Wino's & Parklife

Exhausted from 4 days of treking in the highlands of Peru it seemed sensible to get on a bus and travel 1,960 miles in one go. Cusco, Peru to Mendoza, Argentina, piece of cake. Its a similar distance from London to Istanbul in Turkey, although according to Google Maps, that journey takes only 34 hours. My journey was double that at 68 hours, 57 of which were on buses and 11 in bus stations. I travelled south 20 degrees in latitude, effectively driving from Summer into Autumn. Look on the map, it's quite a distance.

Arriving in Mendoza the best part of three days later, I'm understandable a little tired, but for rest, recuperation and red wine, I'm in the best possible place. The next week is a battle like haze of sizzling steaks, intoxicated Dutchmen shouting Blur's "Parklife" and all to the soundtrack of gun-fire-like pops of bottles of Malbec being opened every thirty seconds.

Thankfully I kept a diary.

Expectations are strange and dangerous things. When you have high ones, they can be unmercifully dashed (like the last dozen England managers) or when you have none you can be left surprised and speechless (like meeting Ameican that is both intelligent and doesn't have gun). I had high expectations of Mendoza, and despite being half asleep as I arrived, I was none the less a little hesitant. Mendoza did not disappoint, it was Officially Awesome. Fact. Capital Letters Mandatory.

Mendoza's reputation for red wine is well justified, as for for 15 pesos (about 2 or 3 quid) I was made very happy, and fairly merry too. But it's a city that is more than just affordable delicious wine, it's a city that doesn't have to rely on foreigners empty wine bottles to sustain it, it's destination for Argentinians themselves. From Buenas Aires it's a short flight or an over night bus journey landing you in a leafy city of only 110,000 people close to ski fields, countless vineyards and the most beautiful parks and streets I have seen.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5593858288/in/set-72157626649599379/

For me it's the gateway into a country a world away from the Latin America I've so far experienced. The roads are now paved properly, stray dogs are non-existent and people don't have their donkeys/cows/goats tied up in the front garden. Their donkey is more likely to be a shiny saloon, the dog is probably being walked by a paid-for dog walker and the cow is roasting on the BBQ.

Argentina is more affluent than its neighbours, but it's worth comparing it not with other Latin American places, but with European ones. Every street in Mendoza is lined with trees and looks more like France or Italy than South America. For a city in the desert Mendoza is amazingly lush and green. Not only is there a canopy on every street, but on the edge of the centre is the Parque San Martin; a park that rivals all of London's put together.

I hired a bike and spent a few days just cycling, picnicking and reading in this vast park on the edge the city as if I was a world away from the nearby buzzing metropolis. For someone who values the beach being very close by, I was surprised to be so content so far from it. The designer clothing shops of the city displayed warning signs that winter was well on it's way, but like a lazy squirrel I was content to bake in the hot sun lying in the park, thinking "if only London got this hot or looked so good". 

Come eventide, and it was time to cook up a storm, and I impressed a fair number of the hostel with my Peruvian cooking, and ability to always have a glass of wine in one hand and a ladle in the other. A few nights out were had, but my fondest memories were with the Dutchmen Sander and Ivo in the club opposite the hostel. It was like stepping into a indie disco in North London, but a few years behind. The pair of them screaming the chorus to Blur's Parklife and me pretending to be Phil Daniels in my best cockney accent will sit long in my memory.

Finally on my last day I got myself together and went on a bike tour of the nearby town of Maipu, the heartland of the local wine industry. Despite getting lost on the bus system, I finally got myself on a bike, and with a map of the bodegas (vineyard or wine cellar) and an empty backpack (to accommodate lots of wine) I set off to explore without incurring a drink-riding fine.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5593982920/in/set-72157626649599379

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5593991472/in/set-72157626649599379/

The fields of Maipu, could be easily mistaken for those of Southern France or Italy and cycling in the intense of the midday sun it's easy to forget that I'm a few thousand miles from the French countryside. The area of Mendoza is magical, and although it' my first taste of Argentina, I have the feeling this will be a country hard to leave. 

