What would you do if you stumbled into an unknown South American country? Let’s say this country is completely devoid of tourists but full of culture and beautiful scenery. I would want to stay forever. Well, that’s not quite true. Paraguay is just too damn hot.
I crossed the border from Argentina three days ago and immediately felt like I was entering a different world. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told, in just three days here, that “time does not pass in Paraguay.” And in a way, that’s true. While the rest of South America modernizes and integrates into the world economy, Paraguay continues to just let things be. This little nation (population around five million) has been ruled by the same political party for over fifty years. Corruption is part of life. The most important industry (unofficially) is the black market. Beautiful statues of Stroessner, the country’s dictator for 35 years, still stand, even though he’s been gone for 18 years.
Elections are scheduled for April. I’ve asked many people what will happen... the answer always is “nothing will change.” And if the opposition party wins? (That might happen: this election will be fairer than previous ones.) “Nothing will change.” Paraguayans seem to believe that their country will remain as it is now for the rest of eternity. They might be right.
But that would be okay with me. I love Paraguay. Admittedly, this is an odd country. There is nothing to do except look at nice old churches and try not to die of heat stroke, but I don’t mind. I just walk around and talk with the exceptionally friendly Paraguayans. I eat lots of empenadas. I drink lots of Coke.
After three days here, I have to admit that I agree with the Paraguayans: time does not pass here. Spanish is the official language, but life is conducted in Guaraní--the indigenous language that predates and outlasted the Spaniards. (But almost everyone speaks Spanish, so I do just fine. Curiously, even the European immigrants speak and prefer Guaraní--everywhere else I’ve been, white and mestizo South Americans refuse to speak indigenous languages. Guaraní is an important part of the Paraguayan identity.) People idle on porches, drinking terere, a cold tea. Towns are small and friendly. People know their neighbors invite them over for drinks in the afternoon. Mennonite settlers from Germany have colonized small patches of land to grown watermelon and other crops: it is surprising to see very white people (whiter than me!) selling fruit out of horse-drawn buggies. And they don’t speak Spanish, so one simply points. If it weren’t for the internet cafes and cars, Paraguay could slip back to 1920 and no one would notice.
I am an oddity here: a tourist in Paraguay? “Are you sure, rubio, that you aren’t a Mormon missionary? And you are not from your government?” After I answer those two questions correctly, people are beyond friendly... I am an honored guest. Hotel owners chop prices in half. Waiters sit down to have a beer with me. I am invited to a birthday party tonight: I haven’t met the birthday girl but her uncle insists that this won’t be a problem. 250 people are coming.
Above-mentioned uncle and I met yesterday on a bus: he cried out, “‘¡Extranjero! Ven aca.” (Foreigner! Come here.) Anywhere else in South America, I would be wary of anyone calling me “extranjero,” because it is usually followed by a rhetorical barrage of worlds like “imperialist.” But not in Paraguay. Silvio just wanted to talk. After the obligatory two questions (Mormon? Spy?), we had a wonderful conversation that ended with an invitation to stay the night at his house and to attend the birthday party. I said yes.
Another invitation came my way later that day: a nice old woman invited me to the Baptist church for Sunday evening services. I’ve learned to never turn down and invitation (unless it includes drug smuggling or gun running, and even then, I’ll consider it), so off to the cute little blue church we went. Fascinating experience. I did not feel very close to God, just trapped by a bunch of people waving their hands about and talking to Señor Jesus. But hey, it was an experience.
After escaping from God’s House, I headed to the town’s weekly folklore festival. There was lots of poetry and even more dancing. If I were a cynic, I would describe Paraguayan folk dance as nothing more than balancing a bottle of wine on one’s head while walking around on a stage. But I’m not a cynic, so I’ll say Paraguayan folk dance is an inspired swirl of skirts, the slap of horse whips on the ground, and the rythmic stomp of gauco boots. I know nothing about dancing, but it was pretty cool. And the carefully positioned bottles of wine added... something.
In the middle of this festival, the region’s most famous celebrity showed up. She is about 15 years old, and based on what I understood (most was in Guaraní), is the reigning South American champion in the 3000 meter run for her age group. That is pretty much the biggest thing to happen in Misiones Province since the Spaniards arrived 450 years ago.
As I was sitting there, in the second row, and I realized that I was the only tourist there. And now you say, “‘For good reason. That sounds way boring.” But it wasn’t! It was magical and totally blew my mind. There were little kids doing “A homage to our teacher,” and 300 people watching. Again, this happens every week. At first glance, there isn’t much to see in Paraguay, but if you’re looking, there’s plenty.
Scroll through images by mousing over the left or right side and clicking.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
A farewell to Bolivia
Oh, Argentina. After two months of dry, cold mountains, I’m now in Salta. Argentina is wet. Argentina is warm. Argentina has trees.
I crossed the border with Bolivia about a week ago. I didn’t really want to leave, but unpredictable political conditions and an increasing number of paros (basically, when people block roads) left me with almost no choice: I knew I had one sure shot to get out of the country and I took it. So I took one last Bolivian bus ride (anyone who has traveled in Bolivia knows what that means) south through a torrential rainstorm to the frontier.
The road was awful, and the bus had probably traveled it every day for a dozen years. The constant bumping and bouncing had rattled all the screws loose. Seats shook. Windows rattled in their frames. Everything in the bus vibrated in a deafening rhythm dictated by road’s ruts. It was louder than the loudest concert I’ve seen. Worse, the windows couldn’t be shut: they would just vibrate open again a minute later. And it was raining... everyone, myself included, kept switching seats looking for a dry one. There were none.
I will miss Bolivia. I will not miss its buses.
The border crossing was easy, and the rain stopped as soon as I stepped out of the immigration office on the Bolivian side. It seemed a fortuitous way to enter Argentina--to the north all I could see were dark thunderheads, but the sky to the south was an optimistic blue. Traveling in Bolivia had been rewarding but difficult... Argentina promised to be much easier.
Despite the threatening sky to the north, I decided to spend my first night in Argentina in my tent, so I walked out of town and set up camp. I ate rice for dinner and went to bed under the stars, which were quickly obscured by clouds. Apparently, Argentina does not require visas for Bolivian storms. It rained a lot, and I was a little nervous (lightening is not reassuring when one is camped on a flat plain), but the tent held, I stayed dry, and those big bolts kept their distance.
I spent a couple days poking around the border area: I did a few nice hikes, one overnight, and decided I was tired of the mountains. The Andes have encompassed every square inch of the territory I’ve explored during the last two months, and for the first time in my life, I want to be somewhere without mountains. So from Salta, I’m going to head east to the Argentine Chaco and eventually to Paraguay: it will be hot. It will be wet. There will be mosquitos the size of baseballs. But there will be no big mountains. I am eager for a change of scenery.
How to describe Salta? It was quite a shock when I arrived two days ago. It is a big modern city, but one with a soul: tree-lined streets, little cafes (no Starbucks), and impossibly beautiful people. (I have never seen so many stupendously attractive people in my life. And other travelers say it just gets better.) People mill about all day long doing, seemingly, nothing except walking through the city’s parks and plazas. I have confronted many minor mysteries on this trip and I have a new one: hundreds of teenagers wander around, in school uniforms, during the school day. Do they not go to school but wear the uniforms? Or is there simply an epidemic of cutting class here? I can’t figure it out.
Argentines are warm and open compared to Bolivians. Traveling alone in Bolivia was challenging because it was difficult to meet the locals... few seemed interested in more than a quick conversation. Here it’s different: I find it much easier to engage Argentines. As I boarded a bus a few days ago, a complete stranger called out, “have a nice trip!” That simply doesn’t happen in Bolivia, but I guess it does in Argentina.
But actually speaking with them is another matter. The accent is very thick and they often don’t understand my Spanish because I don’t pronounce my “ll’’ the way they do. Whenever I hear “¿como?’’ I just repeat myself, but with a false Argentine accent. That usually resolves things.
I splurged and had steak last night... five dollars for a hunk of meat the size of my hand, fingers extended. For a dollar more I had two glasses of good wine. Argentina is pretty incredible. (And yes, I will be a vegetarian again when I get back! But no one should be a vegetarian in Argentina.)
Chow.
I crossed the border with Bolivia about a week ago. I didn’t really want to leave, but unpredictable political conditions and an increasing number of paros (basically, when people block roads) left me with almost no choice: I knew I had one sure shot to get out of the country and I took it. So I took one last Bolivian bus ride (anyone who has traveled in Bolivia knows what that means) south through a torrential rainstorm to the frontier.
The road was awful, and the bus had probably traveled it every day for a dozen years. The constant bumping and bouncing had rattled all the screws loose. Seats shook. Windows rattled in their frames. Everything in the bus vibrated in a deafening rhythm dictated by road’s ruts. It was louder than the loudest concert I’ve seen. Worse, the windows couldn’t be shut: they would just vibrate open again a minute later. And it was raining... everyone, myself included, kept switching seats looking for a dry one. There were none.
I will miss Bolivia. I will not miss its buses.
