tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89834956028956516682024-03-13T03:20:20.511-07:00South America 09/10Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-61843455001766824412010-03-14T13:41:00.000-07:002010-03-14T13:49:59.201-07:00Adios South America!But first, the Beach!<br /><br />Mar del Plata is a sunny beach city five hours south of Buenos Aires. We stopped here for a few days to lay around on the beach – something I'd been dreaming about since Bariloche. I could have stayed in Mar del Plata forever. We spent our days wandering the streets or the miles of beaches, going to movies, eating ice cream, people watching (oh, the people watching! the bathing suits! the plastic surgery!), eating seafood: pure indolence. At night, we cooked dinners in the hostel kitchen. Our roommates, four British guys who were partying hard, kept inviting us to the bars with them and each time we'd agree at first and then wind up staying in and having a quiet night. The Argentine children were more lively at night than we were. One night, we were wandering around after dinner, at around 1 am, and the carousel at the park was crammed with children. During the day, it had been empty; a ghost park. The night brought it to life, apparently. On the street corner there was a garishly decorated party bus for kids, with Disney mascots running around, bright lights, blaring music and kids with manic expressions hanging out the windows. <br /><br />We moved on to Buenos Aires for our last week together. And spent it pretty much in the same fashion as our lazy beach days: cooking, eating, wandering. Our hostel was in an old apartment with a sketchy elevator that made my heart stop every single time it started to move. We did a few of the requisite touristy things. We visited the creepily cat-filled cemetery where Evita is buried. In spite of the impressive marble statues and intricate mausoleums, Yuval much preferred the nearby butterfly sanctuary. We also visited a museum that used to be a very rich family's house, the japanese gardens, and the Buenos Aires Zoo.<br /><br />On Valentine's Day, I didn't realize that it was V-day until the day was almost over. No one seems to care about Valentine's Day in Argentina, which is awesome. Even still, our inadvertent Valentine's Day date rivaled anyone's; we couldn't have planned it better. We spent the morning wandering the artist's fair in San Telmo, watched tango dancers in the street, had a nice steak lunch in a beautiful courtyard restaurant, and then went to another pretty little cafe and shared a chocolate volcano cake. Eat your heart out, Hallmark.<br /><br />It was a perfect week, and a perfectly nice way to end five months of traveling together, if more than a little melancholic. <br /><br />On the 20th of February, I said goodbye -again, and with lots of tears - to my travel partner and boarded the last bus I would take in South America: three days from Buenos Aires to Lima, Peru. I headed back to where I had started, traversing what had taken me five months to travel in three days, in a bus full of friendly Peruvians. My seat companion was a rather large man who kept giving me food, insisting that I wasn't eating enough. It was strange to not have Yuval in the seat next to me. And it was a long, long bus ride. <br /><br />I reconnected with Sergio and Cathy in Lima, and we spent my last day together taking a boat cruise around some islands off the coast and picking up last minute souvenirs. And then, just like that, I was at the airport again: Canada bound. <br /><br />I met an old man at the airport who lived in Lima and was traveling to Miami for work. We made idle small talk while we waited to board the plane. When we said goodbye, he squeezed my shoulder and told me that he was happy I had had such a good experience in his country, and that when I go home I should find work that I really enjoy, and he wished me a very happy life.<br /><br /><br /><em>Gracias por todo, Sudamerica</em>Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-73626782710590922512010-03-14T11:58:00.000-07:002010-03-14T12:04:24.388-07:00More Patagonia, More TrekkingPuerto Natales and the Torres del Paine <br /><br />The Torres del Paine National Park is, just like the Fitz Roy, renowned around the world for its spectacular trekking. The park lies at the very end of the Andes mountain range in Chile, a bus ride away from the town of Puerto Natales. The typical hikes are either four days or ten days, depending on the route. The Torres - or Towers - are the main attraction. There are three of them; tall granite towers that stretch into the clouds and have a dark, sinister look about them. On the tourist map they hand you at the gate, the writer implores you to admire the "eye catching granite" of the peaks. <br /><br />The bus rattled by the street of our Puerto Natales hostel at a brisk 7 a.m. In an effort to avoid the harsh reality of Four Days of Trekking, I slept the entire bus ride into the park. I awoke at the last possible moment, as we were being shepherded off of the bus and into the park's front gates. The mountains, with their eye catching granite, commanded the landscape. At the foot of the last trickle of the Andes was a large icy blue lake, rolling foothills, herds of guanacos (small cameloid related to the llama), and the occasional nandu (ostrich like creature, also called Darwin's Rhea... or as Yuval called them, Darwin's Pigeon). We paid our entrance, a whopping 15000 pesos or 28 US dollars, and went to go take the ferry over to the other side of the lake to begin our trek. While waiting we walked over to see a waterfall. The park felt alive with the forces of nature; you could practically chew on gravity. And, predictably, the tempestuous wind continued to howl and shriek. The waterfall roared and pounded the surroundings rocks and the wind chiseling away at the stoic faces of the mountains. <br /><br />The ferry came and carried us across the lake, with the rest of the trekkers. We arrived at the base camp for our first trek, the Grey Glacier, and found it to be covered in tents, like fields of nylon mushrooms. There was also a hotel there, but we were roughing it and right away went about pitching Yuval's little orange tent. The park people had constructed a kitchen and eating area, a large circular building that sheltered from the wind and provided stoves and sinks and <br />tables. It was packed with people. You could hardly move inside, let alone find a flat surface on which to cook/eat. The popularity of the Torres park was quite evident. Hordes of people had shirked warm beds and proper showers; many more than I had expected. I'd thought we would have felt more.... in nature, not in a tourist attraction. Ah, fun times on the Gringo Trail. <br /><br />Highlights of the four-day trek:eating dinner each night (we became connoisseurs of camp-cooking), going to sleep snuggled in my sleeping bag, drinking out of the fresh water streams, staying behind at base camp and reading while Yuval did the uphill parts, making tea and eating cookies beside a small lake two hours before arriving at the end point, and the shower upon arriving back at the hostel. And of course, the scenery was quite nice. Also, we had been lucky, weather wise – it was nippy but the sun was out most of the time. I heard stories of people having to climb the inclines on all fours because of the wind, or having to ford swollen, icy rivers that washed out the path, or being caught in crazy snow/hail/ice storms. All in all, it wasn't the slog I expected (opting out of the uphill parts had a lot to do with that) and I enjoyed it in spite of myself. <br /><br />Northbound<br /><br />The original plan was to travel all the way to “the end of the world” - or, to the old penal colony/town of Ushuaia, Argentina. There, you can get your passport stamped with: The End of the World. After some discussing, however, we decided that checking something off The List just to say you did it, rather than for any enjoyment purposes, is not a good enough motivation. Frankly, it was cold – I'm Canadian, I get enough cold – and from what we had heard, Ushuaia was not significantly different from the other Patagonian towns we had already visited. I only had about three weeks until my flight home, so I decided that these last three weeks would be better spent somewhere I'd be happier. Like a beach. <br /><br />It was tricky getting out of Puerto Natales; the buses weren't cooperative. We wound up taking a bus back to El Calafate, and taking a bus from there to Rio Gallegos. We killed time in between buses at a “Libro-bar”: a bar with books and Oscar Wilde quotes lining the walls. <br /><br />We spent a day in Rio Gallegos, a town on the Eastern side of Patagonia, again killing time between buses (upside to this serial bus taking: saving on paying for hostels). Hanging around, agenda-less, in Rio Gallegos was reminiscent of the delightfully frivolous Bolvia days – before looming flights home required actual trip planning. The town itself is completely flat, just a few low, unassuming buildings on an otherwise flat plain. Even the ocean was still and docile. And touristy it was most definitely not. It didn't have the shiny, cultivated feel of the other Patagonian towns, which seem to have been designed entirely around tourism. A tourist map indicated the location of the town's museum, dedicated to Flora and Fauna, and we went to go and check it out. We came across an asymetrical building that seemed to grow like quartz crystal out of the ground. The museum was closed, it being a week day and all, but looking through the window revealed a small office. At one end was a desk with a potted plant, at the other was a poster with types of flora and fauna, and in the middle was a bookshelf with piles of paper, binders and books on flora and fauna. <br /><br />Just outside the “museum” was a movie set. A group of people – us included – stood around watching the director make the actors get out of a car over and over and over again. In true Argentinean fashion, those not directly involved were chatting and drinking mate. Mate (pronounce ma-tay) is a strong tea that Argentineans carry around with them everywhere. Drinking mate is a social ritual and being invited to mate is a really sweet gesture. The movie set people invited us to mate and to watch the action with them. After a while we meandered on, continuing to waste time until our bus to Puerto Madryn arrived. <br /><br />Puerto Madryn<br /><br />My main “must-see” for Patagonia was the penguins. I was dying to see penguins. And on our last Patagonian stop, I got my wish. Puerto Madryn – the last Patagonian city on the northeastern side of Argentina - is the roughly the halfway point between Rio Gallagos and Buenos Airies: it's about 17 hours in either direction. The city is still hounded by wind, but its significantly warmer. We rented a car for the day, to drive around the pennisula – where all the wildlife is. The beaches on the pennisula are home to sea lions, sea elephants, my beloved penguins, four types of armadillos (which may be my new favorite animal; so ugly its adorable), snakes and screaming lizards, nandus and a whole host of birds. At the right time of year, there is whale and orca spotting, but unfortunately it was not whale or orca season. Apparently, on rare occasions, an orca will leap up onto the beach and snatch a sea lion. We watched a large group of lounging and scrapping sea lions for a while -very entertaining- and tried to decide how best to describe the noises they make. The best we could do: they sound like a child imitating a sheep while being kicked in the stomach. <br /><br />On that note, we left Patagonia.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-11429474554975657402010-03-01T22:04:00.000-08:002010-03-01T22:16:51.882-08:00Towards the End of the World<strong>Patagonia</strong><br /><br />The bus from Los Antiguas to El Chalten only came on even numbered days. We happened to be there on an even numbered day and snagged two of the last four available seats. The bus, unusually, was filled only with gringos. In hindsight, that must have been because Argentines know better than to go to El Chalten. <br /><br />I was excited to be going into Patagonia proper. I had been reading a travelogue of three British guys who cycled all the way from Ushuaia (Argentine city at the End of the World) to Lake Titicaca in Bolivia, in a bid to raise money for leukemia in the mid-nineties (entitled The Trail to Titicaca). Their stories from Patagonia made me want to see what they saw. <br /><br />Patagonia sounded like the land that time forgot. Rumors had circulated of the continued existence of the prehistoric Mylodon - a giant sloth with menacing claws (a statue of which graces the entrance to Puerto Natales in Chile)- who had outlived the rest of the dinosaurs, rumors notwithstanding. I read stories of how the native tribes of Patagonia scared the bejeezus out of the Spanish. The Spanish were literally half the size of the Tehuelches; they thought they had found a race of giants. Patagonia gets its name from Spanish explorer, Ferdinand Magellan and his obsession with the size of the Tehuelches' feet: Patagonia means "Bigfoot". <br />Everything is larger in Patagonia. Things need to be large in order to establish themselves against the sheer vastness of space, like the moon carving a spot for itself in the night sky. <br /><br />The bus ride was reminiscent of the Bolivia days. The road was unpaved and bumpy, and the bus broke down periodically throughout the night. The bus driver asked if we wanted to watch a movie and upon responding in the affirmative, he then asked if anyone <em>had </em> a movie. Someone had left a window open in the bus' bathroom and it was coated with a thick layer of dust. The scenery was constant: we drove for hours and hours and hours through flat, desolate desert. <br /><br />Everything was windswept and cowed by the cruel Patagonia wind, only low shrubs dared to eek out an existence in the sand. The few trees that had been planted in an effort to block the wind were bent over at uncomfortable angles. Even the sky looked as though it had been wiped away, revealing an underlayer of stars that no one else sees. <br /><br />We got off the bus for a dinner break, and my first instinct was to find something to hold onto in case the wind carried me away. It hurtled across the steppe and stole your breath right out of your mouth and then tried to push you over, like a schoolyard bully.