Into the Wild

It was so incredible to wake up each morning in bamboo and teak houses to a jungle shrouded in mist.   Our three day, two night foray into the jungle – home to many hill tribes – was fantastic.   I’ve been on lots of organized tours, and I’m always leery.   They are so often hit and miss.   When it’s bad, it’s usually rude folk who have no respect for the local culture and expect everything to be just like home.   We had none of those types!

Our group had great diversity – Jen and Greg from Canada, Evelyn from Germany, Chris and Hannah from the UK, and Leah and Elaine from Ireland.   Our guide, Montri  (mohn-tree) was really great.   Very informative, serious, good sense of humor, concerned for our safety, a hill tribe native, and very professional  (unlike another guide we met along the way who was cracking beers at 8:30 in the morning!).   Our porter, Niwa  (nee-wah) wasn’t as outgoing, but we sure appreciated the hundred pounds of fresh food he packed in for us.

The tour started with quite  a bit of stop-and-go.   Our transport was of the local basic type – a pick-up truck with benches down the sides and a canopy over the top.   After a requisite stop-off at the tourist police and a last-chance market run (where I got my last, up-to-the minute presidential update from Pat), we headed to  the gorgeous Mork Fa  waterfall.   For the first time since I’ve been here, the weather wasn’t sweltering.   Since the pool was only about five feet deep, and since  still had lots more  seat time,  I chose to strip down for the spray, but not dive in.

Mork Fa Falls – breathtaking in more ways than one!
Then we were off to lunch at a side of the road stand.   They think farangs  (foreigners) can’t handle the heat of Thai food, so much of the food we get starts out VERY plain.   Icky plain, almost.   After some soy and sweet chili sauce, things get a bit more palatable.   As an added bonus, the farther from town you get, the more elbow room there is in the toilets – a great feature when you’re squatting!

Finally we arrived at our launching point where we were offered the opportunity to swim in some hot springs.   They were hot, almost to the point of scalding, so we opted out.   In all my hot spring experience, I’ve never felt water that hot before.   Well, a few minutes into the jungle, I got my explanation.   It was geyser run-off!   Apparently this part of Thailand is a geo-thermal hot spot.   It was really strange to see geysers in the middle of the jungle!

The trail was fairly easy-going.   Lots of uphill, and it was pretty warm (but cool for the tropics).   We were quite  a spectacle.   Because the third and final  day of the tour includes bamboo rafting, we each had a bright yellow and orange life jacket strapped on as we worked our way through the thick jungle.   Pat, at 6’7″,  would have hated it.   In Arcata, when a tree is growing at his head level, he insists on leaving the sidewalk to go around instead of ducking under it.   The ceiling height on the trail for the first hour was all my height (5’7″) or less.   I spent lots of time ducking!

It was tough working our way through the thick jungle!

After seeing lots of awesome “mushroom” flowers, we finally broke free of the thickest jungle and got quite a view out over the canopy!   Our guides were overly generous with breaks, but we appreciated it in all the heat.   The last leg was basically a slide down the red, slippery jungle clay   to a sketchy bamboo bridge over the river, and ta-da!   We’ve arrived!   After getting set up in our basic lodgings – a firm mattress, a really firm pillow, and two small blankets on a floor mat – we got showers!   Not the kind you’d imagine, but there was a tap and a bucket for me to dump (COLD!!) water over myself.   It was breathtaking, but I was happy to feel so clean!

A view from home #1 on our first night. Gorgeous! This is paradise!

In what would become his classic style, Tri (short for Montri), made us way too much food for dinner.   Sweet and sour chicken over rice, potato curry, and bean sprout stir fry.   The canadians then busted out their secret stash of chocolate cookies for dessert before we settled in a for a night of card games and guitar picking.   Finally my “skills” came in handy!   I never thought knowing five or six chords and two songs would be useful!

Where we laid our heads for the night. The hanging stuff is mosquito nets to prevent against malaria and dengue infected mosquitos.

In the morning I took a walk to enjoy the “silence” of the jungle (excepting the birds and bugs), and delighted in the mystical morning until I ran into a yak/cow on the trail.   Back to camp!   The second day was by far my favorite.   We learned lots about plants from Tri.   I had raw sesame seeds, blew bubbles from the stem of a soap plant, ate the cousin of a chestnut, and got to eat cucumbers the size and shape of a spaghetti squash.   Weird!   The best part of the day was stopping off at a rice field where a family was working.   It’s harvest season and they were threshing the rice.

One at a time, we got to remove our shoes and step onto  the tarp which catches all the rice grains.   We used what looked like giant numchucks  to gather the root end of the cut rice stalks.   After they were secured, you basically had a giant  axe in your hands with the “blade” being the grain end of the rice stalks.   A board made of four big bamboo stalks lashed together sat in the center of the tarp.   Now you thresh!   Swing and pound the rice stalks againg  the bamboo, shaking each time until all the grains have fallen onto the tarp.   Then load up again!   Wow!   What hard work!

Another downhill slide led us to an elephant camp where too much food was again served.   Then we climbed onto the elephants to ride to the next village.   The trainers were much nicer to these elephants, and one of them “Butterfly” (who had no idea that it’s a girl’s name in my culture) flirted endlessly with me as we made our way down river.   How flattering!   🙂

Our second night was at the “River Front Hotel,” as Tri called it.   It really was!   The first night we had the whole village to ourselves, but here we ran into several other trekking groups.   The locals were also around more at this village, though, so that made up for it.   We got to play with the kids and hang out with them.   We had a porch with a fire pit overlooking the river.   After (too much) dinner, we played music and chatted late into the night.   Fun!

We woke on our last day to the sound of the roosters crowing and the locals chopping away at the bamboo poles floating in the water to fashion our rafts.   The front of the raft had a bamboo tripod where all our bags were hung.   We all balanced out behind the bags as our guides “poled” us down the river – much like being in Venice, I imagine!   Going through the rapids was interesting.   I held onto  the fibers that lashed the bamboo poles together, but we got soaked.   In white water, the raft is pulled a few feet under, and you have no choice but to go down with it or float away!   It was great!

