5:45 AM - wake up call: on time.
6:30 AM - taxi to the departure point: on time.
6:55 AM - We arrive at departure point, bus ticket in hand
7:00 AM - bus to Qutapampa: nowhere to be seen.
Our trek director Sam cannot believe her eyes. A few phone calls to the bus company shed little light on the matter, only that the bus doesn’t go out today and that Sam will get the bus fares paid back to her. She’s irate, with reason, because there are communities waiting for us. Back in Belgium one could take action, but this is Bolivia. If a bus company feels like not going out, then that’s pretty much the way it goes. The bus of the only other company that serves Qutapampa has left already, we are stuck. Then, one of the other people who has been waiting says that there’s a big truck carrying bricks and cement going past Qutapampa. A quick check with the driver confirms that the front cabin is completely full, but we’re free to get in the back with the cargo. I’m for a bit of unconventionality, Blandine has no interest in spending 7 hours being thrown about in the open dusty back of a truck, with bricks as our seat. Did I mention that the second half of the road up to Qutapampa is not paved? No begging Blandine helps, we’re not going to break our backs over getting to the start of this trek. Sam will call the people in Qutapampa, we take a “colectivo” back to Fuentes and move everything in our Bolivia itinerary one day back. The Argentina – Greece game this afternoon should cheer me up.
We check out the Coca museum in the afternoon. The museum is too small to be able to provide a decent experience, but provides an interesting view on the whole coca leaf dilemma. On my way out, I buy 4 bags of coca leaves as a present for the tour guides we will have on the Apolobanba trek, apparently the best gift to give to the locals there.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 21st: Aymara New Year 2010
Reflecting on the first rays of the new sun
According to the travel agency, this Aymara New Year excursion is going to be a real cultural event; Blandine and I are both quite looking forward to it. I don’t know much about the Aymara culture, but the fact that they chose to start a new year at winter solstice, when days start getting longer, over roughly a week after the birth of Christ, appeals to me. A new year that starts on the 21st of June has zing to it. June 21st is just as good a day to reflect on the past year as January 1st is. Waiting for the first rays of sunlight also seems more symbolically significant than waiting for midnight, a human convention (invention?). At midnight, which really isn’t the middle of the night, there is no visual cue that something new is starting. When I was young we used to go to grandma to celebrate the coming of a new year and we waited for the little bird in my grandmother’s grandfather clock to come out and do its thing twelve times. Nothing magic to it, the bird did the same it does on any other day of the year. But we liked it because we got to stay up real late and even got presents at midnight. Aymara kids get to stay up a lot longer during their New Years celebration. These are probably some of the better thoughts that cross my mind during the 1.5 hour bus ride to Tiahuanaco. A look around the bus draws many more questions in my mind.
The bus is full of teenagers, dressed up to the nines and catching up on gossip. Are we on a high-school outing? Older people are sprinkled here and there all over the bus: they are also coming out for the cultural experience, like us. Or have they sacrificed their sleep to chaperone their youngsters during this all-nighter? I conclude that there definitely is much interest in local culture from Bolivians themselves, it seems very much like a family celebration. We Europeans could learn something from these Bolivians.
The night is pitch black and there´s little more light inside the bus. The latest Lady Gaga and David Guetta hits resound from the back of the bus, someone had the good idea to cheer up this silent bus ride. Some of us hum along to stay awake, to do something on this bus ride, but the gentle rocking of the bus works like a Valium tablet and before long most everyone is asleep.
In the zone
Once arrived, everyone is guided into this party room, a zone dedicated just to the people on the tour. The word “zone” is a good description: It looks like a discotheque, sounds like a discotheque, yet everyone has big winter jackets on, and gloves and hats, and you can see your own breath because the room is not heated. That explains the absence of doors at the entrance and exit. To meet some of the locals I’m going to need a REAL ice breaker. No time to think about that, a few youngsters in leather jacket have set up a DJ table against one wall of the “zone” and hard-core techno music starts blasting around our ears, combined with a psychedelic light show reflected against the ceiling. The host comes around with free goodie bags of the event sponsors. I open mine and find a kit to make glow-in-the-dark glasses, a bright yellow techno-whistle on a wrist band, and a bright yellow felt Santa Claus hat. Huh? Weren´t we supposed to have a cultural experience with Andean flutes and people dressed in colorful ponchos??? Time to look at the program again:
SOLSTICIO EN TIWANAKU
Domingo 20 de Junio de 2010
22.00 Concentración Plaza Bolivia, avenida Arce, Lado del hotel Radisson.
22.30 Salida rumbo a la localidad de Tiwanaku
11.30 llegada y acomodación área de descanso
Lunes 21 de Junio 2010
00.30 Fogata bailable con la saya afro-boliviana
04.30 Entrega de regalo de nuestros auspiciadores y ticket de ingreso
05.00 Entrada a las ruinas y tour por las ruinas
06.15 salida del sol y bailes rituales
07.30 concentración área de descanso
08.30 Salida rumbo a la ciudad de La Paz
09.00 llegada (iglesia de San Francisco)
No mention at all about a big techno-bunny night, yet everybody is into it and yellow felt hats have started bouncing all over the zone. This place is going M-A-D. And there’s all-you-can-drink free coffee until 4AM.
Outside, the open fire is being set up outside, a warmly appreciated initiative I might add. Once the majority of the crowd has gathered around the open fire (it must be close to freezing point now) the Afro-Bolivian band start doing their stuff. Within minutes all people around the fire are dancing and singing along. This night might still turn out to be reasonable. I thought too quickly though: at the end of the second song, about 20 minutes into their performance, the band just stops. Everybody look at each other, some scream for encores, but to no avail. The drums are rounded up and the band goes back inside. Bizarre! Blandine and I try to make the most of it and go back inside to dance a bit to techno, just because it keeps us warm.
A coca and no smile
At 4:30 we finally get to queue to get onto the sacred Tiahuanacu grounds. Thousands of people, indigenous and one-off tourists alike, are drumming to get through the entry gates and find a prime spot, so potential for chaos is great, but there´s heavy military presence to control the crowd. In the queue we meet with another couple of our age: they’re from around La Paz and before we know it we are offered to chew coca leaves to help us feel a bit warmer. Blandine´s been hooked on the altitude sickness-countering virtues of coca-leaf tea since she set foot in La Paz, so now it’s my turn to give this “wonder medicine” a try, I guess. I chew the 5 leaves to a little ball and flunk it between my left cheek and my teeth. The conversation continues and I masticate as if my life depended on it, but nothing happens: my cheek doesn’t get numb, and I’m still feeling rather cold. In the mean time we’ve made it to the centre of the temple site and are standing still, packed as sardines. My feet consider turning blue, so10 minutes into the real New Year’s “experience” I swallow some of leaves to speed up the desired effect. Nothing. Our friends add leaves to their coca-leaf balls and offer me some more, but I pass, nothing is happening. My body might be programmed to act on alcohol only. Mmmm, a hot spiked tea might be just what I need now.
Dumbass (me), I’m not supposed to swallow the leaves, kilos of spat out coca leaf crud, stuck in between the cobble stones of La Paz should have given me a huge hint over the last few days. Oh well.
Down and out in Aymara hills
The tour that was promised is just not going to happen, the tour management is nowhere to be seen. We spend the next two hours waiting for the sun to come up, and getting away from clingy drunks. Every other person seems to carry around soft drink bottles filled with “home brew”. Bolivians drink as much as the English, only they don’t seem to hold their liquor as well. They don’t care about holding up appearances; they drink to get absolutely smashed. As the day breaks, the blabbering drunks around us get faces, and their not exactly runway models. Rather “runaway from” models! Before I get to take in the whole battlefield, the Aymara high priest lights a huge pyre and starts performing the New Year’s ritual. A bunch of high-placed guests are invited to walk around the pyre, I only recognize one of them, Evo Morales. As much as he is revered, his appearance does not seem to evo-ke (sorry, I had to) any big reactions. I scream “EVO” from the top of my lungs, but nobody follows. Evo doesn’t scream back “Jan” either. Weird.
After a while the ritual ends. The sun has come up from behind the mountains, but a huuuge cloud prevents the rays from hitting the Tiahuanacu statue. And I’m still equally cold. People around me start going back, they’re giving up. The sun and the statue aren't likely to connect for the next few hours and it’s past 8AM now. Even indigenous people are going back. It’s been a long night and they’ve got breakfast from one of the local stands on their mind. Blandine and I give in as well, and walk back past Evo Morales’ heavily guarded helicopter, to meet with the others. I got to cover my disappointment with some calories. Got to give these sad, lonely coca leaves in my stomach some friends to play with. Still no coca leaf effect, by the way. This cold night has been a major disappointment on many fronts. I understand Bolivian event organisers want to put something together that could tickle European tourists’ interests, but this? To say it in French “C’était un nouvel an amère, pas Aymaire.” Great food for blog entries, I guess.
We get back to LaPaz around 11AM, check back in to the Fuentes hotel and plan to spend the rest of the day recovering. We’ll also have to repack, tomorrow is the start of our 4-day Apolobamba trek. The guy at the front desk will have a chance to redeem himself by not missing our wake-up call.
According to the travel agency, this Aymara New Year excursion is going to be a real cultural event; Blandine and I are both quite looking forward to it. I don’t know much about the Aymara culture, but the fact that they chose to start a new year at winter solstice, when days start getting longer, over roughly a week after the birth of Christ, appeals to me. A new year that starts on the 21st of June has zing to it. June 21st is just as good a day to reflect on the past year as January 1st is. Waiting for the first rays of sunlight also seems more symbolically significant than waiting for midnight, a human convention (invention?). At midnight, which really isn’t the middle of the night, there is no visual cue that something new is starting. When I was young we used to go to grandma to celebrate the coming of a new year and we waited for the little bird in my grandmother’s grandfather clock to come out and do its thing twelve times. Nothing magic to it, the bird did the same it does on any other day of the year. But we liked it because we got to stay up real late and even got presents at midnight. Aymara kids get to stay up a lot longer during their New Years celebration. These are probably some of the better thoughts that cross my mind during the 1.5 hour bus ride to Tiahuanaco. A look around the bus draws many more questions in my mind.
The bus is full of teenagers, dressed up to the nines and catching up on gossip. Are we on a high-school outing? Older people are sprinkled here and there all over the bus: they are also coming out for the cultural experience, like us. Or have they sacrificed their sleep to chaperone their youngsters during this all-nighter? I conclude that there definitely is much interest in local culture from Bolivians themselves, it seems very much like a family celebration. We Europeans could learn something from these Bolivians.
The night is pitch black and there´s little more light inside the bus. The latest Lady Gaga and David Guetta hits resound from the back of the bus, someone had the good idea to cheer up this silent bus ride. Some of us hum along to stay awake, to do something on this bus ride, but the gentle rocking of the bus works like a Valium tablet and before long most everyone is asleep.
In the zone
Once arrived, everyone is guided into this party room, a zone dedicated just to the people on the tour. The word “zone” is a good description: It looks like a discotheque, sounds like a discotheque, yet everyone has big winter jackets on, and gloves and hats, and you can see your own breath because the room is not heated. That explains the absence of doors at the entrance and exit. To meet some of the locals I’m going to need a REAL ice breaker. No time to think about that, a few youngsters in leather jacket have set up a DJ table against one wall of the “zone” and hard-core techno music starts blasting around our ears, combined with a psychedelic light show reflected against the ceiling. The host comes around with free goodie bags of the event sponsors. I open mine and find a kit to make glow-in-the-dark glasses, a bright yellow techno-whistle on a wrist band, and a bright yellow felt Santa Claus hat. Huh? Weren´t we supposed to have a cultural experience with Andean flutes and people dressed in colorful ponchos??? Time to look at the program again:
SOLSTICIO EN TIWANAKU
Domingo 20 de Junio de 2010
22.00 Concentración Plaza Bolivia, avenida Arce, Lado del hotel Radisson.
22.30 Salida rumbo a la localidad de Tiwanaku
11.30 llegada y acomodación área de descanso
Lunes 21 de Junio 2010
00.30 Fogata bailable con la saya afro-boliviana
04.30 Entrega de regalo de nuestros auspiciadores y ticket de ingreso
05.00 Entrada a las ruinas y tour por las ruinas
06.15 salida del sol y bailes rituales
07.30 concentración área de descanso
08.30 Salida rumbo a la ciudad de La Paz
09.00 llegada (iglesia de San Francisco)
No mention at all about a big techno-bunny night, yet everybody is into it and yellow felt hats have started bouncing all over the zone. This place is going M-A-D. And there’s all-you-can-drink free coffee until 4AM.
Outside, the open fire is being set up outside, a warmly appreciated initiative I might add. Once the majority of the crowd has gathered around the open fire (it must be close to freezing point now) the Afro-Bolivian band start doing their stuff. Within minutes all people around the fire are dancing and singing along. This night might still turn out to be reasonable. I thought too quickly though: at the end of the second song, about 20 minutes into their performance, the band just stops. Everybody look at each other, some scream for encores, but to no avail. The drums are rounded up and the band goes back inside. Bizarre! Blandine and I try to make the most of it and go back inside to dance a bit to techno, just because it keeps us warm.
A coca and no smile
At 4:30 we finally get to queue to get onto the sacred Tiahuanacu grounds. Thousands of people, indigenous and one-off tourists alike, are drumming to get through the entry gates and find a prime spot, so potential for chaos is great, but there´s heavy military presence to control the crowd. In the queue we meet with another couple of our age: they’re from around La Paz and before we know it we are offered to chew coca leaves to help us feel a bit warmer. Blandine´s been hooked on the altitude sickness-countering virtues of coca-leaf tea since she set foot in La Paz, so now it’s my turn to give this “wonder medicine” a try, I guess. I chew the 5 leaves to a little ball and flunk it between my left cheek and my teeth. The conversation continues and I masticate as if my life depended on it, but nothing happens: my cheek doesn’t get numb, and I’m still feeling rather cold. In the mean time we’ve made it to the centre of the temple site and are standing still, packed as sardines. My feet consider turning blue, so10 minutes into the real New Year’s “experience” I swallow some of leaves to speed up the desired effect. Nothing. Our friends add leaves to their coca-leaf balls and offer me some more, but I pass, nothing is happening. My body might be programmed to act on alcohol only. Mmmm, a hot spiked tea might be just what I need now.
Dumbass (me), I’m not supposed to swallow the leaves, kilos of spat out coca leaf crud, stuck in between the cobble stones of La Paz should have given me a huge hint over the last few days. Oh well.
Down and out in Aymara hills
The tour that was promised is just not going to happen, the tour management is nowhere to be seen. We spend the next two hours waiting for the sun to come up, and getting away from clingy drunks. Every other person seems to carry around soft drink bottles filled with “home brew”. Bolivians drink as much as the English, only they don’t seem to hold their liquor as well. They don’t care about holding up appearances; they drink to get absolutely smashed. As the day breaks, the blabbering drunks around us get faces, and their not exactly runway models. Rather “runaway from” models! Before I get to take in the whole battlefield, the Aymara high priest lights a huge pyre and starts performing the New Year’s ritual. A bunch of high-placed guests are invited to walk around the pyre, I only recognize one of them, Evo Morales. As much as he is revered, his appearance does not seem to evo-ke (sorry, I had to) any big reactions. I scream “EVO” from the top of my lungs, but nobody follows. Evo doesn’t scream back “Jan” either. Weird.
After a while the ritual ends. The sun has come up from behind the mountains, but a huuuge cloud prevents the rays from hitting the Tiahuanacu statue. And I’m still equally cold. People around me start going back, they’re giving up. The sun and the statue aren't likely to connect for the next few hours and it’s past 8AM now. Even indigenous people are going back. It’s been a long night and they’ve got breakfast from one of the local stands on their mind. Blandine and I give in as well, and walk back past Evo Morales’ heavily guarded helicopter, to meet with the others. I got to cover my disappointment with some calories. Got to give these sad, lonely coca leaves in my stomach some friends to play with. Still no coca leaf effect, by the way. This cold night has been a major disappointment on many fronts. I understand Bolivian event organisers want to put something together that could tickle European tourists’ interests, but this? To say it in French “C’était un nouvel an amère, pas Aymaire.” Great food for blog entries, I guess.
We get back to LaPaz around 11AM, check back in to the Fuentes hotel and plan to spend the rest of the day recovering. We’ll also have to repack, tomorrow is the start of our 4-day Apolobamba trek. The guy at the front desk will have a chance to redeem himself by not missing our wake-up call.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Bravo l'Allemagne!!
Je pense bien fort à vous mes amis, Peter, Frenzi et Chris: vous devez être extatiques!!! Ca me rappelle un certain match visionné sur la terrasse de Peter il y a qqs années!! bravo à votre équipe et bonne chance pour la suite!!
Nouvelles impressions
Une question d’altitude
Ben oui, on me l’avait dit et j’y ai pas échappé: le mal de l’altitude: très forts maux de tête qui m’ont réveillé le deux premières nuits (ajouté au décalage horaire), vomissement le deuxième matin, palpitation et essoufflement au moindre effort. Ca a commencé à passer un peu à partir du troisième jour mais les symptômes sont encore tenaces: je m’essouffle rapidement, et le mal de tête ne me quitte pas...
La Paz est à plus de 3500m d’altitude, le Lac Titicaca à 3800m et au départ de notre descente en VTT, nous étions à 4700m… et on prévoit dès demain de partir pour une randonnée de 4 jours dans la cordillera Apolobamba à 4500m. Il faudra bien que les poumons suivent!!
Je me souviens qu’une collègue des Nations Unies m’avait raconté que l’altitude de La Paz était un grave problème pour le budget du bureau car les consultants devaient forcément être payés 3 jours à ne rien faire d’autre que s’acclimater…
Impressions de La Paz
Après plus de 10 jours à aller, venir et revenir à La Paz, on commence à prendre nos marques. On se sent pas mal du tout ici, principalement grâce aux gens qui sont chaleureux et communicatifs. On s’intéresse à nous, on nous demande d’où l’on vient. On apprécie particulièrement que l’on nous parle en espagnol, même si l’anglais semble être bien répandu. Les vendeurs ne nous harcèlent pas mais ne sont pas fort négociant non plus.
On croise une grande diversité de personnes à La Paz, entre tradition et modernité. Bien sûr, les plus impressionnantes sont les femmes en habit traditionnel, avec leur longue jupe épaisse à fron-fron, posée sur plusieurs couches de jupons, dont on distingue la dentelle dépasser au bas lorsqu’elles se penchent. Elles portent un lainage et un long châle à franges sur leurs épaules et, sur leur tête, un chapeau melon en feutre noir ou marron. Toutes ont leurs cheveux noirs, coiffés en deux tresses très longues ornées de pompons. Certaines ont également rassemblé leurs affaires dans une couverture typique aux couleurs bariolées très vives, qu’elles portent comme un fagot sur leurs épaules. On rencontre aussi des hommes dont la joue est déformée par la boule de feuille de coca qu’ils coincent dans un côté de leur bouche. Et puis des amoureux, jeunes et moins jeunes, qui se bécotent sur les bancs publics et ailleurs.