<br /><br />Woke with the sun, early, as the bus approached a rocky outcropping. Granite rose out of the desert, looking somewhat out of place. The small, battered town of El Chalten set up camp in the shelter of the foothills of the Andes. In the distance, obscured by fog and rain, was the infamous Fitz Roy mountain. The weather was dreadful. The wind fired the rain drops into your face like icy pellets. <br /><br />We went about our usual way of traveling: get off the bus, show up on the doorstep of a hostel. However, this strategy was not going to work in Patagonia. The major towns, which are few and far between, have become major tourist hubs and the hostels in high season (wretched weather and all, this was summer) were all booked up. You needed to make reservations well ahead of time. Which, sounds like the normal thing to do when you travel... but we had gotten used to navigating Bolivia where they didn't typically have websites (or computers) with which to make reservations. I suppose you could have called ahead, but then you'd need to speak much better Spanish; no illustrative hand gestures are possible via telephone. Thus, it was a rather frustrating morning battling the elements in the frantic search for somewhere to sleep. Yuval, bless him, left me to wait somewhere warm with the <em>mochillas</em> (backpacks) while he ran around town. Twelve rejections later, he finally found us a place. <br /><br />Having lost his mind somewhere in the desert, Yuval right away busied himself with orchestrating a hike into the horrible weather and up to some horrible mountain. The Fitz Roy is, evidently, quite the big deal in trekking circles. Being clueless about all things outdoorsy, I of course had never heard of it and opted to stay inside with a pot of hot coffee and a book. Yuval raced a giant Dane the entire way there and back. The trek is supposed to take nine hours- they did it in five. At the top, they were greeted with snow and hail and sleet and wind, and an obscured view of the Fitz Roy. Him and the Dane celebrated with waffles, and then he came to find me and we celebrated further with Patagonian lamb and beer.<br /> <br />And then we caught the first bus to El Calafate.<br />-------------<br /><br />Perhaps it was the cold, or the fact the trip was nearing its end, but we began to travel much faster in Patagonia. Two days in El Chalten, two in El Calafate... we were becoming efficient! We were even planning ahead: booking hostels, researching bus times, making itineraries. It was all quite foreign to our usual lackadaisical approach to traveling. I prefer to take my time and play it by ear - the word itinerary makes my eyes glaze over- but I wasn't sad to whip through Patagonia. It was beautiful but it was like one of those really beautiful people whose also really mean. Nice to look at, but the less time spent in their immediate presence, the better. <br /><br />El Calafate, much like El Chalten and its mountain, has only one tourist attraction: the Perito Moreno Glacier. It's a two hour bus ride outside of El Calafate, pricey, but spectacular: five kilometers wide and 76 meters high. The glacier looks like an ice fortress, but it sounds like a massive, creaky old house that's literally falling apart. And it's awake. It advances along the lake, towards the shore, creaking and calving; icebergs fall off and bob around in the lake like the Titanic. The calving is mesmerizing; we could hardly tear ourselves away - what if you miss something? Just before we had to catch the bus back, we watched as one huge iceberg broke off, the crash thunderingly loud, and turned somersaults in the frigid water. <br /><br />Every few years, as the glacier reaches the shoreline separating two halves of the lake,creating a dam and building water pressure from one side to the other. This pressure eventually ruptures the front section of the glacier in a spectacular scene. This last happened in 2006. <br /><br />Take a look!<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BDHayMS33MA<br /> <br />----<br />The following day we spent relaxing at the hostel, a reward for our newfound efficient traveling. For dinner we cooked steak marinated in wine and garlic sauce, and a <em>zapallito</em> pie - instead of the intented zucchini we found zapallitos, which looked like mini green pumpkins, but tasted like a cross between a cucumber and a zucchini. Both steak and pie were cooked to perfection.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-41031571438733731492010-02-05T04:57:00.000-08:002010-02-05T05:26:54.360-08:00Bumming around Chile"When God was finished making the world, he had a little of everything left over - deserts, mountains, lakes, volcanoes, forests - and he put them into his pocket. But, his pocket had a hole in it and as he walked along heaven, it all fell out and the long trail it left was Chile."<br /><br />-------------<br />The Carretera Austral<br /><br />A popular starting point for the Carretera Austral highway is Futaluefu (Mapuche for Rio Grande, or Great River). There is literally nothing to do in this town, and most everything is only open when someone feels like it. The only reason tourists don't just pass right through is the white water rafting, which is supposed to be the wildest in South America and is also the most expensive. It was from this sleepy Chilean mountain town that Yuval and I decided to hitch hike down the Carretera Austral. <br /><br />Augusto Pinochet, malevolent Chilean dictator of the 70s and 80s, built the Carretera to connect isolated parts of Chile and to protect the land from the ever encroaching Argentineans. Now it's become a tourist attraction solely for the road itself, and the surrounding scenery. Israelis hitch hike it in droves, and rich American tourists rent large spacious vehicles and never stop for the hitchhikers (not that any one's bitter or anything). This road embodies the metaphors and cliches about enjoying the ride and not the destination. On the Carretera, the road literally is the destination. <br /><br />Our first day as hitchers was spent getting to where the Carretera properly begins, at a town called Santa Lucia. We waited all morning at the edge of Futaleufu for our first ride. We figured people would be leaving early for work. We had mistakenly assumed that anyone was going to work. And early? Ha! <br /><br />Luckily for us, the weather was pleasant and there was a puppy to play with - perhaps the ugliest puppy ever, only cute because of his puppyishness. A thin man with a mullet (very common in Argentina, where male hairstyles are seen in every mullet permutation you can think of and then some) and his son were driving to pick up some rafters. He drove us out of town, about 30 km from Santa Lucia. At one point he pointed out a condor - the quintessential South American bird - circling right above us, close enough to see the circle of white around his neck. I took this to be a good omen.<br /><br />At the junction we were dropped off at, we met the first of many Israeli hitchers. They were not happy to see us. The three boys had been waiting for two days for a ride and our presence would further decrease their chances. Not wanting to be jerks, we rambled on down the road a while and sat near a sheep pasture and resigned ourselves to a long wait. Not that that was a bad thing; the sun was shining and I had a good book. <br /><br />With Yuval hiding in the bushes, I stopped a car after about a half an hour. <br /><br />Apparently, blonde hair and two X chromosomes are invaluable assets in hitchhiking through Latin American countries. Yuval said that I should rent out my hitchhiking assistance to those who'd like to do the Carretera. I can see the business card now: Professional Hitchhiker. Not responsible for inebriation level of drivers. <br /><br />The man who stopped was also with his son, and the rest of his family was in a spluttering van up ahead. They were going to Santa Lucia, but first would be stopping at a lake for a picnic. He said that if we wouldn't mind waiting, he'd take us. Lunch and a swim at a lake with a nice Chilean family on a gorgeous day? He really had to twist our arms. <br /><br />We were in Santa Lucia by six pm. The town was very small, populated by a smattering of dilapidated shacks on stilts. The beginning of the highway was an unassuming dirt number. By the end of this adventure we would be coated with layers of dust; the highway's version of a souvenir, perhaps. But the surrounding mountains were indeed beautiful.<br /><br />My luck continued. Within literally five minutes, again with Yuval lurking unseen in the bushes, I stopped the first passing truck, which was already full. The driver had initially passed me by, but then turned the corner, went around the block and came back. They rearranged the luggage in the back of the truck to make enough room for us and our packs. After some time sitting in the back feeling the icy wind rushing past our cheeks, the truck stopped and let two of the people out and we moved into the warmth of the cab. The driver was a wiry older man with thinning white hair and a permanent Marlboro hanging from his mouth. The cab smelled of stale smoke and something mechanical. In the passenger seat was an exuberant Chilean man, probably in his mid thirties to forties with a thick swatch of black hair and round, red face. He never stopped talking. His cigarettes appeared to smoke themselves. The driver periodically offered a brief quip, but for the most part it was a monologue. They made another stop at a cabin where they went in to presumably chat up the girl who worked there, and the younger man came out with beers in hand. After that his talking sped up and his face got redder. After he finished a beer, he crushed the can with his hands and threw it to the floor with a giggle. <br /><br />They were stopping for the night in the newly touristy town of La Junta at a friend's house and offered to bring us along with them and give us a place to stay. We politely declined (figuring that alcohol and Latino hormones probably wouldn't be a good combination in the exuberant younger Chilean and I might not have the best time), and went to camp in the nearby cattle pastures by a river.<br /><br />The next day was just as hot and sunny as the previous day. Only I was feeling the effects of the sun; I was sun burnt everywhere including a particularly sensitive part on my scalp and suffering a heat induced headache. However, luck was on our side again, and after a bit of a wait we were picked up by a silent, stern looking Chilean man who drove us six hours to the capital of Patagonian Chile, Coyhaique. He had also picked up a South Korean gringo somewhere up by Bariloche and they had been driving together for days. Our driver didn't say much but when he did, we didn't understand a thing. The Korean, whose Spanish was much clearer to us, had to translate. <br /><br />The road twisted somewhat Bolivia-style through the mountain pass: it was a narrow, bumpy dirt road that hugged the mountain, with barely enough room for the two directions of traffic. We had one very close call with an SUV barrelling around a corner. The vegetation was rain forest-like, carpeting the mountains right up to the line where the snow starts, and we passed by large and shimmering trout and salmon filled lakes. In certain lakes the trout can reach up to 8 kilos. We decided that when we arrived in Coyhaique, we would eat fish. Our driver made a pit stop along the road to eat stalks from a rhubarb-like plant that covered the lower parts of the mountain. It tasted like raw rhubarb, sour and fibrous. Our driver saw that Yuval didn't like his very much, and came over with a little packet of what looked like sugar and sprinkled some on for him. But it wasn't sugar, for some reason it was salt, and it was all Yuval could do not to throw his rhubarb back where it came from. When we stopped in another small town so he could check something that wasn't working quite right in his jeep, we bought him cookies. <br /><br />The mountains turned into rocky hills, and the forest disappeared into sparse, low bushes. Coyhaique lay in a valley, a larger town of about 40, 000 people; also quite touristy. I thought, not for the first time, how wonderful these towns must have been when the road was first built, just emerging from isolation, rustic and suspended in time. <br /><br />He dropped us off in the main plaza of Coyhaique with a surprisingly warm hug and cheek kiss. We decided to forgo camping in favor of staying in a hostel with a real bed and, fingers crossed, a warm shower, on account of my persistent headache and thus slight crankiness. Unfortunately our luck didn't seem to extend to finding a bed to sleep in. Most every hostel, hotel, hospedaje, and hosteria was full. High season made it impossible to find accommodations and hitching and guerrilla camping in farmer's fields doesn't leave much opportunity for booking ahead. Eventually we found a hospedaje run by a grumpy old man who let us sleep in what was essentially a shed in his back yard that had a bunk bed in it. Good enough! <br /><br />Day Three; woke somewhat late but feeling much better than the previous day. We meanderingly made our way just outside of the city - only briefly tempted by a car rental office - and joined a few small groups of Israelis also waiting for rides. I flagged down a young Chilean couple with a small daughter and they took us twenty km down the road, where we waited and waited in the whipping wind, feeling tiny whispers of frustration starting to build. After what seemed like hours - although I don't know for sure because I on purpose did not keep track of the time - we were picked up by an aging cowboy in a dirty baseball cap, originally from Wyoming. He said he had not been back to the States since '98 and had been in Patagonia on and off for twenty years. He worked as a fishing guide for American tourists on a nearby ranch. We began talking about trout, and mentioned the wonderful trout that we had eaten in Copacabana, Bolivia, from Lake Titicaca. He was shocked that we ate "holy" trout. For a moment I thought he meant that because Lake Titicaca is sacred (as the Incan birthplace of the sun, it does indeed hold a great deal of importance to Bolivian culture). But no, he meant trout were holy in their own right. He practiced catch and release fishing. We joked later that the poor returned fish were indeed "holey". I'm of the mind that if you are going to torture something - yank it out of its home by a hook through its mouth and suffocate the unfortunate creature - you should have the decency to eat it. <br /><br />Yuval thankfully changed the subject from 'ethical' fishing, and commented that our cowboy's Spanish must be pretty good by now. He responded that he only spoke "combat Spanish" and always would. He then cautioned us against getting into any vehicle that stopped, because you "never know with these yahoos" and unself-consciously took another swig of beer.<br /><br />It was another brief wait after the cowboy dropped us off. Almost immediately we were climbing into the back of a nice Chilean family's truck. The two young girls and I played peek-a-boo through the back window. Riding high on our streak of luck, we decided that instead of going with the family to Puerto Ibanez and taking the ferry to Chile Chico - thereby ending our hitchhiking adventure - that we would hitch the long way to Chile Chico, around the lake (second largest in South America, after Lake Titicaca). <br /><br />We should've have stopped while we were ahead. Our luck ran out the second we jumped out of that truck. My theory is that a combination of factors were working against us. One, there is a paltry amount of traffic and more people looking for rides than there were rides to be had. Second, of the small trickle of vehicles, most of them contained the aforementioned American tourists with aversions to Good Samaritan-ism. <br /><br />It took all day to get a ride ten km to the next town, Ville Cerro Castillo (Castle Mountain Village). When we got there, there was already a gaggle of Israeli hitchers that had also been waiting for ages and ages. One of them came over to give us shit for poaching their territory. I couldn't help but think of prostitutes defending their corners (perhaps because I had been reading a book about a young women escaping from the sex trade at the time). It was about supper time regardless, so we retreated into the field and set up camp underneath the jagged peaks of the Cerro Castillo, with the intention of taking the one bus that passed through in the morning. <br /><br />In the morning, the bus we intended to take was completely full, leaving us essentially stranded. Curbing the frustration with cookies, we resigned ourselves to the fact that it appeared we were done with hitchhiking. We then went about flagging down a bus going back the way we came, and headed for Puerto Ibanez and the ferry. <br /><br />The ferry proved to be a further nightmare. Yuval went to ask for ferry tickets and was told that it was full until Sunday. It was Monday. And the wind was maddening; no matter what the direction we were walking -struggling - into it and it whistled in our ears so loud we had to yell to hear each other. It was just one of those travel days where nothing goes right and all you can do is hold on until its over. <br />Unsure of what our next step should be, we sat huddled up against the side of a building, trying to block at least some of the wind, and made lunch. A kind Argentinean lady, perhaps seeing our distress, came over to offer her help (God love the Argentineans and their altruistic helpfulness). She told us that the tickets were only for cars and that we could just walk on and buy our fare directly from the Captain. Cue the flood of relief. <br /><br />We both dozed off on the ferry, heads spinning from all the wind, and stomachs tossing with the waves. The journey from Puerto Ibanez to Chile Chico and from there taking a combi over the border and into a small town called Los Antiguas was blessedly uneventful, and we were both very glad to return to Argentina.