rustyn, who helds the daily lecture in the Erratic Rock about tackling the mighty Torres Del Paine National Park, claimed that we are all somehow connected : "We could hve gone anywhere - but we chose to go to the bottom!" I´ve been thinking about this statement more than it probably deserves. Do I have something in common with everybody here? Are we all in phase of change, as Nina, one of the girls in my hiking group claimed?
Rustyn´s sketch of the Torres trek as a sort of coming-of-age experience half put me off the project altogether. I think he´s doing it for the benefit of Americans mostly who would otherwise schlepp their whole cosmetic and wardrobe arsenal around and die of shock about the hygienic conditions. It turned out Rustyn wasn´t wrong but he wasn´t right either. I was sick and therefore more miserable than necessary, but on the other hand we were quite lucky weatherwise. Nevertheless, camping, when it`s cold outside, is just a stupid idea. I wonder why I didn´t realize this erlier. On day one, I saw a fox, day two was as bootcamp-as-I-got so far (and I´m not planning to go further), but after that, I got better, and the last day ended in glorious sun and absolutely nerve-wrecking annoying wind. Now I´m in El Calafate and it feels like, after one day here - spent mostly at a lourdly cracking glacier - I´ve got the city down: The stray dogs seem to know me by now and I encountered my taxi driver from day one (He did actually get lost, which is quite an achievement: The city has about 150,000 inhabitants.) Tomorow I`ll be off to "the trekking capital of Patagonia" a place that doesn´t have ATMs..
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
rough times
Waiting for my bus, I spent half the day in Puenta Arenas in one of the most ugly tourist places imaginable / even though the sun was shining tantalizingly but I didn´t trust wind and coldth, having developed a sore throat and ear pain / I have spent decidedly too much time in Chile´s (ugly) cities: The weather killed the idea of pushing further south until further notice.
The bus ride to Puenta Natales was remarkable for the fact how taken the bus guy was with my height, an American couple from DC but working in Africa who kept calling themselves "freethinkers," and the choice of music (Mr Vain (is that how it´s written?), Barbie Girl..)
The view out of the window towards the Torres is beautiful: Rain washes out a part of the sky like an aquarell painting. Why is it that you always think of the mimesis, the enactment first, even when the real thing is in front of you? Windswept, darkgreen trees are dotting the yellow land and remind me of the tousled penguins on Isla Magdalena, near Puenta Arenas. Hundreds of these funny creatures congregate at this time of year to "mate and breed" - which looks like some post-alcoholic party gathering, with fighting, lots of noise and LOTS of staring dumbly in front of one´s beak. It is remarkable how much the Disney guys (or was it Pixar?) nailed the common penguin´s quirks and looks, way of walking and bragging..
The bus ride to Puenta Natales was remarkable for the fact how taken the bus guy was with my height, an American couple from DC but working in Africa who kept calling themselves "freethinkers," and the choice of music (Mr Vain (is that how it´s written?), Barbie Girl..)
The view out of the window towards the Torres is beautiful: Rain washes out a part of the sky like an aquarell painting. Why is it that you always think of the mimesis, the enactment first, even when the real thing is in front of you? Windswept, darkgreen trees are dotting the yellow land and remind me of the tousled penguins on Isla Magdalena, near Puenta Arenas. Hundreds of these funny creatures congregate at this time of year to "mate and breed" - which looks like some post-alcoholic party gathering, with fighting, lots of noise and LOTS of staring dumbly in front of one´s beak. It is remarkable how much the Disney guys (or was it Pixar?) nailed the common penguin´s quirks and looks, way of walking and bragging..
Friday, February 13, 2009
lots of nature
that´s the arancia tree (the whole point of the parc in Villa Angosture), peeling skin in pretty shades of brown
these are pictures from the ferry over to Argentina (well almost)
villa traful..
some pictures from the Lake District.. more "lieblich" than the Carreterra...
these are pictures from the ferry over to Argentina (well almost)
villa traful..
some pictures from the Lake District.. more "lieblich" than the Carreterra...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
into the wild (and back)
In the bus from Puyunhabi, which I thought would be a regional gem but is more appropriately described by co-traveller Michael as a "Drecksnest" - pueblo de mierda ?