The border crossing was easy, and the rain stopped as soon as I stepped out of the immigration office on the Bolivian side. It seemed a fortuitous way to enter Argentina--to the north all I could see were dark thunderheads, but the sky to the south was an optimistic blue. Traveling in Bolivia had been rewarding but difficult... Argentina promised to be much easier.
Despite the threatening sky to the north, I decided to spend my first night in Argentina in my tent, so I walked out of town and set up camp. I ate rice for dinner and went to bed under the stars, which were quickly obscured by clouds. Apparently, Argentina does not require visas for Bolivian storms. It rained a lot, and I was a little nervous (lightening is not reassuring when one is camped on a flat plain), but the tent held, I stayed dry, and those big bolts kept their distance.
I spent a couple days poking around the border area: I did a few nice hikes, one overnight, and decided I was tired of the mountains. The Andes have encompassed every square inch of the territory I’ve explored during the last two months, and for the first time in my life, I want to be somewhere without mountains. So from Salta, I’m going to head east to the Argentine Chaco and eventually to Paraguay: it will be hot. It will be wet. There will be mosquitos the size of baseballs. But there will be no big mountains. I am eager for a change of scenery.
How to describe Salta? It was quite a shock when I arrived two days ago. It is a big modern city, but one with a soul: tree-lined streets, little cafes (no Starbucks), and impossibly beautiful people. (I have never seen so many stupendously attractive people in my life. And other travelers say it just gets better.) People mill about all day long doing, seemingly, nothing except walking through the city’s parks and plazas. I have confronted many minor mysteries on this trip and I have a new one: hundreds of teenagers wander around, in school uniforms, during the school day. Do they not go to school but wear the uniforms? Or is there simply an epidemic of cutting class here? I can’t figure it out.
Argentines are warm and open compared to Bolivians. Traveling alone in Bolivia was challenging because it was difficult to meet the locals... few seemed interested in more than a quick conversation. Here it’s different: I find it much easier to engage Argentines. As I boarded a bus a few days ago, a complete stranger called out, “have a nice trip!” That simply doesn’t happen in Bolivia, but I guess it does in Argentina.
But actually speaking with them is another matter. The accent is very thick and they often don’t understand my Spanish because I don’t pronounce my “ll’’ the way they do. Whenever I hear “¿como?’’ I just repeat myself, but with a false Argentine accent. That usually resolves things.
I splurged and had steak last night... five dollars for a hunk of meat the size of my hand, fingers extended. For a dollar more I had two glasses of good wine. Argentina is pretty incredible. (And yes, I will be a vegetarian again when I get back! But no one should be a vegetarian in Argentina.)
Chow.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Bolivia is a friendly country, except at the border
The last couple of days warrant a book, not a single blog entry. But I don´t have the time (or the patience) to hammer out 300 pages, so a few paragraphs will have to suffice.
Where to begin? Well, when I last wrote, I was in Arica, Chile. I didn´t stay in the world´s thinnest country for much longer--I crossed the border back into Bolivia last Thursday. (I spent Wednesday night sleeping on a bus at the border: I´m still not sure why anyone would schedule a bus to arrive at the border at 3 a.m., when it´s closed.) A word of advice: do not accuse Bolivian immigration officials of corruption when the ¨tax¨ they want you to pay is actually legit. It goes like this. ¨15 Bolivianos for your entrance stamp, please.¨ Me: ¨Oh really? Does everyone pay this tax, or just the gringos?¨ ¨Everyone.¨ ¨I don´t believe you.¨ (Official pulls out book of regulations and shows me that, in fact, everyone does pay.) Let´s just say that he had some strong words for me, including stuff like ¨imperialist.¨
Oh wait--something really important happened before I crossed the border. Location: the public library in Calama, Chile. Event: a giant earthquake. I´ve been told that most of the time, the ground moves back and forth during earthquakes... well, this time, it went up and down. So my attempt to run to the doorjam really looked more like a skip--every time I took I step, I got bounced up a bit. As soon as the shaking stopped, I headed outside, where I stayed for the rest of the day. I learned later that the quake had been 7.7 magnitude, and it lasted for 40 seconds. I could have sworn it was more like 10 minutes.
From Calama, I traveled to Uyuni, Bolivia. I spent one night there, then headed out on a tour of the surrounding area, including the world´s largest salt desert, the Salar de Uyuni.
Let´s pause for a moment and do a little experiment. Get some salt and dump it on the table. Next, find a lamp and shine it on said salt. Now imagine that this bright, glittering salt extends all the way to the horizon, and that you are standing in the middle of it. There´s really no way to do justice to the overwhelming beauty of the Salar: I had a good conversation with some Argentines (more about them later) about the lack of adequate words. The Salar is flat. It is very white and salty. It is also very big. That just doesn´t work! Okay, how about this. The ocean isn´t particularly remarkable either--it´s just a bunch of water. The Salar is like the ocean: the very fact that there is so much of just one thing is overwhelming. Simply hard salt desert to the horizon. Further, it´s perfect: white hexagons repeat and repeat to form a pattern that continues for dozens of kilometers. Last Friday, at three in the afternoon, I walked 100 meters away from my group, out onto the untracked salt, and it was absolutely silent. No joke: I could have been on a different planet.
That extraterrestrial feeling would return several times during the three days that I traveled with Roberto, our Bolivian guide and driver. We saw lakes made pink by algea and green by copper, and a desert so red it could have been on mars.
There were also more earthly moments to the trip: vicuña by the dozen, and rock formations that made me wish I had packed a pair of climbing shoes and my rack. (A belayer would have helped too.) And every once and a while, the reality of the gringo trail would intrude on the stunning beauty of southeast Bolivia--that would be when the Land Cruiser of loud Irish tourists arrived where we were.
See, there´s a bit of a catch-22 about traveling in South America. The out-of-this-world places, like the Salar or Macchu Picchu, are also where everyone goes. The marvels of South America have been discovered, and while it´s well worth it to join the masses in pursuit of beauty, that can´t be the whole point of a trip. I´ve met a lot of people who are simply traveling from wonder to wonder, and while that might work for some people, it doesn´t work for me. ¨For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.¨ When I found this quote (Robert Louis Stevenson) a couple of weeks ago, I decided that Rob and I would have gotten along just fine. I´m not going anywhere, I´m just going.
Going for five more weeks, that is. Tomorrow, I will rejoin my Argentine friends for a tour of the mine here in Potosí: formerly the world´s largest silver mine, Cerro Rico now produces loads of tin. It´s one of those things that you´ve just got to do in Bolivia. I´m a little nervous, since I don´t really like caves too much, but I´ll be fine. Hell, I made it through a 7.7 magnitude quake last week.
Oh, the Argentines! Well, there are three: Julio, Buli, and Ana. They´re all around 70. Julio runs a retreat outside Buenos Aires (he described it as ¨lots of yoga, and lots of thinking like Gandhi.¨), and invited me to spend a day or two there (free!) when I´m in Argentina. Buli and Ana (married) were shocked when I said I didn´t have plans for Christmas in Buenos Aires, and they insisted that I call if I don´t have anywhere to go for La Navidad. I think I will!
Now there´s just the question of Thanksgiving in a few days... I think fried chicken might be the closest I can get to turkey in Bolivia.
Chow.
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving! I´m now in Sucre, Bolivia, and I thought I´d add a little to my previous post.
The mines of Cerro Rico were pretty tough, both physically and emotionally. They´re very dusty and hot, so it´s difficult to breath, but then you see the miners and feel like a wimp. After all, the tour lasts about three hours, and they´re working for up to 16 hours a day--some pull 24 hour shifts. The money is good, by Bolivian standards (about 140-160 dollars a month), but it still stands that I can make as much in one day painting houses as these guys make in a month. That´s awful.
But it could be way worse. The mines are run as cooperatives, so profits are shared and most miners have some sort of insurance. (Membership in a cooperative isn´t required, though, and some just work independently, selling ore on their own.) It´s still a very, very dangerous job, but things have improved on that front too: since the Spaniards first started silver mining in the 16th century, eight million people have died in Cerro Rico. (No joke. That number comes from a book.)
I may have painted and excessively rosy picture of the mines: they´re really terrible. Miners rarely wear any sort of lung protection, and most develop silicosis (basically, the lungs don´t absorb oxygen as well as they should) within about two years. Most miners are under 35, simply because people don´t last that long underground. Few die, but most get sick and have to quit. There are exceptions: we met one man who had worked in the mine for 27 years. He´s 45 years old. On the other end of the spectrum, we talked with a 16-year-old who had been working for two years, almost every day.
People don´t eat or drink in the mine, they just chew coca. It´s a powerful stimulant that allows the miners to work incredible hours, and in theory, the extra saliva in the mouth acts as a sort of a filter to keep the dust out of the lungs. I´m not sure I buy that.
I traveled to Sucre almost immediately after getting out of the mines (I have never been so happy to see sun and fresh air!), and I really like this city. The tourist industry is important here, but it´s hardly the only thing going on. Sucre is one of Bolivia´s two official capitals (the other is La Paz), but Sucre wants to be the only one. So every once and a while, the city just shuts down and everyone goes out to protest. Today is one of those days: the main plaza is full of people waving flags and chanting, ´´¡Sucre! ¡Sucre! ¡Capital plena!´´ If that´s not enough, there´s a big open air concert tonight to support the plan. Should be a good time.
