tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82313603544002172042024-03-13T04:33:42.741-07:00Cogs WatchA year across the globe: South and Central America, Europe, Israel, India and Thailand (with a pit stop in NYC).Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-54208458267734420692010-10-30T03:57:00.000-07:002010-10-30T04:15:07.152-07:00A Good FeelingThe Good Feeling Hostel, that’s got to suggest something, right? We met Hugo, the hostel’s owner, after waiting on the hotel verandah near the ‘Back in Ten Minutes’ sign. He had just picked up the same seven or so tourists he’d dropped off at the beach that morning and was about to turn around and chauffeur another bunch. We were hungry and asked if there was a shop nearby. ‘I can drive you to the supermarket, it’s no problem’, he said casually. This, we learned, is generally the daily routine of Hugo and co-owner/best mate Miguel. This, and surfing, cooking on mass risotto/seafood casserole/roast pork for interested guests and more surfing. For people who love the sun and surf, these guys are living the life.<br /><br />Bec and I found it pretty easy to slip into relaxation mode at the Good Feeling. Our first day was spent lying on the beach in the sleepy nearby town of Sagres. The following day we took a bus to the more touristy Lagos and met Andreia’s friend and Lagos local Anna, who took us to a ‘secret beach’ on the edge of the city with an easily missed descending stairway entry. It was a tough three days, late morning sleep ins, seafood lunches, afternoon ice-creams and the ever-present sapphire of the Mediterranean to remind us of the holiday mode we found ourselves in. I’m thinking if the lawyer thing doesn’t work out when I get home, I might just give Hugo and Miguel a call. I could get used to this life.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv8PsTAkYI/AAAAAAAAAro/qgni6KdVDDU/s1600/walk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 195px; height: 260px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv8PsTAkYI/AAAAAAAAAro/qgni6KdVDDU/s200/walk.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv8ReDIfjI/AAAAAAAAArs/qRRr31cZmx0/s1600/secret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 346px; height: 260px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv8ReDIfjI/AAAAAAAAArs/qRRr31cZmx0/s320/secret.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The walk from the not-so-secret Lagos beach</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></div></div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-25684569990176371342010-10-30T03:50:00.000-07:002010-10-30T03:53:13.657-07:00Put Lisbon on your bucket listIt’s not London, Paris, New York or Rome and it doesn’t try to be. It’s Lisbon and it’s cool. It came to my attention a number of years ago when my parents managed to get themselves on a flight that had a long lay-over in Lisbon, enough time for them to quit the airport and have an explore. I can remember both came home surprised at how much they enjoyed the off-the-radar Portuguese capital which has since remained in my mind, even if mainly as the place Mum bought those crazy shoes she never wears. We were in an even better position to discover Lisbon’s fruits as we’d been invited to stay in the home of a Portuguese friend we’d met while working at the animal sanctuary in Ecuador. So while most travellers go in search of ‘local haunts’ and ‘local experiences’, we were equipped with Andreia, local and all round great girl. So for us and Iza, another sanctuary volunteer visiting from Poland, it was all systems go!<br /><br />I realise I’ve used the word ‘cool’ to describe Lisbon which is not a word I’m usually a big fan of. This time for the sake of accuracy, however, I went so far as to look it up in a thesaurus and have concluded that ‘cool’ is definitely appropriate. Some of its synonymous? ‘Stylish’, ‘chic’, ‘sophisticated’, ‘trendy’, and ‘happening’. Of all those words I think I’d choose the last - ‘happening’ - as most fitting. Lisbon has a unique energy that many other cities don’t. You see it in the people, the street buskers, and in the nocturnal street gatherings. It’s everywhere and gives the city an appealing edge. Andreia certainly didn’t lack this energy and, teamed with her German-born Portuguese friend Anna, gave us the ultimate tour of Lisbon.<br /><br />So what does an ultimate tour entail? There were a few obvious must-sees. A ride on the famous No. 28 rollercoaster of a tram that heaved and hoed it’s way around the cobblestone maze of the Alfama district. Once off the tram I soon discovered a newfound respect for GPS-less taxi drivers after trying to navigate our way through the rabbit warren Old Town. But with Andreia we weren’t lost. We found deserted viewpoints, watched on as grandmas draped washing from colourful window boxes and lunched in a typical café, all the while smiling as Andreia sipped on a ‘mini’ of beer (a Portuguese tradition that would be difficult to grasp for many schooner-trained Australians). Faced with a challenge, our navigational skills - or, let’s be honest, Andreia’s - prevailed and at dusk we took in city views from the majestic Castle of São Jorge that gazes over the city like a medieval watchdog.<br /><br />And of course the tour wouldn’t have been complete without an assault on our taste buds. On our first night in the big city Andreia took us to, what she called a ‘local favourite’, a restaurant in a passageway just off the Praça do Rossio, opposite a peep show joint. Sounds nice huh? Well, despite its perhaps unsavory neighbour, it was! Andreia had me eating salted cod, a Portuguese favourite, and had us all drinking green wine, which was…interesting. The following evening it was time to put on our dancing shoes - or in our case, going-out thongs - and hitting the town. This time our taste buds were treated to an Asian spread at the Wagamama-like ‘Nood’, followed by some potent caipirinhas, which very quickly took us back to some of our South American days. We soon discovered that it’s on nights like these Lisbon’s light shines. It felt like the whole city had emerged to play, but the action wasn’t in the bars, I was in the streets outside. We started our evening in a crowded plaza with a bottle of white and the whisper of a saxophone in the background, all the while overlooking the 25 de Abril bridge.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyu345p4I/AAAAAAAAArA/Tp6k0EkLztY/s1600/Lisbon_flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyu345p4I/AAAAAAAAArA/Tp6k0EkLztY/s200/Lisbon_flowers.jpg" style="height: 220px; width: 165px;" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyn0TWGuI/AAAAAAAAAq4/5_GHVc5VgY0/s1600/busker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyn0TWGuI/AAAAAAAAAq4/5_GHVc5VgY0/s200/busker.jpg" style="height: 220px; width: 165px;" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyjqrSxiI/AAAAAAAAAqw/gDdExRYfgjg/s1600/Afama_passageway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvyjqrSxiI/AAAAAAAAAqw/gDdExRYfgjg/s200/Afama_passageway.jpg" style="height: 220px; width: 165px;" border="0" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvylmkBtWI/AAAAAAAAAq0/mBjiqvCUC-0/s1600/Alto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvylmkBtWI/AAAAAAAAAq0/mBjiqvCUC-0/s200/Alto.jpg" style="height: 160px; width: 214px;" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvysmo2LvI/AAAAAAAAAq8/rn-HQ7V1lwQ/s1600/Castle_strolling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvysmo2LvI/AAAAAAAAAq8/rn-HQ7V1lwQ/s200/Castle_strolling.jpg" style="height: 159px; width: 214px;" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvywotJqFI/AAAAAAAAArE/qnTPeQeCVGg/s1600/tram_Andreia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvywotJqFI/AAAAAAAAArE/qnTPeQeCVGg/s200/tram_Andreia.jpg" style="height: 224px; width: 300px;" border="0" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Clockwise from top left: Lisbon through a window; Busker on Rua Augusta; In an Alfama laneway; Stolling atop São Jorge; Andreia leaning out of Tram 28; Caipirinhas in the Bairro Alto.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>From here we walked to Lisbon’s bar quarter – the Bairro Alto. On the way Sam and I got to know Caterina, one of Andreia’s friends. Caterina was passionate…about windows. ‘You’ve seen windows, but have you <i>seen</i> windows?’, was her first question. Initially we found this introduction a tad peculiar, but after spending the next half hour picking apart the windows of Lisbon, I understood. Those colourful sills, wooden and wrought iron, draped with clotheslines and creepers, are all just a part of Lisbon’s charm, each a reflection of charismatic people living inside.<br /><br />So we proceeded with the extra large caipirinhas which seemed like a good idea at the time, but when we woke at 2pm the following morning with splitting headaches we were in deep regret. Luckily for us it was Andreia to the rescue, piling us in her car and taking us to Belem for <i>the best</i> Portuguese tarts in Lisbon. Usually I’m a bit skeptical when people describe places in this way. So many times I’ve expected great things based on descriptions such as these and have been disappointed. But the Pastéis de Belém was an exception and even though the ovens must churn out thousands of Pastéis de Natas (custard tarts) a day to satisfy the demand, each tart is simply perfection. From the delicate crisp of the pastry to the smooth warmth of the cinnamon dusted custard, by first bite our hangovers had vanished! This place was established in 1837 so I guess they know what they’re doing. The icing on the cake for the day? A free concert at the Centro Cultural de Belém down the road where we were treated to the husky sound of the talented Concha Buika. Just another Saturday night in Lisbon.<br /><br />After all this we thought it was time to give Andreia a break from tour guide duties so we took ourselves to the train station for the hour long trip to the medieval city of Sintra, famous for its castles. Being a weekend and having left late in the morning we had to pick and choose how we’d spend the afternoon as the place was a swarm with tourists and lengthy lines. We chose the picturesque Pena Castle - a candy cane of colours, and the Quinta da Regaleira Gardens with its mysterious network of secret underground tunnels, enjoying sweeping views of Sintra and its green surrounds from both. To finish up we took a local bus another half hour out of Sintra to the beautiful Cabo de Roca, apparently Europe’s most western point. Here we got a spectacular sunset and, although the icy ocean wind soon had us huddled in the bus shelter praying for the arrival of the next bus, it was well worth the trip out.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3cLJlSbI/AAAAAAAAArU/7SATEALAsXg/s1600/tunnel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img style="width: 127px; height: 170px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3cLJlSbI/AAAAAAAAArU/7SATEALAsXg/s200/tunnel.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3afCJsJI/AAAAAAAAArQ/ILuLfIlkFFg/s1600/castle2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 127px; height: 170px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3afCJsJI/AAAAAAAAArQ/ILuLfIlkFFg/s200/castle2.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3YsinINI/AAAAAAAAArM/Ue6501VPk_4/s1600/castle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 226px; height: 170px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMv3YsinINI/AAAAAAAAArM/Ue6501VPk_4/s200/castle1.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvvYS5QSDI/AAAAAAAAAqs/PJ61D8WDttY/s1600/lighthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvvYS5QSDI/AAAAAAAAAqs/PJ61D8WDttY/s200/lighthouse.jpg" style="height: 268px; width: 201px;" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvvK0hDsHI/AAAAAAAAAqo/03NGc0oW4Mo/s1600/Cabo+de+Roca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TMvvK0hDsHI/AAAAAAAAAqo/03NGc0oW4Mo/s400/Cabo+de+Roca.jpg" style="height: 271px; width: 352px;" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><i>Clockwise from top left: The Pena Castle facade; The Pena Castle; Opening to a tunnel in the</i> <i>Quinta da Regaleira; Cabo de Roca at sunset and its lighthouse.</i><br /><br />On the day we left I told Andreia that I hoped she would come and visit us in Sydney because we’d love to return the favour, ‘but it’s not as beautiful as Lisbon’, I said. I was thinking in terms of Lisbon’s ancient plazas, cobble stoned streets and those amazing castles, not to mention the locals. Andreia disagreed, saying that the modernity of Sydney was surely as beautiful. Thinking about it afterwards I now have to agree. Sydney has some amazing things on offer from its sparkling harbour to its iconic Opera House. But does it reach Lisbon’s ‘cool’ heights?Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-18147126444891875972010-09-15T07:18:00.000-07:002010-09-15T07:20:45.303-07:00And I thought I didn't drink PortThe Europe sector of our trip had arrived and we both had mixed feelings. South and Central America had exceeded expectation, not to mention being budget-friendly and spontaneous. Europe on the other hand was set to be pocket pinching and scheduled. Our once expansive European countries list had dwindled to Portugal, Spain, Italy and Germany, and we only had six weeks in which to see it all (another thing we’re not fond of, rushing). Before our jet setting expedition, however, we had a week in London. A week in a city I’ve been to on numerous occasions may seem like a long time, but with at least a third of my Charles Sturt University cohort living there and with friends from my USA exchange in Scotland, a week in London and night in Edinburgh wasn’t nearly enough. Then there were the bureaucratic difficulties we faced obtaining Bec’s visa for India. Australians note: if you apply for an tourist visa for India in London using an Australian passport, it takes 15 days! Thank you, Mum, for being British. Coupling this with a week of endless social activities, by the time we reached the Portuguese city of Porto we were both exhausted and in serious need of some down time.<br />
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Despite being weary, we took advantage of being out of the hustle and bustle of a big city and in a smaller, colonial one. Also nice was that we were joined by Sam, a close friend of mine from high school, and her travelling companion Michelle. Both were travelling in Portugal while we were and we’d hoped for our itineraries to overlap at some points along the way. So although the afternoon we arrived was spent dragging our feet around the beautiful Old Town, we enjoyed the sunset views of the port and river from high above on the bridge and stopped for dinner at ‘<a href="http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Restaurant_Review-g189180-d1791596-Reviews-Tapas_e-Porto_Northern_Portugal.html">Tapas e +</a>’, a tapas restaurant with an edge (and some very target sharp seagulls, poor Sam!).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDU7zmdcnI/AAAAAAAAAqQ/0eOWErTi2es/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDVeyzi7WI/AAAAAAAAAqg/wCLCle_zMh8/s1600/posthouses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDVeyzi7WI/AAAAAAAAAqg/wCLCle_zMh8/s400/posthouses.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>A riverbank of Port Houses</i> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>And what of the subject of this post? Well, it may have been obvious to some, but I didn’t realise before I arrived that Porto is all about port – the alcoholic variety, not the shipping. Now, my experience with port is limited. When I think port I either think of sipping it during communion at church at Christmas or Easter time, or I think of the day following an unfortunate evening at college when I thought port shots were a good idea. So with my very minimal port drinking background, a port ‘tasting’ wasn’t something that had been necessarily on my to-do-list, but apparently they are the thing to do in Porto. One other thing I came away with, apart from my new appreciation of port, is that a ‘tasting’ in Porto is not what you might get at home (i.e. in Australia, a measly mouthful, two at most). In Porto, it’s a full glass! So when the four of us approached one Port House and asked for four ‘tastings’ we were somewhat confused when the server suggested we have two. We’re Australians, we thought, we can handle a full ‘tasting’ for goodness sake! We were finally convinced to share one between two and after delighting in the red, the white, the sweet, the dry, the chocolate and the Christmas pudding flavours, we were pleased by our decision as we left the port house, a definite sway in all our steps. If anything, a Porto port tasting will guarantee you a good night’s sleep, which was precisely what we needed.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDU869uAtI/AAAAAAAAAqY/01XviOhobkw/s1600/tasting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDU869uAtI/AAAAAAAAAqY/01XviOhobkw/s400/tasting.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Our 'tasting'</i></div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-57588818793511776872010-09-15T06:06:00.001-07:002010-09-15T06:43:05.693-07:00Falling in LoveNo, not in that way. I haven’t met the man of my dreams and set off into the sunset...yet. The truth is I’ve fallen for New York City once again. Manhattan, a planet of its own, the ‘concrete jungle’ dotted with yellow taxis, a family-friendly green slab at one end, the epicenter of world trade a hum with business tycoons at the other.<br /><br />NYC and I have been going steady for well over a decade now. I first fell in 1997 when I was 12. My parents took my brother and me around the world, NYC our last stop. New Yorkers with their wacky style, enormous personalities and that accent immediately captivated me. An impressionable kid, I quickly adopted the bagel and ‘coa-fee’ routine and made Starbucks my Mecca, vowing and declaring after four days that I was moving to the city where rush hour never ends, I too wanted to be a New Yorker. Of course I was promptly set straight by my parents who reminded me of a little commitment called school, and I had a fair way to go at that stage.<br /><br />My second visit would be nearly a decade later in 2005 while I was studying at the University of North Carolina. New York had changed. The world had changed. There was a war in Afghanistan, a universal fear in the air and while that NYC spirit remained, it had been dampened. On September 11, 2001, we had all watched as four high jacked planes changed the face of humanity forever. We had all watched as New York lost thousands of its beloved citizens and a piece of its iconic skyline. Together we watched the aftermath, grieved for the lost, honoured the brave and admired the unity and resilience of a city that would never be the same. This was something I would understand personally a few months after my 2005 visit while I was in London when its transport system suffered a similar attack. Both populations chose life over fear.<br /><br />Five years later I once again found myself in New York City, wondering what a four-day visit would bring me this time. To my relief – even in my grumpy mood after a 3.30am wake-up, a missed connection in Dallas Fort Worth and two lost-in-transit backpacks - it was still the NYC I remembered as a pre-teen, a bizarre combination of flamboyance and panache and, like 2005, the scars of 2001 remained an open and raw reminder and commemoration. As a 12-year-old I’d stayed in a hotel with my parents, at 20 it was a backpackers’ hostel in Chelsea and this time it would a combination of both experiences. I was a backpacker in NYC but staying in the boutique <a href="http://www.hotelmela.com/">Hotel Mela</a> in Times Square, courtesy of Bec’s parents who’d put her up in a hotel as a 25th birthday present. I was just the very fortunate travel companion included in the package, thank you Curreys!<br /><br />Although short and sweet, our visit was a well-planned assault on the senses. The aim? Take in as much of the city as possible in a mixture of touristy and local activities. Of course this was after some important administrative matters were attended to: a new computer battery from the remarkable Apple Store, spanking new underwear from Victoria’s Secret, and a trip to a Greenwich Village hairdresser to fix our dire split end situation.<br /><br />Errands complete, we were left to our own devices with me enjoying the role of tour guide to first-time visitor Bec. I wrote above about our plan to mix touristy with local, but to be honest the tourist activities far outweighed the local. This, however, doesn’t really matter in a city like NYC where everything’s exciting. We made it to Broadway to see ‘Wicked’ (which was surprisingly thoroughly enjoyable even after a big night out in the East Village), ate over spectacular views at the revolving Marriot Hotel restaurant in Times Square and hopped on the Staten Island ferry to get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. We also took a brave step outside the tourist box by giving the Empire State Building the flick in favour of the less visited Rockefeller Centre - aka ‘Top of the Rock’ - viewpoint. Although still packed with thourists it was by no means less impressive and I rather liked the inclusion of the Empire State on the skyline.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDIJbTSEmI/AAAAAAAAApA/LEoTwDII2tw/s1600/topofrock1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 280px; height: 210px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDIJbTSEmI/AAAAAAAAApA/LEoTwDII2tw/s200/topofrock1.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDImE-A1wI/AAAAAAAAApY/PpnKvsbwrkU/s1600/empire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 280px; height: 210px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDImE-A1wI/AAAAAAAAApY/PpnKvsbwrkU/s200/empire.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDILAhxKRI/AAAAAAAAApQ/NX3JOo-WgaI/s1600/Stat+ferry+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 350px; height: 262px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDILAhxKRI/AAAAAAAAApQ/NX3JOo-WgaI/s320/Stat+ferry+view.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Clockwise from top: view of Central Park and the Empire State Building from 'Top of the Rock'; view of Manhattan from the Staten Island Ferry</span><br /></div><br />In describing our next activity I should warn anyone judgmental of tele-series addicts to please stop reading now. To give you some background, since leaving Australia I’ve become a fresh ‘addictee’ (is that a word? Spell check doesn’t think so) of ‘Dexter’, and have tapped into a post addiction,‘Sex in the City’. While perhaps I should be questioning their values - one is about a family man serial killer, the other about four women who focus their lives on sex - I just blame Mexico and its cheap box-sets. An addict always deflects. Anyway, when you place something addictive under the nose of an addict you’re bound to expect the dependence to rear its ugly head. And that’s just what happened to us, two ‘Sex in the City’ addicts in New York City.<br /><br />Buzzing with the hit of landing in the Big Apple and with some careful research behind us, we took ourselves on a self-guided ‘Sex in the City’ tour and, usually irritated by tourist hoards, took the unusual step of joining other fanatics and visiting film locations such as ‘Carrie’s stoop’ (the spot of many a good-night kiss), and the ‘Magnolia Bakery’ (where Carrie first revealed her Aiden crush to Miranda), also where we of course indulged in a ‘Carrie cupcake’. On another evening we found ourselves watching an open-air Roman Polanski film in Bryant Park, the location where the girls attended New York Fashion Week. I could let the addiction keep talking but I’m sure you get the point. I’ll just quit now while I’m ahead.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI7xbi6AI/AAAAAAAAApg/52JD4Sq3NHA/s1600/Sex_stoop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 140px; height: 181px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI7xbi6AI/AAAAAAAAApg/52JD4Sq3NHA/s320/Sex_stoop.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI8l_YlKI/AAAAAAAAApo/uDf1uQy3ibQ/s1600/Sex_bakery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 230px; height: 176px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI8l_YlKI/AAAAAAAAApo/uDf1uQy3ibQ/s320/Sex_bakery.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI_K1dkDI/AAAAAAAAAp4/KFNH52WXhZg/s1600/Sex_cakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 140px; height: 182px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDI_K1dkDI/AAAAAAAAAp4/KFNH52WXhZg/s320/Sex_cakes.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />L-R: 'Carrie's stoop'; the line-up outside the Magnolia Bakery; pre-devoured Carrie cupcakes</span><br /></div><br />I’m sounding painfully touristy aren’t I? Well while I’ve admitted that, for the most part, our time in NYC was very touristy, we did do something drastic, something even many Manhattaners are afraid to do: we left the island and spent the day in the Brooklyn burbs. Starting in the East side, we walked over the Williamsburgh Bridge, taking in Manhattan from a different perspective, and found ourselves on Bedford Ave. Map-less and tired, having walked down what was much longer an Avenue than we’d anticipated, we managed to get ourselves to Prospect Park, Brooklyn’s equally impressive but underrated equivalent to Central Park. Here we took in some sun before heading past the beautiful Green-wood Cemetery to Brooklyn’s China Town where we enjoyed Yum Cha (apparently called ‘Dim Sum’ in every other country bar Australia). And yes, you’ll be relieved to hear that after a day on the dark side we arrived that evening unscathed back in Manhattan.