Mella Madness

Five hours of staring. At what has been described as the 8th wonder of the world. The Perito Moreno Glacier in the Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, the Southern Ice Field in the Andes mountains. This ice field is the 3rd largest reserve of fresh water on the planet, after the Antarctic and Greenland ice sheets.  El Calafate is the closest town and best place from which to explore the southern part of the park.

The first siting of the glacier from the bus was of the eastern side, that faces into Brazo Rico, the southern arm of Lagu Argentino into which the glacier moves.
A panoramic view:
Perito Morena is the 3rd largest of the glaciers in the park, the largest being Upsala. It is 250sq km, with a width of 5km and length of 30km. It was first seen by a non-native in 1879, by the British captain of the Chilean Navy, Juan Thomas Rogers. It was eventually named after the 19th century Argentinian explorer Francisco Morena who had played an important role in the border dispute between Argentina and Chile. His nickname was ‘Perito’ which means ‘specialist’.

The northern side:
The eastern side:
The terminus of the glacier (point), with a average height of 70m, and a total ice depth of 170m (the ice in the water is called ‘dead ice):
Perito Moreno is about 75km from El Calafate, and one of Argentina’s greatest attractions. It is easily reached by bus and there are a series of walkways for excellent viewing of this spectacular natural wonder.  One gets so close to the terminus, one can feel the ice breathing cold air. I can only describe it as a majestic slumbering giant – perfectly still, yet alive. Every 10min or so chunks of ice, sometimes huge, would break off with a crack and thunderous roar and splash into the water, sending ripples lapping at the edge of the ice for minutes afterwards.


Most glaciers are receding due to global warming, but Perito Moreno, although thinning, is stationary in the sense that it is growing at the same rate as what it is receding.  The water flow at the centre is 2m per day.

Occasionally the terminus closes the gap to land, and water build-up in Brazo Rico can reach 30m above the level of the northern arm. The pressure against the ice wall causes a huge rupture of the ice, an incident that can  occur yearly, and not more than a decade in between. The first big rupture was in 1917, and in the last couple of years it has been a yearly occurrence.

The narrow gap between the glazier and the land:
5 hours of just staring. Dumbstuck and in total awe. And yet it was not enough, I was reluctant to leave and kept on taking ‘one last picture’.  Just ‘one more’, and ‘one more’…Let me back up a bit. The road from Puerto Santa Cruz on the east coast to El Calafate in the west went via Rio Gallegos and crossed the Patagonian steppe, vast and dry grasslands, with occasional farms appearing once we got down into the Santa Cruz river valley.
El Calafate, as can be imagined, is a very touristy town with quaint shops  bars and restaurants, and of course, very expensive. I arrived at about midday, in a howling wind, and had to drag a reluctant Louise a couple of blocks into the wind, almost being swept off my feet. The last stretch was uphill, and I was completely out of breath when I reached the hostel. Sharing a room with 5 youngsters is partly a challenge (I become aware of my age) and partly invigorating (their energy is catching).  Talk is mostly about travel experiences and itineraries, and connections are short and sweet.
The restaurants do asado’s this way:
I had booked the trip to the glacier on arrival at the bus station, and had chosen a perfect day as the following day it was overcast, cold and rainy.
Booking bus tickets can be tricky. One can do it online, but often they require a printed ticket, so I try and buy a departure ticket on arrival (the terminals are often far from the centre of town). Recently I have been told that the ticket can be printed at the terminal just before departure – a bit late for thát bit of information to be of any use to me now. But I’m passing it on, maybe it can benefit someone else.

The last day in El Calafate I lazed about  and then decided to go for walk in the afternoon. The receptionist at the hostel had told me of a nature reserve next to the lake, and a beach further on. The wind was still going full-force, so I chose a route to have it from behind, and just hoped I would find a shortcut to the hostel. Which I did. Saw some flamingos, swans with black heads, beautiful views of the Lagu Argentio and a view of the town:
El Chalten, also known as the trekking (hiking) capital of Argentina, was my next destination.  The 3-hour bus trip from El Calafate went north around the lakes with the snow-capped Andes as backdrop, lovely views. There are so many hiking trials in El Chalten, one could spend a month there and still not have done them all. The day I arrived I went up to a viewpoint above the town, and further accross to view Lagu Viedma, another big lake on the way to El Chalten.
The two most popular hikes are the ones to the foot of Mount Fitz Roy (3402m) and Cerro Torre (3133m), the two highest peaks in the massif.  Both have icy cold wind-swept lakes at their bases and at Lago Torre the Torre glacier sweeps down into the lagoon.  I managed to hike 5km to Laguna Capri, which is halfway to Fitz Roy, before deciding that I would get hypothermia if I went much further, so I took many pictures and turned back.
The following day my bus was leaving at 21h00, and the kind owner of the hostel allowed me to leave my luggage there, and also said that I could cook and use the shower later. That meant I didn’t have to sit around and wait, so I did the 10km hike to Lagu Torre, walking at times high above the Fitz Roy river, through forests and accross open fields, all sunny, warm and windless. And then I rounded a hill and got hit by the strong, freezing wind coming down from the mountains. Looking at the stone strewn barren landscape there one is impressed by the force of retreating glaciers and how they shaped the valleys. I didn’t spend much time at the lake with its brown muddy water and contrastig crystal blue ice blocks, but chose to eat my sandwich in the tranquil forest. The view of the glacier and surrounding mountain peaks was spectacular though.

After all this excitement I headed further north on a night bus to a town called Los Antiquos, where I had a 3-week Workaway stint planned. More about that next time.

One more photo of El Chalten, taken from the bus:

For buses…always waiting. They all seem to travel at night, here on the east coast of Patagonia. Which means you arrive at your destination at an uncomfortable hour. A few days ago I realised that there comes an hour when very late at night becomes very early in the morning. I would put it between 02h00 and 04h00. I told my landlord in Puerto Santa Cruz that I would be arriving very late, which at that stage was 02h30, but then the bus was more than an hour late and it became 03h30, which ended up being 04h30. As I walked down the street, dawn was just lighting up the horizon, and night was suddenly morning and I’d missed the night’s sleep that I had paid for. More about this story later.

I left Sarmiento for Comodoro Rivadavia at 13h00, but there I had to wait until 20h30 to catch a bus to Fitz Roy, my next stop. Fitz Roy is a town of 10 streets long and 3 streets broad, with 2 garages with restaurants, one proper restaurant and a cafe, all along the one street next to the highway. I had decided to stay there for two reasons: 1) it was cheaper than the town on the coast, which is where people usually stay, and 2) it was closest to the Nacional Parques Petrificados (national park) with petrified trees, which I had planned to visit.

I got off the bus at 24h30, sort of a decent hour (in Argentinia anyway), and walked to the hospejade (type of hotel) I had seen on the map. It was full, and she directed me to a ‘hotel’ accross the street, which looked more like a dilapidated old house. A girl of about 12yrs old was in the shop (front of hotel) and took charge of booking me in – $400 (R100). Down the passage, to a dorm with 3 beds and communal bathroom further down the passage. Luckily I was the only one in that room, but really, only the sheets were clean. There were even cobwebs behind the curtain. I had paid for 2 nights, as I needed a day to visit the national park.

