Molten Hot Magma!

I had little idea of what Lenay and I would be doing for our last weekend in Costa Rica, and for that matter, South America. There had been much speculation over the past week. Would we go to Lake Nicaragua with some Ticas Lenay had met? Victor and some students were planning a trip to Perez Zeledon as well. Even our expatriate friend Nicole was trying to get something going! What Lenay wanted was to speak our second language for our last few days. I was just about having a good time.

That friday night I had walked to the bus station in the pouring rain (don't worry I was wearing a poncho) to meet up with some friends at El Avión (A restaurant centered around a hollowed out B-17). I had left some clothes at a friends two weeks earlier and was trying to tie up all of my loose ends. I ran in to my friends Seth and Ashley, who were coincidentally about to hop on the 8 o'clock Manuel Antonio bus. Offhandedly I mentioned making a road trip to them, without any real expectations. 'Think about it,' I said, and left it at that.

8 Am the next morning I am walking to Lenay's house to make sure she is almost packed. She lives only two blocks away so the walk was short. Nearing here house, I notice she is getting into a sedan with some gringos. 'Lenay! Lenay! A donde vas???' Everone in the car turns toward me and I realize: Seth, Ashley, and Jared (Lenay's roomie) were coming to pick me up. We were roadtripping across Costa Rica to Arenal, an active volcano famed for its near perfect cone.

Saying goodbye to my host parents, we left. Retracing our footsteps back to Jacó, we even stopped at the bar Lenay and I nearly spent a rainy night at! An hour later we were enjoying TCBY ice cream (pistacchio anyone?) and spying a couple of tourist shops. Leaving Jacó, a police officer directed us away from the exit back into town. Confused, we kept driving until we returned to the town's main drag. There was a parade!!! I saw traditionally dressed dancers, stilt walkers, clowns, drum lines, bands, and seven foot tall masqueraders! It was completely out of control and all of us were so excited to see this surprise. Coincidentally this was the opening event for Jacó's cultural week. Talk about seeing out of the ordinary!

Continuing down the road, we spent the next several hours navigating based on the national map Seth had gotten from the rental place. We crossed a river-spanning bridge that was infested with crocodiles below. A small herd of cattle approached the river to slake a ninety degree thirst, so I began praying to see that Discovery channel-worthy kill, demonstrating the power between the jaws of these fearsome reptiles. It never happened, so we moved on, climbing into the mountains.

The next four hours of muddling through the roads of this country were marked by several features. We stopped (several times) to back track and ask for directions. In the town of Palmeras we stopped at an ancient looking cathedral to calm ourselves (and to gape in awe). The road quality varied between a fully paved asphalt highway and twenty degree grade, gravel nightmare that would have been better suited to Travis Pastrana. Call it 'Tour Arenal.' We stopped at a CR fast food joint, watched a little spanish Jack Sparrow, and by five o'clock were driving beneath the shadow of a towering volcano.

By this time of day Arenal was shrouded in fog and rain had begun to fall. We found some D'Amore friends at Baldi, a classy resort with twenty some volcanic baths and six dollar beers (ugh!). We found their hotel, checked into the presidential sweet (reduced price, thanks to yours truly, and the power of spanish). It was a three bed number, complete with sectional, tv, fridge, jacuzzi, and a killer view of the volcano. Social hour began when the other group came back. The mood was jovial, as this would be the last hurrah for many of us. Unfortunately the electricity went out (as it often does in this country). Undaunted, the twenty of us lit candles and continued festivities until past midnight.

At 12 AM we were driven to the base of the volcano. Itwas an 8 kilometer drive through some of the bumpiest road that I have been on to date. After following a short pathway through the jungle we came upon a thirty foot wide suspension bridge. There we stopped, dead in our tracks. Arenal was spewing out lava from the cone, and four hours we watched. This experience was absolutely stunning. When in my life have I, or for that matter will I see lava erupting from an active volcano? It would pour down the slope in a matter of seconds, only to be replaced seconds later by the next wave. I couldn't believe it. I was seeing some serious 'Land Before Time' shit and simply could not believe the communion we were sharing with the planet in this very moment. There are moments in life when a human being feels intimately connected with the planet. I am unsure if this will be topped. It was as if I was bearing witness to the fury emerging from the iron and nickel core of the planet, some hundreds of miles within the Earth. I went home humbled, unable to sort out what I had seen.

The next morning we left for a national park in the area. Fully rested (though keeping everyone awake with my cacophonous snoring) we followed our friends to a waterfall on the otherside of Arenal. While Lenay and Jared set off on a two hour hike to explore a massive caldera, Seth, Ashley and I took the easy 15 minute hike down 400+ steps to a freshwater pool. From the bottom we saw the 80 foot faucet pouring down into a fourty foot wide pool. When I jumped in my body was shocked by the Superior-like coldness of the mountain stream. Seth and I swam to a cavern on the other side, and after being whistled back by the park guards we set off further down stream. Nearby I spent damn near close to an hour trying to catch fish out of the shallows. There was a school of hundreds, so Seth and I were sprinkling crackers and trying to scoop these little guys onto shore with our bare hands. It was fun, but we are no jungle natives.

At the end of the day we met back up with the rest of our party at the Arenal Observatory lodge. This is normally a precious viewpoint of the volcano, but fog had moved into the area and the daily rain had begun once again. Nevertheless, we were satisfied with what we had alreay witnessed, and drove home exhausted, getting back to Manuel Antonio after midnight.

Thanks for the PB and J's Ashley!

Jungle Shenanigans

When we visited the park, I decided to make some videos. While it's a chance for you guys to see my mug, they're stupid.

So Enjoy

Capuchin Camera Thieves

What makes Quepos such a beautiful beach seven kilometers away. Manuel Antonio National Park. I heard that it is home to some of the most beautiful species living in Costa Rica. I hear howler monkeys every night. Maybe I'd finally get the chance to see one! This was to be my last weekend in Quepos, so I obviously didn't want to miss my chance.

The Texans at D'Amore were planning on spending that saturday afternoon on a catamaran. As much as I love maritime keggers in Costa Rica, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to explore the park. So in the afternoon Lenay and I walked the beach to the park entrance. The tide was up, so some locals were ferrying tourists across a three foot deep pond to the park. We paid the ten dollar entrance fee at the gate and beheld Costa Rica's greatness.

A dirt path ran adjacent to the beach, underneath a heavy canopy of jungle foliage. It was a lanscape of green and blue and brown. We walked on this shaded path until it lead into the forest. This subtropical forest was dark and silent. I could hear nothing except for the scurrying of unseen animals on the forest floor. baffled by this sound, I continued until I saw the strangest animal. I found a neon orange and purple crab, smaller than the palm of my hand flee from the sight of me into it's dug out den. And then I saw another crab. And another. This place was filled with scurrying neon crabs, sounding the chorus in an otherwise silent place. I found this simple sound to be one of the most otherworldy qualities of the park, absolutely alien to me. This place was awe-inspiring.

The park is home to hundreds of species. I saw the typical iguanas, frogs, birds and coatis (jungle racoon). Two toed sloths are a common sight. One can imagine my excitement at the one living outside of my school (favorite tropical animal). We were even visited by a white headed capuchin monkey. These white faced devils will steal anything from tourists, looking for food. There are stories of monkeys even stealing cameras, trying to eat them. Then they chuck 'em back down. That is just the funniest story, but I guess monkey feeding has become a problem here.

We spent the remaining hours exploring the beaches and appreciating some jaw dropping views of the pacific.

We left the park in the rain. Costa Rica is in the wet season, but this particular storm only served as a precursor for my bike trip the next day.

Manuel Antonio National Park= Awesome Neon Crab Forest

Stand and Deliver

So I had just left the beach in Jacó. Knowing how dangerous roads can be in Costa Rica, Lenay and I saddled up to make the seventy kilometer drive back to Quepos. What's dangerous about Jacó and the highway in this country is that petty crime is rampant. I had even been warned by my host father about highwaymen lying in wait for motorists. A group of bandits speed their car past a couple of mopeds, block the road, and thieve at gunpoint. I didn't want that to be me. But I had another concern, far more urgent .

The rain was coming.

