Manifest Destino

Day Trippin': Stay Classy San Diego

2011-03-10T01:19:00.000-08:00

This happened months ago, but why the hell not?

We're still trying to figure out whether or not we should finish off a few last post lingering from South America and end this blog's misery or if we should continue the excruciation. Because we are lagging on those last few post, we'll give option b, exruciation, a momentary shot.

On the way back from Kristy's we stopped in a liquor store only to be greeted by a giant plastic sperm at the counter filled with 15% of some kind of alcohol, presumably not spermacide since it said the alcohol was potable.

I hadn't been spanked since I was about 7, that was until Kristy gave me the business and then made up for it by giving me a sticker, so i could tell the world of her prodigous paddle.

Ringer, Ringer. Beth tossing some 'shoes on Ocean Beach.

Brown Gravy. Cheese. French Fries.

Winner, Winner. Beth wins "balls on a ball" for Chachee.

Financials: Part I

2011-01-19T21:57:00.000-08:00

There is only one conceivable way that a public servant (former) and a social worker (former, for now) could up and quit their jobs and high-tail it to South America for just under 11 months (10 months, 3 weeks and 3 days is a little more accurate): be cheap, really, really, fucking cheap. (1)

We'd initially planned on coming home September 7, 2010, or rather we'd figured out that we could definitely (barring any unforeseen tragedy) afford to be there until that date. We based this on many things, mainly lonely planet and a few other internet resources. It was all very vague and unscientific, especially considering that the lonely planet we used to base most of our potential cost numbers was almost three years old (not counting any lag time with the publication date and the dated research times). As such, we were conservative with our numbers, wanting to be sure that we could afford to make it to that date, so as to prevent any selling of body parts (by dismemberment or simply physical exertion) to afford food and lodging. In hindsight this was a mild mistake in that it cost us $175 (combined) to change our flight to December 14, though we could have changed the flight to the mid/end of November for free, those three weeks were terribly worth it.

Since we knew all along that we would be on a tight budget, probably even more strangulating than the South America on a Shoestring budget, we planned ahead. We read blogs, we looked on lonely planet's website thorn tree (an unbelievably useful tool and the perfect free counterbalance to the out datedness and potentially inaccurate lonely planet books. It's a user-generated site for travelers, by travelers and helped with all sorts of advice from border crossings to politically unstable regions that might actually be OK to visit.), we read the OLD frugal traveler and just generally scoured through as much travel information as we could find. Here is an inexhaustive list of shit that helped us to live cheaper lives than we otherwise would have been able to without them.

- A tent and sleeping bags: Patagonia is expensive, in particular the cost of habitation is disproportionately high. Camping saved us on average about 1/2 of what the normal cost of a hostel dorm room would be, sometimes more, sometimes less. We spent anywhere between $5 - $10 a night per person, usually upwards of $10, not to mention the privacy, the freedom and the sheer joy of waking up in nature provided by the tent. It is probably (outside of our backpacks and the next thing on the list) the most useful thing we brought.

- Capital One Bank Cards: Unbelievable how sad and pathetic US banks are when it comes to people traveling abroad. (2) I'm not sure if it is a product of the 'lack of American travelers" or if it is simply the fact that they can charger ridiculously high amounts to withdraw money, but in any case it is highway robbery. Most banks charge something like 3-5% of the withdrawal amount, while others charge a flat rate, somewhere between $5-$10 per transaction (Note: these are rough estimates, they could be higher and lower). Capital One on the other hand charges you absolutely nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Effing Nada. You withdraw money from your account and they will process that transaction free of charge, even their charged exchange rates (assuming you are withdrawing foreign currency and not US dollars from foreign banks) are right about what that days exchange rate is according to Yahoo Finance. The only flaw is that they do not have any power over whether the bank in which you are withdrawing money charges a transaction fee. But, be warned, many countries have banks that do charge fees for withdrawing, but they almost all have banks that don't charge as well. Look around, withdraw from multiple banks and if you are in a country that charges, withdraw more money, so that you have to pay less transaction fees.

- A travel stove: We didn't bring this, which led to countless cold means in cold weather and eventually the need to rent one for a four day trek. I would say absolutely bring one of these along if you plan to camp at all. Find one used at a garage store or a second hand sports store so you don't have to fork over the $100 or so dollars it cost. You can find fuel canisters down there.

- Water bottles: Like Sigg, though Siggs are unnecessary. We boiled a lot of water in countries that the tap water is not potable. It's way, way, way cheaper to do this, it's better for the environment and the bottles double as opaque glasses in which to sterilize your water using water purifying tablets on long treks where it is infeasible for you to carry four days worth of water. It's a win-win.

- An iTouch or some other form of Internet capable device. Internet is not expensive, but it's also not always cheap, not to mention most hostels have lines for the computers or inconsiderate people that like to watch YouTube videos of their favorite prepubescent pop stars for hours while you sit, stare, hate and wait for them to get off so you can send two emails out to your parents letting them know you are alive and well and not kidnapped by some coca growers in a third world country. The iTouch (or a netbook) allows for you to do this and at a fairly reasonable price tag. It's a good investment.

I'm sure there are plenty of other items which we packed that helped us to save money along the way, but those are the big deals, the ones that had we not had them our trip and our wallet books would have suffered. And as this has rambled on for much longer than I anticipated, we'll do three finance parts. The next portion will have how much we spent per country and maybe a few ways in which we saved money in each of those countries.

(1) This is not entirely true. Our customs agent, of Miami International fame, brought up this salient point: "So, you just quit your jobs to go traveling for a year? What, are your parents rich? You got a trust fund?" No officer Custom, we just slept in fleabags, took cheap buses and ate as little as possible. Thanks for asking.

(2) I'm not well informed about foreign owned/operated banks. Perhaps they pillage their customers as well, in which case all the more reason to love Capital One, embrace them and make them a part of your monetary family.

Note: No products shown on this website are endorsed or unendorsed by this blogger. They are simply being used as examples of the items which we brought along our travels and proved to be invaluable to us on our journey.

The Opposable Thumbed Sloths: An Indolent Itineration of Costa Rica

2011-01-08T16:49:00.000-08:00

When you are on vacation, when you are in Costa Rica, when you have nothing better to do, Drink. Salud, to our last three days south of Mexico.

That's a fucking sloth.

After a few weeks at home and no job prospects on the horizon, I thought it only fair (mainly to justify my unemployed, lazy, misanthropic existence) to write a post on our final destination in The Americas, South of the US of A, Costa Rica. I can’t and won’t promise excitement, because in fact it was a mixture of dread and practice. Practice for a future life of lethargy and laze, though not affluence.

For our last week we made a decision, we would not be on buses the whole time and we would not be consumed by a need to see and do as much as possible. We would, by choice, do as little as possible, but we would do as little as possible on the beach. The misconception about South America is that it is a beach paradise from floor to ceiling, from Ushuaia to Cartagena. (1) When my sister first saw me in Italy, after getting over the shock of chops, she asked me how it was possible I was so pale, didn’t I just spend the last 8 months in south America? Yes, I did, but it’s cold, it’s high, and point in fact there are not that many good beaches outside of Colombia and Brazil.

Getting our tan on and putting up a scandalous picture...finally.

So, we spent the last week unexcitedly (for you) sitting on the beach, drinking rum, wine, cheap vodka and as many new beers as our livers could handle. We stopped first in Manuel Antonio. We saw the ubiquitous monkeys and sloths that the national park is so famous for and we even pondered renting a surfboard even though the waves were barely strong enough to knock over a toddler. (2) Our hostel was a 100 yards from the entrance. It was cute, clean, a block from the ocean, served a great (and cheap breakfast) and had the nicest manager we’ve yet to meet. A nice bronze, a burrito from Sanchos and three days later we left town headed for the “hippie, bohemian” town of Montezuma.

Here we planned to surf, but the waves and the accompanying rocks did not bode well for beginner success. Instead we bought lots of cheap vodka, fruit juice and lathered ourselves up in 40spf sun tan lotion. We read, we relaxed and we did our best not to imagine ourselves at home figuring out what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives, or even with the next few months. Nope, we just sat, relaxed and enjoyed. It wasn’t like the rest of our trip, it was nothing like the trials and tribulations of traveling, it was a vacation and it was amazing.

Wood. Beach. Drinking.

Beauty Bus, a better bar name than beauty bar and a better concept to. Make it happen someone.

Notes: San Jose isn’t miserable, but it ain’t paradise. If you go to Costa Rica buy souvenirs in San Jose, but get coastal as soon as possible. Try gallo pinto. It’s not chicken, it’s beans and rice with some onions, lizano and fresh cilantro. It’s tasty, if simple. We didn’t go to Vulcan Arenal, though if we go back, I want to. We also didn’t see the turtles, but there are supposed to be massive turtles and if you go during the right time of the year, you can watch them lay eggs. I’m pretty sure watching them lay eggs is liking watching water boil, but fuck it, why not.

Gallo Pinto.

(1) Alright no one thinks the southern most city in the world is a beach paradise, but you get the point.

(2) Note: Manuel Antonio post-super-rainy season is a rip off. It’s a ten dollar entrance fee, but once you get into the park you realize that ¾ of it is closed due to excessive rain, mud slides and other potential calamitous events that the park rangers refuse to clarify. Make sure the park is fully open or you are likely to spend your half day with 100’s of tourist, domesticated monkeys and the elderly in bathing suits—a sight I definitely could have done without. The one advantage: we didn’t have to pay for a tour guide because they were everywhere. If you’ve never tried to spot a sloth yourself, then you wouldn’t understand, but without those groups and their guides we would have been privileged enough to see only the monkeys and no sloths.

Don't go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you are used to...

Combat Illiteracy, Drink A Beer

2010-12-20T20:19:00.000-08:00

Here's my top 8, in order of best to not-quite-as-good, favorite books I read on this trip. Some I found, some I brought, some I exchanged, three on this list were even purchased (2 before leaving and one was brought by Kim) and some I traded (with death grips) my favorite books for, but all of these books struck me as exceptional in some format. I read about a book a week during our trip, somewhere in the 45-52 range. A bit more than normal, but with better success rates I think, especially considering the availability of books being limited to hostels, book exchanges at cafes/bars/etc and other travelers. I didn't write every book down and I'm sure I'm missing at least three worthwhile books. If I remember them, I'll put them in the comments section. And if any of you would like to share your favorite book you read while we were gone, I'm all ears and looking forward to suggestions. Without further ado:

1a) All the kings men by Robert Warren Penn
Brilliant characters. Excellent plot. Incredibly well written. And relevant, still. A fully realized take on American politics. My favorite book of the trip.

1b) Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy
The strength is in the details, in the unique descriptive nature. They can be insane, outlandish and even morbid, but always pertinent and perfectly fitting. An incredible read.

3) 100 years of solitude &/ The General In His Labryinths by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Also read the general in his labryinths. I enjoyed this book as well. not exactly on par with 100, though I prefer this genre, historical fiction and Simon Bolivar. 100 is long, magical realism, that is more like toned down fantasy or extremely tenous, maybe even ludicrous, reality. It's excellent, interesting, unparalleled I guess, but I thought the above two were more poignant with more interesting characters and, simply put, better written, respectively.

4) Labryinths by Jorge Luis Borges
Floored me at times, which doesn't happen often, but bored me at times too. Excellent, excellent short stories, some ruined by a quite literal marriage to using the word labryinth in them.

5) Burr by Gore Vidal
More historical fiction. In many ways much more complex and seemingly meticulously researched than the Marquez novel. A phenomal take on the vilified Mr. Milk: engaging, well written, historical, but not dull. For people that don't read history, this is a good place to start.

6) Empire: a history of the British Empire by Niall Ferguson
A history of Britain at the height of it's empirical rule, one the stretched much further and had much broader influence than I had completely realized. Fascinating, well-written, but written by Niall, not Neil, gives it a certain Blow Job Britain tone that might be a little less objective than I prefer. (the proceeding two books are inherently more readable, but this is much more academic. you come away feeling like you learned some shit, instead of being entertained...a good thing...sometimes.)

7) Marching Powder by Rusty Young
Coke, jail, self-sustaining prisoner-ran economic systems like real estate sales, corner stores and fresh produce, and all this centrally located in La Paz, the chaotic capital of the least developed south American country plus it's banned in the country it takes place in, Bolivia. Great first half, but a ruined 2nd half due to a delusional love-story.

8) Lost City of Z by David Grann
Adventure novels get a bad rap. If you didn't like from the mixed up files of mrs. Basel e. Weitweiler as a child you have no flair for the exciting. But, I find as I get older, real adventure stories, or at least as real as the information the author presents, tend to capture that sense of excitment Much better than tales of running away from home.

Honorable Mention: Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. This is premature (I'm not done with the megalith 900+ page book yet), and verging on unworthy, but it's such a travelers book, that I have to mention it. Not to mention I want to go to Bombay (Mumbai) now...and India, in general. So, even though he is prone to self-aggrandizement (though he tries to hide it), and excessive displays of description with the occassionally cringe-inducing metaphor, it's interesting, exciting and the love of this place where he decided to make a new home as a foreigner, shines through. Thus, honorable mention.

More Pictures, Less Time

2010-12-13T17:33:00.000-08:00

Don't give up now, we still have a few more post coming, but they will have to wait a few days. Tomorrow afternoon, 635pm, we board a flight to Miami, Fl, USA. The following day we board another flight to LAX. We will officially be Californian again sometimes between 12pm (when we get through customs) and 1pm (when we probably get through customs). I'm not aiming for profundity here, so I'll just say this: we can't wait to see you all, everyone of you...but goddamnit.

p.s. we added pictures to the post below. Especially of note is the juxtaposition between Kim and Mask in the Bugs post.

a man, a Plan, a canal, Panama

2010-12-11T12:46:00.001-08:00

Panama, a canal, a man, a plan...er, us in the entrance hall to theCanal, with a giant cargo ship in the background.

Any country whose name just calls out to be put into a palindrome, however simple, is a country of mine own blood. If I was clever enough, or had enough Internet time, this post would be a packet of witty, grotesque, vulgar, humorous and definitely immature (perhaps even the occassionally profound) palindromes. Since I'm neither clever or a man with much time, this quick-hit list of Panama must suffice.

Panama is beautiful: Jungle, carribean coast, warm pacific coast (best California in this regard), safe, and best of all it's a helluva lot cheaper than Costa Rica. (por ejemplo: Ron in costa rica cost about $8 for a really cheap bottle, we found a bottle of whiskey for $1.50 in Panama).

They also have pandas, good freinds of Beth.

Panama City has skyscrappers. It's said that it's the Miami of central America, except more English is spoken in Panamacity.

In the bottom left hand corner, between the two poles, there is a glowing spot, that is a ginormous television, apparently there to entertain the shipswaiting to go through the canal.

When flying in you need proof of onward travel. A flight from Costa Rica to LAX does not suffice. Ergo, your airline (maybe it's the innately evil Copa) might hold you hostage forcing you to buy a flight for 386 dollars from panama to Costa rica before you are allowed to board your flight from Colombia (also refusing to refund you for the flight you are going to board in two hours, thus the hostage part), meanwhile telling you it's a 20 cancellation fee, when it's actually 50...per ticket. And then charging an unexplained tax for said purchase of 35 dillars, just to rub your face in it. Moral: Don't fly copa, they are owned and operated by souless, destined for the depths of hell making those there even more miserable than previously imagined, humans that don't even respond to Beth crying and my ensuing yelling... and have proof of onward travel from Panama if entering the country. Sorry, that was rantish.

The canal was first begun by the French after completing the Suez. Malaria, the jungle, and bad financing contributed to this ventures bankruptcy. The US swept in, took over, and promised to help liberate Panana from Colombia in return for control of the canal. This was around 1903. 70 something years later Jimmy Carter, in a moment of clear misguided judiciousness, promised to return the canal in '99. Theorist believe it was a vain gesture, as JC's well known Y2K fear would have meant that Panananian control would have lasted between one day and 365 days.

The canal, perhaps not awe inspiring, but an impressive feat, nonetheless.

There are 400 islands off the Carribean side of Panana. The Kuna people live there. They are an autonmous group of Indigenious peoples. Which is to say Panama let's them make their own rules, fly their own flag and enforce their own laws up until the point oil is found in that part of the Carribean Ocean..which is nice of them. (side note: disconcertingly enough the kuna flag resembles that of pre-Yalta Germany, with an inverted swastika adorning its center).

Kuna don't allow foreign ownership of land, nor foreign occupants. They do allow travelers. For a small fee of $25 a day, you get a sand floor, a lumpy mattress, a palm-covered leaky roof and a crab-lobster-langostin dinner (or if you are Beth an uncooled can of mixed veggies and rice). Not to mention crystalline waters, tropical fish, hammocks; a slice of paradise, as they say. We stayed in our hut in paradise for three days and nights. Eyna, the chief, lives their in his Coleman tent, complete with television, permanently. We heard he doesn't have cable, but that he enjoys porn, so if you ever visit Eynas Island in the San Blas, there is your gift idea.

THis is the start of an annoying chain of paradise pictures that will surely make someone in a cubicle, at a job, in winter time jealous. p.s. If happiness breeds stupidty, I'm clearly it's mascot.

Coconut.

Kids, Kuna, Island. Unfortunately they didn't have some brilliant and thoroughly time wasting coconut game...my only dissapointment.

Our own slice of island paradise

Casco Viejo is the oldest, stll intact, neighborhood in Panana City. It's also the name of our hostel. It's nice, both are. We were allowed to share a dorm bed for $5 a night, each. Fate was kind to us there.

The neighborhood is strange, but interesting. All fascade, no guts. Old colonial homes occupied by squaters sit next to posh new bar-cafes selling $8 mojitis. 4 star hotels are next to homes that are left open all day, fans blowing with gusto and old men decorating their doorsteps just to keep cool. Anachronistic modernity meeting impoverished antiquity. Interesting.

The main, and only, bus terminal has the biggest and most western mall, complete with stores, mall food, cinnabon and movie theatre. Harry Potter felt much darker than the previous ones. I think this is the best one to date. No red vines.

No REd Vines, but plenty of wizards and coca cola.

There's no tshirts or belts with the title of this post on then. It's a travesty. Someone needs to contact the tourism bureau and get this in the works. I heart panana just doesn't work.

Panama is underrated. Costa rica is rated about right. Which means you should probably come to panama on your next vacation, call it Billy Travel-nomics. Panama: The Palindrome of Life. Once you come, you'll always come back.

Lastly, panamas national booze is Seco. It's national drink is seco mixed with milk. And no, "White Panamanian" is not the name.

Cartagena, Colombia

2010-12-11T12:45:00.001-08:00

Even your mustache sweats in Cartagena. Our cleaning lady decided to get in the fun, even asking us to send her this picture for her facebook page.

I like the word sultry. I used to think that made me a pervert, but now, I'm not so sure.

Hot, verging on sweltering, moist, wet and loaded with a nasty drainage system, the streets of Cartagena are by definition, sultry. They move, languid with people and unchanneled, undrained rain water. Most of the city is a chaotic miasma of selling (perhaps hustling is a more apt word), shouting and honking; a cacophony of noises that leaves the unaccustomed reeling. This is the hidden beauty of a city that, in relation to other hubs of Colombian big city life, doesn't fall prey to modernity or the structure and order which that accompanies.

The famous beauty, however, which makes Cartagena the setting of classics such as Romancing The Stone not to mention a destination for cruisers, Americans and tourist from the more affluent walks of life is its walls. A sacked city, one that has been burned, raided, pillaged, destroyed and then done all over again countless times. We read somewhere that the gold, silver and precious metals Spain mined (either from the people or the earth) in South America financed the empire for two centuries. These metals weren't left in SA, but rather shipped across an ocean rife with pirating and Cartagena was often times the exit point to Spain, thus a simple target for pirates, as well as enemies. Eventually they fortified, erecting two sets of walls, one inner and one outter. (1) Thankfully this was either expertly done or by the time of its completion Spain was beginning to run out of its financing, because today, centuries after it was finished, the wall is still relatively in tact, standing tall and welcoming tourist to a unique and vibrant city.

The walls surrounding the inner city.

I'm rambling, so let me get to the point. We saw a castle, we went to a rumba club, we drank Ron, we stood outside of churches (Kim helped sponsor Catholicism by paying $10 for a tour; Beth and I abstained, for moral and monetary reasons), walked the walls, drank an overpriced beer at casa de la cereza, but at sunset and atop the wall--it was worth it, ate shrimp cocktail from vendors on the street (delicious, with champagne--that's what the bottle said at least--based cocktail sauce), singlhandely destroyed trees of zapote and maracuya by drinking approximately ten juices (fresh and the best in SA) a day, and most entertainingly braved the streets of the outter wall during and after the many storms, which left us wading through (2) the streets in knee high rivers of street scum, brackish water--it was, for lack of a better word, awesome. As was Cartagena.

The imprenable fortress, with a statue out front of an English pirate, who may or may not have sacked and taken the fortrees. Statues in South america are mostly bewildering.

Said fortress or castle, was dark, and moist in the interior, even a bit creepy, kind of like Beth in this photo, or when she's had too much caffeine.

From there we headed to Panama city via plane, for the last two weeks. Thus ending South America on the perfect chord, with the most friendly country and with a purely South American city. Ciao South America, we will miss you.

