First, thank you to all of the bus drivers, airplane pilots, ship captains, train engineers, taxi drivers, canoe tillers, and motocab maniacs for getting me safely where I wanted to go; I didn´t always think we were going to make it (for that matter, thanks to everyone else on the road, water, sky, etc. that didn´t crash into us). I´m assuming that all goes well my last day here in South America, and that my flight gets home just fine.
Thanks also to my family and friends and coworkers, who supplied encouragement along the way. Many thanks to the people I met on my journey, you guys are great and made my trip great. It wouldn´t have been the same without you.
Thanks to everyone who looked at my photos on Flickr. There are a few more photos to upload, but most of the good ones are online. The most viewed photo, if you´re curious, is actually not mine-- it´s a photo Rohith Modgil of Scotland took of me prancing on the salt flats. The second most viewed photo is a picture of my beard that I took my first day in South America-- I find that hilarious!
And of course thanks most of all to YOU, the reader; I hope you were enlightened, or inspired or motivated-- maybe to make some travels of your own. If you do, be sure to write.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Welcome to the Jungle
Leaving the concrete jungle for a real one was a welcome relief. Still, it wasn´t all fun and games. Navigating the Amazon with a dying flashlight-- adventure, or just plain scary? Find out in this mock interview.
Interviewer: You went to the Cuyabeno Reserve in the Ecuadorian jungle, is that right? It´s supposed to be one of the most important protected areas on the planet, with a massive amount of biodiversity. How was it?
Me: Well, the guide quit after the first hour. But I suppose the jungle itself was pretty impressive.
Interviewer: I´m sorry-- you say the guide quit after an hour?
Me: Yeah, we drove three hours in a pickup truck with to meet the guide, he served us lunch and then left, promising to return within the hour. Three hours later he showed up and told us that the agency had not paid him, nor had they paid the local indigenous community for more than 3 months. He was going to leave us in the hands of a local so that he could file an official complaint and deliver a copy to his lawyer.
I: That´s... unfortunate. Did it affect your tour?
Me: Well the agency also hadn´t provided food, drinking water or sufficient gasoline either. So yeah it was a problem. We didn´t starve, but when another group showed up the last day we were able to see the food and service that should have been provided orginally. And we couldn´t go fishing for piranhas because there was only enough gas to get back out of the jungle, and none for side expeditions.
I: Did anything go right?
Me: Well, we left very late the first day-- from the park entrance it´s a three hour motorized canoe ride to the pueblo we were staying-- and so we ended up navigating the river in the dark, which is kind of creepy. But at dusk we were escorted by a swarm of bats, swooping and diving alongside the boat; although I´m not a fan of bats swarming towards me, it was amazing to be ¨flying¨ alongside them. You gain a real appreciation for their elegance.
I: What else did you see?
Me: Lots of insects-- dragonflies, stinging grasshoppers, the biggest cockroaches I´ve ever seen. Mosquitos of course. And a tarantula that was nesting in the bathroom. Lots of birds too, and frogs and lizards. Actually, before we even entered the park we were flagged down and given a turtle to release into the wild. He slept on my feet for a while and then tried to eat my pants. But alas, no river dolphins and no anacondas. I really wanted to see an anaconda-- although I hear they grow bigger in Venezuela.
I: And what did the company say about their poor performance?
Me: They promised me a refund as soon as my flight leaves. No, but seriously, I might get a refund here in a few hours. But I´m not holding my breath.
Interviewer: You went to the Cuyabeno Reserve in the Ecuadorian jungle, is that right? It´s supposed to be one of the most important protected areas on the planet, with a massive amount of biodiversity. How was it?
Me: Well, the guide quit after the first hour. But I suppose the jungle itself was pretty impressive.
Interviewer: I´m sorry-- you say the guide quit after an hour?
Me: Yeah, we drove three hours in a pickup truck with to meet the guide, he served us lunch and then left, promising to return within the hour. Three hours later he showed up and told us that the agency had not paid him, nor had they paid the local indigenous community for more than 3 months. He was going to leave us in the hands of a local so that he could file an official complaint and deliver a copy to his lawyer.
I: That´s... unfortunate. Did it affect your tour?
Me: Well the agency also hadn´t provided food, drinking water or sufficient gasoline either. So yeah it was a problem. We didn´t starve, but when another group showed up the last day we were able to see the food and service that should have been provided orginally. And we couldn´t go fishing for piranhas because there was only enough gas to get back out of the jungle, and none for side expeditions.
I: Did anything go right?
Me: Well, we left very late the first day-- from the park entrance it´s a three hour motorized canoe ride to the pueblo we were staying-- and so we ended up navigating the river in the dark, which is kind of creepy. But at dusk we were escorted by a swarm of bats, swooping and diving alongside the boat; although I´m not a fan of bats swarming towards me, it was amazing to be ¨flying¨ alongside them. You gain a real appreciation for their elegance.
I: What else did you see?
Me: Lots of insects-- dragonflies, stinging grasshoppers, the biggest cockroaches I´ve ever seen. Mosquitos of course. And a tarantula that was nesting in the bathroom. Lots of birds too, and frogs and lizards. Actually, before we even entered the park we were flagged down and given a turtle to release into the wild. He slept on my feet for a while and then tried to eat my pants. But alas, no river dolphins and no anacondas. I really wanted to see an anaconda-- although I hear they grow bigger in Venezuela.
I: And what did the company say about their poor performance?
Me: They promised me a refund as soon as my flight leaves. No, but seriously, I might get a refund here in a few hours. But I´m not holding my breath.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
An Hour in the Life
A few minutes before the noon checkout time, I stumble out of bed and then stumble out into the rain; here in Ecuador, more than anywhere else, has the summer rainy season made itself known. Fortunately (?) my clothes are still mainly wet from the rain last night. I have dry clothes packed away somewhere, but the closer I get to going home the more unorganized my pack gets. I probably won´t find those dry socks until after my flight-- not that it matters, since my shoes are wet too. The downside of waterproof shoes is that once water gets in, it can´t find its way out.
I stand in the street, thinking ¨I´m not supposed to be here¨. In Quito that is, not Ecuador. My tour to the jungle was supposed to leave this morning, but was pushed back a day, throwing my mainly improvised plans into even more disarray. I contemplated paying for another night at my hotel so I could sit in bed and read all day; two and half months of travelling, plus the lousy weather, has worn me down a bit. But since I´d need to get out of bed to eat something, I figured I might as well wander around town.
¨Old Town¨ would be my destination for the morning (or rather early afternoon); so called because all the old colonial buildings here, but also because it lacks all the new luxuries of ¨New Town¨like donut shops and internet cafes. I´d spent the past few days in New Town, and was a bit spoiled by all the sweetbread shops there-- walking past window display after window display of the most delicate and delicious looking pastries. I figured a sugar rush was just what I needed to get this day started out right. But although I walked up and down countless streets, the only stores I passed were printing shops and tailors. Finally I spot a sign saying ¨confecciones¨and my stomach rumbles with anticipation; I look in and see a pile of clothes and a sewing machine. Sigh.
A few minutes later I see another sign that looks promising, and head up a very steep hill to investigate. As I get closer I see the store is exactly what I want... and closed. Of course. But right behind me at this point is a store with giant trays piled high with bread and pastries. For 80 cents I settle on something resembling lasagna crossed with a brick. It has at least six layers of flaky bread, white cream, some kind of orange fruit paste (peach? I can´t tell through all the sugar) caramel and more flaky bread. And it was seriously the size of a brick; I picked the biggest one since there was no telling when I´d find another breadshop. Outside, the store I´d seen originally was open now. Of course.
Several blocks and half a sugarbrick later, I think I can feel diabetes setting in. Maybe it´s the altitude I tell myself and keep eating. By the next block I wrap the pastry up and set it down on a ledge; earlier I´d seen the guy walking in front of me pick up a cup of soda off the sidewalk, and figured maybe somebody would want the rest of my sugarbread. It was like an offering to the street urchins.
Now I was turning onto America Avenue, and, right on cue, was a KFC. I figured some grease would be helpful in sopping up the sugar in my stomach, but opted for the chinese restaurant across the street. On wandering days, eating and walking go hand in hand. Mainly I walk because the bus systems are so complicated, but also because its so much easier to stop at a nice restaurant if you´re not on a bus. And after a nice meal I usually waddle out into the street feeling like a walk would do me good; it´s a vicious cycle.
The chinese restaurant has a large banner offering a lunch special for $1.50-- the menu inside has nothing for $1.50. I´m used to these false claims by now. I get a different lunch special for under two bucks and of course it´s a heaping plateful. Somethings must be the same everywhere.
Watching the news in the restaurant, I notice it´s only been an hour since I got up. A story about Fidel Castro is followed by one about people somewhere, hopefully not Ecuador, trying to catch a treed tiger by pulling on his tail. Remember the nursery rhyme, ¨catch a tiger by its toe¨? I think something got lost in translation. The tiger promptly mauled the man and then jumped frightened into a river. The next story was about the proliferance of counterfeit cigarettes in Quito. Somebody was putting off brand cigs into Marlboro boxes.
It only took an hour to realize that as long as I´ve been here in South America, I still just don´t get it.
I stand in the street, thinking ¨I´m not supposed to be here¨. In Quito that is, not Ecuador. My tour to the jungle was supposed to leave this morning, but was pushed back a day, throwing my mainly improvised plans into even more disarray. I contemplated paying for another night at my hotel so I could sit in bed and read all day; two and half months of travelling, plus the lousy weather, has worn me down a bit. But since I´d need to get out of bed to eat something, I figured I might as well wander around town.
