoes taken off and a greasy haired and bearded ‘extreme sports dood‘ had attached us to some scary equipment.

As we waddled towards the edge of the daunting metal structure, ankles bound together as if we were on death row (which, judging from the 25 meter drop below us was not entirely inaccurate), we listened one last time to the fool proof instructions (‘jump’). Then, after a few seconds of fighting every Darwinian instinct in our bodies, we jumped.


Troopers

Lunging forward in slow motion, we felt the wind in our hair, and then the top of our heads splash into the cold lake below. As we recoiled and continued to bounce for what was a very long minute, we felt the entire 3 litres of blood in our bodies suddenly gather in our heads.

The upside down support boat appeared and we returned as red-faced heroes to the applause of a gathered crowd of local kids. In the car going back we concurred - we’re glad we did it. But we don’t need to do it ever again.

And with that, our time in Argentina was over. We don't know what was more beautiful - the people, the culture or the scenery.

But one thing's for sure. One day we'll be back.


Adios

The moment of a lifetime

Iguazu

8 years. 4 months. 22 days. That’s how long it took for Sami to get down on one knee.

His hands were sweating, his heart was pounding, and his left middle toe (on which he had secretly worn the engagement ring for 7 hours) was just starting to regain its original shape.

The day had been perfect. The mighty waterfalls of Iguazu had made our jaws drop ever since breakfast, a natural wonder so incredible that our trigger fingers had made small dents in the top of our cameras.

In the dense jungle around the border between Argentina and Brazil, we’d seen birds, animals, and, of course, the thundering water falls. We’d seen them from multiple angles, each one more impressive than the last. We’d hiked to the top, gotten soaked during an exhilarating boat ride and dried off on a small rocky beach.

Then the ultimate moment arrived. As the Iguazu National Park neared its closing time, and the rangers gently started prompting visitors towards the exit, Sami took the opportunity to ask what he’d intended to ask Meredith for a very long time.

Toucans sat in the trees, a troop of yellow butterflies fluttered by and the sun made a perfect red-orange backdrop in the sky. If there was ever a good time to ask anyone to marry them, this, without a doubt, was it.

Sami took Mere’s hand and subtly cornered her against the railing by a perfect panorama of the falls. He looked her straight in the eye and only slightly fumbled his words. First, he explained how much he loved her. Then, it went something like this:

Sami: You know, Meredith, before I knew you, you didn’t mean anything to me. Then I met you, and you meant something special to me. And now that I really know you, you mean everything to me.

Mere: (slightly suspicious) Yeah…

Sami: For the last 15 years you’ve been my friend. For the last 8 and a half years you’ve been my girlfriend. And my best friend.

Mere: (blushing, eyes tearing up) …Sami …what are you doing?

Sami: (blushing, eyes tearing up, slowly getting down on one knee)
But I don’t want that anymore…

Mere: (slightly shaking) Sami…

Sami: (crying) For the rest of your life, will you, please, be my wife…?

Mere: (crying) …Yes!

And there we stood, freshly engaged, our eyes watering nearly as much as the falls behind us.

Cue the violins. Slow camera pan out. Frosted edges. And tight embrace - long enough for a troop of Israeli backpackers to squeeze pass and, in turn, congratulate us.

Then, after another few minutes of hugging, gazing in to each other’s betrothed eyes and intermittently laughing and crying in disbelief, a ranger appeared and politely asked us to leave. Rather grateful for this external intervention, we quickly took the public bus back to our hostel.

We took a cab to the fanciest restaurant in Iguazu, where three local keyboard players serenaded us for the best part of two hours, with an array of Sinatra covers.

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was a sign of what’s to come. Or perhaps it was just the many circumstances of May 14th 2008. Whatever it was, it was everything we wanted.

Best wishes to you all, from two very happy fiancés.


Perfect

Buenos Aires - traffic, futbol and doo-doo

Flares

After nearly a week of trying to pigeon hole Buenos Aires, we have yet to succeed. South America's third largest city, we can tell you, is a place with far too many strings on its bow, to be summed up easily.

Even the shortest of strolls, along bustling pavements and gridded city streets will produce endless options for just about anything - food, music, shopping, etc. Chances are that whatever you're into, you can do it, and do it well, in Buenos Aires.

