Fat Penguins!!!

This has been one loooong day!

When the incessant beeping of my travel alarm woke me up at 6:30, I was immediately glad I had indulged in a shower the day before. More sleep is ALWAYS better. I enjoyed my snoozes before cramming everything into my pack to be stored behind the reception desk while I was out enjoying the island.

The same man who had plagued me with unrelenting questions about myself the night before was still attending the desk in the lobby. He brightened when I entered the room and my heart sunk at trying to make phony conversation this early in the morning. He insisted that I wait inside for the tour to come and pick me up until I finally lied and said it departed from the agency. I crossed my fingers hoping that he wouldn`t check-up on me via the window near the desk.

The tour bus was one of the least interesting I`ve seen down here; straight-backed, school bus seats in brown with very little leg room. I made my way to the back where the seats sit a few inches higher. On our thirty minute journey to Paracas (the departure bay), we passed several offshore rigs and several fish food factories which made me endlessly thankful to only have endured the smell of burning coal in connection with my work history. I couldn`t even imagine spending a lifetime reeking of fish. The guide told us that the offshore rigs were natural gas wells, or something of the sort, and all of it was being piped to Mexico, the U.S., and Canada. Where do Peruvians get their natural gas, then?

We arrived in Paracas and were immediately consumed by the permeating fish-smell and the chaos of several disorganized tour agencies. Pelicans, tamed by constant contact with humans took the strip of beach by storm to catch the small fish tossed from local hands in hopes of tips from tourists. I`ve seen plenty of pelicans before, but I`ve never been close enough to see the unmatched texture of their expandable pouch beneath their bill. And they are such large birds! Incredible! I was mid-sentence in my book when I heard my name called and was herded back onto a bus and hauled off down the road.

I found myself among several new faces, and the person in charge of our group seemed to be constantly changing. Our numbers multiplied and divided many times as we passed through several buildings and finally arrived at the dock where a jet boat meant for 40 awaited. I dumped myself into a seat and introduced myself to Cliff from Philadelphia (originally Atlanta). For the first time in weeks, I was blessed with the company of someone who appreciates the sharp cynicism that often comes pouring out of my mouth. Sarcasm is definitely my element, and I love when I can make people laugh. We had in common our experiences with crew (he`s a professional in training) and journeys to Mardi Gras. He made the trip worth every penny!

The trip out to the island was an adventure in itself for me. I am such a water baby. And how!? Growing up in the semi-desert of Wyoming, who would have thunk? However, I found myself flashing back to childhood memories of boat rides across Keyhole Resivoir, gleeful with the wind in my hair and my hand plunged into the water alongside the boat where the wake was being born.

When we got close enough to the island to make out it`s inhabitants, I realized I had failed to acknowledge one crucial detail about this whole excursion. Isla Ballestas is known both for it`s abundant wildlife (especially birds) and the corresponding guano industry that results. Guano, if you are unfamiliar with the term, is the more elegant word for bird poo (also used in reference to bats). Turns out it makes a fantastic fertilizer. The part I failed to foresee is the not-so-fantastic smell. UGH! My delight was momentarily quelled.

The geography of the island was, in itself, a sight to behold. Sandstone continuously carved by the sea left caves and grooves awash with a multitude of colors. All different species of birds swarmed the island, as thick as carpet in places. And, to my very pleasant surprise, PENGUINS waddled around on the beaches. I have always wanted to see penguins in the wild, not to mention that Nate and I have an ongoing joke about them, so I was pretty well ecstatic at first sighting. I always thought I`d have to venture towards Antarctica to get a glance at the odd birds, but here they were! Half way around the island, sea lions played on beaches and struggled up out of the sea onto rocks. They used their flippers just like hands and feet! It was so cool! Along with crabs clinging like starfish to the seaside cliffs, we also go to see the home of the three rangers who are the keepers of the island. Yet another job I am endlessly thankful not to be stuck with. I can`t even imagine breathing drying guano all day long.