¨Old Town¨ would be my destination for the morning (or rather early afternoon); so called because all the old colonial buildings here, but also because it lacks all the new luxuries of ¨New Town¨like donut shops and internet cafes. I´d spent the past few days in New Town, and was a bit spoiled by all the sweetbread shops there-- walking past window display after window display of the most delicate and delicious looking pastries. I figured a sugar rush was just what I needed to get this day started out right. But although I walked up and down countless streets, the only stores I passed were printing shops and tailors. Finally I spot a sign saying ¨confecciones¨and my stomach rumbles with anticipation; I look in and see a pile of clothes and a sewing machine. Sigh.
A few minutes later I see another sign that looks promising, and head up a very steep hill to investigate. As I get closer I see the store is exactly what I want... and closed. Of course. But right behind me at this point is a store with giant trays piled high with bread and pastries. For 80 cents I settle on something resembling lasagna crossed with a brick. It has at least six layers of flaky bread, white cream, some kind of orange fruit paste (peach? I can´t tell through all the sugar) caramel and more flaky bread. And it was seriously the size of a brick; I picked the biggest one since there was no telling when I´d find another breadshop. Outside, the store I´d seen originally was open now. Of course.
Several blocks and half a sugarbrick later, I think I can feel diabetes setting in. Maybe it´s the altitude I tell myself and keep eating. By the next block I wrap the pastry up and set it down on a ledge; earlier I´d seen the guy walking in front of me pick up a cup of soda off the sidewalk, and figured maybe somebody would want the rest of my sugarbread. It was like an offering to the street urchins.
Now I was turning onto America Avenue, and, right on cue, was a KFC. I figured some grease would be helpful in sopping up the sugar in my stomach, but opted for the chinese restaurant across the street. On wandering days, eating and walking go hand in hand. Mainly I walk because the bus systems are so complicated, but also because its so much easier to stop at a nice restaurant if you´re not on a bus. And after a nice meal I usually waddle out into the street feeling like a walk would do me good; it´s a vicious cycle.
The chinese restaurant has a large banner offering a lunch special for $1.50-- the menu inside has nothing for $1.50. I´m used to these false claims by now. I get a different lunch special for under two bucks and of course it´s a heaping plateful. Somethings must be the same everywhere.
Watching the news in the restaurant, I notice it´s only been an hour since I got up. A story about Fidel Castro is followed by one about people somewhere, hopefully not Ecuador, trying to catch a treed tiger by pulling on his tail. Remember the nursery rhyme, ¨catch a tiger by its toe¨? I think something got lost in translation. The tiger promptly mauled the man and then jumped frightened into a river. The next story was about the proliferance of counterfeit cigarettes in Quito. Somebody was putting off brand cigs into Marlboro boxes.
It only took an hour to realize that as long as I´ve been here in South America, I still just don´t get it.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Market Day
Sometimes you catch yourself thinking like a tourist, and this is when you are best able to understand the locals´ mindset; crossing the bridge between two ways of thinking can be a comical affair.
The guidebook says that the Saturday Market in Riobamba, where I am, is worth checking out. Now, normally I have no interest in markets-- I´ve always been offered things to buy, whether I was looking for them or not-- but it´s easy to fall into the lull of the guidebook, and it was Saturday and I had no particular plans. So I asked a local, a man who owned a tour agency and interacted with gringos everyday, in which direction was the market.
He got very animated and immediately went to the street to flag a cab for me; ¨It´s just a few kilometers away, they don´t allow the animals downtown.¨ Animals? I was both confused and curious. My tourist assumption had been that ¨the Market¨was the crafts market; the usual assortment of handmade hats and sweaters, along with t-shirts, keychains and other junk from China. But in a place dominated by agriculture, even to a man living in the city, ¨the Market¨ meant the Saturday livestock market, where locals haggle over the worth of skinny farm animals.
Mainly cows, trucks and corrals and alleyways full of cows, but also sheep, pigs, goats, llamas, donkeys and horses are for sale. Vendors sell cotton candy and Chinese caramels; I definitely got that ¨only gringo in the crowd¨attention. But it is an interesting place, at least for a little while. The immensely swollen cow udders, showcasing potential; the daisychains of hog-tied sheep, convulsing in the morning heat; people emptying their pockets, and then waiting for the bus with a box of mangos and a pig. Animals are treated like animals here; I don´t think PETA´s influence has reached this far yet. It reminded me of the mesh sacks of guinea pigs (a delicacy) on the streets of Peru, biting each other and fighting for space in their last few hours.
Later in the day I would see the Ecuadorian delicacy-- entire roasted pigs-- on countless streetvendors´tables, the heads smiling at you as you walk past. Pig stew, pig skin, any cut of pork imaginable; an entire table of skinned pig heads, the black eyes contrasting against the freshly stripped flesh.
But of course more than just animals are for sale in the market. Apples, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, mangoes, potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce; imagine a farmer´s market where everyone is still a farmer. And shoes-- I´ve seen more shoes for sale in this town than anywhere else in my life. There were entire market streets, lined on both sides, with nothing but shoes. And then there are countless shops devoted to shoes.
For me personally, market day is a chance to wander lazily, sampling the different ice creams and donuts and sweetbreads. Later I would discover the world of bootlegged products, where any cd, movie, or video game you´ve ever wanted is available for a dollar. And curiously, Ecuador, or at least Riobamba, seems to be a heavy metal mecca. I picked up some Iron Maiden patches, a shirt, some DVDs, and even a custom Manowar wallet. You would never find this stuff back home!
So in the end, the guidebook was right. Market Day is worth checking out; but sometimes it takes some cross-cultural confusion to make it worth your while.
The guidebook says that the Saturday Market in Riobamba, where I am, is worth checking out. Now, normally I have no interest in markets-- I´ve always been offered things to buy, whether I was looking for them or not-- but it´s easy to fall into the lull of the guidebook, and it was Saturday and I had no particular plans. So I asked a local, a man who owned a tour agency and interacted with gringos everyday, in which direction was the market.
He got very animated and immediately went to the street to flag a cab for me; ¨It´s just a few kilometers away, they don´t allow the animals downtown.¨ Animals? I was both confused and curious. My tourist assumption had been that ¨the Market¨was the crafts market; the usual assortment of handmade hats and sweaters, along with t-shirts, keychains and other junk from China. But in a place dominated by agriculture, even to a man living in the city, ¨the Market¨ meant the Saturday livestock market, where locals haggle over the worth of skinny farm animals.
Mainly cows, trucks and corrals and alleyways full of cows, but also sheep, pigs, goats, llamas, donkeys and horses are for sale. Vendors sell cotton candy and Chinese caramels; I definitely got that ¨only gringo in the crowd¨attention. But it is an interesting place, at least for a little while. The immensely swollen cow udders, showcasing potential; the daisychains of hog-tied sheep, convulsing in the morning heat; people emptying their pockets, and then waiting for the bus with a box of mangos and a pig. Animals are treated like animals here; I don´t think PETA´s influence has reached this far yet. It reminded me of the mesh sacks of guinea pigs (a delicacy) on the streets of Peru, biting each other and fighting for space in their last few hours.
Later in the day I would see the Ecuadorian delicacy-- entire roasted pigs-- on countless streetvendors´tables, the heads smiling at you as you walk past. Pig stew, pig skin, any cut of pork imaginable; an entire table of skinned pig heads, the black eyes contrasting against the freshly stripped flesh.
But of course more than just animals are for sale in the market. Apples, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, mangoes, potatoes, broccoli, cauliflower, lettuce; imagine a farmer´s market where everyone is still a farmer. And shoes-- I´ve seen more shoes for sale in this town than anywhere else in my life. There were entire market streets, lined on both sides, with nothing but shoes. And then there are countless shops devoted to shoes.
For me personally, market day is a chance to wander lazily, sampling the different ice creams and donuts and sweetbreads. Later I would discover the world of bootlegged products, where any cd, movie, or video game you´ve ever wanted is available for a dollar. And curiously, Ecuador, or at least Riobamba, seems to be a heavy metal mecca. I picked up some Iron Maiden patches, a shirt, some DVDs, and even a custom Manowar wallet. You would never find this stuff back home!
So in the end, the guidebook was right. Market Day is worth checking out; but sometimes it takes some cross-cultural confusion to make it worth your while.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Wooden Nickels
Ecuador switched to using the dollar in 2000, which makes travelling here easier than elsewhere. But I was surprised to find that although the bills are American, most of the coins are not. This morning I received one American nickel, and three Ecuadorian; they really look nothing alike.
Which reminds me of how I tried to buy a banana in Peru with a 50 centavo piece (worth about 16 cents) and was told it was counterfeit. Who in the world goes to the trouble of counterfeiting 16 cents?!
Which reminds me of how I tried to buy a banana in Peru with a 50 centavo piece (worth about 16 cents) and was told it was counterfeit. Who in the world goes to the trouble of counterfeiting 16 cents?!
The Last Border Crossing
I knew, even before I got on the bus, that it was going to be a long day.
The plan was simple: a night bus from Huaraz to Trujillo (9 hours), then directly on to Chiclayo (4 hours), go see the `Lord of Sipan´museum (amazing) and then hop on a bus to Piura (3 hours) in order to catch another night bus to Loja (8 hours) arriving in Ecuador only a day behind schedule.
That´s 24 hours on a bus altogether; long, but bearable. Unbearable, however, is spending the first two hours of the first bus ride cringing over Tom Cruise´s acting in The Last Samurai. But wait, it gets better. The second bus ride begins, and today´s movie... The Last Samurai. Again. By now I´m catching myself quoting scenes, and cringing in anticipation of the ludicrous plot. If the third bus had shown TLS instead of Underdog, I would have walked through the desert to Ecuador, seriously.
On the third bus I was surrounded by a salsa band who listened to the same song over and over for hours, as ¨practice¨-- this included playing drums on the seatrest and singing aloud. And the fourth bus... the couple across from me was bringing a puppy across the border, a very cute white puppy with diarrhea. So periodically a wave of stench would wash over the bus, accompanied by some unearthly puppy shrieks.