All ready starting to fall in droplets, we hurriedly made it to a service station to fill up the motos for the trip home. I was nervous, simply put. I didn't bring a poncho, and aside from my helmet, all I had for protection was the cracked pair of sunglasses I had gotten from a sunday fair in San Telmo, a month earlier. Furthermore, I'm not exactly a salty biker. Afterall, this was my first time riding. How would I react to the road?

I jut wanted to get home, so I steeled my resolve, sucked it up and pulled back onto the highway. The further we road, the slicker the highway became, and I was becoming concerned. I didn't want to dump the back, especially with the agressive drivers. Visibility was diminishing rapidly as the shower pouring down upon me boosted into a fully fledged unholy downpour. Sunglasses barely helped. They kept the rain out of my eyes. That was hardly beneficial though, because with the continual proliferation just adding and adding up, I couldn't see anything anyways.

Well we kept up this impossible struggle for over an hour. The sun had gone down, and I was keeping my bike on the road by pure instinct. My clothes were completely soaked, my teeth were chattering, and I could do to stave off mind-numbing cold was to mumble 'Three Little Birds' by Bob Marley. And to be completely honest, I was praying to God that every little thing was going to be all right.

SIx o'clock rolls by and I am at my end. Exhausted, my arms numb from the crippling rain, I knew this was the end of the road. My fingers had no feeling at this point either, most likely from my death grip on the throttle. More importantly however, I was worried about Lenay. She had kept up with me every step of the way, unbelievable. I was about to fall off of my bike from exhaustion. The endurance she had shown in the last hour confirmed to me that she is one of the toughest girls I know. A complete hardcase, if you ask me, especially if she's tooling around Costa Rica after dark through a monsoon-like deluge of rain.

So here we were, two pallid ghosts in the dark, shaking something fierce just to push the cold out. After asking a couple of bewildered cops for directions, we spurred on, driving another half mile only to hide under the awning of an abandoned motel. This was the moment of despair I was dreading. What were we going to do all night? The storm wasn't abating. If anything the downpour was just building up, and deafening to all those hearing rain drops crash in this damned storm.

We spent ten agonizing minutes under that awning. Retrospectively, I would have called it a strategy-rethinking session. It was really just a near panic, as We struggled our frozen minds into action. By chance, a local family was leaving next door. Asking them where the nearest shelter was, we were directed to a cantina at the end of the block.

This place was dead when we shuffled through its doors. Only the regulars and the owners family were present at this hour. Sauntering up to the bar (the it probably was a stiff crawl) I immediately ordered a coffee and a whiskey rocks (hey, I needed to get warmed up!). After being introduced to Millet, the proprietor of the bar, we were both given towels and a spot at the bar. Fifteen minutes later I was dry in my change of clothes and warmed by my Johnny Walker. The rain showed no signs of slowing down, so I ordered costillas de cerdo (pork ribs) on recommendation from the inebriated Millet. Who's going to argue with the owner?

We had spent several hours here by the time my hopes of getting home were diminishing. Millet by this time was slouching over and griping to me about his wife's infidelity, all while taking pulls off of the bottle of house scotch. But at least we had a roof over our heads. The clock eventually advanced past ten o'clock and I could still hear the rain's faithful requiem fall upon us. By this hour the regular clientele had made a larger showing for sunday night karaoke. So here Lenay an I were, trapped in this unknown village (I later found out it was Parrita) listening to the drunken butchery of over a dozen latin songs, all followed by a slurry of whooping. It was fun though. I gave my very own version of 'La Bamba,' while Lenay sang 'La Camisa Negra,' a recent hit by the Colombian Juanes.

Near the end of the night a Tico named Charlie and I made friends. For over an hour however, I endured his recommendations of accompanyment to a local town. Road. Dangerous. Ladrones. You will get robbed. Hotel. Warm. Take my credit card. I am friend. Rain. Night. Dangerous. Thieves. Go home tomorrow. Hotel. Nearby. Warm. I take you there. You will get robbed. Stay off the road. Night. Dangerous. I take you to a hotel. Warm. You go home tomorrow. Safe. I am poor. want nothing. Take my credit card.

I had to listen to that for over an hour! So frustrating. And by eleven thirty, the power went out in the cantina. Stuck between the sword and the wall, there was now really no other choice. After asking for a 'small token tip,' Lenay and I followed this drunken driver to the town, roughly ten minutes away. Thankfully I forced him to drive in front of us, because people, there are no traffic cops on the road in Costa Rica, and this guy was driving in England for the majority of the trip.

We found a place, and got accomodations. I took advantage of the air conditioning and warm shower (a serious luxury). At the crack of dawn I rolled out of bed and drove home to Quepos.

Some might call this trip a nightmare. We decided it was an adventure. Was it safe? No. Was it unique? Hell yeah! Would I do it again, if given the choice?

You better believe it!

Danger Zone

At 9 AM early on Sunday mornig I standing underneath Lenay's window. Calling out to her 'LENAY; LENAY!,' I saw her peek from behind the window curtains. She had to get up and see this! She opened her mouth, just about ready to speak, and then stopped. groggy apathy quickly transformed into an anxious recognition of the day's activities. I was in the middle of the road with two helmets, sitting on a moto. Her eyes bulged, excited. She knew what the 2006 kawasaki two stroke scooter meant...

ROAD TRIP

Lenay was ready within seconds of seeing that scooter. A new feat by anyone's standards. But She has been itching to ride one of these things since January. And it's not like we have much time left, right?

Five minutes later I pulled into Fast Eddie's scooter rentals. She hopped on her moto and just like that we became road warriors, armed with two stroke dirt bike engines. It's only 100 cc's of power, but we felt pretty unstoppable nevertheless. This was the A TEAM baby. And Lenay, my MR. T. I felt like we could have taken on anything in Costa Rica. Bring IT ON!

After filling our gas tanks and tooling in and around Quepos for the morning, we sped off to the national highway, hugging the coastline of the Puntarenas department. Our destination was Jacó, a world famous surf town about seventy kilometers from Quepos. It's the kind of town where you would find surf bums, stoners, weekend visitors and Ticos alike. Hey, I hear even Britney Spears was there over the weekend (It was big news here). It was a pretty big trip, and there was just one day to do it in. So we took off, anxious, excited, and jacked from that feeling you get from owning the road.

15 kilometers and two questionably viable bridges later I found myself ripping down the coastline. My right hand was wrenched unnaturally from gripping a maxed out throttle for too long. Pacific winds were blasting away at my face. Sunburnt and flying, I was feeling absolutely brilliant! So we were throttling down the highway and making good time, the lanscape seemingly whizzing by, second by second. Imagine Kenny Loggin's 'Danger Zone' as the title track for the day's musical album. I mean, have you ever been locked in a 4 g negative dive with a Mig-28? I have. Lenay describes it as feeling like you're the king of the world, something that I'm unable to disagree with, but let me continue...

I saw a lot of banana trees on the way to Jacó. I saw a lot of different things actually. There were cows, and farms cantinas and soccer fields. I also saw a pack of stray dogs, Imperial beer signs and gringo resorts dotting the road. But what I mostly saw, aside from the breathtaking scenery were banana trees. These things looked twelve feet tall, with long verdent and droopy fronds hanging every which way. And of course...the bananas. And the plantations were all lined up in little neat rows. These damn manufactured forests were hiding the ocean from us!

Lenay and I weaved around cars drawing closer by the minute. Around 2 o'clock we pulled in to a soda (diner). After wiping the dirt off my face I ordered a quesadilla while my wingman (girl) was translating the menu for the Tico owners. We caught our breath, grabbed some lunch, then took back to the road, arriving in Jacó around twenty minutes later.

To me Jacó seems like the typical surf town. It's costa rican, yes i know, but all the gringo surf shops were throwing me a distinct cali vibe. Yeah, there were Tico surf shops and souvenir stands and sodas, but there was also KFC, TCBY and other familiar beasts, rearing it's head thousands of miles away from the norm. It isn't a large town, by any means but tourists make the trip to Jacó for surfing and a reputable nightlife. Lenay and I explored the town, and shifted through the ever present refuse for sale in the souvenir shops. Afterwards, I enjoyed the spanish LOTR while Lenay took full advantage of a 50% discount on VOLCOM clothes at a newly built development. At 5 or so I found myself at the beach, cooling off in the ocean before the inevitable return trip home.

