by Jane | Nov 26, 2013 | My journey, My travels |
The cab which I shared with Mia and her lovely nine year old son Nicholas crawled along under the majestic cliffs upon which Miraflores is balanced, delayed in the horrendous early morning traffic. On our slow journey from the airport I looked up at the towering cliffs wondering how on earth they could support the sky scrapers 
which were lined up along their edge – they looked remarkably fragile, as if they were made up of just sand and loose stones and would crumble at any minute. The many signs directing people upwards in case of a tsunami were also a little disconcerting. At the speed the traffic was moving we would all be fish-food if a giant wave were to strike.
There were no normal cabs available so I shared my ride from the airport with a lady who lives in Cusco and her son who is Argentinean. The cab driver was unable to negotiate the road works around my hostel and just as I was wondering how on earth I was going to cross the fenced off area, a workman noticed my plight and came to let me and another bemused backpacker through the cordon. I was quick to learn that Health and Safety is not an issue here and I was soon dodging steam rollers and tractors as I exited the hostel.
As we wandered in, I introduced myself to Julien who was it turned out, French and off on his own mini adventure. After leaving our bags in the secure area, we decided to pair up for some of the day and set off, first to find a travel agent so that Julien could book his flight out to Cusco the following day, and then to negotiate the super bus system that links the middle-class affluent area of Miraflores to the centre and old town Lima. I have to say a quick thank you to friends back home for their recommendation to stay in this area. It is certainly the best area in Lima and my hostel is possibly in the very best location, although I have yet to see anybody who is any more than just half my age.
But who cares about that ‘cos I am having a ball and one day, possibly very soon, most of this lot will have to go back to work and get down to the daily grind.
a rather low ticket booth
Anyhow, me and Julien paid for our bus card in the machine at Ricardo Palma station which we preloaded with some dosh and we set off. Or after several false starts we set off once we had established which direction we should be travelling in. The bus system bore a strong resemblance to the tram system in Istabul – apart from the blooming obvious difference between buses and trams. The stations were almost identical, set in the central reservations of the road system and the buses sped along the main thoroughfare alongside but unhindered by the snarled up traffic We exited at Jiron de la Union and wandered up to Plaza Mayor where we treated ourselves to a S30 ticket for entrance to the Archbishops house and the Cathedral with its crypts. I know that the Peruvian people are small but this cash booth window really was taking the piss, lol.
Rimac
The changing of the guard was in full swing in front of the Presidential Palace as we wandered up to the Monastery of St Francisco and the Parque de la Muralia. From the park we had an amazing view of the favela at Rimac with its sherbet pink and yellow houses shimmering in the heat haze (the fog had burnt off and the sun was now out), disguising the poverty which must be rife and the crime which oozes from the district. We wandered down to Plaza Bolivar and from there, back to the station and the hostel to officially check in and find our respective rooms. A very welcome hot shower revived me after the long journey and the sight-seeing, and then I went up onto the roof terrace for a beer. The Pariwana Hostel is another great find. For me, the location is everything and this one did not disappoint. Fronting a busy roundabout is in a nice area at the tip of a long park – Kennedy Park which is full of flowers, immaculately kept grass and benches. There is a relaxing roof terrace at the hostel with sun-loungers and ping-pong, a lively bar area and kitchen with free teas, coffee and breakfast. Music thumps away most of the day giving the whole place a laid back, party atmosphere and the pungent smell of a certain sort of tobacco drifts lazily around.
Supper was a muffin thingy on the street followed by a visit to the local artisan market on a where I bought myself a little silver thumb ring to replace my Turkish ring which I believed to have lost somewhere on the way to London whilst wrestling with my luggage. (it was subsequently found)
I returned and sat at the bar ready for an earlyish night when I discovered that I was to sleep in a room with four blokes. I thought that there were to be a couple of girls in there too but they had checked out. God; I hope that I don’t keep the guys awake all night with my snoring. Three are Brazilian and for some bizarre reason keep forgetting to shut the room to the door which opens directly onto my bed but they do put the toilet lid down after them. I guess it is all a trade-off when you are travelling alongside such an eclectic mix of people.
