Don’t Drink the Water!

So, we arrived in San Borja hot, sticky, dirty, tired, grouchy, sore, cranky, and of course more than ready to get on yet another 1950`s bus and go down yet another bumpy, rutted dirt road.   Seriously, the roads here are unbelievable.   They have to drive like drunken maniacs, swerving rapidly back and forth to miss the holes, and there`s always a set of deep ruts from the last time it rained on either side of the bus.

About five minutes before the bus was scheduled to depart, the bus driver hopped in and drove away.   I approached the bus next door and asked what happened, to which the driver replied, “Oh, he`ll be back in just a quick little second.”   Well, a quick little forty-five minutes later, after we had sweated out our most recent bottles of water, he rolled back up in an entirely different bus, and FINALLY we started loading.   I should mention that this a process that is NEVER expedient.   Once the driver and his cohort had stacked all our gear (how can 20 people have SO much stuff?) plus all the packages, spare tires, tools, bicycle carts, etc. on top of the bus (at a height of at least 1/2 the bus… a good six feet!) and after several shouted complaints from the other passengers (Vamos!   Vaaaaaaaaaaamoooooooosssss!!!), we were finally on the road.

Pat got the sweet seat again (although I`m sure it`s slightly blasphemous to call any seats on these busses “sweet”), dead center with aisle leg room at the back of the bus.   This bus was by far the most extreme we`d encountered.   If you can remember back to your school days… the bench style seats covered in vinyl were the only thing on offer.   Woohoo!   Since we had to keep the windows open to avoid dying from heat exhaustion, we were immediately covered in dust and our lungs filled with lots of icky dirtiness.   I`m still recovering three days post!

Our bus was blue, but this is a pretty good likeness to the vehicle we bumped along in for 10 hours sucking dust.

The locals were really awesome, and we were the only gringos.   Despite the crappy ride, it`s actually great to be off the gringo trail.   Going to places like the Pantanal and Uyuni and Machu Picchu isn`t really experiencing South America the way South Americans do, it`s really not a whole lot different than going to a beautiful resort in Mexico.   Except for the fact that you can`t drink the water, everything is held as close to gringo standards as possible.   After a few conversations with other passengers, combined with the slow realization that this crappy, bumpy, 10 hour ride was the norm for everyone else, I started to loosen up and enjoy being so much more immersed in another culture.   There`s also something about going through a not-so-fun experience with people that sort of bonds you and makes it not so bad.

While the bus company sell tickets two to a seat, they definitely fit only 1.5 Jema`s, and only 1 Pat.   So, across the back of the bus, in an area meant for 5, Pat took the middle, I took the right side, and we formed the “back seat alliance” with another guy on Pat`s left.   He shared mandarins, and we shared potato chips inbetween clouds of dust and grime.   In typical Bolivian style, we picked up anyone alongside the road with a thumb out.   At one point, all the seats, save for one plus our back row, were full.   A kid about 1/2 Pat`s size suggested that Pat scoot into one of the 1/2 spaces either next to me or our amigo so the kid could sit in the middle instead of away from his friends with the woman a few seats up.   Not this time!   Out the window went all the guilt from the previous trips.   I thought, “There is no way you`re making my 6`7″ boyfriend cram into a space meant for a child.”   I told the young man, “No.   He has to sit here.   Look at his legs.   He`s over 2 meters tall.   You`ll have to sit up there.”   Score one for the gringos!

After a promise of “one more hour” to the half way town, we rolled into San Ignacio six hours after departure… only three hours late!   The woman who sold me my bottle of water was really disappointed that I didn`t want to buy chicken from her.   “There`s chicken.   Are you sure you want just the water.”   Yes I`m sure.   “There`s chicken too, you know.   You just want this tiny little water?”   Yes, that`s all, thank you.   “But, there`s chicken.”   Just the water, please.   “Well, okay.”   Really rather comical.

We loaded back up on the bus after thirty mintues, ready for more brain rattling.   We were five minutes down the road before the bus drove through some heinous construction sites and really deep ditches (our precarious top-load conspiring with gravity and tipping us dangerously) before coming to an abrupt stop.   All the passengers started getting up, so we followed the leader.   Outside the bus, a man was selling ice cream.   He had dished it up and handed it over before we could decide whether or not to take the health risk (an ingredient of ice cream is water!), so we threw caution to the wind and downed our delicious vanillia, strawberry, banana, chocolate scoops.   It didn`t take us long to realize that the reason the bus had stopped and all had piled off had something to do with the river we`d just arrived at.   On the other shore, a fuel truck was driving out onto an early 1900`s wooden thing floating in the water.   It was so strange to see such a modern (relatively) piece of equipment on such an archaic structure.   Only a few more seconds were gone before all the pieces came together.   “Wait a minute.   That`s a ferry, I guess.   And they`re coming over here.   And when they get here, our bus is going over there.”   Sure enough, one tiny little mideval canoe built of barn wood with a 10-15 horsepower motor mounted on back was hooked along-side the giant, rotting ferry.   We loaded up.   First the motorist slammed it into reverse to get the boat moving away from shore.   Then a cohort grabbed the bow-line and hooked the canoe onto the back of the boat.   Then they gunned it, and slowly, our bus and all the passengers trying desperately to balance on the one inch slats placed 12 inches apart (on either side of the tire pads, of course), ferried across the river.   Once on the other side, as soon as the ferry touches dry ground, boys take chains mounted on either side of the platform-of-death and run like mad to wrap them around the grounding posts before physics makes the boat bounce back out into the river.

This is a much newer, way less shoddy version of the ferries we took across the rivers.

Our river crossing, combined with seeing the teams of brahma bulls pulling carts with yokes straight out of the 1800`s made me feel like I was in a dream world.   The different technologies we saw ranged anywhere from medival (the ferry, the cart and cattle combos) to modern day (cellphones and backhoes) to everything in between (the bus, the ferry motors, and the huts or mud/brick houses).

After another hour or so of dirt roads, there was a commotion a few seats up, and the driver pulled over and got out.   At their leisure, passengers started to get off.   We decided to join the fun, and found the driver outside loosening lugnuts on the left duals.   I asked the woman standing next to me what happened, and she told me, as if I was the owner of a mere three brain cells, “It went flat.”   Oh.   Well, it didn`t look flat, so it must have been the inside tire.   Pat was called upon to use his superpower and get the spare down off the top of the bus.   I wish I would have gotten a picture of all of us standing around, the men (plus one Jema) watching the action, and the women standing on the other side of the bus cracking cocounuts on the ground and inviting us to partake in the surprisingly delicious fare.

Maybe it`s just a certain kind of coconut, but apparently you just rap them on the ground to crack them open. Delicious!

We arrived finally in Trinidad, not too much worse for the wear, save my poor ragged throat.   I felt like I`d just come home from a hot summer day at the mine on the blasting crew with no airconditioning.   Pat said I looked like I`d just come home from two.   Pat`s superpower was again enlisted for the unloading phase while I talked to people about which hotel we should stay at and how we should get there (MOTO TAXI!!!! I love these things!).   The only down side is having to ride on seperate motorcycles… we often can`t stay together in traffic, and our drivers take different routes, which has left Pat wondering where the heck his girlfriend is a time or two.   I usually turn up (or vice versa) just seconds before his mind (or mine) turns to imagining the worst.

Our hotel room was kind of weird.   One double bed with eight other singles, but the owner promised we`d have the whole thing to ourselves.   Trinidad is hot, hot, hot, and more hot, so the walls, save for the cement support walls, were only waist high, the rest made of mosquito netting.   The vaulted ceilings made me feel like we were in a theater, onstage.   The shower didn`t actually produce hot water, but this time we were thankful.   The woman explained that the water got a little heated as it waited in a tank on top of the building to be used, but that`s a hot as we were going to want it.   She was right.   I delighted in two refreshingly crisp showers while we were there.

Exhausted from all the travelling, we went immediately to sleep (at 8:30), and didn`t move for 11 hours (who could in all that heat?).   We woke up feeling miserable, cranky, head-achy, nauseous… mostly just awful.   I couldn`t bear to choke down more than a few pieces of dry white toast and butter while Pat ate his ham and eggs.   A few aspirin later, we were feeling a little better.   We inquired at a travel agency about our river options, but they said (as did the guide books) that we`d have to go directly to the river.   So, we hopped some moto taxi`s to Puerto Almacen.   Upon arrive, I asked for the Transportes Fluviales office.   The drivers said, “Oh.   That`s another 5 km upriver at Puerto Varador.”   One glance at the river (or do I mean muck hole) was enough to know no boats were leaving from Almacen.   I explained our plight to the drivers, and after much muddled conversation, I deduced that there was no water at the other port either, and that if we wanted to travel by boat, we should go to the other port and talk to the captain about our options.   The drivers were quite certain that 50 kms (2 hours in a the back of a truck or on a bus on the bumpy dirt roads) away there was a river flowing that we could take north.   They REALLY wanted to take us to the other port (there was 30 bolivianos each in it for them), but our luggage was back in Trinidad, so I had them return us to the plaza.

At this point, these two travel-worn gringos had three options.   1) Pack up our bags, buy hammocks, walk two miles to the gas station, hitch a truck two hours to the river with water, and hope a boat was departing soon.   2) Go to the bus station and find out when the next miserable 30 hour bus to Guayamerin is departing. (don`t get me wrong… the busses are a good character building experience, but my character could use a rest day).   3) See if, on the off chance, we might be able to afford a flight.

We looked into option 3 first, and after finding out the flight was $70 USD, we decided to splurge and hooked up with the following day`s departure to the Brazil/Bolivia border.   Alleluia!

Record Setting

After a long, overnight bus ride on rough dirt roads on an overcroweded bus, we finally arrived in La Paz.   All told, by the time we leave this country, Pat and I will have spent over 120 hours on crappy Bolivian transport systems, train, bus, Land Cruiser,  and maybe plane.   Plane?   Yes, more on that later.

La Paz from the top coming into the city. Unbelievable.

Besides peeing out behind some random restaurant in some small-town stop, the bus ride to La Paz was pretty uneventful.   The wonderful bus-office ladies booked Pat and I the seats with the most leg room.   That way, instead of one leg in the aisle and one leg crammed into the back of the seat in front of him, he can have one leg kicked out, and one comfortably in front of him.   However, thanks to typical Bolivian overcrowding,  instead of kicking a leg out, he had to stay stuffed into his little area.   Two older, traditional Bolivian women showed up at the last minute and sat right on Pat`s foot.   He`s learned (partly via my experience on the Sucre-Potosì bus) that if you give them an inch, they`ll take a mile, so in order to keep her from flowing over into his actual knee space, he had to leave his foot there underneath her.