My Thanksgiving was disappointing. Let´s just say that it´s unfortunate that the only time I´ve felt unwelcome on this entire trip was when I tried to have Thanksgiving dinner with the Peace Corps. I don´t want to go into much detail, but it just sucks. I´ve been all over this continent and felt at home everywhere, but on the one day when Americans are supposed to come together, I was basically kicked to the curb. I´ll remember that as one of the seriously low points to this trip.
I´ll be in Sucre for a few more days. On Sunday, I´ll travel to Oruro and take a train south to Tupiza. My plan isn´t to sure yet (is it ever?), but I think I´ll be there for a couple days before traveling to Tarija. From there, I´ll cross the border into Argentina. And maybe Paraguay, if I can find a consulate that´s actually open. (The one here in Sucre is closed for two weeks.)
I´m doing well. Thanksgiving without family isn´t much fun, but it´s a tradeoff. I mean, one depressing, lonely day for 87 great ones? Yeah, I´ll take that.
Hasta luego.
P.P.S. I took some self portraits on the tour of the salar... I call this one ´´Wow, that was a big bump!´´
Where to begin? Well, when I last wrote, I was in Arica, Chile. I didn´t stay in the world´s thinnest country for much longer--I crossed the border back into Bolivia last Thursday. (I spent Wednesday night sleeping on a bus at the border: I´m still not sure why anyone would schedule a bus to arrive at the border at 3 a.m., when it´s closed.) A word of advice: do not accuse Bolivian immigration officials of corruption when the ¨tax¨ they want you to pay is actually legit. It goes like this. ¨15 Bolivianos for your entrance stamp, please.¨ Me: ¨Oh really? Does everyone pay this tax, or just the gringos?¨ ¨Everyone.¨ ¨I don´t believe you.¨ (Official pulls out book of regulations and shows me that, in fact, everyone does pay.) Let´s just say that he had some strong words for me, including stuff like ¨imperialist.¨
Oh wait--something really important happened before I crossed the border. Location: the public library in Calama, Chile. Event: a giant earthquake. I´ve been told that most of the time, the ground moves back and forth during earthquakes... well, this time, it went up and down. So my attempt to run to the doorjam really looked more like a skip--every time I took I step, I got bounced up a bit. As soon as the shaking stopped, I headed outside, where I stayed for the rest of the day. I learned later that the quake had been 7.7 magnitude, and it lasted for 40 seconds. I could have sworn it was more like 10 minutes.
From Calama, I traveled to Uyuni, Bolivia. I spent one night there, then headed out on a tour of the surrounding area, including the world´s largest salt desert, the Salar de Uyuni.
Let´s pause for a moment and do a little experiment. Get some salt and dump it on the table. Next, find a lamp and shine it on said salt. Now imagine that this bright, glittering salt extends all the way to the horizon, and that you are standing in the middle of it. There´s really no way to do justice to the overwhelming beauty of the Salar: I had a good conversation with some Argentines (more about them later) about the lack of adequate words. The Salar is flat. It is very white and salty. It is also very big. That just doesn´t work! Okay, how about this. The ocean isn´t particularly remarkable either--it´s just a bunch of water. The Salar is like the ocean: the very fact that there is so much of just one thing is overwhelming. Simply hard salt desert to the horizon. Further, it´s perfect: white hexagons repeat and repeat to form a pattern that continues for dozens of kilometers. Last Friday, at three in the afternoon, I walked 100 meters away from my group, out onto the untracked salt, and it was absolutely silent. No joke: I could have been on a different planet.
That extraterrestrial feeling would return several times during the three days that I traveled with Roberto, our Bolivian guide and driver. We saw lakes made pink by algea and green by copper, and a desert so red it could have been on mars.
There were also more earthly moments to the trip: vicuña by the dozen, and rock formations that made me wish I had packed a pair of climbing shoes and my rack. (A belayer would have helped too.) And every once and a while, the reality of the gringo trail would intrude on the stunning beauty of southeast Bolivia--that would be when the Land Cruiser of loud Irish tourists arrived where we were.
See, there´s a bit of a catch-22 about traveling in South America. The out-of-this-world places, like the Salar or Macchu Picchu, are also where everyone goes. The marvels of South America have been discovered, and while it´s well worth it to join the masses in pursuit of beauty, that can´t be the whole point of a trip. I´ve met a lot of people who are simply traveling from wonder to wonder, and while that might work for some people, it doesn´t work for me. ¨For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.¨ When I found this quote (Robert Louis Stevenson) a couple of weeks ago, I decided that Rob and I would have gotten along just fine. I´m not going anywhere, I´m just going.
Going for five more weeks, that is. Tomorrow, I will rejoin my Argentine friends for a tour of the mine here in Potosí: formerly the world´s largest silver mine, Cerro Rico now produces loads of tin. It´s one of those things that you´ve just got to do in Bolivia. I´m a little nervous, since I don´t really like caves too much, but I´ll be fine. Hell, I made it through a 7.7 magnitude quake last week.
Oh, the Argentines! Well, there are three: Julio, Buli, and Ana. They´re all around 70. Julio runs a retreat outside Buenos Aires (he described it as ¨lots of yoga, and lots of thinking like Gandhi.¨), and invited me to spend a day or two there (free!) when I´m in Argentina. Buli and Ana (married) were shocked when I said I didn´t have plans for Christmas in Buenos Aires, and they insisted that I call if I don´t have anywhere to go for La Navidad. I think I will!
Now there´s just the question of Thanksgiving in a few days... I think fried chicken might be the closest I can get to turkey in Bolivia.
Chow.
P.S. Happy Thanksgiving! I´m now in Sucre, Bolivia, and I thought I´d add a little to my previous post.
The mines of Cerro Rico were pretty tough, both physically and emotionally. They´re very dusty and hot, so it´s difficult to breath, but then you see the miners and feel like a wimp. After all, the tour lasts about three hours, and they´re working for up to 16 hours a day--some pull 24 hour shifts. The money is good, by Bolivian standards (about 140-160 dollars a month), but it still stands that I can make as much in one day painting houses as these guys make in a month. That´s awful.
But it could be way worse. The mines are run as cooperatives, so profits are shared and most miners have some sort of insurance. (Membership in a cooperative isn´t required, though, and some just work independently, selling ore on their own.) It´s still a very, very dangerous job, but things have improved on that front too: since the Spaniards first started silver mining in the 16th century, eight million people have died in Cerro Rico. (No joke. That number comes from a book.)
I may have painted and excessively rosy picture of the mines: they´re really terrible. Miners rarely wear any sort of lung protection, and most develop silicosis (basically, the lungs don´t absorb oxygen as well as they should) within about two years. Most miners are under 35, simply because people don´t last that long underground. Few die, but most get sick and have to quit. There are exceptions: we met one man who had worked in the mine for 27 years. He´s 45 years old. On the other end of the spectrum, we talked with a 16-year-old who had been working for two years, almost every day.
People don´t eat or drink in the mine, they just chew coca. It´s a powerful stimulant that allows the miners to work incredible hours, and in theory, the extra saliva in the mouth acts as a sort of a filter to keep the dust out of the lungs. I´m not sure I buy that.
I traveled to Sucre almost immediately after getting out of the mines (I have never been so happy to see sun and fresh air!), and I really like this city. The tourist industry is important here, but it´s hardly the only thing going on. Sucre is one of Bolivia´s two official capitals (the other is La Paz), but Sucre wants to be the only one. So every once and a while, the city just shuts down and everyone goes out to protest. Today is one of those days: the main plaza is full of people waving flags and chanting, ´´¡Sucre! ¡Sucre! ¡Capital plena!´´ If that´s not enough, there´s a big open air concert tonight to support the plan. Should be a good time.
My Thanksgiving was disappointing. Let´s just say that it´s unfortunate that the only time I´ve felt unwelcome on this entire trip was when I tried to have Thanksgiving dinner with the Peace Corps. I don´t want to go into much detail, but it just sucks. I´ve been all over this continent and felt at home everywhere, but on the one day when Americans are supposed to come together, I was basically kicked to the curb. I´ll remember that as one of the seriously low points to this trip.
I´ll be in Sucre for a few more days. On Sunday, I´ll travel to Oruro and take a train south to Tupiza. My plan isn´t to sure yet (is it ever?), but I think I´ll be there for a couple days before traveling to Tarija. From there, I´ll cross the border into Argentina. And maybe Paraguay, if I can find a consulate that´s actually open. (The one here in Sucre is closed for two weeks.)
I´m doing well. Thanksgiving without family isn´t much fun, but it´s a tradeoff. I mean, one depressing, lonely day for 87 great ones? Yeah, I´ll take that.
Hasta luego.
P.P.S. I took some self portraits on the tour of the salar... I call this one ´´Wow, that was a big bump!´´
Monday, November 12, 2007
Sun so bright it makes you sneeze
I awoke this morning to the sound of a very loud public address system squaking in Spanish. It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on, but after a while, the amplified syllables began make sense. An awards ceremony, marking the end of the Chilean school year, was going on across the street at the middle school. School´s out for summer here in Arica.
