Bolivian Curtains
We’ve eventually left Chile, the most expensive and most westernised country in South America. It was an interesting exercise in cultural comparison between two adjacent countries. Argentineans and Chilenos generally hate each other. Chilenos have the better economy but are considered rude. Argentines have class but are self obsessed. Or that’s the way the stereotypes fall out in the heated comparisons you hear when any reference to Argentina comes up in Chilean company or vice versa. Chileans also have a reputation for being mean spirited, rude and landgrabbing, military obsessed souls. We witnessed several very bizarre impromptu military parades, one through a traffic jam in Santiago, another around the car park of a huge shopping mall in Calama. No one seems to pay much attention to the regular public preening of this very proud army banging out jazz standards, people for the most part treating the parades as an inconvenient incursion into their daily lives.
How could you miss?Chile’s over ambitious desire, bordering on greed, for territory is the reason why poor Bolivia is now landlocked. Despite what the ever optimistic Bolivians see as this temporary situation, this unfortunate country, landlocked by Chile’s greed, still retains a (semi functional) Navy. The Argentines are pissed because the Chileans on several occasions have very cheekily used Argentina’s difficulty as Chile’s opportunity to grab more land – particularly in the south of the continent towards southern Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego. Argentina would find themselves at war with some random neighbouring country and Chile would hurry down to some remote Argentine outpost and stick their flag in a piece of dirt and that’d be that. Which goes a ways to explaining the ridiculous multiple border crossings we endured in Tierra del Fuego. We did get some very interesting insights into Chileans from a couple of American Santiago residents we spoke to and from one very entertaining English speaking Chileno called Rodruigo. In most developed countries appearances are important. In Chile appearances are everything. There’s a complex and multi levelled materialistic stratification of society and people will go to bizarre extremes to jump up a level.
One of the stores used a very interesting technique to sell fridges. They stacked hundreds of pallets of 3 litre bottles of Coca Cola all around the fridge display area, in the fridges and on the fridges themselves. Chilenos love the Coca Cola so it was like reverse sales psychology - here’s a clever way of keeping your Coke cool! In Calama also, the moneyed men from the mining companies came all decked out in the unofficial uniform of the Ralph Lauren Polo shirts – the bigger the logo the better, Timberland shoes and Docker chinos. Interestingly the mall had 3 men’s shops, a Ralph Lauren store, a Timberland shop and a Dockers franchise. Any potential embarrassment about looking like an identikit of the fella beside you was offset by that warm feeling of looking the part. A typically Chilean scenario. We’ll discuss the Chilean ladies distinct lack of fashion sensibility in a minute.
Gareth O'Mannequin, the world's first depressed dummy (La Paz)Sitting watching the coverage of the Virginia shooting in one of these malls was an interesting experience. These people absolutely aspire to and completely buy into the American Dream. These shooting massacres, a seemingly unavoidable by-product of a dream with the right to bear arms, were treated like an unwanted wake up call from the extant reverie of a population still avidly pursuing the neon supersize dream, eyes closed as tightly as they can for the maximum experience. People sat guzzying buckets of KFC, devouring the contents of towers of Pizza Hut boxes, queuing for 20 minutes for a McDonalds steadfastly ignoring the craziness being beamed into their “Foodhall”. Speaking of the American Dream/Nightmare, Chileans have definitely bought into the North American obesity problem aswell.