Another group bamboo rafting. I don’t know how sea worthy these things are, but it worked out well for me!

An uneventful lunch (except for being hassled, of course) and a bumpy ride home led to a few hours of rest and a night out with the group.   It was pretty boring, which was disappointing.   Evelyn (the German girl) and I agreed that things were boring, so we dragged the group to a Karaoke bar.   Karaoke here is very different.   All the songs have a suped up techno beat – including Hotel California – and lots of weird additions is Thai.   Imagine the surprise on our faces when we got up to sing “I Will Survive” and we had never even heard the first few minutes of the song.   Strange!

The resort across the river from where we ate our lunch on the last day.

Now Nicole and I are off to Laos.   We’ll cross the border tonight and get a boat hopefully tomorrow afternoon to Luang  Prabang – a beautiful French colonial town.   Can’t wait!

Elephant Chaffing & Becoming the Attraction

Happy All Saints Day!

Finally the sleeping schedule is nearing normalcy, and I got to sleep until nearly 7:30 this morning!   After some fantastic lounging and a light breakfast of toast and a fruit and yogurt shake (Lassi), we set off for the elephants!

Traveling and tourism always bring up a lot of ethical conflicts for me.   So, I asked our driver about how the elephants are treated  and if it maybe wasn’t a very good life for them hauling tourists around the jungle hills all day.   He assured me that the elephants had been previously employed in the timber industry – much harder  work than hauling tourists – and would now be retired without a home if not for the preserve.   I want to believe him!

After some standing around waiting our turn, watching a baby elephant play the kazoo and hula, and having my photo taken with a big male elephant, we climbed the tower to mount the elephants.   We were seated  by twos and threes onto  the elephant chairs where we rode through the jungle up and down the hills for about 1/2 an hour.   The best part of the ride for me was being in the canopy and coming face to face with my FAVORITE tropical fruit – the pinha!!   Never before had I dreamed of being able to identify  just what kind of tree this delicious piece of heaven came from.   MMMMM!!!

Mmmmmm… my absolute favorite tropical fruit. What’s it’s name in Thai? Don’t know!
You can’t even imagine how yummy this is. The sweet flesh melts in your mouth.

After riding the elephants in the hills, one at a time we were allowed to slide down off the chair and ride them “bareback” on our journey to the river.

I don’t know these guys, but this is what the elephant “saddle” is like…

Elephants do not have soft skin.   It is rough, leathery, and covered with wiry hair.   So despite my joy scratching the elephant behind the ears as we ambled toward the river, I managed (wearing my bikini bottom only) to accomplish  some serious chaffing.   Ouch!   We dismounted while the chairs were removed and rode them one at a time into the river so the elephants could cool off, and of course cool us off in the process.   Fun!

Joining the elephant for a dip! This was the best because the elephants seem to love it!
On the way back to the van, we became the attraction.   Having turned in my swimming top the night before (after a day of swimming) for washing, I didn’t have anything   but a bra and my swimming bottoms to wear.   Not a problem for an immodest individual  like myself.   At the elephant river, several Thais had congregated (especially men) to watch us swim in the river with the elephants and take photos of us.   I didn’t find this particularly offensive, as many Thais are fascinated by white skin.

As we were crossing the lawn through a group of about twenty people, several young women in their late teens gave us huge smiles and indicated that they’d like to take a photo of us.   When we said okay, they got really excited and then decided that they wanted photos WITH us.   So, we became the elephants as they all took turns having a photo with us.   We were busy being amused by this bizarre occurrence that it was only on the drive home that we realized we should have gotten out OUR cameras, too!   Our driver explained that they were from a place in Thailand that sees very few tourists and were so eager to take home photos of themselves with a caucasian.   Fun, fun!

Now we’re off to Sukothai – an ancient city north of Bangkok several hours.   Wish us luck on our first overnight bus ride!

Jungle Waterfalls & A Piece of History

So yesterday we landed in Kanchanaburi  (also “Kan”), and I am LOVING it.   The pace of the town is perfect – not too sleepy, but very laid back.   The surrounding area is filled  with national parks chock full of waterfalls, elephant rides, and history lessons.   Kanchanaburi  is home to the Bridge Over the River Kwai  – a key location  in WWII.   Thousands of allied prisoners along with thousands of Asians across the region were conscripted to build a rail line for the Japanese connecting Bangkok with India in the Japanese take-over of SE Asia.

The standard Thai bike taxi. I can’t believe both our American butts fit in there!

After a few hours on a bus from Bangkok, we arrived yesterday at the bus station (where I used my first Asian toilet, but I’ll save that for my “how it’s different from home” blog).   We haggled a bit with a few taxi drivers and ended up in a tiny chariot pulled by bike that dropped us at the Jolly Frog for 40 Baht.   Probably too much (about $1.15), but oh well!   Our hotel has a great view of the River Kwai, a quaint courtyard with hammocks, a walking path down to the river where there are floating lounges, and a nice outdoor restaurant.

The courtyard at our beloved “Jolly Frog” lodgings

We were starving, so we opted immediately for a place called “Fine.”   All the food here is GREAT, no matter where we eat, and this place was no exception.   After dropping off our duds for a washing (20 Baht – about 60 cents), we strolled through town checking out the scene and looking into cooking courses.   We made reservations for the tour we went on today, and then settled in for another Thai massage.   I was disappointed  to find my masseuse was the old woman who hadn’t returned my smile on the sidewalk in passing two hours previous. Thais are smilers, but she was an exception.   About half the time I felt relaxed and well-rubbed.   The other half was uncomfortable, ticklish, and sometimes painful.   Don’t think I’ll go back there again!

Thanks to Nicole’s (last night of) jet lag, we had some delicious tom yum soup and green curry for dinner and then hit the sack.   We lasted until nine!

