I am in the process of migrating to another blog platform – maybe when WordPress has better support for Web 2.0 I will move back. Some postings are still in the process of being migrated.
Here is the link: http://shanemustard.blogspot.com/
Let me know what you think of the change.
George strides with his 70 year old gait through his harem of females, some of whom he´d had his way with just this very morning. We know this because the act had been carefully logged by The Watcher. Georges´s craggy face and mournful eyes seem to convey the immense responsibility that goes with being the very last member of your species.
Discovered in 1971 on the Galapagos island of Pinta, by goat hunters, Lonesome George is the last tortoise of his particular genus. He was transferred to the Darwin Research Institute on Santa Cruz island in an attempt to mate him with females who are most closely related to him, genetically. Up until recently all attempts to arouse him have failed.
When our group visit Lonesome George at the Darwin Centre, there is great excitememt, because now at the age of 70, George has finally reached tortoise adolescence (he can expect to live to at least 300 years) and has become interested in the opposite sex.
Lonesome George
Handsome
His mating habits are being carefully monitored and several clutches of eggs have been discovered. Hopes are high that fertile baby tortoises will be the result. It goes without saying that most of the day, of our visit, is peppered with jokes about the sex life of tortoises.
The diversity and abundance of wildlife in the Galapagos is truly astounding. Our excursions, over the course of eight days, to a few of the many islands of the Galapagos reveals that each island has their own unique landscape and ecosystem. From lava landscapes, mangrove swamps, volcanic sands to barren deserts, life is, incredibly, everywhere.
Sea Lions laze languidly on sandy beaches; while marine iguanas clamber out of the sea to silently sprawl, limbs draped over other warm bodies, in large groups on the volcanic rocks; lava lizards stand guard over their egg containing burrows; Blue Footed Boobies dance, while whistling and grunting at each other, in comic mating rituals; overhead pre historic looking Frigate birds soar; Albatrosses circle over rocky cliffs preparing for clumsy landings; multitudes of Darwin´s Finches gather in social groups and giant tortoises gather slowly in the grassy highlands or scrub bushes. Snakes, hawks, flamingoes and herons are accasionally spotted.
Blue Footed Booby
Its a Sea Lion´s Life
The Sea Lions Win Hands Down In The Lazy Competition
These Guys Get Really Big
Sally Lightfoot
Marine Iguanas Digesting
More Iguanas
During our daily snorkelling sessions (water 22 degrees) curious sea lions swim playfully amongst us; giant turtles, spotted eagle rays and white tipped reef sharks glide below us; and fish of all sizes, shapes and colours are everywhere.
Our boat, The Samba, and her crew are perfect hosts. Juan, our guide is extremely knowedgeable, animated and has perfect comic timing. The group of fellow passengers (14 in all) get along extremely well, and the amazing meals (cooked by the best cook in the Galapagos, Alfredo) are always sociable.
Los Passageros Del Samba
Our trip to the Galapagos ends up exceeding our already high expectations.
The blue one is the Samba
No expensive specialised equipment, nor fancy lures are required for Pirahna fishing. Patience isn´t required either, so no long hours sitting under the shade of a tree waiting for a bite.
The fishing pole I am given is a short length of bamboo with a fishing line tied on one end. A hook and small lead weight complete the gear requirements. The bait consists of a raw juicy steak, cut into small pirahn bite sized pieces. It all looks a bit like the beginnings of a tasty stew.
The learning curve is also short – thread a bit of beef on the hook and swing the line into the river. The fish start biting immediately; short sharp tugs. A few nibbles and the bait is gone; repeat.
Hooking the beasties is, of course, a little more tricky and requires a bit of technique – or luck, I never quite worked out which.
During the mornings fishing I manage to pull out five and Vicki a few more. The guide decides that we haven´t caught enough and proceeds to pull out a good dozen in about 20 minutes – so technique must count. The fish are deep fried, whole, in butter for lunch make surprisingly tasty eating, even if the bone to flesh ratio is extremely high.
Mind Your Feet!!
Sure They´re Small, But You Wouldn´t Want A Bite
( ) ...Caption Competition, Anyone???