It takes 230 k´s to Coyhaique (yet another unpronouncable name) or 5 hours on an unpaved road. My shoes are wet, my clothes clammy, I´m wearing five layers and goosebumps. This is how I imagine the English moor in novels like "Wuthering Heights"; I understand why the heroines catch pneumonia and die in a jiffy. We amble past dense forest, then wild bushels, out of which the white trunks of bald trees are glimmering, rough mountains and fat glaciers in the distance. It is really beautiful.
The days before, I got quality dirt from the incredibly dusty roads in Argentina, missed out on the busses that were all booked out but hitched with a Chilenian truck driver (and cowboy, he claims. for the visual, think jockey) from Villa Angostura to Osorno, got a bus south and waited there for five hours to see whether I could get on the ferry to Chaiten (twice weekly, completely booked out, cancellation chaos). In the end, I was lucky: my overpriced dorm-style bed turned out to be a blessing in disguise on an overfilled ferry with many little children and crying babies; I got help from Chilenos Michelangelo and Jesus (yess....) and Belgian Antoine, we played poker, and halfway through the the trip I found out that the local volcano had practically erased Chaiten, Pompeji-style -was that on our news? In retrospect it seems to ring a bell, or am I making this up?
Chaiten was one of the most bizarre places I´ve ever been. Heaps of ashes, toxic-looking rivers, deserted and demolished houses, the volcano beautifully sublime and threateningly smoking in the background, and defiant banners everywhere: We are not leaving! Save Chaiten! Government go home, we live here!
Four mochiledas and hardly a car are not a winning combination. Gentlemanly, I was given the first (short) ride. Getting in for the next one - two middle-aged truck drivers - was not the best feeling in the world. They had actually come back for me, explaining that I was weighing on their conscience, huddled alone in this deserted area. I thought of Helmut (the jockey-truck driver) and decided to trust my instincts and refuse to be scared, or to understand insinuations). The insistence on curious small-talk in Spanish was tiring however, in all senses of this word: Are Germans romantic? Are the guys, the girls, are you? What do Germans think of Chile? What do you think of Chilenian guys? What kind of guys do you like, white or "negro" (an apparently important distinction for their own skin tone variations)? Are all German girls like me - tall, white, without make-up? When are German girls getting married, are you, do you want to and when; the same for kids.. Are you not scared to be alone here/to hitchhike (by far the most annoying question) and Can you swim ? (?!) at this piont I suspected him desparate and starving for conversation...
Then luck ran out for a couple of hours. It was now early evening, windy, freezing cold, and soon raining profusely. Finally, a Belgian family, whose car was already badly crammed, took pity on me and fellow German Michael who I had met waiting at La Junta´s Pinochet memorial.
An exhausted search for accomodation followed, more rain, wet shoes and an aching back. I´m running perilously low on cash. There no ATMs in town. There is no internet, there are about five supermercados (with sad stock).
It takes 230 k´s to Coyhaique (yet another unpronouncable name) or 5 hours on an unpaved road. My shoes are wet, my clothes clammy, I´m wearing five layers and goosebumps. This is how I imagine the English moor in novels like "Wuthering Heights"; I understand why the heroines catch pneumonia and die in a jiffy. We amble past dense forest, then wild bushels, out of which the white trunks of bald trees are glimmering, rough mountains and fat glaciers in the distance. It is really beautiful.
The days before, I got quality dirt from the incredibly dusty roads in Argentina, missed out on the busses that were all booked out but hitched with a Chilenian truck driver (and cowboy, he claims. for the visual, think jockey) from Villa Angostura to Osorno, got a bus south and waited there for five hours to see whether I could get on the ferry to Chaiten (twice weekly, completely booked out, cancellation chaos). In the end, I was lucky: my overpriced dorm-style bed turned out to be a blessing in disguise on an overfilled ferry with many little children and crying babies; I got help from Chilenos Michelangelo and Jesus (yess....) and Belgian Antoine, we played poker, and halfway through the the trip I found out that the local volcano had practically erased Chaiten, Pompeji-style -was that on our news? In retrospect it seems to ring a bell, or am I making this up?
Chaiten was one of the most bizarre places I´ve ever been. Heaps of ashes, toxic-looking rivers, deserted and demolished houses, the volcano beautifully sublime and threateningly smoking in the background, and defiant banners everywhere: We are not leaving! Save Chaiten! Government go home, we live here!
