why can't i find the words? i was on such a high. loving life. living each day. such a cliche but such a truth. wishing it would never end. addicts are right, the come-down is always the worst. somebody get me a cigarette, i feel a craving coming on..
i wake up and wish i was somewhere foreign. because what was foreign became familiar and what was familiar is now foreign. i love my family. i love my friends. but i am not me here--not everything i can be. a fish out of water. i don't feel inspired. i don't feel like i'm moving. stagnant and stuck. sometimes i feel lonelier here than when i was by myself. there was a camaraderie, an understanding, an instant bond, it seemed, between me and everyone else. i can't relate here. was it escape? so many people walked in and out of my life this year. moreso than my whole existence? no, of course not, but it feels that way sometimes. sonia annaraquel rodolfo anthony annamette helen peter kristofer leonie mez franky michael tomas lydia steve jamie caroline benjamin jeanette belinda nathan jedda rafael lolo javier saskia christina mette ed graham lawrence shaun gustavo mitch kate eddy martin ivan carlos pablo agustin nick sophie a million names i can't remember and will never forget, everyone and no one. we shared a beer, shared a story, shared a taxi, shared a fear, shared a love, shared advice, shared tears, shared laughs, shared beauty, shared ugliness, shared a language, shared the basic essence of humanity, gave everything and held back nothing. because why hold back? what do you have to lose? and why does it has to be so different here? grasping and catching only air, slipping silently through my fingers.
how easily do i fall back into routine. why such a straight line? i want to live spherically, in every direction.
i want to go to mexico. want to grow heady with the scent of indian spices. trek through the himalayas. party in the se asia loop before i get too hold to hang with the gap yahs. buy a rug in morocco. see petra in jordan. wake for sunrise over the nile. take the trans-siberian railroad. drink vodka in moscow. swim in havasupai falls. float in the dead sea. lose sleep during the midnight sun. samba in salvador. wander bazaars in istanbul. camp with bedouins in the sahara. find an oasis. be blinded by the white of santorini. walk the great wall. marvel at the aurora borealis. live in latin america. make it to the end of the world. see taste touch feel hear. all five senses. somebody take me away?
2.8.10
28.7.10
on love.
"for if every true love affair can feel like a journey
into a foreign country,
where you can't quite speak the language,
and you don't know where you're going,
and you're pulled even deeper into the inviting darkness,
every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair,
where your left puzzling over who you are,
and who you've fallen in love with.
all the great travel books are love stories, by some reckoning-
from the odyssey to the aeneid,
to the divine comedy and the new testament-
and all good trips, are,
like love,
about being carried out of yourself
and deposited in the midst of terror and wonder.
and,
if travel is like love,
it is, in the end,
mostly because it's a heightened state of awareness,
in which we are mindful,
receptive,
undimmed by familiarity
and ready to be transformed.
that's why the best trips,
like the best love affairs
never
really
end."
-pico ayer, excerpt from why we travel.
1.7.10
iguazuuuuuuu
foz de iguazu from aboveonce i arrived in puerto igauzu, i dumped my backpack at the nearest hostel, conveniently located across the street from the bus terminal, and bundled up in my warmest clothes for a cooooold trip into in the jungle.
iguazu falls is a stunning combination of 275 individual falls pouring out of the amazon basin. legend has it a god planned to wed a beautiful aborigine, who fled with her mortal lover in a canoe. a typical man, the god was angered and sliced the iguazu river, creating the waterfalls and thus condemning the damned lovers to an eternal fall.
coitas, raccoon-like scavengers and curious little buggers, liked to make faces at my camera and beg for snacks before swinging back up into the trees. bluebirds, toucans and butterflies played tag in the lush vegetation. i heard the wildlife was better on the brazilian side, but as i had no visa and no intentions of forking over $135 for some more raccoons, i made do with the argentine animales.
you wander through the jungle on these elevated walkways that skirt the falls, weaving through the dense canopy and over rivers, watching the water rush faster and faster, mist blurring the air and fogging your view, the thunderous roar of pure power growing louder with every step. my clothes oscillated between damp and wet the whole day, because even though i was conned into buying one of those garbage-bag-with-hole rain jackets, i couldn't bring myself to actually wear it. and when you are at the mouth of the garganta del diablo, the devil's throat, next to thousands of gallons of white water pouring into the churning chasm below, staying dry is out of the question.
notice the different in weather? yeah. COLD.the sheer, raw, natural power of the falls was nothing short of humbling. i stood for hours simply marveling at the intricate and artistic handiwork. i know i have said this over and over again, but i have just been so lucky to have seen so many magnificent places in this world that just make me feel small. small in the presence of something so big. such a small part in the incredible majesty of nature. i couldn't stop wondering what it would have been like to have discovered such a magical place, untouched by human hands. it made me want to find undiscovered places, to get off the beaten track, to get dirty, to get lost. just as long as i don't fall off the edge of a waterfall.
30.6.10
salud!!
and now we enter the 'posts from the past' stage, as yours truly became blissfully enamored with the argentinian way of life--namely dining at 10, drinkin' and dancin' till 6, sleeping till noon, then lazing my days with the rest of the porteños at parks and cafes until the cycle started all over again--and thus slightly neglected this lil' ol' blog. hey, when in rome...
so, let me take you back.
mendoza is argentina's premier wine-producing region, producing some 80% of the grape juice. i would be lying through my teeth if that wasn't my main reason for visiting--the moment i entered argy, my wino tendencies of my rome days kicked into full gear, and i was itching to get to the good stuff.
to be fair, the lovely city of mendoza has lots more to travelers than purple-stained teeth. wide tree-lined avenues, shady trees offering solace from the arid sun. numerous parks and plazas, lovers stealing kisses and hippies selling rasta jewelery. fun-loving locals who are all too willing to take you out to one of mendoza's many many many discos. days lazed by, sharing mate in the plaza independencia and having massive asados (argentine-style bbqs) with the laid-back hostel staff. nights were a techno-tainted blur, going out well after midnight and blinking at the first rays of sunlight on drives home. mornings-afters that were just as fun as night-befores.
it seemed, thought, that there was this new mendozian activity that is all the rage in the backpacker world. for me, it started with a free glass of vino from a wine museum and ended with a police escort. i have just three words for you: bicycle. wine. tour.
we bused out to the small wine-producing town of maipu, rented bikes from the rather infamous mr. hugo, received a map of the 14 bodegas and headed on our merry way. the sun was shining, the birds were singing, my bike had a basket and the first bodega on our map gave out free wine! life, my friends, was good.
stop #1: the wine musuem. we took photos next to massive wine barrels and snuck free glasses of the house malbec. the woman giving the tours correctly gauged our true interests and left out a couple of open bottles for us to taste.
stop #2: liqueur and chocolate shop. no wine to be found, just hunks of dark chocolate, gloriously bittersweet, peach-rum jam, sun-warmed olive oil, creamy spoonfuls of hazelnut dulce de leche and absinthe. it burned for a straight 5 minutes. 75% alcohol will do that to you.
midway--peddling starts to get extremely difficult. i think it's the absinthe. turns out to be a flat tire.
stop #3: while we wait for my replacement bike to arrive (sadly, without basket), the group shares a nice young bottle of cab sav.
stop #4: we wandered through the vineyards at tempus alba, sunned ourselves on their rooftop patio and sopped up some of the booze with a glorious bread and cheese plate. and tasted three wines, claro.
midway--damien tries biking with no hands, things go a bit awry. biking in a straight line because a fun challenge. where is the next winery?
stop #5: an american guy in our tasting group at familia de tomosa bodega asks when we get to try tequila. he was also drinking rum and coke through his camelback. more wine consumed. we learned out to detect the difference between young and old malbec grapes. i could not tell you the difference now.
midway--i get the sensation that someone is following me. YES. i got one of the legendary police moto escorts. he followed us for a bit, noticed our maroon-tinged teeth and the fluent spanish that comes with a certain amount of alcohol consumption, and gave us directions to the cerveceria. i love argentina.
stop #6: we decide to switch things up - boutique beer time at a cervezeria. a fantastic dark beer that is as light as a normal ale but full of flavor and no where near as heavy as stout. two pints down.
ride home--now best friends with police escort, helped a dog and her four puppies cross the road, passed the bike rental shop three times before we made it home.
stop #8: free wine at mr. hugos! bounce house! aaaannnnndddd....we're down for the count.
honestly, one of the best days of my trip. sipping delicious wine, biking through leafy wineries in the autumn-soaked sunshine, laughing learning loving living. good wine and great company--life really doesn't get better than that!
and, photos from salta, cachi-cafayate loop, mendoza
so, let me take you back.
mendoza is argentina's premier wine-producing region, producing some 80% of the grape juice. i would be lying through my teeth if that wasn't my main reason for visiting--the moment i entered argy, my wino tendencies of my rome days kicked into full gear, and i was itching to get to the good stuff.
to be fair, the lovely city of mendoza has lots more to travelers than purple-stained teeth. wide tree-lined avenues, shady trees offering solace from the arid sun. numerous parks and plazas, lovers stealing kisses and hippies selling rasta jewelery. fun-loving locals who are all too willing to take you out to one of mendoza's many many many discos. days lazed by, sharing mate in the plaza independencia and having massive asados (argentine-style bbqs) with the laid-back hostel staff. nights were a techno-tainted blur, going out well after midnight and blinking at the first rays of sunlight on drives home. mornings-afters that were just as fun as night-befores.
it seemed, thought, that there was this new mendozian activity that is all the rage in the backpacker world. for me, it started with a free glass of vino from a wine museum and ended with a police escort. i have just three words for you: bicycle. wine. tour.
we bused out to the small wine-producing town of maipu, rented bikes from the rather infamous mr. hugo, received a map of the 14 bodegas and headed on our merry way. the sun was shining, the birds were singing, my bike had a basket and the first bodega on our map gave out free wine! life, my friends, was good.
stop #1: the wine musuem. we took photos next to massive wine barrels and snuck free glasses of the house malbec. the woman giving the tours correctly gauged our true interests and left out a couple of open bottles for us to taste.
stop #2: liqueur and chocolate shop. no wine to be found, just hunks of dark chocolate, gloriously bittersweet, peach-rum jam, sun-warmed olive oil, creamy spoonfuls of hazelnut dulce de leche and absinthe. it burned for a straight 5 minutes. 75% alcohol will do that to you.
midway--peddling starts to get extremely difficult. i think it's the absinthe. turns out to be a flat tire.
stop #3: while we wait for my replacement bike to arrive (sadly, without basket), the group shares a nice young bottle of cab sav.
stop #4: we wandered through the vineyards at tempus alba, sunned ourselves on their rooftop patio and sopped up some of the booze with a glorious bread and cheese plate. and tasted three wines, claro.