Enquiring about a bus or taxi to the park the next morning, I was told there was none. As I was determined to see the 130 million year old trees from the Jurasic period, I decided to hike. Got a lift after about 10min, with a guy from the military who was returning from a fishing trip to the Parana river at Rosario. He proudly showed be pictures of the huge dorado’s he had caught, and typically fisherman style, I showed him pictures of the even bigger fish my son Francois had shot in the Ivory Coast. I felt quite bad afterwards, he was so proud of his fish.

After 70km he dropped me off at the turn-off to the park, which was another 50km further along on a dirt road. I was thinking “right, come on lift”, when a car turned off onto the dirt road, right on cue. But it drove straight past me! I immediately recalled the wish I had made for a flat tyre for them, and it must have worked, because a few minutes later they came back and stopped on the opposite side of the road. The window rolled down, and a very suspicious man asked to see my passport. I reluctantly handed it over (one is told never to let go of your passport, but I needed that lift), and he told his wife: es una turista (it’s a tourist). Once I was settled in the back seat, he emphatically told me that I was very fortunate because it was the first time in 10 years he had picked up someone, and again he asked my passport and took a photo of it. By the end of the outing (I had gone there and back with them), he asked me if I had made provision for my old-age, which had me bursting out with laughter as he is a broker. We exchanged emails, and he promised to come and do business in South Africa.The lift-givers:

In the previous blog I had complained about the lack of wildlife, but on the way to the park we saw many guanacos (a kind of llama, I was told), a few choiques (ostriches, but much smaller than the one’s in South Africa), a zorro (rooijakkals) and 3 mara’s (big hares that walk, with black bottoms).

The mountain in the background of the following photo is a volcano, called madre e hija (mother and daughter).

The trees had grown in a swamp area before the existence of the Andes, when winds had blown in moist air from the Pacific, causing high rainfall. Volcanic ash and other sediments had covered them, causing petrification. I was very impressed when the friendly park ranger knew and asked me about the petrified trees in Namibia.

There must have been a comunication barrier, because my benefactor and his wife were passing Fitz Roy on their way back, but for some or other reason they decided to drop me off at the T-junction at the highway. And there I stood, in wind worse than the strongest southeaster, with only the sun as company. Interesting experience, hitchhiking. At first I was very optimistic, sure that the next car would stop. Later I began to yank my hat off the minute a car appeared over the ridge, and pleaded, hands together, with a big smile. Even later I decided, whatever, and just carelessly put my thumb out. Admittedly most of the cars were full, some people waved and one driver coming in from the dirt road offered me water. He was going in the other direction. Eventually, after an hour, a car passed, turned back and picked me up. By that time I was sure that people probably thought I had escaped from an asylum, crazy old woman, hat in hand, with hair standing on end in the wind.

Back in Fitz Roy I asked about a bus to Puerto San Julian, my next destination, only to find out it leaves at 24h30 (of course, that was the time I had arrived). I had paid for 2 nights, so decided I would sleep, and then sit in one of the restaurants at a garage the following day, with the hope of catching a lift with someone. I had asked the petrol attendant to enquire about possible lifts, and waited for 3hrs, nothing happening. On impulse, or divine inspiration, I approached the people at the table behind me, and by 13h00 I was in the car with a silent driver and his very talkative 16yr old daughter, who wanted to practice her English as payment. None of the people would take money for the lifts – the broker said I had to give him one Rand, and I just happened to have a R10 note in my bag, so he was very impressed.

In Puerto San Julian I booked into a hotel – I wanted a clean room with my own bathroom for one night! I walked around town for an hour or two, saw what there was to see, and enjoyed my hotel room.Cute new corrugated iron sheet houses:

And old ones:

Puerto San Julian is the place where Ferdinand Magellan first landed in Argentina on 31st March 1520. He decided to spend the winter, and left again in August. During that time he had had a mutiny and he had exiled one person and had another beheaded. Francis Drake also landed there in 1578, spending the winter. A small settlement was started in the 19th century, but never came to anything. Only in the 20th century did the towns on the east coast start thriving when European settlers wanting to escape the threat and aftermath of World War I started to arrive, mostly Spanish, English, Germans and Slavs. A monument pays tribute to the first communion that was held on the beach on Palm Sunday. I stood there above the water’s edge in the wind, and could well imagine the piety of the moment.

‘Rockpools’ with a difference:

In all the towns on the east coast of Patagonia there are monuments honouring the soldiers who had fought and died in the Malvinas (Falkland) war in 1982.

I spent another day waiting for a bus to my next destination, Puerto Santa Cruz, and got to the bus station at 17h00, just to be told that I had been misinformed by the tourist office re the time, the bus was only leaving just after midnight. So Louise and I kept each other company here for another 8hrs 30 min, as the bus was 1hr 30min late:

I now go back to the story I was telling earlier.When I disembarked in Puerto Santa Cruz at 04h30, I headed in the wrong direction for two blocks before realizing I had made a mistake, again. I had just turned back when a twin-cab bakkie drew up and the driver questioningly said: “Meriel?” It was my host, he had been waiting for me at the bus station, an angel from heaven! The apartment I had booked was like a little house, all my own, and I decided to stay 2 extra days, cooking, relaxing and taking short walks.

Puerto Santa Cruz lays two claims to fame: one that Charles Darwin, in 1834, on board the HMS Beagle under command of captain Robert FitzRoy, had taken a cruise up the river that runs into the sea there (the Santa Cruz river). He found his first fossils, which contributed to the development of his theory of evolution. This visit to Patagonia also made him realise that he was more of a geologist than zoologist. In studying the valley of Santa Cruz, he concluded that this part of Argentia had once been submerged under the sea, rising slowly to change from a group of islands to the land it now is. It also made him realise that the world was much older than ever imagined.

The second claim is that the pilot-writer, Antoine de Saint Exupéry, auther of The Little Prince, spent time in Puerto Santa Cruz. He was in Argentina from 1929 to 1931, flying between Buenos Aires and the south. In 2015 an organisation, The Freedom Bench Project, was established by a nephew of the writer, to promote values such as commitment, exchange and links. Benches could only be erected in places that Exupéry had actually lived.

Some scenes from the town:

There is an abundance of marine life along the whole of the east coast of Patagonia, with many colonies of penguins and sea lions, as well as pods of Commercon’s dolphins. I was fortunate to spot some of these graceful black and white dolphins in the bay of Puerto Santa Cruz, but unable to take pictures. Anyone planning on doing a trip in Patagonia would be wise to rent a car, as many more places could be reached and explored in that way. Unfortunately a bit expensive for a solo traveller on a tight budget…

They call themselves Boer’s. I’ve known about them since I was a young girl, and always thought I would visit them if I went to Argentina. I found it very intriguing that people could just ‘up and go’ – whole families, to an unknown, vast, dry and isolated place. To start a 2500ha (625ha free, 1275ha for 150 pesos per year for 5 years) farm from scratch, with nothing closeby. I do believe they came accross some native inhabitants, but Sarmiento and Comodoro Rivadavia were hardly towns at that time. The irony is that around 1907 the govenment was drilling for water for the farmers and found oil instead. Now Comodoro Rivadavia and surrounding 200km is the biggest oil producing area in Argentina. The oil pumps are scattered along the road to Sarmiento, more than a thousand of them.