And summer it unquestionably is. Yesterday, I laid on the beach for a couple of hours. Today, I bought an ice cream cone and raced to eat it before the sun turned it into a sweet, sticky mess. (I won.) Tomorrow, I´ll travel the coastal route from here to Iquique, four hours south.
Yes, after nearly six weeks in the high Andes, I´ve reached the coast. And damn, is it nice. The sun at
But my retreat to the lowlands won´t last long. On Wednesday, I´ll board a night train from the Chilean coast, heading to Uyuni, Bolivia. (I was in
The past two weeks have been more about survival than grand adventures. When I last wrote, I was in Cusco, the gringo capital of South America, where I turned down daily offers of cocaine and pot. (´´You like marijuana, cocaine, my friend?´´) The only thing to do was keep walking. I got used to that. The jalagringos (gringo-pullers, literally) where a little harder to avoid: they stand on sidewalks and tout restaraunts, Macchu Picchu tours, and kitschy crafts, generally in memorized English phrases. So what to do? I just said, ´´Ya comí, ya fui, ya tengo.´´ (I´ve already eaten, already gone, already have it.) That seemed to work.
Indeed, Cusco was kind of about surviving. It´s beautiful but absolutely overrun, so I didn´t stay long, opting to head to Lake Titicaca with a (misguided) hope of escaping the hordes. Instead, a different menance arrived (in my gut). Basically, I got really sick. Traveler´s diarrhea, I thought, so I busted out the antibiotics. That seemed to help for a couple days, but then it was back, but with nausea and intense stomach cramping to boot. I initially returned to the Peruvian side of Lake Titicaca for medical care, where I was told I was dehyrdated and given IV fluids (the nurse asked for my email address), and that helped a bit with the nausea. But the terrible stomach pains persisted, so I decided
The four hour colectivo ride from Copacabana (on the Bolivian shore of the lake) to
Most of my time in
And my health improves every day. I didn´t anticipate coming to the coast, but it´s nearly impossible to recuperate at
While bits of the previous two weeks have been absolutely, incredibly, awful, I´ve enjoyed most of my time. Lake Titicaca is aaaamazing. The border between Peru and Bolivia on the coast is probably the most beautiful international checkpoint ever. (Well, the Chilean-Bolivian border I crossed just two days ago was pretty spectacular too.) And it is remarkably strange to stand at
It would have liked to visit some of the islands on Lake Titicaca, but I was worried that seasicknesss might multiply my other symptoms and leave me dying on the deck of a tour boat. So I guess I´ll just have to come back, right?
My time in Arica has been limited to sitting on the beach, reading English-language magazines, and planning my trip. I have six weeks and two days left: no where near enough time to do everything I want. Remember that red line marking my intended route on the map at the top of the page? Well, disregard it. I´m going to return to Bolivia for a while, and then I´ll probably end up in Argentina. Paraguay (?) is a real possibility as well, since I´d like to see the Mennonite communities there and the old Jesuit social missions as well. But I really don´t know: I´ll get my Paraguayan visa tomorrow in Iquique, but my itinerary is still up in the air. All I know is that I´ll be traveling, more or less southeast, until I get to Buenos Aires in December.
Some of the more geographically astute of you have by now noticed that my new route excludes Patagonia. Yes it does. And I still can´t really believe that I have voluntarily given up a trip to a region I have wanted to visit for years, but I just don´t have time. And Patagonia is best explored with other people... the mountains there are not meant to be climbed solo. So once again, another trip needs to be planned.
What else to report: I found a nice café in
Well, it´s five o´clock here in Chile, which means I should probably go back to the beach. Hope all is well wherever you are. The traveling life is not always this comfortable... I don´t mind a bit of comfort now and then.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Have you ever seen the full moon rise? And other stories from the southern hemisphere
I've always been a little irritated when people begin stories with something like, "Well, I really can't explain it." That's always seemed like a cheap cop-out to me--people make up for their limitations as story-tellers or writers with lines like that. But damn it, I just can't chronicle what's happened in the last two and a half weeks. So yes, I really can't explain it all. In lieu of a chronology, I'm going to tell one story.
Last week, I met three Europeans (two Czechs, one German) and we became good friends over a bottle (or two or three) of wine. We decided to do a trek together--Salkantay. It's one of the alternative trails to Macchu Picchu. But that's not the story.
On the third day of our trek, we camped outside a little town called Santa Teresa. I was craving a cup of good coffee, so I went into town to look for "café molido." After a long search, I met a woman who said her friend had a restaurant with real coffee, and she offered to take me there. And indeed, I saw real coffee beans! But they were white... that was strange. Basically, they hadn't been toasted yet. So I would have to wait a while, but that was fine with me. I generally have lots of time here in Peru.
I sat down at a table to wait, but curiosity got the best of me and I walked back into the kitchen. It was lit by a large fire in the middle, and guinea pigs scattered at the sound of my footsteps. La señora walked in and we started to chat. I asked if I could help toast the beans, and she said, "¡Claro que si!" So she filled a big ceramic bowl with the fresh coffee, set it on the huge stove, and I set to stirring them with a giant wooden spoon. While I stirred (and sweated) she ran around the kitchen, preparing for... something. Occasionally, a guinea pig or a small child would bump into my legs.
Twenty minutes later, the beans were toasted and el señor got out the hand-cranked coffee grinder. We took turns grinding the still-warm beans, and after a while, I sat down and drank the best cup of coffee I've ever had. (El señor and la señora chatted in Quechua while I sat. This happens a lot--it´s a way to gossip about gringos with no chance of them understanding) La señora continued her frantic cooking, and after I finished my coffee, I asked what was going on. "Well,"she replied, "there are 30 people coming over for dinner in one hour. I've got a lot to do." I offered to help--could I cut something up for her? And the answer was ¡si! Soon, I was stirring a giant vat of boiling chocolate.
An hour later, I was splattered with chocolate, burned (she squeezed a tomato all over my burned left hand), and dehydrated--my misery was clear. So I was sent out to the dining room to eat something. Now, picture this. I haven't showered in almost a week. I've been working in a broiling kitchen for an hour. And I open the door to the dining room, Michael Jackson's "Thriller" blaring, and the 30 people who are here for dinner are a group of high school girls from a neighboring town on the way to Macchu Picchu. Things made a little more sense later when someone explained that these girls were from a town devoid of tourists, but at that moment, I had no idea what was going on: I couldn't tell if the gasps all around the room where inspired by my blue eyes or my sad appearance. So I slowly made my way through the giggling hordes, cowboy hat placed firmly upon my head, sat down at a table, and tried to avoid the stares. Meanwhile, four-year-old Ana (daughter of la señora and el señor) was crawling up my back and pulling on my ears.
Later that evening, I was pressured into a group photo with the class, but I drew the line at individual photos with the girls. That just seemed... weird. After they had all left, I sat down with the family and ate a real dinner, and we talked about my life in the United States and theirs in Peru while watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme action flick.
But that wasn't the end of it--those damn girls were on the same train I was the next day, and stayed in the hotel next to mine in Aguas Calientes. I even ran into them at Macchu Picchu, where they continued to ask for photos. Flattering? No, not really. Just kind of astonishing.
As I think about it now, that evening seems almost unbelievable. But it happened and I couldn't have asked for a better night here. That's Peru--forget the happening clubs of Lima and the guided treks to Macchu Picchu. These little towns make this country.
And here are those other stories from the southern hemisphere: I've been searched by Peruvian soldiers wearing cast-off US DHS uniforms. I've eaten mumu (kind of like a spinach mash) with a dozen Peruvian women in a market. I've hired a Peruvian police officer to drive me for two hours in his official truck. (It broke down twice.) I've been within striking distance of a deadly snake. I've trekked to Macchu Picchu with complete strangers. (They are now great friends.) I've heard more Quechua than Spanish some days. I've been the eighth person in a moto-taxi designed for three. I've been counted by the Peruvian national census. I've salsa danced in Cusco's hottest local club. (Those lessons finally payed off!)
So that's what it's like here. A constant adventure, with almost no rhyme or reason. And I love it. I'll be in Cusco until Friday, then I'm headed to Lake Titicaca and Bolivia. Damn it, how has a while month gone by since I was in Lima, searching for my backpack? I love what I'm doing.
Last week, I met three Europeans (two Czechs, one German) and we became good friends over a bottle (or two or three) of wine. We decided to do a trek together--Salkantay. It's one of the alternative trails to Macchu Picchu. But that's not the story.
On the third day of our trek, we camped outside a little town called Santa Teresa. I was craving a cup of good coffee, so I went into town to look for "café molido." After a long search, I met a woman who said her friend had a restaurant with real coffee, and she offered to take me there. And indeed, I saw real coffee beans! But they were white... that was strange. Basically, they hadn't been toasted yet. So I would have to wait a while, but that was fine with me. I generally have lots of time here in Peru.