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDJJNz9RGI/AAAAAAAAAqI/975pa_UFNto/s1600/prospectpark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDJH2gt9aI/AAAAAAAAAqA/7HiqGPeOMJE/s1600/manhattanfrombridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 280px; height: 211px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDJH2gt9aI/AAAAAAAAAqA/7HiqGPeOMJE/s320/manhattanfrombridge.jpg" border="0" /></a><img style="width: 280px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TJDJJNz9RGI/AAAAAAAAAqI/975pa_UFNto/s320/prospectpark.jpg" border="0" /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">L-R: view of Manhattan from the Williamsburgh Bridge; Prospect Park</span><br /></div><br />With a night flight out of NYC we spent our last hours fitting in some final must-sees: Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I basked in the amazing collections on show, this place is really something. And with some of the best NYC has to offer under our belts – theatre, art, and of course that NYC attitude – we left the Big Apple for London, a touch of unexpected class thrown in when we were upgraded to business class. How fittingly ‘Sex in the City’.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-70479504493302802972010-08-28T07:48:00.000-07:002010-08-30T07:36:56.134-07:00Mexico City in photosMexico City is a great one. A cultural melting pot with a rich history and once home to the brilliant Frida Kahlo, you’re never short of something to do – people gazing in the enormous Zocalo, admiring a Rivera fresco or having a history lesson at the magnificent Teotihuacan site. For me, Mexico City round two was every bit as exciting as my first visit, except this time by the end of the week my feet were in agony after walking what felt like every inch of the city. Perhaps I’m being a bit lazy (considering all the blog catch up I have), but I’ve chosen to make this post a visual one, mainly because I find Mexico such a visual country with its colourful culture, it’s Capital is no different. See if you agree…<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdG8a4B8I/AAAAAAAAAmg/EnwbMzGXQl4/s1600/Bellas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdG8a4B8I/AAAAAAAAAmg/EnwbMzGXQl4/s320/Bellas.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdJ2Y2d0I/AAAAAAAAAnA/HInf59E1LxY/s1600/Frida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdJ2Y2d0I/AAAAAAAAAnA/HInf59E1LxY/s320/Frida.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>'El Palacio de Bellas Artes'; the 'Blue House' Frida Kahlo shared with Diego Rivera.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdHhuisGI/AAAAAAAAAmo/ne59LPesmGA/s1600/Cathchurch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdHhuisGI/AAAAAAAAAmo/ne59LPesmGA/s320/Cathchurch.jpg" style="height: 212px; width: 280px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdLMqdwVI/AAAAAAAAAnI/seJDOu-5C3I/s1600/Guadaview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdLMqdwVI/AAAAAAAAAnI/seJDOu-5C3I/s320/Guadaview.jpg" style="height: 211px; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><i>The 17th century 'Templo de Santiago' church at Tlatelolco; view from the Virgin Guadalupe's shrine.</i></div><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdJLSs4BI/AAAAAAAAAm4/xsvsQyblPis/s1600/Diego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdJLSs4BI/AAAAAAAAAm4/xsvsQyblPis/s320/Diego.jpg" style="height: 211px; width: 280px;" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkghPh2KZI/AAAAAAAAAoo/2O6QYFDKVxc/s1600/VW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkghPh2KZI/AAAAAAAAAoo/2O6QYFDKVxc/s320/VW.jpg" style="height: 213px; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> <i>A piece in the Diego Rivera Museum; the ubiquitous bettle in a Taxco plaza.</i></div><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdOBj7NMI/AAAAAAAAAnY/JnLW4xp7psM/s1600/palace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdOBj7NMI/AAAAAAAAAnY/JnLW4xp7psM/s320/palace.jpg" style="height: 210px; width: 280px;" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdQQWn22I/AAAAAAAAAnw/wc46NDdKukg/s1600/tacos+dorado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdQQWn22I/AAAAAAAAAnw/wc46NDdKukg/s320/tacos+dorado.jpg" style="height: 210px; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The Chapultepec Castle in Chapultepec park; our first try of the crispy-shelled tacos 'dorado'.</i></div><br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdTe9aefI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/Y59bHETXfUk/s1600/Teoview2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdTe9aefI/AAAAAAAAAoQ/Y59bHETXfUk/s320/Teoview2.jpg" style="height: 210px; width: 280px;" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdPmYINZI/AAAAAAAAAno/OHy8JxNhvqc/s1600/Sofa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkdPmYINZI/AAAAAAAAAno/OHy8JxNhvqc/s320/Sofa.jpg" style="height: 212px; width: 280px;" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The site of Teotihuacan from the Pyramid of the Moon; having a break.</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkggZ1RcSI/AAAAAAAAAog/H72b_TxYSyw/s1600/Taxco_square.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THkggZ1RcSI/AAAAAAAAAog/H72b_TxYSyw/s400/Taxco_square.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>On a day trip from Mexico City we just beat the rain in Taxco, Mexico's silver capital.</i> </div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-39516079447565981612010-08-26T13:39:00.000-07:002010-08-30T06:58:15.695-07:00Surf's up, in a really big way!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbSu15E9BI/AAAAAAAAAmY/1B0BCGOPVkE/s1600/surf.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509822896316675090" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbSu15E9BI/AAAAAAAAAmY/1B0BCGOPVkE/s200/surf.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 258px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 344px;" /></a><br />
A friend of mine who’d been to Puerto Escondido on Mexico’s Pacific coast had told me that unless I was into surfing, there wasn’t much else to do besides chill out over a Corona on the beach. Sounded good to me. What we soon found out was that if you’re not into surfing, you shouldn’t really be into swimming either, if you want to enjoy Puerto Escondido at this time of year. This is mainly because you’d need flippers and a tail if you want any chance of surviving in surf that size, at least that was how this little city girl felt. On top of the surf situation we had the rain situation, which made sun baking or visiting Puerto’s calmer surrounding beaches a little difficult.<br />
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So what did we do in the five days we were there? Well that’s a good question. Let’s see, there were a fair few beers consumed, as predicted, at the ‘Osa Mariposa’ hostel where we got right into the creative vegetarian menu – ever tried carrot and coconut soup? It's good. One afternoon was spent under a threatening sky on the beach, watching the trials for a Quicksilver pro-surfing competition, all the while searching for Kelly Slater, but alas, not finding him (does he even surf anymore?). We did make the most of the surfer infested nightlife one night, and enjoyed the company of a couple of Scandinavians who’d been knocked out in the first round and were intent on spending the rest of their time posing as Ben Affleck’s security guards ("Ben Affleck" being an unfortunate Dutch look-alike). They did manage to score some free shots at the bar for "Ben" and his posse, so perhaps the Dutchman wasn't so unfortunate after all.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbSgtkoC4I/AAAAAAAAAmQ/DjxN6tS5S9M/s1600/quicksilver.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509822653565242242" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbSgtkoC4I/AAAAAAAAAmQ/DjxN6tS5S9M/s200/quicksilver.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 349px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 262px;" /></a><br />
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So when I look back on Puerto Escondido it was a nice enough place for a non-surfer to relax, but it’s probably a better idea that the non-surfer avoid the rainy season. By day five we’d watched a little too much ‘Sex in the City’ and ‘Dexter’ episodes while cooped up in our hostel room. We were itching to get outdoors in Mexico City where the forecast for the week ahead was sun, sun, sun!Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-19118291512261825372010-08-25T10:48:00.000-07:002010-08-26T13:38:51.073-07:00Dancing in the street (BYO pineapple)<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPAENj7VI/AAAAAAAAAlo/u1OvJUFTx9g/s1600/pineapple.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509818794171952466" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPAENj7VI/AAAAAAAAAlo/u1OvJUFTx9g/s320/pineapple.jpg" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; height: 232px; text-align: center; width: 247px;" border="0" /></a>There’s no better time to visit a place than during a festival. There’s always an air of excitement and anticipation, people are happy, plazas are buzzing, and in Mexico, it’s all about music and colour. We arrived in Oaxaca City as it was preparing for its annual Guelaguetza festival, when representatives from local communities perform regional folk dances in traditional clothing. Most people associate this festival the female dancers from the Papaloapan region who dance with pineapples. So you can imagine that at this time, the city is a buzz with activity and although we actually missed the formal parade, we were there for a pre-festival run-through down the main street, and got a preview of the costumes, colours, and of course, the pineapples.<br /><br />We arrived in Oaxaca after an overnight bus ride from Puerto Escondido. Once we got over our annoyance at a local policeman who’d given us wrong directions and caused us to catch a cab three blocks, and over our giggling at a room mate’s insistence on detailing the past sample she’d produced for a traveller’s diarrhoea trial, we were able to appreciate our hostel. ‘<a href="http://www.hosteldonnino.com/">Hostel Don Nino</a>’ was a far cry from the grubby place we’d stayed in San Cristobal. This place was anal about cleanliness, in a good way, and was more like a hotel than a hostel. And, after doing the red eye on a bus, who wouldn’t appreciate hot, high pressured showers pimped up a bit with shampoo, conditioner and body wash pumps. We even had our beds made each day, which usually took place while we were enjoying a hearty Mexican breakfast. So we were off to a good start in Oaxaca City.<br /><br />Unfortunately, however, the rain followed us, but thankfully nowhere near to the extent of San Cristobal. So with the weather in our favour, we spent a lot of time cruising around the city centre and enjoying the festive vibe. We worked our way from the main plaza to what we thought was the ‘Palacio Gobierno’ (but which turned out to be more of a children’s interactive museum) and continued on to the main market where we resisted offers of dried grasshoppers, apparently a specialty in these parts. We made the obligatory visit to the beautiful Santa Domingo church and also explored the cultural centre next door, which had an impressive view of the botanical garden and its impressive number of cacti species.<br /><br />And a typical day for us isn’t without some form of culinary experience. Although we drew the line at grasshoppers we did get stuck into the street food, which is amazing all over Mexico. I also fell in love with a gorgeous little café called ‘Pan & Co’ which served up a pretty good cappuccino (difficult to find in Central and South America). One night we enjoyed the cuisine at ‘Café Real’, where the menu offering of lamb chops was irresistible to my Australian lamb-loving pallet. We also fell victim to the café’s wine list, which had us enjoying an uncharacteristic night out on the town with a 52-year-old divorcee from Seattle!<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPYGNVKPI/AAAAAAAAAmI/HM8IKOJUW-A/s1600/Convent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 163px; height: 222px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPYGNVKPI/AAAAAAAAAmI/HM8IKOJUW-A/s200/Convent.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPWAjt5SI/AAAAAAAAAlw/zDjtx5CaX6c/s1600/Plaza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 163px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPWAjt5SI/AAAAAAAAAlw/zDjtx5CaX6c/s200/Plaza.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPW36DNjI/AAAAAAAAAl4/an71WNaqEb8/s1600/plaza2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 230px; height: 172px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPW36DNjI/AAAAAAAAAl4/an71WNaqEb8/s200/plaza2.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPXs01lpI/AAAAAAAAAmA/z4V4MhCUD48/s1600/Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 230px; height: 172px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THbPXs01lpI/AAAAAAAAAmA/z4V4MhCUD48/s200/Santa.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Clockwise from left: the Convent attached to Santa Domingo,<br />activity in the Zocalo, balloons in the Zocalo, Santa Domingo church</span><br /></div><br />One thing that comes to mind when people think of Mexico is - yep, I know you’re thinking it - tequila. Since our visit to Oaxaca we’ve learned that tequila is made from the blue agave plant and the very similar tasting mezcal is made from any variety of agave. The week we were in Oaxaca was also the week the International Mezcal festival rolled into town and it happened to be in the plaza directly opposite our hostel. It would have been silly not to have gone, but was it a little over the top to have gone twice, the second time just hours before an 11 hour night bus to Puerto Escondido? All I can say is that life is one big learning experience. After many a ‘tasting’, one at 48% alcohol, I now know how to do a tequila/mezcal shot without getting the gag-worthy sting at the end. The Mexicans sure know a thing or two when it comes to the art of drinking Mezcal! In hindsight though, I’m wondering if perhaps the festival contributed to my sleepless night on the bus to Puerto Escondido, or maybe it was just Murphy’s Law, that the last overnight bus trip I took in South and Central America be my worst.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-12755893373594131862010-08-24T14:49:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:56:48.422-07:00Rain, rain, go away!Every country has one and we happened to arrive in Mexico smack bang in the middle of its rainy season. While it didn’t seem to bother us in our first couple of weeks, in San Cristobal de las Casas the rain was ruthless. The good side of this was that we caught up on a lot of sleep and blog writing (so much for that now), and a few sessions of ‘Sex in the City’ for good measure. The down side? Walking around a city in ankle deep water isn’t the biggest crowd pleaser and the thought of a sleep in or a warm cup of coffee in a cosy cafe was far more enticing than looking like a drowned street rat. So while this colourful place had many an activity to keep us occupied, we spent the majority of our four days there indoors, listening to the sound of the rain outside. Ice-cream shops got a good run, vegemite toasties became a morning ritual and the local restaurants got some business. My favourite was the authentic hole-in-the-wall ‘Napoli Ristorante’, the Italian born owner serving up a mean cannelloni and Hawaiian pizza, it really was exceptional.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8DgsB8MI/AAAAAAAAAko/2m8KNat49L0/s1600/street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 242px; height: 181px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8DgsB8MI/AAAAAAAAAko/2m8KNat49L0/s200/street.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8I_DS_vI/AAAAAAAAAkw/uru1_q_PuOY/s1600/chairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 242px; height: 182px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8I_DS_vI/AAAAAAAAAkw/uru1_q_PuOY/s200/chairs.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The colours of San Cristobal</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8qzAhwyI/AAAAAAAAAk4/SKXxK08H9_Y/s1600/Guada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 144px; height: 196px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ8qzAhwyI/AAAAAAAAAk4/SKXxK08H9_Y/s200/Guada.jpg" border="0" /></a>We did, however, take advantage of the sunshine on the rare occasion when it would emerge. Mornings were the best bet at which time we coupled sunshine with sightseeing and exercise, stair climbs being the torture of choice. One morning we made a dash up to the Church of the Virgin de Guadalupe and had what felt like an asthma attack at the top, forgetting how high the altitude was (nearly 2100m). On another morning we went to the ‘mirador’ (viewpoint) where we found outdoor gym equipment, just in case our legs hadn’t had a good enough workout on the way up.<br /><br />On our last day we got lucky. The heavens took a day off and gave us a full day of sunshine, making it the perfect day for a trip to the ‘<a href="http://www.sumidero.com/">Canyon Sumidero</a>’, which at points is 1km high. We spent two hours lapping up the sun in the motorised tour boat, getting up close and personal with the spectacular waterfalls while at the same time keeping a safe distance from the crocodiles sunning themselves on the bank. It was kind of reminiscent of a family camping trip to the Katherine Gorge, except that unfortunately parts of the Canyon were quite polluted due to the rain having brought rubbish from other water sources. Despite that it's a really worthwhile day trip for anyone visiting San Cristobal.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ9rX7cm_I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/Q53kxm1w_nk/s1600/waterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img style="width: 159px; height: 212px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ9rX7cm_I/AAAAAAAAAlQ/Q53kxm1w_nk/s200/waterfall.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ9tZmOPgI/AAAAAAAAAlY/S9UWDunNcoU/s1600/Canyon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 159px; height: 212px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ9tZmOPgI/AAAAAAAAAlY/S9UWDunNcoU/s200/Canyon.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ92ZnRJII/AAAAAAAAAlg/DtDfaCChHTw/s1600/Croc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img style="width: 241px; height: 175px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THQ92ZnRJII/AAAAAAAAAlg/DtDfaCChHTw/s200/Croc.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />What was not worthwhile was approaching the local tailor about replacing a zip on my backpack, a process he said would take a day but which instead took four. In the end I had to harass some other tailors for his home address, knock on his door (opened by his teenage son) and demand that he give me back my bag back. This was only a few hours before we caught a night bus to Oaxaca City, so I was a little stressed. Had I not put on my angry pants I think backpacking without a pack would have been quite a challenge.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-10311771306677984062010-08-24T14:13:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:13:50.418-07:00Back on boardBlogging while travelling is a difficult task. Often we're in a new place every second or third day, seeing new sites, all the while trying to keep an up to date record of it all. I’m surprised I’ve come this far without throwing in the towel, but in saying that, now that I’m almost six weeks behind on posts, lately it's been tempting. But with the thought of returning home with a colourful record of my year-long adventure and my Dad’s favourite piece of advice in the back of my mind – ‘persevere’ – I’m back on board. So I'm here, sitting on a bus from Madrid to Valencia, taking myself back to Mexico and our July 8 arrival in San Cristobal de las Casas…Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-71088280822223401462010-08-22T10:08:00.000-07:002010-08-24T15:17:43.709-07:00Ruined out<div style="text-align: left; clear: both;" class="separator">Yes, there. I said it. I'm completely ruined out. That's right, me and the Mayan pyramids need some space. Don't get me wrong, I'm so lucky to have been able to set eyes on these ancient marvels and it's been fascinating wandering, and in some cases climbing, through civilizations that have remained amazingly intact for centuries, but quite frankly I'm exhausted! There's an art to visiting ruin sites. First you have to beat the hoards of tourists who show up in buses at 9am, or thereabouts. This often means a pre-dawn wake-up call, because once these guys are on the scene any chance of capturing the greatness of a solitary pyramid or enjoying the silence of the jungle goes out the window. Hand-in-hand with tourists are the haggling vendors. These guys reserve spaces within the national parks and one by one attempt at convincing you to purchase a 'treasure'. Do they think I came all the way to buy a ceramic plate? Next there's the question of whether to get a guide or not and, from much experience, for tours lasting a couple of hours I'm going to go with no. A guide usually means being in a big group (more competition for people-less pics) and too often their personal anecdotes make something which could be enjoyed in three hours labour on for a frustrating five. Finally, at those sites that are unrestricted, there's what I'll call the ruin workout. It may not sound like much but if you're like me and have to explore every nook and cranny, coupled with being a tad out of shape, climbing these masses can be strenuous. Think stair climbs x 20! I sound negative don't I? I'm not really. In ruin talk, over two weeks I saw a true backyard jungle, some seriously primely located real estate, a seventh wonder and a hieroglyphs heaven! So while I may not be booking the first flight to Egypt, I don't regret a single minute spent at any of these sites (except maybe hours four and five with our guide in Tikal). <br /></div> <p align="left"> <br /></p> <div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"></div> <div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator"></div> <p align="left"> <a style="margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; clear: left; margin-right: auto;" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFP79B6_BI/AAAAAAAAAiI/rN6Dmm-VUi4/s1600/Title_Tikal.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFP79B6_BI/AAAAAAAAAiI/rN6Dmm-VUi4/s200/Title_Tikal.jpg" border="0" height="204" width="280" /></a> <img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFP9DpdEOI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/ZCjDAT3AH10/s200/Title_Tulum.jpg" border="0" height="205" width="280" /> <br /> <img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFP93WemhI/AAAAAAAAAiY/SIybZpAqSaQ/s200/Title_Chichen.jpg" border="0" height="288" width="215" /> <img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFP-rwI_4I/AAAAAAAAAig/joAD6NcQUow/s200/Title_Palenque.jpg" border="0" height="288" width="345" /> <br /> <em>Clockwise from top left: Tikal, Tulum, Chichen Itza and Palenque</em> <br /></p> <p align="left">First was Guatemala's Tikal. If you're familiar with Tikal you'll have images of enormous stone structures poking out onto the horizon from underneath lush jungle. People had told us the site was amazing and, as our first ruins visit in a while, we made Flores our next stop. The plan was to, once in Flores, take an hour long bus to the Tikal National Park where we'd sleep the night and get up at the crack of dawn to watch the sun rise from one of the ancient temples. The only problem was that it was a Sunday and by the time we'd got there the last Tikal-bound bus had left. Now to be honest, Flores isn't a place you'd spend more than a day in, and we certainly weren't about to exceed that, so we cut our losses and signed up for a tour which would pick us up from our hostel at 4:30am. Cue early wake-up. <br /> <br />And henceforth the organised-tour-induced frustration commenced. First it was the waiting 40 minutes to collect other tourists from within a 200m radius of where we sat parked. Sunlight emerging. Then there was the announcement that, 'oh the park entry fee isn't included', at which point most of those who took 40 minutes to get to the tour bus retreated to their accommodation for extra cash. Sun appearing on horizon. Then there was the inescapable petrol station stop. Sun rising. In short, my painful early morning - a sacrifice for the sake of watching the sunrise atop a temple - was all but lost in the back of a tour bus. I did get one measly through-the-grubby-window shot of what was a brilliant sky. <br /> <br />Irritation aside, we reached Tikal in one piece and, being pre-9am, we were one of the few tourist groups there. Also putting aside the gag-worthy onion smelling ceiba trees and a guide who said in a twisted Guatemalan/US accent: 'you get what I mean guys?', after every sentence, Tikal was a truly extraordinary place and surpassed my expectations, well all but the sunrise one. The immensity of the temples which sit undisturbed in the middle of a monkey-filled jungle was at times unworldly. A friend of mine described it as like a scene from Star Wars, maybe a little greener and without the space ships. Added to the enjoyment of it all (and possibly to the future detriment of the site) is the fact that you can climb all over these age-old relics, which is what we did over the next five hours, scurrying over small scale pyramids and hauling ourselves up steep temple stairs to marvel at the stone studded horizon. As the opening act to our highly anticipated ruins circuit, the once kingdom of King Moon Double Comb - love that name - was going to be pretty hard to beat. </p> <p align="center"> <br /><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFUXEEa8nI/AAAAAAAAAio/qYDSycOrQDs/s200/Tikal1.