Tag: adventure travel

Story of the week: In the footsteps of Che Guevara in Bolivia

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* Delving back in the archive this week, here’s a story from my travels in South America on the trail of a rather famous fugitive.

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Julia Cortes remembers the day clearly: October 8, 1967.

She was a 19-year-old trainee teacher at the tiny schoolhouse in La Higuera, a remote and dusty pueblo lost amongst Bolivia’s eastern lowlands.

When Bolivian troops commandeered the school as a makeshift prison for a wounded combatant, she was charged with bringing the prisoner food.

“I remember the man was blessed with great charisma and intelligence,” she says. “I brought him soup and we talked. He was very polite and respectful to me.”

Little did she know at that time, but that man was Che Guevara and she was to be one of the last people to see him alive.

Che had travelled to Bolivia in November 1966 to mobilise a social revolution. Instead of liberating the rural underclass, however, the local community betrayed him and, after being wounded in a gun battle, he was captured by Bolivian troops.

Then next morning, when Julia returned with his breakfast, the soldiers had already executed him.

His lifeless body was taken to the Señor de Malta Hospital in the nearby town of Vallegrande, where the corpse was paraded before the world’s media.

The bodies of Che and his follow guerrillas were then secretly dumped in unmarked graves. Che’s corpse was only unearthed and finally returned to Cuba for burial in 1997.

Until recently, following in Che’s final footsteps entailed running the gauntlet of lost-in-time settlements and rough, dirt-track roads.

But the inauguration of an official Che route, has opened up the region to a fledgling backpacker trail, fuelled by interest in the cult of Che with films like The Motorcycle Diaries and the forthcoming Che biopic with Benicio Del Toro in the lead road.

Backed by international NGOs, the trail aims to generate vital income for the indigenous community in what is one of the poorest rural areas of Bolivia.

Under the auspices of the project, the local Guarani people are employment in cultural projects, improving the services available to tourists and as official trail guides, charged with explaining events at various stages of the trail.

The organisers sought the support of Che’s daughter in Cuba to rubber-stamp the initiative.

There are, in fact, three routes through Che country, all retracing journeys as documented in his final tome, Bolivian Dairy.

Of the three, the northern trail that runs from Santa Cruz de la Sierra, the economic powerhouse city of southern Bolivia, via Vallegrande to La Higuera, is the most accessible.

Tour operators in Santa Cruz will arrange three to five-day itineraries by jeep, or independent travellers can catch bone-shaking local transport as far as Vallegrande, after which a 4WD will be required due to the perilous state of the roads.

Along the trail, the scenery changes rapidly from lush, tropical vegetation to a rough scrub, dotted only with cacti and the occasional roaming mule.

The route is marked by a combination of roadside panels and ceramic tiles while the Argentina artist, Rodolfo Saavedra, was commissioned to paint a selection of Che-inspired murals at key locations prior to the official launch.

Vallegrande remains the best place to overnight along the trail. Standards are basic but functional with simple B&B-style lodgings and cheap but cheerful restaurants for a hearty set lunch.

The town’s Casa de Cultura, set amongst the sun-bleached facades of colonial buildings fringing the verdant main square, is home to a striking collection of black-and-white photographs that bring to life the tumultuous events of Che’s last stand.

Across town at the Señor de Malta Hospital, the laundry outhouse where journalists snapped images of Che’s corpse is starting to resemble Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris’ Pere-Lachaise cemetery as a site of international pilgrimage.

The burgeoning graffiti collection from across the world features a mix of revolutionary slogans and emotional tributes.

La Higuera, two hours heading southwest along the trail, is dominated by an imposing stone-carved bust of Che [pictured above], erected in 1997 to mark the 30th anniversary of his death.

The schoolhouse is the Holy Grail for steady ant trail of Che pilgrims but remains virtually unchanged from the fateful day of his capture.

As the sun blisters the scrubland and the mules seek shade under towering cacti, the local Che guide unlocks the schoolhouse door for me to gaze upon snatches of revolutionary slogans daubed like blood stains across the faded walls.

I spend a few moments soaking up the silence. As I make to leave, one particular inscription catches my eye.

It reads: “Through this door one man walked out to eternity.”

* This story was first published in BBC History magazine in 2008. Liked this? Try An eco-escape in the Bolivian Amazon.

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Story of the week: Rev it up across northern Vietnam

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This is the latest post in a weekly series, highlighting stories from my travel-writing archive. Subscribe to the RSS feed for more.

I love the thrill of the open road. Shades on, foot to the floor and cruising through alien landscapes with the stereo cranked right up.

But Vietnam was just about the last place I expected to find myself on a road trip. Self-drive isn’t really an option here.

Indeed, if I wanted a ride outside my hotel in Hanoi, I’d just flag down a passing motorbike, slip the driver 5,000 Vietnamese Dong (US$0.33) and hop on the back.