In 1902, after the Boer War, some 600 Afrikaners from the defeated Republics of Orange Free State and Transvaal, and some from the Cape Colony, decided to seek a new beginning in Patagonia, Argentina. They were farmers who had lost their farms in the war, or were not prepared to live under British rule. They sent two representatives to Comodoro Rivadavia to manage the establishment of the new colony, and later arrived on British cargo ships. They brought bullock carts with them and were given tents and mules by the government. Land was allocated to them by Julio Argentino Roca, the president at that time, and the minister of agriculture, Wenceslao Escalante.

My decision to contact them almost did not come to fruition, as searches and messages on Facebook weeks beforehand elicited no reaction. I had read an article on them written by a research team at the University of Michigan, led by Dr Andries Coetzee. I contacted him, and he referred me to Facebook. Eventually I just decided to go to Comodoro Rivadavia, hoping to find someone at an address of the Facebook group Asociacion Cristiana de la Colectividad Sudafricana in Rada Tilly, close to Comodoro Rivadavia. I made an Airbnb reservation with two very kind men, arrived at 7am on Tuesday, and spent the whole morning on FB again. This time I left a comment on a group called the Kleinmond/Sarmiento Kulturele Uitruil Program and was contacted by both Gerard (from Kleinmond), and Carolina (from Sarmiento). Carolina (I’m not writing surnames) gave me the contact number of her niece, Romina, in Comodoro, who is a student in Buenos Aires, and who happened to be home on holiday. She speaks English, and we met for breakfast the following morning. What a delightful and enthusiastic person. She shared a lot of information about the local activities of their group (Asociacion Cristiana de la Colectividad Sudafricana) and showed me around town, amongst other the Boer’s monument. She had had an interview about the Afrikaners on national TV in Argentina, and mentioned that a question that was regularly asked was why they always only represented a certain aspect of South African culture, i e the Afrikaners. Her answer was simple: “We are descendants of only the Afrikaners”.

I was impressed by the acceptance and involvement of different countries and cultures in Comodoro Rivadavia. There are people of about 25 different countries living there, and whenever one country has a special day of celebration, representatives of all the other countries attend, wearing their national costumes and bearing flags of their countries.

Romina helped me to buy a bus ticket to Sarmiento the following day, and informed the Sarmiento group about my arrival. Carolina arranged for a gathering at Cristina’s house, including the ‘elder’, who still spoke Afrikaans. I was unable to do anything at all in Sarmiento on Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, as my whole being was in turmoil about meeting the Afrikaners, something that I had hardly anticipated as becoming a reality.

At 3pm I was waiting on the pavement outside my apartment, having changed into black jeans and a new T-shirt I had bought the previous day, when a twin-cab bakkie stopped and a young woman jumped out, in shorts, T-shirt and sneakers. We hugged, and she introduced me to her 4-year old son and 6-month old baby in the back seat.

We were the first to arrive at Cristina’s house, and I was mightily surprised when she greeted me with a heavily accented ‘Hoe gaan dit?’. She told me she was 64 yrs (i e 2 years younger than me), which I couldn’t believe, as she looked about 40 yrs. As it turned out, she had gotten the numbers back-to-front, and it was supposed to be 46yrs, a common mistake when translating from Spanish. Phew, I was relieved…

The others started arriving, and every time a new person entered, I became more emotional. When Piet and his sister Nenna greeted me in perfect Afrikaans, I just doubled over and didn’t know what to do with the emotional impact. Five months in South America, never meeting any Afrikaans speaking people, and here I was being greeted by Argentinians in my language! That made them ‘my’ people, and I was privileged enough to meet them. And then Ricardo walked in, also speaking Afrikaans, and I réálly didn’t know how to cope with it all. By that time everybody was watching me, and we all shared this incredible feeling of connectedness through a common language and cultural bond só deep, one could only be filled with awe. When I mentioned that my maiden name was Snyman, Ricardo reckoned that we might be family, as he had Snyman family who had moved to Patagonia from Phillipstown in the old Cape Province.

Ricardo, Nenna, me and Piet:

Nenna had had 10 children, 2 of them in the photo (the one on the left is Cristina), with 2 of her many grandchildren.

We talked for hours, about their lives, how things had changed, about South Africa, and about how they are attempting to keep the Afrikaner traditions alive by arranging get-togethers, Boeresports, teaching traditional dances (Volkspele) and getting the younger generation to learn Afrikaans. Their newly established Colectividad de Descendientes Sudafricanos Boer’s de Sarmiento, Chubut has a cultural connection with a group in Kleinmond, South Africa, and the first two girls from Sarmiento to take part in an exchange, had just arrived in Kleinmond that Monday. They are receiving Afrikaans lessons and are supposed to report back regarding the South African way of life.

As I listened to the stories of their lives, I was filled with respect for what they had managed to accomplish. My Karoo roots deepened my understanding of their trials and tribulations, as the area they were given to farm on, as well as the conditions (isolation, droughts, fluctuating wool prices) are very similar to where I grew up. What impressed me most though, is their attitude. They are relaxed, positive, extremely friendly and open. Ricardo, for example, has lost all his sheep as a result of the drought. A lake 200m from their farmhouse had dried up, and sand blown by the constant strong winds had completely covered their driveway, yard, trees and house. They recently built a new house, but cannot live there because of the sand in the air, so have moved to town. He tells all this without negativity, merely stating facts. Piet has lived on his farm his whole life, and in the past used to come to town once a year. It was common practice for the farmers in those early days to only visit town once a year, and even then the children were left on the farm. They told me that by the time the children started attending school, they could only speak Afrikaans, and were always bullied. Now the younger generation speak only Spanish, go to university, and are not really interested in farming. I was surprised at the size of the farms and flocks of sheep these days, much bigger and many more sheep than my father had on his two Karoo farms. They mentioned farms of many thousands of acres carrying over 100 000 sheep. All Merino’s.

When I was getting ready to leave, they surprised me by giving me a copy of the book that had been published in 2002 in commemoration of their 100 year’s existence in Patagonia. It was a limited edition, so a huge gift indeed. They all signed it, and I was só overwhelmed, I could hardly thank them. What an unbelievable privilege, to be welcomed and accepted into such a unique community!

Carolina took me home, and I was met by my landlady, who insisted on making a phone call in my presence. I couldn’t understand why, until I heard a voice speaking to me in Afrikaans. One of her friends, Agustin, was an Afrikaner, living about 10 blocks away, and he badly wanted to meet me. It was past 7pm and I still had to buy my bus ticket and cook supper, but I walked to his house and visted for a while.