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="201" /> <img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFUZQfVdXI/AAAAAAAAAi4/kmd72mi8aTE/s200/Tikal3.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="150" /> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFUYhF-NSI/AAAAAAAAAiw/RXMyxWPHBF8/s200/Tikal2.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="201" /></p> <p align="center"><em>Tikal</em></p> <p align="left">The next stop on the ruin itinerary was Tulum, Mexico. This meant another day-long bus ride, a few border crossings and, as we're now used to with Central America travel, a few surprises along the way. Surprises like a stopover in Belize City which we were asured would not happen, making the seven hour journey eleven. Oh, and then there was the illegal 'border crossing fee' we were charged when we crossed from Guatemala to Belize, just another one to addto the list. It wasn't until 1am that we arrived in Tulum and crashed at 'The Weary Backpacker' hostel (appropriate name considering the state we were in), although the blood-stained sheet I discovered I'd been sleeping on when I woke up made the decision to move on an easy one (yuuuuuukk!!). We were much more comfortable staying at the '<a href="http://www.papayaplaya.com/">Papaya Playa</a>' beach resort where we gladly succumbed to happy hour, the Spanish bar tender throwing in a few freebies. The best part about this place was that it was nesting season for sea turtles and on beach walk one night, from a distance we saw an enormous turtle haul herself up the beach before laying her eggs in the dunes and returning to the ocean. </p> <p align="left"> </p> <div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator" align="center"><a style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFVd1J8ClI/AAAAAAAAAjA/QdVHHOn7k0k/s1600/Tulum_swings.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFVd1J8ClI/AAAAAAAAAjA/QdVHHOn7k0k/s200/Tulum_swings.jpg" border="0" height="250" width="334" /></a><a style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFVfGyEGZI/AAAAAAAAAjI/AMQBBUDvm_0/s1600/Tulum_turtletracks.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFVfGyEGZI/AAAAAAAAAjI/AMQBBUDvm_0/s320/Tulum_turtletracks.jpg" border="0" height="250" width="188" /></a></div> <p align="center"><em>Swinging bar seats at Papaya Playa and sea turtle nesting tracks</em> </p> <p align="left"> <br />But what we'd really come for were the ruins, and let me just say that if I'd been a Mayan back in the day, Tulum would have been the ultimate beach-town getaway. Although nowhere near the incredible scale of Tikal, the draw card is all about location, location, location. Perched high on the coastline and surrounded by the oh so familiar Caribbean turquoise, Tulum is like a picture postcard. And considering we could only withstand the Mexican heat for an hour or so, the hour we did spend there was well worth it, it was stunning. <br /></p> <p align="center"> <br /><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFWRMRcucI/AAAAAAAAAjg/Inevdt1PH3w/s320/Tulum3.jpg" border="0" height="220" width="165" /> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFWP60JTpI/AAAAAAAAAjY/lQ6jOo12Vvs/s320/Tulum2.jpg" border="0" height="220" width="293" /> </p> <p align="center"><em>Tulum</em> </p> <p align="left"> <br /><a style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFXSzrgisI/AAAAAAAAAjo/hYcMWNsSybo/s1600/Merida.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; display: inline;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFXSzrgisI/AAAAAAAAAjo/hYcMWNsSybo/s400/Merida.jpg" align="left" border="0" height="356" width="271" /></a>With Chichen Itza and Palenque on the horizon we decided to give the ruins a breather and take a stab at the cheesy Cancun and Isla Mujers. Turns out there was a little too much cheese for us there (except at the amazing 'Comono' Turkish restaurant where the Mediterranean cheese plate was exquisite) and, having spent less than 24 hours in the tourist infested hubs, we settled on the quieter city of Merida, close to the west coast. This was definitely more our style with its leafy family packed plazas and music filled streets. The icing on the cake was the 'Hostel Zocalo' which served up an impressive spread of fresh fruit and cereal to kick start every day and had a fully equipped kitchen for our love of cooking. Big tick! <br /> <br />For us, Merida was for relaxing. We spent our days wandering the streets, enjoying the weekend festivities and watching the pensioners-only salsa club dance up a storm. On one day we ventured to the nearby Celestun where we were tempted by the promise of Flamingo sightings but were disappointed when, on arrival, we were told that because it was 'low season' the flamingos preferred to stay out of public view. Perhaps, we thought, this was a sign that we should have stayed on the relaxation train in Merida or maybe should return to our scheduled ruins visits. The latter prevailed and the next day we were awake by 5am and at Chichen Itza by 8am. <br /> <br />Charged by a $5 cappuccino from the exorbitantly priced coffee cart, I was ready to go. And Chichen Itza gets straight down to business. Staring at us on entry was the object of the seventh wonder title, 'El Castillo' or, 'the Castle', a huge four-sided pyramid in the centre of an expansive green lawn, its plumed serpent carving guarding the steps to the temple at the top. Had we visited in April we might have caught Elton John performing alongside the massive structure. And such carvings are definitely one of the most striking things about these ruins, similar ones can to be seen all over the site, my favourtie were those of human skulls on the Tzompantli. We wandered through the ball court, having fun with its acoustics along the way, and left the 'Caracol' or 'snail' (sometimes referred to as the observatory) just before the bus loads of tourists piled in. As we self-guided ourselves through each stone structure, what I found astonishing was how evident the sophistication and mathematical brilliance of these people was. For example, in the observatory which was built specifically around the astronomical path of Venus, or the Castillo which was constructed in a way so that, during the Spring and Autumn equinox, the shadow of a plumed serpent appears on the pyramid's face. These people were brainy! <br /> <br /></p> <div style="text-align: center; clear: both;" class="separator" align="center"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFYPswaAgI/AAAAAAAAAjw/pv4RtlNU85s/s200/Chichen1.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="200" /> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFYQDYgx5I/AAAAAAAAAj4/vmEyJUt1_Zo/s200/Chichen2.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="200" /> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFYQ65ZncI/AAAAAAAAAkA/f35DXKiGWqk/s200/Chichen3.jpg" border="0" height="150" width="200" /></div> <p align="center"><em>Chichen Itza</em> <br /> <br /></p> <p align="left">At this point, and as the subject of this post would suggest, we were almost ruined out. We'd visited three major sites in under two weeks and my body shuddered at the thought of another early morning, us against the tourtist buses. We discussed over our last dinner in Merida, 'should we or shouldn't we?' After Palenque we were off to San Cristobal de las Casas and it was tempting to go straight there. There must have been something in the delicious sun-dried tomato and goat's cheese sauce that topped my spaghetti at <a href="http://www.cafe-chocolate.com.mx/">Cafe Chocolate</a> because there was a change in my mood, I was determined to conquer Palenque. Our new plan was relatively straight forward: we'd finish dinner, catch the night bus to Palenque, be there by 8am, see the site and hop on a bus to San Cristobal. And that's just what we did. The added bonus? The local drunk who insisted on accompanying us to the Merida bus station. 'Welcome, I've been looking for you guys', he said to our blank faces. 'I am the light and the way'. At this point, I was pretty sure he wasn't Jesus Christ. In any case he made our final hour in Merida a good one, and as we said our goodbyes and he waded through the ankle-deep water that had flooded the road, his last words were reassuring: 'Don't worry about me, I'm a Warrior'. <br /> <br />So at this point of our travels, we were getting pretty tired. Night buses are never good news, I'd like to meet one person who has slept the whole way through on a night bus. We wanted food, showers and sleep in that order and what we were about to get was humidity, naggy vendors and stair climbs (Palenque is another site where climbing the ruins is permitted). So I'm not going to lie, I can't say we realised Palenque's full potential. We were there by 9am, did some wandering around the spacious site, took some pics of the unspoiled hieroglyphics and decided to make a dash for the 11.30 bus to San Cristobal. Maybe next time I come back I'll dedicate a couple more hours to poor old Palenque, but I'd survived an intense fortnight mastering the art of ruins touring, and let me tell you, it was no mean feat. <br /> <br /><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFZPWfIhKI/AAAAAAAAAkY/siJsk7yMzfM/s320/Palenque3.jpg" border="0" height="206" width="155" /> <img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFZOZML96I/AAAAAAAAAkQ/SJGCCFixnkc/s320/Palenque2.jpg" border="0" height="206" width="276" /> <img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/THFZNnTD3vI/AAAAAAAAAkI/D6zerO0q-GU/s320/Palenque1.jpg" border="0" height="206" width="155" /> <br /> <em>Palenque</em></p>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-37031837754250883572010-07-07T18:32:00.000-07:002010-07-14T18:04:04.935-07:00Releasing my inner BatmanBats have always kind of creeped me out. They're not exactly cute and cuddly with their sharp teeth and beady black eyes that shine out of their fury little heads, not to mention their sharp claws which are more than capable of an eye gauge. I never liked evening trips to the Sydney Botanical Gardens, the fear of evil swooping bats far outweighed beautiful sunsets. Nope, bats have never been up there with horses and dolphins on my favourite animals list, and they certainly weren't up there on my things-to-see-in-Lanquin list. Still, somehow the little critters managed to wriggle their way onto our two day agenda.<br />
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So how did it get to this point? We'd decided that a two day stopover in Lanquin and Semuc Champey - quoted as being Guatemala's most beautiful destination - was in order on our way north to the famous Mayan ruins of Tikal. First, however, we were back on the road in a big way, for a gruelling day of travel which started on the 5am shuttle in Todos Santos. After a long 12 hours and with connections in the tiny town of Buenos Aires (not quite like the one in Argentina), Aguacatan, Sacopulos, Uspantan and Coban we fiiiinally reached Lanquin, well known for its caves. And, equally relieving to having survived the landslide prone road to Coban in one piece, was arriving at '<a href="http://www.elretirolanquin.com/">El Retiro</a>'. Situated about half a kilometre from the centre of Lanquin, this place just had the chilled out vibe we were craving. Dotted with hammocks, it sits on the bank of a fast flowing river in the middle of a green valley, cows lazily grazing nearby. We were lucky enough to get the loft room of a dorm, so we paid the same price for what was essentially a private room, a short climb up a wooden ladder climb. You could definitely lose yourself in a place like this and that's just what we did. The next day consisted of a big sleep in, breakfast at the conveniently located restaurant 20 metres from our door, after which we spent the day lazing in hammocks reading our books, the lodge cat never far away. The only thing we had scheduled for that day was a visit to 'the bat cave' in the evening. Why would I opt to do this you ask, given my position on bats? Quite simply it was a mix of rave reviews from people we'd met the night before over a beer, and a little bit of coaxing from Bec. So I agreed to go, only after I was assured that no, the bats wouldn't touch me.<br />
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5pm came around quickly and it was then that we embarked on our journey, lined up like sardines in the back of a ute with Richard and Georgia, an English couple who'd also signed up for the tour, and of course, a tour guide. And within a few minutes of arriving, what was I doing but holding a bat. No the bats wouldn't touch me but there was the opportunity to touch a groggy bat, woken by the guide who retrieved it from a nearby crevice. Not one to shy away from a challenge I somewhat reluctantly held the bat for a few seconds before gladly passing it on. Later I'd find myself holding a scorpion spider which the guide found inside the dark depths of the cave, so it was bats and spiders in the same sitting, quite a big deal for me!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo4KBN4uI/AAAAAAAAAgg/L6A5DTMk-yo/s1600/batty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo4KBN4uI/AAAAAAAAAgg/L6A5DTMk-yo/s320/batty.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo6fy6QRI/AAAAAAAAAg4/fn5_sz-7OX4/s1600/scorpion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo6fy6QRI/AAAAAAAAAg4/fn5_sz-7OX4/s320/scorpion.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>A sleepy bat and getting acquainted with a Scorpion spider</i></div><br />
Anyway, back to the cave. The point of the tour was to venture about a kilometre inside the well-lit cave to see the thousands of inhabiting bats getting their last hour of beauty sleep before undertaking their nightly activities. After this, we would head back the way we came just in time for sunset, at which point, the bats fly out of the cave in their thousands to do their bat thing. Apparently, we were told, this is quite a sight. The cave itself was beautiful and, while awfully slippery, we had the benefit of the guide's visions of certain rock formations - my personal favourite, a sombrero wearing skeleton... . We even had time to take a detour to another bat sleeping hole. This, I discovered as I scaled more than my height up a very narrow crescent (thankfully with a little guide help), was a detour not for the faint hearted, and looked more like a Spiderman manoeuvre to be honest.<br />
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At around 6:30pm we emerged from the cave, dusk quickly falling, and sat eagerly at its entrance, awaiting the arrival of the bats. Almost on cue as the first couple of bats flapped their little bat wings toward the diminishing light, we were all 'Wooooow's. With that, the guide quickly informed us: 'this is nothing'. And sure enough, it was nothing. Not more than five minutes later we were inundated with the sound of intense flapping and the sight of thousands of little red eyes flashing in time with our cameras. It was serious rush hour in this bat cave, very fascinating to experience and, to my great relief, I wasn't touched once (except by Richard who thought it amusing to simulate bat landings on my head).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo497o_1I/AAAAAAAAAgo/CdaS09ODnyc/s1600/inflight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo497o_1I/AAAAAAAAAgo/CdaS09ODnyc/s400/inflight.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Bats in flight</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The following morning we made our way to Semuc Champey. This time our journey in the back of the same ute would last a tumultuous 40 minutes, the space a tad more crowded with 15 people. We also made a quick pit stop in the local hospital so that poor Bec, whose hand and arm had inflated Michelin Man style after an unidentified insect bite, could get a shot of antihistamine. Once arrived, destination one was another cave, but this time not of the bat variety. On this expedition we were to explore the stalactites and stalagmites by candlelight, at points up to our necks in water! It took quite a bit of getting used to, particularly for me who is not a great fan of confined spaces. I only wish I'd been able to bring my camera with me as the sight of us wading in the dark, candles in hand, was quite unique. The climax of the excursion was definitely the fast-flowing waterfall at the end. After squeezing through an opening between two large rocks and with the aid of a rope, we tread cautiously through the dark (candle-less this time) under the gushing water and jumped into the pool below. It was definitely an adrenalin pumper.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUp9ydkrhI/AAAAAAAAAhA/B8Fmt8znrJg/s1600/swing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUp9ydkrhI/AAAAAAAAAhA/B8Fmt8znrJg/s320/swing.jpg" width="240" /></a>After about 40 minutes inside the cave we eventually saw the light and were soon back on dry land, which wouldn't be for long. Metres from the cave's entrance was a homemade tree swing, the challenge being to swing out over the water, making sure to let go when the guide instructed (the alternative being to land on the rocks on your way back). I managed to let go slightly too late, flying two metres higher than necessary. The next challenge was to getting to shore without being swept away by the very strong current. Reassuring was that we had a holidaying lifeguard on the tour, always a plus in these situations. With this in mind, the activity that followed - 'tubing' down the river in an inflated tyre - was much more enjoyable than expected.<br />
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And then there was the big finale, Semuc Champey's main attraction: its natural pools. The bonus? A 25 minute steep uphill hike to a viewpoint, the 'Mirador'. Surprisingly undeterred by our last hiking expedition up the Santa Maria volcano in Xela (probably because this one had a time limit), we sweated our way up, sidestepping moss covered rocks and clambering up vertical stairs. And I wasn't being sarcastic when I said this was a bonus. While I enjoyed cooling off in the fresh water pools afterward, it really was something to get a bird's eye view of the pools' pyramid-like form, the turquoise spilling over in the midst of a lush blanket of jungle which was filled with noisy howler monkeys. Apparently, however, the pools aren't always this way. According to our guide, being the rainy season a down pour not weeks before had turned the dazzling turquoise to a murky brown. We were lucky.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo5viN58I/AAAAAAAAAgw/UyZhihbXcjc/s1600/Pools.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDUo5viN58I/AAAAAAAAAgw/UyZhihbXcjc/s400/Pools.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The view from the Mirador</i></div><br />
So Lanquin and Semuc Champey had come back with the goods, Lanquin softening a once cold spot I had towards bats, Semuc Champey living up to its beautiful reputation. On top of that, we'd supported local business by arranging all our tours through 'El Retiro', whose employees span over 20 local families, all of whom delivered a fantastic and memorable experience. This place was definitely a Guatemalan highlight.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-67023401307429264132010-07-05T18:33:00.000-07:002010-07-05T18:33:36.017-07:00A tribute to the chicken busFrom the moment we arrived in Guatemala we were confronted with the chicken bus. It looks appealing, kind of like a brightly painted old style school bus. The real experience, however, is chicken bus travel which if you visit Guatemala you have no choice but to become accustomed to. Life in the fast lane is an under statement. For us, it was back to the good old crazy days of Bolivian driving. While you might skip a few heart beats getting from A to B, or have near casualties as you fly over bumps, you'll never waste time waiting for one of these mechanical masterpieces. Wherever you may be you wont wait more than a minute or two before one magically appears around the corner or along the highway, a teenager jumping from within to fly up a ladder to the roof, your huge backpack precariously balanced on his neck and shoulders. And this is only the beginning. Spend an hour or more on board one of these things and you're bound to have some form of incident/encounter/adventure/episode...<br />
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We took a few videos while travelling to capture what it was like. While the amateur footage certainly shows how bumpy things are, it's a fairly accurate tribute to the amusing trials and tribulations of chicken bus travel. Turn up the volume!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzTeJ3h7R-pts4PXhKmrTN0KIiFPBalpFZidzrTiirroQolEdI_AqAKoPkwRCo8b2LGX8DfG0cjGWnRTM2zXQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-43977919177842390912010-07-05T15:22:00.000-07:002010-07-07T18:35:44.736-07:00Todos Santos makes you smileWe’re still trying to maintain a tight timeline in order to have any time at all in Europe. With this in mind, the thought of sacrificing a day to jumping between chicken buses all the way to Todos Santos, which is up near the Mexican border, was understandably put in the ‘should we or shouldn’t we?’ category. Funnily enough it was the guide books (that we sometimes give the brush) that won us over. One said Todos Santos was ‘as raw as Guatemalan village life gets’, the other said it was not to be missed. We were sold! <br />
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It took almost a full day of chicken bus bliss to get there, mainly because the bus drivers wont drive until their bus is bursting at the seams, but we’re now used to and expectant of stopping and starting every kilometre or so. Luckily for us the road between Huehuetenango and Todos Santos is one of the more beautiful, if unpaved, so the usual delays didn’t matter because we were more than spoiled with the scenery, the bumpy road winding you up through the Cuchumatanes mountains.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZRkHB9yI/AAAAAAAAAgI/3rtzoNq-JSY/s1600/viewtoTodos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZRkHB9yI/AAAAAAAAAgI/3rtzoNq-JSY/s400/viewtoTodos.jpg" width="400" /><span style="font-style: italic;">T</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Climbing the Cuchumatanes mountains</i> </div><br />
By the time we reached Todos Santos we were in definite need of a smile and, to give some insight into how we were feeling, I’ll step back a few days. Before hitting the road to Todos Santos we’d spent a few days in Quetxaltenango (or Xela as it’s widely referred to in Guatemala – pronounced <i>She-lah</i>). Apart from tasting some of the best Indian food we’ve had since we left home, at a place called ‘El Sabor de la India’, and getting excited about a rather average hamburguesa Australiano at ‘Café Babylon’, this place wasn’t very exciting. Exciting, no. Insane, torturous and grueling, yes! For some absurd reason we agreed to accompany a German girl on a hike up the Santa Maria volcano on Xela’s outskirts. According to this girl, who was staying in the same hostel as us and wanted the ‘group’ discount, Santa Maria was <i>the</i> reason people come to Xela. Later we would read that ‘<i>the</i> reason’ is actually a rather difficult hike, to put it lightly, and ‘rough and ruggered’ according to one guide book. A couple of people we spoke to after the event - cause that's what it was - were quite surprised that we’d attempted it in the first place. Well we did, and it was certainly a once in a lifetime experience because I’m sure as hell not doing it again! 4am wakeup, 15 kilometres and six hours of hiking up and down what, at times, seemed like a vertical path. The best part? We made it to the top half an hour after the clouds had covered the volcano’s summit for the day, so instead of viewing for miles the spectacular sight of Guatemala’s volcano range, all we saw was a blanket of white. I hope I’ve successfully conveyed the sarcasm in that ‘best part’ comment because, as we sat in the freezing cold at the top, it became one of those ‘why on earth did I put myself through that’ moments. For us it was six hours of serious leg pain and gasping for gradually disappearing oxygen and, having rushed to get to the top only to miss the whole point of the trek, it certainly wasn’t one our greatest achievements. It will nonetheless be forever memorable for the physical pain factor, which lasted for nearly a week after.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZSWNtKsI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/VFkRO_DM4FI/s1600/volview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZSWNtKsI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/VFkRO_DM4FI/s400/volview.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The clouds that beat us to the top of Santa Maria</i></div><br />