(1) these two sets are now no more than the American equivalent of train tracks, dividing rich from poor in a clearly delineated fashion with no questions as to where the respective parties reside. The inner wall is an immaculate, well policed, gentrified haven for tourist, the rich and (during the day) those that serve them. The outter wall is as I said, beautifully chaotic, but absolutely filthy and filled with not only rainwater, but trash and dirt and an abundance of degeneratees who can't or choose not to live off of tourism. [note: the city is MUCH larger than this portion now. It's forty minutes from the bus terminal to the beginning of the outter wall. But, a) this is where we stayed, hence our experience, b) the only affluent area we encountered in the city, besides a few high-rise condos across an isthmus from us, which is sheltered in its own right and c) outside of going to a Colombian League Baseball game (tickets paid for by the generous and outstanding Justin Segal of UCSB and Cartagena Tigre fame) and the bus terminal there is no real tourist draw anywhere else.]
(2) my favorite parts of having to Wade through each street, in order of favoritism:
A) leaving Kim at a juice stand at the start of a storm so she could stay dry. Returning five minutes later and finding her on an island, as the street around her had flooded. She looked bewildered and a bit frightened, like kids who are too young to understand Santa, but their parents take them to the mall to sit on his lap anyway, a big fat stranger dressed all in red with a massive beard. Stupifying and scary indeed.
B) the people who confusingly began setting up boards across the roads as it began to rain, then brilliantly began charging tolls as the water rose.
C) the carts. Same idea as B, but in your own little cart. Mainly used for busier roads which still required traffic to pass.
D) Kim reaching a curb, getting one problem free leg out of the water, then lifting her other foot towards safety and BAM losing her sandle, which then began floating away. This rceived a HUGe applaud of laughter from not only myself, but the grounp of men standing under the nearest awning waiting for the ran to die down.

Note on Rumba: as was explained to us, Rumba is a poor mans Salsa. Or I think it was Rumba, it's what we saw at the club in Cartagena. It's a bit like Forrest Gump doing Elvis, but faster and usually with two parties involved, though not always. I think it is pretty to watch, though there seems to be a dissenting opinion. I also think I could do it or somewhat dance it, which means the degree of difficulty, not to mention the necessity to be in unision with the music are essentially non-existent.

Finally, something worthwhile this baseball season...the Cartagena Tigres. And our favorite p0layer, Justin Segal (not pictured)

Sunset at LaCAsa deCerveza. Beer was served icey cold, with a slight hint of piss, but the view was incredible.

Mud, Beaches, and Bug Bites...oh my! (by Kim)

2010-12-07T16:46:00.000-08:00

Parque Nacional Tayrona

Oh, the funny things that happen in South America… We stayed in Santa Marta, a small coastal town that serves as a sort-of backpacker’s gateway to Tayrona, and were happy the hostel offered a bus service directly to the park for 10,000 pesos, about $5. After unpacking and repacking backpacks to accommodate the food we were bringing in, and loading Jason up with the heavy heavy pack once again, we were ready to go. Some talkative brothers from Chicago would be joining us on the bus. The “bus” pulled up to the hostel – but, Wait! – they forgot the bus, instead sending a dilapidated old taxi for us 5 passengers. We made the best of it, squishing me, Beth, Jason, and our new chattering companion Mohammed in the back seat. He filled our time with fascinating stories of staying in 4-star hotels in Colombia, food misadventures, and musings on his inability to take a year off of work to travel.

When we arrived at the Park we prepared for a muddy hike from the first beach and place to stay, to our camping destination of Arrecifes. Actually, I should say Beth and Jason prepared for that hike while I jumped on a horse and heartlessly left them to fend for themselves against the mud, the trek, and the two loquacious brothers. As my horse plodded along slowly, sometimes in mud up to its knobby horse knee, I contemplated Beth and Jason’s hike – and was glad not to be on it. The horse didn’t turn out to be much faster than those on foot, and we reunited at La Finca Paraíso – where we were greeted by the gorgeous site of the beach cove, hugged by the jungle and palm trees, the sea strewn with huge boulders – it was beautiful. Unfortunately, there would be no swimming the first day, as the currents at this beach were very strong, as were the many signs warning of the tourists that had drowned there. We wisely rented our hammocks for the night in the hut surrounded by mosquito netting, though I would not know just how wise that decision was for a couple of days.

Hammock-crazed dreams ensued for me the next three nights. Dreams of falling, of being lost, of other people falling~ The next day we hiked to the main camping destination for backpackers, San Juan del Guía. We started along the amazing beach cutting through inlets of warm Caribbean sea and up through the forest to avoid the huge coastal boarders that stood watch over the inaccessible portions of the beaches. About half way there the trail cut up through the forest again, and here was my first experience with mud hiking. Our sandals were quickly pulled off and carried as we settled our (I settled my) unsure steps into the squishy mud, sometimes barely hitting the tops of our toes, sometimes swallowing our feet whole. It was disgusting at first, but it shortly became just another part of the adventure and if you didn’t think about what else is mixed up in the muck, it can feel pretty good – well, interesting, at least.

We arrived at the campground a bit underwhelmed with the site, but grateful for the swimmable and gorgeous beaches. We rented our hammocks (this time there was no portion with mosquito netting) stored our stuff and headed to la playa. Due to the rainy season, the water was not the crystal-clear blue we had hoped for, but it was warm and refreshing, all at once. The day was hot and humid, the waters inviting, the sun shining – most of the time. The funny thing about the tropical climate is that you can be baking in the sun one minute, feel a couple unthreatening drops, and if you don’t book it out of there, you will get soaked in a minute as the sky opens up and pours down on you. It’s pretty cool actually. Then came the night… we played cards, I finally drank the national Colombian liquor of Aguardiente (anise-flavored) and had a great time. We drifted off to sleep to the sound of reggaeton and loud drunken campers, and I had my usual weird hammock dreams, waking up hearing the occasional buzzing in my ear, but too brain-dead to realize what that meant.

The next day was spent lazing on the beach, dipping in and out of the sea, and running from the thunderstorms when they appeared on the horizon. The lightning shows were amazing! Another amazing thing – but not in a good way – was what had happened to my face since the previous night. I felt some bites on my forehead on the beach, and didn’t think much of it. Then I accidentally spotted my face in a mirror by the bathroom. My forehead was beginning to resemble a slightly less-severe version of that kid from the movie Mask. Do you remember that one? With the kid with the fucked-up lumpy face? That was me. I had at least 50 bites on my forehead alone, which were teaming up in order to form a super-mass where a forehead had once been.

Jason and Beth told me it was not that bad – what sweet liars – while I worried if I would need to wear bangs forevermore if my forehead scarred. As we trekked back to our original campsite, through piles of mud that had grown deeper and mushier over the rainy night. I took on those mud piles like none other, leading the pack for the first time ever, being sufficiently distracted by the mess on my face to consider much the mess under my feet.

We arrived back at La Finca in record time, played cards, ate and talked, while Beth and Jason continuously reassured me that the bites would go away, and I tried not to look in any more mirrors. And I distracted myself by petting the sweet cat that lived there whom I had made friends with. And then it bit me. My worries about my forehead bites floated away, as I considered the new possibility of some kind of jungle-housecat fever….

Anyway, I am alive and well. The bites on my forehead were gone just in time for work, so whew. I do not appear to have rabies or any strange cat disease, and again, all these experiences just add to the adventure and uniqueness of the trip.

A HUGE THANKS to my wonderful sister and to Jason, who were the best hosts ever and really helped me to enjoy the entire experience, and ease me into the quick-paced travel I had set up for us. And thanks to them for livin’ large with me with private rooms, and another thanks to Jason for being my personal leftover-food-disposal system. I probably helped him gain a couple of those pounds he had lost along the way. It was such a wonderful, fun trip, especially because I had you two to share it with!!! I love you!

our feet, after hiking through the mud.

IIIIIIIIIIiiiii Like Botero Butts, I Cannot Lie. I Cant Deny...

2010-12-05T19:28:00.001-08:00

Medellin. Med-a-lynn Med-a-yeen. Med-a-jeen. Finally.

Eccentricities Include: most identifiable Colombian artist known for outlandish and dissproportionately sized bipods and four leg-ge-ders. Famous politicians doubling as drug dealers (Pablo Escobar). Difficult to pronounce name due to dialectecal differences within Colombia. A raging nightlife scene for backpackers, but a reputation for seediness for said late-nighters.

Things-that-are-surprising-but-not-particularly-noteworthy: Many of Colombias main food stuffs originate not in Bogota, but Medellin. Bendeja Paisa, as well as any other Paisa (name for those native to Medellin) meal--the predominate namesake of any food outside of that found on the street--purportedly bores resemblance to the food of medellin, thus making Medellin the culinary capital of Colombia...my favorite type. Unfortunately I didn't know this upon arrival and only glimpsed the best and most inspired food of Colombia. Meaning most of what i ate leaves much to be desired. The metro in medellin is not very large owing to the relatively small space the citys center incorporates. However, it was second only to Santiago, Chile in its cleanliness, ease of use and general enjoyment upon embarking/disembarking its rails. (2). And, lastly, weekends and holidays see the partial closure of one of the citys main arteries for the sole purpose of allowing bikers, walkers and, the un-oft seen, rollerbladers to have unfettered access to a car-free street. Medellin: an unheralded bastion of environmental progressivism. Bonus: Vacationers there include Californians, Euros and mid-west copilots with liberal leaning Spanish fluency.(3)

Geographical/Topographical/Climatical Info: the city feels small, is sandwiched between two mountain ranges (it's actually in a valley in the same mountain range, but for visual purposes...) on the northern-eastern-central highlands, thus higher than the coast, but lower than Bogota. It's known as having the hottest women, the mildest climate and a reputation that proceeds itself (none of which, and I say this in all honesty, we witnessed. Not exceptional women, rained a lot and What reputation? (4) This is why 1 and 1/2 days does not do a city justice.)

Things-to-do: botanical gardens. Botero park, stacked (sometimes quite literally depending on the statue) (5) full of botero sculptures, an exploritorium reportedly based partially on SF's (we skipped this), a cerro overlooking medellin with a recreated (read: fake, useless tourist trap, with nice views and crappy ice cream)) village at the top and a supposed excellent discoteca scene, which we missed because Beth and I for the first time since Rio were drunk enough to want to go out to da'club, but ended up flying a bit too high, and crashed before we could mobilize the troops. Probably a great more to-do's, but those were ours in this city of perpetual spring with a reputation of indulgences and pleasures which we recused ourselves from partaking in...

1) Botero is columbias version of Diego riviera, I believe, Beth disagrees, that he ripped off the guy. But, as the Neil diamond impersonator from my dads wedding said, it's not impersonation, but rather paying homage to...(fix that)And, admittedly, I enjoyed me some botero and HIS big ladies to Diego, Frida and theirs. So, if he improved, I guess I approve, maybe even to a level of guilty pleasure. Google Botero Horse, you won't be dissapointed.

(2) This isn't saying much because we've only encountered four metro-style train systems in South America, but take my word for it, their system is nice.

(3) Kim, beths sister, also puked on the bus from bogota. Her bag still smells and her vomittung had a stand by me impression, threatening a storm of regurgitation, stymied only by beths quick-thinking newspaper-on-the-floor action.

(4) Some American told us " everything you hear about medellin (dramatic pause), it's true.". We were too ashamed to admit we'd heard nothing, so we feigned excitement and changed the topic. Now, we still have no clue.

(5) People are pervs. Some of the sculptures, located in an outdoor park and accessible to all, had severely warn spots seemingly due to excessive touching by visitors. Unsurprisingly, all reachable (the statues are large) breast, penii (pluralized?) and toes were warn so thin that the colors had been transformed. I believe in the preservation of art, as such my solution to this problem is the installation of a warning sign informing all that the excessive rubbing of statues eventually causes blindness. And if that doesn't work, something condemning all that inappropriately touch statues to the 7th level of hell. Catholic countries have easy solutions.

So as not to disappoint, here are two Botero butts. The top clearly getting her freakshow on, while the bottom just simply has some Bunz, capital B.

Sister Act II by Kim Sadler

2010-12-05T19:13:00.000-08:00

Tolú –

The small Caribbean beach town of Tolú is a town based around tourism, but unlike many of the places we had already been, this town was popular with Colombian tourists. It was recommended by my coworker who is from Medellín. It was really my first experience with the ‘culture shock’ people kept asking me if I had experienced in the bigger cities (I had not – this could also be due to the experience and helpfulness of my two travel gurus, Beth and Jason). We stepped off our bus into the humidity and heat of the Caribbean, which I welcomed with open (and un-jacketed arms) and were quickly surrounded by fast talking, Caribbean-accented (harder to understand) bicitaxis wanting to take us wherever we wanted to go – but us not really knowing where our hostel (or where we were yet), it was a bit overwhelming. We decided to take the bici-taxis, loaded one up with a heavy load of backpacks and Jason (the least heavy of the load) and peddled off (well, they peddled).

It became obvious there was only one place in town gringoslike us stayed anyway, as we were called to throughout the trip “Villa Babilla” – our hostel complete with kitchen, and many outdoor areas, including a great rooftop deck, a serious dog named Scooby, and an adorable kitten, Pistachio.

We did our usual walking around everywhere in the town, which was filled with school children in uniforms (we peaked in at their outdoor classroom), barefoot people everywhere, mototaxis, collectives (small, local buses), restaurants, shops, and street peddlers. We walked along their boardwalk where I bought a pretty shell bracelet, and turned around at the hotel we had been told marked the spot where gringos should no longer go. OH, and we got some juice. I can’t remember the specific kind, but with that juice, my love affair with Colombian fruit juices had begun, and I became semi-obsessed. I mean, they are literally the best juices I have ever had in my life, with all kinds of new (and some familiar) fruits – zapote, lulo, maracuyá (ok, that’s passion fruit, but maracuyá sounds so much more exotic), guava, mango, and zapote, zapote, zapote ~ if you couldn’t tell, that one was my fave.

Though the beaches left something to be desired (no long stretches of white sand here, but there were small patches of dirt-colored sand~), the sunsets were beautiful and the Caribbean vibe relaxed.

We took a bus to "Ciénaga de la Caimanera” to enjoy a very relaxing canoe trip through a mangrove (mangroves are various kinds of trees up to medium height and shrubs that grow in saline coastal sediment habitats in the tropics and subtropics – mainly between latitudes 25° N and 25° S. – thanks Wikipedia. ) forest?, swamp? I am not quite sure what to call it, but it was very pretty and relaxing for everyone but the man rowing the boat. They took us through a little labyrinth path to a floating house of sorts where we took in the lovely view, bought an ice cream for a cute kid name Fry, and Jason and I sampled freshly-shucked oysters from the river. I was a bit nervous about accidentally ingesting river water, but luckily all was well. And the oysters were quite delicious with a nice, non-spicy cocktail type sauce-

Also of note, it seems as a main tourist attraction they are holding some cute sloths hostage in the main plaza banyan tree. You can spot them if you look up into the tree cluelessly for many minutes, then the locals figure out what you are doing and point them out to you. The reason I believe they are being held hostage is because Beth and I witnessed one poor guy’s failed attempt at escape, as he clung to a telephone wire for his poor little life, while being yanked and eventually dropped from a bit of a distance onto the floor (Sloths have no strong legs to land on – poor guy) – then was carried by the neck (cat-style) back to his tree of imprisonment. On the other hand, it was super cool to see a sloth up close like that!

Another note: the mannequins in Colombia all have large breasts... and I just really love this picture (as did the store security guard, who laughed at us)

Tip Your Glass

2010-11-27T18:49:00.000-08:00

Raise a toast. To all those reading this tonight have one drink to South America. After over ten months we are officially in our last few weeks and tonight is our last night in Soith America. We are jumping on a flight first thing tomorrow morning for the central American city of Panama. Cheers to SA, it's done us a solid...

Godfather-in-Law...

2010-11-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

...A Love Story, not to mention our second guest post from none other then Sister Vickers, eh Caltigirone. Without further ado:

  Italy is sort-of a ridiculous country. It’s a great place – don’t get me wrong – but there are so many things about it that feel like a scene from a movie or a cartoon. People regularly speak with so much passion and animation that even a discussion of the weather appears as a heated argument to an untrained ear. Women really do lean out of high windows as they clip their laundry to the line and call to their friends in the street below. Often I see men walking with their arms draped around each other’s shoulders in a display of friendship. Basically, everything that Hollywood has ever taught you about the country that’s shaped like a boot is absolutely true. Sometimes it seems that all that’s missing is a soundtrack, but often enough there’s a fellow with an accordion playing it in the street.

  I moved to Italy this past July, but it wasn’t until the end of August that I realized I had moved here. At first I thought I was just passing through. My boyfriend and I had been living in Denmark for almost a year at that point, and we decided that we didn’t want to repeat the previous winter (record-low temperatures and difficulty finding work). Luca, my sweetheart, is Italian, and he suggested we save up some money so we could get out of Scandinavia and head to his homeland in time to join his family on their seaside vacation; then we could just continue traveling south, aiming for warm weather and cheap travel. It didn’t take much to convince me. Within a few weeks we had gotten rid of everything except what fit in our backpacks and we pointed our thumbs south.

  What a world of difference from where I had been living before! Fresh, amazing fruits and veggies; kind, warm people with big laughs; cheek kisses for hellos; warm weather that lasted well into the night; a sea that I could actually swim in. There were considerably fewer people speaking English in Italy than what I had encountered in northern Europe, so socializing mostly consisted of lots of smiling and saying ‘ciao’ and ‘grazie’ and sometimes drawing things. Still, the family embraced me, the food enticed me, and the weather enchanted me, and pretty soon Luca and I were talking about setting up camp in Italy for a while so he could finish his university degree. I was happy with the plan except for one nagging problem: I had already overstayed my European visa so living in Italy meant living as an illegal immigrant in a country where the political climate of the past ten years is particularly unfavorable toward foreigners. How will I find work? Our savings won’t last long in a European city. What will happen if the government notices my presence?

  [Insert Marlin Brando voice here:] “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.” It was apparent that Italy had it in its power to either embrace me as one of “the family” or else make my life very difficult. I had a choice:

  On the one hand I had the option to live as illegally in Italy. I could struggle to make money despite my professional degree. I could live in fear of governmental authorities. I could have minimal access to medical care despite the program of socialized medicine that the citizens enjoy. And I could be deported or jailed at any moment for no reason other than the wrong person taking note of my existence. That’s a lot of inconvenience to deal with just for some fresh fruit and warm weather, but of course there was more than these temptations compelling me to stay in Italy. There was also love.

  That brings me to the other hand: on the other hand I wore an engagement ring given to me by a sweet, handsome, shy, smart, good-hearted Sicilian boy. I’d already spent a few weeks with his huge family and they loved me. I’d already spent a few months with this boy and we loved each other. So all we had to do was sign some papers and have a big party and all of my troubles would disappear. I could stay in Italy or any other part of Europe for as long as I desired and I could have Italian citizenship in just a year and a half. I could work and earn money as a professional which would be a relief from the tight-budgeted lifestyle we’d been leading. I could have access to healthcare that even my own country didn’t offer me. And I could have a big party.

  Let’s just say that I didn’t need a horse’s head on my pillow to convince me.

  So I’m now a married woman. I’m Signora Caltagirone (though I haven’t legally changed my name). I’m living in Pisa with my husband (ooh, it still feels strange to say that!) where he’s attending the university and I’m circulating my resume among English-language schools and international schools. I’m planning the menu for my first Thanksgiving as a wife and I’ve accepted that it will probably include some sort of pasta. There are moments when marriage feels entirely different than the life I led just weeks before, but in other moments it feels very much the same. Really, very little has changed: I now have a sparkly ring on my finger, a lot of photos from a lovely party, and Italy’s enthusiastic blessing upon my existence.

  I still shake my head when I walk down the street and pass a row of Vespas parked in front of the gelato shop, or when I hear a pizza chef signing as he tosses dough, or when I glance up at the world’s most famous architectural debacle swarming with tourists wanting to be photographed “holding it up”; I still laugh at true-to-life stereotypes of this land but when the laughter finishes a loving smile remains. There’s a reason Italy shows up in movies and TV shows so often: the daily life of this place is wonderfully entertaining! And as ridiculous as this country is, it’s the place I’ve chosen to call home.

Italians´ Make Good Food, Better Weddings

2010-11-11T13:29:00.000-08:00

Jet setting to Italy for a week has its consequences, primarily the unfortunate byproduct called jet-lag. (1) Combined with a wedding, lots of out-of-town visitors and a side-trip, i had little time to do on-the-second updates. Apologies, but alas, this chronological annotated timeline will have to suffice (with accompanying photo journey).

(1) I'm not sure I really believe in this myth of jet-lag. Proper planning, meaning more or less plane sleep, based upon an analysis of difference in time, arrival time and activities upon arrival should negate any real effects...oh, and lots of coffee, if necessary. This is to say, I'm using jet-lag as an excuse. Live with it. At least you get photos.

Nov. 1, Mon:
Exit Bogota. Enter world of pre-packaged food, free Coke, plugged ears, and bad in-flight movies starring Nic Cage.

Nov. 2, Tues:
2+ hours sleep, 3 hours in Madrid, arrive Milano 5 hours late. Jesus Cristo, this is what the first world looks like. Clean. Meet Hi-Mae (my sis) and Assunts (ex-step-mom) at train station. Sister loves, LOVES my Aaron Burr chops. To Casanate con Bernate. Food from Angela sparks something deep and sweet inside me. First good cheese since Argentina. Sharp provolone, peppered goat chhese, Swiss and fontina. Whooof.

Nov 3., Wed:
Meet my Italian Aunt Lucy for first time IN Italy. She's happy, I'm happy. We eat speck, salami and padona. More happiness.

Nov. 4, Thurs:
Get tour of Gussola, my cousin Simonas bakery/store, eat prosciutto de Parma. Aunt Lucy and Silvano are crazy, they want to spend three extra hours with ME, so they drive me to Lucas family's home.

