I've shifted my blog to
http://www.journeylatinamerica.co.uk/papagaio/blog/papagaio.aspx
..so this will be the last one that appears here
Monday 2 August 2010
Monday 15 February 2010
Climbing Cotopaxi
A few days ago, we had a letter from some clients for whom we’d arranged a trip in Ecuador. Part of their trip was to spend a number of days in and around Quito, doing a number of treks (which become gradually more challenging), culminating in an ascent of Cotopaxi – at 5897m not Ecuador’s highest volcano, nor even its closest to the equatorial line, but unquestionably the most beautifully formed. A perfect cone, permanently snowcapped, and still active. A volcano’s volcano.
These clients had written to say that they felt we hadn’t adequately prepared them for the climb. And they would have liked to have spoken to someone who’d actually done it. For whatever reason, they didn’t get to speak to me. Even if I’m not in the office, I’m usually no more than a phone call away, and even when I’m in South America, email and skype make distances disappear. I’m sorry we got it wrong – especially since I could definitely have given them some insights.
Plenty of ordinary people have climbed Cotopaxi, people who don’t strike you as being mountaineers or super-fit. However, if you’re going to go out from UK and climb it as part of a two- week trip, you need to be prepared.
Determined (goes without saying really), fit (ditto), and prepared.
Prepared is partly to do with kit, and partly to do with the person. All the people I know who’ve done it either live in Ecuador, or have lived for some months at altitude. Quito is some 2800m above sea level. That’s twice as high as Ben Nevis – but only half as high as Cotopaxi.
Acclimatisation is crucial, the longer the better. You need not only to get your body used to the lack of oxygen in the air, but also to doing, at altitude, an activity which you might not usually classify as strenuous. In the UK, I can cycle along quite happily on the flat for a couple of hours or more at 18mph. When I tried it at 2800m altitude (still on the flat, in northern Chile) I averaged 12mph.
Normally, when we sell a client a trip which involves Cotopaxi, we include several days’ hiking, which gets progressively more challenging, in the lead up to the climb itself. When I did it myself, I had 3 days in Quito just walking about at a trade show, and then went straight into it. Big mistake.
Firstly, I didn’t really have the right equipment. My winter cycling gloves weren’t good enough; my windproof “Buffalo” undershirt was fine as a base layer, but the semi-waterproof anorak I had was woefully inadequate. I should have had a heavy duty, breathable, padded warm mountain jacket. My socks were fine for my Zamberlan trekking boots, but nowhere near enough for the sort of temperatures I’d encounter at night, at 5,500 metres, in a howling wind. I had a head torch with me, but the batteries were clearly the ones in the ad where the bunny stopped drumming first. So were the replacements. They don’t like cold either, and it was definitely cold. I had a silk balaclava and an alpaca wool hat. At least my head and ears were warm.
On the big day, we drove to the Cotopaxi National park and had a decent meal at the restaurant at the entrance. I didn’t realise at this point that I should have been loading up on both protein and slow-release carbohydrate as well as fluid, or I’d have eaten and drunk more.
We continued on by car to the car park at 4500m, and arrived at about 2pm. Here I donned the heavy duty mountain boots I’d been provided with, and the proper mountain jacket I’d persuaded them to lend me. It took me and my guide about an hour, with a full pack on my back, to trudge up the ash and cinder track to the Refuge hut at 4800m. (My guide, incidentally, was excellent in all respects.) I managed this fairly easily, and was encouraged to think I’d managed 1000ft without exhausting myself, and knowing that from now on I’d only have to carry a small day-pack with my crampons and water.
After a snack in the cafeteria in the Refuge, we followed the contours round to an ice-field, where I was to have instruction in how to put the crampons on, and how to use the ice-pick. The ice-pick, whilst useful when scaling steep bits, is most important in stopping a slide. There are very few places on the climb where you might “fall off” – there’s no rock climbing; but just sliding down the slope if you miss your footing is a possibility, and you need to know how to halt the slide as quickly as possible.
I also learned how to fit the crampons and do up the straps. Well, how difficult can that be?
Back to the Refuge for an evening meal. This proved to be a fairly meagre affair. A bit of rice and a well-cooked chicken wing, followed by a dish of blancmange. I could have (should have) supplemented it with a few small packets of biscuits. So, a few hours away from the most challenging physical exertion in my life, I didn’t eat enough. Fuel starvation.
The idea is that because the ice and snow are at their most stable at night and in the morning, you climb at night (helps keep you warm too) and descend in the morning, arriving back at lunchtime or before.
