September 4, 2008 by Naomi.

There wasn’t much time to recover from the rather traumatic bikeride (well for N anyway) as we had to get a three-hour bus to Oruro in time to catch our train to Villazon (in Bolivia, on the border with Argentina) the following morning.

Unfortunately, we didn’t allow enough time to see more of Bolivia, and it seemed the country did its best to stop us from leaving. After being assured that our bus left at 9:30 and would take three hours to get to Oruro, the bus stopped in El Alto (just outside La Paz) for an unexpected and irritatingly long hour. After pestering the annoying, shouting ticket seller and the driver about when we were going to leave, we discovered that the bus absolutely would not leave until it was full. Even the locals got pissed off and started shouting ‘Vamos! Vamos!’, and we started worrying about the possibility of missing our train. Luckily, we still arrived in good time (one must always leave a minimum of 4 hours to play with in such mountainous countries). After having planned everything down to the last minute, we arrived at the train station, well-fed and watered and all kitted out for our first class journey, only to be told that there was a ‘bloqueo’ on the line after Uyuni and that we would have to make do with a full refund (well, not so full as we’d booked ours through an agency, the fee of which we did not get back). There wasn’t another train for three days, which meant we had to head back to the bus station and see about the possibility of getting the bus to Villazon instead. After running round various companies to see if any went to Villazon (they didn’t), we had to settle for going to Potosi, which was in the general direction we wanted to go. Another woman who was also in our situation assured us that there were buses from Potosi to Villazon, and if, we were lucky, the 3pm bus we got tickets for would arrive there in time to catch the 8:30pm bus to Villazon. Apparently the journey took 5 hours. After 7 hours of tolerating the stench (again the lack of hot water in Bolivia becomes an issue) and blaring music which blighted each and every minute of the journey, on our arrival in Potosi we discovered that there was no bus at 8.30, the next buses left the following evening at 7pm, and we would therefore be staying in town for a night and a day. Luckily, it is very much worth a stop, although we did not have time to check out the infamous mines.

Potosi was and still is the major centre for miners in Bolivia, and was one of the wealthiest cities in the world during the 18th and 19th centuries. It is home to the aptly named ‘Cerro Rico’ (Rich Mountain), a mountain literally oozing with silver. Of course the miners have never benefited much, and on visiting them, people are expected to bring gifts of either coca leaves (which make it easier for them to tolerate the tough conditions) or cigarettes! Saying that, at least those working there today are at least paid for what they do and have a cooperative to make their short lives more bearable than those of their forebears.

Despite the interesting history, our hotel, which was supposed to be one of the nicest in town, left quite a lot to be desired, as the sink was covered in toothpaste stains, the usual ghastly hairs were spotted lurking in various corners and there were dirty tissues on the floor. N’s request for a cloth was ignored (the night receptionist failed to turn up), she went down, insisted he come up and see the room and pointed out the offending debris. He cleaned up the mess and when we checked out the next day we were delighted to see that we’d received a 25% discount. So we will, after all, recommend the Libertadores Hotel, despite not being the most inspiring of places.

After exploring the town and doing a bit of last-minute (very cheap) shopping, we geared ourselves up for our last night on a Bolivian bus. After having shopped around the bus station for all the companies that had services to Villazon, we realised that all being about the same price and all taking about the same amount of time, that this time we actually had no luxury option. So, to make our final decision, we asked them questions about music and films (were they played all night?), the ticket sellers assumed that this was what we wanted and said yes to every question we asked, not realising that we were actually looking for the quietest option. We were assured that all the buses had heating (very important as things get mighty cold at night). We were very lucky indeed to end up with a bus that didn’t hound us with any blaring music or videos all night (telly broken, phew!), but as the road was ripio (gravel) and the bus was so worn from countless journeys on such roads, none of the doors closed quite properly and the noise of the bus tearing over the gravel and the resulting vibrations prevented us from getting much sleep. The reclining seats left one at a most uncomfortable 45 degree angle, but we thanked our lucky stars that at least the smells were relatively inoffensive (lots of ventilation!) and our MP3 players helped us forget our surroundings and get at least a few moments of much needed sleep.

The loos in Bolivia had been relatively basic, one was extremely lucky to get a loo that flushed and reasonably lucky if there was a woman to go in after you with a bucket of water. Most loos encountered were bowls, without toilet seats of course which make things tricky if you don’t want to touch them. We were rather stupidly expecting to arrive in Argentina to see various improvements in this aspect of things (most of the places we had visited had had reasonably decent loos).

There was no toilet to be found open anywhere in Villazon at the early hour of 6:30, and after a quick wait in the queue, we crossed the border into La Quiaca, where we eventually found the bus station. After paying the usual fee, N tried to enter the toilets to be greeted not only with one of the most ghastly stenches of human waste one could imagine, but also a one-shoed woman crawling out of them under the distinct impression that she could not walk, dragging with her the various wet contents of the floor. Of course one of the reasons for the insufferable odour was the fact that there was no running water and before entering the cubicles we ladies had to wait for the poor toilet attendants to go in with the bucket of water to flush the loos. At which point, we reached the conclusion that the state of the toilets in Argentina will very much depend on which part of the country you are in.

Quite relieved that toilet business was over and done with, we went off to have breakfast before our 3 hour journey to Tilcara, once more on a wonderfully luxurious Argentine bus, which provided some excellent views of the Quebrada de Huamaca, a continuous impressive line of rock formations that go on for miles throughout northwest Argentina.

After two days of much deserved rest and relaxation in the very hot town of Tilcara - visiting the local fort in the midday heat being our most strenuous outing - and getting back in to lovely Argentinian steak and malbec, we headed on South to the provincial capital of Salta, aka Salta the Beautiful. And beautiful it was too. The cable car took us up to a viewpoint overlooking the town and the surrounding hills, and at the top there was also a very interesting collection of manmade waterfalls built with various concrete formations, a most apt precursor to our visit to the Iguazu Falls in a few days’ time. Another absolute must-visit is the Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montana on the main square. Here one can learn substantially more about the poor Inca children who were sacrificed to the deities; this time two mummies are on display which had been discovered at the top of Volcan Llullaillaco in 1999. One of them was a recent acquisition after having been handed around various private owners for several decades. As a result, she is not quite so well-preserved as her peers. Images of the children’s faces will not be forgotten quickly, haunting as they are with their expressions of fear.

Before leaving Salta, N decided to give Argentinian hairdressers another chance (more or less out of desperation) and for a rather pricey 60 pesos (10 quid), inadvertently had all her hair cropped short once again, not quite the haircut in the picture but at least it was a decent one, albeit short and unfemenine.