And, as for the State-approved backpacker bus trips, well, let’s just say that rubbing knees with the tie-dye clad hordes and eating in the tourist restaurant, where the bus driver always collects his kickback, isn’t my scene.

Easy rider

Luckily, I came across a flyer for the Hanoi Minsk club, a group of petrolheads who eschew the trappings of mass tourism in favour of small group trips to remote rural locations.

It sounded perfect. A way to get my engine running and get out on the highway while staying off-the-beaten-track and seeing the real Vietnam.

As I strapped my backpack to the bike and wiped the grime off my helmet’s visor on a sunny Hanoi morning, I knew I wasn’t in for a five star luxury. But, hey, I’d always harboured Dennis Hopper Easy Rider fantasies and, besides, I just love the smell of gasoline in the mornings.

Minsk club (named after the Russian 125cc two-stoke motorbikes) is the brainchild of Australian-born Digby Greenhalgh, who moved to Vietnam just after 1993’s doi moi reform policies first opened the country to tourism.

Since then, Digby has made hundreds of trips into the backwaters of the far north, building up a comprehensive motorbike guide to northern Vietnam.

“The bikes are old 50’s designs straight out of Belarussia. They’re the backbone of the country and used by everyone to haul goods around,” explains Digby, saddling up.

“They don’t go very fast, use a lot of petrol and billow out a lot of smoke, but they’ll get you anywhere,” he adds.

“Besides, they’re very easy to fix. If you’ve got a stick and a rock you can fix a Minsk.”

Cruise control 

With the sun in our faces, we join the highway near Hanoi’s Noi Bai airport and start the slow climb northwards. As we progress at a steady 35km/h, overtaking lumbering trucks soon gives way to overtaking lumbering water buffalo who eye suspiciously as we file past the paddy fields.

We stop for dinner that night in Tuyen Quang. It’s a dusty one-ass town dominated by trucker rest stops and so-called bia om or ‘cuddle beer’ outlets where the town’s two attractions make for natural bedfellows.

As we settle down for the night in the shabby state-owned hotel, one of my fellow easy riders, Casey McCarthy from Texas, tells me why she has chosen a severe buttock buffing on a motorbike in the rain for her holiday.

“I’d never seen a Minsk before Vietnam and, although it’s ancient technology, it’s a very easy ride,” she says. “I guess I just wanted to get away from those cattle-truck bus trips and a bike trip is the best way to see the countryside as you decide where and when you want to go.”

The next day we’re up with the light and, after a hearty bowl of Vietnamese pho bo (a rice noodle soup with strips of beef), we’re back in the saddle and on the road for Ha Giang.

As we stop for petrol at what looks like a roadside chemistry set, I ask Digby what kind of people are attracted to the idea of driving around rural Vietnam on a piece of Russian war-era machinery.

“Half are motorbike riders back home or people with some previous experience but not all. I’d never ridden a bike until I came to Vietnam,” he explains, taking a little bottle of engine oil and mixing it with petrol.

“Drive bikes and you will crash but drive slow enough and you’ll be OK,” he adds, handing over a dollar for two litres. “If we go over, we’ll just slide – unless we hit something. But it’s nothing like driving at 130km back home when you get washed up off the road”.

Alien invasion

The last 50km to Ha Giang is made up of winding country lanes. It’s a drive not best experienced at dusk when huge trucks with dazzling headlights tear around blind corners with scant regard for approaching fellow truckers, let alone a bunch of foreigners on motorbikes in dayglo jackets.

As we make the final approach, it feels like entering a long-forgotten Wild West outpost. The locals stare at us like aliens just beamed down from another planet but Digby is used to it.

“I regularly go to places where only a handful of strangers have ever been before. Just two weeks ago, I took a tour to a place where only three foreigners had ever visited before the new road was built,” he smiles.

“Just as I was thinking that I’d been everywhere possible, the Vietnamese Government has launched a programme to build roads to each commune so a there’s now a whole bunch of new roads to explore,” he adds.

“That’s why I do this. It isn’t so much a tour as a road trip where the guide is having as much fun as the customers.”

This story was first published in the Independent in 2006.

Have you got an angle on Vietnam, or a great adventure travel idea?

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Story of the day: On the edge in West Greenland

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It’s a journey back in time to end the week.

This is an old story from Wanderlust magazine, a feature that launched a lot of commissions even if it didn’t all go smoothly at the time.

Here’s an extract:

Frederik was laughing at my pronunciation. “Siku,” he said. “That means ice in Greenlandic.”

“Then there’s Sirmirsuaq. And sikursuit. They mean ice too.”

Sikurlaaq. Sikuaq. Siirsinniq. They’re all tongue-twisting variations on the same theme.

In fact, more than a dozen Greenlandic words for ice exist – most of them comprising such odd juxtapositions of consonants and vowels that, should they ever make a Greenlandic version of Countdown, there’ll be some serious overtime in Dictionary Corner.

Read the full story, The Future of Greenland.

Have you visited West Greenland? What are your experiences of handling stories in remote communities?

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