The downside of this of course is that you’re doing an energy-sapping climb at a time when your body is expecting to be asleep. And unless you usually go to bed at 8pm, you’re trying to sleep at a time when you’re usually awake.
The Refuge itself is a two-storey wooden building; downstairs is the kitchen and Youth-hostel type cafeteria; upstairs there are metal bunks to accommodate, I’d guess, about 50 people. Bring your own sleeping bag – three seasons’ warmth at least. There were about a dozen of us on the “night” I was there. Wooden floor, and, as I remember, no heating. The toilet block is outside, about 30 metres from the back door.
What happens is that every half hour or so, someone gets up to go to the toilet. The bunks creak; heavy mountain boots clump over the wooden floor, clump down the wooden stairs – and clump back a few minutes later. Ear plugs might have helped me get more than a few minutes’ snatched sleep.
Set off at 12.30am. I’d guess that the incline is about 450 - but the snow-dusted zig-zag cinder path that starts just behind the toilet block reduces the steepness to manageable. Trudge up carrying small daypack with drinks, snack bars, aspirin (headaches common) and after about an hour, maybe more, reach the permanent snow-line – I’d guess at about 4950m [In 2010 I’m told the permanent snow line is at 5050m].
This is where you put on your crampons. This took me about 20 minutes, or so it seemed. This is the point where the realisation began to dawn that I wasn’t firing on all cylinders - even allowing for the fact that, gloves off, my fingers quickly got so cold that I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t work out how to thread the straps through the buckles, or where they went next. I finally managed it as the replacement set of batteries for the head-torch gave up the ghost.
Onward and upward. At least I’d had a rest. There’s a fairly well defined path, and I could see the headlamps of the other 10 climbers ahead or behind of me – mostly ahead. The climbing’s steeper now, picking my way up over ice falls or through snow gullies. After another hour of fairly steady going, my guide encouraging me - “we’re making good time; you can do this” - we’d reached 5050m, (the guide’s estimation – nobody had a GPS or altimeter) and my brain was agile enough to calculate that I had another 850m of altitude to go. The gradient apparently gets gentler towards the top (I never found out) but that was still 8 hours’ climbing. Each step was a fraction more difficult than the last, and was not helped by the nagging doubt I’d had for an hour about being fully in control of my limbs and senses.
This was the moment when I knew I wasn’t going to make it. My guide suggested I take more frequent rests, have something to eat and drink, and that this was often the point where successful climbers become most dispirited. But I knew I wouldn’t make it. I might manage another 200 or even 400m, but I wouldn’t make it. I turned back, my guide with me.
I was the first to do so. Of the 11 that started (excluding guides) 6 turned back, and 5 made it. I can make excuses: I was twice the age of any of the others; I hadn’t slept; I hadn’t eaten enough; I wasn’t acclimatised; I needed better gloves and better batteries.
The truth is, I thought I could get through with just being fit and determined; and I couldn’t.
It was just too difficult.
Epilogue: I did this in October 2003, when I was 57. I’ve met a good few people who’re older than me who’ve done it, and climbed Chimborazo (6307m) too.
If I were to try it again, I’d make I was properly acclimatised. I’d take two head-torches – fiddling around changing batteries at sea level in daylight is bad enough. I’ll leave you to imagine what it’s like up there, in the dark.
And I’d make sure I’d read all the nutrition information that’s now available. What to eat beforehand, during, and in the recovery period on an undertaking like this. There are companies that specialise in these sorts of food supplements, but they’re probably not available in Ecuador.
Would I try again? I might – even though I failed, it was challenging and exhilarating.
And I think I could do it.
These clients had written to say that they felt we hadn’t adequately prepared them for the climb. And they would have liked to have spoken to someone who’d actually done it. For whatever reason, they didn’t get to speak to me. Even if I’m not in the office, I’m usually no more than a phone call away, and even when I’m in South America, email and skype make distances disappear. I’m sorry we got it wrong – especially since I could definitely have given them some insights.
Plenty of ordinary people have climbed Cotopaxi, people who don’t strike you as being mountaineers or super-fit. However, if you’re going to go out from UK and climb it as part of a two- week trip, you need to be prepared.
Determined (goes without saying really), fit (ditto), and prepared.
Prepared is partly to do with kit, and partly to do with the person. All the people I know who’ve done it either live in Ecuador, or have lived for some months at altitude. Quito is some 2800m above sea level. That’s twice as high as Ben Nevis – but only half as high as Cotopaxi.
