1) Sunny and cosy green spaces in Fowley Towers Backpackers in Chirstchurch. One of the perks of their 'birth-right of a backyard'. Also the location where we picked up our blue NZ milk-crate to store our food and crockery for the 7 week journey. Became so attached to it that we brought it back to Melbourne! 2) The Camping Chairs we bought from The Warehouse (K-mart equivalent). One of our first purchases in NZ. $15 a piece which we hardly used... utopian concepts of lounging in stunning scenery soon crushed by sizzling UV rays, chilly winds and blood-sucking sandflies! 3) Hanging blooms of Impatiens at the Botanical Gardens in Christchurch. 4) Two Crays courtesy of Llyod, the owner of our very retro bach (self-contained kiwi holiday home) in Kaikoura. Eating crayfish at the restaurant would cost 70-90 bucks each! Snuggles the cat visited us every day. 5) Juin Ee's close encounter with a sleeping seal on the wavecut platform. She almost stepped on it! 6) Feeling that this trip is one extended honeymoon. 7) First enounter with the NZ grilled seafood roadside hawker set up by some enterprising youths beating the Kaikoura restaurants at their game. Tried grilled fish, whitebait and mussels. Also met some delighted Singaporeans. 8) Nin's Bin. Best steamed green mussels (and probably crays) from a blue caravan by the sea! 9) Encounters with cycletourists at the very cosy Paddler's Rest. Intro to Fishing and Wine. 10) The numerous stream crossings to get to Saw-cut Gorge and the Didymo in the streams...aptly called rock snot! 11) El Penguino's Cucumber Gelato at Nelson. What a creative flavour! 12) 5mm thick Nutella Sandwiches and welcome banana muffins at the Holiday Park. 13) The Chirstmas Pot-luck Lunch at Barefoot Backpackers which finally happened at 5.30pm! and Tigger, Pinky and Mousy, the 3 cats there. Also the biggest double room we ever had. 14) Dramatic Coastal Scenery at Wharariki and the clarity of Pu Pu Springs. 15)
Ironman! (Aug - Dec 2009)
Pre-plunge
If I had known that the total cost of doing the Ironman in Busselton (Western Australia) would come up to $6000 Aussie dollars, I might have reconsidered.
But the Ironman insanity struck sooner than the lunar tide of motel, swim pass, car hire, petrol, domestic flights, nutritional and equipment bills. With a $635 registration ticket in hand and my butt on a $1650 budget tri-bike, I found myself suddenly quite far from the shore.
Cash factor aside, it wasn’t an act of recklessness. Being happily unemployed, I had loads of training time. Melbourne has a great sporty environment to help with the motivation. Having done the Half-Ironman in March, I already had a base to expand on. Being newly married and child-free (for the moment), I had an endless and dizzying supply of optimism. Being 34 didn’t feel any older, so I guess the time was right to get this Ironman thing off my bucket list.
By the way, the famous Ironman tagline is pretty catchy, ‘Swim 3.6km, bike 180km, run 42km…brag for the rest of your life!’
Ironman Training in Melbourne
Swim!
$40.30 gets you only 10 swim passes at Fitzroy swimming centre, making me appreciate the cheap public pools back home where entry is S$1 and all-day lockers 20 cents. Alternatively in Melbourne, you can swim in the August Tasman sea of and die of hypothermia. I guess the price you pay goes into heating (‘warm’ waters at 24°C), hot showers and a lifeguard who does patrol the pool. You can also pay $80 for a 5 session stroke correction course.
I needed a total stroke overhaul. Frog needed to become Free in 4 months. My first attempt covered 56 laps with the grace and speed of a clam. Well, at least that’s some distance covered and my legs didn’t feel that busted. Back home, I couldn’t swim more than 8 laps before feeling breathless.
After 20 swim sessions, I could manage 76 laps in approximately 1hr 30min. The $307 wet-suit certainly helped to keep my cyclist thighs buoyant and close scrutiny of you-tube clips (e.g. total immersion) improved my technique gradually. Also live underwater lessons of the locals zipping by helped. One morning, I was eating the bubbles of an amputee in my lane! Eventually, I felt more relaxed and comfortable in the water and found swimming rather meditative especially when there are 76-80 laps to cover. To improve, I need to learn to breathe on both sides (bi-lateral breathing) but for now, being able to meet the 2hr 15 min cut-off for the swim leg of the Ironman race would do. Got to keep the big picture in perspective and the swim leg (timewise) is just a teeny fraction of the whole race.
At 6.15am in the morning (to simulate race timing and colder weather conditions), the Fitzroy pool is crowded. Swim squads are doing their laps, there are lessons going on and it’s common to share your lane with 2 or sometimes even 3 other swimmers. I guess this is added pressure to swim faster even though most of them wouldn’t be swimming 76-80 laps.
There is bicycle parking just next to the pool making transition training very convenient.
Bike!
I got my Giant tribike from CBD Cycles in Melbourne for $1650. It’s a 2007 era model. Bikes and parts do not come cheap in Australia. Must be the labour cost or a large conspiracy among the shops to take full advantage of bike-crazy Aussies. (1.4 million bicycles were sold in 2009 compared to 1 million cars!) But the service is usually very professional and they fit the bike to you very nicely. This is crucial when you’re going to spend 6+hr on the bike!
Princes Park, north of Melbourne University was my initial training ground. One loop on the dedicated bike covers 3.2km. By the time I upped my cycling base to 120kms (37 laps), I was very bored. Still, it did strengthen my mental discipline and provided a flat, safe and continuous course to get used to riding in aero-position on the bike and the distances. It was also within walking distance of my studio apartment on Park Street should there be any punctures. But cycling in the tail-end of winter is tough without leg and arm warmers!
After a couple of weeks, I was ready to do my first 180km ride. The idea was to start from Park Street, follow the eastern side of the bay for 90kms and then U-turn back home. Being a popular weekend route, there is a bike lane throughout the entire course! This is cycle-crazy Melbourne where pedal hordes rule the streets on weekends. 90kms took me all the way to just outside Dromana. The hilly bits from Frankston to Mornington and the coastal headwinds along Beach Road and the Neapean Highway were really good for my training. Cycling against winds of 25kmh is a test of endurance and patience.
The long rides got easier as my body was better conditioned (thighs ballooned) and sustained through GU energy gels, Shotz powerbars and Endura electrolytes. My 180km bike time got shaved down from almost 8 hours to 6 or even under on good days when the wind was with me. The spring weather was mostly mild and I didn’t need to drink that much. It would be fun on raceday without the traffic lights! Eventually, I modified the bike route to exclude the hilly bits after Frankston to better simulate the pancake-flat Busselton one. Western Melbourne is flatter but too industrial for much cycling inspiration.
The cycling culture here is pretty strong. They have a bicycle association to organise cycling events and campaign for more bike paths. Run a red light and you may get a scolding from one of the more passionate advocates…as I have experienced. Having said that, not all cyclists here abide by the road rules either.
One of my Ironman training checkpoints was the 210km Around The Bay In A Day ride. The mass charity cycling event goes around Port Phillip Bay and there were 15,600 riders taking part in the various distances from 50 to 250km. I started at 6.30am and finished at 4pm! Besides the endurance test, it was also a good experience in pack riding. One strong guy did 210km on a single speed (a bike with only a fixed gear). The Melbourne to Sorrento leg was scenic but the eastern portion was mostly flatish highway cycling. Finishing over the West Gate Bridge was a definite highlight despite having the knowledge that some crazy guy had thrown his 4 year old daughter over in January.
Cycling 180kms after a 3.6km swim became easier once the nutritional aspects were sorted out and the thigh muscles got developed and conditioned. Endura electrolytes and GU gels seem to do well for me. In 4 months, my odometer read 3200+km. Towards the end, my friend Kok Wah lent me his Zipp 404 carbon wheels which probably made a difference. The 404s probably costs more than my bike. They are lighter, have a lower wind drag but required me to carry more equipment in the case of a puncture.
Run!
Training mainly involves flat short runs (9 to 15km) around Princes Park and long ones (30km) on the Capital City Trail which include some challenging slopes at the end of the run. Running in low humidity feels easier once you got used to the initial cold.
I learnt the hard way about refuelling on the first 30km run after bonking out at the 23km mark. Energy gels and isotonic drink DO make a difference! It’s great to condition yourself to the point when you feel almost weightless while running.
The main test was the Melbourne Marathon which I surprised myself in 3hrs 38mins. That morning was really cold (7 degrees) but the supporters were out in force, drink stations well-stocked and pacers awesome (my pacer was probably in his late 40s!). The pacers have a target time on a flag and all you needed to do was to keep up with them. One guy was running, pushing a kid on a wheelchair!
Piecing them together…
Three parts coming together gives you a great sense of achievement. You get more comfortable waking up at 5am, swimming 76 laps and then hopping on the bike going 90, 120 then 180km. I remember thinking after finishing my first 180km ride, “I can’t imagine running 42kms after this!” Then you wobble through your first 3kms, the body adapts, you refuel more efficiently and bump the distance up to 6km, 10km, 15km and eventually 20km. 20km was the max I have done after the full swim and bike. Ironman literature discourages running for more than 40 mins after a 180km ride to avoid injury. I felt good and knew that race day adrenalin and motivation would be able to get me through the final 22km. The reality is that most first time competitors would have to walk at some point during an Ironman marathon!
I was fortunate to be injury-free during the whole training period. Training was at max probably just 4 times a week, taking rests on alternative days and a week long mid-training break after 2 months. It’s also due to a keen awareness on the roads to live to train another day (some drivers here do not take well to cyclists). Perhaps, by not training too hard, I was avoiding the pitfalls of overtraining.
The last 3 weeks of tapering (where you wind down the duration of the training) was relaxing since each training session became progressively shorter, though not less intense. You reflect on how far your training has taken you and how, not too long ago, the half-ironman distance seemed so challenging. On some days I would wish that the big race was sooner so I could get on with it and move on in life! I took it as a sign that I was ready.
Shutting Ironman thoughts out of my head was one of the hardest things to do. Questions about race strategy, timings, expectations, equipment, nutrition, envisioning the race, logistics, training experimentations etc constantly invade your mind. Sieving through the wealth of Ironman information and training tips on the web to find what works for you can be time-consuming and muddling. One good website: (http://www.triathlon-ironman-myfirstironman-ironstruck.com/index.html) I guess this is where the focus (or distraction) of a full time job would help. It took me a long time to realise that in such a long race, plenty could go wrong and all the pre-race planning wouldn’t amount to much if you didn’t race reactionally. This means reading the actual race and body conditions and making the immediate appropriate adjustments.
Busselton finally!
We left Melbourne six days prior to the race. Thanks to Kok Wah’s sturdy bike box, packing the bike for the trip was easy, no sourcing cardboard boxes from bikeshops and then binding them together with duct tape! Our rental Getz at Perth airport swallowed up all the gear easily and soon we were off, guided by GPS towards the seaside town of Busselton. It was my first time travelling for a race!
Western Australia was HOT and I should have registered the huge difference between my ideal training conditions in Melbourne and the searing temperatures over here.
We stayed at Gale Street Motel for the first couple of days before shifting to Peppermint Park – a result of booking accommodation only 3 months in advance. Arriving on a Sunday and after a satisfying powernap, we awoke to find all the supermarkets closed, thus having to rely on our spices and rice to create a decent meal! Gale Street was close to town and provided a convenient base to reccee the Ironman Village, transition area and the swim, run and bike routes. Peppermint Park was about 7kms out, more peaceful and spacious. Spoke briefly with my neighbour from South Africa, probably in his 40s, who was here for his 20th Ironman race!
As the days went by, Busselton gradually came to life as the 1300 atheletes poured in. The sea wasn’t as cold as I expected it to be and the run and bike courses were nice and flat. It should go according to plan i.e., 1.5 hr swim + 6hr ride + 5hr run = 12.5hrs. The days leading up to the race was spent mostly resting, visiting the surrounding areas, preparing the bike, sorting the race gear and tanking up on carbo and fluids but mostly imagining how the big day would go.
103 Singaporean atheletes made up the largest international contingent! USA came in second with 80+ competitors. It was nice to get to speak to some of my fellow countrymen and to hear bursts of Singlish in the cafes and supermarkets and especially during the Parade of Nations. Would have been nice to plug into the community and train with some of them back home.
The carbo-loading dinner wasn’t too appetising. Mass produced sub-standard food combined made worse by the testosteronic atmosphere fired up by the MC’s ego-fanning questions about who-has-done-how-many-Ironmans. He began by asking all competitors who has done more than 1 Ironman race to stand. The lawn was then mowed by increments of 5 races. The last man standing had completed 45 Ironman races. More inspirational to me was the oldest female competitor…can’t imagine doing this kind of race at 73. Somehow, that night, I felt that this race was a bit too commercialised. Race Day! Saturday 5th December 2009
Woke at 4.30am. Pasta breakfast. I wonder who sleeps well before a day like this?
6.15am
Swim start. There’s something exhilarating about 1300 competitors wading out in shallow water. You could almost hear the boom of the war drum as we wet-suited minons trudged out to a long weary battle. I kept to the extreme left of the mob to avoid ‘the washing machine’ effect or being kicked, pulled or swum over by the mass of flaying black bodies. This was a good move as I swam mostly unobstructed and could fall into my rythmn comfortably. The Busselton jetty that jutted 1.6km out to sea was on my breathing side and that made pacing and sighting easy. Didn’t see many fishes but zooming over the sandridges and clumps of seagrass proved to be a nice distraction for the long swim. Made the turnabout at the end of the jetty after 35mins and still feeling good despite knowing that most of the field was ahead of me. Reaching the last turn, I wasted a few minutes when I mistook a lifeguard on a canoe for the final turning bouy. Still, thanks to an onshore current, I managed the 3.8km swim in 1hr 23mins, 7 mins faster than expected. Thoroughly enjoyed the swim course and the mass swim! Clambered up the beach, feeling good and ready for the ride.
Transition 1
Didn’t really put much thought into making as smooth a transition as possible. Just focused on gearing up fully, catching my breath and biking off. Volunteers were really good in stripping off my wetsuit and packing my swim gear. I guess I still belong to the budget triathelete: no race belt or tri-suit. My improvised race belt was made out of a shoelace and a plastic spring stopper taken from my waist pouch. Seconds had to be ‘wasted’ putting on my cycling jersey. And since I didn’t have a bento box on the bike, I had to stuff my gels and electrolyte powder into my pockets (no Profile Design waterbottle on my bike too, who would pay A$70 for a water-bottle + attaching bracket?? ). Cycling shoes were the budget kind thus thinly padded which meant that I had to put on my SAF sponsored socks. I took all these accumulated seconds as rest time!
A significant number of the bikes were gone by the time I exited the transition tent. Not unexpected knowing that I’m considered a slow swimmer. This meant that I was behind the field which probably added some pressure to cycle faster than I should.
Bike
3 laps of 60km. Felt strong on the first lap. Overtook lots of riders. Made the first lap in 2 hours. Then the 35 degree sun and changing winds came out and wrecked havoc for all of us. Drank much more than I was used to and thus had to to take twice the number of toilet breaks. I ran out of electrolye and those supplied on at the aid station didn’t seem to work well for me (another learning point: get your body used to what is supplied on the course.). Had to constantly pour water over my head and back to keep the heat down.
Second Lap went just over 2 hours. On the third lap, all nutrition scheduling went to hell. Ate plenty but my body didn’t feel that it was absorbing much of it, but strangely, no signs of cramps. Really had to battle the heat and winds at the more open stretches of the route. Was overtaken by many riders.
Felt the pressure to keep up which was a crucial mistake. Probably, wiser to spend an extra 30mins on the bike and ride at 25kmh. But still no signs of cramps so I thought I’ll be fine. Was lapped by all the pros on the second lap going at 45kmh or more!
Lap Three was a slog especially when the winds really picked up on the last 15km into town. 180km eventually went in 6hr 32 mins, which seemed like an eternity.
Transition 2
Didn’t want to hang around for long! Changed swiftly, slapped on a pile of sunblock, rehydrated, changed a shirt, clicked on my waist pouch (no fuel belt) and hit the road.
