Hemispherica: February 2008

Friday, February 29, 2008

¡Egg!

Fresh from Empañadas carne (think left over bolognase jaffles) and tartes limon merenge I resolved to write humourous and insightful paragraphs detailing sights, sounds, adventures and mishaps... It has taken me the first hour to work out how to sign in to this 'alien blog creature' (who would know I have a degree in media arts , although to be fair the instructions keep coming up in español) and now that I have finally gotten this far my mind has gone blank, rather like it keeps doing when after greeting someone with a friendly ¡Hola! they reply with a simple question such as ¿Como Estas? (How are you?) Either, I suffer instantaneous mental parallasis or on occasion, worse, when I utter the first Spanish word to come into my head.... gracias (thankyou; not so bad, confused and slightly stupid tourist), mañana(morning or tomorrow depending on the context but more likely tomorrow; boardering on the moronic) or worst of all something completely at random such as huevo (egg; insane, whereupon I hope my victims tend to assume that it must have another meaing in my language to spare them the indignity of being greeted ¡Egg! when they were only trying to be polite).
Indeed the fact of moving through place where locals and tourists alike speak another language has something of a disorientating effect on the mental capacities, when that language is so close to your own that you feel if you just concentrate long enough the clouds will clear, a rainbow will appear, the sun will shine down illuminating the elusive meaning and you will understand, it is positively maddening. This is not to say I dont understand anything, we have managed reasonably well despite a few misunderstandings which were more in keeping with the usual travellors mistakes (NB an Empañada with cheese and onion can in some circles be construed as an entire block of cheese, and im talking 380g here, melted, mixed with some slices of onion, wrapped in dough and fried. This is despite the english on the menu describing it as a type of meat pie with cheese and onion. Fried melted block of cheese more like! All sorts of Boosh-isms spring to mind) But yes we seem to get our point across fairly well most of the time and have managed bus tickets, partial refund for said bus tickets upon missing bus and new bus tickets as well as ordering food we want to eat, food we probably shouldnt have eaten and even communicated about more complicated scenarios like deposits for furniture, returns of empty bottles and the comparitive qualities of various compasses. So rest easier in your beds.... as long as I dont scare everyone off with shouts of ¡Pan! (bread!) or ¡martes! (Tuesday!) when they say hello, we should be fine.

The Atlantic

For the first time, I have now set eyes upon the Atlantic Ocean, where the vast grasslands of the Pampas (the beef-bowl of Argentina) recede into the sea by long stretches of undulating dunes and wide brown beaches of gritty shell and sand, alternately fringed by woodlands and the uneven concrete-centric development of tacky tourist towns. We have found ourselves a little bower of windblasted trees nestled behind the dunes in the former of these two landscapes, south of Villa Gesell, camping in our little blue tunnel beneath the whistling winds blowing fresh off the endlessness of the Atlantic. The beach stretches into an inscrutable haze, which offers little mystery to the beachcomber as to the landscape of the further reaches of the coast. Long walks on the beach certainly, but rather monotonous ones. The Argentine ego seems however to enjoy the additional space which these vast beaches offer, and one is eyed suspiciously if a towel is laid too close to their god-given place in the sun. Such an observation however would be confounded by Mar del Plata, further south, which Lonely Planet describes as one of the most densely packed beaches of the world, where private bathing sections with full amenities occupy premium beach space. As appealing as this spectacle may be, we intend to pass this by, heading further round Argentina´s eastward bulge into the Atlantic in search of some ´Nature for our Godholes´. To this end, we will pass through Bahia Blanca and Sierra del Ventana to find some hiking in Parque Provinciale Ernesto Tornquist, to summit the 1136m Cerro Ventana and walk through the Garganta del Diablo (´the Devil´s Throat Gorge´) in the next couple of days. All in preparation and anticipation of the Patagonia expedition, which looms large in our imaginations and intinerary as we fly to Ushuaia on the 7th. Then the real adventure will begin.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

