August 22, 2008
The man must be in his late sixties, but he is as agile as a twenty year old, as he beats out a rhythm on his drum and moves his feet across the pavement, in time to the samba beat. Vicki and I are sitting at a plastic chair beach bar, on Copacabana beach, sipping Brahma beers, in the fading light, the sun having already disappeared behind the tall apartment holiday blocks behind us.
In the 40 minutes that we have been sitting here we have had 15 beach vendors come up to us with services and/or objects for sales, all with a very hard sell attutude; Football shirts, Caiparinha making kits, Towels, T-Shirts, Beads, Beads and more beads. The Samba man is number 15 and he finishes his routine by cheekily slapping out a beat on my shoes. As he accepts his tip he tells us that he is a Samba teacher in his full time job. Number 16 is another bead seller or, as we quickly find out, a drug seller disguised as a bead seller. We refuse to buy either his beads or his drugs, even though it is the drugs that he has a hard time believing we do not want. Eventually I accept his offer of barter, and I buy him a beer in exchange for a ring, of Vicki´s choice (who said I´m not a romantic).
His name is Kleva, and he tells us a bit about his life in Rio as he drinks his beer. He has an ex-wife and child living in the favelas that he needs to support by selling beads (which he claims to also make), and drugs. As he talks his embellished tale gets more unbelievable, and by the end I am convinced that he has been sampling way too much of his own products. Once he has gauged that my charity only extends to a single beer, he is quick to move on - as are we to avoid any more costly exchanges.
August 17, 2008
We`ve decamped to the upscale neighbourhood of Ipanema, to see how the ultra rich of Rio live. It`s an expensive neighbourhood and our accommodation is ultra pricey to match – it is also a dump! We instantly decide to just spend one night in our cardboard box and move elsewhere. The one night proves more than enough, especially after being woken at 3 am in the morning by farting and burping germans in the next room – the airbrick was just above my head.
On our second night a man tries to rob us, or he pretends he is about to rob us – I`m not really sure. We have just left a bar and have decided to go to a party that we have been invited to, when a man in a jacket, and sweating profusely, asks us something in Portuguese. “No fala Portuguese.”, I say, deploying one of my few Portuguese phrases. He tries to say something in English before shaking his head and walking off. We frown and cross a busy main road into a quite residential street.
Suddenly the man is back in front of us demanding money. He has his hand in his pocket and shows us what he says is a knife, or gun, I can`t understand him. I put my hand in my pocket and take out our decoy money, about 30 Reais (10 pounds). We have taken to not carrying anything, except what we immediately need in Brazil, so we don´t have a lot of money, but we do have some more stashed in other pockets.
“No”, he says, “give me the dollars in you back pocket.”
I have my pocket notebook in that pocket, and I take it out to show him. He has obviously been watching , has noticed the bulge and convinced himself I have a whole stack of dollar bills.
When he sees my notebook his menacing scowl changes into a smile, and he laughs. He thrusts the 30 Reais back into my hand and walks off laughing loudly. “Welcome to Rio!!”, he shouts repeatedly at us as we hurry away.
We are not exactly sure what has just happened, but it has shaken us and when head quickly for the nearest bar. We can only guess that he was after a big haul of dollars, and a handful of Reais was not worth the potential trouble it could have caused him. A very strange experience.
August 16, 2008
Not content with cycling down 3,500 odd metres, in altitude, we decide to hike down via the incan trail known as El Choro. Most people tend to do it with a guide, but various people I speak to say it is not necessary.
We get a tip from a dutch couple about an australian archaeologist who is writing a trekking guidebook and he needs volunteers to test it out. This seems like the perfect job to me. We meet him on a Friday evening at the Toucan Pub (which he also happens to own). He hands over a printed copy of his manuscript and goes over it with us. Apart from the spelling mistakes the guide looks very comprehensive and should prove useful.
-
- Los Chororeros
A couple of days later we are climbing a steep incline to 4900 metres – the start of the El Choro. From here it is mostly downhill, with a few punishing uphills, a particularly memorable one called the Devil´s Staircase. The trail is amazingly scenic and over the course of the three days we pass from glacial mountains, barren rocky outcrops, through a cloud forest and into tropical rainforests. Along the way we pass a Llama caravan carrying, what we believe to be axe handles to La Paz. At night we camp in small villages of only a couple of dwellings. The families are friendly and keep us well supplied with the essentials: beer, chocolate and water.
Not our Alpaca
On the last day we pass the Japanese man´s house. He is famous in the area and he tells us (in broken spanish with a bit of Japanese thrown in ) that he has been living here for 50 years. He arrived as a young man and it reminded him of Japan, so he decided to stay. He insists that everyone passing through, on the trail, signs in his register. He seems a bit eccentric and is not easy to understand, but he is very enthusiastic, and shows us a map of the world he has drawn on the register´s front cover and asks us to indicate where we come from.