A typical street in La Paz. You can see it drop into the canyon before rising up sharply on the other side.

Here it`s not like polite, organized, there`s-enough-for-everyone, first-world cultures where if someone presses up against you, you scoot over a few inches to maintain personal space.   No, here, if someone presses up against you, you better push back, or they`ll take as much of your space as possible.   Also somewhat comical were the frequent comments the women made to Pat until they realized he really didn`t understand.   They kept trying to guilt him into giving them our seats.   They would say things like, “Look at you.   You are so young, and we are old grandmothers sitting on the floor.”   Part of me wanted to tell them, “Yeah, and you`re also old grandmothers who insisted on getting on the bus even though it was full instead of waiting until tomorrow like everybody else. (that`s what they told another passenger on the bus)” and another part of me felt pretty guilty for even being in a position to give up my seat on a bus.`

A fairly good example of how the houses cover every possible almost-vertical inch.

Our arrival in La Paz was incredible.   The city is in a canyon (like Deadwood, SD, only add 1.5 million people), and you drop into it from the rim.   Houses are plugged into the canyon walls almost on terraces niched out of the rock.   Standing at the bottom looking up is even more incredible.   The whole city is like an auditorium, and as far as the eye can see, houses and buildings rapidly climb the canyon walls.   Even more incredible are the canyon faces that are 90 degrees, straight up and down, or even a 115 degree overhang where it`s impossible to build houses.   These giant stretches of wild, fierce nature combined with this gravity-defying city are shocking and amazing.   I`ve included photos, but of course they don`t do it any justice.

We had no plans to stay in La Paz, thanks to our fast and furious travel schedule, so we headed directly for Villa Fatima, a neighborhood where north-bound busses depart.   We managed to nab the last two tickets to San Borja (separate seats, of course, and not our intended destination, but as far as we could get on one ticket) before wandering the streets in search of breakfast.   We happened upon a sopapilla stand, and I`m not as picky as Pat (only in South America… in the U.S., I`m pickier), so I picked one up.   Pat won`t settle for bread or peanuts or cookies, so we wandered until we found a stand selling fried egg sandwhiches.   After Pat had downed one, I decided I probably ought to get some protein, so we had a few more.   I would never even consider eating an egg deep-fried in old, dirty, hot oil on a slice of white bread complete with unwashed tomatoes, but here I barely think twice about my poor arteries or the potentially rampant bacterial.   Bon apetite!

Finally, we killed an hour in an internet cafe (my the time just flies by writing entries and emails) before heading back to the bus station.   When we got there, our bus hadn`t.   The Bolivian accent is hard for me to understand, so it took a few tries before I understood the bus would be there in ten minutes.   Half an hour later, one of two busses had departed, and a new bus had shown up.   Not ours though.   We stood sweltering in the hot sun for an hour with frequent promises of “10 little minutes!” before the bus rolled in and we finally started loading gear.   Of course you can`t actually get on the bus until all the gear is loaded, so more standing in the hot sun until they got an unbelievable amount of baggage (bus companies double as mail companies) on board (thank god it wasn`t on top like usual).

Since Pat and I didn`t have seats together (and we really want seats together on a 17 hour overnight ride), we had to choose whose seat we were going to try to exchange.   My assigned seat partner refused to switch.   Pat had the middle seat of the five that are crammed across the back of the bus, so I went back there to see if someone on either side of him would switch with me.   There was a big hullabaloo, because the back seats weren`t numbered, and people had been promised certain seats on the bus maps but sold numbers that didn`t match the seats once on the bus.   After much arguing and chatter amongst 7 or 8 people, we finally got things worked out.

We took off for the Cordillera Real – a gorgeous mountain range.   The distance we had to cover was only 150 miles.   Why 17 hours?   Because it`s 150 miles on Bolivian mountain roads.   You can`t even imagine.   The overloaded bus took forever to climb up out of the canyon (on paved roads!) to the top of the mountain.   The Cordillera Real, and in fact of all of the Andes mountains, are absolutely breathtaking.   Much like the Andes where Machu Picchu is located, these sharp, wedge-shaped mountains blast out of the earth and reach incredible heights.

We started out at 12,000 feet in La Paz (the world`s highest capital city… record number one!) and climbed to 15,600 feet. As the spines of mountains rose up sharply on one side and canyons plummeted on the other.   After we crested the top, we had 14,300 feet to descend.   Not kidding.   Also, shortly after we dropped over the top, the road turned to dirt.   When you`re riding in the back seat of a bus this is not a good thing.   In fact this is a very bad thing.   Finally the dirt turned into a one lane road, but we still had traffic in both directions!   Eventually, the canyon dropped almost instantly on the left side of the bus, and the cliffside rose directly on the right side.   At some points, the road was actually notched into the canyon wall underneath an overhang.

A good example of the way the road is literally cut out of the cliff.

A biker on the road. This one is a good example of the overhangs we drove under about half the time.

Had we had time to spend in La Paz, one of the tourist activities we considered participating in was a 30 mile bike ride down the “World`s Most Dangerous Road.”   Pat and I started to put two and two together, and after consulting the guide book and maps, we realized we had unknowingly signed up for a  17 hour bus ride on the “world`s most dangerous road.”   Yes, the whole 17 hours.   Oh. My. God.   Record number two.   Not only is it the most dangerous because of the constant impending death if you were to go off the road, but also because it is the ONLY overland route from La Paz (the capital city) to the center of the country and north.   Therefore it`s highly travelled.   Highly. Travelled.   One way road with almost constant two-way traffic.   We met another vehicle every two mintues.

Some folks peeking over the edge down into the bottomless canyon. I included this one for perspective. Look at the size of the people in relation to the road. Now imagine a giant farm truck hauling a load of goods plus as many people as can fit on top of the load.

Perfect demonstration of the average truck size in conjunction with the average road size. Not kidding.

Sitting one row in front of us was a family of five that had only purchased tickets for two.   So, the smallest children (a three-year-old boy and a four-year old girl) sat on the  laps of the parents while the seven-year-old  girl snoozed in the aisle.   They saw fit to nudge Pat`s feet out of they way so they could keep their travel bag handy, instead of under their seats, so he was stuck with a choice of one leg position on a 17 hour ride.   He felt bad saying anything.   I mean, maybe they`re just scamming the bus company and trying to get as much as they can for as little as possible no matter who they have to take it from (a lot of Bolivians are like that!).   But then again, maybe they really are so poor that they can`t afford more than two tickets to ride the bus back home or to Grandma`s house.   They made it a pretty miserable trip for Pat, nonetheless.   One of the guys sitting next to us suggested they move the bag under their seats, but Pat had already moved for them, so they just ignored Pat`s right-hand man.

Back to this ridiculous, incredible road.   Vegetation clung desperately to the cliffsides making for really amazing scenery.   Being as the road was one way and uphill vehicles have the right of way (thank god we were going downhill!), we frequently had to stop in the “pullouts” where the road is barely wide enough for two vehicles.   Scary because 1) there`s a left hand traffic/uphill vehicles  get the inside rule.   I guess maybe because they`re putting more torque on the road or something and they want to avoid wearing away the edge.   Or maybe because a car couldn`t get around a large vehicle (bus or truck) stopped on the inside without going off the cliff.   Scary no. 2 regarding stopping: sometimes the bus driver wouldn`t see the vehicle in time, so he would just BACK UP!   We had the back seats on the bus, and therefore a perfect view out the back window (no bathrooms).   Holy crap.   I usually didn`t look (I just prefer to have faith that everything will be okay), but Pat did.   And sometimes he`d mumble, “Okay, that`s enough.”   And the bus driver would still be backing up.   Those were definite panic moments for me.

Two trucks meeting on the road.

For the remaining six hour of daylight and the nighttime full-moon light, we encountered infinite hair pin turns.   The canyons were so steep and so deep that we never saw the bottoms before it got dark.   Several times vehicles squeezed by us on our right, overtaking the bus, and fuel cum fruit  trucks (a fuel truck with a stack of oranges on top of the tank) got dangerously close.   Often our driver would race to a pullout or to a corner so he wouldn`t have to stop for an oncoming vehicle or back up.   Anything above 10 mph is way too fast for this road, and our driver was often going a good 20-25!

Around one overhung corner, we passed under/behind the remains of a waterfall… I`m sure it`s full-blown crazy raging water in the wet season!   The worst part we saw during the daylight hours was a corner so eroded that the canyonside (i.e the side of impending death) was a good three feet lower than the cliffside.   Going around this corner in a bus was definitely heart-stopping.   You know when the Bolivians are hanging out the windows gaping or freaking out, clinging to their seats, you should definitely be scared.

Once it was dark out, I managed on and off sleep most of the time.   Scariest was when I was awake for the many times the road dropped sharply downhill (like a 15% grade… not kidding).   I felt like I was on a rollercoaster at Disneyland.   Surprisingly, we made it in one piece, albeit grouchy and travel-worn, to the tiny town of San Borja in time to buy an onward ticket to Trinidad!

Other Worlds and Pinche Thieves!

The Salar de Uyuni (Salt Flats) tour we went on was absolutely incredible.   The first day was my favorite, as we raced through the actual salar (the following days were in the altiplano).   The  Salt Flats are at an elevation of 12,000 ft. and cover 8,000 sq. miles – pretty incredible.   The salt is 7 meters (about 23 feet) thick and blindingly white, much like fresh snow.   I imagine it ´s much like being on Antarctica, only it ´s slightly above zero during the day instead of -40.

Before we left town, we stopped at the Train Cemetery on the Uyuni city limits.   We were skeptical at first… it sounded mostly like another thing to add to the itinerary so you think you ´re getting more for you money.   We expected nothing more than  a junk pile of metal, but were surprised to find the ghost of history  in all of the rusting steam engines used to haul silver and lead in the sixties.

The haunting train cemetary at the edge of town. We saw the kind of tourists that give gringos a bad name writing "The English were here, 2006" (in Spanish, of course) on a train. Jerks.

The haunting train cemetary at the edge of town. We saw the kind of tourists that give gringos a bad name writing “The English were here, 2006” (in Spanish, of course) on a train. Jerks.

The average view on the journey across the immense salar. Amazing and surreal. Trippy, even.