The Jolly Frog doesn’t have hot water, which isn’t a huge issue when the ambient temperature never gets below 75 degrees.   It’s a lot easier to take a cold shower in the afternoon when it’s above 85, however!   I ordered a traditional Thai breakfast (rice soup with chicken) and was amused when the waitress tried to bring it to the only Thai woman in the place.

We met our tour guides out front at 8am and loaded up for the ride to Erawan  Falls.   It was about a mile and a quarter to the seventh fall at the top following the  tiered river all the way.   We clambered over tree roots and boulders, crossed slippery pools, climbed and descended rickety staircases in the jungle heat and were greeted  with one of the most breathtaking spectacles of my life.   I immediately stripped to my suit and jumped in the pale blue water.   Weeee!!!

The best staircase on the walk to the falls. Toward the top, they were just gnarled twigs nailed onto  gnarled branches to form a makeshift ladder!
My favorite fall. The photo of the view from the top doesn’t do it justice, so I guess you’ll just have to come see it with your own eyes! 🙂

On the way down, I indulged in three more swims (I have dreams about swimming – I love it so much), before we were fed lunch at one of the restaurant stalls – spicy rice and veggies for me!   Then it was on to the “Hellfire Pass Memorial Museum” and to Hellfire Pass itself.

Many parts of the WWII Japanese rail-line claimed thousands of lives, including the construction of  the bridge over the River Kwai.   However, the clearing of Hellfire Pass claimed more lives than any single installation on the rail line.   Because the Japanese didn’t have the skills or technology for tunneling, captured Allied prisoners had to cut down through dense jungle and limestone rock to clear a path for the train. (i.e. they had to clear a tunnel AND everything that would normally be above a tunnel – a mini canyon in the mountainside.) Hellfire Pass, so named for the fires that burned as prisoners were forced to work 18 hours of backbreaking labor at a stretch, is an incredible and shocking place.

The entry to the huge length of line cleared for the Japanese railway by Allied prisoners and local laborers.

The memorial museum was enlightening and shocking, but the audio tour walking down hellfire pass was truly illuminating.   Listening to the testimonials of the prisoners as the sharp stones underfoot pressed into my sandals, I could vividly imagine the horror of being forced to work barefoot and starving, with festering jungle sores all over my mostly naked body carrying heavy rocks for hours while guards beat me at their whim.   Oh. my. god. I also learned what Cholera is today, thanks to the tour – a nasty, horrible, and terrifying disease.   Moving on, we visited a cave along the rail line that was used  as a base camp for the Japanese Army and then rode the “Death Train” along tapioca fields before being bussed to the bridge over the River Kwai.   The bridge ended up being un-inspirational, after spending so much time before I left reading about it.

The famous Bridge Over the River Kwai. I thought it would be more magnificent. Or maybe more… wooden.

It’s been highly commercialized, and its steel structures and concrete pilings make it seem like far less a task than the awful Hellfire Pass. We returned to our hotel sweaty and still slightly damp from the falls.   After a shower, we dropped off our laundry and headed out to dinner at a fantastic Indian restaurant (hey – you can’t eat Thai EVERY night!).   Before coming here, we booked our elephant trekking and swimming trip for tomorrow.   Can’t wait!!

Bangkok Tour

What a jam-packed day in Bangkok!   Nicole, thanks to her jet-lag, was up at 3am, 5am, etc wide awake (since it was respectively 3pm, 5pm in Omaha).   I, however, slept soundly until 7am, at which time we launched our busy day.

The hostel breakfast is adequate (bread, croissants, banana muffins, toast, jelly, butter, (some weird green spread the texture of pudding) watermelon, pineapple.

Jim Thompson’s living room with historical pieces from Thailand, China, Belgium, Italy, and more!

First stop was the Jim Thompson house.   At first, I wasn’t interested because it didn’t seem like Thai culture.   Really, it is.   My Grandma J. would have loved it.

The main house in the Jim Thompson grounds, made in classic Thai style with teak wood.

Jim Thompson was an architect and soldier who stayed in Thailand and helped grow and connect the silk trade to the rest of the world reaping great economic benefits for the Thais.   He also collected Asian artifacts (the part my grandma would love), and his traditional Thai house is filled with 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th century paintings, statues, imports, and more.   It was incredible!

The flowers are everywhere! My father would love all the different flowers here!

I learned, among other things,: 1) Why no shoes: The Thai take their shoes off often when entering buildings (in fact, I had to take mine off to come into this internet cafe) because traditionally they eat sitting in a circle on the floor.   For this reason, it is very important to them that the floor stays clean. 2) Thai Buddhas (different from the Chinese Buddhas most Americans are used  to) have long ears because it symbolizes long life. 3) Traditional Thai construction of doorways dictates that you step over a threshold about 12 inches high.   Originally, this kept babies from crawling out of the house when houses were always located on the river and the baby could drown easily.

A classic street vendor in Bangkok where I take my meals as often as possible. YUM! and cheap!

Conveniently, it down-poured while we were on our tour in the house.   Afterward, while it was sprinkling, we had some delicious business (rice and veggies with lots of good sauce) from a street vendor before hopping   back on the skytrain  to our next destination – Wat Pho.   Wat means temple, of which there are several, probably about 40 large ones, in Bangkok.   Wat Pho is the biggest and has the biggest reclining Buddha (indicating the exact moment of enlightenment) in all of Thailand. We had to take a river taxi to get there, which was less charming than I had hoped.   I pictured a quaint river surrounded by jungle canopy.   Nope.   Just a big rushing slur of muddy water with lilies floating everywhere and skyscrapers right up to the  cement banks.   C’est  la vie!   The taxi was fast and much cooler than a city bus or walking!

The temple grounds at Wat Pho.

The single most remarkable thing about the reclining Buddha at Wat Pho is its size!   Incredible!   After taking our shoes off, we were allowed to walk around the perimeter of the Buddha, almost half a football field in length!   The intricate painting of the walls was remarkable as well.   On the wat grounds, we saw hundreds of other Buddhas.   The intricate detail on everything from the roofs to the windows, the walkways, etc. was really amazing.