La ville en soi est assez… improbable. Calée dans une vallée, entourée de montagnes et de pics enneigés, comme un de ces grands posters “nature”… sauf que la ville prend le dessus sur la nature. Et cette ville est un chaos, comme beaucoup d’autres capitales qui se sont agrandies par la force des choses, sans plan, sans discipline. Les embouteillages, impliquant essentiellement les minibus qui servent de transports publics, sont permanents… de même que l’odeur des pots d’échappement. Partout, on trouve des vendeurs ambulants de nourriture en tout genre, des cireurs de chaussures qui se couvrent le visage d’une cagoule complète, comme les bandits, pour ne pas être reconnus exerçant leur tâche ingrate, dse policiers en uniforme kaki, et des sans abris, qui se protège du froid avec des cartons… Par ci par là, de très jolies places prises d’assaut par les pigeons, des églises et des bâtiments de l’époque coloniale espagnole, des rues pavées très charmantes.
Lac Titicaca
C’est une des raisons qui m’a fait venir jusqu’en Bolivie : découvrir ce lac légendaire, le lac navigable le plus haut du monde, et tout son mystère qui lie les civilisations Aymara et Incas, les conquistadors, les boliviens et les péruviens. Eh bien je dois dire que je ne suis pas déçue ; il y a véritablement une part de magie dans ce paysage. Le lac s’étend à perte de vue, comme un miroir infini du ciel et des hautes montagnes qui l’entourent. Sa couleur change au fil de la journée, du gris argenté, au bleu intense, au violet rosé. Le coucher de soleil depuis la terrasse de notre auberge était d’une beauté rare, même si frigorifiante !
Nous avons pris le bateau pour rejoindre la Isla del Sol, qui fait face forcément à la Isla de la Luna, plus petite. La Isla del Sol est peuplée de bergers… et d’hôteliers ! mais juste à la pointe sud et à la pointe nord, car entre les deux, durant nos 4 heures de randonnée, nous n’avons pas vu grand monde… même pas de lamas ! C’est un paysage assez méditerranéen qui m’a rappelé les calanques de Cassis. A la pointe nord, on a pu visiter des ruines Incas, dont une pierre de sacrifice, probablement la plus ancienne de Bolivie… mais coup classique de notre époque, la pierre avait été transformée en plateforme d’exposition pour un vendeur de souvenirs… et accessoirement prêtre Aymara qui propose des bénédictions (contre don volontaire)! Jan a été béni, ainsi soit-il !
Descente de la mort en VTT
Pour ceux qui me connaissent un peu, il est probable que vous pensiez que j’ai totalement imaginé les lignes qui vont suivre. Et pourtant, je l’ai fait, c’est la vérité vraie : j’ai passé 5 heures sur un VTT ! L’excursion est vendue comme étant la descente de la route la plus dangereuse du monde (bon, en fait, c’était avant qu’une route alternative soit créée pour le transport routier). La route est accrochée à la montagne ; on est parti de la Cumbre, à 4700m d’altitude, et nous sommes arrivés à Coroico à 1100m… donc tout en descente ; et la règle en Bolivie, c’est de rouler du côté de la falaise, car vous voyez, c’est plus facile d’estimer sa marge de manœuvre pour ne pas tomber dans le vide… Inutile de préciser donc que faire cette excursion n’était pas vraiment mon idée, mais celle de Jan… d’ailleurs, dans notre groupe, nous n’étions que 2 filles – les plus lentes bien évidemment !!
Pour mieux estimer ma marge de manœuvre, j’ai juste évité de regarder le vide, et j’ai freiné tout de long !!! En fait, au-delà de l’aspect sportif, l’expérience valait le coup car on s’est retrouvé dans une végétation luxuriante, avec des vues absolument fantastiques sur les montagnes avoisinantes. Et le village de Coroico, à l’arrivée, était d’un charme paisible bienvenu.
Jour de l’an Aymara
Nous avons revu notre itinéraire pour participer à la célébration du Solstice (d’hiver ici) du 21 juin, qui correspond au nouvel an Aymara, cette communauté ethnique indigène, à laquelle appartient le Président Evo Morales. Certains ont encore en tête la cérémonie d’intronisation du nouveau Président bolivien et premier Président de souche indigène, en habit traditionnel ; une cérémonie très haute en couleur qui se déroulait sur le site des ruines de Tiahuanaco (à 1h30 de La Paz), le lieu de l’apogée de l’empire et de la culture Aymara qui a dominé la région pendant près de 2000 ans, jusqu’à ce qu’elle s’éteigne vers l’an 1100 (sans explication certaine à ce jour). Bref…
On nous a vendu une excursion culturelle et pleine de signification spirituelle pour les Aymaras… et une excursion de nuit, puisqu’il s’agit d’être sur place pour le lever du soleil, afin de capter par nos mains tendues l’énergie solaire positive qui devrait nous porter chance pour toute l’année. Et toute la nuit, des groupes joueraient de la musique traditionnelle et danseraient des danses folkloriques Aymara. Départ donc à 22h et retour pour midi le lendemain. On savait bien qu’on n’avait plus l’âge pour faire des nuits blanches mais on pensait que cette expérience en valait le coup.
Quelle déception… nous sous sommes retrouvés dans une sorte de techno party de campagne; version bolivienne des full moon party de Goa ou Ko Samui, j’imagine… Déjà, dans le bus qui nous a mené à Tiahuanaco, c’était ambiance colonie de vacances : musique pop (Rihana, Lady Gaga, etc.) et jeunes boliviennes dans leur vingtaine surlookées (alors qu’on s’apprêtait à affronter la nuit par 0°). Quelques touristes aussi. Peu d’explication de la part des organisateurs. Quand on arrive sur place, on nous « installe » dans une sorte de cafè de campagne (genre le Bagdad Café sur la route de Palmyre en Syrie) et là, un DJ commence à cracher de la musique techno boum-boum (que j’adore n’est-ce pas ?) et des effets visuels psychédéliques au plafond. On nous distribue des sacs de gadgets des sponsors de la soirée : lunettes, sifflets et bonnet de nuit fluorescents, Red Bull… visiblement, la majorité des participants sont à l’aise et sont venus pour ça. D’autres, comme nous, sont un peu décontenancés… inclus des couples de boliviens et de touristes sexagénaires, médusés ! Ils tenteront de dormir sur leur chaise pendant que Jan et moi essaieront de prendre ce qu’il y à prendre et s’adapter. Je dois donc avouer que j’ai un peu dansé – mais essentiellement pour me réchauffer (Jan, lui, était à fond et souffler dans son sifflet à tue-tête). J’ai passé la plus grosse partie de la soirée autour du feu de camp qui avait été préparé juste à l’extérieur, où l’on a pu écouter un groupe afro-bolivien qui a joué quelques morceaux sur leur djembé.
Vers 5h du matin, nous avons rejoint la longue file pour entrer sur le site des ruines afin d’attendre le lever du soleil au dessus de la Puerto del Sol, c’est-à-dire au dessus des montagnes. Un estrade avait été installée pour le rituel; il s’agissait d’incantations en langue Aymara et d’une petite ronde de quelques personnalités autour d’un petit feu. C’est là qu’à notre grande surprise, nous avons reconnu le Président Evo Morales. Il n’y avait pas eu d’annonce particulière, et personne dans l’assistance ne semblait ni surpris ni particulièrement ému. Autour de nous, malgré l’interdiction d’alcool, de nombreuses personnes complètement saoules, et pas toutes des plus agréables ; à part une dame qui était toute guillerette et souriait tout le temps, nous avons eu droit au pot-de-colle, et au vin-triste qui criait des trucs incompréhensibles tout en pleurant. Ceci étant dit, nous avons fait la rencontre d’un couple de boliviens d’origine Aymara très sympas, qui assistait pour la première fois au rituel. On a pu quand même apercevoir brièvement un groupe de musiciens folkloriques et un gars costumé comme un roi Inca qui lui aussi s’essayer à appeler le soleil.
Mais le ciel était empli de nuage et, à la déception de tous, du soleil, nous n’avons vu que la couronne derrière les nuages…
Drôle d’expérience, un râté sur presque toute la ligne…
Evo Morales
Je dois dire qu’Evo Morales et sa victoire historique, qui contribue au renouveau que l’on observe dans plusieurs pays d’Amérique Latine, était aussi une raison pour laquelle j’ai eu envie de visiter la Bolivie. Evo Morales, premier Président indigène (d’origine Aymara) de l’histoire du pays… qui jusqu’ici avait plutôt l’habitude d’élire les mêmes hommes politiques bien établis ; un coup l’un, un coup l’autre. Evo s’est fait élire avec un programme visant à redonner la dignité et la pleine souveraineté à la Bolivie, avec un accent sur la reconnaissance des droits des communautés indigènes, et la nationalisation des mines (argent, or, lithium, etc), c’est-à-dire la caverne d’Ali Baba du pays et l’objet de toutes les convoitises américaines et européennes. Mais Evo, c’est aussi celui qui a abandonné la politique d’éradication des plantation de coca – faut dire qu’il est entré en politique comme représentant des Cocaleros, les cultivateurs de coca… et pour lui, c’est une question de tradition andine… sauf que un pourcentage significatif de la cocaïne qui tue aux Etats-Unis ou en Europe provient de plantes cultivées en Bolivie, avant d’être transformées en Colombie...
Alors, Evo, berger des plus pauvres, combattant pour la justice et le respect des traditions ou dictateur communiste, comme certains journalistes préfèrent le présenter ?
Tout d’abord, j’ai été agréablement surprise de ne voir aucun poster, aucun étendard à la gloire d’Evo. Je m’attendais à un petit culte de la personnalité, je ne sais pas pourquoi. Mais voilà la Bolivie est une démocratie et Evo est un Président comme il y en a eu d’autres. Ceci étant dit, on trouve beaucoup de tags sur les murs un peu partout, appelant à voter Evo et ses camarades pour la mairie, le Sénat, le gouvernorat. Mais ici et là, on trouve aussi –beaucoup moins nombreux- des tags pour les autres partis. Toutefois, nous ne sommes pas encore allés à Sucre, ville plus à l’Est et véritable fief d’opposition.
En tout cas, que ce soit à La Paz, ou dans les petits villages de la cordillère Apolobamba, les gens nous ont exprimé un soutien absolu à Evo Morales. On nous a parlé de changement, de droit, de dignité. Mais un paysan Quechua nous a quand même avoué que pour lui, rien n’avait changé… pas encore ?
Transports locaux
On se déplace en transports publics autant que l’on peut. Ca nous permet d’observer d’encore plus près la vie locale.
Je suis fascinée par le calme qu’il y règne. Que ce soit dans les bus de longue distance ou dans les mini-bus ou micros, qui sillonnent les rues de La Paz, les gens sont calmes, discrets et parlent à voix basse (selon moi, une bonne leçon pour les Flamands vociférant avec lesquels je prend le train tous les matins).
Dans les bus, pas de karaoké ni de mauvais DVDs inaudibles, comme en Asie…même si on nous a infligé une mauvaise cassette de ‘Sonia Morales’ (apparemment une star péruvienne) les dernières heures de notre trajet vers Kotapampa. Je ne peux pas avoir oublier le nom de cette chanteuse car dans chaque chanson, son nom était répété au moins vingt fois par un homme, à la façon des présentateurs de numéros de cirque !
Tradition locale : à plusieurs reprises, nous avons eu droit ,dans le bus, à des vendeurs ambulants de manuels et autres publications du genre « comment s’exprimer à l’oral », « comment recevoir des invités », « recettes de cuisine boliviennes », « parler Quechua, Aymara et Castillan », etc. Ces hommes font leur speech aux passagers pendant plus de 45 minutes sans perdre haleine… et ça a l’air de bien fonctionné : les gens achètent. Là aussi, ça change des vendeurs de Coran dans les bus du Maroc !
Randonnée dans la Cordillère Apolobamba
Jan avait repéré dans le guide Footprint que l’on pouvait partir pour 4 jours dans la cordillère Apolobamba, à 4500m d’altitude et 7h de bus au Nord de La Paz, dans le cadre d’un projet d’éco-tourisme organisé par les communautés Aymara et Quechua de la région. Nous avons rencontré Sam, une anglaise qui fait la promotion de ce projet à La Paz. Elle nous a expliqué que ce serait une randonnée de 3-4 heures le matin pour atteindre le prochain village dans lequel on passerait la nuit, après avoir passer l’après-midi à observer la vie communautaire. Bien sûr, j’ai complètement adhéré… moi, la grande sportive, qui ne craint même pas l’altitude !
Bon, ça a été assez sportif (l’oxygène est rare à ces hauteurs), très froid (les nuits en dessous de 0° sans chauffage), et sans grande hygiène (pas de douche pendant 4 jours mais merci à l’inventeur des lingettes bébé – j’avais prévu le coup quand même)… mais je regrette pas une seconde !
On a vu des paysages de haute montagne époustouflants : c’était nous deux, le guide du village, les lamas (ou alpacas – je sais toujours pas faire la différence) et les montagnes, par couches, à perte de vue. Pendant la matinée de marche, il faisait assez bon, une petite laine polaire suffisait. Le chemin était en général tout en pente douce ; les quelques montées nous ont d’ailleurs sciaient les poumons, et le cœur s’emballait tellement vite qu’il fallait s’arrêter toutes les 10 minutes.
Quand on arrivait, les villages étaient quasi déserts, car tout le monde était occupé aux champs ou à garder les lamas. Notre personne de contact dans le village était le guide désigné du projet, qui nous attendait avec le déjeuner. Les villages ne voient passer qu’une soixantaine de touristes par an, et ce, que depuis 5ans, depuis la création du projet. Quand je dis ‘village’, je parle de 3 à 10 familles. Pas d’au courante et électricité selon l’état de la machinerie (certains villages étaient équipés de panneaux solaires). Chaque village met à disposition des touristes un dortoir des pus basiques, avec heureusement pleins de couverture, et un toilette (modèle européen, mais sans chasse : quand on a fait ce qu’on a à faire, on doit recouvrir de cendres !).
Le guide du village de Kulayo, Eulogio, était d’une gentillesse extrême et très curieux des affaires du monde. Parmi ces questions : « est-ce qu’on peut manger la viande d’éléphant ? » « pourquoi les Palestiniens et les Israéliens se font la guerre ? » ou encore « pourquoi il y a tant de pauvreté en Afrique ? ». Je ne m’attendais certainement pas à discuter des problèmes de développement africain en espagnol, assise au milieu des lamas à 4500m d’altitude en Bolivie!
Dans ce même village, une cérémonie a été organisée pour nous avec un Kalawaya, un de ces rares et mystiques ‘docteurs’ ambulants boliviens qui soignent avec les plantes médicinales locales dont ils connaissent tous les secrets, et qui peuvent solliciter Pachamama (l’esprit de la la terre) et autres esprits pour demander bonne santé, bon travail, bon mariage, bon tout ce que veulent leurs clients. La cérémonie a duré bien 2h, et s’est déroulée dans la petite pièce ou l’on déjeunait, éclaireé à la bougie – une atmosphère de film noir... Nous avons demandé bonne chance pour notre voyage, bonne santé et longue vie pour nous et nos parents, et de l’amour ! Le Kalawaya, qui se prénommait Buenaventura (bien à propos, n’est-ce pas !) a préparé des petits nids de laine de lamas dans lesquels ils disposaient différents éléments au fur et à mesure de ses incantations : des fleurs, du sucre, des morceaux de guirlande multicolore ; tout cela, arrosé d’alcool rouge, comme du vin de Porto. Il nous a mis à contribution pour arroser les petits nids aussi, puis il nous a demandé de humer trois fois les fleurs qu’il allait disposer sur les nids… on a pas tout compris, aucune explication nous était donnée mais on a bien joué le jeu. Tout cela s’est terminé autour d’un feu, à l’extérieur, où l’on a brûlait tous les petits nids, ainsi que l’œuf qui faisait partie de l’attirail depuis le début. Au dessus des flammes, l’œuf s’est rompu ; on nous a assuré que ça nous porterait chance. Enfin, le Kalawaya nous a laisse partir après nous avoir littéralement enfumé le visage en nous demandant de nous laver le visage avec cette fumée… euh… sympa, mais pas génial avant de se mettre au lit !
Ce fût une expérience des plus bizarres, et je ne peux qu’espérer que cela nous aura fait plus de bien que de mal (comme le massages ayurvédique des plus désagréables que j’avais reçu en Inde).
Mais dès le lendemain, ironie du sort, Jan a fait une poussée de fièvre alors qu’on arrivait au village de Characapi : il avait sans doute pris froid pendant le passage de la cérémonie autour du feu à l’extérieur…
Ben oui, on me l’avait dit et j’y ai pas échappé: le mal de l’altitude: très forts maux de tête qui m’ont réveillé le deux premières nuits (ajouté au décalage horaire), vomissement le deuxième matin, palpitation et essoufflement au moindre effort. Ca a commencé à passer un peu à partir du troisième jour mais les symptômes sont encore tenaces: je m’essouffle rapidement, et le mal de tête ne me quitte pas...
La Paz est à plus de 3500m d’altitude, le Lac Titicaca à 3800m et au départ de notre descente en VTT, nous étions à 4700m… et on prévoit dès demain de partir pour une randonnée de 4 jours dans la cordillera Apolobamba à 4500m. Il faudra bien que les poumons suivent!!
Je me souviens qu’une collègue des Nations Unies m’avait raconté que l’altitude de La Paz était un grave problème pour le budget du bureau car les consultants devaient forcément être payés 3 jours à ne rien faire d’autre que s’acclimater…
Impressions de La Paz
Après plus de 10 jours à aller, venir et revenir à La Paz, on commence à prendre nos marques. On se sent pas mal du tout ici, principalement grâce aux gens qui sont chaleureux et communicatifs. On s’intéresse à nous, on nous demande d’où l’on vient. On apprécie particulièrement que l’on nous parle en espagnol, même si l’anglais semble être bien répandu. Les vendeurs ne nous harcèlent pas mais ne sont pas fort négociant non plus.
On croise une grande diversité de personnes à La Paz, entre tradition et modernité. Bien sûr, les plus impressionnantes sont les femmes en habit traditionnel, avec leur longue jupe épaisse à fron-fron, posée sur plusieurs couches de jupons, dont on distingue la dentelle dépasser au bas lorsqu’elles se penchent. Elles portent un lainage et un long châle à franges sur leurs épaules et, sur leur tête, un chapeau melon en feutre noir ou marron. Toutes ont leurs cheveux noirs, coiffés en deux tresses très longues ornées de pompons. Certaines ont également rassemblé leurs affaires dans une couverture typique aux couleurs bariolées très vives, qu’elles portent comme un fagot sur leurs épaules. On rencontre aussi des hommes dont la joue est déformée par la boule de feuille de coca qu’ils coincent dans un côté de leur bouche. Et puis des amoureux, jeunes et moins jeunes, qui se bécotent sur les bancs publics et ailleurs.