Agustin had broken his leg 10 years ago, and is still in a wheelchair in spite of many operations. He had sold his sheep before the drought had gotten too bad and moved to town. He is the oldest and only surviving of 5 children, and said that his father had employed a Meester (teacher) to teach the children on the farm. There were about 15 children in the farm-school, some from neighbouring farms.

I don’t know if I have managed to portray the full impact of this visit. I don’t even know if I fully understand it myself. All I know, is that it touched a part of my soul that has been harbouring an admiration and yearning all these years, and has culminated in a shared moment of connectedness and unity. As we were sitting around the table, talking, laughing, sharing, drinking coffee (and mate of course, cold this time, made with grapefruit juice), eating Argentinian treats, children playing around us, it felt so familiar, as if we were on our farm in the Karoo. Yet it was Argentina, a country I have come to understand and love, and it was Argentinians, yet Afrikaners. Maybe it’s ancestral, maybe it’s similar farming experiences, shared joys and adversity, maybe all of it put together. The experience, I can assure you, was intense.

Quite a few South Africans have been in touch with me since I posted some photo’s on Facebook, some of them mentioning family that had moved to Patagonia, but that had gone back to SA during the 1930’s, when about 300 of them returned. Thank you for sharing with me, it adds to the richness of the experience. Best of all is that Carolina is answering the comments left by people on FB – we are now all connected!!

It’s Sunday evening, 20h30, and the sun is still shining. It has been a sunny and windless day in Bariloche after a week of rain, wind and freezing cold. On Saturday morning there was a layer of fresh snow on the mountains, and today we were swimming in the lagoon. This is how it works in Bariloche, I am told. I finished my final shift today at 16h00 and headed down to the crowded beach with my swimsuit and a book. Funnily enough, sunbathing on the pebbles is quite comfortable – I even managed forty winks, siesta.I’m feeling nostalgic, as usual when I have to leave. Sitting alone with a copa de vino tinto (glass of red wine), watching the colours change as the sun sets, is intensifying the nostalgia. It is só beautiful here and I’ve met such wonderful people.Tomorrow I’m heading to Comodoro Rivadavia on the east coast, where descendants of the Afrikaners who emigrated in 1902 are still living. I’ve known about them since I was a little girl, and always thought that I would visit them if I went to Argentina. I was reluctant, as it is out of my way, but a friend encouraged me to try and find them and put me in touch with a researcher at Michigan University, who referred me to Facebook. So I’m going there.

Today has not been a good day. My astrologist friend, Annorien, had warned me that this weekend would be challenging for everyone, and that if I was feeling the pinch, it was not just me. Things started going wrong on Saturday, when some videos I had received on WApp upset me. I wiped away the tears and decided to make the most of my morning off by visiting Colonia Suiza, a little village that is mostly a market, both artisan and food stalls, quite quaint. I waited for an hour for bus no 10, which was indicated on the map as the one to take you there. By then four no 20 buses had passed, so I decided to take one of them, which I knew went in the same direction. I didn’t get off at the right place and spent another 20 min travelling to the drop-off point where I had to catch another bus, no 13. The bus drivers are extremely helpful and patient, if one can understand what they are saying. I finally got to the town and had enough time to browse, visit the lake nearby, and eat a hearty meal called guisa de montaña (stew of the mountain) with some added chillies.My mood had lifted considerably, so I thought I was making good progress. Until this morning… One of the volunteers, Petr (a Czech), was leaving, and I was sad to see hom go as we had had some interesting philosophical conversations about stoicism, minimalism, etc. In spite of his cynicism, I enjoyed his forthright comments regarding people, situations and attitudes. He kept on encouraging me to learn more Spanish (and take cold showers), and helped me when I was stuck with computer bookings, making bread and cookies, answering Spanish phone calls or receiving Spanish guests. So I was sad. And then it was a hectic morning, with organising breakfast, guests booking out and early check-ins, people wanting to exchange money, etc. At some stage I must have left money on the counter, because when Marina (one of the owners of the hostel) arrived and checked the cash register, there was 2000 pesos (R500) missing, which I had to refund. Someone must have swiped it, or I had made a wrong entry. I couldn’t believe that I had been so careless and was most upset. R500 is a lot of money, but I was more upset with the whole situation than with the loss of the money. Not being able to converse properly in Spanish does not help of course. I felt like the proverbial ‘old woman trying to do a job’, not very successfully. On the other hand, one slip-up per job is probably not a bad track record… And I should count my blessings, as my dear mother always said (and she did exactly that, sometimes up to two hours if that is what it took to make her feel better): Mei-tal, a volunteer from Israel, fell of her bike today, hurting herself quite badly. I just had an ego fall… Not a good weekend, as Annorien said!

Hopefully some good has come out of the three weeks here in Bariloche. For me, it has been a dualistic process: work was tough, but the environment, both natural and human, more than compensated for it.

Last week, after two weeks of working and living in a hostel, I felt I needed a break so I treated myself to two nights in Villa la Angostura, a very touristic little town on the northern side of lake Nahuel Huapi. Sheer luxury to have my own room in a beautiful house, super clean, with a friendly hostess (Silvia) who made her own jams, baked healthy bread and moist cakes with dried fruit, and who had a wealth of information about all to see and do, a map and instructions readily available. I walked a lot, went on a boat trip and took pictures of houses and plots for sale – I seriously considered the option of disappearing forever, happily spending the rest of my days in a cabin in a forest next to a lake.I am really missing seeing wildlife. Birds and butterflies are all I see here. I don’t miss the mosquitos, flies and brommers, but even seeing a mouse or lizard would be great. Or a snake, on one of my many walks – but nada (nothing)! There are puma’s in the mountains, but I have not been lucky enough to see one. One does not realise how fortunate we are in Africa, to have so much wildlife. Interestingly enough, everyone I meet here who hears I am from South Africa, either comments on or questions me about wild animals. Something to appreciate even more when I am back.

Monday:

I’m in the que again. Calmness prevails, with a tinge of excitement. The familiarity of waiting for my luggage to be loaded is encouraging. As is the irritation of having to tip someone just for lifting Louise from the ground into the bowels of the bus. It meams I’m on my way, new adventures await. Whatever needed to be experienced or accomplished here, is done. The last two hours at the hostel were touching. Two volunteers, Stephi and Mei-tal, were going on a road trip for the day and gave me the warmest of farewells, hugs and affirmations. I warmed some soup for lunch before leaving the hostel and Camila, another volunteer, left her cookie making to join me, even producing some ice-cream for desert. She’s been helping me with Spanish, and I’ve been helping her with English. When she heard I was taking the colectivo (local bus) to the bus terminal, she insisted on paying for a taxi for me, shoving $200 (R50) into my bag. I was filled with warm gratitude for such caring gesture from a young girl to an ‘old’ lady. How kind and sweet! And then Martin, Marina and Martin’s son, Ezekiel, came to say goodbye to me at the bus terminal, as they couldn’t make it to the hostel in time. I will remember them all with great fondness.