Dinner in CalamaWe took another overnight bus from Santiago to Calama in northern Chile with the intention of hitting the altiplano and the Atacama desert. We misunderstood the lady who sold us the ticket and thought that the journey would take 9 hours. 24 hours later, eyes facing different directions and digestive systems in revolt from 24 hours of prepacked zero roughage meals, we breezed into dusty Calama. Calama is a desert town, the kind of town that appears like 1 forlorn, frayed at the edges patch on a windswept and dull patchwork of desert landscape. It’s some kind of mining outpost – the largest copper mine (and the ensuing officially largest hole in the ground on the planet) is about 20km out of town so there’s money in Calama, a lot of it North American I believe. A lot of the civic buildings are huge, architecturally designed curved concrete affairs. There’s even a sprawling North American style mall with a food court where we sat on a couple of evenings (the only place where you could get non deep fried food which wasn’t chicken), eyes boggling at the Chileans wanton and unabashed buffet abuse. In Argentina there may be a lot of food available at restaurant buffets or barbeques. Foreigners make the mistake of feeling that because you’re entitled to as much meat as you can stomach with the cover charge, they must put away 3 or 4 plates of steak in one sitting. You’ll find that the abstemious Argentines generally only partially fill their plates, take an inordinate amount of time over their meal and even then leave at least half of it for Mr Manners, or Mr Sixpack, or Miss Tightbutt. Chileans, on the other hand are worse than the Irish. The buffet place in Calama has resorted to downsizing their plates so that the hungry Chilenos can only physically fit a limited amount of food on their plates, the restaurant desperately trying to break even on their buffet enterprise by presumably trying to embarrass their clients out of several return visits to the buffet well. It don’t seem to work. We witnessed 3 stumpy gentleman, probably in their mid 50s, lunching at the buffet. They were all unhealthily huge with stretchy jumpers struggling to cover the dull orbs of their bellies. You got the impression straight away that each of these guys got up in the morning dreaming about their coming lunchtime’s buffet adventures. Each of them while filling their tiny plates made no effort to disguise the fact that they were also sampling, using their fingers, every piece of meat, every piece of cheese, olives, dressing, potato chips, every variety of vegetable, every condiment - every everything that was laid out on the table as they mooched around deciding what to actually put on their plate. They’d had a 3 course lunch in snacks even before they’d sat down to eat! One old guy made 3 return visits for dessert alone, each time returning victorious to his table with the heads of 4 different desserts. I watched a schoolgirl take 15 hits from the Mayonnaise fountain for just one plate of chips. Every course is accompanied by a fresh hit from the Soda Fountain or, more commonly, a three litre bottle of coke is purchased to be shared between friends and imbibed liberally throughout the meal. The avarice and eating without consequence was worse than I’ve seen anywhere in North America and that includes me being let loose on the 5 dollar buffet in Reno. You have to remember the Chilenos are small squat people by design anyway. There’s a massive obesity crisis sweeping the nation due apparently to Chileans lack of awareness of the ramifications of such a diet long term. One night in Santiago we were heading out pretty late and hadn’t had dinner. So the only vaguely palatable quick fix option for 2 hungry veggies was a pizza and the only pizza place we could find was an upscale Dominos (it had seats). Our pizza order took about 25 minutes and in that time we witnessed terrifying abominations of over indulgence.
For a start the smallest pizza Dominos Chile offer is a 2-3 person pizza, about 12”. They don’t sell water or cans or small bottles of soft drinks. They only sell 2.5 litre bottles of Coke or Sprite. Our single pizza order came with one of these bottles of Coke plus 2 portions of garlic bread thrown in, free gratis, for nothing under the terms of a Get Fat On Us offer which they hadn’t even bothered to advertise or tell us about. One family, a mother and a father, a teenage kid and a kid around 10, picked up 3 of these 12” pizzas and the ensuing bounty of free beverages and side dishes. It would appear they did this every night. Their clothes were in a state of Polyester Panic with the stretchy pants in danger of walking right off the job due to the stressful conditions and the imminent late night salted carbs and sugar feast. The dad looked like a the quintessential lost soul in the throes of advanced addiction – in this case a junk food junky. Unshaved, unwashed, the sauce from last nights pizza feast still embedded in his whiskers his eyes glazed over as he, the hunter gatherer possessively grabbed the pizza boxes, shoved them under his arm and wandered back to his lair to nourish his family. There was 3 of us to the one pizza we’d bought and we couldn’t even finish it it was so doughy and laden with stodgy cheese. We seem to have spent an inordinate amount of time observing Chilenos eating unhealthily. The irony is not lost on me or my new upsized stretchy pants. We knew before we arrived that Chilean cuisine was exceptionally bland at best, without even the chance of the Italian influence to spice things up and provide you with good pizza or pasta. But it really is horrific. Even if you wanted to eat healthily, there’s zero options for you. We had very little choice in the crud we shoved down our throats and maybe if we had to live in a place with such limited healthy options and over abundance of exceptionally cheap unhealthy options, we’d be fat as snails aswell.
