Primitive Mines, Disembowelled Llamas and Hot Springs

I had another fantastic spontaneous trip this weekend. This time it was Potosí, an old colonial mining town up at some 4,200m in the Bolivian altiplano.

At about 6pm on Friday, Jack and I (we couldn't persuade anyone else at such short notice) decided we didn't want to stay in Cochabamba, so managed to pack our bags and catch another overnight bus an hour or so later. This one was twelve hours, and it was even colder than previously. Thanks to the chilly temperatures, wailing babies, and an hour long stop with the doors open and lights on at about 3am in the morning, we arrived into the bus terminal on no more than 3 hours of sleep just after sunrise. A glorious sunrise, so Jack told me, but I was enjoying a rare 20 minutes of sleep at the time.

Located in an otherwise unattractive area of Bolivia, barren highlands where little vegetation is able to flourish, the main attraction of Potosí are the mines, dug deep into a dusty red cerro (hill) that overlooks the town. Potosi was very sleepy so early in the morning, but we managed to check into a hostel and (after being misdirected several times) locate the tour agency with the best reputation for taking people down the mines, Koala Tours (surely set up by an Aussie expat but we never met him). After hearing some horrific descriptions of what was in store, we decided we'd rather pay that little bit more and be safe. Still a little dazed and sleepy from the journey, after grabbing a quick breakfast we signed the rather perturbing disclaimer that we accept fully the risks involved (including deaths from collapsing tunnels, gas poisoning, these sorts of things) and jumped on the tour minibus. First stop was the storehouse of Koala Tours to get kitted out in our mining gear. We did look very sexy in huge overpants and shiny overcoats, topped off by bright yellow hard hats and headlamps powered by giant orange batterys attached to the belts around our waists. Oh, and wellies. We decided to invest in handkerchiefs to put over our mouths and noses to avoid breathing in too much of the arsenic, cyanide and God knows what other toxic gases fill the mine tunnels.

Next stop was the miners' market. The markets were much like those in other Bolivian cities, full of campesinos selling their lotions and potions and wierd good luck charms, but with locally specific extras such as gas masks, dynamite, 95% proof alcohol, and a few decorated llamas awaiting sacrifice. It turned out that we'd chosen to visit Potosí during the annual festival celebrating Pachamama, or Mother Earth, which involved, as well as the inevitable copious drinking, lots of llama sacrificing. Jack and I bought some of the alcohol and dynamite to make the visit a little more exciting, and wandered round trying to avoid thinking about what was going to happen to the poor llamas. Before starting the long windy ascent up the Cerro Rico to the mines, we had a tour round the unbelievably primitive factories where the silver and other minerals are seperated from the crap that comes with them. Much like what was to come, everything was dirty and ancient, and looked like a death trap; it felt like stepping back into the early years of the industrial revolution. I found it almost impossible to believe that one of the world's most important mining towns (at one point, albeit at least a hundred years ago or so, it produced some 50% of the worlds precious minerals) had such antique processing plants.

After a brief discussion about what was going to happen, we finally pulled up our handkerchiefs over our mouths, turned on our headlamps, and entered the mines. It was one of the grimmest hours of my life, and it felt more like 10. The mine shafts are crudely dug out of the hill as if by hand, and it takes enormous concentration to ensure you don't trip over the uneven floor or bash your head on the still more uneven ceilings or the bits of wood or cable protruding from them. Poor Jack, at over 6ft, struggled rather, to say the least. Breathing was the greatest challenge down there. I can't imagine how an asthmatic claustrophobic would cope. Well, they wouldn't. The principle tunnels were bad enough, but the tunnels linking one "level" to another were appalling. We had to get on our hands and knees and crawl in many sections, at very steep gradients. At one point we had to slide on our bums some 20m down a near vertical shaft, trying to avoid the nails in the wood floor. Outside the mines, due to the altitude, it was freezing, but deeper inside the hill it began to get very hot. Temperatues reach 35 degrees centigrade in parts. To say we were uncomfortable in our well-layered thermals and fleeces would be a gross understatement. Consider also the near total darkness, the clouds of toxic dust that clogged up every tunnel, plus the double-foldedhandkerchief that we had to clutch to our mouths to breathe through, and all this at an altitude of well over 4000m, to which we were definitely unacclimatised, and you still can't imagine how miserable it was. Had I had enough breath to talk I might have asked to be taken back out. The poor miners. They still work in there. Incredible.