It is a great relief to get to the end as the temperature has been steadily increasing as we descend. The days have also been very long with walks of about 7 to 8 hours each day – mostly downhill, so very punishing on the legs. When we back to Coroico we treat ourselves and spend a night in one of the nicer hotels.
August 11, 2008
The disclaimers we sign are ominous, and hint at possible death and at best a probable maiming. It´s also an expensive business, risking one´s life on a bike ride, but we have chosen the best guides with the best safety record – only a single death the salesperson proudly tells us (an elderly overweight man, surprisingly, suffered a heart attack and before plummetting 600 metres).
Our guide, a young kiwi called Dave, does not instill me with confidence. Lycra clad, a cycle jacket hinting at professional sponsorship together with a goatee and red tinted mohican makes him look every bit the reckless mountain biker, last seen tilting an expensive bike off the edge of an improbably steep cliff face. My confidence erodes further when he points out the steep mountain face he just recently biked down – the kind of shale slope most people would have difficulty walking down.
Despite all the indications, Dave turns out to be an excellent guide, and like everyone in the company is very focussed on safety security. The first stretch, starting at 4,700 metres is tarred and winds through some stunning scenery of craggy cliffs and steep gorges, with the heavy traffic giving the ride a bit of an edge. Most of the group declines the long uphill stage and the bikes get loaded onto the bus for this bit – we are still above 4,000 metres and I have no illusions about my ability to walk up the hill let alone cycle. My suspicions are borne out later when we elect to ride the only other uphill stage, a short bit that leaves everyone gasping for air and one biker crying out with ´… the strong taste of blood in my mouth.´.
The rest of the day is spent on the awesome dirt road section , sometimes just a few metres wide with drops into the jungle vegetation below, of 600 metres. The various sections all have their own character and we navigate through waterfalls and rivers cascading across the road.
-
- Halfway and still breathing
At the end we reach 1100 metres and our guide pronounces it a good ride – no-one has died or even fallen off their bikes. We have cycled for more than 5 hours from ice encrusted mountains to hot and humid rainforest.
We spend the night in the Sende Verde wildlife sanctuary for rescued animals and get to meet the inhabitants, which include: a pet anaconda, macaws, a howler monkey, coatis, capuchin monkeys and strangest of all a pair of spider monkeys.
The Strange Spider Monkey
We also meet a fellow South African, Gavin, who manages the restaurant at the reserve.
August 11, 2008
All the locals we meet make it clear that we can camp pretty much where we like – and there is no fee. We choose and idyllic sandy beach directly below the incan ruins. For the two days that we are resident, apart from a large population of flying insects, the beach remains deserted.
On the picturesque walk from Copacabana we passed a number of small villages and for a short period we were joined by an elderly gentleman, who was on his way to church. He told us he was a devout christian and follower of El Señor. He didn´t even drink beer when I requested to know his favourite brand (a good bonding mechanism I erroneously thought). ´But surely you drink wine?´, I asked, desperately groping for common ground, pointing out that Jesus turned the water into wine. ´Pocotito, on special occasions´, he smilingly admitted.
We had crossed from the headland to the North of the island on a short and bankrupting boat ride, the local village having a monopoly of this route.
On our short walk to our campsite a local man had popped his head over a hedge and sold us a bunch of bananas at a very reasonable price.
Base Camp
The island is small with no roads. The four main villages are connected by a network of Incan roads the run from Copacaban to the incan temple ruins (remarkably well preserved) in the far north of the island.
Incan Ruins
Hiking SouthOn our final day we trek back to the south, passing a number of tax points along the way - some of these look more official than others. We were told that there are only 2 of these, but in the end we pay thrice, the last one, possibly, trying his luck. In the spirit of international relations I give him the benefit of the doubt.The South of the island is overrun with tourists and has a completely different character to the North. We eventually manage to get on a cheap (and severly overloaded) ferry back.Negotiating A Drink
August 11, 2008
She lives in a box, as most statues of Mary and the Saints, do around here, on the top of a tall hill, on the outskirts of the small and holy town of Copacabana, overlooking the clear blue waters of Lake Titicaca. It is a short exhausting climb past the thirteen crosses, each depicting a station of the cross, and past the groups of the faithful offering prayers and, what to me look like bags of orange peels.
At the top, after bypassing the official photographer (´No gracias amigo, I don´t want my photo taken with the Virgin Mary´), are more statues of saints in boxes, and finally at the end, in the most prominent position – Our Lady Of Copacabana. The view of Lake Titicaca and the headland is even more impressive, and in the distance we spot tomorrow´s goal – Isla Del Sol, where we plan to hike to in the morning.