Goodbye Bariloche!

Happy New Year to all of you! May 2020 be one of those remarkable years for all, may the joys be many and the sorrows few, and may you all be blessed with an abundance of love.

I reluctantly came back from Peru, a dramatic country with contrasting landscapes and lively people, to a hot and steamy Córdoba. I had stupidly booked a flight back with a stop-over in Santiago (Chile), and even more stupidly at 20:20, so a flight of 4hrs took me 11hrs, in the dark, with no views. In my defence, LATAM had advertised the time as 08:20pm, and I obviously hadn’t see the ‘pm’…Travelling down south from Córdoba the landscape seemed so ‘ordinary’, as in ‘familiar’. After the starkness of the desert and the lushness of the jungle, worked fields of various kind of crops reminded me of food production and fuctionality. Fields and farms to the left, mountains to the right. Slowly the landscape changed as we left the fertile valley,  and suddenly it was like my beloved Karoo, koppies and all, even poplar-lined farmhouses.

We had this one crazy police stop, where quite a few youngsters were asked to step out of the bus and line up with their bags. A police dog then sniffed at all of the bags and yanked one out. The poor guy had to stand in public view while the police unpacked his whole bag, just to reveal nothing. I have no idea what thát was about. After a night bus I spent the following day in Neuquen, the ‘capital’ of Patagonia (I was told). An impressive city, after so many miles of nothingness. It is in a river valley where mostly apples are grown, and seems to be expanding rapidly, judging by the malls and high-rise blocks of apartments going up.I was intrigued by this following sculpture, a homage to whoever built the railway line (that is no longer functional):The following day I was on my way to San Carlos de Bariloche, or Bariloche, as it is popularly known, with a very friendly and talkative Spanish lady (and grandmother) next to me in the bus. She had me practicing my Spanish for quite a few hours. We exchanged phone numbers and have been in contact since. Inis – she lives in Playas Doradas on the East coast and I might visit her there (see the strain of speaking Spanish on my face.Bariloche, a little Switserland in the northwest of Patagonia, and gateway to the south. The most beautiful lakes, forests and mountains, with zilions of trails, overnight camping spots, cycling, horseriding, sailing, kayaking, paragliding and many more activities.  I was persistant in the finding of volunteer work here, and was accepted at Hostel Punto Sur, right in the heart of town, with friendly and supportive owners, Martin and Marina. The work is scheduled in 8hr shifts for 4 days, and then 3 days off, which gives me time to explore towns close by, or do one of the overnight stays in a cabin in the mountains. In winter the mountains are snow-covered and skiing is a great attraction. According to Marina, the Argentinias come here in winter mostly to see and enjoy the snow. The Europeans are the ones who come to ski.  I’ve climbed several hills with great views of the lake, Lago Hauma Haupi, and wildflowers along the way, much to my delight.

Martin and Marina presented us with an asado (braai/barbeque) on Christmas eve. Two kinds of sausages and three kinds of beef, with lettuce and tomato salad and bread. Martin had made a delicious chimichurri that we draped over the meat and bread. Here’s a recipe I found on the internet, but according to Martin, common vinegar and sunflower oil work best:

INGREDIENTS

So, after that horrific road trip, I had a relaxing few days in Atalaya. Jennifer’s response to my blog was perfect and much appreciated:

Hi Meryl, I read your post is very interesting. When I’m read I smile because I remenber when I said you that this road is dangerous and you said me very happy “is not problem”
But is important that you doing this travel, because now you know the really kind of life that have diferents persons in this country, and the reason that some persons never go to other places, (it’s espensive, dangerous or other). All the time is imposible to have a good or confort travels, but this experience you never forget and pls never repeat.

As you saw in the previous blog, the motor-taxis in Atalaya are different than in Quillabamba, because the roads are worse and people use them to transport their goods. They have a carrier at the back, and charge a standard rate of 1 sol (R4,50). You don’t ask, you just pay.I walked around town, ate at local restaurants for 5 soles, visited a few places out of town and spent a lot of time sleeping and relaxing, especially as it rained for a certain part of the day every day. Nobody speaks English at all, which was good for practicing my Spanish.The above photo was taken at Sapani, a resort that normally has crystal clear pools, but was flooded after the rains.The motor taxi I took out there had to cross streams like this twice. I had to move to the corner if the back seat, to put some weight on the back wheel for better grip. We made it through both times. My proud driver:Some houses in the forest:The houses are all built of wood, in a specific style, and on my trip through the jungle I saw signs of deforestation, especially high up on the flat part if the mountains.I saw the full moon rise on my first night in Atalaya, over the Tambo river, which joins the Urubamba (the same one that passes Machu Picchu and Quillabamba), becoming a torrent of water of which I took a picture from the plane when flying back to Lima (the window of the plane was extremely dirty or perished or something, all my photo’s were flops).I badly wanted to see the Urubamba at Atalaya (on the photo it is the stream furthest left), so decided to take a boat. After much asking around, I finally found the place from which to depart, but we went to the opposite bank of the Tambo, from which I had to take a motor taxi overland to a little village on the banks of the Urubamba.At least I saw it, full of wood, plants and debris after two weeks of rain in the area, I was told. I loved walking through the little town, saw some youngsters playing soccer in a mud field on the square (more falling around in the mud than kicking the ball) and going for a swim in the river after their game. An older man was selling chickens that he was carrying around in heavy wooden crates, calling out as he was walking down the street. He stopped every now and then, wiping sweat from his brow, but would scuttle away when a potential buyer would beckon him.The night before I left a friend asked me what my general impression of Peru was. I had returned to Lima and wrote the following:

“Good question. Here in Lima (especially Miraflores, which is a modern, perfect and expensive suburb), the contrast between the rest of the country and here is starkly evident. However, as I flew in from Atalaya, I saw the size and poor section of Lima too. About 10m people live here, one third of the population.

My sense of Peru is that the rural towns and people are isolated. Distances are mucho and transport is difficult, and so their traditions and culture live on, especially food, dances, festivals and the traditional textile industry. One ‘modern’ thing that is noticeably present, is cell phones – and like everywhere else, people are addicted to them.

The people are friendly, sincere and not at all touristy, except in Cusco and Lima. They do not bother you and don’t charge more for taxis or at the food stalls, just because you are a ‘tourist’. Everyone seems to be accepted, confident and happy, and as a traveller I was accepted and welcomed as a person wherever I went. There is tolerance for most things, accept for pedestrians. Cars take preference, and beware if you dare try and cross the road in front of one, the hooter will blast you back on the sidewalk!

Interestingly enough, courtesy for them in restaurants means not to bother you at all. The menu is brought, order taken and delivered, and that’s it. If you need anything else, you ask, and when you’re done, you ask for the bill – la cuenta por favor.

Unfortunately there does not seem to be an environmental consciousness as yet. People throw things out of car windows and in the street, do not recycle and distribute plastic bags for everything you buy. Plastic straws are still used. I saw a video clip this morning of waves full of plastic bottles on a beach south of Lima, horrific. They come down rivers after rain and pollute the sea. It was mentioned that the government is trying to pass legislation to diminish the use of plastic. There is hope!”