Finally I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. With immense relief I felt the air get cooler and fresher as we stumbled towards daylight again. But leaving the stifling heat, dust and darkness of the mines and coming face to face with what was going on outside was like being saved from the frying pan only to be thrust into the fire. Still half awake after so little sleep, and probably slightly intoxicated and oxygen-deprived, it took a while to register what we were seeing. It certainly took a few seconds to realize that what looked like bright red paint, collected in hard hats, running in streams towards the mines, and daubed everywhere, was actually blood. Upside down right in the entrance to the mine shaft, with their necks slit and their legs sprawled apart to allow for the disection to take place, were three huge dead llamas, and all around them, if not getting ready to disembowel the poor beasts, Bolivians were chatting and drinking. I thought I'd be a lot more traumatised than I was to see the scene of a massacre. Perhaps I was still dazed from the previous 14 hours or so. Though I think we were fortunate not to witness the actual slaughter itself. The revellers (!) motioned for us to take a seat, less than a meter away from one of the corpses, and handed us a beer to share. And then the shots came round. So, this Saturday morning, we sat and drank whilst right in front of us the men of Potosí proceeded to cut open three beautiful dead llamas and slowly extract their innards and shovel them into a cardboard box. If I had ever wanted a biology lesson on the physical composition of cameloids, I was getting a real treat. I'd never before seen every single organ, in real life, of an animal so close without it being on television. But I'd never been that keen on biology. Instead I was simultaneously repulsed yet irresistably compelled to watch this grotesque spectacle unfold. And the beer was quite refreshing. We sat there for a while, in a semi-trance, taking lots of photos and saying "eeuggh" and other remarks of disgust, to somehow make us feel better about taking part in the festivities.

Eventually, with all three llamas completely disembowelled, our tour guide said it was time to leave. We wandered accross the hillside, past some more Potosí men digging graves for the llamas (for good luck in the mines in the next year), and past some others cooking potatoes in hand-built stone ovens. Before we left, our guide Roland took our stick of dynamite and we had our photos taken holding the crude bomb whilst the fuse burnt down the stem.

The events of the morning didn't stop Jack ordering roast llama for lunch. He quite enjoyed it too.

That afternoon we walked round the city, wandering through the colonial plazas and along steep, narrow cobbled streets in search of the churches whose spires we spotted over the red rooftops. We didn't have the energy for the Casa de Moneda (literally House of Coins, a museum located in a beautiful colonial mansion), which my family considers a crime. Instead, we discovered that for the price of a cup of tea in the cafe of a cathedral-like building on the main plaza, the proprieter would move aside the wrought iron gate from the entrace to a narrow stairway and let us climb up onto the roof. Coincidentally, we'd timed it perfectly; the sun was just setting. From atop of one of the highest buildings in Potosí, we got some awesome views of the city skyline against the pink and orange skies. I'm glad health and safety standards aren't so strict over here.

We both slept like logs that night. After, that is, I had to climb in through the bathroom window of our room to let us in. Our roommates had left with the only key. The next day, again with Koala Tours (we ate breakfast and lunch in their cafe, slept in their hostel, and went on their tours - they got a lot of our money this weekend), we hired mountain bikes and cycled some 25km to the aguas termales, or hot springs, of Tarapaya. The ride was great - mostly downhill, but then it didn't take much uphill to get us panting like dogs in the Sahara. The lake was beautiful, and a little surreal. It was surprisingly big, and higher up than most of the land around, so I wondered how come the water didn't somehow filter down and drain the lake. The water was warm without being too hot; very pleasant, if a little cloudy.

Unfortunately we couldn't get a bus to Cochabamba earlier than 7.30pm that evening, so we arrived back, after another sleepless night shivering under a sleeping bag on the bus, just in time for a shower and a quick breakfast before work on Monday. I arrived home to find the floor of my room covered in ants. Nice.

Lots and Lots

I just don't where to start on this one really, there's so much I want to put in. I guess a good place to start is last weekend. I took advantage of the civic strike on Friday (no transport, no shops open, road blocks everywhere - therefore no work) to visit Lake Titicaca, since it's quite a long way from Cochabamba and takes two buses and a good 13 hours to get there.


I was torn about what do do on Thursday night. I seriously contemplated sticking around, going in to Los Tiempos (the Bolivian newspaper I'm working with in the mornings, very highly rated nationally, I might add) and persuading the photographers to let me go with them to take photos. I had a little daydream of making my name as a journalist with my story and pictures of international-headline-worthy riots and violence, as there were in January (and as some people had been predicting). In the end, I decided: (a) it would be a bit risky to put myself in the middle of such things, since there's a fair amount of hostility to gringos at the moment given the tension with the US over coca (as well as other factors); (b) it would probably blow over peacefully and barely make national news, and if it was bigger, I could always get in on the act when I got back; and (c), it was too good an opportunity to miss to travel to Titicaca, since I wouldn't have another opportunity.

That night (I called them at about 7pm) I managed to persuade two other volunteers to pack their bags and head to the bus station at 9pm for an overnight bus to La Paz. Eleanor and Jack are both pre-uni gappers, from posh schools, and bonded well over rowing chat. We had a bit of time to spare before our bus at 10.30 so we went for a wander round the area, and came across a funfairn that looked like the attractions were built in the 1930s. We had a few games of table football (for the cost of 20 centavos, less than 2p) on a delapidated table before spotting a great big slide. The climb up the rickety stairs was almost as nerve-wracking as the descent. After a few goes and a lot of laughs, we headed over to the park's biggest attraction, the "rollercoaster". Even without loop-the-loops it was one of the scariest rides I've been on. It was so noisy and old, but actually quite fast. A very entertaining hour, for the cost of about 50p in total.