But I made it happy and safe into Ecuador. The first thing I saw there, right in the bus terminal, was a 24 hour diner; Waffle House appeared before my sleep deprived eyes for a moment, but sadly this was no Waffle House. They had coffee, but no milk. And to eat, they had chicken; everything else had been finished off already. Then some blackberry milkshakes appeared, and just as I made to order one, I was told they were the last ones. Nothing left.
And so to celebrate, since I couldn´t fly to Quito because the company´s website was down, I got on a twelve hour bus to Riobamba; that makes for 36 of the previous 46 hours on a bus. Makes you realize how precious time really is.
The plan was simple: a night bus from Huaraz to Trujillo (9 hours), then directly on to Chiclayo (4 hours), go see the `Lord of Sipan´museum (amazing) and then hop on a bus to Piura (3 hours) in order to catch another night bus to Loja (8 hours) arriving in Ecuador only a day behind schedule.
That´s 24 hours on a bus altogether; long, but bearable. Unbearable, however, is spending the first two hours of the first bus ride cringing over Tom Cruise´s acting in The Last Samurai. But wait, it gets better. The second bus ride begins, and today´s movie... The Last Samurai. Again. By now I´m catching myself quoting scenes, and cringing in anticipation of the ludicrous plot. If the third bus had shown TLS instead of Underdog, I would have walked through the desert to Ecuador, seriously.
On the third bus I was surrounded by a salsa band who listened to the same song over and over for hours, as ¨practice¨-- this included playing drums on the seatrest and singing aloud. And the fourth bus... the couple across from me was bringing a puppy across the border, a very cute white puppy with diarrhea. So periodically a wave of stench would wash over the bus, accompanied by some unearthly puppy shrieks.
But I made it happy and safe into Ecuador. The first thing I saw there, right in the bus terminal, was a 24 hour diner; Waffle House appeared before my sleep deprived eyes for a moment, but sadly this was no Waffle House. They had coffee, but no milk. And to eat, they had chicken; everything else had been finished off already. Then some blackberry milkshakes appeared, and just as I made to order one, I was told they were the last ones. Nothing left.
And so to celebrate, since I couldn´t fly to Quito because the company´s website was down, I got on a twelve hour bus to Riobamba; that makes for 36 of the previous 46 hours on a bus. Makes you realize how precious time really is.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Hiking in Huaraz
In the northern highlands of Peru, sandwiched between the jungle and the coast, lies Huaraz and the mighty Cordillera Blanca-- the highest mountain range in the world outside of the Himalayas. A devastating earthquake here in 1970 unleashed an avalanche wiping out the entire village of Yungay; today, the rebuilt Yungay is a stopping point travelling to the Santa Cruz trailhead, the most popular trek in the region.
The first day of trekking is a pleasant one, with views of stunning turquoise lakes, steeply carved canyons, and verdant valleys. Even the houses here, with their terra cotta roofs, are more attractive than elsewhere in Peru. The terrain is mainly flat, since you´re already at a considerable altitude when you start hiking, and burros are burdened with most of the weight-- the tents, the food, water, cooking supplies. Even the weather wants to cooperate.
The second day is more difficult, but infinitely more rewarding. Starting at breakfast at about 12,000 feet, you climb steadily until by lunchtime you reach the Punta Union pass at more than 15,000 feet. I was panting like a dog from the moment we started hiking-- the curse of being born at sea level. But Punta Union is special for two reasons: first, it is the continental divide. All water from here either flows to the Amazon where it will meet the Atlantic, or falls away the west and the Pacific. Second, the views from here are supposed to be some of the best in all the Andes. And quite honestly, this might be the most beautiful place I`ve ever seen; it is certainly the most impressive mountain range I`ve seen. The clouds drift in an out, providing everchanging views of the peaks; there is always another peak being exposed, a new sense of wonder being sparked. Descending into a seemingly never ending valley, even more mountains come into view. And although Alpomayo-- the perfect pyramid shaped mountain that Huaraz, if no one else, has deemed the world´s most beautiful-- remained mainly hidden, there is no sense of disappointment. If anything, it adds another reason to come back.
Day three is all down hill, and we have the first bit of rain for the trip. Reaching civilization we say our goodbyes and seek out a restaurant; as great as the mountains are for the mind and soul, the body craves a cheeseburger. And Huaraz obliges.
The first day of trekking is a pleasant one, with views of stunning turquoise lakes, steeply carved canyons, and verdant valleys. Even the houses here, with their terra cotta roofs, are more attractive than elsewhere in Peru. The terrain is mainly flat, since you´re already at a considerable altitude when you start hiking, and burros are burdened with most of the weight-- the tents, the food, water, cooking supplies. Even the weather wants to cooperate.
The second day is more difficult, but infinitely more rewarding. Starting at breakfast at about 12,000 feet, you climb steadily until by lunchtime you reach the Punta Union pass at more than 15,000 feet. I was panting like a dog from the moment we started hiking-- the curse of being born at sea level. But Punta Union is special for two reasons: first, it is the continental divide. All water from here either flows to the Amazon where it will meet the Atlantic, or falls away the west and the Pacific. Second, the views from here are supposed to be some of the best in all the Andes. And quite honestly, this might be the most beautiful place I`ve ever seen; it is certainly the most impressive mountain range I`ve seen. The clouds drift in an out, providing everchanging views of the peaks; there is always another peak being exposed, a new sense of wonder being sparked. Descending into a seemingly never ending valley, even more mountains come into view. And although Alpomayo-- the perfect pyramid shaped mountain that Huaraz, if no one else, has deemed the world´s most beautiful-- remained mainly hidden, there is no sense of disappointment. If anything, it adds another reason to come back.
Day three is all down hill, and we have the first bit of rain for the trip. Reaching civilization we say our goodbyes and seek out a restaurant; as great as the mountains are for the mind and soul, the body craves a cheeseburger. And Huaraz obliges.
The Honk
Spend any amount of time in South America, and you`ll become acquainted with ¨the honk¨-- the ubiquitous greeting/warning/invitation that transcends local culture. You find it in every city and country, at every time of day, and can always expect more around the corner-- literally.
In the city, the honk more often than not means ¨I`m going to hit you if you don`t move¨, and is applied not only to pedestrians, but also to other cars which are usually just as adamant about claiming the right of way. It`s kind of a not-so-friendly warning system. Other times in the city the honk simply asks ¨why aren`t you moving faster?¨As if honking will somehow reduce traffic to zero, allowing everyone to move forward simultaneously (you see this in New York as well).
In the country, the honk takes on new meanings. It often means ¨I am the only available transportation to the next town, so get on now while you have the chance¨-- an exciting opportunity to share a minivan with 18 other people, while a chicken sleeps on your feet. Sometimes the honk is used to acknowledge other taxi drivers; some taxis have multiple and customized honks which sound like car alarms or whistles-- honking taking on some of the nuances of language.
In the mountains, the honk is used around every blind corner, as a way of saying ¨here I come, ready or not!¨ A system that has worked well so far, given the inordinate number of blind curves on every mountain road.
It´s a complex language, albeit one without words.
In the city, the honk more often than not means ¨I`m going to hit you if you don`t move¨, and is applied not only to pedestrians, but also to other cars which are usually just as adamant about claiming the right of way. It`s kind of a not-so-friendly warning system. Other times in the city the honk simply asks ¨why aren`t you moving faster?¨As if honking will somehow reduce traffic to zero, allowing everyone to move forward simultaneously (you see this in New York as well).
In the country, the honk takes on new meanings. It often means ¨I am the only available transportation to the next town, so get on now while you have the chance¨-- an exciting opportunity to share a minivan with 18 other people, while a chicken sleeps on your feet. Sometimes the honk is used to acknowledge other taxi drivers; some taxis have multiple and customized honks which sound like car alarms or whistles-- honking taking on some of the nuances of language.
In the mountains, the honk is used around every blind corner, as a way of saying ¨here I come, ready or not!¨ A system that has worked well so far, given the inordinate number of blind curves on every mountain road.
It´s a complex language, albeit one without words.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Redemption
Having visited only the most touristed areas of Peru, I hate to badmouth the country too much, but it has been a bit of a letdown. The people haven´t been as friendly as Bolivia, the prices have been more expensive than expected (3 years ago Maccu Picchu was $10-- now it´s $40), there is always a tax or fee not included; you have to pay to leave the airport, the train station, the bus station, the port. It´s not all golden backpacker paradise like I somehow led myself to believe. But today, Peru redeemed itself.
It started innocently enough; a lady named Pilar who was on the amazon boat trip offered everyone a free place to stay at her house. Since our group was large (20 or so altogether) we declined, but agreed to come over for dinner the next day. And it was amazing; there was loads of food, kids bought us drinks, volleyball, soccer, singing, dancing, laughing. I taught some 13-year-old girls how to say 'you have beautiful eyes' in english. When I took their photo, kids came running from every direction to be included. Then more came running to see the photo; everyone wanted to do everything at once. It gave the day such a triumphant energy, erasing the lethargy lingering from the river. Finally, the most adorable kitten curled up in my lap and fell asleep, while I talked about great horror movies with Marcela from Chile; all it took was getting off the map for a moment, and trusting in the power of the group.
Peru, you´re OK in my book.
It started innocently enough; a lady named Pilar who was on the amazon boat trip offered everyone a free place to stay at her house. Since our group was large (20 or so altogether) we declined, but agreed to come over for dinner the next day. And it was amazing; there was loads of food, kids bought us drinks, volleyball, soccer, singing, dancing, laughing. I taught some 13-year-old girls how to say 'you have beautiful eyes' in english. When I took their photo, kids came running from every direction to be included. Then more came running to see the photo; everyone wanted to do everything at once. It gave the day such a triumphant energy, erasing the lethargy lingering from the river. Finally, the most adorable kitten curled up in my lap and fell asleep, while I talked about great horror movies with Marcela from Chile; all it took was getting off the map for a moment, and trusting in the power of the group.