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-29889236416678232342010-02-04T16:37:00.000-08:002010-02-04T17:21:01.038-08:00The Land of ChocolateBariloche, at the northern end of Argentine Patagonia, is a small town that looks like a postcard and is jam packed full of tourists. It's set against a backdrop of snow capped mountains and a large, sparkling lake that is constantly being whipped into a frenzy by the hyperactive wind. The town is a mecca for all sorts of hiking and biking in the surrounding mountains, so the droves of tourists are largely of the granola eating, trekking pole toting sort. I've never seen so many outdoor stores in one place. Nor so many chocolate shops. In addition to be inundated with grisled european hikers, Bariloche is swimming in chocolaterias. Remember that episode of the Simpsons where Homer daydreams about a land of chocolate? It's just like that. There is a supermarket sized speciality chocolate shop on every corner, adorned with chocolate fountains and bucketfulls of ice cream. Sounds like heaven? Indeed it is! <br /><br />Barilochean steak is purported to be the best in Argentina. We tested this theory thoroughly. One night, we ate at one of four famous restaurants entitled Don Alberto's. Alberto certainly takes his steak seriously... nearly everything in the restaurant was derived from cow. We ordered off menus made from hairy cow hide, and ate off of leather menus. There were pictures of cows on the walls. <br /><br />While the steak and wine at Alberto's was almost perfect, we found that we preferred a small restaurant called El Campestre. The decor was rustic gaucho; warm, wine colored walls, rough wooden trim and stuffed deer busts adorning each side of the bar, one still wearing his Santa hat from Christmas. The owner greeted us at the door and spent the evening talking with customers, picking up their babies and dancing them around the restaurant. The second night we were there, he treated the entire restaurant to a complimentary glass of champagne, just because. When we went to thank him and tell him how wonderful we thought his restaurant was, he said that he worked to make it a warm, family atmosphere and he told us that this was the real Patagonia - not the tourist version. The best part, though, was the old jolly gaucho who played the guitar and sang all throughout the evening. He looked exactly like Kris Kringle: rosy cheeks, constantly smiling and chuckling, a mane of white hair and beard. <br />Cutest moment: a young girl, probably around 5 or 6, lay down on her stomach in front of the small stage where he was singing, and watched him with her head cradled in her hands, smiling like everything in the world was perfect.<br /><br />Check out his music on myspace: www.myspace.com/tatachango. <br /><br />----<br /><br />In which I briefly masquerade as a granola eating, trekking pole toting hiker:<br /><br />During our week long stay in Bariloche, I agreed to going on a two day trek with Yuval, who had been itching do to some sort of unnecessary physical extertion for a while. I'll be the first one to admit that walking at an incline for prolonged periods of time isn't quite my cup of tea (call me lazy!) but Yuval assured me that it was an easy hike. And admittedly, after all the time in the chocolaterias, some physical activity wasn't going to hurt. <br /><br />However, by "easy" Yuval had meant "we're going to climb a mountain". <br /><br />The three hour walk to the base camp was quite nice; the trees cut the wind and it was just cool enough to hike comfortably. We walked along the river's path through forest, and through expanses of bamboo-like trees that looked really out of place but are actually native to the region, called Colihue in Mapuche (indigenous language). The park is called Parque Llao Llao and is named after these orange spongey fungus spores that look like golf balls and were everywhere along the path. The fungus infects the trees which react by swelling up and creating a tumor on the branch. The tumor produces fruit: the orange spongy golf balls, which are called llao llao, or "Indian bread". The llao llao can be eaten raw, but the Mapuche typically add it to their homemade alcohol, chicha. <br /><br />When we arrived at the base camp, which was already dotted with a few tents and hikers settling in for the night, I thought that we were nearly there. But, to my boundless delight, it was just the beginning of the ascent to the top of the mountain, where the point of this whole excursion lay, Lago Negro (Black Lake). After more time than I care to recall, I was just about at my breaking point: lactic acid was searing holes through my muscles and I was beginning to stumble over the rocks that littered the path. Now above the tree line, the wind howled ferociously and tried its darnest to knock us off the mountain. There was snow, which seemed to thrill Yuval and conjured in me thoughts of giving him a proper face washing. Even in my grieved state, however, I did appreciate the epic waterfall coursing down from the very top of the adjacent moutain, and the view of the cluster of mountains was impressive. And then. And THEN, we asked a lady on her way down how much longer we had to go. She said thirty minutes. I almost burst into tears. All I wanted was to collapse in a heap and be carried back to a comfy bed somewhere, with someone to bring me hot chocolate and put in a good movie. But I decided that I wouldn't let this stupid mountain make me cry, and I'd make it to the top. <br />Which I did. <br />Yuval, not for the first time, called me stubborn (why not just stop if you're miserable? he says). But, really, you can't go all that way and not make it to the top. <br /><br />Lago Negro was small, dark and wind tossed, sitting like a puddle in the the navel of the top of the mountain. The wind was vicious. We ate huddled beside some tortured looking trees, and I stretched out my screaming muscles. And then we went back down the mountain to make camp, with me in a much better mood. <br /><br />We tried to light a fire at camp, but the wind was coming in strong and from every angle. Not even paper would stay lit. So we scrapped that good-in-theory idea, made supper and climbed happily into the tent. Outside, the wind sounded like a massive waterfall crashing all around us. <br /><br />I'd heard of the epic winds of Patagonia, and they certainly weren't underestimating. It became very clear that the wind was going to factor in as another travel partner through out Patagonia. <br /><br />Surprisingly (mostly for your indolent narrator) this experiment in outdoorsiness has a sequel. Stay tuned. <br /><br />-----<br /><br />The hippy studded road back to Chile:<br /><br />From Bariloche, we stopped for a night in El Bolson: the town where hippies come to train and perfect their art. Everywhere you looked were dreadlocks, drumming circles and piles of hippy jewelry. We arrived on a Sunday and they were having a parade, huge and pulsing with brightly colored costumes, dancing its way through the streets. As far as I could tell it was a parade just for its own sake.<br /> <br />When night fell, the hippies all vanished. The drumming stopped and the stands of pipes and mate cups and bracelets were packed up. They had all gone to wherever it is that hippies go to at night. In their place, in the main square, all the Argentine families emerged and there was a concert of old gaucho music. White haired men in black rubber boots, jeans and button down shirts played the guitar, accordion and fiddle. To which costumed dancers danced the traditional courting dances. There was a crowd of both people and dogs around the mouthwatering chorizo asado (sausage barbecue). Kids and dogs chased each other through the dancers and around the square until scolded by adults. <br /> <br />Over the next couple of days we passed through small Argentine towns on our way back to Chile, to the start of the famously beautiful Carretera Austral highway.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-26202264483442523752010-01-16T16:22:00.000-08:002010-01-27T14:06:53.940-08:00Chile!After a hellish 27 hour bus ride complete with an excruciatingly frustrating five hour wait at the border crossing, I arrived into Santiago and reunited with Yuval.<br /><br /><strong>The Lake District</strong><br />The next day we left Santiago for Pucon - a lovely mountain town in the Lake District. The area is dotted with titular cerulean blue lakes, of course, and over 2000 volcanoes. Pucon is guarded by a picturesquely snow capped, active volcano. Our plans to climb the volcano and look into the pit of lava were thwarted by recent avalanches and subsequent closure of the volcano. The climate was radically different from sweltering Buenos Aires: the air had a snowy chill requiring a change of wardrobe from shorts and tank tops into long pants, sweaters and jackets. We stayed at an adorable wooden cabin style hostel with huge fluffy duvets to cosy up in at night and a large, homey kitchen. Yuval spent our the evenings cooking our own dinners - a nice change of pace from always eating out.<br />We spent hours scouring the supermarket and the veggie stands for ingredients and preparing recipes that we looked up on the internet. We'd come back to the hostel with bagfuls of goodies, open a bottle of wine (some for the sauce, some for the cooks!) and sit amicably chopping veggies (trick to cutting onions without crying - put them in the fridge first). <br />One night, we made a fantastic pumpkin pasta that we still talk about: <br /><br />Ingredients<br />Salt <br />1 pound whole-wheat penne <br />2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil <br />1 onion, finely chopped <br />3 to 4 cloves garlic, grated <br />2 cups chicken stock <br />1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin puree <br />1/2 cup cream <br />1 teaspoon hot sauce, to taste <br />Freshly grated nutmeg, to taste<br />Sprinkle of Oregano & Basil <br />1\2 cup of red wine <br />Salt and black pepper <br />Grated Parmigiano-Reggiano <br /><br />Directions<br />Heat water for pasta, salt it and cook penne to al dente.<br /><br />Heat the oil, 2 turns of the pan, over medium heat. Add chopping onion and garlic to the pan, saute 3 minutes. Stir in chicken stock and combine with pumpkin, stir in cream then season sauce with hot sauce, spices, red wine, salt and pepper. Reduce heat to medium low and simmer 5 to 6 minutes more to thicken. Toss with pasta with grated cheese, to taste. <br /> * we adapted this from a Rachel Ray recipe. And incidently, this dish would go great with salmon.<br /><br /><strong>Valdivia</strong><br /><br />We left Pucon for the town of Valdivia, just slightly inland from the Pacific, where we visited a surprisingly fun fish market, situated right alongside the estuary. The sheer amount of fish was incredible - oh the dinners we could make! - and there was a crowd of sea lions eagerly vying for the cast-offs from the efficient fish cleaners. They competed with hordes of shrieking seagulls and cormorants. The edge of the fish market was complete chaos, the air was flying with fish heads and swooping birds and sea lions fighting over the choice pieces. The sea lions were so spoiled and gluttonous, they turned their noses up at the less desirable pieces. <br /><br />We took a day trip to the stormy coastal town of Niebla. It was cold and windy and we were shocked to see Chilean families jumping around in the surf on the black sand beach. We spent the day being touristy - we visited the old spanish fort and saw the museum devoted to the defense of Chile and the interaction of the Europeans with the native Mapuche people. And we visited a German brewery for a midday pint. Chile has quite the German population, due to the migration of Germans after the second world war. There is also a Nazi commune somewhere in Chile with a scandalous past.<br /><br />We then briefly passed through Osorno on our way to the hot springs in one of the many National Parks in the area. The park itself was closed off to hikers on account of the rain, but it was perfect hot spring weather. The hot springs were nestled in the mountains and right beside a beautifully frigid river. <br /><br />The rain, however, was not perfect for the next phase of our plans for the day: hitch hiking to the Argentine border and then onto the Patagonian town of Bariloche. With hair still wet from the springs, and backs laden with our packs, we waited miserably in the pouring rain. No one stopped. Yuval convinced a bus to take us to the border in exchange from some inflated Chilean pesos (2000 pesos for a bus ride!) but he insisted on dropping us off 5 kilometres away from the border at a small, red wooden Church that looked like a barn. It wasn't raining anymore and we figured it wouldn't be difficult to catch a quick ride from here. We were quite mistaken. <br /><br />Walking the 5 km wouldn't have been so bad except for Yuval's gigantic pack; it was much too heavy for a long distance walk. So we waited. And waited. Again, no one stopped. In the field next to the church there was a dilapidated farm house, and I saw that there was a man standing on the porch, watching us. After some time, he began to cross the field in our direction. But instead of coming over to chat, he stood in a grove of trees and continued to watch. We prayed for a kind soul with truck space, but still no cars stopped. <br />Another figure appeared out of the field across the road, a weathered old gaucho carrying a child's car seat and stroller. He came right over and told us in incredibly difficult to understand Castilleano that we were unlikely to get picked up here. Something about drugs. Perhaps no one wanted any wild cards at the border.<br />Our watcher friend eventually came over to us. It turned out that he was mute. He mimed all sorts of macabre warnings at us. We gathered that he was the caretaker of the barn church and either loved or hated god, was afraid of the looming volcano and traveling down either direction of the highway. <br /><br />A little shaken, very frustrated and with dusk beginning to gather, we began to walk towards the border. Thankfully, we came across an American couple out fishing and they agreed to drive us up to the border.