The bus journey was less fun. Turned out Eleanor hadn't quite recovered from some uncategorised illness she'd been suffering, and on top of that gets quite car sick, so had a very uncomfortable journey. So did I, sitting next to the poor thing whinging away whilst trying to sleep, but I did feel very sorry for her. Was quite funny when she got uncontrollable hiccups though. We had to change at La Paz at about 7am in the morning, and finally arrived in Copacabana (not the Copacabana of the song, but that didn't stop Barry Manilow getting stuck in my head for the entire journey - very frustrating when all I knew was that one word) at about 12.30. The bus was quite an adventure. We had to cross the lake half way through, which involved us all getting out to take a little boat over the channel whilst the bus (presumably too heavy and dangerous with us all on board) was ferried across on another. At the other side, next to the headquarters of the Bolivian Navy no less, we had to pass through "migration" (despite being a long way from any border), where Eleanor and Jack had to pay 150Bs each to bribe the official to let them pass, having both forgotten their passports. Apparently a copy was not enough. For once in my life I was the only one to have remembered to bring something!

Although perhaps not for poor Eleanor, who never felt well for the entire duration, for me it was a great weekend. Titicaca is just stunning. But what makes it all the more impressive is remembering that such a huge lake, which stretches as far as the eye can see, is located at an altitude of 3,800m. And of the altitude you cannot forget, thanks to the scarcity of oxygen that makes climbing even a single flight of stairs a superhuman effort. The first day we took a swan-shaped pedalo onto the lake (bloody hard work, we didn't get very far) and wandered round the little town. It's very touristy, with gringos in gringo trousers and alpaca jumpers (me now included) everywhere, but it's also really cute. The cathedral is very impressive for such a small place. Towards the evening we hiked up a little hill (yes it was a hike at that alitude; we had to do a lot of persuading to get Eleanor to the top) for some famously lovely views of the sunset over the lake. The colours were beautiful. The next day, we took a boat over to the Isla del Sol. It's a beautiful yet somehow bleak little island, affording some amazing views across the lake to the snow-capped mountains beyond. We hiked (poor Eleanor) from the north to the south of the island. When away from the ports at either end, it feels very remote, and despite the brilliant sunshine still felt chilly with the altitude. According to legend, this is where the sun was born, and it certainly is strong. It's also supposedly the birthplace of the Incas. There are correspondingly some very impressive Inca ruins, as well as a couple of rocks that, according to legend (we failed to see it) are shaped like a puma and a frog. The island is a hotspot for tourists too: we were entertained along some of the way by a multicoloured gringo playing his Andean flute, and bought water from some little entrepreneureal kiosks dotted along the route. Out of sympathy for Eleanor, who was desperate for some sleep, we took the bus back during the day on Sunday and spent a couple of hours in La Paz, taking in the lovely old centre and the amusing coca museum again. The journey back wasn't so bad, there were a few films to entertain us and Eleanor coped much better. The toilets were gross though - but so was the Ladies in the bus terminal, which, no joke, is called the mingitorio.

Turns out that on Friday there were roadblocks and some demonstrations, but generally it was fairly peaceful. It didn't make international news, that I'm aware of. It would have been exciting to have been with the journalists covering it, but I think I did the right thing. There are always demos going on of some form or another, Bolivians are great at organising themselves. Guess it helps that there are loads of peasants without permanent jobs and therefore with time on their hands to demonstrate. It seems to work too, especially with such a lefty man-of-the-people president, Evo Morales, in power at the moment. Last week there were loads of disabled campesinos demanding more help and support from the government - and on Wednesday the government agreed to help them. Sounds great from a social perspective, but surely this kind of approach only encourages more groups to strike...? Ah well, makes things more interesting for tourists like me!

I feel bad about complaining about gappers. They're all very lovely. There are also now much fewer of us - in the week after I arrived about half of them all left. Besides Eleanor and Jack, there are perhaps 8 other volunteers with TAPA, and a few extras that the volunteers have got to know, most of whom I met last Tuesday night. I met one really cool guy my age, Alexis, but he's gone off to a little town in the jungle for his project. A good excuse to visit one weekend though! There are two others on the same project as me: Lamin, a crazy 25 year old drifter, and Melanie, a 27 year old professional economic journalist. Lamin doesn't have much Spanish, so it's just me and Melanie at Los Tiempos. At first I was a bit disappointed that Melanie's getting to write articles and do interviews for Los Tiempos (thanks to her professional experience) whilst I've been sent to the photography department, but now I'm actually quite glad. The photographers are great fun, always making jokes, and I've been out to various press conferences (including one held by the key opposition party Podemos, immediately before which I made the fatal mistake of failing to kiss the speaker on the cheek when introduced; very embarrasing) and the site of a road accident. Today one of the photographers took me to an event in the central plaza which unfortunately had all finished when we got there, so instead we wandered round some artesan markets and an art exhibitionhe gave me some coaching in taking photos, which was very cool.

