Today our donkeywork was done by a donkey, he was accompanied by a friendly old boy with a huge wad of coca in his cheek. With our guide, we walked down the Valley of the Condors to some romantically overgrown 1,000-year-old ruins at the meeting point of three valleys. They’ve been untroubled by archaeologists and anthropologists, and are still used for ceremonies.
In January, the three local communities meet here to celebrate the new year and pray for good luck. A ceremony like the one we had seen the evening before is performed but on a much larger scale in which a llama is sacrificed and buried. This has been taking place in the same spot for generations and bones strewn in the area bear witness to its grisly purpose.
Today’s destination felt much more like a successful, functioning community. At the end of their working day we watched as llamas, alpacas, donkeys, sheep, dogs and herders of both genders and all possible ages filed past and made arrangements for the night. The story of mothers and their separated young being reunited was played out by the different species. Clouds settled over distant mountains at the end of a long valley forming a white plane and the sun set.
Friday, 30 May 2008
Thursday, 29 May 2008
23.05.08 More tea please, shaman
After a cold night even under five blankets we gingerly made our way to the rudimentary bathroom (there was no bath for one thing). I had no idea that water could be so cold and yet not in cubes.
There were high hopes of some warming tea, and a thermos arrived accompanied by four tired coca leaves, some elderly camomile, a few sprigs of parsley and some anonymous old weeds. Pretty uninspiring; however, after I had slung some greenery, sugar and a generous jolt of Jamaican rum into my mug, the world began to feel like a much better place.
After our brekkie, we were introduced to a herd of corralled alpacas. We were late and they were waiting to be taken on to the hills to feed. I can now reveal that a hungry alpaca makes a noise not dissimilar to a very small Formula 1 car.
This was our first day trekking, and our crew was made up of a llama to carry our gear, accompanied by his—only the males are used as porters—seven llama chums; our guide; an elderly lady herder, and an 8-year-old trainee girl herder (not a trainee herder of girls, obviously). It was wonderful to watch the llamas—the princes of the Andes—they have a camel-like gait, precise movements, intelligent eyes and a proud demeanor—they hate to be touched.
After a truly glorious walk, Susi and I arrived at our tiny hamlet destination in time for lunch—our residence was a stonewalled cottage with a thatched roof. While we were now thirsty, hungry and exhausted, the old woman and young girl immediately began the entirely uphill journey home. Suitably emasculated, I collapsed into a chair, which in turn collapsed under me.
We were now a couple of hundred metres lower, a few hardy things can grow here, and Susi even claims she saw a tree. But community life seemed rather sad and hard; emigration is only going one way. An astonishingly beautiful view is not enough.
We had arranged for a ceremony in the evening, so the shaman arrived with his helper, laid out his effects and tucked into his coca leaves. Initially, our good luck ceremony involved whirls of alpaca wool under alpaca fat, petals, red wine, 95% proof alcohol, more coca and lots of words I did not understand. Later, we wished good luck to people and an alpaca fetus was wrapped in gold foil and flowers. I had to hold it to my heart, then it was put in an incense-infused fire as a sacrifice to Pachamama (Earth Mother).
Not what I am used to.
There were high hopes of some warming tea, and a thermos arrived accompanied by four tired coca leaves, some elderly camomile, a few sprigs of parsley and some anonymous old weeds. Pretty uninspiring; however, after I had slung some greenery, sugar and a generous jolt of Jamaican rum into my mug, the world began to feel like a much better place.
After our brekkie, we were introduced to a herd of corralled alpacas. We were late and they were waiting to be taken on to the hills to feed. I can now reveal that a hungry alpaca makes a noise not dissimilar to a very small Formula 1 car.
This was our first day trekking, and our crew was made up of a llama to carry our gear, accompanied by his—only the males are used as porters—seven llama chums; our guide; an elderly lady herder, and an 8-year-old trainee girl herder (not a trainee herder of girls, obviously). It was wonderful to watch the llamas—the princes of the Andes—they have a camel-like gait, precise movements, intelligent eyes and a proud demeanor—they hate to be touched.
After a truly glorious walk, Susi and I arrived at our tiny hamlet destination in time for lunch—our residence was a stonewalled cottage with a thatched roof. While we were now thirsty, hungry and exhausted, the old woman and young girl immediately began the entirely uphill journey home. Suitably emasculated, I collapsed into a chair, which in turn collapsed under me.