Peru, you´re OK in my book.
Lines at Nazca
When you see the Nazca lines on television, you always see slow motion video of the lines-- a technique which serves to emphasize their supernatural quality, but which is probably done because to photograph them from a plane is terribly difficult. It doesn´t help that the lines are surrounded, bisected and generally criss-crossed by tractor marks, roads, fake lines and desert graffiti. Although the town of Nazca relies on the lines for tourist income, they seem to take a remarkably laissez-faire approach to maintaining them.
Immediately after getting off the bus from Arequipa I signed up for the 'basic flight' package which means a general loop around the lines with no yawing (side to side action which you need to photograph the lines) for less money. I was promised a slot on the first flight. But, being in Peru, we arrived to the airport just as my promised flight was taking off-- bumping me up then to the deluxe flight where not only did we yaw with the best of them, but I got to copilot the plane!
Copiloting doesn´t actually involve any duties or responsibilites, per se-- but it did make me smile for about 45 minutes nonstop. Having never been in such a small aircraft (6 seater), and then being a noselength away from all the vital controls was as great as the lines themselves. There was a good video after the flight which tried to explain what you see in the air; most theories point towards shamanic attempts to bring rain to a region that has seen no major precipitation since the last ice age. As the culture got more desperate, the lines got bigger and more intricate; or maybe it was aliens after all.
Immediately after getting off the bus from Arequipa I signed up for the 'basic flight' package which means a general loop around the lines with no yawing (side to side action which you need to photograph the lines) for less money. I was promised a slot on the first flight. But, being in Peru, we arrived to the airport just as my promised flight was taking off-- bumping me up then to the deluxe flight where not only did we yaw with the best of them, but I got to copilot the plane!
Copiloting doesn´t actually involve any duties or responsibilites, per se-- but it did make me smile for about 45 minutes nonstop. Having never been in such a small aircraft (6 seater), and then being a noselength away from all the vital controls was as great as the lines themselves. There was a good video after the flight which tried to explain what you see in the air; most theories point towards shamanic attempts to bring rain to a region that has seen no major precipitation since the last ice age. As the culture got more desperate, the lines got bigger and more intricate; or maybe it was aliens after all.
Journey to the Jungle
A flight from Lima, Peru to the central jungle capital of Pucallpa costs the same as a flight from Lima to the deep jungle capital of Iquitos. That´s because in essence they are the same flight; you board the same plane, you are served the same small breakfast, you pay the same $6.05 departure tax. You just exit the plane after an hour, as I did, instead of 1 hour 40 minutes. If you get off in Pucallpa, you then board a cargo boat bound for Iquitos-- paying extra money to take four unsavory days getting where you could have been in forty minutes. Why do it? Some things are done only for adventure.
Boarding the boat early seems like a good idea, in theory. You get to set up your hammock where you want (even if you don´t yet know where you want it), you get to hang out and meet people in the shade of the boat instead of the heat of town, and you don´t have to worry about the boat leaving without you. In practice, getting there early lets you watch a crowded boat transform into a manically crowded boat. The carefully managed spaces in between hammocks fills with all sorts of cargo, running kids, and more hammocks; the people you want to meet driven away by an ever-growing wedge of human bodies, as the boat delays departure until every inch of cargo space has been filled. Moto-taxis, refrigerators, potato chips-- as Iquitos is the world´s largest city unreachable by road, the jungle town relies on boats like mine to supply it with everything.
By the first night, hammocks are slung so close that one person´s unconscious swinging causes a pendulum reaction in the neighboring hammocks, until the entire cabin is swaying to the same lazy rhythm. Party music blasts from the ships speakers at absurd volumes, as if to say 'you´re having a good time-- enjoy it!' I had two children sleeping under my hammock. I would guess at least a hundred people shared the 3rd floor of the four story boat, built as tall as it was wide. More people slept below, where the engines throbbed so loudly you couldn´t think as you waited in line for your meal.
By the second day, you start noticing things. You notice how to kids on the boat, hammocks are like jungle vines; everywhere, and at all times, kids are swinging, chasing, diving under hammocks. On a boat with virtually no communal space, personal space is quickly sacrificed. You get used to people bumping your hammock; you get used to kids poking, prodding, kicking, headbutting you, whether by accident or act of boredom.
You also start noticing all the tiny villages along the river. The jungle is like a desert, and the river is like the one highway that runs through it; if people live in the desert, they live on that highway. To leave the river means risking losing all touch with the outside world.
By the third day, the boat starts feeling like a prison. You notice how the day revolves around mealtimes (a bowl of oat water for breakfast, bone soup for dinner, and some rice and a few beans for lunch), and you notice how people stare at you, sizing you up as you stand in line. The bars on the kitchen window don´t help the feeling. People talk about what they´ll do when they get out, or what they were doing before they got in.
As the boat slowly pulls in to Iquitos, a curious thing happens. From the bottom of their luggage people bring out dress clothes and makeup, shoe polish and eyebrow tweezers. They bathe their kids and touch up their hair in the mirror over the dish sink. They use cologne and deodorant for the first time in days. And so instead of ending with a prison break, the boat arrives with the appearance of luxury; as if this were a cruise ship and not a cargo boat.
Boarding the boat early seems like a good idea, in theory. You get to set up your hammock where you want (even if you don´t yet know where you want it), you get to hang out and meet people in the shade of the boat instead of the heat of town, and you don´t have to worry about the boat leaving without you. In practice, getting there early lets you watch a crowded boat transform into a manically crowded boat. The carefully managed spaces in between hammocks fills with all sorts of cargo, running kids, and more hammocks; the people you want to meet driven away by an ever-growing wedge of human bodies, as the boat delays departure until every inch of cargo space has been filled. Moto-taxis, refrigerators, potato chips-- as Iquitos is the world´s largest city unreachable by road, the jungle town relies on boats like mine to supply it with everything.
By the first night, hammocks are slung so close that one person´s unconscious swinging causes a pendulum reaction in the neighboring hammocks, until the entire cabin is swaying to the same lazy rhythm. Party music blasts from the ships speakers at absurd volumes, as if to say 'you´re having a good time-- enjoy it!' I had two children sleeping under my hammock. I would guess at least a hundred people shared the 3rd floor of the four story boat, built as tall as it was wide. More people slept below, where the engines throbbed so loudly you couldn´t think as you waited in line for your meal.
By the second day, you start noticing things. You notice how to kids on the boat, hammocks are like jungle vines; everywhere, and at all times, kids are swinging, chasing, diving under hammocks. On a boat with virtually no communal space, personal space is quickly sacrificed. You get used to people bumping your hammock; you get used to kids poking, prodding, kicking, headbutting you, whether by accident or act of boredom.
You also start noticing all the tiny villages along the river. The jungle is like a desert, and the river is like the one highway that runs through it; if people live in the desert, they live on that highway. To leave the river means risking losing all touch with the outside world.
By the third day, the boat starts feeling like a prison. You notice how the day revolves around mealtimes (a bowl of oat water for breakfast, bone soup for dinner, and some rice and a few beans for lunch), and you notice how people stare at you, sizing you up as you stand in line. The bars on the kitchen window don´t help the feeling. People talk about what they´ll do when they get out, or what they were doing before they got in.
As the boat slowly pulls in to Iquitos, a curious thing happens. From the bottom of their luggage people bring out dress clothes and makeup, shoe polish and eyebrow tweezers. They bathe their kids and touch up their hair in the mirror over the dish sink. They use cologne and deodorant for the first time in days. And so instead of ending with a prison break, the boat arrives with the appearance of luxury; as if this were a cruise ship and not a cargo boat.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Colca Canyon
Bottle of water at the bottom of the world´s second deepest canyon, where there is no electricity or roads: $3
Mule ride to the top of the canyon, for those too tired to hike back up: $12
Egyptian anti-food poisoning pills, after getting food poisoning the first meal of the tour: Priceless
(Thank you Franic)
Mule ride to the top of the canyon, for those too tired to hike back up: $12
Egyptian anti-food poisoning pills, after getting food poisoning the first meal of the tour: Priceless
(Thank you Franic)
America vs The World
Eighteen and female, traveling alone in Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia. American? Not a chance. But for Europeans, it´s not uncommon. With the so called 'Gap Year', a break between high school and college, you´re almost expected to travel somewhere and teach yourself personal responsibility. Thats one of the big differences I´ve noticed between people I´ve met. Not only do Europeans travel here more (with a stronger currency and perhaps a less violent perception of the continent), they travel here much younger.
I can hardly imagine being alone in a foreign land and still being a teenager. Yet I´ve met people traveling much longer and farther than myself-- up to a year at a time, covering the whole world-- who couldn´t legally drink here in the US.
But although this trip has highlighted a lot of the ways we´re different, it´s also highlighted some ways we´re similiar. We´ve all seen shows on TV demonstrating America´s geographic ignorance; a talk show host asking a person off the street to locate Japan on a map, and then the audience laughing (maybe nervously) when they can´t. For the longest time I assumed this was an American problem. But no-- it´s a world problem. I´ve asked Australians, Israelis and Germans how many states are in the US, and not gotten a single right answer. One person tried to argue that there were 50 states, until Alaska and Hawaii. Not that I know how many German provinces there are (14 or 15, the German in my group wasn´t sure of that either)-- but it surprised me because the world knows our language, it knows our television shows and our pop music-- but it doesn´t know us.
Maybe the world isn´t a small place after all.
I can hardly imagine being alone in a foreign land and still being a teenager. Yet I´ve met people traveling much longer and farther than myself-- up to a year at a time, covering the whole world-- who couldn´t legally drink here in the US.
