After three months and more than 16,000 kilometres over land and water, my biggest journey to date comes to an end in Tango Town Buenos Aires. I set off on foot for the last time, covering many kilometres in remote areas. On the outskirts of La Boca, the third warning from local residents tells me to hide my camera. The streets are barricaded and the figures actually set my alarm bells ringing for the first time in years.
Buenos Aires surprises me with the widest avenue in the world, a thousand statues, large parks full of rubber trees and a wonderfully lively mix of people from all over the world. The mansard palaces take you back to Paris in the early 19th century, the underground railway running against the traffic to London. In three days, I only get on the train in the right direction once. (more…)
If cats could dance…
…then they would dance the tango. In a swingers club. In Buenos Aires. After months in the Dominican Republic and the holy Sundays under the gay French direction of Thiery in the former Regensburg harbour brothel, I seriously thought that salsa was the most erotic dance in the world. I was so wrong! Salsa is just pornographic couple wankery. Tango is sex.
Today. Here. Buenos Aires. Probably the only small non-commercial tango venue in the tango metropolis of 15 million people. I find Café Vinilo after a long search on the internet, half an hour before it starts and five kilometres away. At first I just look. I’m good at recognising patterns. I don’t recognise a single one. Everyone dances different steps to different rhythms. Individualistic like cats. (more…)
Cordoba, Argentina
A friend I met in Brazil a few years ago invites me to Córdoba. I’m happy to drop by and am picked up by her at the terminal after the first really shitty night bus due to a massive lack of space. Her flat on the eleventh floor with a view over the whole of Córdoba is the panoramic web design office of the trip.
She works as a TV and radio presenter. For her birthday, she gives me a guided tour of all the studios. I feel like I’m on a kindergarten trip: the world is big, exciting and endlessly interesting. In the Cuesta Del Viento’s internet hole, all the work has been left behind. Here in the panorama over Córdoba, I work through a lot of things and listen to her on the radio. (more…)
50 kn @ Cuesta Del Viento
Poetic places are hard to reach. It takes me 33 hours, four buses and a lovely motorised local to get to Cuesta Del Viento. I arrive at the wonderful hippie hostel Lamaral in the middle of nowhere. The centre is just before the Chilean border. Its name means “rise of the wind”. The strongest winds in Argentina blow here every day at 25 to 50 knots across the reservoir, which is only 20 years old.
The Jefe himself makes my bed in the simple accommodation. Afterwards, he hands me a beer. As soon as my Styrian room neighbour has emptied it, the whole colourful gang heads to the nearest restaurant for dinner. The party goes on for a long time. Stars are twinkling, wine is glowing, guitars are strumming and dowels are holding pictures of the wind on the walls. (more…)
Road Tripping Argentina
The next part of the journey takes four buses and two taxis over a good 1,600 kilometres and 33 hours to the far north of Argentina. Every 100 kilometres, a bend interrupts the endless straight stretch to the horizon. For two months I travelled south on the west side of the Andes, now east of them to the north.
In the centre, the peaks of the Andes shine in the sunrise. On one side, they rise slowly over hundreds of kilometres. On the other, they go boom! and after thousands of kilometres of flat pampas, they are up to 6,000 metres high. (more…)
Bariloche
The journey to Argentina from Chiloé is almost 500 kilometres by three buses and a ferry and takes a good 13 hours. After eleven rainy days, Chilean Patagonia bids me farewell with the most glorious weather. The border guards wave us through quickly, then it’s over volcanic passes past forests of tree corpses from the last eruption down to Bariloche.
Everything here is Swiss: the mighty fir trees, the deep blue lakes, the luxury resorts built from natural stone and whole tree trunks, the expensive cars in front of them – and the prices. Withdrawing money from ATMs costs at least six per cent, less money or the wrong bank sometimes 15%. Hardly anyone accepts credit cards. (more…)
km 12,248: South pole of a great journey
For the second time after the Machu Picchu Inca Jungle Trail, I leave almost all my luggage behind. Five kilograms instead of 40 feels like a lot more than minus 35. I’ve dragged a good 25kg of kite material behind me for just 12 days on the water over more than 12,000 kilometres. Clearly too much. The journey may end without kiting in front of calving glaciers. But not with just 12 days on the water!