midway--damien tries biking with no hands, things go a bit awry. biking in a straight line because a fun challenge. where is the next winery?
stop #5: an american guy in our tasting group at familia de tomosa bodega asks when we get to try tequila. he was also drinking rum and coke through his camelback. more wine consumed. we learned out to detect the difference between young and old malbec grapes. i could not tell you the difference now.
midway--i get the sensation that someone is following me. YES. i got one of the legendary police moto escorts. he followed us for a bit, noticed our maroon-tinged teeth and the fluent spanish that comes with a certain amount of alcohol consumption, and gave us directions to the cerveceria. i love argentina.
stop #6: we decide to switch things up - boutique beer time at a cervezeria. a fantastic dark beer that is as light as a normal ale but full of flavor and no where near as heavy as stout. two pints down.
ride home--now best friends with police escort, helped a dog and her four puppies cross the road, passed the bike rental shop three times before we made it home.
stop #8: free wine at mr. hugos! bounce house! aaaannnnndddd....we're down for the count.
honestly, one of the best days of my trip. sipping delicious wine, biking through leafy wineries in the autumn-soaked sunshine, laughing learning loving living. good wine and great company--life really doesn't get better than that!
and, photos from salta, cachi-cafayate loop, mendoza
inspiration
"the world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked
it will have no choice
it will roll in ecstasy at your feet"
--kafka
"our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again,
we had longer ways to go.
but no matter, the road is life"
-kerouac
"for my part, i travel not to go anywhere,
but to go.
i travel for travel's sake.
the great affair is to move"
-robert louis stevenson
"two roads diverged in a wood
and i--
i took the one less traveled by"
-robert frost
"not all those who travel are lost"
-j.r.r. tolkien
"adventure is a path.
real adventure –
self-determined,
self-motivated,
often risky –
forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world.
the world the way it is, not the way you imagine it.
your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness.
in this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind –
and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both.
this will change you. nothing will ever again be
black-and-white"
-mark jenkins
it will have no choice
it will roll in ecstasy at your feet"
--kafka
"our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again,
we had longer ways to go.
but no matter, the road is life"
-kerouac
"for my part, i travel not to go anywhere,
but to go.
i travel for travel's sake.
the great affair is to move"
-robert louis stevenson
"two roads diverged in a wood
and i--
i took the one less traveled by"
-robert frost
"not all those who travel are lost"
-j.r.r. tolkien
"adventure is a path.
real adventure –
self-determined,
self-motivated,
often risky –
forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world.
the world the way it is, not the way you imagine it.
your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness.
in this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind –
and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both.
this will change you. nothing will ever again be
black-and-white"
-mark jenkins
i need to get back on the road. siempre adelante.
16.6.10
mas fotos!!
i promise updates on the rest of argentina and the end of my travels, but to tide you over until then...
pictures!! from...
ecuador
northern peru
southern peru
boliva
salar de uyuni
being home is weird. all this english is freaking me out.
pictures!! from...
ecuador
northern peru
southern peru
boliva
salar de uyuni
being home is weird. all this english is freaking me out.
8.5.10
an ode to street food
to preface, this is such a fat kid´s post. i wrote it during an 18 hour bus ride to mendoza, argentina, when all i had was a package of oreos to satiate me for the whole journey. my thoughts began to roam to food...
in colombia, balancing a greasy corn tortilla arepa dripping with melty cheese in one hand with a fresh blended pina-banana-mango-maracuya juice in the other, finishing it all up with an ensalada de frutas filled with an assortment exotic vegetation that have no english translations.
in peru, cooling down with market-fresh ceviche, plucking fat kernels of corn straight off the cob on the beach in mollendo, dousing every plate of food with a spicy dose of aji.
in costa rica, macheting open fresh coconuts on the beach so i could drink the raw juice in front of the blue surf.
in guatemala, eating black beans with everything, smashed, spicy, stewed, whole, upside down inside out, every way mouth-watering, alongside what has become my most favoritest snack in the whole wide world, fried plantain chips.
in bolivia, first keeping it safe and simple with fresh squeezed orange juice on the street, then branching out to try cuy and alpaca meat, just to say i did.
in nicaragua, the gallo pinto, spotted rooster, as a blend of beans and rice a vegetarians delight, until i discovered that the rich flavor comes from pig´s tail.
in honduras, eating my fill of super baleadas, a massive tortilla layered with refried beans, crumbly queso, veg and eggs, a two dollar feast that left me full all day.
and in argentina, finally sucumbing to my animal instincts and savoring the most sublime steak i´ve ever tasted as it melts in my mouth, nibbling on dulce de leche-laden afajores for breakfast, having an empanada (or five) to tide me over until 10pm dinner time.
if you couldn´t tell, one of my favorite way to get to know a country is through food. you can taste a culture, literally. whether i´m browsing through the markets in inquitos weaving through the stalls and smells and spices to try a lightly grilled jungle tree grub, buying yuca chips through the window on a chicken bus in guatemala, eating at a hole-in-the-wale where the plates don´t match in cuenca, savoring a juicy papaya slice in the plaza in popayan, it´s all a tango for my taste buds. cheap thrills, culinary adventures, an upset stomach in the making because i´m never quite sure what i´m eating--in travel, who could ask for more?
in colombia, balancing a greasy corn tortilla arepa dripping with melty cheese in one hand with a fresh blended pina-banana-mango-maracuya juice in the other, finishing it all up with an ensalada de frutas filled with an assortment exotic vegetation that have no english translations.
in peru, cooling down with market-fresh ceviche, plucking fat kernels of corn straight off the cob on the beach in mollendo, dousing every plate of food with a spicy dose of aji.
in costa rica, macheting open fresh coconuts on the beach so i could drink the raw juice in front of the blue surf.
in guatemala, eating black beans with everything, smashed, spicy, stewed, whole, upside down inside out, every way mouth-watering, alongside what has become my most favoritest snack in the whole wide world, fried plantain chips.
in bolivia, first keeping it safe and simple with fresh squeezed orange juice on the street, then branching out to try cuy and alpaca meat, just to say i did.
in nicaragua, the gallo pinto, spotted rooster, as a blend of beans and rice a vegetarians delight, until i discovered that the rich flavor comes from pig´s tail.
in honduras, eating my fill of super baleadas, a massive tortilla layered with refried beans, crumbly queso, veg and eggs, a two dollar feast that left me full all day.
and in argentina, finally sucumbing to my animal instincts and savoring the most sublime steak i´ve ever tasted as it melts in my mouth, nibbling on dulce de leche-laden afajores for breakfast, having an empanada (or five) to tide me over until 10pm dinner time.
if you couldn´t tell, one of my favorite way to get to know a country is through food. you can taste a culture, literally. whether i´m browsing through the markets in inquitos weaving through the stalls and smells and spices to try a lightly grilled jungle tree grub, buying yuca chips through the window on a chicken bus in guatemala, eating at a hole-in-the-wale where the plates don´t match in cuenca, savoring a juicy papaya slice in the plaza in popayan, it´s all a tango for my taste buds. cheap thrills, culinary adventures, an upset stomach in the making because i´m never quite sure what i´m eating--in travel, who could ask for more?
2.5.10
ruta cuarenta
so i´ve finally made it to the last country on this incredible journey...argentina. but first, i went through a couple more places in bolivia, trying to get all i could out of it before i entered the land of the expensive. tupiza, the wild wild west with an indigenous twist, for horseback-riding and tarija, ¨the most mediterranean of all of the country¨so said the lonely planet, but in all reality it was just a couple of ho-hum plazas and dingy hotels, for a taste of bolivian wine (and let´s just say that got me ruuuuuul excited for the vino in argentina!). i took a night bus down to the border town of villazon (side note: bolivian bus lines always plan their routes so you get in at, you know, between the very reasonable hours of 2-4am. because that´s the exact time i want to get into a new city, with everything i own on my back, running on no sleep, food or energy) and true to form, i arrived at little past three. unsurprisingly, immigration offices weren´t open, so i crashed out for a couple hours on the bus with the drivers and luggage handlers. they were even nice enough to lend me a couple blankets to snuggle up in.
then, i crossed the border, and everything changed. what, roads are paved? there are movies on the bus, and not one, but two!? the seats actually recline? coffee service? why yes, i would LOVE a glass of wine, thank you very much. toto, we are definitely not in kansas--or south america, for that matter--anymore.
it doesn´t have much of an indigenous culture, the spanish accent is nearly impossible to understand, people seem to survive solely on massive amounts of meat, and the prices are absolutely killing my budget, but gosh dang, argentina, i think i love you. i really do. and not just because they serve wine on the buses.
salta, the first town i settled into, reminds me more of spain or italy than peru or ecuador. sprawling plazas lined with palm trees, large avenues, large groups sharing mate, pizzerias on every corner, old men debating politics and lingering over cafe con leches and a sense of sophistication that for the first time makes me feel a bit self-conscious in my flip flops and dirty jean shorts. it´s still latin, but with class.
i promised my mother i wouldn´t hitchhike, and thus was hit with a bit of a dilemma. i had heard about this amazing drive from salta to the small towns of cachi and cafayate, connected by the famous route 40, ruta cuarenta, the longest road in argentina that stretches from bolivia to patagonia, the road taken by che guevara on his infamous trip through the south america. it had to be done. only problem is that there is no public transportation between the two cities. luckily, a swiss guy, martin, from my hostel had his heart set on renting a car, and even though i couldn´t pay (because, if you haven´t noticed, i am cheap cheap cheap), said i could tag along for the ride. road trip!
clear the road! alex is attempting to drive a stick shift!
garganta del diablo (devil´s throat)
the scenery was incredible, and the company wasn´t too bad either. a quirky character, this martin. english wasn´t his first language so we had a couple lost-in-translation issues. especially once i started on the wine (as he was the driver, that meant that i got to taste the vino at all the wineries we stopped at, whee!). communication problems aside, though, we made great road trip buddies.
and my personal favorite, wine-flavored ice cream. though i am a red wine girl through and through, the man in the shop recommended the fruity local torronte. wine and ice cream, together as one, something quite nearly close to perfection.
i learned both how to drive and stick shift AND change a tire, along with being informed of the fun fact that people in switzerland eat horses. you really do learn something new every day.
then, i crossed the border, and everything changed. what, roads are paved? there are movies on the bus, and not one, but two!? the seats actually recline? coffee service? why yes, i would LOVE a glass of wine, thank you very much. toto, we are definitely not in kansas--or south america, for that matter--anymore.
it doesn´t have much of an indigenous culture, the spanish accent is nearly impossible to understand, people seem to survive solely on massive amounts of meat, and the prices are absolutely killing my budget, but gosh dang, argentina, i think i love you. i really do. and not just because they serve wine on the buses.