The return journey brought more childhood memories (Dad, can we go to Keyhole next time I come home?) and my first sight of seagulls getting their own food instead of bumming off the beach leavings. They dive into the water just like Osprey! It was so cool to watch them cannon-ball into the ocean again and again as we cruised across the waves of the sea.

Back on shore there was more chaos as they  separated  us into groups of those who would continue on the afternoon tour, and those who were headed back to Pisco. I had gracefully bowed out of the afternoon portion, recognizing it as merely a way to burn time and an excuse to charge more money.

When I arrived back in town, I headed straight for the laundromat. The señora there was very clear about pick-up time. If I didn`t get my clothes by 12:30 (it was 11:45) they would be closed for siesta until 5 p.m. As I approached the establishment, I noted an awkward-looking fellow who had planted himself right in front of the entry way. As I tried to skirt around him, I realized that he was guarding the door. Just then, the señora pulled up in a three-wheeled taxi (see photo) and told me in rapid Spanish to come back later. When I responded with a confused look, they just kept begging me to please come back later. The door-guard promised me they wouldn`t be closed, so I  reluctantly  searched out some lunch.

Determined to try to local fare, I stepped into a restaurant and went through each offering with the waitress. Even if you can translate the name of the dish, it rarely provides any clue as to the ingredients. I decided on some kind of meat with rice and the local potato (they`re different everywhere!), and was chowing down on some of the most delicious food when suddenly a group of thirty men poured into the restaurant. They seemed to own the place as they helped themselves to drinks and baskets of bread. I wish I had the guts to strike up conversation with a table of them, but nagging thoughts of my clothes stuck for five hours inside the locked laundromat doors nudged me towards the exit.

Back at the laundromat, the señora hadn`t returned, but the doors were still open. I sat trying to read my book while simultaneously tuning out the American heavy-metal blaring from speakers in the back room. Ten pages and 30 minutes later, irritation started to fester as I wiggled and tapped my fingers. Suddenly another three-wheeled taxi pulled up, and out jumped a young woman, bag in hand. I unwrapped the yellow plastic to take inventory as she explained that their electricity had gone out leaving them without a dryer. I dug in my pockets for my seven soles as I tried to fend off her profuse apologies and headed back to the hostel lobby to pack my bag.

Finally the conversation monger in reception had been replaced by a very pleasant young woman who was delighted for the momentary boredom-cure I provided. I packed my newly cleaned clothes into my backpack as she shuffled through my photos, and then got her advice on how to get from town to the highway, and then from there to Cuzco. I added her advice to the plethora I`d already collected, and headed for the local transportation hub. Like the woman at the hostel, one of the guys yelling out destinations was drinking some kind of pop/soda. They had both been sucking it out of a straw plunged into a plastic bag, like the kind you`d use to bring a goldfish home from the store. Strange. I mounted the steps of a “God loves you” bus, and waited for it to fill. Since I had never really gotten a straight answer about where to get off the bus, I was super alert as we rattled down the road. The most consistent response I had gotten was “San Clemente,” but I had a hard time believing the intersection at the PanAmerican had a name. When I thought I was in the right place, I just asked if we were at the highway, and jumped off after getting a positive confirmation.

I had been under the impression that I could wait at the intersection and hitch a bus in the afternoon that was headed to Cuzco. However, after my Nazca experience, I realized that many bsses will pick you up, and many won`t. Wanting to save money, but wanting even more to be guaranteed a seat on a bus, I wandered into one of the only bus offices. After much muddy conversation with the young woman behind the counter, I discovered that I would have to go to Ica, two hours away, to get on the bus, even if I purchased my ticket at the intersection. Because people find it annoying, buses that go long distances stop as little as possible. So, I declined her ticket offer hoping to find something cheaper in Ica, and headed to the other side of the highway to hail the next set of wheels headed that way. I waited mere seconds before an Ica-bound bus saved me from the scorching desert heat.

Upon arrival in Ica, I sweated my way from station to station to find the lowest bidder and finally settled on Flores. Ticket in hand and backpack behind the counter, I headed for the center of town to  replenish  my rations, check out the churches and pretty plazas, and get my daily dose of internet. Cuzco, here I come!