Acclimatisation is crucial, the longer the better. You need not only to get your body used to the lack of oxygen in the air, but also to doing, at altitude, an activity which you might not usually classify as strenuous. In the UK, I can cycle along quite happily on the flat for a couple of hours or more at 18mph. When I tried it at 2800m altitude (still on the flat, in northern Chile) I averaged 12mph.
Normally, when we sell a client a trip which involves Cotopaxi, we include several days’ hiking, which gets progressively more challenging, in the lead up to the climb itself. When I did it myself, I had 3 days in Quito just walking about at a trade show, and then went straight into it. Big mistake.
Firstly, I didn’t really have the right equipment. My winter cycling gloves weren’t good enough; my windproof “Buffalo” undershirt was fine as a base layer, but the semi-waterproof anorak I had was woefully inadequate. I should have had a heavy duty, breathable, padded warm mountain jacket. My socks were fine for my Zamberlan trekking boots, but nowhere near enough for the sort of temperatures I’d encounter at night, at 5,500 metres, in a howling wind. I had a head torch with me, but the batteries were clearly the ones in the ad where the bunny stopped drumming first. So were the replacements. They don’t like cold either, and it was definitely cold. I had a silk balaclava and an alpaca wool hat. At least my head and ears were warm.
On the big day, we drove to the Cotopaxi National park and had a decent meal at the restaurant at the entrance. I didn’t realise at this point that I should have been loading up on both protein and slow-release carbohydrate as well as fluid, or I’d have eaten and drunk more.
We continued on by car to the car park at 4500m, and arrived at about 2pm. Here I donned the heavy duty mountain boots I’d been provided with, and the proper mountain jacket I’d persuaded them to lend me. It took me and my guide about an hour, with a full pack on my back, to trudge up the ash and cinder track to the Refuge hut at 4800m. (My guide, incidentally, was excellent in all respects.) I managed this fairly easily, and was encouraged to think I’d managed 1000ft without exhausting myself, and knowing that from now on I’d only have to carry a small day-pack with my crampons and water.
After a snack in the cafeteria in the Refuge, we followed the contours round to an ice-field, where I was to have instruction in how to put the crampons on, and how to use the ice-pick. The ice-pick, whilst useful when scaling steep bits, is most important in stopping a slide. There are very few places on the climb where you might “fall off” – there’s no rock climbing; but just sliding down the slope if you miss your footing is a possibility, and you need to know how to halt the slide as quickly as possible.
I also learned how to fit the crampons and do up the straps. Well, how difficult can that be?
Back to the Refuge for an evening meal. This proved to be a fairly meagre affair. A bit of rice and a well-cooked chicken wing, followed by a dish of blancmange. I could have (should have) supplemented it with a few small packets of biscuits. So, a few hours away from the most challenging physical exertion in my life, I didn’t eat enough. Fuel starvation.
The idea is that because the ice and snow are at their most stable at night and in the morning, you climb at night (helps keep you warm too) and descend in the morning, arriving back at lunchtime or before.
The downside of this of course is that you’re doing an energy-sapping climb at a time when your body is expecting to be asleep. And unless you usually go to bed at 8pm, you’re trying to sleep at a time when you’re usually awake.
The Refuge itself is a two-storey wooden building; downstairs is the kitchen and Youth-hostel type cafeteria; upstairs there are metal bunks to accommodate, I’d guess, about 50 people. Bring your own sleeping bag – three seasons’ warmth at least. There were about a dozen of us on the “night” I was there. Wooden floor, and, as I remember, no heating. The toilet block is outside, about 30 metres from the back door.
What happens is that every half hour or so, someone gets up to go to the toilet. The bunks creak; heavy mountain boots clump over the wooden floor, clump down the wooden stairs – and clump back a few minutes later. Ear plugs might have helped me get more than a few minutes’ snatched sleep.
Set off at 12.30am. I’d guess that the incline is about 450 - but the snow-dusted zig-zag cinder path that starts just behind the toilet block reduces the steepness to manageable. Trudge up carrying small daypack with drinks, snack bars, aspirin (headaches common) and after about an hour, maybe more, reach the permanent snow-line – I’d guess at about 4950m [In 2010 I’m told the permanent snow line is at 5050m].
This is where you put on your crampons. This took me about 20 minutes, or so it seemed. This is the point where the realisation began to dawn that I wasn’t firing on all cylinders - even allowing for the fact that, gloves off, my fingers quickly got so cold that I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t work out how to thread the straps through the buckles, or where they went next. I finally managed it as the replacement set of batteries for the head-torch gave up the ghost.