Our next stop  was  at the edge of the salar where they are mining the salt  completely by hand.   Our guide didn ´t know anything, so I approached one of the miners with my questions.   Having worked in a mining environment, I was shocked at the lack of machinery to do anything.   Men, with a tool that looks much like a hoe, scrape the salt into piles three to four feet tall.   They let them sit for a few days so the moisture drains out.   Then, they drive a mini dump-truck along side the piles and hand-shovel it all into the back of the truck.   The salt is then taken to a refinery in a town to the north and mixed with other minerals and better salt before it is sold as table salt or mixed with sugar water to make a kind of cement.   The miners get about $2 a ton, which is 17 Bolivianos – roughly the cost of a pair of gloves here.   I wasn ´t able to ask how many tons they shovel in a day, but I can ´t imagine it would be more than 10 or 15.   The miners were incredibly friendly (it ´s hit and miss with the locals here), and when I asked to photograph the truck, they let Pat shovel a pile ´s worth of salt into the back end.   Afterwards I got my turn, too.   It weighs about as much as snow, so for those of you in areas with real winters, just imagine shoveling your driveway all day long.

The amazing cactus-covered Isla Pescado in the middle of the Salar. Each cactus grows 1 meter (3 feet) every 100 years. Some are over 1200 years old!

Of course, before we got back in the Toyota Land Cruiser, we had to taste the unfinished product.   Surprisingly not that salty, but blindingly white nonetheless.   We raced across the expanse until we arrived at the most famous of the salt hotels.   All the buildings in the salar are made of salt blocks and the salt cement.   And all the furniture is made of salt (tables, chairs, bed shelves, etc.)   The salt hotel had some really awesome dining furniture inside these coves.   It was basically a bench against a wall, but there was a rounded seat back of salt for each person… very medieval looking.   Outside, we found some Bolivian tourists taking funny pictures.   The  immense white background allows for some pretty awesome camera tricks.

The medieval seating at the first salt hotel.

Next, we were off to an island in the middle of the salar.   We spotted it well before we arrived.   It is almost impossible to judge distance in such a homogenous setting.   I felt like I was  on a movie set… like the Truman Show.   The island really helped us imagine the archaic lake that used to cover the area.   The salt literally looked like surf washing up on shore.   The island is covered in ancient cacti, petrified coral, and volcanic rock.   After picking up a pair of funky earrings from a local artisan, we hiked up to the high point of the island to have a look around.   I don`t know if it`s the type of cactus or the climate it`s growing in, but these cacti only grow 1 meter (a little more than a yard) every 100 years.   Which means we got to see cacti that were well over 1000 years old.   Mindblowing!

Good example of what our rooms looked like. I don`t know this woman. 🙂

Lunch was held at the picnic tables made of salt on “shore.”   I would never have ventured to mix plain pasta with chunks of avocado, tomato, and  cucumber, but it was delicious!   We  packed up  and headed for our nighttime digs at the edge of the salar.   The hotel we stayed in was really cute.   It`s really amazing how absolutely everything  is made of salt!   Even the mattresses are on giant salt shelves.   It was dorm style with three bedrooms coming off the dining/common area; six beds to a room.

A vicua (pronouced v-eye-coon-yuh) grazing on the altiplano (high plain).

We had some wonderful hot drinks to accompany our early evening journalling before we all ran outside (brrrrr!) to see the sunset over the salar.   Beautiful, clear days like the one we had don`t do as much for sunsets as cloudy days do, but the colors were still magnificent.   For dinner, we had some absolutely incredible vegetable soup (I can`t believe I forgot to get the recipe!) and some not so incredible chicken, rice, and greasy greasy greasy fried potatoes.   We sat around the salt tables for the rest of the evening playing cards, drinking wine, and eating oreos with three wonderful young austrailian women who were part of our group of six that was continuously cramming into the Land Cruiser.

Endangered Andean flamingos. I don`t know how these things don`t freeze their feathers off.

The next morning we were up in time for the sunrise, which is absolutely magical in a place so other-wordly.   Breakfast cake, yogurt, and cornflakes were on offer as well as some excellent hot chocolate (cum mocha if you so desired).   Side note: the entire trip around the salar was almost 1000 km, so 700ish miles.   As a result, we did a lot of driving through some amazing country on some not-so-amazing roads.   The second morning was no exception as we high-tailed it through the altiplano (goodbye salt flats! 🙁   miss you!) past quinoa fields and  wild vicuñas (they look like a cross between llamas and antelope – you go to jail for thirty years if you kill one.)   For about three hours we cruised across land so high with no plantlife whatsoever, and volcanic rocks galore that we felt like we were on the moon.

The Arbol de Piedra… or tree of stone. Pretty nifty!

Finally we arrived at the viewpoint, a collection of giant, wind-weathered rocks that faced the toe of an active volcano puffing in the distance.   Once again we had a run-in with tourism habits that give gringos such a bad rap.   Used toilet paper was everywhere.   You`d think someone with a first-world education and/or money to travel would be smart enough to know that toilet paper doesn`t decompose at 13,000 feet and that leaving it anyway is just appallingly disrespectful.   Makes me absolutely furious.   I just want to run around lecturing all these people!

The infamous Laguna Colorada, and the 1/2 way point on the trip. The micro-organisms in the water make it this color.

Anyway, more sitting in the Land Cruiser follwed as we passed several high alpine lakes, one chock-full of a mineral used to make detergent.   Finally we arrive at our lunch spot and got to see our first Andean flamingos.   Bet you thought flamingos were only tropical birds.   Me too.   But, no!   The minerals around the lake are quite sulfurous and the ground itself is terribly soft.   Our guide warned us not to venture out across the stepping-stone islands, as most tourists who don`t listen end up sinking in the soft mud up to their belts.   The mountain winds blasted us as we hovered around the shore line waiting for lunch to be ready.   Out cook was wonderful and prepared the meal in the back of the land cruiser.   Most the other tour groups got lunch that was 1/2 food and 1/2 blowing sand.   Lunch was delicious… cauliflower patties (who woulda thunk?), boiled potatoes, peas, and carrots, mixed with the standard avacado and tomato.   Mmmm….

The mountain of seven colors… why do photos never do real justice to nature`s beauties!

Seeing as patience is not my strong suit, the next couple of hours in the vehicle were particularly rough for me.   Sometimes I`m just overcome with antsy, child-like energy.   I got to take most of it out on Pat.   We played a long round of the ABC game, I sang him songs, told him stories, and then tackled him repeatedly once we finally got the the Arbol de Piedra (tree of stone) weathered by the wind.   We got a neat picture with me on his shoulders under the “tree” before hustling around to all the other nifty rock formations.

A rather shoddy photo of the place the jeeps stop in the Valley of the rocks. This is just a great view point, but the valley itself is breathtaking.

Finally, we passed through on last stretch of desert with a beautiful “mountain of seven colors” watching over us.   Reds, browns, whites, greys, and a little pink and purple made for a spectacular sight.   Awhile later, we rounded the bend to Laguna Colorada (Red Lagoon… the real word for red is rojo, but colorada is a shade of red – kind of like we say magenta  and fuschia).   We had to pay an entrance fee to the park (it`s one of Bolivia`s 22 preserved areas) before dropping off our stuff and heading for a walk around the red lake, complete with more flamingos!

We had more wonderful vegetable soup along with Bolivian spaghetti (sauce more like salsa) for dinner and free wine compliments of the company.   The spoiled rich kids, all U.S. pre-med undergrads from various ivy-leagues  spending a $5000 summer pumping up their resumes in Bolivian health clinics, took it upon themselves to usurp the only heater (a device attached to the end of a propane bottle), so the five of us retired to our room to shiver and play cards until I finally asked the kitchen if we might have another heater.   They obliged us, and we spent the rest of the evening playing “golf” (a beefed up version from the one I know) and drinking some inventive rum/vodka cocktails.   The generator was shutdown at 8:30, so we all turned in pretty early.   Not a bad thing, since we were to be up and loaded by 5:30 the following morning.

We braved the icy morning air, and shivered throughout the hour-long ride the geyers.   When you`re from the state that`s home to Yellowstone National Park, it`s tough to be impressed by geothermal activity anywhere else.   The “geyers” ended up being fumaroles, mudpots, and one artificial steam vent drilled back in the seventies.   Pat and I both did a quick tour through the freezing area (no boardwalks and nothing to keep people away from the 125 degree heat) before jumping back into the Land Cruiser (no heat).

Finally, shortly after sun-up, we arrived at the aguas termales (hot springs) where those who are a few bricks short of a load can strip down in the below-zero temps  and swim in the 96 degree water.   I don`t know how I got talked into it (or did I talk myself into it?), but fifteen mintues later, I was twirling around in my skivvies in the toasty water.   I expected to freeze when I got  out, but my core temperature was up so high that  I was enjoying coffee and scrambled eggs  well before I started to feel  the chilly air trying to work its way back  into my bones.

After breakfast, it was on to the Salvador Dali desert, and finally to the Laguna Verde, which was frozen over, and therefore not so verde (green).   It was the birthday of one of the Australian women, so we sang Happy Birthday, loud and proud, before heading to the Chilean border where we dropped off yet another wonderful Aussie for her onward journey.   A whole-lotta-driving later, we arrived at a little llama ranch/farm (a shack next to a water hole) and had tasty tuna and rice w/… you`ll never guess.   Avacados and tomatoes!   Even more driving brought us to a villiage where we tried desperately to work out our antsy by walking the length of the pueblo, but no luck.   So back in the car again to drive, drive, drive to the Valley of the Rocks.   This place was truly amazing and very much worth seeing.   Reminded me of Utah/Nevada Natl. Parks.   Really fabulous incredible views.   After this, we had two more hours to Uyuni.   30 minutes from town, the driver pulled the car over and announced we were out of gas.   Uh oh.   They were prepared, however, and lugged a 10 gallon container off the roof for a fill-up.

We arrived safely in Uyuni, and had our guide drop us off at the bus station so we could leave our bags and get dinner before our departure to LaPaz an hour later.   Pat and I really didn`t feel like getting on a bus for another 13 hours after bouncing in the Land Cruiser all day long, but we had purchased our tickets already.   When we arrived at the station, I discovered that the company had sold our fare to another company and presented us with these tickets.   Fine enough.   When the Australian women tried to get their tickets though, the woman behind the counter said the tickets hadn`t been paid for (the Aussies bought them through a travel agency) and therefore no seats in their names  had been purchased from the new company.   Uh oh.

But Then The Unexpected Happened

Seeing as Pat and I didn`t even want to go to LaPaz that night, I asked the counter attendant if we could trade places with the Australians.   While I helped with translating and understanding what was going on in the ticket office, Pat waited outside with our bags (as per the usual, although much more scattered than usual as a result of our recent salar tour return).   As I was chatting with the women about different possibilities, Pat rushes into the station carrying all our stuff, blankets dangling, etc. and says, “Your bag just got jacked.”  

Oh shit.   No, not “oh no” or “oh crap” or “oh god”   Oh shit.