But although this trip has highlighted a lot of the ways we´re different, it´s also highlighted some ways we´re similiar. We´ve all seen shows on TV demonstrating America´s geographic ignorance; a talk show host asking a person off the street to locate Japan on a map, and then the audience laughing (maybe nervously) when they can´t. For the longest time I assumed this was an American problem. But no-- it´s a world problem. I´ve asked Australians, Israelis and Germans how many states are in the US, and not gotten a single right answer. One person tried to argue that there were 50 states, until Alaska and Hawaii. Not that I know how many German provinces there are (14 or 15, the German in my group wasn´t sure of that either)-- but it surprised me because the world knows our language, it knows our television shows and our pop music-- but it doesn´t know us.
Maybe the world isn´t a small place after all.
Secondhand Horror Story
At an english restaurant in Cuzco our waiter-- who didn´t actually work there, but filled in for the owners when they needed time off-- told me this story. And it was in english, so there was nothing lost in translation.
When the owners of the restaurant got married, they took a month off to travel to England for the wedding and then for the honeymoon. The first night our waiter was in charge, the head chef died-- not in the restaurant, but in the hospital-- from gall stones. The day before surgery you´re not allowed to eat, because it can complicate the surgery; for four weeks the chef was told he would be operated on the following day, and for four weeks he wasn´t allowed food-- until he finally died from malnutrition.
When the owners of the restaurant got married, they took a month off to travel to England for the wedding and then for the honeymoon. The first night our waiter was in charge, the head chef died-- not in the restaurant, but in the hospital-- from gall stones. The day before surgery you´re not allowed to eat, because it can complicate the surgery; for four weeks the chef was told he would be operated on the following day, and for four weeks he wasn´t allowed food-- until he finally died from malnutrition.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Thieves and Liars in Cuzco
Cuzco is a beautiful city, let me say that first and foremost. But the tourist district-- being the hub for tours to Maccu Picchu, the most visited place in all South America-- is so heavily saturated with people trying to make a buck that literally every other person you pass in the street is offering you something: wool hats, matches, cameras, lunch, dinner, drugs, massages, tours, better prices than everyone else. And the easiest way to stand out is just to lie about what you're selling, to make it seem worth every last gringo dollar. The following is a guide to 'Cuzcospeak' based on my trip to Maccu Picchu (which was amazing and worth every dollar I should add).
--So if I leave tomorrow, how many people are in my group?
It'll be six people total, plus a guide of course. You and 5 girls, four of which are brazilian. Very good people. (Of the 26 people in your group, some of them will be from Brazil. I think one is female, I can't remember. Very good people.)
--The first day is mountain biking, right? Is the equipment good? Is there traffic on the road? How many hours is the ride?
The ride lasts about 4 or 5 hours; we stop at two important archaelogical sites along the way. The bikes are very good, good Shimano components. Only a few local buses travel on the road. (If we give you equipment, it will be crap {I'll put a photo of my bike online later, which I'm pretty sure was taped together. I also got two left-handed gloves.}. Chains will break, wheels will come off, seatposts will snap, gears will refuse to change. The ride is about 2 hours total, plus a few hours of waiting for people with broken bikes to walk to the meeting point. You'll see lots of culture, but nothing from Incan times. And aside from buses, you need to watch out for chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, kids playing and old people standing in the street. {After the world's most dangerous road, this ride was a piece of cake-- and my duct tape princess bike rode like a champ, carrying me to victory at the bottom of the mountain. Although I was reminded that this was 'an adventure, not a competition'}
--What isn´t included in the price? Should I bring money?
Everything except entrance to the hot springs is included. You can buys snacks if you want. (Bring money because breakfast might be a bun with a piece of cheese on it, and a juice box. And if you order the cheese omelette for dinner, not only will you not get cheese, but you won't get french fries either. And you'll want to buy a giant bottle of coke with every meal to share with people, since you'll get pretty thirsty after 9 hours of hiking in the jungle.)
--What time do we leave for the ruins? How long are we there? When is the train back to Cuzco?
We'll leave for the ruins at 4am to see the sun rise over the sungate. There is a two hour guided tour, and then you have the rest of the day free. You can leave on whichever train you like, probably getting back to Cuzco around 9 at night. (You'll wake up at 4am, but you'll never leave that early. Your group is too large. Not to mention, there won`t be enough beds at the last hotel, so the group will be have to be split up. It`s ok though, it`ll be raining when the sun comes up, so you won`t miss anything. You get to hike up 3,000 stairs, wait for everyone; fill out your name and country on your ticket-- one pen for 26 people, so more waiting-- and then get your tour. Be back in town at 4pm to pick up your train ticket. We`ve given you the fake name Guillermo Grasso, so don`t show anyone on the train your passport. And to save money you`re getting off halfway to Cuzco, and then look for someone with a sign saying `Julia Tours`-- no that`s not my company, but it's ok. Just follow everyone else; they`ll call everyone but your name on the bus, but just play along. Oh, and plan on waiting on the bus for about 45 minutes, since the terminal is a cage and the buses are arranged like tetris pieces. You`ll get to Cuzco sometime before midnight.)
--So if I leave tomorrow, how many people are in my group?
It'll be six people total, plus a guide of course. You and 5 girls, four of which are brazilian. Very good people. (Of the 26 people in your group, some of them will be from Brazil. I think one is female, I can't remember. Very good people.)
--The first day is mountain biking, right? Is the equipment good? Is there traffic on the road? How many hours is the ride?
The ride lasts about 4 or 5 hours; we stop at two important archaelogical sites along the way. The bikes are very good, good Shimano components. Only a few local buses travel on the road. (If we give you equipment, it will be crap {I'll put a photo of my bike online later, which I'm pretty sure was taped together. I also got two left-handed gloves.}. Chains will break, wheels will come off, seatposts will snap, gears will refuse to change. The ride is about 2 hours total, plus a few hours of waiting for people with broken bikes to walk to the meeting point. You'll see lots of culture, but nothing from Incan times. And aside from buses, you need to watch out for chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, kids playing and old people standing in the street. {After the world's most dangerous road, this ride was a piece of cake-- and my duct tape princess bike rode like a champ, carrying me to victory at the bottom of the mountain. Although I was reminded that this was 'an adventure, not a competition'}
--What isn´t included in the price? Should I bring money?
Everything except entrance to the hot springs is included. You can buys snacks if you want. (Bring money because breakfast might be a bun with a piece of cheese on it, and a juice box. And if you order the cheese omelette for dinner, not only will you not get cheese, but you won't get french fries either. And you'll want to buy a giant bottle of coke with every meal to share with people, since you'll get pretty thirsty after 9 hours of hiking in the jungle.)
--What time do we leave for the ruins? How long are we there? When is the train back to Cuzco?
We'll leave for the ruins at 4am to see the sun rise over the sungate. There is a two hour guided tour, and then you have the rest of the day free. You can leave on whichever train you like, probably getting back to Cuzco around 9 at night. (You'll wake up at 4am, but you'll never leave that early. Your group is too large. Not to mention, there won`t be enough beds at the last hotel, so the group will be have to be split up. It`s ok though, it`ll be raining when the sun comes up, so you won`t miss anything. You get to hike up 3,000 stairs, wait for everyone; fill out your name and country on your ticket-- one pen for 26 people, so more waiting-- and then get your tour. Be back in town at 4pm to pick up your train ticket. We`ve given you the fake name Guillermo Grasso, so don`t show anyone on the train your passport. And to save money you`re getting off halfway to Cuzco, and then look for someone with a sign saying `Julia Tours`-- no that`s not my company, but it's ok. Just follow everyone else; they`ll call everyone but your name on the bus, but just play along. Oh, and plan on waiting on the bus for about 45 minutes, since the terminal is a cage and the buses are arranged like tetris pieces. You`ll get to Cuzco sometime before midnight.)
Peruvian Politics
Graffiti is rampant thoughout South America, but in Peru you see a phenomenon unique to the country. A long bus ride will show you that every house, storefront, bridge, wall-- any flat surface facing the road is transformed into a political advertisement. And it's all local politics; so and so for mayor, he supports public works. Roads, potable water; anything to bring an increase in the quality of life (and hopefully work too). It's interesting to see a country so engaged in their political process.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Is Bolivia Dangerous?
The morning before I left La Paz, I talked with my hotel´s owner (whose brother lives in Raleigh, oddly enough) about perceptions of Bolivia. He lamented the fact that Americans supposed the country was dangerous, and therefore stayed away. Indeed, when I crossed into Bolivia, the guards told me only about 20 Americans a month came through the border at Uyuni; I never met another American while I was in Bolivia.
In touristed areas, there are signs posted everywhere proclaiming that 'Bolivia is a safe country'; and I tend to agree-- to an extent. Leaving La Paz for Lake Titicaca, we stopped at the scene of an accident. A bus had gone off the road and tumbled down a hill, killing ten passagers. In a country as poor as Bolivia, safety features so common as guardrails are unheard of; it is this poverty that makes the country dangerous, for tourists and citizens alike.
I told the hotel owner that I thought things would soon change for Bolivia. Already tourists are flocking to Colombia, and if that country can shed its violent image, then Bolivia-- with all its natural wonders, and embracing people-- can hardly be far behind. I can only hope that some of those tourist dollars will go towards making the country safer for everyone.
In touristed areas, there are signs posted everywhere proclaiming that 'Bolivia is a safe country'; and I tend to agree-- to an extent. Leaving La Paz for Lake Titicaca, we stopped at the scene of an accident. A bus had gone off the road and tumbled down a hill, killing ten passagers. In a country as poor as Bolivia, safety features so common as guardrails are unheard of; it is this poverty that makes the country dangerous, for tourists and citizens alike.
I told the hotel owner that I thought things would soon change for Bolivia. Already tourists are flocking to Colombia, and if that country can shed its violent image, then Bolivia-- with all its natural wonders, and embracing people-- can hardly be far behind. I can only hope that some of those tourist dollars will go towards making the country safer for everyone.
