Charging South into the Glorious Green

Pretty close to paradise.

Definitely paradise.

"Tengo la cara agria, por eso tal vez dicen que soy un dictador."

- Augusto Pinochet

The following post will contain excessive use of the words “beautiful” “stunning” and “incredible view”. Apologies for the shortage of adjectives, try turning it into a game of Buzzword Bingo. The quote above has no particular relevance to Chile’s beautiful South.

I am sitting once again in Sao Paulo’s hideous Guarulhos International Airport. An airport so truly hideous that it goes beyond mere ugliness to become genuinely impressive in its own right as a monument to bad taste and blind architecture. From the outside it looks like the kind of place where my jeans were probably made by small children for a few cents a day. I could literally dedicate this entire post to describing it in all of its foul glory, but that would get tiring. I have five hours to kill here and Brazil is a beautiful country which deserves a better first impression.

Arranging a trip to the South of Chile apparently takes a fair bit of admin, as does moving out and moving in, and working through it all. The last few weeks in Santiago were thus filled with distracted goodbyes as everyone just had so much to do around the farewells. It was all absolutely worth it however, with a trip to Valdiva, Puerto Varas, the charming island of Chiloe, and of course the 8^th natural wonder Torres Del Paine making for an unforgettable end to the year.

Rushing to collect my Chilean ID document necessary for re-entering the country on the day of departure, we (meaning me, my flatmate and fellow Escudo enthusiast Jordan, and ever loyal travelling companion Shane) made for a fairly stressed departing trio as we made our way to Puerto Montt in the evening. Chasing the sunset all the way, we arrived just too late for an airport shuttle to our hostal for the evening, opting instead for a taxi driven by a man with a limp as pronounced as his moustache. We later wondered if the limp was from an accident he got into on the same day as his driving style was best described as “death wishful”.

Starting early the next day, we headed North through rolling green hills (with trees!) to the old German town of Valdivia (also with actual trees). Imported en masse in the 1800s, the German settlers were encouraged to come to Chile to help secure land claims over an ungovernable South as well as introduce a good work ethic as they tamed the land. Of course, they set to work in brewing fantastic beers immediately. The architecture of the region is also very Germanic and thus very beautiful too, so these small towns had a very Alpine feel about them. Eager to take in some older history though, we took a boat to visit some Spanish forts at the river-mouth and were treated to a dramatic re-enactment of a famous battle in which Chilean nationalists seized control of the fort from the Spanish in 1820 as Chile consolidated its independence. 

The Spanish didn't do too well in this one by the looks of things.

The day ended at the famous Kuntsmann Brewery, where we were treated to beer tastings, delicious dead-pig-centred cuisine, and festive amounts of the fine brews made there and sold throughout the country. By the end we were so full our bus creaked to a halt when it attempted to climb a hill and broke down completely. As they say, moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips.

Jordan and our friend Hans Kuntsmann.

Pushing South again, we made for a national park which lay beyond the pristine lakeside hamlet of Puerto Varas. There we camped out on the side of a wooded lake called “Todos Los Santos” in the shadow of three huge volcanoes. Incredible views even if the whole place was bug infested. The lake was gorgeous, clear blue, and surprisingly warm considering snow could be seen in the mountains above it. We could have spent a lifetime in and around that lake, were it not for the continuous onslaught of biting insects the size of bumblebees. A fantastic kayaking trip was cut short after we decided to “relax” on a lakeside beach on the edge of the forest. The bug assault was relentless so we had to move on eventually.  

Such a beautiful lake, time for a bug-assaulted swim.

It was decided that Christmas would be spent on the mysterious, picturesque, and distinctly bohemian island of Chiloé. Known for its mist, fairies, trolls, huge quantities of seafood, and hospitality, the island came to hold a special place in our hearts due to just how ancient and filled with character every part of the island felt. “Ancient”, in particular, was one of the first words to come to mind in that landscape.

I was astounded at how many allowances are made for nature in Chiloé. Many whole ploughed fields will have an old tree, or several, rising out of the middle, as the Chilote farms seemed to defer as always to nature. The remoter parts of the island are thoroughly untamed and feel as though they never have been. Taking day trips around the island by bus or hired car, we ended up enjoying a drizzly Christmas day in the only place we could find open on another small island. Being the only place open on Christmas day (even our hostel closed, leaving us with the keys), this boathouse bar/restaurant boasted a cast of characters who clearly had nowhere else to be on Christmas. An old man who angrily challenged me at the door to make sure that there were no women with me “¡Solo hombres!”, the rosy-cheeked town drunk who was very adept at making a trumpet impersonation with his lips, a few other people playing a loud game of dominoes, the moustached owner of the establishment himself (Francisco), and then three gringos in Santa hats.