La ville en soi est assez… improbable. Calée dans une vallée, entourée de montagnes et de pics enneigés, comme un de ces grands posters “nature”… sauf que la ville prend le dessus sur la nature. Et cette ville est un chaos, comme beaucoup d’autres capitales qui se sont agrandies par la force des choses, sans plan, sans discipline. Les embouteillages, impliquant essentiellement les minibus qui servent de transports publics, sont permanents… de même que l’odeur des pots d’échappement. Partout, on trouve des vendeurs ambulants de nourriture en tout genre, des cireurs de chaussures qui se couvrent le visage d’une cagoule complète, comme les bandits, pour ne pas être reconnus exerçant leur tâche ingrate, dse policiers en uniforme kaki, et des sans abris, qui se protège du froid avec des cartons… Par ci par là, de très jolies places prises d’assaut par les pigeons, des églises et des bâtiments de l’époque coloniale espagnole, des rues pavées très charmantes.
Lac Titicaca
C’est une des raisons qui m’a fait venir jusqu’en Bolivie : découvrir ce lac légendaire, le lac navigable le plus haut du monde, et tout son mystère qui lie les civilisations Aymara et Incas, les conquistadors, les boliviens et les péruviens. Eh bien je dois dire que je ne suis pas déçue ; il y a véritablement une part de magie dans ce paysage. Le lac s’étend à perte de vue, comme un miroir infini du ciel et des hautes montagnes qui l’entourent. Sa couleur change au fil de la journée, du gris argenté, au bleu intense, au violet rosé. Le coucher de soleil depuis la terrasse de notre auberge était d’une beauté rare, même si frigorifiante !
Nous avons pris le bateau pour rejoindre la Isla del Sol, qui fait face forcément à la Isla de la Luna, plus petite. La Isla del Sol est peuplée de bergers… et d’hôteliers ! mais juste à la pointe sud et à la pointe nord, car entre les deux, durant nos 4 heures de randonnée, nous n’avons pas vu grand monde… même pas de lamas ! C’est un paysage assez méditerranéen qui m’a rappelé les calanques de Cassis. A la pointe nord, on a pu visiter des ruines Incas, dont une pierre de sacrifice, probablement la plus ancienne de Bolivie… mais coup classique de notre époque, la pierre avait été transformée en plateforme d’exposition pour un vendeur de souvenirs… et accessoirement prêtre Aymara qui propose des bénédictions (contre don volontaire)! Jan a été béni, ainsi soit-il !
Descente de la mort en VTT
Pour ceux qui me connaissent un peu, il est probable que vous pensiez que j’ai totalement imaginé les lignes qui vont suivre. Et pourtant, je l’ai fait, c’est la vérité vraie : j’ai passé 5 heures sur un VTT ! L’excursion est vendue comme étant la descente de la route la plus dangereuse du monde (bon, en fait, c’était avant qu’une route alternative soit créée pour le transport routier). La route est accrochée à la montagne ; on est parti de la Cumbre, à 4700m d’altitude, et nous sommes arrivés à Coroico à 1100m… donc tout en descente ; et la règle en Bolivie, c’est de rouler du côté de la falaise, car vous voyez, c’est plus facile d’estimer sa marge de manœuvre pour ne pas tomber dans le vide… Inutile de préciser donc que faire cette excursion n’était pas vraiment mon idée, mais celle de Jan… d’ailleurs, dans notre groupe, nous n’étions que 2 filles – les plus lentes bien évidemment !!
Pour mieux estimer ma marge de manœuvre, j’ai juste évité de regarder le vide, et j’ai freiné tout de long !!! En fait, au-delà de l’aspect sportif, l’expérience valait le coup car on s’est retrouvé dans une végétation luxuriante, avec des vues absolument fantastiques sur les montagnes avoisinantes. Et le village de Coroico, à l’arrivée, était d’un charme paisible bienvenu.
Jour de l’an Aymara
Nous avons revu notre itinéraire pour participer à la célébration du Solstice (d’hiver ici) du 21 juin, qui correspond au nouvel an Aymara, cette communauté ethnique indigène, à laquelle appartient le Président Evo Morales. Certains ont encore en tête la cérémonie d’intronisation du nouveau Président bolivien et premier Président de souche indigène, en habit traditionnel ; une cérémonie très haute en couleur qui se déroulait sur le site des ruines de Tiahuanaco (à 1h30 de La Paz), le lieu de l’apogée de l’empire et de la culture Aymara qui a dominé la région pendant près de 2000 ans, jusqu’à ce qu’elle s’éteigne vers l’an 1100 (sans explication certaine à ce jour). Bref…
On nous a vendu une excursion culturelle et pleine de signification spirituelle pour les Aymaras… et une excursion de nuit, puisqu’il s’agit d’être sur place pour le lever du soleil, afin de capter par nos mains tendues l’énergie solaire positive qui devrait nous porter chance pour toute l’année. Et toute la nuit, des groupes joueraient de la musique traditionnelle et danseraient des danses folkloriques Aymara. Départ donc à 22h et retour pour midi le lendemain. On savait bien qu’on n’avait plus l’âge pour faire des nuits blanches mais on pensait que cette expérience en valait le coup.
Quelle déception… nous sous sommes retrouvés dans une sorte de techno party de campagne; version bolivienne des full moon party de Goa ou Ko Samui, j’imagine… Déjà, dans le bus qui nous a mené à Tiahuanaco, c’était ambiance colonie de vacances : musique pop (Rihana, Lady Gaga, etc.) et jeunes boliviennes dans leur vingtaine surlookées (alors qu’on s’apprêtait à affronter la nuit par 0°). Quelques touristes aussi. Peu d’explication de la part des organisateurs. Quand on arrive sur place, on nous « installe » dans une sorte de cafè de campagne (genre le Bagdad Café sur la route de Palmyre en Syrie) et là, un DJ commence à cracher de la musique techno boum-boum (que j’adore n’est-ce pas ?) et des effets visuels psychédéliques au plafond. On nous distribue des sacs de gadgets des sponsors de la soirée : lunettes, sifflets et bonnet de nuit fluorescents, Red Bull… visiblement, la majorité des participants sont à l’aise et sont venus pour ça. D’autres, comme nous, sont un peu décontenancés… inclus des couples de boliviens et de touristes sexagénaires, médusés ! Ils tenteront de dormir sur leur chaise pendant que Jan et moi essaieront de prendre ce qu’il y à prendre et s’adapter. Je dois donc avouer que j’ai un peu dansé – mais essentiellement pour me réchauffer (Jan, lui, était à fond et souffler dans son sifflet à tue-tête). J’ai passé la plus grosse partie de la soirée autour du feu de camp qui avait été préparé juste à l’extérieur, où l’on a pu écouter un groupe afro-bolivien qui a joué quelques morceaux sur leur djembé.
Vers 5h du matin, nous avons rejoint la longue file pour entrer sur le site des ruines afin d’attendre le lever du soleil au dessus de la Puerto del Sol, c’est-à-dire au dessus des montagnes. Un estrade avait été installée pour le rituel; il s’agissait d’incantations en langue Aymara et d’une petite ronde de quelques personnalités autour d’un petit feu. C’est là qu’à notre grande surprise, nous avons reconnu le Président Evo Morales. Il n’y avait pas eu d’annonce particulière, et personne dans l’assistance ne semblait ni surpris ni particulièrement ému. Autour de nous, malgré l’interdiction d’alcool, de nombreuses personnes complètement saoules, et pas toutes des plus agréables ; à part une dame qui était toute guillerette et souriait tout le temps, nous avons eu droit au pot-de-colle, et au vin-triste qui criait des trucs incompréhensibles tout en pleurant. Ceci étant dit, nous avons fait la rencontre d’un couple de boliviens d’origine Aymara très sympas, qui assistait pour la première fois au rituel. On a pu quand même apercevoir brièvement un groupe de musiciens folkloriques et un gars costumé comme un roi Inca qui lui aussi s’essayer à appeler le soleil.
Mais le ciel était empli de nuage et, à la déception de tous, du soleil, nous n’avons vu que la couronne derrière les nuages…
Drôle d’expérience, un râté sur presque toute la ligne…
Evo Morales
Je dois dire qu’Evo Morales et sa victoire historique, qui contribue au renouveau que l’on observe dans plusieurs pays d’Amérique Latine, était aussi une raison pour laquelle j’ai eu envie de visiter la Bolivie. Evo Morales, premier Président indigène (d’origine Aymara) de l’histoire du pays… qui jusqu’ici avait plutôt l’habitude d’élire les mêmes hommes politiques bien établis ; un coup l’un, un coup l’autre. Evo s’est fait élire avec un programme visant à redonner la dignité et la pleine souveraineté à la Bolivie, avec un accent sur la reconnaissance des droits des communautés indigènes, et la nationalisation des mines (argent, or, lithium, etc), c’est-à-dire la caverne d’Ali Baba du pays et l’objet de toutes les convoitises américaines et européennes. Mais Evo, c’est aussi celui qui a abandonné la politique d’éradication des plantation de coca – faut dire qu’il est entré en politique comme représentant des Cocaleros, les cultivateurs de coca… et pour lui, c’est une question de tradition andine… sauf que un pourcentage significatif de la cocaïne qui tue aux Etats-Unis ou en Europe provient de plantes cultivées en Bolivie, avant d’être transformées en Colombie...
Alors, Evo, berger des plus pauvres, combattant pour la justice et le respect des traditions ou dictateur communiste, comme certains journalistes préfèrent le présenter ?
Tout d’abord, j’ai été agréablement surprise de ne voir aucun poster, aucun étendard à la gloire d’Evo. Je m’attendais à un petit culte de la personnalité, je ne sais pas pourquoi. Mais voilà la Bolivie est une démocratie et Evo est un Président comme il y en a eu d’autres. Ceci étant dit, on trouve beaucoup de tags sur les murs un peu partout, appelant à voter Evo et ses camarades pour la mairie, le Sénat, le gouvernorat. Mais ici et là, on trouve aussi –beaucoup moins nombreux- des tags pour les autres partis. Toutefois, nous ne sommes pas encore allés à Sucre, ville plus à l’Est et véritable fief d’opposition.
En tout cas, que ce soit à La Paz, ou dans les petits villages de la cordillère Apolobamba, les gens nous ont exprimé un soutien absolu à Evo Morales. On nous a parlé de changement, de droit, de dignité. Mais un paysan Quechua nous a quand même avoué que pour lui, rien n’avait changé… pas encore ?
Transports locaux
On se déplace en transports publics autant que l’on peut. Ca nous permet d’observer d’encore plus près la vie locale.
Je suis fascinée par le calme qu’il y règne. Que ce soit dans les bus de longue distance ou dans les mini-bus ou micros, qui sillonnent les rues de La Paz, les gens sont calmes, discrets et parlent à voix basse (selon moi, une bonne leçon pour les Flamands vociférant avec lesquels je prend le train tous les matins).
Dans les bus, pas de karaoké ni de mauvais DVDs inaudibles, comme en Asie…même si on nous a infligé une mauvaise cassette de ‘Sonia Morales’ (apparemment une star péruvienne) les dernières heures de notre trajet vers Kotapampa. Je ne peux pas avoir oublier le nom de cette chanteuse car dans chaque chanson, son nom était répété au moins vingt fois par un homme, à la façon des présentateurs de numéros de cirque !
Tradition locale : à plusieurs reprises, nous avons eu droit ,dans le bus, à des vendeurs ambulants de manuels et autres publications du genre « comment s’exprimer à l’oral », « comment recevoir des invités », « recettes de cuisine boliviennes », « parler Quechua, Aymara et Castillan », etc. Ces hommes font leur speech aux passagers pendant plus de 45 minutes sans perdre haleine… et ça a l’air de bien fonctionné : les gens achètent. Là aussi, ça change des vendeurs de Coran dans les bus du Maroc !
Randonnée dans la Cordillère Apolobamba
Jan avait repéré dans le guide Footprint que l’on pouvait partir pour 4 jours dans la cordillère Apolobamba, à 4500m d’altitude et 7h de bus au Nord de La Paz, dans le cadre d’un projet d’éco-tourisme organisé par les communautés Aymara et Quechua de la région. Nous avons rencontré Sam, une anglaise qui fait la promotion de ce projet à La Paz. Elle nous a expliqué que ce serait une randonnée de 3-4 heures le matin pour atteindre le prochain village dans lequel on passerait la nuit, après avoir passer l’après-midi à observer la vie communautaire. Bien sûr, j’ai complètement adhéré… moi, la grande sportive, qui ne craint même pas l’altitude !
Bon, ça a été assez sportif (l’oxygène est rare à ces hauteurs), très froid (les nuits en dessous de 0° sans chauffage), et sans grande hygiène (pas de douche pendant 4 jours mais merci à l’inventeur des lingettes bébé – j’avais prévu le coup quand même)… mais je regrette pas une seconde !
On a vu des paysages de haute montagne époustouflants : c’était nous deux, le guide du village, les lamas (ou alpacas – je sais toujours pas faire la différence) et les montagnes, par couches, à perte de vue. Pendant la matinée de marche, il faisait assez bon, une petite laine polaire suffisait. Le chemin était en général tout en pente douce ; les quelques montées nous ont d’ailleurs sciaient les poumons, et le cœur s’emballait tellement vite qu’il fallait s’arrêter toutes les 10 minutes.
Quand on arrivait, les villages étaient quasi déserts, car tout le monde était occupé aux champs ou à garder les lamas. Notre personne de contact dans le village était le guide désigné du projet, qui nous attendait avec le déjeuner. Les villages ne voient passer qu’une soixantaine de touristes par an, et ce, que depuis 5ans, depuis la création du projet. Quand je dis ‘village’, je parle de 3 à 10 familles. Pas d’au courante et électricité selon l’état de la machinerie (certains villages étaient équipés de panneaux solaires). Chaque village met à disposition des touristes un dortoir des pus basiques, avec heureusement pleins de couverture, et un toilette (modèle européen, mais sans chasse : quand on a fait ce qu’on a à faire, on doit recouvrir de cendres !).
Le guide du village de Kulayo, Eulogio, était d’une gentillesse extrême et très curieux des affaires du monde. Parmi ces questions : « est-ce qu’on peut manger la viande d’éléphant ? » « pourquoi les Palestiniens et les Israéliens se font la guerre ? » ou encore « pourquoi il y a tant de pauvreté en Afrique ? ». Je ne m’attendais certainement pas à discuter des problèmes de développement africain en espagnol, assise au milieu des lamas à 4500m d’altitude en Bolivie!
Dans ce même village, une cérémonie a été organisée pour nous avec un Kalawaya, un de ces rares et mystiques ‘docteurs’ ambulants boliviens qui soignent avec les plantes médicinales locales dont ils connaissent tous les secrets, et qui peuvent solliciter Pachamama (l’esprit de la la terre) et autres esprits pour demander bonne santé, bon travail, bon mariage, bon tout ce que veulent leurs clients. La cérémonie a duré bien 2h, et s’est déroulée dans la petite pièce ou l’on déjeunait, éclaireé à la bougie – une atmosphère de film noir... Nous avons demandé bonne chance pour notre voyage, bonne santé et longue vie pour nous et nos parents, et de l’amour ! Le Kalawaya, qui se prénommait Buenaventura (bien à propos, n’est-ce pas !) a préparé des petits nids de laine de lamas dans lesquels ils disposaient différents éléments au fur et à mesure de ses incantations : des fleurs, du sucre, des morceaux de guirlande multicolore ; tout cela, arrosé d’alcool rouge, comme du vin de Porto. Il nous a mis à contribution pour arroser les petits nids aussi, puis il nous a demandé de humer trois fois les fleurs qu’il allait disposer sur les nids… on a pas tout compris, aucune explication nous était donnée mais on a bien joué le jeu. Tout cela s’est terminé autour d’un feu, à l’extérieur, où l’on a brûlait tous les petits nids, ainsi que l’œuf qui faisait partie de l’attirail depuis le début. Au dessus des flammes, l’œuf s’est rompu ; on nous a assuré que ça nous porterait chance. Enfin, le Kalawaya nous a laisse partir après nous avoir littéralement enfumé le visage en nous demandant de nous laver le visage avec cette fumée… euh… sympa, mais pas génial avant de se mettre au lit !
Ce fût une expérience des plus bizarres, et je ne peux qu’espérer que cela nous aura fait plus de bien que de mal (comme le massages ayurvédique des plus désagréables que j’avais reçu en Inde).
Mais dès le lendemain, ironie du sort, Jan a fait une poussée de fièvre alors qu’on arrivait au village de Characapi : il avait sans doute pris froid pendant le passage de la cérémonie autour du feu à l’extérieur…
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunday, June 20th: Getting Ready for New Year
Feeling Yunga
Why can´t I sleep long, like Blandine? It´s 7:30 and I´m wide awake. The early Yunga sun lures me out. Ok, fine. I´ll come out and play, I have no Yungas-in-early sunlight pictures in my collection yet. It´s quiet outside, everybody else has copied Blandine´s intentions to enjoy the warmth of the bed a bit longer, it is Sunday after all. The whole valley in front of me is covered in a cloud carpet. If it were any thicker, you´d swear you could ski on it. Magic.
A good thing gone bad
After the photo session I sneak back into the bedroom and softly wake up Blandine. It´s 9:45 AM, time for Sunday brunch. The Hotel Esmeralda breakfast is highly rated, but after yesterday I´m suspicious. We walk into a busy breakfast room. My suspicion is immediately confirmed: again the food is good, but the place is short-staffed. The naïve child labourers are happy to help, that´s not the problem, it´s just that they don´t do their job in a very structured, effective way. Clearly there is no proper management: half of everything is missing at the buffet: forks, knives, plates. By the time the staff have responded to my request, the other half has gone missing. Now there are no cups for coffee and no juice glasses. I fill up my plate and join my sweetheart at a sunny table on the adjoining terrace. Coffee and juice will have to wait.
The staff is aware of the problem. By the time we finish breakfast, an older man holding a stack of clean plates comes over to our table, introduces himself as Kurt, and apologises for the mess. Everybody had decided to come out to breakfast at the same time, he reasons. I smile and wisely keep my mouth shut. According to him it´s the problem of the “queen bee”: “She spoils it for everybody else, she has no people skills, to say it nicely.” I couldn´t agree more. Something needs to be done, but I don´t know what, so the conversation remains a bitching session.
Coroico – La Paz
We take it easy for the rest of our stay, then grab the first bus back from Coroico to La Paz. We´re glad to leave. The minibus ride to La Paz is supposed to take 3 hours, but it takes longer, because the driver has problems getting into third gear. The high revving in the second gear is annoying, but I take advantage of the slower driving to shoot a few extra pictures of the surroundings. Blandine is less happy: she sits on too small of a seat next to the driver and her buttocks don’t appreciate it.
