South America - Sud America - America du Sul - Amerique du Sud

Uyuni - a poem by Dale Seppie

runningkites — Tue, 7 Jun 2011 01:58:00 GMT

Uyuni, white-cloaked dame
For whom the heavens stopped crying
Waters ran dry as you became the sun´s favourite daughter
Your horizon beyond imagination´s reach
You are your own oasis
Whispers of Aymara giants can be heard in the peaks of your cifrcumference
Today you sit still
Profound -
With depths that feed your people
May their cries forever be your salvation

Argentine Passion - Through the lense of a River Plate football match

runningkites — Tue, 7 Jun 2011 01:48:00 GMT

Two hours after descending the steps of the plane for my first visit to Argentina I, along with my travel buddy and local friends, were thrust into the cauldron of passion which is the home stadium of local giants River Plate. El Monumental, as it is known by local fans, is one of the largest stadiums in Argentina with a capacity of 76,609. We were to witness the match between the local team and title contenders Estudiantes. If Estudiantes were victorious they'd go on to capture the national title so the atmosphere was on a knife's edge. This was especially evident with taunts from opposing fans which included a host of household Argentinan profanities and occasionally spitting down from terraces, which I was honoured enough to be on the receiving end of.

With brow now clear of spittle, I made my way to my seat. If ever you go to an Argentine match, don't expect the seat printed on your ticket. It's custom for attendees to claim seats on a first come, first serve basis. With the barra bravas group, Los Borrachos del Tablon (The Drunkards of the Stand), in full swing getting the crowd going with drumming and song before kick-off, the atmosphere already seemed to be infectuously festive. As the match commenced everyone upped and stood on their seats with initial sporadic waves of vociferous chanting. Everybody from those who resembled your mother, uncle, grandfather to young grandchildren were willing participants in song and dance. The first goal brought a deafening silence- but to those supporters of the opposing team who had just scored. Within one lonesome section high above the field, a cadence of wild euphoria erupted. For Estudiantes and their fans the coveted Primera Division title was within a hair's breadth of their reach.

The match wasn't about to get any better for River who just before the half-time interval conceded a second. It wasn't long into the second half when Estudiantes, surely, struck the deciding blow, but this was also to be my first magical experience of my South American travels. After going three goals and one man down, the home supporters burst into song which lasted without pause for 15 mins. The song was a display of solidarity and immense commitment behind their team even though things were going horribly wrong on the pitch.

The words were as follows:
Ole, ole, ole
Ole Ole Ole Ola
Ohhhh, yo te quiero
(We love you)
No me importe nada
(It doesn't matter)
Te vengo alentar
(We will keep cheering)

This defined my initial interactions with Argentine people. Intensely passionate, and unrelentlessly so. Yes, at times a bit overly aggressive for many people's liking, but it's because when they feel, it is with every single fibre of their being. It's also their unashamed display of this passion which spoke to me. In a world where we so often live behind airbrushed facades, it's refreshing to immerse oneself in a culture that puts their instinctive voice first.
The game ended with River Plate losing 4-0, but to me they were triumphant in support. With one of the biggest supporter conglomerates in Argentina, a visit to El Monumental should certainly be on every travelling explorer's list, if not to enjoy the football, then certainly to get a close up taste of that Latin American passion that courses deep through every local attendee.

Buenos Aires - Getting Stuck In

runningkites — Tue, 7 Jun 2011 01:00:00 GMT

Buenos Aires is a city that takes you captive as if by some intense sensually infused magic stroke. Avenida Indepencia is lined with 16 lanes of traffic, the sidewalk cafes of Palermo are bursting with a vital energy, noises fused by busquers and choripan (hotdog) vendors in the centre loses you in a cocophonous daze, San Telmo reminds you of a charming world gone by with a myriad of antique stores, while La Boca with its colourful canvas of caminitos transports you to the origins of this city as well as the world famed Tango.

Where to start? Dive straight in. It's what porteños (as the locals from Buenos Aires are known) would do. In a country which has been hit by several economic crises in the past few decades, locals tend to pass their time firmly rooted in living in the moment never knowing what to expect next. This feeds their passion for late nights, where you'll quite easily find yourself masking your eyes from the radiant morning sun as you exit one of the nightclubs in Palermo Viejo. A famous haunt for students and carnal beings in general, Palermo Viejo is a charming barrio which holds the best of the city's bars and restaurants. The square, Plaza Serrano, often plays the prelude to the night, with any would be rockstar displaying his musical wares to punters imbibing the local brew, Quilmes.