Feliz Navidad!

During our meal we had the pleasure of an impromptu trumpet performance from the town Boracho, with free spittle, a traditional and stirring song of the island, and of course a bottle of champagne on the house from our incredibly generous and quite over-served host as well. Our host also served us Chica (another fermented grape beverage made at home) poured into a cow’s horn on our way out the door which was of course accepted politely (declined refills). More or less a normal Christmas. Boarding the bus out of this peculiar town later in the day, we were pleased to see trumpet man careering around on his bicycle next to the bus to give it a proper send-off. Moving to the other side of the island to its main town, Ancud, provided us with even better scenery as well as the most famous dish of the island: Curanto.

Curanto is simply ridiculous. Huge amounts of mussels, fish, potatoes (some semi-raw), clams, pork, chicken, and just about anything are barbequed underground for some hours before being removed from the hot rocks at just the right time for consumption. While we were waiting for ours in a restaurant famous for it the owner himself sat down at our table and detailed us the entire illustrious history of this distinctly Chilote dish. Pride. I didn’t fancy my chances at finishing the meal too highly, but we all pulled through and crawled into hammocks after for recovery. 

Curanto. Not easy. 

Walking down the desolate beach of Cucao.

Sad to leave Chiloé but excited to find out just how long the days can get if you go further South, we hopped on the next flight all the way down to Punta Arenas in the independently minded Región de Magallanes y de la Antártica Chilena for the final leg of our journey, a five day hike in the wondrous Torres del Paine National Park. I am not entirely sure how the whole “8^th world wonder” thing works. Last I heard there were seven, then people tried to make me like Facebook pages with ads on them to make Table Mountain an 8^th natural wonder last year. Apparently the concerted effort was successful but it still looks like a table. What is a “wonder” anyway? In any case, many people have assured me that Torres Del Paine is now one, and this is a cause for excitement. Whatever status it holds, Torres Del Paine National Park is without a doubt the most extraordinary place I have ever visited in my life.

Though the weather seemed foul the week got off to a fantastic start when a sharing Chilean family offered to host our entire party in their home for the night. Armed with full stomachs, maps, and plenty of advice we entered the park the next morning quite ready to see what all the fuss was about, provided the clouds lifted. Unfortunately, in Patagonia a weather forecast is about as useful as your average parliament so we just had to hope it didn’t get too awful. The clouds lifted, see below:

The hike followed the well-known “W” trail. Taking in three major valleys which cut into the glorious mountains of Torres del Paine as well as some trails which follow the lake. The first day we saw the massive Glacier Grey which lies at the end of hundreds of miles of the Hielo Sur icefield which separates Patagonia from the rest of Chile. The second day was New Year’s Eve, which had to be observed in some way. Huddled in our tent by the lake, we enjoyed whiskey out of hip flasks and stared at the stars. The clouds had kindly decided to leave altogether that night allowing the beautiful Southern night sky that I know and love to shine through perfectly. The next day found us hiking up yet another step and drizzly valley. In Valle Frances we had the privilege of seeing ancient green woods around us, granite massifs towering above us, a steeply crumbling glacier across the valley, and a turquoise lake below. In this setting, I felt a primal urge to run down the valley as fast as possible. Jumping from one wet rock without really being sure where I’d land on the next with the panorama surrounding me was easily the best running experience I can remember. So many superlatives! Torres del Paine is grand. Like Middle Earth.

The weather cleared up fully after that, as we pushed all the way to the closest campsite to the towers themselves; meaning we only had to get up at 340am to do the hour hike up to catch the sunrise. This being our final day in the park made for a very painful hike but it was completely worthwhile. The sun only shined for the first twenty minutes of that day, and we were incredibly lucky to see it.