The clouds did not look promising though.

I Want to See the Condors!!!

May 12th, 2008

Good God I'm tired. I have been every night. But then again, being out of the house for 18 hours of the day will do that to a guy. Even this one. But at least I've settled into this routine. THe last one for that matter, until i come home to the ominous reverse culture shock, whatever that means. I'm coming home soon, but let me get a few more words in before that, ok?

For as busy as I have been, My time here has been effectively confined to Quepos, for as busy as I've been. You will usually see me on the bus running between the town and Manuel Antonio beach, when the driver shows occasional pity on the gringo. Last week I pushed Lenay and I into the final course at D'Amore school. What this means is that, while I am supposed to be taking lessons from my Colombian professor, Victor, we usually finish the day arguing over politics or organized labor. However, I have learned a few things about Colombia, the first stop on my fabled return to South America in the near future. He has promised to take Lenay and I to see the andean condor, with it's massive three meter wingspan. It is possible to simply HEAR the wings of these gargantuans as the land at their perch above three thousand meters. I'm doing it.

We've been getting involved in studying a sort of 'pan-american identity,' a twenty-first century version of Che Guevara's political dream of the fifties. While opposed to Che's violent methods, I have absolutely become thoroughly absorbed in the idea, reinforced by the peoples that I have come to respect and admire. South America was definitely an adventure for me, and opened me up to the world, with its beautiful and its tragic aspects. I feel at this point that dream is impossible, but a little cultural exchange would be a start, eh?

Lenay and I spend our afternoons in class, which means we arrive when the thirty odd Texan classmates of mine are ending their school day. They are all here to learn spanish for a material and pragmatic reason, which would be a fifteen percent salary increase to all bilingual employees, at many Texan companies. They have been tossing some Mexican slang my way, but unfortunately, it's just not my specialty. Now toss out some quichua...

I haven't known many before Costa Rica (odd place to meet Texans), but the students from Texas State have a penchant for living hard and partying hard. I find myself being dragged out to the bar of the day, be it Byblos, Sargento Garcia, or Barba Roja. The prices are equal to American bars, but thats why they sell cacique in the bodegas, I guess. I'm running on little sleep, but at least it's a hell of a time.

LOST...(IN PERU)

Lenay made this really funny video. She had lugged her video camera around some badass dunes in Ica. What a trooper.

Enjoy...

Word Games

I am living in Boca Vieja, which is a few streets of houses and about a five minute walk away from Quepos. I don't really don't know why it has its own name though. My host parents are Rogelio (Yeyo for short) and Lettvia. In their mid-sixties, they are retired on pension. Having two of their children married to Americans, they had been looking forward to practicing their english with me. They were disappointed.

I HAVE learned a few things since leaving you guys in January after all. My words come easily now and honestly, it feels like the skeleton key to other cultures. I've met many interesting characters during this trip, taken advantage of opportunities, and achieved a certain level of understanding of all the places visited in the last four months. And all of that is thanks to Spanish.

More importantly, I've improved so much because of practice. Lenay and I set a goal at the outset of the semester NOT to speak any english. Of course there have been exceptions. But our friendship now is largely one of Spanish. Frankly I get startled when she breaks into the native tongue.

So to all of those traveling abroad, or even thinking about it: PRACTICE. IT's so easy to break down into english whenever you get out of class, but hey, take the high road. It pays off. And if you're afraid of saying the wrong thing, well don't be! You're a foreigner, it's expected of you! And that is exactly how you learn. That fear is holding you back from greatness. So get rid of the mental block. Block you ask? Have a few drinks in Mexico, Ecuador, or wherever. Then try out some spanish. You'll know what I'm talking about then. After a few cocktails you'll feel SO much better at spanish. Though it's not. But at least you got that confidence back.

Now only if you could do it sober...

Anyways I've been staying with Yeyo and Lettvia this week. For breakfast I'm sually fed papaya and banana, noodles and bread to go with my coffee. It's not mate de coca but I guess it will do. For supper it's usually Pinto de Gallo (rice & beans) with a meat, salad, and postre (dessert). Suprisingly, the water is potable here. At least I'm done buying bottled water for the duration.

In the evenings, Yeyo usually talks to me about his culture. I also found out he's a big sports nut. Baseball, which is even better. Too bad he's a Yankees fan. So we watched the Yanks-Tigers game last week, I rooted for the Tigers naturally. Too bad for him.

Last night we watched fútbol, the Pachuca (MEX) v. Saprissa (CR) game. Costa Rica lost, so I guess it's Pachuca going to Japan. Due to Frank Lampard's mad free kicking skills, it's Chelsea who will be facing off against them (sorry Liverpool). It is odd, my fascination with soccer in a different hemisphere, but that's what Latin America does to you.

The best part about living in Quepos, thus far, is obviusly the beach. An hour away from the legendary Jaco, the waves here are world famous.Lenay and I take the seven kilometer bus ride from Quepos as often as we can. The road goes through the rainforest, and is dangerously narrow, narrow on a darwinian scale. There are few pedestrians for that reason. IT is lined with restaurants and hotels. Every other bar has advertising for Imperial, the national beer. Funny though, all of the Ticos (CR people) seem to prefer Corona.

This is definitely Central America.

34 Degrees What?!?!

Quepos is very different from what I have been used to on my trip. That is to say if I've gotten used to anything. Ok, let me start over. For the last week, I have been roasting in the jungle, in a place that's average May temperature is something around 33 degrees celsius (really hot!). Remember that not three weeks ago I went to sleep shivering in Cusco, wearing socks, booties, whatever to keep warm. And you probably don't recall the bus ride home from Lake Titicaca, when I watched the thermostat sink below 0 degrees celsius, on a bus with a broken heater. Even Buenos Aires was entering the fall, though there were a few unseasonably warm days scratching at 24 degrees.

Quepos doesn't so much have a winter season as a wet season. Without even looking at the figures I know about the boastful amount of rainfall Costa Rica gets each year. It's in the jungle folks! I spent the first two days praying for the rain, because the heat seemed unbearable, for a time. Well it came, and in force last week. I guess bodies do adjust to the climate, though I'd decribe it as being far too close to infernal. That's what 72 hours of straight sweating does though.

I doubt if Quepos has a population even close to 5000, and the eight city streets are layed out in the simplest possible gridwork. Never the less, gringo culture is at its strongest. Best Western, Remax, and even a Wal-Mart owned chain store is here, along with the expected smattering of surf shops and tourist agencies. The American investment is obviously extensive, judging from the English I here in the street. I've never seen a 'Gallo más Gallo' before though.

Aside from the lack of a capital gains tax, I understand why so many foreigners flock to this place, business, or pleasure-related. The scenery is stunning, and the animals (for a Minnesotan) are out of this world. Hordes of monkeys playon the school roof, when they're not foraging. I see monstrous iguanas on a daily basis, hanging onto trees or otherwise. They seem to enjoy snacking on flower petals. Even the bugs are are unreal, of an unholy proportion you might say. Unfortunately, the cockroach I saw the other night was all too real.

Erik's BA Top 50 List

I am in Costa Rica. It is hot and muggy, and I haven't stopped sweating since getting here. But I'll talk moe about that later. I wanted to write one last post about Buenos Aires, but there is just so much left to say. Instead, I made a top fifty of my two weeks spent there.

So here we go...