Muchas gracias Peru, it was a memorable experience!

It’s a dangerous route. That’s what Jennifer said, but I assuredly replied ‘no problema’. Which was wrong anyway, it is ‘no hay problema’. Had I but known what was to come…

I left Quillabamba at 10am on Monday morning in a Toyota 4×4 twin cab, the only vehicle able to travel on those roads. This I only realised later. Toyota hit a real bargain there, I only saw one Nissan. I’m not one for detail, but by some stroke of luck I noticed the Nissan sign on the 2nd vehicle that I had to take that day. More of this later.

I soon realised we had a cowboy driver and as I usually do in these kind of situations, I sit back, relax and leave it up to God to get me safely to wherever I need to be. He must have placed at least four gaurdian angels around the bakkie (truck) that day to assure a safe passage.

The road was as scary as the one to Santa Theresa on our way to Machu Picchu. Narrow tracks high above the Urubamba river, no protection and sheer drops. Graders were removing landslide rocks and mud, big trucks would block our way and similar bakkies would regularly come from the front. No-one was passing us, but we were passing many, racing along at breakneck speed.

I had just finished taking a video of the road when we rounded a blind curve and a bakkie was coming directly at us. Our driver swerved to the right (right side of the road driving here), which was the edge, and brakes screeching we halted with one wheel over the edge and the left back wheel in the air. (I was sitting behind the driver, so was furthest from the precipice, ha-ha). No time for fear, strange as it may seem, just a sense of “are we really going to go over te edge? And how will that be?”. No-one said a word, we just all scrambled out of the bakkie as fast as we could, kind of waiting to see if it would fall. It didn’t, and the men got onto the running board on the side to get the wheel down, and the driver reversed to safe ground. I touched his arm and said ‘muy bien’ (very good), but his only reaction was vamos (let’s go). I did notice him heaving a huge sigh, though.

A few hours later a second incident occurred. I had noticed that the driver had slowed down considerably and was feeling relieved, when I heard screeching brakes (again, as Forest Gump would say) as we rounded a curve, and for the second time we headed for the edge. He had fallen asleep and was just going straight ahead. This time I leant forward and said ‘fokit’ (excuse the verb) and everybody looked at me as if though I were mad. I live to tell the story, so yes, the gaurdian angels were working overtime. We were halted by a pile of dead grass and branches on the side of the road, and again we scrambled out. Well, at least I did, the rest were giving each other quizzical looks. I stayed out of the bakkie until they had pushed it back on the road. I was not much help, and by then I felt like walking…

We arrived at Pichari at 7pm, where I had intended to spend the night, but when one of the other passengers (a man and his 2 sons were travelling with us) heard I was going to Atalaya, he suggested I go with them to Ene (which was an hour away), and further on to Atalaya the next day. I duly decided that it would make the journey shorter the following day, so I joined them in thé Nissan (I referred to earlier, which I noticed). It was a really nice driver, Ronnie, and he safely got me to Ene. I had obviously not understood everything, as the father and sons got off before Ene. So I was expecting them to arrive at Ene at 6am the following morning, in time for us all to go with Ronnie to Atalaya. With this in mind, I assured Ronnie that my moleta (suitcase, Louise) could stay on the bakkie, and I booked into the most miserable hostel ever, with a shower and toilet that were extremely unhygienic. The room had no window, but there were openings at the ceiling and hardboard walls, which made it completely un-soundproof. A TV was blaring until about 12pm, the cocks started crowing at 3am, and a radio or TV was turned on at 3:30am. Thus not much sleep. I killed a few cockroaches when I dressed at 5am (in the same clothes I had worn the previous day, as I had left Louise on the bakkie). One had even gotten into my vanity bag, in spite of it being on a chair.

I set out to explore the very tiny village before going to the terminal (taxi rank) to find Ronnie.

I waited at the terminal for a while, hoping that I was at the right place. No sign of Ronnie or the other three. Eventually I spotted the Nissan amongst about 15 other Toyota bakkies, and Ronnie asleep on the driver’s seat. Thank goodness for the Nissan, I would not have found him if not for that. Louise was happily dozing on the back seat, and I thought all was well, until Ronnie managed to persuade me that I was not travelling with him, but had to take another bakkie. When I fetched Louise from the backseat of his bakkie, he was most surprised – he had not known it was mine, and would have taken it back to Pichari. Again the gaurdian angels, seeing to it that he was also at the terminal at 6am (in a Nissan)!

This time we had an excellent driver who managed to avoid any incidents. He seemed to be involved with everyone along the way, stopping whenever someone was in trouble. I was sitting in front in the middle, on top of gears and the handbrake with the woman next to me spreading out even more when she fell asleep, really leaning onto me. Every now and then I would shove her hard, and she would slightly adjust her position. In spite of this, I enjoyed most of the trip. Kaby (driver) decided I could speak Spanish after a few broken sentences on my part, so we conversed in a manner, mostly monologues from his side. The road was bad, and we were averaging 20km/hr, which made the hours stretch before me like far-spaced stepping stones.

We stopped for breakfast at a place along the road, and I saw the men going towards the forest to relieve themselves. When I asked about el baño (bathroom) I was pointed in the direction of a pathway in the forest, to discover a sheet of plastic hanging between the trees, behind which was a pit ‘toilet’.

We came accross an accident where two bakkies had collided, but fortunately no one was hurt.

The guy in the previous photo with the rolled up T-shirt is Kaby. I point this out because it seems to be the habit here for men to roll up their T-shirts like that, quite peculiar.

We had to cross a river on a barge, which reminded me of Malgas. It’s such a short stretch, but a woman was offering things for sale. She lives on the other side, and she and her child jump on for each crossing. We had lunch there, and this time the toilet was just behind any shrub.

Along the way I looked at my ticket, only to discover that it was nót for Atalaya, but Satipo. On arrival there at 14h00 I was told that it was another 7hrs to Atalaya. I had started arguing about the price, because I was under the impression it was 1 or 2 hours, when I was thus informed. I was dismayed, but after a coffee and egg sandwich accross the road, I was ready to leave at 15h00. It took the driver another hour to get everything loaded at various places in town, and by the time we left, there were 5 of us inside the bakkie, and 5 more on the back, plus the luggage, spare parts, vegetables and heaven knows what else, completely overloaded.

The distance to Atalya is 222km, and we covered the first 70km in 45min on a beautiful new and broad tar road. We took 9hrs to do the rest!! The road was horrendous to say the least, very often just a 4×4 track with holes, stones, mud, water and trees accross the road. It felt like an African safari trip in the jungle – I suppose it wás a jungle trip, except it was South America, and that makes it even more exotic. I realise that now that I have recovered, but ooh boy, was I zonked!