After we were wat-ted out (I can stare at mountains forever, but human-made objects hold my attention momentarily), we headed to the backpacker district.   We had chosen not to stay there because it is far away from all the public transport.   We walked the streets, bought some pineapple from a street vendor, window-shopped, and then headed inside for our first Thai massage  (by this time, Nicole was exhausted, it being 5am in Omaha).

About 1/5th of the largest reclining Buddha in Thailand!

The massage  (and the opportunity to rest for an hour) was wonderful.   It was different than  what you’d picture in the U.S.   Here, massages  are given in a roomful of mattress-sized cushions with your clothing on.   We got half reflexology  (foot) massage, and half Thai massage laying side by side on a raised platform.   The reflexology  was nice (and sometimes painful) – your basic foot massage.   The Thai massage is about pushing and pulling and poking and pressure points.   The move around your body a lot, but are always sitting next to you, between your legs, under your head, etc.   A lot of it was the kind of massage I am accustomed  to.   Some of it, however was surprising – like when the guy had me sit in front of him and somehow worked me from that position  to being face first up in the air on his feet like some kind of circus act.   It felt good, though, and it was fun!

Your basic Thai massage parlor depicting one of the basic massage moves. Stretchy, stretchy!

We headed back to the river afterwards, but decided to stop at Chinatown to make the most of our all-day boat pass.   Big mistake when tired.   It was dirty, heavily polluted (diesel fumes hanging in the air everywhere), smelled awful, dark, dirty, dirty, dirty, and gross.   After a mile lap around the neighborhood, we hopped our final  boat back to the skytrain and rode back to our hostel.   After some quick “Pad Thai”   (spicy noodles, bean sprouts, green onions, shrimp, egg, cabbage, lime, and peanuts) from a street vendor, we couldn’t help but collapse into our beds (yes, at 8 p.m.!)   I’ll try not to get used to getting so much rest! 🙂

Heaven On Earth

Probably the best decision we made so far on this trip was to skip Rio de Janiero, opting for some extra time on Ihla Grande,   a deserted tropical island covered in 100 square miles of Atlantic rain forest!

I kind of feel like a schmuck, coming to a country like this and skipping all the hub-bub.   After all, most people would say you haven ´t really been to Brazil unless you ´ve been to the biggest, most happening, most talked about cities in the nation.   But I can ´t say I wouldn ´t do the same thing again.   Neither Pat nor myself really care too much for big cities.   I mean, I love to visit, but if I ´m short on time, a huge, expensive, screaming, bustling city is at the bottom of my priority list.   So, while we didn ´t thoroughly explore Rio de Janiero, Salvador, Belem, Manaus (the Paris of the Tropics), or any of the other pulsating towns of Brazil, instead we were romanticized by Lencois, Bonito, Blumenau, Morretes, Puerto Iguazu, Uyuni, Jacuma, and Ilha Grande!

Ilha Grande was the perfect end to our amazing trip.   We arrived at night under a nearly-full moon, the outline of the island ´s steep mountains making it easy to see why this had once been a pirate ´s lair.   With the help of Daniel and his new wife greeting incoming tourists at the pier, we were escorted to a hostel and given a great room where we indulged in showers and some long overdue sleep in a real bed!

The next morning, after a delicious breakfast spread, tons of relaxing, and lunch at a pub, we got our gear together for a trip to one of the island ´s hundreded of beaches.   We plunked down in the sand under the sun near a freshwater river streaming into the clear, emerald sea.   We didn ´t lounge long.   After exploring the length of the beach, and finding some amazing black sand, we set  out for some swimming before beginning the timeless beach-project of burying one another in the sand.   We had a blast working fast and furiously against the tide, Pat engineering wave blockers while I dug out a hole big enough  to tuck his large frame into.

Once the sun had sunk behind the hills, we headed back for showers and a laid-back night on the town.   We stopped at the agency near our pousada to check prices on excursions, and got signed up for a hawaiian  out-rigger canoe trip.   She gave up coupons for free caipirinhas  (my favorite!) at a nearby creperia, so, after convincing Pat that crepes can be filled with more than strawberries and chocolate, we had an amazing dinner.   We topped it off with a stroll around town and carmelized strawberries dipped in chocolate.   MMm!!

The Hawaiian out-rigger canoe was an awesome adventure.   Although Pat ´s hips were too wide for the boat, we still had fun paddling around the island with our guide, an Italian couple, and another Brazilian, stopping to snorkel in the amazing, clear, greenish-blue waters full of all sorts of fish  (the zebra fish were my favorite) before landing on a white-sand beach.   We hauled the (heavy, heavy!) canoe onshore and headed up into the thick  rainforest to the Witch ´s Waterfall tucked high on a mountain slope.   It took a little convincing, but finally I joined the crowd and slid into the ice-cold spring water and up under the waterfall where the mountain water pounded my body under the thick forest canopy.   Our guide was right!   It really was  refreshing!

After we ´d had our fill, we headed back to the beach, where we once again strapped on our snorkels.   Snorkelling among the rocks was absolutely thrilling.   My heart pounded as I was surrounded by a giant school of flashing-silver fish swimming past.   Zebra fish and rock fish darted in and out of the mussel, coral, and plant covered rocks while I tried desperately not to get pounded into those rocks by the ever-present surf.   The highlight was the starfish and sandollar I spotted on the ocean floor.   I was swimming along, and suddenly, 25 feet down, I saw a huge white sand-dollar (the size of a tea plate), and right next to it, the biggest starfish I ´d ever seen.   About the size of your average desk-top computer screen.   I kept my eyes peeled, and I spotted at least seven more before we reluctantly pulled ourselves out of the clear, emerald green waters to begin our return journey.