So yes, by the time we reached Todos Santos, after a full day of lugging our 30 kilogram lives on our very sore legs, we weren’t in the best of moods. The first item on our agenda was definitely finding a place to stay for the night. We’d read about the ‘Hotal Familiar’ and, being less than 100 metres from the bus stop, we decided this would be a good option. And it was until we were told it would cost 200 Quetzals (about AU$30) for the night, quite expensive for our usual standards. Our backpacking instinct told us we should seek out a plan B and, when the owner saw the look on our faces, she gave us the choice of staying in a ‘house’ a ‘ten minute walk’ away for 90 Quetzals. This was definitely more up our alley.<br />
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As it would turn out, the ‘house’ turned out to be the family home, inhabited for the most part by Swiss-German Roman, whose Mayan wife and kids prefer to stay in the hotel with its flat screen TV. The ‘ten minute’ walk was also a bit of a misconception for our decrepit conditions, as it turned out to be almost completely uphill, steep uphill. So, with our 30kg and legs burning with Santa Maria fuelled lactic acid, it took us about 25 minutes to reach the family home, all the while trying to conceal our pain to conduct polite conversation with the very friendly Roman. And we were more than relieved to reach our final destination and collapse on our beds and, after catching our breaths, it wasn’t long before we saw that the hike to our accommodation was totally worth it. Not only were we staying in a gorgeous little Swiss influenced cottage with a beautifully blooming garden, but each night we had the company of Roman who has lived in the village for 15 years and who had many an interesting story to tell about Guatemalan living. Roman’s generosity didn’t end at opening his home to us. On our first night when our plans of pumpkin soup fell through at the hands of a rotten pumpkin, Roman saved the evening by inviting us to share a fresh vegetable stirfry which he made with homegrown veggies. Happily we were able to repay his kindness with a pumkinless curry the following evening. It was nice to receive some good old country hospitality.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZP4744sI/AAAAAAAAAf4/4TUCxsSJwgs/s1600/romanshouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZP4744sI/AAAAAAAAAf4/4TUCxsSJwgs/s400/romanshouse.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Roman's cottage, well worth the hike</i></div><br />
We soon found that Todos Santos doesn’t have a whole lot of activities to offer outside hiking around its beautiful surrounds. For us, almost immediately it was the people that caught our attention, particularly the men of the village who wear identical traditional dress. Roman even wore parts of the ensemble, I guess after 15 years having scored a gold card in terms of village acceptance. Prominent red and white striped pants teamed with a blue, purple and white striped dress shirt with intricately wool woven collar and cuffs. Most top the outfit off with a straw-like hat, again sporting the stripe theme with a leather studded band intertwined with a cobalt blue material. Although most of the women also dress traditionally, it’s the men who are the most striking, commonly depicted on national postcards. What also struck us were the number of dressmakers in the village who stock only these few materials, and it’s these people who clearly get a lot of business from the adolescent population of Todos Santos. The male teens obviously get their pants specially tailored to mimic the latest international street trends. The look at the moment? Seems to be low rise and very baggy pants with obligatory un-tucked striped shirt hanging loosely over a modern t-shirt, baseball cap occasionally in tow. It would appear that teen rebellion lives, even in this remote place!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZRDLBNjI/AAAAAAAAAgA/0XjzU5pBMgY/s1600/todosmen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJZRDLBNjI/AAAAAAAAAgA/0XjzU5pBMgY/s320/todosmen.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJaqujgDvI/AAAAAAAAAgY/t0h63wV30dk/s1600/men.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDJaqujgDvI/AAAAAAAAAgY/t0h63wV30dk/s320/men.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The men of Todos Santos </i></div><br />
Todos Santos is said to offer a taste of the real Guatemala, and it really does make you smile. The people are so friendly and always wanting to chat, the children happy and healthy with rarely any seen to be begging or working. And this is not to mention the village surrounds. Todos Santos sits untouched in a deep green valley surrounded by the Cuchumatanes mountain range, some of which we explored on a morning walk high around the village outskirts. It may not be luring of the action hungry backpacker but it certainly lives up to its ‘true taste’ name, and the day we spent there was certainly well the gauntlet of chicken buses we endured to get there.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-75273238555931395232010-07-05T13:18:00.000-07:002010-07-05T14:47:54.793-07:00Recharging on the restaurant circuitForty-eight hours on the road will do it to you. Well I lie. There was a window of six hours in a cheap hotel in San Salvador, but the other 42 were spent on the bus, five tedious border crossings to keep us occupied. This is the cheapest way you'll get from Panama to Guatemala and, as seasoned bus travellers now, we thought we'd brave it. But after a two-day supply of Burger King, fried chicken and little sleep, we needed food, we needed rest, and we needed them pronto! And I must say we certainly went out of our way to address these needs and amply did so, this post almost entirely dedicated to our week of culinary outings in Antigua and Lake Atitlan. As I maintain, sometimes you need a little splurge, a holiday from the holiday.<br />
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Once in Guatemala City we immediately sought out one of the infamous 'chicken buses' in order to get to the once capital, Antigua, another colonial city. These things are absolutely priceless, enough to earn themselves their own post (in progress). After a good hour of stopping and starting, in between some major seat clinging, we reached what at the time was heaven on earth for a worn out traveller. It came to us in the form of the 'Casa Amarilla', a hostel complete with private room, cable TV, wifi and, best of all, a daily breakfast spread of eggs, porridge, pancakes, fruit, beans, potatoes and bread. In the hostel world, anything more than bread and jam is unprecedented so this we welcomed with open arms. And thus begun our week of recharge and restaurants. In between indulging in some telemovies (something we rarely do), we examined the guidebook and planned our time around the local eateries.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI6WJCma4I/AAAAAAAAAeo/Xs1uvkOm1OE/s1600/Antigua.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490515047776414594" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI6WJCma4I/AAAAAAAAAeo/Xs1uvkOm1OE/s200/Antigua.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 237px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 316px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Antigua</span></div><br />
First up was the 'Rainbow Cafe'. My review? Well the chicken fajitas and the Israeli falafel out did the adjoining bookshop where, among the ancient book collection we surprisingly managed to find a handy and very comprehensive Spanish verb book. It was nice to eat some hummus that sort of resembled the real thing and we ended up going for a second time that night, I having been lured by the Greek chicken fillet. The stuffing was good - bacon, raisons, spinach and feta cheese - but the chicken was dry and its breaded exterior extra soggy, presumably because it was covered in the rich cream sauce I'd asked to have on the side. Guess they didn't hear me. Further to our disappointment was at about 10:35pm when our sweet toothes kicked in and we asked the waitress if we could have the signature Banoffee pie to go. Apparently this was completely out of the question as the kitchen had closed...five minutes before. Talk about flexibility!<br />
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We soon discovered Rainbow has some stiff competition on the cafe circuit. There's 'Cafe 2000', which was the unfortunate location where we bore witness to Australia being slaughtered 4-0 by Germany in the World Cup. We didn't let this impact on our lunch orders however, my simple Greek salad and Bec's tastey hamburger, but at goal number four we did sneak out anonymously. 'Cafe Sky' was next on our list, its main draw card being proximity to and view of one of Antigua's surrounding volcanoes. We enjoyed our hearty vegetable soup and garlic bread much more than the volcano itself, which was for the most part completely covered by clouds. Next stop was 'Cafe Rocio', our tastebuds were craving something oriental and one guide book had described this place as 'a palace of Asian food delight' - honestly, I sometimes wonder who writes these things. This cafe is more a humble family kitchen than an Asian palace, but the meals were healthy and hearty and although the tandoori chicken was instead cooked in sweet chilli sauce (?), the rice paper spring rolls were so big and scrumptious that we had no room for the famed 'mora crisp' (hot blackberry sauce sandwiched in vanilla icecream). Now there's an excuse to return to Antigua.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI7Dr8qdYI/AAAAAAAAAew/bcUYz3lMahM/s1600/viewfromrainbow.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490515830240867714" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI7Dr8qdYI/AAAAAAAAAew/bcUYz3lMahM/s200/viewfromrainbow.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 358px;" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The view from Cafe Sky got a little better as we left<br />
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</span></div>Although our Antigua days were relatively lazy and really did centre around what our next meal would be, we did a fair bit of wandering and enjoyed our colonial surrounds. We wandered around and took in the many ruin sites that line the streets. We looked at the main plaza and stumbled across a communal outdoor laundry. We had two Canadian guys ask us to star in their travel video, where one dressed up as a heckling Guatemalan in a horse and cart while the other filmed. Later they paid to race two chicken buses with one of them behind the wheel - just shows you can do almost anything in this country. One big but unavoidable disappointment was that we couldn't climb the Pacaya volcano, which erupted, killing people a couple of weeks before we arrived. In safer times tourists are able to hike up and wander amongst the flowing lava, toasting marshmallows over the heat. Understandably, it's one of the most popular tourist attractions in Guatemala and I'm sure the tourist industry is feeling the loss. While a few tourist agencies were offering trips to surrounding farmlands that had been destroyed by the still present lava, most weren't offering tours at all and when we heard that the government had issued it a no-go-zone, it was sadly scraped from our itinerary.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI87AkzYuI/AAAAAAAAAfo/GVPgE6WPdO0/s1600/communalwashing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI87AkzYuI/AAAAAAAAAfo/GVPgE6WPdO0/s320/communalwashing.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8fN-gUuI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/Af9Yl2rM7p4/s1600/churchruins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8fN-gUuI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/Af9Yl2rM7p4/s320/churchruins.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Communal washing in the Plaza and Old Church ruins in the middle of town</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI7YYwLOGI/AAAAAAAAAe4/Tm7WWeryPzc/s1600/LakeAtitlan.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490516185865468002" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI7YYwLOGI/AAAAAAAAAe4/Tm7WWeryPzc/s320/LakeAtitlan.jpg" style="display: block; height: 150px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" width="320" /></a>While our four days of rejuvenation were wonderful, our time was limited and we had to keep moving. So after three chicken bus changeovers in three hours, we reached Lake Atitlan where our activity levels rose somewhat, along with our frequenting of restaurants. Perhaps it was beginner frustration at chicken bus travel, or maybe we were just plain tired, but once in Panajachel, a 'gringo magnet' and also the central point for transport to the lake's villages, we decided to make it our base for a few days. In that time, we successfully exhausted the town's popular restaurants and cafes: the 'Deli Ilama', simple but with good food; 'El Patio', flavoursome steaks and complimentary bread which we saved for the stray dog population linging the streets outside; and ‘Bombay Café’, which served up some great Asian cuisine but where we were cornered by an American woman on an ‘I hate Mexico’ rant (our next destination). We were eventually set free when the proprietor told her that she was the worst customer he’d ever had, at which she stormed out and we were finally able to stroll the 100 metres back to our hostel which we’d been longing to stroll for the past hour.</div><br />
At this stage, it was time to take our exploring beyond the shores of Panajachel. Our first outing, a trip to the large Thursday markets at Chichicastenango (known to all as <span style="font-style: italic;">ChiChi</span>) which, to be honest, we were a little under whelmed by. For starters, I think we’re a little marketed out after six months in South America and, secondly, all the products were the same! Bags, scarves, t-shirts, muumuus – same stuff, different place. But if you’re one for pure people watching, this is a good place to do it. We enjoyed a spot of it while lunching on the balcony of a café, overlooking the plaza before heading back to Panajachel and bringing the chicken bus changeover tally to six that day.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8N6KX2ZI/AAAAAAAAAfA/vYpd1jQRL98/s1600/chichimarkets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8N6KX2ZI/AAAAAAAAAfA/vYpd1jQRL98/s200/chichimarkets.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI83Yy4D2I/AAAAAAAAAfY/SLHUw2l7gTQ/s1600/muumuu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI83Yy4D2I/AAAAAAAAAfY/SLHUw2l7gTQ/s200/muumuu.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8PHnVf3I/AAAAAAAAAfI/b9qZBAkdrLQ/s1600/chichimarkets2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI8PHnVf3I/AAAAAAAAAfI/b9qZBAkdrLQ/s200/chichimarkets2.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The usual, at ChiChi markets</span></div><br />
The following day would see our next expedition, exploring the Lake district. Over the next few days we’d also get more of an insight into how badly Lake Atitlan was affected by Tropical Storm Agatha a few weeks before. On a couple of morning runs we’d seen the path of destruction Agatha left in Panajachel - collapsed bridges, landslides, sunken buildings. This time, we saw what it’d done to the actual lake, as our shuttle boat weaved in and out of floating debris to get to the village of San Pedro where we stayed the night.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI84n20fUI/AAAAAAAAAfg/r4dLz4hkTJw/s1600/Agathaaftermarth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI84n20fUI/AAAAAAAAAfg/r4dLz4hkTJw/s400/Agathaaftermarth.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">Agatha's path</span></div><br />
And we couldn’t help ourselves in San Pedro, the temptation was too great: two more fabulous eateries, both recommended by a fellow traveller. The first was ‘Café Puerta’, hidden away down by a peaceful lakeside inlet, framed by multicoloured curtains, the garden sporting funky teacup sculptures and mosaics which we later discovered were a creation of the café’s ex-pat owner/talented artist, Blake. Sometimes when Bec and I come across a really good restaurant we opt to share our food so that neither of us misses out on a good dish. This was one of those places. Here we shared a juicy spice-filled hamburger with all the timings, perfected by the café’s homemade seeded bread. Our other dish was an amazing Greek salad whose fresh farmers cheese teamed the taste of feta with a goat’s cheese consistency. It was to die for! After being in South America, I’ve come to seriously appreciate good cheese.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI88TFlEcI/AAAAAAAAAfw/AH-FMEoP1-0/s1600/puertameal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TDI88TFlEcI/AAAAAAAAAfw/AH-FMEoP1-0/s400/puertameal.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Enjoying the fruits of 'Cafe Puerta'</span></div><br />
After an Italian cappuccino at ‘Fata Morgana’ – yet another coup in the middle of Guatemala - dinnertime was upon us so we negotiated the maze of San Pedro's cobblestone lane ways to arrive at ‘Ventana Azul’, the nighttime venture of Café Puerta’s Blake and his partner, Santos. And let me say, they’ve really hit the spot with this cosy little place which was full when we arrived. Its vibrant red exterior couples nicely with an electric blue interior and is only made more romantic with candle light and also that coming from Blake’s trendy Guatemalan themed mosaic lamps, one of which Bec bought at the end of the night. The food? Well we had a big choice ahead of us, with plenty of Latin/Asian themed dishes on the menu. In the end I opted for the Pad Thai and Bec for an Indian curry – both good choices. Team this with a few Caipirinhas and a bottle of white and we were set. Blake even convinced us into ordering the dessert special of the day (it didn’t take much), a piece of chocolate cake topped with fresh cream to bring to an end our week of indulgences. How appropriate!Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-76958999522811844302010-06-14T22:50:00.001-07:002010-06-15T07:12:53.900-07:00How about a San Blas island to yourself?<p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKrDgY_AI/AAAAAAAAAdo/gnvSaXbl6ks/s1600-h/IMG_5396%5B7%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_5396" alt="IMG_5396" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKr5Tc7qI/AAAAAAAAAds/6Rq90trQgO8/IMG_5396_thumb%5B5%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="272" width="363" /></a> </p> <p>When you're travelling for a number of months, or a year in my case, it's difficult to make concrete plans. Initially we'd planned to take six months travelling South America, up through Central America to Mexico, the remainder in Europe and India. Now that plan's gone out the window we've had to re-think some things and this time, Europe's come out on top, mainly because we've got a lot of friends living over that way. But Central America hasn't entirely got the boot. Lured by its rave reviews we're breezing through to Guatemala for a few weeks before a month in Mexico. One other place that made the Central America short list, a result of our penchant for beaches, was the beautiful San Blas islands that lie off the coast of Panama. It only took one google image for us to book a flight from Cartagena to Panama City for a few days of bliss before 42 hours on a Guatemala-bound bus.</p> <p>As soon as we hit Panama City we were in a different world. We could have been in Miami for all I knew, and it only took a failed hostel reservation and a cab driver intent on ripping us off before we were itching to get out of the city and onto the beach. And that's pretty much exactly what we did. After a day relaxing in the hostel lounge researching the islands, we had a return booking on a jeep which was to leave our hostel at 5.30 the following morning to take us to the point for island departures.</p> <p>As like a number of my anecdotes our day didn't get off to the best start. To begin with, I awoke to the less-than-impressed jeep driver shaking my leg while I lay asleep in my dorm bed, hissing: 'Chicas, you're late!'. It was already 5.30 and the two alarms we set hadn't gone off (or perhaps were rolled on when they went off). It was the first sure sign that we weren't in South America anymore, Panamanians actually run to time. Or maybe not. Free of peak hour, the trip that could have taken three hours took five. First was a stop at a supermarket for anyone who needed supplies. The supposedly quick pit stop turned into an hour of waiting for people who appeared to be rationing for a month on the islands. Following this was a stretch in the carpark watching one of the drivers change a jeep tyre. Maybe that was something that could have been checked the night before? Once in the car we drove for about a kilometre before pulling into a petrol station to top up, yet again an obvious essential that could have been dealt with pre-passenger pick up. It was fortunate my ipod was in the back of the jeep because I had nothing to throw at the driver when he announced after 20 more minutes on the road that he needed a coffee break and we pulled over yet again. The little voice inside my head was yelling: 'JUST GET ON WITH IT!!', but I restrained myself. That wasn't the end of it though. You know those times in life when you just have to suck it up, put frustrations aside and laugh? Well this particular morning turned out to be one of them. Finally we reached the pick up and were immediately met by Carlo who was to take us in a motorised canoe-like contraption to ‘Isla Diablo’ (‘Devil Island’), our chosen island. At last, things were looking up. It seemed our beach time was in sight! But alas, it was just not meant to be. As it would turn out it wasn't until 1pm that we actually reached our island, that is <em>after</em> we'd stopped on one island to buy food, another to get petrol...a trend was emerging here.</p> <p>But it was also around 1pm when our morning issues seemed to evaporate, when we stepped out of the boat and into the clearest water imaginable, surrounded by those same shades of blue we'd been wowed by at Playa Blanca (without the hoard of beach vendors), onto an island strewn with palm trees. We'd arrived! Two days of blissful nothing! And what's more, after our lunch of fresh fish we watched as three tourists left. This left us the little island completely to ourselves, well us and its full-time inhabitants, a small Kuna community, an indigenous group who occupy about 36 of the 365 islands that sprawl the coastline. The community living on our island consisted of about three or four families. The women donned traditional dress, their arms and legs covered in lines of bead bracelets that ran up the most part of their limbs. The men preferred modern t-shirts, shorts and American baseball caps. Apart from cooking our three daily meals, they largely kept to themselves and it was interesting to observe their lives from a distance. We soon found out that just because you live on an island paradise that doesn’t mean you’re free of chores, chores such as weeding (with a machete), and my personal favourite, sweeping away seaweed swept up on the shoreline. I guess they can’t let nature’s equivalent to dust build up in any sandy crevices. It is their home after all and it’s important to keep up appearances, there’s a lot of competition out there – 364 other islands! </p> <p>Over the next day and a half our activities were pretty consistent: reading, sunbaking, swimming, eating. We did take time to explore the island but, being the tiny size it was, our exploration only lasted ten minutes. Being the rainy season the clouds remained ominous but the rain never came until the evenings when we were curled up in our cabanas on our lilo mattresses where we were able to enjoy the lightening show. On our second day we visited ‘Isla Perro’ (‘Dog Island’), about 150 metres from our island and with an alluring shipwreck off its shores. It was late afternoon when we visited and after a good half hour exploring the wreck, we were shuttled back by a local in a hollowed out tree trunk and just beat the evening thunderstorm. </p> <p>Refreshed and rejuvenated, the following day it was time for us to return to reality (well maybe not quite reality, we are travelling free as birds for a year). In any case, it was time to again contemplate long haul buses and return to playing waiting games. Yes, we were definitely back to reality and it came to me in the literal form at 3am the next morning when it bit me on the bum…BED BUGS!! Damn Panama City hostel. Oh well, San Blas, so worth it.