A lazy Sunday afternoon
The afternoon in La Paz we keep as quiet as in Coroico. We have reserved no hotel to go to because we are going to attend the Aymara New Year, celebrated at the winter solstice. Yes “winter solstice” in June, it’s the southern hemisphere and freezing cold at night at this altitude. The tour starts at 10PM, so we have a few hours to kill. It´s goingt to be a magical, cultural event, we can´t wait. We change clothes, have a slow dinner at a Mexican restaurant. The owner turns out to be Belgian, from near Antwerp. What are the odds? When he finds out that we stayed at Hotel Esmeralda, he adds “I’ve worked there for four months as a chef. That place is a mess, but it’s not going to be fixed any time soon because of this witch of a woman.” After only 24 hours of observation I tend to agree with him. We make the 10PM appointment, on time, dressed in about all the possible layers we have. It’s going to be a cold night.
Why can´t I sleep long, like Blandine? It´s 7:30 and I´m wide awake. The early Yunga sun lures me out. Ok, fine. I´ll come out and play, I have no Yungas-in-early sunlight pictures in my collection yet. It´s quiet outside, everybody else has copied Blandine´s intentions to enjoy the warmth of the bed a bit longer, it is Sunday after all. The whole valley in front of me is covered in a cloud carpet. If it were any thicker, you´d swear you could ski on it. Magic.
A good thing gone bad
After the photo session I sneak back into the bedroom and softly wake up Blandine. It´s 9:45 AM, time for Sunday brunch. The Hotel Esmeralda breakfast is highly rated, but after yesterday I´m suspicious. We walk into a busy breakfast room. My suspicion is immediately confirmed: again the food is good, but the place is short-staffed. The naïve child labourers are happy to help, that´s not the problem, it´s just that they don´t do their job in a very structured, effective way. Clearly there is no proper management: half of everything is missing at the buffet: forks, knives, plates. By the time the staff have responded to my request, the other half has gone missing. Now there are no cups for coffee and no juice glasses. I fill up my plate and join my sweetheart at a sunny table on the adjoining terrace. Coffee and juice will have to wait.
The staff is aware of the problem. By the time we finish breakfast, an older man holding a stack of clean plates comes over to our table, introduces himself as Kurt, and apologises for the mess. Everybody had decided to come out to breakfast at the same time, he reasons. I smile and wisely keep my mouth shut. According to him it´s the problem of the “queen bee”: “She spoils it for everybody else, she has no people skills, to say it nicely.” I couldn´t agree more. Something needs to be done, but I don´t know what, so the conversation remains a bitching session.
Coroico – La Paz
We take it easy for the rest of our stay, then grab the first bus back from Coroico to La Paz. We´re glad to leave. The minibus ride to La Paz is supposed to take 3 hours, but it takes longer, because the driver has problems getting into third gear. The high revving in the second gear is annoying, but I take advantage of the slower driving to shoot a few extra pictures of the surroundings. Blandine is less happy: she sits on too small of a seat next to the driver and her buttocks don’t appreciate it.
A lazy Sunday afternoon
The afternoon in La Paz we keep as quiet as in Coroico. We have reserved no hotel to go to because we are going to attend the Aymara New Year, celebrated at the winter solstice. Yes “winter solstice” in June, it’s the southern hemisphere and freezing cold at night at this altitude. The tour starts at 10PM, so we have a few hours to kill. It´s goingt to be a magical, cultural event, we can´t wait. We change clothes, have a slow dinner at a Mexican restaurant. The owner turns out to be Belgian, from near Antwerp. What are the odds? When he finds out that we stayed at Hotel Esmeralda, he adds “I’ve worked there for four months as a chef. That place is a mess, but it’s not going to be fixed any time soon because of this witch of a woman.” After only 24 hours of observation I tend to agree with him. We make the 10PM appointment, on time, dressed in about all the possible layers we have. It’s going to be a cold night.
Saturday, June 19th: Ride your heart out, baby!
The Gravity experience
The old road between La Paz and Coroico is known as the most dangerous in the world. Loads of curves, partly paved, partly dirt road, with amazing views of the Yungas, it’s the perfect opportunity for a crazy New-Zealander to create a bicycle tour. It’s the perfect opportunity for a French-Belgian couple to go on this bicycle tour, no? I’m thinking “YESS”, Blandine is rather reserved about this whole “experience”.
Facts:
Different tour agencies offer the tour, even for considerably less money, but Blandine is willing to do this only with “Gravity”, the most trusted company (http://www.gravitybolivia.com/). Gravity has the newest, shiniest bikes, the best gear, and guides who speak perfect English. All this comes at a price: Gravity is also known to be the most expensive company, but there is no way around it if I want my sweetheart to come along. Gravity is also very flexible: we want to stay the night in Coroico, and will not return to La Paz the same day, so they offer us a free taxi.
A running start
To get to the departure point is a race in itself. The hotel receptionist has forgotten to give us a wake-up call at 6:45. I wake up from the sunlight, and look over at the clock: it’s 6:55. Yikes, we’ll need to run to make our non-refundable tour, or risk missing our USD 200. I jump into my clothes and haul our backpacks to the reception area, where I confront the clerk with his mistake. “I’m so sorry, Sir, I had to get gas.” Whatever man, we’re going to miss our tour!
We decide to run to Alexander Coffee, the meeting place. It’s all downhill, but running my guts out with sleepy eyes, 3 layers of clothing on and 5 Kilogram strapped to my back is not really what I had in mind. We open the doors to Alexander Coffee at 7:28, heart throbbing in our throats, ready to apologise. No need, only half the people have arrived. “Take your time to have breakfast, dudes” says Cody, our US instructor. This all-inclusive tour has foreseen everything. A coffee and ham and cheese croissant later, I start seeing the pink side of life again. Then, all of a sudden it’s time to board the van, so I gulp the rest of my coffee, grab Blandine’s hand and we cross the street together, ready as-can-be for the thrill of our lives.
Bike your heart out, baby!
We’re six on this tour: a chatty Australian couple, a New Zealander, a quiet German guy (No surprise after the loss against Serbia yesterday), and us. We introduce ourselves against a background of popular American rock hits, the stuff adventure seekers probably listen to all day. I know most songs; I’m feeling pretty fly for a white guy. Within 45 minutes the van reaches La Cumbre at 4725 metres and we are kindly asked to get off. I don’t think I’ve ever held a bike in my hands at this height. Heck, I never even have walked around at this height. The air is thin and breathing is more difficult, not just because of the taste of adventure. An impressive amount of gear is put in front of us: gloves, dustcover cloth, biking hats, windproof jackets and trousers, fluorescent vests with back pockets to put our water bottles in. It’s sunny, but cold enough at this height, so I rapidly put all my stuff on. More layers means more warmth.
Once everyone is dressed, we receive a 15-minute explanation of dos and don’ts. Most of it is straightforward, style: “If you stop at a pull-out next to a crevice, get off your bike on the mountain-side”. Our group is relatively small, yet the security is not reduced: one guide will drive first and another guide will drive last. Cody explains “Basically we are your bread, guys, and you are the beef, the lettuce, the tomatoes, and so on.” It was a funny description, but the girls in the group are too nervous to smile and the German guy doesn’t speak enough English to understand. Cody claims that it’s not a technically difficult track, yet consequences of making an error are extremely serious. That’s always good to know. I see Blandine swallow. She’s probably thinking “What have I got myself into this time?” or “I guess it’s too late to chicken out.”
It’s finally time to get our iron poneys into gear. The driver closes the van that will hold all our bags throughout the trip; they will follow us at a safe distance. Downhill biking with top of the line gear is not difficult, it’s like a videogame, except that the injuries are real. Seriously, only boneheads can get themselves hurt. Before I know it, I’m flying down curvy paved roads at speeds around 50km/hour, with the odd car passing. And the landscape is amazing too. Nothing comes close to describing it, you just have to do it. I’m all smiles.
About an hour into it, we’re told that the next half hour is uphill. Those who want can take the van, so the Australian girl leaves the pack. Chicken! I start the uphill full of confidence, but soon realise that my legs aren’t going to be the ones doing the hardest work. We’re still above 3000 metres and the more I climb, the more my heart tries to leave my body. I put the bike in what Cody humorously referred to as “granny gear”. Better, but still not enough. I stand up on the bike, try to zigzag to decrease the incline, nothing works. To make matters worse my sunglasses fog up from my gasping for oxygen. WTF? If I don’t stop to clean up my shades I´m going to fall off a cliff or something. Surely choking is a good enough excuse to put pride by the wayside for a minute. I stop and look behind me: Blandine must have given up, I don´t see her behind me anymore. There´s no shame in that, but I´m a man, so within a few metres I jump back on the bike and cover the last part on pure will power, with sunglasses in my back pocket. Blandine is standing at the top of the last hill, and cheers me on for the last few metres. When I finally make it to the top, I´m speechless. In all aspects. Blandine runs over to hug me, but I can´t. I´m sorry honey, breathing ALWAYS beats hugging. I put the bike on the ground and lean against the van as my heart slowly descends to its normal hangout.
The rest of the trip is easy peezy, lemon squeezy: turn the steering wheel at the right time, brake when it goes too fast, and last but not least: smile for the camera, without waving at it. A person from the other group did that earlier today, with dire consequences. Cody is surprised that the guy didn´t have to check into a hospital. The dirt road requires a bit more caution, but really even a monkey could do this.
Monkeying around in Yolosa
The arrival town is called Yolosa: it´s really an excuse for a sticky, sweaty truck stop. In true Bolivian style 24 roadside cafés are lined up side by side, each with as little character as the one before, each serving exactly the same thing. All is drenched in a stinging smell of urine, open sewers seem to bother nobody here. It is easily 30C, a far cry from this morning´s near-arctic beginning. Welcome to the Yungas! Tired as we are, we’d be willing to deal with the stink, but we don’t have to. The real end of the biking tour is five minutes outside town, at the entrance of La Senda Verde. La Senda Verde is a nature park for animals rescued from illegal shipping. We take some time to admire capucin monkeys and macaws, there is even cayman on the grounds. The animals are nice, the buffet lunch served at the cafeteria is nice, but the best part of the park is the shower. I come out a new man, rejuvenated and dressed in my new, free “World´s Most Dangerous Road” T-shirt. Justin, the guide for the other Gravity group comes over and says “Someone has not paid for their breakfast at Alexander coffee this morning. Erhm, that would be us. I can hardly believe that we had only a limited selection to choose from, even less that it’s not part of this all-inclusive tour.
Koo Koo Coroico
We say goodbye to the rest of the group and take the offered taxi ride up to Coroico. We´ve been suggested to check out Esmeralda Guesthouse for its commanding views, and though it´s a bit pricey we check in. The views over the area are nothing short of spectacular, they´re best enjoyed from one of the hammocks. Most of the guests are playing around the pool , and while a dip in fresh water wouldn´t be bad at all, my tired limbs are at peace and we agree to concentrate on watching the sun set over the surrounding valley without making any further moves.
Dinner at this resort-like place must be great. It´s quite the experience, but “great” would be the wrong label. It´s 8:45PM when we arrive in the dining area. We´re almost alone in the restaurant and take a table by the window overlooking the valley. The young kid behind the bar offers us a menu, but the corpulent Bolivian woman who runs the show here grabs them out of our hands and says that the kitchen is closing, pizza is the only thing available. Fine by me, I order a tuna mushroom pizza and a freshly squeezed mandarin juice. I observe our surroundings while we wait for our food. Marlene Dietrich-like German music comes out of speakers placed under the straw roof, candles light up most tables. In front of us sits an old couple. The man is hunched over, his wife returns from the buffet area with a plate full of veggies for him. He slowly picks up a spoon and starts moving veggies into his mouth. He´s really careful about chewing his food. The candle light reveals coloured patches on skin. His wife carefully watches him eat. She’s got a faded beauty to her, yet her expression is a bit severe, betraying a hard life. The pizza arrives and we’re told that we can also take advantage of the buffet, so we do. We ask another young person to bring us cutlery, which she promptly does. The food is good, the service leaves something to be desired. The waiting staff seems to walks on eggs, every decision must be approved by the matron mother, and she’s never far away.
We don’t bother asking for a dessert and ask for the bill instead. Without a smile, matron mother accepts our money. Back in the room we read a bit, then fall asleep almost immediately.
The old road between La Paz and Coroico is known as the most dangerous in the world. Loads of curves, partly paved, partly dirt road, with amazing views of the Yungas, it’s the perfect opportunity for a crazy New-Zealander to create a bicycle tour. It’s the perfect opportunity for a French-Belgian couple to go on this bicycle tour, no? I’m thinking “YESS”, Blandine is rather reserved about this whole “experience”.
Facts:
- Total descent: more than 3,550 mts/11,647 feet
- Total ride distance: 63 Km/39.06 miles
- Ecoregions gone through: Highland Puna habitat, mountain cloud forest, evergreen cloud forest, tropical and subtropical moist broadleaf and other types of ever green forest.
- Ability Guide: Level 1, suitable for every level of rider (Possible for confident beginners) average fitness and above.
- Type of terrain: 50% paved road - 50% 4x4 dirt road
- Downhill Percent: 90%
- Duration of ride: 4 1/2 - 6 hours (From La Cumbre to Yolosa)
- Drive back from Coroico to La Paz: 3½ to 4 hours
Different tour agencies offer the tour, even for considerably less money, but Blandine is willing to do this only with “Gravity”, the most trusted company (http://www.gravitybolivia.com/). Gravity has the newest, shiniest bikes, the best gear, and guides who speak perfect English. All this comes at a price: Gravity is also known to be the most expensive company, but there is no way around it if I want my sweetheart to come along. Gravity is also very flexible: we want to stay the night in Coroico, and will not return to La Paz the same day, so they offer us a free taxi.
A running start
To get to the departure point is a race in itself. The hotel receptionist has forgotten to give us a wake-up call at 6:45. I wake up from the sunlight, and look over at the clock: it’s 6:55. Yikes, we’ll need to run to make our non-refundable tour, or risk missing our USD 200. I jump into my clothes and haul our backpacks to the reception area, where I confront the clerk with his mistake. “I’m so sorry, Sir, I had to get gas.” Whatever man, we’re going to miss our tour!
We decide to run to Alexander Coffee, the meeting place. It’s all downhill, but running my guts out with sleepy eyes, 3 layers of clothing on and 5 Kilogram strapped to my back is not really what I had in mind. We open the doors to Alexander Coffee at 7:28, heart throbbing in our throats, ready to apologise. No need, only half the people have arrived. “Take your time to have breakfast, dudes” says Cody, our US instructor. This all-inclusive tour has foreseen everything. A coffee and ham and cheese croissant later, I start seeing the pink side of life again. Then, all of a sudden it’s time to board the van, so I gulp the rest of my coffee, grab Blandine’s hand and we cross the street together, ready as-can-be for the thrill of our lives.
Bike your heart out, baby!
We’re six on this tour: a chatty Australian couple, a New Zealander, a quiet German guy (No surprise after the loss against Serbia yesterday), and us. We introduce ourselves against a background of popular American rock hits, the stuff adventure seekers probably listen to all day. I know most songs; I’m feeling pretty fly for a white guy. Within 45 minutes the van reaches La Cumbre at 4725 metres and we are kindly asked to get off. I don’t think I’ve ever held a bike in my hands at this height. Heck, I never even have walked around at this height. The air is thin and breathing is more difficult, not just because of the taste of adventure. An impressive amount of gear is put in front of us: gloves, dustcover cloth, biking hats, windproof jackets and trousers, fluorescent vests with back pockets to put our water bottles in. It’s sunny, but cold enough at this height, so I rapidly put all my stuff on. More layers means more warmth.
Once everyone is dressed, we receive a 15-minute explanation of dos and don’ts. Most of it is straightforward, style: “If you stop at a pull-out next to a crevice, get off your bike on the mountain-side”. Our group is relatively small, yet the security is not reduced: one guide will drive first and another guide will drive last. Cody explains “Basically we are your bread, guys, and you are the beef, the lettuce, the tomatoes, and so on.” It was a funny description, but the girls in the group are too nervous to smile and the German guy doesn’t speak enough English to understand. Cody claims that it’s not a technically difficult track, yet consequences of making an error are extremely serious. That’s always good to know. I see Blandine swallow. She’s probably thinking “What have I got myself into this time?” or “I guess it’s too late to chicken out.”
It’s finally time to get our iron poneys into gear. The driver closes the van that will hold all our bags throughout the trip; they will follow us at a safe distance. Downhill biking with top of the line gear is not difficult, it’s like a videogame, except that the injuries are real. Seriously, only boneheads can get themselves hurt. Before I know it, I’m flying down curvy paved roads at speeds around 50km/hour, with the odd car passing. And the landscape is amazing too. Nothing comes close to describing it, you just have to do it. I’m all smiles.
About an hour into it, we’re told that the next half hour is uphill. Those who want can take the van, so the Australian girl leaves the pack. Chicken! I start the uphill full of confidence, but soon realise that my legs aren’t going to be the ones doing the hardest work. We’re still above 3000 metres and the more I climb, the more my heart tries to leave my body. I put the bike in what Cody humorously referred to as “granny gear”. Better, but still not enough. I stand up on the bike, try to zigzag to decrease the incline, nothing works. To make matters worse my sunglasses fog up from my gasping for oxygen. WTF? If I don’t stop to clean up my shades I´m going to fall off a cliff or something. Surely choking is a good enough excuse to put pride by the wayside for a minute. I stop and look behind me: Blandine must have given up, I don´t see her behind me anymore. There´s no shame in that, but I´m a man, so within a few metres I jump back on the bike and cover the last part on pure will power, with sunglasses in my back pocket. Blandine is standing at the top of the last hill, and cheers me on for the last few metres. When I finally make it to the top, I´m speechless. In all aspects. Blandine runs over to hug me, but I can´t. I´m sorry honey, breathing ALWAYS beats hugging. I put the bike on the ground and lean against the van as my heart slowly descends to its normal hangout.
The rest of the trip is easy peezy, lemon squeezy: turn the steering wheel at the right time, brake when it goes too fast, and last but not least: smile for the camera, without waving at it. A person from the other group did that earlier today, with dire consequences. Cody is surprised that the guy didn´t have to check into a hospital. The dirt road requires a bit more caution, but really even a monkey could do this.
Monkeying around in Yolosa
The arrival town is called Yolosa: it´s really an excuse for a sticky, sweaty truck stop. In true Bolivian style 24 roadside cafés are lined up side by side, each with as little character as the one before, each serving exactly the same thing. All is drenched in a stinging smell of urine, open sewers seem to bother nobody here. It is easily 30C, a far cry from this morning´s near-arctic beginning. Welcome to the Yungas! Tired as we are, we’d be willing to deal with the stink, but we don’t have to. The real end of the biking tour is five minutes outside town, at the entrance of La Senda Verde. La Senda Verde is a nature park for animals rescued from illegal shipping. We take some time to admire capucin monkeys and macaws, there is even cayman on the grounds. The animals are nice, the buffet lunch served at the cafeteria is nice, but the best part of the park is the shower. I come out a new man, rejuvenated and dressed in my new, free “World´s Most Dangerous Road” T-shirt. Justin, the guide for the other Gravity group comes over and says “Someone has not paid for their breakfast at Alexander coffee this morning. Erhm, that would be us. I can hardly believe that we had only a limited selection to choose from, even less that it’s not part of this all-inclusive tour.