salta, the first town i settled into, reminds me more of spain or italy than peru or ecuador. sprawling plazas lined with palm trees, large avenues, large groups sharing mate, pizzerias on every corner, old men debating politics and lingering over cafe con leches and a sense of sophistication that for the first time makes me feel a bit self-conscious in my flip flops and dirty jean shorts. it´s still latin, but with class.
i promised my mother i wouldn´t hitchhike, and thus was hit with a bit of a dilemma. i had heard about this amazing drive from salta to the small towns of cachi and cafayate, connected by the famous route 40, ruta cuarenta, the longest road in argentina that stretches from bolivia to patagonia, the road taken by che guevara on his infamous trip through the south america. it had to be done. only problem is that there is no public transportation between the two cities. luckily, a swiss guy, martin, from my hostel had his heart set on renting a car, and even though i couldn´t pay (because, if you haven´t noticed, i am cheap cheap cheap), said i could tag along for the ride. road trip!
clear the road! alex is attempting to drive a stick shift!
garganta del diablo (devil´s throat)
the scenery was incredible, and the company wasn´t too bad either. a quirky character, this martin. english wasn´t his first language so we had a couple lost-in-translation issues. especially once i started on the wine (as he was the driver, that meant that i got to taste the vino at all the wineries we stopped at, whee!). communication problems aside, though, we made great road trip buddies.
and my personal favorite, wine-flavored ice cream. though i am a red wine girl through and through, the man in the shop recommended the fruity local torronte. wine and ice cream, together as one, something quite nearly close to perfection.
i learned both how to drive and stick shift AND change a tire, along with being informed of the fun fact that people in switzerland eat horses. you really do learn something new every day.
1.5.10
surrealism: defined
ok, i don´t know if, by definition, you can truly define surrealism, but if the word had a geographic area, it would be represented by southwest bolivia. in particular, the salar de uyuni and surrounding landscape. nothing was normal, nothing made sense, yet everything was perfect in its own incongruous way. it is, in una palabra, surreal.
i arrived in uyuni completely overwhelmed, as the town was infested with tour agencies (and, strangely, italian-pizza restaurants) all hawking the same-sounding 3 day, 2 night tour of the salt flats. true to form, i went with the guys who gave me a veggie discount and threw in a bottle of wine for the last meal.
take a 4WD toyota jeep circa 1981, a motley group of 6 round-the-world travelers, a gold-toothed driver and one feisty cook, shake-don´t stir, and serve on the rocks. throw in around 700 miles of incredible scenery for good measure. bottoms up.
the groupwe started out at the train cemetary, which is basically what is sounds like--a graveyard of decomissioned trains rusting in the middle of the uyuni badlands. it had absolutely nothing to do with nature or scenery or salt, for that matter, but it was fun to scramble over old cabooses (caboosi? cabeese? what´s the plural for caboose?) and old train parts for photography´s sake.
then, after some obligatory stops at the artensenal town of colchani, where you could see the world´s biggest llama (made of salt!), buy things like salt dice (or if you´re boring, a bag of bolivian salt--have fun taking THAT through customs!), and see mini-mountains of--you guessed it--salt. and finally, we were off to the main event, the salt flats! the biggest in the world!
saltyoh, and you can also take all these crazy photos due to the white background--there´s no sense of perspective on the salt flats because there aren´t any vantage points. so we putzed around for a while, taking photos like this:
i had to throw in some old school cheer moves
(note: will add photo when i find an internet connection that is NOT dial-up, as is the one i am using now. i could seriously knit an entire family a set of sweaters, or at least some socks, waiting for a page to load, and lord knows i do not have the nimblest of fingers.)
to complete the sodium theme of the day, we stayed the night in a suprisingly comfortable salt hotel. seriously, everything was made of blocks of salt. cool, no? except that now instead of all my things covered in sand, i find myself shaking grains of salt out of my shoes. also, for dinner that night, we had a bolivian specialty, pique lo macho. french fries, onions, tomato, meat, hot dogs, cheese and eggs (and, i´m guessing, a hefty pinch of salt). i kid you not, they love it here.
the next day was spent driving driving driving, off-roading through martian lands, hopping out of the car every 30 minutes or so for photo-ops. it was both burning hot from the sun and freezing cold from the wind--how approriate for this land of contrasts. an aquamarine lagoon, fringed with salt at the base of a volcano at 4200m. a flamingoo breeding ground. mountains painted a muted rainbow of colors, mossy green and clay and dusty violent and ruddy pink and amber red. verdant green mushroom-like plants that looked like they belonged in super mario bros sprounting in the desert. massive rocks twisted and turned and bent into incredible natural formations. a stone tree carved by howling sandy winds. an ancient lake turned vivid red from mineral deposits. and this was all just the second day.
to complete the sodium theme of the day, we stayed the night in a suprisingly comfortable salt hotel. seriously, everything was made of blocks of salt. cool, no? except that now instead of all my things covered in sand, i find myself shaking grains of salt out of my shoes. also, for dinner that night, we had a bolivian specialty, pique lo macho. french fries, onions, tomato, meat, hot dogs, cheese and eggs (and, i´m guessing, a hefty pinch of salt). i kid you not, they love it here.
the next day was spent driving driving driving, off-roading through martian lands, hopping out of the car every 30 minutes or so for photo-ops. it was both burning hot from the sun and freezing cold from the wind--how approriate for this land of contrasts. an aquamarine lagoon, fringed with salt at the base of a volcano at 4200m. a flamingoo breeding ground. mountains painted a muted rainbow of colors, mossy green and clay and dusty violent and ruddy pink and amber red. verdant green mushroom-like plants that looked like they belonged in super mario bros sprounting in the desert. massive rocks twisted and turned and bent into incredible natural formations. a stone tree carved by howling sandy winds. an ancient lake turned vivid red from mineral deposits. and this was all just the second day.
we spent the night at 4300m. it was around -4 degrees celcius, and as we were freezing in our bunker-like accomdations we were all dreaming of our cozy salt hotel the night before. who knew salt blocks would conjure up such warm memories? i didn´t sleep much, somewhat due to the altitude but moreso because of an all-night poker session with some germans from another tour group. that made for a rough awakening at 4:30am, but we had a hour drive ahead of us, racing against time and the moon to catch the sunrise. we stopped at the sol de mañana geyser basin, bubbling sulfur pools and spectular geysters, steaming with volcanic strength. the sun made it´s entrance, striping the indigo sky with brillant strips of red, my view on slightly obscured by gas rising from the earth. this moment felt the most other-wordly. i felt closer to the sun, closer to space, closer to something bigger than myself, than i ever had before--and not just because i was up at 5000m. not that it did anything to warm us up--we all hundled together for body heat, taking refuge behind the jeep for protection against the searing winds.
an early morning dip in thermal hot springs warmed us up, a drive through the panorama that inspired artist salvadore dali´s paintings of multi-colored mountains and rocks left me inspired, and a looooong trip through the badlands brought us back to uyuni--dusty, wind-chapped and brimming with pictures. 3 days, 700 miles, no worse for wear.truly, some of the oddest, eeriest, exotic, vividly beautiful, most surreal landscape i have ever seen. i promise to post some photos, but it won´t do it justice.
and a man just walked into the internet cafe with a carboard box full of hot salteñas. i love it when snacks come to you, especially when you´ve been attempting to blog for an hour. gracias, señor, don´t mind if i do!
21.4.10
the devil´s miners
(a little out of order...updates on la paz and sucre to come soon!)
in the 16th century, potosi was the richest city in the world, lining it´s streets with the silver extracted from their famous mines. now, far from it´s heyday, nearly all the plata is gone, but men still go deep into the mountains every day, working horrendous conditions for little pay, most dying by the age of 35.
they work 10, 12, 14 sometimes 24 hours a day. the mines never close, the mines never sleep. it´s a cooperative, not privately owned, so the longer the men work, the more money they can make. no regulations, no labor laws, no safety. golf-ball size lumps protrude from each cheek, a wad of coca leaves slowly being chewed. they go through an entire bag, 25 grams, of coca a day, the leaves staving off hunger, bringing energy, lubricating the throat from the dryness of the dust. they don´t eat inside the mines, the toxins will be ingested with the food. children as young as 12 enter the mountain, forgoing school for work. they say they will only work one or two years, most never leave.
labor is hard, dangerous, back-breaking, dragging 2 ton carts through rickety tunnels, blowing up the volcanic rock with sticks of dynamite, shoveling ore, resting only to chew more coca, laugh and talk. it´s like going back in time. medieval times. they say the strongest miner is the one with the best sense of humor. when conditions are that tough, you need to laugh. nearly 8 million have been killed since the mines opened. they call it ¨the mountain that eats men alive.¨
bolivia may be catholic country, but in the depths of cerro rico, they worship their own god, tio, the devil. the mountain is hell. sacrifices of alcohol, cigarettes and llama blood are made, praying for a good vien, praying for safety, praying that tio doesn´t show his anger in an explosion.
ex-miners take travelers down into the working mines, and i went along for the ride. we first visited the miners market to pick up gifts for the workers--bags of coca leaves (which we all began chewing, stuffing wads of coca into the sides of our cheeks like cows chewing cud), soda pop and sticks of dynamite. then, up the mountain we drove and into the mines we went. the dust was thick, the air thin, we are up at 4090m after all, potosi being the highest city in the world. our group scrambled through mine shafts, sometimes crawling on our hands and knees, pressing ourselves against the rocky wall when a cart loaded with ore was pulled by. even though we had scarves to cover our mouths, the altitude made it difficult to breath, so we went without, inhaling the dust as we tried to suck in air. lose lose situation, i guess. eyes watery, throat burning, we pressed on, down the first, the second, the third level. it was an eerie feeling, knowing you are deep inside a mining mountain with only one way out. not for the claustrophobic, not for the faint-hearted. ventilation tubes hissed, wagons rumbled by, but sometimes it was quiet, dark, but not peaceful. as it was a functioning mine, not a closed one, we constantly passed men, some young, some old, 120 men in a single mine, 5000 in the mountain every day. we handed out our gifts, a bag of coca here, a stick of dynamite there, when i ran out i wish i had more to give.
we came out the way we came in, and climbing up the shafts was even harded than sliding down. some tunnels weren´t more than a foot high. head bumping against rafters, hands grasping rock and dust and ore, only light from my headlamp leading the way. a couple of moments, ¨just get me out of here!¨and then, at last, the light--literally--at the end of the tunnel. fresh air never felt so sweet. some men work what´s called la dobla-- a double shift, a 24 hour shift during which they come out once at night for dinner. after 1 hour, i was dying to get out.