1. Alfajores (ultra putas)
2. Parillas (grill houses, number one stand alone reason to visit Argentina)
3. Bife de Chorizo (argentinian beef, the best)
4. Palermo Soho (so bohemian)
5. Smoky City (when the plata islands lit up in flames and left BA in a haze for 3 days straight)
6. Zapallo (mashed squash, Lenay's personal favorite)
7. Gelato (Yes, Chino, it is different from helado)
8. Dulce de leche (in gelato is best)
9. Club Atletico de River Plate (Dale River!!!)
10. Almost getting robbed in La Boca (Dale River!!!)
11. Everbody sucking down mate (I haven't used mine yet)
12. Hanging with Chino's crew
13. Padel (I guess that is how it's spelled)
14. Milanesa (country fried steak, a la napolitana)
15. Pastas (Thank you italian immigrants)
16. Cheap Stella Artois (A little too much)
17. Vino barato (referto #16)
18. Straddling heavy weaponry in the musem of arms (and getting caught by the curator)
19. Bond Street (#1 punk mall in South America)
20. Lucky 7 Tattoo Studio (Thanks Gustavo)
21. Taking the subway for the first time
22. Pissed that Lacoste tees are sixty bucks in SA
23. Confused by BA prices (cheap food, cheap drink, obscenely high clothing prices)
24. Falling asleep watching Perrera
25. Thirty four hours of bussing to see Iguazu
26. Johnathan, the resident socially maladjusted Brasilian, tidy whitey lounging salami chewer
27. San Telmo fair and tango (holy shit, he just flipped that girl!)
28. Going to colonia for the day
29. Lenay forgetting her passport for the first day to Uruguay
30. Moto, our german shepherd friend
31. Getting yelled at by the Chinese grocers
32. Super panchos (dirty water dogs in BA)
33. Choclo empanadas (yes, half of these are food memories)
34. Vos, Sho, Vos
35. Seeing the transvesty hookers in the park
36. Manu leaving us Red Bull and a city map our first night
37. Red Bull party (4 cans that night, no sleeping)
38. Sarkis and that other middle eastern restaurant
39. Going to Tigre
40. Not ever supporting a team sponsored by Wal Mart (San Lorenzo, booo!)
41. Going to bed at 4 AM and calling it an early night
42. Not understanding a thing in Chino's INTL MARKETING class
43. 2 AM fanta runs
44. Everyone under the age of 60 wearing Converse All Stars
45. Seeing the narcotic animals at the zoo
46. The cat and naked statue garden
47. Hostel Nativo
48. Ceci showing us the city the second night
49. Going to watch River win 5-0
50. Wishing we could have stayed longer

The Epic Iguazu

Last week Lenay and I took a long, I mean long trip to see the waterfalls at Iguazu. Situated at a border between Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay, it's a long shot away from Buenos Aires. But I've been thinking about Iguazu since preparing for this trip. We were going.

Before leaving the city, we needed to move our lugguage from Hostel Nativo to Manu's house. Frankly, I didn't trust a certain Brazilian, who for the last week had been offering us chewed salami while lounging in his tidy whities. Neither of us felt good around this guy. Five minutes after our cab had I arrived I was yelling at Lenay from outside of Nativo. We were running late, but I knew she had forgotten something. Cheerfully, she skipped out the door, being in complete contrast to the anxious frown I had been wearing. With that the cab pulled out onto avenida Santa Fe and eight blocks later we arrived at Manu's apartment building.


After dropping off the luggage and getting a ride to Retiro station in north east Buenos Aires, and questioning a dozen agencies, we decided on a 6:55 departure with Rio Uruguay. During our hour long wait for the bus, we sought out the nearest choclo empanadas, a culinary favorite of ours.

By 8 Pm we were on our way out of Greater Buenos Aires, enjoying upper deck seating and an 'in-flight meal.'

At this point an interruption must be made to talk about the difference in quality of coaches. This was no Greyhound or Jefferson lines bus, dirty, cramped, sitting next to that sweaty amish guy on his way back to the farm. I spent my bus ride sprawled out in a double wide bed sized seat, sipping a whiskey rocks, sitting beneath a full powered ac blower. After a hot dinner the stewardess passed out champagne and confections. It was a true sybaritic pleasure.

The bus ride was seventeen hours long, so we arrived in Puerto Iguazu around noon the next day. I stepped off the bus to a climate far different from that of Buenos Aires. Hot and muggy, in this touristic sub-tropical village lying within thirty minutes of the border of three countries, something of a crossroads, you might say.

After Lenay tried Argetinian veal (BABY COW!!!) at a local restaurant, and I found a Sherwin Williams store, we paid eight pesos each to catch a ride to the national park. The entry fee was forty pesos, and inside we climbed aboard a disney-esque mini-train that shuttles people across the park to various vantage points.

Disembarking at the Argentina-Brazil border, I followed a string of tourists down a kilometer long catwalk. Crossing massively wide streams through subtropical forest, I spied a mist rising nearby. I was close to something big. Very big!

La Garganta del Diablo, or the throat of the Devil is a massive, semicircular cataracta (waterfall) that spews unimaginable amounts of amazonian river water every day. It is also the pride of the park, only rivaled by Niagra and Victoria in terms of sheer awe. La Garganta, however, is flanked by over a dozen others on each side. I was told that it's name springs from a legend of lost love, and the ensuing divine wrath. I'm sure you could imagine the details, but that is the general picture of it. The deafening roar of the cascading water does support it's veracity. I'm convinced.

It's epic scope makes the waterfall a common place for suicide. In fact, an English woman mde the plunge not weeks ago. I unknowingly stepped up onto the guard rail to get a better look, and for a few insensitive snap shots. Suddenly I felt thirty pairs of eyes burning into the back of my skull. It was hot.

I didn't know ok?!?!

Lenay and I enjoyed the vistas for a few more hours, exploring some trails and taking pictures. Honestly, the panoramic view left me in shock. All of the adjacent waterfalls, coupled with the tropical foliage, seemed to be sixty five million years displaced from its time.

This place is an anachronism.

All in all we spent five hours in the park. Exhausted, and missing Buenos Aires and alfajores, we bought bus tickets and went home.

34 hours of bus in less than three days. Insane. What were we thinking?

Colonia del Sacramento

In an effort to take advantage of Uruguay's proximity to Bunos Aires, Lenay and I made an excursion across the Río de la Plata. I loved the idea, because filling my passport with visas has become a preocupation of mine. It's unhealthy, really. I'll spend hours on end staring at my passport, as I did with my toy passport at the festival of nations as a child. Buquebus ofers a day trip to Colonia, on the other side of the river for just over a hundred pesos, so we took the subway to the terminal. Twice actually. Yesterday we woke up late, and after rushing out the hostell door, flagged down a cab. Driving through the Recoleta barrio I asked Lenay if she remembered her passport. PASSPORT!?

SO TODAY, after doing our duediligence, waking up early, and taking our passports, Lenay and I got to the boat terminal and bought tickets. IT was perfect because the package was just a day trip, nothing complicated. Our transport was a boxy, blue, eighty meter long ferry, a cumbersome beast that lugs across the river daily. I found a chair in the main cabin, and dozed for the next three hours.

At noon I was woken by the loud speaker, anouncing the arrival of our buquebus ferry in Colnia. Lenay an I disembarked, and found our way to a moto rental center. Twenty five bucks would have gotten me a moped to rent for the whole day. Apparently, you need a drivers license to drive a moped around. Huh, didn't see that coming. South America? Really? Lenay didn't seem upset, though, and we both love to walk.

We wandered residential Colonia, found a local bistro, and ate ravioli for lunch. Around 2 PM or so, we found the local collectivo (bus) and caught a ride to the beach. The bus, however, dropped us off in the middle of rural Uruguay, in front of a condemned bullring. Seemingly pulled from a different epoch, the coliseum was crumbling in some places, and wired off with barbed wire. I imagined chained gladiators locked in mortal combat, or a matador, in all his glory, striking the coup de grace to his sworn enemy. Both to deafening applause.

We walked the beach, noticing the islands, kilometers out into the river, and the rotting wooden piers, ancient derelicts, long past their use. The tide was low, and white shells, the size of my thumbnail, were washed up in the thousands. Asking a local for directions, we were directed to another bus stop that would take us to colonial Colonia (haha). Colonia del Sacramento was founded by the Portuguese (1680) and is the oldest city in Uruguay.

We walked up la calle de suspiros (street of sighs), which still has it's original 1680 paving. Dozens of uneven pitch black stones, with seemingly lateral cleavage jutting out of the oldest street in Uruguay. Additionally, traditional colonial Portuguese houses remained, as well as the reconstructed Viceroy's house, sitting at the edge of the plaza, where the military once practiced manuevers. There are just trees and fountains covering the field now. Lenay and I found the ruins of a colonial convent. It was attached to a lighthouse, but now all that exists are its foundations.