Nov. 5, Friday:
Wedding one day away. I'm called to duty in unlikely ways. Apparently my inner seamster (seamstress, in masculinity) shone thru. Jaime's dress maker asked me to sew some fluff. Success. Dinner at a pizzeria. Gorged. Happy belly, happy Jason.

Nov 6., Sat:
Wedding. Gorgeous. Jaime looked Beau-Ti-ful, like Audrey Hepbburn classic, if classic was spelled cissal (it's backwards). Made jokes about the mayor, who was marrying Luca and Jaime, being the head of the locale fascist club. Good times. Went to dinner. 10 course meal, approximately. Wine, all-you-can-drink (note: this is basically status quo for every meal in Italy). Then to Bardello. More food, more wine, more dancing, more ceremony (this being the circle ceremony: hippie-dippie, vow-filled happiness). And most importantly a happy Jaime and Luca, like palpable happy--the best kind.

Nov. 7, Sun:
No church. Just a mild hangover. Lunch. Tortelli stuffed with prawns, zuchini and something else tasty. Tiramisu. Sister and me grocery store time. Gelatto. Contented.

Nov. 8, Mon:
7am flight. No sleep. 3am wake-up. 2am lasagna de Gina, because I could (Gina is Lucas Nona, there was leftover lasagna from dinner on the counter. Everyone was sleeping. I ate, guiltily, sneakily, stuffing my face an hour before waking my sister to drive me to the airport. No regrets.). One hour drive tirns into 2.15. Airport one hour before departure. Tutti Bene. Ate my way through Italy, a wedding and two families homes. Success.

There were two ceremonies. The first in city hall with the mayor (decked out in an Italian flag sash and all) and one with just family and friends at Luca´s parents restaurant. This was taken in the beautiful park outside of city hall. The first picture of the newlyweds on a benc.

There were also two feast. The first took place at a family friends restaurant, the second at Luca´s parents restaurant, which also entailed dancing, singing, toasting, speeching, more eating, caking and an abundance of other fun activities.

Not all wedding all the time, I had the pleasure of visiting my Italian Aunt (half sister of my mother) in Gussola, about an hour outside of Milan. This is Lucy, her husband Silvano and myself. I stayed out there just one short night, and I´ve promised to return for no less than fifteen days--Lucy would accept nothing less. Her hospitality, as with Lucas´ parents was astounding.

Lucas´parents live in Casnate con Bernate, just a few minutes outside of Como, Italy. We took a couple of field trips into the city. This shop left my mouth watering. I think I weirded out the owners by standing and oogling for five minutes, my strangeness climaxing by taking a picture of their ravioli spread through the window.

The elderly in Como love their bicycles. Every which way you turned they´d be pedaling around town.

An evening view of Como from the Bardello, Lucas´ parents restaurant.

Lake Como as seen through this happy couples eyes. The Italians I came across were incredibly nice. I was trying to take this picture across the street and someone stopped their car in the middle of the street, gesturing or me to take the picture as others were honking their horn at him to move on.

What appears to be the remmanants of some ancient stronghold/castle/prison in the middle of Como. I didn´t go very many places in Italy, but the ones I did visit seem to be these strange juxtapositios of modernity and antiquity. Not something we see much in California.

A mildly extravagant house overlooking the shores of Lake Como.

The happy couples´first post-matrimony walk in the park adjacent to city hall.

A lipstick malfunction averted. As I was taking this Jaime asked if I was photoing for the blog. Apparently I was.

The Cataligirone clan (I probably misspelled that). Salvator (or Boss), Jaime, Luca, Angela and Mirko.

The women Cataligirone.

You are not allowed to take photos in supermarkets in Italy either. so, Jaime slyly snapped a photo with me and a giant Mortadella. The selection of cheese and cured meats would make any vegan disgusted, but for me it was like a whole new wonderful world.

Uncle John heckling me, or perhaps it was the other way around...

I only got one pizza when I was there, which was a shame. A sea of mushrooms, sausage, cheese and onions.
Either an Italian or Danish tradition, or perhaps both, with the first visit to the bathroom of the bride/groom the opposite sex jumps up and forms a line to kiss the bride/groom before the other returns from the bathroom.

Cutting the cake. I think Jaime made Luca eat his piece of fruit tart, though technically not raw.

Family de Jaime.

And lastly, the night before the wedding a true Italian heart with tomato sauce, crust and all.

Zona Cafeteria

2010-11-10T11:30:00.001-08:00

The view from our cozy, country hostel.

Here is the shortened, abbreviated, devoid of facts history of coffee. The stories generally involve either a boy in Ethiopia sometime in the pre-1000's finding a herd of goats full of more vigor than normal, putting two and two together (plant + goat = BAM = coffee) and voila, we have a future 21st century success story. Or, the other story goes that instead of a boy, it was a man. But anytime you take the discovery of something so general, you tend to get the Hiriam Bingham Boy syndrome. Coffee was probably discovered before (or after) one of these events and by a multitude of people independently, but alas, we like a good (or at least personal) story, which is probably why the boy story tends to precede the story of the man and why Wikipedia says that the stories don't appear in writing until sometime in the 16th century, giving more credence to the view they are simply a stories.
What does seem to have some truth or at least general acceptance--which passes for truth more often than not--is that the origins of the coffee plant are in the vicinity of present-day Ethiopia. You might even be able to extend that grossly large zone to the horn of Africa (making it grossly larger and more inaccurate, though the inaccuracies of just Ethiopia as the primer growth zone might be inaccurate in of itself), but since this is really devoid of facts anyways, that would probably be just fine. More importantly than the above is that coffee does seem to have first been roasted, then mixed with water and drank somewhere in Arabia and the first coffee shops probably somewhere in Turkey (Starbucks thanks you, I do too, but Seattle, you're--as a friend of mine might say--on my shit-on-your-counter-list). Globalization, trade, colonization and deliciousness eventually spread this dark little bean across the world entering into the beloved Colombian (read: South American agrarian) culture somewhere in the 1700's.

Celebrating Spencie´s birthday with a ¨Feliz Cumpleaños¨-marked Aguila. (Though I do not recommend this beer. Colombia´s other two beers and the ever-popular, easily available Budweiser, are much more tasty.

Which brings us to our current situation, Colombian coffee in the Zona Cafeteria. Colombian coffee has done marketing wonders. The man, the donkey, the legend: Juan Valdez has to be one of the most recognizable symbols of the coffee bean in the world. He brought a pre-Starbuckian world into its coffee-own, paving the way for the future uber.com/consumption of the late 90's and continuing through the 2000's. Which makes it no surprise that a) we decided to visit the coffee region of a country famous for it's coffee (the second most famous exported crop-derivative in Colombia, in fact) and b) that we toured a coffee plantation. (1)

(1) c would be that we also went to a small, organic family farm instead of a large, industrial chemicalized farm, but it didnt really fit into the context of my a, b, c's.

The following is what we saw, slurped and sort-of understood from our guia de cafe.

This is a banana tree. Apparently banana trees are (at least for an organic farm) immeasurably helpful for a coffee farm. They provided shade from the sun, food for the farmers and help to replish the soil of some of its nutrients. Our guide informed us most coffee farms utilize banana trees. He listed off a few alternatives, but none contained all three of the benefits which banana trees supply.

Free coffee at the end of our tour of Don Elias. They were incredible cups of joe, fresh, straight out of the roaster, and completely organic. Our only complaint, they were drip-coffee strong in an espresso-sized body. We could have used a tad more coffee considering they had plenty at their beckon.

Our guide grinding our just-off-the-oven coffee beans. This farm is part of a collective, which means they don´t have their own industrial-sized drying, roasting or grinding facilities. They simply sell their first crop of the year to the collective (they harvest twice a year) and keep the second harvesting for themselves to drink (our guide says he has 6-7 cups a day) and sell to tourist at completely bloated rates (us, for example). They sell the coffee beans to the collective shucked from their shells, but still wet.

Since they aren´t distributing massive amounts of roasted coffee, they simply roast the beans ov´r an open fire, in a pot. Our guide said they simply layer the bottom of the pot, put a cover on it and roast them for an hour. Listo, ready to grind and swill away.

This is their grinder. Not exactly Starbucks-like, but efficiently hand cranked and owning to an exponentially more tasty coffee.
This is their drying tent. The beans on the ground are almost dry. The guide said if it is warm that it only takes about a few days to dry the beans, but if it is damp and cold (which if our visit is any indicator, is about 85% of the time) it could take upwards of eight days. Not exactly the Juan Valdez method of coffee production, but a nice family farm with great organic coffee.
Beans. Dried, but not roasted.
I believe the english name for this is hopper. It takes the unshucked coffee beans, then shucks them. The beans then have to sit in water for no more than 24 hours, for reasons which were un-understandeable to me.

Part of the Beth Takes Pictures of All South American Dogs That Are Cute Series. I think this is number 342, a conservative guess.
Who knew, apparently coffee plants have flowers too. It´s the romantic coming out in the coffee plant.
Unripened coffee beans on the plant. When they are ripe they turn bright orange and red, at which point they are harvested.

Quick rundown of plants. This farm utilizes two types of plants: the Arabic strain and the Colombian strain (which must be some derivative of the Arabic strain since that is where the plant originated, but I digress). Our guide said the Arabic strain produces for 20 years while the Colombian strain produces for only 10 years. However, all-else-being-equal the Colombian plant is supposedly much more resistent to plagues, disesase, etc. Thus the diversifying of the plants within the farm. Once those times are reached, the farm can cut the plants off (like pruning roses) and grow them anew for another 10 years and 7 years, respectively. At the ending of these periods, the plants go through menopause and are no longer...fertile.

More beans.
And, lastly, me, walking through the coffee farm. Because what good post wouldn´t have a picture of me with a dumb face on...

Meta-Vacation

2010-10-31T21:56:00.000-07:00

Anyone looking for a home? I found this on the Internets under ¨homes for sale on Lake Como¨. I can do a little scouting if you´re interested.

To Our Readers:

The rumors are true, I'm ditching Beth in a third world country made famous for its cocaine, coffee and kidnapping. (1). It's not to be helped. My sister, the known contrarian, has decided to take herself off the market as she found a man willing to put a ring on it. As a dutiful brother, an underemployed and poor one at that, I'm jumping on the first plane out to witness this historic and unexpected event. I'll be photographing and blogging my way through matrimony, at your (whoever still reads this blog) expense.

The vows will be taken in Como, Italy, where I'll be hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, not to mention bringing down the collect class level of the place. My vacation within a vacation will be one whole week-long and, forewarning you all, no one should expect a Euro souvenir, because I don't believe in supporting bad exchange rates. I'm sorry, in advance.

From my last night in Bogota, until next Monday,

Jason "I'm going to eat so much pizza and gelatto in one week that I won't fit back into that cute little tanktop of mine" Vickers

(1) coffee, an oh-so-amazing drug. We visited the coffee region after Cali, then moved on to Bogota, the capital of Colombia. I tell you this because we are, for now, skipping the Salento Zona Cafeteria post. It will be up in due time. The significance of this for you is that this post brings us up to our current place of residence. We are now on current JBT, or Jason and Beth Time, which hasn't been true for five months. To prove this: Last night we watched the Rangers come back from a Madison Burgenmayer first half gem and win game 4, tying the series. Good times. I'm patting myself on the back, I'm patting the Rangers on the back and I'll be patting any new commenters on the back. Cheers, to currency. [Note: Sometimes the truth just hurts too much]

...Back to Cali, Cali (Colombia)

2010-10-29T23:07:00.000-07:00

Because, at some point, people just don´t want to read...(1)

You´d think we could have given you a better lead picture of Cali, but in all honesty, it´s just not that pretty of a city. It´s known for it´s night life, Salsa to be exact, which we were too lazy to take in (or perhaps too intimidated, as many clubs had big signs with handguns encircled by a red X).

We were in Cali for one week and this is the one and only tourist excursion we took. Unfortunately they had no gorillas, no panda/polar bears, no crooked-necked giraffs and no sloths, my favorite exhibits at the zoo. I did have Beth though, which made it the most entertaining trip to the zoo I´ve been since my first time.

This picture doesn´t do this tiger justice. That paw is legitimately at least 1.5x larger than Beth´s head. No wonder children gawk when they get to this exhibit.

Da´ Steets, of Cali. And some old man in a plastic chair scratching himself. That about sums the streets up perfectly.

Takin´it to the steets...uh, lily pads. Beth took our trip to the zoo by storm, dancing, singing and trying to SAVE THE ANIIIIIMALLLLS.

Us leaving Cali after one week of relaxing. This is going to sound absurd, but the truth is, after traveling for almost 9 months now, we just needed a place to sit and relax. We made dinner everynight, watched movies, had a few glasses of wine and even caught a couple of baseball games on television. Sometimes a city may have a lot to offer and you just don´t really care, because you want to do absolutely nothing. I´m sure when we are back in our Cali that we´ll be waxing philosophical about how much we wish we were back traveling through South America, but alas, this was Cali (Colombia) for us, just like Sundays at home.

I´ve never been to a petting zoo with Beth, but I´d like to. I´m taking bets now on things she would get arrested for.

Disclaimer: Beth made me take this picture. I´m not, I repeat NOT, wondering where the titties are...

Question of the week: If you were a dead pig on display in a grocery store, what halloween costume would you choose? A pirate is definitely in my top 5. Jesus (Jewish), Hurley, A scandalous hospice worker and Tony Danza (in The Garbage Picking Field Goal Kicking Philadelphia Pehnomenon) would round out my top 5.

Beth also made me take this picture, which, as I´m looking back through our pictures from our Cali days, makes me wonder if I´m genetically closer to monkeys than I realized. ¨Jason, put a plastic bag hat on your head.¨ ¨Ok.¨ ¨Jason, stand next to this monkey mirror and act REALLY surprised.¨ ¨Ok.¨ ¨Jason, pose with a tittie sign.¨ ¨Ok.¨

And the dignity goes on, and on, and on... Me, as a flamingo.

All I need is a cubicle, a banana and someone telling me to hit the keyboard and I´ll feel right at home.

Colombia has officially entered the pantheon of ¨greatest countries in South America¨. No, they don´t have poker rooms in their grocery stores (though that is a brilliant idea as well), but they do have Costco-style tastings which happen to include free beer...but no cocaine. (Note: Much to my dissapointment Colombian beer is, even free, subpar. We are in Bogota now and have ran across at least two brewpubs though, so I´m holding out on a final verdict.)

(1) I´ve been contacted by the ADA, because apparently one of my old coworkers--and I won´t mention names (Caleb)--reported that this blog is not friendly to reading-troubled people. And thus this post was derived.

Otavalo: Mega Market Mania

2010-10-27T18:58:00.001-07:00

A overview of the enormity that is Otavalo´s market.

Shopping. To say I loath this word would be a lie, but disdain could work. It started at around the age of 8 when my mother would drag me around shopping with her on some sort of deranged play-date. As soon as she would release my little, innocent hand to peruse some dress rack, I would sneakily meander off designing a unilateral game of hide-and-go seek in which I would hide in the center of a clothes rack, while my mom frantically searched for me. My tiny little revenge for being enslaved in Nordstroms for two hours. As I got older I began to negotiate terms of shopping. At 10 I'd go with her if I could get the new Reebok pumps (all black with orange pumps of basketball-likeness). By 12 it was (to my eternal shame) t-shirts from the now all-but-defunct Millers Outpost. Never in my life do I remember enjoying shopping for the sake of shopping. Simply put, shopping brings out the worst in me, or at least the most capitalistic. (1)

Happy New Sweater Day, Jason. You deserve it. (Beth didn´t pay for this to get me to go shopping with her, though I should have tried to get something out of the deal)

Breaktime from shopping. Touchin´ it up at a cafe above the market.

This is why I was leery of South America's largest outdoor market, Bazaar really, Otavalo. The sole reason this city exist in any tourist guide is because of its famous market. A sleepy town on the weekdays, people begin showing up on Thursday, to assure themselves a place to stay for Saturdays market. The city's unimpressive main square is the purported center of this grandiose market, it's sadly diminutive. This only added to my anxiety as we showed up three days before the Saturday extravaganza.

Then I remembered my earliest childhood memory of shopping. A Mexico cruise at around the age of 6. It was a long time ago, but it was a time I enjoyed and perhaps the only time I truly enjoyed shopping. How was this possible I asked myself. And then I had an ephiphany, Spanish speakers. Latinos know how to handle a market. No roofs, no indoor mall, no rhyme nor reason to where specific items are located and most importantly no preordained prices. Nothing is set in stone, no item too good to discuss the end price. It's capitalism in it's freest "market" form. It's incredible, it's entertaining and everyone leaves a little mad after it's all said and done, but with the most efficient price. (2)

Admittedly, at worst it's a tad evil. Manipulative, at best. Us dependent upon our bank accounts, our propensity towards savings, but mainly our plain old simple chance (read: luck) of being born US citizens with options. They, dependent upon us and all that entails. Our worst case: no souvenir for little George. Their worst case: No food for Jorge. So, our bargaining chips are bigger and our consciousness a little heavier, but at the end of the day everyone leaves the market a little better off. And honestly, the bargaining, the challenge, the thrill, it's not always one-sided. It was reciprocated more than once, and that's when we all walked away happy. (3)

I live in a pink house, in a pink world, in a pink chair, in a pink shmok...la dida da di da
(Another break from shopping. Impulsively decided it was time to get a haircut.)

What you can´t see: My skinny jeans (80´s version), Ramones´ t-shirt and Breakfast Club DVD.

Note on Footnotes: Don´t be confused, read footnote (4).

(1) The grocery store was the only acceptable excursion. And let's be honest, that was not without reward, especially for a kid that always loved his food.

(2) this is not to say fairest price. It must be said that a couple of parsimonious travelers like ourselves have these people at a disadvantage, on the proverbial rope, if you will. We set a price, usually ridiculously low-balling what we know the going price to be. We then look at the item for an awkwardly long period of time, not strategically, but because we are both incoherently indecisive. At which time the salesperson usually takes this as a bargaining tactic and lowers the price at least twice and within an earhole of our asking price. Eventually, because we've went from frugal to stingy, we decide against the kitschy object. Invariably, because these people are-- more so than us and relatively speaking--desperate for the sale, as we are walking off they yell at us: "Ok, [fill in the price.]". It's guaranteed to work. It's unintentional, or has been in the past. Now we know and that, in this case, is well over 50% of the battle. This led to our undeniable success in Otavalo. I even began grading our transactions based upon the face of the retailer. The more enraged and the more relegated to their fate shown by a look of angry acceptance on their face, the better our negotiation, the better our deal and our budget. (4)

(3) We really did nothing of note outside of the market. However, I didn't mention the animal market above. It's a more local affair, seeing as the goods being bargained for are live farm animals. Every saturday in an open field just outside of town the surrounding herdspeople gather together (with a tourist or two interspersed) and post-up anything from their guinea pigs to their freshly delievered calves, with mothers tests and all. It's an amalgam of farm animals, people, smells, and Wall Street-like chatter between them all, including the death-cries of pigs on the block. Unique and worthwhile in its own right, even if you aren't looking to score a pot-belly, you at least leave with a cultural experience of which you are unlikely to find in the States outside of perhaps, Montana. (5)

Stayed: A Residencial for $3/person just down the hill from the central market. About two blocks, make a left, it's on the right. Bare bones, private room w/ tv and hot water in shared bathrooms. (6)

(4) Can you footnote a footnote? Whatever the case, that's what I (Beth) am doing. Unlike Bargain-for-Starvation Jason, I don't like to believe I was taking away little Jorge's food by bargaining for prices. I think it's part of the game, and I sincerely hope no children, animals, or vendors were injured during our excursion for sounvenirs.

(5) Despite my pleading, Jason declined using his self-rated 10 bargaining skills to buy-and-release any of the adorable baby animals at the market.

(6) Translation: This place was a shithole. We slept on top of a sheet we brought, carefully laid out on top of those provided by the residencial so that we wouldn't leave with any weird diseases. Our love for you may not be worth a sounvenirs more than a few US dollars (Ecuador's currency as well, in case you were interested to know http://www.mindspring.com/~tbgray/dollar.htm) but it does mean we would sleep in a craphole to fund your llama magnets and Che pencil toppers.

And now, a photo tour of Beth´s favorite part of the Saturday market, the animales:

Guinea Pigs are for eating.

Chickens are for eggs.
Baby Cow is for veal.

Not just kitschy souvenirs were for sale. Children, animals and fruit could be bought too.

Obstinate baby cows make bad veal.

Beth says ¨Bah¨to veal...and lamb.

Veg.

Enormous pig.
Animales. Muchos. Para Vende. A picture looking down on the cow-section of the animal market.

Not-so-enourmous pigs...piglets.

Beth says ¨Bah¨to veal...and lamb.

But not to piglets. Beth eating those cute little animals, if the cute little piglets were made of soy and called soyricharones.

Baños, enough said.

2010-10-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

River rafting in Baños, no pun intended.