Run (or rather walk/jog)
Started real slow expecting the familiar feeling of recovery during the Bricks training (bike-run transition so called since your legs feel stiff like bricks). Experienced a sharp debilitating bonk instead! After the first 1.5km, the cramps came so suddenly I had to stop, struggle to stand and stretch. Asked the medics for muscle rub. No such thing here. Morale went south. Knew that I won’t be finishing strong. Mental preparations were made for an epic walk/jog slog in the mid afternoon heat. That was the long story for the next 6 hours! I guess I had to be content that I could keep moving, jogging to almost breaking point before patiently walking and recovering.
Quite a huge contrast from the 3hr 38min Melbourne Marathon and it’s demoralising to push your target timing further and further back. Still I take comfort that the day is ending, getting cooler and then turning cold (should have put a jacket in the Special Need Station). Well, the 14km laps are going by. Many have finished but many are still struggling, some in a worse state than I am. The volunteers are cheering us on so the plodding has to continue. On the last lap, things are looking up. At the last turnabout, things are feeling good. My body can’t bump up the pace but you know that it’s just a matter of maintaining a constant rythmn.
It was dark when I ran down the finishing chute, ending the Ironman challenge in 13hr 58mins with a mixed bag of emotions. It could be a happier ending. The optimist in me said that DNFing (Did Not Finish) would be infinitely worse. The conditions were tough. I didn’t quit. It was my first Ironman. Could the simple salt tablet make all the difference? Was all the money and training time wasted? Not really, it’s such a long journey and there were many learning points which would undoubtedly shape my life for the better. Will I come back for a rerun? Very tempting…
In a way, this mixture of emotions may be the gift of the whole Ironman experience. 
Spiderman to Ironman
After pretty decent rock-climbing season in Krabi last December, I chose to take a break from climbing and savour the highlights and accomplishments of the two week trip to southern Thailand.
Flashing Rolling Thunder (easy 7C+) was fun because of the relaxed conversational manner in which I nailed the climb. With the beta streaming live from Assad, Ronghui and Cheemeng below, it was all a matter of pacing the climb, recovering on a razor-edge and then committing to the single big crux move. Never expected to cruise a 7C+ on my first attempt!
Onsighting The Way of The Emperor (7B) gave me more satisfaction. It was recommended by Simon from the Philippines on my last trip as a good onsight project. I was a bit shaky at the top but this was a pure onsight where I had to put up the draws. Yeah!
Pearl Jam (7B), the monster 30m zig-zagging crack climb squeezed the juice out of me due to its consistency, exposure and the unfamiliar style of climbing. There are 3 to 4 cruxes with the hardest one at the top of the climb. Resting involves some radical arm and limb twisting in the flaring crack and nooks along the way. And behind you, a wide and lush palm-coconut valley runs to the sea. Not many climbers crowd this mozzie-infested area so you feel more alone with the route. After clipping the anchors on the third attempt, I yelled ‘I love climbing!’ It’s one of those routes where upon completion you know you are on to another plain – not one about upping grades but one that crystallises a raw passion for the feel of climbing itself. It’s a zen-like and personal quiet state of content.
The Freedom Safari (7A) onsight in near darkness was also pretty cool.
Of course there will be unfinished business by the beach (Voodoo Doll 7C, Sour Fish Curry 7C, Phet Mak 7C+ etc) but it’s time to seriously consider another challenge of a different nature. If variety is the spice of life, then extending the variety (and intensity) of challenges could only do you more good.
So what’s next?
During my last leg of the Enduro 08, a 24-hour round island charity ride for the Down Syndrome Association of Singapore in November 08, I was cycling with Mark, an American, for a short stretch. By that time, I had clocked 236km on a Dahon foldie and was quite ready to call it a day. Mark was part of a relay team, fresh and raring to finish his loop. So when he asked me if I was taking part in the coming Aviva 70.3 Ironman in March 09, of course I said no! You don’t think of such crazy ideas when your backside is aching and there's another 30km to go in the wee hours of the morning! But it is the crazy ideas that have a dangerous habit of sticking…
Fantasy-Reality and the Odds
The Ironman 70.3 is actually a half-Ironman. 1.9km swim, 90.1km bike and 21.1km run. 70.3 is the total distance of 113km expressed in miles. To want to take on this seemingly difficult challenge, you dig deep and suss out yourself.
Most of the time, I tend to think that I can do it. This is attributed not to egomania but to an optimistic spirit mixed in with a hazy sense of self-awareness and the above average ability to problem-solve.
I can do it because…
- I am motivated…to be fit-fit and not just climbing-fit. Phenomenal are the race stories of ironman, ultra-ironman, deca-ironman, Julie Moss, Dick and Rick Hoyt etc. I would like to have a sampling of the elite action and a memory to savour for years to come.
- Basically, I have already a strong base level of fitness. The 1.9km swim, 90km ride and 21km run are all do-able by parts so the main crux lies in linking them up. I run 21km in 1:45 without much training (or reliance on powergels) and have just cycled 266km on foldable bike with small wheels. 38 laps in the pool should be ok with the breast-stroke. I have done a few sprit triathlons and biathlons in NUS and completed the OSIM olympic distance on a mountain bike. So taken in bits, the half-ironman doesn’t seem that bad. Then again, ‘seem’ is another tricky word…
- Most internet sites that I chanced upon recommend a 60 to 90 day half-ironman training programme. My time frame is about 60 days and with a part-time lifestyle, there will be sufficient time to be race ready.
- With friends like Andy Tay and Patricia Lee, I have sound advice (‘Don’t push too hard on the bike.’ & ‘finish STRONG!’) from those who had been there done that. I also have Desmond to try to beat. (Ha! I didn’t) Thanks to my army buddy Jimmy, for your generous offer of bike-use and transport and for riding with me, even if it’s just for a while!
I will do it because…
- It’s my tribute to my grandmother and my would-be father-in-law (both passed away within the first three days of 2009). Ah-ma is always a constant reminder of the simple and meaningful life. It was hard for me to see her gasping for breath in her last days but for most of her 81 years she was surrounded by love, steady and true. My would-be father-in-law ran marathons and gave me my first little hands-on experiences at palliative care. He was a good insight into what happens when quality of life plunges and you are subject to the mercy of so many uncertainties.
- All the training hours have to amount to something.
- I have thrown myself in the deep end of the pool having paid S$375 bucks in registration fees.
Sizing down the Odds - Training Phase
Swim
The last time I was seriously in a pool, my friend Ben Peh was trying to teach me the freestyle. That was more than three years ago and if I had kept at it, my 1.9km swim segment would definitely have been faster and more energy-efficient. 60 days isn’t quite enough to re-learn the strokes so I decided to focus on the breast-stroke which meant stressing the thighs and shoulders a lot more.
Swimming 40 laps in the pool isn’t really that hard. It’s about being patient, finding your rhythm, staying focused on your strokes and breathing, fixing a tune in your head, entering 'The Zone' and then floating through the monotony of 40 laps. I do 100m more than the required 1.9km to compensate for possible sea currents and to build wee bit more endurance. In the sea, there are no minute moments of rest during the lap-turn and a pool wall to thrust off.
After 3 months, my swim time hovers around 45 to 46 minutes for 40 laps. It’s well within the 1:10 cut off timing. Your head spins after repeated bobbing in and out of the water and even the mountainbiker legs become wobbly but you soon get used to it and they seem to recover faster with more training.
East Coast is far from where I live so I train mostly at the NUS, Clementi and Bouna Vista pools. At the public pools, entry is S$1 and use of locker $0.20 so I train mostly at NUS till the water-sports season started. For this ironman, the only time I swam in the sea was on race day itself.
Being the cheapo, my trunks come from the SAF emart at Chevrons in Jurong, my goggles are at least 5 years old and I rely on the clock in the swimming pool and my handphone for my timings. Later when I was fine-tuning my timing, I decided to swim in my cycling tights (courtesy of Ben Toh) to shave off a few seconds from the transistion time.
Swimming burns you up pretty quick and I remember coming out from my first swim session starving. I had to cycle straight for the hawker centre for a plate of duck rice.
The great thing about endurance sport is that I have to think for the long haul. The 40 laps don’t seem too long once I have gotten past lap 20 and when all the physical and mental rhythms are in place, it becomes meditative and relaxing. The priority is not to blow the legs at such an early stage in the race.
Bike
Initially, I had two bikes, a full-suspension mountainbike and a foldie. Going ten laps of 2.3km along the Clementi canal on the Dahon foldie wasn’t much fun and cycling the 90km from my place to West Coast to Jurong to Lim Chu Kang to Kranji to Mandai to Seletar to Punggol to Ang Mo Kio to Bishan to Bukit Timah to Ghim Moh and back on the mountainbike took an exhausting 4 hours afterwhich I knew I would not be able to nail the half marathon.
So when my girlfriend’s brother gave (hmmm…was it gave or lent?) me his old racer, which I brought back from the dead with WD40, there was hope on the horizon. The lower gear on the front crank was not working but that was not an issue on a relatively flat race course. The small clip-on pedals were designed for mountain bikes so the shoes I have fitted in nicely. This saved me big money but added more pressure on my feet. ‘Proper’ racer pedals are much larger. 90km melted away in just over 3 hours and that included stopping at traffic lights and toilet breaks.
I also picked a hard bike course, lots of slopes to climb at Clementi road, Jalan Bahar, Neo Tiew, Mandai, Kranji and Lornie. Hopefully, the race course will seem comparatively easiler after this circuit. Google Earth gave me the distances and my handphone, the timings so I could gauge my performance.
My two regular rest stops were the toilet break at Kranji Dam and a 100 Plus break at a Punggol coffeeshop. Over time, I shortened the rests and eventually, with a second waterbottle and electrolytes, skipped the Punggol stop.
As with the other race components, the 3 hour, 90km rides became more bearable with time. The initial back and neck aches disappeared, thigh muscles developed, arms got used to the numbness of being on the aerobars and I learnt to relax on the ride. Enlightenment was felt when I started first started using powerbars/gels and electrolytes over plain water, nuts, biscuits and a single can of 100 Plus. I wanted to do it the natural (and cheap) way but these everyday foods simply do not provide enough energy. So it was only in the last three weeks of training that I resorted to all these ‘power’ foodstuffs. For this I have Patricia Lee and Andy Tay to thank.
Pat has two half ironmans under her belt. Most of the crucial nutritional advice came from her. She also steered my training towards ‘bricks’ which simply meant getting the body used to running after the long bike ride. The cycle bit of the ironman seems to be the crux equivalent of rock-climbing. Thanks for all the discounted powergels and cliffbars! Perhaps someday I will do an ironman purely on natural fuel like sushi? The fourth dimension of Ironman training is knowing what and when to eat and drink.
I have to thank Andy for the aerobars! 90kms without aerobars is good for climbing but for finishing an ironman. Thanks for the bento box (a strap on container for all the powergels etc), tag belt, electrolytes and the best advice on going steady for the bike ride. You were right Andy! Those who maxed out on the bike, cramped on the run!
When I am bored of 3-hour rides, I cross-train by mountainbiking in Bukit Timah. I think that is more effective in developing the thigh muscles and cardio even though I am more likely to get injured on the mountainbike trail. These sessions are reduced as the race day approaches.
Run
How my body adapts to this segment amazes me. With proper refuelling on the bike, I feel about 85% refreshed for the run even after 4 hours of exertion. After the first 1.5km, it feels like the body is using a different set of muscles reserved specially for this final leg. Similarly the swim doesn’t particularly affect the bike once you have gotten your muscles accustomed to it. This what Patricia meant by ‘bricks training’. It’s a matter of building your muscular endurance over brute strength.
Initially, I would cycle from my school in Jurong to Macritchie on my foldie and then run a 12km cross-country loop around the reservior. The gravel and slopes did wonders for my legs and the trees provided the necessary shade. I repeated this training for about 6 weeks until I could do the loop comfortably in just under an hour, before cycling home for dinner. The next stage was to mix this in with a flatter but longer running route. I followed the park connectors from Clementi canal all the way to Jurong Point and back. This gave me a decent mileage range of 16 to 25km. Running on a flat track after all the cross-country training was a breeze.
It’s also running in the wrong conditions. On race day, I expect to be running at about 12.30pm so I had to get my body used to running in the heat. Without water points, it’s tough. During one afternoon run, I had to stop to sit in the shade because I was on the brink of blacking out. I had targeted to do a 12km run after finishing the full 70.3 swim and ride that morning. It was frustrating to stop after 9kms but it would be more frustrating to die.
The monsoon came a little late this year. More than once, the March rains forced me into a gym to ‘hamster’ on the threadmill which I hated doing. After 15kms on the roller, I have a new-found respect for people who train this way. The sheer boredom of it all makes you stronger and more focused in the mind. Your body attunes to a pace and it always seems like an eternity before you reach the target distance. You are tired and you don’t have the changing scenery to distract you! This form of metronome running does condition you to be robotically constant in your pacing and was ultimately the key to meeting my target timing for the race. Piecing it Together
When individual parts began to feel easier, I started combining them but never doing a trial run of the full distances. (I don’t know why then but I do know now after completing the race. It will take you too long time to fully recover!) When the swim and bike didn’t seem to be a problem, I gradually threw in the run in 6, 9, 12 and 16 km segments. When I could hit the 16km run after a full swim and bike, I knew that completing the actual race wasn’t going to be a problem. The adrenaline rush would take control and devour the remaining 5km.
Tapering Down
Tapering down is a wind-down in the duration of the training. The intensity should remain constant but the training duration should decrease. My taper period was only a week long and and consisted of only three sessions: First, a 25% discount of the total distances. Second, just 30 laps in the pool. And lastly, half of the total distance two days before race day. By now I was feel fit and it’s kind of cool to use an olympic distance triathlon as a warm-down exercise!
Rest is crucial. I only train when I feel sufficiently rested to minimise injury and maximise effectiveness. As the training intensifies, I find it impossible to train more than 3 times weekly. Mind games play on when you are resting. You hear voices urging you to train. I shut them out by playing the bass or going out with friends.
Motivation!
In the beginning the target was to complete the race. When you have adapted to the intensities of training and the 70.3 is no longer impossible, I raised the bar to look for a realistic finishing timing.
Average Training Timings Swim: 44 min Bike: 3 hr Run: 2 hr Total: 5 hr 44 mins
Throw allownces for Transition Time (change over time between segments about 5 mins in total): Target Timing – somewhere just under 6 hrs!
I have a buffer of 11 minutes for the Unexpected. The pressure is up and it affects me. One night I dream of finishing at some ridiculously superb timing. On another, I dreamt I overslept and woke up late for the race (the timing on the dream clock was 6.43am when I should have been up at 5am!). Sometimes, motivation comes from unexpected sources. An old man in a motorised wheelchair cheered me on at a traffic crossing near Jurong Point with a loud ‘Good morning, young man!’ Another motorcyclist had only good things to say when I briefly told him what I was training for while waiting for the green light. On the You Tube, view this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDnrLv6z-mM) and you will be inspired. Thanks also to the gym manager at NUS who allowed me to use the cycle machine when it was raining and to the patient driver who stopped his van so I could pick up my water bottle. Thanks Jimmy for the bike and transport offer on race day! Knowing a bit of the Ironman history also gets you going!
Motivation also comes from trying to beat the others while using inferior equipment. Eg a road bike vs a tri-bike, cycling tights and a normal singlet vs a tri suit, cheap goggles vs those with prescription lenses, non-oakley sunglasses, fuel belts, old tyres, a handpump instead of gas canisters etc.
Most of the time, I train alone, so motivation must come pretty much from within and from this you can only grow in strength.
Yet there are so many behind-the-scenes people. My level-headed supportive parents who trust me enough to come back alive from the many training sessions. My mum especially, for her wonderful cooking and for doing the laundry. My wonderful girlfriend for understanding that sometimes I can’t have breakfast with her because I need to be in the pool by 8am and that a bike crash at 60kmh can rob her of a husband. My sister for sponsoring the powergels from Perth. My climbing buddies who have asked me out even though they haven’t seen me in the gym for three months. Students and ex-students who share my enthusiasm for the sport and who have sent me their regards over Facebook. Ironman training takes up so much time! 3 to 4 sessions a week! It also takes up so much money.