That evening, we made the glorious mistake of going to an all-you-can  eat pizza buffet.   The slices are tiny, which means you get to try all twenty flavors without being insanely stuffed.   My favorite was the dessert variety of bananas and cinnamon-sugar.   Incredible!   The Portuguesa (their version of supreme with even more ingredients) and the garlic I would also highly recommend.   The problem, however, is the “all-you-can eat”  part.   Especially if you ´re an American, it ´s really “more-than-you-can-eat” (after all, you want to get your money ´s worth, don ´t you?),  which always makes for an uncomfortable evening.   Bellies over-full, we found a phone so I could try again to figure out what ´s going on with Ben Carver, and finally hiked the first stretch of a trail up into the mountains under the spooky, moonlit, rainforest canopy.

Now, here we are on the mainland awaiting our bus to our final destination!   I am both sad to be leaving, and thrilled to be going home.   We ´ve met so many wonderful people, seen so many amazing places, done so many incredible things, and learned lessons you can never pick up in a classroom.   We ´ve definitely honed our long-term travelling skills for next time, and are developing an aresenal of hints and tips.

Right now, we look forward to  a few days of meals and evenings with friends before we dive headlong into the tornado of moving and setting up shop 1,000 miles from wonderful Wyoming!

The Race is On

On the very off chance that you didn ´t already know, I ´m crazy, and it takes someone equally crazy to keep up with me.

After the mad dash to the rodoviária (bus station) in Belem where we hopped a last-minute bus to Fortaleza (not where we really wanted to go, but we missed the longer-distance bus), we spent  the rest of the day, all night, and most of the next day on the bus.   The first 15 hours were on a Bolivian quality road, but, thank god, on a Brazilian bus (air conditioning, padded seats, and leg room.   Heaven!).   The last 15 hours were uneventful, if not mind numbing.

When we got to Fortaleza, we tracked down tickets for our intended destination (Natal) where we hoped to take a dune buggy tour “with emotion” (i.e. the dune of death, ´vertical descent ´, etc.) on the tallest sand dunes in the world.   When we got there, however, the forecast of rain combined with nothing else to do in Natal made Jacumã the next destination.   We hopped a bus to the nearest tranportation hub in a town an hour away, and three hours later we were finally on our last bus ride (in a bus without shocks) headed for paradise after 48 hours of mind numbing and body cramping bus rides.   Who else would do this to themselves?

We didn ´t have very specific directions for our intended hotel (surprise, surprise), so we kept our eye out for the “viking ship painted on the water tower of Hotel Viking overlooking Jacumã.”   After several stops and random stints into different neighborhoods, Pat spotted it and said, “Oh… I think I see the Viking ship.”   The young woman next to us, a very helpful teenager, said, “Vee-keeng-guh?   Vee-keeng-guh?” to which we enthusiastically replied in the affirmative.   Apparently we had missed our stop, because she stood up and yelled, “Driver! Driver!   Stop the bus!!”   It sounds funnier in Portuguese, because “driver” is “moh-toe-rees-tah (motorista),”   So she really said, “Moh-toe-reeeeeeeeeeeeeeees-tah!   Moe-toe-reeeeeeeeeeees-tah!”   The bus ground to a halt, and we managed to lug our bags out the back door and make it through the turnstyle in a timely manner.   (You must go through the turnstyle.   Manually turning it to add a number to the counter is not allowed.   You must move your body through the turnstyle to exit the bus.   God knows why).

As soon as we got withing 200 feet of Hotel Viking, we knew this place must have changed since the guide book wrote a nice hotel for $13 a night.   This place was a full-blown theme hotel complete with tiered pools with a dragon winding through them before coming to rest as a fountain/waterfall at the head of the largest pool.   We decided to check the price just in case, and lucky us… thanks to their winter special, we managed to swing a room at the very tippy top of our price range.   So, we got to spent three days and two nights in a luxurious hotel room complete with fancy bathroom, air-conditioning, mini-bar, and television.   Very posh.

We spent a good three hours recuperating from our die-hard bus travels before venturing out for dinner.   We didn ´t realize that since it ´s “winter” here (i.e drops below 60 at night), the town would be wiped out.   We tried to find all the restaurants in our guide book, but they were all shut down.   We settled on a pizzaria/restuarant that had the crab-coconut soup that I ´ve been dying to try on the menu.   However, as per the usual, they never have what they say they have on the menu, so I ended up with rice and beans and spent the last 30 minutes of our meal watching Pat eat his garlic shrimp that were way more work and money than they were worth.   Peel and eat should be avoided if you ´re at all hungry.   The upside was the excellent caipirinhas… a $.75 cocktail made with local liquor, limes, sugar, and ice that both of us think is to-die-for.

We crashed hard when we got back to the hotel, and welcomed the following morning with the hotel ´s fantastic buffet breakfast.   Once the clouds rolled out, we headed to the beach.   In the off season, there are no taxi ´s or minibusses, so we braved the task of walking the 5 miles to the beach instead of paying $25 to have the hotel run us around.   After two miles, I was sick of walking on the highway surrounded in forest with no ocean view.   We had talked about hitching, but chickened out every chance we got.   Finally, I had enough and swore I ´d stick my thumb out for the next pick-up that happened along.   Finally a VW van came into view, and I mustered up enough courage to stick my thumb out.   To my surprise, they pulled over!   As they got closer, I saw it was a pickup with a flat front, much like a VW… strange because you ´d never see it in the U.S.   I asked it they were going to Tambaba (our beach of choice), and they told us to hop in.   So, we gratefully climbed over the sides of the truck (only 1 ft. tall) and sat down for the rest of the ride up and down hills and around corners.   Thank god we weren ´t walking!

The beach we were headed to is divided in two by a cliff with a staircase bridge leading up and over to Brazil ´s only nude beach in the northeast.   Praia Tambaba (Tambaba Beach) was insanely gorgeous with beautiful rock outcroppings providing amazing scenery full of crashing waves all day long.

A view of the cliffs of Tambaba where we spent most of our beach time and fried like Lobsters.

A view of the Tambaba beach at high tide from the tops of the cliffs overlooking this little paradise.

