Blog Roll

We got to La Paz late at night in early March and hooked up at Hotel Milton for 8 days. We never meant to stay for so long, but the hotel was unusual and friendly and we were hit by bad food on our first day. Despite being aclimatised at 2,500 metres, La Paz's streets are steep and Jim felt like a wheezing elderly folk going up the hotel stairs. The hotel was one of my favourite places to stay. Each floor was grand with 70s wallpaper depicting different alpine scenes, and on the stairways the walls were padded with leather. It was really tranquill, with 8 floors and hardly anyone staying there, but very chilly.

From the rooftop we had fantastic views over La Paz. The city is stunning, squeezed between mountains, with houses pinned to the steepest slopes and markets on most streets.

Women in bowler hats at tilted angles, selling fruit, cheese and lots of varieties of spuds, as well as the usual arndale clutter ( wait to see your presents). Unfortunately, Jim was nearly at the end of one of the spuds from across the road. Whilst trying to take of a picture of me perusing the spud stall, the spud lady was very afronted and clasped a spud in hand and took aim... luckily, I managed to intervene to say he was `with me` so she held off.
There lots of pictures you could take in La Paz, but understandably some people get pretty pissed off with tourists sticking a camera in their face everyday.

One of the best museums we have been to during the trip was the coca Museum in La Paz, set up by a local psychiatrist to educate people about coca and its uses. Coca is a big part of Andean culture in Bolivia and Peru. The indigenous community, which is about 60% of the population, chew the leaves whilst working and at social gatherings. Its pretty similar to khat, which we tried in Ethiopia, although I think khat is chewed by less people. Cafes also sell coca tea, which is supposed to help with adjusting to the high altitudes. The use of coca in Bolivia and Peru is strikingly different to how cocaine is used in the West. Pure cocaine is one of 3 components of the coca leaf, which is extracted and mixed with other chemicals to make cocaine. Although America only has 5% of the world's population, it consumes 50% of the world's cocaine. America continues to send drug enforcement agencies into Bolivia to spray farmers' fields with chemicals to kill coca, against the wishes of the majority of Bolivians, poisoning the soil and killing other less hardy crops. But the Bolivian government has not made it illegal to grow coca for traditional use. Back in the 1960s, the United Nations (UN) sent a former banker (??!) to South America to `research` the impact of coca. He decided that coca was responsible for poverty in South America.... and on his recommendations, the UN outlawed the use of coca. Only last month, Bolivia sent representatives to a UN conference to fight its corner, but the UN continues to push for a total ban. Strange since it "works to promote respect for human rights, protect the environment, fight disease and reduce poverty".
Pictures below, enjoying beer and tea and a picture of Jim when he first moved to Manchester, relaxing after selling drugs on the streets...

Bolivia, like Brazil and lots of other places, has plenty of servants. The era of service is alive and well, and usually the people in service have darker skin than those they are servicing. Here, the cleaners, cooks and childminders are all indigenous women. They´re known as cholitas because they´re usually from the countryside and wear traditional dress. (Although, we were told yesterday that the 'traditional' long skirts were imposed by the Spanish, presumably to protect their modesty.) Each morning we would see cholitas in Cochabamba waiting to be hired. They stand around talking, waiting for someone to come along and offer them domestic work. Most of the time it's probably safe but they looked vulnerable. In recent years three cholitas have been raped and murdered and dumped on a hill overlooked by a huge statue of Christ.


The city has a huge market where there´s all the usual stuff you'd find at home - knickers on steering wheels, tracksuit tops and cheap T-shirts. But there´s one part of the market that deals with, for want of a better word, witchcraft. Well, it's not really witchcraft, more traditional beliefs to do with good fortune. Some of the stalls had dried llama foetuses hanging up. In broken spanish I asked what they were for. 'Good luck', said the woman. 'Where do you put it?', 'El patio', she said. I don´t think this means sticking it next to the barbecue on the crazy paving. In Spanish 'patio' is more of a courtyard.
We also took in an afternoon of football where we got two matches for two pounds. The quality of the top billing was high and although the atmosphere was relaxed there were quite a few riot police. It was interesting to see how they formed a line around players taking corners even though the stands were full of people eating ice cream. At full time inflatable tunnels protruded from the changing rooms to the edge of the pitch and even then the police formed a line, with the greatest protection given to the ref.

We spent a week in Cochabamba trying to learn Spanish. We took on the services of Guido, who guided us through the language for two hours a day, for six days - plus homework. After a 10-month holiday this dedication was a tall order. On more than one occasion I nearly got a biro in the eye during animated discussions with Amanda about the polite third person singular of the verb 'to be'.