Approximate Expenditure: $375: Registration $5: WD40 $100: Bicycle Spare Parts $75: Powergel $30: Isotonic Drinks $830: 3 months worth of Food (I eat double the usual amount and lots of steak) $20: pool fees
Total: $1435!! All just for a day’s race! Climbing’s way cheaper!
22nd March 2009…Race Day!!
I am too excited to sleep. I wake up every 1 to 1.5 hours to hydrate and pee. Finally, it’s 5am and time for breakfast! Amazing girlfriend arrives at 5.30am and we are at East Coast by 6.15am. It was pouring at Bouna Vista. Thank goodness it’s dry at ECP. A thunderstorm on a day like this would be a major morale crusher. The build-up to the race is too intense to be dissipated by a postponement. I badly want to get it over and done with!
Amazing girlfriend drops me off and parks the car in some far far away carpark. The number 230 is stamped on my arm by the friendly volunteers and I walk to the transition area to prepare my bike and run gear. The atmosphere is alike a fish market. There are 939 bikes here. Mine is probably the 3rd or 4th cheapest. I separate my bike and run gear into two plastic bags and pump up the rear tyre. Ok done.
Now for the front…a quick feel and I panic...it’s flat! I bring it to the mechanic at one end and he opens up tyre. ‘Your rim lining is worn out. Even if I change the inner tubing it will still puncture. Do you have a spare lining?’
‘I actually do but it is at home,’ I wanted to say. What I actually said was ‘Oh shit!’
The cool mechanic told me to go to the bike booth to see if I could buy one. I ran…before they sealed off the transition area in 20 mins. High pre-dawn drama at ECP! Heart rate goes up!
The blokes at the booth were very helpful. It took a while to find the rim lining (rim tape is the proper term) and they installed it for me. My wallet was in my amazing girlfriend’s car and all they said was ‘no issue, you can pay us later.’ They wanted to change the inner tubing for me but I had to rush back into the transition area. The cool mechanic there finished off the job and saved me my $1435 race! I thanked him and all he said was ‘Remember? Murphy’s law…’
Well, thanks to Murphy’s Law, I had my warm-up and which triggered a big urge to let out some major poop. After queuing for five long minutes, I had my dump.
I exited the loo just in time to see the Elite wave shoot off at 7.10am. My wave (30 to 34 year olds) was at 7.40 and I had time to see the pros dash past for the outer swim loop. Before my wave, I managed a little splash around and was surprised to find the water pleasantly warm!
7.40 arrived quicker today and so it begins!
Part 1: Swim! (50min 43s)
30-34yr old Wave Starts!
Mess of Bodies
Jellyfish Victim
Me finishing the 1st Loop after 24min
Up the beach!
Hmmm…swimming in the sea, here are some learning points:
- Swimmers in the pool are swimmers. Triathletes in the sea are barbarians. Slow coaches (like me) get swum over.
- All swimmers in a public pool swim in their lanes. Here all 107 barbarians and 19 barbies in my wave converge on a the pink turning buoy just 100m from the start. There is a traffic-jam-cum-threadwater-wrestling match at the buoy till you make the corner and then life becomes a bit more normal.
- You can see where you are going in a clean public pool. In the sea, where the next buoy is 350m away, you see nothing even though it’s pink. It’s probably my eyesight and goggles. Well, just follow the blue swim caps. When yellow caps appear, it means that the next wave has caught up with you!
- There are no jellyfish in swimming pools. OUCH! Kena stung on my right ear and shoulder. Had to slow down to check that I wasn’t going to die. Darn, it’s just pain, no breathing difficulties, so I can’t call it quits. The shoulder pain was gone by the bike leg. My ear was numb for more than a day!
- Why must there be currents in the sea? It’s taking me forever to swim west? (Which theoretically means I have the advantage eastbound.)
- All that crap about finding a constant rhythm and singing a song in your head goes out of the window. It’s too big a mess here to do that. You’re trying your best to chart your path and not get kicked in the face.
- Waves do not exist in a pool. Out here sometimes a wave crashes into your face and you swallow green water.
- In a pool, you just swim. Here you swim, get out of the water, run up the beach, round a bend, get back into the water and then swim an outer loop.
- Obviously, you do not kick off any walls in the sea for that extra boost. That’s why we kick off bodies! Ha ha!
- 38 laps of monotony is certainly not a problem in the sea.
I came out of the water only after 50 min 43s! Almost 7 mins later than my swimming pool time! So much for realistic training!
Transition 1 (4min 2s)
It was about a hundred metres from the water’s edge to the bike start. Throw in time for putting on my socks, cycling shoes, number belt, sunglasses, helmet, cycling jersey, gloves, a quick swig of water, a swipe of the towel , unracking the bike and I am out of transition in 4 min 2s! How the pros do it in 1 mins 11s?
Well, they don’t use gloves and their tri-suits replaced the need for a cycling jersey. Their cycling shoes are attached to the pedals and they put them on only during the ride. I don’t think they drink any water or wipe their faces in the transition area either. Points for me to think about.
Part 2: Bike! (2hr 56min 42s)  I need to Pee!
Coming in for the run!
For me, the hardest part of the bike segment was battling the need to pee. Perhaps I was overhydrated. I was drinking like a fish and all that water seemed to flow down south. After the first 15km, I soon learnt that cycling with a compressed bladder that was expanding every few minutes is seriously no fun. It’s painful and slows you down. My right inner thigh started to feel numb. I wondered why there were no toilets along the expressway. I mean, it’s an expressway, don’t people need to stop and pee? Damn…doesn’t anyone else need to pee?
Perhaps they did it on the fly? I was desperate enough to try. I soon concluded that it was impossible to pee in any normal riding position…
Well, at the 20km mark, I gave up, pulled up, hopped over the barrier, deposited about a litre of pee and carried on at a much faster pace. You get a red card for drafting. I wonder if there was one for peeing on the PIE. 3 red cards and you’re out. Well, no officials stopped me. *You do get yellow cards for minor offences. A red card means a 5 minute penality time out immediately after the bike leg.
Cycling up Benjamin Shears bridge was alright, you just got to drop gear, spin the crank and be patient. You come back down at dizzying speeds so I guess it compensates for any loss of time. Now and then you get overtaken by some cyclist going at some ridiculous speed wearing some very space-age looking helmet. Must be one of the pros…
As I was to embark on my second lap, the need to pee struck again. By this time I had memorised all ideal peeing spots along the 30km route and quickly relieved myself among the dense vegetation under the Fort Road flyover. By now, there was no hesitation and the whole dismounting-peeing-mounting process took about 20 seconds.
Half the time, we were cycling against the traffic flow. The wind created by the oncoming traffic coupled with the existing headwinds on a raised exposed expressway made cycling a struggle at times. Again the winds were blowing to the east. That kind of justified the 20,000 dollar streamlined bikes and sleek helmets.
I saw at least 20 people stopping to attend to their bikes. The dejected were pushing, obviously having given up on the race. Then, I had yet to know about the thumb tacks sabotage but I was extremely fortunate not to have any punctures especially when I had already expended my spare tube even before the start of the race. There were lots of sand and debris on the road near the IR section where most riders flouted the ‘Keep Left’ rule and cycled on the cleanest part of the lane. When there are so many cyclists going at such speeds, most of us where on high alert to avoid a crash. A brush with tyres, jettisoned waterbottles or fallen cone markers could send your chin into the tar or cause a bicycle pile up. It felt rather F1-ish overtaking others and then falling back in line!
One guy was on a mountain bike. He must either be very strong or very very strong. Two physically challenged athletes were on wheelchair bicycles, pedalling with their hands (They took about 4 hours to complete 90km). They had three to four outriders to escort them all the way.
The amazing girlfriend was at the end of the bike lap to video and photograph me coming in. I took longer than expected to finish the bike segment – 2hr 56min 42s. It could be the longer than usual swim, headwinds, bursting bladder or on hindsight, the lack of traffic lights where I could take a short rest!
The important thing was that I was still within sight of my 6 hour target and I was feeling strong for the run!
Transition 2 (2min 40s)
Dismounted, ran the bike into the transition area, racked the bike, took off the helmet, changed shoes (contemplated changing socks but didn’t), unzipped the jersey, put on a singlet and glasses, removed gloves, turned the number tag to face the front, a swig of water, another of 100 Plus, picked up my 2 remaining powergels and took off! Yippee! Last stage here I come!
Part 3: Run Run Run!!! (2hr 2min 38s)
Heading from station to station!
The Metronome Hamster!
Three laps of 7km! Just 2hr 5 min to do this! Under normal circumstances, this should go as planned. If fact things were better than the ‘normal circumstances’. It was cloudy, there were well-stocked aid stations every 1.5km along the route, my legs felt fine and I had two powergels with me! This is going to be close, but with a disciplined pace, it should go. I was confident enough to queue for a pee just after I exited the transition area (actually I didn’t have a choice, high tide once again). This might have taken a minute and a half.
The first 7km went by easily. I stopped and drank at every aid station because it is difficult to do so while running. Most of the contents just get spilled over. The icy sponges took some getting used to. I feared that they might induce a cramp but they didn’t. I am glad I didn’t change socks as they would be dripping after the first sponge. Only one aid station handed out powergels and we were allocated two each for the entire run and it was up to our integrity to take only two.
Resisting the temptation to accelerate, the second lap went by steadily (even with another toilet break!) till around the 12km mark when the sun started to break through the clouds… So one final hour for 9km under a blazing mid-day sun…meeting the 6 hour deadline has just got a wee bit hairy!
I guess this is where having a watch (my dad’s) comes in really handy. I tried to get a simple stopwatch on Freecycle but there were no givers. It was a fine balance between careful pacing, deciding when to eat my last powergel, stopping for just long enough to hydrate, peeing one more bloody time (5 pees in the whole race), reviving my senses with the sponges, nibbling a banana before throwing the rest away or zonking out. The signs of heat exhaustion were creeping in but I have the organisers to thank. One aid station short and I might have stopped and walked.
For the last 4km, I had approximately 25 minutes left. There were also more trees at this end so things were finally looking up! Plodding on treadmill-metronome-hamster-style, I readied myself for a slight acceleration to the last aid station for a last cup of water before the final 1km charge down to the finishing funnel. Grunting something I didn’t understand each time I exhaled, I drew a few stares but this is the moment where nothing really matters. I was finishing strong and it was such a great feeling! As with the previous lap, I spotted the amazing girlfriend 20 metres from the finishing line and stopped to give her another little peck before finishing the run in 2hr 2min 38s, ending the finale of this 3 month project at 5 hr 56min 47s.
Thanks for the support Jennie!
Jennie, a really swell buddy of mine was at the finishing line to congratulate me. She called me an ‘ironman’. I said ‘I am feeling more like a toufu-man at this moment.’
 Toufuman & The Amazing Girlfriend!
End Notes.
- The last guy came in at 8hr 53 min. He must have been well baked for at least 3.5 hours. That deserves a separate medal.
- Age is just a number and ageing just a way of life.
Men’s Age Group Number of Athletes 18 – 24 47 25 – 29 53 30 – 34 106 35 – 39 186 40 – 44 145 45 – 49 63 50 – 54 33 55 – 59 10 60 – 64 5 65 – 69 4 (the oldest guy is 69)
- Every second does count. If I had come in one minute earlier, I would have shot up 5 places in the overall rankings from 265 to 260 out of the 675 athletes who completed the race.
- If I want to improve on my timing I will have to get my freestyle right. My transition time could also do with some streamlining. Bike-wise, I should have done training rides longer than 90km. My water bottles were also in bad position. Reaching for them slowed down my ride. I’ll consider taping the powergels to the frame next time instead of using the bento box. The number of spokes does make a difference. A larger pedal may save some leg energy for the run and make the transfer of energy from the legs to the wheels more efficient. Of course, I will bring a spare tube in future.
- Considering that there were 25-30 punctures, I consider myself lucky to escape unscathe considering that my front tyre is really old and worn. I owe this good race to the friendly and professional folks at The Bike Boutique.
- Having been through 3 months of training and spending so much money, I can really sympathise with the victims of the thumb tack sabotage. I hope we can catch the culprits and punish them with a half ironman routine.
- It is, in many ways a race of integrity and for the vast majority, a race against ourselves. Most of us do not cut corners at the buoys, draft intentionally, block the faster cyclists, litter, take more than our share of powergels much less drop thumb tacks along the way.
- Now the seed for the full Ironman is deeply planted…hmmm Dec 5 2009 Western Oz?