Filling out the paperwork at the Bolivian borderCalama was a strange town. Just walking down the streets left you both bemused and alarmed. Rural Calama featured many instances of overweight lowride ladies in polyester pants with reinforced seams strutting purposefully, always purposefully, tapping out their intentions, letting people know they're going places at an impressive one and a half steps per second with their high heels click clacking on the tiled pavements. The all pervasive smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume fills the air and jars in your nostrils. Another Argentine / Chilean stereotype is that the Argentines are a far more elegant and beautiful race. I have to say that on recent experience alone, I concur. The ladies apply their perfume in Calama as if it were an insecticide. Your lungs are in some distress from the altitude anyways, so when you get a blast from the downwind of these noxious nymphs you're left wheezing in their wake, crouched on the roadside to allow them walk far enough ahead so you don’t have to inhale within their lingering 40ft aura. I reckon that the perfume is a ploy to make up for their complete lack of attractiveness. Instead of the men going “Wahey look at that!” like in Argentina, they tend to go “Woohooo!! What the fuck is that smell!? – have I been tear gassed? Awwww Nuts….Not another coup!?”. They look up, confused and disoriented to spy this vision of permed, plump, perfumed, polyester womanhood batting her eyelids in a disinterested way suggesting that there's a random task to be urgently completed before siesta. I'm not sure where these ladies pick up their clothes but they're very very odd. Simultaneously oversized and figure hugging, high heels will always feature - knee high boots are very popular also. Spanglish slogans writ large across their chests in the largest possible font, generally in gold or silver; "c'mon to the rock n roll woman" “peace and spirit baby, you know i want to” "i know boyology" “sixpensive” "mince 50 pesos per pound" (I made the last one up).
Man in motion
Maneen in motionAnyways, enough Chileno bashing. The reason we were in Calama was to get out of there as quickly as possible to the wilds of the Atacama desert. Unfortunately the only way to do this was to jump on an overpriced guided tour of unguaranteed quality, or hire a jeep and do it yourself. Seems logical enough. I’ll always choose the DIY option when it comes to discovery. However, when I went to enquire about renting a 4x4, I was told that 1 jeep for 1 day would cost me USD$200. Holy Jesus. You can buy a restaurant in Argentina for that! Apparently, because there’s so much American money in the town with the booming mining industry, renting a vehicle is extremely expensive no matter what rental company you use. I couldn’t hire a car – there were none available. But the car hire lots were full to overflowing with every make model and type of 4x4 imaginable. The mining companies (everything in this town kowtows to mining money) are obviously their sole customers and pay the inflated prices to ensure constant availability – at that price no one else could afford the luxury. We totally prefer backpacking in countries with collapsed economies.
The courtyard of our gorgeous colonial hotel in CalamaDepressed beyond tablets and carrying all our luggage having checked out of our accommodation we scuttled back to the hotel in the intense heat and promptly checked back in again to examine our consciences. It would appear that San Pedro de Atacama would have to wait. Travel is funny. Apparent setbacks can result in interesting previously unconsidered alternatives and so it proved in Calama.
The Tren De Los Nubes train trip which I’d so been looking forward to turns out to be on a typically South American unexplained hiatus for the near future. We knew that there was a train which left Calama bound for Uyuni (You-You-nee) in Bolivia on a Wednesday evening at midnight. Beyond that we had very little knowledge of the train journey other than it was very very cold and notoriously no frills with apparently no glass in the windows, wooden seats, no lighting or heating, no toilets and no dining car.
Complimentary Goods - the toilet on the trainEnquiries at the train station would be necessary. Trip 1 : to the station involved a quick meet and greet with the skeleton staff. “Hi, I don’t speaka the Spanich but I would like to know all you can tell me about the Slow Train to Uyuni”. The Chileans pronounce it Ooo-Jooonee so after some confusion we eventually got to the buying tickets bit. “Tickets?”….(Finger slitting throat action). In South America this ominous gesture can mean anything from “closed”, “on the fritz”, “fucked”, “dead 10 years”, “killed by communists”, “liable to give you a terminal disease”, “swallowed whole by Pacha Mama”, “on a cocoa break” or, if used in reference to a toilet – “hold your water and move on kid, no gringo will recover from seeing what’s behind that shithouse door”. In this situation I took it to mean the ticket office was closed. When would it be open? Manana I was told . In Spanish this means tomorrow. In South America however it can mean anything from simply tomorrow to “I don’t know”, “please gringo - I am sleeping – return with your silly questions at a more convenient time”, or even “ a straight answer will require monetary intervention”. When I asked what time I was told 0830-1200, 1500-1800, 2100-0000 – typically bizarre and irregular hours designed to confuse and disorient the over eager gringo. Apparently the ticket office for the train we wanted to take was only open on a Wednesday and during the hours outlined above.