Like with most cities of 10+ million people, the inhabitants, at first, seem only to mind their own business. But as so often is the case, that isn't entirely accurate. Argentinians, in fact, are so willing to interact with visitors, that a mere passing greeting or quick smile will trigger a genuine and enthusiastic response, like a spring-loaded friendship waiting to reveal itself at the smallest of provocations.


Charmer

At more than 5000 square kilometers Buenos Aires is a massive city. Settled by the Spanish in the early 1500s as the "City of Our Lady Saint Mary of the Fair Winds", it eventually evolved to be known as Buenos Aires or, simply, BS. These days the translation (Good Air) is a joke, with crazy traffic, heat, noise and pollution.

Despite this it somehow manages to be a very charming place to loiter in. The streets are lined with outdoor restaurants, smiling peanut vendors, tango dancers and a plethora of pensioners standing idly on their balconies, waiting to wave to strangers. Stray cats are all over, as if the unintended result of an ill-advised introduction of a new species.


La Boca

As people make their way between any two given points, they don't really each other in the eyes. That's because they are constantly needing to monitor the pavements, to slalom their way through a continuous assault course of doggie doo-doo, deposited by the many daily walks of the 'Paseadores' - the professional dog walkers.

The Paseadores are built like wrestlers, which in many ways they are. They have up to thirty, dirty dog leashes wrapped tightly around their veiny, clinched fists as they jolt and yank their way to and from the city's parks - around them an army of yapping mutts of varying sizes and breeds. A sad modern phenomenon due to so many people wanting pets, but so few people having time to care for them.

On the downside of this place, our BS hostels have been pretty lacklustre. Especially when compared to the best hostel we stayed in for the entire journey, the mega excellent 'Penthouse 1004' in Bariloche, a place that no fewer than a dozen travellers warmly recommended to us (through quiet whispers and secretive scribbles, as not to spoil the place by letting the crowds hear about it).


Street tango

To forget about our BS bed bugs, unpredictable shower temperatures and uninspiring breakfasts, we figured a good start would be to see a proper game of futbol in the Argentine Primera Division.

So on Saturday night, more than slightly apprehensive, we entered the super important quarter finals of River Plate vs San Lorezo, two BS teams, in the middle of a large huddle of foreigners, carefully shepherded by two ex-navy looking minders. Like sheep dogs they whistled and barked us through an ocean of drunken River fans, towards our reserved seats high up in the bleachers.

After a maze of concrete stairways and metal gates that nearly triggered our deep down claustrophobic instincts, we sat down with hot dogs in hand and waited in anticipation for the show to start. Meanwhile, around us, 60 000 frenzied River fans (and about 5000 San Lorenzo fans, in a cage right above us) were high fiving each other and punching the air in anticipation of the all important next 90 minutes. Clearly the outcome of this game would decide the meaning of life for many young men.

As the opposing team jogged out for their pregame jumps and stretches, the home fans showed their overwhelming sportsmanship by whistling, booing and throwing missiles. Then, after a dramatic pause, the good guys came out. Oh, boy.


Frenzy

Jesus Christ all mighty. It's difficult to describe what happened at that moment. The stadium roared alive in a eruption of years of repressed tension - the announcer screamed into his microphone and everyone went absolutely nuts. A simultaneous explosion of fireworks, emergency flares, and small bombs (yes, bombs) went off. It was so loud that we could hardly hear the screaming morons next to us.

Every person (man) screamed, jumped and pounded their chest as hard as they could without knocking themselves over. Expertly choreographed rolls of toilet paper were thrown into long white streaks across the sky, as if the final scene in an Esther Williams movie. Confetti rained down on us and got stuck in the mustard on our hot dogs. Catholicism, we discovered, is definitely not the biggest religion in South America.

When the final whistle blew, the stadium was deafeningly silent. River had managed the monumental feat of giving away a 2-0 lead to a team with two less players on the pitch. Since we were completely illoyal, only there to watch a good game of football, we were just as happy.


La Recoleta

The next day we visited the infamous La Boca - a creative but dodgy barrio, which is home to the brilliant Boca Juniors football team. After this we took a smelly cab to the equally famous La Recoleta Cemetery, a stunning ancient graveyard filled with ornate marble mausoleums, bronze statues and elaborate engravings. Other than being the final resting place of Eva Perón (a corpse which has been re-exhumed and re-buried more times than John Goodman has had cheese burgers) it's a fascinating display of architecture. The fact that it is also a favourite hang out spot for many of the city's cats, makes it feel like you're in the first five minutes of a Hitchcock movie.