Above article appeared on 2/9/2008 courtesy of Siew Huan, whom I met at Adam's Road Hawker Centre to Travel Yak. Thanks for the effort Siew Huan! Aaahh! Last entry for South America! Losing steam to write… Mazy, haphazard (and in some cases hazardous) housing, steep staircases, artistic street murals, viewpoints aplenty, dodgy neighbourhoods, ancient funiculars, busy pub scene, fresh seafood, Pablo Neruda…that’s the charming city of Valparaiso where long queues of truckers honk their way into the container port. Coming in from 3600m in La Paz to sea level, I was expecting warmth and sunshine but we were well into winter, and with it the gloom, wind, rain and cold. Not quite the ending I had in mind for my 5 month trip. Fortunately, thanks to a friendly personality laced with a little thick-skinnedness, I managed to arrange a home-stay with Chilean doctor, Sebastian and his anthropology undergrad girlfriend, Valeria. I met the pair on the 19th of February in Llanada Grande before taking the Navimag ferry to the south of Chile. True to his word, Sebastian responded immediately to my email, giving precise information and directions to Valparaiso and he even went to the bus terminal to meet me when I arrived at 9pm. Sebastian is one of the few people I have met who exudes an aura of serenity. Much of it comes from the gentleness of his voice, unhurried speech and subtle humour, much of it is directed at the medical profession and the corruption in the government. Choosing to work only 4 days a week, the GP spends his week nights studying acupuncture, traditional Chinese medicine and his Saturday mornings with a volunteer group wrecking their brains for strategies to improve the conditions in a rougher part of Valparaiso. Valeria has just quit her university despite just being one year away from graduation. The administrators, in their incapacity and inability to pay are driving the good teachers away and the university has failed miserably in the education system’s quality standards of sorts. Where the reputation of the university alone secures jobs, Valeria feels that she wouldn’t be able to find a good job even if she graduates so she might as well save the money and find a part-time job in a nearby casino till she gets herself into a better university. To fill the extra time, she does contemporary dance and is taking a course in physiotherapy. In a rare moment of anguish at a pub serving a hundred or so varieties of beer from around the world , Valeria sadly reveals that she feels nothing but disappointment for her country. Both Sebastian and Valeria would like to work overseas if given the opportunity. Most of my happiest moments in Valparaiso was spent in the house with my kind and intelligent hosts chatting about our travels, government, the gap between our societies, Chinese culture and medicine, the benefits of smoking home-grown marijuana, cooking some decent fish, beef stew and pasta, sipping tea and reading in my room which had a awesome view of the town below. The couple have two lovely young cats, Cyan and Lulu who provided all the laughs with their crazy antics. Out of home experiences included visits to the pubs (where I had a second go at chocolate beer and Puerto, the local beer), an excellent vegetarian restaurant, a popular seafood joint where I had my last shellfish soup and a walk through one of the arty districts of Valparaiso. Cinzano is THE tango pub. Great mix of local and international crowd, musicians old enough to be your great-grandfathers, 3 veteran singers, a local crowd that knows all the lyrics, excellent food and drinks, impeccable service, a cosy atmosphere…perfect night out. I was alone but spent most of the night at the bar talking to a Chilean film-maker and his Spanish-Chilean girlfriend who drove here from Santiago for the weekend. Taking the taxi back was the logical choice given Valparaiso’s reputation even though it would take just over 10 minutes to walk back to the house. Sebastian and Valeria were in a semi-stoned state when I got back and offered me a joint. Somehow, despite being better educated about the weed-herb and after 2 piso-saurs and 2 glasses of red wine and a great night out I managed to refuse the home-grown offer, which will be free from all the chemicals that the street pushers put in. Pablo Neruda, the Nobel Prize winning poet has an interesting 3 storey house with amazing views of Valparaiso. Definitely worth a visit though photography in the house is not permitted. One evening, I visited Erika and her family, whom I met on Chiloe Island in mid-February. It was a good insight at the family dynamics of a Chilean middle-class family. Erika’s daughter became a mother before she graduated and is working nights in a restaurant to earn some extra cash during her holidays. Her husband is smart but not determined enough to pull through university. This naturally creates some tension which she openly shares with me about over a cigarette and a few expletives. Fortunately, having lived in the States, her English is really fluent and that hopefully will open some good job opportunities in the tourism or translation business. Erika’s eldest son has brought home his female friend from school. Erika doesn’t know what this will lead to but is happy that he chose to bring her to their house rather than ‘who knows, somewhere else’. She is nice enough to help his son score some points by tidying up his room before he returned with his schoolmate. Her youngest son is football crazy, the top scorer in his junior league and a computer gaming buff. All her children are well disciplined, allocated certain tasks at home and share a deep respect for their mother. Erika and her husband have worked hard in US hotels and car garages to save up enough money to buy their house in the suburbs of Valparaiso. Erika cleans the houses of the rich in the day and is thinking of taking up a second job with an expatriate that has just moved in. Besides the household chores and granny duties, she dances at the local tango and salsa clubs with her friends on weekends. One quiet Sunday afternoon, I was walking along Avenue Alemenia when a huge pile of bird shit landed on my head and splattered its way down my back. I looked up, saw nothing of the culprit bird and proceeded to take off my day-pack and jacket to wipe of the mushy brownish gunk. A guy behind me in a black jacket was also wiping off some of the same stuff that landed on him. He offered me some toilet paper and motioned me to take off my jacket while I was cleaning my bag. He held my jacket for a while and returned it to me when I was done with the bag, saying something about ‘aqua’ (water) before walking off. While cleaning my jacket, I found out too late that my wallet which was in the front zipper pocket was nipped. The smooth criminal had long disappeared into the maze of streets ahead and I was too distracted to recognise his face. The ‘bird shit’ upon closer inspection smelled like crushed Marie biscuits mixed with water. I, after almost 5 months of hassle-free travel have fallen victim to Chile’s informal redistribution of wealth. Instead of anger, I felt admiration for this professional pick-pocket who must have observed me from a distance, located my wallet from the bulge in my sweater and executed the creative diversion with such confidence and conviction that I didn’t know what hit me till he was long gone. It was a S$250 lesson and I wished I had spent more at Cinzano the night before. At least I had the wisdom to leave all my cards and passport in the room so I could still withdraw cash from the ATM. The thief was also kind enough to leave me my handphone which was in the same pocket. And if it happened in the beginning of the trip, I would definitely have more money in the wallet. Sebastian felt really bad about the incident and apologised for the unpleasant incident. I guess he felt a little ashamed of his fellow countrymen. S$250 was a ‘losable’ sum to me but to Sebastian, it was worth more than half a month’s rental. It wasn’t the perfect ending for a 5 month long vacation but all in all a good tale to tell when I get home. Considering that it was the only ‘bad thing’ that happened to me, my luck must still be on the higher end of the scale! The man from Inca Land Tours was waiting for me at the airport. That was really kind of the agency to send their agent, saving me the hassle placing my camera as a deposit. He had been waiting there for 3 hours due to the plane delays! We got into a cab and I paid the 30Bs charge to Hotel Colonial to dump my stuff before clearing my debts at an ATM across the road. It was a huge relief to have enough money on hand once again! My random wanderings in La Paz took me to the Residencia Presidencial, where the guards motioned me to walk on the other side of the road. The ugly green fortress was located right at the bottom of the canyon opposite an army camp. It has an unobstructed view of Illampu, the fourth highest mountain in Bolivia at 6368m. In this part of town, the street market give way to electronic marts, fancy cafes and restaurants. There was a long queue that went around the police station. I revisited the Witches Market to photograph the gruesome Llama foetuses which came either stuffed or sun-dried. There was also a whole range of magic potions, incense sticks, beaded necklaces and amulets to solve all the problems of humanity here. Many of the potions were targeted at the personal finance department. Customised charms are also available, with one ingredient being the dried starfish. The black magic ladies here have learnt that being friendly to tourists may help boost some of their souvenir talisman sales so contrary to the warnings in the guidebooks, there were no issues with my photography. The ladies at the La Paz Tourist Information centre speak English fluently and did a great job at answering all my queries about stuff that I had seen on the streets but did not understand. She told me that one of the reasons why the shoe-shiners wore ski masks was because they were university students working by day and studying by night. It costs only 1Bs for a shine. They didn’t want their classmates to know how they were earning the extra income. Two days were spent exploring the maze of brick dwellings that make La Paz so unique. I felt really safe up here and the views are stunning! At night, the canyon resembles a terrestrial constellation. There are many buses heading up and down the windy streets and at 1Bs a ride, I could afford to hop on and off whenever I spotted a potential viewpoint. Some shots were taken from the balcony of private houses. I rang the bell and was allowed in most of the time. Navigation was also a breeze, just head downhill and you’ll hit the main tourist drag. The ubiquitous street markets were also worth revisiting, the kind of place where you’ll chance upon something new (like a basin full of cow brains!) if you walk slowly and keep your eyes roving. See photos. Bought a Colgate toothbrush for 5Bs. The brand-less ones costs only 2Bs. That a chino could be so engrossed in the process of photographing the simple but ingenious orange peeler amused the vendor and several locals. The girl couldn’t stop giggling and offered me a second cup of juice for free. Other snacks included fried llama intestines with potatoes, deep fried fatty pork and Perryjerry, a deliciously sweet and soft white fish. On the last morning, the helpful boy from Hotel Colonial walked me across the road and flagged down the Aeropuerto-bound mini-bus which at 7Bs is a steal compared to the 60Bs taxi. I wasted my last Bolivianos on a BK burger while waiting for the plane. There was free wifi at the airport and I could do some MSNing before my flight to Santiago. One guy on the plane had ‘2 + 2 = 5’ on his T-shirt. It cracked me up and is also the name of a Radiohead song. For busses, the real Death Road began immediately north of Coroico where the single lane becomes unpaved and wriggles down the valley from 2500 to 200 metres above sea-level. I couldn’t see the edge of the road from my window, only the vertical drop so severe that mental scenes of 45 bodies being bounced and broken as the bus tumbled and crumpled where hard to shut out. In some spots, parts of the road were already lost to erosion making the squeeze-through even more hair-raising. Scarier were actually the reverses done on these precarious stretches when vehicles met head on. The many sharp bends meant that our driver couldn’t speed. It also meant a 15 hour journey on a road bad enough to rattle you awake. We took comfort in the fact that the death factor went down with the elevation.
At the dinner stop, where a BBQ chicken and beef on rice almost made up for the trials of the journey, I met Sam and her boyfriend. To save some precious Bolivianos, the couple from UK decided to tackle the Death Road on the open back of a truck! After 2 dust-encrusted hours, they left the hardy locals to their exclusive means of transport and hopped on the tourist bus instead! And they were lucky to get a seat right at the back with me. We got to humid Rurre (local short form) at about 5am, convinced that the 45 minute plane-ride back to La Paz, at 6 times the cost was certainly well-worth the money.
True backpacker-adrenalin-pumping-problem-solving adventure began quickly enough after a restful nap (the type without alarms) when the lady at the airline office found out that my credit card had expired a week ago. Well no worries, I’ll just draw wads of cash from the ATM whose existence was pre-confirmed by the owner of a café-travel agency in Coroico. Well worries this time because she was wrong (and my 2005 guidebook was right), stone-age Rurre had no ATM. They had a bank which gave cash advances for unexpired credit cards though at 5.3% commission. This expiry date on credit cards really do work…where was my electronic glitch when I needed one?
Fortunately I had about 110USD of emergency money and a 2 hour window to get it changed at the bank (Podem but locals pronounce it as ‘Problem’) before it closed for the weekend. Rurre was also thankfully tiny with everything essential within a 5 to 10 minute stroll of each other.
The next task was to get myself on the jungle and pampas (wetlands) tours on credit. Thankfully, this one went down really easy otherwise my long trip to this part of Bolivia would be wasted. Tour companies, Chalalan and Inca Land signed me up on their 3D2N tours and Inca even paid for my air ticket back to La Paz. All they requested was a photocopy of my passport and for Inca Land, to hold my camera ransom (after the tour) till I paid up in La Paz. The camera would be on the same plane in a delivery box and sent to their head office. Chalalan didn’t seem worried at all despite the $USD312 price-tag of their tour! I would like to believe that their generous trust was in me rather than their immigration authorities.
$300USD was a splurge but Chalalan had a quite a few advantages over the other operators.
1) They are the longest running (since 1995) community-runned eco-tourism company. 2) Small groups, only 4 in mine (1 Canadian, 1 Aussie, 1 Swiss). 3) English-speaking guides and all Chalalan staff are from the community village. 4) Only ones with their lodge within Madidi National Park 5) Highly recommended by the guidebooks 6) Good meals 7) 50% of the $ we pay goes back to the community (living in a village 3 hours upstream from the lodge) and the other half to the eco-lodge. 8) Lakeside location of the eco-lodge
Nicole and Steve, whom I met in Potosi and Sucre, had gone on a 4D3N tour with San Miguel and enjoyed themselves tremendously, paying $75USD per day. The only setback was that the enthusiasm so found in their guide was somewhat missing in their translator. All in all, I would be glad to pay more for someone with the linguistic key to the many wonders of the Bolivian Amazon. Otherwise, I would have travelled too many hours just to see the jungle would the usual mess of green.
Just 15 minutes into the 5 hour boat ride upstream to Chalalan eco-lodge, we had our first wildlife encounter, a fairly large river snake minding its own business on the sandy bank. In a truly eco-friendly manner, the boatman catapulted it back into the water with his stick so that we could see it swim. I was beginning to doubt Chalalan’s credentials. Other sightings along the river were several birds but only a fraction of the whopping 1000 species found here!
We had to de-boat on a particularly shallow stretch and wait on the pebble beach where we were devoured by vicious sand-flies. These monsters are so tiny but their painful bites draw blood and leave stubborn scars and an uncontrollable itch that lasts for hours. One got me right in the centre of my palm.
The lodge which is an easy 20 minute walk from the river is relaxation heaven - great lake surrounded by thick lush vegetation and some really tall palm trees, only natural sounds, only 3 other tourists, widely spaced luxurious accommodations made from natural materials, no mozzies, friendly staff, solar-powered lighting, excellent meals, deck chairs, hammocks, grapefruit bombs hitting earth now and then, unlimited coffee, tea and hot chocolate, canoes, cold but clean showers etc.
Swimming in the cool black croc-less lake brought back great memories of Ratanakiri in northern Laos till the sand-flies homed in on my face. Wilfredo, our guide also failed to tell me that there was a 4m caiman (croc-like creature with a supposedly milder appetite for human limbs) somewhere in the lake…
Forest Gems (courtesy of Wilfredo)
Evening Lake Canoe 1) Vegetarian birds. These large ugly blue-faced birds grunt like wild pigs and stay in groups by the sides of the lake. Hunted by the black hawks and unable to fly long distances (due to their vegetarian diet), they take cover beneath the undergrowth. 2) Squirrel monkeys. Small fellas but moving up in the trees in numbers of up to 150. Again prey to the black hawk but have developed a security agreement with the Red Howler monkeys who howl a warning when their predator appears. They in turn help to forage on the forest floor for the larger howlers who dwell mainly at the tree tops. The Squirrels do not climb up with food offerings but are ‘bullied’ with food extortions by the Howlers. 3) Macaws. Flying mostly in pairs, sometimes in threes. Loud distinctive throaty call.
Night Hike 1) Weird pale brown frogs suspended in a stream. They park themselves by branches and remain motionless till their prey drops in or swims by. 2) Night termites sounding off warnings (of our approach) by hammering their heads against the twigs on the ground. In the silence, we could hear the head-banging which shows how hard their exo-skeletons are. 3) Tarantula sighting. The black juvenile was the size of my hand! Our guide had on sat on his chest when he was working on his farm. It developed into a horrendous 3-day itch. Wilfredo knew the fella was home from the insect carcasses outside his nest and lured it out with a twig. We kept very still when told that the spider detected where we were from the ground vibrations. 4) Baby caiman. Yup the oversized gecko actually crept within a metre from us. 5) Wild pig which only the guide saw.
Day Hike 1) Garlic Tree. It lives up to its name and you don’t even need to break off a piece of bark to smell it. Good tree to camp under as the forest creatures find it too overpowering! 2) Walking Tree. The limbs are actually a buttress of stilt roots which moves (over time of course) to straighten the trunk as it bends towards the sunlight coming through the gaps in the jungle canopy. 3) Chewing Gum Tree. Easily identified by the red roots. The sap is chewable. 4) Fishing Vine. Before the time of rods and nets, streams were laced with the poisonous sap from this vine and all that was needed was to wait for the fish to die and float to the surface! Remove the innards and they are good to eat! 5) Leaf Cutter Ants. With a nest that is 8m in diameter and 5m deep, it is hard not to be impressed! Their four-inch wide highway on the forest floor is swept clean by the constant current of ants carrying the bits of green leaves that have been stripped from the unfortunate tree. No other insects or animals dare get in the way of these fellas who look like they are riding an invisible wind on tiny green sails! The leaf bits go into the nest as the base for the ant’s fungi cultivation! 6) Hunter Ant. This inch long monster, hunts other ants with a major set of jaws and venom strong enough to give a human 24 hours of pain. Wilfredo from experience, says the cool blade of a knife on the bite will ease the searing pain. It’s a good thing they don’t come in the same numbers as the Leaf Cutter’s do. 7) Termites Nest. These mud nests which are attached to tree trunks are shaped like an inverted teardrop to shed rainwater. 8) Howler Monkeys. Big red fellas with thick tails. Saw about 6 of them, males, females and a baby. Unfortunately, they don’t howl when you are near. 9) Wild Pigs. Didn’t see or smell them but tracking them guerrilla-style was great fun. Wilfredo told us about how once they encountered 200 of them foraging. The pigs did not detect them because they were always looking at the forest floor while Wilfredo and gang were on a small mound.
Night Canoe 1) Caimans. They have devilish orange eyes. 2) 2 Tree Boas. Wilfedo says that it is rare to find two of them in the same tree. 3) 1 small green frog 4) Lots of small bats zipping over the lake.
Wilfredo told us about how the indigenous people interpret their dreams. A dream of thirst meant impending illness while one involving many people meant that he would encounter many animals in the forest the next day. Pachamama or the Earth Mother is the dream oic and you are supposed to pray your requests to her before you sleep.
About 2000 people live in Madidi National Park, hunting, farming and foraging in agreed boundaries around their villages and there were some problems when a logging company tried pay some villagers to extract the valuable mahogany from their land. The development of the road that links Rurre to La Paz brought more tourists to Madidi but reduced Rurre’s dependence on these villages for food and forest supplies. Poaching has also become a problem especially with only 34 poorly paid rangers to police, maintain and administer the whole park.
The next morning it rained so hard that we were confined to the lodge though two British girls deemed the weather conditions perfect for a swim in the lake. I left in the early afternoon after lunch while the rest stayed for one more day.
The Pampas! (Amazonian Wetlands)
More tourists visit the Pampas where the bank-side concentration of wild-life is more visible hence bumping up the entrance fees from 30 to 150Bs within a year!
I signed up with Inca Land Tours for this trip but ended up with a group with Indigenous Tours. Seems like all the budget agencies co-operate to fill jeeps and pampas camps so it doesn’t really matter which company you sign up with! Flecha Tours caters for the predominant Israeli crowd, so most tourists avoid that one. Customer reviews of the various companies can be found on a board in the information centre.
Most of the action is concentrated along the muddy river banks. All you need to do is to remain seated in the boat and remain calm as the boat cruises past 2m long crocs that eyeball you with enough indifference to stir up some worry. The crocs are territorial and the weaker are forever marked with bits of missing tail. Drama happened early when a biggie leaped from the bank and dived under our boat. We were less than 2m from him! Naturally there were screams of terror followed by a violent rocking of the boat.
Pampas Sightings 1) Crocs. Many many crocs. No alligators though. 2) At least 16 different kinds of birds. 3) Up close with the little Squirrel Monkeys. 4) Capybaras which are giant guinea pigs. 5) Turtles, always sunbathing. 6) Piranhas. 7) Pink Dolphins. 8) Anacondas. Saw two of them. 9) Fireflies 10) Sloth. Saw this guy ‘racing’ up a tree on our way to the Pampas.