We escaped Santa Cruz's stifling heat for the cooler air of the Andean foothills. Samaipata is the kind of sleepy rural town that looks like it hasn't changed for hundreds of years. The roads leading off the main square turn into dusty gravel tracks after fifty metres and are lined with ancient single storey mud brick homes. It reminded me of the sleepy French villages that have been bought up by British investors. Here it´s Dutch and German immigrants who form a large ex-pat community. They´re not that noticable but have a hand in most of the tourist-related businesses. We camped at a place run by a Dutch couple who bought a huge chunk of land on a hillside years ago. It was a nice place but they were a bit smug about their herb garden, vegetable patch and the 'slow food' they served in the cafe. There was a communal locker for the campers and the key was kept on a kitchen shelf. One night the owner took away the key saying there had been some thefts in the past and he had to be careful. He seemed a bit jittery like he was making the whole thing up. The more likely explanation was that he didn't trust a gregarious Polish bloke who had kept him up the night before by talking too loudly. In the morning I went to see the owner about the key. He asked where I was from and appeared to confide in me as a respectable Englishman. 'Oh, it´s back on the shelf,' he said, in a strange Cary Grant accent. 'I can smell the people better now.' I felt like being sick all over his slow food breakfast. The Pole was away for the day but returned late in the evening, raving about a lunar eclipse. Within minutes the shadow of the earth started to move across the nearly full moon. Horses whinnied, dogs barked and thousands of stars appeared. I´d never seen the Milky Way so bright, but then something strange happened. When the moon was completely obscured most of the stars vanished and yet it was a cloudless night. They reappeared about 30 minutes later. Any explanations on the back of a postcard please.

We spent a week in this town taking it very easy, mainly because there were no banks and we hadn't brought enough money. We walked up to a pre-Inca fort called El Fuerte where a huge rock is covered in intricate carvings, mostly to do with astronomy. While we stood there a huge swarm of bees droned towards us about 10 metres up. Staring up in disbelief at this dark cloud, we froze in panic aware that we could do nothing if they decended on us and stung us both to death. (Alright, it might seem dramatic, but these things flash through your mind). But they flew on leaving us jittery, jumping each time we heard an insect fly by. El Fuerte was the eastern-most point of the Inca empire before the Spanish arrived and claimed the site for themselves. We were heading west to the city of Cochabamba and caught a night bus through some isolated villages on some hairy mountain roads.

We arrived in Santa Cruz sweaty and crumpled. It`s very hot here so after one night we fled to the cool air of the mountains. But we spent a day hanging around the city and its picturesque central square. It`s full of tall trees that are said to be home to a community of three-toed sloths. Apparently they hang about in the trees, sleep 18 hours a day and come down to go to the loo once a week. Craning our necks we tried to search them out - and got some odd looks from the locals, but we couldn`t see any. Apparently they were removed a few years ago - perhaps the groundsman was tired of them messing up his geraniums once a week.
The square was a very laid back place - lots of people sauntering around with ice creams. So I was surprised to discover that an ultra-nationalist group held a rally here in October, fired shots into the air and pledged to fight the socialist pig-dogs of La Paz.
Bolivia has a big problem and my knowledge of it is pretty sketchy, but basically the country`s white elite (the people of Spanish descent who still control the best land, resources etc - can you believe it? Nearly 500 hundred years after the conquistadors arrived!) is at odds with the socialist government headed by Evo Morales, the country`s first indigenous leader (Can you believe it? Nearly 500 years years after...). Santa Cruz is the elite´s heartland and the surrounding area has most of the country´s natural resources. The extreme right want to break away from the rest of Bolivia and they certainly don´t want any of their wealth to be used to help the impoverished Indians.
Others want greater autonomy, not civil war, but they too oppose Morales´ socialist agenda which includes land redistribution and a cap on land holdings. Their biggest fear is he`s shaping up to be another South American dictator. Morales wants to pursue social equality, but he also wants to change the constitution so he can stand for re-election indefinitely.

Death Train, or Train of Death, all the guide books mention it. But there`s nothing dangerous about it. It just chugs along a very flat, straight line for about 20 hours before reaching the city of Santa Cruz. The biggest danger is probably deep vein thrombosis, or perhaps a small chance of catching dengue fever from the mosquitos. The track crosses a huge wilderness swamp so lots of insects fly in through the windows which are always wide open because of the stifling heat. We got some sleep, but it was the kind of kip you wake from with a broken neck, a parched gob and an oily film all over your face.

For the first time since Africa women and children were selling food and drinks through the windows. At some stops there were trackside stalls and an elaborate array of ready meals. Crews of women endlessly walked up and down the carriages with snacks. A few hours in I was tempted by chicken and rice, but held back fearful of the implications of bad guts with 18 hours to go.
It was interesting to see how many of the women in these rural areas wear traditional dress - a knee length pleated skirt made of a velvety curtain material, a frilly white blouse, a fitted granny-style cardigan and a wide-brimmed straw hat. They nearly all have straight jet-black hair in two long plaits. I was surprised to a see a group of European men and women who looked like they`d stepped off the set of The Waltons. All the men were wearing dark blue denim dungarees and white shirts. I was told later they`re Menonites, probably the decendants of German missionaries that came to these parts in the 1800s.