Holy Boxes
Around the Virgin, vendors sell wads of play money and wooden carvings of houses, cars, and household appliances. The idea is to buy what you desire, and then burn your chosen object in the purpose built fireplaces, and then go home to await delivery.
I can´t find a comfortable bus seat to burn so we head back down the hill.
Copacabana
Waiting for my miracle
August 11, 2008
My hiking boots prove a big hit with the shoeshine boys in Sucre, as they all insist on giving them a polish, for a couple of Bolivianos – every day. It gets so they just see me crossing the plaza and come running with the wax. Eventually, for the longevity of my shoes, I have to bribe them not to shine them - we give them empanadas and fruit instead. They eat the food and then ask if they can still shine my shoes for a few Bolivianos – just can´t win.
Another shoeshineAt The Market with American Al
August 5, 2008
The promise of seeing thousands of dinosaur footprints is too much for me, and together with a ride in the dinotruck seems like a worthwhile way to spend an afternoon in Sucre – Vicki doesn´t take much convincing. This turns out to be a big mistake. The ride, through typical Bolivian Mad Max traffic, takes half an hour and when we arrive the surrounding area looks suspiciously like a giant cement factory.
We reluctantly pay our entrance fee – by now we are beginning to suspect a dud. Things look up when we realise a free guided tour is included; the guide is wearing braces and his gums appear to be bleeding; he is carrying a small yellow umbrella; talks way too softly and sounds like he is reading off the informational boards; he also has the unnerving habit of breaking off in mid sentence and staring into space for a couple of minutes, before continuing – almost as if he is receiving the next sentence through an earpiece. That would explain the umbrella of course.
The main attraction, the dinosaur footprints, are across the valley embedded in an large upright wall of clay. They can only be seen through the telescopes after we have paid another 50 centavos to use them. We all scramble for some of the rare coins (change in Bolivia, as in most South American countries, are jealously guarded, due to shortages. In fact, it is not unusual to be given a small sugus sweet in lieu of change).
The Famous Dinosaur Footprints
The highlight, for me are the giant dinosaur statues which appear to have been reconstructed in incredible detail, bizarrely, right down to their anuses.
Oooh Lifelike
July 28, 2008
At night, viewed from the rooftop of our shabby hotel, the city of La Paz looks almost beautiful; the sparkling lights from the all surrounding hills makes the city feel clean, friendly and personable. Every so often a light extends high into the night sky, as a firework is let off, the trailing noise almost masked by the music coming from the nearby San Pedro Square.
Of course, during the day the city takes on a whole new personality. In the morning long queues of minibuses snake into the city centre, and the streets fill with people on their way to work. Most seem to work in the innumerable market stalls and small kioscos that fill every inch of space. La Paz is indeed a city of shopkeepers, with everyone selling something, usually from a stall. Like goods are usually found clustered together, presumably so the sellers have something in common to talk about. In all our time in La Paz we did not find any supermarkets, instead everything from fruit to the latest DVD can be found in the stalls. Even plumbing goods and mobile phones are on display. In the witches market we come across animal foetuses: Llama ones mainly. Apparently they are buried in the foundations of new buildings for good luck. At 12:30 the minibuses once again fill up from the queues of people, heading home on their three hour siesta break, after which the cycle repeats for the evening selling session.
Walking around the city, Vicki and I are constantly on guard, we have heard many traveller´s tales warning us that La Paz is dangerous and a mugger´s paradise. It certainly feels menacing; the shoe shine boys all wear balaclavas over their faces (apparently to avoid being identified skipping school); the beggars are aggressive; drug sellers openly ply their trade and we meet more than one shady character offering to sell us a dubious looking fossil. The plethora of tour sellers aggressively pursue you down the road offering discounts on day trips.
Bolivian Street Life
A decent bed proves difficult to find and on each of our return visits to the city we change our accommodation. The few backpackers turn out to all be self contained party centres and are booked weeks in advance, while the one budget option we spend a night at has a bed at least a hundred years old, with a church tower outside the window that peals, electronically, every quarter hour, throughout the night. We eventually end up outside San Pedro´s Plaza, which is famous for it´s notorious prison. The ladies at Tourist Information say you can no longer visit the prison, but we have met backpackers who have. The prison houses a number of South African inmates, all caught smuggling cocaine, and they apparently run the visiting tours secretly, bribing the guards. We don´t get a chance to visit as the ´tours´ are only on certain days.
La Paz Traffic
La Paz is noisy, smelly and the manic drivers are intent on running over any pedestrian who dares set foot off the narrow pavements, but by the end of our stay we both appreciate the energy and ryhthms of this unique city.