Some of our photos (well mainly Vicki´s) have been used in a story on the website Now Public, here´s the link:
http://www.nowpublic.com/environment/hearty-taste-cowboy-life-brazil
Our flight to Costa Rica was delayed and then cancelled yesterday. After a long afternoon at the TACA office we rescheduled for today. After getting to the airport at 4am this morning we discovered our flight is delayed by 4 hours. Oh well the frustrations of travel.
I have been using the time unconstructively by web surfing aimlessly - I have added some useless feeds to the sidebar: Twitter and Good Reads. Now you can see what I am up to currently and what I am reading. That is, If I can be bothered to keep them updated.
The 4pm Yungay Express finally arrives at 5:30pm. Vicki and I have been waiting for a bus since 11 am. Neither the promised 1pm nor the 2pm bus appeared. The bus stop town of Vaqueria consists of a short dusty road and small huddle of buildings on the top of a hill, next to a signboard indicating the border of the Huascarin National Park. From the street I can see the steep trail zigzagging down the hill, across a river before gently ascending up the opposite valley to the rural village of Huaripampa. There are two small shops in Vaqueria, almost directly opposite ech other, selling almost identical basic foodstuffs. During the long day we divide our Soles between the two buying biscuits, water and overripe bananas.
We idly watch: a rooster and his hens pecking in the street; a large pig and some piglets get led to a swill bucket to messily eat; a couple of young schoolchildren arrive home; the sound of a wind instrument drifts across from one of the houses as someone practices for an upcoming parade; the occassional bus, truck or collectivo passes by in a dust cloud; bored dogs and cats wander by. A couple of the collectivos appear to be heading in our direction – one stops for us, but not having any seating space, and neither of us fancy crouching for the 3 hour ride, so we wave him on. The second minibus has passengers hanging from the roof racks and does not even bother to stop.
At 1pm an elderly man appears, puffing up the steep trail. He waits patiently with us, seemingly unperturbed by the bus timetabling. After the 1pm and 2 pm fail to materialise he assures us that the 4:30 express never fails to arrive – eventually.
The Yungay Express finally arrives in a cloud of dust, and I am distinctly underwhelmed by it. The seats are all taken and already there is a long line of standing passengers. The amiable driver and his assistant offer for us to sit up front in the cab with them. Vicki gets the passenger seat and I, the fold out one next to the driver.
It rapidly becomes apparent that all is not quite well with the Yungay Express. The petrol for feeding the engine is not coming from the fuel tank, but rather from the plastic jerry can next to Vicki´s feet. A plastic length of tubing runs from the can, disappearing through a hole in the floor. We make regular stops en route for the driver and his assistant to siphon petrol out of the tank and pour it into the jerry can. A number of passengers get involved in this activity.
During this interactive journey I get assigned two tasks by the driver: while the vehicle is in gear I must hold the gear shift steady to prevent it vibrating alarmingly and potentially, and possibly fatally, jumping out of gear; my right foot is required to firmly press against the dashboard housing to prevent it from sliding forward and knocking against the gear shift and potentially, and possibly fatally, causing it to jump out of gear. Vicki, meanwhile, has her hands full trying to prevent the jerry can from sliding around. The driver´s assistant jumps out of the cab every so often, to mysteriously adjust various engine components under the bonnet until the driver indicates that he is satisfied with the hum of the motor by tapping his ear.
The drive itself is spectacular, if a little scary. We ascend along a dirt track over a pass of about 5000 metres before plunging dramatically, through a series of switchbacks, into the rapidly darkening valley below. the bus driver and his assistant animatedly point out the various peaks, lakes and views to us: Huascarin´s mighty snow capped peak; Llanganuco lake in the valley far below and the roadside cross designating where a bus load of thirty plunged to their deaths after, presumably, failing to negoatiate the tight turn.
Our progress is slow, a good thing as the bus swings alarmingly over the edges as we twist our way down the steep mountain side. Halfway down we pick up some english tourist, left stranded after their bus broke down, and, now dangerously overloaded we continue, with a slight stop when alarmed shouts from the back indicate that the overhead luggage rack has broken off its mounting due to so many tourists leaning on it.
The rest of the five hour journey to Huaraz is relatively uneventful, with most passengers getting off at Yungay at the bottom of the pass. Vicki and I eventually get a couple of well deserved seats with about 20 minutes to go.