our guide fixed us up some dynamite, because who doesn´t like to blow things up for fun? once lit, the bomb was tossed from traveler to traveler, a crazed sort of hot potato, so everyone can get a photo, ¨look mom, live dynamite!¨ the fuse is only a minute long, every second counts. then, he is running, running, running, he buries it, gives it space, just in time as the ground explodes. a mini-mushroom cloud spirals to the sky. power. wow, i HELD that 30 seconds ago?
this was by far one of the more eye-opening experiences of this trip. husbands, sons, uncles, kids, working in some of the most awful conditions i´ve seen. sacrificing their lives for their wives, daughters, aunts, children. fiercely proud, they are family, they are friends, they are miners. this is the real potosi.
in the 16th century, potosi was the richest city in the world, lining it´s streets with the silver extracted from their famous mines. now, far from it´s heyday, nearly all the plata is gone, but men still go deep into the mountains every day, working horrendous conditions for little pay, most dying by the age of 35.
they work 10, 12, 14 sometimes 24 hours a day. the mines never close, the mines never sleep. it´s a cooperative, not privately owned, so the longer the men work, the more money they can make. no regulations, no labor laws, no safety. golf-ball size lumps protrude from each cheek, a wad of coca leaves slowly being chewed. they go through an entire bag, 25 grams, of coca a day, the leaves staving off hunger, bringing energy, lubricating the throat from the dryness of the dust. they don´t eat inside the mines, the toxins will be ingested with the food. children as young as 12 enter the mountain, forgoing school for work. they say they will only work one or two years, most never leave.
labor is hard, dangerous, back-breaking, dragging 2 ton carts through rickety tunnels, blowing up the volcanic rock with sticks of dynamite, shoveling ore, resting only to chew more coca, laugh and talk. it´s like going back in time. medieval times. they say the strongest miner is the one with the best sense of humor. when conditions are that tough, you need to laugh. nearly 8 million have been killed since the mines opened. they call it ¨the mountain that eats men alive.¨
bolivia may be catholic country, but in the depths of cerro rico, they worship their own god, tio, the devil. the mountain is hell. sacrifices of alcohol, cigarettes and llama blood are made, praying for a good vien, praying for safety, praying that tio doesn´t show his anger in an explosion.
ex-miners take travelers down into the working mines, and i went along for the ride. we first visited the miners market to pick up gifts for the workers--bags of coca leaves (which we all began chewing, stuffing wads of coca into the sides of our cheeks like cows chewing cud), soda pop and sticks of dynamite. then, up the mountain we drove and into the mines we went. the dust was thick, the air thin, we are up at 4090m after all, potosi being the highest city in the world. our group scrambled through mine shafts, sometimes crawling on our hands and knees, pressing ourselves against the rocky wall when a cart loaded with ore was pulled by. even though we had scarves to cover our mouths, the altitude made it difficult to breath, so we went without, inhaling the dust as we tried to suck in air. lose lose situation, i guess. eyes watery, throat burning, we pressed on, down the first, the second, the third level. it was an eerie feeling, knowing you are deep inside a mining mountain with only one way out. not for the claustrophobic, not for the faint-hearted. ventilation tubes hissed, wagons rumbled by, but sometimes it was quiet, dark, but not peaceful. as it was a functioning mine, not a closed one, we constantly passed men, some young, some old, 120 men in a single mine, 5000 in the mountain every day. we handed out our gifts, a bag of coca here, a stick of dynamite there, when i ran out i wish i had more to give.
we came out the way we came in, and climbing up the shafts was even harded than sliding down. some tunnels weren´t more than a foot high. head bumping against rafters, hands grasping rock and dust and ore, only light from my headlamp leading the way. a couple of moments, ¨just get me out of here!¨and then, at last, the light--literally--at the end of the tunnel. fresh air never felt so sweet. some men work what´s called la dobla-- a double shift, a 24 hour shift during which they come out once at night for dinner. after 1 hour, i was dying to get out.
our guide fixed us up some dynamite, because who doesn´t like to blow things up for fun? once lit, the bomb was tossed from traveler to traveler, a crazed sort of hot potato, so everyone can get a photo, ¨look mom, live dynamite!¨ the fuse is only a minute long, every second counts. then, he is running, running, running, he buries it, gives it space, just in time as the ground explodes. a mini-mushroom cloud spirals to the sky. power. wow, i HELD that 30 seconds ago?
this was by far one of the more eye-opening experiences of this trip. husbands, sons, uncles, kids, working in some of the most awful conditions i´ve seen. sacrificing their lives for their wives, daughters, aunts, children. fiercely proud, they are family, they are friends, they are miners. this is the real potosi.
15.4.10
location: middle of nowhere, boliva
(excerpt taken out of my journal during a bus ride from la paz to sucre)
from my hilltop vantage point, buses are stretched out in both directions, as far as the eye can see. it´s about 9 am, we left la paz yesterday night at around 7:30 pm and i have no idea when i´ll make it to sucre. the road is blocked, has been since about midnight, by massive boulders pushed into the street by protesting campesinos. no one can pass.
the buses and trucks are virtually abandoned by now, rusty shells of their former lives in the squinting morning light. hundreds of passengers milling around draped in blankets, hundling next to makeshift bonfires, washing clothes (yes, someone decided this was the perfect time to do a bit of river laundry), feeding babies, scrounging the local homes for food, for breakfast, a piece of bread, anything.
it´s cold. although i´m wearing leggings, jeans, wooly alpaca socks, wooly alpaca gloves, a wooly alpaca beanie, two sweaters and a hoodie, the air is frigid and biting, unforgiving. i turn my face toward the rising sun, hoping to will myself to absorb extra warmth from the still-weak rays. horns blare in the distance, a futile and fruitless endeavour, only adding background noise to the chaotic scene developing below. i get comfortable in my hilltop hamlet. we´re in here for the long haul.
i´ve only been in bolivia six days and have already experienced three protest, two of which have directly affected my means of travel. i´d heard that social demonstrations, riots and blockades were a weekly event in this country. for once, the rumors seem to be true.
a dog barks, a rooster crows, where am i? and what possessed me to buy fingerless gloves? writing this is the only way to keep my hands warm, at a normal human temperature. the landscape is barren, seems harsh and unfit for the hordes of people who have unwillingly invaded. what would i give for a hot cup of coffee. another story for the books, i guess.
i´m approached by a couple of indigenous men, bright multi-colored ponchos and smiling toothless grins, disturbing my peaceful alone time but that is ok. in a mix of quecha and spanish, they explain what´s going on--apparently the government promised funds for some sort of land works project and didn´t follow through--and invite me for pan con queso and a fireside spot. the talk is all indigenous, i can´t really understand, but am grateful for the warmth and hospitality.
fireworks set off, car alarms crying, cheers sporadically rise up from the rioters, power to the people?
it´s amazing, the difference between the situation here and what would happen in the states. everyone is so bothered by the slightest delay, the most minor inconvience, a tiny detour in plans. i am not immune to this. but here, you make the best of it. though my bus was filled with elderly and women with fussy babies, i haven´t heard one complaint. maybe they are used to it, yes. most definately. but you would think angelenos would be use to the maddening traffic, and road rage is still a contagious epidemic, isn´t it? i just think it says something about resiliency and character. and although sometimes i let my born-and-bred americanism rear it´s ugly head , i continue to be impressed by the latin attitude. even while sitting stranded on a rocky hilltop, toes numb, rumbly in my tumbly, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. or, is it the center of everthing?
from my hilltop vantage point, buses are stretched out in both directions, as far as the eye can see. it´s about 9 am, we left la paz yesterday night at around 7:30 pm and i have no idea when i´ll make it to sucre. the road is blocked, has been since about midnight, by massive boulders pushed into the street by protesting campesinos. no one can pass.
the buses and trucks are virtually abandoned by now, rusty shells of their former lives in the squinting morning light. hundreds of passengers milling around draped in blankets, hundling next to makeshift bonfires, washing clothes (yes, someone decided this was the perfect time to do a bit of river laundry), feeding babies, scrounging the local homes for food, for breakfast, a piece of bread, anything.
it´s cold. although i´m wearing leggings, jeans, wooly alpaca socks, wooly alpaca gloves, a wooly alpaca beanie, two sweaters and a hoodie, the air is frigid and biting, unforgiving. i turn my face toward the rising sun, hoping to will myself to absorb extra warmth from the still-weak rays. horns blare in the distance, a futile and fruitless endeavour, only adding background noise to the chaotic scene developing below. i get comfortable in my hilltop hamlet. we´re in here for the long haul.
i´ve only been in bolivia six days and have already experienced three protest, two of which have directly affected my means of travel. i´d heard that social demonstrations, riots and blockades were a weekly event in this country. for once, the rumors seem to be true.
a dog barks, a rooster crows, where am i? and what possessed me to buy fingerless gloves? writing this is the only way to keep my hands warm, at a normal human temperature. the landscape is barren, seems harsh and unfit for the hordes of people who have unwillingly invaded. what would i give for a hot cup of coffee. another story for the books, i guess.
i´m approached by a couple of indigenous men, bright multi-colored ponchos and smiling toothless grins, disturbing my peaceful alone time but that is ok. in a mix of quecha and spanish, they explain what´s going on--apparently the government promised funds for some sort of land works project and didn´t follow through--and invite me for pan con queso and a fireside spot. the talk is all indigenous, i can´t really understand, but am grateful for the warmth and hospitality.
fireworks set off, car alarms crying, cheers sporadically rise up from the rioters, power to the people?
it´s amazing, the difference between the situation here and what would happen in the states. everyone is so bothered by the slightest delay, the most minor inconvience, a tiny detour in plans. i am not immune to this. but here, you make the best of it. though my bus was filled with elderly and women with fussy babies, i haven´t heard one complaint. maybe they are used to it, yes. most definately. but you would think angelenos would be use to the maddening traffic, and road rage is still a contagious epidemic, isn´t it? i just think it says something about resiliency and character. and although sometimes i let my born-and-bred americanism rear it´s ugly head , i continue to be impressed by the latin attitude. even while sitting stranded on a rocky hilltop, toes numb, rumbly in my tumbly, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. or, is it the center of everthing?