By the end of the afternoon, I've collected three bottles of vino, drunk the best part of two and my bike's ability to turn my wobbles into seemless cycling makes me think it's carried a number of slightly merry tourists in the past. I thankfully make my bus that evening to Buenas Aires and surprisingly I manage to sleep rather well...

photos in the usual place
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/sets/72157626649599379/with/5593858288/

Yo estoy agotado y quiero una cerveza

(means I'm exhausted and I want a beer, which I was after this...)


When I was planning my jaunt around the world there were only a handful of things that I simply had to experience; the wine of Mendoza, the coffee of Colombia, the Mayan ruins of Tikal, the surf of El Salvador and of course Machu Pichu in Peru. I had so far chanced upon a lot of amazing experiences through out my travels, but I enjoyed planning on the move and not knowing which sights I'd be unable to forget when I left a place. So it seemed very strange when after travelling for over 5 months, my Dad, my brother Nick and I were finally on the bus heading to the start of the trail to one of the world's new seven wonders. 

Our road to Machu Pichu is a long and wet one, and takes us 4 days. We soon realise our porters are undiscovered pro-athletes, as not only do they run past us carrying two to three times the weight of our backpacks, but we learn that when they have nothing to carry, they run the 26 miles of the Inca trail in under 4 hours. Baring in mind the trail is over 10,000 feet, this is quite a feet and if I see any Peruvians debuting at the London Marathon next year, I wouldn't be betting against them!

Our own plight was barely underway when the inevitable rain started. We all knew we were in the midst of the wet season, the trail only just having re opened a few days before having had a month to rest, but after 5 minutes, my jacket was already starting to leak (two months later this jacket was stolen in New Zealand, so I thoroughly hope the culprit gets rained on, as the jacket will make sure they get a good soaking). thankfully we are all equipped with 30p plastic ponchos, which keep the rain off and the heat in, so after a day of trekking they make a good boil-in-the-bag backpacker.

When we make camp every afternoon, the superhuman porters have already arrived, set up camp and started cooking. The days of them carrying insane loads are now long gone, but none the less, they put our fitness to shame. Despite the trail being the world's most renowned, the facilities have failed to keep pace. It's a home from home for Frenchies as we're treated to the latest in hole-in-the-floor toilets. Perfect for dropping alcoholic hand wash down when you really needed it.

The second day is a beast, as it's uphill nearly all the way, to 4,200m and the crossing of the Dead Woman's Pass. The trail is all steps, so whilst conforming to most western countries health and safety standards, its a thigh burning walk up, and as the rain increases and the temperature drops at the summit, we're only to eager (post photo opp) to continue down the other side and onto the second nights camp. Now that we are suitably shattered each night, sleep comes very quickly. Even Nick is sleeping through Dad's snoring, which whilst surprising, is surpassed by Nick's cheeriness first thing in the morning (even more surprising).

The food on the trek is always something to look forward to. Nick, Dad and I agreed before hand to all go veggie to aid our stomachs, but regretted the decision for 4 days, as the most delicious meat was cooked up for every meal. Cooking for 16 people and 22 porters is no easy task, but after spotting the chef cooking on just two small gas burners, we were left in awe. With 4 hobs and clean kitchen I struggle to knock up anything near as tasty. Despite no meat, we were never left hungry, although I think one porter should be charged with carrying a keg of beer for future trips. Beer was rather hard to come by in the middle of the Peruvian highlands, however, they did manage to produce some Pisco Sours on one evening.