<br /><br />At the border, we were only momentarily relieved. The Argentine side of the border was an hour's drive away. We ate some empanadas to quiet the gurgling of our stomachs and chocolate to stave off the grumpiness, and began to ask the stopped cars for a ride. Eventually, we were saved by a genuine and warm Argentine family who drove us to the other border, waited for us to go through migration and then drove us to a town very close to Bariloche. <br />Further frustration awaited though... just when we thought we were in the clear. It's peak tourist season in Patagonia and everything was booked solid. After a couple of hours wandering in the dark, being barked at by dogs and turned away from every sort of lodging, we gave up the search and camped at an overpriced site beside the supermarket. It was a miserable night for me: it was freezing cold and I had no sleeping bag. We improvised the best we could but I woke up all through the night shivering. Morning could not come soon enough; all I wanted was to get to Bariloche and a hot shower.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-59265709581912433942010-01-16T14:49:00.000-08:002010-01-16T16:10:57.738-08:00Feliz Navidad from Buenos AiresAfter a couple of meandering days through the sweltering heat of Cordoba, I left Yuval to meet with Roisin in Buenos Aires for the holidays. He and I planned to reconverge in the New Year, and I planned to push back my flights home (original return date: January 6th) so we could travel all the way down to the end of Patagonia together. After spending more time in Bolivia than I had expected I felt as though I would be cheating myself out of the Argentine experience if I left when planned. Especially since I've been dreaming of Argentina since high school... <br /><br />I arrived in Buenos Aires on a bright, sunny morning. The city was a huge urban rainforest, tropical and slow moving with a cacophony of traffic sounds and music, like the screeching parrots of the amazon. My ten days in Buenos Aires were dominated by the heat, eating and drinking wine with friends and dancing until the sun rose. <br />The hostel I was at was cozy and clean, and I immediately felt at home - so much so that I frequently forgot my sandals in the common room and left dishes in my dorm. <br /><br />Roisin and I treated ourselves to a tango show and sat enthralled for hours watching the incredible dexterity of the dancers' feet. One of my favorite things about Buenos Aires was the tango dancers that put on shows in the middle of the main pedestrian streets. It gave cruising the trendy stores a nice Argentine flare. <br /><br />Christmas was somewhat surreal. Without my family, it didnt feel much like the holidays. Plus, there was no hint of snow... unless you count the gringos on cocaine binges. Roisin and I, and her friend from back home in Ireland, Clair, joined the hostel for a huge <em>asado</em> (barbecue) on Christmas Eve. Argentine Christmas traditions consist of eating a lot of meat, drinking a lot of wine, setting off firecrackers until it sounds like the city is under seige, and partying until dawn. I heard from someone at the hostel that some people even go to midnight mass completely drunk. To make it feel more like Christmas, us girls exchanged small gifts on Christmas Day and watched cheesy holiday movies. <br /><br />Traveling with a group of girls was a definite change of pace from traveling with Yuval. We spent much of our days poking in and out of the shops, visiting the many markets, and going to museums - including the very enjoyable Evita museum. We gathered a few more girls as we spent more time at our hostel, including two girls from Alberta; one that I knew from Calgary and the other from Edmonton - technically the enemy, but we let that slide. <br /><br />I happily adjusted to Argentine time: eating at 10:30 or later and going out after 2:00, which quickly resulted in not waking before noon most days. I was in great company - I met many other travelers who were great and funny and interesting. The Edmontonian girl made me laugh until I cried with her stories of misadventures in Ecuador - the sort of stories that are only funny after the actual experience. However, I quickly tired of the club, bar and party scene. Literally and figuratively. I found myself wishing for quiet nights with Yuval, slowly savoring a bottle of wine and a nice dinner. <br /><br />New Years Eve was my last night in Buenos Aires, and the girls were psyched for a grand party. To start off the night, we had a picnic of pizza, empanadas, wine and champagne. We laughed and talked for hours over our little picnic, eventually tearing ourselves away to visit the first bar of the night. The hostel bar was packed with gringos and everyone was dancing and waiting in the epically long line for drinks. The buses to shuttle us to the next bar showed up at 1:30 and we all piled on, heading for what was supposed to be <em>the</em> party at a giant, out of the way nightclub called Pacha. We danced until the sky was pink with the first day of 2010. We emerged bleary eyed and exhausted, but pleased with a new years well spent. The club was right beside the ocean, and the wind was whipping the waves into pink, white crested frosting. <br /><br />Meanwhile, Yuval had been in Mendoza being disappointed by the quality of the wines on the bodega tours. He then went on to Santiago, Chile and bought a tent, and went on a trek to test out his new toy. For New Years he was at a giant, mad party at the beach town of Valparaiso. I left Buenos Aires on New Years day to meet him Santiago.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-69767929288478732532010-01-16T09:49:00.000-08:002010-01-16T11:39:37.030-08:00Northern Argentina<strong>Across the Border:</strong><br /><br />Arriving in the northern Argentine town of Salta after two months of being in Bolivia was like coming back into the city after an extended period of camping. The lights and buildings were overwhelming - things like traffic lights and the obeying of such traffic rules struck me as odd. I certainly did not expect to feel such a culture shock moving from one South American country to the next. The bathrooms were the biggest shock. They not only had seats, but toilet paper and soap! and sometimes a hand dryer! The buses even had bathrooms on them... no more excruciating waiting until the next stop, or yelling at the bus driver in the middle of the night to pull over. I felt spoiled to have such luxuries on the bus. <br /><br />Salta was cloudy and the days were warm and damp, with tepid rain in the evenings. The clouds broke only when you left the city limits and drove into the countryside. Then the sun shone brightly over the fields and fields of verdant tobacco plants, and the rust red mountains and warped rock formations.<br /><br />I do not recommend the wine tours out of Salta. We spent only about a half hour actually in the winery - the rest of the time was just driving around or wandering through markets in small towns (which, there's nothing wrong with... unless you were expected to go on a wine tour). And the wine we were given to sample was terrible. And that's not even being a wine snob... these wines were physically painful to swallow. The wine tours in Mendoza, sadly, are the same deal. Both regions make good wine - Mendoza moreso than Salta, but they serve the leftover junk/vinegar on the tours for some reason.<br /><br />I had my first Argentine steak in Salta - and I'm glad to say that it lived up to its reputation. I've never eaten so much red meat in my life as I have in Argentina. Even if I wanted to, I couldnt escape it: every restaurant is just dripping in <em>carne</em>. Even the salad bar has meat in it. A friend of mine ordered a salad, and was served a meat salad with tuna juice as dressing. Thankfully, Argentineans know a thing or two about the cooking of meat, so I've been eating very well. <br /><br />My travel companion of the last 3 months, Yuval, and I had split up in Bolivia and traveled to Argentina independently. In Salta, two weeks later, I ran into him randomly on the street and so we decided to continue traveling together. I was incredibly pleased to have my travel buddy back - we travel well together, and he motivates me to do things I never would on my own (more on that topic later). <br /><br />He and I left Salta for another large city a few hours south called Tucuman, which was similar to Salta, but I enjoyed it more. It was sunnier and the parks and plazas nicer. Every morning we drank the first palatable coffee since before the severe draught of decent coffee in Bolivia, and every afternoon sated ourselves with ice cream. Argentina, if anything, has been a decadent gastronomical experience. <br /><br />From Tucuman we rented a car - an adorable Brasilian-made Corsa - and went on a four day road trip through Northwest Argentina, armed only with a map and lots of snacks.<br /><br /><strong>Day One:</strong><br />Tucuman to Familia - the empanada capital of Argentina. Every year they have a contest to see which restaurant makes the best empanada. And every restaurant has large signs displaying which year their empanadas won. The town itself was not particularly hospitable. I asked for directions at a Butcher's, and the man slicing through a giant piece of raw meat with a horrifyingly large butcher knife looked at me with utter disdain and directed me out of town. We went to the winners of 2006, got a giant bagful of empanadas and made a hasty escape. By the end of the day the word empanada made me feel nauseous and neither of us touched the stuffed pastry for a while afterwards. <br /><br />From there we drove through a mountain pass draped in wild rainforest. The clouds hung low over the peaks and shrouded the mountains in mist, creating beautifully eerie scenery - the perfect backdrop to South American folklore. We stopped by a waterfall and a road side shrine to the <em>Pachamama </em> (Mother Earth). At these shrines, which are many along South American roads, travelers offer her coca leaves, alcohol and cigarettes to ensure safe passage. <br />Once we were through the mountains, the rainforest abruptly dropped away and was replaced with wide expanses of bright green fields dotted with hundreds of cacti. As we approached our next destination - the Valle de Tafi - a dense fog descended on us. It was a complete white out, we could barely see two feet in front of us. As if on cue, as soon as we drove into Tafi, the fog disappeared and revealed a gorgeous valley with a large reservoir. There were a few museums tucked away in the valley, but each one was closed - either because they had closed early or had decided not to open at all. The one "museum" that was open was hardly a museum at all. <br /><br />The signage had directed us to a house with a small hut made of stone in the back yard. We knocked on the door and a glassy eyed man who looked just like Benicio del Toro in one of his scummier roles. He had only three buttons on his shirt done up and they were all straining hard against his protruding pot belly. In slurred castillean Spanish (Argentine Spanish), he called another man to bring us into the "musuem". We could hear shouting inside the house as the other, smaller but no less drunk man directed us into the stone hut. Once inside, there was a stone staircase hugging the circular wall and descending into a dark pit. On the surrounding ledge there were small artifacts and photographs of the hut's construction. On the dirt floor there was another, smaller hole meant for sacrifices. We thanked our guide and got back into the car.<br /><br />We drove further north towards the connection with Ruta 40 - the infamous highway the runs the length of Argentina and gained notoriety via Che Guevara's famous motorcycle trip. We stopped at the Quilmes ruins - a pre inca civilizaton and one of the few ruins that Argentina has. It was closed for the day when we arrived, but they let us in anyways, so we had the ruins to ourselves. The area was studded with large, looming cacti and black crow-like birds circled and cawed overhead, like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. <br /><br />We spent the night in a small town called Santa Maria just off Ruta 40. <br /><br /><strong>Day 2:</strong><br /><br />We left Santa Maria and drove forever on Ruta 40 through an endless, arrid desert. It was here I gained an appreciation for air conditioning. And also for our brave little Corsa. The road was unpaved, rocky and twisted, and slippery with dust. The most impressive feat was the Corsa making it through a large lake covering the road. <br /><br />We passed through a few small towns, Belen, Londres, La Rioja, and finally stopped for the night in larger Catamarca. Being too exhausted to find anything better, we stayed in a horrid little hole of a hostel with a horridly grumpy owner who Yuval did not get on with at all. <br /><br /><strong>Day 3:</strong><br /><br />After a breakfast of wonderful Argentine pastries, we were on the road again, on our way to a town known for its thermal hot springs called Rio Hondo. Being that it was over 30 degrees outside, the hot springs weren't particular popular at the time. All 170 hotels in the small town were closed for the off-season. We had to convince a hostel to clean a room for us. We stayed around the town for most of the day, meandering around and taking it easy. I had my first manual driving lesson (and did pretty decently, I might add!). The lady at the tourism office completed Yuval on his castilleano and asked if we were from Buenos Aires. Very complimentary but absurd seeing as how she spoke for 20 minutes while we smiled and nodded, understanding maybe 10% of what she said. Castilleano is much different from the Spanish spoken in Bolivia. But even though our understanding faltered until we got used to the new dialect, the Argentineans were spectactularly hospitable and helpful.<br /><br /><strong>Day 4: </strong><br /><br />We made our way back to Tucuman via a National Park in the jungles, and a little reluctantly returned our corsa and resumed carrying our lives on our backs.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-56289164733439555692009-12-12T23:19:00.000-08:002009-12-13T00:18:38.838-08:00The Old West, Bolivian styleTupiza another quaint, friendly town like Rurrenabaque, with wide streets and good food. It's nestled in some of most beautiful scenery I saw in Bolivia. The low mountains are a dark, rust red. The murky river is full of the smoky sediment, and it snakes leisurely through the gorge. The red is set off by the surrounding emerald green fields and the bright, cobalt blue sky. <br /><br />After a gorgeous but funny walk inducing two day horse back riding trip, Roisin and I, along with a couple other gringos we picked up along the way, hired a tour agency to take us up to the small mining town of San Vicente to see where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their demise. <br /><br />Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were a couple of cowboy outlaws from Utah. Butch (who Roisin swears is the spitting image of Manchester United footballer, Wayne Rooney) was from a nice Mormon family. The pair were part of a gang of outlaws eventually called The Wild Bunch, who robbed banks and trains in the early 1900s. When the heat from the police got to be too much, Butch and Sundance, along with Sundance's wife Etta (whom the documentary reports was either a school teacher or a prostitute) relocated to a ranch in Argentina. They were soon in trouble with police again - not being able to help themselves from stealing. Etta left for San Francisco and was never heard from again. The boys rode into Bolivia to hide out where they passed through Tupiza and somehow found the tiny village of San Vicente high up in the mountains. The Bolivian policia, like bloodhounds, found them and surrounded the two outlaws in a tiny adobe hut. Instead of being killed by the police or being dragged to a horrid Bolivian jail, Butch shot his friend in the head and then turned it on himself.