Let me just say that my plna here is to shy away from my emotionally and comedically stunted tendencies and leave the fodder of a town with a name like Baños alone. (1) However, I must say that a certain irony must be mentioned here. I´ve heard tell of certain people (I´ll leave them unnamed) berating my stomach, as well as my ¨lack of sack¨, due to my being ¨put to the toiled¨(my saying, clearly the blog is going to the proverbial John Crapper as I´m beginning to quote myself) by the Cuy. In my own defense I proceeded to spend the next 2 weeks not far from a toilet. Torturous bus rides, sleepless nights, dreams of diarrhea in perpetuity and a general malais e over my entire being. Now I know it wasn´t to last. The cure, an arrival to Baños. (2)

With that settled, we can move on to things of a more grand and mature nature. Baños sits under Vulcan Tungurahua, one of the more active Volcanoes in South America, which is why you are unable, or rather disallowed, from hiking to its peak.(3) This is intriguing to me and is one of many factors helping to breed my thoroughly immoral, not to mention morbid, solipiist, self-obssesed and moronic desire to witness an active volcano. Let me explain myself. You see, I don´t want a full-on explosion, nor destruction of humanity, culture, private property (God Bless the USA) or living souls. No, I simply want to see some magma in a crater inside a volcano, with perhaps a few bits of ash (not enough to close an airport or shut down all of Western Europe, mind you); Just enough ash to captivate, to be awed by nature, to feel the vivacity of the Earth...a smidgeon of volcanic activity, to be precise. And I know this to be possible because others of a more fortuitous ilk have told us tales of such adventure. Alas, it was not to be in the cards for this band of lovers (gimme a break, it´s a play on words). The volcano in Baños sat dormant for our week stay, silent, looming, but mostly just taunting my dreams of volcanic glory. It was doomed from the get go: A) No hiking to the summit and B) before the volcano could provide its show of natural force, the Ecaudorian military decided to provide its own eruptive disturbance.

I won´t go into much detail, just to say that Beth and I rushed to an Internet cafe after reading on the news that the Ecuadorian president, Raphael Correia, had been taken captive by the military. As we raced through the normally active town, an ominous silence sat over every corner, with each and every citizen gathering round their televisions watching the drama unfold, the bullets, tear gas and any other object-that-could-be-of-mild-to-severe-danger-if-used-as-a-projectile hurled through the air with abandon. We thought we were about to become entrenched in the 1980´s all over again with military coups dominating Latin America. Unbeknownest to us at this point, it was simply a protest (albeit a work stoppage segued into protest by police and military personnel--Ecuador, not exactly the bastion of stability it´s been made out to be over the last 10 years) gone awry, which [speculatively] the President is harnessing to cement a more authoratarian role for himself--something he appears fo have begun over the last few years and well before this ¨coup d´etat¨ (his words, not mine). All this is to say we were nervous and thus decided to abide the State Department and hole up in Baños for a week.

Our self-imposed city arrest forced us into action. After two days of perpetual crime shows, including CSI: Everycity, we decided it was time to leave the confines of our cel...room for something other than food and a walk. No volcano, no problem. After getting cat-called--really there is no more appropriate phrase for what tour operators do to gringos, male or female, in SA--by every agent in Banos, we finally sucked it up and fell for the used-bicycle salesman routine. $5 each, all day use of bikes, and the idylic destination of no less than five cliffside waterfalls. We biked, we viewed, I sweated, and we conquered the easily conquerable. Willow could have done this ride on a unicycle, but we managed to stretch a solid day out of it. We almost did a 1km zip line, except the line was saggy and rusted, ran by a roadside family and looked like you had to go down using an old bent hanger. Not confidence inspiring. We enjoyed watching the "bungee jumpers", though bungee swing might be more accurate. $15 for two people is a steal, but both of us were luke-warm about doing it, so, we watched. We rode some more, we saw a few more waterfalls and ate some PBJ's. Good day.

This waterfall falls onto the road. A gorgeous bike ride indeed.

Waterfalls...Helmets...Tiempo Libre

The highlight of Banos, for us, was not the internal strife of a nation, but water rafting. (4). Beth has braved Class I rapids and I haven't been since I was 9. But the prospect of, supposedly, Class IV rapids (out of VI) was too much to pass up--not to mention a price tag of $22.50 each. Who knew Banos would be bargain basement. (5)

So, we embarked upon 2 1/2 hours of rapids, Class III & IV, with a few breaks in between--once to see a recently created waterfall (due to a rockslide) and another venture up a tributary in which we jumped off rocks into the river and the guide gave us a pseudo-drown session in which he dunked our heads under a waterfall then proceeded to have us float downstream, emulating what we would experience if thrown from the raft. Conveniently this occurred after our first level IV rapids, but presumably less dangerous than the forthcoming ones.

The most ecstatic person at the finish line: The Guide.

This proved true, at least to my limited--although to be fair when you almost get thrown out of a boat that is emerged in water and just barreled over a rock four times as large as said boat the perceived danger seems obviously self-apparent--knowledge of river rafting. Beth later said that my entire upper body was out of the boat and in the river and since our boat was completely immersed from the water (fall) flowing over the rock, that seems plausible. The one thing keeping me in the boat was my near ball'n'chain death grip to the foot rope. (6). The girl next to the Beth later said she too almost went swimming, which Beth doesn't remember as she was overwhelmed with worry due to my limited swimming ability. (7) Thirty minutes and a few more, though less harrowing, rapids later we were finished, to our utter dismay. (8).

River rafting is amazing. Coups, even falsely named coups, are not. Bikes are cool. Crime shows are not (except Law and Order: SVU, starring Ice Cube as detective Tutuola). And Banos was a fantastic place to bide our time before moving on through Ecuador.

(1) If you don´t know what baño means, clearly you´re UnAmerican.
(2) Double irony, in fact. My irony being I spent little time in the bathroom in Baños. The double irony of it all being that we happened to be in Baños as Ecuador went to shit, but that´s getting ahead of the narrative.
(3) Purportedly the biggest Volcano in Ecuador, it goes by such sobriquets as: ¨The Throat of Fire¨ and ¨The Black Giant¨.
(4) the name of the town itself is actually representative of the baths which adorn the city. Being located under an active volcano creates thermal springs and an easily harnessed hot water source. So, the town built a truckload of pools (concrete, like ours) then filled them with heinously discolored thermal water, from the enticing poop brown (makes Banos a double entendre in my book) to the more mysterious lime yellow--a color that is quite indescribable. Needless to say, We went swimming in the river while rafting, but not into the overly crowded, and quite aptly named, pool bathrooms.
(5) Our hostel, a private with an ensuite bathroom and cable television, was only $4 each a night. And there was a kitchen.
(6) to keep begineer, and probably expert as well, rafters in the boat there are ropes going across the bottom of the boat where your feet are located. You hook your feet between the boat and this rope, so when you hit a rapid, a rock or any other form of jolting your feet keep you anchored to the boat and thus in the boat. I had my feet in up to my ankles and the bruises to prove it, the next day.
(7) I beat Beth in freestyle a month prior, to her great dismay.
(8) both Beth and an Aussie girl were cajoled into riding on the front of the boat. Picture those mechanical bulls in Mexico, but on the front of a plastic boat and with class III rapids waiting to welcome you to their fold. I'd like to say Beth was screaming maniacally, waving her hand in the air like a cowgirl and wearing a wide-brim 10 gallon hat, but it's be only partially true. After the rapids I did push her off the boat, at the direction of Jorge, our guide. (9)
(9) Jorge the previous week took the founder of facebook on the same trip and had the Ecuadorian newspaper clipping to prove it. Jorge was a riot.

And now, a photo montage of Baños:

Nice Chucks.

Bored in Baños. Found this t-top in my bag and let Beth talk me into trying it on...and making that face...and doing that pose...and posting in a publicly accessible website. At least I´m not grabbing the breast of a cardboard cutout of the Secretary of State.

Tunnel Vision.

Slowly turning into, I´m not sure what, but clearly I´m not proud of it.

Somos Amigos de Bebe Beluga

2010-10-19T22:18:00.000-07:00

Nothing beats Do-Ri-Tos...and whales

Like the wisdom imparted upon us by our dear childhood friends Sebastian and Nemo, there is little that trumps the magic and mystery of what takes place under the sea. (1) Even a glimpse into the majestic lives of our underwater companions can cause one to gasp and marvel. And in Puerto Lopez, gasp and marvel we did.

The town itself is a beachside dirt- landing, equipped with plenty of shanty hospedajes and overpriced, bad food. So we went straight from the bus to drop off our bags in our less-than-clean hotel and straight onto the water. With some helpful lies from our apparently well-informed-on- foreign-affairs tour operator (who, in order to fill up the boat with 6 people, so we could go on the trip, cunningly told the Venezuelan family (2) he booked that we looked like gringos because we were Argentinian, not because we were the capitalist- loving, oil-hungry, spoiled and ignorant arch nemesis Americans), we were out on the water within an hour of arriving.

Though ive never been, I've heard of whale watching before---that after hours of mistaking distant water ripples for humpbacks, some folks may or may not have seen the big wonders in action. I don't know if the gods were coming together to promote peace, encorage the unlikely bonding between supporters of Hugo and Obama, or if Islas Bellanas pumps a brilliant mix of steroids and cocaine into the ocean water, but this was something else, something I can only hope to explain by describing my emotions that went with it.

A Mother humpback giving Beth the old ¨what up, my veggie friend¨.

After driving off the coast towards the island of Isla Ballenas to deeper water, within 15 minutes we were in the midst of one of the most fascinating shows I have yet to witness. A mother humpback, astoundingly grand, amazingly acrobatic and astonishingly beautiful swimming playfully next to her young, vivacious calf. Almost instantly, the whales were playing within 2 meters of our small fishing boat (made tiney-weenie in relation to the gargantuan mother whale), with the baby bounding out of the water, sometimes up to 90% of it's body almost vertical above the water. There they played for the next 2 hours, our boat following along with never a dull moment. Endless jumping, the little guy just never tired! An experience I can most accurately describe as out- of- this- world, a sudden rush of emotion after being instantly drowned in so much beauty. The intensity of happines, of marvellment and wonder, most easily comparable to other two moments in my life where costco- sized beauty humbled and overwhelmed me: witnessing the birth of my niece and the first sight of Iguazu Falls. Yes, that it is to say, I nearly cried of joy and pure wonder.

Beth is almost crying just looking at the photos. Seriously, we saw this exact thing happen about 100 times in the few hours we were out there. Incredible. ¨A Whale out of Water, III.¨

I believe this is maneuver is called CANOOOONNNNNBALLLL!

If I was driving the boat, I might still be out there. But as this was not the case, here I am in my once-again too-dirty hotel room, relishing in reliving my all-too-short friendship with Bebe Beluga.

We put all three photos of ¨A Whale out of Water¨ up because those are the only three we got, and we are sharing, whether you like it or not..

¨A Whale out of Water, II¨

(1) yes, even that sometimes pridefully, sometimes masculine Dickers watched The Little Mermaid.
(Note: he added this footnote, not me. "Pridefully masculine" wouldn't be in my top ten adjectives...)
(2) This clever ploy quickly disintegrated when they tried to speak to use in Spanish, and our response was a twister- face expression of bafflement. All was well, however, when they confessed they were the only vegetarians in all of Venezuela, who used to live in the good ole USA, where their son was born.) P.S. Fascinating fact of the day: Gas costs 4 cents a gallon in Venezuela. I'm guessing hybrid cars are not so popular there. Interesting insight of the day; We were also told by our first Venezeulan friend that if gas were to go up there, Hugo would most likely be ousted by the people.

Note: Getting photos was nearly impossible. We took about 100 photos and these were the only ones that contained whale and not splash.

An acrobatic whale like none ever before witnessed in its natural environment, except Willy.

A fin.

A blowhole.

Cuenca: It means bowl, in Spanish

2010-10-14T17:42:00.000-07:00

I don´t think Cuenca needs to be on your bucket list.

Robin Hood
Surely no Men In Tights. More importantly an utter aberration from the "rob the rich, give to the poor" plotline of yesteryear. No, this takes a more Ridley Scott approach, a holier-than-though leader, lots of action, heroism, and starring Russel Crowe, as chivalrous as coats and mud and not farting in public.

The classics all make an appeareance, from little John to Friar Tuck (who is most accurate to historical representation, thus most appealing to my sensibilities) and King John to the Sheriff of Nottingham, but many show up and remain in bastardized forms, including Robin himself. The plotline is not all bad, though no Gladiator. Unfortunately (and perhaps pleasantly) it was similarly structured. War scene segues to main character development (hero worship?) segues to good beating evil (evil being the French in this case, which feels too easy, but is always enjoyable), all tied together with a few tedious Russ speeches motivating the hords of desperate-for-a-hero Brits. The movie has its bright spots and, though not awful, it is simply "watchable".

Shrek 3:
Shit, or rather for the intended age group, poop. Though not one for kiddy animation I admit that Shrek 1 and 2 were witty, dynamic, even enjoyable to my pessimistic palate. Shrek 3 was simply not.

The Bucket List:
No Easy Rider and defintely no Shawshank. Morgan Freeman was his always affable and likeable self, while dirty Jack has become creepier and more ridiculous over time (though he plays a rich egomaniac well enough). It was touching enough, in a crispy creme donut kind of way, but not exactly a treatise on life and death as much as an hour and a half to waste with Jack and Morgan.

Why, might you ask, am I writing about movies? Because we had our first DVD player, essentially, all to ourselves and access to an abundant selection offered by the hostel. We watched at least six films in three days, and attempted to watch Inception, but failed because Kramer did a subpar job filming at the theatre (this leaving us with an unwatchable DVD). Note: Ironically, films illicitly "shot", or so I would presume, contain the FBI warning letting all viewers know of the potential pitfalls of illegally distributing, obtaining, possessing or watching bootlegged DVDs.

Cuenca is a beautiful colonial town, perhaps the most well put together town from top to bottom that we have encountered so far. No overtly poor neighborhoods, no shantytowns, no half-crumbled inhabitated unhabitable habitations, like an American (US) suburb in fact, red-tiled roofs and all, but more Catholic. The funny thing about beauty, or at least obssessively constructed cleanliness trying to pass for beauty, is that it has a propensity towards the vapid. This is to say it is unendearingly boring. Thus, we watched films. Some better, some worse, but a pleasure to catch up on a few summer blockbusters (some more bust than block) and finally, or eventually, get out of town. A relaxing few days and a peaceful entrance into the much maligned Ecuador. (1)

(1) maligned by travelers in South America far and wide. Not for its lack of beauty and culture, but for its more nefarious underbelly of petty criminals, and some not so petty. Everyone we've met who has traveled through Ecuador has been robbed; whether by knife, gun, distraction, pick-pocket or a slice of the old trusty backpack, it seems almost an inevitability. Knock on wood.

Searching for pictures...still searching...fine, this is a nice building.

We found this picture of me in Cuenca from 10 years ago and thought it would be a nice juxtaposition to current day Cuenca.

This picture doesn´t do this church justice. We´ve seen LOTS of churches, and this was arguably one of the nicer ones. Well done Cuenca, you do churches and pirated dvd´s with the best of them.

Mancora

2010-10-12T20:33:00.000-07:00

Beth and the Aussies (Ewan and Zoe) on the beach, drinking rum, just livin´ the dream (as one Texas gentleman once put it to me).

The most overly used phrase by SA tour companies, not to mention Lonely Planet (who has a propensity towards hackneyed phrasing) is Paraiso. Mancora is not exactly paradise, assuming paradise to be some Utopian society set amongst palm trees and opaque lobster filled waters, but it is a great place to kick off your hiking boots and reset your latitude. (1)

A bustling, for a beach town, community with an arid desert backdrop, the initial scene does not inspire ones hope for relaxation. The local community can best be described as a shantytown separating the beach and the main strip of restaurants and kioskos (7-11s without the ubiquitous and overly stereotyped clerks). We stayed at the notorious Point Hostel located on the beach and at the furthest point from civilization. (2). A blessing to be on the beach and a curse to be forced to buy bad gringo food and expensive beer.

Initially we planned to stay just a few days, but as volunteer opportunities in Ecuador pettered out our only option was to remain, torturing ourselves with mornings by the pool and afternoons on the beach. (3) Life is sucks.

Beth performing as Mrs. South Carolina.

Without rubbing all your working stiff noses in it, I'll just describe the culmination of our experience, the full moon party. (4) An event that seemed to inspire its own ad agency, with posters plastered across town and a palpable sense of excitement gathering steam days beforehand, it was bound to dissapoint. However, after purchasing our own bottle of rum and clandestinely working our way into the hostel with the contraband, we were off to a good, not to mention cheap, start. Recruiting an Aussie couple and a few stragglers intermittently, we began the night just before sunset and ended it just before sunrise with one trip into town to resupply. We bucked the trend towards normalcy, not to mention the recommendation of the hostel to stay off the beach at night, and spent the evening entirety on tge beach listening to the waves and music and chatting the spectrum of politics, books, god, family and social justice, and all the while getting pissed. Beth lasted until 3am, while I made it back in at 5am, just in time to buy a burger before bed.

Waxing...something. A few rums deep, presumably.

We promptly left the next day, wearing out hangover, Beths tan and my apple-tinted skin proudly. (5). Paradise it was not, but a few days harkening us back to the days of Santa Barbara and the easy life.

Feelin´ good, Feelin´ great...the next day.

(1) Thanks Corona.
(2) Notorious for parties, youth and allowing backpackers the luxury of never having to interact with the locals by providing (paid) services for your every need.
(3) Volunteer in SA is apparently a horribly mistranslated word. We've (mostly Beth) scoured the Internet for possibilities to work with disadvantaged children in Ecuador, preferably not teaching them about the environment as what we've heard is SA underpriveleged don't much care. Apparently they have other concerns, like learning to read and write, addition and subtraction and finding their next meal. Digressing. Point being "volunteer" seems to mean pay a large upfront sum to an agency as an application fee. Once accepted, if accepted, then pay funds to locals or foundation for room and board. R & B is no problem, the application fee is.
(4) Don't fret, we will be home in just over two months, at which point in time you all can proceed to rub it in that we are jobless, broke and in the Inland Empire (the last applies to me as Beth will be in Venice. More difficult to rub that in...)
(5) These days a beer or two leads to a hangover. Age or out-of-practice I cannot tell, but clearly I'm no match for a bit of rum.

Bonus Picture:

This is why you go to Mancora, and happened to be our view preceding the full moon party.

Cuddling In The Andes: Our Trek Through Huaraz

2010-10-08T18:01:00.000-07:00

Rembrandt´s a sucker.

Tent
Fuel and burner
Instant soup with pasta
Peanut butter & jelly sandwiches
Water purification tablets
Avocados and tuna
Trail mix
Head lamps
Sleeping bags. Uh oh

One nice thing about carrying all your belongings on your back for 8 months is realizing how little you need. The clitter clatter of everyday life (and the accompanying concern and stress they bring) quickly disintegrate and reveal the absurdity of many of our material endeavors. Unfortunately for us, a sleeping bag while trekking at 4750 meters probably is not one of them.

So began our 4 day trek in the knock-your-socks-off beautiful, impressively diverse, tranquil-as-the-dalai-lama's-meditations Cordilerra Blancas mountain range. Surrounded by dozens of snow-capped peaks, countless waterfalls, gorgeous glacial melt lakes, rivers, and streams, the Santa Cruz trek won itself top shout-outs ( debatedly second only to possibly the Fitz Roy in Patagonia, or maybe to God, but that guy gets so many props we thought the Christian thing to do would be to spread the wealth.)

The days were filled with marvelling at our surroundings while taking very deep, oxygen-hungry breaths. The nights were filled with shivering. After 24 hours a day together for quite some time, nothing brings a couple together like sharing one sleeping bag at near-freezing temps. Cheaper than couple's counseling and less risky than murder, nothing says "I love you" like snuggling for dear life.

To keep me entertained, Jason graciously engaged in several funny activities, like pissing himself ( see: The Day Nature Called to Piss on Me) and stopping several tomes to ring out his soaking-wet-with-sweat shirt that had begun to freeze to his body. Though possibly more stinky and just as much an ass (though, admittedly, a far better convesationalist), pack animal Jason once again chivalrously bared the burden of carrying our gear.

With another unforgettable trek under our belt, we find ourselves left asking one nagging question: Why the he'll didn't we start this trek biz-nass earlier????

The view which graced our first two days through the valley.

Yes, that is pasta water tea. Sometimes the cold forces you to resort to extreme measures.

Nothing says ¨smile¨ like glacial melt...down your pants.

The warmth before the sunset.

The intimidating summit, though we didn´t reach the top. Just where the snow (actually glacier) begins, off to the right is the pass which we crossed.

The summit, or at least our summit.

A little a-ggress-ive, but I made it my goal to beat at least one pack of mules to the top. I placed second in a field of three...Beth wields a nasty donkey whip.

Our little show of theatrics. That´s what happens when you have oxygen deprevation.

That shirt just went back on for the picture, thankfully for you readers.

The drive out of the National park was not quite as rewarding, but perhaps equally spectacular, as our trek.

This photo doesn´t do the lake justice. We were in a bus, so had to snap it quickly. The water is an amazing translucent teal, ruined by a shadow casting cloud.

A picture of the leyward side of the mountain, after the summit, but before the so called ¨incedent de peee¨ (it sounds so much less vulgar if I pretend what heppened, happened in French).

This was taken in a moment of clarity on our second to last day...

...five minutes later the clouds and the cold moved back in.

Trujillo, Chiclayo and Chachapoyas

2010-10-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

The citadel at Kuelap.

This is inside the ruins, you can see nature taking its course.

Trujillo: Cuyes Revenge
Four small, tight, white walls closing in on a desperate man. Cold sweats, warm weather, a raging fever. A bowl the center of the world, reminding me of a fly's sole existence. That was my experience. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I made the foolhardy choice of experiencing "petricide"¨, deciding to eat Cuy (aka Guinea Pig) and chalking it up as cultural experimentation. Bad decision. A week later the little rodent was still spinning circles in my intestines.

But, the first two days I'm not likely to forget soon. So, instead of lounging by the beach, pretending debate about whether to rent surfboards or go ruin seeing, but really just sitting on the beach for a few days, I spent my time in the bathroom, ravaged by a cute, furry little pet. Lesson learned. No more cuy eating for me.

Chiclayo: T-shirt Bazaar
Almost bought a "Bitchin' Camaro" t-shirt here. Thought that pretty much defined me, but decided that it was a bit too anglacized.