Recommendations after this visit:
Posada Don Juan, Tilcara
La Aldaba Hotel and the nice (rather swank) restaurant next door
Museo de Arqueologia de Alta Montana
Market on Florida Balcarce (earrings cost 50p!)
Cable Car Ride

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June 14, 2008 by Naomi.

Poor Bolivia! It really has quite the traumatic history, even for a South American country. Utterly savaged by the colonial Europeans, the best part of the indigenous population was enslaved by the Spanish to work in silver and gold mines, mainly around Potosi, and worked in horrendous conditions which they survived mainly thanks to the chewing of coca leaves. At this time the country was known as Alto Peru (high Peru). Once it gained its own independence, it had a nice big chunk of land giving it access to the sea until this was grabbed from them by its greedy neighbour, Chile, who wanted the stretch of land for its nitrate fields (an export which it has been living comfortably off ever since). There are various monuments around the country mourning this event and it looks like Chile is ruminating the idea of returning just a little stretch of land to its most unfortunate neighbour to help heal their historically bad relations. Despite a period of relative economic stability in the late 19th century brought by Bolivia’s wealth of silver and tin, the general population lived and worked in deplorable conditions, without access to education or political participation. Bolivia did not manage to escape the trend of military dictatorships that demeaned the whole of Latin America in the 70s and 80s, although the country did pull through especially after opening up a substantial proportion of the country’s infrastructure and mineral wealth to foreign investors, denying the indigenous population any hope of benefiting from its country’s natural resources. Even though Bolivia sits on a big bed of natural gas, one is really quite hard pushed to find a hot shower, unless of course you are a tourist who can afford to pay for it (and yes it’s relatively cheap for us). There is hope for the native population yet however, as the current president is indigenous himself and therefore trying desperately to represent the needs of his fellow countrymen by redistributing Bolivia’s general wealth, but richer regions are making it very clear they are not going to share their coffers with anyone and doing their utmost to become as autonomous as possible as soon as possible. So once again the interests of the rich and poor are at loggerheads, and FIFA has merely added to the poor country’s problems by ruling that football players must have 3 weeks to acclimatise to the altitude for all matches played above 2,500 metres, which of course means no international football games can be played in the higher regions of the country.

In a country with so many difficulties comes a certain fear for tourists, who are warned of all sorts of crimes that might or might not affect them while visiting the country. Therefore, despite being quite nervous on entering the country, we were delighted to find that the immigration officers didn’t actually try to take all our ‘fake’ dollars off us, the locals going round in minibuses shouting La Paz did not kidnap and murder us and we did not find ourselves sprayed with mustard and pick-pocketed.

Our first stop was the much-visited Copacabana, a wee town famed for its brown virgin on the shores of Lake Titicaca. A bit of research on the internet helped us find the best hotel in town, Hotel Cupula, where we found ourselves in a fantastic room, with the double bed up on a mezzanine in an actual cupola. Hot showers and an excellent restaurant, all very good value for money made it difficult to leave the place, especially the following morning when we were supposed to get the 8:30 boat over to the Isla del Sol, the supposed birthplace of the first Inca gods. A huge downpour put us off going anywhere so we missed the (only) boat, the deluge subsequently stopped so we spent the day exploring the Catholic and Incan sights of interest aroound town. On the Catholic front, we went to see the brown virgin in the cathedral, where despite lots of blatant signs demonstrating that flash photography was not allowed, lots of devout Catholics were devoutly snapping away. On being told by a church official that flash photography was not allowed, they carried on happily away, clearly ignoring the fact that their flash was actually ruining the icon they were so determinedly ‘paying their respects to’.

Incas, being the Incas we know and love, meant we had a good hoof up a hill to get to their historical offering to the town, which was a piece of rock with a hole in it and a second piece of rock onto which the sun would shine through the hole of the first rock, but this event can only be witnessed on summer solstice. Clever astronomical stuff, and probably lots more animal and star related phenomena which hasn’t yet been discovered. The 21st June is a very busy and touristy time round Inca parts!

From Copacabana we hopped on the local bus to La Paz (despite more warnings of dangers) which crossed first the mountains by the lake, and then the lake itself on a little ferry (actually a boat) – passengers on one ferry and bus on another (more of a floating platform) – and then, after paralleling the cordillera blanca, arrived in El Alto on the edge of the vast deep bowl which contains La Paz itself. A few wrong turns and reversals by the bus driver raised apprehension levels a little but then we went over the edge and right down into the bowl and to the centre of La Paz, which went straight in to our most photogenic cities list.

Despite being led to believe otherwise, La Paz actually has a lot to offer: colourful colonial streets, aesthetically pleasing architecture, millions of streetside stalls selling all manner of things at very cheap prices, an excellent skyline of cordillera and even a posh neighbourhood. Most of the Bolivians one sees around are indigenous so it’s quite unexpected to find yourself in an area of skyscraping apartment buildings, posh restaurants, a big supermarket and bars filled to the brim with fair-skinned youngsters drinking away to their hearts’ content, and you realise that maybe Bolivia isn’t quite so poor after all.

After missing a Copa Libertadores (South American’s Champions’ League) match in Santiago, and with hopes of getting tickets for the superclasico (Argentina’s biggest derby: Boca Juniors vs River Plate) in Buenos Aires fading fast, it was good to see that the La Paz derby might provide at least some South American footballing action. So off we went to see The Strongest vs La Paz on a Sunday afternoon with a steward escorting us to the best seats in the house ($4). We could, it turned out, have sat anywhere as segregation and separate seating areas have clearly not reached Bolivian football yet, and all the better for it. The football was entertaining at times, the half-time cheerleaders too (interestingly much lighter-skinned than the players), but in the duller moments plenty of entertainment was had watching the wannabe WAGs behind us spend more time with make up and mirror in hand rather than show any interest at all in the football on show.