The Coca Museum in La Paz
The Coca Museum in La Paz was created as an educational extension of the anti-narcotics efforts of Bolivia, the United States and the United Nations. But rather than exist as a tirade against the use of cocaine (which the museum staunchly opposes), it provides a compelling argument for the continued farming of coca throughout Bolivia. The argument necessarily brings in the fascinating history of the Bolivian highlands, to which coca is inextricably entwined (and which I´ll try to summarize below).
-Archaeologists have discovered that Andean cultures chewed coca leaves as much as 4,500 years ago; more than 2,000 years before Christ.
-The chewing of coca leaves causes a reaction in the body in which oxygen is absorbed by the lungs more efficiently; obviously this is helpful at the extreme altitudes of the Andes.
-During Colonial times, the Catholic Church banned the use of coca leaves, having determined it was 'an obstacle to Christianity'. But when it was learned that miners at Potosi (the sole source of income for the Spanish Empire) chewing coca leaves could work longer hours before succumbing to exhaustion, it was quickly made mandatory and heavily taxed-- making workers even more in debt to the empire.
-Today, more than 90% of men in the Yungas region of Bolivia chew coca leaves (my bus driver was eating them like a bag of potato chips).
-In the late 1800´s cocaine was developed as a medical anesthetic; supposedly Freud was the first user.
-Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1912.
-Certain countries are allowed to legally produce cocaine; the US is the largest producer of legal cocaine, and is produced by a subsidiary of Coca Cola.
-Coca Cola is still flavored with Bolivian coca leaves to this day.
-To produce cocaine requires large amounts of chemicals you don´t find in the jungle; these are knowingly imported by western corporations.
-The US consumes half of the world´s cocaine.
-Archaeologists have discovered that Andean cultures chewed coca leaves as much as 4,500 years ago; more than 2,000 years before Christ.
-The chewing of coca leaves causes a reaction in the body in which oxygen is absorbed by the lungs more efficiently; obviously this is helpful at the extreme altitudes of the Andes.
-During Colonial times, the Catholic Church banned the use of coca leaves, having determined it was 'an obstacle to Christianity'. But when it was learned that miners at Potosi (the sole source of income for the Spanish Empire) chewing coca leaves could work longer hours before succumbing to exhaustion, it was quickly made mandatory and heavily taxed-- making workers even more in debt to the empire.
-Today, more than 90% of men in the Yungas region of Bolivia chew coca leaves (my bus driver was eating them like a bag of potato chips).
-In the late 1800´s cocaine was developed as a medical anesthetic; supposedly Freud was the first user.
-Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1912.
-Certain countries are allowed to legally produce cocaine; the US is the largest producer of legal cocaine, and is produced by a subsidiary of Coca Cola.
-Coca Cola is still flavored with Bolivian coca leaves to this day.
-To produce cocaine requires large amounts of chemicals you don´t find in the jungle; these are knowingly imported by western corporations.
-The US consumes half of the world´s cocaine.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me / Death Road
Today, for my 26th birthday, I conquered the ¨World´s Most Dangerous Road¨-- starting at the pass above La Paz (which had a surprise snowstorm last night) you descend 6,000 feet or so on a mountain bike, in about 4 hours. The road at times is no more than the width of car. There are no safety rails. And there are parts where if you fall, you fall a thousand feet or more. Did I mention the numerous crosses erected in memory of people who have died traversing this road?
Its an unforgettable experience. From the snow to the jungle, ending with a detour through coca farms, and then sitting poolside to bask in your own personal glory. And as we ride home, ¨We are the Champions¨plays on the car stereo.
Its an unforgettable experience. From the snow to the jungle, ending with a detour through coca farms, and then sitting poolside to bask in your own personal glory. And as we ride home, ¨We are the Champions¨plays on the car stereo.
La Paz, Bolivia
Arriving early in the morning, we find a hotel and I head out alone into ¨the Witch's Market¨-- an orgy of street commerce where anything and everything is for sale, if you can find it. A common area between buildings, overflowing with fruit (fresh from the jungle) vendors; a street devoted entirely to shirts (pro wrestling shirts are big here, but dress shirts are everywhere also); a back alley with dozens of stalls selling blue jeans. It has a rough system of organization-- our hotel is near the ¨lights district¨and so when we walk out at night, the corner is lit up entirely with lights for sale-- but in the morning after a long bus ride, it just seems like chaos. People are packed into the road, the sidewalks covered with little makeshift stalls, and two-way traffic honking at whoever dares get in the way. After a while you get used to brushing up against buses struggling up the steep hills. After a while you get used to people trying to hawk everything from toilet paper to range ovens. It´s fun, in a dizzying kind of way.
Later in the day, we take a taxi almost to the summit of Mt Chacaltaya, and then ascend the last hundred meters or so in a breathless line. It seems like cheating, but when you´re 17,388 feet above sea level you don´t care; doing anything at this elevation is hard work. After an easier descent, we buy our driver lunch and then swing by ¨Valley of the Moon¨-- not to be confused with the different valley of the same name in Chile-- to see the sandstone formations. More impressive than the park itself is the drive through La Paz to get there. Built on a plateau that spills over into a daunting valley, there are thousands of red brick homes clinging to the cliffsides. Then there are sheer red cliffs and sandstone tunnels, all practically within the downtown area; probably the most beautiful city I´ve seen so far.
Later in the day, we take a taxi almost to the summit of Mt Chacaltaya, and then ascend the last hundred meters or so in a breathless line. It seems like cheating, but when you´re 17,388 feet above sea level you don´t care; doing anything at this elevation is hard work. After an easier descent, we buy our driver lunch and then swing by ¨Valley of the Moon¨-- not to be confused with the different valley of the same name in Chile-- to see the sandstone formations. More impressive than the park itself is the drive through La Paz to get there. Built on a plateau that spills over into a daunting valley, there are thousands of red brick homes clinging to the cliffsides. Then there are sheer red cliffs and sandstone tunnels, all practically within the downtown area; probably the most beautiful city I´ve seen so far.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
The Potosi Mine
Potosi, at 4,000 meters, is the highest city in the world-- all downhill from here.
Potosi exists because of the rich mining opportunities here; mainly silver and zinc, but also gold, are in them there hills. At one point Potosi was the source of income for all Spain, at one point its population rivaled Paris and London and the great cities of Western civilization. But something happened; while its brother cities continued to grow and progress, Potosi was exploited and then left to wither into poverty.
Today the mining continues, not for a foreign superpower, but for the people who mine it. It is cooperatively owned, and in theory it will uplift the people here. But conditions are so wretched and dangerous-- children here start mining when they are only 12 years old, chewing coca leaves to help their respiration in the dust filled mine-- it is hard to believe. Workers are injured every day; three die every month. The work is hard and the hours are long. A miner must bring in a certain amount of raw material every day-- pushed from the blast site through the small passageways to the surface in a wheelbarrow-- or risk going unpaid that day; they make $5.50 a day when they do meet the quotas.
Within the twisted passages you´ll find twisted shrines, a legacy left over from colonialism. The workers offer alcohol to one icon representing the mountain, believing that pure alcohol brings more pure loads and a chance at striking it rich (little bottles of 192 proof alcohol litter the mining site). Another icon, Tio Jorge-- represents the devil. In colonial times slaves were told that laziness would be punished by Tio Jorge. In time, the workers came to offer coca and cigarettes to the icon, believing it will protect them from cave-ins.
The tour itself leaves you shaking, literally. The blast explosions, unseen, but heard and felt enough to shake your vision, continue as you stumble back into the daylight. Crossing rickety planks, balancing on narrow ledges, climbing up and down the slippery gravel floor in poor light; we all agree that the two hours we spent inside the mine are enough. Five thousand entrances exist for the 15,000 miners-- but few exits from this grueling life.
Potosi exists because of the rich mining opportunities here; mainly silver and zinc, but also gold, are in them there hills. At one point Potosi was the source of income for all Spain, at one point its population rivaled Paris and London and the great cities of Western civilization. But something happened; while its brother cities continued to grow and progress, Potosi was exploited and then left to wither into poverty.
Today the mining continues, not for a foreign superpower, but for the people who mine it. It is cooperatively owned, and in theory it will uplift the people here. But conditions are so wretched and dangerous-- children here start mining when they are only 12 years old, chewing coca leaves to help their respiration in the dust filled mine-- it is hard to believe. Workers are injured every day; three die every month. The work is hard and the hours are long. A miner must bring in a certain amount of raw material every day-- pushed from the blast site through the small passageways to the surface in a wheelbarrow-- or risk going unpaid that day; they make $5.50 a day when they do meet the quotas.
Within the twisted passages you´ll find twisted shrines, a legacy left over from colonialism. The workers offer alcohol to one icon representing the mountain, believing that pure alcohol brings more pure loads and a chance at striking it rich (little bottles of 192 proof alcohol litter the mining site). Another icon, Tio Jorge-- represents the devil. In colonial times slaves were told that laziness would be punished by Tio Jorge. In time, the workers came to offer coca and cigarettes to the icon, believing it will protect them from cave-ins.
The tour itself leaves you shaking, literally. The blast explosions, unseen, but heard and felt enough to shake your vision, continue as you stumble back into the daylight. Crossing rickety planks, balancing on narrow ledges, climbing up and down the slippery gravel floor in poor light; we all agree that the two hours we spent inside the mine are enough. Five thousand entrances exist for the 15,000 miners-- but few exits from this grueling life.
Bolivia, Leap of Faith
Certain things scare travellers-- getting mugged, being kidnapped, dropping your passport in the toilet-- and these are things you work to avoid. But sometimes fate conspires against you, and you find yourself in a precarious position wishing for the moment you were home where everything is routine, and you know what´s going on.