Onward and upward. At least I’d had a rest. There’s a fairly well defined path, and I could see the headlamps of the other 10 climbers ahead or behind of me – mostly ahead. The climbing’s steeper now, picking my way up over ice falls or through snow gullies. After another hour of fairly steady going, my guide encouraging me - “we’re making good time; you can do this” - we’d reached 5050m, (the guide’s estimation – nobody had a GPS or altimeter) and my brain was agile enough to calculate that I had another 850m of altitude to go. The gradient apparently gets gentler towards the top (I never found out) but that was still 8 hours’ climbing. Each step was a fraction more difficult than the last, and was not helped by the nagging doubt I’d had for an hour about being fully in control of my limbs and senses.
This was the moment when I knew I wasn’t going to make it. My guide suggested I take more frequent rests, have something to eat and drink, and that this was often the point where successful climbers become most dispirited. But I knew I wouldn’t make it. I might manage another 200 or even 400m, but I wouldn’t make it. I turned back, my guide with me.
I was the first to do so. Of the 11 that started (excluding guides) 6 turned back, and 5 made it. I can make excuses: I was twice the age of any of the others; I hadn’t slept; I hadn’t eaten enough; I wasn’t acclimatised; I needed better gloves and better batteries.
The truth is, I thought I could get through with just being fit and determined; and I couldn’t.
It was just too difficult.
Epilogue: I did this in October 2003, when I was 57. I’ve met a good few people who’re older than me who’ve done it, and climbed Chimborazo (6307m) too.
If I were to try it again, I’d make I was properly acclimatised. I’d take two head-torches – fiddling around changing batteries at sea level in daylight is bad enough. I’ll leave you to imagine what it’s like up there, in the dark.
And I’d make sure I’d read all the nutrition information that’s now available. What to eat beforehand, during, and in the recovery period on an undertaking like this. There are companies that specialise in these sorts of food supplements, but they’re probably not available in Ecuador.
Would I try again? I might – even though I failed, it was challenging and exhilarating.
And I think I could do it.
Tuesday 26 January 2010
Great Rivers?
I happened to catch part of a TV programme last night called Only Connect. BBC3 I think. It's a quiz show with two teams and the idea is to connect things, mostly words. Towards the end they have a part of the show where they take vowels out of words, and you have to work out the words as they should be. They help by bunching them together, so at least you have an idea which ball park you're likely to be in.
So when Great South American Rivers came up as a topic, I settled confidently back, certain of a 100% score, being, as it were, on home territory. Now I know it's meant to be a challenging programme, rather than just plumping for questions which will fox only dimwits who don't watch quizzes anyway.
I got two out of four. The rivers were Orinoco RNC, Colorado (CLRD), Maule (ML)and Aconcagua (CNCG)
What?? Great rivers?? You're 'avin' a laugh aren'tcha? Three of those "great rivers" are in Chile. As everyone knows, Chile is confined by the Andes on one side and the Pacific on the other. Long and thin. About a wide as a piece of string. All the rivers flow westward to the sea - so they're about as great as the piece of string is wide. The only thing great about them is that they rise in the Andes. That's like saying the Teign and the Dart are great rivers because they rise on Dartmoor.
A whole continent full of rivers - great rivers - and we get three Chilean becks.
In Argentina, most Welshmen would easily identify the CHBT in Patagonia (they don't bother with vowels much anyway). The PRN, PRGY, RGY are probably a bit too easy.
In Bolivia the BN's a bit more challenging, as is the PLCMY (world's longest tributary of a tributary).
Peru's CYL and MRNN take a bit of thinking about; MGDLN in Colombia is easy. Guyana "land of rivers" should surely have merited a mention for one of SSQB, BRBC or DMRR - all easy.
Now I can see why they eschewed MZN - a bit too obvious - but if they think Maule's reasonable, they why not slip in SLMS (which is what the Brazilians call the upper MZN). Brazil's brimming over - XNG, MDR, SFRNCSC, and if you want a really difficult one, the 4-syllable PQ would be the one to catch them out. Not a great river, but a lot greater than those Chilean melt-water run-offs.
And the CSQR in Venezuela, whilst not actually a river - more of a natural channel linking the basins of the Orinoco and the Negro - could hold its place as an interesting watercourse. If you don't mind the mosquitos and sand flies.
I could go on - or even suggest that the producers of Only Connect come to me if they need inspiration with a Latin American flavour. Mammals of the Mato Grosso? Suburbs of Rio?
On second thoughts, don't get me started.
So when Great South American Rivers came up as a topic, I settled confidently back, certain of a 100% score, being, as it were, on home territory. Now I know it's meant to be a challenging programme, rather than just plumping for questions which will fox only dimwits who don't watch quizzes anyway.