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKsoeyrhI/AAAAAAAAAdw/G-5e1FmFuSo/s1600-h/IMG_5337%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5337" alt="IMG_5337" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKtl-G7hI/AAAAAAAAAd0/ESmog6PmddI/IMG_5337_thumb%5B4%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="208" width="274" /></a> <a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKuETknjI/AAAAAAAAAd4/a85MqraDoz0/s1600-h/IMG_5353%5B5%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5353" alt="IMG_5353" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKu3hvWoI/AAAAAAAAAd8/g9BS4RWvP9M/IMG_5353_thumb%5B5%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="209" width="274" /></a> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKvQm91OI/AAAAAAAAAeA/2s7h3X9Dhbg/s1600-h/IMG_5363%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5363" alt="IMG_5363" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKwEsC9lI/AAAAAAAAAeE/79grKkDsHno/IMG_5363_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="206" width="274" /></a> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKw4C79RI/AAAAAAAAAeI/NLvUlu_fLmk/s1600-h/IMG_5364%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5364" alt="IMG_5364" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKxWoIoxI/AAAAAAAAAeM/1DXPTp2olVs/IMG_5364_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="206" width="274" /></a> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKyADlk8I/AAAAAAAAAeQ/dCC5-L7Td9s/s1600-h/IMG_5388%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5388" alt="IMG_5388" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKymkB7MI/AAAAAAAAAeU/eCGyAPLbflE/IMG_5388_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="206" width="274" /></a> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKzI5eOsI/AAAAAAAAAeY/-v7YR070sJw/s1600-h/IMG_5394%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5394" alt="IMG_5394" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBcKzqnJL8I/AAAAAAAAAec/kjoupUXGdFU/IMG_5394_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="206" width="274" /></a></p>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-40991054831186244842010-06-14T09:30:00.001-07:002010-06-15T18:38:10.719-07:00Farewelling South America, last stop Cartagena<p>We've prolonged and prolonged, spent months in countries we'd only planned weeks for but after over six months on the road, our worldwide itinerary ultimately dictating, the time finally came to say goodbye to the beautiful South America, the charming colonial city of Cartagena our last stop. Like so many other places we've visited, this place has a long and interesting history, its colonization dating back to the 1500s!</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZBEK0XsI/AAAAAAAAAcI/XYg8hrk1Uvk/s1600-h/IMG_3477%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_3477" alt="IMG_3477" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZBqCGQnI/AAAAAAAAAcM/MVQqFM8HDWQ/IMG_3477_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="321" width="299" /></a></p> <p>First up for us was the obligatory explore of the old town, which sits majestically on a peninsula, encircled by a large stone wall built by the Spanish to ward off pirates and the like. The first of a number of visits, this one was probably the best. The shops and restaurants were almost all closed and even some of the street vendors had taken the day off, a by-product of the election weekend. The only place that was buzzing with life was the main plaza, which had been transformed into a voting area, lined with the ever-present Colombian army and their heavy-duty firearms. But it was the empty streets where, for us, the real Cartagena emerged. Splashes of vibrant colour around every corner, large colonial homes with heavy wooden doors adorned with intricate wrought knockers. We spent hours wandering along the cobblestones, taking respite from the fierce Caribbean humidity under blooming bougainvillea or in green leafy plazas. I felt like a character from <span style="font-style: italic;">Love in the Time of Cholera</span>, which I'd finished reading not long before. With no people around it was like taking a step back in time. In saying that, the election brought us luck. The next couple of times we visited it was hard to avoid the barrage of street vendors, or the countless restaurant menus that were shoved in our faces. While this somewhat compromises the magic o f the place, the way history has been preserved is a marvel.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZCElPjnI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/je8Kq07bSzI/s1600-h/IMG_52624.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px;" title="IMG_5262" alt="IMG_5262" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZCsBS-5I/AAAAAAAAAcU/gt1yfrjwOSM/IMG_5262_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="244" width="184" /></a><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZEQZtGCI/AAAAAAAAAcY/4VXJI2-E-Ac/s1600-h/IMG_3471%5B2%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_3471" alt="IMG_3471" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZE7VuaVI/AAAAAAAAAcc/FDMwOrlGL3M/IMG_3471_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="244" width="184" /></a><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZFaNXtQI/AAAAAAAAAcg/zQMx4dsLidY/s1600-h/IMG_5218%5B10%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5218" alt="IMG_5218" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZFxV1pMI/AAAAAAAAAck/ovCN0vBWx7g/IMG_5218_thumb%5B12%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="243" width="190" /></a> </p> <p>Colombia’s stunning coastline had whet our appetites for the beach. After taking in the old town, however, we soon discovered that although conveniently positioned Cartagena doesn’t boast anything special on the beach front. Thankfully for us, a short boat ride away was Playa Blanca (‘White Beach’). We decided that instead of just going for an afternoon visit we’d trade the hostel for a night on the beach in a hammock. As it would turn out, the following 24 hours weren’t exactly as we’d hoped. We organised a tour through our hostel, which was to take us for a cruise via the Rosario Islands to Playa Blanca. Instructed to arrive sharply at 8am, we ended up sitting on the boat for over an hour before the engine finally started. It was at this point we had the pleasure of meeting the cruise steward, Santiago, who spent the first 20 minutes awkwardly singling out passengers, asking where they were from with the strict requirement that the whole boat cheer for each represented country. The cringe factor only got worse when Santiago donned his DJ hat, our boat transforming into something like one of those tacky party buses that crawl the city streets on Saturday nights. Santiago would frequently interrupt the beats with deep-voiced Richard Mercer-esque commentary, naming the islands we passed. I definitely needed the scheduled intermission at an aquarium on one of the islands. There we enjoyed a dolphin show and another consisting of nurse sharks that had been trained to heave themselves completely out of the water and onto a platform for a feeding frenzy. </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZGhHuG0I/AAAAAAAAAco/tNHhLc2H3fU/s1600-h/IMG_5067%5B8%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_5067" alt="IMG_5067" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZHc0dDHI/AAAAAAAAAcs/zCOA-ddgPD4/IMG_5067_thumb%5B6%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="260" width="345" /></a><em> The slightly bizarre nurse shark show</em></p> <p>By the time we got to Playa Blanca it was lunchtime and we were told the boat would return to the mainland at 3pm. Just as we were piling onto the barge that was to transfer us from our moored boat to the beach, the heavens opened in a big way. With the thought of having endured Santiago’s disco boat for only a couple of hours of beach time in torrential rain, we were somewhat happy we’d decided to stay the night. And it was just beautiful. The sand lived up to the beach’s name – white as white could be – and the water was a clear twinkling sheet of different shades of blue, its beauty only accentuated by yet another amazing Caribbean sunset.</p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZH4aCMNI/AAAAAAAAAcw/vFhdPjXbN-0/s1600-h/IMG_5083%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5083" alt="IMG_5083" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZIbLJr1I/AAAAAAAAAc0/iKPTl89acGQ/IMG_5083_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="144" width="190" /></a> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZIqTp7fI/AAAAAAAAAc4/LoZiYxbvWZM/s1600-h/IMG_5122%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5122" alt="IMG_5122" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZJJBwBqI/AAAAAAAAAc8/5qd5B1UzCeo/IMG_5122_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="144" width="190" /></a> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZJuKopjI/AAAAAAAAAdA/KGU-hyHaXLc/s1600-h/IMG_5131%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline;" title="IMG_5131" alt="IMG_5131" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZKPxZ9PI/AAAAAAAAAdE/oo7_JwovEpI/IMG_5131_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="144" width="190" /></a> </p> <p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Playa Blanca</span><br /></p><p>Apart from being absolutely ravaged by mosquitoes that evening, Playa Blanca had one major downside: the beach vendors. These people are out of control, and that’s saying a lot in South America. Massages, necklaces, fruit, seafood – you name it, they’d try it on you. I’ve never been so hassled and hounded in the space of 24 hours in my life, it was exhausting! ‘Lady, lady, you want massage? Necklace?’, followed by a comment about needing the money to feed children. The worst was trying to eat my lunch while suffering at the hands of ‘Mary’ who insisted I sample her skills in the art of massage, the whole while pummeling at my shoulders. Not wanting her to think I'd succumbed to her barraging, regretably I said: ‘maybe later’, which, on this continent is the widely understood euphemism for: ‘I’m not interested, please leave me alone’. To Mary, however, I was a sure sale. She followed me along the beach and sat, waiting on the shoreline for a good half an hour for me to get out of the water and return to my towel, harassing me until I finally caved. Accepting her offer was my second mistake because, following the massage came ten minutes of her insisting I pay her more than what was agreed. Multiply this one experience by ten similar instances and you have Playa Blanca! I was first on board the boat back to Cartagena when it arrived the following day and I’ll admit, I was even a little relieved to see Santiago again. </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZKTd9LmI/AAAAAAAAAdI/n2rGNQQ4ogQ/s1600-h/IMG_5148%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_5148" alt="IMG_5148" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZKxgEVaI/AAAAAAAAAdM/6PImPpeaWNw/IMG_5148_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="273" width="362" /></a><em>A scrum of beach vendors surrounding an incoming boat</em></p><p align="center"><em><br /></em></p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZLhV-X2I/AAAAAAAAAdQ/AQKgHPAXtqs/s1600-h/IMG_5184%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: inline; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; width: 278px; height: 219px;" title="IMG_5184" alt="IMG_5184" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZNNZOonI/AAAAAAAAAdU/BlVjafa31ig/IMG_5184_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" align="left" border="0" /></a></p> <p style="text-align: left;">With one full day left in South America there was a final activity on the agenda: the Volcán El Totumo, a mud volcano about 60 kilometres outside of Cartagena. About 20 metres high and over two kilometres deep underground (or so we were told), this place is just a sludgy pit of fun, every child's dream! So thick you can hardly move, your only choice is to bob like a floating apple while being maneuvered around the four-or-so square metres by the same guys who treat you to a full body mud massage on entry. We looked supernatural by the end of it all. And they say that mud has therapeutic qualities, well I must have been glowing for a week after this treatment. But how were we to get all that mud off, surely we weren’t expected to sit on the bus all the way back to our hostels, caked from head to toe? Of course not! Most conveniently there was a wash down service set up in the nearby lagoon. There was, however, a little surprise attached. The wash down ladies were rather forward in ripping off your swimmers, leaving you to float with fellow tourists in the nud while they rinsed them of mud. You’d think this would be slightly awkward, surrounded by naked strangers you were about to share a bus ride back with, but luckily that particular nudist lagoon was a nice shade of murky brown, covering all the important bits. I wont say it didn’t catch me a little off guard though.</p> <p>So our time in South America had come to an end and although we didn’t know it yet, we only had a few hours before we’d endure the security gauntlet at the Cartagena airport: finger printing, full body x-ray and, for me, a bag search – apparently they were certain I was carrying ethanol and even I was disappointed when they didn’t find anything remotely resembling it, considering they’d cleared my backpack of every item. So what does one do with their last hour in South America? Well we thought it appropriate to say goodbye in style. For us it was a final Caipirinha cocktail at sunset at the trendy ‘Café del Mar’, reminiscing about the past amazing six months.</p> <p>Hasta luego sudamerica!</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZN-r6esI/AAAAAAAAAdY/nxVSg9zgGvw/s1600-h/IMG_5278%5B3%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_5278" alt="IMG_5278" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZOg_J_fI/AAAAAAAAAdc/PO8LZKjc0-0/IMG_5278_thumb%5B1%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="274" width="364" /></a> <em>The view of the old town from Cafe del Mar</em></p> <p align="center"> </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZPeohIrI/AAAAAAAAAdg/BkQzwCA6INE/s1600-h/IMG_5291%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-width: 0px; display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="IMG_5291" alt="IMG_5291" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TBZZPxJJe0I/AAAAAAAAAdk/65n77h-sTqY/IMG_5291_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" border="0" height="274" width="364" /></a><em>One last drink with our friends at Cafe del Mar</em></p>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-40984922570098784712010-06-05T17:37:00.000-07:002010-06-14T09:42:27.935-07:00Sweating it up to the Lost CityWe'd asked a few people, "do you need to be fit?" The usual answer: "Yeah, it helps. And you'll sweat more than you've ever <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sweat</span> in your life." So this was what was to be expected of the trek in to and out of the Sierra Nevada <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">de</span> Santa Marta's '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ciudad</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Perdida</span>', or 'Lost City'. Nice. We wondered how our bodies would survive having enjoyed six months with no routine exercise. But I'll have you know that there's a little Indiana Jones in all of us, and ours was jumping up and down, pining for an adventure. So, braced for trekking in intense humidity, we traded the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Havianas</span> for walking shoes and set off with Miguel and his brother Diego, two local guys working for <a href="http://www.sierratours-trekking.com/1.html">Sierra Tours</a>.<br /><br />The appeal of this place is understated. Dating back to the 9<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">th</span> Century, it's an impressive four hectare site of an ancient city, supposedly older than <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Machu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Picchu</span>, abandoned during the Spanish invasion. Apart from a few select indigenous elders who have, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">unbeknownst</span> to the rest of the world, held annual meetings at the site for many years, the city remained "undiscovered" until 1972. It was then that the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">slippery</span> 1300 steps that lead to it - which we endured, one by one - were stumbled upon by a hunter (who, rumour has it, now works in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Tayrona</span> National Park as a tour guide!). It wasn't until 1975 that the government was informed of the discovery. Stories on this point vary, but the general gist of it is that the hunter also stumbled across a rather large collection of gold that was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">buried</span> below the city, and subsequently spent the next three years ransacking the site, along with a few others, selling the goods on the black market. Jackpot!<br /><br />The fact that this place has lain untouched for centuries isn't its only fascinating element. Unlike <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Machu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Picchu</span>, you can't reach it by train, there isn't a fancy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">on-site</span> hotel, and there aren't maintenance guys <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">trimming</span> its outskirts. The only way to get a glimpse of this place is to endure five days of steep uphill climbs with some sometimes very steep, slippery descents - I spent a rainy afternoon on what felt like a muddy ice-rink, all I could do was literally go with the flow! It takes three days and about six somewhat challenging river crossings to get to the site, and then you turn around and do it all again, this time in two days. For me, this was the hardest part as the days were longer and I knew exactly where it was going to hurt. When you reach the city, you aren't hit with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">hoards</span> of snap-happy tourists, but with the silence of the jungle. Surrounded by endless valleys that infuse into one another, you feel like a tiny spot in an ocean of green. The only signs of civilisation are a few indigenous-used huts, and a group of machine gun clad soldiers, stationed there for two months to protect the site against looters (and for the protection of tourists - there was a group of tourists kidnapped in 2003!)<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpMk83WwI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/aQGvLaFZu4g/s1600/Lostcity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpMk83WwI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/aQGvLaFZu4g/s320/Lostcity.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The main ruins</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpQokNexI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/afIh-QkH6Yg/s1600/chief+seat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpQokNexI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/afIh-QkH6Yg/s320/chief+seat.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sitting in the 'chief seat'</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpSYleP3I/AAAAAAAAAaE/uFuCmu0sfnU/s1600/timeout.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpSYleP3I/AAAAAAAAAaE/uFuCmu0sfnU/s320/timeout.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Taking in the view</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>The highlights? Apart from the ruins themselves, the Colombian scenery was again at its best. Each time we huffed and puffed our way to the top of a hill we were rewarded with stunning views of the lush jungle below, or with a dip in a natural waterfall. What was also quite remarkable was how intact the indigenous lifestyle is. We saw plenty of seemingly thriving communities, large families, most in the traditional white dress, living off the land. Interestingly, it appears the government has given the indigenous <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">communities</span> some say as to the monitoring of tourists on the trail. At one point our guide was required to provide a list of names and nationalities at a community check point.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpnJV_NXI/AAAAAAAAAaM/NYawQjmws-o/s1600/Indcommunity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpnJV_NXI/AAAAAAAAAaM/NYawQjmws-o/s320/Indcommunity.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpoeWXT3I/AAAAAAAAAaU/5AvHRwL3KTc/s1600/kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpoeWXT3I/AAAAAAAAAaU/5AvHRwL3KTc/s320/kids.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br />Like some other experiences, this one had a down side for me: in the middle of all the beauty, a real-life cocaine factory where tourists can "learn" about the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">nasties</span> that go into cocaine production. This was not an official part of the tour and was definitely not advocated by Sierra tours, but it's something that we'd been told about before starting the tour, and that many tourists ask about when they sign up. On the morning of the second day a Colombian guy emerged from the jungle, hand outstretched for the 30,000 Colombian peso fee (about US$15). The deal is, you can take all the photos you want inside the factory, as long as you don't take any which reveal his face. What you see is the production of a paste that is the base for cocaine. But what happens to the paste after that? Where does all that money you hand over go? Traditionally, profits from the cocaine industry have gone directly to armed forces. For me, it was sad to see this sort of thing in a country that is trying so desperately to move on from its past, particularly when you hear first-hand stories of people who have been traumatised by guerrilla groups and the like. But I guess people will always be curious, and who am I to judge? While it's clearly a tourist <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">rort</span>, I'm sure it was interesting to see.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArp2BytczI/AAAAAAAAAas/SDi7rETh0xU/s1600/kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArp2BytczI/AAAAAAAAAas/SDi7rETh0xU/s320/kitchen.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Some ancient kitchen utensils</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpzy1gQuI/AAAAAAAAAak/cH8ux4Aipoo/s1600/mango.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpzy1gQuI/AAAAAAAAAak/cH8ux4Aipoo/s320/mango.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Bec</span> enjoying a mango fresh from the branch</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpyFWaKHI/AAAAAAAAAac/blPM0t6V2vg/s1600/rivercrossing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TArpyFWaKHI/AAAAAAAAAac/blPM0t6V2vg/s320/rivercrossing.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Miguel contemplating a river crossing with a number of our bags</div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-52279890159442437852010-05-31T18:15:00.000-07:002010-06-14T09:43:10.145-07:00"Thankyou for visiting Colombia!"A pattern has emerged while we've been in Colombia and I like it. It seems everywhere we go we meet a particularly friendly or memorable person who makes the trip that little bit more enjoyable. It's nice to connect the places we visit to the people we meet.<br /><br />In Salento, there was obviously Omar and his generous hospitality. But there was also Alex. Alex was Cali born but had worked as a tour guide for many years in the Cocora Valley. We met him when he hitched a ride in our jeep on the way to the Valley. He was another typical Colombian: extraordinarily friendly. The whole way he talked passionately about Salento and Colombia and introduced us to unique words in Colombian Spanish. At the end of the ride he insisted on meeting us that evening so he could show us around town, so we made loose plans to meet him outside a restaurant, thinking he'd probably have better things to do than give a couple of tourists a free tour on a Saturday night. I'd clearly misjudged Alex, who arrived ten minutes early, eager to take us all to a local haunt for a game of Tejo. This is a serious and competitive sport in Colombia, rarely played without beer in hand. The 'field' is a clay-filled box, probably a little less than a meter squared. In the centre is a small metal ring inside of which are carefully placed triangular paper packets which are filled with gun powder. The object of the game? To create an explosion by throwing a weight (usually 2kg or more) at the ring. It's a very blokey game, and the distances they throw from are very impressive, sometimes over 20m. I teamed up with Julian, Bec with Alex, and we played a few rounds. Not surprisingly, Julian and I had the disadvantage on the Tejo experience front and we failed dismally at winning one round. Not to worry, Alex later took us dancing at a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar, again filled with locals, and taught us some salsa and merengue moves. This was more my style.