Pat took off outside, and I followed shortly thereafter.   I started to follow him, but realized two pairs of eyes would be better on different streets.   So, I ran down the next street, eyes, peeled.   I just kept going, searching and searching fruitlessly, until I decided to ask some young men if they knew any mochila (backpack) thieves and could help me get my bag back.   Seeing as I don`t have and therefore don`t tote around the standard gringo digital camera, ipod, etc. and I wear my passport and money at all times, there is almost nothing of value in my bag.   I was wearing all my clothes minus two pair of socks and four t-shirts.   All I had were three used disposable cameras, 1/2 used bottles of shampoo/sunscreen, and all my Portuguese notes and information.   Things only valuable to me.

The young men didn`t know anything, so I just kept walking and asking people.   Finally some six/seven year old boys told me the bag would be taken to a market and re-sold, probably to another gringo.   As for the rest, I was right… probably thrown out.   The boys escorted me to the police station, where I was told to come back in the morning at 9 or 10 since I didn`t have a description of the guy.   I asked the officer where I should look in the meantime.   He said, “that`s what we`ll do tomorrow.”   I told him that`s what I wanted to do NOW.   So he said just to look around the outskirts of the city and kind of waved me off.   Yay Bolivian police.

I decided I better head back to the bus station, since Pat didn`t know the city well and was probably either lost by this time, or sitting there waiting, waiting, waiting for me to show back up.   I passed one of the Australian girls come out of the public bathroom.   She said, “Pat got your bag back, but he`s been looking for you.”   Alleluia!!!    I got back to the bus office just after Pat had left in search of me again.   I blew my whistle 1thanks Jerri Moro, and Pat came running back in a panic.   As soon as my bag got stolen right from under his nose, Uyuni had become a desperate and dangerous place for him, so his mind had been racing with terrible things that might have happened to his girlfriend on  one of the dark streets of town.   After reuniting and several minutes of, “Oh my god.   I`m so glad you`re okay,” Pat explained what happened.

He knows most scams are distraction based in busy areas.   Usually someone spits a luggi on your neck or smears sticky junk (like syrup or honey) all over you or your bag.   Then, while they are helping you clean it off, their counterpart lifts your stuff.   Well, this time the distraction was just conversation.   A forty-something guy came up to Pat and started talking to him in Spanish.   Since Pat speaks almost no Spanish (he knows basic words from working construction in Gillette), he thought maybe the guy was trying to buy a shovel off the stack behind him.   Abruptly the man walked away, which Pat found rather odd.   When he glanced back at our pile of stuff, my bag was gone.

After scooping up the rest of the stuff and dumping it in the office, he ran down the sidewalk peering at everyone.   Just as he was about to give up, a street worker called him over and said “Amigo… insertspanishthatpatdoesntunderstand” and pointed down the street.   So, Pat ran up to and older man (50`s and less than 5 foot tall) carrying a black gunny sack over his shoulder and questioned him with “Amigo, mochila?   Amigo, mochila.   Amigo, mochila… amigo, mochila.”  2Pat learned “mochila” from our guide standing on top of the land cruiser every morning yowling, “Mochiiiiiiiiiiila.   Mochiiiilas, mochilas, mochiiiiiilas!”  The guy just kept walking trying to blow Pat off with a little Spanish, which seemed suspicious, so Pat kept up with him and kept saying, “Amigo, mochila-   Amigo, mochila.”   Suddenly, probably because a gringo-giant was hounding him (Pat was a solid two feet taller than the thief), the guy stopped and   dumped the gunnysack out onto the sidewalk, and my mochila spilled into the street.   Pat scooped it up as the thief took off running down the street.  Relieved that he`d gotten the bag back, Pat offered up a rather comical “gracias” before hightailing it back to the bus station.

At this point, I was probably walking through the carnival downtown, a gringo-free area packed corner to corner with people (like Mardi Gras), hoping to pick up some tips about my bag.   So, it was probably a good half-hour before I met back up with the very frantic Patrick.   Pobrecito!   🙁

If I didn`t say it already, we ended up definitely changing tickets with Jess and Julie (the Aussies), and after much relieved hugging and smooching, checked into a hotel, showered, and picked up some pizza.   What a night!

References

References
↑1 thanks Jerri Moro
↑2 Pat learned “mochila” from our guide standing on top of the land cruiser every morning yowling, “Mochiiiiiiiiiiila.   Mochiiiilas, mochilas, mochiiiiiilas!”

Brings New Meaning to “Brain Fried”

Happy 4th of July!   Days like today really make me wish I could have my cake and eat it, too.   I would love to be in the U.S. right now, popping the top on a Bud Light, and chowing a hamburger and some home-made waffle-fries.   And fireworks!   I guess there`s always next year!

Right now we`re in Santa Cruz, Bolivia awaiting the departure of our 4:00 bus to Sucre and on to Potosì (the highest town in the world in the dead of winter… I`m sure that`ll be a story!) to hopefully tour the famous silver mines there.   After, we plan to go to the Salar de Uyuni in the SW corner of Bolivia, said to be one of the most spectacular sights in South America.   We were never planning on Uyuni, and have now put so much on our plate that we might have to take a flight and skip over the most boring 3 days of the Amazon where the river is 30 miles wide and you can`t see either shore.   We`ll still get our Amazon experience, but we`re just going to skip the boring part.   Assuming we can afford it.   We haven`t actually checked prices, yet.

Anyway, yesterday morning we got up to nice, HOT showers at the hostel (YAY!) before donning our backpacks and jumping a local bus to the border at seven-thirty with Karen, a young British woman we met at the hostel.   When we got to the border, we discovered they didn`t even open until 8, and so were thankful we didn`t go for the extremely hard-core option of getting up at 5:30 to be the first ones to the border and therefore the first ones in line to buy train tickets.ç

The Bolivian border crossing process is divided between several workers, so we had to wait an extra half an hour for the “stamp man” to show.   Finally we were on our way to the train station in a rickety-station wagon.   The drivers door kept coming open as we were going down the road, no seatbelts, and the interior looked like they`d pulled the car straight out of a junkyard a few days ago.   An poor Pat got stuck in the backseat, both literally and figuratively.   He couldn`t get out of the car!

The lines for train tickets weren`t quite of “Cuban” proportions, but we did have to stand there for quite awhile.   We managed to get on the first, cheapest train, but it`s cheap because it doesn`t include meals or entertainment.   So, Pat and I fell into our usual roles… he babysat the bags while I ran around finding food for the trip.

The train-ride itself was a good experience.   I would recommend it, but I probably wouldn`t do it again.   We bounced back and forth for almost 24 hours, which made for interesting sleeping.   There were peddlers with food options at every stop, which came in handy at dinner-time.   We got hooked up with an awesome chicken-rice-tomatoes-potatoes mixture.   The train was full of Brazilians who are now on holiday (as I understand it –  their July is like our December), and Brazilians tend to be really friendly, so we had a great time!

It`s really astouding how poor Bolivia is.   I was thinking about it on the train, as peddlers were strolling the ailes hawking their fare.   I bought a bag of six grapefruit for one Boliviano.   To a Bolivian, that`s a dollar, of which you would have to have 300 or so to pay the rent.   But to me, it`s about $.13.   Essentially, a month`s rent here  would be about $45 for an American/Canadian/European/Australian, etc.   It`s just astouding to me that there are so many people in the world working just as hard or harder than people in industrialized, first-world nations, and getting far less for it.   Just to afford a ticket to ride the train that brought us here, the average Bolivian would have to work three or four days.   It`s really perspective-altering to see, again, how fortunate most my family, friends, and aquaintances are.

On a similar note… or maybe just another note, we are SO dirty!   Because we have committed ourselves to such a fast pace of travelling.   We won`t have time to do laundry until, at least, tomorrow.   I have been wearing the same shirt, over and over, for about five days now.   And my jeans used to be where I wiped my dirty hands.   Now my jeans are so dirty, I fear wiping my hands on them would get my hands dirtier.   Needless to say, we anxiously await the day (hopefully tomorrow) when we are forced to layover somewhere (because of availability of bus departures) and get to wash our clothes.   On the upside, we have been getting to shower quite frequently, so we`ve yet to start smelling.

One of the typical brahma cattle that flood the country-side here. Strange to me because of the thick slag of loose skin that hangs from their throat, not to mention the huge, buffalo-like spinal process.

One of the typical brahma cattle that flood the country-side here. Strange to me because of the thick slag of loose skin that hangs from their throat, not to mention the huge, buffalo-like spinal process.

We had quite an interesting experience in the bus/train station today.   When we arrived, we immediately sought out onward tickets, only to be turned away from every ticket window, save for three.   Once we had finally gotten money out of the ATM to purchase the tickets, only one of the ticket windows had seats left to sell.   However, everything was quite sketchy.   Ever counter I approached that said they had tickets told ME that had tickets to Sucre, but other people would come up and ask while I was standing there, and the men behind the counter would turn them away.   When  I finally bought tickets and handed over my money, the guy at the counter wrote me out a ticket (the kind with a perforation, where half is usually taken upon entrance) with my name on one side and Pat`s on the other.   Each side had a pre-printed number, one was 4465 and the other 04465, so essentially the same ticket, right?   Also, when I asked to see where the seats were on the bus, someone elses name was written in the spaces he was selling me.   I fired off several questions, most of which I couldn`t get a clear answer to, and finally crossed my fingers and went to report back to Pat.   We decided to go to the information to ask if the ticket was real and find out if we were getting scammed.   I explained to her that it seemed fishy to me to give us a perforated ticket with a different name on each half.   She motioned for us to follow as she blasted off for our company`s ticket counter.   We practically ran through the station after her, and then listened to her argue with the guy in rapid Spanish.   Finally she told him, “give them TWO tickets.”   The guy said okay, and she left.   As soon as she was gone, he pushed our money back over the counter and told us there was no room for the likes of us.   So, we still don`t know if we were going to get scammed or not.   Shortly thereafter, one of the counters that turned me away previously miraculously had tickets, but were confused because they thought they saw us buy tickets from the other folks.   After trying to explain the situation, they finally sold us two seats (also with someone`s name on them, but they said it was a reservation only good until 10 a.m.).   Long story short, we still don`t know if we were sold bogus tickets.   We`ll see in a few hours!

Since we`ve been travelling for so long, and still have another 14 hr. bus trip coming up in just a few hours, I am definitely starting to feel like a zombie.   We didn`t intend to travel like this, but I am prone to taking on more than I can handle.   Our theory is, we don`t know when we`ll have the chance to do this again, so we ought to see as much as we can now!   Potosì, Uyuni… here we come!