Last night we were sweating our guts out in a town called Corumba. It`s right on the border with Bolivia and is very humid. North of here is a huge swamp called the Pantanal and north of that is the Amazon. To the south is Paraguay and west lies Bolivia, which is where we are now. In an hour or so we`ll catch a train known as the Death Train to the city of Santa Cruz. Don`t worry, I don`t think this dramatic name has anything to do with real death. It`s related to the fact it`s a very slow, boring journey lasting about 20 hours in searing temperatures. I`ll let you know how it goes.

So after weeks of bad weather and city life we finally found the Brazilian dream. Trindade is a small coastal village between Sao Paulo and Rio. This stretch of coast is exceptionally beautiful, in fact I don`t think I`ve ever seen anything like it before. The shoreline juts in and out creating sheltered bays and idyllic beaches. There are hundred of small islands and the entire coast is backed by a huge forested ridge where the clouds hang, just like they do in central Africa. This is the Atlantic forest which used to run the entire length of Brazil`s coast. Most of it`s been chopped down, so only small pockets like this one survive. We camped in Trindade, sat on the beach and swam in the sea. I even bought flip flops and long surf shorts, just like all the other dudes. But I think I looked more like a hairy uncle in his Wham throwback swimming shorts. Amanda bought a long-coveted beach tennis set but managed to whack herself in the face with a bat. It hasn`t left a lasting injury. Everyone was friendly, particularly the campsite owner who was keen for me to hold her pet cockerel and feel some cysts on her dog`s arse. The campsite was home to some large freshwater crabs. They were bright blue and yellow and would scurry into their holes when we passed by. At least we hoped they did, especially at night.

In these pictures you can see the majestic sweep of Trindade´s beach and the biggest beetle I`ve ever seen. The pics of me in Wham throwback shorts appear to have vanished.

It came down to either spending the carnival in world famous Rio or trusting my friend Ricardo´s judgement and going to a historic small town in the countryside. We opted for the latter. It was a good setting, high up in the hills above a dense strip of misty jungle. Sao Luis do Paraitinga looked the part - all Portuguese colonial architecture, dominated by a great big church. But there was a catch. This town prides itself on its traditional music and even has an official decree banning samba. This meant no huge drumming bands or fantastic ladies in sequins and plummage.
The traditional style of music is based around trumpets, but it´s been modernised in a way that has squeezed out all the charm. All I could hear were cheesy synths and a plodding bassline. It was the sort of music that evoked It´s A Knock Out. When one band passed by on the back of a truck, all wearing comedy wigs, it felt like I`d been teleported to a Belgian street party. These sounds were pumped out through a tinny PA system in the town´s square for four days straight. All around were thousands of young people, mainly from Sao Paulo, getting wasted and trying to snog each other. Sounds good, doesn´t it? It was as if a giant hen party had bumped into a similarly oversized stag-do.

Musical redemption came on the last day when we heard some deep bass drums reverberating along a side street. We were drawn to the band like kids to the Pied Piper and followed through the cobbled streets. There were about 10 big bass drums, five military style snares and three women with shakers. The band leader would occassionally stop the music and start a call and response routine that sounded like some ancient religious chant, then the drums would come crashing back in. It was Maracatu, the slave music of Recife in the North East and it was the best thing I`d heard since arriving in Brazil.
There were 13 in our group and we were all staying in a three-bedroomed house rented for the occasion. The town usually has 4,000 people, but this swells to 100,000 for the long weekend. Most of the locals rent out their homes for huge sums. Ours cost nearly 800 pounds for four days and it only had four rooms. Ricardo`s friends spent most of their time drinking vodka and red bull from camelbaks (those small rucksacks designed to carry water, usually worn by fitness enthusiasts) and cooking barbecues which are a big deal here. The most popular meat is picanha, a massive lump of prime beef which I think comes from the rump. Meat is cheap but a lump like this still costs about 10 pounds. It`s cooked for about half an hour and served in thin strips, usually quite rare. I knew it was rare because I kept dripping blood on my clothes before popping it in my mouth. Amanda abstained.

The pics show: the revellers outide the town´s church, me having fun, and Ricardo and Fernanda sporting the camelbak.