I just got through one of those situations; first, I travelled to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile with very little money since I was about to travel into Bolivia and didn´t want useless Chilean pesos with me. But San Pedro exists for tourists, and as such is very expensive-- and the one ATM in town didn´t work. So far, that´s not a problem. I had enough money to pay for my Bolivian visa ($100, thanks President Bush for making everyone hate us) and there was one tour agency that took credit cards, so I left Chile with about $8 in the wrong currency and some emergency money in dollars. But things get hairy when you reach the Bolivian border-- a concrete shack in the middle of nowhere-- because they tell you need to pay for the visa, but that you can´t pay for the visa at the border, but rather 3 days inland at the terminus of the tour I was on. So they won´t take your money, won´t give you a visa, and won´t let you travel onwards with your passport, because then you would have no incentive to pay later. So... my tour driver held on to my passport for 3 days, joking that he´d lost it or left it at the border; so while everyone from europe or australia or brazil told me not to worry about it, I was worrying about it.
Fast forward 3 days-- we reach Uyuni, and retrieving my passport takes a backseat to everyone trying to arrange transportation out of this little dungheap of a town, which again has only one ATM, not working. But in the end, it all works out. I get my passport back, chitchat with the customs officials about studying in Guatemala, arrange a private jeep to take our disintegrating group to Potosi, and finally get to relax and enjoy the past few days. The altiplano lakes, with white, blue and pink water; the herds of llamas and vicunas, with pink and green tassels around their ears; the flamingos and salt islands; the picturesque rock formations; and best of all the Uyuni salt flat, the largest in the world, which was under about an inch of water due to the rainy season. It creates a reflection of everything above and around you, and gives the impression of you standing on a mirror, or floating through the sky. It´s really unlike anything I´ve ever seen.
And then we reach Potosi, me with a group of friends, and we celebrate being in a city once again. Working ATMs, restaurants, girls on the sidewalk; all the trappings of civilization. And once again I´m glad to be travelling. Bolivia immediately has a sense of beauty that Chile and Argentina lacked. The sun setting on the switchbacks, the simple pueblos at night, the abundance of stars you see at 12,000 feet. Poor and wild, at the middle of my trip I´ve reached the heart of South America.
I just got through one of those situations; first, I travelled to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile with very little money since I was about to travel into Bolivia and didn´t want useless Chilean pesos with me. But San Pedro exists for tourists, and as such is very expensive-- and the one ATM in town didn´t work. So far, that´s not a problem. I had enough money to pay for my Bolivian visa ($100, thanks President Bush for making everyone hate us) and there was one tour agency that took credit cards, so I left Chile with about $8 in the wrong currency and some emergency money in dollars. But things get hairy when you reach the Bolivian border-- a concrete shack in the middle of nowhere-- because they tell you need to pay for the visa, but that you can´t pay for the visa at the border, but rather 3 days inland at the terminus of the tour I was on. So they won´t take your money, won´t give you a visa, and won´t let you travel onwards with your passport, because then you would have no incentive to pay later. So... my tour driver held on to my passport for 3 days, joking that he´d lost it or left it at the border; so while everyone from europe or australia or brazil told me not to worry about it, I was worrying about it.
Fast forward 3 days-- we reach Uyuni, and retrieving my passport takes a backseat to everyone trying to arrange transportation out of this little dungheap of a town, which again has only one ATM, not working. But in the end, it all works out. I get my passport back, chitchat with the customs officials about studying in Guatemala, arrange a private jeep to take our disintegrating group to Potosi, and finally get to relax and enjoy the past few days. The altiplano lakes, with white, blue and pink water; the herds of llamas and vicunas, with pink and green tassels around their ears; the flamingos and salt islands; the picturesque rock formations; and best of all the Uyuni salt flat, the largest in the world, which was under about an inch of water due to the rainy season. It creates a reflection of everything above and around you, and gives the impression of you standing on a mirror, or floating through the sky. It´s really unlike anything I´ve ever seen.
And then we reach Potosi, me with a group of friends, and we celebrate being in a city once again. Working ATMs, restaurants, girls on the sidewalk; all the trappings of civilization. And once again I´m glad to be travelling. Bolivia immediately has a sense of beauty that Chile and Argentina lacked. The sun setting on the switchbacks, the simple pueblos at night, the abundance of stars you see at 12,000 feet. Poor and wild, at the middle of my trip I´ve reached the heart of South America.
Adios, Chile!
I´ll remember you as a country that changes landscapes daily, from the glaciers in the south to the deserts in the north, and with so much in between. And I´ll remember you for the pocketfuls of reciepts that accumulated daily; I´ve never been anywhere so rigorous about their accounting. Every product, service, tour, entrance-- all need to be recorded, in triplicate, white copy for the consumer.
Good grief.
Good grief.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Iquique
I was drawn to Iquique, at the last minute, by three things: first, its name. That may seem silly, and it is; but I really wanted to see what this Iquique place looked like. Second, the ghost town of Humberstone is near here, and I read you could arrange tours from Iquique. And third, Iquique is renowned for its paragliding.
But-- Iquique is not exactly a tourist town. Tours to Humberstone only leave on Thursday apparently, unless you have a group of 4 or more people; not much help when you´re traveling alone. And one look at the steep, steep cliffs that dwarf the town told me that I´d not likely be paragliding like I planned. I made a half effort while here to find a company with tandem flights, but one place was closed the two times I walked by, and another was not where its website said it would be (not the first time I´ve experienced that in South America).
So Iquique was kind of a bust. I was interviewed for a show on national tv about tourism in Chile, but I can´t imagine they would actually use my garbled, nervous-to-be-on-tv spanish for anything other than laughs. I spent most of my time wandering the beach, playing like a local: shopping at the Mall of America (I got a Lamb of God t-shirt), attending a free 1st chair trumpet concert, eating banana doughnuts. It´s not a bad place here, but it´s hot and easy to get sunburned. It´s like a wild west town on one side, poor, but with wooden sidewalks and unassuming desert architecture; while the other side could be a rich California town, with its square modernism and electric fence security systems. A funny town with a funny name.
But-- Iquique is not exactly a tourist town. Tours to Humberstone only leave on Thursday apparently, unless you have a group of 4 or more people; not much help when you´re traveling alone. And one look at the steep, steep cliffs that dwarf the town told me that I´d not likely be paragliding like I planned. I made a half effort while here to find a company with tandem flights, but one place was closed the two times I walked by, and another was not where its website said it would be (not the first time I´ve experienced that in South America).
So Iquique was kind of a bust. I was interviewed for a show on national tv about tourism in Chile, but I can´t imagine they would actually use my garbled, nervous-to-be-on-tv spanish for anything other than laughs. I spent most of my time wandering the beach, playing like a local: shopping at the Mall of America (I got a Lamb of God t-shirt), attending a free 1st chair trumpet concert, eating banana doughnuts. It´s not a bad place here, but it´s hot and easy to get sunburned. It´s like a wild west town on one side, poor, but with wooden sidewalks and unassuming desert architecture; while the other side could be a rich California town, with its square modernism and electric fence security systems. A funny town with a funny name.
The Great Atacama
Leaving Valparaiso for Iquique, another Chilean coastal town much further north and pinned to the ocean by the Atacama Desert, means roughly 29 hours on a bus as you drive first south to Santiago, and then transfer to an overnight coach. I´ve heard nothing but praise for Chilean buses so far, but this trip was awful. For lunch we had a shrimp, shredded cabbage and mayonaise sandwich-- which I couldn´t finish-- and for dinner we had a chicken filet and mayonaise sandwich, although I could never find the chicken. Mayonaise and a hamburger bun; that about sums up Chilean cruisine for me.
I did read about 200 pages of Garcia Marquez´s Love in the Time of Cholera, although that, or the interminable journey, or both, made me sick for home. I wanted to play music again, and I wanted to ride my bike to Waffle House, or Cook Out, or El Rodeo, or all three. To make things worse, the Atacama Desert, which I had such high hopes for, kind of appears and disappears without warning. After hours of dust and boulders and trash along the side of the road, you finally reach hours of sand and small rocks and trash along the side of the road. Tire tracks run like scars through the landscape, never to be washed away by rains that never come. Only at sunset does the desert redeem itself; the foreground gives way to the brilliance of the suns slanted rays, and the hills stand silhouetted against the everchanging pastels of twilight. But it´s all over too soon, and then your eyes are forced to the tv playing a low quality vhs without sound or subtitles. The desert is a melancholy place.
I did read about 200 pages of Garcia Marquez´s Love in the Time of Cholera, although that, or the interminable journey, or both, made me sick for home. I wanted to play music again, and I wanted to ride my bike to Waffle House, or Cook Out, or El Rodeo, or all three. To make things worse, the Atacama Desert, which I had such high hopes for, kind of appears and disappears without warning. After hours of dust and boulders and trash along the side of the road, you finally reach hours of sand and small rocks and trash along the side of the road. Tire tracks run like scars through the landscape, never to be washed away by rains that never come. Only at sunset does the desert redeem itself; the foreground gives way to the brilliance of the suns slanted rays, and the hills stand silhouetted against the everchanging pastels of twilight. But it´s all over too soon, and then your eyes are forced to the tv playing a low quality vhs without sound or subtitles. The desert is a melancholy place.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Jumbo Easy
I have seen the future, and the future is Jumbo Easy. Imagine if someone took Home Depot, Dick´s sporting goods, REI and a superWalmart, crammed them into the same place, and then plopped down a bank and a nail salon in the middle. That´s Jumbo Easy. Camping supplies next to frozen dinners? Why not? Now why the name is in english... that´s the real question.
Valparaiso
Valparaiso, or Valpo as the locals know it, is a city made for wandering. With patience and flexibility, aided by long hours of sunlight, you can explore the winding streets and side passages to find bursts of color around every corner. But be warned--throw your map away now; if you have a destination in mind, forget about it. The city´s Escher-like layout is unkind to those seeking the particular, and unforgiving to those looking for order or efficiency.