http://www.flickr.com/photos/24084003@N02/sets/72157603975386483/

We are indeed on the otherside of the world. It is 4am, and I have just woken up, and in the pre-dawn delirium, I can only think about coffee and newsprint. Fortunately both are ubiquitous here in Buenos Aires, a city which depends upon both as a fuel for its seemingly inexhaustible urban ego. Despite the hour, I can hear from the dim confines of this internet cafe, musicians expounding the tango to the thick night, irregardless of the hour. We are so desperately disorientated by jetlag and the bizarre behaviours of this city that we have been sleeping til the late afternoon and condemning the stolen hours of the morning in the bitter abberations of our broken body clocks. I fell asleep in a cafe early this afternoon, only to be woken by an accordinista sitting down next to me in the old style wooden bar and wheezing out a plea for coins. With this rude shock I found myself wanting to break the espresso cup upon his bald pate, but the easy charm of this characteristic event soon subsumed such violence into the normal spirit of this, le Ciudad la Buenos Aires. Such temporal dislocation was only magnified by us locating our initial digs in San Telmo (in a gorgeous high ceiling room, wooden floors, in an old 19C house with views of the Plaza Dorrego and the classic façades of the oldtown- andfor $6AUD p.n.) opposite the trendiest and most noisome club in this ancient quarter of the city, with hip porteños in ripped CK jeans queueing for the unique blend of latin mixups of western pop (we even heard B52´s Love Shack at about 3am) and raging amidst the architectural noise til sun-up, inducing the kind of insomnia which could only inspire Lewis Carrol´s poetry. We are also the proud new owners of pharmaceutical grade orange silicone earplugs which may be jammed in aural canals for silencio. For all this noise however, irrepressible spirits will not be repressed, and nor will we. More to follow. - CHB

The Blog has begun.

Trekking Diary

PROGRESSIVE TREKKING DISTANCE TOTAL; 702km

10. Choquequirau to Machu Picchu - 120km

Fascinated by this fabled ridge top reproduction of Machu Picchu,without the assistance of mules or their friendly masters, from the village of Cachora down the Rio Apurimac, then up to the campsite located on the ancient terraces. The flies bit, and the ascent stung. The ruins were rewarding and newly uncovered, and we felt like tombraiders. We continued the third day of archaeological explanations up over the water sources of Choquequirau, and down to Pinchinuyoc, a complex of terraces rescued from the jungle, where we camped amongst ganja smoking gypsies. The fourth day took us deep down the midge world of the Rio Blanco then up 12oo m to the relative oasis of Maizal where for 15 soles a cold beer was had in ultimate isolation. Butterflies floated deliciously along with beer bubbles. We ventured up the hill 800m but got lost on the search for ruins and ended the day in respite. The 5th day mounted the Abra Victoria, an old Incan path made of silvery stones, and punctuated with strange mines, took us up and down from 4200m, til we camped thankfully, Chris´s feet bloodied and blistered in Yamana. The exquisite weaving offered us by our host was declined, with much regret. The following and the sixth day was a long slow haul across a 4800m pass where the air and grass was thin, and then down a further four hours to Colpapampa, Chris feet a bloody mush by this time. Eggs and noodles in a horse poo potted paddock marked the end of the day. A further descent on the eighth day, to La Playa, a dip in thermal baths, an avalanche of mules, an apotheosis of butterflies, and broken feet, to end at La Playa and four litres in beer. Up and over a distant ridge for the ninth day, amidst coffee plantations, and distant views of Machu Picchu, ending with a punishing descent and a bathe in the cold waters of the Rio Ahobamba, and a train to Aguas Calientes. We count the tenth day, marking 12 hours in the precincts of Machu Picchu, including an ascent and descent of Huayna Picchu, which amongst the ruined wanderings, mark at least 10km. Appropriately we ended our trek at a hotel called the Los Caminantes, or the walkers. We were bitten, blistered and buggered.

9. El Choro - 39km

Prostrate, in company with Pete once again, before the statue of Christ of La Cumbre at 4660m, we puffed our way up to cross the pass at 4850, then begin our knee crunching descent through the blonde puna, crumbling incan road houses, along the fabulously preserved incan road, five metres wide and composed perfectly fitted stones. The vegetatino grew verdant, orchids and bromeliads dangled from the boughs, and the watercourses ravinous and ravenous upon our legs. We took a rest day for our ravaged knees, and then wound further down to the verdant vagina of forest, to our end and a taxi ride up to the cool retreat of Coroico. Tough and pretty.