Four mochiledas and hardly a car are not a winning combination. Gentlemanly, I was given the first (short) ride. Getting in for the next one - two middle-aged truck drivers - was not the best feeling in the world. They had actually come back for me, explaining that I was weighing on their conscience, huddled alone in this deserted area. I thought of Helmut (the jockey-truck driver) and decided to trust my instincts and refuse to be scared, or to understand insinuations). The insistence on curious small-talk in Spanish was tiring however, in all senses of this word: Are Germans romantic? Are the guys, the girls, are you? What do Germans think of Chile? What do you think of Chilenian guys? What kind of guys do you like, white or "negro" (an apparently important distinction for their own skin tone variations)? Are all German girls like me - tall, white, without make-up? When are German girls getting married, are you, do you want to and when; the same for kids.. Are you not scared to be alone here/to hitchhike (by far the most annoying question) and Can you swim ? (?!) at this piont I suspected him desparate and starving for conversation...
Then luck ran out for a couple of hours. It was now early evening, windy, freezing cold, and soon raining profusely. Finally, a Belgian family, whose car was already badly crammed, took pity on me and fellow German Michael who I had met waiting at La Junta´s Pinochet memorial.
An exhausted search for accomodation followed, more rain, wet shoes and an aching back. I´m running perilously low on cash. There no ATMs in town. There is no internet, there are about five supermercados (with sad stock).
Monday, February 2, 2009
everything happens for a reason, says maria
I had to sort of escape from alejandra´s place, both because of her mother´s feeding instincts and the fact that A. - and I love her dearly! - is slow even in South American standards! On the day where "going shopping" was the main and only item on our daily itinerary, and when we hadn´t left at 6pm, I decided to split...
Taking the night bus to Pucon was quite an adventure: the busses are not exactly neatly labeled, it was full as hell, and my bus was late; but one of the "que rica!" guys helped me out. The busses are quite wonderful (most of them), spacious and including a toilet (unless it´s broken... then it is TERRIBLE!). Pucon was a town seemingly entirely created for tourism, but at least the tourists were mostly from Chile or South America. The funniest thing about Pucon is that its airport was closed because some farmer refuses to cut his trees. and while the law sorts things out, there are no planes... In Pucon, I climbed the Volcano Villarica which was worth every penny of its proud price. four Brazilian girls dropped out right from the beginning, so it was only Dutch girl Linda ("so hard to be called linda in South America.."), the guide (who does this thing EVERY DAY) and me who ran up the mountain - and I say "run" because we made it in less than 3 hours, while 4-5 hrs were envisaged (Forgetting I wheezed like a middle-aged hippo on the final ascent, I am quite proud). The way back, sliding down, was the icing on the butt, really much fun. and we saw Condors.
The day hike on the next day turned out to be not the 9km promised by my (4year old) Lonely Planet, but 17 k´s, and pretty steep trekking too (everybody around me was walking with these funny ski poles..). In the end I almost missed the bus, having chatted and dawdled over a cafe con leche (which here means a mug of hot milk to which nescafe and sugar is added according to taste:), so I had to RUN to catch the bus.. Tired from these activities, I spent the next day driving through the Lake District with Rob and Robin (I kid you not) from London (i.e. my room), sampling "Kuchen" in Panguipulli, the fat blackberries at the roadside endlessly tempting ... The air smells of rosin,
Initially I had thought the roses were a particular spleen of Alejandra´s dad, but there are roses everywhere in Chile: it must the national flower or something, in every park, on every corner.
Crossing over the border to Argentina, everything was against me. the bus missed the ferry, the next ferry was 5 hours later, and had no bus connection. I hitched a ride, arrived in a flood of rain, had to waddle through half the town and the rain to find a free bed, got wrong information on busses leaving town.. the ususal, apparently, for now, as I want to go back to chile, public transport keeps hating me: all the busses are full. first there were no busses over the weekend, now one company closed (but the signposts are still there), and the other one is full, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.
but I really want to get away from here, so I´ll try and hitchhike over the border. please keep your fingers crossed for me and my rudimentary spanish. Oh, and this entry´s title is a quote from sweet Buenos-Aires-expatriate (everyone I meet is from BA!) Maria, who took pity on me and me under her wings yesterday, taking me to their "maision dans la foret" where I could revive from my bumpy ride.