Our basic jungle hideaway is perched high on the riverbank. It is surprising clean and comfortable despite the heavy tourist traffic. The lounging area is a large circular open hut with 12 hammocks radiating from the central pillar. We spent most of our free time lazing and sharing jokes and stories in them. Fortunately for us, the mozzies have left for the season sparing us the hundreds of bites this area is notorious for. Next to this is the dining hall where we were served pretty decent meals. The other group got to cook the piranhas they fished. Not exactly the most eco-friendly thing to do. But there are heaps of them in the river…
Topping the Pampas experience chart is the swim with the pink dolphins. Sharing the same muddy river as the crocs and meat-chomping piranhas, we leap from the boat on the good natural faith that the dolphins would protect us from these unpleasant jaws. The 6 or 7 dolphins gave us a wide berth when there were too many of us making too much noise (especially after someone spotted a croc) in the water. After having warmed up, they began circling and diving below us, brushing our legs with their tails as they went past. What followed was a well appreciated display of twirling bodies, belly flips (they are really pink on the underside), head and tail raises.
On the second day, we walked away from the river into the marshes to look for the anaconda. After a hot hour in this tree-less landscape, we were instructed to spread out to comb the grass for the mother of all snakes! ‘Maybe we will find a cobra too’ our guide told us later. We did eventually find two anacondas. One was a baby just over a metre long. The other ‘juvenile’ was just less than two metres! Anacondas are black with a yellow underbelly and dangerous part of the snake is the tip of its tail which could easily go around your neck and strangle you. With its head clamped in one hand and tail in another, the snake went from one tourist to the next till it panicked and defecated. The resultant stink didn’t deter that many tourists. It wasn’t the most eco-friendly thing to do but where do we draw the line? Only the guide is ‘authorised’ to pick up the snake since he wouldn’t have any chemicals from the insect repellent on him. Should the snake be even lifted off the ground? In the bog, it would be impossible to see the bugger if it didn’t involve some kind of temporary capture. I guess if you are willing to come for this Pampas tour, you would have to live with these travesties of nature.
Piranha fishing is the other debatable issue. It does provide a thrill and the river is teeming with fish. We threw the fish back after puncturing its mouth and photographing our prize. By the time I caught my first (and only piranha), our guide had hooked nine! Pieces of raw beef were used as bait.
All in all, the trip to the Pampas was still a great one! Never seen so much wildlife in such a short time!
Back in Rurre…
My flight was delayed for one and a half days due to rain. The landing strip in Rurre is multifunctional – you can land aeroplanes and graze cattle, but not at the same time. The cowherd had to shoo off his cows 10 minutes before the plane arrived. When the weather was fine over here, it was snowing in La Paz so no planes could take off from there. Fortunately I had factored in some buffer time between this flight and the next one out of Bolivia into Santiago.
The flight delays were causing a fair bit of excitement and frustration in Rurre. Those in a hurry had to take the dreaded bus ride back or a more expensive 12 hour boat-ride upriver to connect with another 8 hour bus. Roads were getting muddy and even more dangerous! Private 4WDs were up for hire at exorbitant prices. We had to report at the airline office every three hours to get the latest flight schedules! The classic answer was ‘We don’t know, maybe today, maybe tomorrow!’
Fortunately there was the Euro 2008 to keep us entertained and the good coffee and sinful chocolate cakes of Pachamama café to tide us over. I finished my book, leafed through the Cuba guidebook, ate more beef and cow hearts from my favourite stalls, had a haircut and hung out with some fellow travellers before finally getting on that military plane to La Paz. It was still raining on that morning we flew and there were a few delays but we did get out of the jungle. Some Israelis were saying flight prayers before the propellers started turning. With the help of some friendly locals, I found the mini-van that would take me to the mountain getaway of Coroico. One place had a bus going at noon but the lady here directed me to another agency ‘dos quadras’ (2 blocks) down the street when I requested for an earlier departure. They are either really honest folk here in the neighbourhood of Villa Fatima or not that worried about filling their bus. My mini-van wasn’t leaving till 10.30am so I did a quick tour of the surrounding streets, managing to squeeze in two chicken saltenas (Bolivian empanadas/meat puffs), a bowl of soupy noodle-pasta and a glass of plum-flavoured water from the roadside stalls. To go with the saltenas are 6 or 7 different dips which you apply after each munch. At 11am, we were still circling Villa Fatima to fill the last seat. The locals (I was the only tourist on board) tried to get the driver going with humorous protests of ‘Vamos! (Let’s Go!)’ knowing very well who made such decisions in situations like these. 10 minutes later, we were on our way, out of the canyon into the Death Valley, so called due to the often fatal outcomes after vehicles crash on the narrow winding gravel track (simply called Death Road) and plunge down the almost vertical valley. There must have been enough deaths to motivate the government to build a proper road above this infamous one which is now solely for downhill mountain-biking, a 4 hour thrill some tourists are willing to pay 50 to 75USD for! Being in a small van on a wide and paved road, made the ride to Coroico less treacherous. To date, my benchmark for scary rides is the one from Naggar to the Sangla Valley in India. Perched on the side of a verdant flowering valley at 2500+m, Coroico is warmer and blanketed by forest mist in the morning. I check into a cheapo hostel on the small plaza where 15 Bs got me a room with 4 beds. A hot shower costs 5 Bs more! How low can you get! Fighting it out, I survived 3 cold-shower nights. The place to stay in Corico is at the Sol y Luna Hostel, a lovely jungle-garden set-up where I could camp for double the price of my room right in the centre of town. You had to pay to get away. I seriously considered lugging my pack 25 minutes uphill to camp here but the laid-back aura of Coroico got the better of me. Next time. Sol y Luna is really a small collection of unique huts and cottages linked by pathways in greenery thick enough to make you feel totally isolated from everyone and everything else. Because it is built into the steep valley-side, you get an expansive view of the distant snow-peaks and the forest below when the mist lifts. The German owners have all grounds covered with a children’s playground, 2 soaking pools, a Jacuzzi, shiatsu massage services, a good restaurant, book exchange and no internet access. Siao Wen and Xavier whom I met in Potosi and Sucre were staying here after completing the 3-day Chorro Trek from somewhere outside La Paz to Coroico. If I had known, I would have foregone Titicaca and joined them on the trek which went down from the desert alti-plato to the Yungas jungle. When fate bumps you into each other for the third time, you finally get the message and exchange email addresses. The friendly couple who met in Beijing are on a world tour and will be in Singapore some time later this year. I promise them a Still Road pepper crab if I am able to meet them at home. They got the best place in Sol y Luna, a wooden double-storey hut called Jatata with a design so open that there are no walls to deny them the misty morning view. We did a walk down the valley the next day, got lost, bashed through some vegetation and coca plantations, eaten alive by sand-flies, hiked up the other side of the valley, visited an African village (they were brought to Bolivia as slaves in the past), failed to find lunch, hiked down and took a cab back. Xavier dropped his Ray Bans and when he finally found them on the road, they were crumpled by a passing truck. Lesson to be learnt? Don’t buy expensive originals. Our recovery programme in Coroico had something to do with freshly squeezed orange juice, strong Yungas expressos, rich brownies, chicken-celery sandwiches and home-made ice cream! With enough day walks and bicycle rides to keep you busy for a week or so, Coroico is an easy place to get stuck in and I haven’t even got to the coconut trucha curry one restaurant was famous for! To get to Copacabana, the bus has to cross a narrow strait on a barge. It’s only a 3 minute ride but all the passengers had to de-bus and pay 1.50Bs for a separate boat across. You have to hand it to the local boatmen to make the most out of the human traffic. Copacabana was a welcome change after the bustle and bad air of La Paz. It’s basically a small peaceful town with one main street leading down to the bay area where there are more trucha (trout) stalls than tourists. I check into Alojamiento Aroma for a record-breaking 10Bs! My tiny room is on the roof and you can see part of the lake. I had my lunch at one of the lake-side trucha stalls where 18 Bs got me a good-sized fish on a bed of rice, chips and salad. 100m up in town, you pay double for pretty much the same thing. The trout here are supposedly one of the larger species in the world but the ones I had were nothing to rave about. The colossal church here is unique in design with the main entrance on the side, a pavilion housing 3 large crosses in the courtyard and a dungeon of an antechamber where candles are lit on metal tables. The depressing atmosphere is almost cult-like complete with blind beggars at the entrance and some saint at the far end under a pale fluorescent glow. Lined up next to the church are vehicles waiting to be blessed by the resident nuns. Decorated with flowers and doused with beer and petals, these cars, station-wagons and trucks are now protected from accidents and a perhaps certain level of drink-driving. Professional photographers are even hired for the ritual. In the evening, I make the breathless climb up the hill to watch the sunset over the lake. Copacabana turning pink was more captivating for me. Smaller lakes seem more attractive where you could make out the backdrop scenery. Here it was as if you were looking out into a calm sea. One local guy was dismantling his telescope. It was exactly what the tourists would need to see the peaks on the Peruvian side better. Dinner was a good fillet mignon and fresh orange juice at a small café where I watched the World Salsa Championships on TV. Australia won even though most of the pairs were from the States. My quiet time at this little café was obliterated by a hippie duo singing Spanish and African songs. They were pretty good and enthusiastic but only drummed, strummed and sung in the fortissimo range. I have encountered many dreadlocked hippies throughout Argentina and Bolivia selling beady jewellery on the streets. I like the feather earrings they make but lack the ear holes to put them in. I woke the next morning not to a stunning sunrise but to a room filled with exhaust fumes from a lorry at street level. Soon I was packed and ready for the hike down the promontory towards Isla de Sol where I was to stay the night. Why the Lonely Planet recommend this walk eludes me. It’s a hot dusty walk most of the way and when you have seen one farming village, you’ve seen them all. I think the quizzical looks from the locals on the very occasional bus that went by (and put more dust in my lungs) said the same. Still good things do come by when you needed it. A friendly Belgium family gave me a lift in their 4WD and got me over the steepest section of the walk. Skinhead dad was working in La Paz for some big finance company. They had lived in Peru for a few years before. His two young sons had an impressive arsenal of plastic guns in the back. Towards the end of the walk, I met Ted and Frederick who wisely took a cab for most of the way. Ted is Taiwanese-American living in New York and Frederick is Bolivian and working for a bank in La Paz. They met on the net and were travelling together for the weekend. We ended up sharing the row-boat to the island and having lunch together. Frederick tells me a little of the relaxed Bolivian way of life, politics and the Bolivian women’s amazing ability to keep those little hats on their heads. I always thought that they were pinned to their hair! Isla de Sol is heavily terraced and exposed. With no vehicles (or trees!) on the island, it is a quiet place to relax and enjoy the view of the Cordilleria range on the Bolivian side and the vast deep blue expanse of Titicaca on the other. Also on the hilly island are several ruins but they are mostly nothing more than waist-high walls of stones. There are two hostel clusters on the island and some farms in between. Animal husbandry seems to be the main activity and the hot hikes are shared with convoys of sheep going out to graze. Waste from pigs, donkeys and cows also ensure that a steady stream of untreated shit goes into the lake. Think twice before swimming in the deceptively inviting bays. I walk from one main hostel cluster to the next to catch the boat back to Copacabana. By now I had eaten about 5 or 6 trucha meals. The boat stops at another port on the island to pick up more tourists and the locals were quick to extract a small ‘tax’ from us even though we were stopping by only for an hour! Peru’s side of Titicaca would probably be more interesting especially with the floating totora reed islands around Puno. I wouldn’t recommend coming to Isla de Sol or Copacabana unless you are looking for a spot of silence. There is a festival here on the 21st of June where the locals walk through the ‘Sun Gate’ at sunrise marking the beginning of the new year or something like that. Despite being in various stages of dehydration and starvation, we released a universal ‘Wooooooh’ when the bus reached the rim and wound down the canyon-city of La Paz. Most of the steep slopes are under a maze of cement-and-brick flavela-like cubic dwellings which radiate from the small, rather drab but elite cluster of skyscrapers at the bottom of the canyon. Here in La Paz, social status plummets with elevation and there is a 400m difference between the extremes. Ironically, it is the unplastered bricks that gives this grand canyon its pinkish-red glow at sunset and at night a canyon full of lights almost makes up for the day’s eyesore. I check into an unnamed alojamiento near the main bus terminal for 25 Bs a day. The owner is still putting up the finishing touches to his cheap hostel and I have to walk up to the third floor for a hot shower. It’s back to 3660m once again so the nights, mornings and even shaded areas are chilly. Surviving Patagonia, Uyuni, La Paz and 5 months of travel with only one pair of track pants is sort of a travel record for me. For a capital, La Paz is still very cheap. Set meals at the comedores go for 15 Bs and 40 Bs at a fancy restaurant will fill you good. Internet is 2 Bs an hour but I have learnt to use those at the hostels for free. Freshly squeezed orange juice on the streets go for 2 Bs a glass and even a small tube of Tolberone is an affordable 7 Bs. The locals seem to love deep fried chicken and the Chinese run joints seem to be the most popular. No KFC though. Ubiquitous are the 3 Bs hotdog/hamburger stands and pirated CD/DVD stalls. There are also noticeably more beggars, mostly women with a child or two on the pavement. What attracts me most about La Paz is the strong street-stall and market culture, fuelled by the lack of supermarkets and convenience stores here (or anywhere in Bolivia)! Everything you need is somewhere on the streets or in the countless markets scattered all over La Paz. Given the steep geography, you wouldn’t want to walk too far to get your basic necessities. Most of the stalls aren’t even permanent, ranging from a mat on the ground, piles of products on a small table to a store frame which can be easily dismantled. Throw in the chaotic multi-directional streams of traffic, La Paz is indeed vibrant, noisy and alive! Any vehicle with a ‘taxi’ sticker on it is a taxi. A ‘trufi’ is a taxi that goes only to certain destinations picking up other passengers along the way. Micros are vans which operate like ‘trufis’. They always come with someone sticking out of the window hollering the destinations, routes and fares even though they are pasted on the windscreen. Finally there are the buses which function like big micros and spew clouds of black exhaust into the air. There are no bus or van numbers for that matter. With a backpack, you are better off just taking a taxi. Subways are impractical due to the steep slope and the underground river running through the canyon. Worthy of visits are the musical instruments museum and the contemporary arts museum which feature creative conceptual works by local artists. See photos. With only 3 more weeks left, it was time for some major decision-making. The first thing I had to do was to extend my visa which was a simple process compared to the visa application process in Salta. Just do some photocopying and pay 10 Bs for each extra day I wanted to spend in Bolivia. I had decided to forgo the desert landscapes of San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile and find a flight back to Santiago on the 20th of June. This would give me 3 days to spend in Valparaiso with Erika and Sebastian, Chilean friends I made months ago. When I last checked in Sucre, a one-way ticket had cost 450USD. It was now 494 to 525USD! I wasn’t sure if it was worth it so it was back to the original plan of a 30-something hour bus-ride from La Paz to Valparaiso via Arica. Like in Argentina, they strip-search Bolivian buses at the border for drugs adding hours to the journey. Fortunately, one travel agent managed to find a cheap two-way flight for 299USD which left on the 18th giving me two days less in Bolivia. Still, a four hour flight sounded more appealing than a one and a half day bus-ride and Valparaiso was a nice place to wind down the trip. I paid up and thanked the agent. That’s one major problem plugged the rest of the Bolivian itinerary could finally fall into place. The next dilemma was whether or not to climb Huayna Potosi, a 6088m peak near La Paz. An agency offered me the 3 day adventure for 90USD which was a fabulous deal for a mountaineering experience. However, the climb could only be done on the 6th of June when the group of 8 French and German tourists arrived. That gave me a week to kill which ate into the time designated for the jungle and pampas tours in Rurrenabaque. It didn’t help that this area was a 20 hour bus-ride north of La Paz. Even if I wanted to fly in to do the jungle first, it would be unwise to descend to 200m above sea-level and then attempt a 6000 odd metre snow-peak. Eventually, I decided to visit Lake Titicaca while I sorted out what exactly I wanted to do. It was a place I had originally intended to go and at 3800m, a good place to acclimatise. The temptation to push my vertical limit was strong especially at such a low cost. Alternatively, I could pay more and do the climb earlier but the agencies wanted 150USD for the same thing. That’s a lot more. I had underestimated the amount of time I needed in Bolivia. There’s heaps to do just around La Paz and an additional 2 weeks would be perfect. Sucre’s Bolivia’s constitutional capital. I suppose that means that all the major laws are passed here right in the impressive colonial courts built by the Spanish in the 16th Century. Like Potosi, it’s another UNESCO World Heritage Site and deservedly so with plenty of old streets, houses, churches and not a single metallic sky-scraper. The large plaza is particularly pleasant although I don’t understand why the base of all the palm trees have to be painted white. The 1300m drop in elevation makes Sucre easier on the lungs and warm enough to go around in shorts. I check into Alojamiento El Turistica, a run-down but clean hostel filled with more locals than tourists. My room had a hard mattress which I didn’t mind, good lighting, a desk and a power point to charge my electronic devices. That’s all I needed. For 25Bs, it was one block from the plaza and 1 minute from the market. I could live with the toilets which always smelled faintly of stale urine. Quite a few hours were spent in Joyride Café, mainly thanks to the free Wifi, great woody atmosphere, music, book exchange and great coffee. I made a mistake to order a garlic and herb trout here though. For 38Bs, what eventually came was more the size of an overgrown sardine. It was fresh and tasty but disappointingly tiny. Joyride is Dutch-owned and having made it to the book (LP) captures all the gringo traffic. Here, I met almost all the folks from the Koala Den in Potosi. A South African couple told me that Lex was in the hostel they were in, just the next block from mine, so it was easy to meet up with him once again. We have been travelling together for about 10 days and were of the same travelling frequency. He’s 26 and this is his first Big Trip (80 days). Even though he has lost 3 or 4 items