In the very south of Chiloé lies the small town of Quellon. From here, a ferry runs to several harbours on remote islands and the mainland in southern Patagonia. The Naviera Austral was only opened to tourists last year and, at €30 for 24 hours, is the only cheap ferry in the region. The large tourist ferries easily cost three times as much. (more…)
Puerto Montt & Chiloé
Puerto Montt is the last major town on the next 1,000 kilometres into the wild south of Patagonia. The wind turns to the unusual direction of north, and thus fully offshore to Tierra del Fuego. Kiting is out of the question at ten degrees in constant rain. I enjoy the last sparks of civilisation with Star Wars in Spanish at the cinema. The Chileans are irritated by my hearty laughter to Yoda’s “Los libros, ¿leido has?”.
My big dream of travelling 2,600 km down the Carretera Austral gravel road to the end of the world in Villa Ol’Higgins is shattered. Neither the kind Chileans in a large Facebook backpacker group nor the posting of requests in numerous hostels and tourist information centres is any good. I can’t find a second driver and have to cancel the hire car because my driving licence has been stolen. (more…)
Puerto Varas
Puerto Varas on Lake Llanquihue, five hours south of Pucon, is one of the last big towns before the endless expanses of southern Patagonia. I spend a few days over New Year’s Eve in the Margouya Patagonia Hostel, a manor house that is a good hundred years old. The French owners have transformed the property into a true backpacker’s heaven: Open fires, free-standing bathtubs and a hard drive hanging on the TV with loads of good films are a welcome change from fast-paced travelling.
Unfortunately, Puerto Montt makes the same mistake as Pucon: it spoils its charm, characterised by old wooden houses, with concrete bunkers that are out of scale. The largest of these stand directly upwind of the only kiteable beach in the neighbourhood. The hills slow down the typical cold southerly wind from the Patagonian fjords. The bunkers kill it for good. No chance of kiting here. (more…)
Pucon
The almost 1,000 kilometre journey from Pichilemu back via Santiago and down to Pucon on the Patagonian border comes to a bit of a standstill. Turbus misses the online ticket I bought the day before. Two hours of walking and complaining to the ticket centre don’t help. I have to buy a new ticket and take the last night bus after nine hours. At least a friend from Pichilemu has enough time to bring my forgotten neoboats to Santiago. Thank you!
The night eats up the kilometres. In the morning, I wake up in a different world. Everything is green, every tree in the cloud forest is at least 100 years old and the sheep look as fat as if they’re going to burst any second because of the lush grass. (more…)
Happy Hippie Surf @ Pichilemu
Pichilemu is a creative surfing hotspot three hours south of Santiago. The growth phases of the unique wooden houses can be recognised by their annual rings. The wonderful Sirena Insolente Hostel is full of good people, every evening there is a campfire under a starry sky, and Christmas is written here without an h.
I’m writing against losing. Madrid grinned at me at first, but was convinced of Luke’s power as the evening progressed. It’s good as it is, but I also know that I’m losing a lot because of my high travelling speed. I whistle “City of New Orleans” as I leave. The hostel is still asleep. (more…)
km 9,961: Santiago de Chile
The theft happened in the perfect place. The German Embassy in Santiago de Chile is just over two hours away by bus. She agrees to stamp my driving licence copy. After Christmas. The police give me three entertaining Spanish lessons, then I have my ten lines of theft report.
- The B’n’B style Landay Hostel is in a central and quiet location in the stately home of the old Chilean poetess Iris. Super friendly staff and lots of good wine round off every evening in these venerable walls. Highly recommended! (more…)
Los Vilos & Valparaiso
The brilliant World Kite And Windsurfing Guide, which is now also available online, proclaims the cosy little Los Vilos to be the windiest Pacific kitesurfing spot in Chile. In front of the long, flat sandy beach, two metre waves break beautifully and at good intervals in powerful barrels.