The last leg of our journey was to return to Punta Arenas and visit its tremendous monuments to the dead. With a diverse and rich history of colonists from many parts of the world (the native inhabitants of the area were of course massacred as quickly as possible), taking a walk through the mausoleums and tombs of Punta Arena’s cemetery was a wonderful lesson in history (and in my opinion, vanity – the cost of some of those monuments must have been extraordinary). This was only a day-long visit, so the rest of the journey is just a tiresome story of flights, busses, taxis, and travel sweat with home on the horizon. Although I flew business class from Santiago to Sao Paulo. How’s that.


It has been a truly wonderful year.  

A battle man lost with nature in Chiloe.

A wildfire in every language. Just to make things clear.

The Political Bit & Mishaps

“America is ungovernable; those who served the revolution have plowed the sea.” - Simón Bolívar

Apologies in advance, a number of the photos below are not my own.There'll be more next time, I promise. 

I haven't written anything in a while but, as I listen to yet another protest bulldozing its noisy way down my street the long and the short of it is: It's been good. Further details below. 

Returning to ride busses all over Santiago after a fantastic trip to Bolivia in July proved fairly difficult at first, but the trip away helped solidify my love for this city which has continued to grow in recent months. This may in fact be a case of Stockholm Syndrome, but who knows. I have enjoyed it, even the busses sometimes. Speaking of public transport, after all this time, I’ve learned how to tame it. From where to stand, when to dodge, when to duck, when to jump. Which person to swing an elbow at for no particular reason. I have also mastered the appropriate breathing techniques for boarding a train at rush hour. The trick is to hold your breath while sucking in your stomach and chest also (the difficult part) otherwise you risk leaving bits outside to be taken by the snapping doors. Rush hour is not for the overweight. With elections, difficult anniversaries, and most importantly crucial football qualifiers bearing down on Chile as the year draws to a close, the second semester so far has been stressful, joyful, and enriching.

A very loaded point on the Chilean calendar, the 11^th of September is a notoriously “difficult” day for Chile; and particularly so this year. The 11^th of September 2013 marked 40 years since General Augusto Pinochet launched his coup d’état against the Socialist president who appointed him, Salvador Allende, by bombing the Presidential Palace at La Moneda. The atmosphere in the city leading up to this anniversary was electric. Electric in the “touch the plug on the way out of the wall” sense. There was talk of burning city busses en masse, public service announcements from the police kindly asking people to throw Molotov cocktails at police cars rather than parked ones (in all seriousness), and of course a slew of excellent documentaries on this period of Chilean history. A few days previously Chileans had been dancing in the streets celebrating a key victory over Venezuela, and now the country was divided between left and right. A subplot which added more weight to this day was that of the two main candidates running for the presidency in November, one had lost a father to the coup while the other’s father figured prominently in the events of the 11^th of September on the other side of the narrative.

Taking a walk around the city with my camera, I was struck by just how painful this day truly is for many Chileans; making me feel tacky for stomping around gringoly with my camera. Wreathes were laid out around the presidential complex, the focal point of the drama of 1973, and the statue of Allende. In numerous other spots flowers were laid by weeping relatives below photo after photo of the despedidos, the missing, accompanied by the phrase “¿Dónde están?” (Where are they?). Since one popular technique of the Pinochet regime involved dropping people out of an army helicopter over the Pacific, at this point the bereaved will just never know. And the pain continues to be revisited time and again as the scars on the individual and collective consciousness never seem to truly heal. Seeing this first hand reminded me that, however flawed the process and outcomes may have been of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, at least it gave people the chance to know. Not knowing can wreak havoc on the national and personal psyche and this was tragically evident on the streets of Santiago that day.

Without justice, there is no apology.

I had planned to take a bus or a train home in the evening, stupidly forgetting all of the warnings that there’d be problems across the city that night, assuming I’d at least be able to take a train and the centre of the city would be peaceful at least as all reported flareups* that day had been limited to the poorer suburbs away from the expensive stuff. And peaceful it was. There were no trains, busses, cars, pedestrians, even the dogs seemed to have taken an early night, and so I began a surreal walk across what was essentially a ghost town. The entire city had shut down. Except of course for a few criminals, two of whom decided to rudely relieve me of my wallet, phone, and camera in a brief mugging.

This sort of thing does not always happen.