Koo Koo Coroico
We say goodbye to the rest of the group and take the offered taxi ride up to Coroico. We´ve been suggested to check out Esmeralda Guesthouse for its commanding views, and though it´s a bit pricey we check in. The views over the area are nothing short of spectacular, they´re best enjoyed from one of the hammocks. Most of the guests are playing around the pool , and while a dip in fresh water wouldn´t be bad at all, my tired limbs are at peace and we agree to concentrate on watching the sun set over the surrounding valley without making any further moves.
Dinner at this resort-like place must be great. It´s quite the experience, but “great” would be the wrong label. It´s 8:45PM when we arrive in the dining area. We´re almost alone in the restaurant and take a table by the window overlooking the valley. The young kid behind the bar offers us a menu, but the corpulent Bolivian woman who runs the show here grabs them out of our hands and says that the kitchen is closing, pizza is the only thing available. Fine by me, I order a tuna mushroom pizza and a freshly squeezed mandarin juice. I observe our surroundings while we wait for our food. Marlene Dietrich-like German music comes out of speakers placed under the straw roof, candles light up most tables. In front of us sits an old couple. The man is hunched over, his wife returns from the buffet area with a plate full of veggies for him. He slowly picks up a spoon and starts moving veggies into his mouth. He´s really careful about chewing his food. The candle light reveals coloured patches on skin. His wife carefully watches him eat. She’s got a faded beauty to her, yet her expression is a bit severe, betraying a hard life. The pizza arrives and we’re told that we can also take advantage of the buffet, so we do. We ask another young person to bring us cutlery, which she promptly does. The food is good, the service leaves something to be desired. The waiting staff seems to walks on eggs, every decision must be approved by the matron mother, and she’s never far away.
We don’t bother asking for a dessert and ask for the bill instead. Without a smile, matron mother accepts our money. Back in the room we read a bit, then fall asleep almost immediately.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18th: Copacabana - La Paz
You’ve got to Bolieve
According to Bolivians, the Virgen de Copacabana makes all your dreams come true. After a nice hot shower, we go find out for ourselves. The Jesus images in the Basilica are lit again, but I’m much more interested in the chapel, where people write their wishes in candle wax on the wall, under the watchful eye of the Virgin Mary. There’s a magical atmosphere to be tasted here, my camera is happy to register the praying Bolivian families. Once out in the air again, we walk out to the square in front of the basilica to take her in properly. It’s very quiet here today, only a few people make their way to or from the church. It’s not week-end, so we miss the procession of people who carry mini-versions of the objects that they want blessed to the basilica. After a few snaps, we check out the local street market. All types of vegetables are on display, but the Aymara ladies are not interested in a bunch of tourists taking pictures. I buy a few chicken salteñas for the bus trip back to La Paz.
Back in the capital, we check into hotel Fuentes and book our trip for the next day with the adjoining travel agency: the downhill on the world’s most dangerous road. We’re knackered, once again. Is it the altitude or the travelling that makes us so sleepy in Bolivia? It definitely can’t be work-related tiredness. The black Madonna in Copacabana may know, but for sure we’re not going back to ask her.
According to Bolivians, the Virgen de Copacabana makes all your dreams come true. After a nice hot shower, we go find out for ourselves. The Jesus images in the Basilica are lit again, but I’m much more interested in the chapel, where people write their wishes in candle wax on the wall, under the watchful eye of the Virgin Mary. There’s a magical atmosphere to be tasted here, my camera is happy to register the praying Bolivian families. Once out in the air again, we walk out to the square in front of the basilica to take her in properly. It’s very quiet here today, only a few people make their way to or from the church. It’s not week-end, so we miss the procession of people who carry mini-versions of the objects that they want blessed to the basilica. After a few snaps, we check out the local street market. All types of vegetables are on display, but the Aymara ladies are not interested in a bunch of tourists taking pictures. I buy a few chicken salteñas for the bus trip back to La Paz.
Back in the capital, we check into hotel Fuentes and book our trip for the next day with the adjoining travel agency: the downhill on the world’s most dangerous road. We’re knackered, once again. Is it the altitude or the travelling that makes us so sleepy in Bolivia? It definitely can’t be work-related tiredness. The black Madonna in Copacabana may know, but for sure we’re not going back to ask her.
Thursday, June 17th: South to North and andle-lit dinner
South to North and a bit back and forth
Our first trek of this holiday, yee haa! The challenge is simple: It’s 8:30, so we’ve got 5 hours to walk the trail to the North end of the island, visit the ruins, then walk a half hour back to Challapampa to hop on the 1:30PM boat back to Copacabana. If possible, we’d like to squeeze in a proper lunch. The North-South trail is officially listed as a 3-4 hour walk, so no time to lose. The challenge is on!
We skip breakfast in Yumani, preferring to be out in the open. The first five minutes of trail are all about dodging lama-dung. No need to carry extra weight on our soles at this altitude, right? Ten minutes later we arrive at a checkpoint and two guards tell us that we are now leaving Yumani territory. We need a new ticket, 15 Bolivianos, which will give us access to the rest of the island: ruins, trails, you name it. Everything else on the island? Yes, Señor. Even the Aymara culture museum in Challa, in the middle of the island? Ah, no for that one you will have to pay separately, Señor. Whatever.
The sunlight gains strength as we make our way up to the North end of the island. By 10 we locate a nice spot on a hill for our Oreo cookie breakfast. Far below us a local farmer whistles while he herds his lamas to fertile grazing ground. We’re one with nature and we’re one with our Oreo cookies. It’s been 1,5 hours and no soul has crossed us. Then, around 11AM it happens: we cross a group of 5. The local tour guide of the group greets us quickly, then continues his chat to two middle-aged, over-tanned women. Their pale English husbands follow at a little distance. I greet them when I come within hearing distance, but they are too involved in a serious discussion to immediately greet back. “….but it’s only in the last two weeks of World War II that…oh… Hello there”. Are all English people over 50 years old fanatic about warfare? Food for thought.
We reach the Chincana ruins on the North end of the island in under 3,5 hours, the pressure is off. These ruins really are just a bunch of neatly stacked stones. Okay, they’ve withstood the tooth of time for several hundreds of years, like other Inca buildings of this sort, but there are only about 15 rooms and no decorations, no statues, or other items of specific interest to see, just bricks. These rooms were definitely not conceived for tall Belgians, the walls come up to waist height for me. Luckily there’s no roof on them, so I can only hit my head on doorways. To be honest, after my visit to Macchu Picchu on a previous trip no Inca ruins can really impress me much anymore.
Ceremony in a splash
Next to the ruins, a traditionally dressed Bolivian is setting up shop on what we understood to be the very first sacrificial stone used for animal sacrifice in the Inca Empire. Unbelievable, the guts this guy has, that’s a tourist site! I briskly walk over to him, intending to let him know that there is loads of space to sell stuff all around the ruins to sell his trinkets, but upon arrival I notice no souvenirs at all, the man must be some sort of shaman. When I ask whether I can take a picture of him, he suggests that he provides blessings, and it’ll only take 5 minutes. While other tourists stop and look over from afar, I get my first Aymara blessing ever. The pouring of cold, sacred “Isla Del Sol” water over my head at theend of the ritual is refreshing both for me and nearby photographers. Blandine is laughing her head off, I choose to ignore that, because I’m blessed now, I will have success in all aspects, even in explaining that this was necessary to get great pictures.
The blessing also gets us into Challapampa in time for our ferry back to Copacabana. And there’s even time to try a delicious serving of local lake trout.
The afternoon is spent boating back to Copacabana. Should we sit inside the boat, or on the top deck? We choose to lay out on the benches inside the boat, while most other tourists sit on the deck. What a blessed decision: already yesterday we were looking rather burnt and our hike this morning has gained us prominent status amongst any self-respecting redneck family.
Candle-lit dinner
Upon arrival in Copacabana we check into a cheap hostel, then walk into town again. The friendly hostel manager recommends we take the room with free TV, so we can watch the World Cup. Great idea! We take the room get the room, but the TV doesn’t come on. Ah yes, there’s a town-wide power outage, but the hostal manager was told that the power will be up again in 10 minutes. Grrrr, ten Bolivian minutes could mean anything. There’s nothing else to do but wait to get access again to hot water, to feed my IPOD battery, to let restaurants cook for us. We’re such energy slaves! Let’s walk into town, shall we? Night is setting, some shops and restaurants have closed, candle light shines out of others.
We walk into a candle-lit sports bar without any big-screen TVs on (duh). Bummer, but what can we do about it? Letùs not whine and dine on whatever the chef can whip us up. A gas-grilled burger and several cold beers later, the light switches back on, just in time for the all-deciding Game 7 between the Lakers and the Celtics. The French guys we've been chatting with will stay for the NBA Final too, reason enough to order some more cold Pacenas. The game’s a low-scoring nail-biter all the way to the end, with tough defence and bad offensive shooting, definitely not one a game that would convert people into watching basketball, but Lakers win it in the end. It’s been a late night and my candle is out. We’ll make sure not to start too early tomorrow.
Our first trek of this holiday, yee haa! The challenge is simple: It’s 8:30, so we’ve got 5 hours to walk the trail to the North end of the island, visit the ruins, then walk a half hour back to Challapampa to hop on the 1:30PM boat back to Copacabana. If possible, we’d like to squeeze in a proper lunch. The North-South trail is officially listed as a 3-4 hour walk, so no time to lose. The challenge is on!
We skip breakfast in Yumani, preferring to be out in the open. The first five minutes of trail are all about dodging lama-dung. No need to carry extra weight on our soles at this altitude, right? Ten minutes later we arrive at a checkpoint and two guards tell us that we are now leaving Yumani territory. We need a new ticket, 15 Bolivianos, which will give us access to the rest of the island: ruins, trails, you name it. Everything else on the island? Yes, Señor. Even the Aymara culture museum in Challa, in the middle of the island? Ah, no for that one you will have to pay separately, Señor. Whatever.
The sunlight gains strength as we make our way up to the North end of the island. By 10 we locate a nice spot on a hill for our Oreo cookie breakfast. Far below us a local farmer whistles while he herds his lamas to fertile grazing ground. We’re one with nature and we’re one with our Oreo cookies. It’s been 1,5 hours and no soul has crossed us. Then, around 11AM it happens: we cross a group of 5. The local tour guide of the group greets us quickly, then continues his chat to two middle-aged, over-tanned women. Their pale English husbands follow at a little distance. I greet them when I come within hearing distance, but they are too involved in a serious discussion to immediately greet back. “….but it’s only in the last two weeks of World War II that…oh… Hello there”. Are all English people over 50 years old fanatic about warfare? Food for thought.
We reach the Chincana ruins on the North end of the island in under 3,5 hours, the pressure is off. These ruins really are just a bunch of neatly stacked stones. Okay, they’ve withstood the tooth of time for several hundreds of years, like other Inca buildings of this sort, but there are only about 15 rooms and no decorations, no statues, or other items of specific interest to see, just bricks. These rooms were definitely not conceived for tall Belgians, the walls come up to waist height for me. Luckily there’s no roof on them, so I can only hit my head on doorways. To be honest, after my visit to Macchu Picchu on a previous trip no Inca ruins can really impress me much anymore.
Ceremony in a splash
Next to the ruins, a traditionally dressed Bolivian is setting up shop on what we understood to be the very first sacrificial stone used for animal sacrifice in the Inca Empire. Unbelievable, the guts this guy has, that’s a tourist site! I briskly walk over to him, intending to let him know that there is loads of space to sell stuff all around the ruins to sell his trinkets, but upon arrival I notice no souvenirs at all, the man must be some sort of shaman. When I ask whether I can take a picture of him, he suggests that he provides blessings, and it’ll only take 5 minutes. While other tourists stop and look over from afar, I get my first Aymara blessing ever. The pouring of cold, sacred “Isla Del Sol” water over my head at theend of the ritual is refreshing both for me and nearby photographers. Blandine is laughing her head off, I choose to ignore that, because I’m blessed now, I will have success in all aspects, even in explaining that this was necessary to get great pictures.
The blessing also gets us into Challapampa in time for our ferry back to Copacabana. And there’s even time to try a delicious serving of local lake trout.
The afternoon is spent boating back to Copacabana. Should we sit inside the boat, or on the top deck? We choose to lay out on the benches inside the boat, while most other tourists sit on the deck. What a blessed decision: already yesterday we were looking rather burnt and our hike this morning has gained us prominent status amongst any self-respecting redneck family.
Candle-lit dinner
Upon arrival in Copacabana we check into a cheap hostel, then walk into town again. The friendly hostel manager recommends we take the room with free TV, so we can watch the World Cup. Great idea! We take the room get the room, but the TV doesn’t come on. Ah yes, there’s a town-wide power outage, but the hostal manager was told that the power will be up again in 10 minutes. Grrrr, ten Bolivian minutes could mean anything. There’s nothing else to do but wait to get access again to hot water, to feed my IPOD battery, to let restaurants cook for us. We’re such energy slaves! Let’s walk into town, shall we? Night is setting, some shops and restaurants have closed, candle light shines out of others.
We walk into a candle-lit sports bar without any big-screen TVs on (duh). Bummer, but what can we do about it? Letùs not whine and dine on whatever the chef can whip us up. A gas-grilled burger and several cold beers later, the light switches back on, just in time for the all-deciding Game 7 between the Lakers and the Celtics. The French guys we've been chatting with will stay for the NBA Final too, reason enough to order some more cold Pacenas. The game’s a low-scoring nail-biter all the way to the end, with tough defence and bad offensive shooting, definitely not one a game that would convert people into watching basketball, but Lakers win it in the end. It’s been a late night and my candle is out. We’ll make sure not to start too early tomorrow.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Comme des escargots
Poids et mesure
Poids du sac de Blandine au départ: 16,3kg
Poids du sac de Jan: 15,8kg
Contenu du sac-à-dos de Blandine au départ:
2 vestes polaires: 1 légère, 1 épaisse
4 pantalons + 1 jean
1 jupe
3 T-shirts manches longues dont 1 en laine neo-zélandaise, le top de la protection anti-froid
6 T-shits manches courtes
6 débardeurs
2 maillots de bain + 1 paréo
Sous-vêtements (je vous passé les details)
1 serviette de toilette séchage ultra-rapide
3 foulards/echarpes
1 trousse à nécessaire feminin (no comment)
1 sac en bandouillère en tissue + 1 petit sac-à-doc pour le quotidien
1 Lolo, la peluche mascotte de notre voyage (comme le nain de jardin d’Amélie Poulain)
En partage avec Jan:
1 énorme trousse de toilette
1 énorme trousee à pharmacie (paracetamol, anti-inflamatoire, anti-palludique, et ce qu’il faut contre le rhume, le mal de gorge, la diarhée, les vomissement, biafine, bétadine, solution sterile, pansements, lingettes désinfectantes, anti-moustiques et bestioles en tout genre…) + lingettes nettoyantes
2 lampes torches dont 1 frontale
2 livres de chevet, guides et photocopies de guides + documents de voyage et photocpies
Appareils à bord incluent 1 épilateur électrique, 2 I-pod, 2 appareils photo digitale, 1 ordinateur netbook
Au 17 juin, se sont déjà ajoutés:
1 pull + 1 bonnet + 1 paire de gants en laine d’alpaca
1 jeu de carte
Qu’est-ce qui suivra??? Le défi est de rester en dessous des 20kg, poids limite du bagage en soute.
Pour la route
Lecture de voyage (en ce début de périple):
guide Footprint de la Bolivie (pas mal du tout – je recommande!)
High Fidelity de Nick Hornby (se lit facilement, sympa)
Sur mon I-pod: en boucle, le dernier album de Tom McRae “Alphabet of Hurricanes” (une merveille! je dévore et j’en redemande)
Poids du sac de Blandine au départ: 16,3kg
Poids du sac de Jan: 15,8kg
Contenu du sac-à-dos de Blandine au départ:
2 vestes polaires: 1 légère, 1 épaisse
4 pantalons + 1 jean
1 jupe
3 T-shirts manches longues dont 1 en laine neo-zélandaise, le top de la protection anti-froid
6 T-shits manches courtes
6 débardeurs
2 maillots de bain + 1 paréo
Sous-vêtements (je vous passé les details)
1 serviette de toilette séchage ultra-rapide
3 foulards/echarpes
1 trousse à nécessaire feminin (no comment)
1 sac en bandouillère en tissue + 1 petit sac-à-doc pour le quotidien
1 Lolo, la peluche mascotte de notre voyage (comme le nain de jardin d’Amélie Poulain)
En partage avec Jan:
1 énorme trousse de toilette
1 énorme trousee à pharmacie (paracetamol, anti-inflamatoire, anti-palludique, et ce qu’il faut contre le rhume, le mal de gorge, la diarhée, les vomissement, biafine, bétadine, solution sterile, pansements, lingettes désinfectantes, anti-moustiques et bestioles en tout genre…) + lingettes nettoyantes
2 lampes torches dont 1 frontale
2 livres de chevet, guides et photocopies de guides + documents de voyage et photocpies
Appareils à bord incluent 1 épilateur électrique, 2 I-pod, 2 appareils photo digitale, 1 ordinateur netbook
Au 17 juin, se sont déjà ajoutés:
1 pull + 1 bonnet + 1 paire de gants en laine d’alpaca
1 jeu de carte
Qu’est-ce qui suivra??? Le défi est de rester en dessous des 20kg, poids limite du bagage en soute.
Pour la route
Lecture de voyage (en ce début de périple):
guide Footprint de la Bolivie (pas mal du tout – je recommande!)
High Fidelity de Nick Hornby (se lit facilement, sympa)
Sur mon I-pod: en boucle, le dernier album de Tom McRae “Alphabet of Hurricanes” (une merveille! je dévore et j’en redemande)
Wednesday, June 16: "Lake Pipicaca" you said?
I’ll do it my way
Yup, we did it: woke up on time, packed, had a quick breakfast, entrusted our backpacks to the hotel for the next three days and are on the pavement in front of the hotel by 8AM. No expensive, organised tour today; we turn over a new coca leaf in this adventure and do it all on our own, mister! The experiment takes a flying start, we immediately get a “colectivo” to the cemetery district. Upon arrival we are waved down by a guy selling us two bus tickets to Copacabana, leaving in 2 minutes. Within minutes the city centre shrinks below us, we’re cooking with gas, baby!