Went to a ruin site. It was a series of hills in a dry forest. I'm not sure if the dry forest or the hills-as-ruins was more dissapointing. One was barely forested and the other looked like sand castles after a thunderstorm. I never realized "ruin" was a euphemism for "excuse for a tourist trap". By the way, the locals had the audacity to call the site pyramids. We thought we were going to find South Americas version of Giza. Instead we found something I could have made at the age of five with enough time and plastic buckets.

The 15 t-shirt stalls welcoming us everytime we entered or departed our hostel was more exciting by tenfold. Bitchin' t-shirt bazaar.

Chachapoyas: Stoned in the 16th Century
Finally, a worthwhile stop. An undiscovered gem. Just two and a half hours outside of this quaint hideaway is an undervisited contemporaneous Incan site. Machu Picchu may be the main draw of Peru, but this is the Wrigley field to old Yankee stadium. A little known site by the name of Kuelap and even more importantly a lesser developed (or rather less restored) site with regards to restoration, people and tourist infastructure. This lends itself to the traveler's delight, authenticity.

The main draw, however, is the ideal amount of restoration. As you approach the monolith, a domineering wall surrounding the citadel, there is a sense of permanence eminating from its sheer presence. I've never seen an ancient castle, but I'd imagine it would inspire similar feelings. The difference is that this structure is built into the mountain. Not exactly in disguise, but in conjunction with its further surroundings. You truly don't notice it, even though it is enormous until you are within a mile, or so. The large yellowish rocks are surrounded by tropical vegetation and like-shaded mountains in the distance, helping to give it the blending-in sensation are the little plants growing out of the walls, in part surely due to nature reclaiming its territory after the Incans and Spaniards robbed and, quite likely, destroyed the creating civilization.

The selling point is the outter layer, but for me the mystery lies inside. As the site is underexposed to tourist and archaeologist alike, large swaths of the innards are still left in disrepair. Plants, trees, bromeliads meld perfectly with the quarter remains of huts and dwellings. It's the quitessential romantics version of a lost city. I'm shocked that Indian Jones has not been filmed here, or at the very least that miserable TNT movie starring Noah Wyle as a librarian. But, I'm also glad as Beth and I had to share our day with at most ten other gringos (3 of whom we shared a taxi with) and a few Peruvians. Our own minature Machu Picchu, smaller, less extravagant, less mysterious, but a more authentic feel, a wildness that even Indian Jones might appreciate--if there was treasure, of course.

After we returned to town with hopes of catching the worlds highest waterfall the next morning before leaving. That was to be a pipe dream as we allowed ourselvesan indulgent evening. The three gringos in our car that day were peace corps volunteers. After our ruinous day they invited us out to join them in drinks. This was a revelation for me. It was like a group of nuns inviting us to a sex party, we just couldn't pass up the opportunity. We proceeded to spend the next six or so hours swapping stories, inventing drinks and enjoying the company of three good dudes in the peace corps who like themselves a good time, our kind of people.(1)

As the peace corps party caught up with us the next morning and time slowly ran out, we were forced to miss out on the worlds third highest discovered waterfall, Gocta. But as they say, there ain't no party like a peace corps party. There'll always be more falls though.

(1) I exclude names here because I thoroughly enjoyed one of the names of the invented drink. A homemade corn liquor, overly sweet but with a nice bite, is poured into a shot then dropped into a half glass of beer and slugged. The first suggested name: A Shining Path Bomb, the shining path being a terrorist group in Peru. Created by one PC man, it was nixed by the other two, though received my vote. The winner, Moto bomb, is acceptable, especially considering the dearth of moto taxis, aka tuk-tuks located in Peru.

Beth and a bag´o´bones, human bones.

The wall,
From afar.

A restored hut amongst all the destroyed huts.

lima time

2010-10-06T10:47:00.000-07:00

Chillin at Plaza de Armas in downtown Lima. Que bonito!

George Herbert Walker Bush: 41st president of the united states of America. San Luis/miraflores, Lima, Peru: 41st dot on our map of south American destinations. What's the connection? Everything.

George HW Bush is a Texas man. He probably employs, or at least knows, some Mexicans. Mexicans speak Spanish. Lima is in Peru. Peru's most predominantly spoken language (though Quechua and a few other native languages have wide popularity amongst certain sectors of society) is Spanish. Coincidence? I think not.

George HW Bush hangs with Saudi sheiks. Saudi Arabia is an influential member of OPEC. OPEC's smallest member nation is Ecuador. Ecuador borders Peru and has around 13 million people, a million or so less than live in Lima. Close, very close.

George's wife is named Barbara. Our friends were kind enough to set us up with a member of their family to stay with for a few days in Lima. She went by the name of Silvia. Silvia and Barbara would be fast friends. Big smiles, but manage to incite the fear of sin with just one little nod.

George on the other hand seems dark and broody. As former head of the CIA he holds an air of the sinister. Lima couldn't be described any better. It's constantly dark, gloomy and overcast, made more frustrating by its proximity to the coast. Not to mention the smog spit from every bus, car and moped, which makes Limas air look like a constant battery of self-immolating tires. It also has a significant darker side. With a clear and present and wide distribution of wealth, it's no wonder crime is the second biggest problem to...

Impotence. Wait, that's Bob Dole. George does own Hope Ranch though (or something Prairie, but hope works better for this particular example), a bastion of peace and prosperity in the middle of the wide, barren Texas desert. Lima has its own Hope Ranch in Miraflores. A center of touristic ecstasy. Filled with classy restaurants, American fast food, clean, paved and clearly delineated steets, it is a safe haven of western ideals. The apex of which is a cliffside, real estate tycoon's dream, mall with Tony Romas, TGIFridays, Chilis and an abundance of western-like retailers. Western commercialism thriving in the overriding misery that is Lima. Hope Ranch indeed.

Needless to say we spent five days in Lima, just one more than the amount of years HW spent in office. It wasn't all bad, but I definitely wouldn't choose to repeat it.

The Peruvian White House. Geoerge HW never lived here.

Some people with more money than us paragliding.

Poor Wilbur.

Real estate agent´s wet dream... The mall on the coast in Miraflores.

Dancing like a jellyfish to Jack Johnson.

lunahuana and the gringo trail

2010-10-05T11:50:00.000-07:00

Who loves pisco sour? (not to be found in Pisco)

The Reason Why There Is A Gringo Trail

After over seven months living under tge direction of another, after blindly obeying tge word of the "travellers bible", we reached that time in our development where the urge to rebel runs stronger than reason. For one of tge first times on our trip, we shut our Lonely Planet and ventured off the gringo trail (or at least the most trodden parts of it anyhow).

Like a kid with booze-filled fantasies going off to college, the first moments of our adventure-to-independence were rather liberating. Dreaming of the most authentic experiences Peru could offer (like becoming besties with every local we met or kissing Peruvian Llamas), we embarked to Ica.

To put it bluntly, the the bus dropped us off on the side of the road in what best could be described as an ugly, shady town. Like the panicked college kid who realizes they now need to wash their own laundry & cook their own meals, we did the most sensible thing we could think of at 4:30am, we went crying home to Lonely Planet and found a nearby gringo "oasis". We hopped into a tuk-tuk with strict orders to return us to the less frequently visited gringo stop.

What we found was sand, a lot of it, a meagerly-filled "lake" (water-sorce: gringo tears from the depression of staying at a so-called oasis) and 10 overly-priced hostels, which were all filled in honor of saint something-or-another. "No Problem," we thought. "Let's vamos to Pisco.". Pisco being the city that the name of the booze is derived from, we assumed it to be the major producer and retailer of the delicious white grape that we've enjoyed (in it's sour form, so often) since arriving in Peru. What we didn't know is that Pisco must take its namesake from the unpleasant hangover one encounters when visiting the dusty town which left us with little to do besides the towns insistense that we go to Isla Ballestras, most famous for bird shit piled 50m deep (this is not an exaggeration, it's really their selling point).

With discouraged hearts we decided to give it one last chance before heading straight to Lima: Lunahuana, a little river town at the gateway of Peru's winemaking region. Fortuitously, a switch of luck brought us a beautiful river, free pisco samples, a great camping spot along the river (fully equipped with 2 dogs who adopted us for our few day stay) and gringo-free happiness as we recharged from a rather discouraging, though hidden-gem-encountering, venture off the gringo trail.

living the high life in lunahuana.

proof we were there, or weren´t. Our journey off the gringo trail.

Oh thoust lonely little tent, how I love thee.

The best thing about being off the gringo trail, finding hidden cauliflower heads dwarfing the orbitary object that is Beth´s head.

Machu Pichu

2010-10-01T15:17:00.000-07:00

The most rewarding part of Machu Pichu: Being in the first 20 to make it to the entrane. Those tickets are the genuine article, 10am stamps for Huayna Pichu.

We thought about leading the post off with this, perhaps the most recognizable photo of Machu Pichu, but we prefered us...

This is impossible. Too many expectations, too many photos, simply too many bucket list with the words "Machu Pichu" in the top 5 for a post to give this site its due.

So, instead of recapping the hours exploring, the unique nature of the ruins and the unnerving sense of "what if....the Spanish didn't arrive/lost/only had swords/were 200 years later," we are going all David Letterman on you and paring this down to a top 5 and a bottom 5 and let you all witness the rest for yourself since, in all likelihood, most of you will make it out here one day.

Top 5:
1. Ruins. Immaculate, organized, well-crafted and probably most incredibly, the most well preserved (or restored) ancient ruins I've ever seen. Then again perhaps it pays (for tourist draw, at least) to be "undiscovered" until the early 1900's. Not to mention be located at miserably high altitude in the center of a group of mountains also at high altitude. Location. Location. Location.

A photo of the famously steeped terraces of Machu Pichu.

One of the more amazing feats of the Incas was there use of stone work. This is a prime example of how gorgeous and intricate it could be.

Misty Ruins. The first half of the day the entire ruins were shrouded in fog. A bit romantic and a bit eery as well.

A magnificent ancient tree, how you lived up to all my expectations.

2. The hike up. We are cheap and prideful. There's two ways--outside of tge Inca trail--to get to MP, a bus at 530am from Aguas Calientes (the city at the bottom of MP) or hike, which takes just under an hour and is straight up. A bus is cheating and cost money. BUT, to hike Huayna Pichu, the mountain overlooking MP, you must be in the first 400 arrivals and within the first 200 to get the good time. Because you are racing the bus and other hikers it's recommend to start by 4am. So we did. And though 50+ people were ahead of us and Beth was convinced we'd never make it, we ended up being in the first 25 people. An exceptional feat in its own right. Most rewarding personal part of tge day.

3. Huayna Pichu. The hill overlooking MP. Overrated, in my opinion, for its views. What is amazing is the hike and the ensuing ruins you encounter at the top. The hike isn't so much treacherous as feeling treacherous, but the appearance is amazing. It's steep, but doable, and the ruins atop are a stunning achievement considering their location and general environmental difficulties in building. Beth said something about buying a house atop the mountain and I was forced to remind her it would be suicide or death to drinking, because they cannot coexist. Spectacularly steep architecture.

Not quite as iconic a photo as the closer up version, but this one must be earned. An incredible view from atop Huayna Pichu.

Beth crossing the river with her least favorite Swiss girl in the world. I was hand pulling them across and would like to note that she is also my least favorite Swiss girl in the world, but for more weighty reasons. (Beth would like me to note here that she took her turning pulling people across the river as well and that she set the group record by scrambling three men across the river. The guide was duly impressed.)

4. Walking the valley. By taking a tour we spent two days walking through the valley below MP. We walked along parts of the Inca trail, crossed rivers in hand-pulled carts, sat underneath rock-hole waterfalls, brushed aside banana plants and other local agriculture, but best of all got to bide our anticipation while experiencing the surrounding nature. Machu Pichu is a bucket lister, but its surrounding area is worth a look too.

Hiking a portion of the Inca Trail.

Walking the train tracks towards Aguas Calientes. A meta-photo.

We didn´t have much time on the ¨Inca Trail¨ proper, but the time we did was a bit nerveracking for me. Apparently Incas had tiny feet, so every precarious step I thought would be my last. Trip. Fall. Death.

5. Standing outside of our tour company for at least 30 minutes to receive $8.50US in refund when they actually ripped us off of an entire day of our tour. I wanted $20US each, but if no one else had shown up looking for a tour, we would have probably got nothing, or at least waited outside until someone did. (for more detail see Bottom Five #2)

Alright, the tour wasn´t all bad. We found this little four legged creature who could drink a gatorade faster than Mike.

Bottom 5:
1. Uncredited Foundings. The story goes the "founder" of MP was Hiriam Bingham around 1912. His guide, a little boy, simply gets the footnote of "little boy," or more accurately nameless little boy. At least the famous train from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes could feature a caboose, or something, with his name on it.

2. Booking the Inca Jungle Tour. 4 days 3 nights. Includes entrance to MP, food and lodging, plus train back to Cusco. Unfortunately the selling point for us was the 4 hours on a bike the first day. Half on asphalt descending about 3500m, the other half on dirt road. What they don't tell you is there is road construction, so you only get an hour on the bike, unless you get a flat tire, like me, in which case you only get 35 minutes. Or, like Beth, maybe one pedal does not work, so you have to hit the uphills at full speed or risk having to pedal like Christopher reeve if one of his legs had worked (sorry, couldn't think of anyone recognizable and one-legged or peg-legged, so I went with no working legs and a former superman...for balance...owww, bad pun). So, we got ripped off, made worse because with all that those 35 minutes were incredible. Downhill, wind in your face, sacred valley in your eyesight, glacial peaks at your back and waterfalls creating little pools in the center of the road, little character pools. Another 3 1/2 hours would have set such a perfect beginning stage for the next three days hiking thru the jungle to MP. Instead it just pissed us off, though admittedly just for that day. Anyways, I wish we'd have choosen the do the Salkantay trek instead, 5 days and past, I believe, the 3rd highest Andean peak in Peru. Alas, not in our cards, but maybe yours.

30 minutes on a bike descending 3000 plus meters is better than no time on a bike. That´s a glacier in the background..

A waterfall hole. Something special indeed.

3. Bad tour guide inside MP. Said nothing, really, of Incan way of life, architecture or information about tge ruins. Instead preached, best word, some weird neo-Andean religion. Best quotes, though confusing at best: "maybe some of you are christian, but when I die and I'm riding on my condor and I look over and I see you, I'm not going to say I told you so, but you'll know it.". "The Incas, they don't have no lazy boys. No fat boys. No gay boys. And no stupid boys. [interrupted by disbelieving and mildly uncomfortable laughter] What, you don't believe me? Look around.". So, i lied. we learned we'll be on a condor when we die and what kind of boys the Incas didn't have.

I can´t wait for everyone to meet our tour guide on a condor when we all die. He´s short, likes the Broncos and is probably standing somewhere on a corner preaching.

4. There's NO escalators (the climb up to MP and HP make for weary legs), no cots for napping (330am rise and shine), no bathrooms (one outside, but you have to walk AND pay to use it. HP has spots that stink of urine) and no water fountains (you bring your own because water is literally over 10x more up there).

5. The people, the tourist. It's overwhelming. Cuzco and MP are, by a considerable margin, the most touristed places we have yet to visit. We expected it, even readied ourselves, but only a recent visit to Disneyland could prepare you for the throng of languages, entitlement and people that tourist tend to collect.

Who the $%&@ are those people in our photo???

The hike up Huayna Pichu was steep, but not death defying. The hike down was a bit more tentative for me.

Beth making her way from house to house atop Huayna Pichu.

Us. Machu Pichu. Bliss. Photo.

Going out on a limb: a ruin, of some sort.

Alive in Equador

2010-09-30T19:34:00.000-07:00

and well, for now, in Equador. We are in a small town, not in Guayaquil or Quito. It´s safe, mountainous and gorgeous. If you guys don´t know why we are posting this, it´s because you haven´t seen the news. Apparently there is some civil unrest in Equador. Here is a NYTimes article about it: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/01/world/americas/01ecuador.html?_r=1&hp. The State department is recommending we stay where we are at and since Colombia and Peru have closed their borders and the International airport in Quito has been shut down by the air force, we figured that is a pretty good idea. We´ll be checkin the internets regularly, but any information you hear about this, we would love a forward. Hope all is well back home and that civil unrest is kept to equatorial lines.

(If some of you are confused that we are in Ecuador, it´s because we are, as always, behind on the blog. We just got here a few days ago and just might be leaving as soon as possible.)

authentic arequipa

2010-09-30T07:02:00.000-07:00

Authentic Arequipa

Authentic is generally a cut and dry type of word, if it's intended topic of discussion is not. However, it's elongated brother, authenticity, in the world of traveling is hotly contested.

Whether you are hiking the Andes, gorging on the provincial cuisines or riding buses with locals, we're all looking for that elusive unique and authentic experience. The difference is between the experiences and what you find "authentic". Plenty of those on our trail find sitting in a bar with gringos, speaking English and eating pizza and Italian food authetic enough. And admittedly, we occasionally do this, but find it authentic in the same way that Christmas is celebrated with Santa and fun-filled conifers. Point being, authenticity, like everything else, tends toward relativity.

In our south American sojourn we've had plenty of authentic natural experiences, numerous authentic transportation experiences, but less of the authentic visually observed cultural experience (in part because of the innate paradox of being an outsider traveler trying to be an insider). As a result, when we are lucky enough for them to arise, we find ourselves grateful for the opportunity and more entranced then normal of the offending locale.

Our first peru destination was Arequipa. It is a big, beautiful colonial city. White fascaded buildings adorn the steets. Fountain laden centers decorate its plazas. And western grade restaurants line the main steets. It is a far cry from the general decrepitude that encapsulates Bolivia, which is to say the city had us at cleanliness.

But cleanliness isn't authentic, at least in most SA cities. No, we also had chance shine its little light on us. We arrived the week (sic) of the city's independence day. More importantly though, we choose a good hostel. As our second night rolled in we were beckoned to the new sister hostel by management. Promises of free drinks and live music was just lurement enough to draw us from our few beers and the intrigue of a large crowd gathering downtown for the late night fireworks show (apparently not a uniquely American event).

We showed up to a bar full of Peruvians with ten gringos in tow. We all sat at one table and had a nice 8th grade ethnic dance vibe going on. But as the night gathered steam (and booze) and all but two other gringos headed off to the discotecas, a new, more comfortable vibe began to take shape. The 6 Peruvian band members became more animated, the singing more lively and the laughter more contagious. The remaing gringos were still seated together, but Peruvians spotted the table as well. Chips were shared. Looks, and smiles, exchanged. Even the occasional question and answer requited. It became a group of people sharing the music of Arequipa through a set of old men who clearly, and dearly, love their town. Four singers and two guitarist were our conduits that evening as music took us to Arequipa that night, something we won't soon forget.

Notes:
- Arequipa is the 2nd largest town, but has arguably the best central plaza, in Peru.
- Independence day began with a parade and finished with a fireworks show that might rival any in the states; or so we would imagine based on the biggest and brightest burst, which is all we could see from our obstructed view atop the hostel.
- The men singing for everyone collectively had at least 375 years of experience. The party didn't finish until past midnight and I'm sure some must have required some sort of prescription medication to have lasted that long.
- After every. Single. Song. The band would finish with a cheer, something like: "Arei-Arei-Areiiiiiiii-Quipaaaaaa!". It was a clear case of unbridled cityism. An enjoyable contagion that night.
- One style of song, I'm convinced, was an elongated joke. It was spoken word and rhythmic and each time the man finished everyone burst into a combination of laughter and applause. It was brilliant to watch, like Eddie Murphy live meets a Sunday sermon.

Pisco sour

2010-09-22T22:03:00.000-07:00

an improper pictogram of our homemade pisco sours. We didn´t follow any specific proportions (1). If it was too strong, we added sugar. Too weak, pisco. Too unlimey, lime. Unfortunately the only picture I got was of the first pisco sour, which had too little egg white, thus too little froth. The next attempt was a more proper 1/3 froth to 2/3 pisco sour ratio. I should have followed the last rule. Not frothy enough, add egg white. (note the recipe calls for bitters on top, but we were fresh out.)

juicin´ the lime. as you can see they only had mini-limes. I recommend buying the biggest, juiciest suckers out there...or a juicer.

That´s sugar-in-the-raw-in-the-freezer to get cold. It´s called simple syrup. dump a load of sugar in a pyrex and mix in water as needed to dissolve the sugar (not sure if there is a ratio here either, but that´s what I did).

crack, crack, crack the egg. toss the yolk between the two shells getting all the egg white out. do ten push-ups. shoot the egg yolk...good protein.

mix the pisco, egg white, simple syrup and lime juice together. if you don´t have one of those fancy bar mixers, or a blender, simply wash out your latest kola real bottle, dump all the ingredients in there and shake vigorously. class.

voila. finished pisco, though pathetically un-frothy. (add a drop of bitters at the end, if you are so endowed.)

¨I love Pisco sours.¨ -Beth sadler (witness)

Ratios from epicurious
1 egg white
2 1/2 ounces Pisco Capel (see note)
1/2 ounce simple syrup
3/4 ounce fresh lemon juice
Angostura Bitters (see note, below)
(This copied itself. for fear of legal ramifications, I´m leaving it up here) Read More http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/drink/views/Pisco-Sour-234357#ixzz10KGIRVYr

Note. These things are dangerous if not measured out properly, but a lot more fun...
disclaimer. If you happened to receive an email from me on/around the 5th of september that was vaguely rambling, non-sensical, overly sentimental, or condemning, you might have been victim of the pisco sour.

Canyon de Colca

2010-09-21T06:41:00.000-07:00

No, that´s not the glow of happiness on my face, that´s the gleam of sweat. We´re starting this post with us finishing our trek.