Up at the crack of dawn again and on the road for the third day, nick-named the Gringo Killer, as it was pretty much all down hill and was the main cause of complaints of sore knees from pathetic tourists. So off we stomped in the intermittent rain, through tunnels and through ancient Inca sites with secret paths tucked away in the tightest and narrowest of places. After lunch, the descent really kicked in, as the path was steep, tough and also the new route for what I think was the nearby river. The water poured down over the steps in torrents, but this did little to deter the porters whose break neck-pace turned out to be more a break-ankle pace, as one of our group tried to keep up with them only to be left hobbling 30 minutes later.

Towards the end of the third day, Nick and I were privy to something that simply nobody sees on the Inca Trail. Our guides had been walking the trail for over 8 years, and they told us they had never seen them and we should not expect to see any... Spectacled Bears. Walking around a corner, an hour or two before arriving at the campsite, we were confronted by a mother and cub crossing the path. Seeing Paddington (for that is the type of bear that he is) and his Mum cross in front of us, was truly amazing, and extremely special, given that no one ever sees them. They're not huge and are extremely shy, and I am still kicking myself for just freezing at the sight of them and neglecting to take a photo. Like all things on the trip so far, memories last a long time, shame I can't put them on Flickr mind.

The animal documentary continued down to camp, where we saw a raccoon and a bunch of courting toucans. Potential post-travel career #17; being David Attenborough's replacement is now top of the list. Finally arriving in camp, to a rapturous applause it was time for a couple of beers, to take off walking boots and watch them steam and reflect on the bulk of walking now done. It was also time to sort out a thank you speech for the porters, chefs and guides. Having already introduced myself to the porters in Spanish, I was nominated, but thankfully with a lot of assistance from some of the other travellers, we sorted out a lengthy speech which I read out in my best (not that good) Spanish, devoid of Spanglish, gesticulations or any of Dad's Italian.

The following morning we were up at 3.45am and off to Machu Pichu. The rain had returned with renewed vigour and we were all sheltering at the control point before we got under way. It was that time of morning where the first light is making everything slightly creepy, you can see other people, but not their expressions, the mist was causing the light to fade in and out and rounding one corner, out of the mist there stands defiant, a rather large llama, blocking our way. He gives us a feeling of foreboding, as if to say, "Who goes there and what brings you to my mountain?" or "The way is shut, it was made buy those who are woolly". Apologies the second one is a ripoff of a quote from Lord of the Rings as I'm currently in New Zealand...

Anyway, thankfully llamas cannot talk nor charge tolls or prevent us from continuing, which we do for a couple of hours before we arrive at the monkey steps. We'd heard about them before the trek, very steep metre-high steps that prove a tricky challenge to the weary. Having set off near the front of the line and in anticipation of seeing Machu Pichu, Nick and I effectively ran up them with ease, in fact our whole group was pushing such a fast pace we all cruised up. 

We were minutes from the top, when our guide William turned around to Nick and me claiming he was too tired to continue. In the moment in which we paused to laugh, he'd got the drop on us and was sprinting the last hundred metres up hill to the Sun Gate. Keen to show the Gringos still had stamina after 3 and half days we hooned it up in close pursuit to get through the Sun Gate (entrance) both out of breath but also breathless at the view. We´ve all seen photos of Machu Pichu, but from the Sun Gate the combination of finishing 3 days of very damp trekking and the most beautiful sight I have ever seen go beyond any impact a simple photo can ever do.

Photos will do this more justice than I can, and thankfully my brother took some belters. My photos were corrupted but having taken 1300 photos in Machu Pichu alone Nick has selected a handful of the best ones through the following link.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/nicksmith95/sets/72157626257665621/

Our guide William took us around the city, telling us an array of stories from the ancient Incas to a more recent tear-jerker of a tale from the 70s that left us all in no doubt how meaningful this trail can be, and how finishing it even for the second time can be overwhelming. You´ll have to wait until I get home to hear that particular story, but for now I can assure you that as tourist heavy this trail people incorrectly think it is, and despite so many gringos having already been before and despite losing my photos, I will never lose the memories of the moment I crossed the Sun Gate and saw Machu Pichu for the first time.