The driver was obviously exhausted too, and sometimes stopped to wash his face or just walk around for a bit. One such time I managed to walk away from the vehicle and the blaring music that all the drivers play continuously, to listen to the sounds of the jungle – indescribably beautiful! I wished I could be sitting next to a campfire somewhere, listening to night sounds rather than having to travel any further.

We arrived in Atalaya at 02h00, after having started at 06h00 – 20hrs of shaking and bumping around. I did not have a booking because I had not had WiFi the previous night. I gathered up my belongings and Louise and I continued our journey down a paved road, which soon became a dirt road, and I had to carry her. By then I was operating on adrenaline so managed quite well.

This was the hill we went down with, and then along the street with dogs barking and Louise with a high pitched squeal in one of her wheels. (By the way, the plastic on the front of the motor taxi, as they are called, is to protect the driver from rain.)

Was I happy to see this hotel sign! I booked in, for the first time in a hotel, without asking the price, just happy to be alive and keen to have a clean room with private bathroom. Unfortunately no hot water, but Atalaya is very hot and humid, so no hay problema. As it turned out, the gaurdian angels had one last task, and that was to ensure that it was a very cheap, but spotless, hotel, only 35 soles p/n (R160), as I discovered the next morning.

Needless to say, I am flying to Lima tomorrow, no more bad roads in the jungle for me.

The place that has been me casa for the past month. A place that is always filled with music, people and creative noise, being a centre for art related activities such as ballet, piano and guitar lessons, painting and crafting, and cooking lessons. The classes are mostly for children, but include some adults too. Anyone and everyone is welcome. I have written about the inspirational work done by Darsy and Jennifer, but would like to add some pictures here.

The dress in the last picture was made for friend’s little girl, Andrea, for a festival event. It is entirely made of magazine pages that Jennifer and her friend patiently folded night after night.

The volunteers join the family for lunch every day, and Darsy is an excellent chef. Quillabamba celebrated its 101th year of existence on the 29th November and the whole weekend was filled with celebratory events such as parades marches, bands playing and many food and artisan stalls. We had a special lunch as well, pollo el horno (fried chicken cooked in a wood stove). Somebody once asked Darsy for the recipe, and he said that the secret was playing Peruvian music to the chicken for 2hrs before cooking it. It works!

The month passed in the blink of an eye, and I am left with incredible memories of sharing, laughing, exploring, working, enjoying and so much more. I even had therapy sessions with two boys and did two constellations, deriving much satisfaction from being able to contribute in a different way. Quillabamba, a town previously completely unknown to me, has come alive and become part of my life experience thanks to Darsy, Jennifer and their three children Derjath, Jesse and Jareth. Derjath taught us to samba, and when I go back to Lima, I will be more knowledgeable when I join the dancers in Miraflores!

The two other volunteers, Jay (French) and Gabriela (Brazilian).

Machu Picchu or not? A question that had not even crossed my mind until I arrived in Lima a month ago.  Out of the blue, as I was walking through a park, it occurred to me that nót going to Machu Picchu was actually an option. Various reasons led to this, the main one being that many Peruvians have not been there, either because they cannot afford the trip, or because it just has not been on their agenda. And I am in Peru to interact with people, to gain an understanding of them and their culture, and if visiting Machu Picchu is not thát important to them, why should it be to me? This conclusion was strengthened by the maddening hype in Cusco of tourists, tour operators and -guides, all focussed on Machu Picchu.  I happily avoided (or ignored if not possible to avoid) them all, focussing on markets, buildings and my upcoming trip to Quillabamba, quite impressed with myself and my decision. I have to admit that I was not feeling well as result of a stomach infection (don’t drink ANY unbottled water in Peru, not even from a waterfall far removed from towns) and slight altitude sickness, so contemplating a trek up a mountain to view 500 year old ruins was not the most appealing idea.

On my arrival at Quillabamba, a volunteer at QuillArt (the art institute where I’m doing volunteer work) told me of her trip to Machu Picchu from here, the local way. Jennifer, my host, enthusiastically joined the conversation, extolling the incredible beauty of Machu Picchu and expertise of the Inca’s. I was persuaded, and promptly bought my online ticket, which cost $65. I later discovered that the tickets on the government website, http://www.machupicchu.gob.pe, were $20 cheaper, ugh! Only 2500 people are allowed to enter per day, and only 400 may climb Huayna Picchu, the peak that forms the backdrop to the citadel. I read that UNESCO is considering declaring Machu Picchu an endangered World Heritage site because of the many tourists and to prevent mismanagement.  In the late 1990’s the Peruvian government approved the building of a cable car and 5-star hotel, including a tourist centre with boutiques and restaurants, which was fortunately stopped as a result of protests against it. In 2018 negotiations were re-opened for the building of a cable car to encourage Peruvians to visit the site.

Too much effort to write it all in my own words, so here is some information I found on MAPS.ME:  “Machu Picchu was constructed as an estate for the Inca emperor Pachacuti (1438–1472). Often mistakenly referred to as the “Lost City of the Incas”, it is the most familiar icon of Inca civilization. The Incas built the estate around 1450 but abandoned it a century later at the time of the Spanish conquest. Although known locally, it was not known to the Spanish during the colonial period and remained unknown to the outside world until American historian Hiram Bingham brought it to international attention in 1911“.

Okay, info done, so last Saturday another volunteer here (Gabriela), Derjarth (Jennifer’s 17yr old son) and I started out from Quillabamba in a minivan filled with a lot of locals. Derjarth had never been to Machu Picchu, but had been to Santa Theresa, our first stop (49km), and had warned us about the precarious road along the mountain tops, with sheer unprotected drops down to the river below. Suffice it to say that had I had a fear of heights, I would have preferred to walk…

At Santa Theresa we had to take another taxi to Hydroelectrica (10km), where the road stops. The only way to get to Machupicchu Pueblo, or Aguas Caliente as it is also called, is by train or walking the 11km. We opted for the second – a fairly easy walk along the railway-line and Urubamba river through a green and lush canyon.  We were in high spirits, the weather was perfect, cloud cover but no rain, and we could see Huayna Picchu, even spotting some people and buildings at the top.
We arrived in Machupicchu Pueblo at about 2pm, only to discover that we had about another million steps to climb to our very quaint, clean and cheap hostel.


Machupicchu Pueblo is 2km from the starting point of the climb up to Machu Picchu.  Everybody, apart from the people doing the Inca Trek or similar hiking trips, passes through there, staying at least one night.  It is the most touristic town in Peru, of that I am sure, and every house offers accommodation. Restaurants, souvenir and artisan shops, all other kinds of shops, markets and coffee shops abound.  The train and a river run through the middle of town, with bridges connecting the two sides. I was wondering about the buses that are available to transport people to and from the main gate at the top of the mountain, as there are no roads leading into the town. Evidently they were brought in by train, and are not allowed into town further than where the railway-line crosses the road.