<br /><br />San Vicente is a four hour jeep ride into the middle of nowhere; eight days on a horse, if you are so inclined. The mountainside between Tupiza and San Vicente is unpopulated save for large herdes of llamas. It's a tiny Canadian owned mining town, populated only by miners and their families. We visited the hut where the men died, which hasn't changed in a hundred years, but we weren't allowed to go inside on account of a family lives there. We also paid our respects to the cemetery where their bodies were thrown into - they did not get proper caskets and their remains have never actually be found. <br /><br />Finally, we went to look through the tiny museum dedicated to the two Banditos de los Estados Unidos. While waiting for someone to bring the key, we were very formally greeted by a few of the townspeople and photographed for some sort of Bolivian tourism magazine. It seems as though not many tourists make the trek up there. Once inside the museum, they continued to photograph us looking at all the artifacts and the man who appeared to be in charge gave a long explanation of whose bones were in the casket in the center of the room. I had asked, because the story was that the remains were never found. Evidently, when they were trying to exhume the bodies, they came across remains that were of European bone structure and possibly could have been Butch Cassidy. Upon examination it was determined that no, it was not Butch. It was a German miner who was buried on top of the outlaws. For whatever reason they keep the German miner's remains in the museum.<br /><br />When we returned to Tupiza we watched the Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid movie with Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Perfect ending to a great day. <br /><br />The following morning, Roisin and I said goodbye to Tupiza and shortly afterwards, goodbye to Bolivia. Bolivia's farewell to us was another imaginary bus. On the Bolivian side of the border we were sold tickets to a bus heading to Salta, Argentina. Upon reaching the Argentine side and consulting the bus company we were informed that a)they weren't real tickets and b)that bus didnt exist. Thankfully before our heads exploded in frustration, the ticket man just shook his head and snorted, "Bolivia!" and then printed us out tickets for an actual bus, at no extra charge. <br /><br />Thus concluded my one and a half month stint in Bolivia. I really did not expect to stay as long as I did, but as they say, life happens while you're making plans. And I'm so happy my plans were tossed out -- Bolivia was amazing.<br /><br />And now onto the land of wine and steak; gauchos and Peronistas: Argentina!Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-15790404055543517132009-12-12T21:22:00.000-08:002009-12-12T23:13:08.858-08:00Imaginary Buses and Underground DevilsI was in Sucre, Bolivia's capital, for about two weeks. I spent about equal amounts of time laid up sick in the hostel (turns out my immune system isn't invincible. darn), dodging through political marches for the December 6th presidential elections and watching various sporting events for the Boliviano games (an Olympic style competition between six latin american countries). Despite the delirious gauze of fever, I found the colonial flavor of Sucre to be a nice, relaxing change of pace from the hectic bustle and screech of La Paz. I certainly got used to the concept of a daily siesta from noon to four. <br /><br />Before leaving Bolivia, I decided to make one more stop on the way to Argentina, in a small town called Tupiza. I had met a fun Irish girl called Roisin (sounds like Roa-sheen) in Sucre who was going the same way, so we arranged to take the bus together. Every tour agency I had asked the day before assured me that there was a 6:30 bus going to Tupiza every day. Upon arrival at the bus station, we were informed that no, there was no 6:30 bus. The last bus of the day had left already. <br />Exasperated but not overly surprised (this is Bolivia!), we decided to go somewhere that was en route, seeing as how we were already packed and ready to go. The only seats available on any bus were to Potosi, the highest city in the world. <br /><br />Potosi is a desolate place; cold, rainy and the lack of oxygen can produce all sorts of fun symptoms, from feeling like you've run a marathon after walking a block to headaches to nausea. The locals constantly chew coca leaves and the toursits leave quickly. <br />The only thing to do there is tour the mines. Potosi used to be an incredibly wealthy city due to the veins of silver running through the mountains. They say the streets of Potosi were once paved with silver. Today, the wealth has trickled away. There isn't much silver left, although they still mine zinc and a couple other metals. Bolivia is a country rich in resources, but unfortunately the people don't see much of that wealth. <br /><br />Walking into the mines is like disappearing into a black hole. Its cold and dark and eerily silent until you stumble across a miner, dirty and sweating with exertion, coca wad lodged firmly in his cheek. They don't eat while on shift - anywhere from six to twelve hours - so they chew coca leaves in order to stave off hunger and keep up energy levels. The first miners we saw were pushing a large cart which they would fill to the brim with rocks and then push back out. When they set off dynamite somewhere in the bowels of the mountain, it felt like being inside thunder. At the time of the usual 12:00 detonation, the tour group had climbed a series of ladders down a small hole. One guy in our group was asking the guide about a mineral he had found in the walls when the explosion went off and a storm of dirt and particles came rushing through the corridors. The guide yelled, "Forget the mineral-- RUN!"<br /> <br />Before we left, we visited a shrine to the devil. The mines are an absolutely miserable working environment. These men start working when they are just teenagers, 14 or 15 (official tour story, but I heard rumors of boys as young as 12 working in the mines)and they work basically until the mines kill them, either in an accident or from the inevitable health problems. The miners worship a devil called Tio, because there is no god in the mines. <br /><br />The Tio sits in a small alcove, covered in offerings of coca leaves, 97% pure alcohol (what the miners drink) and cigarettes. He's painted a bright fire engine red and his head is adorned with a wild cascade of multicolored paper hair. He sits impishly in the corner and looks at you with wild eyes and a grotesque grin. On Fridays, the miners come here to give the Tio offerings and to drink and have a party. We paid our respects as well and - thankfully - climbed out of the mountain and back into daylight. <br /><br />That night, Roisin and I managed to find a bus to Tupiza that actually existed and we left at nightfall for the sunny, old west style town.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-22033707610659497692009-11-09T13:54:00.000-08:002009-12-12T21:21:27.826-08:00RurrenabaqueA word on Bolivian transportation:<br /><br />There are three things that are guaranteed to occur on an overnight South American bus trip. One, a crying baby. With a maliciousness beyond its years, the child will usually wait until everyone is trying to sleep to begin its wailing. Two, at least one guy who snores, who will compete with the cacophony of scary mechanical sounds the bus makes. And three, the road will be in terrible condition, with potholes the size of jungle cats and enough dust to make you feel like you're wearing an extra layer of clothes. The bus will rattle and bump and shake the entire time, so that sleeping means knocking your head against everything. Stepping off the bus at your destination feels like emerging from battle: weary, sore, irritable and dirty. <br /><br />Someone told me that he saw a sign in the La Paz bus terminal that says: "We never know when we're going to leave and we never know when we're going to arrive." True to form, our 11:30 bus from La Paz to Rurrenabaque remained quite stationary at our supposed departure time, and the driver was no where to be seen. Yuval sighed and said, "I guess we're not leaving on time then." <br />Another Israeli guy who was taking our bus replied, "Oh no, we'll be right on time. 11:30 on the nose - Bolivian time." he laughed, "do you know how you can change your watch to Bolivian time?" <br />"How?" <br />"Break your watch."<br /><br />From La Paz, the bus to the small northern jungle town of Rurrenabaque takes anywhere from 17 to 20 hours. It used to be that the route was via the infamous Bolivian Death Road- three and a half feet wide, a sheer drop into the canyon, tales of vehicles disappearing over the sides. But they've since closed that road to vehicles, although there are bicycle tours down it now - if you manage to stay on the road the whole way, you get a t-shirt that says "I survived the Bolivian death road". <br />The new road is slightly less dodgy. Still said to be the worst bus ride in Bolivia (and that's saying a lot; competition is fierce) and the road is still not wide enough to accomodate both directions of traffic. Every time an oncoming car approaches, one of the vehicles has to back up into the nearest shoulder. It's best not to pay too much attention, or the inefficiency of it all will drive you beserk. <br /><br /><br />Rurrenabaque<br /><br />The bus rolled into Rurre at 4:30 in the morning. Why so early? The same reason the roads aren't built to accomodate both lanes of traffic, the garbage cans don't have bottoms, and why during a parade I saw children dressed up like lettuce. This is Bolivia. <br />Not having slept at all, stepping off the bus into dark, heavy humidity felt like walking onto a different planet. One where bugs the size of household pets hide in the reeds and have strange sound making contests. <br /><br />We then spent a leisurely day of orienting ourselves with the town. And by orienting I mean drinking pina coladas poolside. The pool is top of a hill overlooking the river valley. Gorgeous AND an antedote to the crazy heat. Successful first day.<br /><br />The following day we went on a three day tour of the pampas - the marshy savanna outside of Rurre. It's incredibly touristy to be sure, but more than worth it. After being jostled around in a Jeep for four hours, which was actually sort of nice despite not being able to see out of the windsheild for all the dust, because the open windows provided a bit of air conditioning. The next leg was a three hour slow roast in a wooden, motorized canoe. By the time we got to the lodge, we were probably cooked enough to eat. The scenery was great, though. Loads of alligators, caimans (giant, aggressive black crocodilians), turtles, pink dolphins, capybaras (world's largest rat; adorable, looks like a cross between a bear and a cuy), all sorts of birds from cormorants, eagles, falcons, goofy looking pampas condors, ostriches, and birds that we dubbed 'prehistoric chickens' (looks exactly like it sounds). We arrived at the lodge - a very basic wooden number on stilts with cold showers, no electricity, and best of all: hammocks - and chilled out in the hammocks watching red howler monkeys play in the trees before dinner. The food was spectacular beyond expectations. Not even the oppressive heat couldnt stop us from eating until we felt like bursting. <br /><br />It was halloween the day we arrived. I joked that I was going as Jane Goodall and would befriend the monkeys. Which didn't end up being far from the truth: I found a spider monkey hanging around the restaurant we stopped for lunch at. He was curled up with a sleeping pig and was more or less friendly. Obviously really used to humans: he grabbed my hand, we had a little interspecies bonding moment... and then he tried to pull me closer to see what I tasted like. I averted the bite, but am thankful that I got that rabies shot before I left!<br />Fun fact: I heard that Jane Goodall had visited Rurrenabaque a couple weeks ago to meet one of her heroes that lives here. <br /> <br />That night, Halloween night, we went out in the boat again to look at the alligators. When you shine your flashlight on them, their eyes glow pink and yellow. We found a huge nest of baby alligators and it looked like the lights of a city. <br /><br />The first half of the next day - and let me put this in the most positive way I can - sucked. We went for a four hour walk through the marshes looking for anacondas. It was blisteringly hot, there was very little for shade and the anacondas weren't up for playing with the gringos (can't blame them). The cold shower at the end of that ordeal was fantastic. <br /><br />After that was nice, though. We went fishing for pirhanas with little bits of raw chicken. Fishing for pirhanas is significantly less boring than Canadian fishing. For one, there's no waiting. As soon as you drop the chicken in, they are all over it. What's frustating is that they're wily. They eat it in a split second and you come up with an empty hook. I caught a few sardines, who also apparently like raw chicken. The only one who caught any pirhanas was our guide, Alec, who reminded me of what Mowgli from the Jungle Book would look like in his early 20s. <br /><br />The next day we were supposed to go and swim with the pink river dolphins. We'd seen glimpses of a few on the way to the lodge, but they're hard to see because the water is so brown with mud and silt. If the group of dolphins is large enough, they can be playful with humans, but on this particular day they were being shy and elusive (again, in no mood to entertain the gringos. and fair enough). So we wound up swimming with the alligators instead. The alligators are actually quite timid but they definitely kept a close eye on us. <br /><br />The night we got back to Rurrenabaque, we ran into Alec at dinner and he invited us out to play pool and have a couple of beers with him, his cute Israeli date and some of the other guides. Had lots of fun. Alec made fun of me for being so miserable on the anaconda search, telling the rest of the guides what a wimpy Canadian I was. So I joked that I wanted a refund for one: promising but not delivering the anacondas, and two: for being mean. We played a game of pool instead and that was just as well. <br /><br />Fun times at Kilometer 25:<br /><br />Not wanting to leave the jungle just yet (La Paz is just so cold and far away!) we began to search around for other things to do. There's a cafe that serves pricey but wonderful breakfasts that we ate at before we discovered the to-die-for french bakery. Paranthetically, we've been eating like Kings: chocolate croissants right out of the oven in the morning, freshly baked bread, homemade italian style pizzas, large catfish steaks smothered in tamarin sauce, cups upon cups of ice cream and fresh fruit milkshakes. I may or may not need to buy another seat for the plane ride home.