Our other pending task in La Paz (having had our numerous calls to San Pedro prison to arrange a visit knocked back due to “problems with the guards” and “new rules”), was the infamous ‘Most Dangerous Road in the World’ (copyright somebody) which we arranged to do through Downhill Madness after some recommendations from Inca trail friends. We had been advised that if you go with a reputable company, and decent bikes, the danger element pretty much disappears so it was rather disconcerting to hear in the 4×4 on the way up to the top of the pass that a client of the other reputable company in town, Gravity-Assisted Mountain Biking, had died two days ago after cycling over the edge. Putting those thoughts to the back of our minds, and with Rusty our guide reassuring all, we set off down the mountain looking forward to the 3000 metres of “downhill madness”. Despite the cold and the rather pathetic sight of most of the 18 – 22 year old males jumping back in the van for the few kilometres (out of 65km) that were uphill, we sped our way down the mountain, eventually leaving the asphalt for the narrow, rutted, muddy and infamous road, which hugs the mountain most of the way down. Things got much slower at this point, partly because there were plenty of stops illustrating the various details of where a bus or a lorry went over, or even more worrying, where the Italian guy, the French girl and the Israeli guy, all on bikes, went over the side. Some of us were pretty determined not to join them and therefore went at a reasonable pace, while others clearly had something to prove by going as fast as possible. Things became more difficult, as we hit the jungle it started to rain, emotions became a little frayed and shortly after lunch we were brought to a screaming halt with the news that one of our group, the Kiwi, had gone over the edge after taking a corner wide, making the mistake of using his front brakes (something we’d repeatedly been advised against) and going over the handle bars into a big pile of foliage below. After a long, long pause (of various people peering over the edge) the news arrived that he was alive but bruised with suspected broken ribs and dislocations. Very very lucky indeed. The rest of the descent followed in a more sombre tone as the Kiwi was gently taken off to hospital in the support jeep, and the rest of the group gingerly continued on down (N went at a particularly slow pace). A few days later we heard that there had been more fatalities on the road when a packed 4×4 crashed in to a group of cyclists not far from the top of the mountain and it is inevitable there will be more calls for the closing of the road, or certainly its closure to thrill seeking tourists.

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June 6, 2008 by Naomi.

We somehow managed to find the energy to hit the tiles with all our Inca friends on the Saturday night, but the rest of the weekend was spent recovering from the trail and copious amounts of locally brewed conconctions.

On Monday morning, it was absolutely time to get out of Cuzco and all its Beatles pan-pipery (for some reason that’s what they think the tourists want to hear!), so we headed off to the Sacred Valley, namely Ollantaytambo (took us a week to figure out to say it!), and Pisaq to explore yet more Inca ruins, many of which took on animal forms and faces - ‘facts’ based on a book written by a couple of Peruvian ‘academics’. One of our guides on the Inca Trail suggested that these forms reflected more their fondness for mind-altering drugs. Although some of their drawings and pictures were somewhat tenuous, there is definitely some truth in their theories, but how far one wants to take it is debatable. (See photos)

We eventually made our way to Puno, which is on Lake Titicaca, and not the most inspiring of towns, but it manages to attract tourists all the same as it is the departing point for the man made reed islands to be found just a few kilometres into the lake. Touristy as it is, the experience is actually very interesting. After explaining how they are made, and everything is made of reeds, you are invited around to speak to the locals and look in their houses, at which point they all come over and fight over you and of course put you under enormous pressure to buy things you don’t need or have room for (giving them money is discouraged to avoid begging). After watching (somewhat cringingly) a little thank you/goodbye song and dance that the islanders perform for you, you are given the opportunity to have a ride in a boat, you guessed it, made of reeds, which is slow but fun, and also historically relevant as it seems the reed boats are very similar to those in which that aforementioned Polynesian islanders crossed the Pacific many thousands of years ago.

Recommended after this visit:
The ruins of Ollantaytambo and Pisaq
Casa del Corregidor Cafe in Puno (opposite the cathedral)
Hostal Corihuasi Cuzco and the flat in lovely colonial house the owners rent out on the other side of town

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May 25, 2008 by Naomi.

We had a lovely few days to discover Cuzco, and also had the pleasure of helping a few Peruvian students out with a couple of interviews to practise their English. Our departure for the Inca trail was somewhat traumatic. Having gone to bed early looking for a good, strength-building night’s sleep we quickly discovered that the nightwatchmen/security guard in the street had the most annoying habit of forcefully blowing his whistle approximately 3 minutes after we fell asleep. Everytime we fell asleep. And with frustrating regularity until 4.30 when we had to get up, pack the bags and head off in to the dark and our bus to the trail. Despite leaving at 5am we did not actually get walking until 10am. The whole process of collecting the 17 other people in our group took over an hour, and another 2-hour journey to the start of the trail where we had to stop for breakfast and last minute toilet paper stock up (perfumed - more about this later!!) at Ollantaytambo.

The weather was beautiful and hot, and Mount Veronica looked over us from behind as we set off on our journey (see photos). The trail starts of largely flat so the going was easy, although being the mountains means there were a couple of steep hills thrown in. Lunch, a full-on meal was set out in a proper dining tent with tables and chairs, and bowls with water and soap were even set out so we could wash our hands. Our first challenge faced us after lunch as we headed steadily uphill, eventually to our first campsite although this would be nothing compared to what we were to hike the following day. With no shower to look forward to, it was a lovely surprise to find flannels and bowls of hot water put outside our tents, an unexpected and welcome substitute.

The next morning was cool, damp and misty and, with the ominously named Dead Woman’s Pass to climb, spirits were mixed. A long, progressively slower viewless trudge through the mist, eventually led to the pass at a lung-testing 4200 metres. But it wasn’t over there, as we still had a steep knee-crunching descent to our lunch spot, and then another breath-taking ascent to a second pass. It was when we were making our way down from the second pass that the mist finally cleared to give us a fantastic view to reveal just how majestic our surroundings were. Huge peaks punctured the clouds as the sun’s rays forced their way through which made arriving at Sayaqmarca all the more surreal. We’ll let the camera do the talking for this one!

After inspecting the ruins, we were very relieved to hike our first flat path for over a day, and extremely thankful to the Incas, as it wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for their excellent building skills. Things got even better when we arrived at the campsite and found ourselves with an excellent view of the snow-topped Andes across the valley. A lie in wasn’t going to be possible the next day either as we were to watch the sun rising over them (see photos), with tea brought to our tent doors by the hard-working porters to warm us up in the very cool mountain air.

One of the major and, for some, traumatic experiences that one encounters on the Inca Trail are the loos. N was greatly relieved to see that most of them were squat toilets (holes in the ground), something that many others eyed with grim dread. Let’s face it, it’s a hell of a lot easier to go about one’s business squatting than it is trying to aim hover over a filthy toilet seat. Indeed, it’s exactly in places like this that toilet seats fail to serve their purpose because everyone is too frightened to sit on them and they become extremely dirty. However, even the squat toilets can become unusable, especially as one poor soul was so scared of the hole that their mess ended up all over the foot pedestals, rendering at that point, only two of the six loos utile.