13.4.10
those days
so i booked a direct overnight bus from cuzco to copacabana, bolivia. alex alex alex, you should know by now that direct and bus are oxymorons in latin america. silly girl.
first, it decided to pour rain, and that hostel that we were staying in that gave such magnificent city views posed a slight problem. it was only reachable by steep winding stairs, slippery and difficult normally but a death wish in flip-flops, my two backpacks and torrents of water. needless to say, things did not go well, and i have the bruises to prove it.
then at the bus station, i was told that there was a border strike or my bus had crashed, i wasn´t too sure, but either way, my direct bus was dunzo and everyone had to be redirected. i found myself on a rusty puno-bound bus at 11:30 pm next to a woman and her puking child, was dumped unceremoniously at 4 am at the bus terminal and tried to keep myself from freezing during the 3 hours i had to wait until the borded bus decided to show.
another four hours and then bolivian immigration, oh joy. forking over the $135 for the visa was painful enough, but then they demanded passport photos, itinerary, a letter of welcome (what?!?) and tickets out of the country, of which i had none. after some wheeling and dealing, downright begging, they finally let me in. not the warmest welcome.
icing on the cake? i realized that at some point during all those joyous hours of traveling, some evil-doer nabbed my camera. arghhhhhhhhhhhhh. exhausted, sleep-deprived and just frustrated, i dropped into the nearest hostel in copacabana and was done. just done.
everybody has those days while travelling. the days when you are just tired--tired of living out of a backpack, tired of constantly being misunderstood, tired of nothing ever working as it should, tired of nothing running on time, tired of everyone staring, tired of never knowing what you are eating and then finding two grizzly chicken feet in your soup, tired of ice cold showers in freezing mountain towns, tired of everyone constantly telling you to be careful, tired of being starving and everything being closed because it sunday and this is catholic country. tired of being tired. you have a moment of feeling bad for yourself. you want to go home. but then, you´re in a new town, a new city, a new country, something fun and different and you get to explore and see beautiful things from all corners of the world and lose your center over and over again, and you feel bohemian and free and independent and liberated and really really really lucky. and i think i can live out of this backpack forever. siempre adelante. always onward.
first, it decided to pour rain, and that hostel that we were staying in that gave such magnificent city views posed a slight problem. it was only reachable by steep winding stairs, slippery and difficult normally but a death wish in flip-flops, my two backpacks and torrents of water. needless to say, things did not go well, and i have the bruises to prove it.
then at the bus station, i was told that there was a border strike or my bus had crashed, i wasn´t too sure, but either way, my direct bus was dunzo and everyone had to be redirected. i found myself on a rusty puno-bound bus at 11:30 pm next to a woman and her puking child, was dumped unceremoniously at 4 am at the bus terminal and tried to keep myself from freezing during the 3 hours i had to wait until the borded bus decided to show.
another four hours and then bolivian immigration, oh joy. forking over the $135 for the visa was painful enough, but then they demanded passport photos, itinerary, a letter of welcome (what?!?) and tickets out of the country, of which i had none. after some wheeling and dealing, downright begging, they finally let me in. not the warmest welcome.
icing on the cake? i realized that at some point during all those joyous hours of traveling, some evil-doer nabbed my camera. arghhhhhhhhhhhhh. exhausted, sleep-deprived and just frustrated, i dropped into the nearest hostel in copacabana and was done. just done.
everybody has those days while travelling. the days when you are just tired--tired of living out of a backpack, tired of constantly being misunderstood, tired of nothing ever working as it should, tired of nothing running on time, tired of everyone staring, tired of never knowing what you are eating and then finding two grizzly chicken feet in your soup, tired of ice cold showers in freezing mountain towns, tired of everyone constantly telling you to be careful, tired of being starving and everything being closed because it sunday and this is catholic country. tired of being tired. you have a moment of feeling bad for yourself. you want to go home. but then, you´re in a new town, a new city, a new country, something fun and different and you get to explore and see beautiful things from all corners of the world and lose your center over and over again, and you feel bohemian and free and independent and liberated and really really really lucky. and i think i can live out of this backpack forever. siempre adelante. always onward.
12.4.10
inca cola
as the once-glorious inca capital, cuzco had alot to live up too, and in my eyes it did pretty well. despite being tourist-ready: think gringos on every turn, tour agencies outnumbering the peruvians themselves, indigenous women in full garb--wide colorful skirts, dark plaited braids and bowler hats--posing with alpacas on the street, the city managed to hold on to it´s ancient charm. narrow cobblestone streets wove through the town, slippery stone steps climbing to breath-taking views (literally and otherwise--the altitude strikes again!) of the adobe cityscape and surrounding verdant green hills of the sacred valley.
i was out of commission for the first couple of days, battling a particularly fearsome trifecta of exhaustion from long bumpy bus rides, altitude sickness and a stubborn parasite that just wouldn´t quit. but nothing good old fashioned sleep, copious amounts of mate de coca (coca leaf tea) and 8 cloves of raw garlic couldn´t fix (it´s a natural anti-bacterial, don´t ya know).
mmmm coca
cuzco is a tourist´s dream city, but jeanette and i managed to find a few diamonds in the rough to keep us grounded. dining on three course meals with food that actually has FLAVOR (quite the rare find) for under two bucks, chatting with the market ladies while eating river fish ceviche, chasing with a shot of leche de tigre. by the way, there is no milk or tiger in the leche de tigre, just like there is no cheese in queso helado. it´s actually the marinade from the fish, sometimes mixed with vodka. cheers! i somehow found a way to insult an entire table of locals when i casually commented that, in my humble opinion, i thought arequipeña beer was better than cuzqueña beer (nearly every big city in peru brews their own beer and are fiercely proud of it). once, we got sent a plate of chicharrones--that would be pork deep fried in pig fat, the specialty of the bar we were at, as it was called ¨bar chicharrones.¨only in latin america would guys send you a plate of fried meat as a ¨hey, i´m looking at you¨gesture. ¨dang it, why wasn´t the place called ¨bar pisco sour?¨
aw, you shouldn´t have. no really, you shouldn´t have!
and then there was machu picchu. our trek didn´t work out as planned, so jeanette and i decided to DIY and forge our own way. one microbus, one highjacked tour bus (to clarify, we did the highjacking, not the other way around. you never know) in ollantaytambo, and one severly overpriced train ride brought us to aguas calientas, the town at the base of the ruins. we bypassed the van that shuttles tourists up through the mountain and hoofed it instead--a mini mini mini-me version of the inca trail. steps, steps, steps that i thought would never end straight up the mountainside. as we gained alitude and the thunderous roar of the rushing vilcanota river became more and more faint, the stupifying views were testament to the incredible feat it was to build a mountain-top citadel. go incas. how did they do it?
incredibleand then, there she was, tucked away in the andes, in all her glory. words can´t really express. i was seeing something i´d wanted to see for my whole life, and it was even more __________ (insert adjective here, i´m out of them) that i could have ever expected. magical even. you could practically feel the spirit and energy of the incas. the clouds ebbed and flowed, sometimes shrouding the ruins in wispy capes and sometimes parting so that the sun shined brillantly on the stone. as i was too cheap to get a guide, we followed behind other tours to get snippets of info, but most of my time there was spent wandering aimlessly through the century old ruins, wondering who lived there, what they did, what they were like, where they went. pretty incredible, and probably the best way to end my stint in peru.
a couple of days later, jeanette and i parted ways, her back to canada and me to bolivia, and after a series of somewhat unfortunate events, make it to copacobana on lake titicaca. until next time, amigos!
i was out of commission for the first couple of days, battling a particularly fearsome trifecta of exhaustion from long bumpy bus rides, altitude sickness and a stubborn parasite that just wouldn´t quit. but nothing good old fashioned sleep, copious amounts of mate de coca (coca leaf tea) and 8 cloves of raw garlic couldn´t fix (it´s a natural anti-bacterial, don´t ya know).
mmmm coca
aw, you shouldn´t have. no really, you shouldn´t have!
incredible
a couple of days later, jeanette and i parted ways, her back to canada and me to bolivia, and after a series of somewhat unfortunate events, make it to copacobana on lake titicaca. until next time, amigos!
4.4.10
sunday funday
or: the peruvian pour and the art of drinking.
or: yo no se manana.
or: i fell in love with a country named peru.
all possible names for this post. but i´m sticking with sunday funday because those have been, hands down, my most favorite days ever in peru.
basically, sundays are when all the peruvians let loose. saturday nights are for going out, yes, but sundays are for hanging out all day long. the day for rest, the day for families, the day for friends. most of the time, celebrated by drinking cervezas outside. and this brings in the peruvian pour and the art of drinking, because in this country, it truly is an art and to confess, takes a little bit of time to pick up. but in a nutshell...
no matter how many people, be it 2 or 12, there is always only one beer and one glass at all times. i am handed the beer, i pour myself a small shot-sized glass, i pass the bottle to the next. after tossing back the drink in a couple gulps, proper etiquette is to fling (trust a now-seasoned expert, it´s all in the wrist flick) the backwash of the beer out (on the pavement, in the sand, wherever said sunday funday is occuring) and pass the glass. and so on, ´round the circle it goes. once the bottle runs out, another magically appears. and on sunday funday (or any other day, for that matter), they don´t stop coming. that is the only way to drink as the peruvians do, and it took us a while to get in the loop. in the beginning, we would be invited to a group, only to be given our own glass. ouch, such a peruvian faux paux (but now that i think about it, probably a bit more hygenic, ha). talk about being out of the circle. jeanette and i began to get offended when we would order a drink and the bartender would bring us two glasses. excuse me sir, we´ve been in peru two months now, we know how things go down. one vasito will suffice, thank you very much.
so where have i been since? after huanchinca, we headed to the white city of arequipa. talk about style, this town was class class class. a beautiful plaza de armas, colonial buildings that nearly sparkled in the sun, and the most laid-back market i´ve ever visited, where we would stand and eat the most delicious salteña empanadas with the business men and teenages, fighing over the bowl of chili sauce. the plan was to base here, then head to colca canyon for a couple days trekking into one of the worlds deepest canyon. but when we showed up at the bus terminal, bright and early with all of our packs at 9am, found that the next bus didn´t leave until 3. hemmm what to do, what to do? we remembered an artisan friend told us he was from mollendo, discovered a bus headed there in the next ten minutes, bid a very cold, very deep canyon chau, and headed to the coast.
we were the ony gringas, and that´s the way we liked it. during the weekend, the beach would be flooded with latin tourists--and seriously, NOTHING is more entertaining than latins on holidays-- but on the weekdays quiet and laid-back. people seemed a bit shocked that we hung around as long as we did--even peruvians only stay the weekend, and we kicked it for almost two weeks. by the end, we knew practically everyone in mollendo, or at least, everyone knew us. the guys who worked the beach would get us our umbrella every day, we would share cervezas with the lifeguards (yes, we made friends with latin baywatch) and our new amigo rafael, the old ice-cream man with one tooth would play ¨here comes the bride¨ on his harmonica whenever he say me. the town was so small that when word got around that i looooved the song ÿo no se manaña¨(see below), the guy at our usual tienda presented me with a CD. no, i´d never really talked to him before in my life. i loved it. something about small towns are just so addicting.