Flithy Creepy Crawlies

We arrived in Corumba last night with a recommendation from our Pantanal guide in hand.   He said they ´re always waiting at the bus station, so we were quite surprised to arrive and find no one.   After looking into onward tickets for the Bolivian train, the travel agent called the hostel for us, and they said they ´d come pick us up.   In the meantime, we found out from bystanders that Brazil LOST to  France  in the world cup!   No  way!   We really thought they ´d make it to the final four, but no luck!   While we were  awaiting our hostel escort ´s arrival,  three young women from England, who had arrived on the same bus, had a woman from another hostel turn up to greet them.   Then, another guy from another hostel showed up trying to get us to come to his place.   We finally decided to go with the place our guide recommended since it was the same price as the hostel the London-women were going to.

BIG MISTAKE.   It became quite obvious to us that our guide must have been looking out for his buddies.   I don ´t mind simple and run-down, which is what this place was a first glance.   But they had a kitchen, laundry service, our own room, and free internet.   After dropping our bags in our room, we went to wait for the internet.   We ate dinner (tomato and hot-sauce sandwhiches and peanuts in the shell) and read through our guide books while waiting for the computer to free up, but it never did!   It seemed we were the only guests at the hostel, and the other eighteen people milling around either lived there or worked there.   They kept doing some sort of hot-seat change out with the computer, all the while casting frequent glances in our direction.   We felt quite unwelcome, and eventually gave up.   Pat ´s hair is getting long, and the idea of me cutting his hair (something I have never done  for a man  using just scissors) has come up in conversation several times.   So, last night we decided to go for it.   It actually turned out quite well.   A little short on top, and a tiny bit chunky in the bright sunlight, but on the whole, not bad for my first stab at it.

It took about an hour and a half between the kitchen scissors and the cuticle-clippers/sewing kit snippers to get it finished, and six of the hostel/tour workers sat around joking and laughing about it.   The only other guest, a Japanese guy who ´s been travelling around the world for about two and a half years, made caipirinhas – the best I ´ve had so far!  – while I was snipping away and offered us a  glass.   Really delicious!

After we finished the haircut was when the nastiness set in.   After feeling so unwelcome, and being covered in little pieces of hair: ITCHY!, not to mention all the Pantanal mosquito bites and potential burrowing fleas (which made us very nervous about every single bite and itch – we ´ve yet to give eachother the once-over), all we wanted was a hot shower.   Well, guess what.   No hot water.   So I passed on the shower, as Pat braved the freezing water to clean his new do.   While I was lounging in the bedroom, I noticed a stain on the sheets that looked like an old blood stain.   Not a big deal… not everyone in the world can afford to be replacing sheets all the time.   However, when my hand slid across it, it was hard and crusty!   Like it still hadn ´t been washed.   EWWWWWWWW!     Not to mention the sticky brown goo splattered on the outside of our door.   Not to mention the rusting mirror.   Not to mention the complete lack of toilet seat.   Not to mention the weaved chairs with huge holes in them.   Not to mention the general dirtiness of the place.   I don ´t mind simple, basic, and run-down, as long as the people have enough pride to take care of the little that they do have.   This place was nasty.   So we broke out our fleece sleeping bags, but we feared they were flea infested from the Pantanal, so we grabbed a cleaner-looking sheet from one of the other beds in the room and tried not to move or touch anything.   It was a really gross night.

After breakfast (included in the price -nasty coffee and the basic bread and butter), we packed up and high-tailed it to the other cheap hostel, which was much cleaner, slightly more friendly, and had several more tourists.   We met a young woman from London who had a bed in our room-to-be, and ended up walking around town with her trying to find out information about tickets for the Bolivian train.

Our plan is to cross the border and take a train to Santa Cruz  (in very high demand as it is basically the only form of transportation between here and Santa Cruz, Bolvia, except a pot-hole filled dirt road that runs near the tracks and takes and extra 12 hours).   We have the option of buying tickets on this side of the border, but it ´s more expensive, as every agency charges a pretty significant commission (up to 50% of the ticket price!).   Our other option is just to cross the border and stand in lines (said to be of “Cuban” proportions) to buy our tickets.   While we don ´t want to miss getting on the train because it runs out of seats while we ´re in line, even more we don ´t want to get screwed out of an extra $30 (about two days worth of our budget!).   So, after much deliberation, Karen (the young woman from London), Pat and I decided to go across early tomorrow to get in line for the train.

Because we ´re leaving early, we had to get our Brazilian exit stamps during the mere three hours that the office was open today.   20 minutes of standing in line, and 20 seconds of paperwork was all it took for us to be officially “no where.”   All the guide books and locals say we won ´t have problems turning up in Bolivia a day after we ´ve “left” Brazil; I hope they ´re right!   We ´ll cross and try to get the first train, which  is much cheaper, but more popular because of the lower price.   Since Bolivia has been shut-down transportation-wise for the weekend, it means really high demand for tomorrow ´s trains.   If we can ´t get on the first, we ´ll buy the double-price tickets for the other train (much nicer with movies and meals and waiters, etc.) that evening. They had an election in Bolivia over the weekend, which could make for a very tumulous political situation.   I just pray we don ´t get stuck there and end up spending the rest of our trip in some tiny, po-dunk Bolivian town.   Please cross your fingers for us!

Our plan for the short term is to try to find some eats.   This town has been shut down all day long (on account of it being Sunday).   I hope our new hostel has hot water!   Bolivia is said to be very third-world, so this might be our last hot shower for quite awhile!

Rice, Beans, and Farofa

Oh… the Pantanal.   We have just returned!

Preface:  they Patanal is widely known and oft visited, as it is the ecological hotspot of  South America (you thought it was the Amazon, didn ´t you?).   It has the same wildlife diversity as the Amazon, but the difference is the rainfall, humidity, and year round temp.   The soul of the Pantanal carries hints of nearly every place I ´ve ever been.   It seemed like a deserty swamp.   Or maybe a swampy desert.   If NE Wyoming flooded, you ´d have the Pantanal.   Because the area only receives rain for half the year, it floods in the summer and dries up in the winter.   Result: little islands of dense vegetation, with plenty of open areas for animal spotting in between.   We visited during the best time of year, before the water is all gone, before is gets really chilly, as the mosquitos are dwindling, etc.

This huge stork is the trademark of the pantanal – theyre only a foot or two shorter than me!

I have sort of mixed feelings about the experience.   The only way to see the area is to go on a tour (you ´re not allowed to go it alone.   There are even signs along the roadways warning that all tourists are required to have a guide).   I really don ´t like tours, where you ´re put on an the tourist assembly line and sort of run through the system like you ´re not even a person.   Second, the place we stayed was a ranch in the middle of the Pantanal.   I ´m sure this is a very unique and rustic and memorable experience for someone from never-been-out-of-the-city London or something.   But, as I am from a state with more ranches than cities, instead of being novel, it just made me have nightmares about my ex-boyfriend.

We made it to the area in the afternoon, and were dropped off at  a hotel first.   We  explored the boardwalks and rope bridges that kept us suspended above the slowly drying swamp, and after a buffet lunch based on rice and beans (I ´m always hesitant with the meat.   Unless it ´s pot roast.), we were taken on a cheesy canoe trip.   Despite making me feel like a tacky-tourist, having Pat there made things really fun.   We laughed the whole way down the river, in between spotting caiman (alligators, basically),

monkeys, capybara, marsh deer (HUGE!), tuiuius (4 foot tall stork), caracaras (crazy birds of prey), toucans, and egrets.   You see, the canoe was a very small, VERY tippy two person number.   Pat is at least a foot taller than me, and about seven times as strong, which means he ´s got nearly 100 pounds on me.   They made me get in the canoe first, so my dry-life was in Pat ´s hands as he tried best he could to ease into the boat.   Together we probably weigh in at about 400 pounds, which left only four or five inches between the lip of the boat and the surface of the river.   As a result, we had these hilarious mini-panic attacks the whole way down stream, and couldn ´t stop laughing.

Small jaws, but these things are ferocious!

After our trip, we jumped in the back of a pickup complete with benches for our “safari” (i.e. the drive to the ranch).   Like I said… for  city dwelling folk, riding in the back of a truck is probably a thrilling, novel experience.   For me, it just reminded me of being in high school and running around with my friends.   The “safari” was neat, though.   We spotted several toucan, caiman galore (these things are as thick as antelope are in Wyoming),

The Pantanal has more caiman than you can shake a stick at (or would want to). Almost more caiman than mosquitos

The Pantanal has more caiman than you can shake a stick at (or would want to). Almost more caiman than mosquitos

plenty of birds (this place is a bird-lover ´s paradise), a coatis (like a racoon) and blue macaws as we were arriving at the ranch.

A female howler monkey

Dinner was more rice and beans (you ´ll have to ask Pat about the mystery meat) with farofa (a salty, garlicy, floury substance that you mix with your food… about the consistency of corn meal).   As I am quite satisfied, with rice, beans, farofa, and tomatoes, I ´d probably say the food was my favorite part of the whole experience.   They also fried up the pirana catches of the group that had returned shortly before dinner.   Most of the tourists didn ´t want to eat theirs (I guess the appeal only lies in reeling them in), so I got to try two or three.   The meat on them is pretty scarce, but thanks to my dad, I knew to dig into the cheeks, which are an even bigger prize in piranas than in trout.   MMMMMmmmm!!!   Delicious!

Coatis – the racoon like animals that wander in the Pantanal

We spent the rest of the evening watching a huge toad (as big as Pat ´s hands)  catch his evening fare, chatting with the other tourists and playing cards by candlelight after they shut off the generators.   Hammocks in a giant bunk-house (room for… 50ish) made for an interesting sleep situation.   The middle third of the wall was punched out with mosquito screen stapled on to keep the bugs out, making for a fantastic 360 degree view of the surrounding country.   We rolled out our fleece sleeping bags by flashlight and bedded down for the night.   The hammocks were suprisingly comfortable, and I slept quite well.   I woke up about 5:30 to a brilliant sunrise, barking dogs, and roosters crowing.

A male howler monkey. He grunts to keep the group together as they forage for food. You should hear the noise he makes that gives these animals their name; its sounds like a two-ton dying pig.