<br />Anyway, there was a poster in the cafe about a wildlife rehabilation center about forty five minutes outside of Rurrenabaque where they were accepting volunteers. Sounded like a good experience, and I'm all for giving back to this crazy-amazing country. So we hopped on the boat that crosses the Beni river and into a minibus that dropped us off literally in the middle of nowhere, beside a sign that said "KM 25". <br /><br />We were greeted at the wildlife center by a malnourished hippy from Jersey, with a giant wad of a coca leaves in his cheek and teeth stained bright green. He had, evidently, gone to great lengths to escape from Jersey. He talked a mile a minute, generously peppering his speech with profanities that seemed really out of place in the jungle; explaining the program, the people, the bugs, Jersey... pretty much everything under the sun. We helped make lunch and ate, and still, he talked and talked. There were around 15 people working and living there, but the only two animals on residence were a couple of older pumas. The center was still in its infancy, and they needed volunteers to built it. At the time we arrived, they were collecting palm leaves with which to build a fumidor, so they could smoke in the shade. We weren't allowed to see the pumas. Only a small number of people, who were staying for at least three weeks, got to work with the pumas. And their job was to essentially take the cats out for a walk in the jungle for most of the day. Everyone else did construction under the blazing hot sun, with the worst bugs I have encountered to date. I helped the hippy from Jersey hunt down more palm leaves after lunch and the tall grass sliced up my legs like a razor blade. After three hours there I looked like a Freddy Krueger victim with chicken pox. Jersey took us for a quick walk into the jungle and was surprisingly knowledgable about it. <br />He said the two rules of the jungle are as follows: try not to touch anything. And if you do touch something, look at it first. Quite true: we were climbing up a steep incline and I reached out to grab a tree to steady myself, but looked at it first and it was covered in spikes. Other trees, you'd brush and be left with a stinging burn on your bare flesh. <br /><br />At the end of the day, we decided the cause didn't quite grab us enough for manual labor in 45 degree weather to be worth it. Plus, the hippies were pretentious at the PETA level and that didn't work for me either. We stayed the night and decided to leave in the morning. It was a torturous night. There were cockroaches in the sheets and my mosquito net had holes. I resigned myself to putting in my ipod so I couldn't hear the incessant whining of the mosquitos. But there was nothing I could do about the biting. <br /><br />Dawn was a shimmery, promising silver the morning of our escape. Clouds had rolled in over night; a brief shroud before the heat of the day pierced through. We waited until all of the hippies had gone for breakfast (a measley two slices of bread. we figured if we got back to town early enough, we'd be in time for the croissants to come out of the french baker's oven), left money on the bed with a note and snuck out onto the road. We debated over whether or not to actually talk with Jersey and explain that it wasn't for us, but from the conversations the night prior, it seemed fairly likely that he'd argue and try to guilt trip us into staying. No one needs that sort of awkward unpleasantness at 7 am. So we left, undetected, and waited on the road until an oversized pick up truck stopped for us. The primary method of transportation on the backroads if you don't have a motorbike is to hitchhike. Our truck picked up other loads of other travelers - Bolivians, going to town to sell fruit or taking their children to school. It wound up being quite fun. The Bolivians were, as usual, very friendly. An old man insisted that I take the best seat and shared his fruit with me.<br /><br />It was a well executed escape: we were back in Rurrenabaque just in time for the bakery to open. There´s nothing like post escape pastries to start another great day in the Jungle.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-41420616119399957122009-10-26T14:27:00.000-07:002009-10-26T17:14:15.132-07:00Bring on BoliviaThe Floating Islands<br /><br />On October 18th, a sunny but brisk day on Lake Titicaca (Peru-side), I woke up in a tiny hut made of reeds. The wake up call was brought on by a warm and sweet old lady (I call her my Island Abuela), who lived with her husband on the Uros islands a.k.a the Floating Islands. This string of tiny islands have been constructed entirely out of the reeds that grow in the lake. Everything on the islands is made of reeds, even the tiny hut for the reed-fed cuy.<br /> <br />Our Island Abuelos (grandparents) were gracious enough to let Yuval and I stay with them for the night. It was 7:00 in the morning when Abuela swung the reed door open with a smile and a bright, "Buenos dias!". She disappeared briefly and re-appeared with breakfast: sweetened tea, homemade bread and two dishes piled high with rice, fries and a large fried egg. I shook the sleep out of my eyes and said to Yuval, "you know, I don't think I've ever actually been brought breakfast in bed before." He replied, "well I doubt you've ever slept on an island made of reeds, in a hut made of reeds either." Touche.<br /><br />We caught the dilapidated wooden boat that sputters its way from the Islands back to Puno, the small city on the shores of Lake Titicaca, after spending a sunny morning relaxing on the spongy, tiny island. It feels like walking on a slightly crunchy trampoline, but the reeds are incredibly comfortable to lay down on - I sat for a minute and almost fell asleep.<br /><br />By nightfall that same day, we arrived in Copacabana, Bolivia. That's one of my favorite parts of traveling: one day can take you to all kinds of places. I wasn't actually planning on visiting Bolivia at all. Not for any particular reason, but it just wasn't on the original roster. However, after returning from Machu Picchu and deciding what the next step would be, it felt like a good choice.<br /><br />In Which We Are Stranded in the Bolivian Altiplano:<br /><br />Yuval had heard great things about a small town cradled in the mountains a few hours north of La Paz, called Sorata. It was purported to be a cute little oasis of a town that sucked travelers in, Cusco-style. So, we caught the bus that was going to La Paz and had the driver drop us off in a town called Huarina to catch a connecting bus to Sorata.<br /><br />A few words on Huarina. It's a barren, windswept town placed as if by accident in the middle of the desolate altiplano, boasting only a smattering of lonely looking brick buildings. The only visible life was a handful of Aymari ladies running small snack shops, rough looking dogs and people waiting for buses. The buses - the ubiquitous collectivos - rumbled through the dirt road in quick succession but most were full. None were going to Sorata. For hours we stood on the street corner, shivering in the biting wind; waiting...<br /><br />Finally an Aymari lady instructed us to get into a collectivo, promising "Sorata, Sorata!" She expressed a great surprise that we could not speak Aymari, but spoke to us in Spanish anyway, if a little begrudingly. The driver took us to another, less desolate town and instructed us to wait for the Sorata bus there. Patience and optimism were wearing thin, and we consoled ourselves with the tiny happy fact that if we should get stuck here, at least this town had a hostel.<br /><br />Luckily the Sorata bus did come and rescue us from the frigid altiplano. The only downside was that it was already full so we had to squish ourselves into the space between the front seats and the first bench, balancing precariously between knees and large bags. It was a long drive to Sorata. <br /><br />All that effort - erm, I mean, adventure - wasn't entirely for naught. Sorata was cute. Small, with palm trees waving cheerfully in the central plaza and streets lined with Italian pizzerias. But not exactly the oasis that was promised. The only activities available were hikes up to dizzying altitudes (not appealing to me as the high alitude still makes my heart whir like a blender on high) and kamikaze bike rides from the tops of the surrounding mountains.<br /><br />The hostel we stayed in was an old Colonial number that looked and felt like something out of Pan's Labrynth. It was beautiful once, with high ceilings, alabaster white walls and courtyards teeming with plants and bright flowers, giant bees and hummingbirds. Time had crumbled the walls and imbued the rooms with a draughty, creepy atmosphere as though the ghosts of the Conquistadors were sitting beside you in your room, drinking coca tea and discussing strategies against the Incas. It was commandeered by an intimidating old lady who seemed to disappear into the walls after she was finished talking to you. I had the strangest dreams that night.<br /><br />Side Note: Lonely Planet has strange recommendations. All of the hostels we've chosen via the Lonely Planet guide have either been a complete dump as the one in Puno (I don't even want to discuss it) or ancient, creepy and haunted. Sometimes I feel like the writers enjoy 'surprising' travelers with these odd and crumbling places. Har har, joke's on us!<br /><br />Now we are in a much cuter, much friendlier hostel in La Paz (took the recommendations of one of Yuval's Israeli websites...).Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-31800030634234947902009-10-22T08:15:00.002-07:002009-10-22T08:28:33.567-07:00MACHU PICCHU!!!Machu Picchu - the DIY way<br /><br />Deciding to forgo the guided tours to Machu Picchu - which are a dime a dozen, expensive and more of the toursit herding that I am growing to despise - my Israeli rafting friend (heretofore called by his actual name, Yuval, instead of 'my Israeli friend') and I left the hostel early-ish in the morning with hastily scribbled directions from other Israeli's on how to get to Machu Picchu.<br /><br />The Road to Machu Picchu:<br /><br />Part one: For the four to five hour drive from Cusco to Santa Maria, we found a collectivo a.k.a. a cramped, rickety van stuffed to the brim with Peruvians, with a crate full of ducks strapped to the top, for good measure. They shunted "Los Gringos" to the very back seat, which wasn't quite attached to the floor, and the driver took off on the dusty road that twisted round the moutainside. Machu Picchu here we come!<br /><br />We changed vans in Santa Maria, this time into a rickety tin can full of very friendly Chilean students (a couple of whom we ran into later in Cusco, and they tried to take us to a Peruvian strip club. Noooo gracias!), and were taken via slightly dodgy, narrow gravel road that hugged the sharp cliff sides through Santa Teresa and onto the hydroelectric station. In order to pass oncoming vehicles, the van had to back up into a small turnout and wait. Not quite the infamous Bolivian death road, however, and once we got used to it, it wasn't that bad. The best strategy is to close your eyes and hope you make it one piece.<br /><br />Luckily, we did make it one piece, and were dropped off at a hydroelectric station nearby the train tracks that lead to Aguas Calientes (town at the base of Machu Picchu). You do, of course, have the option of riding the train to Aguas Calientes from just outside of Cusco. I've heard good things about it. Yuval, the Chileans and I, however, took the cheap and scenic route and walked along the train tracks, like hobos, for about 3 hours to Aguas Calientes. The Chileans were hilariously ill equiped for the walk: they had brought their giant suitcases and garment bags for their nice clothes. What they needed nice clothes for in MP was beyond me, but the poor things had to walk along the tracks with their suitcases uncomfortably perched on top of their heads.<br /><br />The walk through the jungle was very scenic indeed, with bright green parrots swooping in and out of the trees, screeching happily and other invisible birds making sounds I've never heard before. The only downside was that we were plagued by hordes of tiny ravenous bugs (excellent reason to shave your legs in Machu Picchu: to give the bites a really good scratch). To pass the time, Yuval and I played his noun-song game, wherein one person picks a noun and the other has to come up with as many songs containing that noun as possible. Two songs in particular have become my Machu Picchu theme songs: Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues and Frank Sinatra's Come Fly With Me (Yuval insists that Frank says 'come fly with me to Peru'. I disagree. We remain at a standstill at time of writing).<br /><br />We arrived in Aguas Calientes just as night was falling in the jungle; the horrid tiny bugs finally abated their onslaught and went to sleep, and were replaced by flickering fireflies, lighting the way.<br /><br />For some reason, the Lonely Planet people hated Aguas Calientes. Both Yuval and I, however, found it to be adorable. Touristy, of course: Machu Picchu is a world wonder, after all. But for whatever reason, we did not spend much time with other gringos on the way to and from MP. Perhaps it's worse if you go on one of the tours. But Aguas Calientes is certainly not the hell hole Lonely Planet painted it out to be. Quite the contrary; its quaint, with loads of restaurants - for some reasons hordes of Mexican joints, a cute central square, and an atmosphere of happy anticipation.<br /><br />The Swedish Wake up call:<br /><br />After an excited pre Machu Picchu night in Aguas Calientes, we forgot to set an alarm for the following morning. Fortuitiously, right at 5 am (when we had planned to get up) a Swedish couple knocked on the door, looking for the front desk. Happy coincidences like that happened the entire time we were there. Thanks, Incas!<br /><br />Stairway to Machu Picchu:<br /><br />The mountains surrounding Aguas Calientes at 5:00 in the morning were swathed in clouds, the air was crisp but heavy with moisture, and the jungle was making its murmuring, shrieking noises, as though to encourage us. There's a tourist bus that climbs the last stretch of hill up to the ruins, but we, naturally, took the walking tour: 80 bajillion stairs straight up the mountain side. It took about an hour or less to crest the top - finally, after dodgy collectivos, crazy dirt roads,horrendous bug bites, 5 am Swedish wake up call, more stairs than I care to talk about - we were at Machu Picchu.<br /><br />There is an additional Inca site open to tourists, at the far end of the Lost City, called Waynapicchu, on top of a steep mountain overlooking the ruins. It's where most of the iconic MP pictures are taken from. Up to 400 tourists a day are allowed to climb the mountain and visit the additional ruins. We were numbers 165 and 166. For about another hour we climbed yet more stairs, some of them so small and so steep, falling off the side of the mountain seemed like a inevitability. The climb and the dizzying heights were well worth it: the view was nothing short of spectacular. We were literally at the top of this popsicle shaped mountain, sitting among old inca ruins with the lizards sunning themselves, looking out over all of Machu Picchu.