The next morning after some very weird dreams (did I really sit up in bed and ask one of the Brazilians whether the fire alarm was going off?), I had just taken my shower and a fifth and final guy was shown into the room – to occupy the bunk above. What comfort zone? It has been well and truly blown away.
by Jane | Nov 20, 2013 | Europe, My travels |
You will laugh about this later
sunrise over the Andes
Those words were supposed to comfort me, but I just wanted to pull the duvet tightly around me, snuggle deep into the wonderful bed and never surface again.
My adventure had begun. I had booked my coach to Heathrow and I was looking forward to my treat of a night at the Thistle Hotel where I had planned to enjoy a leisurely evening meal with a couple of glasses of wine, check out their roof terrace which overlooks the runway and Terminal 5 and experience their new Pod transfer system.
Instead of a fluttering of anticipation and excitement I began to feel quite queasy on the coach and before I even reached Heathrow, I was in the throes of a fully fledged vomiting bug. Somebody up there must have been looking out for me because at least I had one of the better coaches with a decent clean toilet. The bus deposited me at Terminal 5 and feeling dizzy and more light-headed by the minute I struggled with my backpack and my rucksack and staggered off to find to the Pod, the state-of-the-art transport system to my hotel.
the ‘station’
clean lines
I have to admit that when the hotel had phoned me to enquire whether I had heard of the Pod I thought that it was an expensive sounding gimmick, but boy, was I glad of it now. At the futuristic little station tucked away in Terminal 5 consoles rather than ticket officers waited, their screens glowing invitingly in the muted light, lined up alongside little docking stations behind a glass screen. As I followed the very simple instructions on the screen an unmanned electric cart trundled into view. Parking up next to the waiting business man standing at the next station I watched as he stepped in. My Pod was not far behind and I gratefully collapsed onto the wide seat, whilst a soothing recorded voice welcomed me to the experience and advised me to remain seated. Smoothly and almost silently we whizzed along a little roadway, up and down ramps and bridges, crossing over main roads packed with cars. The journey took just five minutes and I very quickly found myself in the car park of the Thistle. Check in was luckily speedy and hassle free, no doubt hastened by my very odd grey complexion as I just needed to get to my room and collapse in a heap.
So no nice meal or drink on the terrace. I couldn’t even take advantage of the tea and coffee making facilities in the room, but I did come very close to experiencing the on-call doctor. Luckily by four in the morning my symptoms had eased and I felt more confident about taking two consecutive flights and travelling for close on twenty four hours.
the pod
As I checked out, I was able to experience the Pod transfer system a little better. The little vehicles reminded me of some of the better bubble lifts at ski resorts, clean and nippy with stacks of room inside for up to four passengers and their bags. The station was just a short walk from the hotel reception and whilst marginally more expensive that the Heathrow Hotel Shuttle Bus, it was certainly worth the extra. I still come out in a cold sweat when I think how I was intending to catch the shuttle bus and I am not at all sure that I would have managed that journey.
Anyhow the day picked up and the adventure truly got under way.
The British Airways flight to Miami airport passed smoothly despite the American man to my left pointedly refusing to be drawn into any sort of conversation at all but he insisted on spilling over into my seat. The British man on my right did chat away but he also kept falling asleep and snuggling in against my shoulder.
Customs at Miami was more interesting. I had to go out through customs and then re-enter. It was very busy and at the head of my queue there were two men joking with each other about who was to go first. Well, the customs officer wasn’t having any nonsense at all and bounced out of his booth, got right into their faces and bawled at them, insisting that they tell him what was so funny. He really was quite menacing and was tapping his belt as if itching for them to give him an excuse for a good beating or a shooting. Torn between being nosy and trying to shrink down behind the man in front I really wished that I could have taken a photograph but that was a definite no-no. After my turn of being photographed and finger printed I automatically drifted forward to lean on the officer’s desk – and was promptly ordered in a very loud voice and in no uncertain terms to stand right back IMMEDIATELY. To lull me into a false sense of security, the official allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch in what was possibly a tiny smile, and when I responded with the same he yelled at me again – he was certainly revelling in his power and also managed to snigger at my passport photo too, but he did ‘ma’am’ me and wish me a good onward flight.