Meanwhile, for the English Cochabanner, besides making sense of articles comically badly translated from Spanish, I've conducted my first ever interview. I met with the American (North American, that is) director of a charity MedioAmbiente Bolivia to chat about their work and their new radio show. It was great fun, and really interesting, especially given my interest in environmental issues. She even claimed to be impressed with me. I'm working on the article at the moment for next month's issue. I've got another interview tomorrow with the director of a charity that works with people with AIDS. Unfortunately this woman is pure Bolivian I think, so entirely in Spanish. I am scared. I'm not sure whether my Spanish is up to it! I found this charity through a girl called Jen who works here teaching English as well as volunteering with this charity every Monday to give Reiki to the AIDS sufferers. She's a former TAPA volunteer (4 years ago in her gap year, when she had crazy dreadlocks) who loved it so much she had to come back. She comes to my family's house for lunch every day, which is really nice.

It also turns out that there are in fact decent gyms in Cochabamba, so, as I promised myself I would, I joined. It's very modern and really big (it's even got fingerprint recognition instead of membership cards for entry!), but unfortunately, like the rest of Bolivian society, it's very male-oriented. The weights room is huge, but there are only about 10 cardio machines, and it gets very busy. But it does the job, and for about 10 English pounds for a months unlimited membership it's not bad. The only thing is that with working in the mornings and the afternoons, my Spanish classes till 6, AND going to the gym afterwards, I just have no time! But then that's the way I like it I guess!

Tear gas, strikes, and other such craziness

Made it to Cochabamba. I don't know what the Lonely Planet was on about, the road was fine. It took a very long time though, which was less than pleasant on a bus full of campesinos (peasants) who, with all due respect to their culture and traditions, smelt like they hadn't had a bath in a week.

With the sun blazing through the bus windows and heating up the stale air, I was feeling very hot and stuffy in jeans and a t-shirt. Yet next to me sat an indigenous, sun-browned woman with impossibly long black pigtails joined together at the ends with blue ribbon wearing enough layers to overheat an Eskimo. At least I hope they were layers, otherwise she must have been morbidly obese. She had on at least three pleated skirts and as many woolly cardigans, with thick woolly tights underneath, and little pointy shoes on her surprisingly large feet. I suppose all these layers did serve some purpose; I saw her retrieve a money box, a mobile phone and her lunch of meat and rice from the folds of her skirts. Oh, the contradictions of tradition and modernity. She was also carrying a huge bundle of God knows what (her entire life and family, it looked like) wrapped up in a huge bright pink, green, blue and yellow patterned blanket.

I got my first taste of the chaos of Cochabamba as soon as I arrived, when I had to wait nearly an hour in the bus terminal to be picked up because political demonstrations in the city centre were holding up the traffic.

I got my second on Sunday at the weekend football match between Wilstermann (named after some German aviator, I forget the connection exactly) of Cochabamba, and San José. The football wasn't too bad actually, and ended 1-1. But most exciting to watch was the crowd. The stadium is smaller than those I've been in so far, and had only concrete steps for seats, but the fans were even crazier than those in Ecuador and Argentina. The hardcore fans, again, were in clearly demarcated sections, all wearing team colours, bouncing up and down, chanting constantly, waving their arms (and their t-shirts) and letting off flares (!) of the colour of their team . There were balloons and confetti everywhere, as well as the debris that they were hurling all over the place. It was quite spectacular, but it all passed without too much trouble. Until, that is, when towards the end of the match the people seated in the away team section all suddenly rose from their seats and clambered frantically away from a spreading cloud of white smoke in the middle of the stand. I've never seen a crowd split so fast. At first looked like the smoke came from another flare. It seemed very odd, and I couldn't figure it out, until one of the volunteers I was with mentioned the words 'tear gas'. "Ooh, never seen that before," I thought, with curiosity. A few minutes later, we too were clutching jumpers to our faces with stinging eyes and noses and fleeing the stadium with everybody else. Outside, it was chaos. There were hundreds of people running in every direction, and there were armed police everywhere too. Some were in riot vans driving slowly down the streets with their guns at the ready, sirens blaring, and - scariest of all - firing tear gas into the crowds. Meanwhile, two of our group had been pickpocketed during the frenzy. It was exciting, but in such an unfamiliar and schocking situation I also found myself quite scared.

Cochabamba is a nifty city though. Despite being the third largest in Bolivia there are only about 60,000 inhabitants, so it feels more like a town to me. It seems more modern than La Paz, with plenty of high-rise offices and hotels as well as restaurants, cafés, shops, gyms (one of which I have to get round to joining)... Though there are of course the classic cobbled streets, pretty buildings and impressive plazas of the colonial era, as well as blind street beggars, hundreds of empanada stalls, bustling markets, and plenty of gringo-oriented souvenir stalls selling alpaca items, bright Bolivian textiles, and those crazy-coloured stripey cotton trousers that are everywhere in South America. They look like appallingly tasteless pyjama bottoms; none of the locals wear them and no self-respecting European would be seen dead in them at home, yet every gringo I've encountered seems to own a pair and wear them every other day. I finally succumbed this weekend and bought a more modestly coloured pair (black and brown) for all of about two English pounds, though I haven't brought myself to wear them in public yet.