I got two out of four. The rivers were Orinoco RNC, Colorado (CLRD), Maule (ML)and Aconcagua (CNCG)
What?? Great rivers?? You're 'avin' a laugh aren'tcha? Three of those "great rivers" are in Chile. As everyone knows, Chile is confined by the Andes on one side and the Pacific on the other. Long and thin. About a wide as a piece of string. All the rivers flow westward to the sea - so they're about as great as the piece of string is wide. The only thing great about them is that they rise in the Andes. That's like saying the Teign and the Dart are great rivers because they rise on Dartmoor.
A whole continent full of rivers - great rivers - and we get three Chilean becks.
In Argentina, most Welshmen would easily identify the CHBT in Patagonia (they don't bother with vowels much anyway). The PRN, PRGY, RGY are probably a bit too easy.
In Bolivia the BN's a bit more challenging, as is the PLCMY (world's longest tributary of a tributary).
Peru's CYL and MRNN take a bit of thinking about; MGDLN in Colombia is easy. Guyana "land of rivers" should surely have merited a mention for one of SSQB, BRBC or DMRR - all easy.
Now I can see why they eschewed MZN - a bit too obvious - but if they think Maule's reasonable, they why not slip in SLMS (which is what the Brazilians call the upper MZN). Brazil's brimming over - XNG, MDR, SFRNCSC, and if you want a really difficult one, the 4-syllable PQ would be the one to catch them out. Not a great river, but a lot greater than those Chilean melt-water run-offs.
And the CSQR in Venezuela, whilst not actually a river - more of a natural channel linking the basins of the Orinoco and the Negro - could hold its place as an interesting watercourse. If you don't mind the mosquitos and sand flies.
I could go on - or even suggest that the producers of Only Connect come to me if they need inspiration with a Latin American flavour. Mammals of the Mato Grosso? Suburbs of Rio?
On second thoughts, don't get me started.
Monday 11 January 2010
Coq o' the Roq - Venezuela and Guyanas
I see that Venezuela, or rather Hugo Chavez, announced that adjustments (a code-word for devaluation) would be made to value of the Venezuelan bolívar against the US dollar. I guess that means other currencies too, although the President's main beef is with the USA, rather than with Europe.
The first effect this will have is that imports will be more expensive - so anything imported that Venezuelans buy will also rise in price, despite the Chavez's insistence that he'll clamp down on any businesses that try to raise their prices straight away. The devaluation simply reflects a state of affairs that has existed in Venezuela for a number of years, where on the black market you could get well above the official exchange rate
It's an unusual approach, however - a two-tiered rate. A very small exchange rate increase on goods deemed essential, and a doubling of the exchange rate for non-essentials. I can't quite see how this will work, unless it's applied simply as a variable tariff on physical imports.
The commentators in the UK press say that the grander plan is to firstly dampen imports and to boost exports, and make the value of the incoming dollars higher in the local currency. So there'll be "more" money (ie twice as many bolívares)to spend on local projects. These local projects will benefit the poorer sections of society who make up Chavez's electoral support. And the general election is due on 26 September 2010...
This two-tier currency has some affinities to Cuba. There, they have one currency for locals (Cuban peso)and one currency for foreigners (Peso Convertible). The latter can only be bought with foreign exchange - eg by tourists, all of whose transactions are generally in Convertibles. Cubans who receive these have access therefore to things (goods and services) that tourists buy. Strangely, the value of the Convertibe seems to be pegged to the US dollar, but you can't use dollars to buy pesos. Euros or sterling are fine. It also has the effect of making things more expensive for tourists.
Cuba and Venezuela do a fair amount of trade with each other. In simple terms, the most obvious sign of this is: Cuba buys oil and petrol and pays for it in medical services - doctors and surgeons.
I wonder what effect this devaluation will have on the tourism industry in Venezuela? Incoming tourism is an export - tourists bring in foreign exchange. Thus, on the face of it things will be cheaper for foreign tourists, because they'll get more bolívares for their buck. But there's a reasonable chance that Chavez's next plan will be to introduce not so much a two-tier exchange rate as a two-tier retail structure, so that anything a tourist might buy has a premium price.
Of course, he'll be faced with a small dilemma: put off foreign tourists, and they don't come with their euros and dollars. But Venezuela's huge reliance on oil exports for the last 80 years isn't likely to change. That's where they're expecting to reap their benefits. Encouraging tourism has always been low on their agenda.