After climbing the city wall I spied the Buquebus port, so we strolled back through the town towards our ferry. Having over an hour to spare, Lenay indulged in her love for ravioli and had it for a second time. We were led to a restaurant by a stray german shepherd. He kept following us, and after petting it for two minutes, he gratefully accompanied us through the streets. We named him Moto, so at least we could get one today.

Half an hour later the german shepherd left us amicably, and we returned to the ferry. Curling up across four seats, I fell asleep, pushing the three hour voyage out of my life, exhausted.

Paddle and Milanesa

Lenay woke me up today at noon. How wasteful of me to spend my time in Buenos Aires, yes I know. But you go out in this city on a friday night. I mean, people aren't even having dinner untill eleven at night! It's an early night if you go home anytime before four in the morning without your fernet.

She dragged me out of bed this morning because Manu was on his way over to the hostal with Pauli. They were bringing us to their athletic club in Tigre. Situated on the outskirts of Greater buenos Aires, Tigre is a a weekend getaway for many Argentinians. It hugs the Paraná delta, and canoes, rowing shells, and motorboats can be see plying the Río Lujan even this late into autumn.

Uriel and Alex (friends) were already in the car as Pauli's Peugot pulled up to the hostel. With the six of us crammed in the car, Pauli pulled onto the highway. For the last few days wildfires have been chokling Buenos Aires with smoke. It's been all over the news, Manu even tells me this has never happened before. It's like a polluted haze, and visibility is limited, though we're safe.

Twenty minutes later we drive into a hazy Tigre and find some lunch. The guys wanted to give us the typical experience, so while Lenay was munching on gnochhi, I tried my first true milanesa. It's more or less a breaded and fried beef stack, that they add to ham and provologne cheese. being one of Argentina's most well known dishes, I had some idea of what to expect. I dug in, but fifteen minutes later I was out, full. If you like fried food, and steak, you still may be in for a surprise.

After lunch we went to the athletic club. Closing early because of Passover, we were one of few groups at the club today. I saw tennis courts, softball fields, basket ball, ping pong, and even a weird bunch of pole baskets spread out over a hard court. The pool and waterslide were already closed for the season, but a few people were out on the river, rowing. I was thrilled to see rowing shells in the boat house, though we'd be playing something else today. I can tell that Manu was ithcing to get out on a kayak, being a former youth national kayaking champion.

I followed the group to the paddle courts. With the mechanics of tennis and the speed of raquetball, paddle is played on a short, walled hard court in teams of two. Instead of the webbed tennis raquet, a raquet sized wooden paddle is used. They look kind of like ping pong paddles, on growth hormones. I hadn't played before, but the guys were happy to include me in the game. It's easier to pick up than tennis (sorry Rach haha) and I had a great time playing it too.

San Juan de Dios

For weeks now I've been meaning to write a blog about the experience I had volunteering in Peru. I don't know why I'm behind. I could say I've been busy, traveling and just haven't gotten to it yet. But honestly, I''ve just been having so much fun on this trip. It has been life changing, and my volunteer program was no exception. So here goes...

I spent my last two weeks in Peru volunteering in the hospital San Juan de Dios. Other than being a therapy center, hostel, and agricultural farm, San Juan de Dios is home to over fourty children. Having special needs, these children, ranging from toddlers to twenty, require special attention that their family just cannot give. Some are visited by their parents occasionally. Others will never know the face of their mother. They were just left in the care of the hospital. Never the less, walking into the orphange instantaneously casts a change upon you. It's something that you don't realize at first, but by the time you leave, you'll know. These kids are awesome.

I walked into the orphanage my first day having know idea what to expect. Working with kidss frightened me, in that aspect. The head nurse brought me to the childrens' ward. There I met my guys. Instantly my new friends lit up when I walked in. José in particular never stopped smiling. Wilson, a year old, thought I was the funniest guy in the world, and laughs at EVERYTHING. Angelica, was always dancing in her chair and insisted that I would to. Bonds formed in those two weeks.

I wasn't asked to do much. Just be their friend, the nurses asked me. A relief, because aside from babysitting my brothers years ago, I had no experience with caring for children. So, I passed the mornings playing with toys, singing, and walking around the hospital. Aside from Roger, who I would need to chase around the hospital, the toddlers were confined to wheelchairs for much of the day. So my german friend Gunda and I would take walks across the complex, visiting all of the animals. Dozens of pigs, busy at their troughs, would waddle to their gate to greet us. The larger sows squealed wickedly, fleeing from machos. One particular friday, I returned alone to the farms, stone cold stunned, as workmen were busy slaghtering these three month old animals. It was an awful sound.

Other than pig squealing burned into my memory, I can recall a particular white llama spitting on me as I was taking snapshots. Flaming camelids...

At lunch I would help the kitchen prepare lunch for forty odd children, be it slicing meat, frying hamburgers or dishing up rice (mmmm...rice). We'd rush out the plates to the dining room and hand them out according to age. There are many children who have trouble feeding themselves, and a volunteer is most valuable at lunch. The staff needs assistance making sure these kids are eating right, and I played a key role in this part of the childrens' day. While some children, like Carmen, absolutely adored her lunch, others didn't realize playtime was over and made the meal a real trial.

Overall, I loved this experience. Completely unique in my trip, it provided me with some important memories. After knowing what these children are dealing with in their lives, my own feel insignificant, quite petty. In spite of not seeing family, these children are quite optomistic, and well cared for by the nurses, who adore them. I fell very lucky to have played even a small part in their lives.

To all NRSCA students, I recommend this program. Apart from helping people who are in dire need of attention, you will experience Peruvian culture outside of the tourism industry. Additionally, the spanish school offers a thirty percent discount on classes to all volunteers. It really adds up when you study for four weeks, something I wish I had known about. But now that you do, get haughling to PERU!

Cheers.

Es Para Vos

Coming to Argentina as a footbal fan, I had prior knowledge of how big the sport is in this country. I had to check out a game. But which team? Argentina has dozens of clubs. Furthermore, because buenos Aires has two HUGE rival clubs, I had to pick.

BOCA JUNIORS, or the team Maradona played for has won six Copas Libertadores (one of the South American championships). based out of a barrio near the docks, the original club members painted their jerseys and clubs and houses with leftover ship paint (blue and gold). Today this club is an international fixture in Futbol and is considered one of the world's best.

RIVER PLATE, Boca's chief rival, is based out of the Núñez, is their chief rival. They are of equal renown in the world and have won two Copas Libertadores. Their most famous player is Enzo Francescoli, o el Príncipe (prince). Playing in the '86 and '90 World Cups for Uruguay as well, Francescoli won River Plate the Copa Libertadores in 1996. French footballer Zenadine Zidane even named a son after him.

Nicholas, the owner of our hostel, offered to get us tickets, so I accepted. When I found out that he was going to charge us one hundrd and fifty pesos, I quietly changed my mind. I didn't want to spend fifty dollars on a futbol game. I could do better. So I went to Emanuel about my problem. His friend Holli (with whom we went to the parilla) took us to the River Plate stadium and we bought tickets for sixty pesos instead. Yeah, I like that price a lot better too. But I suppose you can't blame a guy for being opportunistic.


Our game last night started at nine thirty. Wind changes had pushed the wild fire smoke back into the city, so the game was pitched against a city wide haze. The other side of the stadium was even difficult to see. No matter, River Plate took to the field against San Martin, a Peruvian team, that had to win or was out of the Copa Libertadores.

Eighty some minutes later, River's five goals sealed the fate of a scoreless oponent. Coimpletely dominating, Emanuel said it was a baile for the team they were having such an easy time. In Peru, something that is easy is called Papaya, though they didn't say this tonight. Peruvians usually don't travel all the way to Argentina for futbol games, so the stadium wasa not half full. Barras, or chants were still the rage though. Everytime river scored, all its fans would chant-

Es para vos, es para vos, bostero puto puta que te parió! I don't know, I'd rather you translate it yourself.

The funny thing about chants with River is that they are usually not to support theteam. Rather, the chants are to disparage Boca. Not any other team, just Boca. And when it is another team, fine. Those chants will do to.

