Carry On over the Andes: Part 1

Vuelvo! I have returned from a near week and a half of the most varied, wonderful and random experiences and sights I have ever seen, breathed and lived. To be fair, Megan and Ciara have been excellent bloggers in the last while, while balancing exams and TP and travel plans [Paris for Megan and California for Ciara; some mothers do 'av 'em]. Ciara's gone and met Sufjan, Megan's finished her exams and is packing for France, the Queen has visited Dublin and Obama has visited Offaly since me and Dee went off galavanting across the Southern hemisphere. 

So we too have such an amount to share with you all. I can't even begin to think of where to start and originally I was going to just give you all an overload of photos of all colours but then you'd miss out on the truly mad stories behind them. Equally, I don't want to bore yer socks off as if to say "Na, na, naaah, naaaah, na, look at me being all bohemian" because that is as far away from the truth as Ireland is from winning a FIFA World Cup. Instead, I'm going to dilute the overload of everything over the next week, if you will allow me that. 

I'll share with all our many readers [as wittily observed by Megan!] the places we went, the people we met and the things we did. It includes a first encounter with a horse, an Irish setter in a light blue jumper, the wisest of Mapocho men, being followed across the continent by a persistent young man, a Coyote Ugly moment, running out of money and 1000km from my temporary home, a sex-mad tour guide, a hostel so welcoming people assumed that we worked there, a lethal bottle of Fernet, meeting Mormon elders in a dark bus station and a bruise the size of Iceland. 

So let us begin with what may appear as boring scenery, but I highly suggest you view the pics on the widescreen slideshow. Immense doesn't cover it;

P L A C E S

Córdoba, Argentina
Mendoza, Argentina
The Andes
Santiago, Chile
Valparaíso, Chile

We were four and came from all over Argentina. For Claire and I, we had first a 6 hour bus journey to Córdoba, the second biggest city in Argentina. Arriving at 4am in the morning, we managed to stay in a café until 8.30am by only buying a Pepsi. Schnaky out. After witnessing the Córdoba sunrise and manouvering our way around the supermarket, we made our way to our semi-cama bus to Mendoza. A total of 12 hours away, this is a typical bus journey in Argentina in order to get anywhere that is somewhere. However normally it is a night bus and you don't notice the time go. 

You do when you get on the bus at 9am and arrive at 9pm. Tis loooooonnnngggggg. Your sleep is very disturbed and you never relax even though the quality of Argentinean buses would put the Irish system to serious shame. We passed over Las Sierras de Córdoba for about 3 or 4 hours before hitting miles and miles and miles of nothing but dusty land. Not much exciting happened bar our growing impatience, giddiness, boredom and impatience again. There was nothing extraordinary seen except a nest of puppies by the side of the road with their mother standing over them protectively, though we were miles from anywhere or anyone.

We arrived into Mendoza, near the Chilean border, at 10pm. It was too dark to even spot the Andes mountain range which runs right along the city of 600,000. However, the clean air was most noticeable. A quick run to the bathrooms [thought better of upon sight], we scrambled into our taxi and to Hostel Internacional Mendoza, a known party hostel and where our friend Orla had arrived that morning and was making friends with our room-mates [she thought they were New Zealanders for two days to discover this was not the case!]. The details of how much we grew to love the hostel and the folk therein is for another post. I'll go into how we discovered that Dee's inability to jump and hatred of top bunks are connected and how AMAZING I am at cheating at pool in another post. Mendoza in the morning was a wonderful sight. The city is spaced out, relaxed, there's no hustle bustle. You don't feel immediately stressed walking around as you do in places like London or Buenos Aires. Though the climate fair and sunny, the air was chilling as the Andes were literally only half an hour away. 

To the largest park in the city, a huge green affair, we went for many hours of nothing-ness which is a welcome change from constant something-ness. The views from the park can be seen in the slideshow and there is so much more. I didn't even see all of it; hence my desire to return to Mendoza and the bodegas [what kind of tourists were we? Going to Mendoza and not seeing the vineyards!]. 

After a few days of eventful fun, we managed to swindle our way onto a bus headed towards Santiago, 6 hours over the reigning mountain range [we had slept in and missed our intended pasaje]. What a journey. What. a. journey. I cannot describe. As one friend described it, "it was like a 3-D movie, all there just in front of you". If we hadn't been so tired and truth be told hungover, I'd have documented every nook and cranny via my camera. But we are human and weak and slept until the Chilean border when we awoke to harsh, bare-faced monsters of mountains on one side and snow capped tipped peaks on the other. 