The Place
Not quite as exciting as 6 days, 7 nights and without the lesbian lead masquerading as a full-fledged hetero, but unbelievable, regardless. We've finally done it: our boots are deflowered, our packs more rugged and our legs made of pure, unadulterated muscle. We are officially trekkers.

It's taken us six and a half months to get on-board anything longer than a day hike, but I have a feeling we've caught ourselves a liking to this walking business. Luckily we started in style. Our first trek began with our first abstinence policy: no guides, DIY. It also started with the worlds second deepest canyon, meaning the worlds second longest ascent out of a canyon. A daunting prospect, but one easily shoved idly to the background when walking downhill.

Colca canyon is officially the world's second deepest canyon (Coatahuasi, right around the corner, measures in at 160+ feet deeper). It is a few hours outside of Peru's second largest city, Arequipa. It is also 2nd to the grand canyon of America in looks and in the overwhelming sense of largeness that enormous canyons evoke. It is beautiful, with steep, sheer cliffs dotting its ravine borders. And unlike the grand canyon with its flat arroyo bottom (in places) Colca canyon seems to have far less accessibility to open grazing area near its riverside, hence the reason our destination at the bottom, Sengali, is populated by no less than three hostals advertising their relations to "oasis'" (oasisis?). But we'll get to that. First DIY trekking.

This picture has nothing to do with ´the plan´, except that without the plan, we wouldn´t have seen the beautiful bottom of this canyon.

The Plan
Part of our hesitation regarding trekking was "the backpack(s)". Two 20 kilos packs (x2.2 for pounds) for three straight days sounded miserable, sweaty (for me), body-destroying, soul-wrenching and possibly relationship regressing. Not to mention we would be adding three days of water and food, maybe another 5 kilos each, who knows what that could incur. Instead we formed an alternate plan: one backpack, only necessities, well, mainly necessities, as follows:

- lights, head
- a change of clothes each
- swimwear (yes, oasis comes with pools)
- about 8 liters of water
- tent
- sleeping bags
- 2 books (God Delusion and something by Hesse, if you are the curious type)
- basic hygiene products, including sun block.
- and food: lightest, energy-filled as possible. Peanut butter, 6 homemade jerky sticks, jam in a plastic bag, a can of tuna salad, 4 tangerines (not light, but worth it), 6 pieces of cheese, 3 avocadoes and 13 pieces of bread (8 small-medium and tasty egg/sesame rolls; 4 large, hearty pieces; 1 baggete, of which half was eaten while the other half crumbled away.

We unloaded my bag, dumped it all into our recently purchased Bolivian souvenir pack and refilled it with the above goods. The result wasn't quite titanium bike frame light, but it wasn't a Maury Pauvich baby any longer either. Somewhere around 25 pounds sounds about right, maybe a bit more. Manageable.

Our last unplanned detail was navigation. We had no map, no idea where to go outside of the starting village. So, we asked questions to the tour agency at our hostel, who in fact was not a tour agent, but knew enough to give us info: "Colca canyon is easy, just follow the trail, the big one. The small are dangerous." Beth snapped a photo of a map she found on the Internet, for precautionary reasons, and we headed out the following morning.

Walking down this started our trek off right, with blisters.

The Execution, or how we brutalized our poor feet
After a short bus delay, 6 hours in a bus terminal and the resulting midnight stopover in a middling town, (1) we arrived a half day late to my favoritely coined city in SA, Cabanaconde.

We took advantage of a few bars handing out maps with directions in hopes of wooing post-hike drink purchases, we asked half the town where the trail head was located and eventually we guessed the correct direction to find our way to the beginning of the next three days.

You would expect the downhill portion, our descent into the canyon, to be simple, relaxing and even tranquil, not a difficult, harrowing journey, taxing not only on your body, but on your mind as well. Perhaps not as dramatic as that, the steepness, the added 25 pounds and the mid-day heat collectively joined together to make this the hardest portion of our journey.

We descended what, from the bottom, looked almost to be a sheer cliff. Though not explicitly fearful of heights, I don't love them. What is enchanting about this hike is that the fear helps to create a more surreal experience. 4 hours plunging away at the cliff, multiple blisters and an achey body was well worth the reward of landing at the bottom and having the pleasure of leering up at the massive peak (is it a peak, if you've went down a giant hole?), the unforgiving wall, beautiful in its austerity.

We camped that night under the cliff, devouring peanut butter sandwiches and a Coca Cola and relishing in our days work. Beauty incarnate.

The following day was a relative breeze. Another 4 hour hike, one initial climb with a following downhill, both about an hour or so. The highlight was arriving at Sengali, a quaint little oasis found at a widening of the riverbed. About three little camping/hospedajes habitate the base, with at least two shepherding us in with pools. Not just any pools, but waterfall pools found only in the playground of the rich...here, however, was free to camp. Not for the rich of heart, for the poor backpacker it beckons. We lounged, swam, indulged in a veggie dinner served by the campground and rested our feet for the last, and mist intimidating portion if our journey: the ascent.

Paraiso. Paradise.

As the canyon is at lower altitude and located in an arid, desert environment, the days can be painfully hot. The camp advised a group of older travelers to get up at 3am to start the 4 hour climb out. We took heed, waking up at 4am to pack up the tent, dawn or headlamps and get the hell outta dodge, or paradise.

Hiking in the dark is, I have decided, the best way to hike, in particular uphill. There is no way to judge your progress, there is no looking up nor down, there is simply one foot in front of another. It lulls you, like a mobile or a kid in a car seat, into something of what I'd imagine a medatative state to be. Your focus is drawn to your movement and breath, and in my case to sweat, as well (even in the predawn temperatures, sweat). By the time the sun began cresting over the surrounding "peaks"--a mess of oranges and reds shimmering across the normally colorless (colorless being brown) rock--we realized we were more than half way up the beast.

The rest of the hike, with the suns reception of perspective, was tough going. Steep and arduous and unrelenting compared to our first hour and a half, we reached the summit about an hour after daybreak. Two and a half hours of near non-stop, lack-of-switchback, climbing was exhausting. But the top was made all the more welcoming as a result. Triumph was trumped by our sense of accomplishment and then trumped again by the knowledge that we did it ourselves. With our pocketbooks thanking us, our legs hating us and our hearts content we walked out the last 30 minutes to our waiting bus and headed back to dorm beds and lockers that would once again take over our duties of caring for those burdensome packs.

The newest craze in the backpacking world, Gangsta-in-a-Hipster´s-outfit Hiking

(1) Beware, our con game is getting good. This town, Chivay, is known by Colca goers as a tariff trap. Once you stop there, you are almost sure to pay a "visitors" tax. The town is dusty, meager, touristy if touristy simply entailed lots of miserable lodgings and a few overpriced pizza places and NOTHING else. Essentially a place that reeks of death of the soul, seemingly the last place on earth that should try to charge you a fee to visit. Yet, it does. We were harangued, perpetually hounded and eventually pleaded with to pay. We claimed ignorance, feigned stupidity (much easier to do in broken Spanish than you might think) and stood our frugal ground...and won. No tax without representation for these two travelers.

Side note: We learned the tax goes only to the city, not the park, not other cities along the way. Just this soul bender. Hence our rationale--not to forget cheapness--for not paying. We encountered a guard on our exiting as well, but went with the tried and true "we can't find our ticket" method. He waved us on, we left 35 soles happier.

The Day Nature Called To Piss On Me

2010-09-17T07:32:00.001-07:00

Today was a first for me, at least in the last 20 odd years. I had a refreshingly youthful experience, or rather, I was refreshed by an experience particular to youths, I pissed myself. No, it was not on purpose as some of you might imagine. Or as others, of a more presumptuous nature might think, I was not under the influence of any booze, aka bringing to reality the term "piss drunk". Nope, just a common old (not a depends reference) mistake. You see, i'm a little more unexperienced than some might imagine. Yes, I've painfully experienced the birds and the bees talk, powered thru my first drivers-Ed course and the following DMV debacle, not to mention seen the inside of a girls bedroom. But, before a few days ago I'd never fully experienced, in the true coming-of-age, carnal type of way, Nature--nor it's beastly, near remorsless vengence. No, I've only had pleasant to kind experiences with mother earth. So, when trekking (this post is a few away , details to follow) through the wilderness for four days with nary a toilet in sight, what am I to do when "nature" calls, but to embrace it.

To give you as many erroneous details as possible, I'll go through this with as much painstacking and first-person detail as possible, so you too can live five minutes in my underwe...shoes.

Im equating myself to a five year old child as I struggle through 4000m glacial peaked terrain. It's like the first night after peeing the bed and actually being cognizant of doing something wrong. The difference is I'm 28 and preparing to do something that is in fact more normal than any other time I've committed myself to performing the exact sane act I've performed thousands of times in thousands of places. I cannot help to be uncomfortable, concerned, even slightly disgusted by what I'm about to do, it's do unaccustomarily natural. At this point, however, I have no choice. I must go through with it, my mind has already overpowered my body going on two days now and my intestinal fortitude being pressed as such, is about to burst.

I start reeling for information. How does this work? Where in this abandon land outside of a handful of other tenters, do I go? On what? Is it like yoga or football practice, or some weird ancient torture method? Where have I seen this done before? Movies? No. Television? No. Ahhh, yes, I've seen this done by Beth and at least a handful of other girls (no, this is not an indicator of some perverse enjoyment I get out of "watching", just a function of living in IV--inadvertent witness, that's my story). Let me think. First you unbuckle. Then you squat. Then you go. Voilla. Finito. Back to work.

Alright. I'll need a good spot. Not many people here, but enough that I don't want to be interupted during my "vulnerable time". Some teepee. And a good view. It's no book, but it'll have to do. [I inform Beth she'll have to take a load off for a few minutes, because that's what I'm about to do. I also ask her to play lookout for me. Maybe make a few deep dog barks if she hears any people getting close. A throaty growl might work too. Anything really to scare them off. I then proceed to find a cute little nook overlooking a lake filled with glacial-melt that happens to be low enough in elevation to be surrounded by auburn-leaved trees. It's actually a perfect location. I feel like god, or at least an incredible real estate agent. Back to the story...]. I'm ready. My well thought out plans have come to fruition and though nervous, I fell prepared.

Unbuckle. Squat. Lean part-way against toilet-level rock. Go.

Hmm, not so difficult. The rock and the angle are a bit strange, but admittedly you might say this is even a bit enjoyable, if only for the contrast. Wow, that's a nice little breeze.

Wait a second. What's that? What's wet, why is it WET??? Oh god, i'm peeing. Why am I peeing? I'm not supposed to be peeing. That's not why I stopped here. Stop peeing. Stop. Now.

Shit (no really, that's what I said. I understand, under these circumstances the irony, but at that point I wasn't thinking, just speaking..in shock). Pull your pants down further. Now finish.

Ok. You're going to have to litter more than expected here. Vigorously wipe that spot. You mean puddle Jason. Yes, vigorously wipe that puddle, blot if necessary, until it's not soaking wet. Good. Drop toilet paper in prepared mini-hole. Excellent. Now. Pull up pants. God they are wet. Suck it up. It's cold. Yea, but it's windy. Just do it. Then find a rock to cover up messes. Done.

Alright. Now here is the most important part. Turn around. Walk back up the hill to your growling girlfriend and make sure there isn't the slightest hitch in your step. Walk like your pants are dry and your crotch smells like vanilla bean and tea leaf. You do that a no one will ever know about mother nature's miscue. Now go and keep quiet.

And that the day nature called to piss on me.

3 Conversations: Copacabana. Lake Titicaca. Isla del Sol.

2010-09-13T15:39:00.001-07:00

Dark Man and Beth. Sunburned. nose peeling. Must. Hide. From. Sun.

Copacabana
A fat San Franciscan walks into a tour agency...in Copacabana, run by a Bolivian.
SF: What the hell is there to do in this town?
B: No entiendo.
SF: No entiende? I asked you what's there to do here, not to speak gibberish.
B: No entiendo. Lo siento.
SF: I don't give a damn about your seat. I've been here three hours. There's souvenir shopping, which I had enough of after about twenty minutes. There's about fifty places that serve the same variations of trout and half are lined up side-by-side in shacks along the shores of lake T, not to mention all the hype-people screaming gibberish at me as I walk by. There's two plazas, a central market (that has the stink of rotted sea), and the most famous lake in South America, yet nothing to do? This is America, isn't it?
B: Quieres ir a isla del Sol?
SF: Absolutamente, senor! Porque no digame antes?

Lake Titicaca
A conversation between BETH and jason.
Beth: That's a big fucking lake.
Jason: Yes, the enormous size almost appears to create its own ocean-like influence upon the surrounding environment. Or, perhaps, something akin to the great lakes.
B: that's what I said: 'that's a big fucking lake'. Fucking dark blue too.
J: Yes, it's a deep, cobalt hue of blue. Like fresh blueberries meeting indigo in spring.
B: You sappy pussy. It's blue like opening day at Dodger Stadium, but with less Spanish speakers.
J: You have a point. I wonder if it is the remains of an ancient inland sea and if so, if the water has a high salinity content?
Beth: Shut up already, there's animals over there drinking the water, you think it's salty if animals drink it. They ain't camels. And of course it's an inland sea, it's enormous. But not that kind. We are at 3800m, there are glaciers and rivers everywhere. It's fed by them.
J: Wow, that's amazing. Such a large body of water fed just by glacial melt and rain.
B: What, you think god just took a hose and filled a giant hole he had dug by slave labor? No.
J: I love lake Titicaca.
B: Quiet, please. Just enjoy the sunset.

Isla del Sol
A conversation between a stone tablet journalist of pre-Incan Isla del Sol and a native.

"My name is Pachu Machu and I'm a pre-Incan native of Isla del Sol--though at this point I don't know I'm pre-Incan, because Incan doesn't exist."

And how long have you lived on this island?
"My friend Wiki Puma tells me that artifacts found here have been dated from 2200 BC and the ruins speckled throughout the island date to around the 15th century."

How do you farm in such steep and rocky terrain?
"It's easy, we terrace most of the hills, leaving the land striarated with mini-farms of wheat, barley, maize and the protein-packed quinoa. The effect created resembling an island of giant steps."

How do you defend yourself?
"Defending is not so easy, in fact, now that I think about it I have no idea how we ineffectually defended this island. Being a figment of jasons imagination has its factual limitations, clearly. As the island is one of the holliest of Incan [This is what the guidebook says at least] sites and the birth of Inca creation myth, it must be that the Incas attacked better than we defended."

What exactly do you know then?
"The first thing that comes to mind is that i have long black hair, in a ponytail and wear a loincloth, though when I think about that it makes no sense seeing as we are located in the middle of the Andes at around 3800m. Once again, I blame my creator for this lack of insight."

And what about the island itself?
"Physically, the island is about 12km long, it's the biggest, of many islands doting the surface of lake titicaca and it's a serene place to live when it isn't cold [LT has never frozen over, so it doesn't get that cold] and we aren't being attacked by the future Inca and/or their future enemies, the Spanish. And perhaps, if one were visiting as a tourist, they might spend two days here hiking across the island, seeing our predecessors ruins and enjoying the peaceful demeanor of a modern tourist destination that has yet to be invaded by roads, tourist companies and fast good joints."

If you zoom in, it looks as if the islands in the background are floating. Lake Titicaca: great name, great views.

This hike, as in Sorata, was about 24km. A long day, but filled with happiness, as you can see in Beth´s face...errr, mine.

A bit desolate, but yet had whole sections of preserved ruins. This is prime time real estate for some ruins.

The land is dry and desolate, but the natives were able to manipulate this arid land into a habitable space. Beautiful views out over the lake. Not sure the balanced rocks are relics of the past.

Sorata

2010-09-08T07:11:00.000-07:00

Notice the smile, kilometer 5, max.

24 kilometers, by foot. Bolivian Independence day. A failed hostel hike. Rasta. A new place to stay. A Colombian. Some wine in a box. New moon (less pop-lit, more celestial). Bats. And a cave lake.

Kilometer 1:
Talking. Fresh: mind, body, soul and clothes.

Kilometer 2:
Downhill. Easy, breezy, beautiful co...wait.

Kilometer 3:
Dreams dashed. The promised book exchange/cafe/campground is full of M is for Murder [me] and an abundance of German pre-teen "literature" (which I imagine is a little like electronica, without the ecstasy).

Kilometer 4:
Getting hot.

Kilometer(s) 5-9:
Winding, dusty road peaks out over picturesque town sitting under 6000m high glacier. Life sucks!

Kilometer10:
Lost.

Kilometer 11:
Found. (1)

Kilometer 12:
Civilization. Kind of. A cluster of shacks with a second cluster in the rear. Coca Cola signs beginning to distinguish their welcoming selves amongst the mountainous backdrop.

Kilometer 13:
Welcome to the grotto. No, not home to a bunch of bunnies, but rather to a family of bats. Avocado, tomato and pickled onion sandwiches for lunch, an underground cave-river, replete with underground cave-river paddle boats, and a well-lighted path greeted us in the depths of the grotto. It was hot, humid and rocky. It was a cave. A pretty cave.

Welcome to the Bat Cave!

Kilometer 13.1
Coca Cola. With real sugar! We are becoming addicts. Seriously. We need an intervention. Come down here and help us. Quickly.

Kilometer(s) 13.2 - 15:
Uphill. Mid-day. Sunny day. Shockingly rabid pace. Key to success: Played music trivia games. Choose a word, then alternate turns with each person saying a song with the chosen word. It was like 3 red bulls for a previously anemically lethargic Beth. No stopping, just singing..."Save the AnnnnEeeeMals.". Beth won, this time.

Kilometer 16/17:
No more games. A bet. Vickers' wager. If Beth doesn't ask "how much longer" again, I'll piggy back her the last 50 yards.

Kilometer 18-20:
Five minute forced stops along the single lane road to watch all the buses with all the tourist--who infringed upon what was supposed to be our private grotto--get crated back to town, thus missing out on the beautiful self-inflicted dust-riddled (bus dust this time) walk.

Kilometer 21:
Getting closer. Sore feet. Nervous. Piggy back rides are best in pools...with fresh legs.

Kilometer 22:
Beth getting anxious. A big uphill to go. No more games, just sun and sweat and tired legs.

Kilometer 23:
Winner! 2 minutes after pointing out that Beth hadn't asked 'how much longer' for at least 7km, she makes the fatal mistake. Gloating. Complaints of technicalities. W-i-n-n-e-r!

Kilometer 24:
Nothing like finishing a hike by walking into a town in the midst of revelry. Parades. Flags. Streamers. Dancing. Ice cream. And Mexican food. Sweet, Tex-mex fajitas.

Revelry.

The real winner: Bolivian Independence Day in Sorata.

(1) the path is actually a road with the occasional taxi running through and filling our desolate trail with dusty ancient llama dung. Thank goodness because we hailed one of these dusters down to make sure the steep trail going off into the hills, which we bypassed for flatter ground, was not the correct path.

Index:
24 kilometers = Should be clear by now, but if not...a hike to a grotto beginning in the adventure town of Sorata, just 3 1/2 hours outside of La Paz.
Bolivian Independence day = I'll let wiki do the work here: http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolivian_War_of_Independence?wasRedirected=true
A failed hostel hike = we walked about 1 1/2 kilometers outside of town only to find the hostel full. An uphill battle back with our packs led us to...
Rasta = A new place to stay, Jamaican theme and the cheapest business in town. No Bob Marley though. I thought that was obligatory for all Rastas.
A Colombian and some wine in a box = self-explanatory.
New moon (less pop-lit, more celestial) = a potential 2 day hike was derailed, in part, by the new moon. Tourist are not supposed to hike up to a lake near Sorata the couple days proceeding a new moon as the natives are rumored to perform ceremonies during this time of the month, their time of the month.
Bats and a cave lake = there were bats and a cave lake in the grotto. Perhaps I should call it a grotto lake, though it seemed more a cave than a grotto to me.

Eating Out in Bolivia: A Vegetarian's Perspective

2010-09-07T16:21:00.000-07:00

By and large, South America on a whole has exceeded my meatless gastronomical expectations. In Argentina and Chile, that (happily) meant alot of cheese and potatoes and in Brazil, who can complain about black beans and rice? Supplemented by the much-appreciated hostel kitchen, my body was balanced, happy, and relatively healthy.

Not our pictures, but in case you needed help imagining the feasts.

Enter Bolivia. I'm not sure what happened, but I think the Spanish must have took all the chefs and recipe collections with them back to Spain in 1825. And When Bolivians designed hostels, they left out the kitchen, perhaps wondering why anyone would want to eat something besides the white rice and fried chicken stands that fill tge streets at a 2:1 ratio to the amt of people in town. As a result, i was forced into a Bolivian love affair, becoming rather intimate with two simple but hardy men, mr white rice and fried eggs.

It wasn't so much about love, or even passion, rather than necessity. They could give me what I needed: calories.

Our times together were simple. They almost always included no frills, like condiments or sauces and Mr. Fried Egg had old habits that died hard: he pretty much refused to be scrambled or hard boiled, let alone deviled or poached. We met several times a day, as a threesome for every lunch and dinner (although for breakfast I sometimes snuck around with Eggy alone in the form of a fried egg sandwich, but please keep this on the dl.)

Soon, it was really about habit more than anything else, so when the time came to call it quits at the Peruvian border, I put on a sad face to spare their feelings (after so much time together, I felt I owed them this courtesy), but on the inside i was beaming with the excitement of the unknown... A new woman with a newfound sense of freedom... Brimming with Fantasies of what delectable little offerings Peru might hold...

If the American Heart Association recommends eating no more than three of four eggs a week, by my estimation, I should not eat any more eggs (or cholesterol) for 94 weeks.

See you in 2012, Mr. McMuffin!