Caramel Apple Dopplegangers

Aside from nearly getting carjacked, I've been quite busy in Buenos Aires. Besides registering for classes three thousand miles away, I've ridden my first subway. Coming back from the city center felt like riding in a Cusqueño combi bus. I've visited the Casa Rosada. Basically the historical white house of Argentina, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Madonna serenading her people. Inside was a presidential museum. While watching a video, Lenay's schedule caught up with her and she fell asleep, exhausted from traveling.

We visited the zoo yesterday. Inside the Polar Bear was absolutely frightened of its poolside reflection, twitching constantly. Snow leopards were restlessly pacing, and the resident indian elephant just stared at the wall of its cage. It made me a little sad. Zoos.

We walked to the San Telmo barrio. There are most likely fifty antique stores in the vicinity, witha as many tango dancers outside, doing their thing. Lenay found some clothes boutiques. Who doesn't like having their own Argentinian wardrobe, I suppose. The buildings there are beautiful, treelined, terraced apartment buildings, in the old style.

Aside forom the cat garden in Palermo, Manu took us to an empanada restaurant in Palermo. I recommend the choclo empanadas. They're pretty much the best thing that happened to South America. To hell with those caramel apple dopplegangers at taco bell...

We were walking in the Plaza de Mayo one night, and there was a protest. La Manifestación was fighting for workers' wages, and the Malvinas war of '82. It covered several´parts of the plaza. Additionally, Orange vested police officers lined the sidewalks, just waiting for...something. Manu tells me all of the cops here are corrupt, and will accept bribes for just about anything. It makes me feel lucky.

Says Forro to All Carjackers

Buenos Aires. What more can be said? I'm sitting at the computer in my hostel on Godoy Cruz street in Palermo. It's eleven in the morning and I've hardly gotten out of bed, because my late nights have been dominating my schedule. Last night my friends Emanuel and Paulie took us to a parilla. It's a restaurant that specializes in beef. Grilled argentinian meat.

I was taken to the upper balcony of the restaurant where pebbles lined the floor, and tealights left the dining room in a dim haze. Earlier in the day, a conflagration forty miles deep in the countryside had cast an unnatural smoky haze throughout the city. Amidst the ethereal ambience, I was led to a butcher paper covered table, complete with crayolas of various sizes. Immediately I set to work on a River Plate Logo, in anticipation of our Libertadores game tomorrow.

I was sipping some vino tinto when our waitress brought the orders. My plate was honestly the size of a stop sign. Aside from the medium rare sitting near the bottom, there was an assortment of culinary goodies awaiting ravenous consumption. Squash puree, roasted red pepper, roasted provologne, roasted onion, and a fried egg sitting atop an unhealthy mound of french fries stared me down in the longest predinner standoff I've had. The chef had issued the challenge, and now it was sitting beneath me. After taking a long swallow of wine, I set my glass down and set to work. It was, without a doubt, the most quiet meal I've had in months.

An hour later, with the dishwasher's work done for him, and the wine bottle dripped dry, We climbed into Paulie's Peugot and left. To exhausted from the week to go out, Paulie drove us down Avenida Santa Fe, to bring us back to the hostel. Turning onto Manu's street, the way became blocked by a garbage truck. Out of nowhere, this crazy man runs up to my door, grabs the handle, and me a rabid look. I was captivated by these insane pupils, while viciously he tied to rip our door open. Unsuccessful, he went to Lenay's door and tried again. Insanity overpowering deduction, he returned to my door and grabbed the handle.

Snapped out of the trance, I break into my spanish, shouting every Ecuadorian, Peruvian and Argentine curse that I had been learning for this one moment. I don't know if the man had even registered the finger flashing in his face, he just ran off, leaving as quickly as he came.

Bienvenidos a Buenos

Lenay and I spent an hour to get to Lima. At the airport, I exchanged my remaining nuevo soles for american dollars. At 10.25 our flight took off, taking us over the Andes to Argentina and its jewel of a city. Lenay and I sat in row twenty six of our TACA flight. That means back of the plane, next to the bathrooms, and no reclining. Most uncomfortable chair of my life.

Our time zones jumped ahead two hours, and we landed in Buenos Aires at 4.30. The international airport is very removed from the city proper, so we shelled out eighty argentinian pesos to take a forty minute cab ride to the city. Upon recieving advice from a friend, Lenay instructed the driver to take us to PALERMO, one of the many barrios inside of the city. We found lodging at Hostel Nativo, blocks away from Avenida Santa Fe, one of the many busy avenues in the capital. Divided into dseveral neighborhoods, Palermo offers a diverse array of excursions. blocks away from my hostel is Palermo Soho, a rather bohemian neighborhood famous for the fashion, gastronomy and sawnky culture. Palermo Holywood is where all of the hip bars are located. A friend suggested LocoXFutbol. We'll be doing the traditional party until eight in the morning on thursday evening.

Through her massive red bull network, Lenay hooked us up with our new friend Emanuel, who also works for the company. Sunday night while Lenay an d I were grabbing some pizza on Santa Fe, he left us two red bulls and a map of the city. Monday morning I got a tour of Palermo Soho, his eleventh story apartment with a view of the botanical garden. This garden is special for more than its plethora of naked statues. Cats. Lots of cats, by the hundreds, live in this beautiful piece of greenspace. I was absolutely shocked, because in the rest of Latin America I'm just seeing vagrant dogs wandering the streets. As I passed through the park I noticed that the felines follow the old ladies, because those are the people that feed the creatures. Fascinating.

To comment on my initial reaction, I would have to say that shock was initial. Buenos Aires is a very different city from Cusco. I've never been to Europe, so that analogy will not be made here. What I can say though, is that I haven't been walking beneath skyscrapers, amidst all of the greenspace and parilladas. Since arriving, Lenay seems to be hypnotized by the dozens of bohemian boutiques lining the side walks. This city is enormous, with it's massive avenues and elegant buildings. Simply, it is one of the most beautiful cities I have yet to see on my trip.

Goodbye Cusco

Our flight was to leave at 7.30 AM on Saturday morning. No matter. I could still go out and enjoy the last night in Cusco. Afterall, Alexia did leave me about ten free drink cards for the uptown bar. So Lenay, Fio, Diana and I left the house at ten on friday night after a send off dinner made especially by our host Mom. Lenay left us to go salsa dancing at uptown. The rest of us went to Diana's going away party, as she would be moving to Lima in the coming weeks.

Three drinks and two hours later Fio and I encountered Lenay dancing at Mama Africa, jam packed full of tourists dancing to trash techno and raggaeton. We after spilling cubas and watching smoke rings, we stunbled across the plaza to Uptown, the bar from where Lenay and I had been taking salsa lessons over the last two weeks. A dozen bad songs later, I was out of tickets and out of time. We went home. Three hours would be plenty of sleep before my flight, right?

Some time later I wake up, faint light creaping through the windows. Thinking that it couldn't be that early, I nearly nodded back of. Grabbing a hold of my clock, my eyes focusing from haze. 6.11. I've got an hour and nineteen minutes to get dressed, on a taxi and out of Cusco! So fifteen minutes later, somber goodbyes to my host family, Lenay and I haul our luggage down Umberto Vidal road to the Cultura. Getting a cab at seven AM is not easy but possible. We made it in time, and my six weeks in Cusco abruptly came to a close.

What's a Stone?

We disembarked from the ferry and were ushered ashore by Nestor. Following the accents of my British compatriots, I wandered up a stone pathway, wide eyed at yet another beautiful island. More mud brick houses lined the hillside, flanked by terraced gardens, it's visitors being hummingbirds. I found this strange for the climate. The walkway led to the main square of Taquile island. It was really a miniature plaza, cobblestone streets worn to sand. To add to the ambience, a white washed colonial era church stood nearby, with its very own grass covered, ancient and decaying fifteen foot bell tower.

Nestor taught us these people still follow the old Incan Mantra-
1. Do not lie
2. Do not steal
3. Do not be lazy

This islands did not always bear the name Taquile. In pre-colombian times, it was called Inteca, or sun flower in Quechua. A Colonial Spanish govenor's ego changed that quite quickly, however.