Only the wind is missing. But that’s not important. Still flattened by the Embalse Puclaro, I spend two days lying down at my dear couchsurfing host and dentist Cristian’s place. Los Vilos was hit hard by a fish kill caused by mines in the nearby mountains. Many inhabitants are fighting for survival in gambling casinos – or stand in front of them smoking and begging. The rest simply drink themselves to death lying quietly in the park. (more…)
Embalse Puclaro & Vicuña
The next destination is a good 1,400 kilometres and almost 24 hours by night bus south of the Atacama Desert. In cool La Serena on the Pacific, the fog hangs lower than under the Golden Gate in San Francisco. Behind it, the hot and dry Valle de Elqui rises to almost 4,800 metres to the Argentinian border. The two together create the rocket motor for Chile’s number one strong wind spot.
The Embalse Puclaro is a small reservoir in the vine-covered valley 50 kilometres behind La Serena. The wind is thermal and blows on a gigantic 300 afternoons a year with an average of 25 to 30 knots. Hidden Lines was a guest here. Vicuña is the last lively centre before the Argentinian border, 170 km away, and has a population of almost 2,500. (more…)
km 7.557: Lost @ Atacama Desert
The bus races down a whole two kilometres of altitude from the high mountains of the Andes. On the 40-kilometre descent over the gentle flanks of the Licancabur volcano, I drop my trousers and wiggle bare-bottomed in the face of altitude sickness. Everything changes! The Chileans are so fed up with the high mountains that they have moved the border control 40 kilometres behind them, right at the entrance to San Pedro de Atacama.
Thick air is great! Dogs that don’t look – or act – like Resident Evil! Sun, heat and no rain – we haven’t had that for weeks! Chairs worthy of the name. Toilets with loo paper! On castors! Cutlery made of stainless steel instead of punched metal, and porcelain instead of plastic. Spices! Good wine! Even the dirt is cleaner in Chile. Goodbye misery! Culture olé! (more…)
Machu Picchu Inca Jungle Trail
The Andean trout shouts from below: “I never wanted to be sushi! Feliz Montezuma, gringo! Chinga te!”. Whenever something upset my stomach, it was always a posh western restaurant – never one of the dirty little cookshops. So it was this morning at four o’clock in Cusco.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Right at the start of the four-day Machu Picchu Inca Jungle Trail with a small, good group of Americans and Germans, downhill mountain biking, rafting and mountaineering are on the programme. (more…)
km 4.549: Cusco
The tourist bus lines all advertise that they would not travel this route to Cusco. CIVA drives the 830 kilometres over the highest Andean passes and the sharpest hairpin bends, 18 hours through the night and by double-decker spaceship.
At dawn, I wipe away the condensation in front of the panoramic seat on the top floor at the wrong moment. You wake up pretty quickly when a truck suddenly comes out of a bend to meet your spaceship as you overtake. On the left, the road descends almost vertically for 300 metres. (more…)
Huacachina: The desert roars
Huacachina is the only oasis in South America. A few hostels and shops plus plenty of jeep tours line a small palm-fringed body of water. The surrounding sand dunes are up to 200 metres high and very steep. The attraction is the jeep tours into the desert. Today I’m going to do what everyone does.
The improvised three-point seat belts are anything but superfluous. The jeeps are powerful and loud, and the lads really know how to chase them over the dunes. Two hours before sunset, we are hurled through a violent natural rollercoaster. Steep bend, uphill, bum takes off, mogul slope, full throttle. The sand dusts everything. (more…)
Paracas: Kiting with flamingos
Mad Max was definitely born a good 30 years ago on the Panamericana south of Lima. Four roofless walls in the middle of nowhere proudly proclaim the possibility of renting them as a restaurant. A few abandoned houses stand on the sand. High walls around them protect the nothingness from the nowhere. 20 ice cream stalls once offered “Helado Artesanal”. In between, rubbish heaps burn again and again.
A large display proclaims a golden future for your family in an urbanisation somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The building site was abandoned years ago. Sand dunes, dust, some petrochemicals, a steelworks, hundreds of lorries full of scrap metal and incredible poverty. This is the most desolate area I have ever travelled through. (more…)
km 3.315: Lima? Puta Madre!