<br /><br />After the precarious climb down from Waynapicchu, we wandered amongst the ruins; the heat of the day rising, sweltering, and the tourists all milling about. Despite the hundreds of pink gringos, MP has a magical feel to it, a peaceful hum that seems to come out of the rocks themselves. A tour guide that we eavesdropped on said that MP is a major magnetic center of the world, and a few of the spots have healing properties. At the very least, our spirits were high that day. I highly recommend the trek. <br /><br />We returned to Aguas Calientes in the early afternoon, more than ready for lunch, a shower and a siesta. Instead of making the trek back to Cusco right away, we decided to take the afternoon to relax, the evening to visit the hot springs (Aguas Calientes' namesake) and return in the morning.<br /><br />The Way Back:<br /><br />The walk along the train tracks was quieter than the way there, and a little melancholy. Leaving a wonderful place always seems to be that way. The van we took from Santa Maria back to Cusco was just terrible, though. The guy who was "driving" - if you can call it that - seemed to have never been behind the wheel of a vehicle before. The van jerked back and forth like he had a hornet in his pants. He dodged invisible rocks, braked for no apparent reason, and drove at breakneck speed around curves he should have slowed for. The drive was two hours longer than it should have been because of his spotty driving, and his constant stopping to pick up other passengers and snacks - he literally ate the entire six hour drive. We arrived in Cusco cold, frustrated, and our ears ringing with the same CD that he had played over and over and over again.<br /><br />We arrived back at the Loki hostel, and the bar was in fine form: a bunch of guys were dancing shirtless on the bar, singing and hugging each other in an inebriated haze. Ahh home again.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-46668059774579536072009-10-11T05:36:00.000-07:002009-10-11T05:44:47.550-07:00CuscoOctober 11, 2009<br /><br />So, technically, I'm traveling alone, right? However, since I've left Canada, I've hardly ever actually been alone. The hostel I'm staying at in Cusco - the infamous social hub, Loki - is buzzing with backpackers and travelers from all over the world. You'd have to be the most unpleasant, antisocial person in the world to not make friends here. Each time I come back is like a little homecoming, a chorus of different accents asking, "how was your day?". Almost everyone hangs out together in the lounge or the bar, eats and drinks and shares their stories with each other. People that you've known for an hour become fast friends.<br />Oh, and for those of you who are a touch worried about me traveling alone, almost every other girl I've met at the hostel is traveling alone as well.<br /><br />In the mornings, I've been waking up relatively early, as soon as the light comes through the windows and my dorm mates start rummaging around. I make plans for the day while getting ready and these plans are almost always shot as soon as I go down for breakfast. Why do laundry or talk to the pushy tour agencies when I can do it manana? Instead, I wind up wandering around town with a hostel friend, exploring the markets and eating at random little food stands that may or may not include the parasites for free.<br /><br />Cusco in Quechua means "navel of the earth". To me, it has been a carnivorous navel, swallowing travelers whole and keeping them here long after they planned. A benevolent carnivorous navel, to be sure. But nevertheless, I had planned to stay for 5 days and now I have been here for a week and I have no concrete leaving date as of yet. Not that I'm complaining. Quite the contrary, I'm loving every minute of Cusco. It's an adorable european-style hotpodgeof Peruvians, Quechua and visitors from all over the globe. Most everyone speaks english but you'll hear a mulitude of different languages.<br />The Plaza del Armas is Gringo central, with hawkers of every shape and form peddling clothes, paintings, tours, and massages, among other things. Wandering outside of the center brings you into a more Peruvian experience: old Quechua ladies reading coca leaves on the sidewalks, endless tiny shops packed to the rafters, taxis zipping around at breakneck speed on the cobblestone roads. On Saturdays there is a thieves market, where Cusco sells it's pilfered goods. You can get literally anything you want here, from car parts and tools to cell phones and ipods, to socks and underwear, clothes, shoes, music, movies, food; everything. Makes me think all of the pre-trip shopping I did was for naught; I could have got it all here, for much cheaper.<br /><br />I participated in the requisite gringo activities that Cusco has to offer: the Sacred Valley Inca ruins (Pisaq, Ollantaytambo, Chinchero). The city tour: Saqsaywaman - sounds like "sexy woman" but nothing sexy about it, Q'enqo - the Inca labrinth with (my favorite in this tour) and Puka Pukara, an administrative and road control center, and the Qorikancha Museum, a Spanish monastery/convent that was built right over top of an Inca temple, with some of the Inca walls still intact (the ones the Spanish didn't completely destroy).<br /><br />The Sacred Valley is gorgeous, with ruins high up on the mountains, terraced farming and endless stairs. The Incas must have had a thing for stairs, and for making their buildings staggeringly difficult to get to. Probably a good defensive strategy, but now, even a million stone stairs can't keep the hordes of gringos away. Out of breath and complaining though they may be.<br />Ollantaytambo looks like a giant's stair case. As our tour group jumped out of the van and looked up at the second round of physical activity before us, you could hear a collective groan. (It is, of course, worth it in the end, but they really do make you work for it). A German guy in our group said, "Oh don't worry, there's an escalator over there". Before thinking, I said, "really?"with an excited smile on my face. In my defence, the tour began at 8 am and I had been out dancing with the hostel people until 4:30 am.<br /><br />Our tour guide left a little to be desired. He lectured like a dull history teacher in grade school. He'd ask questions like, "Why do you think this rock is here". Um, is that a rhetorical question? A couple of us (myself, the german escalator comedian and an irish guy) eavesdropped on another tour guide who was wildly and excitedly explaining Inca construction methods, arms waving in the air; he looked like he was about to kiss the giant, perfectly chiseled stones. The Irish guy dubbed him the "Steve Irwin of Archeology".<br /><br />Inca ruins, the good: The ruins themselves are spectacular. The Incas were brilliant, and insane. The sheer amount of work that went into their construction is amazing and mind boggling: Rolling masive rocks from one mountain to another, carving them laboriously and perfectly and piling them on top of each other. They must've been the most physically fit people ever to have lived. I got tired just thinking about it.<br /><br />The Bad: being herded around by an unenthusiastic history teacher like camera toting cattle, with tons of other simiarly bovine tour groups milling about. All in all, though, sunburnt swarms of gringos aside, the ruins are still quite magical.<br /><br />My Israeli Safari:<br /><br />After returning to the hostel one night from another bout of cattle imitation, I agreed, very last minute, to sign up for a three day rafting tour with a friend from the hostel, starting early the next morning. Three days white water rafting and two nights of camping on the Apurimac River (Quechua: God of the talking river), navigating class 3, 4, and 5 rapids. Why not?<br /><br />Unexpected randomness: the rafting group was comprised of me and 20 Israelis, with the Peruvian guides, who spoke a little hebrew themselves and even cooked kosher versions ofeach meal on the trip. It was like traveling to Israel while being in the middle of thePeruvian mountains.<br /><br />The trip was fantastic; the river and the canyon were beautiful, the adrenaline rush from the rapids kept energy levels high (not that Israelis have any trouble with that), and each night we camped on the beach, under the stars, next to the talking river and ate Peruvian/kosher food. I learned a lot about Israeli culture, even a few words in Hebrew and told stories of Canada. They made fun of me for being the worst Canadian ever - I was the only one who was ever cold.<br /> <br />When I got back to Cusco it was sort of strange to understand the languages again - Spanish soundedmore familiar than it ever has before.<br /><br />In a few hours, my Israeli friend and I are heading up to Machu Picchu. We decided against booking it with a tourgroup - I am very much over being herded and rushed through these things - and are going to take the bus on our own, stay the night in Agua Calientes and walk up to the ruins early in the morning.<br />To lower the admission price (machu picchu is crazy expensive) we both got student cards through an Israeli friendly travel agency (there are so many Israelis that come through here, that there are a handful of tour agencies that cater to them, Israeli run hostels and restaurants and even some of the 60 year old Peruvian ladies speak Hebrew) and they put my nationality as Israeli... so I guess after my three day crash course in Israeli culture, I get to be an honorary Israeli!<br /><br />Well, I'm off to Machu Picchu! And afterwards, I will try to extricate myself from the Cusco vortex and continue on...<br /><br />Love and miss you all,<br />xoxoxJamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-74375679356318274782009-10-02T17:42:00.000-07:002009-10-02T18:36:46.028-07:00Walking with the DeadSan Francisco Monastery and Catacombs<br /><br />In downtown Lima, yet another religious building takes up another city block. This time, the San Francisco Catacombs, housing some 25 thousand skeletons (or what's left of the skeletons) as well as present day Franciscan monks. The tour, I'm sad to say, was too short. We barely spent any time at all in catacombs, and didn't get to go in very far. I did, however, see my fair share of old, crumbly, dark skulls and long, hardy bones like femurs. The monastery/church part was quite nice as well. There are frescos on the wall were someone has removed the heads of all of the people - must've been ugly people! My favorite piece of artwork was the Last Supper, Peruvian style. As a main dish, Jesus and the 12 apostles ate cuy/guinea pig and were surrounded by children and dogs.<br />Fun fact: in both the Lima Cathedral and the San Francisco, the tour guides have said that there may or may not be tunnels connecting the crypts and catacombs under the churches and right underneath the crazy streets of Lima. The official story is that they dont know - its too dangerous to look because the structure is unsteady.<br />The unofficial story: Sergio's grandfather was commissioned to rebuild some of Lima's roads downtown and sure enough, he found these hypothetical tunnels. The reason the Church is vague on the subject is because the nuns used to go into to the tunnels to have and discard their babies. Evidently, abstinence-only education doesn't even work for nuns!<br /><br />Continuing on in this macabre vein (started it, may as well finish it!), the next night we took a tour of Lima's oldest cemetery. We rode on the roofless top of a double decker tourist bus (bright red, so that everyone knew we were tourists) and were driven through downtown - beautiful at night - and through some neighborhoods few would dare to venture into on foot and/or alone.<br />With the San Cristobal cross keeping watch on a nearby hill, the cemetery is a staggering 20 acres and chock full of Peruvian history, literally: Presidents, famous artists, heros and more have all been laid to rest here, with their families, in gorgeous mausoleums. The artwork is eerily breathtaking - rivaling or even beating anything you'd find in a gallery. The heady feeling of so many important figures all buried in one place makes it a mecca for any history buff.<br /><br />By the time the bus pulled up in front of the wrought iron gates, it was dark and coupled with Lima's perpetual fog, it was the perfect setting for either a zombie movie or a thriller tribute.<br /><br />Flashlights in hand, tour guide chattering away into his megaphone, we explored. The cemetary is so large, and especially in the muggy dark, you can't see the end of it. It appears to go on, statue after statue, crypt after crypt forever.<br /><br />Those who were not important enough to get an intricate mausoleum, crypt or statue were laid to rest in a manner that reminded me of a library. Above ground, the coffins, with face plates stating the who and the when and sometimes a poem, were stacked five high into a white wall that ran on into the night until it disappeared. Like archives of Human Beings Past.<br /><br />The largest, most intricate mausoleum was for Peru's heroes. 300 of Peru's best and bravest were all buried in the same monolithic mausoleum. Unfortunately, it is owned by the Army and therefore locked. So we could only peer through the chained gates and glass to see the first floor. Which, naturally, was awe inspiring.<br /><br />After walking with the dead, our faces cold with the wind and the kisses of spirits, we went to Barranco - the bohemian/bar district - to have a warming pisco and listen to some very much alive Criollo (afro-peruvian) music.<br /><br />Lima's Huaca Pacllana:<br />Before getting on the bus to Cusco, Sergio wanted me to see one of Lima's intra-city huacas (ruins from old old civilizations, right in the city!). This particular huaca is quite close to Sergio's house in Miraflores and is surrounded on all sides by houses and buildings. It was uncovered in the 1980s. Before that it was just a large mound of dirt, that building construction used to dump their discarded dirt onto.<br />The huaca dates back to 500 A.D., and was built by the Lima civilization (200-700 A.D.). The religious section is large trapezoidal pyramid made of vertical adobe bricks and mud mortar. The bricks are structured into trapezoids as well and have withstood Peru's earthquakes since they were originally built.<br /><br />The remains of between 20 and 30 young women have been found- sacrifices to the sea and moon gods (female dieties). The Limas used to make sacrifices when undergoing some sort of change in their society. Women were considered pure and symbols of fertility and all that, and so they got to be the lucky sacrifices. The whole village would gather to watch the young woman be beaten around the head with sticks and rocks.<br />If they wanted to thank the gods for something, the priest would smash pottery with religious insignia on it.<br /><br />The huaca's ongoing excavation is partially funded by a portion of the proceeds of a restaurant that looks directly onto the ruins. Dinner in front of thousands of years of history, anyone?<br /><br />October 2nd, 2009 (Today)<br /><br />Arrived in Cusco after a 20 bajillion hour bus ride. Am officially on my own now, which is a little daunting, but I'm so excited to explore Cusco, this city is adorable.<br />I haggled with my first taxi driver, and probably still paid more than I could have, but this haggling concept seems to impinge on my polite canadian sensibilites. I'm sure I'll get over that though.