The people of Taquile are far different from those of Amantani. Numbering around two thousand people, this community lives for each other. No one is rich, poor or varied in dress. Houses are all similar and jobs are rotated on a communal basis. All of the income earned by the community is distributed equally, regardedless of role. Furthermore, ninety percent of the population remains on the island for the entirety of their lives. This place is a successfull, inclusice socialistic community. But it sure takes all of the fun out of tipping when it goes straight to the pot, eh?

Even the restaurants are egalitarian. Each one takes turns serving tourists he local trout, the fish is scarce for the local people. Trucha de la plancha, this delicious fish straight out of the lake was served en masse. While never caring for it as a child, I have been cultivating a great love for fish since arriving here in January. This meal only added to my growing taste.

After an 11AM lunch we hiked through the village, making note of the agrarian presence on Taquile. Growing maize, quinoa, papas and okra, the community sustains it's principal agrticultural needs. This craggy patch of nine square kilometers takes care of them. I saw few cows, sheep and chickens. The land demands of raising livestock equates them to a nearly vegetarian existence, much like Amantani.

One of the most notable points of interest is the artesanal center. Commended by UNESCO, the men and women (apart from farming) support themselves through their craft-weaving. I saw beautiful hats, scarves shirts and the like for sale. These products are exported throughout Peru, because of their fame.

The trip back to Puno lasted three hours. While Lenay slept belowdeck, I spent my time warming up under the autumn sun, chatting with two Austrians and an English couple.

Key conversation points-
1. Gordon Brown and Basra
2. A fifteen stone lesbian rock star
3. What's a stone?
4. How many pounds are in a stone? (14 lbs.)
5. Wayne Rooney (an ongoing fascination)
6. The drug addled Amy Winehouse's success in Britain
7. The Austrian's alpine castle, now a white elephant hostel
8. Tony Bourdain, and his hack 'n' slash writing wit

Three hours of cross cultural nonsense...

Starry Night

At 8 Am on Sunday morning we shoved off from Amantani Island. Our new friends waved us goodbye as the ferry lumbered out into the morning calm of Lake Titicaca. Lenay and I sat on the top deck, the morning wind at our backs, inspiring us for the new day. I listened to the sound of Andean waves smashing against the hull while reflecting on the past day's events.

Amantani has little as far as technological luxuries go. It is necassary to sail to three hourse Puno to purchase everything. They had public lighting. The posts still lie ready to be ignited. Unfortunately, the community cannot afford to pay the utility bill. Thus, the village goes dark at six thirty every night.

Walking home from the dance last night, I was proverbially blinded. Not from the unlit streetlights, but from the night sky. The southern cross and other constellations of this hemisphere lit the path to our farmhouse. I stood beneath an illuminated sky, each constellation new and brilliant and foreign to me. For the first time in memory I glimpsed the Milky Way, that splotchy, pale pathway that marks our place in the universe. I stumbled home, eyes and mind upward rather than the terrestrial in front of me.

This particular starry night made aware to me the merits of living so far removed from the rest of mankind. I then wondered, would the rest of civilization give up technology, even for just one night, to live the life free of crime, pollution and corruption that these people do? Agustin, the tenant govenor and my host for the evening, finds politics repugnant. What is important to him is caring for the community. I suppose this proverbial apple was already eaten by the rest of us, but it was truly inspiring to see a community relatively free from the yoke of technology.

We steam towards Taquile with changed hearts, pondering on this truly unique experience. This second rugged, heavily terraced island however looks equally promising.

The Traditional Way

I wake up as the ferry I'm aboard plys it's way through Lake Titicaca to Amantani island. Home to over two thousand people, Amantani is where I would be spending the majority of the tour. Upon disembarking and filing uphill to a clearing among the rock fenced gardens covering the island, the group was introduced to the twelve families that would be hosting us this night. Ester, a sixteen year old native to the island led me to the house of her family. She, like the rest of the women in her community don the traditional pink embroidered skirt, white blouse and black shawl.

Following her for ten minutes, I was shown my lodging. The farmhouse, three adjacent buildings made from dried bricks and metal roofs, I felt as if time had taken me backwards. Though lacking electricity or plumbing, the provincial and quaint transformed into simple beauty. Beauty in simplicity of life. Though cliché, I was shocked, because my life has been soft with all it's technological amemnities. At one o' clock I was led down to the kitchen, a simple, dirt floor affair where I was fed a lunch of homegrown potatoes, rice, tomatoes and fried cheese. Land limitations restrict the community to a nearly vegetarian diet, holidays being the exception.

What characterized the island most strongly were the rocks. It seemed that every garden was seperated by a fence of stones that had been removed from the land. Nearly every parcel of land was closed off by a stone fence, pathways included. To access our house, Ester dismantled and reconstructed these walls as I followed.

After lunch I was led up to the soccer pavilion, where our tour guide Nestor explained the history of the island and its struggle with contemporary sopciety. Like the Amish of North America, every new generation is tempted by the call of mainstream society, to abandon their traditional lifestyle. Money is to be made in Puno, Arequipa, in Lima. But the rampant poverty in Peru (40 percent) presents a dangerous risk to the youth of Amantani. I was told that after spending years away from the island, the prodigal would return with possessions (such as glasses), accustoment to utilities, and an essentially different lifestyle. It is often impossible for these people to reintigrate to the community, for its lack of technological luxuries. Thus, the community faces the risk of seeing its way of life disappearing.

After the lecture, Nestor led us up a hill, to the highest point of the island. Not only was there an incredible view of the sunset, but generations ago the people built a temple to the Pachamama. She is the South American goddess representing mother earth. Very important to the indigenous communities before and after the Spanish conquest, the harvest goddess has endured not only culturally on Amantani. Once a year the doors of the temple are opened so the people may make offerings and thanks for the year. Our group circled the temple three times, and placed a small stone within its walls to make our own wish.

With the sun having abandoned us for the duration, I hiked down the hill to meet Ester, wishing I had worn a coat. She led me back home, and after supper at seven thirty, prepared me for the welcoming reception. Before leaving the house I put on a woolen poncho and cap, very simple dress for males. Lenay's however, included the skirt, belt, blouse and shawl before being ready.

At the meeting hall of the community the local girls led us in dance, serenaded by guitars pipes and drums. It was a simple two step, though five minutes into each song it evolved into a massive circle dash, where I was whiplashed around by Ester and her friends for hours. The dance lasted for hours, and eventually I had to deny Ester's advances (to dance) because of exhaustion.

This was new.

Uros and the Floating Isles

At six Am saturday morning I open my eyes to a half frozen, fog covered window, and behind it, Puno. The capital of it's department and main commercial area for the people of the lake, it sports a population of over one hundred thousand people. I woke up shivering, noting a considerable drop in temperature between Puno and even Cusco, where I wear at least two to three layers, daily. Only bringing a light jacket with me, I realized this would be a long, cold weekend.

Immediately I felt a kinship to this city. Sporting a cool, coastal temperature, situated on a hill, and being the principal commercial city to the largest lake in South America gives Lake Titicaca to that of Lake Superior. To me this feeling was undeniable and with the definite ambient resemblence thoughts of home surgest to the front of my mind. As happy as I was in January to recieve a five month respite from that all too familiar artic wind, I sometime miss it. Luckily I had a reasonable substitue for the weekend. It was COLD.

The question of finding a suitable travel agency was immediately solve a long ten seconds after I stepped off that deathtrap wqe had been riding for the last eight hours. Not one but three agency reps approached us with mountains of brochures, advertising several options available to us. After following Lenay Alexia and I to the cafeteria to have breakfast, I relented and shuffled through the literature. Lenay's overriding wish for the weekend was to spend the night on one of the islands with a local family. A sort of community tourism as you will. We decided on a one night, two day, and three island tour. Putting my trust in these strangers, I handed over seventy soles and stepped onto a tour bus waiting outside of the terminal.

After thirty minutes of collecting tourists, our driver had collected a motley crew of Welsh, Scotch, English, French, Italian, Israeli, and of course gringo tourists. Dropping us off at the marina, I vacantly (try to sleep on that bus) followed the string of companions to our boat, a twenty five foot ferry boat typical of its kind in Puno. At 8 AM or so we shoved off, old noisy engine shuttering to life, pushing us to our first destination and chugging copious amounts of exhaust out of it's corroded tailpipe.