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARdzA_N-uI/AAAAAAAAAY8/7Lza5Bi_tTU/s1600/tejo" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARdzA_N-uI/AAAAAAAAAY8/7Lza5Bi_tTU/s320/tejo" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A googled pic of the Tejo 'field'</div><br />After Salento we spent a night in Villa de Leyva, a small colonial town that we'd heard was a not-to-be-missed. Unfortunately it rained, or threatened rain, for most of the time we were there, so we didn't get a lot of exploring in. We did, however, enjoy a delicious meal at a place called 'Antique', a charming little restaurant with antique furnishings (surprise, surprise) and an in-house Spanish-guitar player. Apart from the meal - a scrumptious pork steak with a fresh mango chutney which I'm going to insist that my wonderful cook of a father recreate for me on my return home - the memorable person on this occasion was the intoxicated Colombian who kept insisting on taking to the microphone. My personal favourite was his slurred rendition of 'Girl from Ipanema'. Eventually the waiter discreetly switched the mic off, not that our friend had the slightest idea.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReBqzuzUI/AAAAAAAAAZE/78D5EjZnK9Y/s1600/Villa+de+Leyva.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReBqzuzUI/AAAAAAAAAZE/78D5EjZnK9Y/s320/Villa+de+Leyva.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A moment of clear skies in Villa de Leyva</div><br />Next was San Gil and our appointed 'admin day', and then it was time to head for the coast, Taganga the next port of call. The reviews on Taganga are varying. Some describe it as a sleepy little fishing village boasting an unspoiled coastline. Others say it's an overcrowded tourist hub. Bec and I were part of the latter group. While the town is somewhat pretty, the beach is packed with sun burnt westerners, the water littered with rubbish. Even a walk along to the next beach, the apparently less-crowded 'Playa Grande', saw the same thing. For us, it wasn't anything to write home about. We did however enjoy a few stunning sunsets while staying at the 'Casablanca' hostel, which was right on the beach.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReRXEXy3I/AAAAAAAAAZM/-xBfehx3SQc/s1600/view+from+Casa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReRXEXy3I/AAAAAAAAAZM/-xBfehx3SQc/s320/view+from+Casa.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> The view from our hostel room in Taganga</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReSde94WI/AAAAAAAAAZU/cmMceJdfG9M/s1600/Taganga+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAReSde94WI/AAAAAAAAAZU/cmMceJdfG9M/s320/Taganga+sunset.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Taganga at sunset - at least there's something good about this place!</div><br />And who was the notable personality in Taganga? There were a couple, but one particularly stuck out. It was while we were wandering the streets, backpack laden and sweltering in the intense Caribbean Sea heat that we first encountered 'the t-shirt guy'. He was sitting at a cafe eating breakfast when he waved his arms, yelling at us: "Thank you for visiting Colombia!" It wasn't the only time he'd say this to us during our stay. You can't miss this guy around Tagana with his long locks, round glasses and bright Colombia t-shirt, Colombia wrist bands and Colombia belts - Colombia everything! Just before we left Taganga for our Lost City trek he joined our table as we waited for our breakfast at a cafe. He enthusiastically described the meaning behind the Colombian flag: yellow for the country's richness, its gold and land; blue for its abundant water supply; and red for the passion of its people. He then proceeded to explain the significance of frogs in the Lost City...<br /><br />Finally, there was the Tayrona National Park. Most guide books will give you the tip off about its pristine beaches and, of course, we had to see its three main ones for ourselves: Arrecifes, La Piscina and El Cabo. And it was that day we discovered that chivalry is still alive and well in Colombia. It appeared first with our misfortune on the public bus we boarded from Santa Marta to Tayrona. The bus driver had decided to ventilate the bus by leaving the door wide open. Unfortunately for us in the seat adjoining the door, when we hit one of the many bumps in the road our food supply that was sitting at our feet went flying...out the door and onto the road! Back home, our precious supply of marshmallows and raisins would have been long gone, but not here. We watched amazed as the bus conductor ordered the driver to pull to the side of the road, jumped in front of the oncoming traffic and retrieved our goods. Crisis averted! Then there were the the two 16-ish year old guys we disembarked the bus with. Not only did they offer to escort us on the shuttle to the park's entrance, but they waited for us to tie our shoes before trailing us the whole 40 minute walk to Arrecifes, jumping ahead at one point to lend a hand at a tricky bit in the path. The funny part was, they didn't say a word the whole time! So, although terribly shy, their manners earned them a big tick. I'm sure their Mums would be proud.<br /><br />As for the Park itself, the photos below do the talking. This place makes Taganga's beach look like a murky, urine-filled children's swimming pool! Once at Arrecifes (where you can't swim because the currents are too strong), we walked through dense forest all the way to El Cabo, where we elected to hire a tent for the night. I've mentioned before that camping and I don't mix, and the flooding of our tent (and my mattress) during the thunder storm that night only confirmed this. If I ever went again I'd take the hammock option. But it only took a swim in those crystal clear waters to erase it from my mind. I'll probably never be a camper, but I'm sure appreciating the outdoors.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe2CzeQ5I/AAAAAAAAAZc/ISwqIHPWtcE/s1600/El+Cabo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe2CzeQ5I/AAAAAAAAAZc/ISwqIHPWtcE/s320/El+Cabo.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> El Cabo beach</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe5OdwuCI/AAAAAAAAAZk/veN2MV9-tac/s1600/Tayrona.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe5OdwuCI/AAAAAAAAAZk/veN2MV9-tac/s320/Tayrona.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">One of the stunning beaches in Tayrona National Park</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe6CR7w7I/AAAAAAAAAZs/nD1RxVedU0M/s1600/Tayrona2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TARe6CR7w7I/AAAAAAAAAZs/nD1RxVedU0M/s320/Tayrona2.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-73543254260557491142010-05-30T16:26:00.000-07:002010-06-14T09:43:45.914-07:00Crazy about trees...I mean, palmsI wouldn't say I'm an outdoorsey person, and I'm certainly not the camping type. I appreciate natural beauty: waterfalls, mountains, bushland etc, but usually after an hour or so I'm ready to move on. Over these last six months things have changed. I've been inundated with and spoiled by nature and have certainly taken the Australian Blue Mountains up a notch. The Amazon, the Iguazu Falls - there's so many natural gems in South America that have that amazing factor. For me, one of these places was not far from a quaint little farm high above the Colombian town of Salento.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyLTuI29I/AAAAAAAAAXU/ygLYD7fqguE/s1600/Salento.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyLTuI29I/AAAAAAAAAXU/ygLYD7fqguE/s320/Salento.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Salento</div><br />Salento is in the 'Zona Cafeteria' and is one of a number of regions that produces delicious Colombian coffee. We blew into Salento with plans to spend one night, two at most, and to take a tour of a coffee plantation before heading north to the coast. Well it only took my lending a camera cable to a fellow traveller for our plans to change. While uploading her photos, Katherine told us about her plans for the following day. She was being picked up at 6.30am for an overnight stay at the 'Eagle's Nest', a dairy farm an hour out of town owned by Salento-native Don Omar. Dairy farm? I found myself thinking, what happened to all the coffee bean talk? There wasn't too much arm twisting before we decided that we too would check out the Eagle's Nest.<br /><br />So the following morning, sleepy eyed, we waited for the sound of Omar's jeep with Katherine and Julian, a Swiss guy who was also subjected to Katherine's convincing. Once arrived and happy to see two extra faces, Omar turned the jeep around to pick up some extra food in town before driving us for a bumpy hour up above the clouds to his little piece of paradise 3000m above sea level. With a handful of country friends back home, I've seen some pretty impressive properties but this one was nothing short of amazing. Overlooking endless luscious green valleys, clouds reshaping themselves below us, we were treated to a cup of coffee while sitting in the living room that had corner to corner windows, taking in the spectacular panoramic views of the Pereira and Armenia regions, which were even more impressive that night when twinkling under a thunderless lightening show.<br /><br />The 24 hour itinerary was set, the feature attraction a visit to the wax palms that grow in one of the valleys. The wax palm is Colombia's 'national tree'. According to Omar, however, whoever mustered up this title didn't put much thought into it considering the palms are very rare, growing only in a few areas and in altitudes of between 2,500 and 2,800m. On top of this, Omar rightly pointed out that they're not even trees, they're palms! I was already awestruck by the property and didn't think a few palms could be nearly as impressive. How wrong I was.<br /><br />After a hearty breakfast of eggs and arapas - kind of like unleavened bread patties made from corn, a favourite in Colombia - we headed back below the clouds for about an hour, stopping here and there to take photos or let cows pass on the road. We must have reached the right altitude level as, without warning from Omar, we turned a corner and the engine stopped at a small soccer field. There, we were suddenly hit with the phenomenon: not one, but hundreds of palms, sporadically scaling the valley in forest-like clumps. The most remarkable thing about them was their height, the tallest ones, according to Omar, reaching up to 80m. I've never seen anything like it and with no one around, only the sound of the palm fronds in the wind, it was nothing short of magical. My descriptions really don't do it justice but for me, it was almost reminiscent of Enid Blyton's 'The Magic Faraway Tree' - another world - except, of course, without the Angry Pixie, Dame Washalot and Saucepan Man etc. I never thought I could be so captivated by a bunch of trees, I mean, palms. We spent a good two hours marvelling, wandering under and around them, marvelling some more, and going crazy with the photo taking. I could have stayed there all afternoon, it was so peaceful and beautiful.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyZurBYMI/AAAAAAAAAXc/LATJk2I9KGE/s1600/soccer+field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyZurBYMI/AAAAAAAAAXc/LATJk2I9KGE/s320/soccer+field.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Colombia's highest soccer field</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALybFMdpQI/AAAAAAAAAXk/d8g0nG3NAM0/s1600/first+glimpse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALybFMdpQI/AAAAAAAAAXk/d8g0nG3NAM0/s320/first+glimpse.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">First glimpse</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyyy2WfcI/AAAAAAAAAX8/dEKk74851RU/s1600/omar+and+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyyy2WfcI/AAAAAAAAAX8/dEKk74851RU/s320/omar+and+tree.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Omar standing next to a palm, these things are enormous!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALybscz85I/AAAAAAAAAXs/byityO5L-uI/s1600/trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALybscz85I/AAAAAAAAAXs/byityO5L-uI/s320/trees.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A small 'forest' of palms</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyeFZ5StI/AAAAAAAAAX0/hlGJHB4MY6o/s1600/clumps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALyeFZ5StI/AAAAAAAAAX0/hlGJHB4MY6o/s320/clumps.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Other patches of palm forests</div><br />But Omar had other activities on the agenda. The rest of the afternoon was about exploring the farm. After lunch and a short siesta, we went for a walk around his property, hiking up hills in search of tree-dwelling sloths and discovering his strange breed of midget cow (the one I met was called 'Omar' and was about 1/3 of the size of a cow the same age!) One of Omar's farm hands, German, also introduced us to the game of Tejo, a traditional Colombian sport which I'll get into later, but we didn't play for long because a mesmerising sunset stole our attention. To top it all off, included in the Eagle's Nest experience was a cow-milking session early the next morning, we were on a dairy farm after all. What was less enticing was the expectation that we actually <i>drink</i> the milk straight from the cow! We weren't milking into a metal bucket but into a plastic cup, which was luckily filled with chocolate Nesquick. My good manners saw me drink the whole thing, a big smile on my face and lots of 'mmmmm's.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzRn6XNqI/AAAAAAAAAYE/nX5N9yFSh8Q/s1600/above+the+clouds+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzRn6XNqI/AAAAAAAAAYE/nX5N9yFSh8Q/s320/above+the+clouds+sunset.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A sunset high above the clouds</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzTZM60CI/AAAAAAAAAYM/rpU4WPw1FFA/s1600/clouds+at+sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzTZM60CI/AAAAAAAAAYM/rpU4WPw1FFA/s320/clouds+at+sunset.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzWxI6ALI/AAAAAAAAAYU/aPH_F9cLvrk/s1600/milking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzWxI6ALI/AAAAAAAAAYU/aPH_F9cLvrk/s320/milking.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Not sure I got the hang of this milking thing</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzXoBAhHI/AAAAAAAAAYc/BTIAJeR3wEU/s1600/drinking+milk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALzXoBAhHI/AAAAAAAAAYc/BTIAJeR3wEU/s320/drinking+milk.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Unpasturised milk, yuuuuuum!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>It was a breathtaking 24 hours but, soon after chugging my unpasturised milk, it was time for Omar to take us back through the clouds, back to civilisation. After visiting this well kept secret it seemed pointless going to the Cocora Valley, the place the tourists flock to see the palms. Here they stand solo, a few metres apart and there are far fewer. Not ones to miss out, however, once back in Salento we hopped in a jeep bound for Cocora. Palms? Tick. Beautiful? Tick. Eagle's Nest impressive factor? Not so much, but we enjoyed the walk through the green valley, the hike up 'La Montagne' (which was good practice for our upcoming Lost City trek), and we compared our surrounds to those in 'Jurassic Park'.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALz3nv7rjI/AAAAAAAAAYs/mGb-nocsJgs/s1600/Cocora+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TALz3nv7rjI/AAAAAAAAAYs/mGb-nocsJgs/s320/Cocora+2.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> The less impressive, but very beautiful, Cocora Valley</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />With plans to leave that evening on an overnight bus to Bogota and tired from two consecutive early mornings, a siesta was tempting once we'd returned from the Cocora Valley. The coffee region had surprised us, we'd got much more than the coffee we'd bargained for. Oh that's right, coffee! We'd completely neglected the whole reason for visiting the region. Conveniently, the hostel we were at also ran a coffee 'finca' (farm), so instead of a siesta we followed the hostel's owner around the farm and learnt a thing or two about coffee beans, their harvesting and the roasting process and of course had the obligatory coffee tasting at the end. Coffee region? Tick.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAL0IcvZrtI/AAAAAAAAAY0/4_QOYdzVL7c/s1600/view+from+the+Finca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/TAL0IcvZrtI/AAAAAAAAAY0/4_QOYdzVL7c/s320/view+from+the+Finca.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> The view from the 'Don Eduardo' Finca</div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-23339013763164109402010-05-29T20:51:00.000-07:002010-05-29T21:48:08.607-07:00Interesting times in ColombiaIt's election weekend in Colombia. Back home there'd be people hosting election parties (any excuse in Australia), and pubs and bars sporting big screen TVs, crowded with patrons watching the ebb and flow of the results with anticipation. Here, there's an alcohol ban. It's been in place since 6pm Friday and wont be lifted until 6am Monday. Civilians are also banned from carrying weapons until June 2, but seeing as I'm not the knife or gun wielding type, that one shouldn't affect me. As one might imagine, an alcohol ban on a Saturday night is a bit of a drag in the backpacker world, but you'll be pleased to know that in light of this, we're surviving. We're currently in a hostel in Cartagena watching 'Gladiator' with some other disheartened souls, ditching the planned green chicken mango curry cooking session for watermelon and marshmallows, it's way to humid for curry. I have to admit, it's quite nice having a weekend in after our latest mission, a five day trek to and from the Lost City, and it's yet another opportunity to redress my worsening blog neglect.<br />
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If the last few weeks have been anything to go by, this weekend is going to be interesting. It's hard to avoid the election excitement here and in my very nonexpert, I've-only-been-here-for-one-month opinion, it's set to be a cracker. There's a handful of candidates but there are two clear front runners: the right-wing Juan Manuel Santos and the 'Green' Antanas Mockus.<br />
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Again in very layperson terms, Santos is playing the security card, vowing to 'keep Colombia safe', very much the same stance as the present government. He was the former defense minister under the current, and very popular, President Uribe and directed a number of military raids which helped push guerrilla groups out of the countryside and into the jungle. This has not only made the country markedly safer, but has also improved its infamous reputation for drugs and kidnapping internationally. Interestingly, however, the Uribe government is in some serious hot water over the alleged military executions of innocent village people, who were supposedly 'recruited' to the military before being killed so their bodies could be falsely presented as dead guerillas.<br />
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On the other side is Mockus, the university professor turned politician and former mayor of Bogota. His line is all about education, government transparency and change. He has overwhelming support from the younger-generation but things are a bit sketchy for him with the country's rural population who've for years been subject to the terror caused by guerrilla groups in such regions. For them, security is obviously a priority. According to some, Mockus' weak point, and perhaps subsequent downfall, may even be the lack of campaigning in these regions where many people live without electricity and, hence, television. To them, the name 'Mockus' would mean nothing!<br />
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In any event it's a fascinating time in Colombia and, although I wont of course be voting, I'm sure to be sitting in a pub somewhere, gripping my orange juice with the suspense of it all. <i><br />
</i>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-58948266973541522482010-05-19T16:01:00.000-07:002010-05-19T16:08:18.911-07:00Bad blogger!Believe it or not, it's been three weeks since our visit to the Amazon and we've covered a lot of ground in the meantime. In fact, we've moved countries, we're now in Colombia! For us, constant moving around subsequently leads to blog neglect. I'm trying my best to rectify the situation with a report of the last few weeks, not only to keep Mum happy, but for my own records when I get home.<br />
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I'm writing from San Gil, an adventure/eco-tourist town in central Colombia. We arrived here after a bus ride that was more like a roller coaster. I'm serious. The only difference was that there were no seat belts (added bonus), it lasted four hours and every now and then we passed soldiers armed with heavy-duty shotguns. But I wont harp on about buses again, even though this one was yet another gem. Having been wifi-less for some time now, we're skipping the abseiling and rafting opportunities in San Gil and opting for an 'admin day', to catch up on emails/blogs etc, before we hop on an overnight bus to the Caribbean coast. I have to say, it's a welcome break!<br />
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After our Amazon trip it was back to Quito, a city I've already mentioned as not having warmed to. So, not surprisingly, after tasting the Quito nightlife with some of our Amazon tour friends, we 'had to get the heck out of the area' (per 'Dimitri' on youtube) and head north-west for an overnight visit to Mindo, another adventure town similar to Banos. With plans for canopying - which entails zip-lining through rainforest canopies in a harness - we booked into the gorgeous <a href="http://www.hotelbambuecuador.com/pages/mindo.html">Hotel Bambu</a> which overlooks a nearby cloud forest. Unfortunately, the crumby Ecuadorian weather was not surprisingly uncooperative and canopying was not an option in the rain, so we spent a lazy morning waiting for the bus back to Quito as we were due to fly out the following evening. That night I was, however, compensated for Mindo's disappointments with a delicious (and enormous) seafood paella at Quito restaurant that lived up to its name: Paella de Valenciana.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RqkE293AI/AAAAAAAAAWE/1Q0R8ITNG0M/s1600/cloud+forest.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473116615174118402" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RqkE293AI/AAAAAAAAAWE/1Q0R8ITNG0M/s320/cloud+forest.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
The view of the cloud forest from our hostel, Mindo</div><br />
The next day was spent killing time. Again the weather did not agree we us but, determined to spend the day outdoors, we spent $8 to sit on the covered Teleferico cable car which took us over 4km high and boasted 'sweeping views' of Quito. The car went about 1km an hour and all we saw were clouds. Thanks again Quito! One upside to the day was getting a seat on a very crowded city bus. I was impressed by how polite one local was when she tapped me on the shoulder as she got out of her seat. Thinking she was exiting at the next stop, I soon realised she thought I was pregnant, as I hadn't removed the bag I'd stuffed in my jacket to keep dry from the rain. Feeling slightly guilty, I couldn't bring myself to admit that in fact I wasn't an up-the-duff backpacker, so I spent the remainder of the trip sitting practically under her, with a maternal hand on my belly. Perhaps a strategy for naughty school kids back home who don't stand up for adults?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rq_xzC6dI/AAAAAAAAAWM/xHcow2aLozQ/s1600/preggers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rq_xzC6dI/AAAAAAAAAWM/xHcow2aLozQ/s320/preggers.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Me, with child (and our friend Anna). </div><br />
Fiiiinally it was time to head to the country we'd heard so much about, Colombia. For some reason, my travel agent had booked a puzzling route for our reaching Colombia's capital: Quito - Lima - Bogota. Yes, that makes sense. Just for fun, why not fly south to Peru before heading north, crossing Ecuador again, to get to Colombia when there are direct flights between Quito and Bogota? To make matters worse, our landing time in Bogota was scheduled for 3.30am. So we knew we were in for a long evening and, when the whole plane simultaneously cheered when we hit the tarmac safely in Lima (is this not a normal event?), I was unusually apprehensive about the next flight. We did, however, arrive in Bogota and finally hit the pillow at 5am. This was neither in the hostel or neighbourhood where we'd booked which, according to our very friendly cab driver, was in an area that was 'no seguro' (not safe). By the third hostel we were in luck, this one found by our driver who had been getting in and out of the cab in the pouring rain to ask if there were vacancies. Our first experience of Colombian warmth.<br />