*A note on the violence that sadly follows many protests in Santiago: It is a complex issue, quite often those who perpetrate violence (as in burn things, not relieve gullible gringos of their possessions) are just there for the fun of burning, rather than strong ideological viewpoints. Disenfranchised, bored, angry, you name it.The protests are usually peaceful but if you see pictures of police and masked crusaders injuring each other with blunt objects while dogs bark and tear gas is sprayed over all, know that it isn't necessarily an ideological disagreement. 

 

The next week was set aside for Diez y Ocho (eighteen) celebrations. The whole country displaying huge amounts of national pride in a week of mass celebrations, parties, parades, and huge amounts of red meat being burned over open fires. Needing the time off, me and three good friends hired a car and hit the highway South with plans to camp in the mountains, hike, swim, and wine taste for a few days after a busy few months in Santiago. 

An interesting trip was to be had. Feeling invincible inside a car not driven by a cabby, our sense of freedom was quickly brought

back by being pulled over by a policeman to be informed that the paper work and ownership documents of this car were incorrect and could serve as grounds for arrest. 10 points to the rental agency. After displaying genuine tourist ignorance at this the officer reluctantly sent us on our way, but insisted we sort out the documentation before we come back this way in case we get pulled over again and incarcerated for our heinous crimes. Of course, yes, we’ll get all the paperwork for this hired car in the mountains pronto. Yes sir.

After some wonderfully fun navigating and driving experiences (I myself could not drive due to the loss of the licence in the previous week) we found our way to our first night’s stay, the remote Reserva Nacional Rio Los Cipreses. And it was truly stunning. I didn’t have a camera so I was careful to deposit every spectacular view into the memory bank. Nestled in a deep valley, the park had an empty campsite located below a towering pile of granite which turned pink as the evening wore on. Feeling once again invincible, albeit coldly so, we took a quick hike to see more of the Andean valley which felt truly timeless. There were even huge flocks of parrots which nested in the cliffs below, which was a first for me.

The next morning the keys to the hired car were gone. This was highly inconvenient as we had planned to visit another nature reserve a few hours away that day. Of course, we must’ve locked them in the car. So with the aid of a couple of bemused park rangers we spent nearly two hours jiggling, poking, and wriggling things until the lock of the door made a glorious *pop* and we immediately celebrated like South Africa and the United States had simultaneously won the World Cup. A perfect moment of jubilation ruined only by the realisation that the keys were not in the car anyway. And so a 10 hour search began.

These are car keys. 

Spirits were low, voices were raised with accusations, and for a moment I really thought things were just going to go all Lord of the Flies and I had better find a stick sharpened at both ends. Thankfully, we were all better than that and decided to be utterly despondent instead. Having scoured an area some 50m in every direction, some outlandish theories were proposed: 1.) Somebody else in the camp who “just hates gringos” decided to walk past our camp, pick up the keys off the table, and hurl them into the woods. 2.) Somebody stole the keys for their monetary value because the immoboliser must be worth something. 3.) One of us sleep walked and just threw the keys into the bushes for no reason. 4.) [My personal favourite] A parrot or a passing squirrel made off with the keys because they were shiny. The search ended as night fell and we were forced to call the rental agency to concede defeat. Having planned to buy more food on this day, we were forced to dine off of chocolate and biscuits for the night. The next morning a tow-truck and a second car were due to arrive at 10am, for an undisclosed fee that was estimated to be somewhere around half a month’s paycheque for each of us. A low point.

Sitting alone in the motionless car, I had the opportunity to reflect upon the past week, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Thankfully, a curious fox turned up and tip-toed through our empty campsite which more or less made a very bad day. Check off another first. Of course after a moment I got over my awe of seeing a fox close up and immediately thought “Bet that furry bastard took the keys.” And genuinely suspected it and posed it as a theory later. 

Snow fell during the night and we woke up on a freezing misty morning to a park ranger asking “Are these your keys?” and they were. We sped away from the park so very relieved, phoning ahead to see if we could take a wine tour that afternoon that we had booked earlier. Hilariously, we noticed on the highway that there was smoke emanating from the back of the car and the tyre had blown out in spectacular fashion. 10 more points for the rental agency. We would later be billed an additional R1000 for this to put an insulting little cherry on the cake of disappointment. The wine tasting was truly lovely, though, another reminder of just how well this country does wine.   