8. Isla del Sol, Lago de Titicaca - 32km

Peter Eckersley, a wandering winegrowers son, joined us amiably for this interesting trek, where after a strange and suspended bus journey, we found ourselves on the anvil of Copacabana, the Bolivian anchor in the Lake, and having fed a steak into the hole, walked the dusty 14km to the end of the peninsula. A ferry to a bunch of rocks croipping up from the potable waters at the south the panther isle, we climbed ancient incan terraces to camp some 5 km up and on, straddled between moon and sun. The next day threw us in with day walkers (though we were toting 15kegs on the back) a burden which entitled us to camp on the frigid northern beaches of this misnomer of an island, and bathe bathetically in the freezing waters, a worship of sorts. A walk back along the mediterranean eastern shores of the island was breathless but beautiful, and the beers to conclude were cold. Joy.

7. The wild west coast of Chiloe - 35km

After our sojourn in Valdivia, armed with various tenses of Spanish language, we took a bus from Castro to the coast, and walked a windswept 35km to La Playa Cole Cole, the eastern pacific making a milkshake of the thick sea, tearing thick kelp and scarlet seaweed, and a beachcombers paradise. Long whipped swell, mounted foam thigh deep on the endless beach. In the dense and dark twisted forest that sprawled like a fairytale, kingfishers pried the dark waters of streams, and ancient shellfish encrusted shores like mosaic. The forests were haunting, and we were all alone.

6. Termas de Callao - 35km

So deep was blue was the lake that the boatman wanted $120 dollars to ford its fraught waters. For that fee, we landed in the El Rincon (the corner) of the Lago todos los santos (All Saints Lake) where we camped mid dried cattle turds on the flat sands of the mouth of the River of No Name. The next day took us along the anonymous contours of this nameless river, through black volcano soil, deep cut soiled tracks and emerald forest. A kindly family gave us their forlorn cottage, washed in french blue wash paint, and a pile of firewood and fresh farm eggs for $20 a night, and use of the hot springs piped into their lovingly carved logs as dusk determinedly settled into the gorgeous gouges of landscape. Quite the delight. We walked out past subterraneanly draining lakes, bubbling in effervescence, rolling farmlands of the town of the Gulls ´the Gulls´to the peaceful lakeside camp of Lago Rupanco. A local ferry forded us out, to Valdivia and a months rest of Spanish language.

5. Monte Tronador and El Paso de Las Nubes - 95km

First and second day 41km from the Highway at V14illa Mascardi around the southern and western arms of Lago Mascardi, then along the Rio Manso to Pampa Linda nestled at the foot of the mighty Mt Tronador. Third day 19km and 750metres ascent to a high ridge of Mt Tronador, overlooking the Glaciar Manso icefall, and the incredible Ventisquero Negro, a glacial penisula of broken rock and ice in a frozen green lake. Fourth day of 6km took us to the Rio Alerce, where we camped in earshot of a mighty waterfall, beside a beautiful cascade, toasting our mothers for Mothers Day with hot milo and cognac. Day 5 across marsh and bog, up through Valdivian rainforest of multicoloured mushrooms and ferns, into the high lenga, to reach the Pass of the Clouds swathed in clouds, crossing surreal alpine meadows of clear pools and dense fog. Down through a cathedral of coigue trees, to come out on a breath taking mirador lokoing up at the Glaciar Frias, its jagged snout hanging high in the mist, sending down a dozen cascades of over 50metres height into the broad glacial ampitheatre. Three condors wheeled about in the mist, whilst a young condor dried its wings on a rock only 10 metres from our mirador, a truly awesome sight. Day 6, a 10km trudge over long and under tree, through bog and under scree to reach Puerto Frias, where we were stamped out of Argentina, climbing to the Paso Vincente Perez Rosales to camp between border posts. Day 6 was a prospect of 26km on roads tot he town of Peulla, but the kindly carabineros on their morning border run picked us up, and drove us to Peulla, where we checked into the faded grandeur of the Hotel Peulla for our 4th year anniversary.