M tracks down my dislocated ZenSo Trip2 : I returned the following morning – Wednesday - to find the shutter still down on the ticket office. I wandered around the station for 10 minutes before I encountered a staff member. She was sitting in an empty room the size of a tennis court, behind a desk with one lonely antique phone perched on one corner of the desk and an electric fan blowing her face in and out of shape. She appeared to be concentrating very hard on the facial sensations the fan was causing. Perhaps she was moonlighting as a fan tester, or maybe she was testing how windproof her makeup was - selling tickets at this station only took up 1 hour of her valuable time a week. “What’s the story with the boleteria there love?” I said in my most flowery noun-only charades-for-verbs Spanish. She appeared startled and asked me was I sure today was Wednesday. Tuesday + 1 = Wednesday I replied with diagram, desperately trying to remain calm and counter the semi chaotic inertia with hard logic. She appeared flustered and eventually decided that I’d need to come back in the afternoon. It seemed like they really didn’t want to do business with me. Trip 3 : I was starting to get very pissed off. We couldn’t make any decision on our next step until we figured out what the ticket situation was with the train. I needed to get some kind of answer from the railway staff. After another inexplicable 20 minute wait in a completely deserted train station, the shutter grinded begrudgingly open and I eventually got to purchase 2 handwritten tickets for a trip that night on the Slow Train to Uyuni for the princely sum of $12. This was by far the cheapest we’d ever been charged for a journey to another country. We eventually discovered that the passenger train service is run by the British owned Ferocarril Antofagasta-Bolivia which loses money on the line but is required by an 1888 mineral transport treaty to keep the passenger service running indefinitely. This might explain some of the inertia of the staff, no targets to reach, no company statement of excellence, dismal wages, hours alone with an electric fan in an empty room – how could you be motivated? But anyways, back to the train trip. It’s apparently one of the more scenic train trips in South America. We would be travelling across vast and unending saltplains, through deserts and volcanic mountainscapes, ascending through the Andes to an eventual elevation of some 3700m. We could also look forward to spotting flamingos and dust devils and willy-willys.
FlamingosThe majority of the old railways on the continent are out of commission due to the improvement of the road infrastructure or because they have basically long since become unviable due to the relative inexpensiveness and proliferation of buses and the anywhere to anywhere ubiquity of the spaghetti bus routes. So its only in anomalous situations where an old law dictates that a stretch of railway must remain open or that a government decides to keep a subsection of a famous railway line open for tourist trips that you can still experience train travel in South America. The demographic of the travellers on our train would seem to back that up. The motley human freight consisted primarily of locals or Bolivian émigrés who couldn’t afford the more expensive, faster and more comfortable bus journey along the same route, with a healthy dose of stinking backpackers, mostly European with a couple of notable Chilean punker exceptions, hungry for adventure and a break from the all pervasive overnight bus journeys which are the trademark of travel in South America.
Our carriage gets abandoned again
I give Calama a bad nameAnything goes on the railways it would appear. People were arriving with second hand mattresses, stinky fridges, greasy cookers, crates of Coca Cola and bedsheets fashioned into carry-alls, cornerfull of the most random collection of solids, liquids, gases, fruits, vegetables, animals, fabrics and other summary indiscernibles. All of this crap needed to be stored in the overhead lockers or under your feet so space for passengers was at an absolute premium.
By the time we boarded the train at midnight the waiting area was packed to capacity with chattering travellers and their luggage mountains. We boarded, found our seat and were a little bit freaked out to find the bould Edwin sitting awaiting our arrival in the seat directly facing ours. We were to be studied for a further few hours it would appear. We stashed our luggage where we could trying to leave some legroom for the 20 hour journey. The old Bolivian women, obviously having completed this journey many times before, fashioned beds out of the facing seats by placing boxes and bags of the random crap they were carrying in the gaps between the seats where normally your legs would go and lying across the gap. They had blankets and shawls and funky indigenous leg warmers and woolly Spin-Doctor hats and other than their cargo of oddities which they were importing to sell, they travelled very very lightly indeed. They seemed to be as intrigued by our luggage as I was by theirs. You could see them eyeing up our padded rucksacks and backpacks wondering what useless commodities they contained and whether the contents could even be sold for a profit at a streetside stall. Otherwise what in Gods name were we lugging them around for? Every time we opened a backpack to trawl out a creature comfort or a snack you’d spot them leaning forward to steal a furtive look into the depths to see could the riddle of the bulky backpackers be solved.