I sat down at a table to wait, but curiosity got the best of me and I walked back into the kitchen. It was lit by a large fire in the middle, and guinea pigs scattered at the sound of my footsteps. La señora walked in and we started to chat. I asked if I could help toast the beans, and she said, "¡Claro que si!" So she filled a big ceramic bowl with the fresh coffee, set it on the huge stove, and I set to stirring them with a giant wooden spoon. While I stirred (and sweated) she ran around the kitchen, preparing for... something. Occasionally, a guinea pig or a small child would bump into my legs.
Twenty minutes later, the beans were toasted and el señor got out the hand-cranked coffee grinder. We took turns grinding the still-warm beans, and after a while, I sat down and drank the best cup of coffee I've ever had. (El señor and la señora chatted in Quechua while I sat. This happens a lot--it´s a way to gossip about gringos with no chance of them understanding) La señora continued her frantic cooking, and after I finished my coffee, I asked what was going on. "Well,"she replied, "there are 30 people coming over for dinner in one hour. I've got a lot to do." I offered to help--could I cut something up for her? And the answer was ¡si! Soon, I was stirring a giant vat of boiling chocolate.
An hour later, I was splattered with chocolate, burned (she squeezed a tomato all over my burned left hand), and dehydrated--my misery was clear. So I was sent out to the dining room to eat something. Now, picture this. I haven't showered in almost a week. I've been working in a broiling kitchen for an hour. And I open the door to the dining room, Michael Jackson's "Thriller" blaring, and the 30 people who are here for dinner are a group of high school girls from a neighboring town on the way to Macchu Picchu. Things made a little more sense later when someone explained that these girls were from a town devoid of tourists, but at that moment, I had no idea what was going on: I couldn't tell if the gasps all around the room where inspired by my blue eyes or my sad appearance. So I slowly made my way through the giggling hordes, cowboy hat placed firmly upon my head, sat down at a table, and tried to avoid the stares. Meanwhile, four-year-old Ana (daughter of la señora and el señor) was crawling up my back and pulling on my ears.
Later that evening, I was pressured into a group photo with the class, but I drew the line at individual photos with the girls. That just seemed... weird. After they had all left, I sat down with the family and ate a real dinner, and we talked about my life in the United States and theirs in Peru while watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme action flick.
But that wasn't the end of it--those damn girls were on the same train I was the next day, and stayed in the hotel next to mine in Aguas Calientes. I even ran into them at Macchu Picchu, where they continued to ask for photos. Flattering? No, not really. Just kind of astonishing.
As I think about it now, that evening seems almost unbelievable. But it happened and I couldn't have asked for a better night here. That's Peru--forget the happening clubs of Lima and the guided treks to Macchu Picchu. These little towns make this country.
And here are those other stories from the southern hemisphere: I've been searched by Peruvian soldiers wearing cast-off US DHS uniforms. I've eaten mumu (kind of like a spinach mash) with a dozen Peruvian women in a market. I've hired a Peruvian police officer to drive me for two hours in his official truck. (It broke down twice.) I've been within striking distance of a deadly snake. I've trekked to Macchu Picchu with complete strangers. (They are now great friends.) I've heard more Quechua than Spanish some days. I've been the eighth person in a moto-taxi designed for three. I've been counted by the Peruvian national census. I've salsa danced in Cusco's hottest local club. (Those lessons finally payed off!)
So that's what it's like here. A constant adventure, with almost no rhyme or reason. And I love it. I'll be in Cusco until Friday, then I'm headed to Lake Titicaca and Bolivia. Damn it, how has a while month gone by since I was in Lima, searching for my backpack? I love what I'm doing.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Good bye to the paved gringo trail
I've just arrived in Tingo Maria, Peru--the official start of Peru's jungle territory. And damn, it feels like jungle. But I´ll get to that in a minute. The last week has made for some good stories.
I traveled north from Lima to Huaraz about a week ago via night bus. I quickly found a hostel, where I befriended two Israeli travelers just minutes after arriving. One hour later, the three of us were headed towards, a significant pre-Inca ruin on the east side of the Cordillera. We had missed the comfortable and direct tourist bus, so we talked our way onto the much slower local bus, amongst the squawking chickens and other smelly animals. (Gringos are technically forbidden, but good Spanish makes almost anything possible.) Three hours later, we arrived and toured around the site with a nice French couple. Chavin was the center of major pre-Inca culture sometime around 1000 B.C., and much of it has yet to be uncovered, but what we saw was impressive. Much of the complex is a series of interconnected subterranean rooms--it was fun imagining what had happened in them 3000 years ago. After a bit, we returned to Huaraz via a 15,000 foot pass. I had gone from sea level to above the summit of Mount Rainier in less than 12 hours.
I loved my time in Huaraz. I stayed at a hostel popular with Israelis (no one told me I'd need to speak Hebrew to travel here) and made a couple friends--while we've parted ways for now, we're all headed more or less the same direction, so we might meet up again. I spent lot of time just walking around the town enjoying its sounds and sights. While Huaraz is a major tourist town, it's also the commercial center of the Cordillera, so people are alway coming and going, many wearing traditional clothing.
While in Huaraz, I went on a hike with a guy who worked in the hostel. Leo is from Huaraz and splits his time between the local university, the hostel, and a job with a trekking agency. He had a day off and wanted to go hiking, so I joined him. We took a taxi for about 45 minutes, then climbed for about two hours up to a beautiful alpine lake. Of course, there was no taxi waiting for us at the trailhead, so we had to take a different trail until we found a combi-bus to take us back. This trail wound its way through several tiny towns of Quechua-speaking natives. Time seemed irrelevant as we walked between steep, rocky fields of potatoes and corn. The whole time, Leo and I talked about whatever came to mind--at one point, he told me that I had asked him questions no other gringo ever had. That surprised me, because I was just asking simple things about his life and his view of the Cordillera's tourists.
I would have liked to do a longer trek in Huaraz, but the weather didn't cooperate, so I pushed on two days go. After a long 14 hour trip by bus, foot, taxi, microbus, and private car over the most terrifying road I've seen, I arrived in Huanuco, a nice town at the bottom of a enormous valley. (During the last leg of my journey, the driver played religious music and the woman next to me kept crossing herself. I didn´t mind a bit.) Even though the Atlantic was (and is) still thousands of miles distant, the river that bisects Huanuco eventually joins the Amazon--a powerful thought as one stands next to a little brown stream. I visited Kotosh (the oldest discovered ruins in South America, just outside Huanuco) and was married in an ancient ceremony to some lucky Peruvian woman. I hope she doesn´t expect me to look for her when I get back to Huanuco. After that, I walked into the hills for a couple of hours and marvelled at the sparse beauty of the Peruvian highlands. After that, I hitched back into town with a big family in a very little car.
That evening, I went to a local bar where I watched the Peru-Paraguay World Cup qualifier game with a rowdy crowd of Peruvians. What is it about me, soccer, and drunk people? Many interesting and oft-incomprehensible conversations later, I went to bed early so I could catch an early colectivo to the jungle.
And here I am in Tingo Maria. By chance, this week is the 69th anniversary of the town's founding, so there's plenty to do. An American-style carnival had been set up on the Plaza de Armas, and a party-like atmosphere envelops the whole place. It's fun.
The area around Tingo is the world's largest coca producing region, and although some of it is sold legitimately in leaf form, much is trafficked out of Peru and brewed into cocaine. I mention this because while I was looking for a hotel, I walked right into the middle of a military parade--ostensibly to honor the town's anniversary, but also a show of force by the Peruvian government. The message was, "We've got rocket launchers. Do you still want to grow coca?" And the answer will always be yes, because legitimate crops (potatoes, corn, coffee, fruit) simply can't pay the bills. I found an interesting article about the economics of coca in Tingo Maria that's a good read. (But don´t worry, mom and dad, this place is still safe.)
Aside from ruminating about the economic and environmental problems of the jungle, I've done a bit of hiking. Tomorrow I think I'll rent a canoe and go out onto the river for a bit, assuming there isn't another torrential downpour like last night. (I'm worried the road to Tingo Maria might wash out, leaving me stranded.)
Soon, I'll be on my way to Huancayo en route to Cuzco. This trip isn't going to be long enough.
I traveled north from Lima to Huaraz about a week ago via night bus. I quickly found a hostel, where I befriended two Israeli travelers just minutes after arriving. One hour later, the three of us were headed towards, a significant pre-Inca ruin on the east side of the Cordillera. We had missed the comfortable and direct tourist bus, so we talked our way onto the much slower local bus, amongst the squawking chickens and other smelly animals. (Gringos are technically forbidden, but good Spanish makes almost anything possible.) Three hours later, we arrived and toured around the site with a nice French couple. Chavin was the center of major pre-Inca culture sometime around 1000 B.C., and much of it has yet to be uncovered, but what we saw was impressive. Much of the complex is a series of interconnected subterranean rooms--it was fun imagining what had happened in them 3000 years ago. After a bit, we returned to Huaraz via a 15,000 foot pass. I had gone from sea level to above the summit of Mount Rainier in less than 12 hours.