Sand Trapped Brain Fry

I think I’ve got a perma-case of Jello brain. Seriously. Actually, I feel the haze slowly lifting, but it’s been awhile. Almost a week, actually. With any luck, normalcy will soon be knocking at my door. I think a huge contributing factor is that I’ve been unexpectedly travelling across this vast expanse of desert (see photo) that apparently encompasses a huge chunk of South America. Hey. And it’s at the same latitude as the Sahara. Go figure. It’s definitely messing with my mind. Every time I wake up, I feel like I’m still on the set of some  bizarre  movie. It’s like the way the scenery used to repeat itself in old films.

the week-long view from the bus window (atacama desert)

the week-long view from the bus window (atacama desert)

When we got back from the Colca Canyon/Condor tour, I wanted nothing more than to bury my head in a pillow and let my mind go blank for eternity. Unfortunately for me, I had enlisted the ticket-booking services of my hotel pre-departure. My $55 soles worth of bus ticket was waiting for me at the front desk, leaving me no choice but to dive headlong into the next leg of my journey. It’s probably better. I’ll get the same brain rest on the bus sleeping: it’s just getting to the bus that’s the challenge. If I was with someone else, it might be more relaxing to stay put. Alone, however, I can’t do anything to make my brain feel any better, and I’d make a terrible new friend, so why not keep moving?

A dinner of Snicker’s bar (oh, for shame!) and chunk of bread I bought off a vendor on the corner accompanied me to the bus station. The taxi driver wouldn’t have said a single word to me if I hadn’t asked him about seat belt laws while he was strapping in.

The ride to Nazca was relatively uneventful. My backpack wouldn’t fit under the seat like it usually does, so I had to sit with my knees against my chin most of the way. The woman I sat next to and her travelling companion were really funny. The younger one complained as a man sat down next to her, “Jeez. I always have to sit next to a guy!” Definitely within earshot of the man settling into the window seat. Polite comes in very different shades down here.

I’m finding out, as I’m thumbing through my guide book, that this trip couldn’t have been timed any better. Not that it really was timed. I’m hitting all the seasons just right everywhere I go. In the south, I missed the summer crowds but made it before the winter rains and snows. In the north, I missed the rainy season and am just beating the winter crowds. Awesome!

Also awesome was the dinner on the bus. Usually I just pick through the “airplane-food-like” offerings and nibble whatever looks most nutritious/tolerable. But the food was amazing this time! Some kind of pineapple, chicken, sweet and sour rice business. Not to mention, I slept fantastically. Almost too well. They had to physically shake me away when we got to Nazca. Good thing they were looking out for me, or I would have woken up in Lima!

It was at this point (my arrival in Nazca) that things took a turn for the… well, less preferable. They said ten hours minimum for the ride, which meant we should arrive in Nazca at 5 am. My plan was just to hunker down in the bus station and wait for the sun to come up. But as I fumbled for my glasses and my alarm clock (my only time-piece), I swear I read 3:25 on the display. No way. Couldn’t be. Yup. It is. I had been so exicted about arriving early morning and not having to get a hostel. As such, I firmly resolved that I would still wait it out, even though it meant two extra hours at the station. “The station” it turned out, was actually just a little office with a bunch of plastic lawn chairs, a desk, and television.

The young woman working the nightshift, Maribel, was super nice and really funny. I was asking her about bus schedules for Cuzco, since I would have to return to Nazca to go east. She walked me around to all the different agencies and helped me get info. In our travels about the area, it struck me how forward people are about appearances here and in Mexico. At one station, the counter wasn`t being attended, but Maribel knew who was supposed to be there. “Gordito!” she yells. “Venga!” Translation? “Hey little fattie! Get over here!” I explained to her how funny I thought that was, because it would be so offensive in the states. Do people here have a healthier body image?