Incan Aliens & Italian Spanglish

It had been five months since I said goodbye to the family and Mum had been extremely keen to send the troops out to make sure I was being fed properly, particularly after I'd already sent clothes home some months back having lost a few pounds. As I stood waiting for the first troops to arrive at Cusco airport I was naturally looking forward to seeing them, but more importantly, how much tea and chocolate and they'd brought out. When finally they'd finished faffing inside the arrivals hall, they emerged, both with super short haircuts identical to my own, my only saving grace was that I had 5 months of tropical tan to tell me apart from the two pastie Smiths. I could clearly see what I'd be looking like in 5 and 30 years time, but as my brother inspected my scalp, he reminded me that I wasn't far behind.

 

The three reunited "baldys" hit Cusco and settled into accommodation far exceeding any luxury I'd previously experienced. After handing over the goods (two giant bars of Cadbury's best, two packets of breakfast tea and two moleskin diaries) we headed out into Cusco to be fed. Cusco is head and shoulders above the rest of the country when it comes to tourism and given they have one of the new wonders of the world in their back yard, it's not surprising. I think there are more restaurants here than there are people in central Cusco and more touts here than in Leicester Square, although nowhere in London does anybody ask if you want a massage or your photo taken with a baby sheep. Clearly there are some parts of Soho that I need to spend more time in...

 

After a much needed catch up and thorough feeding at a place overlooking the "Plaza De Armas", I'd had a chance to demo my Spanish and after 5 months in the Americas I thankfully impressed both Dad and Nick, and much to Nick's relief as in their last few days in Lima, Dad had apparently kept speaking Italian, instead of Spanish. I put this down to getting used to the altitude, although Nick was quick to point out he'd been speaking French as well. Over the next few days we saw the various sights on offer around Cusco and acclimatised to the altitude which is around 3,400 m (11,200 feet) in the world's highest Irish Bar.

 

The history of the Incas is hard to miss in Cusco, but here more than most places I'd been to before, could you get a real sense of how things used to be before the Spanish came to town. Like many places in the Americas, the Spaniards were brutal in their mission to conquer and nick as much shiny stuff from Cusco as they could, but within the many churches, the Spaniards' inability to stifle indigenous customs was easy to spot. In the Cathedral in particular, the need to convert the locals whilst keeping them happy meant a significant compromise between Incan and Catholic beliefs. With a different person/saint/God to pray to depending on what you wanted, what day of the week it was, whether you wanted a husband or to be rid of your wife, or possibly what colour socks you happen to be wearing, the blend of beliefs was quite considerable, and far from what I thought Catholicism was all about. The price of the Spaniards occupation of the area was however far higher than the impact of the belief system, and when the Incans brought knives to the Spaniards' gunfight, things were fairly one sided and many of the Incans were killed, and those that remained repressed.

 

Their legacy, however is not forgotten, and despite how touristy they maybe, the different Inca sites are something to behold and not to be missed. The only one I can remember the name of was Sacsaywaman (you pronounce it Sexy Woman, sort of...) and the scale of what they built truely humbles what you thought was possible without specialised tools. The cries of "aliens!" and other stupid conspiracy theroies from even stupider Americans is quite frustrating. Conspiracy seems an easier thing to say rather than admitting that a race that died hundreds of years ago was more intelligent, could build better and did it all without needing to go to Walmart. 

 

The Incans deserve praise for their achievements, and we'd set out to achieve our own glory, but taking on the 4 day Inca Trail to Machu Pichu... We'd heard about the gruelling second day of walking to 13,800 feet and the evil third day of walking down hill that was nick-named the Gringo Killer for the state of people's knees after ward. We were also aware that we were walking the trail at a rather soggy time of year... things were against us, but the Smith's could not be deterred and set off regardless.

 

photos are unfortunately lacking at present as the my memory card wasn't working. Photos from my brother to be released with the next blog...which will be here soon...