The first effect this will have is that imports will be more expensive - so anything imported that Venezuelans buy will also rise in price, despite the Chavez's insistence that he'll clamp down on any businesses that try to raise their prices straight away. The devaluation simply reflects a state of affairs that has existed in Venezuela for a number of years, where on the black market you could get well above the official exchange rate
It's an unusual approach, however - a two-tiered rate. A very small exchange rate increase on goods deemed essential, and a doubling of the exchange rate for non-essentials. I can't quite see how this will work, unless it's applied simply as a variable tariff on physical imports.
The commentators in the UK press say that the grander plan is to firstly dampen imports and to boost exports, and make the value of the incoming dollars higher in the local currency. So there'll be "more" money (ie twice as many bolívares)to spend on local projects. These local projects will benefit the poorer sections of society who make up Chavez's electoral support. And the general election is due on 26 September 2010...
This two-tier currency has some affinities to Cuba. There, they have one currency for locals (Cuban peso)and one currency for foreigners (Peso Convertible). The latter can only be bought with foreign exchange - eg by tourists, all of whose transactions are generally in Convertibles. Cubans who receive these have access therefore to things (goods and services) that tourists buy. Strangely, the value of the Convertibe seems to be pegged to the US dollar, but you can't use dollars to buy pesos. Euros or sterling are fine. It also has the effect of making things more expensive for tourists.
Cuba and Venezuela do a fair amount of trade with each other. In simple terms, the most obvious sign of this is: Cuba buys oil and petrol and pays for it in medical services - doctors and surgeons.
I wonder what effect this devaluation will have on the tourism industry in Venezuela? Incoming tourism is an export - tourists bring in foreign exchange. Thus, on the face of it things will be cheaper for foreign tourists, because they'll get more bolívares for their buck. But there's a reasonable chance that Chavez's next plan will be to introduce not so much a two-tier exchange rate as a two-tier retail structure, so that anything a tourist might buy has a premium price.
Of course, he'll be faced with a small dilemma: put off foreign tourists, and they don't come with their euros and dollars. But Venezuela's huge reliance on oil exports for the last 80 years isn't likely to change. That's where they're expecting to reap their benefits. Encouraging tourism has always been low on their agenda.
Friday 8 January 2010
Bolivia – the world’s most dangerous road.
I was abroad last week when BBC’s Top Gear did its Bolivia Special. They drove three second-hand 4WDs, first hacking their way through the rainforest, then up the steep eastern side of the Andes to La Paz. Then they crossed the altiplano towards the Chilean border, before dropping down past snowcapped high altitude volcanoes to the Atacama desert and the Pacific Ocean. Great television - especially for someone who knows the area.
The so-called World’s Most Dangerous Road is the bit where the all-weather road climbs out of the sweltering forest to the foothills of the Andes, and continues up and up through the fertile Yungas – coffee, fruit groves, flowers – to the high pass at La Cumbre, 4675 metres (15330ft) above sea level.
The “Most Dangerous” label came originally from the Inter-American Development Bank in 1995 – and we know now that American bankers aren’t averse to taking a few risks. Now it’s the USP for anyone selling trips down this way. Or making TV programmes.
In those good old 1995 days, the only road (built by prisoners of war in the 1930s) was an all-weather gravel affair (single track with passing places) which clung to the mountainside with vertical drops on left or right. Traffic usually passed even if there wasn’t a passing place. Occasionally (regularly is a better word) there’s a little shrine with blanched plastic flowers, or a cluster of small rusting crosses, where a wheel must have veered just that bit too far off track. El Camino de la Muerte - Death Road.
In 2006, a new wider road was opened, which follows a different route, albeit mostly just a few hundred metres away on the other side of the valley. It’s a properly metalled and asphalted two-lane surface, with bridges, viaducts and tunnels instead of corrugated iron conduits and dodgy rock overhangs. Some of the time you can still see the old road, which is still open, but with much less traffic.
I’ve been along both these roads, both up and down – down on a mountain bike, up in an MPV people-carrier. Both old and new roads are mountain roads, and as you might expect when you climb some 12000 feet in 40 miles, there are bends, and plenty of them. For the most part, the new road sweeps up the right-hand side of the valley, with steep drops on the left. The old road hugs the mountainside on the left of the valley, with sheer and apparently fathomless drops on your right.
Knowing this, and watching Top Gear on iPlayer, set me musing.
On the old road, if you’re ascending you’d be right next to the edge of the abyss. But most of the time the Top Gear lads weren’t. They were hugging the mountainside. From this, it’s evident that they were driving on the left, and it’s certainly true that the convention on the old road is that those coming up have right of way, and those going down give way. Descenders are also on the left, next to the drop...you can lean out of the window and see how close your wheels are to eternity.