 

Not wanting to miss out on the spectacular orgy of patriotism that is the 18^th itself, we returned to Santiago in time to take in the celebrations at a local park turned rodeo (with traditional dancing of course). Chilean beverages were consumed, Chilean cows were eaten (although it is quite possible they were in fact Uruguayan), and Chilean music was listened to by all and sundry. There was also some wrestling but that was a gringo-only affair and not in fitting with the occasion at all.

And so ended a rather eventful week.

In-between some teaching, walking, sunny hikes, and finding different things to eat around Santiago, we got to return to the most important thing of all, football. I had the privilege of going to watch Chile versus Uruguay in their final qualification match of the campaign to play in Brazil 2014 in good company. The game wasn’t a complete dead rubber either. Due to some hilariously bad decision-making and defending, Chile had managed to blow a 3-0 lead against Columbia a few nights previously, trying their hardest to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. This meant that they had not yet qualified ahead of the Ecuador game which added a little excitement to the evening (although they really needed to lose badly in order to miss out on qualification). We joined in the sea of chanting red and enjoyed a glorious night as Chile celebrated the right to spend the next 7 months dreaming about winning the greatest trophy in sport. An experience arguably better than playing in the tournament itself which is a much tougher prospect grounded in harsh sporting reality. It being a week-night and all, we decided to skip some of the post-match rioting although the streets were still a wonderful place to soak in the joy of the whole country. Things got awfully loud. Ecuador qualified too, despite losing 2-1, so everybody left the stadium happy together and no violence was required. Football can be quite nice sometimes.

 “Nos vemos en Brasil!”

Blue

 "Wow, Lake Titicaca is really blue." - Anon

Back to the travelling, on the day of my departure from Coroico back to La Paz for the next leg, it transpired that the new highway had suffered a landslide and was currently being repaired. Alarm bells suddenly sounding in my head I summoned as much Spanish as I could to find out when the repairs would be finished (“this afternoon” was the answer), and purchased a ticket after strenuously trying to make it very clear that this was the ticket for the later bus on the new highway when it reopened and that I was happy to wait until whenever they wanted, just don’t put me on a minibus taking the infamous “old road” which is statistically the most dangerous road in the world (second only to one in Iraq which has bombs on it). Did I mention about 300 people die on (well, not on) the old road annually? Nowadays it is barely used, but for downhill mountain biking (quite the thrill I gather), and even so a few cars and the odd bus still manage to plunge into the depths every week or so. With this in mind, I was pretty unimpressed to be pointed, after buying my ticket, to a large and rickety brown bus which must’ve had about 40+ people crammed into it, and learn it would be taking the road of death. I was the last onto the bus since I had desperately tried to find out if any other, later, not-on-a-road-called-death busses might be available before boarding. I ended up with a seat next to the window on the right hand, or cliff, side. “Of course.” I thought, before tightening hood of hoody, putting on sunglasses, and shoving headphones deep into my ears, anything to reduce any senses. Being afraid of heights is hardly ideal.

To be fair, the road worsened in degrees which allowed me plenty of time to ruin my t-shirt and wonder if we’d gotten to the worst precipices yet. The road saves the best for last, though. Climbing out of a very deep valley, “El Camino de la Muerte” is truly a miracle of 1930s Paraguayan prisoner-of-war slave labour. Cut improbably into the side of an essentially vertical mountain in places, I marvelled at the fact that somebody must’ve decided that this was the easiest route for a road to take. An hour or so in the bus stopped for a large pile of rocks which had blocked our way. I climbed out of the window (which seemed easier at that point) and with the other passengers helped repair the road by heaving the muddy boulders off and down the mountain. It was hard work which took a good twenty minutes and lead to me managing to crush my own arm with one of the boulders in my rush to get going, but many hands made light of the work and we were on our way again soon, muddy, wet, and a little bloody too, but the physical exertion outside of the bus did a lot of good. 

Repairing the road.

Stock photo to give you an idea...

I didn’t get very good pictures as I was reluctant to lean out the window, but I managed to relax somewhat and finally appreciate the scenery around me which was simply extraordinary. Being able to see in one scan the transition from the dark jungly depths of the valley, waterfalls and all, up to misty and rocky peaks towering above. At least I was fairly relaxed until I asked a kind and helpful new friend next to me who I had been talking to for a while “¿Personas van en el camino en la noche?” (“Do people drive at night on the road?”), “Si, si, pero se escuchan the screams...of all the people...” “Oh really? Well that’s just swell.”