After a brief stop in El Alto the bus starts the long haul over the Altiplano, direction lake Titicaca. The dusty lands all around the bus are as flat as a pancake, with a snow-capped mountain in the background. Then the bus runs a flat in the middle of nowhere. It’s a welcome opportunity to get off the bus and stretch my legs, while the bus driver and his colleague change the tire with self-made tools. The job is done within minutes; these guys have obviously done this many times before.
Lake Pipicaca?
A Paceña has gotten off the bus as well. I see her without bowler hat, squatted about 3 meters away from the bus. Is she looking for something? She stands up and steps aside as she adjusts her big skirt. She kicks some sand over a little puddle that has appeared from under her skirt. Genius! Big skirts provide all the needed privacy when no bathroom is about.
Copacabana in a hurry
Copacabana is basking in the sunlight when the bus arrives. We have 30 minutes before the last boat to Isla Del Sol leaves, so we scarf down a sandwich from one of the hundreds of little restaurants along the main street and run to the waterfront. Just in time. We climb up on the sun deck on the top of the boat and make ourselves comfortable for the 1.5 hour trip. An English couple join us and we chat a bit about our holidays. They are sailors and had tried to sail to Isla Del Sol earlier this morning, but the winds were off, so they were forced to return to Copacabana. Getting a sailboat isn’t really a big issue, a credit card imprint had been enough to get the boat. The views over the highest navigable lake in the world (3800m) are nothing short of impressive. The sun warms me up and the constant noise of the boat’s engine, combined with the gentle rocking of the boat puts me almost to sleep. We’re on top of the world.
Yumani
We arrive in the pretty harbour of Yumani, on the South East side of Isla Del Sol. As soon as we set foot on land we are greeted by a man selling permits. To walk, breathe, or simply do anything here, costs 5 Bolivianos. Whatever. The town itself is on top of the steps before us, so we set off quickly. We want to check in to a nice hostel and get rid of our backpacks. Climbing at this altitude is less than fun. My heart tries several times to get out of my chest on the way up, but finally we make it to the village at the top and check in to Hostal Del Sol. It’s 4:30pm so we decide to walk to the Pilcocaina Inca ruins at the southern end of the island. By the time they come in view, the sun is so low that they’re completely covered in shade. We head back up to make it back in time for sunset. Once the sun has gone it gets real dark and real cold really quick. Armed with a torch light we find a pizza place and have a simple meal. The sky is pitch black, but the shiniest stars I’ve ever seen help us find our way back to the bed.
Yup, we did it: woke up on time, packed, had a quick breakfast, entrusted our backpacks to the hotel for the next three days and are on the pavement in front of the hotel by 8AM. No expensive, organised tour today; we turn over a new coca leaf in this adventure and do it all on our own, mister! The experiment takes a flying start, we immediately get a “colectivo” to the cemetery district. Upon arrival we are waved down by a guy selling us two bus tickets to Copacabana, leaving in 2 minutes. Within minutes the city centre shrinks below us, we’re cooking with gas, baby!
After a brief stop in El Alto the bus starts the long haul over the Altiplano, direction lake Titicaca. The dusty lands all around the bus are as flat as a pancake, with a snow-capped mountain in the background. Then the bus runs a flat in the middle of nowhere. It’s a welcome opportunity to get off the bus and stretch my legs, while the bus driver and his colleague change the tire with self-made tools. The job is done within minutes; these guys have obviously done this many times before.
Lake Pipicaca?
A Paceña has gotten off the bus as well. I see her without bowler hat, squatted about 3 meters away from the bus. Is she looking for something? She stands up and steps aside as she adjusts her big skirt. She kicks some sand over a little puddle that has appeared from under her skirt. Genius! Big skirts provide all the needed privacy when no bathroom is about.
Copacabana in a hurry
Copacabana is basking in the sunlight when the bus arrives. We have 30 minutes before the last boat to Isla Del Sol leaves, so we scarf down a sandwich from one of the hundreds of little restaurants along the main street and run to the waterfront. Just in time. We climb up on the sun deck on the top of the boat and make ourselves comfortable for the 1.5 hour trip. An English couple join us and we chat a bit about our holidays. They are sailors and had tried to sail to Isla Del Sol earlier this morning, but the winds were off, so they were forced to return to Copacabana. Getting a sailboat isn’t really a big issue, a credit card imprint had been enough to get the boat. The views over the highest navigable lake in the world (3800m) are nothing short of impressive. The sun warms me up and the constant noise of the boat’s engine, combined with the gentle rocking of the boat puts me almost to sleep. We’re on top of the world.
Yumani
We arrive in the pretty harbour of Yumani, on the South East side of Isla Del Sol. As soon as we set foot on land we are greeted by a man selling permits. To walk, breathe, or simply do anything here, costs 5 Bolivianos. Whatever. The town itself is on top of the steps before us, so we set off quickly. We want to check in to a nice hostel and get rid of our backpacks. Climbing at this altitude is less than fun. My heart tries several times to get out of my chest on the way up, but finally we make it to the village at the top and check in to Hostal Del Sol. It’s 4:30pm so we decide to walk to the Pilcocaina Inca ruins at the southern end of the island. By the time they come in view, the sun is so low that they’re completely covered in shade. We head back up to make it back in time for sunset. Once the sun has gone it gets real dark and real cold really quick. Armed with a torch light we find a pizza place and have a simple meal. The sky is pitch black, but the shiniest stars I’ve ever seen help us find our way back to the bed.
Tuesday, June 15: Organise-a-thon
It’s our last full day to sightsee in La Paz, but we must also organise the rest of our stay in Bolivia. We check around town for prices on excursions: Lake Titicaca with Isla Del Sol included, the Aymara winter solstice festival, the downhill on the world’s most dangerous road. All are pricey, so we decide to organise a maximum on our own, with public transport. The puzzling together of our itinerary takes up so much time (3 weeks in Bolivia is hardly enough for what we want to do that we miss our planned visit to the Coca Museum. We’ll have to slot it in right when we come back from Isla Del Sol, otherwise this visit just may go up in smoke.
In the evening we meet up with Sam, who organises the Pacha trek in the Apolobamba region and we click so much that we decide to have dinner together. Sam’s from North London, St. Alban to be more precise, and has exchanged the stressful life of the city for the life with Andean tribes in the Bolivian highlands. A life that won’t make her rich, but has provided her way more satisfaction from than she’s ever had. Between the 3 chatterboxes that we are time flies by so fast that it’s 11PM before we know it, and we must say our goodbyes. We still have to pack our daypacks with all the essentials for a 2-day trip to Isla Del Sol. The rest goes into our backpacks, which we will leave with the hotel for a couple of days. If we want to make the last ferry from Copacabana to Isla Del Sol tomorrow, then we’ll have to be on our way by 8AM. The phone charger of our mobile doesn’t work and it’s dead, so we can’t use it to wake us up. Can we avoid another mad morning rush? We ask a wake-up call for 6:30 AM.
In the evening we meet up with Sam, who organises the Pacha trek in the Apolobamba region and we click so much that we decide to have dinner together. Sam’s from North London, St. Alban to be more precise, and has exchanged the stressful life of the city for the life with Andean tribes in the Bolivian highlands. A life that won’t make her rich, but has provided her way more satisfaction from than she’s ever had. Between the 3 chatterboxes that we are time flies by so fast that it’s 11PM before we know it, and we must say our goodbyes. We still have to pack our daypacks with all the essentials for a 2-day trip to Isla Del Sol. The rest goes into our backpacks, which we will leave with the hotel for a couple of days. If we want to make the last ferry from Copacabana to Isla Del Sol tomorrow, then we’ll have to be on our way by 8AM. The phone charger of our mobile doesn’t work and it’s dead, so we can’t use it to wake us up. Can we avoid another mad morning rush? We ask a wake-up call for 6:30 AM.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Monday, June 14: Breakfast with Stars
Breakfast with Stars
I’m up around 7AM, compliments of jetlag. Blandine’s been awake for hours, and confides that she’s dealing with a massive headache since yesterday. My head is hurting a tiny bit as well, so today we’ll take it veeery slow. The suggested three days to acclimatise to the altitude doesn’t sound silly anymore.
I bring a bread roll, a banana and a cup of maté de coca (suggested drink against altitude disease) up to our room for my sick little puppy, and find myself breathing heavily from going up just one flight of stairs. It’s better than yesterday already, when I was breathing faster just from grabbing something out of my backpack on the other side of the room. When I catch my breath, I head back to the breakfast room with my camera. Two Brazilian couples are having breakfast, but my camera lens is more interested in the life-sized cardboard replicas of Chewbaka, Han Solo and Yoda that decorate the La Paz skyline. What are they doing here? My guess is that something must have gotten seriously lost in translation when a hotel guest asked for the “Breakfast of the Stars”? The Brazilians have left the breakfast room by now, so Han Solo and Leia make for great surreal company. After a few snaps of them, I head up to the room again to see my own intergalactic princess again and agree to take look around the neighbourhood while she tries to recover from her headache a bit more.
Easy does it
Back in Sol y Luna I catch up on email with Japan-Cameroon on in the background. When I check up on my sweetheart in the early afternoon, Blandine feels good enough to look around town a bit.
La Paz is laid out like a half-pipe with El Prado, the central boulevard, at the very bottom. Eva Palace is right next to El Prado, so either way we go when we leave the hotel, we must climb. I suggest to slooowly make our way to nearby café Pepe for lunch, with a full stomach we’ll be able to better face sightseeing in this hilly town. It’s only two blocks away from the hotel, but after the first block we’re both already breathing heavily. The stroll to café Pepe is worth it: this tiny all-day breakfast café is originally decorated with 4 gorgeous wooden tables and serves superb food. We settle for the table decorated with a layer of shiny coffee beans under the top glass. Fresh coffee, fresh orange juice and a grilled ham and cheese roll bring me back to my senses. When we’re almost done, I start a conversation with two French girls at the table next to us. They are at the end of their trip and give us loads of info about their tour on the salt plains.
The Italy-Paraguay game flashes up on screen, but we can’t afford to watch it if we want to see a bit of La Paz before nightfall, so we take advantage of the warm afternoon sun to walk around the nearby witches market, where llama foetuses hang out for sale. They bring good luck, except to the llama itself, obviously. After a few more sights, we walk down El Prado, to Sopocachi, the posh area in town and decide to dine in “La Comédie”, an upscale French restaurant that our friends Rob and Cath had recommended. The llama steak is cooked to perfection, the 3-pepper sauce a wonderful compliment. Blandine’s headache has completely gone by now, so a glass of wine is within reach, but neither of us wants to push our luck, so we stick with water. After dinner we ask the waiter to ring us a cab and agree between ourselves to discuss the fare price before we get in.
It’s not fare!
A word about taxi fares: as a tourist from a rich country, taking a cab costs peanuts here. Our Footprint guidebook estimates the fare for short trips in a normal taxi between USD 0.85 and USD 1.10, pretty much the price of a bag of peanuts. As opposed to the fixed-route collective taxis, who charge half a bag of peanuts. Prices go up a bit at night, but like everywhere else in the world, knowing the average cab fare really helps a lot in discovering that you’ve been scammed.
As we step outside the restaurant, a chilly wind blows through our shirts, so we hop into the warmth of the parked vehicle, exactly the opposite from the agreed upon strategy. The minute I sit down I ask the guy how much it will be. He mumbles something under his moustache. So I ask again. He says he needs to call the dispatch centre to get a quote. But he doesn’t make the call. “Ok, quanto vale este taxi hasta Eva Palace Hotel!” “Senor, part of the road is broken up, I’ll have to drop you at the top of the road if you don’t mind.” “Sure, but how much is it??” We’re over half way at this point. “Erhm, 10 Bolivian pesos.” Phew, that’ll work for us. 7 Bolivian pesos buys you a US dollar, so we’re still in peanut range and, more importantly, we don’t feel scammed. I sink a bit more into the seat back now, and don’t mind the guy chatting with his mom over the mobile phone. It’s quite disarming really: “Yes mami, I picked up the mail for you today…….No mami, there wasn’t anything important amongst them….Yes mami, I’ll stop by tomorrow and drop the stack of letters off…. Yes mami, I can stay for dinner.”
We get out of the cab at the top of Sagárnaga, our street, pay the cab driver (no tip, obviously), walk back to the hotel and call it a night.
I’m up around 7AM, compliments of jetlag. Blandine’s been awake for hours, and confides that she’s dealing with a massive headache since yesterday. My head is hurting a tiny bit as well, so today we’ll take it veeery slow. The suggested three days to acclimatise to the altitude doesn’t sound silly anymore.
I bring a bread roll, a banana and a cup of maté de coca (suggested drink against altitude disease) up to our room for my sick little puppy, and find myself breathing heavily from going up just one flight of stairs. It’s better than yesterday already, when I was breathing faster just from grabbing something out of my backpack on the other side of the room. When I catch my breath, I head back to the breakfast room with my camera. Two Brazilian couples are having breakfast, but my camera lens is more interested in the life-sized cardboard replicas of Chewbaka, Han Solo and Yoda that decorate the La Paz skyline. What are they doing here? My guess is that something must have gotten seriously lost in translation when a hotel guest asked for the “Breakfast of the Stars”? The Brazilians have left the breakfast room by now, so Han Solo and Leia make for great surreal company. After a few snaps of them, I head up to the room again to see my own intergalactic princess again and agree to take look around the neighbourhood while she tries to recover from her headache a bit more.
Easy does it
Back in Sol y Luna I catch up on email with Japan-Cameroon on in the background. When I check up on my sweetheart in the early afternoon, Blandine feels good enough to look around town a bit.
La Paz is laid out like a half-pipe with El Prado, the central boulevard, at the very bottom. Eva Palace is right next to El Prado, so either way we go when we leave the hotel, we must climb. I suggest to slooowly make our way to nearby café Pepe for lunch, with a full stomach we’ll be able to better face sightseeing in this hilly town. It’s only two blocks away from the hotel, but after the first block we’re both already breathing heavily. The stroll to café Pepe is worth it: this tiny all-day breakfast café is originally decorated with 4 gorgeous wooden tables and serves superb food. We settle for the table decorated with a layer of shiny coffee beans under the top glass. Fresh coffee, fresh orange juice and a grilled ham and cheese roll bring me back to my senses. When we’re almost done, I start a conversation with two French girls at the table next to us. They are at the end of their trip and give us loads of info about their tour on the salt plains.
The Italy-Paraguay game flashes up on screen, but we can’t afford to watch it if we want to see a bit of La Paz before nightfall, so we take advantage of the warm afternoon sun to walk around the nearby witches market, where llama foetuses hang out for sale. They bring good luck, except to the llama itself, obviously. After a few more sights, we walk down El Prado, to Sopocachi, the posh area in town and decide to dine in “La Comédie”, an upscale French restaurant that our friends Rob and Cath had recommended. The llama steak is cooked to perfection, the 3-pepper sauce a wonderful compliment. Blandine’s headache has completely gone by now, so a glass of wine is within reach, but neither of us wants to push our luck, so we stick with water. After dinner we ask the waiter to ring us a cab and agree between ourselves to discuss the fare price before we get in.
It’s not fare!
A word about taxi fares: as a tourist from a rich country, taking a cab costs peanuts here. Our Footprint guidebook estimates the fare for short trips in a normal taxi between USD 0.85 and USD 1.10, pretty much the price of a bag of peanuts. As opposed to the fixed-route collective taxis, who charge half a bag of peanuts. Prices go up a bit at night, but like everywhere else in the world, knowing the average cab fare really helps a lot in discovering that you’ve been scammed.
As we step outside the restaurant, a chilly wind blows through our shirts, so we hop into the warmth of the parked vehicle, exactly the opposite from the agreed upon strategy. The minute I sit down I ask the guy how much it will be. He mumbles something under his moustache. So I ask again. He says he needs to call the dispatch centre to get a quote. But he doesn’t make the call. “Ok, quanto vale este taxi hasta Eva Palace Hotel!” “Senor, part of the road is broken up, I’ll have to drop you at the top of the road if you don’t mind.” “Sure, but how much is it??” We’re over half way at this point. “Erhm, 10 Bolivian pesos.” Phew, that’ll work for us. 7 Bolivian pesos buys you a US dollar, so we’re still in peanut range and, more importantly, we don’t feel scammed. I sink a bit more into the seat back now, and don’t mind the guy chatting with his mom over the mobile phone. It’s quite disarming really: “Yes mami, I picked up the mail for you today…….No mami, there wasn’t anything important amongst them….Yes mami, I’ll stop by tomorrow and drop the stack of letters off…. Yes mami, I can stay for dinner.”
We get out of the cab at the top of Sagárnaga, our street, pay the cab driver (no tip, obviously), walk back to the hotel and call it a night.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 13: Confusion all abound
We quickly make our way past a true example of third-world Customs, pick up our travel bags and head for the arrivals hall. Almost immediately we spot a Bolivian man in leather jacket, wearing a sign saying “Blandine Bouniol”. Nice, we’re 40 minutes from laying our dead bodies on a comfortable bed in the Eva Palace Hotel. I picked this hotel because of its good reviews, central location, and comfortable looking queen size beds.
Walking through the doors of the airport, we feel the serious drop in temperature, it must be 5C. A jacket is no luxury. I hop in the front seat to have a little chat with the cab driver, giving Blandine more space to sleep in the back seat. The driver is happy to have someone to chat with and gives a nice overview of La Paz on the half hour drive down to the city. Red lights are of little importance, they serve as a reminder to slow down a bit and honk to make cars in sidestreets aware of his presence. Luckily Blandine is vast asleep, she’d freak out otherwise. The driver stops downtown, in front of the Hotel Rosario. Hotel Rosario? No, we have no time to be scammed, we’re going to the Eva Palace, mister! And how did you know the name of my girlfriend? I made the reservation in name of “Mr. Kuyl, party of 2”! Blandine’s woken up and looks at me with disbelief as she becomes aware of the situation. Then she figures out the confusion. She had made a reservation, in her name, with this hotel, but the hotel never confirmed. While the cab driver explains this to the hotel manager, a few drunk teenagers with heavy English accent try to get into the cab. It’s Saturday night and they’re thousands of miles away from their parents, so who’s going to stop them from being obnoxious? When they notice the tall, serious Belgian who is not about to play along with their nonsensical blabbering, they give up, slam the door of the cab, and stagger on to the other side of the street. The driver has finished his story, and leans back into the cab, asking how we see things. “We want to go to the Eva Palace, to honour our confirmed reservation, and we’ll tell the front desk to call back the guy who is holding the “Welcome, Mr. Kuyl, party of 2” sign." I discuss a rate of USD 10 with the driver, so we end up saving money over the USD 15 rate I had agreed upon with Eva Palace. A thunder cloud with a silver lining.