Our third day saw us hiking for only half the day, and admiring some more ruins and fabulous orchids on the way. Two big treats were in store for us when we arrived at the campsite: hot showers and beer, both of which we had to pay over the odds for, but worth every penny. Despite being absolutely exhausted, after a few invigorating bottles of Cuzqueña we found the extra energy to go and check out Wiñawayna, a very impressive set of ruins 10 minutes from the campsite and equally as impressive but not nearly as trampled as Machupicchu, mainly for its water system which still functions after 500 years. The channels are not only designed to get to each and every household, but also the type of stream (sticking out or flat) which one requires can be adjusted merely by moving your hand across the stream of water! The beer continued flowing into the evening as Carl, one of our fellow hikers, had a birthday to celebrate , but not too late as we had to wake up at the ungodly hour of 3:30, to be one of the first groups in the queue to go through the check point at half past five (45 minute wait) and almost literally run to the Sun Temple an hour away to get our first glimpse of Machupicchu in the morning sun. As it was light before the sun rose we saw it before the sun graced it with its powerful rays, but it was glorious to get our first glimpse all the same, especially as it marked the end of our adventure, and happily the rest of the way was all down hill. As we strolled down towards it (nobody seemed to be in such a rush anymore), the sun eventually did cast its rays down to show off the Incan site in all its glory. Being so exhausted the experience was utterly surreal and, unfortunately, with sleep-deprived brains resting from the early morning exertion, little of what we were taught about the place sunk in (hence our inability to provide any detail in certain photos), but we would not have arrived any other way. And we’ve left plenty of Macchupichu to explore for the next time we come. For some reason that morning, we decided that the best thing to do was make our way up the near vertical climb to the top of Waynapicchu, the mountain that gives Machupicchu its spectacular backdrop; where the energy came from we have no idea, but again it was well worth it and nearly killed the camera with the quantity of photos we took.

In the evening, we caught our train back to Ollantaytambo, the conversation during which was dominated by American values and politics. We were most impressed with Jessica’s (who works in a law office) story about the woman who was driving her RV somewhere in Florida, put the thing on cruise control and went into the back to make a cup of tea, and successfully sued the RV company for the resulting damages. We eventually found our bus back to Cuzco, although our driver didn’t make it too easy. The journey was made irritatingly longer when he went zooming past the hotels he was supposed to drop us off at, and we had to go around the whole one way system again. On arrival at our flat, we bumped into the night watchman and begged him to go and blow his whistle in another part of town, which he promptly ignored. Luckily we were so exhausted we slept like logs.

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May 11, 2008 by Naomi.

As we have seen several times, there is no such thing as a silent bus journey in South America. The poorer the country, the noisier the journey. In Peru, we chose the poshest bus company for our journey from Tacna to Arequipa, but paying more does not guarantee a peaceful journey, it ensures a constant barrage of ‘entertainment’. With Cruz del Sur, this involved music (and always the same CD) of ‘Peruvian’ music, the usual spat of crap films and a lively game of bingo. So we arrived in Arequipa not feeling so tranquil. Nevertheless, all was forgotten on arrival at our Hostal Casablanca, where we received a very warm welcome from the lovely receptionist and were overjoyed on seeing our vaulted room with TV, sofa, private bathroom, all for the princely sum of US$30 (and not a patch on some of the more expensive, dirtier places we’d stayed at in Chile).

We could have spent more time in Arequipa as there was plenty to do, but we only had a night and a day to enjoy it, and we were also suffering from lack of oxygen due to our newly acquired 2,800 metre altitude, so had to take it easy. The Monasterio de Santa Catalina, a convent still housing nuns (and has done so for several hundred years, originally in total isolation) is a really great place to explore with its alleyways, named after Spanish towns, and its numerous nuns’ rooms (best take a look at photos). It also houses a vast collection of religious art. We also visited another pre-colombian museum (Museo Santuarios Andinos de la Universidad Católica de Santa María) which is most renowned for housing a very famous mummy, known as Juanita or the Ice Maiden.

Roughly 550 years ago, a very noble, beautiful, healthy girl of 13 or 14 years old, dressed in her very best Incan attire, set off from Cuzco on a three-month hike to the summit of Volcan Ampato (near Arequipa) with an entourage of priests and various other people. When she arrived, traumatised as she would have been by the cold, her sore feet and the very high altitude at over 6,000 metres. She would have been terrified as well. But it was nothing compared to what they had in store for her next. After having eased her pain and numbed her senses with a good dose of coca leaf-chewing and chicha (an corn-based alcoholic drink), they whacked her on the back of the head to kill her, mummified her body and buried her at the top of the Volcano with numerous Incan trinkets and coca leaves, a fate which many other noble Inca children shared. These sacrifices were commited in the belief that that by offering these poor dead children to the Incan god, Apus, they were protecting their communites from various natural disasters, such as earthquakes and, rather appriopriately (or not), erupting volcanos. It is also important to note that the Inca culture regarded nature as sacred, and that these sacrifices were not only a way of giving back to nature, but also giving something back to their ancestors (the children were thought to be rejoining them in their death). For this reason the children that were chosen were of very high birth and had no health or skin defects whatsoever.

In 1995, Juanita the Ice Maiden was found near the top of Ampato Volcano, having recently fallen down a few hundred metres from the top after the eruption of nearby Volcan Sabancaya. Her body was almost completely intact and her remains extremely well-preserved by the ice, to the point that her organs had not dehydrated (she is therefore not, technically, a mummy) which is what makes her more famous than her peers found on various other volcanos in the whole area (including northern Chile and northwest Argentina). Juanita was at the laboratory when we visited, so unfortunately we did not see her, but saw one of her fellow mummies instead, not quite so well-preserved and quite a fright to look at, found on Volcan Misti, also near Arequipa.

That evening saw us board the nightbus to Cuzco, with some trepidation as LP advised against it due to various hijackingings, not to mention dodgy driving and accidents, that tend to occur in Peru. We were somewhat comforted by the fact that Cruz del Sur not only videos everyone getting on the bus, but then again when all are seated. We were less impressed when we realised our seats at the front and top of the double-decker bus gave us full view of the driver’s rather unsavoury driving antics. After witnessing the first few overtaking manoeuvres on blind mountainous corners we decided that it would be best to shut the curtains on the premise that what we didn’t know could not hurt us. Luckily Cruz del Sur ended the usual barrage of entertainment around midnight and we would have slept very well in our comfortable seats if the two German girls opposite hadn’t thought it appropriate to wake everyone up with a couple of lively chats in the middle of the night.

Having arrived at 6:30am we had a fair bit of time to kill before we could get into our apartment, so we used it constructively by visiting the cathedral and joining mass. The cathedral is free to get into before 9am, and although technically off-limits to tourists, they are tolerated. The 50 soles we would have paid to get in, eventually went to all the beggars around the town, as we thought them somewhat more deserving than the church. Mass was less than inspiring; the Catholic Church in Peru seems to have little guidance to offer its congregation, apart from worshipping the usual holy trio, and repeating largely the same things over and over again. The indigenous population in Peru is devoutly Catholic. According to our Inca Trail guide, when the Inca king was kidnapped by the Spanish and then killed, despite the Incas having paid the ransom of two rooms of gold and silver (clearly this wasn’t enough for our greedy European forebears), the Inca population was told, with the head of the king for all to see, that they would worship the Spanish god, or else. So the church appears to have played a more mediaeval and repressive role around these parts. However, the locals were not completely subjugated. On looking closer at Cusqueño religious art, the indigenous population have conveyed their own version of events with their own streak of irony. Francisco Pizarro, the Spaniard who discovered and conquered Cuzco, is portrayed in place of Judas in the Last Supper painting hung in the cathedral.