The location is impressive too. I forget what cocha means, but bamba means valley in Quechua, and accordingly the city is located in a beautiful fertile valley. The views from the higher stands of the football stadium are pretty incredible; not only do you have a great view of the pitch, but all around are green mountains. Atop of one of the hills closer to the city is perched a giant white statue of Jesus - the biggest Jesus in the world apparently, bigger even than the Jesus overlooking Rio. It glows different colours at night, and apparently you can climb up into Him and walk into His arms. There has even been the occasional suicide from His armpit.

I've settled in to my new home, a lovely detached bungalow in the northern suburbs of the city with a garden - perfect for sunbathing. The family seems great, if a little crazy. Cristina is very mothering (smothering, almost) but really friendly, and her husband Germán is full of interesting information about the history and politics of Bolivia. The two daughters, Pamela and Vanessa, are really nice but don't seem to do very much except watch TV, spend hours on the computer, and sleep. There are also two cute little dogs and a beautiful white and ginger cat. Two other volunteers, Marie-Anne and Amelia, were living in the house but left last night. It was useful to have them around to show me a bit of the town and introduce me to the other volunteers, who as I feared are mostly pre-university gappers. They're lovely people and great fun but, although it makes me sound old and pompous, they do annoy me a little with their insecurities and niaivities, associating only with the other volunteers, speaking only English, worried only about going out every night and spending half of these nights dancing with different boys/girls and then whinging about what they're going to do about their girlfriend/boyfriend back home.

Similarly, being a volunteer for Teaching and Projects Abroad (or TAPA) feels a lot like going back to high-school. I've been accompanied to and from the office, had a city tour, been given sheets of rules and regulations and what to do in various situations, and explained the dos and don'ts of being here. If you believe what they tell you, Cochabamba is riddled with gringo-traps. On only my first day I put myself in grave danger by walking into town via the bridge between the northern suburbs and the centre, because under the bridge live gangs of scary evil glue-sniffers that prey on unsuspecting tourists. "You went into town on your own??" asked Marie-Anne and Amelia incredulous of my bravery. "How did you know where to go??" I'm not allowed to eat anything from the streets in my first week to protect my delicate stomach (despite having done so without problems for several months now), I'm not allowed to cycle along the cycle tracks or walk outside of the safe zones in the centre of the city, and if I ever want to take a taxi I have to call one of a few selected companies. Heaven forbid I use one from the street. Taking time off from work is strictly forbidden, and any weekend travel has to be carefully planned to the finest detail and cleared with TAPA. I have to inform my host family of my every move, and tell them when I will return home.

On the other hand, it is nice to have a good bunch of gringos to mix with, and the staff at TAPA, if a little over-protective and patronising, are lovely people. When I protested that I can't leave Bolivia without seeing the salt flats, for which I'd need at least 4 full days and therefore time off work, my supervisor Ximena suggested that, in return for writing a related article and keeping it hush-hush from the others, time off can be arranged. Definitely the best thing about arriving in Cochabamba is being able to unpack properly. No more living out of a top-loader backpack with way too much stuff to fit inside it: I've got two months of permanent residence ahead of me. Unless I get kicked out for talking to a stranger or something. My family have already commented critically that I've been out every night since I got here. (I've been out twice, and got back at 10.30 on one of those occasions.)

From one world to another

Of all the cities in South America, I don't think any can be more chic than Buenos Aires. I took a city tour by bike (how very French) with a lovely Argentine girl who showed me the classic sights. We cycled along the banks of the sparkly new port lined with restaurants, expensive clubs and hotels (including the Hilton); through plazas and parks adorned with fountains, memorials (not least the memorial to those that died in the Falklands War) and statues that were gifts from various countries; by huge mansions, cathedrals and impressive government buildings (one painted in pastel pink); through the modern business district full of glass-walled skyscrapers designed by world-reknowned architects; and to the famous La Boca barrio, the amazingly colourful old centre of Buenos Aires and the birthplace of Tango, brimming with trendy cafés, bars and restaurantes as well as the inevitable souvenir shops and tango dancers posing for photographs. Even more so than the rest of Buenos Aires, it's full of descendents of French, Italian and other fashionable European nationalities wearing the latest fashions, sipping coffee or maté with friends. Maté is a strongly flavoured hot drink brewed from a mixture of herbs drank in Argentina and sometimes Chile in the same way we drink coffee. They drink it from little metal-lined spherical mugs through a special straw designed to filter out the bits. They love it, but to me it tasted like drinking cigarettes. I guess it's an aquired taste.