Speaking of healthy, by the time I arrived in Nazca, I had pretty much run myself out of food. I dozed a little in the station between the poundings on the window by the folks trying to lure me to a hostel or sell me tours of the Nazca lines. The Nazca lines were what I had come to see, but I wasn`t about to take a tour. The “lines” are actually several giant figures of various things (monkey, lizard, tree, hands) made from removing lava rock from the surface of the desert and exposing the lighter colored sand underneath. No one is entirely sure how they got there, but due to their immense proportion (some several kilometers in length and width!), they`re a huge draw card for the area. The lines are best seen from the air, a plane ride that costs about $1 a minute and lasts for half an hour. There is also a viewing platform out in the middle of the desert that allows you to see three figures. It costs $0.30. That`s my kind of tour! I thought if I learned about the lines first, just seeing a few examples would satisfy me and keep my pocketbook in check.

As soon as the sun came up, I was itching to feed myself and build up my knowledge base about the lines. Being this close to the equator, though, means that the sun comes up awfully early, even in the winter. From 6 – 7:30, I wiggled in my seat anxious for things to open so I could get moving. Maribel offered to watch my backpack while I ran around town, so I was able to set off without the usual weight on my shoulders. I`ve become accustomed to creating my own tour by visiting agencies as a potential customer, where-upon they give you all the maps and info you need to be able to do it yourself. Score! Worked again. I found a shop a few blocks away that had internet to serve all my research needs, and then asked a street sweeper where I should eat breakfast. I`ve found that if you ask someone from the working class for food suggestions, they`ll generally direct you somewhere with fantastic food for bottom dollar prices. If you ask a shop-owner or a police officer, they`ll usually send you to a place they think best represents their community, which means top dollar items. As I ate my scrambled eggs with toast, jelly, butter, and coffee, I savored the rare moment of being the only gringo in sight. The coffee here is served really strangely. It sits in a container on the table right alongside the salt and pepper. I actually mistook it for  balsamic  vinegar, complete with cork. When the waitress brought me a steaming hot cup of water, she felt compelled to push the  balsamic  vinegar  towards me in response to my confused look. Turns out the liquid in permanent residence on the table is like espresso to the power of ten. You just pour in a tablespoon or so and you`ve got a fantastic cup of coffee.

Belly full, I went back to the station to pick up my pack and catch a local bus out into the desert. I have to say that I really LOVE the way transportation is done here. I lament the fact that we don`t really have anything similar in the U.S. If you want to go anywhere here, all you have to do is find out the location of the transportation hub. Then, you just stand around waiting for drivers and fare collectors to yell out the name of your destination. You can go by car, van, truck, or bus, depending on how much you want to pay. When you hear your destination, you can haggle over the price a bit and give your business to the lowest bidder. Everyone is vying for passengers, and they have some HILARIOUS tactics to pull folks out of the woodwork. I heard my  destination  called and saw the bus closet to the vendor start to pull away. I nodded my head as I hurried toward him, and settled into my seat with a sigh of relief and my pockets $0.60 lighter. Thank god I made it! We started to pull forward. Then stopped. Then the driver revved the engine and started yelling out the  destination  again. Funny! They never intended to leave. Empty seats mean lost money. They just want to scare up as many people as quickly as possible. So, I sat sweating in the heat for ten more minutes, amused as grandmothers, teenagers, and families trickled onto the bus. Finally, one of the engine revs was real and we jetted forward, packed like sardines and rattling down the PanAmerican Highway.

The sun burned through the window onto my arms and face as we passed mile after mile of vast nothingness. No sign of life. They say the Nazca lines are hundreds of years old, and have survived mainly due to the fact that not even the wind inhabits this bleak environment. Suddenly the ticket collector approached me with, “Mirador?” (the viewing stand). Befuddled, I nodded, wondering why he would think anything had changed in the past twenty minutes. Understanding slowly washed over as he motioned toward the front of the bus. They don`t like to waste time down here, and I recollected that buses rarely come to a complete stop, both getting off and on. He wanted me to get ready to jump! One problem. Here we are where I can see for miles, and where exactly is this watchtower? Why, hidden behind the driver`s shoulder, of course. I said a sheepish thank you, having subtly accused them of trying to dump me in the middle of nowhere, and crossed the deserted highway to the very out-of-place pile of scrap metal.