All the other tourists had to take off that morning, so it was just Pat and I for the rest of the day.   After breakfast we set out on horseback for several miles, alternating between waist-deep swamp and patches of trees and dry land.   Even though it was one of those terrible “trail rides” where the horses have the route brainwashed into them, we still had a lot of fun.   I ´ve always wanted to have horses and live the kind of life where I ´d get to ride them everyday, so even being around “pre-programmed” horses is still thrilling in a way.   We saw mostly birds on our ride with our guide who went about his job quite half-heartedly.   Other highlights were snail eggs, wild boar holes, red macaws, and the strange skinny cattle (I think they ´re Brahmas?)   Of course the galloping across the wide open parts of the swamp was the most enjoyable.   It ´s crazy to be on a horse that ´s charging through two-three feet of standing water.   I felt like I was in a movie, and we got SOAKED!   The horse our guide was on was pretty skittish (the caiman/gators don ´t attack, but they react with their teeth, just like a dog would, if you step on them).   After we crossed through the last gate, the guide was mounting his horse when it started bucking like crazy, threw him off, and then took off running.   Well, since the horses are pre-programmed, the mares Pat and I were on wanted desperately to follow the leader.   We tried to keep them reined in for about thirty seconds until our guide told us just to head for the ranch… he ´d walk back.   So we blasted across the wide open back to the ranch without our guide, a thrill all its own!]

An aerial view of the Pantanal during the wet season, even though it doesnt go far in sharing with you the Pantanal that *I* experienced.

After lunch we lazed about in our hammocks (I ´m excited for the Amazon… I LOVE these things!) until it was time to go fishing for piranas.   We got everything ready to go to the lake, only to discover that our guide had mis-informed us.   Well, actually he hadn ´t really informed us at all.   He didn ´t do a very good job of keeping us up to speed with the itinerary.   Come to find out, the “lake” was no more than fifty feet long and thirty feet across.   I suppose to make the experience seem more rustic or adventurous, they put you in a boat out in the middle of the pond, that I assume has been mostly fished out.   A caiman lurked in the water near the boat the whole time, which was exciting.   I tossed my meat-baited line in the water several time, and got bite after bite (I could even SEE them nibbling away half the time), but for the life of me I couldn ´t set the hook.   It (the hook) was huge anyway, and most the fish were quite small (three to four inches long, the biggest possible is ten), but one of the ranch staff still managed to hook a few.   I gave up (patience is not my strong suit) and layed in the back of the boat swatting mosquitoes and watching the sunset.   I think I will try again on the Amazon.   I want to catch a pirana!   We also fed the remainder of our bait to the caiman.   It was cool to see him slink into the water and swim around the meat getting a good eyeball on it before he suddenly snapped it up with lightning-quick jaws.

That night before dinner, we taught Joacir (one of the staff) to play Egyptian-Rat-Slap (or Killer, or whatever you might call it).   It was funny because he didn ´t speak a lick of English, and we speak very little Portuguese.   And, after much conversation, I finally discovered part of the difficulty stemmed from different card values.   In the games Joacir plays, a King is worth the least, a jack the second most valuable, a queen the third, and an Ace means nothing.   A seven is the highest point value.   So, it goes without saying that confusion abounded.   Funnily enough, Joacir creamed us three games in a row before dinner.   Here we have a perfect example of why I hate tours.   No matter what you do, you  can ´t really get personal with people.   I thought, since we were all playing cards and being buddy-buddy, that we ´d eat dinner together.   Nope.   When the food went on the table, all the staff disappeared to their seperate eating quarters, even though we were the only guests on the ranch.   And so Pat and I ate alone in a dining room meant to hold 40.   Woe.

After some fast games of Spit, some serious games of Rummy (by candlelight of course), and a little stargazing/fire-fly spotting,  we slipped back to our hammocks for the night.   On the last day we got up with the sun to go on a morning walk with a cacophony on birds and howler monkeys filling the air.   Really neat to experience.   The walk kind of sucked… seemed rather pointless.   We waded through knee-deep swamp water and walked through patches of trees where fig tree roots strangled the palm trees.   We saw lots of toucans and monkeys (with babies!), but that was about it.   In between getting bit by mosquitos and wondering why our guide wasn ´t taking more initiative to teach us about the local flora and fauna (or to even interact with us at all), we eyeballed the water for caiman lest we step on one and get our feet bit off.

We spent the rest of the morning playing cards after breakfast (complete with fresh papaya!) until it was time to shower and head out.   Of course there is no hot water heater, and since the only available electricity is from the generators, it makes no sense to have an electric shower head (the average fare in all tourist accomodations in South America).   So, I took a freezing shower to top off my Pantanal experienced.

We tossed our bags in the back of the truck a short while later and blasted the twenty or so miles back to the paved road just in time for the bus.   After a  very bumpy hour and a half complete with bi-polar airconditioning, we arrived in Corumbá to begin the next leg of our trip!

Bonito really is Muito Bonito

When we left Puerto Iguazu in Argentina, we ended up missing our long distance bus from the Brazilian side by about ten minutes.   But, it ended up working out for the better, because we got a cheaper bus.   We miscalculated the border  crossing time by quite a lot, mostly because we didn ´t account for bus transfer times (three of them) as well as we should have.

We met a woman from New York, strange with apparently a good bit of money.   She was traveling to Rio just to visit the ghettos (favelas) because a character in a book  that she has been  writing for four years, that she only intends to publish if it “feels right,” was “born” in the favelas.

Anyway… our overnight bus had plenty of room, which meant better sleep than usual.   When we arrived in Campo Grande, for the first time, the tourist vending vultures descended upon us.   I guess we ´ve found the gringo-trail!   We decided to wait a few hours in the bus station to catch the first bus to Bonito, a fabulous tourist destination just a few more hours away.

We arrived in Bonito in the afternoon, got a discount at our hostel, and met some great french-Canadians.   Our hostel was really nice, really clean, hot showers, and great atmosphere.   We felt like we were part of the Swiss Family Robinson the whole time.   The next day, after a really fantastic breakfast, we lazed the morning away reading and chatting.   About noon, we decided to go to a resort place (of which there are several, some pricier than others) and swim in the crystal clear river water with all the fishes.   It was about 7km from town, so we took moto taxis, which was awesome!   You just go to the counter at a tiny shop and tell them where you want to go.   Then you get on the back of a dirt bike with some guy, strap on your helmet, and off you go!   It was quite funny to watch Pat try to fold himself onto one of these tiny bikes… about the size of a crotch-rocket.

All the drivers wear these little vests, like basketball scrimmage jerseys. Very official.

For $3 a person, we were shuttled to a beautiful sub-tropical park, where we were two of four vistors.   We switched into our swim gear (Brazilian bikini time!), and jumped in.   Well, waded at first.   They have stairs built into the banks in some places, so we  used them at first instead of taking the plunge straight off.   The water was about 68 degrees (they said 20 celsius), and the fish were HUGE!   Most of them looked similar to trout, but all of them were about 18 inches!   It was kind of freaky because, although we could see the bottom perfectly, our depth perception was severly distorted.   In a regular river, you can sort of tell if you ´re going to hit a tree or a rock, but not here.   Other than that, lots of fun!   After we ´d had enough floating and swimming in the crystal-clear pools, we got out to sunbathe.

The biggest part of the park from above. The parts where the river flows under the canopy are more mystical, but this part was fun, too!

Every once in awhile, a group of tourists would roll through.   It was funny because we were the only visitors swimming.   It was probably about 75, maybe 80, but for these folks, that ´s kind of chilly.   So everyone with their long sleeves and pants (brazilian tourists), were quite amused at the mostly naked tourists laying out in the sun and swimming in the water.

About half-way through the day, we were walking through the forest park of the park and ran into two beautiful red macaws.   They are such magnificent birds!   When they flew away, I felt the blast of air as one nearly took my head off from behind.

One of the red macaws… so amazing!

Looking upriver… this was so beautiful!

To save money, and to enjoy the fresh air, we walked back to town.   The highway had about as much traffic as the average Wyoming highway (so a car every 10-15 minutes), but the scenery was spectacular.   We walked past ranches lush with shoulder high grasses and grazing cattle, and plenty of forest.   The smells were fantastic, and it was really peaceful.

When we got back to town, we stocked up on food for the Pantanal and ran into the Canadians at a pizza place.   They had half a pizza leftover and invited us for a slice.   The pizza here is SO good.   Really, it ´s almost gourmet.   It beats any American pizza chain hands down, over and over.

We got to bed pretty late, but all in all, and ideal vacation day!

You Might Be A Redneck If…

We spent three wonderful days in Puerto Iguazu on the Argentenian side of Iguazu Falls on the river that doubles as the Brazil/Argentinian border.   We didn ´t originally intend to spend three days, but a little relaxation was in order, and what better place to do it than in a town where we can actually afford wine AND cheese on our very meager budget!

The falls were incredible.   There are three different places to visit, and about 300 falls, only about 25 of which are noteworthy.   We visited the star of the show, Garganta del Diablo (Devil ´s Throat), first.   If this sounds familiar, it ´s because I wrote about this place in my travel journal last year.   And if you would have asked me then if I ´d be back almost exactly a year later, I would have put money on “no.”   But, there ´s no way anyone (Pat) should ever get so close and not see it.   It ´s one of the seven natural wonders of the world!   They ´re bigger than Niagra!

All of the smaller falls on the Argentina side. Gorgeous!

Anyway, first to the show-stopper.   You have to see it in person to understand the sheer force of that much water and  the optical illusion that turns your knees to jelly.   The Devil ´s Throat is a giant horseshoe, and you get to stand on a platform at one end of the horse shoe looking straight into and up at the heart of the falls.   So, for nearly 270 degrees, water is raging all around you, and your equilibrium turns to mush.   It ´s so cool.   And we saw a caiman! (like a croco-gator)

Next we headed to the “lower circuit,” a trail that passes several waterfalls and leads you down a lush cliffside to the water where a free boat ferries you to an island.   On the island, there are more trails to hike, and more waterfalls to see.   Not so crowded, and an excellent beach (but no swimming! too dangerous…).   Finally we hiked the “upper circuit,” a shorter trail that stretched across the tops of all the falls, giving you  a bird ´s eye view of the whole canyon and  the Brazilian National Park, as well as making your stomach churn as you lean out over giant waterfalls.

Something I hadn ´t done on my last visit was hike the nature trail.   We saved it for last, hoping to see more wildlife at the days end.   According to all the warning signs about not feeding animals, etc., we had potential to see several birds, monkeys, coatis, and jaguars!   Quite hopeful, we set off, only to realize we had another couple (also fast paced hikers) on the trail behind us yakking away.   Didn ´t they read the signs about enjoying the silence of nature!?

Luckily, we mangaed to distance ourselves a little, and startled a bird.   It sounded like a helicopter taking off, and I looked up just in time to see my first-ever toucan!   WOW!   So cool!

Toucans have been part of my fairy-tale world since I was a little girl, and I finally got to see one!