Then, to complete our rushed sightseeing, for the day before we left, we briefly popped over to Uruguay. We wandered along the cobbled streets of Colonia, a quaint, beautiful harbour on the south coast. We saw everything one could see in the space of a few hours. We laughed. We made some friends. We ate a pizza and played chess with a street bum. Then we took the ferry back.


Uruguayian sunset

As of yesterday we're in Puerto Iguazu, a town near the world famous Cataratas del Iguazú, a natural wonder where some 275 waterfalls coincide in more or less one location.

This ought to be special.

Humbled in Patagonia

Cerro Otto

Patagonia is to your mind what Filet Mignon is to your stomach. A real treat. It is categorically impossible to spend time here without finding yourself staring in absolute awe at your surroundings, flabbergasted at what Mother Earth and Father Time have created.

Where ever you look you are forced to re-evaluate what you know to be true. The colours, for starters, are inverted - trees are bright red, clouds are yellow, mountains are pink, and rippled lakes reflect fast-changing, kaleidoscopic skies. Give the most hardened city-lover ten minutes of Patagonian sunset and chances are he'd immediately schedule a 4-week camping holiday into his beloved Blackberry.


Lago Moreno

The landscapes are so stunning that no postcard could ever come close to portraying the real deal. The bonus that local culture is equally beautiful just amplifies the joy of passing through this remote land.

To the travellers we've met, a different breed of tourists, this is far better than lying on a white sandy beach in Thailand with a cocktail and the latest Stephen King novel. Having had the pleasure of coming here for ourselves, we completely understand.


El Bolson crowd

In San Carlos de Bariloche, a picturesque lake-side town on the Patagonian foothills of the Andes, we've probably met some of the loveliest people on our trip so far. As we've often found along our journey, the surrounding nature in which people live seems to directly reflect on the way they look at life. True to this observation, people in this stunning part of the world are infectiously friendly, laid-back and genuine.


Cirrus

To further take in the magnificence of Patagonia we took to the skies, in the surprisingly comfortable, crotch-snugging tandem harnesses of Federico and Gabriel, two shaggy-haired adrenalin junkies. We strapped on our helmets, we attached the industrial carabiners to our waiting Paragliding pilots, and then, very quietly, we shat our pants.

A sudden thumbs up by the instructors indicated a suitable gust and we reluctantly started running down the steep slope towards the sheer drop. Fortunately, just before we went over the edge, the winds lifted us up and away - across forests, secluded lodges and deep ravines. Wow. For once the word 'awesome' actually seems appropriate. Amazing, even. Better than the best theme park ride in the world.


Awesome

30 minutes later we effortlessly landed in a tree lined horse field 3000 feet further down the mountain, eyes still watering from the chilly winds and wide grins on our faces lasting well into the night. To reflect on the day there was only one place we could go. To the nearest place that sold frozen Margaritas.

The next few days we continued exploring the surroundings. One noteworthy highlight was visiting the best crafts market we've ever seen, at the nearby bohemian outpost of El Bolson, a chilled sanctuary for aged hippies, artisans and waffle makers.

Then we went tobogganing, ice skating, mountain biking and, of course, all the while drinking copious amounts of dirt cheap wine. As we've discovered it's unfortunately easy to justify alcoholism when you exercise all day.


Post paragliding grin

Down here it's late autumn, and as such the nip in the air is always there, even when the strong sun beams down on your face. When the makers of washing powder put mountain chains on their packets, this must be the freshness they are referring to. And for good reason too. Although there are plenty of petrol stations and cars and big tour buses passing through, there seems to be no pollution.

All in all our time down here has been fantastic. Being surrounded by mountains and lakes and bright red forests has been good for our souls. A humbling experience that in no uncertain terms puts things into perspective again. Time passes at a different speed here; ice ages come and go, tectonics slide about and mountains pop up.

As we've experienced, we are just brief visitors, having the opportunity to live for a little while and see a few sights before we end up in a hole in the ground.

For the feeling of absolute insignificance, the lovely people and the succulent Margaritas, we are very grateful. Thank you Patagonia. We will most definitely return one day.

In the next few days we'll make our way to Buenos Aires.

Adios, for now.


Mountain, bike

Recent photos

Cowboys


Sweet ride


Lookout


Retro


Bomberos


Policia


Nosy neighbours


Lost