We were now a couple of hundred metres lower, a few hardy things can grow here, and Susi even claims she saw a tree. But community life seemed rather sad and hard; emigration is only going one way. An astonishingly beautiful view is not enough.
We had arranged for a ceremony in the evening, so the shaman arrived with his helper, laid out his effects and tucked into his coca leaves. Initially, our good luck ceremony involved whirls of alpaca wool under alpaca fat, petals, red wine, 95% proof alcohol, more coca and lots of words I did not understand. Later, we wished good luck to people and an alpaca fetus was wrapped in gold foil and flowers. I had to hold it to my heart, then it was put in an incense-infused fire as a sacrifice to Pachamama (Earth Mother).
Not what I am used to.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
22.05.08 What a lot of llamas (and alpacas)
There are more auspicious ways to start a long journey than your bus driver arriving very late and drunk, and then being decanted on to another vehicle with Titannic emblazoned on the side. After seven uncomfortable, stinky hours (luxuriously, some of it on tarmac), Susi and I fell out of the bus at 4,400m in the arid air of a tiny community of alpaca herders.
We were greeted by a friendly indigenous lady, who ushered us past a massive satellite dish and inside. In a basic room sat four redundant computers (there’s no electricity) and through this our dorm room. I was too tired to speak as our guide took us for a walk in the mountains, each step crunching on the desiccated soil. At one point I took an alfresco wee and the earth rejected this unexpected bounty like oil hitting water.
Very little can survive up here, hundreds of metres over the tree line. The survival of the locals is dependant upon their alpacas. All food is traded is for their meat and their dried faeces is the only fuel. It is stockpiled in a special room in advance of the rainy season. The alpacas can only survive by living off the lichen on the rocks.
After we had been fed at 6.30, the sun set and we were alone. The walk to the loo in the cold air under a clear sky was rather too invigorating. However, with the moon not yet risen and the only light from candles, the stars were spectacular.
We were greeted by a friendly indigenous lady, who ushered us past a massive satellite dish and inside. In a basic room sat four redundant computers (there’s no electricity) and through this our dorm room. I was too tired to speak as our guide took us for a walk in the mountains, each step crunching on the desiccated soil. At one point I took an alfresco wee and the earth rejected this unexpected bounty like oil hitting water.
Very little can survive up here, hundreds of metres over the tree line. The survival of the locals is dependant upon their alpacas. All food is traded is for their meat and their dried faeces is the only fuel. It is stockpiled in a special room in advance of the rainy season. The alpacas can only survive by living off the lichen on the rocks.
After we had been fed at 6.30, the sun set and we were alone. The walk to the loo in the cold air under a clear sky was rather too invigorating. However, with the moon not yet risen and the only light from candles, the stars were spectacular.
Sunday, 18 May 2008
18.05.08 Party time!
This weekend was La Paz’s biggest street festival—the Gran Poder. 56 troupes of dancers perform, some with 200 members each. It’s a huge event and a car crash of bright colours. There was a great atmosphere in the city among the huge crowds. The route was lined with makeshift grandstand seating and the space between spectators and performers was a pedlar’s paradise of flogging food, cold soft drinks, hooters, rattles, biscuits, tissues (I’ve no idea why) and beer. There were hundreds of girls out selling beer, some of them even old enough to legally drink it. Apparently, this year the authorities tried to end the boozing, with a spectacular lack of success—they may consider taking a brewer as primary sponsor was their first mistake.
This event takes a months of planning and the outfits are truly extraordinary, devils, angels, slaves, slave masters and countless others we could not recognise, everything has a symbolic meaning, which was almost entirely lost on us. However, there were things I recognised: some costumes are heavy (80kgs) and their panting wearers are only sustained by gifts of beer; some of the prettier participants wear bright tutus, very good; they also wear boots Ginger Spice would have killed for in her 1990s heyday, very Barbarella; some of the men wear dresses, shoulder pads and hats that most resemble layered wedding cakes, I would love to know why.
It was undeniably a great spectacle and one I didn’t fully understand. On the way out we met a lady selling pork, in front of her was a tower of crackling, she loved the event and told us this was “paradiso”. Who knows, maybe she was right.