Crocs, and Piranhas, and Gringos! Oh My!

2010-09-06T18:01:00.000-07:00

If her tornado had taken a different turn, Dorothy might have skipped Oz and ended up in the magical land of Rurrenabaque, a tourist-saturated town 20 hours northwest of La Paz. Rurre's unique landscape gives it prime time gringo-backpacker real estate: Emerald City (the green lush that is the Amazon jungle basin) accompanied by Munchkin Land (the pampas, inhabitated by possibly the cutest little creature we've yet to encounter outside of munchkins themselves, the want-to-pinch-their-cheeks-cuties, the capybara.)

In fact, the commute to Rurre is much like Dorothy & Toto's own wild, swirling, twirling adventure. Descending a couple of thousand meters over a relatively short distance along the famous deadliest road in the world (1), the Bolivian bus (read: worse- than -a- lemon, overly-booked, people- in -the -aisles, animals- under- the -seats, Chitti-Chitti-Bang-Bang of buses), traversed a side of a steep mountain road, whirling and twirling us around and continually giving us views of our potential death hundreds of meters down the canyon. Unlike lucky, little Dorothy's open sky commute, the road is also only one lane wide in several places, requiring the drivers to reverse, with a few only feet of land on each side on an unlit road on the side of a cliff, to allow another bus going the other direction to pass. By the time we arrived, we were ten pounds lighter (water weight lost from the sweating in the sweltering heat, frostbitten (from the sweat freezing at night), and extremely happy to be alive.

Upon arrival we merrily skipped and sang our way following the brown dirt road and (probably to no ones surprise) found the cheapest digs in town, family-run Residencial Jisilene, a cute little hospedaje with hammocks overlooking the river and a friendly orphaned sheep to boot. After a little r&r, we went in search of the cheapest tour to take us to Munchkinland.

We ventured upon Munchkinland with our own little lollipop guild of 4 other gringos and a guide, 3 hours down a calm and beautiful river to Gringo Summer Camp. Along the way, we spotted hundreds of crocodiles, dozens of species of exotic birds, turtles, and the star that stole the show, the golden munchkin himself, the capybara (if unfamiliar with this munckin relative, picture the cutest 130 pound guinea pig you can imagine. The capybara is in fact the world´s largest rodent.)

Little known to the outside world, the unoffical language of Rurre and it's surrounding tour areas is our familiar friend, English. At Summer Camp, we were told of our camp activities, including meal times and the organized "volleyball time". Although we hadn't seen a volleyball in our six months in South America, it somehow made sense (?) to include this activity, since it a well known fact all white people love volleyball, even when in the pampas. We bunked up with 30 other pale people and enjoyed separate-but-equal facilities. (Gringo quarters vs Bolivian quarters, gringo dining table vs Bolivian dining table, etc. Seems Rosa Parks never made her way this far south.)

We spent the rest of our time in Pampa Munchkinland taking more trips out on the boat, spotting more crocs and caiman, birds and capybaras (who, like munchkins and gringos on this tour, hang out in groups of 10 to 30. although land animals, capycuties can miraculously stay underwater in croc infested waters for up to five minutes.)Additionally, we were introduced to the pink river dolphin, who is the uglier, less playful stepsister of our bottlenosed friends, but pretty thrilling to see in their own right.

Other gringo activities included watching two amazing sunsets on the pampas (flat grassland above the river and jungle-ly terrain below), monkey spotting, one beatiful sunrise, and "anaconda searching", which to our guide (who may have been working for the Wicked Witch of the West), inexplicably meant wearing wellies and trudging in a two feet deep thick mud pool for an hour. While all the other gringos and guides marvelled at an anaconda on the dry, sunny grass area nearby, our lollipop guild was stuck knee deep in mud, watching our more fortunate comrades on dryland finding anacondas. By the time we were out, we each had temporaily lost a shoe to the mud. Though I fell once, stuck in a crazy complicated yoga position to avoid being completely submerged in the goopy filth until someone could take the 5 minute, 4 ft journey to help me up, we made it out safely (and looking much more Bolivian with our new brown skin), but unfortunately not before the anaconda slithered away.

Though we never found the Cowardly Lion or Scarecrow, there were several Tin Men missing a heart, who spent one afternoon (cut very short in order not to miss Gringo volleyball time) hunting and killing (with a small, wallet sized piece of wood attached to fishing line and hook) pirahnas. Though our group only caught one (which was sneakily eaten at dinner to avoid being scene by the film crew of 2 from Colombia University documenting on the environmental impact of backpackers) (2), several small catfish were victims of collatoral damage.

After 3 days, we headed back to Rurre proper, still without any ruby slippers, and fretting over when our next opportunity to play volleyball would be.
Two days later, we were off again, this time to the Emerald City, located in Madidi National Park, accessible again only by boat.

After settling into camp at a gringo settlement of only ten, we headed out to hike through the jungle with our new guild of 4 plus guide, Mario, who was also in cahoots with the Wicked Witch. After learning about the medicinal and practical uses of several varieties of plants we passed, Mario began banging his machete on a large, seemingly hollow tree. Unbeknowst to us, the purpose of this "parte de la adventura" (the south American guides favorite slogan when something on a tour goes against the gringo's liking) was to release 100s of this jungles version of oz's flying monkeys, angry black bees who had formed a nest there. Harmless but annoying and stinging little buggers, the bees nestle in your hair and clothing till they can make their way to your scalp, armpits, bellybutton, to stick to you, repeatedly stinging you. Not all members of our tour were amused.

Jane of the Jungle, twice. If you have the misfortune of zooming on the pic on the right, you will see that Jason is sporting a pony tail.

After another 2 days of trekking through the forest, we discovered (unfortunately most of the time, with our noses first, a wild pig smells worse than Dickers after 4 days and no shower, which I also, unfortunately, know how that smells.) packs of 400+ wild pigs, macaws, monkeys, a puma footprint, seeds and plants used to make jewelry, and several new jokes about "Bat"s, since Mario, unable to fathom the "th" sound that does not exist in Spanish, really believed my parents named me after the night- loving creature.

Unfortunately, we still hadnt found our ruby slippers by the time we left the Emerald City. With our original return date of September 7th quickly approaching and with no way to teleport ourselves back to Kansas, we had no other option but to extend our trip. Sometimes being a cheap little bastard has it's perks.... We'll see you all in the States for Christmas. Winterwonderland Volleyball, anyone?

Bolivian Barf Bags and other food related propoganda:

2010-09-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

Cheers to you, Bolivian cuisine.

By and large Bolivia has been a revelation for us both. The people, the country, both about as far removed from stereotypes as things tend to be once you get to know them. That is all except the food. This is not to saying we've been swimming in cesspools and doning painters mask and industrail-strength cleaning gloves to simply urinate or even going the proverbial number two at break-neck rates. Neither is the definitive case, but both have occurred, helping distinguish Bolivian food from it's Southern counterparts.

The real problem, outside of the food safety standards of 1960s Turkmenistan if Turkmenistan was run by five year old intestinal masochist, is the quality, or better yet the diversity, of a xenophobic foodie. The only positive long-term effect of Evo informing the public that chicken consumption makes one homosexual (1), not that there seems to be a resounding call-to-action, is that Bolivians might consider opening up some other fast-food geared store that doesn't try to mimic KFC. Please, enough chicken Bolivia.

I'm not finished blasphemising. Chicken here is actually good, or generally fairly edible, if not at times downright tasty. It is simply ubiquitous, and eventually culinarily unexciting--yes, it is true, fried chicken slowly becomes trite, even boring. However, the real apple of my ire is arroz, or rice. It is physically, emotionally and bathroomaly impossible to rid yourself of this food staple...more like food cancer, in Bolivia.

This is NOT to say Bolivia is without its own wonderfully creative and tongue tickling grub. My favorites (and some that aren't), as I recall them:

- Western Bacon Cheeseburger: not Bolivian, buy goddamn tasty. BBQ sauce makes me think of vegetables and 1988, both made threefold more enjoyable with its advent.
- Saltenas: like an empanada who just got stuffed, sexually, by one of those tasty soup dumplings from that high class Chinese restaurant. But this is mildly sweet, as big as your palm and cost $.67.
- Piqué Machu: a carnies nightmare, or at least profit cutter. French fries, drenched in strips of steak, onion and bell pepper. Finally topped with ketchup, mayo, mustard and homemade salsa. It's served as a meal for one...or two.
- Chicharrones, aka Ricorrones (rico means delicious, in Spanish): sold in all forms, but none yet as good as Ryan farr. I've had bags of chips and old dried giants as accoutrements to sandwiches, but I've yet to try the fresh-from-the-vat-of-oil type. I'm holding judgement till my day of gourging, except to say what I've had to-date is subpar.

- 7 lunares chorizo sandwich: poison though it is, still the best chorizo since Argentina. Though it salmonella'd me in an unforgivable and ungratifying way, I forgive it because of its bold spices, saucy upbringing and picante.
- Antichuco: oh how brilliant the offal. We north americans, I'm convinced, miss out on all the best creations because we are scared, not of the creation itself, but of its name. Antichuco is bbq'd beef heart. It's thinly sliced, marinated, greased repeatedly all the while roasting o'er an open flame. Tender, juicy and melt-in-your-mouth good.
- Fruit salad: I may be a glutton, but not a fool. 5 boliviano heaps of mango (it's special, small and the best mango I've ever had.), apple, strawberry, pineapple, orange, grape and melon all topped off with nuts, cream, jello, chocolate syrup and some muesli. Parents should take note of the fruitcream Sunday.
- Trucha: aka trout. Near lake Titicaca it's on every corner. Good fish, better than most white fishies. Mainly served fried. Tasty, but Ray Reynolds makes a better one; nothing beats smoked trout.

- Fruit drinks/Api/Hot Cocoa: fresh fruit shakes w/milk, API, a purple corn drink with cinnamon, sugar and water,and hot chocolate with cinnamon. Amazing, except the Api, that was like purple colored hot slurpee--good when you want it, sickenigly sweet the rest of the time.

- Rack of Lamb: from the centrr of a massive street market, on a picnic bench, un-frenchly cut up, loaded with fat and deliciousness.
- Rice with: chuleta (thin beef), fried chicken, roasted chicken, chicken breast, orange chicken (with OJ), grilled chicken, fried eggs, wrapped in mashed taters and fried, in soup, and pretty much any other edible good. Truly beginning to hate this staple.
- Some dish I don't remember the name of: after weeks of chicken and rice I ordered a random dish. 20 minutes later out came a seasoned rice plate mixed with slow-cooked, tender and incredibly delicious beef. To boot, on top sat a perfectly fried sunny side up egg. On the side: pickled onions and peppers and some hot, fresh salsa. I got it the next three nights. 12Bs, or less than $2.
- and lastly, Salchipollo: It's truly salchipapas that are beloved here, which is sliced hot dog pan fried and dumped over a bag full of fries, then topped with mayo and fresh salsa. But, some entrepreneurs take giant bits of chicken, deep-fry them and make the same "dish". Not a revelation, but a great street food snack.

Not an exhaustive list, but a good place to start, or finish, Bolivia--a nation with food, but not foodies...

(1) not only does chicken supposedly make you gay, but so does consuming Coca Cola. Not Bolivian soft drinks, mind you, including its own Coca Colla (sic)--with coca leaf derivatives and all--just coca cola. His tenuous (understatedly) argument is that chicken is loaded with hormones, I would guess estrogen-like in their ability to bloat the breast of these imported feathered-friends, which are then transfered to the eater, thus making them gay--not sure if there is a similar, and more femine-fearing tactic in play for women. Transparently enough, or perhaps merely coincidence, apparently Bolivia imports much of its chicken and Coca Cola (registered trademark).

Bonus Material: We took this picture at a parade which featured tranvestite beauty queens on display.

Who does this remind you of?

La Paz, La Paz, La Paaaaaz

2010-08-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

¿Quiere un cerveza? I´m your man.

Two trips, one job, an obsession with festivals and a lot of walking, oh and that vicious little plague on humanity called altitude. That is our La Paz, in a nutshell.

The city itself is apocalyptic, as Beth so aptly pointed out upon arrival. A giant crater of people, endless homes, arid altiplano and no discernable differences seen from the outer rim. It appears aa a perfect melding between the death of man and the death of nature. The dusty red rock comprising the landscape blends and weaves itself perfectly into the equally dusty red architecture, or perhaps it's the other way around. The setting is eerily beautiful and unlike any other city of modernity, from the altitude to the sense of doom imparted to first time visitors it is thoroughly unique. (1)

Overlooking the apocalyptic city.

Our first visit lasted 7 days. We did very little outside of the occassional walk, predominantly because I got my first compensated "job". Yes, I have finally been recognized for my talent of consuming beer, or something along those lines. The Brew Adventure, a hostal with its own brewery in the basement, hired me on for a week of tending bar. 30 hours of work, plus a night dealing Texas Hold'em netted me a week stay for free and 25 free beers (most were 10 ouncers, if I had to venture a guess, but I got the occassional pint as well.), which were not only allowed, but encouraged to be drank on-the-job. It was fun, it was cheap and sometimes it was a complete dissaster, but definitely worth it.

The bustling side steets of La Paz. The beautiful San Francisco cathedral is the epicenter of downtown. The steeple can be seen in the background, as well as the haze of smog plaguing the city.

Some highlights of the first week include:
-Finishing the "World's hottest chicken vindaloo" challenge, thus receiving a free t-shirt for 30 minutes work.
-Eating four pancakes our first day of free all-you-can-eat breakfast, almost vomitting because pancakes are the world's dumbest breakfast, but being cheap enough to think it could stave off lunch if eaten at 10am.
- Watching the All-Star game.
- Making veggie chilli spaghetti.
- Getting free beers (before I started ¨working¨) by the cojoined efforts of Beth and myself to lug up a keg of beer five stories at just under 4000m of altitude. Not as easy as it sounds.
- Going into my first embassy. U.S.
- Using my work discount for a posh steakhouse, the first we have been in since Buenos Aires. I'd been craving some proper ribs, which I almost got. Big, fat and juicy, but without the dry rub or wet sauce tipifying American ribs. Different, but equally good (equal meaning rib-deprivation has lowered my standards).
-Walking the brilliant markets of La Paz. Every street, every day is like a professional flea market. We'd get lost wandering the streets finding anything from 90's Packer superbowl sweatshirts to llama fetuses to whole streets dedicated to selling just light bulbs/steering wheel covers/clocks/whatever-you-want (alright, no steering wheel covers, but wouldn't that be amazing). Instead of wanting to crawl in the center of those incredibly warm and comforting womb-like clothes racks and die of boredom (my normal response to shopping), every corner brought new intrigue and new hopes for a 1988 vintage, aka used, Dodgers World Series shirt. No luck, though.
- The Bollocks Quiz. A Sunday night quiz at my employers bar, which is completely full of shit. The senior barman and I make up questions, predominantly jokes we've heard or leading questions that require less-than-factual responses, he reads 10 per round to the audience, they answer, we then give points based upon the hilarity of their response. It's completely arbitrary, but led to some epically obscene responses, two of which I will duplicate here:
Note: both of these questions have correct answers, one of which I remember. Correct answer given first, quiz players' answers given second.
1. What is it illegal for Indian women to do while menstrating?
a. Enter the Taj Mahal.
b. Give out those little red bindy dots.
2. What makes 8 out of 10 boys happy?
a. I don't remember, something innane like Jesus or Snickers.
b. That they aren't the 2 out of 10 that have been raped.
Bonus: When asked what my 3 pet peaves were, one group stated: showers, work and Mexicans.
And so our night went, full of obscenities and political incorrectness.

Cheers Spain during the World Cup finals. Viva España, I guess, though I doubt the South Americans shared that same sentiment.

After retiring from the bar industry, we headed towards greener pastures, Rurrenabaque and the jungle ("Rurre" is the next post), but with plans to backtrack through La Paz the next week. For the sake of brevity, we are combining La Paz I and II.

Our return to La Paz from Rurre was less exciting, less beer-filled (though not without), more cultural and fortunately for some of you, dominated by the all-consuming addictivity of shopping, for souvenirs.

We caught up on the blog (kind-of), bought loads of sovenirs at places with names like "the witches' market" and "the black market", drank a beer with the original Andean title of "El Inca Beer", which tasted a bit like hoped up Coca Cola, visited the outside of San Pedro Prison, made famous by the 2003 book Marching Powder (2), which we both found fascinating, and even fullfilled our cultural La Paz experiences by: a) witnessing the week of parades celebrating the bicentenial of the city, literally a parade a day, (3) and b) Visiting the pre-Incan ruins at Tiwuanaku (re: Tihuanacu, Puncan Puncu, et. Al.). I'd go into details of this visit but our "English speaking guide" sounded like one of those circular kids toys which have animals depictions and when you pull a string and the arrow points to an animal it makes the correct sound. Legitimately the only decipherable word he said in 2.5 hours was "Zebra" pronounced Zay-bruh, like a Brit. Apparently it means: represents, in Spanglish. So much for culture.

And thus was our La Pazian experiment.

The entrance to the sun temple at Tiwanaku. This is the most restored portion of the temple.

(1) Feeding this sense of death-to-everything is the extreme smog. The inevitable pollution that bowl and population breed is unrivaled in this city. My inland empire upbringing, orange alerts and all, has given me a stout resistence to lingering automotive fumes. Not here. It is t-o-x-i-c.

(2) San Pedro Prison is located essentially in the center of the city. It encompasses approximately one square block, albeit a small one. The heroine (mild pun intended) of Marching Powder began introducing tourist into the prison for tours as a means to entertain himself and make a few bucks during his stay. One tourist, and future author of the the book, was so intrigued he transcribed Thomas Mcfaden's story. Briefly, it is an account of a drug smuggler landed in a Bolivian prison, but really it is a fascinating description of a unique, and sometimes horrifying (what prison isn't horrifying though?), economic model for administering a prison. There is no real regulation, prisoners are provided nothing and in fact have to PAY an entrance fee. As a result the prison has morphed into a small self-provisioning city with restaurants, housing districts (you must pay for you "cell" and often times must go through a real estate agent) of better or less repute, food stalls, cell phones and any other number of goods and services all owned and operated by prisoners. Obviously, as they are locked up, these goods must pass through the gates, which the guards allow after all the proper "tips" have been sure to pass hands. Even women and children reside in the halls of the prison, with their incarcerated patriarch (apparently generally as a result of a lack of ability to provide for the family but occassionaly as a means to keep the family unit together). Conversely, and ironically, some of the best cocaine in the world is supposed to filter out of these walls. Produced and distributed by a network of prisoners and their handlers. Outside of the tenuous and cliched romantic side-story, and the less-than-par prose, the book is well worth a read.

(3) I gorged on street food. Three chorizo sandwiches, all from different vendors. A taste of Coca Colla (sic), which is Bolivias new attempt at soft drink and taste like Snapple mint tea and doesn't get you high, in case you were curious. And lastly, a stick of chocolate covered strawberries, for dessert.

Beerometer: yes, a new meter, for a new man, a sometimes employed man. Staying a week in a microbrewery has its advantages, or at least its advantage, that being beer. Admittedly I followed the rules of free, mostly, but I was sure to take advantage of the 2 liter, 17 Boliviano beer discount provided me as a member of the staff. Lagers, Ambers, Negras and Stouts were all available. Most were unexceptional (though all were tasty enough), unless compared to the national beer, Pacena, which makes these seem interesting enough to be Belgian's best. The tastiest option, and one of the best beers I've had in South America, was the Amber. Delicious, not too sweet, interesting undertones and though listed at 6% something, the brewmaster claimed it was much nearer 8.5%, a claim I'm willing to vouch for as it has a definite Racer 5 effect. Outside of the freedom-limiting a job tends to entail, the brewery and its abundance of beers was about the best way to drink away a week in La Paz.

The brewmaster is a 40-something Nittany Lion fan from Texas who may or may not have a Bolivian baby on the way (one bollocks quiz question was: When doesn't [name expunged] buy condoms?) and has been banned from drinking at the bar by management, details of which were elusive to me. For some reason this seems important to know when considering the beer. Next up on his to-do list: experiment with home brewed cider. Biggest hold-up: No cheesecloth in Bolivia.

Beth cheesin´ because she is half a flight away from our second free beers of the trip.

Note on the Title: at every bus terminal, or rather on every side street that buses depart from (few cities have proper bus stations and even when they do, they only serve the biggest cities, if those), the driver can be found rhythmically and obnoxiously chanting the name of the city for which the bus is departing. This is in part due to the fact the bus won't depart for said destination until full. It is also the most commonly attributed cause of irritation during our many delayed travels through Bolivia. La Paz, La Paz, La Paaaaazzzzz, can literally be heard throughout the country. Try it yourself...

Uyuni

2010-08-15T18:58:00.000-07:00

Salt Flats at sunset.

Widely acclaimed as one of South Americas most impressive sights, I'm going to agree, but with a giant asterisk, two in fact:
One being I have not seen all of SA, thus cannot verify this general claim. And two, there is a fatal flaw. The way in which the general backpacker populace views this phenomenal landscape is the same way in which one would experience the zoo if you were a caged animal, from the inside out.

We spent three days touring the solar de Uyuni. But, in actuality we spent three days in a Land Rover (yes, to my unending surprise they have Land Rovers aplenty in touristic Bolivia).

How to describe the Solar? A land devoid of anything but tourist and salt. An endless reach of salt, lacking in total perspective outside of the occasional pyramid-like heap set aside for the purpose of salt production, or rather, salt harvesting. Nothing grows, nothing lives. A place where truly only starkness, sun and salt reside. This fact alone makes it unique and forces you into some contemplative stare, or would, except you are trapped in a vehicle speeding across a wasteland incapable of sustaining life, but filled with tourist and Bolivians yapping away.