The bus to Lima, 20 hours and 1,300 kilometres to the south, is a spaceship on ten wheels. Board service and reclining seats are crowned by the entertainment programme. Vin diesels at full volume through three outbreaks of human error that are hard to beat.
On the left, the poorest street villages and dusty steppe like in northern Brazil pass by on the Panamericana. On the other side, the sun conjures up a sunset over the Pacific that even Bob Ross would go for. Then the whole bus shouts: “Gooool!” Peru has qualified for the World Cup. Peru is bitterly poor – and its joy is a mixture of Sambodrome, religious fanaticism and GDR. For days. (more…)
Full Moon Party & Kitesurf @ Máncora
Out of the nine-hour night bus from Ecuador at six in the morning. By tuk-tuk to the last beach hostel. Sleep in, set up the board, pump up, out onto the water. 22 knots sideon on an endless sandy beach behind wild waves. A flock of pelicans passes by. His soloist fishes undisturbed next to my passing kiteboard in the Pacific.
The waves break narrow and close to the beach, no comparison to Santa Marianita with its endless smooth waves at pleasant intervals. The wind here is more powerful, and sideon jumps are more exciting over ten centimetres post-shorebreak anyway. Máncora should be higher up on the worldwide kitesurfing map – plenty of space and lots on offer. There have never been more than seven kiters on two kilometres of beach within a week. (more…)
Panamericana III, km 1.600 : Cuenca
Latin America is the continent with the most murders, the deepest pain and the most intense suffering. Yet it is here that the most bloodthirsty butchers in film history are shown on every intercity bus. At first glance, this may seem a little disturbing. But once the driver becomes the executioner, the solution to the mystery is immediately clear.
The hermetically sealed partition installed in every bus between passengers and driver/executioner does not serve to protect the latter, as in aeroplanes, for example. It is a manifestation of humanity. Similar to the blindfold of the condemned, its sole purpose is to block the passengers’ view of the fate that lies ahead of them. (more…)
Amazonass @ Banos
The famous Banos thermal spa is just two hours away by bus on the eastern side of the main Andean ridge at 1,800 metres. We approach the Amazon: green rainforest, bamboo and sugar cane conjure up a completely different world. Crowds of tourists clog up the only road there, and the hustle and bustle in the centre is a welcome change from what Andreas Altmann often called travelling in a lonely continent.
Here on the Amazon side of the Andes, the wind chops down the valley at up to 30 knots over packed thermal pools. Even Nick Jacobsen would probably find them too full for his kite fun. We opt for an empty thermal pool a little further away and relax in the warm volcanic water while the wind carries my towel away. (more…)
Riobamba & Chimborazo
On the bank holidays, I travel a good 2,700 metres in altitude and ten hours by bus from the Pacific to the Andes via Ecuador’s second largest city. When changing planes at the Guayaquil terminal, I fly through tens of thousands of Ecuadorians queuing endlessly in front of the counters.
Whole armies of flying vendors storm the bus at 20 km/h past the “Prohibido Vendedores / Comida” sign. The clouds hang low over the steep slopes of the western Andes. Then we break through the top layer and the sun shines over endless high mountain valleys and volcanoes. I have an appointment here with an extremely versatile designer from Quito. (more…)
The fighting dogs of Santa Marianita
The bus takes us on the first big step over ten hours and 3,000 metres in altitude down to the Pacific. The reclining seats and legroom are pure paradise. I work, blog and edit videos. The sun cream implodes and the Gopro no longer opens. In Santa Marianita, barking dogs chase my taxi to the small Punta La Barca hostel right on the hillside above Kite Beach.
Three of the neighbour’s fighting dogs attack me on my first walk. One of them bites my foot good and hard. Antibiotics iron out the subsequent infection. I’ve had four dogs in my life, I’ve made Nepalese temple dogs sing and hellhounds keep quiet. I’m good with dogs. There’s only one thing that helps with these fucking fighting dogs. (more…)
The Author
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.