Her formulation is somewhat more elegant and optimistic than my acquiescent "sometimes you win, sometimes you loose".. which might make more sense if you consider the list of all my things that have been stolen or gotten lost in the laundry, coz it's kind of ridiculous, really:
- a white blouse
- my green sweater
- a couple of underpants
- towels (twice!)
- my billabong shorts
- two T-Shirts
- my fleece jacket
- numerous toilet articles
... there´s more, but I stopped keeping track. sometimes you win, sometimes you loose. with best zen-wishes...
Taking the night bus to Pucon was quite an adventure: the busses are not exactly neatly labeled, it was full as hell, and my bus was late; but one of the "que rica!" guys helped me out. The busses are quite wonderful (most of them), spacious and including a toilet (unless it´s broken... then it is TERRIBLE!). Pucon was a town seemingly entirely created for tourism, but at least the tourists were mostly from Chile or South America. The funniest thing about Pucon is that its airport was closed because some farmer refuses to cut his trees. and while the law sorts things out, there are no planes... In Pucon, I climbed the Volcano Villarica which was worth every penny of its proud price. four Brazilian girls dropped out right from the beginning, so it was only Dutch girl Linda ("so hard to be called linda in South America.."), the guide (who does this thing EVERY DAY) and me who ran up the mountain - and I say "run" because we made it in less than 3 hours, while 4-5 hrs were envisaged (Forgetting I wheezed like a middle-aged hippo on the final ascent, I am quite proud). The way back, sliding down, was the icing on the butt, really much fun. and we saw Condors.
The day hike on the next day turned out to be not the 9km promised by my (4year old) Lonely Planet, but 17 k´s, and pretty steep trekking too (everybody around me was walking with these funny ski poles..). In the end I almost missed the bus, having chatted and dawdled over a cafe con leche (which here means a mug of hot milk to which nescafe and sugar is added according to taste:), so I had to RUN to catch the bus.. Tired from these activities, I spent the next day driving through the Lake District with Rob and Robin (I kid you not) from London (i.e. my room), sampling "Kuchen" in Panguipulli, the fat blackberries at the roadside endlessly tempting ... The air smells of rosin,
Initially I had thought the roses were a particular spleen of Alejandra´s dad, but there are roses everywhere in Chile: it must the national flower or something, in every park, on every corner.
Crossing over the border to Argentina, everything was against me. the bus missed the ferry, the next ferry was 5 hours later, and had no bus connection. I hitched a ride, arrived in a flood of rain, had to waddle through half the town and the rain to find a free bed, got wrong information on busses leaving town.. the ususal, apparently, for now, as I want to go back to chile, public transport keeps hating me: all the busses are full. first there were no busses over the weekend, now one company closed (but the signposts are still there), and the other one is full, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.
but I really want to get away from here, so I´ll try and hitchhike over the border. please keep your fingers crossed for me and my rudimentary spanish. Oh, and this entry´s title is a quote from sweet Buenos-Aires-expatriate (everyone I meet is from BA!) Maria, who took pity on me and me under her wings yesterday, taking me to their "maision dans la foret" where I could revive from my bumpy ride.
Her formulation is somewhat more elegant and optimistic than my acquiescent "sometimes you win, sometimes you loose".. which might make more sense if you consider the list of all my things that have been stolen or gotten lost in the laundry, coz it's kind of ridiculous, really:
- a white blouse
- my green sweater
- a couple of underpants
- towels (twice!)
- my billabong shorts
- two T-Shirts
- my fleece jacket
- numerous toilet articles
... there´s more, but I stopped keeping track. sometimes you win, sometimes you loose. with best zen-wishes...
the dog
here comes the ... seriously!! how cute is that!
this is at the famous Concho y Torres winery. the tour was a complete joke / a guy who tried to emulate everything that is distasteful about english accents, no information but a 20 minute commercial at the beginning and a half/arsed attempt at local folklore in the end... that said, the wine was good.
again, the winery / not the picture I wanted but you can't be too picky coz I'm getting a headache here with the uploads
this is at the famous Concho y Torres winery. the tour was a complete joke / a guy who tried to emulate everything that is distasteful about english accents, no information but a 20 minute commercial at the beginning and a half/arsed attempt at local folklore in the end... that said, the wine was good.
again, the winery / not the picture I wanted but you can't be too picky coz I'm getting a headache here with the uploads
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)