already from belts to sweaters and got cheated by an Argentinean taxi driver on his first day in Buenos Aires, his Spanish is extraordinary after only having taken a 2-week course. The smart lad lives in Switzerland and is doing his Phd in Engineering, something to do with Colour Science. At 11pm at night, we make last minute arrangements with a taxi driver to bring us to the Maragua Crater the next morning. For 450Bs, we had the cab at our disposal for the whole day. We went back to the bar to find two more blokes to share the cost but none were too keen to wake up early the next day especially after being ‘hammered’ as the Brits say. After breakfast of deep fried bread and torajo (a thick corn drink) on the second level of the market, I met up with Lex to begin the day’s adventure. The market is also good for a huge variety of freshly squeezed or blended fruit juices either had with or without milk. We have been on tours in the past few days so it’s exciting to finally do some independent travelling. We could thank Wonderful Land Tours for giving us an insight into the murkiness of the tourist trade in Bolivia. Our driver was there but told us that he had driven all night and was too tired to do the job. So he got his ‘brother’ instead who was at the gas station filling up the cab. It was Mother’s Day in Bolivia which might be the actual reason why the original guy wouldn’t take the job. Considering that the average cab driver earns 800Bs a month, this guy gets full marks for being a filial son. Lex and I took things in stride and waited patiently for the replacement driver. Across the road, cake stalls were making a killing. The plain cream-covered cakes were quite a far cry from the fancy ones back home. Sucre’s air temperature prevented the cakes from melting even during short exposures in the sun. The new guy showed up and we drove to a gas station out of town to fill up his cab (?!). Meanwhile, we found out he didn’t know that it was going to be a whole day out. When asked about the cave paintings in the area, he said that we needed a guide to find them and offered to call his friend. His friend wanted 250Bs for his services but we felt that we could do without the paintings. So off we went 60km from Sucre to Chataquila Chapel to walk down an Inca trail to Chaunaca, a small village in the valley below. The landscape was a Jujuy-like jumble of colours, compact strata, faultlines and recumbent folds in the multi-layered rock but it was a quiet and relaxing walk down into the valley. Where was this Maragua Crater? We couldn’t see it and the driver didn’t seem to know where it was! During our break, Lex produced a sweet sour-sop and an extremely sour local fruit which he bought at the market. It took only an hour and a half to reach Chaunaca so we really took our time on this mini Inca trail. Lunch was had at a small eatery in a nearby village and for 9Bs, we had soup, a slice of roast beef, rice, salad and potatoes. We treated our driver who was actually quite a friendly guy, just a dodgy businessman. We found out that he was a trained dental technician but no one in Sucre has money to do their teeth so he switched to driving cabs. He’s 31 and already has 3 daughters. The free lunch seemed to jolt the location of the Maragua Crater back into our driver’s memory. We drove up to a viewpoint and it became immediately visible, a perfect green saucer smashed high up into the side of the valley. From below, we could only see one side of the crater and the crescent-shaped green ripples looked part of the weird valley geology. We agreed that it was better to view the crater from here than to drive closer to it. I suspect that was what the driver was trying to avoid doing. The large but shallow Maragua crater was formed by an asteroid not a volcano and standing at the viewpoint we could imagine the impact of the crash, levelling the valley top, exposing new rock and leaving the mysterious green ripples frozen in its wake. From our vantage point, there were signs pointing to the cave paintings that we ‘would never be able to find on our own’. Once more, our driver expanded his capabilities and could now guide us to the sites without the help of friend. We scrambled up the ridgeline where we got fabulous views of Sucre and the ‘Valley Zone’ of Bolivia (between the jungle and the antiplato) before a steep decent to the marked trail that led to the paintings. Lex had a 7pm bus to catch to La Paz so we didn’t make it to the paintings. Back in Sucre, I paid the driver his 450Bs and he had the cheek to demand an extra for his ‘guiding services’ up the ridge to the paintings. I refused but Lex was kinder and gave him a few notes. It wasn’t how I would like to end the day but still this was the sneaky local way of milking the tourist dollar. Sucre’s cemeterio is more welcoming than BA’s Recoletta. The rich and famous have their monumental mausoleums surrounded by more space than those in Recoletta. Those further down the social ladder have to make do with coffin shelves, five levels high. The dead are disturbed by hundreds of devices playing the same electronic classical tune to different tempos and pitches! The ones with weaker batteries play the out of tune versions! Quite a harrowing experience, even for the living. Taxi’s in Sucre are ridiculously cheap and safe, only 3.5 Bs anywhere in town! Taxi drivers sometimes come accompanied by their wives. Buses have their destinations plastered on the windscreen and costs only 1.5Bs. My overnight bus-ride from Sucre to La Paz turned out to be another insight into the chaotic side of Bolivia. Some demonstrators blocked the highway with large stones and there was nothing the drivers from the resultant vehicular pile-up could do. Worse than the 8 hour delay were the fires these people set to the clumps of dry clumps by the highway just to give all of us a hard time. On the buses In Bolivia, you should always have extra rations, water, toilet paper, a sleeping bag and a book onboard. Credit goes to the enterprising folk who rent bicycles and sell food at these blockades to make a fast buck! Five days in Potosi offered me two festivals. One was a religious holiday that started with a prayer-singsong ceremony in a large hall followed by a procession around the centre of town. The other involved sawing the throats of 6 live llamas outside the entrance of a silver mine, splashing their blood all over and finally BBQing the proud beasts. It’s not too difficult to guess which I one I found more fascinating. At 4060m, Potosi is the highest city in the world but nowhere as cold as Uyuni thanks to all the concrete, vehicles and a relatively windless environment (when I was there). A fair number of ancient buildings and 400 working mines (and the life-styles of the thousands of miners) that existed since the Spanish days make Potosi a UNESCO site. Silver from the Red-Silver mountain once made Potosi a very wealthy city but the sliver has run out and now the miners dig for zinc, lead and copper. Potosi once minted coins for the world but today, ironically all of Bolivia’s coins come from France and Canada. Still a visit to this working mines is the main tourist draw and definitely worth doing if you are not claustrophobic. The trip begins with gearing up – boots, overalls, helmets, headlamps and scarfs (a weak attempt to filter out the dust from your lungs). Next we go to the miner’s market to buy gifts for the miners that we will visit. They appreciate the magical coca leaves (the elixir that numbs them from fatigue, cold, thirst, altitude sickness etc), soft drinks and dynamite. Yup, you could buy explosives, safety fuses and detonators at the market without any hassle for 16Bs or a little over S$3. Our guide explains that some of the miners are as young as 14 years old and have a lifespan of about 45 years before they develop some kind of lung problem. While a taxi driver would earn 800Bs a month, miners earn somewhere between 2000 to 3000Bs, so that’s where the motivation comes from. They eat a huge breakfast before entering the mines where conditions are too horrible to consume any food. The miners work independently and as and when they like but are usually grouped along familial ties. We first visit a noisy processing plant where the rocks are crushed, mixed with cyanide, stirred to a foam and then panned to extract the various minerals. The discharge ensured that the main rivers around Potosi are all polluted. The guide says with a tinge of joy that the rivers end up somewhere in Argentina. Finally we bussed up to one of the mines to face our fears. We’ve all heard the horror stories from the survivors who had returned to the hostel for a good shower. There were some who didn’t make it down the mines, repelled by the suffocating dust or the claustrophobia. They too returned for a shower no doubt. This wasn’t your usual tour and our guide jokingly admits ‘I sometimes wonder why you tourists pay 80 Bolivianos to do this.’ After walking the first 200 or so metres, we got to a small museum which had a few interesting items on display including Thio, the devil which the miners worship since they were digging down towards hell. He is a red meany, trident in one hand, cigarette in mouth and honoured with an oversized member pointing towards the heavens. At his feet are offerings of coca leaves and alcohol. There is also a story about the La Capitana, a ship carrying some 400 silver coins minted in Potosi that sank off the coast of Ecuador eons ago. It was recently discovered by two American groups and sold individually to collector all over the world. The estimated value was 400 million USD, most of it went to the finders, a small portion to Ecuador and nothing to Bolivia. African slaves were also shipped to Potosi to work the mines. The name Potosi came about when the Spanish mispronounced the local term for dynamite. As we went deeper into the mine, it got dustier and harder to breathe. Not that we were doing any hard labour! It made us wonder how the miners survive hammering and shovelling for years under such conditions. Two levels down, we talk to a miner who was chiselling a 15 inch hole in the rock for dynamite placement. He said it took 3 to 5 hours depending on the rock composition! We could hear his laboured gasp before each swing of the hammer. The dynamites are set off in the afternoon after all the miners are evacuated. I wonder how this is coordinated considering that there are 400 mines scattered all over the mountain. Level three is accessed by a crawling through a small tunnel and then down wooden ladders with spinning rungs. Here we had to evade scuttling trolleys full of rock, pushed by the miners along rails to chambers where the load is dumped on the ground and shovelled into buckets which are then hoisted to the surface through vertical shafts. These rocks will eventually find their way to dump-trucks and to the processing and smelting plants. The valuable minerals will be extracted and weighed to determine how much the miners will be paid. Most of the tourists who bought scarves to cover their noses didn’t use it in the end. It was hard enough to breathe as it is. You could see the dust particles floating in the light beams and I wondered how long it was going to take my lungs to expel all this dirt. In some areas, oxygen was pumped in through a network of rubber pipes and we got to breathe almost normally. The youngest miner we met was 16 and the oldest 59! Our guide says that all the miners have nicknames and being jolly and cheerful is a way of coping with the harsh working environment. We hadn’t even gone down to level 6 and all of us were sweating just from the crawling. One Italian lady had to bail out due to claustrophobia. We were quite happy to get out after only an hour underground and readily agreed that we weren’t good mining material. The 29 of us on tour were split into 3 or 4 groups and taken to different parts and levels of the mine so we had different stories to exchange, Back on the surface, the finale was setting off 3 or 4 dynamites, a nice reminder of my army days. For 80 Bs or S$16, this half-day tour is one of the more memorable ones I had taken in South America. On all the Saturdays in May, the Potosi miners sacrifice llamas to Thio in hope that he would spare their lives. If there are indeed 400 separate mines and if 4 to 6 llamas are killed per mine, that’s plenty of dead meat. Fortunately for a human population of 9 million Bolivians, there are 6 million llamas. ‘We sacrifice the Llamas to Thio so he won’t take out lives,’ says one miner. Lex and I spent an entire Saturday at one of the mines to witness the ‘extreme’ culture. On the way up, we saw llamas being bound and squeezed into car boots and vans. Our entry tickets to the ceremony came in the form of beer, coca leaves, a bottle of coke and the local brew which is 96% alcohol! This was readily accepted by the chief miner who gave us two handfuls of coca leaves and a can of beer. Also compulsory were two shots of Singani, another lethal urine-coloured local brew. Most of it, thankfully, went to Pachamama the Goddess in the ground. 6 llamas were lined between the rails just outside the entrance to the mine. To their credit, the beasts looked much calmer than we were. It couldn’t be that bad, there were toddlers and children present. After every coca-chewing miners was sufficiently half drunk, the sacrifice began with the llama nearest the mine. Llama sacrifice 1101 1) Face Llama towards the mine entrance and bind all four legs. 2) Set off a dynamite somewhere safe. 3) Bless llama with four anti-clockwise spillings of alcohol 4) Have at least 6 men to hold the llama down, 2 for the head. 5) Saw the part of the neck just below the head (Llamas have a very long neck). 6) Try to ignore the sounds of terror wheezing from the llama. 7) Have several plates or a large basin ready to collect the blood. 8) Keep on sawing, the llama’s neck is pretty thick. 9) Meanwhile have a relay team to collect the blood and splash it all over the mine and then the surrounding buildings. Save a bit to smear the cheeks of all those present. 10) Saw through the spinal cord and the main artery. 11) Put weight on the Llama till most of the blood is squeezed out. 12) Repeat step 1-11 with the next Llama The llamas at the back of the queue could see the death squad getting closer but yet they remained extremely calm. Lex says it’s because they are ‘very proud animals’. I rationalise it with stupidity though I heard some whining from the last two llamas. The heads, hoofs and innards of the llamas are separated and blessed with more alcohol and coloured streamers. They will be buried in holes dug in front of the mines later. I helped to dig one of those holes. The rest of the llama is to be BBQed. Meanwhile, women build small rock igloos above the mine and set fires inside them. When the rocks turn black, potatoes and orcas (local sweet potatoes) are thrown in and the igloo is collapsed forming an earth oven. Earth is piled over the rocks and the goodies are left to cook for about half an hour. The men do the tedious work of skinning the llamas, cutting them up and digging the holes in between the rails and in front of the buildings. Two musicians play a guitar and a charanga (miniature 10-string guitar, sound box made of armadillo shell). After many more toasts of Sangani, the llama meat was finally ready. It was very tough but tasty and we each got a take-away pack of meat and potatoes from the earth oven before saying our goodbyes and thank-you’s to the friendly miners. What a fascinating culture! Don’t think the animal-rights people can do anything about it. In the freezing old-mint-turned-museum in the town centre, there is a painting incorporating the Virgin Mary into the Red-Silver mountain. The Spanish tried to impose their religion on the local Indians who had to be discreet and draw parallels from the Catholic images to keep their own belief systems alive. Two huge wooden machines were shipped from Spain to Potosi to roll the silver to the desired thickness of the coins. They are a series of wheels and cogs that are powered by four mules walking in circles in the stable one floor below. Before the wane in silver deposits, Potosi used to be the wealthiest city in Latin America. Totally unrelated to the monetary theme of the museums are several grisly bodies of young children found in the area. Looking more like dolls, the bodies are so well preserved that you can make out the facial expressions on some of them! Finally are several theories explaining the huge face that hangs from the second storey in the central court-yard. One says it is the caricature of a particularly unpopular ex-president. When Bolivia started exporting the minerals and silver from Potosi, the government then only imposed a 3% tax on the total value. Our guide told us that if we knew of a good business school in the world, we should recommend it to his politicians. Potosi also has a large local street market (near the bus station, not the one in the town center) where you can have a good BBQ fish for 12Bs (S$2.50). Here, you can refill your bottle with cooking oil, buy shampoo sachets, find the tiniest can of condensed milk in the world, taste all sorts of multi-coloured local drinks, stock up all kinds of fruits, veges and meat. 1 kilo of beef goes for 22Bs (S$4.50)! There aren’t even proper stalls at the market, just products laid out on canvas sheets by the roadside. Coming from dusty and depressing Uyuni, Potosi with her old houses and well preserved architecture is heavenly and at the gringo-filled Koala Den, I had a 4-bed dorm with our private gas-powered hot shower for 45Bs a night. Common in Bolivia are electric heater attached to the shower-heads which work well only if you turn down the flow to something just a little more than a drip. Internet at Koala’s is fast and I managed to upload a ton of photographs. Staying at Koala Den was good fun despite the heavy concentration of backpackers. With about 40-50 of us, it felt like Backpacker United and most were friendly enough to go out for dinner together and share travel tales and tips. There were at least two stories of bags being stolen in Bolivia. The cheapest dorm in the hostel was dubbed the ‘Sick Bay’ when everyone who slept there fell ill at some point in time mostly altitude sickness or stomach problems. Breakfast was quite decent. We had a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a scrambled egg, fruit, jam and butter, choice of coffee, tea or hot chocolate (no refills though) but also rather stale bread. The breakfast crew tried their best to feed the crowd but this is still Bolivia and you had to be patient to get the full spread. One guy at Koala’s managed to get into San Pedro, a prison in La Paz which has become a mystical tourist attraction of sorts. It is not easy to get in as you have to ‘know’ that prisoner you were visiting. Rich prisoners supposedly have their own luxury apartments in there while the hard and out live in crappy cells. So with a contact number, you could arrange to visit one of the richer prisoners, spend some time in his ‘cell’, ask him some questions, pay him (of course) and even smoke some cocaine with him! How true are these stories? Read ‘Marching Powder’ about life in San Pedro. Tomoko was the Japanese woman who hadn’t lived in Japan for the past 15 years. Lex and I went out for dinner with her and had big problems understanding this lady who was probably the fastest talker I had ever met. She was probably hyperactive too. Richard from Oxford vomited very violently at 3am while I was uploading some photos. Two Korean girls who were travelling for 6 months were cooking ramen in the kitchen. We met in Uyuni and they managed to pay even less than us for the 3- day tour! ‘Of course! We are Koreans. Always bargain!’ they replied when I praised them. One of them worked for an NGO advocating women’s rights and the other is a doctor. Ladina is a bubbly Swiss girl who realised that she saved 600 euros when she stopped smoking for 2 or 3 months. Lex, who has really long legs accidentally kicked her under the dinner table and her tag line was ‘would you like to come over this side so you can sit with your feet?’ Ha ha ha! Yun Yun was born in Shanghai but grew up in NYC, worked as a baker and is now in between jobs. She did the 75 USD Death Road bicycle trip in La Paz, fell and had to get 5 stitches on her knee. Steve is a retiree from Wales who is intending to travel for 4 years, returning home only every Chirstmas! At one dinner place, I met Siao Wearn, s Malaysian girl who was travelling for a year with her French boyfriend. She hadn’t lived in KL for quite sometime, having studied and worked in London and Beijing but both of us were quite happy to meet someone from the same region. There were a bunch of uppity and loud English girls whom everybody didn’t like. Lex told me that the Luxembourgers called them ‘goats’ because of the similar sound they make. From a spread of 80 tourist agencies offering the 3-day Salar de Uyuni tour, we had to walk into Wonderful Land Tours which fixed us up with a great driver but a hopeless guide. The couple from UK and the two Irish girls we were supposed to be sharing the jeep with transformed into four orthodox Israelis and the Spanish-speaking guide suddenly became an English-speaking one which I supposed to have paid an additional 10USD more for but didn’t. Welcome to the flexible way business is done in Bolivia.