Once arrived, I quickly explain the whole misunderstanding to the Eva Palace clerk and get him to waive the Eva Palace taxi service. He’s less than happy about it, but hey at least we spend three nights in his hotel? It’s 1:30AM (that’s 6:30AM in Belgium) thank you very much, so no need to have long chats. We quickly switch to long-sleeved T-shirts and long underwear in our radiator-less cold room, then glide into bed, under several layers of blankets. No need to count lamas, in a matter of seconds we’re vast asleep.
We wake up around noon, way too late for the free breakfast, and decide on a nearby café to find our bearings. “Sol y Luna” is a pleasant café, with great food and beer. It’s decorated with orange flags to support the Dutch during their World Cup experience, so I greet the blonde, blue-eyed waiter in Dutch. He replies “Oh no, the owner is Dutch, I’m Polish.” We order in English, just before the Germany – Australia game begins. During the game we befriend Rob and Chris, an Australian couple celebrating the last days of their honeymoon. It is not necessary to console either of them after the 4-0 wipe-out: she’s actually from New Zealand and Rob’s an England fan. We end up spending most of this slow day in this café, it’s an intended slow day to get used to the altitude and plan our trip a bit more. The World Cup makes me forget all about the other high-level championship final being played on the Belgian political field. I didn’t vote, so I’ll have to live with the result, but that’s something to worry about in 4 months time.
We head back to the hotel around 7PM and spend the evening taking it easy in our hotel room. Blandine’s got a headache, most probably due to the altitude, and I got a little pressure on my head too, but can't tell if it's altitude disease or the local beer. We'll start our sightseeing tomorrow.
Walking through the doors of the airport, we feel the serious drop in temperature, it must be 5C. A jacket is no luxury. I hop in the front seat to have a little chat with the cab driver, giving Blandine more space to sleep in the back seat. The driver is happy to have someone to chat with and gives a nice overview of La Paz on the half hour drive down to the city. Red lights are of little importance, they serve as a reminder to slow down a bit and honk to make cars in sidestreets aware of his presence. Luckily Blandine is vast asleep, she’d freak out otherwise. The driver stops downtown, in front of the Hotel Rosario. Hotel Rosario? No, we have no time to be scammed, we’re going to the Eva Palace, mister! And how did you know the name of my girlfriend? I made the reservation in name of “Mr. Kuyl, party of 2”! Blandine’s woken up and looks at me with disbelief as she becomes aware of the situation. Then she figures out the confusion. She had made a reservation, in her name, with this hotel, but the hotel never confirmed. While the cab driver explains this to the hotel manager, a few drunk teenagers with heavy English accent try to get into the cab. It’s Saturday night and they’re thousands of miles away from their parents, so who’s going to stop them from being obnoxious? When they notice the tall, serious Belgian who is not about to play along with their nonsensical blabbering, they give up, slam the door of the cab, and stagger on to the other side of the street. The driver has finished his story, and leans back into the cab, asking how we see things. “We want to go to the Eva Palace, to honour our confirmed reservation, and we’ll tell the front desk to call back the guy who is holding the “Welcome, Mr. Kuyl, party of 2” sign." I discuss a rate of USD 10 with the driver, so we end up saving money over the USD 15 rate I had agreed upon with Eva Palace. A thunder cloud with a silver lining.
Once arrived, I quickly explain the whole misunderstanding to the Eva Palace clerk and get him to waive the Eva Palace taxi service. He’s less than happy about it, but hey at least we spend three nights in his hotel? It’s 1:30AM (that’s 6:30AM in Belgium) thank you very much, so no need to have long chats. We quickly switch to long-sleeved T-shirts and long underwear in our radiator-less cold room, then glide into bed, under several layers of blankets. No need to count lamas, in a matter of seconds we’re vast asleep.
We wake up around noon, way too late for the free breakfast, and decide on a nearby café to find our bearings. “Sol y Luna” is a pleasant café, with great food and beer. It’s decorated with orange flags to support the Dutch during their World Cup experience, so I greet the blonde, blue-eyed waiter in Dutch. He replies “Oh no, the owner is Dutch, I’m Polish.” We order in English, just before the Germany – Australia game begins. During the game we befriend Rob and Chris, an Australian couple celebrating the last days of their honeymoon. It is not necessary to console either of them after the 4-0 wipe-out: she’s actually from New Zealand and Rob’s an England fan. We end up spending most of this slow day in this café, it’s an intended slow day to get used to the altitude and plan our trip a bit more. The World Cup makes me forget all about the other high-level championship final being played on the Belgian political field. I didn’t vote, so I’ll have to live with the result, but that’s something to worry about in 4 months time.
We head back to the hotel around 7PM and spend the evening taking it easy in our hotel room. Blandine’s got a headache, most probably due to the altitude, and I got a little pressure on my head too, but can't tell if it's altitude disease or the local beer. We'll start our sightseeing tomorrow.
Sat June 12: Tick tack, tick tack, boom!
Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiing! Blandine jumps out of bed, startled and picks up the house phone. Within seconds her face turns dead serious, she hangs up the phone and whisper-shouts: “That’s the taxi, it’s outside the door, and he’s smack on time!”
Me: “Hang on; shouldn’t the alarm have gone off 15 minutes ago?”
She: “Yes, but I must have forgot to reset the alarm after I tested it.”
We throw our sleep-infused limbs in our clothes at heart-wrecking speed, zip up our bags and run down the stairs, out into the street, interested in nothing but limiting the embarrassment in front of the waiting cab driver. The cab driver looks as sleepy as we are, throws our flight bags in the boot of the car, flips the car around, and enters “Heathrow, terminal 3” in the GPS, before our racing hearts have a chance to calm down.
The ride to the airport is uneventful: the grey station wagon glides past miles of residential streets, lined with similar-looking reddish terraced houses, basking in the morning sunlight. Most of their brick facades have been adorned with England flags, eagerly anticipating the performance of this nation’s finest sons against the US. Tonight, England and America will be divided by more than a common language. England’s credibility is on the line, playing against a former colony that insists on calling this sport “soccer”, a term whose popularity rivals America’s success in the World Cup. If we miss this flight because of volcano eruptions, massive car accidents, or British Airways strikes, rest assured that I will spend this evening doing what every self-respecting English football fan would do: spend 30 minutes queuing for a pint of overpriced, foamless, cold beer in a sweaty, jam-packed pub, with a giant TV screen as backdrop. Then down it in 5 minutes only to repeat the process, over and again, mate!
The woman at the British Airways counter is efficient: she only wants to see our passport and before I can even tell her that we’d like an exit row or aisle seat, my boarding pass is printed. It’s too early to get into an argument, so I decide to vent my frustration on the next available target: the clerk making general announcements at the security point.
Clerk: “All liquids must be put in a clear plastic bag.”
Me, with big smirk on face: “Erhm, Sir? I’m composed of at least 60% water, would you happen to have a plastic bag for me?”
Clerk: “Actually you are made of at least 70% water, mate.”
Me: ”I may not be the brightes tool in the shed, but I have the feeling you’re not really flattering me at the moment.”
As I walked on I looked back and saw him chuckle.
London – Madrid: We lost our spot on the runway and sat in a grounded airplane for an hour before we took off. Iberia chooses to calm down people's nerves by playing the instrumental version of what must be the biggest collection of cheesy classics. Afterthe intercom aired Phil Collins’ “A Groovy kind of love” for the third time, my knuckles turn white and I want to punch someone. We finally take off. The connection to Lima would be tight, Blandine wonders whether our luggage will make it. She was prepared for this, and has moved a set of clothing and our toothbrushes to her daypack.
Madrid – Lima: We made the connection in time and watched two mediocre movies, only because there was nothing else to do. The flight attendant wanted to know whether we’ll have the chicken or the pasta. Duh, I’d start laying eggs myself if I’d eat more chicken.
Airport air at USD 7.5/hour, anyone?
It took us a bit over 11 hours from Madrid to land with red eyes at Lima International. Only 4 hours to go until our red-eye flight to La Paz. My last landing at Lima airport, a good 15 years ago, came to mind: a sauna with 3rd world paper-pushers whose only desire is to make you suffer through immigration. And just before you walk out, the intimidating sight of one hundred heavily armed military in camouflage suit, lining the entire wall of the arrivals hall. Today’s Lima airport is a far cry from that scenario: air-conditioned halls, friendly immigration officers, upscale boutiques and a food court with all the international fare you could shake a stick at. Peru was waiting for us with open arms. We’d soon find out why: everyone entering the country pays a departure tax. “Mr Immigration Officer, we’re here for 4 hours, clearly just in transit. We really only need to pick up our bags from the luggage carrousel, then check in with TACA airlines and hang around in the departure lounge, that’s all.” No amount of explaining would change anything; the luggage carousel that was going to spit out our luggage was not in the transit area, but in Peru. We had gained the right to spend the next four hours breathing airport oxygen, eat overpriced airport food (Dunkin’ Donuts, anyone?), be Starbucks lounge lizards (free WIFI), then be charged the Peruvian departure tax of USD 31 per person. This new airport doesn’t build itself, right? Long live capitalism!
Lima – La Paz: nice ride, loads of leg room, but I'm too tired to appreciate much of it. With more than 20 hours of travel in our legs we spent this flight playing tag with consciousness. At 12:30 the landing wheels hit Bolivian ground. We have arrived.
Me: “Hang on; shouldn’t the alarm have gone off 15 minutes ago?”
She: “Yes, but I must have forgot to reset the alarm after I tested it.”
We throw our sleep-infused limbs in our clothes at heart-wrecking speed, zip up our bags and run down the stairs, out into the street, interested in nothing but limiting the embarrassment in front of the waiting cab driver. The cab driver looks as sleepy as we are, throws our flight bags in the boot of the car, flips the car around, and enters “Heathrow, terminal 3” in the GPS, before our racing hearts have a chance to calm down.
The ride to the airport is uneventful: the grey station wagon glides past miles of residential streets, lined with similar-looking reddish terraced houses, basking in the morning sunlight. Most of their brick facades have been adorned with England flags, eagerly anticipating the performance of this nation’s finest sons against the US. Tonight, England and America will be divided by more than a common language. England’s credibility is on the line, playing against a former colony that insists on calling this sport “soccer”, a term whose popularity rivals America’s success in the World Cup. If we miss this flight because of volcano eruptions, massive car accidents, or British Airways strikes, rest assured that I will spend this evening doing what every self-respecting English football fan would do: spend 30 minutes queuing for a pint of overpriced, foamless, cold beer in a sweaty, jam-packed pub, with a giant TV screen as backdrop. Then down it in 5 minutes only to repeat the process, over and again, mate!
The woman at the British Airways counter is efficient: she only wants to see our passport and before I can even tell her that we’d like an exit row or aisle seat, my boarding pass is printed. It’s too early to get into an argument, so I decide to vent my frustration on the next available target: the clerk making general announcements at the security point.
Clerk: “All liquids must be put in a clear plastic bag.”
Me, with big smirk on face: “Erhm, Sir? I’m composed of at least 60% water, would you happen to have a plastic bag for me?”
Clerk: “Actually you are made of at least 70% water, mate.”
Me: ”I may not be the brightes tool in the shed, but I have the feeling you’re not really flattering me at the moment.”
As I walked on I looked back and saw him chuckle.
London – Madrid: We lost our spot on the runway and sat in a grounded airplane for an hour before we took off. Iberia chooses to calm down people's nerves by playing the instrumental version of what must be the biggest collection of cheesy classics. Afterthe intercom aired Phil Collins’ “A Groovy kind of love” for the third time, my knuckles turn white and I want to punch someone. We finally take off. The connection to Lima would be tight, Blandine wonders whether our luggage will make it. She was prepared for this, and has moved a set of clothing and our toothbrushes to her daypack.
Madrid – Lima: We made the connection in time and watched two mediocre movies, only because there was nothing else to do. The flight attendant wanted to know whether we’ll have the chicken or the pasta. Duh, I’d start laying eggs myself if I’d eat more chicken.
Airport air at USD 7.5/hour, anyone?
It took us a bit over 11 hours from Madrid to land with red eyes at Lima International. Only 4 hours to go until our red-eye flight to La Paz. My last landing at Lima airport, a good 15 years ago, came to mind: a sauna with 3rd world paper-pushers whose only desire is to make you suffer through immigration. And just before you walk out, the intimidating sight of one hundred heavily armed military in camouflage suit, lining the entire wall of the arrivals hall. Today’s Lima airport is a far cry from that scenario: air-conditioned halls, friendly immigration officers, upscale boutiques and a food court with all the international fare you could shake a stick at. Peru was waiting for us with open arms. We’d soon find out why: everyone entering the country pays a departure tax. “Mr Immigration Officer, we’re here for 4 hours, clearly just in transit. We really only need to pick up our bags from the luggage carrousel, then check in with TACA airlines and hang around in the departure lounge, that’s all.” No amount of explaining would change anything; the luggage carousel that was going to spit out our luggage was not in the transit area, but in Peru. We had gained the right to spend the next four hours breathing airport oxygen, eat overpriced airport food (Dunkin’ Donuts, anyone?), be Starbucks lounge lizards (free WIFI), then be charged the Peruvian departure tax of USD 31 per person. This new airport doesn’t build itself, right? Long live capitalism!
Lima – La Paz: nice ride, loads of leg room, but I'm too tired to appreciate much of it. With more than 20 hours of travel in our legs we spent this flight playing tag with consciousness. At 12:30 the landing wheels hit Bolivian ground. We have arrived.
Friday Jun 11th: London Calling
We finished our packing and closed the house behind us around 1:45PM, just in time to take mom up on her invite for a quick lunch before our 2:45PM train to Brussels Midi station. We jumped in our cars, wearing our heavy travelling clothing (The weather forecast for La Paz predicted lows of -5C), and it was only then that I noticed what a generous portion of sunlight was ladled over my hometown. The thermometer display on the dashboard in the car indicated “23C”. Within 5 minutes we pulled up to mom’s driveway, where our cars would stay for the duration of the trip. As we made our way up to the living room, the delicate perfume of grilled “poulet de Landes” tickled first our noses, then our taste buds. The sliding door to the terrace was open, and Latin-American music gently caressed our ears. The table was set, colourful napkins and an open bottle of Bourgogne made the picture complete. We ate rather quick, and spoke with delight about the trip and the finalisation of the preparations. And about the cats, who weren’t staying with Blandine’s aunt now. The house cat had been rather stressed in sharing his little coin of paradise with Max and Leo, so within a few hours of feline war games, Blandine’s parents decided to take Max and Leo back to Avignon. That suits everybody apparently, especially Blandine’s dad, who had fallen in love with them over the last 3 days.
A quick glance at the clock tells us we really have to get going, so we say our goodbyes, hop in the car and get to the train station. Shucks, the 14:56 train we planned to take to Brussels Midi station is announced with 20 minutes delay!
Crisis thinking needed! Could we still make the EUROSTAR connection to London? What would tickets on the next train cost? Let’s call mom back, she can drive us. We are SOOO not going to miss this connection to London. Hello crisis management centre, the next train will still get us there in time! It would be tight, but we just have to trust the Belgian train system….pitter patter, pitter patter. Long story short, we got onto the London train just fine and pulled into St. Pancras station, as planned. After a quick rendezvous with our Spanish friend Esther in one of the train station snack bars, we head off to Wimbledon, to meet with Luba and Richard who kindly agreed to put us up for the night. Rush hour London underground traffic, being squeezed like sardines in a metal carriage is our first ethnic experience on this trip. 11 tube stops of standing up with a daypack on my belly and a 16kg backpack on my back complete the experience.
The welcome at Luba and Richard’s was great. Little Nestor was very excited to have us over and sang us the monkey song. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, so we took the opportunity to catch up and exchange gossip over drinks. After a while I let the women to their own devices as the beer in my hand reminded me there was a World Cup football game to watch. It was the opening day and France were playing Uruguay after all! If you thought this would spontaneously bring out the French patriot in Blandine, think again: the only two in the room getting warm from watching a World Cup football game were my beer and I.
Dinner is amazing: a lovely grilled chicken with a mountain of roasted potatoes, followed by a world-class selection of cakes. Luba set us up with a taxi for the ungodly hour of 4:45AM, and urges the driver to be on time, unlike last time she use the company’s services. An ungodly hour indeed, and a self-inflicted pain, but absolutely necessary if we don’t want to miss our 7:20 AM flight. With less than 5 hours of sleep before us, we cut the evening short around midnight. Tomorrow we’ll spend 24 hours travelling all the way to La Paz, it’s going to be a gruelling long day. Blandine quickly tests the alarm on the mobile phone to make sure the volume is loud enough. Yup, it works. Exhausted, but with happy stomachs we hop in the bed and fall asleep right away.
A quick glance at the clock tells us we really have to get going, so we say our goodbyes, hop in the car and get to the train station. Shucks, the 14:56 train we planned to take to Brussels Midi station is announced with 20 minutes delay!
Crisis thinking needed! Could we still make the EUROSTAR connection to London? What would tickets on the next train cost? Let’s call mom back, she can drive us. We are SOOO not going to miss this connection to London. Hello crisis management centre, the next train will still get us there in time! It would be tight, but we just have to trust the Belgian train system….pitter patter, pitter patter. Long story short, we got onto the London train just fine and pulled into St. Pancras station, as planned. After a quick rendezvous with our Spanish friend Esther in one of the train station snack bars, we head off to Wimbledon, to meet with Luba and Richard who kindly agreed to put us up for the night. Rush hour London underground traffic, being squeezed like sardines in a metal carriage is our first ethnic experience on this trip. 11 tube stops of standing up with a daypack on my belly and a 16kg backpack on my back complete the experience.
The welcome at Luba and Richard’s was great. Little Nestor was very excited to have us over and sang us the monkey song. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, so we took the opportunity to catch up and exchange gossip over drinks. After a while I let the women to their own devices as the beer in my hand reminded me there was a World Cup football game to watch. It was the opening day and France were playing Uruguay after all! If you thought this would spontaneously bring out the French patriot in Blandine, think again: the only two in the room getting warm from watching a World Cup football game were my beer and I.
Dinner is amazing: a lovely grilled chicken with a mountain of roasted potatoes, followed by a world-class selection of cakes. Luba set us up with a taxi for the ungodly hour of 4:45AM, and urges the driver to be on time, unlike last time she use the company’s services. An ungodly hour indeed, and a self-inflicted pain, but absolutely necessary if we don’t want to miss our 7:20 AM flight. With less than 5 hours of sleep before us, we cut the evening short around midnight. Tomorrow we’ll spend 24 hours travelling all the way to La Paz, it’s going to be a gruelling long day. Blandine quickly tests the alarm on the mobile phone to make sure the volume is loud enough. Yup, it works. Exhausted, but with happy stomachs we hop in the bed and fall asleep right away.
Thu June 10th: Win some, lose some
All this work week has been surreal. The word of my sabbatical spread fast and colleagues I normally just “Hi” and “Bye” came up to me, asking where it is exactly that I’m going. Coffee breaks, walks to the printer, or just the occasional canteen encounter: all were deemed well enough an excuse to grab the overly busy big guy (me) by the arm and demand a detailed account of this trip’s destinations, or the progress of its planning. No worries: Everyone can be my paparazzi; I’m an equal opportunity chatterbox. I really get the feeling that the vibe of this trip is getting to my colleagues too, this feeling of “Wow, this guy actually managed to leave this place behind for a while, for bigger and bolder adventures”, so there’s hope! And that’s what it is, really.