What awaited on the other side of the Chilean border was a different kind of rugged beauty but seeing it at sunset was an absolute treat. Best bus journey of our lives yet most seemed to take it for granted.

We arrived in Santiago that night and it was the part of the journey I had most underestimated. New country. Different rules. Different currency. Different vibe. I grew to absolutely love Santiago despite the mind-numbingly confusing currency [600 Chilean Pesos to €1!] and the fact that there are 6 bus stations one after another on the metro line. Had we known this upon arriving, we may not have needed to get lost when returning, getting off at the wrong metro stop with our back packs, running back onto the Metro, searching the wrong bus car park and finding the right one with one minute of the last night bus to Mendoza leaving, several days later. Murphy's.Law. FML. But you live and learn, right?!

Santiago was a treat, especially when the smog and cloud lifted and you suddenly realized that the city is cradled by the cousins of the Argentinean Andes. Valparaíso is an UNESCO Heritage protected site an hour and a half north from Santiago and where I first saw the Pacific Ocean, this past week. Not my favourite place in the world, yet I can see why people fall into its bohemian charms. It has its points but for me, a lick of paint and a tram does not suffice in covering up the real problems of a city with a large poverty gap. Yet, vale la pena.

Oh goodness me. I've ranted. And I promised I wouldn't! Forgive me. My favourite spots had to be Mendoza [the people] and Santiago [the city]. There's much more to all of this but that is the basic humorless gist. There was a lot of bus travel [an estimated 50 hours over 9 days] and one of our buses even broke down outside Santiago [a tow crewman came aboard and asked if some woman had panties in order to tie something together. Despite a brave volunteer, we had to change bus at 11.30pm, Murphy's. Law.] and we had to go through the Chilean border into Argentina at 3.30am in the freezing cold but despite all of this, I still can't wait to return.

Tune in for the next post about the extremely buzzed, cracked, vibrant and anything but monotonous people of South America and further afield. Each has a story.

S

Just a regular Saturday through Wednesday

'We have absolute freedom in what we're going to write like.'

Saturday: Killarney.

Fine food was being had in Mac's in Killarney (hake to be specific, with cheese potatoes, yum.o) When Chris texted, 'Austin and I are coming down, for want of anything better to do.' Joining us several hours later in The Plaza, they were welcomed most ceremoniously by my beaming entourage. The night was torn  apart in various stages - one of which involved céilí dancing around the streets of Killarney - until we found ourselves drifting off on the kitchen floor, to the sombre sounds of Conor J. O'Brien. There was a somewhat less romantic epilogue to this, however, as we were shortly relocated to a bed already overflowing with sleeping figures. They had, presumably, not been lulled to sleep by some idealistic tune-spinner. Songs about bus strangers on buses had not been catalysts for their sleep.

Next day was boring.

     Next day was Monday and we were Limmers-bound. The Limerick leg of the trip was to entail a visit to an art exhibition, where a friend had some work on display. This would perhaps be combined with some light merriment, with the closing destination set to Costello's, described in my own words as 'a fine dancing establishment'. As it turned out, the art students at the helm of the exhibition desired to start partying a little earlier than the opening hours would've liked. As a result, when our small band arrived at 10:00pm - a whole hour before it was scheduled to close - we found the final security guard carrying out the final operations for a most lonely shut down. In my defiant state, I was not having this. 'Wait!', I said, 'we will ask him if we can look around'. The others looked at the pavement in embarrassment. Sure enough, my efforts proved fruitless. There seemed to be no choice but to drown our sorrows in dancing, although I might add, the music, while 'full on' to my own taste, did not bode so well for other members of the party, namely: Austin, Jack and Chris.

     There were many beds available at my house, so we dispersed ourselves accordingly upon arrival, to prepare for each of our morning plans. Jack was getting an early bus to Dublin; Chris and Austin would be following suit later in the day and Ciara would spend Tuesday cleaning and doing the final moving out of Limmers before returning home to Cork.

This however was not to be the case...(palpable ominousness etc.)

Tuesday:

Jack will take the narrative.