Still 70 USD for a 3-day tour is pretty much the minimum price you could pay and for that, you don’t complain. Pay peanuts…get monkeys, so it goes. The 4 Israelis turned out to be good company and sociable. They had to pray, eat food cooked in a specific way and play their Israelis tunes in the jeep but they were humorous, respectful and interested in other cultures. Lex and I just couldn’t remember their complicated names.
The Salar de Uyuni is 12,000 square kilometres worth of salt rimmed by distant ridges, mountains and volcanoes. The blinding white ground formed the background for some creativity in creating perspective illusions and our Israeli friends came prepared with plastic dinosaurs, 4 Pringles tubes and toy trucks to mess with the ‘miniature humans’. Carlos, our driver knew all the standard shots and soon we had photos of ‘giant’ dinosaurs chasing tiny humans, a Lilliputian Lex balancing on a beer can, a jack-in-a-box Israeli popping out from a Pringles tube, Lex with two tiny Isrealis in the palm of his hand, a hand from the heavens ‘picking’ up miniature humans, Carlos ‘stomping’ on 4 microscopic tourists etc. It was great fun and a photographic challenge to overcome the depth of field problem to make the images realistic. Our very photogenic Israeli friends also liked to be photographed leaping off the little mounds of salt found in the great Salar.
There were at least 20 to 30 jeeps, each carrying 4-6 tourists doing the standard tour, so we weren’t exactly alone. We were paired with another jeep from the same company carrying another 4 Israelis, a couple from Argentina and the cook. The quality of our meals generally deteriorated from beef chops with pasta to cold tuna on rice as the days went on. Try Yechiel, Yoav, Adiel and Ofir… It didn’t help that two of them looked so similar.
Isla de Pescados is a fish-shaped island poking out from the vast salt plain. We couldn’t see how it resembled a fish but interestingly, the whole cactus-covered Island is a dead coral outcrop rather than land. No wonder I found the ‘rock’ I was standing on really weird. It is hard to imagine this whole area being underwater eons ago. The Salar is also devoid of all plant and animal life and we wondered how the cacti got here (probably seeds dispersed by wind). From the summit, we had a great view of the Salar and had plenty of opportunities to take scale shots of tourists and jeeps on the Great White. One smoking distant volcano gave an artistic touch to the whole scene. Unfortunately, Brian, our guide didn’t have any substantial information to give us about the unique geology or history of the area. All he did was play music and showed us pornographic pictures on his Creative multi-media player.
Lunch on the island was enjoyed (quality 1st meal to keep us happy) on tables made from thick slabs of salt and that was pretty neat. We had more time to stretch our imagination on the salt plains before rushing to find our accommodation. The tour agencies have no communications and hence no prior arrangements with the hostels in the Salar so basically it is a first-come-first-serve mad rush at the end of every day when jeeps race to get the best beds.
We stayed in a ‘salt hotel’ with salt tables and a ground of crushed salt. The water in the pipes froze at about 11pm which filled up the loo when flushing was made impossible. Lex and I played ‘Chancho’ with Stefania and Leandro, the two Argentineans from Buenos Aires. Each player has four cards in hand and one card is passed around till one of us gets four of a kind. The task then is to communicate this to our partner through an arranged secret signal before the next command is given for the next pass. If the partner detects the signal, he shouts ‘Chancho!’ and the pair scores a point. We beat the Argentineans at their own game 9 – 5 or something like that. While it was freezing outside, the salt hotel was really warm and I slept very well.
In the morning, the Israelis were praying. They had a small black box containing some holy scriptures attached to their heads and arms. I learnt that food items with a U in circle label were Jew-friendly. We had woken at 5.30am to watch the sunrise in the Salar. In these parts, the salt we were standing on was much coarser and bunched together in small little ridges. This place must be quite a sight in the rainy season when the salt is covered with a layer of water transforming the plain into a giant mirror.
The next two days were mostly covering distances going past several volcanoes and their surrounding lava-landscape. Water during the short rainy season has eroded the lava layer to form ‘frozen’ waves and overhangs which made good bouldering material. I contemplated climbing the unique ‘rock tree’ but didn’t want to be responsible for it’s collapse. Everything felt like a rush job after the Salar and I wouldn’t recommend the 3-day tour. The many lakes in the desert were beginning to look alike and the thousands of Flamingoes were reduced to about 20. It wasn’t the season. Brian, our guide, said that the Green Lake wasn’t green at this time as the winds were not strong enough to stir-up the minerals so we skipped it altogether (A Dutch guy I met later refuted this). Even the ‘geyser’ field were more fumaroles than shooting geysers. The only steaming ‘geyser’ was a man-made one. It seemed that we weren’t told the entire truth about what we would and wouldn’t see at the start of the trip. Bubbling blood-coloured pools in the sulphurous fumaroles were thrilling to walk through but we were expecting an Old Faithful or two to go off.
One thing we all enjoyed was the hot springs on the last day. It felt so good to be in hot water after a showerless 3 days and freezing morning temperatures. The bath was filled with happy tourists till one Israeli guy decided to wash his muddy boots in the water. Our quick and loud disapproval soon changed his mind. This part of the tour wasn’t rushed so we were soaked till our skins shrivelled and were the last ones out of the pool.
I had a throbbing headache on the ride back to Uyuni. It might have something to do with altitude sickness or the sudden temperature variations before and after the hot soak. Having a bunch of cure-all coca leaves in my cheek didn’t help much. Carlos was really tired on the third and final day of hard driving and we did our best to keep him alert by playing his favourite Bob Marley and Gypsy Kings songs. He really did a good job going over long sandy slopes, driving in the heat and cold (at one point, we were 5400m above sea-level and it was -18 to -25 degrees outside!) and ensuring that the jeep was in good condition, all the time being in a cheerful mood. At times he even seemed to be doing Brian’s job by organising the sleeping arrangements and waking us (including Brian) up in the morning.
There was a recent accident involving two jeeps in the Salar. 6 Japanese and 6 Israelis were killed when the driver of one of the jeeps fell asleep at the wheel. Ironically, only the errant driver survived. The rest were roasted when the diesel from the plastic drums above the jeeps caught fire…
I think the tour would have gone better if we had gone in the opposite direction starting with the less dramatic landscape building to what would have been a gorgeous sunset in the Salar.
Still there were quite a few firsts on this trip.
1) Got to try Israeli coffee which is very strong, sweet and filled with a cinnamon-like herb. 2) Saw some vicunas, a less hairy llama 3) Big full moon on the second night. 4) Left my tights to dry after the hot springs and the part of it that was in the shade got frozen stiff. 5) Learnt that mp3 could be played via a cassette tape adaptor. 6) There are such things like white flamingos.  | Bolivia! | Jun 16, '08 2:19 PM
for everyone |
At 8 in the morning, the tiny Bolivian customs office is packed with travellers eager to experience Third World South America. The wooden floorboards squeak while we wait patiently in queue for the entry stamp. I am now a few steps away to the fabled land where costs are half of Argentina and food mucha mucha picante! Cheapness comes at the expense of comfort - cramped seats in the buses, ‘departure-when-full’ bus schedules, bumpy roads, blocked roads, malaria, the Bolivia Belly, mozzies, petty thievery, scams, cold showers, crawling internet connections…etc ‘Singapur??’ A cheery reaction from the customs officer (no uniform) who swivelled to his colleague to share his rare find. I think they get a kick when the rarities come their way. Lex got a handshake from the guy. He is their first Luxembourger! A rarer gem considering that the population of Luxembourg is only 450,000! After exchanging some Bolivianos (they even accepted my Argentinean coins!), Lex and I headed for the Villazon train station to secure our ride to Uyuni at 3.30pm. A 10 hour-ride in the Salon-class costs only 63B (about S$13) and our backpacks were checked-in to the luggage department. Lex and I tipped the handlers 2B hoping that they wouldn’t run through our bags. The pavement commerce is the most noticeable difference between Bolivia and Argentina. It almost feels like India with the intensity turned down many notches. Folks here aren’t too hard up for your cash. Everything you need to survive can be bought off the streets hence the absence of supermarkets! I got a pair of gloves for S$1.50 in preparation for the freezing Uyuni desert. Lex got a woollen jumper for 12 bucks. A Llama meat and potato snack costs only 70 cents. Roadside beverages come in all colours from pink to a muddy brown. They also love cups of jelly with a mountain of sun-proofed whipped cream on the top. Women here are all dwarf-sized, pear-shaped, sun-burnt and come with double pony-tails linked by a decorative cord. All of them seem to wear many layers beneath their wide dresses (which only accentuate their hips), an apron with two pockets, a colourful woven sack cum baby-carrier, woollen stockings and an undersized bowler-hat! Fiesty and hardy, they seem to run the show down south often with a toddler tied to their backs. Our first Bolivian breakfast was enjoyed in a secluded part of the market, on a small bench outside the tiny stall. Unlike the Argentineans and Chileans, the folks here do eat a substation breakfast, something along the lines of a big bowl of soup with rice, potatoes, dried potatoes (black) and a generous piece of beef (S$1.50). There is always a chilli dip in the range from red to light brown hot enough to give your tongue a decent sting. Unfortunately, coffee here is back to the instant variety. I was photographing a desk of strange herbs when I got smacked on the shoulder by one of those short burly aunties in traditional garb. Lex and I didn’t hang around much longer to be further abused by these little fierce women with little hats. We soon learnt that most women (and their stalls) here do not like to be photographed. I made a mental note to ask permission before I got attacked again. In those few hours we had to kill before our train, we found out that fruit juice in Bolivia comes from directly the fruit (not the tetrapacks in Argentina and Chile), internet was cheap (40 cents per hr) but crawling, the bus station stank of urine, tour operators wanted us to write something on vanguard and stick them on the walls (they didn’t care what we wrote), bread here is as tough as their women, folks here have very very very very bad teeth and gone are the days where we could drink from the tap. The train to Uyuni was better than expected. Toilets worked fine and after a Jackie Chan flick, we were force-fed music videos from the 70s and 80s which included some very good big band tunes and orchestral music. When we could take it no more, Lex and I went to the cafeteria for a surprisingly good train dinner. I swapped my order with his because Lex doesn’t eat mushrooms and I didn’t like the greasy pile of meat, cheese and egg the ‘Bolivia Traditional Dish’ turned out to be. The locals onboard got their dinner through the windows from the hawkers at the various stations. 28 Bolivianos for a steak is too much to pay for the average Bolivian. Uyuni at 11pm is freezing. Fortunately there was lady with an offer of a cheap hostel waiting for us at the train station. At 20Bs (S$4.10) it’s the cheapest I have paid for accommodation in South America. Lex and I had our own room but hot showers were only available in the morning. The friendly Argentineans next door asked if I would like to ‘share a little joint’ but I told them politely that I would like to hit the bed as soon as possible. In Jujuy (hu-hu-i), while lunching on the best empanadas in Argentina, tamales (steamed corn dumpling stuffed with meat), Ilama steak and rice I ended up talking to two locals who found my photographing of their traditional food a source of amusement. We were soon deep in conversation and they suggested that for my afternoon programme, I should soak myself in the Thermas de Reyes for 20 pesos. Knowing that I enjoyed the local cuisine, they recommended the restaurant at the thermal baths but warned me that it is very expensive. Four different people giving four different directions (including the lady at the information centre) made bus-finding a bit of a challenge. The local local buses don’t stop at the main terminal but at small stands scattered around the surrounding streets, so it takes a while to find that 3C bus. After a 45 minute ride, I was at the thermas which was built into the side of a wide valley. 1 hour of soaking costs 40 pesos in a private room overlooking the valley in this high-class hotel. I preferred something in the open so I walked down to the local swimming pool where I could swim in the same warm waters for 8 pesos with the locals. Back in the hostel, I linked up with the Taiwanese duo, teased them with my Bolivian visa and made plans for the next day before having dinner with a French girl whose name is too difficult to pronounce. It sounds like Euguine or something like that. At Chung King, there was probably 200 items on the menu and I finally got to nail the Surubi or catfish which came somewhere between medium and medium-well. The next time it arrived, it was perfect. Euguine had been living in Montreal and talks so fast I could hear the breathlessness in her voice. On the previous night at the hostel, some bugs bit her face and gave her some serious swells. Still we got on swell (no pun intended) and over coke and fernet (herb-based alcohol) the travel conversations went on till about 11pm. The next morning, May, Jess and I took a bus to Humahuaca, a Quechuan village 3000m above sea-level, with a real outback feel to it. Finally, Argentineans with a more indigenous look to them! We joined a crowd of tourists gathered in the plaza to see a metal San Francisco Solano emerge from his cocoon at noon to point his finger at the sky before lunching on more cabrito (not as good as the first) and a diabetic-killing vegetable-based dessert known as a cayote. May noticed that the people at the other three tables were on the same bus. I got to finish the girls cazuela de cabrito which was a pretty good stewed version of the roast. To work off the lunch, we climbed the small ridge across the river, working through thorny cactus terrain, over thorn fences, through small farms, past a shrine in the cliff to the ridge-line where we got great a view of Humahuaca. The red colour in the exposed and gullied rock layers were also something to remember. We bussed back to Tilcara to enjoy coffee (I had another submarino) and sample papa ninos (baby potatoes) from the next table. The Mendoza couple kindly gave us one tiny potato each. The yellow one was sweet while the green ones didn’t taste so good – watery and mushy! At least we got to try the local speciality. By the time we got to the hill-top pucara, a restored ancient fortress, it was near closing time so we couldn’t explore the ruins properly. We played a little hide-and-seek with the guards before they eventually herded and walked us down the hill, saying that we could come back tomorrow with the same ticket. Sunrise here would make good photo material. Bussing back to Jujuy took much longer since the bus went by another route. The poor girls were freezing and at one police roadblock, I had my bag searched. Though it was past nine by the time we reached the hostel, we managed to cook ourselves a filling dinner – rice, beef-egg-tomato-garlic-onion-chilli powder dish, broccoli soup and wine. I was in-charge of the meat and couldn’t bring it to a decent spicy level despite loading it with a respectable amount of chilli powder. I woke up the next morning, said goodbye to the girls (who were on a later bus to Chile) and made my way to Purmamarca where I climb the precarious ridge opposite the town and took about 150 shots of one of the weirdest geological landscape I have ever seen. Fortunately the wind wasn’t very strong or I wouldn’t be able to walk the full length of the steep ridge. See photos for the best example of a ‘palette landscape’. Wanting to photograph the colours of Maimara before noon, I didn’t stay to explore the town and walked the 3kms to the main road where there were more buses up north. Between Volcan and Humahuaca is a valley known as the Quebrada de Humahuaca, a geologist dreamscape so diverse, it is best