I suspect that they also must have actually filmed some of it going down.
The old trick of cinema. Set the scene for going up, and the willing suspension of disbelief does the rest. There’s certainly one scene where Jeremy Clarkson squeezes his Range Rover past on the precipice side, road crumbling away beneath his wheels – great TV, and clearly set up, because they had a long-distance camera filming it.
The convention makes sense. Generally, you descend faster than you climb. If you’re on the outside, and closest to your maker, you’ll naturally slow down if you’re passing someone coming in the other direction.
There are several companies in La Paz which offer downhill mountain-bike full-day excursions – of which Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking is by far the best and most safety-conscious. The latter is important. Whichever side of the valley or the road you’re on, you’re at the bottom of the pecking-order on a bike.
Caption for photograph: The sign at the beginning of Death Road reads " TAKE CARE Mr Driver Drive on the left as far as Caranavi Give way to traffic travelling towards La Paz Keep headlights on day and night Sound your horn before each bend"
Tuesday 5 January 2010
Ilha Grande (Brazil) and Villarrica volcano (Chile)
A couple of natural disasters in Latin America have made it into the UK press in recent days.
Although it's the hottest time of the year for the coastal area around Rio, it's also the wettest. There are plenty of places where the coastal mountain range comes right down to the sea. On New Year’s Eve/Day torrential rain caused mudslides and landslides which caused loss of life, damage to property and severe disrupution to infrastructure. Particularly badly hit was the large island of Ilha Grande off the coast south of Rio de Janeiro, and Angra dos Reis on the mainland a couple of hours' drive south.
Fortunately, the properties Journey Latin America uses are at Abraão, about 8 miles away from where most of the damage occurred - we did have four clients in Abraão but all are ok, and more travelled to Ilha Grande on Saturday 2 January.
The current situation (as of 4th January) is as follows:
• Weather has improved.
• The Rio-Angra-Parati road closed for 2 hours on 4th Jan but is now open.
• The Ilha Grande ferry from the mainland is operating.
• Things are generally working as normal on Ilha Grande.
• The hotel Pestana Angra, near Angra dos Reis, will remain closed for a week for repair. There was no loss of life at the hotel but a sea wall collapsed.
• The FCO is not advising against travel to the area.
In Chile, in the northen area of the Lake District near Pucón (800 km south of Santiago) there was an avalanche on Villarrica volcano on 2nd January. Fortunately there were no fatalities although a group of Chilean climbers were caught up in it. The volcano is now closed for climbing until further notice, which affects Journey Latin America's Nandú Discovery Journey.
As an alternative, the next best thing is the full-day walk/trek in Huerquehue National park (pronounnced Wear-kay-way) – 6 to 8 hours through stunning forest with views of lakes and the volcanoes, 7-8km up through Araucaria forest – stands of enormous monkey puzzle trees with openings so you can see across the lakes to Villarrica Volcano. For bird lovers, it's a great place to spot (well, try to) the chucao http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chucao_Tapaculo
At the highest point of the walk there are lakes which mirror the monkey puzzles. Then you come back again, often with a stop at the termas (hot springs) on the way back to Pucón.
Next best thing? For many, it's better than the steeper Villarrica trek.
Although it's the hottest time of the year for the coastal area around Rio, it's also the wettest. There are plenty of places where the coastal mountain range comes right down to the sea. On New Year’s Eve/Day torrential rain caused mudslides and landslides which caused loss of life, damage to property and severe disrupution to infrastructure. Particularly badly hit was the large island of Ilha Grande off the coast south of Rio de Janeiro, and Angra dos Reis on the mainland a couple of hours' drive south.
Fortunately, the properties Journey Latin America uses are at Abraão, about 8 miles away from where most of the damage occurred - we did have four clients in Abraão but all are ok, and more travelled to Ilha Grande on Saturday 2 January.
The current situation (as of 4th January) is as follows:
• Weather has improved.
• The Rio-Angra-Parati road closed for 2 hours on 4th Jan but is now open.
• The Ilha Grande ferry from the mainland is operating.
• Things are generally working as normal on Ilha Grande.
• The hotel Pestana Angra, near Angra dos Reis, will remain closed for a week for repair. There was no loss of life at the hotel but a sea wall collapsed.
• The FCO is not advising against travel to the area.
In Chile, in the northen area of the Lake District near Pucón (800 km south of Santiago) there was an avalanche on Villarrica volcano on 2nd January. Fortunately there were no fatalities although a group of Chilean climbers were caught up in it. The volcano is now closed for climbing until further notice, which affects Journey Latin America's Nandú Discovery Journey.