I loved my time in Huaraz. I stayed at a hostel popular with Israelis (no one told me I'd need to speak Hebrew to travel here) and made a couple friends--while we've parted ways for now, we're all headed more or less the same direction, so we might meet up again. I spent lot of time just walking around the town enjoying its sounds and sights. While Huaraz is a major tourist town, it's also the commercial center of the Cordillera, so people are alway coming and going, many wearing traditional clothing.
While in Huaraz, I went on a hike with a guy who worked in the hostel. Leo is from Huaraz and splits his time between the local university, the hostel, and a job with a trekking agency. He had a day off and wanted to go hiking, so I joined him. We took a taxi for about 45 minutes, then climbed for about two hours up to a beautiful alpine lake. Of course, there was no taxi waiting for us at the trailhead, so we had to take a different trail until we found a combi-bus to take us back. This trail wound its way through several tiny towns of Quechua-speaking natives. Time seemed irrelevant as we walked between steep, rocky fields of potatoes and corn. The whole time, Leo and I talked about whatever came to mind--at one point, he told me that I had asked him questions no other gringo ever had. That surprised me, because I was just asking simple things about his life and his view of the Cordillera's tourists.
I would have liked to do a longer trek in Huaraz, but the weather didn't cooperate, so I pushed on two days go. After a long 14 hour trip by bus, foot, taxi, microbus, and private car over the most terrifying road I've seen, I arrived in Huanuco, a nice town at the bottom of a enormous valley. (During the last leg of my journey, the driver played religious music and the woman next to me kept crossing herself. I didn´t mind a bit.) Even though the Atlantic was (and is) still thousands of miles distant, the river that bisects Huanuco eventually joins the Amazon--a powerful thought as one stands next to a little brown stream. I visited Kotosh (the oldest discovered ruins in South America, just outside Huanuco) and was married in an ancient ceremony to some lucky Peruvian woman. I hope she doesn´t expect me to look for her when I get back to Huanuco. After that, I walked into the hills for a couple of hours and marvelled at the sparse beauty of the Peruvian highlands. After that, I hitched back into town with a big family in a very little car.
That evening, I went to a local bar where I watched the Peru-Paraguay World Cup qualifier game with a rowdy crowd of Peruvians. What is it about me, soccer, and drunk people? Many interesting and oft-incomprehensible conversations later, I went to bed early so I could catch an early colectivo to the jungle.
And here I am in Tingo Maria. By chance, this week is the 69th anniversary of the town's founding, so there's plenty to do. An American-style carnival had been set up on the Plaza de Armas, and a party-like atmosphere envelops the whole place. It's fun.
The area around Tingo is the world's largest coca producing region, and although some of it is sold legitimately in leaf form, much is trafficked out of Peru and brewed into cocaine. I mention this because while I was looking for a hotel, I walked right into the middle of a military parade--ostensibly to honor the town's anniversary, but also a show of force by the Peruvian government. The message was, "We've got rocket launchers. Do you still want to grow coca?" And the answer will always be yes, because legitimate crops (potatoes, corn, coffee, fruit) simply can't pay the bills. I found an interesting article about the economics of coca in Tingo Maria that's a good read. (But don´t worry, mom and dad, this place is still safe.)
Aside from ruminating about the economic and environmental problems of the jungle, I've done a bit of hiking. Tomorrow I think I'll rent a canoe and go out onto the river for a bit, assuming there isn't another torrential downpour like last night. (I'm worried the road to Tingo Maria might wash out, leaving me stranded.)
Soon, I'll be on my way to Huancayo en route to Cuzco. This trip isn't going to be long enough.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
I arrive in Lima, sans backpack
Today is my fourth day in Lima--one more to go, then I´m headed up to Huaráz and the Cordillera. So where to start? How about the facts.
When I arrived in Los Angeles to catch my connecting flight to Lima (via Santiago Chile) on Tuesay afternoon, my backpack was nowhere to be found-- well, it could be found in San Francisco. So I continued with just the lid of my pack. In Santiago, I learned that my three hour layover had turned into a 23 hour layover. I managed to get on an earlier flight and spent only six hours in Santiago. Finally, I arrived in Lima 26 hours after I had left San Francisco. That was a long time in airports and in planes.
So the next step was to rendevouz with the people I had arranged to stay with--to make a long story short, my uncle (hi Chris!) recently hired a woman from Lima, and I'm staying with her family right now. So I called the house: no answer. Oh well, I thought, I´d just show up and present myself. Taxi!
No one's home. I talk with the people in the little store across the way--they hadn't seen the family in a while. The neighborhood security guards weren´t sure when Lili or Donald (mother and son) would be back. So I sat in the store across the way for an hour and a half before leaving a note and finding another taxi to downtown, where I would find a bed for the night.
So picture this: I am missing my backpack, have nowhere to stay, and it is getting dark in a unfamiliar and dangerous city. But in the end, everything ended well--I found a safe (if smoky and grimy) room, ate, and slept for fourteen hours. The next day, I made my way to the South American Explorers Clubhouse where I read about Lima and tried to track down my bag. (No luck.) I left a couple of messages with the people I was going to stay with, but was never sure I had the right phone number because the answering machine just gave a number, but not a name to me. I was quite worried because I had arranged to have my bag delivered to this family in Lima, and if I couldn't find them, I was going to be in big trouble.
So I went to the house again Thursday evening, and this time, they were home! (I dislike exclamation marks, but really, this sentence deserves one.) I was welcomed like family, and I've been treated like another son/brother ever since. I slept for fourteen hours again--all the stress had made me tired. Unfortunately, my bad hadn't been delivered (American Airlines had told me it had been) so my emotions where rather mixed: I was safe and warm (I´ve never enjoyed the basics like I have this week), but my backpack, with everything for the next three months, was still missing. To boot, I had been lied to about its status--something was fishy and a little sinister.
The next morning, I called American Airlines in the US--they insisted it had been delivered and wanted to file a second claim. I just wanted my bag, so I called their office in the Lima airport. They had it, they said, but I still wasn't convinced. So I went to the airport, where I found my backpack, still intact! (Once again, this sentence totally deserves special punctuation.)
So, you ask, what else have I done since arriving other than wander around lost, sit on doorsteps, and hassle American Airlines? Well, I've seen a lot of beautiful buildings. I´ve taken a lot of fast, cramped microbuses all over the city. I've surprise the locals by speaking Spanish. (They´re used to monolingual Americans.) I've gotten to know the people I;m staying with, both of whom I now consider friends. I've talked with lots of Peruvians. I've visited the world´s largest installation of fountains, complete with lasers and classical music. (It's straight out of Fantasia. Google "Lima Fountains" and you´ll see what I mean.) I went (along with thousands of Peruvians) to see "El Senor de Milagros" (a sculpture of Christ on the cross, so called because praying in front of it has lead to several miracles) on its annual trip around the block. Basically, I've gotten way the hell out of my comfort zone and had a damn good time.
Every once and a while, I get chills and a big smile creeps onto my face--that's me realizing what I'm doing here: exactly what I want to do. Every day is new and uncertain, but uncertainty is hardly a bad thing. It just makes for more opportunities.
I'm out of Lima tomorrow evening on a night bus to Huarzáz, where I'll do some trekking and then head down through the Andes, eventually reaching Cuzco. I think I'll be in the old Inca capital in about three weeks, but I'll probably write before then.
Hasta proximo.
When I arrived in Los Angeles to catch my connecting flight to Lima (via Santiago Chile) on Tuesay afternoon, my backpack was nowhere to be found-- well, it could be found in San Francisco. So I continued with just the lid of my pack. In Santiago, I learned that my three hour layover had turned into a 23 hour layover. I managed to get on an earlier flight and spent only six hours in Santiago. Finally, I arrived in Lima 26 hours after I had left San Francisco. That was a long time in airports and in planes.
So the next step was to rendevouz with the people I had arranged to stay with--to make a long story short, my uncle (hi Chris!) recently hired a woman from Lima, and I'm staying with her family right now. So I called the house: no answer. Oh well, I thought, I´d just show up and present myself. Taxi!
No one's home. I talk with the people in the little store across the way--they hadn't seen the family in a while. The neighborhood security guards weren´t sure when Lili or Donald (mother and son) would be back. So I sat in the store across the way for an hour and a half before leaving a note and finding another taxi to downtown, where I would find a bed for the night.
So picture this: I am missing my backpack, have nowhere to stay, and it is getting dark in a unfamiliar and dangerous city. But in the end, everything ended well--I found a safe (if smoky and grimy) room, ate, and slept for fourteen hours. The next day, I made my way to the South American Explorers Clubhouse where I read about Lima and tried to track down my bag. (No luck.) I left a couple of messages with the people I was going to stay with, but was never sure I had the right phone number because the answering machine just gave a number, but not a name to me. I was quite worried because I had arranged to have my bag delivered to this family in Lima, and if I couldn't find them, I was going to be in big trouble.