Three locals sat at the base of the tower behind tables full of local handicrafts, and one woman was hunkered down in a weird cement building (no fourth wall) directly beneath the tower. I paid my $0.30 to climb up, and was greeted with one of the most peculiar sights. Out of all the figures (26 in all), three can be seen from the tower, and only two in their entirety. While quite compelling, I was immediately content with my decision not to take a $30, 30 minute flight. I was shocked to see that the PanAmerican Highway had been built right through the middle of one of the figures! And just as the figures have been preserved over several hundred years, so had the lines left from the equipment used to construct the road. Not to mention other lines that weren`t part of the figures randomly etched across the desert-scape.

view of nazca lines from the mirador

view of nazca lines from the mirador

After two or three minutes of lingering alone at the top, I was joined by a young woman, probably 15 or 16. We exchanged a few words and I realized she was selling postcards and other tower memorabilia. I declined the offer, but we got to talking. She explained that she had made the enterprising decision to turn herself into a guide for the tower. She had several bits of information in Spanish, and asked me to help her translate them into English. I was delighted! Not only did I get to learn quite a bit of information about the lines and the tower that otherwise would have escaped my attention entirely, but I made a new friend! I let her know that I needed to hitch a bus to Pisco, and she turned out to be entirely helpful in this endeavor. Silly me, I assumed I could just flag down whatever came my way. She, however, could tell the difference between local buses, tour buses, taxis, and long distance buses.

While we were hanging out at the top, a car-load of mostly gringos dressed in slacks, button downs, and ties pulled up. We watched them approach the foot of the tower, looking much like little ants from our perspective, and I was shocked to hear Janet (the guide) comment that they were probably Mormons. Right she was, I found out, as they arrived at the platform, “Elder Jones, Smith, Jenson, etc.” name tags intact. I introduced myself and had them take a photo of us. I have to admit I have certain stereotypes about Mormons even though I am acquainted and/or friends with several individuals who claim ownership to the faith and don`t fit the mold. So, because I automatically assumed that they would all be radically religious and probably too chaste to talk to a woman, I was a bit bewildered and overwhelmed by their enthusiastic interest in me. I felt like I was the star quarterback being interviewed by the press as they swarmed around me firing question after question in my direction. All of them were anxious to hear about what I had done, where I was going, what I did for school/work back in the states, etc., and they were shocked to hear that I was travelling alone. (This only seems to surprise Americans and some South America men. Why?) When it was time for them to head back down the highway, I felt like the president as they all lined up for a farewell. The fact that none of them felt compelled to mention anything about my handshake left me smiling. Almost unfailingly, men will comment on my firm grip, not bothering to hide their surprise. It never ceases to annoy me. Why am I always guilty of being fragile until proven innocent!? ARGH!

Five minutes post-departure, I finally managed to flag down an Ormeño bus, after two failed attempts (a tour bus, and a long distance). I ascended into the sweltering heat that takes up permanent residence on a desert bus without air-conditioning and settled in for the four hour ride. Two hours down the road, my bladder was cursing the lack of toilet facilities. As the bus slowed to stop at the outer limit of a construction zone, I realized I hadn`t crossed the threshold of a bathroom door in well over 5 hours. Great. Just great. Is it worse to have to pee and be sweating bullets, or to be freezing? I concluded hot was better. When you`re cold, doesn`t your body reflexively want to get rid of the useless liquids (read: urine) that it has to waste energy keeping warm but can`t use? I was still lost in thought about the physics of evolutionary biology when the bus lurched into motion.