Having finally arrived in La Paz later than planned, these delays meant that I would not be able to visit Peru without spending an unacceptable proportion of my remaining time on holiday in a bus which is just too much like life in Santiago, however I ended up bumping into two friends at the hostel I checked into and together we set out for Lake Titicaca two days later. Lake Titicaca is very blue, something I appreciated as we had to take a ferry just to get to the coastal town of Copacabana, due to border peculiarities with Peru which makes an island out of the peninsula the town is situated upon. Further remnants of problematic international relations were also evident, as we passed Bolivia’s prideful inland naval outposts. Bolivia used to have a coastline, but an ill-advised war with Chile saw my current country of residence taking Bolivia’s coast and a good chunk of Peru’s as well for good measure; forcing the country’s landlocked status which continues to hold back any realistic economic progress. These territories were also rich in copper and nitrates, the backbone of the country’s resource-dependent economy for centuries. Chile did at some point offer Bolivia a special territorial arrangement which would allow them to export their goods by sea, but this proposal fell through and diplomatic relations with Chile have since been highly confrontational at worst and simply non-existent, at best. Copacabana is a gorgeous little town in a pretty bay on the lake, warm by day and a little bit on the cold side at night; it actually snowed at some point. The beach is littered with cheap food, predominantly Trucha, which is trout from the lake served in countless different ways. Given my exclusively red-meat diet until this point, I made a point of eating large portions of Trucha twice a day on average. Fingers crossed they haven’t found a way to contaminate Lake Titicaca with mercury yet.

We hopped on a ferry to the famous Isla Del Sol, an island in the lake which has been inhabited for millennia, and was the main focal point for Incan religious practices (as it was said to be the point where the sun god was born and from which the first Incans came). The whole island shows signs of ancient habitation, from recent discoveries of artefacts from a “sunken city” 12 metres below, just offshore, to the terraces which cover all of the steep slopes which rise out of the blue and up to an altitude of 4069m. The steep nature of the island proved problematic, climbing the Inca stairwell up to the settlement above was a desperate struggle for oxygen although the long-suffering donkeys didn’t seem to mind at all. Once we had finished gasping for breath, we were able to appreciate amazing views of unnaturally blue lake turning to dramatic Andean peaks over 6000m high on the horizon. I ended up staying for three nights in total, spending the days wandering around, getting a little sunburned, enjoying the pure yet thin air, looking at cute farm animals, and having chocolate eating competitions in which everybody is a winner.

Up the stairs we go.

On my final day on the island I woke up to a stunningly clear post-rain morning with the sun rising across golden brown grasses which evoked powerful images of the heavenly “Elysium” from the end of Gladiator. Although Hans Zimmer’s “End Theme” from the film had coincidentally just shuffled onto the iPod so that may have been a factor. Thus inspired, I decided I just had to attempt a run before leaving. Swapping the warm clothes for my running chic which goes everywhere, I set off up the hill before running through some gum trees along a ridge to the Southern end of the island, all at over 4000m altitude. A group of local children were amazed, and amused, to see a gringo running for the “fun” of it, instead of heaving up the stairs coughing and wheezing. I breezed past them, feeling stronger with every stride, before collapsing in a heap about 2km in and coughing up a few internal organs as my body suddenly realised I was getting all cocky about not needing oxygen and needed to be brought down a peg or two. Still, I felt on top of the world, check another personal highlight.  

Isla Del Sol was very difficult to leave, no roads, no cars, fantastic food, views to die for, and cheap accommodation, but unfortunately La Paz and Santiago beckoned. It was time to go home. The trip had been utterly perfect. I didn’t get robbed, sick, and nobody tried to scam me. I wasn’t offered cocaine on the streets and I encountered only friendliness, good food, and pretty good beer too. Bolivia, put it on your list, there is just so much this country has to offer. After a pointless stop-over and some concerns about my not actually having a boarding pass to re-enter the plane, I finally arrived home to walk back through a familiar dark and well-graffitied city centre which turns into one huge skater park for teenagers by night. Santiago, I’ve missed you. Po!

P.S. Apologies for not getting many photographs of Llamas, most were guarded fiercely by entrepreneurial youngsters who charged for the photos and I was sadly low on change most of the time. 

The excessive head is an altitudinal phenomenon. 

Copacabana.

New lease on life.

A rather high up soccer field.