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I'm not going to lie, neither Bec or I are huge fans of big cities in South America. They're usually much more dangerous and far less appealing than the typically beautiful country towns. There's often a lot of cheesy tourist traps that can suck you in, such as the Teleferico in Quito - no more cable cars for me! So, when in big cities, I have to admit you might find us in the odd shopping mall here and there, or a movie cinema, luxuries you miss from home. This sometimes does have its benefits. In Bogota we went to see a film called 'Millenium' (based on the novel 'The girl with the Dragon Tattoo'), which was advertised as having Spanish subtitles. Almost always these movies are in English, but this one was in Swedish, so it turned out to be great Spanish practice. I was surprised how much I understood. Our trip to the mall also scored me a much needed new pair of non-imitation Nikes for our upcoming trek of the Lost City, something you don't usually find in the countryside.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rrhc29_GI/AAAAAAAAAWU/_cEHe1f7J5Y/s1600/security.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rrhc29_GI/AAAAAAAAAWU/_cEHe1f7J5Y/s320/security.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Some 'big-city' security in Bogota.</div><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rr-VASTLI/AAAAAAAAAWk/xl-iD5cDdM0/s1600/plaza+bolivar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rr-VASTLI/AAAAAAAAAWk/xl-iD5cDdM0/s200/plaza+bolivar.jpg" width="200" /></a>Our Bogota explorations did, however, go further than the Zona Rosa mall. We enjoyed an 'Almuerzo' (set lunch) at a local haunt, and ate an unidentifed piece of meat - who eats wins is back! We ventured to the gorgeous 'Plaza Bolivar' and enjoyed a spot of people watching and dodging of sky-bombing pigeons. We took an interesting tour of the National Police Museum which is also the office of the Bogota Police Major. There were plenty of acne faced teenagers who were just starting their careers as policeman, conducting tours and proudly showing us the variety of artillery used by the Colombian police over the years. Their hospitality even extended to an offer to taste Colombian coffee, which is fantastic by the way. The big finale was a trip to the Museum's basement, which is dedicated to the hunt and execution by the police of Pablo Escobar, Colombian's infamous Drug Lord. The room is fit with some gruesome photos of the dead Escobar, along with some of his accomplices, and also houses a plank of wood with the remnants of blood stains from the final shot to Escobar's head: nice. What's more, the place was swarming with school children. Not exactly the most uplifting or G-rated location for a school excursion! We ended the day with a visit to the oldest chocolate shop in Bogota, and an art museum boasting some big names like Picasso and Cezanne, quite cultural of us really. Finally, I was able to catch up with a friend of a friend from university who's living in Bogota working for the UN. She took us out in the Zona Rosa and then back to her house where we met some of her Colombian friends and chatted a lot about the country's interesting history. It's always nice to hear a local perspective.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RrvGA0MnI/AAAAAAAAAWc/2t3J_Krr13M/s1600/guns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RrvGA0MnI/AAAAAAAAAWc/2t3J_Krr13M/s320/guns.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Bec in the Police Museum.</div><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtGa6N8FI/AAAAAAAAAWs/KxlRkRd5Ekc/s1600/angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtGa6N8FI/AAAAAAAAAWs/KxlRkRd5Ekc/s200/angel.jpg" width="150" /></a>Bogota was also our base for a day trip to Zipaquira, a small town around 45 minutes away and well known for its Salt Cathedral. The catch is, the Cathedral is built in a salt mine and is 200m underground! After a 15m walk uphill through a park swarming with families for Mother's Day, we reached the Cathedral's entrance. We were taken on the underground tour, past fourteen small chapels representing the Stations of the Cross and on to the huge Cathedral itself. The whole place is architectually amazing and was well worth the visit.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtOu-jBcI/AAAAAAAAAW0/gyO5O5CBuI4/s1600/belly+and+clare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtOu-jBcI/AAAAAAAAAW0/gyO5O5CBuI4/s200/belly+and+clare.jpg" width="200" /></a>I also had a pang of homesickness in Bogota, as it was while I was there that two of my good friends from home were married in Byron Bay. While I tried to be there in spirit by toasting them with a glass of champas, it was hard knowing that some of my best friends were all congregated in the one place while I was across the other side of the world. Photos have starting circulating on facebook and it was the most beautiful wedding, congratulations Belly and Clare!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtWgZinYI/AAAAAAAAAW8/7Br_G0PtW0E/s1600/Herbario.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_RtWgZinYI/AAAAAAAAAW8/7Br_G0PtW0E/s200/Herbario.jpg" width="200" /></a>It only took a rainy Monday for us to decided to move north-west to Medellin, another big Colombian city. The main reason for our choosing Medellin was so Bec could welcome 25 years in a place where there was good nightlife and somewhere we could celebrate in style. The celebrating in style part came off well, but unfortunately the nightlife part fell well short of our expectations. Being 'foodies' (we're both lovers of good food and wine), I took Bec to a trendy restaurant/bar called <a href="http://www.elherbario.com/herbario/">'Herbario'</a>. The place was like any you'd find in Sydney, complete with a jazz band on the second floor. We spoiled ourselves with goat's cheese, proscuitto, prawns, steak and copious amounts of wine, finished off with a creme brulee with mango coulis (I even had the waiter put a birthday candle on Bec's dessert, to her utter mortification). A little boozed and ready for a party, we headed to Medellin's stylish Poblado region, to find all the bars closing within the hour. Apparently the clubs and bars only take off on weekends, so it didn't help Bec's birthday falling on a Wednesday. So the night ended with vodka and oranges at our hostel, chatting to Jorge, the hostel night employee, about his university calculus homework...interesting. Not to worry, there was still the following day, Bec's actual birthday.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rte58strI/AAAAAAAAAXE/9Y5GmkDwJck/s1600/birthday+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rte58strI/AAAAAAAAAXE/9Y5GmkDwJck/s320/birthday+dinner.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Bec and her birthday dinner.</div><br />
After a little sleep in and an impressive lunch at a Thai restaurant, it was time for the birthday present: a three hour pampering session at a local Spa (and a one hour massage for me - the birthday girl can't have all the fun). When booking, I was offered the 'Mother's Day Special', which included a free blow-dry, so all Bec knew when she got to the Spa was that if there were any quesitons about her children, they were at the hotel for the day. Massaged, facialed, parafined and blow-dried, Bec emerged from the Spa a little older, probably not much wiser, but a new woman. With plans for an early departure to the Colombian coffee region the following morning, we had a quick bite at a Mexican restaurant, and headed back to the hostel. You can't reach the big quarter of a centuary without a birthday cake so, as my last surprise, we gobbled down cake in our dorm room while chatting away to our American room mates until the early hours. Who needs bars when you have chocolate cake?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rtv1-M9uI/AAAAAAAAAXM/hK3ohoX8Sus/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S_Rtv1-M9uI/AAAAAAAAAXM/hK3ohoX8Sus/s320/cake.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-78845306673546891222010-05-09T22:20:00.000-07:002010-05-20T16:59:16.324-07:00Amazon Jungle FeverThe Amazon jungle is a hot topic on this continent, and understandably so. It covers five and a half million square kilometers, spans over nine countries (one of which is Ecuador) and is home to 25% of the world's animal species. Now that's impressive! We'd been <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">umming</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ahhing</span> about whether or not to visit the enticing green mass as we knew it would be a sure cash-drainer. It seemed, however, that curiosity would out do stinginess on this occasion, and we booked a four day, three night tour to see out our last week in Ecuador.<br />
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As seems to be a reoccurring trend, our trip didn't get off to the best start. Our tour meeting point was at a hotel in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Lago</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Agrio</span>, a small town in north-eastern Ecuador (also a past target of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">FARC</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">guerilla</span> group, information I may have failed to mention to my parents). The plan was to spend the day travelling eight-hours by bus - thus lessening our chances of highway robbery, just an added bonus in these parts - and spend the night in a hostel in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Lago</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Agrio</span>. As it would turn out, however, the 'safest' option, according to our travel agent, would be to take the 11pm night bus which arrived at 6am. This meant yet another day in Quito, a city we have not warmed to at all. Nevertheless, like good little travellers we found ways to amuse ourselves, which included a ride on the impressive 24c Quito trolley bus out to the Equator line...when in Ecuador, I guess. We took the classic cheesy 'Equator' snaps, but failed to actually visit the real Equator, a few hundred metres away. So we earned a big 'F' for accomplishing that tourist attraction. Needless to say, the visit did kill time before what would be a very uncomfortable bus ride.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eNcVVIC8I/AAAAAAAAAUM/TkiyiF2I8Lc/s1600/Equator.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eNcVVIC8I/AAAAAAAAAUM/TkiyiF2I8Lc/s320/Equator.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">On the phony Equator line</div><br />
As I've quite clearly stressed in other posts, bus rides in South America are events in themselves, and not always positive ones. This was one of the less favourable ones. Eight hours on a windowless bus in unbearable heat inhaling recycled air left us sporting dark circles and colds when we reached the deserted <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lago</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Agrio</span>. This jungle thing had better be worth it, I was grumpily thinking to myself. Well that 'jungle thing' turned out to be the highlight of our time in Ecuador.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eYjtLelAI/AAAAAAAAAV0/3D0Dg3VGkx0/s1600/lodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eYjtLelAI/AAAAAAAAAV0/3D0Dg3VGkx0/s200/lodge.jpg" width="200" /></a>Our bad morning made a turn-around when we met our tour group: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Marieke</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Enno</span>, a Dutch couple enjoying a three week work holiday; Dom and Julie, fresh from finishing uni in the UK; and the gregarious Katie, living and working as a teacher in Guayaquil, originally from New York State. Completing the group was our tour guide Washington (named after big George of course), an entertaining Amazonian native who, after 12 years, had worked his way up to tour guide status after learning English from tourists. So it was in good company that we meandered two hours down the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Cuyabeno</span> River in a motorised canoe, stopping a number of times to witness squirrel monkeys make suicide missions, leaping the width of the river from one tree to another (some of the less-experienced ending up in the water). By afternoon, we'd practically forgotten the effects of our sleepless night after reaching the secluded lodge we'd call home for the next three nights. Fit with an open-air bathroom overlooking the jungle, moonlight showering to the sounds of the jungle was sure going to be a first.<br />
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The next three days were packed with activities, with a couple siestas curled up in a hammock thrown into the mix. After an hour of settling in, we set off to a large lagoon where we swam under the setting sun, out of the way of the piranhas and alligators which, according to Washington, prefer to hang out in the reeds. Before watching the sun set we went pink-dolphin spotting, but unfortunately only saw a couple of shy grey ones.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN8VraTaI/AAAAAAAAAVM/hFdHpKUOZ1w/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN8VraTaI/AAAAAAAAAVM/hFdHpKUOZ1w/s320/sunset.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eOAUYoRKI/AAAAAAAAAVk/5fXLhxEOL-4/s1600/walking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eOAUYoRKI/AAAAAAAAAVk/5fXLhxEOL-4/s200/walking.jpg" width="150" /></a>The next day we woke at 8am and, after a hearty breakfast, explored the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">rainforest</span>. This consisted of negotiating 'jungle bridges' (logs submerged in mud) and learning about the various flora and fauna, including particular ants nests which locals raid for angry ants, a remedy for lazy working dogs - I guess you'd be more attentive when covered in biting ants! The walk lost its magic, however, when the heavens opened and we saw more rain in half an hour than we have all year, it was seriously pelting down. It didn't help that our boat's engine suffered <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">mechanical</span> issues on the way home, which left us floating aimlessly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">down steam</span>. 'Well girls, this is jungle living', was Washington's response when he saw what must have been our very unamused faces. Jungle living it was, and embrace it we did. There were no complaints.<br />
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By the afternoon, the clouds had cleared and the sun peeped through, perfect whether for...piranha fishing! That's right, where else can you do this but in the Amazon jungle? I've never been into fishing, but this is fishing of a different kind and it's possible I may have missed my calling. There's an art to piranha fishing, which incorporates raw meat as bait and a piece of fishing line tied to a stick. There's none of this fancy rod stuff. In short, you thrash your stick around on the water, near to the shore (presumably to imitate the last seconds of some poor animal's life), and then you let the line go as deep as you can, the biggest hang out in the deeper parts. When you get a bite - and you'll feel it - with a quick flick of the wrist you jerk the stick upwards and back into the boat, hopefully with piranha attached. Let me just say though, piranhas are scary little buggers. If it's not the normal squirm factor involved when a live fish is flopping around a dry boat, it's the audible snapping of their razor sharp teeth that accompanies this, which resulted in many squeals (and apparently a near <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Bec</span>-overboard incident). I was quite chuffed as, being the first to snare one that day, my prize that night was a 750ml beer from Washington.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN5DRxCaI/AAAAAAAAAU0/iSCMjPD8Lms/s1600/piranha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN5DRxCaI/AAAAAAAAAU0/iSCMjPD8Lms/s320/piranha.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Me with my piranha.</div><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN76FYsCI/AAAAAAAAAVE/sPSk2lke5Ss/s1600/shaman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN76FYsCI/AAAAAAAAAVE/sPSk2lke5Ss/s200/shaman.jpg" width="200" /></a>With day two being so eventful, I didn't think day three could match it, not on the action side of things. Why? We were scheduled to watch the making of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">yucca</span> bread, made from a root vegetable, by an indigenous community, followed by a trip to the local Shaman. It was interesting listening to the Shaman talk through his medicinal plants, one of which was a hallucinogenic vine, and to volunteer as the subject of a good-health ritual (although that night my cold got worse...), but it sure wasn't piranha fishing. Things got a bit more exciting when we set out on a night walk through the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">rainforest</span>. If I wasn't squirming in the boat the day before, I was now. Not quite an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">aracnophobic</span>, but close too it, seeing a tarantula crawling up my fellow travellers' faces was, while amazing from where I stood about three metres away, slightly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">nauseating</span>. I definitely preferred the frogs.<br />
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So after a little nocturnal excitement, we returned to the lodge, thinking the events of the evening were over. Who was I kidding? How can you take a city girl, put her in the jungle, and not have a bit of drama? Our gumboots were covered in mud from the night walk and, so that we didn't trudge it through the lodge, we dipped our boots into the river. While the others went to where the tide had risen over the end of the wharf, I followed Washington, who was leaning on a chair and crouching to get his boots into the water. Mistake number one. Mistake number two was to lean on the same chair which, unbeknown to me, was not attached to the wharf. You can probably guess what happened next, both me and the chair went into the drink, me head first! 'Piranhas, piranhas, piranhas', was all that was going through my mind as I spluttered to the surface, then, 'alligators, alligators, alligators' (both shore-dwelling). Other than being a tad shocked I came out relatively unscathed, apart from having a few unidentified pine needle-like objects lodged in my hand from some water plant. It wasn't until I was having a beer at the dinner table later that Washington told me it was the electric eels that had concerned him, and that one had killed a Mexican boy who went swimming some years ago. So that's why he'd yanked me out of the water so fast! Certainly one for the memory books.<br />
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So I've written a bit of an essay here, but the Amazon is totally worthy of it, we had such a memorable and unique four days. The photos don't nearly do it justice but I'll post some anyway. Katie took some of these with her fab camera.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eNeAWw6sI/AAAAAAAAAUU/0XghWvNMVyQ/s1600/bathroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eNeAWw6sI/AAAAAAAAAUU/0XghWvNMVyQ/s320/bathroom.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A glimpse of the view from our jungle bathroom.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN57kfVDI/AAAAAAAAAU8/1RJvfD0kFNo/s1600/rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN57kfVDI/AAAAAAAAAU8/1RJvfD0kFNo/s320/rain.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Rain in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">rainforest</span>, appropriate.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN2j1eaTI/AAAAAAAAAUc/B47HUSJwLUo/s1600/boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN2j1eaTI/AAAAAAAAAUc/B47HUSJwLUo/s320/boat.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Washington heading up the boat.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN9EMo-mI/AAAAAAAAAVU/Bry32xBv37g/s1600/sunset2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN9EMo-mI/AAAAAAAAAVU/Bry32xBv37g/s320/sunset2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Another gorgeous sunset.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN-wqHQHI/AAAAAAAAAVc/PWXstBD9DeQ/s1600/tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eN-wqHQHI/AAAAAAAAAVc/PWXstBD9DeQ/s320/tree.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A 300+ year old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Ceiba</span> tree, amazing!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eOByxg9KI/AAAAAAAAAVs/hqHH09F4hSc/s1600/watching+out+boat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S-eOByxg9KI/AAAAAAAAAVs/hqHH09F4hSc/s320/watching+out+boat.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">It must have been pretty interesting...<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">And some video clips:<br />
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Piranha</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz8bVIK_rPEnv_SY0Hcum2rRuQgGQkxQcP_WjeApvigGpFbKzR-6QBHrAWgZyZOmQUmKJB9aOqYZl6QhEjTNg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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A brave squirrel monkey taking the plunge.<br />
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</div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxGjtsuzf-qjQzuyKiaxOprTgF_4RyYyTAnjQKTTXVA7INynymPrAu5gOVsL4bIapsJmsh_UfJ4giBYYDz4Nw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-50529699452463113182010-04-25T17:15:00.000-07:002010-04-25T17:27:47.176-07:00The 'Poor Man's Galapagos'Travelling for a year means big time budgeting and can sometimes also mean saying no to certain pocket draining activities and places. For us, the Galapagos Islands is one of those destinations. When you're living on $20 a day or less and have seven months of travel ahead of you, including an inevitably expensive stint in Europe, a 'splurge' of $3000 or more for a couple of weeks is completely unjustifiable.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TajV_fZGI/AAAAAAAAAT0/817GYlJ6S44/s1600/PL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TajV_fZGI/AAAAAAAAAT0/817GYlJ6S44/s200/PL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>For miserly backpackers like ourselves, however, there's an island off Ecuador's south coast that provides a little slice of the Galapagos at a fraction of the cost. Part of the '<a href="http://www.pro-ecuador.com/parque-nacional-machalilla.html">Parque Nacional Machalilla</a>' and located about 30km from the shores of beach-side-town <a href="http://www.puertolopez.net/ingles/index.htm">Puerto Lopez</a>, Isla de la Plata (the Silver Island) boasts a variety of species also found on the Galapagos Islands, including, among others, the red and blue-footed booby, albatrosses and South American sea lions. Known as 'The Poor Man's Galapagos', we felt a trip to the coast was a must, so we set off for Puerto Lopez from Cuenca by bus.<br />
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It would seem our six-week bus hiatus washed away my memories of the trials and tribulations of South American bus journeys, but you'll be glad to know that the past week has reinstated my love hate relationship with this form of travel. While the scenery has been unbelievable - lushious green jungle and twinkling coastlines, not something you'll see up close from a plane - there's just something about it that I'll never get used to. Being crammed for hours like chickens in a coup (at one stage I was literally sitting next to an angry rooster), this time in the tropical Ecuadorian heat, was not fun. I'm actually considering enduring the humiliation and getting one of those bum pillows people with boils have to carry around with them, just to make the trip that little bit more bearable. And then there are the bus vendors, who are both friends and foes. Sure, we've had many a tasty empanada and some delicious fruit for the ride. If, however, they sense any form of a glance their way you're in for it and will be bombarded with various sale items. Some are practical: lunch items or lollies, others are not so much: underpants, spoons, lottery tickets. I even had one guy fit me with sunglasses - unasked, I might add - while my own were sitting on my head! It's a mixed bag every time.<br />