after mollendo, a night bus to cuzco, and that is another post for another time.
i´m leaving peru tonight for bolivia, and trying to peg the reasons i love this country so much is like trying to describe why i love indiana jones to those weird people who haven´t watched it 500 times. maybe it´s because i love the song yo no se manana and so does the rest of peru. maybe it´s because all the peruvians give each other nicknames (they called me gatita, little cat, because of my green eyes). maybe it´s because i love the aji sauce, the spicer the better, and every hole-in-the-wall restaurant has their own special blend. maybe it´s because they love love love inca cola here instead of coca cola, despite it´s chemical-yellow color. maybe it´s because this whole country--from broken down buses to cargo boats to sandduning to exploring ancient ruins--has been an adventure. maybe it´s because i finally saw machu picchu. maybe it´s because each city, each village, each town, is so unique--from chaotic iquitios to chilled out huanchaco--yet so distinctly peruvian at the same time. maybe it´s because this is the first country where i´ve really gotten to know locals. maybe it´s because i just fell in love--with the people, the places, the smells, the music, the food, the slang, the driving, the attitude, the confidence, the shyness, the openess, the history, the mystery, the very essence of this country.
or: yo no se manana.
or: i fell in love with a country named peru.
all possible names for this post. but i´m sticking with sunday funday because those have been, hands down, my most favorite days ever in peru.
basically, sundays are when all the peruvians let loose. saturday nights are for going out, yes, but sundays are for hanging out all day long. the day for rest, the day for families, the day for friends. most of the time, celebrated by drinking cervezas outside. and this brings in the peruvian pour and the art of drinking, because in this country, it truly is an art and to confess, takes a little bit of time to pick up. but in a nutshell...
no matter how many people, be it 2 or 12, there is always only one beer and one glass at all times. i am handed the beer, i pour myself a small shot-sized glass, i pass the bottle to the next. after tossing back the drink in a couple gulps, proper etiquette is to fling (trust a now-seasoned expert, it´s all in the wrist flick) the backwash of the beer out (on the pavement, in the sand, wherever said sunday funday is occuring) and pass the glass. and so on, ´round the circle it goes. once the bottle runs out, another magically appears. and on sunday funday (or any other day, for that matter), they don´t stop coming. that is the only way to drink as the peruvians do, and it took us a while to get in the loop. in the beginning, we would be invited to a group, only to be given our own glass. ouch, such a peruvian faux paux (but now that i think about it, probably a bit more hygenic, ha). talk about being out of the circle. jeanette and i began to get offended when we would order a drink and the bartender would bring us two glasses. excuse me sir, we´ve been in peru two months now, we know how things go down. one vasito will suffice, thank you very much.
so where have i been since? after huanchinca, we headed to the white city of arequipa. talk about style, this town was class class class. a beautiful plaza de armas, colonial buildings that nearly sparkled in the sun, and the most laid-back market i´ve ever visited, where we would stand and eat the most delicious salteña empanadas with the business men and teenages, fighing over the bowl of chili sauce. the plan was to base here, then head to colca canyon for a couple days trekking into one of the worlds deepest canyon. but when we showed up at the bus terminal, bright and early with all of our packs at 9am, found that the next bus didn´t leave until 3. hemmm what to do, what to do? we remembered an artisan friend told us he was from mollendo, discovered a bus headed there in the next ten minutes, bid a very cold, very deep canyon chau, and headed to the coast.
we were the ony gringas, and that´s the way we liked it. during the weekend, the beach would be flooded with latin tourists--and seriously, NOTHING is more entertaining than latins on holidays-- but on the weekdays quiet and laid-back. people seemed a bit shocked that we hung around as long as we did--even peruvians only stay the weekend, and we kicked it for almost two weeks. by the end, we knew practically everyone in mollendo, or at least, everyone knew us. the guys who worked the beach would get us our umbrella every day, we would share cervezas with the lifeguards (yes, we made friends with latin baywatch) and our new amigo rafael, the old ice-cream man with one tooth would play ¨here comes the bride¨ on his harmonica whenever he say me. the town was so small that when word got around that i looooved the song ÿo no se manaña¨(see below), the guy at our usual tienda presented me with a CD. no, i´d never really talked to him before in my life. i loved it. something about small towns are just so addicting.
after mollendo, a night bus to cuzco, and that is another post for another time.
i´m leaving peru tonight for bolivia, and trying to peg the reasons i love this country so much is like trying to describe why i love indiana jones to those weird people who haven´t watched it 500 times. maybe it´s because i love the song yo no se manana and so does the rest of peru. maybe it´s because all the peruvians give each other nicknames (they called me gatita, little cat, because of my green eyes). maybe it´s because i love the aji sauce, the spicer the better, and every hole-in-the-wall restaurant has their own special blend. maybe it´s because they love love love inca cola here instead of coca cola, despite it´s chemical-yellow color. maybe it´s because this whole country--from broken down buses to cargo boats to sandduning to exploring ancient ruins--has been an adventure. maybe it´s because i finally saw machu picchu. maybe it´s because each city, each village, each town, is so unique--from chaotic iquitios to chilled out huanchaco--yet so distinctly peruvian at the same time. maybe it´s because this is the first country where i´ve really gotten to know locals. maybe it´s because i just fell in love--with the people, the places, the smells, the music, the food, the slang, the driving, the attitude, the confidence, the shyness, the openess, the history, the mystery, the very essence of this country.
17.3.10
sand in my pants
after the jungle, i took my first flight to lima. the journey to iquitos consisted of 5 days, 3 towns, 2 buses, 5 tuk tuks and 1 cargo boat. the journey back--a hour and a half plane ride, and included a snack. but truly, half the fun is getting there. the one good thing about the flight was that i got to see the amazon basin from above, muddy rivers snaking through massive expanses of green, and at once realized how deep in the middle of nowhere i had been for the last week and a half.
i stayed in the upscale area of miraflores in lima, and if it weren´t for the spanish being spoken around me, i could have been in any big city in the u.s. whole foods-esque grocery stores, manicured gardens and parks (where i found out sitting on the grass is a no-no), even a starbucks. and even though my head said no, my heart said yes, and i treated myself to a grande vanilla latte (what? don´t judge me. some people get mcdonald´s when they travel, i get my espresso fix. sometimes nescafe just doesn´t cut it). i wandered into central lima for the day to check out the catacombs lurking in the depths underneath the iglesia san francisco. wow, alot of bones. the weird thing was that they were all categorized and artistically arranged. i couldn´t get over the fact that someone had to arrange all the human skulls and femur bones so that they look aesthecially pleasing. odd.in an attempt to get to pisco for the annual wine festical, i somehow managed to end up in huacachina instead, a couple hours south. oops, overshot that one by just a little bit! but when i woke up the next morning and found myself in a mirage, or more specifically, a lush lagoon oasis smack dab in the middle of yellow-gold sand dunes, decided i´ve definitely made worse city mistakes on this trip.
huacachina from above
¿a mirage?
i´ve been out of the desert for about 4 days now, and am STILL finding sand in my shoes, in my purse, in my backpack, in my ears. why? because well, i was in the middle of the desert, and the main thing to do in the oasis (as we started calling it) is sandboarding and sand-duning.
us and the terminator
there were three drivers to choose from, and one looked exactly like terminator. two seats left in his car, right in the front, done and done! best. choice. EVER. he was absolutely insane, driving straight up the face of massive sand dunes, ripping back down, flying over bumps, catching air, nearly rolling far too many times to count, absolutely loving the screams from his all-chicaentourage. he would always pull up last, showing off to the other drivers, screeching to a halt and kicking up a massive dust storm.
we drove around to different dunes, getting out to strap ourselves to boards and ride down. they say ¨sand boarding,¨but because the boards are really just pieces of wood with no edges, you can´t really carve or turn like in snow. so for the last couple of runs down really REALLY big dunes, we slid down on our stomachs. i thought volcano boarding was an adrenaline rush. it ain´t got nothing on sandboarding. down the first dune i went the fastest and the furthest, the canadian guy who came in second stopped right after me. in an attempt to save face, he challenged me to a race down the biggest and baddest dune of all. we rubbed down our boards with extra wax, tres, dos, uno VAMOS, and took off, straight down a solid wall of sand. he was a bit ahead when he hit a rivet, flipped, and rolled, engulfing us both in a massive sand cloud. when i finally got down, he was still rolling, rolling rolling. EPIC bail. he was fine, sand in the eyes, but lived to tell the tale.
victory is mine!
terminator took the ride home slowly during the sunset, casually smoking a cigarette, the orange embers catching wind and floating off in the horizon. but once the sun set, he was off, not bothering to turn on lights, scoping out the untouched dunes, even once screaming himself. he owned those dunes. el rey de la arena, we called him. the king of the sand.
one dusky night we climbed all the way up a massive dune for sunset, our bare feet sinking deep into the sun-drenched sand, up to the ridge. the wind picked up. a massive sand storm, blowing tiny grains into every orfice, left me feeling so small in the midst of something so powerful. the wind swept across the sand, making the dune come alive, moving silently as the day turned to night.until next time...
11.3.10
la selva
cut to a week later, when i´m washing the last of amazonian mud of my ankles and and picking the stray bits of leaves out of my tangled mane of hair. i gave up on counting my bevy of bites when i reached the mid-50´s. those buggers are RUTHLESS. literally, out for blood. my blood. my blanco sangre. they had a bellagio buffet on the backs of my legs, bottomless mimosas included. what is the purpose of a mosquito, anyway? to simply be the bane of my entire existence? and the only option is to spray myself down with napalm-strength repellent? so that i literally repell nature? who wants to repell nature? but i digress.
after the boat, i set myself up in iquitos for a couple of days to recoup. truth be told, i wanted to shower in something that didn't have the clarity of a muddy brown puddle. you know, those showers that actually make you feel clean?
iquitos itself is a beguiling, unique, chaotic whirlwind of a jungle city. and it all but crawls to a complete standstill between 12 and 4, where people seek refuge from the tropical heat in the form of a siesta, a cerveza, or sometimes both. a necessary tradition i was all too happy to indulge in. when in rome...
we decided to check out the floating shantytown of belen and the accompanying markets. hailing a canoe, juan and marlon motored us down the river, passing thatched houses, restaurants, even a discoteca (because amazonians like to party too) that were either built on stilts or affixed onto large logs. the water level ebbs and flows with the seasons, and the annual rains swell the river. taking a liking to us, marlon took us on a tour through his village, walking through a town that would be completely submerge in a mouth, taking us up the steps to his house with only a second floor, calling it "the venice of the amazon." close. but with less gelato and more mosquitoes. a crazy and fascinating way to live.