The ocean was warm, but refreshing, and we ended up spending the whole day with Altanir and Muceio, the couple that picked us up, sharing beers, garlic shrimp, vienna sausages, mandarins, and peanuts.   Altanir showed us how to dig naturally occuring zinc out of the cliff and use it as sunscreen, and Muceio kept us entertained, despite the language barrier.   We failed to properly utilize sunscreen (we applied after our first dip in the ocean), and my back, shoulders, and upper bum are so burnt that I can ´t comfortably wear my backpack.   Poor Pat, with his Swedish blood, turned into a lobster.   I hope the pictures we took that night of our burns come out.   Lesson learned.

When we left the beach, Altanir and Muceio took us to another beach just so we ´d get to see it before we left, and then drove us by the lot they ´d just purchased where they plan to build a pousada in the near future.   They were renting a friend ´s bungalow for the week, so we went to the friend ´s house where a dinner party was in full swing.   We met an awesome couple from São Paulo, and another couple that had just returned to South America after living in Miami in the states for 11 years (a Brazilian and and Argentinian).   They got  us excited about investment opportunities in the area, so now Pat and I are daydreaming about  owning beach front  real estate with sky-rocketing property value in Brazil.

My favorite beach in Jacum… called Coqueirinho, I think.

The next morning, before we left  Jacumã, Muceio and Altanir took us to another beautiful beach where a river runs into the ocean.   We were too sunburned to  partake in the swimming, but the views were gorgeous, and instead we  shared fries, crab and coconut stew (finally!), a whole crab served in  coconut milk, and fish stew (better than the crab, I must admit) to finish off the session.   We jumped back in the truck and headed for the bus stop, but passed the bus on the main road on the  way back into  town.    Our initial reaction was disappointment at the prospect of having to wait another hour  for the next bus, but Altanir and Muceio ´s first reaction was to flag the bus  down for us!   I love this way of life!   So, the bus and all it ´s passengers patiently waited alongside the road as we loaded our bags and said our  goodbyes.   I love Jacumã!

I’ll Die with My Eyes Squeezed Shut

I realized, as our taxi raced up on a semi  hauling logs going ten miles an hour for the third time, that  if I don ´t die of natural causes, I will die with my eyes squeezed shut.   But I ´m getting ahead of myself.

Our stay on the Bolivian side of the border in Guajaramirim ended without much fanfare.    Since we planned on exiting  Sunday morning as early as possible, we went Saturday afternoon to get our exit stamps.   After much inquiry  to the police at the ferry dock, and several taxi drivers offering to take us to immigration (two  blocks down the street), we finally found the building, doors closed and padlocked.    Some fellows were sitting around a cart outside playing cards, so  I asked them if they knew when office opened.   Bolivian accents, especially in the lowlands,  are near impossible to understand unless that ´s where you learned Spanish.   If you ´ve ever seen Snatch, with Brad Pitt, you know what I ´m talking about it.   The film features a group of Pikey ´s who speak English so muddled that the whole movie is sub-titled.   Anyway… once I realized the men were saying the office was only open on Tuesday (lunes) and not “in the evenings” (luna means moon, and I thought it might be a colloquial way of refering to the evening hours), it didn ´t take long to understand that the only way to get a stamp on any day but Tuesday is to go to the passport official ´s house.   OH.   THAT ´S why all the taxis were trying to take us to immigration.   And somewhat strange… this woman is like the mayor.   Everyone knows where she lives and what she does.

So, we hailed a moto-taxi cum chariot, with a canopied-cart meant to seat three.

Youd think maybe youd feel safer in a nice big cart instead of clinging to the back of the moto taxi driver. Not so.

We bumped our way across town until we hit the outskirts.   Finally we pulled up outside a walled-in, compound-esque house (almost all houses are like this all over Latin, Central, and South America) with a HUGE party going on.   Pink and Yellow balloons hid every inch of wall space and plenty of dressed-up folk roamed with drinks in hand as music blared from an impressive sound system.   The taxi driver kind of left us to our own devices, but thankfully the gringos were quickly noticed and dealt with.   The passport official held out her hand for our passports, and we hesitantly turned them over.   She disappeared into the house, and came back a few minutes later with paper work, a stamp, and an ink pad.   On her kitchen counter, next to the raw chicken, she flipped through our pages, recorded the appropriate information, stamped us, and sent us on our way.   Thanks for visiting Bolivia.   Come Again Soon!

Thanks to the advice of one of the other hotel guests, a Brazilian who looked mid-twenties and told us he was an undercover cop investigating a drug trafficking investigation, we decided to wait until Monday to leave.   Our guide book, although occasionally inaccurate, promised no boats until Tuesday.   We wanted to check for ourselves, but assuming they weren ´t wrong, we ´d be spending lots of money unneccesarily (sleeping and eating are lots more expensive in Brazil).   So we stuck around for another day, during which time we got quite a bit more suspicious of Samuel (the Brazilian undercover-cop).   Why would he tell us he was an undercover cop?   Why would he offer to drive us around São Paulo when we get back there?   Why would he offer to take us to the airport (!)?   We think we won ´t be calling him.

So, we burned another day sitting around the plaza watching all the families on motorcycles – everything from dirt-bikes to mopeds.   We never saw more than four people on one bike, but shockingly we saw women hauling around plenty of tiny babies.   Even newborns!   Eating at a cafe, we watched a woman and her friend crawl into their SUV, both carrying 18 month-old children on their laps.   I couldn ´t figure out why that looked so weird to me until I realized that I never saw it in the U.S. because it ´s illegal!   We also got treated to a military parade (both the land and sea units) marching around the plaza, albeit sloppily (according to Pat and all his army expertise).

Monday morning we finally escaped Bolivia by ferry, if you can call it that.   Everyone loaded on to a 25 foot boat with bench seats all the way back, and then we motored across the Rio Mamoré with the top edge of our boat inches from the water ´s surface.   Sketchy!