5. Monte Tronador and El Paso de Las Nubes - 95 km

After declining an overpriced tour (then snking equivalent pesos in margaritas) a dogged two days 41km from the RN40 at Villa Mascardi around the southern and western arms of Lago Mascardi, then along the Rio Manso to Pampa Linda nestled at the foot of the ever roaring Mt Tronador. Third day 19km and 750metres ascent to a high ridge of Mt Tronador, overlooking the Glaciar Manso icefall, and the incredible Ventisquero Negro, a glacial penisula of broken rock and ice in a frozen green lake. The mountain growls dawn, morn and night. Fourth day of 6km took us to the Rio Alerce, where exhausted from battling barricades of bamboo we camped in earshot of a mighty waterfall, beside a beautiful cascade, toasting our mothers for Mothers Day with hot milo and cognac. Day 5 across marsh and bog, up through Valdivian rainforest of multicoloured mushrooms and ferns, into the high lenga, to reach the Pass of the Clouds swathed in clouds, crossing surreal alpine meadows of clear pools and dense fog. Down through a cathedral of coigue trees, to come out on a breath taking mirador (lookout) of the Glaciar Frias, its jagged snout hanging high in the mist, sending down a dozen cascades of over 50metres height into the broad glacial ampitheatre. Three condors wheeled about in the mist, whilst a young condor dried its wings on a rock only 10 metres from our mirador, singularly the most spectacular sight of all our Andean adventures. Day 6, a 10km trudge over log and under tree, through bog and under scree to reach Puerto Frias, where we were stamped out of Argentina (after a search of our packs for weapons - the porridge was heavy enough!), climbing to the Paso Vincente Perez Rosales to camp between border posts. Day 6 was a prospect of 26km on roads to the town of Peulla, but the kindly Carabineros, the green police of Chile, on their morning border run picked us up, and drove us to Peulla, where we checked into the faded grandeur of the Hotel Peulla for our 4th year anniversary, 150 dollars and a good night sleep.

4. Monte Fitz Roy and Cerro Torre - 43km , 5 days/4 nights. In the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, we set off in lightly falling snow up a broad glacially shaped valley through magical forest beside a startling green Rio Electrico, to the Glaciar Piedra Blanca, a gothic cathedral of ice, camping in the woods with a foot of snow and visitations by Patagonian fox (and more mice!) overnight, an ascent to the high Laguna de los Tres below the mighty peaks of Fitz Roy (3450m) and Poincenot (3002m), an enchanting walk past the snow rimmed Las Lagunas Madre y Hija (Mother and Daughter Lakes), spotting fresh puma prints in the snow, camping on the glacial morraines beneath Cerro Torre (3102m) , a jagged peak like a knife in the sky. Frozen boots each morning and ferocious mice attacks in the night made two very tired walkers by trail´s end!

3. Torres del Paine ´Q´Circuit - 160km, 12 days/13 nights. An awesome circuit trek around the spectacular Maciszo Paine on the edge of the Campo de Hielo Sur ice sheet. Astonishingly sculpted mountain peaks, including the Torres del Paine (seen at sunrise), Los Cuernos (the Horns) and Cerro Paine Grande, the jaw-droppingly huge Glaciars Grey and Dickson like rivers of ice, the dramatic Glaciars Perros and Frances plunging off the side of mountains, huge milky blue lakes fringed by black&white stone beaches and filled with floating icebergs, beautiful forests of lenga and nirre, a high pass of 1241m, and 160km of long hard walking. Multiple attacks by mice in the night, and an exhilirating sense of accomplishment (and enjoyment of cold beer and mulled wine) at the end.

2. Lapataia - 14km, 1 day, following the Sendera Costera along the shores of the Beagle Channel, littered with purple mussel shells and kelp, rocks splotched with red, yellow and orange lichens, through dense forest filled with delightful glades and glens, lengas bearded by hanging moss, then across broad meadows fringing lagoons and streams, home to hundreds of hares.

1. Paso del Oveja, Ushuaia - 34km, 3 days-2nights, in the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, around the Montes Martial, the mountains that loom above the Beagle Channel and Ushuaia, through coigue and lenga forest, red Fuegian moors, beneath the Cordon Vinciguerra to an alpine lake surrounded by meadows, and over a bare windswept 800m pass.

Friday, February 29, 2008

¡Egg!

The Atlantic

Sunday, February 24, 2008

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Trekking Diary