A few mintues later, as we were making our way down the tunnel (they called it a trail) that had been hacked out of the vegetation, a rodent about the size of a small dog (that actually looks more like a brown, hairy, piglet) charged out of the forest in front of us and took off running down the trail.   Five minutes later, we happened upon two young men taking photos of the tree tops.   As we got closer we could hear something thrashing around somewhere in the thick brush, and finally realized MONKEYS were eating and dropping the leftovers to the ground!   They were so cute!!   And strangely had no interest in us or the theoretical treats the signs told us not to offer.   Usually in a place like that, the animals practically crawl down your shirt to find food.

This is the closest picture I could find to the monkeys we saw. Ours had the same face, but more gray, instead of b/w.

Around the next corner in the trail, two more capybaras (the dog-pig-rodents) came running out of the dense foilage about 20 yards ahead of us.   But this time, they started charging us!   No, I am not normally afraid of a small-dog sized animal, but when you ´re trapped in a tunnel  of vegetation so thick that you couldn ´t see someone standing more than four feet away, and don ´t possess one of the “wedge shaped bodies usesful for dashing through the thick understory,” you might freak out, too.   I practically crawled on top of Pat as I wished desperately that I was wearing shoes more suitable for kicking.   Pretty funny in retrospect.

One of the capybara… theyre crazy!

No jaguars, and only slightly-more-curious monkeys for the trip back to the visitor ´s center, where we caught one of the last busses back to town.   The game between Argentina and Mexico (for the World Cup second round) was on T.V., so of course the town was dead.   We dropped ourselves into seats at a recently vacated table in a pizza joint, and enjoyed some ice-cold beer until the game ended and the pizza-making started again.   I thought the Brazilians were crazy about soccer, but Argentina ´s enthusiasm has to be unmatched.   Seriously, I have never seen so much clapping, screaming, singing, and jumping around.   I ´d love to see what happens when they actually score!   We missed the goals, but Argentina won the game, which meant rounds of the national anthem, lots of chants and clapping, plenty of fireworks and honking cars in the streets, and ear-to-ear smiles all around.

All the rest of our time in Puerto Iguazu was spent drinking wine ($2/bottle!), eating cheese, playing cards, reading, napping, and internet-ing.   Now THAT ´s vacation!   It was also quite nice to be in a place where I could communicate, and where we don ´t avoid complicated situations (like eating at regional restaurant with regional ways of serving) because we ´ll have to spend another thirty minutes hungry and figuring out what ´s going on.

About the journal entry title… something funny I noticed while walking around the streets of Puerto Iguazu where everyone rides around on motorcycles/dirt bikes.   I must preface by saying that I am one of those people who likes the smells of things like gasoline, finger-nail polish, rubber cement, etc.   And right now you are either thinking, “me, too!” or “seriously?   gross.”   Yes I know it kills brain cells, etc, and no, I don ´t run around with a scratch-and-sniff gasoline sticker on my wrist, but I like those kinds of smells!   That being said, I also like the smell of two-cycle engine exhaust  (lawn-mowers, speed-boat motors, four-wheelers, dirt-bikes, etc.)   My redneck moment came when yet another dirt bike zoomed by and I had a sudden longing for summers at the lake water-skiing and  four-wheeling trips to the mountains.   For several mintues, I longed to be in Wyoming enoying this time of year.   And then I realized… you might be a redneck if, the smell of two-cycle exhaust reminds you of summer!

I`m the Second Craziest Person I Know

I think I am not actually supposed to write this blog, because this is the third time I`ve tried. The first time, I wrote for an hour before power blacked out for a millisecond causing all the computers in the internet shop to reset. Yes, I know I should have saved my work. So I did the second time. I wrote it in Microsoft Word and saved every two minutes. When another storm rolled through, and torrents of water were gushing down the street, and the whole town went dark, I was wearing a triumphant smile. Until I explained to the cashier that I`d saved my work and so would like to use the same machine when the power came back. And she explained that all the computers have a program that wipes the hard drive clean each time the machine is turned off. GREEEEEAT.

So quickly then…

We wasted an entire day between Curitiba and Blumenau trying to do laundry wandering around trying to find non-existent laundromats. Every place we found was more like a dry-cleaners and charged per piece of clothing, not per kilo. On a brighter note, a woman asked me for directions in Portuguese while we were walking to the bus station and I was able to help her! She was surprised to find out we weren`t Brazilians, which was neat.

The bus ride to Blumenau was through some absolutely gorgeous country. Craggy majestic peaks shot up all around us as we wound our way through deep valleys covered in thick, jungle-esque deciduous forests with occasional stands of coniferous trees popping up on the fierce ridgelines. Palm trees frequently reached well above the other tree tops, and as the mountains gave way to farmland, banana plantations covered the terrain.

When we got to Blumenau, we had one of the funniest experiences yet (due to our Portuguese ignorance, of course). First, we were mega stressed out, because we had only vaguely planned our next move. But the road maps we have are inaccurate, and the information we have is incomplete, so we have to spend forever guessing different routes and then walking around to each of 16 bus companies asking them if they go to such-and-such a place or have a bus that goes by there. So, after trying desperately to plot our next move south, we gave up Florianopolis (a beach town with a forecast for rain) and a national parks with breathtaking canyons (because we couldn`t figure out how the heck to get there), and just decided to go to Iguaçu Falls.

Next was getting to town in the pouring rain without paying for a taxi. I asked in a shop, but all I could tell for sure was that we were supposed to take a bus that said Proeb on the front. Taking city buses with our backpacks in tow is hilarious, because each bus has an attendant that sits beside a tiny turnstyle and takes money. Well, the turnstyle is only as wide as my hips, and our backpacks and Pat`s hips are much wider than that. So there`s lots of struggling and trapped straps and laughing each time we get on a bus. Plus, the bus drivers are maniacs who accelerate into turns and take off well before you`ve found a seat (if there`s even a seat available), which means a ferocious battle with gravity and desperate attempts not to fall on anyone or crush them with our backpack appendages.

About five minutes down the road, I asked the woman in front of us if Proeb is in the centro. Well, apparently it`s not, because she started talking to another passenger about it, and before we knew it the whole bus was arguing back and forth about how we should get to the centro and which bus to take, etc. I finally understood that someone was going to take us by the hand and show us what to do when we got to Proeb. We got off the bus with a younger woman (40`s) and an older woman (60`s) who both started talking to me in rapid Portuguese. They kept saying the word “ponto,” which I desperately wished I knew the meaning of. I could swear bridge is ponte, but I decided to keep an eye out for bridges just in case. Meanwhile they are both still talking a million miles a minute, and I am just nodding and replying in the affirmative, trying to keep them talking so that eventually they`ll say something I understand. Suddenly, the younger woman leaves and the older woman motions for us to follow her onto a bus.

We sit, and Pat, who has been cluelessly watching our exchange, finally delights in the opportunity to find out just what, exactly, is going on. Of course, I have to reply, “Heck if I know. I think we`re supposed to go with this woman and she`ll tell us when to get off. ” And this is why I love Pat. Because he just says, “Oh, ok.” And starts laughing. You`d think being so completely out of control would be stressful and frightening, but it`s really not. It`s actually less stressful than what we usually are trying to do, which is to accomplish the task of an adult with the skills of a three-year-old. Honestly, everything we do is like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together with your toes.

A few minutes later, the older woman turns to me with a panic-stricken look and starts gesturing and pointing and giving me directions. I think I understand that we are supposed to get off the bus, cross the street, and go up two blocks and then left some distance. I catch “shopping” (the word for a mall) and “ponto” again (really wish I knew that one), before the bus is screeching to a halt and we are trying to push our way out the back doors before the bus driver jets off. She is still yelling directions as the doors are closing, and we can`t stop laughing at the hilarity of the situation. And of course it`s still pouring rain.

Turns out one of the three hotels we had our sights on was only a few blocks away, a cute littler German number (it`s a very German town, with very old-school German architecture)

Typical Blumenau Architechture

with rooms that made me feel like we were in the alps. We asked for a restaurant recommendation, and instead got the average price per plate we could expect to pay and also were told that eating at the shopping mall is more expensive. So, for forty minutes, we wandered around, tummies rumbling, trying to find something that was open and serving food. We were about to give up and eat potato chips from the gas station, when we happened upon a place called Rancho de Pastel. It took forever for us to understand the menu; we went from thinking the guy was explaining different drink size options with different meals to understanding from another waitress that the only food they served was calzones with a plethora of different fillings, and the actual diameters available were shown on the menu. Ooooooh! The food was excellent, and the local beer was quite yummy. The Eagles played on the T.V. the whole time we were there with the lyrics translated into Portuguese. I wish we could see more stuff like this. Such a great way to learn!

We got to go to bed early, and got up the next morning to the best breakfast buffet we`ve have so far. Of course we had the standard bread (not toast), butter, jam, and coffee, but this one included several fruit options, every kind of bread you could think of, lots of pastries and breakfast cakes, eggs, sausage, and a few different kinds of juice. YUM! Our plan was to attempt to visit an ecological reserve in the countryside, so we ate as much as we could before heading to a bus stop and hoping we`d get on the right bus. We couldn`t really ask anyone, because we don`t know how to clearly describe where we are wanting to go. And you certainly can`t ask the bus drivers. Those guys are in a huge hurry. They barely even stop to let passengers off, and certainly don`t have time for a conversation about two crazy tourists trying to get to some random, unfamiliar, isolated place in the countryside.

The guidebook says to take the Garcia bus to a terminal and then change to Progresso until the end of the paved road. That`s it! So, we get on the first bus that says Garcia (along with a lot of other things), and just hope we will recognize wherever it is that we need to get off. Thankfully, the first terminal we come to is fairly obvious, and the bus driver finally stops after driving ten blocks past it, then two blocks back in the other direction before ultimately dropping us off. Before getting on the second bus (which is parked with the ignition off waiting for departure time), I ask them, “Vocês vao para Parque Ecològico Spitzkopf?” The attendant looks at me like I`m crazy, and says… “I think so. I`ll ask the driver.” Well, good thing we asked, because we never would have recognized our stop. It`s obvious that the guide book writer has never actually been to this place, because the paved road does not end. It goes on forever until the next town and the next and the next. There is just a bus stop on the corner where you get off and start walking down a gravel-covered country road. After inquiring about the frequency of buses and the last bus available, we`re off down the beautiful country road, laughing the whole way about the insanity we`ve gotten ourselves into. I say I think I`m the craziest person I know, and Pat decides that I have to be the second craziest, since I at least can somewhat communicate. “Only a crazy person would follow another crazy person, which is exactly what I`m doing,” he says. What fun!