This event takes a months of planning and the outfits are truly extraordinary, devils, angels, slaves, slave masters and countless others we could not recognise, everything has a symbolic meaning, which was almost entirely lost on us. However, there were things I recognised: some costumes are heavy (80kgs) and their panting wearers are only sustained by gifts of beer; some of the prettier participants wear bright tutus, very good; they also wear boots Ginger Spice would have killed for in her 1990s heyday, very Barbarella; some of the men wear dresses, shoulder pads and hats that most resemble layered wedding cakes, I would love to know why.
It was undeniably a great spectacle and one I didn’t fully understand. On the way out we met a lady selling pork, in front of her was a tower of crackling, she loved the event and told us this was “paradiso”. Who knows, maybe she was right.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
9.05.08 Would you like to dance, grandmother?
On our last day I was keen to get some seaside action beyond swimming, so I took a bus to Holetown, a town that is supposed to have surfing, diving and snorkelling. The bus took us inland on its route north, so I saw a little more of the island. Unlike the hilly, green beauty of Jamaica, Barbados is flat scrubland or built up. The majority of the people live in shacks and bungalows, which would have once been a rainbow of bright colours. Now, however, all but the newest have been bleached in the sun.
For a country with hurricanes, the wooden buildings do not look like they would stand up to anything approaching extreme weather conditions. Wood, however, has the advantage that it bows and bends—some of the homes remain upright at angles that architecture students would not believe.
There was no surfing, instead I went snorkelling with sea turtles off a tourist boat, which was a wonderful experience. Back on land, I was approached by a garrulous fellow in a Ronaldo replica shirt who wanted to sell me coke – in all my 34 years, no one had ever introduced himself to me as Mr Cool before. I admired his chutzpah.
In the evening we went to the Oistin Fish Fry, a massive outdoor party with plenty of music, drinks and fish. Strangely, I met someone else called Mr Cool, a nightclub owner—so perhaps it’s a bit like being called James and Bajan (Barbadan) classrooms are full of kids called Mr and Miss Cool. Barbados is refreshingly safe after Jamaica, so it was a pleasure to be there and see some Caribbean dancing, which is really just simulated sex and must be awkward to do with elderly relatives at weddings.
For a country with hurricanes, the wooden buildings do not look like they would stand up to anything approaching extreme weather conditions. Wood, however, has the advantage that it bows and bends—some of the homes remain upright at angles that architecture students would not believe.
There was no surfing, instead I went snorkelling with sea turtles off a tourist boat, which was a wonderful experience. Back on land, I was approached by a garrulous fellow in a Ronaldo replica shirt who wanted to sell me coke – in all my 34 years, no one had ever introduced himself to me as Mr Cool before. I admired his chutzpah.
In the evening we went to the Oistin Fish Fry, a massive outdoor party with plenty of music, drinks and fish. Strangely, I met someone else called Mr Cool, a nightclub owner—so perhaps it’s a bit like being called James and Bajan (Barbadan) classrooms are full of kids called Mr and Miss Cool. Barbados is refreshingly safe after Jamaica, so it was a pleasure to be there and see some Caribbean dancing, which is really just simulated sex and must be awkward to do with elderly relatives at weddings.
7.05.08 Trading places
There are stereotypes are the inhabitants of the different Caribbean islands, for instance, Jamaicans are laid back but don’t make jokes, because they are too quick to take offence; everything is a joke to Trinidadians and an excuse for a drink and a lime (an impromptu party); and Barbados is the most “British”, the people are professional but rather cold and unfriendly. My suspicion is that these commonly held generalisations are nonsense, but compared to Jamaica and certainly Bolivia it is a pleasure to be somewhere there is little poverty, the infrastructure works and it feels safe.
6.05.08 Sweet dreams
There are times when flying that I think the human brain is not able to comprehend how staggeringly beautiful the view is. A self-protection mechanism must shut off the receptors like a stopcock to prevent out heads from exploding on to the branded headrest covers. Other times I just pass out. Gosh, I slept well and then I was in Barbados.
4.05.08 Riding with the law
Our last day and we went to Lime Cay, an island (or cay) off Port Royal. Our driver, Taylor, drove us out there and en route let slip that he had another job “working for the government, with the law” as he coyly put it. Clearly, being a policeman is not something you shout about here.