It's no surprise that this desert, this wonderland of natural beauty, was the inspiration behind many a Dali painting (our tour company's name: Dali Tours), but I will bet that he did not witness it through a Toyota manufactured lens.

The Solar and its surrounding area is definitely one of the most beautiful placed we've seen, we thoroughly enjoyed every 30 minute stop and accompanying photo op and we even enjoyed our carfull of traveling companions. But the way to see such places, the only way to truly know them, is not in carfulls, but by your own two feet.

[Note: Apparently, in places, the salt reaches up to 12m in depth. That's a lot of salt.]

Without further ado, our snap-tour journey through the land of Salt, Sun and Stars:

Text for UYUNI....

Nothing PG comes to mind...

Squish.

Be quiet or I´ll eat you.

New meaning to Moustache Ride?

Rock on? Given the boot? I hate Dickers?

I am the Buddha, cu-cu-ca-choo.

My shadow finds me irresistible.

Lady Justice.

Squash.

Dali´s rock.

A Three Part Series:

Good Day, Bad Day...

Great Day!

Get. Off. My. Hand.

Dios Mios! Diablos Mios!

2010-08-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

A mouthful of coca leaves and sweltering heat is fine for a few hours, but does not an easy life make.

Part I: The Heavens

Auspicious beginnings is what one would expect from a city unmatched in either number of churches per capita or pure architectural cleanliness and beauty of those churches. It is a city of extremes: geography, culture, climate and religion. Unfortunately, the extremities applied in Potosi are not just pillars of its earthly piety, but there is a palpable sense that the city itself is reaching towards the heavens. At over 4000+ meters--give or take, 13000 feet--it is considered the highest city in the world. (1)

Altitude sickness reportedly affects up to 25% of people not accustomed to venturing up to such extreme heights. For our little half-pack, it was 50%.

Altitude sickness, for those happily at sea-level, traverses the spectrum from mild headaches caused by less oxygen in the air and resulting dehydration to potentially fatal pulmonary or cerebral edemas. The laundry list of symptoms make a nyquil commercial seem incredibly tame.

This is the condition I found Beth in at 330am when she failed to make it back from the bathroom. I got worried, checked on her and felt as if I'd just walked into a lifetime afterschool special. After asking if she was ok and getting the slow drawled response: "I'mmmmm sick", I asked her to open the door. Ten seconds later the door swings open to what should have been a cloud of reefer, at least based upon her condition. Her eyes were glazed and almost rolling back into her head, her body nearly flaccid and everything she did was in slow-motion. After making sure she was alive I ran to the room to get some water only to return to bedlam, or more accurately, bed-floor. She was sprawled, like a stoned snow angel or a dog on a tile floor in summertime, across the bathroom floor. This from the girl who gets angry if I set our backpack on a hostel floor.

After force feeding her water, reading the lonely planet guide about cerebral edema and putting a much more cognizant Beth to bed, we realized that she would be fine after a few days, as her symptoms were mild and short-lived. However, her next few days were to be confined to rest, relaxation, Spanish telenovelas, top raman and lots of cocai...coca tea.

An acclimatizing and two days later we were ready to celebrate the worlds favorite holiday, The Fourth of July. Bolivia isn't a bastion of American touchy-feeley sentiment, so our hopes for a firework-filled day rested in our sometimes-capable hands. We wandered the streets and found a party store, piñatas and all, which even had fireworks. Unfortunately they were industrial strength and I figured it'd be best to maintain my independence during Independence day--no need to find myself in Bolivian jail for accidentally setting fire to one of the plethora of churches. Our fallback option was to find a US flag car air freshener, which have an oddly ubiquitous presense in Bolivian taxis, and hang it up to everyones disdain. Also a failure. We settled with a "tener" of Potosina and listening to Lee Greenwood on the iTouch. Not exactly a summer 'que with budweiser, baseball and the weekly standard, but plenty patriotic in heart, effort and mind.

* * *

Part II: The Descent

Yin and yang. Cathedrals galore. Mines-a-more. Heavenly hands. Devilish soles. As high as Potosi reaches towards the heavens, its journey towards the depths of hell is even more astounding.

I've panned gold before. Outdoors, a spry, fresh-faced 8-year old sloshing what I now think of as a camping plate through a quaint little river in the great outdoors of Tahoe. It was fun. I no longer have any preconceived notions, however small they might have been, towards the gilded and slightly glorified nature of precious metals, in particular how they are extracted from this earth.

With Beth still reeling from the altitude and unsure about her role in a tour of a working mine, I set out to visit the depths of the mine overlooking and underwriting the city of Potosi. (2)

I met the guide, by the uniquely Latin name of Freddy, and the two other members of my mine party at 8:50am so we could share in a bit of the ritualistic coca tea beforehand. The entrance of the mine is at about 4300 meters and the tea is supposed to help with the altitude. We summarily departed, by microbus--essentially Bolivias version of public transportation--to a back-alley shack containing the necessities required for mining: water-proof boots, plastic-y pants/jacket, helmet and a lantern attachment with an enormous generator of car battery likeness. The only notable, and apparently western, apparatus missing was an air filter. (3) Decked out in our miners garb we departed with the rest of Potosi, on our second micro of the day, towards the mine luming over the city.

Our first, of many, eye opening encounters was not seeing a 12-year old boy working the dust-laden mines, as we'd heard tell of, but rather a 65-year old widow staked out in front of the mines. (4) Apparently if the husband dies the widow receives a small stipund, but nowhere near enough to live. So, often times the woman will suppliment this meager income by helping to sort through smaller piles of rocks to make sure nothing of value has leaked through the cracks. The job pays little, leaves her exposed to the sun all day (excepting a tiny little hovel made of rock, equivalent to a kid-designed fortress), and though she was at the time sitting, I have no doubt it is a physically strenous job, not toil that somebody of 65 years of age is meant to be doing to their body. For this reason it is clear that these womens circumstances have forced them into their position: an incredible hard and, no doubt thankless, job, at the age of a grandmother.

The old woman can be seen on the right with Freddy divvying out coca leaves.

From there we entered the mine. In terms of climate it was at times hot, at other times cold, but always humid. I have to admit that from what we saw, the conditions were not as bad as my imagination had created. There were no giant boulders careening towards us, no pitfalls to the depths of hell and no dead parrots warning us of immenent doom, though perhaps this last would be a useful, if ominous, addition.

This is not to insight luxuriousness, because it was in fact miserable. At times the dust was so thick I couldn't see my own feet, which is incredibly fear-inducing as there are holes up to 80m deep, not to mention the havoc this wreakes on peoples respiratory systems. And altough we did not encounter any 12-year old kids we did meet a 16 and 17-year old tandem clearing rock into mine-carts in a fog of dust with only coca leaves as a barrier to entry from the poisonous particles. We were told that, because it was during a school break, we would find many younger people at work here. Instead of getting summer jobs at Burger King or some religious based campground, kids come to the mines. It makes flipping patties and gaining a third-degree acne case seem like winning your first scratcher.

The miners filling up the mine car to be pushed out for mineral extraction.

We spent a total of about 2 1/2 hours inside of the mine. Much of this was spent walking through relatively flat ground, watching human-powered winches lift minerals from the 100m deepths of the mine, and even helping push a dislodged mine-cart. A prerequisite to entrance, enforced by the guide, is the purchase of a bundle of gifts for the miners. Our noble Frenchman bought all the sinful gifts: cigarettes, 96% "potable" alcohol and coca leaves. That being accounted for, the English girl and I purchased copious amounts of Cola products, which apparently the miners love because of the overwhelming heat of the mines. When not walking, we were watching the day-to-day task of the miners and divvying out Colas, which seem simple enough gifts, but were all received with great thanks. A small gesture, on both sides, but one that made the experience feel much less divided and unfair, given that both inherently existed.

Stifling dust combined with water and a hydrolic drill make for messy work.

Considering we were privvy to experiencing an actual working mine, the experience felt genuinely safe, which is a testament either to our tour guide's choice of viewing or of the safety standards set forth by this particular collective, as opposed to government sponsored.(5) The one part of the tour, nearing the end, which put the old sphincter on orange alert, was the 80m decent to the "new" tunnel. Two shafts about 40m deep, with approximately five 20 foot ladders had to be descended. These ladders are not Sears lifetime insured ladders, they are janky, dilipadated pieces of pre-Colombian wood. You descend one ladder to a platform which has a hole adjacent to the next ladder descending further down to another platform.. The entire time you are in a 5 foot diameter shaft, stepping upon jiggling footholds that feel as though they should have snapped in half ninety steps ago and you are just waiting to start tumbling and tumbling and tumbling. At the bottom we saw drillers, dust and dynamite, which didn't ease my worries of ascending, especially after Freddy looked at his watch warning us we had to hurry because the dynamite gets setoff everyday before lunch at 12:30, 5 minutes from when we started climbing.

What goes down must come up.

I made it without falling, which ironically enough gave me a chance to meet what some might call my maker, Uncle Tio, also know as The Devil. In an effort to reap more silver and zinc out of the mines, and in what makes perfectly logical sense to me, the miners, who appear to be god-fearing people above ground, give alms to the devil below it. The cigarettes, alcohol and coca leaves, which at first I believed to be for the miners, were actually for who they call Uncle Tio. A little alter of a devil sits in one of the tunnels and every miner, tourist and guide comes to pay respect to the holder of the underworld and by extension, the precious metals. So, this is how I came to meet the devil. Freddy lighted a smoke, put it in the altars mouth, quite a hilarious sight I must admit, especially considering the cigarette stayed alight through its quick burning life. Then he dumped coca leaves over the devil and poured a little booze ontop, in some fanciful bruja-like concotion of sin. Next, we passed the 96% booze around like a game of chug-and-pass, took a few photos and headed back to the world of sunshine and meadows, thus ending our foray as miners and, hopefully, cutting our short-lived chord to the devil.

The devil and his domain of coca leaves, booze and a half-smoked cigarette.

A few notes not covered above, or below:
- Pachamama, or mother earth, also oversees the mine. Women, outside of tourist, are not supposed to enter the mine. It's not some antiquated sexist argument, but rather a belief that Pachamama is a jealous overseer and thus will take her seething anger out upon the miners for betraying her.
- The gov't gives money to those suffering from lung silicosis, but only after 80% lung compacity is gone. And, according to Freddy it is a meager sum, not nearly enough to live.
- likewise, these same miners can't live in Potosi any longer because there lungs are unable to cope with the decreased oxygen at altitude. They are forced to move to sucre/cochambamba, or some alternate city at lower altitude.
- Though we did not encounter any kids as young as 12 in the mines, it does happen, in particular in the less regulated collective mines.
- Freddy claimed as many as 8-10-12-15 deaths a year occur, but his disclaimer was that many were alcohol related. This is unconfirmed, as is most of what Freddy said.
- Miners can't eat inside the mines, though Im unclear as to why. So lunch, generally taken inside the mine, consist of coca leaves and Cola products.
- Once a year, during the month of June, Llama sacrifices are held. Either for Pachamama, the devil, or both, they are killed, eaten and bring good mining. We just missed these Friday night bashes, or rather, I did, as I'm sure Beth would dissapprove of such "senseless" slaughtering.

(1) Though I know not the definition of city, I would guess it is a quantifiable number of citizens. I would also guess there are plenty of smaller towns well above this altitudal threshold, but maybe not towns that brew their own beer, which is my own personal reqirement for city status: a brewery, or in Spanish: fabrica de cerveza.

(2) Freddie, the mine guide, claims that within 60 years the mine will be thoroughly decipated of anything worth value on the open market. When I asked, in incredibly broken Spanish, what next for Potosi, he said "tourism". An ominous answer for the future of a surprisingly gorgeous, not to mention fairly modernized, town--tourism already a considerable and thriving part of the economy. I can't imagine an influx so great after the mine (arguably it's second biggest tourist draw outside of being the highest city in the world) closes to counterbalance the loss of jobs for most of the towns general populace workforce.

Me and Freddy, BFF.

(3) The only miners in possesion of air filters were the driller/dynamiters. Freddy claimed it was optional for regular miners, but as the chewing of coca leaves served the same purposes, everyone simply opted for them as their preventative health maintenance of choice. Sounds a bit like the old tried and true "pull-out" method to me. Fitting for a Catholic country, even.

(4) I say mines because it is one mountain, but there are numerous different groups with their own distinct inroads into the mountain. The two main types of groups are the government sponsored and the collective. Each have their own cells, probably numbering (and this is a somewhat dubious number) close to 50 groups for each type, all with their own separate mines within the mountain.

(5) the major difference between collective and government sponsored mines is the ways in which the miners are compensated. In the government mines the regular miners are paid per day, according to Freddy. In collectives there is a percentage distribution based upon the load found. The boss gets the predominant amount, 50% or so, in part because he also supplies the miners with all the tools, instruments and dynamite needed. The equivalent of the Forman, his underlings, like veterans, then split up the rest, with the Forman getting a higher percent. The younger group, the more unexperienced and the temporary workers, get a per-cart-load-extracted-from-the-mine rate, regardless of what they find. 7 Bolivianos, or $1 US, per cart-load. Freddy claimed they could do about 10 loads a day, or $10 US. In money terms, he claimed on a good month the veteran miners could make 3000 Bolivianos or more, but the next might be less than a 1000, or theoretically nothing, if they found nothing. As a bit of an aside, the workers in government mines had set work hours, while collectives generally worked 5 days a week, but sometimes worked more--and were paid a higher proportion of the find as a result--because their pay is contingent upon what they uncover.

Meat Meter: On hiatus for too long in expensive Brazil and chicken-lickin' dominated Bolivia, its slowly making a comeback. In Potosi I devoured my first llama burger, no doubt a touristic schtick, but tasty and very similar to a hamburger. Apparently it also contains, or decontains, half the fat. My first, and hopefully last, accidentally healthy meal. Cheers to llamas, the mangy spitters, but oh so tasty.

Samaipata: Return of the Tent

2010-08-04T09:03:00.000-07:00

Howler monkeys, clearly attracted to the essence of a like-smelled soul.

Small towns are inexplicably safer, more enjoyable and entirely more friendly than their large city counterparts. I think this is the case across the world. In fact, outside of cultural relativity, I'm certain of it. And Samaipata--a two hour taxi ride outside of Santa Cruz--might just be the perfect counterbalance to the big city depravity.

As with most great places we'd first heard about it via backpackers, then realized it was in the guidebook, and finally relegated ourselves to our lonely planet fate. By any source, rumor had it that a solstice festival of Bolivian proportions--and if you've ever seen a Bolivian woman..,(1)--was to take place during the upcoming weekend. We also read of tons of hiking and some pre-colombian ruins and most importantly we learned it wasn't Santa Cruz. Sold.

Our first and most unique experience took place at the local zoo, or more accurately the tiny little refuge which allows tourist a chance to pay-to-play with exotic animals. The theory is nice: abandoned or mistreated wildlife from the surrounding area, cute and cuddly animals from boars to monkeys and goats to parrots, tennant the cages until they are ready to be rereleased into the wild, or as is the case much of the time, find themselves permanent residences because they are no longer fit to fend for themselves (Darwin would probably fire-bomb the place). It's a win-win situation really. Tourist get to experience first-hand, unintrusive nature while at the same time funding the wild-equivalent of the SPCA.

We swung spider monkeys through the air, marveled at macaws three feet away, saw a three legged feline about the size of two housecats who genuinely spewed bitterness and resentment at the world and had howler monkeys clamoring for our attention.(2) It was not all fun and games though, some animals seemed to have assimilated themselves towards human devices a bit too much. After forcing the male howler off my lap, he either decided to get revenge or show me who's boss by proceeding to attempt an ascent up beths skirt. The handlers got to him before anything scandalous occured, though I'm pretty sure I saw him flash me a sneaky grin of victory on his way down the stairs. Note: Beth was unharmed during this visit and I think even a bit flattered, if a bit put-off by the forward nature of the monkey, by the whole experience.


Jason getting bandied about by a little monkey.

The next evening was the all-night, top-o-the-hill solstice festival. By evening we'd recruited (or been recruited) a garrison of 7 gringos, obscene amounts of Bolivian beer and the infamously dangerous and hangover inducing Ron Cubano, or cheapest rum in the world. We met in the main plaza (small town, it's like Wal-Mart for the Midwest, you stay there long enough and the whole town will venture through) and after some pre-Rons hailed the hour and a half long taxi. By the time we got there every spot had been claimed but the wind-rattling section on the side of the hill. Due to beer consumption along the way we stumbled through setting up the two tents (the point is to stay up all night and watch sunset, hence our 1am arrival), wandered the vendors a bit, saw the fire from afar, missed the 2am dancing because there wasn't a seat in the house left, I drank a bottle of vinegar with an Englishman who was convinced it contained booze (3), and eventually we were all in bed well before sunrise. The most exciting part of the night was the girls fending off a drunken Bolivian trying to get into the tent and the return of my one stolen shoes by some good Samaritan.

Two days later, and many hours napping outside of our tent or resting in the hammocks of our amazing campground by the name of El Jardin, we had recovered...from the lack of sleep compelled upon us by the all-night solstice festival.

The main tourist draw of the area surrounding samaipata is the rich tropical forest. Tours between from anywhere between 1 and 16 days are offered. We tried to catch on with a four day fishing tour (which included much boating, non-fishing nature activities and vegetarian cuisine), but were unable to find two more suitors--a minimum of four people being required by the guide. So, we settled for an all-day hike through the cloud forest an hour and a half outside of town. It was an easy meandering hike through lushly green forest. The highlight of the lowlands is an ancient fern tree, perhaps 10-15 feet in height and all well over, if i remember correctly a 100 years in age. But, the pinnacle of the hike comes when you enter the dense layer of clouds that is starkly different than the surrounding lowlands. Moss drapped trees dominate the highlands with a dense layer of moisture coating your skin as you enter into a vastly differently ecosystem created by the accumulation of moisture. The entire forest from tree tops to ground level morphs into a moldy breeding ground of damp. The only drawback was that it was also a home for ticks, one of which attacked me with great zeal. If not for the guides handy, "turn right three times then extract from skin" rule of thumb, I might have turned into some bumbling degenerative fool with a fondness for poop pies and fingerpaints and thus never been able to tell this story--that's not true, apparently south America doesn't have lymes disease, the head was removed and I wouldn't digress into nincompoopness that quickly, but I admittedly was concerned, at the time, of contracting some incurable South American disease. Alas, I am well and our jaunt through Amboro National park was thoroughly enjoyable and most rewarding in that for the first time in days we got out of our hammocks and trolled the area for flora and fauna.

A day and two book exchanges later we headed west towards the judicial capital of Bolivia, Sucre. (4)

(1) Bolivian women, by all accounts, appear to be truly matriarchial, inspiration to the likes of Jewish mothers and Gloria Steinum, alike.. They work, they tend home, they bare godawful amounts of children, and they deal with Bolivian men. Men-- notorious for their intemprance, disdain for work and, well, perhaps I should stop there as I'm noticing some commonalities here between Bolivian men and a certain blogger...named Beth.

(2) maybe the cutest damn thing I've ever seen: howler monkey perched on my lap. Me never having experienced this before, I treated him like a dog, scratching/petting/bonding. After 10 minutes I'd had enough, so I stopped. Howler, however, hadn't, so he reached back, grabbed my hand and began petting himself with my hand until I took back over. Then the female monkey, who'd previously been locked up in a cage on time-out for bad behavior (personification gone feral) came over and ruined our moment.

(3) to his credit the woman selling vinegar was claiming it contained alcohol of some unknown percent. I do not believe that the "red wine vinegar" had a lick of booze, but I drank my fill anyway.

(4) book exchanges have been surprisingly friendly, for the most part, but nothing has compared to Samaipata. Half the towns businesses are owned by foreigners and half those again have legitimately good book selections. So, it was with a gay little trot that I left town with Blood Meridian and a book of short stories by Philip Roth.

Note: The best part of our campground was the copious amounts of orange trees and the accompanying juicer, which the owners gave unlimited access to for campers. Nothing says last nights cheap rum don't hold me down like fresh OJ.

Dinosaur statues of South America aint got nothin on the San Bernardino County museum.

Beth Loves Dogs

DECISION, 2010

2010-08-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

Winner, winner. After long debate and a realization that the wit of our friends, though mainly humorous, contains an aire of the disturbing, we've chosen a winner. But before the winner is announced, as would only be fair, we are listing our Letterman-like bakers top 11, in no particular order:
10) Tree Humper
9) Tree Huggers do it better
8) Once you go green, you never go back
7) "When Nature Calls..." Big Johnson
6) I wanna take a ride on your disco stick
5) Tree: "What, I lost my underwear."
Pee Wee Herman: "That's what I said."
4) Welcome to Prince Albert State Park
3) Morning Wood
2) I went to the Amazon and all I got was this strap-on.
1) Dick pics are soooo 2008
0) Tree hugging: never felt so good
-1) Madidi Style: pre-Colombian, pre-Colonization, pre-MISSIONARY (note: Madidi is the name of the park, and possibily the name of the tree, if we understood our guide correctly.)

And without further ado:

Honorable mention: To Wang, for the most vividly disturbing entry. To Jaime, for her sheer force of will. And to Spencer, for correctly recognizing the trees threeing.

3rd place: For the un-oft used dendrophobia, "A nymphomaniac dendrophobic's ultimate tough decision", April Bible.

2nd place: For bringing the blogger down a notch, Kimberly "KY" Sadler, with "Dickers sat and contemplated the purple-headed warrior tree that suddenly left him feeling unworthy of his nickname..."

And the Winner and proud owner of a future souvenir of unprecedented stature, Arlen Marking with "Imagine having to get a circumcision with a chain-saw."