A visit to Qorikancha (an Inca Temple), now called Iglesia de Santo Domingo, reveals much about Cuzco’s history. It was here that the Spanish first set their avaricious eyes on solid gold and silver statues and replicas of babies, animals and food, not to mention the walls and altars being lined with huge sheets of the stuff. Gold was very important as it was used to represent the sun, while silver was equally important in its representation of the moon. Modern eyes will never set eyes on any of these things as the Spanish ran off with the lot, melted it down, and we assume that most of it can now be found in churches around Spain in the form of gaudy candlesticks and trinkets and jewellery to decorate the thousands of virgins paraded around towns every Easter. All very Christian indeed!

This building was also very important as it still has many Incan foundations in the form of the their famous walls, made of huge bricks so perfectly fitted together and without any kind of concrete, we humble moderners still have to work out how they did it. The huge bricks were of a trapezoidal shape ensuring that buildings would not fall during earthquakes. Spanish constructions since then have proved somewhat less durable and have not survived the earthquakes that terrorise the area every so often. Incan walls can be found in many ruins around Cuzco and the Sacred Valley. Another must-visit in the area is Saqsayhuaman (unfortunately sounds like ’sexy woman’), where one can also find some excellent workmanship in more Inca walls, although very little remains today as once again the Spanish ran off with most of the stones to build their own houses. Despite this the site is sizeable and represents one of the most militarily significant sites around Cuzco, as it was here that the last few battles between the Incas and the Spanish occurred before the former finally lost and retreated to Ollantaytambo (more about that later). The view over Cuzco and the surrounding valley from the site is excellent.

The Incas were very devout in worshipping the Pachamama (Mother Earth) and as we have seen, showed the utmost respect for their natural surroundings. Unfortunately, although still worshipped in theory (before drinking it is traditional to spill the liquid on the ground as a tribute to her), the quantity of rubbish that is generated by locals and tourists alike and lack of rubbish-collecting facilities means that this respect has not survived to the modern day.

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April 28, 2008 by Naomi.

As one may have noted, very little that you get in Chile is good value for money (and for this reason it’s often skipped by the budget-seeking traveller). After paying over the odds for scrimping hotels and laundry (never expect enough bogroll or towels, and always expect clothes back still dirty or damp), feeling quite indignant at having tips added onto the bill for us and being charged more than we were quoted, we were very pleasantly surprised by our overnight bus service to Santiago with TurBus. For US$40 each (still pricey by South American standards), we got a camabus, theoretically a bed, but literally a very comfy chair that reclines all the way back. The only disadvantage to this is that you have someone stranger’s bottom and feet right underneath you - luckily smell issues did not affect this journey! Our attendant was extremely attentive and professional, so much so that, on delivering our bedding he actually tucked us in and plumped the pillows behind our heads. Not only this, he made sure the loo was clean all night. N was also particularly impressed with the ingenious toilet seat fitted with a spring so you have to hold it down if you want to use it, therefore preventing the standing sex from making the usual filthy mess. For this Chile gets at least two gold stars for giving some consideration to ladies’ comfort in the powder room! And we wait patiently for the day when they are introduced back home in Spain, where they are most desperately needed.

As we’d splashed out on our busride, Paul thought it would be a good idea to get on the metro to our hotel. Lovely idea in theory but extremely complicated at 8:15 am in the morning, when most of Santiago is heading to work. The crowds on the platform were five people thick and as each jam-packed train went by there was no sign of the crowd getting thinner. So as we were in no hurry we perched patiently on our rucksacks until 9am when we could comfortably board a train with our rucksacks.

We settled comfortably into yet another very well-chosen neighbourhood: Barrio Lastarria just next to the city centre. Santiago has lots to offer, including lots of hills and parks to climb up and around (or ride up in the funicular), shops, a massive market where you can indulge in all sorts of seafood, a fair few good bars and of course a whopping dose of smog. The Andes hug the edge city but you’ll be very lucky to get an outline of them through the thick yellow fog from the top of Cerro Lucía. It would be unfair not to mention Barrio Bellavista, Santiago’s answer to Palermo, with a huge range of bars and restaurants to suit all budgets and tastes, and Barrio Brasil, another quaint neighbourhood where we enjoyed a fantastic meal at the elegantly-named La Vaca Gorda (The Fat Cow).

The highlight of our trip in Santiago, however, was our visit to the Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino (Pre-Colombian Art Museum), where we were given our first glimpse of some Pre-Incan mummies, which are on permanent exhibition among various other artefacts, pottery and clothes. The temporary exhibition ‘Sex and Death in Pre-Incan Art’ (or something like that), however, was not for the prudish or the light-hearted. On display were hundreds of pre-Incan figurines in the throes of various sexual acts (leaving little to the imagination). According to the accompanying theories, these took place between men and women, some dead, some alive, to help their ruler make it to the world of the dead. Therefore, and thankfully, these were not daily rituals. Us visitors where somewhat taken aback when a German man came storming through the exhibition shouting his wife’s name (who was obviously intrigued by the whole thing), found her, grabbed her and dragged her out of the exhibition in a rather humiliating episode.

We made a one-night side trip to Valparaiso, not quite the place now that is so romanticised in Isabel Allende’s novels, but certainly one of the most photogenic cities we’ve visited, despite the rather evident poverty. The whole city is sprawled over several hills, and it’s highly recommended to stay on one of the ‘cerros’ (hills) where you’re pretty much guaranteed excellent views over this colourful coastal city from your room.

After our various enjoyable shenanigans around these two cities, it was time to head further north to Arica (Chile’s northern most town, on the coast). Like Santiago, dry and dusty Arica boasts an excellent Museo Arqueologico, where we got our second taste of the many ancient mummies that the area is becoming famous for. Unfortunately, we hit the place at the same time as a boatload of cruiseship tourists, and were quite surprised at their selfish insistence on flash-photographing these very well-preserved mummies, despite the blatant signs stating that this was actually forbidden. The local church is also a must see, especially as it was designed by Eiffel and therefore made of metal, and brought over from Europe in pieces to put back together again - all very reminiscent of our visit to Santa Rosalia in the Baja Peninsula (Mexico), most famous on this blog for its cockroaches!

The next day we boarded the international cross-border express to Tacna in Peru, which consisted of one rather squashed carriage that took 2 hours to cover 30km. Views from this humble train offered little more than desert and sand dunes, but we enjoyed the experience all the same, being an excellent introduction to Peru and the colourful town of Tacna.