Besides fashion, tango and maté, Argentinians also love their football. Boca Juniors is Buenos Aires (and Argentina's) most famous team, but they were playing away during my stay, so I had to settle for watching a game of their arch-rivals River Plate instead. They were playing another but lesser Buenos Aires team, Independiente. I went with a bunch of other gringos on the trip organised by the hostel, which we paid 100 pesos for. When we were given the tickets it turned out they only cost 30 pesos each - we paid 70 for transport! And we were sat in a pretty dead section of the stands. We did have a good view of the home supporters at the other end though, bouncing up and down and singing for the entire game, and could hear the antics of the away fans above us, especially when they decided to throw debris (of God knows what) into the stands below. The football itself was a bit pants. It was a very scrappy game, with 2 players sent off, that only ended in a 1-1 draw despite River Plate being strong favourites to win. The crowd weren't too happy with the performances either, it seemed, booing and whistling after the final whistle.

I had a flight to Santiago de Chile at 7.25am on Tuesday, so I had to leave at 4.30am. There was a party in the hostel on Monday night, which I wasn't necessarily intending to get involved in, but I met one of the guys from the pub in Ushuaia there, and later got chatting to various other of the hostel-goers, so it was 3am when I finally got to bed for a power nap.

Santiago is another huge South American capital, with some 6 million people living in a valley mid-way between the coast and the Andes. Like Buenos Aires, but slightly less obviously, it also aspires to emulate the cities of Europe rather than those of the rest of the continent. I spent my day there wandering the Bellavista district, where my friendly hostel was located, amongst international restaurants, cafés and theatres, and the Parque Metropolitano, on a hill in the middle of the city sprawl. It's an interesting park, most easily accessed by a funicular, or train, up the steep hill. At the top is a church and a monument of the Virgin Mary (yup, another one) overlooking Santiago. The views from the top would be spectacular, were it not for the thick brown cloud of smog hanging over the city. The park itself is not too accessible. I wandered along a trail into the forest, but was told it wasn't safe to do so alone, so turned back to the roads and footpaths. Instead, I took the cable car down into the rest of the park to see open air swimming pools, pretty botanical gardens, and several cafes.

La Paz, on the other hand, is pretty much the polar opposite of Buenos Aires. It's hard to believe I'm in the same continent. The highest capital city in the world, sprawled across a valley at a dizzying height of 3,650m, embodies the classic South America of poncho-wearing peasants, poverty and political problems. The drive in from the airport (where security was about as lax as I've ever encountered) was a little scary in a beat-up taxi, and I was immediately reminded of the cities of Peru and Ecuador by the shabby buildings and street-dwelling peasants selling their miscellaneous wares. Exploring the city confirms it as being of the third-world, to use a horrible cliché. Many of the streets are narrow, cobbled and congested with minibus taxis spewing out black smoke. Markets fill the plazas, with stalls selling everything from household gadgets like screwdrivers and lightbulbs, wired up just to prove that they work, through herbs, potions and charms (not least dried-out llama foetuses and snake skins), to the thousands of alpaca sweaters, scarves, hats and gloves we gringos love. In the plazas, men and women try to earn a few centavos shining shoes, hiding their shame behind black balaclavas and ski masks. Tourism is obviously the most profitable trade, evidenced by the countless internet cafés, call centres (which all advertise calls to Israel at $0.70 por minuto), tour agencies, hostels and souvenir shops. I spent most of yesterday exploring the streets and watching the peasants go by. In the central San Francisco Plaza, just outside the beautiful old church of the same name, frequent gunfire alerted me to the demonstrations that were taking place (as I think they probably always are). Banners hung from the monuments protesting for something or other, a few leaders with megaphones announced their demands, and hundreds of peasants gathered blocking the streets. The armed, uniformed police or military (hard to tell) seemed to be doing little.

It's a fascinating city, made even more appealing because everything is so inexpensive. I had a great three course meal in a nice gringo restaurant for under $3. I've got a ticket for a 7 hour bus journey for $5. Entry to great little museums (including one documenting everything associated with the controversial coca leaf, which, if more than slightly biased against the West and at times simply wrong in its facts, was fascinating) cost next to nothing. A coca tea in a nice café (I've had a bit of a headache from the altitude) was about 25p. The hostel I found in the Lonely Planet is certainly cheap (less than $3 per night) but, with the exception of the friendly guy on reception, not so cheerful. My private room is bright and airy but the ensuite bathroom is locked, the matress is stiff and misshapen, I needed earplugs to sleep, and the shower was so cold this morning that putting my head under the water caused me real pain. But it was a bed, and after another early morning flight yesterday I was grateful for whatever I could get. I considered changing to a more touristy hostel with hot water today, but couldn't be bothered.

I leave for Cochabamba tomorrow morning, via bus. Apparently the road can be a bit hairy, which scares me a little, but I save about $40, and with so many buses and so many travellers using the route, it can't be so bad. If I don't blog again, you'll know it was a bad move.