Imagine a funnel cut in half and folded like an accordion; that´s basically Valparaiso. To walk from one side of downtown to the other, along the coast, takes about 30 minutes. To do so any other way will take hours, and could take days. You might start walking up one of the many cerros or hills, and find the road splits in two; so you follow one road and it dead ends, but offers a pedestrian passage over to the next road-- but that road might go up or down a different hill, only to backtrack later to nearly where you were before. Did I mention many of the streets aren´t signed, at least not at intersections where it would be useful? Did I mention that with many of the streets you´re looking at a 45 degree slope? Did I mention that many of the streets that start in one direction will twist and turn, change direction and elevation and deposit you somewhere even the map seems to have forgotten about?
But here in Valpo the journey is the destination. Dilapidated grand old mansions aside makeshift shanties; more color in the houses, the flowers, the walls and streets than seems reasonable or feasible; old men herding alpaca up broken concrete stairs. Its a feast for the senses, a kind of anarchic free for all. Not something I´ve found anywhere else.
Imagine a funnel cut in half and folded like an accordion; that´s basically Valparaiso. To walk from one side of downtown to the other, along the coast, takes about 30 minutes. To do so any other way will take hours, and could take days. You might start walking up one of the many cerros or hills, and find the road splits in two; so you follow one road and it dead ends, but offers a pedestrian passage over to the next road-- but that road might go up or down a different hill, only to backtrack later to nearly where you were before. Did I mention many of the streets aren´t signed, at least not at intersections where it would be useful? Did I mention that with many of the streets you´re looking at a 45 degree slope? Did I mention that many of the streets that start in one direction will twist and turn, change direction and elevation and deposit you somewhere even the map seems to have forgotten about?
But here in Valpo the journey is the destination. Dilapidated grand old mansions aside makeshift shanties; more color in the houses, the flowers, the walls and streets than seems reasonable or feasible; old men herding alpaca up broken concrete stairs. Its a feast for the senses, a kind of anarchic free for all. Not something I´ve found anywhere else.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Once in a Lifetime
I know that when I get home, the question I´ll get most is 'what´s the most amazing thing you saw?' Well, I have almost two months left, but I´m sure yesterday will fit in at the top somewhere. Imagine for a moment, standing in the crater of an active volcano, watching another volcano in the distance erupting. My words don't really do that situation justice, but try to really imagine it: the sulphur smell, the sounds of magma shifting, the rough lava rock clawing at your boots, and there only about 60 miles away, maybe less, an eruption making frontpage news across the world. It's not scary but it should be-- cheering on one explosion of lava, while hoping the lava directly below you stays put. Wrapping my mind around that still makes me smile.
The descent of the volcano is worth mentioning too; you climb up trudging like a pack mule. But coming down you squat, lean back and slide for all your worth, using an ice pick to guide yourself, but always enjoying those moments of out-of-control spinning, tumbling and slipping on the ice.
The descent of the volcano is worth mentioning too; you climb up trudging like a pack mule. But coming down you squat, lean back and slide for all your worth, using an ice pick to guide yourself, but always enjoying those moments of out-of-control spinning, tumbling and slipping on the ice.
People Make the Place
Despite everything I´ve seen so far, natural wonders and cultural capitals, the people on the street are almost the best part. I never get to photograph them and they´ll be forgotten before long, so here is a lazy attempt to record this overlooked aspect of travelling:
The kid in Puerto Varas walking with, I assume, his grandmother, rocking a full mullet and a Guns and Roses jacket that had been altered to say Punk Rock by changing the G to an P, etc... I almost broke down laughing when I saw that; The waiter at Rap Hamburguer who wanted to know how mispelled the name was in english; The street dogs that lay down at your feet and either sleep or paw at you until you pass them some food; The local women that all wanted to dance with Geoff on New Year's since we was tall and white; The metalhead couple using both sides of a public phonebooth, passing pesos back and forth as they each ran out of minutes; Our canyoning guide who spent 6 months studying mountaineering in Spain; The human pyramid trying to pick fruit off a tall tree down the street from our hostel.
The kid in Puerto Varas walking with, I assume, his grandmother, rocking a full mullet and a Guns and Roses jacket that had been altered to say Punk Rock by changing the G to an P, etc... I almost broke down laughing when I saw that; The waiter at Rap Hamburguer who wanted to know how mispelled the name was in english; The street dogs that lay down at your feet and either sleep or paw at you until you pass them some food; The local women that all wanted to dance with Geoff on New Year's since we was tall and white; The metalhead couple using both sides of a public phonebooth, passing pesos back and forth as they each ran out of minutes; Our canyoning guide who spent 6 months studying mountaineering in Spain; The human pyramid trying to pick fruit off a tall tree down the street from our hostel.
Lessons Learned
--I am not graceful. Not even a little bit. Watching a video of me rapelling down a 37 foot waterfall would probably make you wince at my clumsy technique. But no video exists, and the photos... well, we paid six times more for them than we were told originally, and they are still worth every penny.
--Israelis, love `em or hate `em, have got to be the most travelling group of people in the world. Three nights ago they came in at two in the morning, turned on all the lights, laughing and talking and carrying on like it was daytime. Two nights ago they woke up at three (or rather I was woken at three by an Israeli only wearing a towel, who needed to get into my room to wake the other Israelis) to hike the volcano and again turned on all the lights and talked loudly. Last night was quiet finally, but I woke up with an extra bed and two extra Israelis blocking access to the kitchen in my room. I can go days without interacting with another American, but Israelis are everywhere.
--Travellers will always try to distinguish themselves from tourists. My apologies to the travellers reading this, but we´re no different. We stay longer and spend less money, but we still speak english all day and gawk at the same sights on the same tours. Stop putting yourself on a pedestal.
--There is no such thing as a 'typical' tour. Even in Pucon, where we did a volcano ascent that was exactly like every other tour company, we returned to town and pulled into the guide's driveway so that his family could gather our neon orange uniforms and hiking boots and helmets and assorted junk to be washed and sorted for the next day's trip. It's fascinating to see where the locals live, what condition they live in.
--Touristy locations are not just like home. Sure, they have some of the same stores and restaurants, but just this morning I was walking past a mechanic shop that was playing Twisted Sister´s We´re not gonna take it in Spanish. And for whatever reason, when you hear western pop songs they´re as likely to be covers as originals. I´ve heard Oasis, Alice in Chains and Green Day covers in the last week, and all in english no less.
--Israelis, love `em or hate `em, have got to be the most travelling group of people in the world. Three nights ago they came in at two in the morning, turned on all the lights, laughing and talking and carrying on like it was daytime. Two nights ago they woke up at three (or rather I was woken at three by an Israeli only wearing a towel, who needed to get into my room to wake the other Israelis) to hike the volcano and again turned on all the lights and talked loudly. Last night was quiet finally, but I woke up with an extra bed and two extra Israelis blocking access to the kitchen in my room. I can go days without interacting with another American, but Israelis are everywhere.
--Travellers will always try to distinguish themselves from tourists. My apologies to the travellers reading this, but we´re no different. We stay longer and spend less money, but we still speak english all day and gawk at the same sights on the same tours. Stop putting yourself on a pedestal.
--There is no such thing as a 'typical' tour. Even in Pucon, where we did a volcano ascent that was exactly like every other tour company, we returned to town and pulled into the guide's driveway so that his family could gather our neon orange uniforms and hiking boots and helmets and assorted junk to be washed and sorted for the next day's trip. It's fascinating to see where the locals live, what condition they live in.
--Touristy locations are not just like home. Sure, they have some of the same stores and restaurants, but just this morning I was walking past a mechanic shop that was playing Twisted Sister´s We´re not gonna take it in Spanish. And for whatever reason, when you hear western pop songs they´re as likely to be covers as originals. I´ve heard Oasis, Alice in Chains and Green Day covers in the last week, and all in english no less.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Starting the New Year with a Bang
Arriving in Pucon on January 1st, I was thinking about New Year´s resolutions. Now, confronting your fears is kind of a vague resolution, but that´s more or less what I´ve settled on; I was originally thinking of skydiving here, since where else can you jump out of a plane over an active volcano, but the price ($300) is something I´m not ready to confront.
So instead I´ll be canyoning today (which as I understand it, means rapelling down waterfalls and generally overcoming your fear of heights and cold water) and climbing a volcano tomorrow. Now as some of you know, the first volcano I climbed in Guatemala left me doing a search and rescue with the American Embassy the next day. This trip should me much more organized and I´m not so worried about that, but apparently a volcano about 60 miles north erupted last night for the first time in 20 years-- causing the locals to be evacuated, and somebody at the BBC´s ears to perk up. Its strange looking at international news on the net, knowing it´s taking place an hour away on the bus (and almost making me wish I´d caved in on that skydiving package which probably would have been the best view on the block).
So keep your fingers crossed that the eruption continues until at least tomorrow around lunch, so that I can see it from my volcano, but that it doesn´t cause any other eruptions in this area. Hopefully, my days of search and rescue are over.
So instead I´ll be canyoning today (which as I understand it, means rapelling down waterfalls and generally overcoming your fear of heights and cold water) and climbing a volcano tomorrow. Now as some of you know, the first volcano I climbed in Guatemala left me doing a search and rescue with the American Embassy the next day. This trip should me much more organized and I´m not so worried about that, but apparently a volcano about 60 miles north erupted last night for the first time in 20 years-- causing the locals to be evacuated, and somebody at the BBC´s ears to perk up. Its strange looking at international news on the net, knowing it´s taking place an hour away on the bus (and almost making me wish I´d caved in on that skydiving package which probably would have been the best view on the block).
So keep your fingers crossed that the eruption continues until at least tomorrow around lunch, so that I can see it from my volcano, but that it doesn´t cause any other eruptions in this area. Hopefully, my days of search and rescue are over.
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