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So after a trying bus ride from Cuenca, we arrived in Puerto Lopez in the late afternoon. I can't say there's a whole heap to do in this town that's main tourist attraction is the Isla de la Plata, but that's what we were there for afterall. Being on the coast though, I was able to have some quality seafood which is right up my alley, so I was happy on the food front, particularly after devouring an impressive pasta marinara at the shore side Carmita restaurant.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TaurPEFgI/AAAAAAAAAT8/gZ78bd-srVc/s1600/Islandview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TaurPEFgI/AAAAAAAAAT8/gZ78bd-srVc/s200/Islandview.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TazsDwDKI/AAAAAAAAAUE/0uKf1ies94o/s1600/boobies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9TazsDwDKI/AAAAAAAAAUE/0uKf1ies94o/s200/boobies.jpg" width="150" /></a>And what of the subject of this entry - the 'Poor Man's Galapagos' - did it live up to its name? Well I guess I can't really give a balanced review, having not been to the big G, but if I had to guess, I'd be pretty sure the spectacular-factor of this place has been fairly over-exaggerated. What you do get is a stomach-losing ride in a fishing boat on the high seas, a 3km walk around the island where you'll see a few species of birds, and an enjoyable half-hour snorkeling session where you'll see one or two species of tropical fish. Don't expect to be inundated with spectacular varieties of flora and fauna at every step you take as, although you'll read of their descriptions in and around the island, you'll only be witness to a handful, if that - we only saw albatrosses and blue-footed boobies. But I wont say my $45 dollars (which included a $15 National Park entry fee) went to waste. It was a beautiful day to be on the water and we enjoyed the walk around the island's coastline, the fresh fruit and sandwiches we were provided for lunch and cooling off with a snorkel at the end. I say, if you keep your expectations low, it's an enjoyable day trip out to the island and worth the visit to the chilled-out Puerto Lopez, particularly if you're up for a rest before hitting the jungle, which is where we're headed next.Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-86157608497172531482010-04-23T18:59:00.000-07:002010-04-25T17:29:16.614-07:00Return of the backpackWe've been settled for six weeks now - four in Sucre and two at Santa Marta - and we're back on the road again, kicking off our back-to-backpacking with a bang: three tourist hubs in one week.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JLt7A-LmI/AAAAAAAAASc/PUA6P3cd16M/s1600/Cotopaxi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JLt7A-LmI/AAAAAAAAASc/PUA6P3cd16M/s320/Cotopaxi.jpg" style="height: 209px; width: 279px;" /></a>After a much sought after weekend off in Quito spent relaxing and wandering around the pretty Old Town, we met up with James, a friend of mine from home who is travelling with his friend Angus. We were eased into our activity filled week by the boys who had already picked destination number one: Cotopaxi National Park, home to apparently the world’s largest active volcano, Cotopaxi. There they had scheduled a two-night stay in the <a href="http://www.secretgardencotopaxi.com/">Secret Garden Cotopaxi</a>, an Australian-Ecuadorian run hostel nestled amongst some picturesque valleys and countryside. The boys drew the short straw and rode in the back of a 'taxi' (milk truck) along a very bumpy road all three hours from Quito, so they were feeling the cold when we arrived at the 3,700 m above-sea-level hostel and settled into our rooms. Bec and I had booked a two-person tent with 'the best view in the hostel', after the open-air compost toilet that is (it was the only accommodation that remained when we booked online). I have to say, after the chill evident on arrival, we were relieved to instead be allocated beds in a staff member's room after learning that the tents had been mistakenly double booked. Luckily Remmy, the unfortunate employee who, for our sake, was booted out of his room, was headed back to Quito for a few days off, so only had one night on the hostel couch, something he reassured us happens ‘all the time’.<br />
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One unique thing about this hostel is that all meals are provided, a good thing, if a little more expensive, seeing as it’s in the middle of nowhere. This means that at each meal you sit down with other guests and often share a few beers by the crackling fire after dinner, a nice way of meeting people and comparing travel stories. So after meeting some fellow travellers over a bowl of fried rice, our first activity was a hike to a nearby waterfall, apparently a standard for first time visitors. We were a little apprehensive about this as just that afternoon, a 16-year-old fisherman had tragically died in a flash flood nearby and the rain clouds were already gathering overhead. Remmy, however, assured us the path was safe so, armed with cameras and gumboots, we set off. After a couple of near slips and some negotiating of rock faces with Tarzan style use of tree branches, we arrived at the waterfall, just in time for the rain. In the end it was a worthwhile visit, if a fleeting one, and we managed to get a few happy snaps before getting drenched on the way home. What fun!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JMbd9IrdI/AAAAAAAAASk/htoF_NJoC04/s1600/horses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JMbd9IrdI/AAAAAAAAASk/htoF_NJoC04/s320/horses.jpg" style="height: 210px; width: 280px;" /></a>Activity number two involved getting my cowgirl back on for a six-hour horse ride through the surrounding valleys. Bec and I have got right into the horse riding while we’ve been away, so we were looking forward to it. One of the hostel owners even said the horses would ‘love a gallop’ once we hit the valleys, so we were pumped for a good day of riding. As the saying goes, however, things are not always what they seem. Bec, who’d put her hand up as having riding experience, was given the equivalent of a donkey. This horse just refused to go any faster than a walk and meandered left and right - not straight - like a lost puppy...the whole way! While it was quite amusing watching her kick, whip and yell at the old thing, I felt her frustration when my horse gave up the ghost about half way into the ride and joined Bec’s with the ‘I’m not going anywhere’ attitude. It seemed it was us who’d drawn the short straw this time, as our horses were clearly the only ‘special’ ones. The others had a whale of a time, arriving back at the hostel a good 20 minutes before us, having galloped all the way. To look on the bright side though, the scenery was absolutely gorgeous although, if I were to do it again, it probably would have been nicer to spend my time hiking instead of swearing at an uncooperative horse.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JNSNVbf7I/AAAAAAAAAS0/GMfMqhtqLcU/s1600/ice.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463514273166360498" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JNSNVbf7I/AAAAAAAAAS0/GMfMqhtqLcU/s200/ice.jpg" style="float: left; height: 211px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 158px;" width="149" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JNR8VfGlI/AAAAAAAAASs/eepScAcfQtE/s1600/glaciertop.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="149" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463514268603193938" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JNR8VfGlI/AAAAAAAAASs/eepScAcfQtE/s200/glaciertop.jpg" style="float: left; height: 175px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 234px;" width="200" /></a>Activity number three was inevitable. How can one visit Cotopaxi National Park without visiting Cotopaxi? This expedition – not to the summit but to the volcano’s glacier - was made on the way to destination two: Banos. And it was no mean feat, all 5000 m of it! We were transported by 4WD from the hostel to the volcano ‘car park’ perched at about 4,200 m, from which point we were on our own. The altitude was reminiscent of the Inca Trail days, but higher - 700 m higher! We were really feeling it when we finally reached the glacier but the head spins, windburn and breathlessness was well worth it, and there were even a few minutes there when the clouds cleared and we could see the summit. The hike down was a molehill compared to the one up. It took a whole ten minutes to get back to the 4WD – what had taken an hour to get up - quite an effort in my I-haven’t-done-real-exercise-in-months books!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JRSfcHP1I/AAAAAAAAATk/4MO8PLSfpFo/s1600/falls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JRSfcHP1I/AAAAAAAAATk/4MO8PLSfpFo/s200/falls.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JRTA6K-JI/AAAAAAAAATs/R-PqDEkZ9yM/s1600/bikes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JRTA6K-JI/AAAAAAAAATs/R-PqDEkZ9yM/s200/bikes.jpg" width="150" /></a>With sore bums and legs from the horse riding and mountain climbing, we felt we owed ourselves a day of rest in Banos, but one day only it was. Having pampered ourselves with massages, facials and pedicures on a weekend visit from Santa Marta, we vowed and declared that this time we would be more active. While the boys opted for an afternoon of white water rafting, we hired bikes and explored the ‘Avenida de las Cascadas’ - the road between Banos and Puyo, which is scattered with waterfalls. We spent around 6 hours riding from waterfall to waterfall, trekking fair distances on foot to some and riding speedy cable cars to others. We’d hoped to make it all the way to Puyo but discovered that this bike-riding thing is painful business. All I’ll say is that I now understand why many women ride with sheepskin on their bike seats, we’d had quite enough after six hours! I was very impressed by the truck driver who took all twenty-something of us back to Banos, what a balancing act that was!<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWunEOFI/AAAAAAAAATU/2WnkjiufllQ/s1600/Banosview.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463515450329806930" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWunEOFI/AAAAAAAAATU/2WnkjiufllQ/s320/Banosview.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 193px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 256px;" /></a>While we did make the most of the Banos nightlife – which included hanging out with two British guys with an unhealthy obsession with karaoke – we maintained our active streak as well. On our last afternoon, we climbed to Banos’ impressive Virgin monument. After an hour of huffing and puffing up what felt like a million stairs, passing teenage lovers along the way, we reached the top and were rewarded with an impressive view of the colourful town, the perfect ending to our last day in Banos. The following day we would wake at 6.30am and part ways with the coast bound boys for destination three: Cuenca.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWwdYC2I/AAAAAAAAATc/SnU_dPw5WDc/s1600/Cathedral.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463515450826034018" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWwdYC2I/AAAAAAAAATc/SnU_dPw5WDc/s320/Cathedral.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 213px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 160px;" /></a>Cuenca is known as the city that rivals Quito in the colonial architecture stakes. Boasting not one, but two Cathedrals – Catedral Vieja (old) and Catedral Nueva (new) – along with a number of old churches and plazas, it is a strong competitor to the country’s capital. You only need one day in Cuenca to enjoy the sites and we packed it into half a day. We visited both Cathedrals, the new one definitely more striking than its unused counterpart (kudos to the architects!) We walked through the ‘Mercado de las Flores’ (flower market) and saw just why Ecuador is one of the world’s largest flower exporters; and we strolled down the pleasant ‘Rio Tomebamba’ before heading to the bus station for our next venture: a three hour bus ride to Ingapirca.<br />
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Now, labelling Ingapirca the ‘Machu Picchu of Ecuador’ is a pretty big deal and, having been to Machu Picchu a few months ago, we were expecting big things, the crème de la crème of ruins type things. I was also interested in the history behind these particular ruins, which are influenced by two cultures, the Canaris and the Incas. The l<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWQfZKtI/AAAAAAAAATM/acRXpkV7o-A/s1600/ruins.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463515442244561618" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S9JOWQfZKtI/AAAAAAAAATM/acRXpkV7o-A/s320/ruins.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 207px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 276px;" /></a>atter apparently sent all the former men to Cusco while they moved in on the Canaris women – nice! I’ve become accustomed to some guidebooks over-exaggerating the wow factor of places, maybe if a writer hits a boring city or perhaps just wants to spice things up. I think, however, this took the cake in terms of over-exaggeration - anthropologists shut your eyes. Maybe it was the fact that we were told we had 40 minutes to explore the place before the last bus to Cuenca left (a tad annoying, given the amount of time it took to get there); perhaps it was that the ruins were a mere 100km squared, but this place was totally underwhelming and was certainly no Machu Picchu (as you can see from th pic). The most enjoyment we had was laughing at a Llama orgy happening on the grassy centre while watching our tour guide try to keep a straight face!<br />
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Apart from the ruins, we had a few ups and downs in Cuenca: a bed bug scare (we came out on top after switching beds), and some very bad Mexican at a restaurant labeled, again by a trusty guidebook, as one that ‘could very well be the best Mexican restaurant in Ecuador’. If the best Mexican food in Ecuador consists of a soggy tortilla stuffed with a can of refried beans with a drizzle of suspicious looking ‘guacamole’ then, sure, we hit the jackpot! The definite up to the downs was the meal we enjoyed at a restaurant called Eucalyptus on our last night in Cuenca. The charming British chef made a delicious pasta marinara for me and Chicken vindaloo curry for Bec, which all went down very nicely with a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay. A satisfying end to a busy week!Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8231360354400217204.post-69806844489512414712010-04-16T15:18:00.000-07:002010-04-20T07:58:10.255-07:00Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!<div style="text-align: right;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jiw1nzEsI/AAAAAAAAASU/y4dkFZzfBAQ/s1600/view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jiw1nzEsI/AAAAAAAAASU/y4dkFZzfBAQ/s200/view.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></div>Ok, so there weren't any tigers but there were four lions (actually six, after the birth of two cubs), and a paddington bear look-alike who scaled the walls of his enclosure like a mini MacGyver. Only in Ecuador (or South America generally) could you volunteer to work so closely with these types of animals. I refer to the last two weeks spent at the <a href="http://www.santamartharescue.org/">Santa Marta Animal Rescue Centre</a>. In previous posts I've erroneously referred to this place as an animal sanctuary, which it's not. Tucked away on a dairy farm and reached via a very bumpy ride in the back of a truck to high above the small town of Tambillo, this place works closely with the Ecuadorian police to rescue animals, many of which have suffered some form of abuse or have been kept illegally in domestic homes. If possible, once the animals have been rescued and often brought back to good health, the centre prepares them for release into the wild or at least to rehabilitation centres or zoos.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8ja_P7yeeI/AAAAAAAAAQc/sP3sS2gbpgM/s1600/bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8ja_P7yeeI/AAAAAAAAAQc/sP3sS2gbpgM/s200/bear.jpg" width="200" /></a>A quick tour of the place on our first day confirmed the type of work the centre does. There's Barbosa, a majestic ex-circus lion with one cloudy blue eye, blinded after it was whipped. There's Brenda, a beautiful jaguar that despises humans after her 'owner' continually poked and prodded her so she would growl for snap-happy tourists. You can see the animosity in her eyes as she stares you down while pacing in her enclosure, there's no way you'd come out of that cage alive! Then there's the amazing Galapagos turtles, one of which had his shell used as a shooting target, and by shooting I mean with a gun. And everybody loves the always-energetic Coatis that crawl up and kiss you on the neck, but you can't help but notice the one missing an eye. He lost his eye when his 'owner' got impatient and used it as a cigarette stub.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jbuVceWwI/AAAAAAAAAQk/q_KKNy1DGlM/s1600/Barbosa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jbuVceWwI/AAAAAAAAAQk/q_KKNy1DGlM/s200/Barbosa.jpg" style="height: 180px; width: 135px;" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jbvEXdw5I/AAAAAAAAAQs/gk_SIlU-z24/s1600/Brenda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jbvEXdw5I/AAAAAAAAAQs/gk_SIlU-z24/s200/Brenda.jpg" style="height: 135px; width: 183px;" /></a><br />
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These stories were just a few of the terrible accounts we heard. There are other types of sad though, not the out-right abuse kind, but the stories of animals so far domesticated that they are beyond help and will never be released back into the wild. These animals include two woolly monkeys. Both arrived separately having been fed with bottles and kept in nappies. One even puts his hands over his face like a crying baby to get attention. There's also Leo and Pumana, two beautiful pumas that were kept as pets and can be pat through their enclosure just like domestic cats but cannot be contacted directly, as their idea of 'playing' could kill or seriously injure you - they are pumas after all. Then there are the countless talking birds, nick-named the 'hola birds'. They will never be released into the wild purely because they could threaten whole ecosystems by introducing Spanish/English words to natural habitats.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jePu6STZI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/mW1xf8j4aQc/s1600/pumana.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460858910058630546" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jePu6STZI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/mW1xf8j4aQc/s320/pumana.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 222px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 296px;" /></a>So it was an eye-opener from the first day and my first 24 hours was a mixed bag. Before cleaning out the mammals’ enclosures, I was an accidental witness to a donkey being slaughtered for the sake of a lion, something that happens a couple of times a week here. Luckily I didn’t have to be part of the machete-armed team that carved it up, as nobody has to kill an animal if they don’t want to at Santa Marta. I was then on ‘cub watch’, making sure the two cubs that were born hours after we arrived made it through the night. The centre owner was concerned they wouldn’t because they were the offspring of a circus lion which may have been inbred but, two weeks later, they are still going strong and the plan is for them to be airlifted to a nearby animal rehabilitation centre. I can’t say I’ve ever approached a new mother lioness in the middle of the night with a torch before, but I’ll tell what, you she will roar if you get too close to her cubs (which I had to in order to see they were still breathing). Now that was a tad scary!<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jelqZ7JmI/AAAAAAAAARE/CPgogi19vjQ/s1600/fairybread.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460859286806275682" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jelqZ7JmI/AAAAAAAAARE/CPgogi19vjQ/s320/fairybread.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 155px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 208px;" /></a>During the week we’d work from 8am-1pm and then 4pm-6pm and had weekends off after feeding the animals on Saturday mornings. The days were long and the breaks cherished, particularly after sometimes hours of physical work deconstructing cages or lugging buckets of puma poo from their enclosure to a waste-pit 400m away (that’s some heavy shit…). We were lucky to have two lovely roommates - Iza from Poland and Andrea from Portugal - to share laughs, recipes and beers with. Iza was particularly taken by the popular Australian dish of ‘fairy bread’ – I’ll call it a dish (bread, butter and sprinkles). Bec and I produced it on ‘cake night’, a Thursday night centre ritual.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jfyimBiJI/AAAAAAAAARM/IP8CNejhdDQ/s1600/Babywooly.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460860607559469202" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jfyimBiJI/AAAAAAAAARM/IP8CNejhdDQ/s320/Babywooly.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 160px;" /></a>The highlights? I definitely had a few favourite animals - both woolly monkeys and the amazing Galapagos turtles, which were surprisingly full of personality and loved a rub on the chin. The contact had with the pumas was a once in a lifetime experience too. We also had a weekend in Banos, a gorgeous little town hidden in a valley three hours from Tambillo with a reputation for massage therapy, so you can guess what went down there. On one of our last days we had to say goodbye to around 45 animals, most of them birds but some of them a fair bit bigger. One lovely memory I have is of the delighted smile on local cab driver Danilo’s face when he was recruited to help an eight-man team heave a sleeping (tranquillised) lion up to his cab which was that day loaded not with people, but a zoo-worthy cargo. Imagine passing that taxi on the highway, another only-in-South-America moment!</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jfyw3R2hI/AAAAAAAAARU/l2SvPiMJMfI/s1600/turtleschintochin.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460860611389938194" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jfyw3R2hI/AAAAAAAAARU/l2SvPiMJMfI/s320/turtleschintochin.jpg" style="float: left; height: 193px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 258px;" /></a></div><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgNEv_EoI/AAAAAAAAARc/BvaaL008AWo/s1600/Evilbird.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460861063404655234" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgNEv_EoI/AAAAAAAAARc/BvaaL008AWo/s320/Evilbird.jpg" style="float: left; height: 178px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 237px;" /></a>Of course there were the downsides too, caring for animals you knew had not long to live, such as rabbits and guinea pigs, often menu items for the animals. Bec and I had a morning of chopping up the bottom end of a guinea pig we’d fed the day before. But I guess the snapper turtle we were preparing it for had to eat something, just like the lions, jaguar and pumas. We also volunteered to take shifts feeding a very sick rabbit that had contracted an infection during pregnancy and were there at 2am when she decided to fly the coup and go to bunny heaven, us still holding her. Then there was the misogynistic macaw, ‘Evil bird’, as named by previous volunteers. He hated woman and would attack any female that came near him. Evil bird, however, had no issues with men or police, and police sometimes have to drive their car a little way up the driveway before getting in, in order to get away from the bird, which always wants to come too. Maybe the police saved Evil bird from a wicked female owner, who knows?!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So you can see, Santa Marta is an experience in itself, so many charismatic animals with different personalities. I would recommend it to any animal lover who is willing to work hard and doesn’t mind getting their hands dirty…very dirty!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgpWMt9jI/AAAAAAAAARk/Y5mMCkWwkUI/s1600/cabwithanimals.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460861549124908594" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgpWMt9jI/AAAAAAAAARk/Y5mMCkWwkUI/s320/cabwithanimals.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgp9IrQqI/AAAAAAAAAR0/FlNb7Kjctyk/s1600/Leo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460861559576937122" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgp9IrQqI/AAAAAAAAAR0/FlNb7Kjctyk/s320/Leo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 281px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 292px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgp1n_bII/AAAAAAAAARs/xa7M_bRhEW8/s1600/kinkajou.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460861557560798338" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WeDHlMOP07c/S8jgp1n_bII/AAAAAAAAARs/xa7M_bRhEW8/s320/kinkajou.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>Claire Cogswellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06684216334426180285noreply@blogger.com1