After about a mile of walking past lots of little village-like settlements where the imaginative children are peeking out from behind the curtains and blasting their noisemakers at each other and us (think New Year`s), we finally arrive. The sign for “reception” points up a very steep and narrow cement staircase that leads past small, 10×20` terraces (the second one had two horses grazing on it!) to two barn doors, both of which were locked. We gave up and continued down the road, reading signs until we got to a giant pond with cabins next to it and signs describing the three hiking trails in the “park.” Still no signs of any humans or place to pay the entrance fee. In fact the place looks quite deserted, so we just head down the trail and decide to ask the first person we run into. There are three waterfalls, one on each trailhead, and they get progressively more impressive. The forest/jungle is thick with trees that have bark that looks like cedar/hemlock, and ferns that look like they`re from the jurassic era. Seriously, these things were at least fifteen feet tall. All of the trails were covered in debris (maybe this place is condemned?), and we followed the first past a giant spider (at least three inches long), a tree with waxy red flowers that seemed to have a bright yellow miniature daffodil growing out the center of each complete with large blueberry-like fruits, and giant vines hanging down in the trail. Eventually the trail became not only debris-covered, but overgrown as well, and so we turned back.

About the vines… I never understood how it was that Tarzan could swing on these jungle vines without them breaking, and assumed it was just a hollywood fantasy. Not so! These things are insanely thick and flexible. Between 1-3″, and could definitely hold a person. Nuts! Anyway… by the time we got to the second waterfall, we still hadn`t run into anyone. It was great. We had this jungle paradise all to ourselves! On our way to the third waterfall we ran into these giants stand of bamboo, which I never associate with rainforests, but very cool nonetheless. Along the third waterfall trail an very old looking aquaduct carried water…back to the villages? the camp? and we had to cross a dam with a sketchy cement staircase/bridge combo (suspended in midair) that was cracking across the bottom. Greeeeeat. The last waterfall was 60 feet tall and really beautiful. It was so fun to be there is such a paradise and share the experience with someone I care so much about. Awesome!

One of the prettiest waterfalls also at Parque Ecolgico Spitzkopf.

Because we forgot to buy water before we left town, we decided we ought not climb the peak, and so instead headed back to Blumenau in time to get lunch, see all the touristy spots, and watch Brazil`s game against Japan before getting on the next bus. Japan didn`t stand a chance! Brazil creamed them!

We were lucky as far as the bus went. On a fourteen-hour, overnight ride, being comfortable is definitely high on the priority list. This bus was a double decker, and the front seats on the top level were open! For some reason these seats aren`t popular. I think they`re the best seats on the bus, because you`re surrounded by giant picture windows on three sides and get a great view. Maybe people don`t like them because of all the light that comes in the windows (but there are curtains!) or because you can`t see the T.V. all that well, or because you get to witness, first-hand, every insane decision that the bus driver makes. Like tailgating a motorcycle or tiny car that can stop on a dime. Or passing in a no passing zone (I know I do it, too, but not in a giant bus!), or passing a semi on a two-lane mountain road when another semi is coming head-on. I`m not kidding. Several times the bus was sandwiched between two semis going opposite directions on a two lane road. Really crazy.

While this is actually a photo of a double decker bus in London, same idea. These are my favorite! Probably not the safest way to travel, though!

Because it was dark pretty much the whole time, the only point of interest was the cemeteries. Instead of sprawling lawns, every cemetery I`ve seen is built into a hillside with bodies inside stone/marble caskets above ground terraced all the way up the hill. It makes you feel like you`re on stage as the auditorium graves rise up in front of you. Sorry if I`m being morbid.

Anyway… after watching the Cable Guy, straining to hear the English while getting to read the Portuguese at the bottom of the screen, we got to have a pretty restful nights sleep complete with cookies for breakfast! Yum!

Just a Small Town Girl

We *finally* got into the countryside today, which I have been dying to do.   Growing up I used to think the excitement and endless list of entertainment opportunities available in a city was more my style and pace, but I was wrong.   When you come from a small town, you know how to entertain yourself with very little, and I like it that way.

We took the Serra Verde Express on “the most beautiful train ride in Brazil.”   It was genuinely fantastic.   At eight a.m. we boarded a half-full rail car with plenty of leg room and lots of friendly (mostly Brazilian) tourists.   Because Curitiba is a pretty big city, it took awhile to escape the endless buildings, but once we finally broke away, I finally got to taste that sense of peace I`d been waiting for for so long.   We spent about 1/2 an hour in farm country before we started our ascent into the mountains where the jungle clung to the hillsides.   The train track is literally carved out of the slopes, often tunneling through thick vegetation and granite slabs.   Other times the mountain dropped away to reveal gorgeous views as we chugged along over viaducts and bridges spanning crevasses hundreds of feet deep.   The banana trees, with their human-sized leaves, were heavy with fruit, and carpets of bright pink and purple flowers covered all the open areas near the tracks.   Amazing!

This train ride was amazing and a definite engineering feat!

One of the mountain ranges around Morretes

Really on the brink!

We crested the highest point in our journey and slowly wound our way towards the coast, stopping just short in a gorgeous little colonial town called Morretes.   It`s one of those tiny towns with cobblestone streets, a river winding through it, really pretty flower gardens, tremendous views of the mountains, and maybe a total of 10 streets wide by ten streets long.   Very manageable, and terribly difficult to get lost.   We asked a woman at the train station where was the best value to try the local special, Barreado.   It`s basically a meat stew cooked for 24 hours in a clay pot… the secret to the incredible flavor, of course, is the slow cooking.   It used to be made only for celebratory times because the ingredients were pricey, and it`s use in Carnival (pre-Lent) celebrations was especially noted for allowing the food-preparers to get all their  work done the day before in order to  take part in the festivities.

The view from our restaurant!

The Barreado was so incredibly delicious.   I have  a secret weakness for pot-roast, which was a main ingredient.   Served over rice and manioc flour with sliced bananas… really, this stuff was to die for.   And the juice!   This is the super thing about Brasil!   There are fruit juice stands everywhere… fresh!   And it ´s maybe 25 cents more than soda.   I wish we has such a healthy variety in the U.S.!   The restaurant we ate at was recommended to us as being the “best value” (read = cheapest), so we weren`t expecting much, but I think we really lucked out.   As far as ambience and a view, I think we got the best place in town.   The main part of the restaurant was on stilts over the riverbank, so we got to watch these small,  three-inch, silver fish flash the afternoon away while we sipped our juices (pineapple and strawberry!).

Barreado in all its splendor.

After we indulged in the local specialty, we took a little self-tour of this gorgeous town.   Once we`d seen everything there was to see and inquired about hiking trails (only allowed in the National Park 8km from town, we found out), we bought tickets for the next bus back to Curitiba.   With 45 minutes to kill, we set off on a walk, passing literally dozens of banana trees!   It was so strange to be in a jungle thick with deciduous trees that, had they been growing farther apart, could have well been in the U.S., and then *whamo!*… banana tree!   The leaves on these things are HUGE.   We`re talking, I could make a modest dress out of a banana tree leaf and still have plently to spare.   They`re bigger than Pat!   And another thing… yes, I know this makes me a redneck hick or something of the like, but did you know bananas grow “up?”   Check out the picture!   I consider the top part of the banana to be the end where you crack the “stem” off and peel it open.   This, my friends, is not the end closest to the sky when the banana is growing!   Because of my mis-pre-conception, bananas now seem to me to defy gravity.   Crazy!

Banana tree complete with green bananas

We cat-napped in between enjoying the scenery on the way back to Curitiba, and arrived early enough that we thought we might give the Niemeyer museum another go.   We got the receptionist in an administration office to call for us, and set off on the two mile journey.   Lucky for us, the little misunderstanding we had ended up being harmless.   You see, when I asked how late they were open, the woman told me “oito.”   So, thinking we had four hours, we ambled up town.   When we turned up at the museum an hour later, the guy said they closed in an hour and a half.   I asked, “at eight?”.   No… eight-TEEN.   Since we`re not used to military time, we didn`t hear the DEZ-oito.   Nonetheless, we got to see all the exibits and had time to run up inside the giant eye (currently a dis-used exhibition space) for which the museum is so well-known.

The Serra Verde Express crossing one of the unbelievable bridges.

The view of our restaurant from the main street in the village.

I think by far the coolest exhibit was called FLUXUS.   It started in Germany in the 60`s as (from what I could gather from the Portugese placards) a sort of avant-garde form of art/examiniation of the art world.   It`s definitely the kind of art that some think is bizarre trash and others find fascinating and though-provoking.   I, of course, belong in the latter group.   One of my favorites were these old-school (late-70 ´s) televisions (the old knob style back before remote controls) laid out on the floor facing the ceiling on a cloth.   There were probably 12-15 television, forming a cross, and all connected to the same “broken record” style film.   I couldn`t really tell what was flashing across the screen… just a ton of random pictures (reminded me of 80`s MTV), but sort of Andy Warhol style as far as the colors went.   It think it draws a really interesting, subliminal parallel with religion and television.   These days, for some, catching the O.C. on Wednesday nights is just as important as going to church on Sunday.

My other favorite wasn`t even a piece, itself, it was a part of an art piece.   Because my portuguese is rather… lacking, I couldn`t quite understand the focal point behind these bulliten-board displays, but each of seven artists put together several bits.   One artist`s contained a letter written to a colleauge about how inappropriate it is to describe any one artist or project as the newest and most up and coming.   Because balance in the universe is necessary, because you cannot have new without old, she/he defines the “eternal network” of which we are all a part.   Read:

Eternal Network

there is always someone asleep and someone awake

someone dreaming asleep someone dreaming awake

someone eating someone hungry

someone fighting someone loving

somone making money someone broke

someone travelling someone staying put

someone helping somone hindering

someone enjoying someone suffering someone indifferent

someone starting someone stopping

THE NETWORK IS ENTERNAL (everlasting)

-R. Filliou

After we saw all the exhibits, we descended to the basement level where you have to go down a StarTrek-ish tunnel to get to the stairs/elevators that lead up into the eye building.   I felt  like  I  was in a sci-fi movie.

The tunnel that provides underground access to the “eye” building in the Niemeyer Museum.

After finding our way back from the museum, we wandered around the centro seeing all the pretty plazas with antique lighting until we happened upon an internet cafe where the mean proprietor was quite impatient with us, tried to overcharge us by several dollars (math is a universal language, buddy!), and then got angry when we persisted in explaining to him that 7:40 to 10:20 doesn`t equal 3 hours and 45 minutes!   For the most part people here are wonderful, but this guy was a jerk

On a brighter note, tomorrow will bring a journey to a new town (finally away from the big cities!)!