snapping turtles and their eggs, caimain, armadillo, completely dismembered chickens, long lines of cow intestines, monkey brains, live grubs, piranhas so fresh their gills were still desperately searching for water. small mounds of cumin and canela heaped on the spice isles, tables lined with exotic fruits that don't have english translations, tarps spread with piles of jungle tobacco. marlon pointed this and that out, "jungle fruit, jungle pig, jungle spaghetti, jungle tobacco, live tree grubs-you want to try?" a medicine aisles with cures for everything, peruvians bargaining and wheeling and dealing, refueling with fresh-squeezed juices and plates of ceviche, dodging tuk-tuks squeezing through the mix of people and products. chaotic and yet everything had a well-practiced aire about it. a far cry from the santa monica farmers market.
by chance, we met javier, a local shaman and medicine man. the girl i'd been traveling with for the past month is really interested in traditional and natural medicines, so aside from learning a ton about alternative remedies, i've gotten to tag along on some off-the-track adventures. like with javier. he grew up in the jungle, and for the last 3 days he's taken us into la selva, where we trekked to find various medicinal plants. as my knowledge is minimal, i was moreso there for comic relief, trying fruits and leaves i couldn't pronounce and using my broken spanish to crack jokes. with wellington boots and machetes we trudged along, forging our own trail, cutting through brush and vines, stopping for javier to explain this bark or that flower. it was amazing. it's like the plants talk to him.
some of his family invited us to stay with them at their hut, and one night participated in an ayahuasca ceremony, a plant known for its incredible medicinal and hallugenogenic properties. deep in the jungle. javier donned the traditional costume and headdress, draping himself with layers of necklaces and beads, chanting and music in the indigenous tongue of quechua. the amazon responded, opening it's skies with the infamous rain, so quickly we barely had time to take cover in the hut. lighting cracked, thunder reverberated throughout the trees, and the rainforest lived up to it's name. crawling under our mosquito nets, we fell asleep as the jungle came alive. i don't think you can get more authentic.
so i didn't do the traditional jungle tour, but i did get to stay in a local village, participate in a ceremony, eat lots of plants and meet a family of beautiful people. and that's pretty cool.
after the boat, i set myself up in iquitos for a couple of days to recoup. truth be told, i wanted to shower in something that didn't have the clarity of a muddy brown puddle. you know, those showers that actually make you feel clean?
iquitos itself is a beguiling, unique, chaotic whirlwind of a jungle city. and it all but crawls to a complete standstill between 12 and 4, where people seek refuge from the tropical heat in the form of a siesta, a cerveza, or sometimes both. a necessary tradition i was all too happy to indulge in. when in rome...
we decided to check out the floating shantytown of belen and the accompanying markets. hailing a canoe, juan and marlon motored us down the river, passing thatched houses, restaurants, even a discoteca (because amazonians like to party too) that were either built on stilts or affixed onto large logs. the water level ebbs and flows with the seasons, and the annual rains swell the river. taking a liking to us, marlon took us on a tour through his village, walking through a town that would be completely submerge in a mouth, taking us up the steps to his house with only a second floor, calling it "the venice of the amazon." close. but with less gelato and more mosquitoes. a crazy and fascinating way to live.
snapping turtles and their eggs, caimain, armadillo, completely dismembered chickens, long lines of cow intestines, monkey brains, live grubs, piranhas so fresh their gills were still desperately searching for water. small mounds of cumin and canela heaped on the spice isles, tables lined with exotic fruits that don't have english translations, tarps spread with piles of jungle tobacco. marlon pointed this and that out, "jungle fruit, jungle pig, jungle spaghetti, jungle tobacco, live tree grubs-you want to try?" a medicine aisles with cures for everything, peruvians bargaining and wheeling and dealing, refueling with fresh-squeezed juices and plates of ceviche, dodging tuk-tuks squeezing through the mix of people and products. chaotic and yet everything had a well-practiced aire about it. a far cry from the santa monica farmers market.
by chance, we met javier, a local shaman and medicine man. the girl i'd been traveling with for the past month is really interested in traditional and natural medicines, so aside from learning a ton about alternative remedies, i've gotten to tag along on some off-the-track adventures. like with javier. he grew up in the jungle, and for the last 3 days he's taken us into la selva, where we trekked to find various medicinal plants. as my knowledge is minimal, i was moreso there for comic relief, trying fruits and leaves i couldn't pronounce and using my broken spanish to crack jokes. with wellington boots and machetes we trudged along, forging our own trail, cutting through brush and vines, stopping for javier to explain this bark or that flower. it was amazing. it's like the plants talk to him.
some of his family invited us to stay with them at their hut, and one night participated in an ayahuasca ceremony, a plant known for its incredible medicinal and hallugenogenic properties. deep in the jungle. javier donned the traditional costume and headdress, draping himself with layers of necklaces and beads, chanting and music in the indigenous tongue of quechua. the amazon responded, opening it's skies with the infamous rain, so quickly we barely had time to take cover in the hut. lighting cracked, thunder reverberated throughout the trees, and the rainforest lived up to it's name. crawling under our mosquito nets, we fell asleep as the jungle came alive. i don't think you can get more authentic.
so i didn't do the traditional jungle tour, but i did get to stay in a local village, participate in a ceremony, eat lots of plants and meet a family of beautiful people. and that's pretty cool.
5.3.10
cargo boating
so i decided to go to the amazon.
first step: get as far east as possible.
this is easier when your bus doesn't break down. four times. turning a nice little 18 hour trip into a 30 hour one. complimented by a rapidly clogged bathroom, crying children (i wanted to cry too) and a continuous stream of blasting cumbia with 80's music videos as a special bonus. lets just say we had more than a couple beers at 7am during a 3 hour “rest stop” (aka breakdown numero 4). we finally made it tarapoto, sweaty, tired, and we weren't even in the jungle. a couple necessary days to recover, a hilarious sunday funday with some rowdy tarapoto locals (read: old drunk peruvian men) and we were shuttled to the port town of yurimagua.
then: become human cargo.
ships carrying anything and everything from cattle to corn ply the mighty amazon and her tributaries, and for the bargain deal of 50 soles, you can string up a hammock and come along for the ride. for four days, i was human cargo. the eduardo pulled away from the dock on a hot march afternoon, and a ramshackle jungle of hammocks, humans and goods slowly made their way to iquitos.
(home for 4 days!)
the second and third floors were for passengers and stuffed to the gills, forcing one to weave through the cacophony of colored fabrics and a maze of human cocoons. entire families swung side by side, sometimes one on top of the other. most days were spent hammock swinging, lazily watching the riverbanks of the amazon basin slowly slide by, flanked by foliage so lush its as though green gas oozed from the leaves, rising into the air and sticking to my already sweaty skin.
(a rainbow in the rainforest)
i longed for a cooling swim, but the muddy brown water of the churning river looked less than inviting. speaking of river water, that was the liquid used for cooking, cleaning, washing, etc etc etc. showers left you feeling a bit scummier than when you started. and i could have sworn a brown “soup” we were served for breakfast one morning was straight from the river. surprisingly, i didn't get sick. must have a stomach of steal!
i queued with the passengers for meals announced by clanging bell, clutching my own bowl and spoon, a greasy peruvian chef ladling a questionable stew from a large vat, picking my way through a mess of river water, rice and unidentifiable floating objects. a saving grace were the opportunistic children who would hop on board during quick cargo stops, flinging fresh mangos and banana leave wrapped-goodies into the mouths of hungry travelers.
(what i woke up to one morning. he took a liking to my hammock)
such cargo loadings also provided constant entertainment. every couple of hours the boat would dock on some small town, thatched huts emerging from the dense jungle, and the whole community would gather to watch the hauling process. cattle, bulls, plantains, yucca, roosters, pigs, sacks of corn, lumber, everything under the sun to be traded in iquitos was packed onto the first floor of the eduardo. no machines, no cranes, just men, muscle, sweat and what looked like back-breaking work.
as dusk approached, we were greeted by the most flamboyant, breath-taking, this-is-why-i-travel sunsets. an orchestra of colors painted the sky, dusty pink and fiery red, ever-changing as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. the indigo sky reflected onto the muddy waters of the amazon, giving it an incredible iridescent sheen for one captured moment, a vista no camera could ever truly record. and as if planned, on the last sunset two pink river dolphins surfaced, a rare species unique to this region of the world.
after 4 days though, i was done. stuck in a cycle of sleep, eat, read, sleep, eat, read, lather, rinse, repeat, i was never really tired and never really awake. sudden stops by the boat would send my hammock crashing into the person next to me. on one midnight stop, a large peruvian women decided to squeeze her hammock right close next to mine. and she had eaten one to many beans in her lifetime. oh, flatulence. i yearned to shower in something other than amazon water. you can only eat some many crackers. i began to despise my hammock. i think my muscles atrophied from lack of use. then i looked around, at the families packed with all their belongings, and remember that while i'm doing this for fun, for the experience, everyone else was just living. doing what they had to do. and that shut me up. everyone was ecstatic though, when iquitos, the largest city in the world not accessible by road, finally came into view. we arrived. i survived. welcome to the jungle.
next up: the floating markets of belen and a trip with a local medicine man into the AMAZON
first step: get as far east as possible.
this is easier when your bus doesn't break down. four times. turning a nice little 18 hour trip into a 30 hour one. complimented by a rapidly clogged bathroom, crying children (i wanted to cry too) and a continuous stream of blasting cumbia with 80's music videos as a special bonus. lets just say we had more than a couple beers at 7am during a 3 hour “rest stop” (aka breakdown numero 4). we finally made it tarapoto, sweaty, tired, and we weren't even in the jungle. a couple necessary days to recover, a hilarious sunday funday with some rowdy tarapoto locals (read: old drunk peruvian men) and we were shuttled to the port town of yurimagua.
then: become human cargo.
ships carrying anything and everything from cattle to corn ply the mighty amazon and her tributaries, and for the bargain deal of 50 soles, you can string up a hammock and come along for the ride. for four days, i was human cargo. the eduardo pulled away from the dock on a hot march afternoon, and a ramshackle jungle of hammocks, humans and goods slowly made their way to iquitos.
(home for 4 days!)
the second and third floors were for passengers and stuffed to the gills, forcing one to weave through the cacophony of colored fabrics and a maze of human cocoons. entire families swung side by side, sometimes one on top of the other. most days were spent hammock swinging, lazily watching the riverbanks of the amazon basin slowly slide by, flanked by foliage so lush its as though green gas oozed from the leaves, rising into the air and sticking to my already sweaty skin.