When we set foot on shore, we were checked for Yellow Fever Vaccinations for the first time ever.   You ´d be crazy not to have one – the sickness is potentially lethal, and if you don ´t die, you ´ll wish you would the whole time you ´re sick.   After getting entrance stamps from the Policia Federal, we walked the mile and a half  to the bus station in the sweltering heat.   Funny, because we didn ´t have a map of the town… just lacksadasical directions from a Canadian biologist we met.   So, we kept asking the ice cream vendors (soft serve on every third corner).   They kept saying, “Oh!   It ´s so far!   So, so, so, so far.   You just go and go and go and go.   Ask when you get closer.”   Finally, we asked one of these people to quantify for us, after we ´d walked over a mile.   I said, “Like a kilometer, or what?”   She said, “oh… no, not that far.   But ten blocks at least.”   Funny to see the different perceptions.   Maybe it ´s the tropical climate; nobody ´s crazy enough to walk more than four blocks in the heat.

At the bus station, thanks to a bicycle companion we ´d picked up along the  way (people love practising their English here, and jump at the chance to speak with us), we managed to quickly assess our travel situation.   Our intended destination was three hours away, and we needed to arrive as soon as possible to stake out the boat situation for the following morning.   The $17 bus didn ´t leave for seven hours, but the $22 dollar taxi was ready to jet.   So we sprung for the extra expense and headed back to the ferry dock (retracing the entire distance we ´d just walked) to pick up two more passengers.   The condition of the road was astounding in both great and terrifying ways.   The first hour or so was heaven compared to Bolivia ´s highway offerings.

However, the potholes that reared their ugly heads for the last few hours made for a heart-pounding experience.   Our driver (not to mention all the other cars on the road), kept it steady between 80 and 95.   We don ´t slow down for potholes.   We just swerve.   Usually towards the center of the road (although not the center line – they don ´t have one of those).   If there ´s oncoming traffic, we swerve towards the outside – my heart leaping into my throat each time as there is no shoulder.   I ´m not a very fearful person, and I (perhaps moronically) believe that I will not get hurt, a requisite personality trait for every risk taker.   However, as we swerve within millimeters of a sure crash, or race up on a semi nearly running under the back end, I continue to think everything will be fine until the second before I think death or injury is certain.   Then I involuntarilly squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath.   The long drive gave me plenty of time to think, and after several of these experience, I realized I am almost certain to die with my eyes squeezed shut.

Our arrival in Porto Velho was sudden and unexpected.   Suddenly we were dumped out of the cab with every tour agent looking to make a buck trying to get us to buy a ticket to one of the many boats floating at the end of several steep and somewhat ramshackle staircases.

Right before my brain exploded, we settled on the AlmTE Alfredo Zanys and set about stringing our hammocks.   With much luck, we found an incredible dinner of rice, beans, meat skewers, farofa, and veggies for $1.25 a plate and ice cream for just as cheap.   The peanut butter is my favorite!   Back on the boat, we got acquainted with Anthony from Austria and Prash from London.   Anthony had just spent a year and a half in Bolivia doing his civil service.   He told us about all the women in his williage who would go to wisit the other willages, yah.   Anthony liked to hear himself speak English, but never really had much to say.   Prash was really awesome… a 19 year-old college student with an easy going attitude.   We watched a really terrible movie about vampires (BloodRayne) dubbed in Portuguese and subtitled in English.   Great for learning Portuguese, and you hardly notice the cheesiness when you ´re so focused on learning how to say “We are starting to lose our strength, Maldone!”   Afterwards, we had a few more beers with the two gringos (do you have to be white to be a gringo?   I guess so…).   We got to rub elbows with the both of them, and plenty of other folk, for the next couple of days. With a promised departure of noon, we woke up the next morning after our first night in our hammocks (not bad!) and hustled to the village for supplies and breakfast.   Three o ´clock rolled around, and we were wishing we hadn ´t hurried so much.   By five, we finally cast off down the Rio Madeira, embarking on our first Amazon boat trip.

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!

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!”

Push, shove, grab, jostle… whatever it takes!

I feel like we`ve been to hell and back, but as they say here, “Vale la pena.”   Literally, “the pain has value” or in English, “it`s worth it.”

We`ve finally arrived in Uyuni, the jumping off point for the spectacular Salt Flats.   To get here on the incredibly tight time schedule, we spent three days straight getting crappy sleep on trains and busses, living out of bus terminals, not showering, and wearing clothes so dirty I was afraid to touch my own body.   From Quijarro to Santa Cruz, we rode the train, nearly a 24 hour journey.   All in all not bad, but 24 hours on a train still makes for an exhausted couple of travellers.   In Santa Cruz, as we suspected, we got taken on our bus tickets.   We paid double the price ($12 instead of $6).   The agency took our money, scribbled out some faux tickets, went and bought tickets from another agency for half the price, made up some story about a later departure than they originally told us (the bus is having mechanical problems or some such nonsense), and then last minute escorted us personally to the front door of the bus from the second agency and handed us the 1/2 price tickets.   I was too shocked to really say anything, but now I regret not getting somewhat miffed and demanding that they return at least 1/2 of the extra money.   From Santa Cruz to Sucre was to be the most comfortable bus ride of them all, little did we know.   We left Santa Cruz in the evening, travelled overnight, and arrived Sucre early morning hoping to go directly to Potosì (we`ve no time for stops in between major destinations since we`ve committed ourselves to such a demanding schedule).   We managed to get a bus leaving at 9:00am (we`re now on day three of travel with no real sleep, mind you).   Thankfully, the small bus (seats for 26)  was not crowded, and Pat was able to have a seat all to himself with a vast expanse of leg room.   Or so we thought.   We left the terminal, but stopped every few blocks until the bus got so full, that I jumped over to share Pat`s seat with him.   At one stop, the seats finally filled up, but people kept cramming onto the bus.   I had the aisle seat, which meant plenty of other people`s stinky body parts  in my face.   It turns out my shoulders were the perfect place for aisle-standers to sit whenever they needed to let someone else squeeze by.   Finally we were on the road, as I squirmmed to maintain the small space I had paid for.   Slowly but surely, the woman and her child standing just slightly in front of me started to inch their way into my foot space until the child was actually standing on my feet.