Patagonia

Got back from Patagonia on Friday. It was a fantastic couple of weeks, spent mostly eating (or so it feels), though there was some hiking too. The group was really good fun, except for one rather wierd guy who went crazy at the end. Again I was the youngest one by some years. There were: Ann, 58, a lovely Austrailian nurse with heaps of energy travelling the world after the death of her husband; Olivia, 33, a fantastic Irish girl who made me laugh almost as much as the previous Irish trio; Kate, 27, a really nice Harvard medical student who'd been working in hospitals in South America; her brother Dan, 30, a cute lawyer who'd enjoyed near-celebrity status as a contestant in the US reality show "For Love or Money" (hehe); Rudy and Cecile, 45 and 37, a Swiss couple who had sold their restaurant in Interlaken to travel round the world; Nina, my roomie, 29, an engineer from Austria; and finally Sean, 33, a health-freak working in computers for Meryl Lynch in New York.

Much of the south Patagonian landscape is desolate, with little vegetation, so scrubby nothingness stretches out for miles, into distant snowy mountains and interrupted by the odd lake or river. It reminded me of Iceland. In both places, long grey winters characterised by lots of snow and little daylight make the people long for colour to brighten up their lives, so they paint their sturdy houses in bold clashing colours. Bright pink and yellow was a popular combination. The towns also have a very alpine feel, no doubt owing to the European roots of most Argentinians, who sought to bring something of the mountain resorts of France, Austria and Italy to their new settlements. They are very modern though, and clearly oriented to empty the pockets of the countless tourists who pass through on the Patagonia trail. The small town centres are filled with shops selling souvenirs and cold weather hiking gear, tourist agencies advertising tours to the glaciers, cosy coffee and yummy chocolate shops, and plenty of bars and restaurants offering giant steaks and local beer.

Our first stop, El Calafate, was a collection of garishly coloured buildings stood together on the banks of a lake in the middle of nowhere. We had a day or two there to explore the gift shops, drink hot chocolate, watch a bizarre rugby tournament and fend off the countless stray dogs who seem to populate the streets of every Argentinian town. Next was the Perito Moreno glacier. It is incredible. At 250 square kilometres in area and 30km in length, it is the most famous of 48 glaciers in the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares. We had a boat trip to the terminus of the glacier, which advances into Lago Argentina, but towers 60m above the water at its end. Most remarkable is the colour of the ice: a bright turquoise blue, resulting from compression to such an extent that all of the oxygen is squeezed out. Mr Roberts would be proud that I remembered that from my geography lessons. It was freezing on the boat, but I didn't let numb fingers stop me from taking a silly amount of photos. (Must get round to posting them on the web sometime.)

Our second stop was El Chaltén, a tiny town in a valley next to a popular hiking area at the base of the Fitz Roy, the highest mountain in Patagonia at 3375m. The mountains and valleys weren't quite as impressive as those of the Cordillera Blanca in Peru, but were no less beautiful. Coming right at the end of the hiking season, just as autumn was fading into winter, not only did we have the trails to ourselves but we saw the park at it's prettiest. The snow had begun to fall, but the trees had not yet lost their leaves, so the fiery reds, oranges and yellows of the Patagonian vegetation blazed across the valleys, contrasted perfectly by the sparkling white of the fresh scattered snow, the dark greys of the rocky mountain peaks, and the striking blues of the small lakes. We walked through decidous forests and by babbling streams and picnicked on the pebbled shores of a lake with views of blue-tinged glaciers carving more shapes into the mountains above. We stayed in a cute little hostel run by a friendly Argentinian called Marcelo, but we managed to break their toilets and the woman who did our laundry managed to destroy our synthetics. Or rather, Ann broke their toilets and they destroyed her laundry. It provided lots of giggles anyway. We spent the evenings (just as we spent every spare moment) eating, as well as sampling the yummy local brew. Except Sean, who was tee-total and walked out of a couple of restaurants with no apology because he claimed to have detected a whiff of cigarette smoke.

From El Chaltén we crossed the border by bus into Chile and stopped in sleepy Puerto Natales, half of whose residents seemed to have already left for the winter. Our hotel was very interesting, with every room decorated in pastel pink, from the bedclothes, wallpaper and curtains to the frills on the toilet. From Puerto Natales we spent three days hiking in the Torres del Paine national park, full again of glaciers, mountains, forests, rivers and waterfalls, with a great guide called Mariano. We saw hundreds of giraffe-like guanacos, the Patagonian relative of the llama, and, best of all, several condors soaring majestically above us. After so much talk of them, and seeing only one in Peru, I'd considered them to be some kind of rare mythical creature, but we saw plenty down here. Mariano pointed out a condor nest in a niche in a rocky valleyside, noticeable because of the white smear of condor crap just below it. Waking up in the campsite to views of the mountains illuminated in pink and yellow by the early morning sun was pretty special. And camping was much more comfortable than I'd expected - definitely didn't need the extra sleeping bag I'd packed just in case. Sean complained of the cold sleeping on his own though. I don't think camping is really his thing. Whilst the rest of us were happy enough to rough it for a few days, he insisted on taking 2 showers per day. The night we returned to Puerto Natales the owners of the frilly pink hotel cooked us a lovely meal and we celebrated our tour leader Ursula's 30th birthday with cake and candles. We had the place entirely to ourselves, and the family got out their guitar and sung typical songs and danced for us all. (Except Sean, who went to bed straight after dinner.)