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April 24, 2008 by Naomi.

We finally made it over the border once again, but not without the usual extremely thorough and painstaking search of luggage for fruit and veg. While we had to chuck out the best part of our lunch (ham, pizza and bread are not allowed either), one poor woman was fined for having ’smuggled’ some wooden candles.

Our arrival in Villarica was marked by ghastly grey weather, but we had a very warm welcome at Torre Suiza, owned by a Swiss couple who had travelled the world on bicycles and all of a sudden decided they’d had enough on arrival in Villarica. We’d planned to do a 3-4 day cycling tour of the Chilean side of the lake district, but N’s cold hadn’t shifted so we kitted Paul out with one of Torre Suiza’s rental bikes and a pair of panniers. While P set off along the long straight and easy road for the lakes, N followed on the bus.

It was an easy day from Villarica to Panguipulli, almost beating the bus and interrupted only by the odd passing car stopping to offer accommodation in the next town and a few toothless locals telling P it was all downhill (as usual, utterly inaccurate). Chilean maps, and, as P was to learn, Chilean signposts often convey contradictory information regarding distances. Looking at the map the next morning over breakfast, the estimated distance to Coñaripe was somewhere between 80 and 120km. 80 sounded good, 120 sounded bad, but P set off anyway and after an hour or so came across a road sign that muddied waters. It indicated it was 70km to what P estimated was the half way point. Not a good sign but no choice but to continue, so P headed down the side of Lago Panguipulli. And then the road ended. Or the paved part anyway. The next couple of hours was spent cycling over corrugated gravel. Most of which felt uphill. Feeling rather disheartened and shaken, and after a short lunch stop P headed off for more boneshaking ripio. As is almost always the way when cycling though, things are never as bad as they seem. A roadside shop appeared, as did a road sign which suddenly knocked 30km off the distance indicated on the last signpost. The road became less corrugated (though no less steep) and, after a long, long series of switchbacks up a whopping mountain, Volcán Villarica suddenly appeared smoking in the late afternoon sun with Coñaripe below, where the usual hot water, food and beer awaited P, not to mention a very sympathetic and welcoming N.

However, the Chilean transport infrastructure was not going to make this an easy day for N either, who was quite eager to get to Coñaripe as the place was surrounded by termas (volcanic spas). So she happily jumped on a bus, arrived in good time, settled into agreed hotel and set off to see about visiting a rustic volcanic spa. However, despite the very minimal distances, finding organising transport to these places was very complicated indeed. The tourist office, albeit covered in inviting photos of various spas, was not very helpful: the woman was glued to her computer and needed some prying before N could get any info out of her. Finally she directed N to a restaurant around the corner. On enquiring at this place, the ghastly man said he couldn’t possibly take her up to any of the termas for less than US$70 (35GBP), and would need a minimum of two people anyway. It was 17km away. N was quite disappointed and disgusted. All was not lost however, as there were other minivans offering transport, but nothing was ever simple - one had to find a group of people to go with, some included entry fees into the transport costs, nobody could offer a flat straightforward fee, and no one offered anything less than US$44 (22GBP) and of course there was not one bicycle to be rented in town. Having wasted half the day trying to find some sort of transport, by 4pm it was too late anyway to make it worth anyone’s while to go anywhere. In the end, the following day, N followed the advice of the hotel receptionist who recommended getting the local bus over the hill to the Coñaripe Termas for $1, and paying an entry fee of $12. They were a bit more resorty than one expected (was hoping for something more rustic) but nonetheless a very relaxing place to spend a few hours soaking in volcanic waters, while Paul cycled his way back to Villarica. After the previous challenging day, everything seemed pretty easy for him, especially as there was no more ghastly gravel to cycle over.

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April 14, 2008 by Naomi.

Bariloche is somewhat infamous for giving refuge to Nazis on the run. Peron, Argentina’s most famous and revered ex-president, was also a national socialist and provided a safe haven for Nazis fleeing Europe after World War II, and simultaneously denied entry to any Jews fleeing the holocaust (however, this is a fact that Argentines are not particularly proud of). Bariloche, with its alpine surroundings of lakes and hills, and Swiss-style wooden houses, offered the most familiar landscape for fleeing Germans, not to mention little threat of having to pay for any nasty crimes committed under Hitler’s rule. It provided a safe haven for the likes of Aribert Heim, aka Dr Death, most famous for injecting gasoline and poisons into his victims’ hearts and timing how long it took them to die. Apparently, at 93, he’s still around somewhere but no one’s telling, including his family. The Argentine government has since repealed its Nazi-sympathetic laws and is joining in the hunt for Heim, among others.

Which is all very ironic as we found ourselves in a hostal full of Israeli clientele. Our simple room had a lovely view over the lake, and the wind constantly blasting the window. Unfortunately, the weather was a bit crappy on Sunday which was the day we’d chosen to bike the Circuito Chico, a 35km route around various lakes and the famous and expensive Hotel Llao Llao. Of course it was lovely to be back on the bikes - they were the perfect way to see Bariloche’s lush surroundings and there were precious few chaotic Argentine drivers to send us flying off the road in fear of our lives.

We picked up a car the next day (which was beautifully sunny) and made our way to Junín de los Andes, some 200km north of Bariloche. We thought this journey would only take a couple of hours but as just under half the journey was hardcore ripio (unpaved), the journey took pretty much the whole day. We were lucky enough to arrive in Junín in time to walk up to Parque Via Christi, a park which has a most original trail boasting various statues, relief sculptures and mosaics which outline the area’s Christian and Mapuche culture and history. The last few days of Christ’s life are displayed along with the complete subjugation of the Mapuche by the Spanish.

After our enlightening and informative walk around the park, we met a lovely Argentinian couple, Eduardo and Erica, from near Córdoba, who invited us to have our first real ‘máte’ experience. Máte is an inherent part of Argentinian culture, a very strong tea made with yerba máte (various herbs) that is drunk everywhere and anywhere by everyone. Copious amounts of yerba máte are poured into a wooden or leather gourd with an equal amount of sugar before adding not quite boiling water. The drinker then sucks the liquid up through a filtering metal straw. Despite not containing caffeine, the drink does have rather an odd affect, making one rather hot and sweaty and a little bit lightheaded. All in all, it was a very pleasant experience with lots of interesting conversation from football to politics.