explored in your own vehicle. Being based in Jujuy isn’t a good idea if you are photo-picky as the best light is gone by the time your bus arrives in the valley and the sunset colours do not match those of the sunrise. Maimara sees very few tourists and I spent a great day walking through farmland (avoiding some very fierce dogs), climbing up a scree slope, crossing the Rio Grande (which is at the moment just a trickle), moving from one mirador to another (4 altogether) trying to get the colours out of the landscape under a blazing afternoon sun. On the main ridge, the giant triangular colour slabs and the extreme folds are the main highlights. See photos. It was one of those days where the scenery made up for the need for lunch. My last day in Argentina was a good one. Packed and moved to Humahuaca, got picked up by Mercedes (a charming Argentina who was from the coast but was working in a hostel here), led to an old house-hostel, dumped my stuff, bussed back down Ruta 9 to a scenic spot to photograph a ridiculously red mountain capped with a yellow layer, tried unsuccessfully to hitch back, strolled around Humahuaca, went back to the hostel with no name and had a nice chat with a Swiss family, went out for a cheap but filling dinner(last steak in Argentina!) with a Spanish guy, two sisters from Buenos Aires and Mercedes, talked and drank a lot, went to the local pub for a submarino and finally hit the bed at 1.30am. Woke up at 5.00am to catch the bus to the border with Lex, my room-mate from Luxembourg. We wanted to get in Bolivia early to buy the train tickets to Uyuni. If we failed to get tickets on this one, it will be a boring two day wait till the next one. One Argentina I met in Jujuy said that the railway people ‘may not sell you the tickets even though there may be seats’. Sounds ridiculous but this is Bolivia we are talking about, the India of South America. I had some time to explore San Juan, eat a good mozzarella-redpepper-egg-kipper-olive pizza, drink a great Bailey’s coffee at Bonafide in the plaza and surf the web and blog before making my way back to the bus terminal. I had plenty of help to get me to the right bus-stop and the lady behind me made sure I got off at the right place. The 10.45pm bus got me to Salta at 2pm the next day. Onboard, I got to watch ‘XXX’, not porn but another blow-everything-up Hollywooder. It was also the only long bus-ride which I didn’t get any hot food! Won’t take Andesmar ever! But it was the cheapest tickert…pay peanuts, get monkeys. Salta The north of Argentina is definitely cheaper. Got a free taxi to Hotel Illaq which is only 6 blocks from the centre. For 25 pesos, I had a room to myself, breakfast and the fastest wi-fi ever! The only problem was there was no ventilation vents in the bathroom so it gets a little foggy in there with the hot water. You couldn’t really dry yourself properly so that’s where having the dormroom to yourself helps. People here are definitely more relaxed and siesta times are once again adhered to religiously. The plaza, I feel is Argentina’s nicest being surrounded by historic buildings, churches, cafes and orange trees! Free fruit but nobody plucks them! Empanadas in the north are renowned and are pretty good and cheap. I walk around sussing out the old streets and grabbed a steak, eggs and chips lunch for 14 pesos. Highlight of the day was the asado dinner back in the hostel. They told me it was at 9pm or ‘maybe 9.30’ so it all started almost on time at 11. The asado wasn’t the best I had but it was value for money at 18 pesos with all the wine we could drink thrown in. Argentineans from all over made up most of the dinner crowd and the only foreign tourists were a German girl, an Israeli guy and me. The Israeli guy was atypical, reserved, ate very little and ate an asado on the Sabbath. The German girl spoke fluent Spanish after having worked 6 months in Chile. What I enjoyed most was the informal jam session that came after dinner. The guesthouse owner started the ball rolling by playing some Spanish numbers and another guy who was on his honeymoon carried on from there. The guitar was passed around after a while and we all contributed something. Credit goes to the German girl who though a beginner, bravely strummed a few chords. The Road to Cachi One heck of a scenic 5 hour bus-ride beginning in a green steep valley which widens as the road climbs past massive cliffs of red rocks to level out on a cactus-covered plateau after many hairpin-bends. The highlight of the day is what the locals call a ‘palette landscape’ or a minimum of seven colours (not counting shades) slapped into the side of a mountain near Cachi. I should have taken a tour for this area as the public bus did not stop for the views. I took it as a compulsory photography break and a rare opportunity to take in the scenery as it is. Jess and May are two Taiwanese girls I got to know on this ride. The jolly pair are travelling for 2 months in Peru, Argentina and Chile. It felt surprisingly good to speak mandarin after so many months and the girls were gracious enough not to laugh at my many blunders. What’s the Chinese term for ‘hard disk’? We had lunch at Cachi with a cheerful doctor couple from Buenos Aires who suggested that we try cabrito, the local BBQ goat speciality of the Salta region. For 23 pesos, we got a huge succulent, fragrant and tender portion (free top ups), fries and coke! The north is really much cheaper. Even May who doesn’t usually eat lamb gave in to this one although it was the lemon that neutralised the smell. We walked up to a cemetery-lookout at the top of a hill to have a better view of the region before chilling out at a café over café cortados which in true campo (rural) spirit took forever to come. True to our roots, we had a detailed discussion of all our culinary experiences to date and complained that the food here wasn’t spicy at all. I contemplated staying the night in Cachi to photograph the ‘palette’ the next morning and a second cabrito but decided that dinner with the girls was a more meaningful option. We caught the 3.30 bus down through thick fog and the 3.45 bus overtook us. Back in Salta, we ate at a cheap restaurant where I introduced the locro and matambre to the girls. I had chicken fillet with mushrooms, a break from all the rich beef and goat that I have been eating. I treated the girls to dinner since they were such pleasant company (and the bill came up only up to 56 pesos). They wanted to travel in Bolivia but were denied entry by the consulate in Salta. Here’s what I needed to get a Bolivian Visa 1) Photocopy of your passport and the page with the Argentinean entry stamp 2) Photocopy of my flight ticket 3) Yellow Card (Yellow Fever Vaccination Certificate) 4) Bank account statement 5) Evidence of hostel booking in Bolivia My bank account statement was replaced by a photocopy of my credit card (with card numbers blanked out of course) and I had to fake an email booking of a hostel I found in the guidebook and print it out as ‘evidence’. All went smoothly and I got my 30 day visa the next morning. May and Jess had to provide ‘evidence that they were good people’. The Bolivian embassy in Buenos Aires told them that they had to wait 6 months for their visa to be approved! Americans have to pay 100 USD just to enter Bolivia. Caro and Daniela were two couchsurfers I met up in Salta for coffee. Daniela is studying tourism and wanted me to accompany her to a village nearby to do her final year project which she is taking forever to complete. Her task was to design a tour in that village. Most of her family live in Santa Cruz in Bolivia so I managed to squeeze out some tips about travelling there. I learn that buses coming into Argentina from Bolivia get searched thoroughly for drugs and may take hours to get past the checkpoint. Her course at the university is from 7 to 11pm at night and she has work as a tour guide with her uncle’s travel agency. Daniela introduced me to the submarino, which is a result of a piece of high quality chocolate thrown in a glass of hot milk. While Daniela is super-chilled, Caro’s bursting with energy. She tells me about her salsa lessons, plans for exchange programmes in Italy and Peru, English lessons, Italian lessons, failed recent relationship, life in Salta, university, traditional food in northern Argentina etc. One hour of coffee went by really quickly with this inquisitive and intelligent lass who said at the end that I changed her impression of Asians. I hope it is for the better… Valley of the Moon As tours go, there were 14 or 15 of us crammed into a mini-bus. Glad that I had a window seat right at the back though I should have insisted on sitting in the front beside the driver. Next time, I’ll put my butt down. Fortunately my window was on the ‘right’ side and I had a pretty good view of the landscape. Next to me was a couple from the UK and I swapped seats with them from time to time to share the views. Unless you have your own vehicle you’d better off in a tour since within the park all visitors had to follow a general tour by the ranger. A great red wall of rock forms the valley limit on one side and the formations on the valley floor are a result of uneven erosion applied to 8 different types of rock strata which is folded to form the wide valley. I think the best phrase to describe what you see (at least initially) is ‘confusing and kaleidoscopic’ as colours and small hills blend into one another and interlock so closely that they create a maze of little gullies and valleys within the main valley. You need some time to get the right perspective especially when the valley is so vast. There is only one short rainy season a year in December and January so the features here are well preserved and the vast differences in rock resistances give rise to a whole bunch of varied and unexpected shapes and formations. From the gullies and dry channels, you could imagine the course of the water when the rains come to create a slosh that makes the track impassable to vehicles. And the cracked surface of the small mounds tells of exfoliation processes. Cap-rock protects the softer material below and winds up as rock pillars sticking out from the ground while the smooth rounded stem is gradually buffeted by the sand-filled winds. We make many stops visiting huge boulders sitting atop many fine layers of sedimentary rock, rock islands, rock ‘dunes’, rock balls, a huge rock umbrella known as ‘El Hongo’ (The Mushroom) that forms the symbol of the park. Valley within valleys, a ship-like formation called the ‘Submarino’ and the grand finale of the drive back along the foot of the great red wall of rock that flanks the valley! The skies could be bluer, the light wasn’t perfect for photographs and a couple of live dinosaurs would be nice but what a place to remember. They have night tours during the full-moon window and that should be awesome! Talampaya Initially, I wanted to do the two national parks over two days but I the rock euphoria gave me the energy to see it all in one. I would also save some transport money and Talampaya would be nice in the evening light. So I skipped the bus that would take me back to Valle Fertil in the afternoon, continuing the journey with a couple from Belgium and the one from UK. After a good lunch stop, where I had locro, bread and a coffee, we moved on to Talampaya, the adjacent valley 80 kms away. Here, once again a tour on the parks buses is compulsory and costs 45 pesos on top of the 20 peso entrance fees. All I imagined of Talampaya is a huge massive cliff of red rocks which glowed in the sunset. I didn’t expect to do a drive through a curvy dry canyon with vertical walls that went up 160m into the sky! This time I sat in front and had the most amazing views. See video section of blog. Most impressive were the ground-to-top grooves in the canyon sides, a result of water and wind erosion. In a section called the Cathedral, the grooves are eroded to the point where they connect resulting in giant razor blades! Where the canyon curves especially, the walls resemble the folds in gargantuan stage curtains! At one coffee break, we had a ball sending echoes up and down the canyon! At another spot, there are some ancient etches in the boulders. A block with several large holes in the top was a mortar used to grind grain. Archaeologists suspect that the rock fragments from the soft rock wore away the inhabitant’s teeth. The Canyon ends in a cluster of giant pillars and blocks, some resemble a lady, a bottle, a totem pole etc. And we got our brilliant sunset and blazing red colours on the rock. I guess the rock is a kind of brittle sandstone which is too bad for rock-climbers but good for the park. This place is definitely one of my highlights in Argentina and the next time I am here, I’ll do the mountain-biking tour or the guided hike. But the clock is ticking and Bolivia is waiting. 50km from Valle Fertil, the mini-bus broke down and we had to entertain ourselves for 3 hours before the recovery vehicle came. There were 10 of us, half elderly locals and half tourists. The lady in front was sick from a bad coffee and went out to vomit. The two elderly couple took things in stride and got us giggling with their chuckles. The English-speaking tourists discussed local food, possible puma attacks, movies, how we are going to make a movie out of this situation Singapore, volunteer work in Buenos Aires, football, unique weddings etc to pass the time while the heroic driver walk back to a police post (in the dark and cold) to arrange our transport back to town. He came back more than an hour later. Somewhere into the third hour, the guy from UK asked the elderly people in Spanish if they knew what was going to happen to us and was completely ignored. When his question bounced off the windscreen and hit us, the rest of us burst out in laughter. The old folks must have reached their patience’s end or they could be Falklands War veterans. Anyhow, it ended late but well. Midnight dinner of roast beef, potatoes and beer before a long crash. I had a 4 hour ride to San Juan to catch the next day. Difunta Correa was a woman who in the 1840s, while following her conscript husband into the desert, died from thirst and exhaustion. When she was found, her baby was still suckling from her breast and this was reason enough for the Argentineans then to grant her demi-god status. It was a Thursday that I was there and that didn’t stop truckers from coming in every 15 minutes or so to cross themselves before the church and pay homage to her. Vallecito is the shrine-cluster built supposedly at her resting place and all reasons to shrine are covered. The military gets One. One for weddings. One for houses. One for trucks. One for students. One for license plates. One for competitions. One for the miscellaneous stuff as long as it is represented in a framed photograph…and new plaque covered ones are still being built. The various plaques function as thank you notes to the saint, with the engraved names and dates of those who believe. The landscape corresponds to the legend. It’s not exactly the Sahara (today at least) but it’s definitely semi-arid dotted with stony little hills and ridges covered with a few clumps of dry grasses. It is on one of these hills that the main shrine is located, surrounded by hundreds of little painted model houses of various designs. I guess the real ones are somewhere in Argentina. At the top is a cross that reminds me of the movie Dreamcatcher (based on a Stephen King novel) is where all the bottled water offerings are placed. She died of thirst remember? It’s not the most environmentally-friendly shrine but then again who has ever heard of green-religion? I really like the unpretentious junkyard-poor-persons feel of this place and with all the different stuff brought here from all over the country, religion here seems a little more present and down to earth than all the sliver and gold in the city cathedrals. From pink castles, epaulets, wheel hubs, rusted license plates, steering wheels, dolls, paintings, poems, peak caps, wedding dresses, photographs, sculptures…she accepts anything. A wonderfully disorganised ‘museum’ on the grounds keeps all the donated antiques or perhaps spillovers from the various shrines. Two old cars take up most of the room and the walls are lined with shelves displaying guns, stuffed pets, cameras, racquets, musical instruments, cash registers, blenders, utensils etc. One door opened somewhere and sent a few items crashing onto the floor so it is more storage place than museum but nevertheless an interesting one to visit. Among its visitors are also a couple of stray cats. I never caught the 3 o’clock bus to Valle Fertil because I was only halfway through the door when it dropped off two women and sped off. Thankfully there was another one at 8pm. This one took it’s time and arrived 45 minutes late when I was waiting by the road 10 minutes before 8pm. Irony at its best. Fortunately I had a book to read and a decent roast chicken to eat. The cook actually expected me to finish a whole chicken but kindly took half away when I mimed an exploding stomach. I got into tiny Valle Fertil past midnight, booked a tour for 7.45am the next morning, checked into a cheap, clean and friendly hostel, showered and fell asleep. | |