Once you've arisen and shaken off the effects of the previous night, a stroll through the quaint streets of San Telmo will serve as a window to eras gone by. With nearly every street lined with antique stores you'll be sure to find that often sought, but seldom found antique camera, a Bridget Bardot styled dress, a 19th century brooch and even ancient African relics. While you in and around San Telmo head over to the Plaza Dorrego Bar for a cortado, which is as good as any you'll try in the world with loads of traditional charm added for extra measure.

The locals are also famed for their friendliness and it is through one such encounter that a friend and I found ourselves with an invitation to be voyeurs at one the local tango haunts, Villa Malcom, in Cordoba Street, Palermo. Far from being an elaborate, heavily orchestrated affaire, this was an enclave of locals expressing themselves in a manner so sultry, that as a viewer, you're left dumbfounded by the palpable passion that sweeps the air as the dancers gently caress the floor with their delicate, yet punctuated steps. A visit to La Boca and the National Tango museum puts an interesting spin on the art form. A city built by migrant workers from Europe, there existed a distinct shortage of women. Given this state of the nation, brothels formed an important part of society. Even then long queues would be commonplace at these houses of pleasure, so to pass time the would-be customers would practice dancing to the local migrant music. The twist in the tale here is that often it would be with each other. It's also interesting to note that tango only gained widespread acceptance amongst the upper classes of Argentina after being popularised in Paris, so the dance is firmly routed in the hearts of migrant labourers of old.

Polo is another attraction which resoundingly resides within Argentine culture. It is a game which requires immense horseriding skill, including the ability to chase after and connect with, what seems from the stands, a microscopic object which is the ball. Very popular amongst the high society with the players being reknowned playboys who lavishly travel the world enjoying the fruits of their labour. Once you've had your share of polo viewing it is customary to head off to one of the famed parillas. In a culture which prides itself on its knowledge, production and consumption of bovine meat, options for eateries of this meat-based local favourite are endless and close to unavoidable.

While my experience in Buenos Aires was a quickfire, in and out affaire, I was somehow left with a feeling that given the leisure of more time it's a city that had much more to offer than the stereotypes I've presented here. What it has done though, is to open a sweet wound of pleasure. Somehow I feel that Buenos Aires hasn't seen the last of me.

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

runningkites — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 04:00:58 GMT

STILL

The Sierra Nevada night is angry with rain. Drenched to the bone we reach the entrance to a fortress of adobe huts, home to the indigenous Kogi people. We've stirred the sentries. In droves they rush to meet our presence, sceptically surveying each one of the five outsiders before them. A swarm of white gowned angels are in earnest deliberation in intonations foreign to our ears. The scene is made even more surreal with the dark surrounds being lit with nothing more than fireflies. Finally, the eldest, no older than eight and four feet tall, pipes up in Spanish: what's your business here?

At dawn I'm awoken by the sacred chants of the mama, the shamanistic head of the community. Before I can contemplate the workings of this act the very same questioning jury from the night before appear. We are surveyed with a less suspicious air, having received the blessing to stay from the village elders. These inquisitive beings now sense an opportunity to jovially pass their Saturday afternoon with new otherworldly faces. In Spanish we acquaint ourselves. Though geographically isolated in what they believe to be the spiritual centre of the world, the Kogi have taken to teaching Spanish to their young. This, to communicate with the outside world in a dire attempt to save their sacred land from the destructive exploits of the agricultural and narcotic industries.

Reluctantly peeling ourselves away from carefree play, we head in search of food. We find many willing donations of locally cultivated crops: yucca, plantains and malanga. Jose Miguel, one of the young tribesman, offers us the use of his hut as a kitchen. Preparing a broth from these staples is a slow process, in between which time the mama enters and perches himself on one of the hammocks strung across the inside. He briskly chews on coca leaves. With a genetically slight build, long unkempt hair, thinking eyes and customary lime-filled gourd in hand, he presents us with nothing more than a deep contemplative silence. I would learn that it is this very practice of still meditation which serves as the axis upon which the Kogi culture is based. It is through communing with the inner spiritual world that they believe balance on the planet is maintained- and they, the custodians of this undertaking. Breaking the quiet we, along with the community, voraciously launch into our gastronomic bounty using our hands as eating utensils.

Little by little dusk starts to reveal itself. Bare-footed village women return after a day of collecting crops of vegetables and coca leaves with toddlers held in mochilas slung around their heads. Others still, are weaving garments or busily going about tending to guadua fires used for warmth and cooking. Upon the return home of men the village descends into silence, with only a fresh breeze on the evening air to be heard.

Outside a traditional, white chagua abuchi gown hangs drying on the fence- still.