We were disappointed not to have more time in Junín. We loved the Arabic food we had at the only restaurant in town, and our breakfast at the Hostería Chimehuin was even better, with loads left over to stuff our pockets with and keep us fed throughout the day. We visited Volcán Lanín on the Chilean border, but unfortunately did not climb it as this would have been quite a mighty job, really only for expert climbers. Our subsequent walk down to Lago Tromen nearby (we were too scared to ford the river with our tiny car, unlike everyone else), saw the camera break. After a rather hot and dusty day exploring these places we were rather taken aback when the Argentine gendarmerie stopped us at a checkpoint and insisted on comprehensively searching the car. There was a fair bit of discussion as to whether to report the clearly labelled vials of pills and bicarbonate of soda found in our luggage, but after clearly explaining what they were for (usual travelling kit of painkillers and anti-histamines etc), they let us go on our way.

Posada Quínen, our accommodation in San Martin de Los Andes the next night, went straight to the top of our best hotel list. At US$40, we got a clean, rustic-style room, a fridge, all the toiletries you could need and an almost excellent breakfast, unfortunately sullied by the return of cold Argentinian toast. Our efforts at trying to get to one of the nearby termas (volcanic spas) were frustrated by the fact that that our car was not hardcore enough to get down the extremely bad road (4×4 only) and too late to walk the rest of the way (an hour and a half). We had an excellent meal in the evening, however, and drunk rather a bit too much wine which saw N wake up the next day with the waitress’ cold in the form of a sore throat. The supposedly beautiful seven lakes route we took (again over half ripio) was very disappointing due to the not very nice weather, and we really struggled to see what the guidebooks had been raving about.

Our visit to Villa La Angostura was marred by two things. Firstly, it was Easter and the area being Argentina’s top holiday destination saw it absolutely jammers with tourists, and being a town constructed solely for tourists it is not a very inspiring place at all. Secondly, our accommodation there went straight to the bottom of our worst hotel list. We decided to go over-budget and stay in a recommended bed and breakfast called Verena’s Haus, and on making the reservation, the owner found it very difficult to trust us and confirm our reservation despite repeated attempts at giving her our credit card numbers. On arrival, we were further disappointed by the ghastly suffocating odour of musty, old flowers in our room. Luckily, we traced the horrible smell to a little ball of pot pourri hanging from the lamp, and thankfully sealed it away in an empty tin box which had curiously been left on the bed. The B&B prided itself on being a peaceful place to stay, but we were mightily unimpressed on being woken up by the owner’s whinging dog at 6am on both mornings; not only did it take ages to get the dog to shut up, but of course she set off all the other dogs in the neighbourhood, which guaranteed absolutely no opportunity at all for a lie in. We decided we ought to say something but to no avail as she insisted that her precious dog had only been making noise for 10 minutes instead of half an hour. And all this for a good bit more money than we had paid in San Martín.

One of the major tourists attractions of the area is the 13km long Quetrihue peninsula, at the tip of which is the Bosque de los Arrayanes, a type of myrtle (very rare these days). Getting to the peninsula means a boatride, a bikeride or a walk. As N’s cold had well and truly developed, we weren’t really up for major exercise, so settled on the idea of the boat trip. And being a lovely sunny Good Friday so had everyone else. After lots of confusion and running around (the tickets went very quickly) we finally found ourselves booked on a one-way boat trip to the forest, and settled with walking back the 13km. Unfortunately, the guide’s idea that the forest inspired Walt Disney’s film Bambi is not true, as he never went there, but something’s gotta bring the people, and therefore, the money in! Despite having to share the forest with hoardes of other tourists on boats from Bariloche and Angostura, the experience became a lot more pleasant when we escaped the crowds and hiked our way back and enjoyed the fresh, shaded air of the forest.

We were very relieved to leave this most touristy and noise polluted place for Bariloche, but were disappointed to find that our plan of getting back to Chile on Easter Sunday was not going to happen as every bus was completely booked up, including all the extra ones they put on, so after making some phonecalls, we hopped back into our car and headed south for El Bolsón, a town outside the national parks, but whose surroundings we thought infinitely more picturesque than the Seven Lakes district. Our highlight of the day was stopping at a little group of huts near Cholila (further south from El Bolsón), which once housed the infamous Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and their beautiful female sidekick, who came here to live from 1901 to 1905 and escape the American authorities, although not for long. They soon ran out of money and had to resort to their old ways: they held up a bank in Rio Gallegos and were once again on the run until Butch Cassidy’s death in Bolivia during a shoot out a few years later, or maybe not. According to his sister, he was home back in the States having lunch with them in 1925. Who knows?

Recommended after this visit:

Junín de los Andes: Hostería Chimehuin and restaurant on main square (will look up name)
Parque Via Christi

San Martín de los Andes:
Posada Quínen
Restaurants: Ku (in town) and Caranegra (4km north of town)

Bariloche:
The Map Room (a bar/restaurant decorated with maps of places the ex-travelling owners have visited)

Cholila: Hostería El Trebol (excellent food and better wine!)

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April 3, 2008 by Naomi.

Next stop was the tranquil and historically rich group of islands around the main one, Chiloé, to be found about two thirds of the way down Chile’s Pacific coast. After spending an uninspiring Saturday night in Puerto Montt (a major port), we headed off to Castro, the island’s main town, by bus and ferry.

The island is regarded as separate from Patagonia and prides itself on its far-fetched fairy tales about repugnant men, smelly women, unicorns and half-chicken half-worms that live in the forests and caves (for those that read Spanish, check out http://www.chiloeweb.com/chwb/chiloeisland/tem_gen_mitologia.html). There is speculation that many of its residents originated from Polynesia, due to its most renowned dish and its unusual preparation, similarities of which can be found between Chiloé and various Polynesian islands. Curanto was traditionally prepared in a hole in the ground with heated rocks, known as an ‘ollo’ and consists of potatos, onions and different shellfish all heaped on top of each other. We assume that the sausage perched on top of the curanto we enjoyed was a German contribution to the dish.

Indeed there are many European influences in Chiloen history/culture as the island provided protection from the dangers of the Pacific seas to European boats passing through their on their way north. Many objects in the local museum in Chonchi are imports from Europe in the 18th and 19th century, including a very curious set of hair-curling irons (see photo). Chiloen people also travelled and still travel extensively. Many of the Chilean ‘peones’ (servants) went off to earn money by working for estancias (ranches) throughout Argentina so that they could come back and buy land and settle with their families.

We were not entirely impressed with our hotel in Castro, which boasted a dingy, dark room with a telephone covered in chocolate, from which emerged a rather playful earwig. Our neighbour upstairs was a heavy walker, a loud TV watcher and an even louder snorer so our second day found us in a cleaner, brighter and breezier room on the second floor. We took a bus to Chonchi (20km or so south of Castro) where we got a very thorough and informative hour-long guided tour at the local museum (excellent value for 50p each), although it concentrates only on the island’s history after Europeans arrived. It seems the islanders did, however, put up quite a fight before finally becoming a part of Chile in the first part of the 19th Century.