When you think of Brazil, you´re really thinking of Rio - the beaches, the women, the carnival, the favelas. We sat on Copacabana beach and watched the men play volley foot (like volleyball without using hands) while a samba band played to the folks sipping caipairinhas (Brazil´s national drink of lime, sugar, cachaca - a sugarcane white spirit - and lots of ice). But the weather was bad - drizzly and grey. The stalwarts were still on the beach and some were even in the water in spite of the worrying brown patches, but the city´s famous posers were absent. Even with bad weather Rio oozed character and a sense of life that´s difficult to find in Sao Paulo. I desperately wanted to really like the underdog, but Sao Paulo struggles to compete with Rio. Sao Paulo feels big and impersonal. Rio is big but it feels far more intimate. Different districts wend their way around its hilly landscape, there are many more old buildings, more street life and it generally looks more lived in. The rich may live in luxury apartments that line the beaches but the city has a better social mix. In Sao Paulo it´s easy to pretend poverty doesn´t really exist - it happens elsewhere. In Rio street kids pass you in the centre of town and the favelas are visible all around the city, the terracotta housing perched on hillsides.
We stayed in a hostel where there were lots of English and a few Americans. One of them, Jeffrey, was in his late forties and had spent a lot of time travelling. He was interesting to talk to and had some good stories, especially one about playing the guitar in front of Muddy Waters on a barge in the Mississippi. It was funny because he sounded just like Jack Nicholson, particularly when delivering a punchline.
´I was on the beaches of Belize smoking marijuana,´ he said. ´If we ran out of rolling papers we´d take a page out of the Bible and use that - then you really get the message,´ he added with a Nicholson-esque drawl. On his last night he got into a 20-minute monologue covering slavery, Christianity, Islam and the Old Testament, but he was stopped in his tracks by Amanda. ´I mean I´m just coming down from all this stuff,´ he said, `I don´t really like to talk.´
She started laughing, ´You´re a chatterbox.´
´Eh?´
´A chatterbox´
He was on his way to a retreat where he wouldn´t be allowed to talk for 10 days. He´s promised to let us know how he gets on.

These are terrible pictures of Rio, but at least a bit unusual. The Tardis-like building is the Catholic cathedral which was built around the same time as the one in Liverpool. And that`s the view from inside, looking up. Apologies if you were expecting beauties on Ipanema beach.

´I mean, ít´s not that bad,` said Ricardo. ´I´ve had a gun pointed at my head twice, but that was twice in 26 years. You´ll be fine.´
Sao Paulo´s reputation for violent crime and general urban magnitude weighed heavy on my mind. But you know what? It´s not that bad. I should have known after all this time that nowhere is as bad as you´re often led to believe. It´s apparently the fourth biggest city in the world with a population of about 12 million. Some people sound awestruck when they talk about its size.
´Sao Paulo?´ said one man in Uruguay with a distant look in his eyes. ´I remember flying over and it was solid buildings for half an hour´. I was daunted, but when you´re in the middle of it all it feels far less overbearing or hectic than most European capitals. ´That´s because it´s the holidays´, say the locals. ´Wait until February´, they add, indignant that you might be suggesting it´s not that bad after all.
It is huge, sprawling for miles in every direction, except the north where further growth is thwarted by some lush, green mountains. But the central areas are quite easy going. It´s not the futuristic Tokyo-style megalopolis I had expected. Blocks of flats nestle next to older housing and there are cafes on most corners. Brazil´s famed inequality of wealth is not too obvious, although we glimpsed both ends of the spectrum - helicopters flying the top executives in to work, and the homeless shacked up in doorways. There are also many people surviving in a very low wage economy, like the old men who work as human billboards with adverts slung over their shoulders.

We´ve spent much of the time walking around and eating. The cafes here sell really good, cheap food. For about two pounds you can get a plate of rice, chips and beans with a big lump of grilled chicken. And everywhere sells fresh fruit juices (about 60p). But the big revelation is the ´kilo restaurant´ concept. You don´t pay for what you eat, but for how much it weighs. So the advertised price is, say, 50p per 100 grams. You pile it on and get it weighed. If anyone is looking for a new business idea we think this would be a big hit at home. I can see it now, a nationwide chain called ´Kilo´.

We´ve also been to quite a few samba bars and took in a game of football. For any fans out there it was Cortinthians v Paulista in the regional league. Corinthians have recently been relegated to the 2nd division (in the national league) and Paulista are in the third so it was hardly a masterclass in Brazilian football. There were only 9,500 in the 80,000-seater stadium but the die-hard Corinthian fans were still full of passion, spitting out insults (puuuuta merda!! Feeeela da puuuuta!) throughout the match.

I feel I should let you know that everything you thought you knew about Brazil - women in sequins, glorious sunshine etc - is wrong. It rains a lot and gets quite chilly. I think there should be some sort of official apology. In the picture of the Beetle look at the rain washing down the street. Well, it does that most days.
I never got around to writing about Buenos Aires or Uruguay. It seems like a long time ago now but they were both interesting places, particularly Uruguay where everyone religiously drink a tea-like beverage called matte. They do this in Argentina as well but people appeared more devoted in Uruguay. You would see young women on the beach in bikinis with a thermos under one arm. John Shuttleworth would approve.