Trains through deserts cause uncontrollable pensivenessThe train, as it was, consisted of just two carriages which over the course of the journey seemed to be abandoned in random fashion at deserted, unpronounceable destinations only to be claimed by another engine a couple of hours later and transported another couple of hundred miles…. to be abandoned and randomly claimed again and dragged a few stops closer to its final destination. You’d be sitting reading or even sleeping in the carriage and suddenly you’d hear a thunderous terrifying clang of metal on metal as the engine forcefully attached itself to the carriages by the power of diesel and physics. Getting mounted completely by surprise by a diesel engine out of nowhere is what I imagine it must be like to be a streetdog in any of the towns we’ve visited. Progress was slow throughout the night with inexplicable stops in the middle of nowhere a common occurrence. We had one big bad Bolivian woman who got into the pioneering railway spirit of things by snoring like a freight train and farting like a foghorn at an edgy veggie convention. But other than that the night passed uneventfully with the assistance of an ipod and a sleeping bag pulled over our heads.
Semi-Cama(tose)There’s something about the movement of a train over tracks which sends me to sleep anyways. While it did get pretty cold during the night it never got anywhere close to the -10C that we’d read about and the seats, while neither wooden or barbarically uncomfortable, did make for pretty uncomfortable sleeping positions. We were woken by the sun the following morning and had our first real chance to check out the scenery while eating our banana sandwich breakfast. Miles of white sand and rocky outcrops, everything scorched beyond recognition by the sun, mountains and smoking volcanoes on the horizon for backup. The train stopped at the Bolivian border for a couple of hours allowing us to get off the train, stretch our legs, smoke ‘em if you have ‘em etc. There’s a much more sociable aspect to train travel with the stand up, walk around spaciousness of the train carriage providing a far more interactive experience than travelling on a bus.
Subbing In Bolivia
We rolled into Uyuni around 6pm the following day. Here’s a telling guidebook quote regarding Bolivia which leaves an interesting first impression : “Bolivia has some of the best mountaineering opportunities in the world but infrastructure is not well developed so don’t expect to be rescued if you get into trouble”. My first experience of Bolivia was basically “Oh my God, what have we done?”. It was that bad. As I ran around the town trying to scrape up some accommodation my nostrils and lungs were assaulted with the worst smells imaginable. Uyuni is very much a market town with anything you need to buy available from hundreds of adhoc streetside stalls. There aren’t many shops per se, everything except the pharmacy is open air. Arriving into a new town just before dark is always a bad idea as it gives you a very skewed and unflattering impression of a town – especially after a long journey – remember Valparaiso? Every street corner in Uyuni had open air steel framed stalls belching out rancid roasting or deep fried meat odours. Llama meat is particularly popular and relatively affordable in the area and unfortunately for me its also a very, very strong smelling meat as it cooks. Here’s another interesting quote from our guidebook : “Llama meat contains parasites similar to those in pork. So make sure it has been cooked for a long time and is hot when you eat it”. Abject poverty is absolutely endemic in Bolivia so bona fide llama meat is a treat whereas the bits that get left over - offal basically – is what made up the bulk of the streetside barbeque fodder. My stomach was doing handstands as I desperately tried not to inhale the acrid smoke – even the air seemed deep fried. But because of the altitude, if I stopped inhaling for even the 5 seconds it would take me to pass one of these stalls, my heart would nearly burst and my lungs would scream blue murder until I inhaled the fetid air again. The air at this altitude is very thin and your lungs find it a lot more difficulty to extract oxygen. Running around holding your breath in smoke filled air is a recipe for near collapse and when I eventually found a habitable hotel (after 4 attempts – dirty buckets in bedrooms and bedsheets on the floor mopping up water were some of the reasons for declining certain establishments) I literally collapsed on the bed and didn’t rise for a couple of days as my body desperately tried to adjust to the new altitude.
Somewhere in Bolivia
Olivia from Bolivia (taken through a dirty bus window)I generally take buckets of photos. In Uyuni I think I took 10 in 4 days, 5 of which were of the inside of the hotel room. That was how crap and unmotivated and lousy I felt. M used this time very productively and managed to do some wheeling and dealing and organise us a 3 day tour of the Salar de Uyuni (the main reason we were in Uyuni) – a tour of the desert and salt flats of Bolivia.