So I went to the house again Thursday evening, and this time, they were home! (I dislike exclamation marks, but really, this sentence deserves one.) I was welcomed like family, and I've been treated like another son/brother ever since. I slept for fourteen hours again--all the stress had made me tired. Unfortunately, my bad hadn't been delivered (American Airlines had told me it had been) so my emotions where rather mixed: I was safe and warm (I´ve never enjoyed the basics like I have this week), but my backpack, with everything for the next three months, was still missing. To boot, I had been lied to about its status--something was fishy and a little sinister.
The next morning, I called American Airlines in the US--they insisted it had been delivered and wanted to file a second claim. I just wanted my bag, so I called their office in the Lima airport. They had it, they said, but I still wasn't convinced. So I went to the airport, where I found my backpack, still intact! (Once again, this sentence totally deserves special punctuation.)
So, you ask, what else have I done since arriving other than wander around lost, sit on doorsteps, and hassle American Airlines? Well, I've seen a lot of beautiful buildings. I´ve taken a lot of fast, cramped microbuses all over the city. I've surprise the locals by speaking Spanish. (They´re used to monolingual Americans.) I've gotten to know the people I;m staying with, both of whom I now consider friends. I've talked with lots of Peruvians. I've visited the world´s largest installation of fountains, complete with lasers and classical music. (It's straight out of Fantasia. Google "Lima Fountains" and you´ll see what I mean.) I went (along with thousands of Peruvians) to see "El Senor de Milagros" (a sculpture of Christ on the cross, so called because praying in front of it has lead to several miracles) on its annual trip around the block. Basically, I've gotten way the hell out of my comfort zone and had a damn good time.
Every once and a while, I get chills and a big smile creeps onto my face--that's me realizing what I'm doing here: exactly what I want to do. Every day is new and uncertain, but uncertainty is hardly a bad thing. It just makes for more opportunities.
I'm out of Lima tomorrow evening on a night bus to Huarzáz, where I'll do some trekking and then head down through the Andes, eventually reaching Cuzco. I think I'll be in the old Inca capital in about three weeks, but I'll probably write before then.
Hasta proximo.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The hurricane arrived late
Mexican football is unlike anything else I have ever seen. Saturday night, I went to see the local team play an evening game--I couldn't think of a better way to spend my last Saturday night in Mexico. Silvia, John (the program's director and assistant director, respectively) and I braved the rain to watch some authentic Mexican football.
Queretaro's team is the Gallos Blancos. They're good, but not great. They've been knocked down to second division this season after a last-place finish in premier last year. While the locals aren't too happy about that, it makes for better, more competitive games.
The game ended up tied 1-1, but the Gallos only found the back of the net in the last 10 minutes. But I'll be honest--we weren't really there for the game. While I had a good time, it was more about the atmosphere and fans than anything else.
But I've got to say, I think Oregonians are tougher. About around the 60 minute mark, Queretaro's regular drizzle morphed into a downpour worthy of the Oregon Coast range. The stadium emptied, exempting the hard-core Gallos fans and the lucky few who managed to find shelter under tarps or awnings. That would not have happened at a Ducks football (the type with pads) game.
If you happened to catch the game on ESPN three million, Jon, Silvia, and I were under the giant Corona tarp at half field. Basically, we happened to sit down in a group that seemed prepared for nearly anything--they had a huge compressed air horn worthy of an air-raid warning system, two large drums, a giant tarp (for rain, or potentially paragliding) and enough beer for several weeks. (Or just one game.)
Initially, we just used the tarp as a uncomfortably soggy, cold blanket. But soon el jefe (this particular group's leader) took charge and erected a tent of sorts. Basically, the tall people held it up. Visibility wasn't great, but the game hardly mattered--the real fun was to be had under the tarp.
Why's that? Well, a friendly and very drunk Mexican (I didn't catch his name) mistook us for Spaniards started a conversation. Initially, I thought my Spanish was failing me because I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but I soon realized that in fact, he could have been speaking in English and I still wouldn't have understood him--he was pretty drunk. But after a while, I caught on and just started chanting, "¡Gallos! ¡Gallos! Si ¡se puede!" That made him, his wife, and his two year old kid happy. (I felt bad for the kid--he looked terrified.) Our new Mexican friend bought us some beer, and the our fellow Gallos fans gave us a lesson in Spanish profanity.
I didn't take my camera, but Silvia and Jon both took photos, so I'll do my best to get some up soon. There are a lot of nice shots of the three of us wearing our matching black-market Gallos jerseys.
But enough about sports. I've been trying to resolve two opposing facts for a couple days ago. Basically, it comes down to this. I recently read that Mexico has the world's twelfth-largest gross national product. (Canada is eleventh.) By all standards, I'm studying in one of the world's richest countries, and the signs of wealth are all over--expensive cars, upscale shops, and trendy clubs.
Yet there's still a huge portion of the population here that gets by on almost nothing. The leading cause of death for young children in Mexico is disease caused by dirty drinking water. Let me say that again: dirty water kills more kids here than anything else. How else can I say it? That's awful screwed up.
Basically, how on earth can a comparatively wealthy country still have huge problems with something as simple as drinking water? I know it's not simple, but it's difficult to reconcile Mexico's wealth with the heartbreaking poverty that still exists here. And yeah, it does make me feel guilty, but also frustrated. I can't fix Mexico--only Mexicans can--but it seems totally ridiculous that the tremendous inequality hasn't been addressed. After all, wasn't the Mexican revolution supposed to fix all this over 100 years ago? (That's kind of a joke.)
Maybe this is just an example of Yankee cultural imperialism. I do wonder what right I have to criticize a country when I'm just passing through, but it's hard not to notice these things. I don't say anything to Mexicans, and I'm careful with my words when I talk with other Americans, but if there's anything I don't want to be, it's the gringo who parachutes in, points out everything that's wrong, and then leaves. That just sounds so much like the Bush Administration to me. Yuck.
This will be my last post from Mexico--I fly back to Portland on Saturday. It'll be a while until I post again, probably not until I get to Peru in early October. Until then, adios.
Queretaro's team is the Gallos Blancos. They're good, but not great. They've been knocked down to second division this season after a last-place finish in premier last year. While the locals aren't too happy about that, it makes for better, more competitive games.
The game ended up tied 1-1, but the Gallos only found the back of the net in the last 10 minutes. But I'll be honest--we weren't really there for the game. While I had a good time, it was more about the atmosphere and fans than anything else.
But I've got to say, I think Oregonians are tougher. About around the 60 minute mark, Queretaro's regular drizzle morphed into a downpour worthy of the Oregon Coast range. The stadium emptied, exempting the hard-core Gallos fans and the lucky few who managed to find shelter under tarps or awnings. That would not have happened at a Ducks football (the type with pads) game.
If you happened to catch the game on ESPN three million, Jon, Silvia, and I were under the giant Corona tarp at half field. Basically, we happened to sit down in a group that seemed prepared for nearly anything--they had a huge compressed air horn worthy of an air-raid warning system, two large drums, a giant tarp (for rain, or potentially paragliding) and enough beer for several weeks. (Or just one game.)
Initially, we just used the tarp as a uncomfortably soggy, cold blanket. But soon el jefe (this particular group's leader) took charge and erected a tent of sorts. Basically, the tall people held it up. Visibility wasn't great, but the game hardly mattered--the real fun was to be had under the tarp.
Why's that? Well, a friendly and very drunk Mexican (I didn't catch his name) mistook us for Spaniards started a conversation. Initially, I thought my Spanish was failing me because I couldn't understand a word he was saying, but I soon realized that in fact, he could have been speaking in English and I still wouldn't have understood him--he was pretty drunk. But after a while, I caught on and just started chanting, "¡Gallos! ¡Gallos! Si ¡se puede!" That made him, his wife, and his two year old kid happy. (I felt bad for the kid--he looked terrified.) Our new Mexican friend bought us some beer, and the our fellow Gallos fans gave us a lesson in Spanish profanity.
I didn't take my camera, but Silvia and Jon both took photos, so I'll do my best to get some up soon. There are a lot of nice shots of the three of us wearing our matching black-market Gallos jerseys.
But enough about sports. I've been trying to resolve two opposing facts for a couple days ago. Basically, it comes down to this. I recently read that Mexico has the world's twelfth-largest gross national product. (Canada is eleventh.) By all standards, I'm studying in one of the world's richest countries, and the signs of wealth are all over--expensive cars, upscale shops, and trendy clubs.
Yet there's still a huge portion of the population here that gets by on almost nothing. The leading cause of death for young children in Mexico is disease caused by dirty drinking water. Let me say that again: dirty water kills more kids here than anything else. How else can I say it? That's awful screwed up.
Basically, how on earth can a comparatively wealthy country still have huge problems with something as simple as drinking water? I know it's not simple, but it's difficult to reconcile Mexico's wealth with the heartbreaking poverty that still exists here. And yeah, it does make me feel guilty, but also frustrated. I can't fix Mexico--only Mexicans can--but it seems totally ridiculous that the tremendous inequality hasn't been addressed. After all, wasn't the Mexican revolution supposed to fix all this over 100 years ago? (That's kind of a joke.)