(a rainbow in the rainforest)
i longed for a cooling swim, but the muddy brown water of the churning river looked less than inviting. speaking of river water, that was the liquid used for cooking, cleaning, washing, etc etc etc. showers left you feeling a bit scummier than when you started. and i could have sworn a brown “soup” we were served for breakfast one morning was straight from the river. surprisingly, i didn't get sick. must have a stomach of steal!
i queued with the passengers for meals announced by clanging bell, clutching my own bowl and spoon, a greasy peruvian chef ladling a questionable stew from a large vat, picking my way through a mess of river water, rice and unidentifiable floating objects. a saving grace were the opportunistic children who would hop on board during quick cargo stops, flinging fresh mangos and banana leave wrapped-goodies into the mouths of hungry travelers.
(what i woke up to one morning. he took a liking to my hammock)
such cargo loadings also provided constant entertainment. every couple of hours the boat would dock on some small town, thatched huts emerging from the dense jungle, and the whole community would gather to watch the hauling process. cattle, bulls, plantains, yucca, roosters, pigs, sacks of corn, lumber, everything under the sun to be traded in iquitos was packed onto the first floor of the eduardo. no machines, no cranes, just men, muscle, sweat and what looked like back-breaking work.
as dusk approached, we were greeted by the most flamboyant, breath-taking, this-is-why-i-travel sunsets. an orchestra of colors painted the sky, dusty pink and fiery red, ever-changing as the sun dipped beyond the horizon. the indigo sky reflected onto the muddy waters of the amazon, giving it an incredible iridescent sheen for one captured moment, a vista no camera could ever truly record. and as if planned, on the last sunset two pink river dolphins surfaced, a rare species unique to this region of the world.
after 4 days though, i was done. stuck in a cycle of sleep, eat, read, sleep, eat, read, lather, rinse, repeat, i was never really tired and never really awake. sudden stops by the boat would send my hammock crashing into the person next to me. on one midnight stop, a large peruvian women decided to squeeze her hammock right close next to mine. and she had eaten one to many beans in her lifetime. oh, flatulence. i yearned to shower in something other than amazon water. you can only eat some many crackers. i began to despise my hammock. i think my muscles atrophied from lack of use. then i looked around, at the families packed with all their belongings, and remember that while i'm doing this for fun, for the experience, everyone else was just living. doing what they had to do. and that shut me up. everyone was ecstatic though, when iquitos, the largest city in the world not accessible by road, finally came into view. we arrived. i survived. welcome to the jungle.
next up: the floating markets of belen and a trip with a local medicine man into the AMAZON
4.3.10
cevichetarian
after crossing into peru, the bus dropped us in the busy transport hub of piura. i fell asleep in the idylic oasis of vilcabamba and woke up in india. i know i´ve never been, but with the traffic of mototaxis and tuk-tuks kicking up swirls of dusty clouds, markets busting with the days catch, smells of sweets and spices and everything in between wafting through the air, begging children following at my heels and the hot hot sun--seems like india, no? or maybe northern peru.
finding the city too overwhelming for an introduction, we randomly picked a nearby town, chiclayo, and hoped for something a little smaller. no such luck. the traffic was even worse. peruvian drivers are absolutely mad. no stoplights, no order, just chaotic cars playing a crazed form of chicken. i felt like ¨frogger¨ everytime i crossed the street, dodging my way through too many near-misses.
hello, huanchanco, such a welcome relief for big-city sore eyes. surrounded by rolling sand dunes and ruins of the ancient city of chan chan, the tiny fishing village is nestled right where the desert stops and the ocean begins. and underneath the arid sun of northern peru, there is only one way to cool down proper. the two c´s. cerveza and ceviche.
a good rule of thumb is to go where the locals go, and with the help of said locals we found the best place in town. fisherman in long reed boats, the same used 200 years ago, ply the waters of the pacific for the freshest catch of the day. cheersing with a frosty beer, i took my first bite of ceviche and waited. omigosh. smooth white hunks of fleshy corvina, marinated and ¨cooked¨ with lime, garnished with aji amarillo and thinly sliced onions, melted in my mouth. so simple and yet bursting with limey briny flavor. the acidity of the lime sings in perfect harmony with the heat of the chilis. omigosh. so good. clean, cooling, completely refreshing. the starchy staples of corn and sweet potato give the dish some sustenence. i think i´m in love. ceviche ceviche, where have you been all my life?
so it seems for the time being, i´m now a pescetarian. or, as i like to say, a cevichetarian.
finding the city too overwhelming for an introduction, we randomly picked a nearby town, chiclayo, and hoped for something a little smaller. no such luck. the traffic was even worse. peruvian drivers are absolutely mad. no stoplights, no order, just chaotic cars playing a crazed form of chicken. i felt like ¨frogger¨ everytime i crossed the street, dodging my way through too many near-misses.
hello, huanchanco, such a welcome relief for big-city sore eyes. surrounded by rolling sand dunes and ruins of the ancient city of chan chan, the tiny fishing village is nestled right where the desert stops and the ocean begins. and underneath the arid sun of northern peru, there is only one way to cool down proper. the two c´s. cerveza and ceviche.
a good rule of thumb is to go where the locals go, and with the help of said locals we found the best place in town. fisherman in long reed boats, the same used 200 years ago, ply the waters of the pacific for the freshest catch of the day. cheersing with a frosty beer, i took my first bite of ceviche and waited. omigosh. smooth white hunks of fleshy corvina, marinated and ¨cooked¨ with lime, garnished with aji amarillo and thinly sliced onions, melted in my mouth. so simple and yet bursting with limey briny flavor. the acidity of the lime sings in perfect harmony with the heat of the chilis. omigosh. so good. clean, cooling, completely refreshing. the starchy staples of corn and sweet potato give the dish some sustenence. i think i´m in love. ceviche ceviche, where have you been all my life?
so it seems for the time being, i´m now a pescetarian. or, as i like to say, a cevichetarian.
22.2.10
carnavale and the bits in between
so i finally left ecuador...just barely, though. what an unexpected suprise this country turned out to be. and those turn out to be the best suprises, don't they?
i arrived in cuenca intending on staying just a couple of days, ended up staying two weeks. the city was clean, not sterile-clean, just pleasantly devoid of massive piles of rubbish (buses still churning out billows of smog, though), cafes and bars lined the streets, a river ran through it. it was nice to get to know a city, make it my own, feel a bit a home away from home. i also got to see a display of amazonian shrunken heads, which was pretty odd and really cool.
on to vilcabamba, the 'valley of longevity,' a city famous for their large collection of very old people. we kept on whispering to each other whenever we saw a wrinkly-face, “do you think their 100?!” must be something in the water, they say. a stopover en route to the peruvian border. plans were to stay a couple nights, then vamos on to peru for carnival. but what are plans if not for changing? The green mountains gave birth to a lush valley below, colorful butterflies and hummingbirds playing house in the foliage. the town center was gringo-fied, but for some reason that didn't bug me as much as other towns. it attracted a certain type of gringo, that's for sure. on any given moment on an given conversation in any given coffeeshop, you could bet the topic revolved around one of ten topics (corporate greed and societal corrutption, 2012 and/or some version of the end times, conspiracy theories, yoga, being an expatriate, etc etc etc). there was lots of hiking and yoga, even more bonfires and drumcircles. needless to say, we decided to stay and it was ecuador carnavele 2010.
carnavele—exactly that. a mismash chaotic scene, foam gone wild, water fights galore. after getting soaked by a wily nino with a bucket, we decided that the best defense was a good offense. back to the hostel we went, filling an artillery of ballon after water ballon, arming ourselves with foam sprayers, tying on rambo bands, pumping ourselves up with slightly-altered quotes from inglorious bastards. “and the ecuadorians will know us—and the ecuadorians will fear us—and when the ecuadorians have nightmares, they will be of us!” out onto the central plaza we went. foam fights between massive dance parties, stopping for refueling breaks of choclo con queso and coco helado, taking a pick-up truck hostage and chucking water from huge tanks, slipping sliding sloshing our way around the town. music, parades, rodeos, music, food stalls wafting smells of all things fried, music, water, did i mention music? It's celebrated differently in every city in every country in the whole of latin america—an experience to be remembered.
after a night bus, saw the sunset in ecuador and the sun rise in peru. as sad as i was to leave the middle of the earth, as it were, my nomadic tendencies took over and took me across the border. the lure of the amazon is calling my name—up next, a looooong riverboat ride throught the biggest rainforest in the world. hoo-rah.
i arrived in cuenca intending on staying just a couple of days, ended up staying two weeks. the city was clean, not sterile-clean, just pleasantly devoid of massive piles of rubbish (buses still churning out billows of smog, though), cafes and bars lined the streets, a river ran through it. it was nice to get to know a city, make it my own, feel a bit a home away from home. i also got to see a display of amazonian shrunken heads, which was pretty odd and really cool.
on to vilcabamba, the 'valley of longevity,' a city famous for their large collection of very old people. we kept on whispering to each other whenever we saw a wrinkly-face, “do you think their 100?!” must be something in the water, they say. a stopover en route to the peruvian border. plans were to stay a couple nights, then vamos on to peru for carnival. but what are plans if not for changing? The green mountains gave birth to a lush valley below, colorful butterflies and hummingbirds playing house in the foliage. the town center was gringo-fied, but for some reason that didn't bug me as much as other towns. it attracted a certain type of gringo, that's for sure. on any given moment on an given conversation in any given coffeeshop, you could bet the topic revolved around one of ten topics (corporate greed and societal corrutption, 2012 and/or some version of the end times, conspiracy theories, yoga, being an expatriate, etc etc etc). there was lots of hiking and yoga, even more bonfires and drumcircles. needless to say, we decided to stay and it was ecuador carnavele 2010.
carnavele—exactly that. a mismash chaotic scene, foam gone wild, water fights galore. after getting soaked by a wily nino with a bucket, we decided that the best defense was a good offense. back to the hostel we went, filling an artillery of ballon after water ballon, arming ourselves with foam sprayers, tying on rambo bands, pumping ourselves up with slightly-altered quotes from inglorious bastards. “and the ecuadorians will know us—and the ecuadorians will fear us—and when the ecuadorians have nightmares, they will be of us!” out onto the central plaza we went. foam fights between massive dance parties, stopping for refueling breaks of choclo con queso and coco helado, taking a pick-up truck hostage and chucking water from huge tanks, slipping sliding sloshing our way around the town. music, parades, rodeos, music, food stalls wafting smells of all things fried, music, water, did i mention music? It's celebrated differently in every city in every country in the whole of latin america—an experience to be remembered.
after a night bus, saw the sunset in ecuador and the sun rise in peru. as sad as i was to leave the middle of the earth, as it were, my nomadic tendencies took over and took me across the border. the lure of the amazon is calling my name—up next, a looooong riverboat ride throught the biggest rainforest in the world. hoo-rah.
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