Sunrise, minus hundreds of degrees, 2 geysers
Meet The LambertsWe were sharing our tour with 2 Danish brothers and their American/Phillipino and Croatian partners. Rune, the older brother is living in La Paz and working for a Danish NGO and was full of fascinating history and insights into Bolivian life and culture. Sven the younger brother was on a flying visit to South America to see his brother and to propose to Maria on Maccu Piccu. Our first port of call was the Salar de Uyuni – the worlds largest (and highest) salt flats (everything in Bolivia is generally the highest). This was one of the most surreal landscapes I’ve ever seen. You have vast, seemingly endless plains of ultra bright white salt flats shimmering horizon to horizon in the intense heat under a perfectly blue sky. Your brain has difficulty trying to figure out where the earth ends and the sky begins. You look at objects in the distance and they seem to be literally floating in space.
Our jeep, guide and travelling companions - Salar de UyuniThis was definitely the highlight of the trip for me and such a pity it was on the first day. Salt, Halite and Gypsum are still extracted from the flats by hand by the industrious locals and mini piles of salt dot the landscape like abandoned works in progress. Then after the first of many stern shouts of Vamos!! from the driver we all loaded up and it was off to Isla Pescado a cactus covered island in what used to be the lake. We had lunch of hairy avocado and vittles, supplemented by our own bread and bananas and off we went again to San Juan where we overnighted in what amounted to a shed with beds.
Isla PescadoWe went for a wander in the town and I ended up ill advisedly challenging a young fella to a game of soccer played with a semi deflated volleyball covered in llama shit. I’m not the man I used to be, even less so at 4000m, and after retrieving the ball (which I’d bogtoed exuberantly) from over a very high wall I proceeded to fall face first into the dirt trying to execute a complicated step over manoeuvre. Embarrassed, wheezing and bleeding we headed back to our lowly cattleshed.
Laguna VerdeThere was only electricity between the hours of 6pm and 8pm. The cook prepared our vegetarian meal of deep fried inedible somethings (the others had deep fried chicken and chips) in the most spartan of kitchens and off we went to bed by candlelight. The following day we hit Laguna Canapa and saw some flamingos. Its quite a suprise to see these odd birds in such an unforgiving landscape. We plundered photos like the scavenging tourists we were and headed on again for more lakes eventually pulling into a refugio on the shores of Lago Colorada for dinner and sleep. We all shared a room that night and Rune produced an interesting trick for heating the room – a tin pan filled with pure alcohol and set alight to burn and heat the room.
Sven and Rune - Hunting High and LowTemperatures can reach well into the minus numbers here at night due to the altitude. Altitude again makes even the weather more extreme. You’re closer to the sun so you get burned during the day and you freeze during the night. But you’re also closer to the stars and out here you get treated to the most spectacular astronomy show. I have never ever seen a night sky quite like what we saw in Lago Colorada. It was the first time I’ve experienced that domed effect where the stars seem to wrap around the earth like a pin-pricked, dusty black blanket over a classroom globe. Absolutely amazing. We arose at 5am the following morning to witness the sunrise over the geysers. Even though I’d layered up to the max, the time I spent outside the jeep taking photos as the sun rose was still the coldest half hour of my life. My thumb basically froze into position and my fingertips were tingling for a good hour afterwards. I’m surprised the camera itself didn’t stop functioning. We were driven to many more remote lakes and then we hightailed it the 600km back to Uyuni for a victory dinner in the outstandingly delicious Minuteman Pizza.
Bolivia has the worst mannequin rights record in the worldI’m way behind in detailing our escapades but internet (along with electricity, water, and women with teeth) is precious in Bolivia so please be patient. We’re planning more days off in Copacabana, a little village on the shores of Lake Titicaca, so I’ll play catch-up then. Maybe if I laid off the disparaging social commentary y’all might get a better insight into what we’ve been up to. But that’d be no fun at all.
Join us next time for some....
Til next time…… Keep It Landlocked.
Thanks for the photo Sven
That's All Folks (This is CALAMA!!)
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I cannot believe this marathon, epic, informative and highly entertaining post didnt even garner 1 comment! Not even from some automated comment spammer. Disgraceful.
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