As an alternative, the next best thing is the full-day walk/trek in Huerquehue National park (pronounnced Wear-kay-way) – 6 to 8 hours through stunning forest with views of lakes and the volcanoes, 7-8km up through Araucaria forest – stands of enormous monkey puzzle trees with openings so you can see across the lakes to Villarrica Volcano. For bird lovers, it's a great place to spot (well, try to) the chucao http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chucao_Tapaculo
At the highest point of the walk there are lakes which mirror the monkey puzzles. Then you come back again, often with a stop at the termas (hot springs) on the way back to Pucón.
Next best thing? For many, it's better than the steeper Villarrica trek.
Thursday 24 December 2009
Guyanas trip 2010 (continued)
I've at last finalised the route of the journey through Venezuela, Brazil, Guyana, Suriname and French Guiana - inasmuch as an itinerary like this ever gets set in stone. Click here to read more.
In keeping with the tradition which started in 1980, when we devised our first trips, we've named the journey after an iconic South American bird: Coq o' the Roq. It's a brilliant orange bird which is native to the Guiana shield. The Latin name is Rupicola rupicola, but even non-ornithologists will have noticed that coq is not the usual spelling in English of that word. In the first flush of publicising the trip, we discovered that whatever algorithms web-browsers use to block pornography were pouncing on the hapless English version of our chosen name. So we changed it.
In future I'll also try in this blog to avoid using pictures which have a pre-dominance of flesh tones in their colour balance. Plenty of greens and blues. That should fool 'em.
Another unseen complication. This week, good old president Chavez has decreed that the Angel Falls are no longer to be known as the Angel Falls. Henceforth they shall be known as Salto Kerepakupai-Meru.
Why should this greatest of Venezuelan tourist attractions commemorate a lickspittle Yankee adventurer who chanced upon the falls in the 1930s? They were there long before he got there. The Pemón indians, argues Chavez, knew about them first, even if the rest of us didn't.
I can give the illustrious president a bit of advice here. Don't mess with marketing for the sake of political correctness. 20 years ago, when Journey Latin America first started running an adventure trip to climb Roraima tepuy, in a moment of inspired folly, I hit upon "Archaeopteryx" as a suitable name for the journey.
This was where Conan Doyle had set his Lost World of T.rex and pterodactyls. Archaeopteryx was the name given by palaeontologists to the "bird" which showed the first fossil evidence of birds having evolved from dinosaurs. All the boxes, as they say, were ticked. We'd be able to stick to our tradition of naming trips after birds.
"But no-one will able to pronounce it" protested practically everyone. "No matter" decreed I.
Our few competitors named their trips "The Lost World". So, Señor Presidente, you can probably guess who sold more.
CP
In keeping with the tradition which started in 1980, when we devised our first trips, we've named the journey after an iconic South American bird: Coq o' the Roq. It's a brilliant orange bird which is native to the Guiana shield. The Latin name is Rupicola rupicola, but even non-ornithologists will have noticed that coq is not the usual spelling in English of that word. In the first flush of publicising the trip, we discovered that whatever algorithms web-browsers use to block pornography were pouncing on the hapless English version of our chosen name. So we changed it.
In future I'll also try in this blog to avoid using pictures which have a pre-dominance of flesh tones in their colour balance. Plenty of greens and blues. That should fool 'em.
Another unseen complication. This week, good old president Chavez has decreed that the Angel Falls are no longer to be known as the Angel Falls. Henceforth they shall be known as Salto Kerepakupai-Meru.
Why should this greatest of Venezuelan tourist attractions commemorate a lickspittle Yankee adventurer who chanced upon the falls in the 1930s? They were there long before he got there. The Pemón indians, argues Chavez, knew about them first, even if the rest of us didn't.
I can give the illustrious president a bit of advice here. Don't mess with marketing for the sake of political correctness. 20 years ago, when Journey Latin America first started running an adventure trip to climb Roraima tepuy, in a moment of inspired folly, I hit upon "Archaeopteryx" as a suitable name for the journey.
This was where Conan Doyle had set his Lost World of T.rex and pterodactyls. Archaeopteryx was the name given by palaeontologists to the "bird" which showed the first fossil evidence of birds having evolved from dinosaurs. All the boxes, as they say, were ticked. We'd be able to stick to our tradition of naming trips after birds.
"But no-one will able to pronounce it" protested practically everyone. "No matter" decreed I.
Our few competitors named their trips "The Lost World". So, Señor Presidente, you can probably guess who sold more.
CP
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