The cay is a gorgeous little spot where Kingstonites come to relax at the weekend. A sandy beach, turquoise sea, trees for shade, bar for beer: perfect.
Jamaica, and Kingston in particular, has a fearsome reputation for violence and it was not until our last day we saw anything problematic; being on a miniscule island while bottles are smashed and rocks are thrown is not very relaxing, especially when your boat driver is in the middle of it. When Taylor informed the saucer-eyed protagonist of his other job, he was steadfastly unimpressed. I wasn’t.
The cay is a gorgeous little spot where Kingstonites come to relax at the weekend. A sandy beach, turquoise sea, trees for shade, bar for beer: perfect.
Jamaica, and Kingston in particular, has a fearsome reputation for violence and it was not until our last day we saw anything problematic; being on a miniscule island while bottles are smashed and rocks are thrown is not very relaxing, especially when your boat driver is in the middle of it. When Taylor informed the saucer-eyed protagonist of his other job, he was steadfastly unimpressed. I wasn’t.
3.05.08 Fool on the hill
Here in Kingston, it’s easy to forget how beautiful the rest of the island is. Today we drove to the centre of the island along impossible windy roads up into the lush mountains. There at the peak of Strawberry Hill, we had a long salubrious lunch at the eponymous hotel. It’s one of those places that feels it has to reiterate how “groovy” it is by mounting pictures of its famous guests. This is always a bit naff and must guarantee the celebs don’t come back. Anyway there’s no need to prove anything, it is lovely; from its spot on the mountain peak, the view is wonderful and the atmosphere is effortlessly cool.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
2.05.08 The tree where Nelson relieved himself
Next week, we’re off to Barbados where there’s surfing. In preparation for having to spend time under water, I plough back and forth in the hotel pool, while not breaking any of their rules: I haven’t any serious contagious diseases, indulged in horseplay of any kind or emitted bodily fluids into the water. Not even once. Honestly.
What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).
On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.
What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).
On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.
1.05.08 Easy skankin’
After a light breakfast of boiled yam, boiled callaloo (spinach), fried bananas, boiled dumplings and fried dumplings, I was set for a walk. After yesterday’s experience, I’ve opted for a purposeful gait, no eye contact, trousers and shoes rather than shorts and flip flops, and more deodorant.
Today’s destination was the Hope Botanical Gardens: I set off through uptown Kingston, this is not a beautiful place, large uninteresting buildings line the wide busy thoroughfares. It did not improve as I walked out of the main business district, the buildings are smaller and scruffier, the people just scruffier, and the traffic flows on unaltered. On route, I stopped at the Bob Marley Museum for a refreshment—once a rather elegant, understated place, Bob’s old house is now a gaudy honey trap for tourists (happily, I only saw one misguided white visitor with braided hair).
The botanical gardens are lovely, a respite from the hassle and demands of the street; quiet, peaceful and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a pleasure to be there as the sun set.
Today’s destination was the Hope Botanical Gardens: I set off through uptown Kingston, this is not a beautiful place, large uninteresting buildings line the wide busy thoroughfares. It did not improve as I walked out of the main business district, the buildings are smaller and scruffier, the people just scruffier, and the traffic flows on unaltered. On route, I stopped at the Bob Marley Museum for a refreshment—once a rather elegant, understated place, Bob’s old house is now a gaudy honey trap for tourists (happily, I only saw one misguided white visitor with braided hair).
The botanical gardens are lovely, a respite from the hassle and demands of the street; quiet, peaceful and surrounded by rolling hills, it was a pleasure to be there as the sun set.
Saturday, 3 May 2008
30.04.08 Happy rambling
As Susi went on a field trip, I walked to handsome Devon House, a nearby mansion with gardens, restaurants and shops. The stroll was interesting, on the journey a school girl called to me and swung her hips, a lady asked to taste my ice cream and a woman shouted something unintelligible about her cat at me, except she didn’t say cat; also, I was offered drugs twice, once by a small boy and once by an old man; beggars begged; fruit sellers failed to sell me fruit and loons looned. It would appear that in Jamaica to dawdle about in a fresh off the boat, tourist uniform is to ask for trouble or at least a lot of attention.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