<br />My hostel is on a steep hill a few blocks away from the Plaza del Armas. So the walk down to the plaza was fine, but the way back was wretched. Hill + out of shape + altitude = rough walk. I decided to take it easy the rest of the day, allow myself to acclimatize to the altitude, and catch up on some sleep!Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-58288855595179061422009-09-29T08:59:00.000-07:002009-09-29T09:13:21.417-07:00Lima and The Peruvian JungleTuesday September 29, 2009<br /><br />As it turns out, Peru is pretty distracting. I hadn't even finished talking about the food and a million other things have happened. Not that I'm complaining, of course.<br /><br />So, back to the first day: Afer lunch, Cathy went to teach her history class at the Catholic University, and Sergio and I went to the conveniently nearby zoo. I had my first, albeit somewhat artificial, glimpse of alpacas, llamas, vicunas (llama type animal; all three are really difficult to tell apart), jungle cats, and, my favorite, penguins. I cannot wait to see penguins in their natural habitat. They are the funniest, most awkward animals I have ever seen. Luckily for me, Peru, Chile and Argentina all have penguins wobbling around in certain areas.<br /><br />That night, I went with Sergio, Cathy and Juan Luis to Brisas del Titicaca, which was presenting a handful of traditional folklore dances and music. I say only a handful because the city of Puno alone has over 700 dances. They covered all sorts of genres, from jungle dances, to the dance the Spanish used to teach the Incas about good and evil, using scary diablo costumesto denote evil and having the angel in white come out the victor. Another dance, in an unusual twist, the bull kills the matador, and then a girl with 16 skirts enchants the bull. The 16 skirts are representative of wealth. Although not material wealth, rather, the more family you have, the wealthier you are. The poor girl with the 16 skirts almost fainted when she was finished dancing. Wealth can be heavy! My favorite dance was of the Incas mocking the Spanish. They made fun of their outfits by wearing Spanish looking skirts, made fun of their weapons, and their way of dancing.<br />Between each couple of dances, the band would play a song or two so the audience could dance. There was a class reunion there from 1959 and all these little old ladies and one old guy were up dancing and drinking pisco sours until 2 in the morning.<br /><br />The next day, we went downtown and wandered around, checking out the architecture and the plazas. The buildings are gorgeous, some as old as 16th Century, some made out of mud and a type of straw found in the Andes, some classic colonial style, some baroque and dizzyingly detailed.<br /><br />The main is called the Plaza del Armas, and it's structured like every other plaza in a city/town that has been conquered by the Spanish. The government palace where the President lives is at the front, complete with a changing of the guard at noon. The current president is Alan Garcia, who ran the country into the ground between 1985-1990 but was re-elected because his opponent was even worse than him. To the left, City Hall. And to the right, is the seat of the Church; the cardinal's residence and the Cathedral of Lima, the Archbishop's headquarters. In the center of the plaza is a statue of San Martin, the man who liberated Peru in 1821 from the Spanish (as well as Chile and Argentina). On the front of his statue is the likeness of a girl, or an angel. She was supposed to have a crown of fire, but the artist got the word for fire mixed up and instead she has a baby llama on her head.<br /><br />We took a tour, in English, of the Cathedral. The guide said it would take a mere 30 minutes, but it took over an hour. Sergio was incensed: "she lied to us, and in front of God!" The audacity!<br /><br />Anyway, it was very interesting tour. Old school Catholic Churches are delightfully macabre. Underneath the actual church part, is the crypt where all the old important clergymen are laid to rest. There is one woman buried there; her and her archbishop husband somehow negotiated her a spot in the crypt. But, it is typically an (very) old boys club. In the center of one of the rooms, there's a glass covered hole in the ground where you can see tiny, infant sized wooden coffins. Very simple, unmarked. This is where the unknown babies of the congregation (and according to unofficial sources, some of the nuns' babies) were buried. The tomb goes down five metres. Five meters of unmarked baby coffins. There is also a glass of water set next to the wall in the tomb, for when the spirits get thirsty. Towards the end of the tour, the guide asked me if I wanted to make a Confession. Evidently, I look like a sinner. I wonder how she knew!<br /><br />Afterwards, Juan Luis and I went to the second annual gastronomic festival in Lima. In which there was tons of food, contests for best cooking (Juan Luis' friend's restaurant won for best causia, which is an incredible potato dish), and all sorts of food related things for sale. I had read in my guide book that you can find guinea pig in Peru - called cuy, and I decided that I would find it. Well, it sure didn't take me very long. Walking through the vendors, there was a table piled high with skinned, headless, eviscerated cuy carcasses. Now I just need to find the cooked version so I can eat it.<br /><br />Later that night, in a beautiful bar out on the pier in Miraflores, with the ocean crashing and laughing all around us, a bartender named Yave (another name for God) gave me a lesson in Pisco. The liquor is made from grapes and has many different types, depending on what you are going to use it for. A lot like wine, actually. There is a rivalry between Chile and Peru for who has ownership of the original pisco sour. Peru has the one up on Chile, however: there is a town in Peru called Pisco but not in Chile, Peru exports their Pisco to Chile but not vice versa, and perhaps most damning, Chileans make the Pisco Sour completely differently, so in fact, they are not even the same drink.<br /><br />The Jungle:<br /><br />On Saturday, we drove into the Central Highlands, through the Andes into the jungle. It's a six hour drive from Lima, and the road crests the highest mountain pass in Peru at a whopping 4818 metres above sea level. On a related note, coca leaves make for a great altitude sickness remedy.<br />The landscape from Lima to the Jungle is like a slideshow of climate types: from dusty desert it becomes the sierra and then, the patchwork quilt-like farms in rust and sepia tones (it's dry season) suddenly burst into a plethora of intense greenery and the squawking of a thousand birds and ginormous bugs. The air changed from crisp, chilly mountain air into humid, heavy, jungle air. Delicious.<br /><br />Most of the small towns we drove through in the mountains were centered around either mining or farming. One town in particular has a heart breaking story. The people live and work in the refinery where all of the mines process their minerals. Among the waste products is a heavy concentration of lead. The mountains in this area are a strange marbled grey color, from the acid rain. Nothing grows on them and they look anemic. The lead in the air and the water has a devasting effect on the people: their life expectancy is 40 years old, they are very short, and they suffer a gambit of lead related health disorders. However, if they do not work in the mines/refinery, they die tomorrow and if they do work in the mines, they die in 20 years. Out of the fire and into the slow cooker. The mining company is from the United States and they refuse to adapt their environmental policies.<br /><br />Our hotel was in San Ramon - which is not in my guidebook, so we certainly veered off the beaten path. Not all that far from where we stayed was a Shining Path cocaine operation. Needless to say, we didn't bother with that part of the jungle.<br /><br />After a quiet night having dinner, taking a dip in the pool under the stars and then going to bed early, we signed ourselves up for an 11 hour tour on Sunday. The tour was lead by a 12 year old boy, who was surprisingly bossy for someone so young. He conducted the tour in Spanish so I relied on Sergio's translations and the few words I could pick up. Mostly I probably looked like a lost tourist.<br /><br />We visited a bridge with a rusty, tenous hold on life. Somehow, vehicles still make it across, not without some praying or choice epithets though, I'd bet. The river we so precariously swayed over was the Chanchamayo. Mayo being Quechua for river and chancha meaning burnt embers or coals from the fire. The aboriginals used to fish at night, in the moonlight and the rocks looked like embers glowering underneath the water.<br /><br />The 12 year old took us to one of the remaining aboriginal tribes, where they dressed us up in their traditional clothes, put red face paint on our cheeks, told us their story and then we all danced the healing dance to drums and flutes. Afterwards, they had jewelry and other crafts for sale, and one of the older ladies who was working the stand saw that I had a few spider bites. I noticed the bites right when I got off the plane in Lima, so I blame san Salvador airport. Anyway, her and a few of the children made a big fuss over me; "oww amiga!" and the lady put some green salve on them. And wouldn't you know it, the following day the bites were almost gone. The old lady healed me!<br /><br />After being healed, we went to two waterfalls, got to jump around in the pools of water; a much needed respite from the heavy heat. I probably lost 20 pounds that day. Sergio said he felt like he was sweating out his soul.<br /><br />Traditional jungle fare for lunch followed: a mixture of river fish ceviche (raw fish marinated in lime), fried fish, fried bananas, yuca, and pig meat that tasted a lot like bacon but was thicker cut, not as greasy and was not bacon.<br /><br />The tail end of the tour included a short trip in a tin can with a motor that they calleda boat down the Chanchamayo and a trip to the coffee factory. Peru grows spectacular coffee, and imports most of it to Europe. Peruvians, much to my surprise, don't really drink a lot of coffee. More for me, then!<br /><br />Today was spent driving back through the mountain pass, and then to dinner at a fancy fusion buffet. There was so much food, I nearly exploded. They had the central buffet table that was of a typical buffet style and size. But then, they had 4 stations where they cooked food for you: argentine steak, peruvian-chinese food (chifa), peruvian sushi, and italian pasta. And for desert there was a chocolate foundation, with local Peruvian chocolate. Like I said, almost exploded.<br />Oh, and the men's bathrooms were hilarious. On the wall above each urinal was a picture of a hot girl pointing and laughing. one of them even had a measuring tape. Priceless.Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983495602895651668.post-74757517210643648072009-09-25T09:37:00.000-07:002009-09-25T10:40:55.227-07:00First Days in LimaFriday September 25, 2009.<br /><br />Since arriving in Lima, Peru two days ago, I have been spoiled absolutely rotten. A good friend of mine, Sergio, picked me up from the aiport after my 24 hour trip/exercise in patience (if it is indeed a virtue, I should be cannonized). We immediately went to catch the last hour or so of the Charly Garcia concert. Charly Garcia is an Argentine rock legend. He began his career in the '60s, but had dropped off the scene for the past 5-6 years, on account of heavy and diverse drug use and subsequent rehab. This concert, dubbed the "Say No More" tour (alluding to the appropriate response from a man when his wife/girlfriend is nagging him), was the kick off of the first tour he's had in 5 or so years, since the unpleasant drug debacle. Charly fans were ecstatic.<br /><br />The concert was held outdoors, in a large dirt field beside the city's stadium. The team owns the stadium and doesn't like to share, so other events are not allowed to be held inside. This isn't a bad thing however - if you can't afford a ticket, you can stand outside the gates and still see and hear everything. Charly, dressed in a Peruvian poncho, sang his heart out, pounded on the piano and gave the crowd exactly what they wanted. Charly's moodiness came out in the third and final encore. He sang a song that essentially told the fans that he'd had enough of them and to go away and leave him alone. Then he threw down his mic and marched off stage. The crowd was nonplussed; they continued to chant, "ole, ole ole, charly, charly!", all to no avail.<br /><br />Sergio introduced me to his friends and his girlfriend, Cathy and we all went to grab something to eat, then went back to Sergio and Cathy's apartment to have a really late supper. Their hospitality was amazing. We toasted first with purple chicha (a drink made of purple corn. Same color and consistency as a cabernet sauvignon, but tastes like, well, corn...with sugar in it) and then with Argentine wine. Great introduction into Lima.<br /><br />After a well needed sleep (on an actual bed, instead of airplane/airport seats: win!) I woke up to the ocean right outside the large windows in Sergio's living room. His apartment is in the district of Miraflores (literally: look flowers), and incidentally, is absolutely gorgeous. Hardwood floors, spectacular view of the ocean - I certainly lucked out having a friend to stay with. Pictures to come.<br /><br />We spent much of the day driving around parts of Lima. Driving is not for the faint hearted. There aren't so much rules as guidelines that nobody really follows. The city is perpetually covered by a white-gray fog. The locals call it the Donkey's Belly. And you certainly do feel like something is standing over top of you, in a protective way. That's right, UV rays, try and give me cancer through the Donkey's belly!<br />I'm already in love with this city (although, I already told it that I couldn't be exclusive - there's many more cities to see and fall for). Lima itself is very flat but is surrounded by hills, bordered by the ocean and dotted with old Inca ruins. There a very large cross that I can see from the apartment, that lights up every night and shines brightly through the fog. The story behind it goes like this:<br /><br />In the 80's and 90's, Peru was terrorized by a group called The Shining Path. They were quite an unpleasant sort (killing thousands and thousands of civilians) and one of their terror tactics was to destroy electrical towers. So, you'd be sitting in your apartment and suddenly all the lights and electricity would go out. And stay that way for a few days. Once the government had the Shining Path quelled, they erected this cross out of pieces of the destroyed towers and they light it up every night as a reminder. Bad guys, defeated. Hurrah.<br /><br />We had lunch on the rooftop terrace of a restaurant in the shopping district of San Isidro. Sergio, Cathy and their friend Juan Luis decided to order three of Peru's signature dishes, so that I could them all. As well as the national alcoholic beverage, the Pisco Sour. <a href="http://www.go2peru.com/pisco.htm">http://www.go2peru.com/pisco.htm</a><br />The food was nothing short of sublime. Peruvians know a thing or two about fish, potatos and corn. The first dish was two types of ceviche (strips of fish in sauce), and octopus with a slightly spicy purple sauce.<br /><br />Interrupted! Going for brunch and then to a food festival for more Peruvian dishes! Mmm!Jamiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07892789052085668683noreply@blogger.com2