Chiloe is actually most famed for its little wooden churches. Many tourists do their best to photograph them all. Luckily we did not have a car so we didn’t, although the local wee buses served us very well, and we managed to see a reasonable select few. Another must see are the palafitos, which are little houses on stilts to be found in the harbour at Castro. Chonchi used to have them too in but they were all destroyed by a whopping tsunami in the 1960s (Castro was rescued from this fate as the town is protected by a peninsula). We did question the wisdom of building houses at such close distance to the sea, but were assured that the quick exit for fishermen out to sea was well worth the risk.

We spent one more night this time right out in the sticks on a tiny island called Quinchao, in a town called Anchao, which was all very chilled indeed. We decided it was time to try the most typical Chilean tipple, ‘pisco sour’, which is a type of brandy mixed with egg white and we’re not sure what else, but its sickly sweet flavour wasn’t really our cup of tea so back to the usual beer we went. After that we’d had quite enough tranquility and started making plans for our trip through the Chilean and Argentine Lake districts. We headed to Puerto Varas to look into doing an 8-hour boat and bus trip across the border, but at $175 each it was a complete rip off and therefore not worth it so we paid $24 for the bus instead. We stayed far too long in Puerto Varas (two nights), a town with very strong Germanic influences in its architecture and food, and although the place we stayed in was very nice indeed, we were extremely unimpressed that the owner decided to charge us $12 more than was quoted over the phone when reserving. So despite our pleasant stay we won’t be recommending the Hotel Weisser Haus.

So it was clearly time to head back into Argentina. However, the bus journey was not going to be a simple one, what with having to go through the palarver of leaving Chile, and then entering Argentina. Once we’d done the latter, passports stamped and luggage was sniffed by dogs, no one made any move to put the luggage back onto the bus. In fact we were quite shocked when another bus came along and they started loading all the luggage from that one onto our bus! We thought there was something very sinister going on - is this what they do every time they cross borders? Was one of the buses stuffed with some kind of illegal substance? So we asked the driver and it turns out (rather boringly) one of the buses was having technical difficulties and had to go back. So back into Argentina we finally went…

Recommendations after this visit
Chiloé:
The museum at Chonchi - very informative
The restaurant where we ate curanto in Castro on the first night (but just posted Lonely Planet home and can’t remember name!), begins with S
Posada Sol y Lluvia in Anchao

Puerto Varas:
Restaurante Danes for the best empanadas (pasties) in Chile, even vegetable, which is a real find
Restaurante Mediterraneo, very pricey but fantastic grub

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March 31, 2008 by Naomi.

It would be a shame not to make any mention of Patagonian history, which is very fascinating indeed. From the bits and pieces we have read in museums, guidebooks, and of course the must-read Bruce Chatwin ‘In Patagonia’ (but by all means not the most reliable source), we have managed to gather the following facts.

Despite the generally held belief that Patagonia was not a very inhabited place, archaeological finds reveal otherwise. Patagonia was, in fact, been home to many and varied indigenous peoples for a very very long time. The idea that it was inhabited by peoples who crossed over from Far East Asia (via what is now Russia and Alaska, when they were geographically connected) is being challenged due to various footprints found (12,000 years old), and evidence that at least some originated from Polynesian islands, having arrived by boat. And of course there are thousands of cave paintings, handprints and archaeological finds to be found all over the place, indicating that Patagonia was actually quite a lively place.

However, along came our colonial ancestors, and not intent on merely decimating natives everywhere else in the Americas, also managed to clear this vast area of most of the locals over several centuries, firstly with the diseases they brought and, secondly, with their greed for gold/silver and the cities made of these allegedly to be found somewhere in this land (apparently fabrications made up by fleeing mutineers and deserters to distract captains and generals from their crimes). The introduction of alcohol into these communities didn’t help much either, and continues not to do so…

To find the names of any Latin American colonial figure, one has only to look at a map of any Argentinian or Chilean town and you’ll see that many of the streets are named after these blood-thirsty and avaricious individuals. They are all men, of whom most were of Spanish origin, except the Chilean hero O’Higgins, who was among other things, an Irish bastard. Any women who feature on these maps are of course the usual spat of virgins that feature in any city of Hispanic origin.

The indiscriminate killing of indigenous people was justified by the idea that the victims were barbaric and savage, and therefore regarded by Europeans as little more than animals. There were ‘biologists’ who thought it worthwhile to examine and measure skulls from different races around the world and list each race according to the size of its brain, and from these fastidious findings, they managed to establish how ‘civilised’ and ‘educated’ each tribe was. Some poor locals were even kidnapped and taken back to Europe to be paraded in front of various members of the public, like some kind of zoo.

Of the native American Indian tribes encountered in Patagonia, the only one to have successfully fought its ground and saved itself from almost complete extinction is the Mapuche, who the Spanish had a hard time dealing with, especially in southern Chile - this was not colonialised until long after the rest of the country. Other tribes only live on through ‘criollos’, those of mixed Spanish/European and native blood. Now and possibly due to these acts of genocide, Patagonia is very sparsely populated indeed, mainly by those who then felt safe enough to settle here, including a significant Welsh community, lots of Germans, a few Spanish and various Brits.

The latter, however, did not stick around for long. Once colonialised and settled, Patagonia thrived with various agricultural industries, especially sheep-rearing (although not from here), and wool was its major export. It also provided for the many ships that passed round this huge hunk of land. The Panama Canal put a firm stop to that, as no one then had to navigate around the whole continent when they could just nip through the gap instead. Many Argentinian and Chilean ports suffered as a result, not to mention the wool industry round here. So the early 20th century brought little but misery for the residents of this area, especially the sheep workers at Estancia Santa Anita in the far south, who were all massacred by the Argentine army for striking, and demanding to be paid and fed (some communist came along and encouraged them to do so). This was just one of the many factors which gave rise to the very fierce Latin American socialist streak that prevailed throughout the 20th century, that the ruling military juntas in Chile and Argentina, along with the US, tried so hard to repress in the 70s and 80s. However, Santa Anita was not to be the last massacre in Patagonia, as a group of ‘prisoners’ were also massacred at Trelew (in heart of Welsh community) having tried to ‘escape’ during the rule of the military junta in the 70s. According to current press reports, most of those responsible for the latter massacre are currently being tried, although one of them is nowhere to be found. Only now, 20-30 years later are laws protecting those members of the military junta who committed atrocities during this time being repealed so they can face justice, but of course many are dying or dead (Pinochet is a good example of this). There are still those who believe it never happened. Then there are the fleeing Nazis (but we’ll tell you about them later on).

Luckily Patagonia is a happier place these days, agriculture and tourism are its major exports and indeed it’s a fantastic place to visit despite its tragic history. Both Chile and Argentina now have female presidents, which might have something to do with the chirpier vibe, but who knows!

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