The hostel was willing to serve us breakfast at 4am, a hearty meal of bread, butter, jam, eggs and coffee, to which I added a cup of strong coca tea for that energy boost I knew I was going to need. We started out on the first 2km trek at 4:15am, in darkness and pouring rain, not talking much. People were passing us at full speed all the time, and I wanted to tell them it was not a race, but thought better of it and kept my thoughts to myself. We were stopped at the bottom gate, where for some reason or other they had to check our passports and tickets. We waited in the queue for about 20 min before they opened the office, which meant that we got to the top after 6am, the time that the gates open. By then busloads of people had been dropped, but it was still okay.


The path is paved with rock steps and goes straight up, wheras the buses take the zig-zag road. As dawn started breaking the rain eased up a bit and the view became more and more breathtaking.


By the time we reached the top, I was soaked, a mixture of rain and sweat, but the view made it all worthwhile. I will let the pictures speak for themselves.


Machu Picchu has a perfect location in a big bend in the Urubamba river with sheer cliffs forming protection on 3 sides. The remaining side had only two entrances, one the Inca trail and the other the Inca bridge, which is a kilometer or so to the west of the ruins. One is not allowed to walk onto the bridge (thank goodness, as you can see from the photo), but how the Inca’s managed, heaven knows.I have the greatest admiration for the Inca’s and what they managed to accomplish so many years ago. It is sad that they only occupied the citadel for about 80 years, but a good thing it was not discovered by the Spanish, else it might have been destroyed as many other buildings were. It was slightly discomforting to have to walk along designated one-way pathways, even having signs saying: ‘don’t stop, keep on moving’.  Made one feel a bit ‘sheepish’ and pressurised.

For me, ultimately, it was an unforgetable and exalting nature experience, one that literally made me feel on top of the world.

I’m blessed, that’s for sure. By the moon this time, again!! I don’t plan these things, they just work out this way. There are many planned viewings of the full moon rising, but the unexpected ones are the blessings. Times that I can remember:

• Unexpected full moon rising over Karoo koppies on our way to the farm, huge and very close over the vast expanse of Karoo vlaktes, reminding me of the greatness of the Creation.
• Ngorogoro crater in Tanzania, going out of our hotel in the freezing cold to look at the moon, to discover a full moon rising over the tip of the crater with a telescope placed readily at hand. We had not planned to be in the crater for full moon, it just happened.
• Stepping out from my hostel into a completely crazy, filthy, overcrowded street in Yangon, Myanmar, not knowing where to go or what to do, seeing the full moon rise to my right, and just walking in that direction, merging with the crowds. Discovering the most wonderful local food made in huge pots on the sidewalk, talking to interesting people, and generally feeling alive and well.
• Humahuaca, about which I wrote in a previous blog. Having the full moon rise unexpectantly from behind the Andes mountains after a taxing day, stopping me in my tracks on the dirt road close to where I was staying (on the wrong side of the river).
• And here in Quillabamba, Peru, where I had arrived for my next volunteer job. I always feel strange and isolated on arrival, take time to adjust and relax. My teeny little room (without a window) is on the 2nd floor, off a deck that overlooks the tree covered mountains. I had gone in search of a grocery store and was going to my room when I noticed the light of the rising moon behind the mountain. And it dawned on me: full moon!!! Blessings blessings blessings. I sat on the deck for an hour with a cup of coffee, chatting to a friend on WApp and allowing myself to just be me, without the pressure of self-inflicted expectations. It felt good. The next day I was told Quillabamba means ‘Valley of the Moon’…

Getting to Quillabamba from Cuso meant traversing a 4000m mountain with a bus, which sometimes took the hairpin-bends at 40 -50km/h. I was unperturbed, going from side to side to catch the best view from the windows, often having to grasp at the armrest of the seats to prevent myself from being flung down the isle. The rest of the passengers were all sleeping!Going upAt the top, black soil turned up in the lands.Altogether different landscape on the other side, lush and green. Quillabamba is on the edge of the Amesone forest.The river is called the Urubamba, and runs through the Sacred Valley which is at the foot of Machu Picchu. Quillabamba is 2hrs north of Machu Picchu, and can be seen in the far distance of the above photo.My Workaway volunteer work for this month is with Jennifer, her husband Darsey, and three children. They run an art institute which they started 3 years ago, and offer guitar and piano lessons, ballet, drama, cooking and art for small children and adolescents. Evidently Jennifer arrived here with nothing but a pot for boiling rice and her rucksack, and started the business from the room she had rented and was living in, converting it to a studio during the day. Her story is inspirational, as she had to persuade reluctant fathers that art in its various forms was an important part of a child’s development. Today they have a thriving business with many children participating and they are involved in community activities and festivals.Gabriella (the other volunteer from Brazil) and I have our rooms on the 2nd floor, with a bathroom and a deck overlooking the mountains. The family occupy the 1st floor (or 3 rooms, the other 2 are classrooms), and the kitchen and 3 more classrooms are on the ground floor. Free board and one meal is provided, work is from 4 – 8pm on week days and the rest is free time to relax and explore. The family are all keen on the interchange of cultures, cooking and language and to have us take part in their activities. They have opened their home with warm hearts and are really want us to see as much of the area as possible. Jennifer speaks English, and I’m working hard at my Spanish to be able to communicate with the rest of the family. Apart from helping with the little ones, I am teaching English to her daughter and some friends, amidst much fun and laughter.One of the good things about living with a local family is that one is able to do things in a non-tourist way. A trip to one of the many beautiful waterfalls in the area is done with a group who was started by an enthusiastic nature lover, and who go on excursions every weekend. The price is 20 soles instead of the 100 or 200 soles that tour guides would have asked. Dogs and children are part of the group, and we all got thoroughly soaked in a proper jungle downpour on the way back.We had parked at a ‘lodge’ and trout farm, so before we started our trek up the mountain to the waterfall, we watched lunch being caught in one of the ponds. A scrumptious meal of trout, chips, salad, sweet potato and duca awaited us on our return, undercover and dry.There are two clear blue swimming pools close by to where we stay, much to my delight in this sweltering humidity. It rains every night, seldom during the day, and often thunderstorms. Life in this undiscovered gem of a town is slow-paced, local and lekker. Zillions of the cutest little 3-wheeled taxi’s abound, riding up and down the streets all day long, with a flat rate of 1 and a half soles. I’m going to pack one in Louise to take home, I love them!One of the girls that attend the English classes invited us to her school a few days ago, as they were having an exhibit of different kinds of traditional foods. It was supposed to start at 10am, but by 12 noon the judges were still walking around (evidently not uncommon according to Peruvian standards) and we decided to go for a swim instead of waiting to buy or taste the food. It all looked delicious, excepting for the guinea pig.There are two guinea pigs running around in our backyard, but Darsey has assured me that they are pets, not to be eaten, thank goodness!Yesterday Gabriella and I went to another waterfall close by, taking a small bus from the taxi rank after having stood through a fighting match between the various drivers. Quite overwhelming, but that is how it is done, according to Jennifer. We had the waterfall to ourselves for about an hour, but a group of school children from Araquipa arrived and entertained us with their splashing and antics, just as children everywhere do. Afterwards we just stood next to the road and hitched a ride back to town for 5 soles, the going rate.