Average Bolivian road. Did I mention they`re generally not paved. 7-12 hours on a bumpy dirt road in a shoddy bus is the norm. At least it`s cheap!
bolivia-bus

Typical Bolivian bus. I`m glad for the experience, but I want to repeat it as little as possible.

Side note:  it`s really difficult for me, being from a country where there is enough for everyone, and everyone waits their turn (at least in the cities and environments that I live, work, and play in) to be in a place like this.   In the U.S., our golden motto is: do unto others as you would have them do unto you.   Here in Bolivia, it seems to be: do unto others whatever you need to do to get whatever you want.   Because in the U.S., if you are patient and wait in line, surely your turn will come.   Here, if you are patient and wait in line, your turn will never come because people will continue to shove in front of you.   I try not to be appalled, and I try to remind myself continuously that most of these people are quite poor and have to fight for everything they have (or at least more so than I am used to), but sometimes I can`t help but be frustrated and annoyed.

And, the bus between Sucre and Potosì was no exception.   The constant battle with the woman and her child for the leg/foot space I had paid for was a definite test of my resolve.   The low point was when the woman, who had finally decided to put her butt in the aisle and her feet on top of mine, instead of vice versa, covered the mouth of her coughing child.   Wait, not coughing.   Wretching, I realized too late, as the three-year-old boy projectile vomited across my feet!   I managed to jerk my feet out of the way just in time to miss the main stream, and sat crouched like a monkey in my seat for the next (and last) hour of the trip to avoid the mess.   This, of course,  pleased the woman, because it meant more room for her as she stretched the rest of the way into the area the bus designer intended for my knees, shins, and feet and squeezed her son between the wall and Pat`s knees.   I wish I were kidding.

You`d think that was the low point, but instead, I`d say we hit bottom and flat-lined.   When we got to Potosì, the highest city in the world, we missed the afternoon Uyuni departure by an hour, and the only mine tour we had time to go on by 1/2 an hour.   We bought our evening departure Uyuni tickets, only to find that the bus didn`t leave from the main terminal, but from another office.   The man behind the counter would only give me vague, half-hearted directions (are we getting scammed again!?), so we finally left to wander around in hope we could find said office.   After walking uphill for fifteen minutes  in the thin, dry atmosphere of the highest city in the world looking like lost tourists, we were finally redirected to the office we sought by a woman hoping to sell us bus tickets.   We were able to drop our bags and wander about the streets hoping to find lunch, but it seemed chicken and fried potatoes were the only fare on order.   Bolivia is well known for it`s lack of cleanliness and therefore rampant food poisioning if you are a first-world traveller unaccustomed to the bacterial-onslaught.   Therefore, we thought it best to avoid the chicken, and no place would sell us just fried potatoes.   So, tummies rumbling, we ambled slowly (to avoid the headaches, etc. brought on by any kind of fast paced activity at 13,400 ft.) up and down the streets until we saw a slightly more promising restaurant (i.e. with a menu instead of just having to know what`s being served and how it all works).   Finally Pat was able to get a coke and a quesadilla with rice, and I was able to use the first clean bathroom I`d seen in four days. Alleluia!

After lunch, we set about procuring more food for the bus trip, but the food on offer is so unfamiliar to us that I ended up just getting roasted corn (a less salty form of Corn Nuts), some bread, and some choclate.   Finally I found a stand selling fresh sopapillas and downed two before we finally tossed our bags up top and boarded the tiny onibus for the worst bus ride of our lives.   A tour group boarded immediately after us.   Groups tend to be annoying at the least, and outright rude and disrespectful of everyone else at the most.   Except for the loud boisterous chatter, the ten Russians weren`t bad.   It was seven o`clock, and we were finally off to Uyuni, where laundry and hot showers awaited us.   Oh, but don`t get excited yet.   We were told the ride would be six to seven hours.   Depressing because it meant an early morning arrival with questionable potential to sleep on the bus until sunrise.   Ten miles down the road, we started praying it would be just six hours instead of the potential seven.   The seats on the bus were no wider than my shoulders (which means 1/2 as wide as Pat`s), and the padding in the seats had gone out long ago, which meant our bones were purchased on metal rods.   Roads in Bolivia are known for being shoddy at best, and eternally miserable at worst.   Our road was somewhere inbetween.   Pat tried to solve his seat-width issue by flipping his arm rest up, but every bump tossed him into the aisle.   My attempts to sleep were futile, as were Pat`s.   At the first stop we decided to try and layer ourselves across the two seats.   Pat wiggled into place first, and as I struggled to find a comfortable position on top of him, the Russians started disscussing our collective plight with us.   Pat commented that he was to big, to which the man behind us said in his wonderfully thick Russian accent, “No!   Not too big!   The bus is too small!”   Shortly thereafter, one his friends offered to trade us seats.   Five seats stretched across the back of the bus, one at the end of the aisle, which meant limitless leg room.   We made the rest of the ride in slightly better condition and arrived three hours earlier than expected.   A tour peddler awaiting the arrival of the bus shuttled us to a hotel and we got to sleep in a bed for the first time in four days.

If we can`t get the boat from central Bolivia to the Brazilian border, this is the road we will travel for 30 hours. Please, God, no.

Now, here we are.   Uyuni is cold and dry.   We sleep under eight blankets, but I actually don`t mind the cold.   It makes me feel like I`m camping, and I am happier here than I have been in days.   Today, we finally got our clothes washed, and we had a nice hot shower for the first time in days.

Today marks five months of dating, or whatever you might call it, so tonight we are celebrating with a feast at a pizza buffett.   We have to hurry up and choose a tour as well as get onward tickets (I hear it`s quite easy to get stuck here) to LaPaz, but today has been wonderfully relaxing.

I am so looking forward to the salt flats.   The altitude never drops below 14,000, and it`s winter here (no snow… that comes in the wet season… summer), so I am fully prepared to freeze my butt off.   I can`t wait!