     I awoke, agonising over our seemingly inevitable bus trip, which would take up to four hours on bumpy hung over roads. Austin, who is so much cooler than me, woke soon after and said 'Let us take action in avoiding a bus trip, and trick Ciara into thinking it would be a good idea to drive us to Dublin'. Me, having such fierce admiration for Austin, agreed with no hesitation. 'I will drive you', Ciara said, 'if we can go to the exhibition we missed last night', in a childish stupor most unbecoming. With a frown, we agreed to her dogmatic terms. The exhibition was very nice. I have been trying to think of a better way to describe it than 'very nice', but being Jack Higgins, I suffer from poor use of words and stuff. We got done our photo taken of our friend's work which was nice on the wall with us in front of it and the camera taking pictures. The most best picture is now available on the internet for your perusal. Ciara had parked in a loading bay. Having so much contempt for everything Ciara does, I asserted, 'Hey Ciara, I do not know who you think you are, but I am not getting a bus after you have agreed to drive. Move your keester, before your car is freaking towed, you awful person'. She, submissive as always, scurried pathetically back to the car, with us in tow. Do you get it? There was a threat to the car - it might have been towed. Then, I have just now described the situation as us were being in 'tow'. You may learn a lot from me about writing and whatever. Ciara had chips for breakfast because she is coeliac and weak. 

Chris Schafroth writes the next paragraph:

      In the car, on the road. Bant in the car. I love the word 'bant'. I wish Ciara would use it more often. I wish of it great things. We passed the turn-off for Moneygal, where Obama would later visit. Isn't that cool. I am easily impressed. We got to Dublin. I was hoping someone would ask me to fix a computer or something. No one did. We thought there would be some hassle as a result of HM. There wasn't much hassle because we (me) were great boys and navigated Ciara, whom I think is just lovely, to Jack's house. Ciara, can I just say, is the most devilishly talented driver one might encounter across these seven seas. When people are driving me around to fix their computers because I will be too lazy and/or uppity to drive myself, I doubt a lot of them will be as good as Ciara. At Jack's house were lots of people and not much sitting space, which made things squeezy when we first arrived. If there were less people, there would've been more sitting space. I think it is interesting to think about these things: sometimes one would like more sitting space and sometimes more people. Jack, Austin and I cooked mouldy pizzas. Ciara, due to her awful condition (with which I sympathise greatly) had two baked potatoes, which were childishly dubbed 'tough titties'. She didn't like them. I wanted to write more but Austin insisted on taking over. He gets impatient. I sometimes think of him with contempt, but I would never show it. He will read this later and may bring it up. I certainly wouldn't. We will see. I'm not sure if I could handle such a conversation.

Austin:

     We left the house after I changed into my red pants. My red pants and other people's less remarkable legwear walked with me and with them to the bus, where we travelled to the city centre in anticipation of good things. We are young and hopeful. I will skip some stuff here, but essentially we met Ciara's other buddies [the word buddy was chosen by 'Ciara'. Were I choosing the word, I may have chosen 'buddies'. I may not.] and were put to the task of waiting outside the venue for two people to arrive to sell Jack and Ciara their respective tickets. Jack's came fast. Ciara's lingered. While waiting, a small man passed into a quiet street. 'There's Sufjan', said Chris, in the most infuriatingly non-chalant noncommittal noncaring way possible. 'No it isn't', we - Jack, Ciara and I - echoed maybe in unison. We weren't really sure of this, however, so, following the figure down the street, we primed ourselves for a more detailed look at his composition. It was him. Nonchalance was to become a theme of the episode: Sufjan Stevens looked utterly content with being unremarkable and unnoticed. I approached the bench. 'Uuuuuhh...could we get a...picture?', I inquired with such confidence. He seemed to hesitate. He seemed to wonder what was going on, or where he was, or who was I or what was I. 'Alright', he finally replied. Ciara took the picture while we lined up. That was fun. I was kind of shaking after. Very hasty parting, with some trite words exchanged. That was fun.

      'Gig was epic. What more could be said'. That's how Ciara would have described the gig. I don't know if I agree. Maybe I do. Sufjan spoke whilst on stage of the futility of words, a theme touched on in his most recent work. Sometimes, when you experience something that's better than most other things, it's had to make words work properly. Use of adjectives like 'amazing', 'brilliant', or even 'great' is so frequent that they become devalued. When a situation arises where they are really called for, then, they tend to be less effective than they should be. There should be sanctions on when such words an be used. You should be punished in some way if they are misused. I feel this way because I cannot justify how good this gig was in simple explanation. Maybe I can though. I don't want to sound so dramatic. It's hard to make people care about good stuff you encounter. People often don't care. Maybe I wouldn't care.

Breakfast Wednesday morning was had in the drizzle in Blackrock, gazing out across the waters of Dublin. It was fun. We sat on some grass. We looked around UCD. We drove home. We paid two tolls. We went via Fermoy and drank 'green juice'. Maybe if we had recorded more details it would've been nice, as other funny stuff happened that we all forget, and that's not a pleasant thought, maybe.