Punta Arenas, on the shores of the Estrecho de Magallanes, or the Magellan Straits. We were supposed to have an excursion to see penguins from Punta Arenas, but unfortunately all the penguins had migrated already, to go and lay eggs and start marching in Antartica or something. Very disappointing. I was soo excited about seeing penguins. So instead we wandered down to the "beach", fended off more stray dogs, wandered round some more gift shops, and ate lots. Whilst it's true that steaks are the main feature of the cuisine down here (and everyone in the group agreed that they were the best steaks they'd tasted), it really isn't too difficult to get veggie options. I had some yummy pizza, pasta and salads. In the evening, Rudy and Cecile supervised a group cooking session, which was very successful. Sean refused to eat what we'd prepared because the pasta was white and not wholemeal, despite the fact that he ate loads of white bread for his lunches.

We had a long bus ride down to Ushuaia, the southern-most city in the world, on the shores of the Beagle Channel on the island of Tierra del Fuego. It was made just about bearable with music, my book and (of course) snacking, and we got some entertainment from a couple of hungover Americans boasting loudly about their sexual conquests. Olivia grossed the entire bus out when she opened a bag of day-old cabbage. Ushuaia is an interesting city, with that familiar mixture of alpine shop fronts and garishly painted buildings. Behind the city are white snowy mountains that most of the time are engulfed in low grey clouds, and in front is the harbour, full of tour boats and cargo ships. We took a trip on a boat to the islands of Tierra del Fuego and saw colonies of sea lions and cormorants. I'm glad I took a sea-sickness pill, it was pretty rough. One of the museums is very interesting. It's called the maritime museum, but as well as displaying the history and artefacts of famous maritime explorers and Antartic expeditions it has exhibits about native life and culture, the history of Ushuaia, the oil industry, penguins, the prison of Ushuaia and its convicts, and pictures of prisons from all over the world, in a very random order. The museum is based in the former prison of Ushuaia, which served as a penal colony for the worst offenders in Argentina. Notoriously, the prison required only a thin fence for security since escapees were forced to return by the isolation and harsh climate of its location. Dan, Kate, Nina and I went hiking in the national park, and discovered a delicious vegetarian take-out place where we got lunch for each of the three days we stayed there. I was very happy! Next door, too, was a chocolate shop called the Edelweiss, with really amazing chocolate. In honour of Olivia we all (except Sean) went to an Irish pub one night, which seemed the place to be. The boastful Americans from the bus were there, as well as the other tourists from our boat trip, and the familiar mix of Americans and Israelis. Dan had to avoid the attentions of a local man with dodgy hair, and when the others left Olivia and I were approached by the remaining men as if they hadn't seen women in weeks.

We were due to take a flight back to Buenos Aires at 2.30pm on Friday, but it was delayed. SEan was due to take a flight back to New York at 9.45pm that night. He got very stressed that he might miss his flight and took it out on Ursula in the common room of the hotel in the presence of the rest of us and the hotel staff. He yelled that it was her responsibility to make sure that he got his flight home, and that GAP had promised him he would be ok. Nina and I left when it all started getting nasty, but apparently it got worse. He tried to involve the rest of the group, and when they refused to agree that Ursula was in the wrong he turned on them too, including Rudy and Cecile who he'd been following around like a puppy for the entire trip, and who'd been too polite to tell him to leave them alone. He insulted Ann so much that she slapped him, and the hotel were on the verge of calling the police. He refused to talk to any of us after that. He did miss his flight, and had to stay in our hotel in Buenos Aires and catch a flight the next day. Fortunately we didn't encounter him again, but we had a good gossip about how weird he was. He hadn't spoken to his parents in 10 years and had no desire to get in touch with them, which I think is always a bad sign. Dan reckoned he was homophobic, and it seems that he slept in a chair in the common room in El Chaltén to avoid having to sleep in the same dorm as Dan, despite Dan making it clear early on that he was straight. He told Rudy he feels uncomfortable around women, but was always boasting to the rest of us about the women he'd had, and once said that unless he leaves a bar with a woman the night has been a waste of time for him. He was an interesting guy to talk to but I think he's got OCD and probably a lot more problems besides!

Friday night was great fun. We went to a tango show, which made me sure I want to learn salsa when I head to Bolivia, and then for a drink, before Olivia and I went out to a club. Olivia found us some Irish guys to chat with, and somehow we passed the time until about 6.30am. We got back to the hotel just in time for breakfast before bed. I woke up with 2 fire extinguishers on the dressing table and very wet clothes from splashing around in the swimming-pool-type water feature in the club. Did not have the energy to go out last night, so had a very nice night's sleep. I'm in a hostel at the moment, the "party hostel". When I checked in at 2ish, my roomates were sleeping. When I went to bed at about 10.30pm, they were getting up and ready to go out. When I was waking up at 9ish, they came back and went to bed. I reckon you'd be jetlagged after a few nights of Buenos Aires nightlife. I'm off to a football game this afternoon, yay!