The first day is a slow and gentle ascent – tiring due mainly to the altitude and weight on our backs. A constant irritation are the squadrons of biting flies – unlike the warning drone of mosquitoes, these tiny assassins are deadly silent and by the time you feel the bite it is already too late.
Our first night´s camp is at Llamacorral, on a gentle plateau (called a pampa). It is icily windswept and like the rest of the valley extensively grazed by a hardy breed of cattle. The campsite is marked by a roughly built wooden kiosk, a toilet (less said about that the better) and a shelter containing a small family. The friendly campesino sells us a well earned beer and we set up camp in a field adjacent to some mules. As the sun sets, the wind mercifully, drops and from our sheltered campsite we watch thin tendrils of mist creep up the steep sides of the valley.
The following day is another gentle hike past two lakes, a small one and then a much larger one. Then a steep climb up to the campsite at Taullipampa (4050 m). The official campsite resembles a rubbish dump due to all the litter (I suspect the tour groups are the culprits as there is a lot of cardboard boxes and bulk tins, egg boxes etc that only mules would have carried up). We continue uphill for another few minutes and find a much better sheltered campsite. It is a stunning location, with a long view down the valley and snow capped mountains towering over us and glaciers sliding down their sides. Unfortunately, as we find out during the night, it is also regarded as nocturnal grazing for a herd of insomniac cows, who spend most of the night loudly masticating and occasionally tripping over our guy ropes with a surprised moo, threatening to bring the tent down around us.
Day three, we do a day hike up a side valley to Alpamayo base camp, from which mountaineers attempt the various summits in the area. It is a beautiful walk with stunning views from the glacier fed lake at the top.
The following morning we strike camp shortly after dawn for, what we know, will be a long and difficult climb to the top of the Punta Union pass. The trail starts off as a series of gentle-ish switchbacks, but soon the altitude starts to take its toll. Our steps get shorter; our breathing shallower; the breaks get longer and the time between them shorter. All our energy is focussed on getting to the next bend in the trail, the only sound our laboured breathing.
At the top of the pass is a panoramic 360 degree view of icy peaks, the long valley we have climbed out of and the steep descent into the Huamhuaca valley still to come. We are lucky, not a single cloud blots our view and the splendour of the view leaves us awestruck.
The descent is steep, long and hot work. On the way down we pass a couple of tour groups and their mule trains who are ascending.
In the late afternoon we pitch our tent on the banks of a glacier fed river in a small wooded area of peeling red-barked quenua trees. It is a cold night, in the morning, their is ice on our tent and more disturbing – the toothpaste has frozen!
The final day is a short but tiring walk through a village and up the other side of the Vaqueria valley to the bus stop. We are told by the locals that there are 3 buses (1pm, 2pm and 4pm). We arrive at 11AM and finally get our bus at 5:30 pm.
The very popular Santa Cruz trail, in the Huascarin National Park (Northern Peru), runs from the small town of Cashapampa (2900 metres), in the west, to the bus stop outpost of Vaqueria (3700 metres), in the east, climbing over the spectacular Punta Union pass at 4700 metres. Most trekkers sign up with one of the many tour companies, and do the trail from west to east, with all their comforts provided for, depending on their budget, by a guide, cook and train of sturdy mules carrying all their provisions – leaving them with only a lunchbox to carry. In the spirit of independence and adventure (and a little bit of stubborness) Vicki and I are amongst the small group who elect to carry our own tent and supplies over the 4700 metre pass. Besides the mules are smelly and poop everywhere – also, we don´t fancy being stuck in a group of english lasses who complain about their tennis shoes not performing on the scree slopes. Guides are not really required as the trail is well signposted.
Santa Cruz Valley
The trek can be done in 4 days, but we have decided on an extra day for the climb to Alpamayo base camp. The Cordillera Blanca mountain range (part of the Andes) that the trail traverses is a spectacular collection of snow capped peaks (more than 50 of them over 5700 metres). At these altitudes the days are hot, with intense solar radiation, and the nights cold with temperatures plunging to below freezing.
As we repack our bags, the night before the hike, I hope our kit is up to the job.
I have left out blogging most of Brazil, but don´t panic. Most of the posts are in draft form awiting some pics. I will post these out of sequence as soon as.
Meanwhile – hot off the press and fresh back from the mountains is the Santa Cruz Trek, in bit sized episodic form – below…
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