over Peru
There then followed an extremely boring seven hour wait at Miami for my next flight which would take me down to Lima in Peru. I have to admit to getting a little nervous at this stage, worrying about the imminent taxi ride and simply locating my hostel. A couple of airplanes later (they kept breaking) and three gate changes we boarded two hours late but had another uneventful five and a half hour flight to Lima. I managed to doze for most of it but woke to a magnificent sunrise whilst below the plane, the sharp jagged peaks of the Andes pierced the fluffy magicalness of the clouds, running all along the horizon on the left as far as the eye could see. I was momentarily confused as the captain announced that landing was imminent and the clouds were still far below us, but all became clear as we suddenly descended and landed in thick fog know as garua. Carmen, the dinky little Peruvian to my right explained that for much of the year. Lima is rather cruelly cloaked in a grey mist, not like any normal mist but one which bathes the city in a luminescent ghostly pale glow. It lifts briefly for a few short months during the summer and is due to do so any day now and when it does the people of Lima will rejoice
My adventure did not have the auspicious start that I had hoped and planned for but I will certainly not forget it and Sis was right – I am in the southern hemisphere, I am in South America and I can laugh about it now
Disclaimer: I received complimentary tickets for the Pod by the Thistle Hotel: but this did not, in any way influence my comments in this article, which are my own, personal views.
by Jane | Nov 12, 2013 | My journey, My travels |
Whoop whoop! I am about to begin the next stage of my adventure.
In less that a week I shall be jetting off to Peru. The plan (Plan A of probably several) is to spend three nights exploring the capital Lima before heading up the coast to the second/third largest city that is Trujillo.
I have been warned to watch out for and avoid the hoards of pickpockets and bag snatchers who will be waiting for me in the arrivals hall, I have totally confused myself about which cab, bus or colectivo is the safest way to travel to my hostel and, oh dear, that reminds me, I don’t have a hostel booked yet either.
Havana
When I wake up in a cold sweat at three am I have to remember that I negotiated Havana by myself, and I call up images on Google to remind myself that Lima is quite the cosmopolitan city, not some Dickensian slum, albeit with a tendency for gatherings of riot police. I have decided to stop reading the guide books for now and just see for myself.
I have spent the last five weeks catching up with friends and family, sorting out mundane yet vital things such as backpackers insurance and I have had a lost filling replaced at the dentist. There are still a myriad of jobs to complete before I depart but I am not quite so stressed about them now.
I shall be spending my first three months in Peru working as a volunteer for an NGO (non-governmental organisation/charity), and then after that: who knows! Plan A (still) is to visit Machu Picchu, go see Lake Titicaca (that one is for my mum) and then explore South America whilst blogging and hopefully picking up travel writing commissions.
I need to write. I can’t think of any worst punishment that not being allowed to write, other than not being permitted to read. In my old life I had written sixty thousand words towards my novel and countless short stories and articles, most of which were shoved in the back of a drawer but since I have started out on my journey with Scarlet, I have become more focused.
Last weekend I accompanied my friend – herself a published author – to the Festival of Romance Book Festival. We stayed at a great Bed & Breakfast with a lovely host who cooked possibly the best full English that I have ever had in the Bedford Park Hotel, and I had some time to explore the market town of Bedford. I have never written romance in my life, but I was totally blown away by the people that I met and the camaraderie and support amongst the group of writers and readers. There was nobody at the event who underestimated the dedication and hard slog that it takes to get your words out there. After the awards ceremony I met some of the winners of the new talent awards who are about to realise their dreams and who have been awarded publishing deals. I saw agents and publishers supporting their prodigies and engaged with the whole host of writers who were networking and supporting each other. People described themselves in various ways; authors, writers, hybrid authors, self-published, bloggers or readers, to name just a few titles which were bandied around. When I talked to people I struggled to describe myself as I am just setting out on this journey, but then somebody else summed it up perfectly.
She described herself as a ‘new writer – not yet published’ – a description which I am more than happy to adopt. And I blog – therefore I am a blogger.
I shall go to Peru and I shall raise the profile of my alter-ego Scarlet Jones by reinstating my Twitter and Facebook sites. Attending the Festival has given me a timely nudge and it has reminded me why I resigned from my job, gave up my flat and left my life as I knew it
South American posts will take priority and I will update them frequently, sliding my European Adventure posts in amongst them.
So bear with me whilst I rebuild and launch Scarlet’s public face.
I am a new writer, not yet published and a travel blogger just setting out on the journey of a lifetime
which were lined up along their edge – they looked remarkably fragile, as if they were made up of just sand and loose stones and would crumble at any minute. The many signs directing people upwards in case of a tsunami were also a little disconcerting. At the speed the traffic was moving we would all be fish-food if a giant wave were to strike.