This last day at work was exactly as hectic as I expected. Actually it was worse. I had planned to dedicate the morning to finish off one documentation project, then concentrate on sorting out a second one in the afternoon for a clean handover to my colleague Sonia. I’d be home around 8PM to join in on the frenetic packing exercise and in time to finish preparing the house for our long holiday break. The day flew by like a concord, mainly because there seemed to come no end to last-minute updates. At 5PM I still hadn’t got to my second project, so I knew I was in for another long night. Around 10 PM the worst that could happen became reality: the system decided to boycott our delicate friendship and simply locked and refused to let me do anything anymore. All the late-night efforts of the last months, desperately trying to make something of this documentation project under undue pressure seemed in vein. A prime example of the classic almost-made-it-to-the-finish-then-burst-into-flames scenario that can put any stressed out IT-guy to tears. With no one around to fix the database, I knew I was screwed, I knew I had to let go. Worse, I knew I had to involve other people to fix this mess. What a bullshit system!
It would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I had plenty left to do before our departure by train on Friday afternoon and trains don’t wait. So I jumped into my car and made it home just before cars turn into pumpkins. “Pumpkin” isn’t the right word, but close enough to “lemon”: my little blue passion wagon is about to round the treacherous cape of 220,000KM and every day I make it home safe is a day of relief.
I threw open the door, only to find the house deserted. Was it a trick from Blandine? Had her patience with my coming home extremely late over the last few weeks worn so thin that it had exploded in my face? With a matter of hours to go and with luggage in dire need of packing, a house in need of last-minute cleaning, bills in need of paying, a garden requiring some tending, and - most of all – my woman deserving some companionship, I considered the worst. I was witnessing a second crash landing right before the finish line. Hang on, she had called me around 9PM at work, to say she was going to quickly hop over to Brussels, to drop off the remainder of the gifts for the kids in Cambodia at her good friend Roberta’s, who would arrange to get the goods to Paris by mid-July. Not a trace of anger in Blandine’s voice. Or was it faked? That was 3 hours ago. Shouldn’t she have been the stressed out person I know her to be right before we set off on a trip? Was it an elaborate plan to make me feel as left alone as I had done to her over the last weeks? I called her GSM, but it jumped on answering machine right away. Yes, she had grabbed her backpack along with all the other things she needed to go on this trip, had negotiated to stay overnight with Roberta. She would cross the threshold of our house in the morning, all packed and ready to go and, and in a defiant and self-assured voice she would say “There! That should teach you how I felt the last two weeks while you were supposed to help me prepare for this trip. Ha!” And she’d be totally in her right to say that. Fuck. I shouldn’t try to call her again; she would probably laugh her head off each time my number flashed up on her GSM. And then, to my great relief I spotted her passport.
Dead-tired and emotionally still worked up from the messy finish at work, I made my way to the fridge. Food would bring solace. I jerked the fridge door open with Pavlovian determination, and stared into an almost empty fridge. How could I forget time and time again that over the last week we’ve purposely been emptying it, so we could unplug it during our sabbatical? Like Willie Wonka in front of a chocolate store, I considered my options: a quick run over to the local frites stand? Or should I lower my culinary standards just once, to stick a spongy sandwich from the Mechelen MacDonald’s behind my molars? Just then a shiny package at the bottom shelf of the fridge hit my eyes: pork pies, the only food item left from last week’s goodbye party. Hallelujah!
After a whirlwind dinner, I used my last energy to get up and start a frantic cleaning frenzy. Had to be done. About a half hour into it, coming back from putting the garden furniture in the shed, I noticed movement in the house: it was Blandine, a pleasant surprise lighting up her face as she noticed a cleaned kitchen and a tidied living room. Hallelujah again.
This last day at work was exactly as hectic as I expected. Actually it was worse. I had planned to dedicate the morning to finish off one documentation project, then concentrate on sorting out a second one in the afternoon for a clean handover to my colleague Sonia. I’d be home around 8PM to join in on the frenetic packing exercise and in time to finish preparing the house for our long holiday break. The day flew by like a concord, mainly because there seemed to come no end to last-minute updates. At 5PM I still hadn’t got to my second project, so I knew I was in for another long night. Around 10 PM the worst that could happen became reality: the system decided to boycott our delicate friendship and simply locked and refused to let me do anything anymore. All the late-night efforts of the last months, desperately trying to make something of this documentation project under undue pressure seemed in vein. A prime example of the classic almost-made-it-to-the-finish-then-burst-into-flames scenario that can put any stressed out IT-guy to tears. With no one around to fix the database, I knew I was screwed, I knew I had to let go. Worse, I knew I had to involve other people to fix this mess. What a bullshit system!
It would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I had plenty left to do before our departure by train on Friday afternoon and trains don’t wait. So I jumped into my car and made it home just before cars turn into pumpkins. “Pumpkin” isn’t the right word, but close enough to “lemon”: my little blue passion wagon is about to round the treacherous cape of 220,000KM and every day I make it home safe is a day of relief.
I threw open the door, only to find the house deserted. Was it a trick from Blandine? Had her patience with my coming home extremely late over the last few weeks worn so thin that it had exploded in my face? With a matter of hours to go and with luggage in dire need of packing, a house in need of last-minute cleaning, bills in need of paying, a garden requiring some tending, and - most of all – my woman deserving some companionship, I considered the worst. I was witnessing a second crash landing right before the finish line. Hang on, she had called me around 9PM at work, to say she was going to quickly hop over to Brussels, to drop off the remainder of the gifts for the kids in Cambodia at her good friend Roberta’s, who would arrange to get the goods to Paris by mid-July. Not a trace of anger in Blandine’s voice. Or was it faked? That was 3 hours ago. Shouldn’t she have been the stressed out person I know her to be right before we set off on a trip? Was it an elaborate plan to make me feel as left alone as I had done to her over the last weeks? I called her GSM, but it jumped on answering machine right away. Yes, she had grabbed her backpack along with all the other things she needed to go on this trip, had negotiated to stay overnight with Roberta. She would cross the threshold of our house in the morning, all packed and ready to go and, and in a defiant and self-assured voice she would say “There! That should teach you how I felt the last two weeks while you were supposed to help me prepare for this trip. Ha!” And she’d be totally in her right to say that. Fuck. I shouldn’t try to call her again; she would probably laugh her head off each time my number flashed up on her GSM. And then, to my great relief I spotted her passport.
Dead-tired and emotionally still worked up from the messy finish at work, I made my way to the fridge. Food would bring solace. I jerked the fridge door open with Pavlovian determination, and stared into an almost empty fridge. How could I forget time and time again that over the last week we’ve purposely been emptying it, so we could unplug it during our sabbatical? Like Willie Wonka in front of a chocolate store, I considered my options: a quick run over to the local frites stand? Or should I lower my culinary standards just once, to stick a spongy sandwich from the Mechelen MacDonald’s behind my molars? Just then a shiny package at the bottom shelf of the fridge hit my eyes: pork pies, the only food item left from last week’s goodbye party. Hallelujah!
After a whirlwind dinner, I used my last energy to get up and start a frantic cleaning frenzy. Had to be done. About a half hour into it, coming back from putting the garden furniture in the shed, I noticed movement in the house: it was Blandine, a pleasant surprise lighting up her face as she noticed a cleaned kitchen and a tidied living room. Hallelujah again.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Bien arrivés
nous sommes bien arrivés à La Paz, la capitale de la Bolivia, cette nuit vers 1h du matin... après plus de 2 jours de voyage et véritablement 20 heures de trajet... donc forcément assez fatigués, mais surtout ravis de commencer notre périple.
vendredi, après avoir reçu les dernières recommandations (et un superbe déjeuner) de Suzanne, la maman de Jan, nous avons pris le train pour Londres. Petite pause-café à l'arrivée à St Pancras avec ma chère amie Esther en partance pour Singapour, et nous avons fait halte chez Luba, Richard et Nestor, à Wimbledon pour la nuit. Un autre festin nous attendait, et encore qqs recommandations amicales. Quand nous serons de retour de notre grand voyage, la famille Kassov-Addy se sera agrandie ;-)
Le taxi est venu nous cueillir pile à l'heure à 4h45 du matin... sauf que c'est notre réveil qui n'a pas fonctionné - tant mieux finalement, nous avons pu grapiller qqs minutes de plus de sommeil, mais le départ a été plus que rapide (vous vous souvenez peut-être de la 1ère scène de 4 mariages et 1 enterrement??). Aéroport d'Heathrow, 1er avion à 7h35 pour Madrid qui a eu une heure de retard, ce qui nous a fait courrir pour attrapper le 2è avion pour Lima (Pérou), avec l'angoisse que les sacs ne suivent pas. Finalement tout s'est bien passé, et après 11h20 de vol, nous sommes arrivés à l'aéroport de Lima, où nos bagages nous attendaient... et une petite surprise: il nous a fallu payer 31$ chacun de taxe d'arrivée au Pérou, alors que notre séjour ne durra que 4heures, mais comme nous ne voyagions pas avec la même compagnie aérienne pour poursuivre jusqu'en Bolivie, il fallait récupérer nos bagages donc payer la taxe... bon... c'est une logique...
dernier avion enfin Lima-La Paz en 2h15. Le taxi organisé par notre hôtel nous attendait "benvenida Blandine Bouniol" - j'adore. sauf que, là aussi, petite surprise: il ne s'agissait pas du taxi de notre hôtel - le Eva Palace; clin d'oeil à Eva, la soeur de Jan - mais d'un taxi d'un autre hôtel auquel nous avions demandé une réservation mais qui ne nous avait jamais répondu.... bref... petite confusion donc, mais finalement nos hôtes boliviens ont bien compris que c'était une erreur et ont laisse couler... à cette heure tardive, de tte façon, personne n'avait la force de discuter...
toc-toc à l'Eva Palace et nous voilà installés. Hôtel sans charme mais avec un lit "queen" et pleins de couverture à disposition. Drôlement apprécié vu que la température extérieure est en dessous de 5 degrés: nous somme à plus de 3500m d'altitude. D'ailleurs le petit trajet en taxi nous a bien fait comprendre que La Paz, c'est comme un grand 8: ça monte, ça descend, et ça remonte et ça redesccend.
Grasse mat bien méritée et on part à la recherche d'un café pour dévorer... car ce ne sont pas les plateux repas d'Ibéria qui auraient pu nous caler.
A 2 pas de l'hôtel, on s'installe au "Sol y Luna", apparemment un repaire de touristes et d'expats... et des grands écrans pour mater le foot - une nouvelle passion de Jan qui je ne connaissais pas, appeléé "Coupe du Monde - je ne peux pas rater ça". Ca ma va, car je dois m'adaper à l'altitude; je suis un peu essouflée, le coeur qui bat vite et surtout, j'ai faaaaaim. J'accompagne donc mon repas (assiette mexicaine et filet de boeuf) d'un infusion de feuilles de coca, le parfait remède contre le mal de l'altitude. pourquoi pas? Ca doit marcher puisque je retrouve de l'énergie pour écrire sur le blog et qqs emails (le café est équipé en wi-fi). Pendant ce temps, Jan de son côté papotte avec un couple d'australiens/néo-zélandais à la table à côté; très sympas, je le rejoindrai après ce message.
Nous allons prendre le reste de la journée très cool (il est déjà 17h de tte façon), et paufiner notre itinéraire de visite de La Paz pour demain, puis aller discuter avec qqs agences de voyage locales pour organiser le reste du séjour et les rando.
A très bientôt
( PS: je ne maîtrise pas encore ce nouveau clavier et n'est pas encore mis le doigt sur le point d'exclamation, grrrr....)
vendredi, après avoir reçu les dernières recommandations (et un superbe déjeuner) de Suzanne, la maman de Jan, nous avons pris le train pour Londres. Petite pause-café à l'arrivée à St Pancras avec ma chère amie Esther en partance pour Singapour, et nous avons fait halte chez Luba, Richard et Nestor, à Wimbledon pour la nuit. Un autre festin nous attendait, et encore qqs recommandations amicales. Quand nous serons de retour de notre grand voyage, la famille Kassov-Addy se sera agrandie ;-)
Le taxi est venu nous cueillir pile à l'heure à 4h45 du matin... sauf que c'est notre réveil qui n'a pas fonctionné - tant mieux finalement, nous avons pu grapiller qqs minutes de plus de sommeil, mais le départ a été plus que rapide (vous vous souvenez peut-être de la 1ère scène de 4 mariages et 1 enterrement??). Aéroport d'Heathrow, 1er avion à 7h35 pour Madrid qui a eu une heure de retard, ce qui nous a fait courrir pour attrapper le 2è avion pour Lima (Pérou), avec l'angoisse que les sacs ne suivent pas. Finalement tout s'est bien passé, et après 11h20 de vol, nous sommes arrivés à l'aéroport de Lima, où nos bagages nous attendaient... et une petite surprise: il nous a fallu payer 31$ chacun de taxe d'arrivée au Pérou, alors que notre séjour ne durra que 4heures, mais comme nous ne voyagions pas avec la même compagnie aérienne pour poursuivre jusqu'en Bolivie, il fallait récupérer nos bagages donc payer la taxe... bon... c'est une logique...
dernier avion enfin Lima-La Paz en 2h15. Le taxi organisé par notre hôtel nous attendait "benvenida Blandine Bouniol" - j'adore. sauf que, là aussi, petite surprise: il ne s'agissait pas du taxi de notre hôtel - le Eva Palace; clin d'oeil à Eva, la soeur de Jan - mais d'un taxi d'un autre hôtel auquel nous avions demandé une réservation mais qui ne nous avait jamais répondu.... bref... petite confusion donc, mais finalement nos hôtes boliviens ont bien compris que c'était une erreur et ont laisse couler... à cette heure tardive, de tte façon, personne n'avait la force de discuter...
toc-toc à l'Eva Palace et nous voilà installés. Hôtel sans charme mais avec un lit "queen" et pleins de couverture à disposition. Drôlement apprécié vu que la température extérieure est en dessous de 5 degrés: nous somme à plus de 3500m d'altitude. D'ailleurs le petit trajet en taxi nous a bien fait comprendre que La Paz, c'est comme un grand 8: ça monte, ça descend, et ça remonte et ça redesccend.
Grasse mat bien méritée et on part à la recherche d'un café pour dévorer... car ce ne sont pas les plateux repas d'Ibéria qui auraient pu nous caler.
A 2 pas de l'hôtel, on s'installe au "Sol y Luna", apparemment un repaire de touristes et d'expats... et des grands écrans pour mater le foot - une nouvelle passion de Jan qui je ne connaissais pas, appeléé "Coupe du Monde - je ne peux pas rater ça". Ca ma va, car je dois m'adaper à l'altitude; je suis un peu essouflée, le coeur qui bat vite et surtout, j'ai faaaaaim. J'accompagne donc mon repas (assiette mexicaine et filet de boeuf) d'un infusion de feuilles de coca, le parfait remède contre le mal de l'altitude. pourquoi pas? Ca doit marcher puisque je retrouve de l'énergie pour écrire sur le blog et qqs emails (le café est équipé en wi-fi). Pendant ce temps, Jan de son côté papotte avec un couple d'australiens/néo-zélandais à la table à côté; très sympas, je le rejoindrai après ce message.
Nous allons prendre le reste de la journée très cool (il est déjà 17h de tte façon), et paufiner notre itinéraire de visite de La Paz pour demain, puis aller discuter avec qqs agences de voyage locales pour organiser le reste du séjour et les rando.
A très bientôt
( PS: je ne maîtrise pas encore ce nouveau clavier et n'est pas encore mis le doigt sur le point d'exclamation, grrrr....)
Saturday, June 5, 2010
merci pour les cadeaux pour les enfants et le cat-sitting
Je (Blandine) suis arrivée chargée comme un boeuf à Avignon cette après-midi... et ce ne sont pas les antibiotiques contre l'angine qui pèsent le plus lourd: 2 chats + un énorme sac-à-dos rempli de goodies pour les enfants cambodgiens qui participeront aux camps d'été PSE
et donc il me faut dire un grand merci à quelques personnes clés dans ces processus.
Un grand merci à l'IGEP (et à Mr. Jacques en particulier), au point-info des services de coopération de la Commission européenne (et à Nathalie en particulier), à la mairie de Malines ainsi qu'à Coca-Cola Belgique (et à Inge en particulier): grâce à eux, nous avons récolté plus de 20kg de petits cadeaux qui donneront sans doute de beaux sourires aux enfants. Stylos, règles, bloc-notes, balles, post-it, livres de coloriage... y a le choix. Je remettrai ces cadeaux à mon frère qui les fera passer à Fanny, la coordinatrice des cadeaux camp PSE 2010, qui les fera passer à d'autres bénévoles avant leur départ...Merci à eux donc aussi. Et un autre merci également à Henkel-France (et Peter en particulier) pour l'offre de produits pour l'hygiène.
Merci enfin à Maman, Papa, Tata Elyane et Tonton Maxime :-) qui ont accepté de "cat-sitter" pendant presque 5 mois...Max et Léo, les chats chanceux qui vont passer 5 mois à se dorer la pillule, ont bien supporté les 5 heures de TGV et semblent à présent bien s'adapter aux températures estivales de la Provence. Ils nous manqueront bien (sauf leur poil sur mes vêtements!), et nous prendrons des nouvelles régulièrement.
et donc il me faut dire un grand merci à quelques personnes clés dans ces processus.
Un grand merci à l'IGEP (et à Mr. Jacques en particulier), au point-info des services de coopération de la Commission européenne (et à Nathalie en particulier), à la mairie de Malines ainsi qu'à Coca-Cola Belgique (et à Inge en particulier): grâce à eux, nous avons récolté plus de 20kg de petits cadeaux qui donneront sans doute de beaux sourires aux enfants. Stylos, règles, bloc-notes, balles, post-it, livres de coloriage... y a le choix. Je remettrai ces cadeaux à mon frère qui les fera passer à Fanny, la coordinatrice des cadeaux camp PSE 2010, qui les fera passer à d'autres bénévoles avant leur départ...Merci à eux donc aussi. Et un autre merci également à Henkel-France (et Peter en particulier) pour l'offre de produits pour l'hygiène.
Merci enfin à Maman, Papa, Tata Elyane et Tonton Maxime :-) qui ont accepté de "cat-sitter" pendant presque 5 mois...Max et Léo, les chats chanceux qui vont passer 5 mois à se dorer la pillule, ont bien supporté les 5 heures de TGV et semblent à présent bien s'adapter aux températures estivales de la Provence. Ils nous manqueront bien (sauf leur poil sur mes vêtements!), et nous prendrons des nouvelles régulièrement.
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