Maybe this is just an example of Yankee cultural imperialism. I do wonder what right I have to criticize a country when I'm just passing through, but it's hard not to notice these things. I don't say anything to Mexicans, and I'm careful with my words when I talk with other Americans, but if there's anything I don't want to be, it's the gringo who parachutes in, points out everything that's wrong, and then leaves. That just sounds so much like the Bush Administration to me. Yuck.
This will be my last post from Mexico--I fly back to Portland on Saturday. It'll be a while until I post again, probably not until I get to Peru in early October. Until then, adios.
Monday, August 20, 2007
So you want to know about Mexico
Welcome to the first installment of Riley's Blog. I've been in Mexico for about three weeks, and due to popular demand (well, "popular demand" is really just Liz Rickles) I've started my blog a bit early. Some of you know that I'm headed to South America for 15 weeks this fall--I leave Sept. 20 for Lima, Peru, and return from Buenos Aires, Argentina Jan. 3. Well, I always intended to record my trip to the southern hemisphere online, but I figure it can't hurt to write about Mexico too. So here we go.
The back story: I'm spending six weeks in Mexico this summer "studying" in Queretaro, Mexico. It's a city about two hours north of Mexico City, population around 1.5 million. Like most Mexican cities, Queretaro seems to go on forever--for an Oregonian used to the urban growth boundary and limited/planned development, it often seems totally unregulated and more than a little crazy. Of course, that's to be expected. Queretaro has been around for nearly 500 years, and I'm not sure there's any other way for such an old city to be. It's heavily industrial: Ford and a bunch of other American companies manufacture goods for export here, thanks to NAFTA.
That said, I see little of the city during my daily routine. I live and go to school in "Col. Central," which is downtown. (I'm a 15 minute walk from campus.) I consider myself very lucky--many of the other exchange students are scattered all over the city, and have to bus in every day. The part of the city I live in is quite beautiful, full of colorful colonial buildings and little shops selling pretty much everything you could need. (And cheap food!) Everything I need in a given day is within easy walking distance.
I'm living with a wonderful Mexican family: My host parents are Jose and Aide, and they have two children: Paula, 20 and a law student, and Emmanuel, 12 and a aspiring professional futbolista. (But that seems to be the life goal of most 12-year-old Mexican boys. It's kind of the Mexican equivalent to wanting to be an astronaut.) Their home is quite large and reasonably comfortable, but like many of the other houses in the area, it's of a seemingly indefinite age. I get the feeling that rooms have been tacked on throughout the centuries, which makes navigating at night pretty damn dangerous: unpredictable steps abound. (A related note: Mexico is not designed for people who are six feet tall. I hit my head all the time.)
Jose and Aide run a nursery in the basement--every day, 8-10 toddlers invade the house from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. It's a lot of fun, but occasionally totally overwhelming. There is no peace nor rest in this home when the little ones are here, but I enjoy it. While silly, I've filled in a lot of gaps in my Spanish thanks to them: as Aide teaches them basic words, I listen and occasionally learn a new one myself. (Photo at left is two of the kids, fascinated by this new gringo with a big camera.)
Ah, classes. That "ah" is not one of satisfaction: I'm trying for something that expresses resigned frustration. See, my classes are totally ridiculous. So far, my classes are unquestionably the worst part of this trip. On any given day, they are either, 1) boring, 2) insultingly easy, 3) repetitive, or most often, 4) all of the above. But oh well. I'm only in class about 4 hours a day, so it's hardly the end of the world.
Most of what I've learned in Mexico I've learned on my own. I spend a lot of time walking around the city talking with shopkeepers, bartenders, waiters, etc. It's the best way to learn Spanish, and I like meeting new people, even if I never see them again. I also do a lot of reading in Spanish, and watch a good bit of TV, which is helpful.
I've traveled every single weekend I've been here. Before I came to Queretaro, I spent a day in Mexico City, which is bigger than Los Angeles and New York combined. It was quite intimidating.The following weekend, I went to Bernal with the entire group. Bernal is the third largest monolith in the world (The Rock of Gibraltar is the largest), and the town at its base is pretty but super touristy but nice anyway. After that, I went to Michoacan state (once again with the whole group) for three days and visited the best-known sites there. This weekend, I traveled on my own to Guanajuato, a town about three hours northeast of here.
I won't go into much detail, but Guanajuato is stunningly beautiful. My guidebook describes it as a "human rabbit warren," and I can't think of a better image. The town was build in the early 16th century because of the area's mineral wealth (mainly silver), and the mines continue to operate. (However, its main industry is now tourism.) can't think of many places worse to build a city: it's very hilly and hemmed in by steep mountains on three sides, but those natural features are what make it worth visiting. The town was simply built around them. It kind of felt like a much older southwest Portland: there are no straight roads. Strangely, I didn't get lost once. But the "rabbit warren" comparison: basically, think about Boston's Big Dig. Guanajuato has a similar system of underground roads, but its are much older and much crazier. And pedestrians use them too. Currently, TV AZTECA (one of Mexico's main TV stations) and the Mexican Government are running a contest to determine Mexico's 13 wonders, and Guanajuato's underground roads are in the running. I think they might deserve inclusion.
Until next time,
Riley
The back story: I'm spending six weeks in Mexico this summer "studying" in Queretaro, Mexico. It's a city about two hours north of Mexico City, population around 1.5 million. Like most Mexican cities, Queretaro seems to go on forever--for an Oregonian used to the urban growth boundary and limited/planned development, it often seems totally unregulated and more than a little crazy. Of course, that's to be expected. Queretaro has been around for nearly 500 years, and I'm not sure there's any other way for such an old city to be. It's heavily industrial: Ford and a bunch of other American companies manufacture goods for export here, thanks to NAFTA.
That said, I see little of the city during my daily routine. I live and go to school in "Col. Central," which is downtown. (I'm a 15 minute walk from campus.) I consider myself very lucky--many of the other exchange students are scattered all over the city, and have to bus in every day. The part of the city I live in is quite beautiful, full of colorful colonial buildings and little shops selling pretty much everything you could need. (And cheap food!) Everything I need in a given day is within easy walking distance.
I'm living with a wonderful Mexican family: My host parents are Jose and Aide, and they have two children: Paula, 20 and a law student, and Emmanuel, 12 and a aspiring professional futbolista. (But that seems to be the life goal of most 12-year-old Mexican boys. It's kind of the Mexican equivalent to wanting to be an astronaut.) Their home is quite large and reasonably comfortable, but like many of the other houses in the area, it's of a seemingly indefinite age. I get the feeling that rooms have been tacked on throughout the centuries, which makes navigating at night pretty damn dangerous: unpredictable steps abound. (A related note: Mexico is not designed for people who are six feet tall. I hit my head all the time.)
Jose and Aide run a nursery in the basement--every day, 8-10 toddlers invade the house from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. It's a lot of fun, but occasionally totally overwhelming. There is no peace nor rest in this home when the little ones are here, but I enjoy it. While silly, I've filled in a lot of gaps in my Spanish thanks to them: as Aide teaches them basic words, I listen and occasionally learn a new one myself. (Photo at left is two of the kids, fascinated by this new gringo with a big camera.)
Ah, classes. That "ah" is not one of satisfaction: I'm trying for something that expresses resigned frustration. See, my classes are totally ridiculous. So far, my classes are unquestionably the worst part of this trip. On any given day, they are either, 1) boring, 2) insultingly easy, 3) repetitive, or most often, 4) all of the above. But oh well. I'm only in class about 4 hours a day, so it's hardly the end of the world.
Most of what I've learned in Mexico I've learned on my own. I spend a lot of time walking around the city talking with shopkeepers, bartenders, waiters, etc. It's the best way to learn Spanish, and I like meeting new people, even if I never see them again. I also do a lot of reading in Spanish, and watch a good bit of TV, which is helpful.
I've traveled every single weekend I've been here. Before I came to Queretaro, I spent a day in Mexico City, which is bigger than Los Angeles and New York combined. It was quite intimidating.The following weekend, I went to Bernal with the entire group. Bernal is the third largest monolith in the world (The Rock of Gibraltar is the largest), and the town at its base is pretty but super touristy but nice anyway. After that, I went to Michoacan state (once again with the whole group) for three days and visited the best-known sites there. This weekend, I traveled on my own to Guanajuato, a town about three hours northeast of here.
I won't go into much detail, but Guanajuato is stunningly beautiful. My guidebook describes it as a "human rabbit warren," and I can't think of a better image. The town was build in the early 16th century because of the area's mineral wealth (mainly silver), and the mines continue to operate. (However, its main industry is now tourism.) can't think of many places worse to build a city: it's very hilly and hemmed in by steep mountains on three sides, but those natural features are what make it worth visiting. The town was simply built around them. It kind of felt like a much older southwest Portland: there are no straight roads. Strangely, I didn't get lost once. But the "rabbit warren" comparison: basically, think about Boston's Big Dig. Guanajuato has a similar system of underground roads, but its are much older and much crazier. And pedestrians use them too. Currently, TV AZTECA (one of Mexico's main TV stations) and the Mexican Government are running a contest to determine Mexico's 13 wonders, and Guanajuato's underground roads are in the running. I think they might deserve inclusion.
Until next time,
Riley
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