My first feeling of the Uros people was amazement. These people, for hundreds of years have living on artificial islands, made from the totora reed. Numbering in the forties, these islands are the last vestige of an ancient pre-incan tradition. Driven to the water by invaders ages ago, the Uros constructed mobile islands to preserve their people. The base of these islands are cut and lashed peat bricks, their inhabitants need to place a new layer of dried totora reeds weekly to mantain flotation. The islands felt surprisingly stable. The only blatant anachronism on these islands were the eighty or so solar panels that former President Fujimori donated some twelve years ago. Everybody needs their tv though.

The manner in which these people survive is not through agriculture or fishing. No people aside from the Uros use the totara reed so extensively (boats, land, homes, food). There are some trout, ipsi, catfish and and carachi, though it's the size of my palm. Later in the weekend I also so the occasional group of cattle grazzing on the various islands adjacent to the community. It is tourism sustains this community, and this became evident when the merchandise was unveiled upon our artificial landfall. Rugs, moblies, toys, and ceramics were all available for barter. I was even convinced to buy a model totara boat. 'I'm sorry maam but I have no change.' Upon my hearing my limp excuse she sent a runner to another island to fetch her some. It is a nice little toy though.

Until 10 AM I was crawling among the houses, investigating this entirely alien way of life, astonished at a community's ability to adapt to it's surroundings. I was introduced to families, selling their wares, climbed reed watchtowers, and even rode a totara boat to an adjacent island. Fifteen feet long and constructed entirely from this plant, it supported the weight of the entire group as a local paddled to the other side of the community.

Eager to keep schedule, Nestor, our tour guide herded us back on the ferry and we left the Uros, to sustain their islands and their community. Such a sight, I truly hope that these islands remain. It is uncomparable among the various lifestyles I have witnessed during this trip. the next island is Amantani, 15 square kilometers and one of the largest on Lake Titicaca. I would like to recount the voyage there, but completely wiped out, I spent those three hours below deck drooling on my seat, allowing the dull drone of the engine lull me to sleep.

Sophmoric Wordplay

Lake itty bitty Titicaca. Our final excursion in Peru. Sitting at over 4000 meters, it is the highest navigable lake in the world. On the ballot for the new seven natural wonders of the world, this destination was not something I was about to pass up. but then, that was never the question. What Lenay and I had been debating over the last week was how to get there. Between taking a travel agency and journeying it on my own, I felt like such a high profile destination would be a cakewalk in procuring an agency. I just wanted to cut out the middle man in Cusco. I'm cheap, really.

As it turned out, my Swiss roomate Alexia was making a detour through Puno on her way to work at Arequipa. relying on the old maxim of safety in numbers, Lenay eventually came around to risking it on our own. After all, I'm approached by twenty travel agencies in Cusco every day. There's bound to be one or two in Puno. So after Alexia's tearful goodbye to Pati and our family, we took a three sol cab ride to terminal terrestre, and left Cusco on the San Martin Line, bound for Puno.

The ride to Puno was unique for two reasons. First, this was the first time I got to enjoy the lower level of those double decker monstrosities. Eating bananas and bread while reclining in a bed like coach seat, we were all entertained with a pirate copy of Rambo 4, liberating villages somewhere far off in east Asia. After ninety minutes or so of explosions, severed limbs and fascist killing, our bus rolled to a stop at one of the regular highway checkpoints. Accustomed to these stops, no one gave it any mind. An hour later or so I could see three Peruvian cops haranguing the bus driver through my fogged up window. Lenay asked me what I thought the problem could be. Dryly responding,' oh he probably hasn't been driving with his lights on or something.' I didn't give it much thought after that. Another passenger boarded the bus ten minutes later however, and nervously informed the rest of us that the driver had indeed been driving with only one functional (of four) headlights. Well that was an ironic kick in the teeth. It goes with out saying that the next three hours were spent anxious, watching the coach's flashers flicker on with every oncoming car. I do not recommend putting your life in the hands of a Peruvian bus driver, who drives through the Andes soley by memory. For some reason it just does not seem like the best idea.

Peeing in Peru

Liz came to Peru during her Spring break. She made a video about it.

Note: no ruins were harmed in the making of this video.

Carving in Ica

One thing that my friends know is that I have been complaining about not being able to go snowboarding this winter. I know, shut up Erik, you're having the opportunity of a lifetime right now and all you can do is bitch about the things you don't have. Don't worry about hearing me anymore, I've taken my passion to a medium. To ninety degree burning three hundred foot sand dunes in Peru.

I first heard about sandboarding from Lenay, who learned in turn from old classmates in Cuenca. I was ready from the minute I saw the photos. We waited a month to get done with classes, buy tickets and suffer a fifteen hour bus ride from the sacred valley of the incas to the parched deserts of Tatooine, uhh I mean Ica (I don't know why everything in my life has to be related to a George Lucas film, just don't fight it Erik).

Our busline was Cruz del Sur, whose tagline ought to be, we're so great, we even have bingo! Well, maybe not, but they really did have bingo! What brought me there was a double decker monstronsity of a coach bus that dominated the cliffside highways in rural Peru. After three movies, in-drive dinner, in-drive breakfast, bingo, and 9 hours of a mind numbing ever present-vertigo reduced nap we arrived in Ica.

The city of Ica is the sun baked capital of it's department in Peru. The climate is hot, dry, and a hell of a change from Cusco. What it's most famous for is it's Pisco, and Huacachina. Most simply, Huacachina is the former rich peruvian's playground, now frequented by backpackers who are swarmed by under worked business proprietors, from dune buggying to city tours, to pisco tours to pisco drinks at the local bar.

Lenbay and I were met at the bus station by Renato (host brother), and we hailed the nearest taxi (which is easy, because at any given time you've got five hustling you for some business). Getting off at Huacachina, I was immediately hit by the smell of sweaty humans, garbage, and the opportunity for some serious boarding. The resort hugs a lagoon, itself an oasis flanked by hundred meter high sand dunes. We settled into the Bananas bar, whose owner had this portable 8X8 mini cabin out for rent at 10 soles a person. I new this was luck! Accomodations six feet away from the bar, the buggy driver, and the Pool! From this moment on anticipation, persperation, and inebriation were on the rise.

3 hours, 5 beers, and one poolside dip later our buggy driver herded us into his 9 seat deser rover, and we ripped out of the oasis and into the high dunes of desert Peru. It pretty much felt like a track-less roller coaster minus the seat belts (ok, he just didn't tell me there were any seatbelts until after I nearly flew out of my seat!). The engine drowned out any profane thoughts as I was grabbing the roll cage bars and ahnging on for my life. Our driver (Cristiano) zig zagged up these mammoth hills of sand and we would very nearly free fall to the bottom. It was the rage.

After scoping some good jump off points, I hopped out of the buggy, dizzy and with sand board in hand, strapping in at the top of the dune. These boards are basically scaled up skate boards (or scaled down, less curvy snowboards if you'd prefer) with velcro straps. Before going down any hill, you've got to wax up your board if you even want to move, or you'll be standing halfway down the slope, watching yourself sink and sink...to a stop. As far as mechanics go, sand doesn't allow the same carvage as snow, so you've got to be careful. When you're ripping down the empty quarter in the middle east someday, you'll thank me for telling you not to take those corners too tight!

Lenay, Renato and I flew down hills until after the sun went below the horizon, and We took the return trip back to our oasis paradise. Renato's friends took the four hour drive from Lima to get some R&R before their semester started monday. Upon talking to the restaurant owner, they payed eight soles each to borrow a tent and sleep in the restaurant (outside). The rest of the night was spent enjoying the oasis, sipping cristal, and ended with a debauched 2 AM crawl up a seemingly endless sand dune. The summit seemed to be unavailable, and I was shocked when we found it. But then, sand offers little perspective at an angle. Especially during the twilight hours, with an unquenchable thirst for Peruvian brew. We were rewarded with an incredible vista of Ica, five kilometers away. It reminded me of the Thomson hill, driving down 1-35 into Duluth.

It's good to be in the desert though you find sand everywhere...