Thank you and Goodnight.

c and austin

x

yawl by the sea

First off:“Totalitarian states aspire to absolute control of all media of mass- communication in an attempt to control the opinions of the masses.” Discuss the relevance of this statement, making reference in your answer to the role of cinema in Germany between 1933 and 1945. 

I'm short about 400 words. Sort that, please. and thanks. It's in for Thursday.  And secondly:

I knock where I'm from an awful lot...pretty much the whole time. But with the recent sun and procrastination I've noticed some pleasantries about it. It's quite pretty, and its got a nice history about it. Although Walter Raleigh wasn't necessarily a nice guy..I mean he brought tobacco to Ireland, poor call really, but he's also known for bringing potatoes. Apparently. I'm not so sure of how much I believe that one...And Moby Dick was filmed here so it's got a bit of depth and story about it, and that should be appreciated. It also has a ridiculously long beach (remember walking it Dee?...that was the last time I did that.)

 

thanks goog 

SO in the spirit of my new found (appreciation seems too strong a word?)tolerance, maybe...of yawl I want to send on some yawl love through the snail mail world. Dee and Sarah particularly...seeing as ye're on the other side of the world. But every opportunity to get my letter writing on will be taken advantage of so address me up! 

garnishwiththebizarre[at]gmail[dot]com

c x

Summer in the City

Autumn is in full swing here so please do enjoy the beginning of summer tomorrow. It will only be a few short weeks till the exams are over and school or Uni is out for a few weeks so dear friends, hold on in there my dear friends. My summer playlist is en route but it's taken me 2 days to clear out of my iPod of the not-so-good songs and will likely take another few days to be uploaded with the much-better-songs. 

Here's a little pick me up for the time however;

Now to follow suit, as every fashion blogger in the world has probably done by now, Kate. Oh Kate. You did not disappoint. The wedding dress may have been the talk of the day but for me, it was her evening dress with the angora cardigan. She looked absolutely stunning and very feminine. I'm sure my mum has an angora scarf or two at home, so I'll be rummaging once I'm home. Her morning-after outfit was lovely as well in a grey-blue dress, blazer and platformed wedges. 

The Middleton's in general were a stylish bunch, with a big round of applause going for Pippa Middleton, Kate's younger sister, who has won legions of fans overnight. Mum and Dad Middleton looked very dapper and younger than their years and Kate's brother, at a young 23 years, looked the right gentlemen. Notable mentions go to Joss Stone [excellent colour on her], Princess Eugenie [in the night outfit, the day one was a tad mank], the Queen herself in cheerful yellow and personally, I liked Victoria Beckham's self-created outfit. You try being heavily pregnant and wearing six inch heels! 

Overall, the whole affair showed how the monarchy are moving with the times. Kate could be the first "commoner" Queen, there were cart-wheeling vergers and there was more colour in Westminster than ever before.

Huzzah, jolly well good and crumpets.

S

x

P.S. Just look at that. What a sight. It was more than a wedding. It was history. Think of everyone who's ever been christened or wed or buried in that abbey. Outstanding. 

 Cheers dailymail.co.uk for the ole pics.

AND..!!

Good call. You too youtube

c

x

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Back from a wicked Easter weekend in Córdoba with Dee but it's back to work and significantly colder weather and I'm feeling blue. It's odd to see the trees shedding in April when you should be able to smell summer around the corner. Thus a rummage through the archives of pictures and music has inspired me to dedicate an entry to SUMMMEEERRR. 
Warning: Lots of pics.

 

Told you there were a lot of pictures. The above are a motley of experiences, scents, tastes and sights from last summer and a little beyond. Some of those in the pics are my nearest and dearest, some I don't know at all but there are all reminiscent of a great time in the sunshine. Stay tuned for a playlist of summer tunes.
S
x

Another [Artistic] brick in the wall...

Concrete Jungle. An apt summation of most modern day cities and towns. Concrete here, brick boundaries there. Easy to get carpel tunnel in a place where the grass is cemented grey.
So what a pleasure it is to finally share with you all the ingenius contributions of Argentinian kids, street artists and rebels who have taken it upon themselves to paint the town red, lilac, purple, maroon, azul, cherise, grass green, saffron and all the other delicious colours in the spectrum.

Images my own taken in Buenos Aires, Rafaela and Mar del Plata, Argentina. Copyrighted.


S
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