Telling a long journey is never easy. We have many things in my head, full of different people, full of beautiful images, full of smells associated with plenty of places, a lot of regrets because we also did such a thing and not another. There are plenty of mouth. It hovers just what. The problem is that once you put the words there, pof pof, suddenly it looks bland, flavorless, lifeless. No I'm not lying. I tried to tell my buddies to two months of Bogota, and after two or three seconds of reflection, it often gave something like "no, but you know, it was really nice, we had fun," followed generally a polite "oh okay, okay." I just added. Besides I wonder how it will be when I return to France after a year in bronzed. All those who have returned say it's weird, it feels a little lonely, we can not share what we experienced because we do not find the words.
tell how this trip then? Yes, because two months of traveling, four countries visited a real road trip of the Pacific to the Atlantic through the Andes, all that for more than 180h bus, you can imagine that my boundless modesty could hardly ignore. At the same time tell the whole story, we can not too. It's long, it is difficult, it's not quite what. So I just thought (yes). At first I thought "why not do slices of life, telling the journey by the people I met." Not bad? But hey, a little too classic perhaps, not quite original to the writer alone and misunderstood that I am. It is unfortunate indeed because I could speak to Andrea, one that has stolen the device but we made it but had deleted the photos, but finally we were able to retrieve them. Or four cheerful French Bordeaux (with an average age 55), returning from 12 days to climb Aconcagua, which was found in a vineyard near Mendoza.
Yes but no. Finally I thought it best to tell the trip was to do from what we really liked. And I like people is not known. It must be the discussion, often in English, sometimes Portuguese. Because obviously in those countries, nobody made the effort to learn French, it would be asking too much. Not too tiring, really. What I like about me is the food. It Sink your teeth into a rare steak. With booze of course, we must never forget the booze.
My carne (meat) travel begins in Lima, a city of food, if any. Junket abounds here and wallet smiling. Capital of a huge country, we will drop everything and everything is good. Peruvians love the flesh is tender, the Peruvian they prefer it very rare, which may include. The problem is that once out of Lima, the disappointment is equal to the initial surprise. Overall the place was more tourism, more expensive and the food was bad. In the south, the best option was often Broaster pollo, chicken fried in oil pretty close to what serves the KFC in France, or arroz heating, plastered rice accompanied by various condiments. At Aguas Calientes, near Machu Pichu, the half-matched eight-fried burger (we've counted) was worth about three times the price a full meal in Lima. Without the tax course. Funnier yet (haha) at the top of Machu Pichu, the cheapest sandwich (ham-way) was worth 15 euros, which forced us to walk a few hundred meters to find the restaurant workers of Machu Picchu, which we offered a rustic but cheap sandwich with fried egg. No really it was better to Lima.
Bolivia is not as famous as Peru for its food. For good reason. One example is that of the three days (too many) that we stayed in La Paz, we ate three times in the local fast food as it was, again, the best choice. From the gastronomic point of view, I mean. Except silpancho (ground beef cooked with boiled egg, mixed salad and rice), nothing has really moved in that country. The political science student that I am, however, puts me on alert not to fall into ethnocentrism and judge and the cuisine of a country gone in a hurry in 10 days. Especially since despite our misadventures photographic, I must confess that I rarely had also filled his stomach (and distinguished) that during our four days crossing the Salar de Uyuni. I think especially at this Christmas Eve watered, passed in the middle of the desert, with a dozen Argentines and Lille, where a Lille.
Nevertheless, the shock is great when you pass the Argentine border. Everything is different. The girls are beautiful, it's hot, the roads are paved, the buses are comfortable, it does not understand what people say. Not to mention the kitchen almost as well as in France. Yes I say almost because it still lacks cheese and good bread. And also like pizza. So strange, despite the Italian immigration is impossible to eat a pizza that would be correct. After these minor inconveniences that only a frog will narcissistic noted, it's still a treat to all floors. The first milanesa (piece of meat or chicken coated with breadcrumbs) has tasted the border town had already relegated milanesa Bolivian deep in the dungeons of gastronomy. The result will be even better. The first steak shared with Manu club sport Goya ice Salta, through the wines of the Mendoza region, or the real espresso swallowed terrace in Buenos Aires and Cordoba, everything is excellent. A special mention Mendoza for this restaurant where we went to the friendly invitation of four French nationals who returned from Aconcagua. A paradise for all lovers of gastronomy. Everything is at will. Everything is good. The pieces of meat from the asado is so large that it can not finish. Pasta is (almost) as good as those you cook for roommate (well less stuck anyway). The outbreaks are just incredible pancakes, seasoned with maple syrup, a few pieces of apple, a very generous dollop of whysky and a scoop of vanilla to this famous hot / cold, which thrilled the taste buds. In short, I will return.
In comparison, Brazil seems very shy. And more expensive. As a result, its consumption has seen relatively limited. Few, if any, of rodizio (carvery) menu, or even feijoada (rice, beans, farofa, pork and beef), but rather X-burger (cheeseburger) and misto quente (croque monsieur) at almost every meal. With fries always, do not starve either. And then in the evening, we reloaded the batteries at the local alcohol, the cachaca (sugar cane alcohol), reaching consumption levels that afterwards we were a little scared, and incidentally caused some to Marc colic in series. But whatever the food, Brazil is still Brazil. Failing to eat well, we ate the time and live life from our afternoon nap on the beach and say hello to pretty busy.
In the end, I realize that I ate a lot of chips and drank a lot during this trip. These values are a little safer when you arrive in a strange land. But strangely, no stomach problems, stool perfect from beginning to end, especially in Argentina. It was not until my return to Colombia and an alcohol to the dangerous Indian composition for my stomach let me go. In the midst of a drive volley, which is not nice, neither for me nor for teammates elsewhere ... There! Friends of the poetry evening and a good appetite, of course!
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