We arrived in Ica, two hours from my ultimate destination (Pisco) and seemed to be making an official stop. However, with buses down here, you just never know. For this reason, I almost never get off. And if I do, I don`t go far, because I can pretty much guarantee you that driver will shift into first faster than a newly licensed teenager as soon as the ignition turns over. No matter. By this time, I had to go so bad my back teeth were floating. I tried to make the driver promise me five minutes before I attempted to run cross-legged to the bathroom. Frantic with thoughts of all my belongings heading for Pisco without me, I barely finished pulling up my pants before I was back out the door. Plenty of locals stared at the strange gringa zipping and buttoning her trousers as she ran back through the station. Just as I suspected, the bus was ready to pull away without me, shifting into gear as I sprinted across the parking lot. I flashed the driver a smile as I leaped onto the stairs and landed grace-lessly in my seat for the final two hours to Pisco.

My guide book had warned that Pisco was located too far from the PanAmerican highway for the busses to stop in town. Indeed, most just dump you at the turn off. Between the PanAmerican and Pisco, you have to fend for yourself, both coming and going. Therefore, I was hardly surprised when we stopped alongside a few shacks and the bus steward announced, “Pisco, Pisco!” I gathered my backpack and food sack and headed toward many of the VW-type vans I have come to know as public transportation. For ten cents, they would cart me into the city. I piled in with a bunch of locals (I just LOVE the few and far between gringo-free zones!) and tried to learn the layout of the city from the map in my book. Once I got my bearings in the main plaza, I searched out a recommended hostel and came face to face with a huge man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. There was no end to his cheeriness as he showed me the rooms and bathrooms available. He reminded me of Moon Pie, this guy I worked with on the blasting crew at the coal mine.

As for the rest of Pisco`s citizens, they weren`t near as smiley as the hostel receptionist. In fact, people almost seem to leer here. I sought out a laundromat and tour information before I headed back to a long-awaited shower (had it really been five days!?). The tour I was looking to join was a boat adventure to the Isla Ballestas, often referred to as the Galapagos of the poor, since the wildlife isn`t quite as unique or abundant on the island. I found a place that wasn`t trying to charge an arm and a leg and booked a seat on the 7:15 a.m. departure.

Back at the hostel, I was once again faced with a shower sans curtain. I think it says a lot about the financial status of the area when shower curtains are a luxury. The shower was electric, a moronic irony if you really think about it. I`m constantly afraid of getting electrocuted as I turn them on and off, and they are never comfortable. They may tell you “agua caliente (hot water)” but they always turn out to be agua warm, IF you`re lucky. I`ve recently discovered that my electrocution musings aren`t silly in the least. I`ve heard tales of electric showers catching fire and also shocking a guy mid-wash. Yikes!

After I was clean, I searched out the cheapest dinner possible, which turned out to be roasted corn kernel (not popped!), raisins, and graham crackers. It really makes me appreciate the times in my life when food was just automatic.

Right next door to the hostel, there was an internet shop, but no computers available. I pulled out my journal as I waited my turn. I was to find out later that evening that this place seemed to be the best deal in town. Usually the queue (the British word for “line”) was at least three long. I spent a healthy portion of the evening enjoying my cheap internet and catching up with journal entries. Tomorrow I will get to see my first wild penguin! I hope they`re chubby!

Condors Take Flight

Gave up a shower this morning in the name of sleep. Heat is a luxury here, saved only for water and not for hotel rooms. Getting my body wet in the name of cleanliness sounded like one of the worst ideas possible at 5:30 a.m., 10,000 ft, winter approaching. Besides, “clean” is entirely relative.

After the usual bread and coffee breakfast, we took off for the land of condors. Millie asked me to sit next to her in the front seat so she wouldn’t have to endure the wrath of Marcus two days in a row. I readily agreed. Soon we were ten miles closer to the canyon’s greatest depths and the condors. Along the way we came upon a woman hauling a bundle of reeds the size of the front end of my car on her back and shoulders. How she managed to carry it was a miracle in itself. I can’t even fathom how she got it up there.

We made several obligatory stops in the villages that dotted the mountain road as a preface to the canyon. It was really sad. Tourism at its worst for sure. In one place, a little boy in native garb with his baby alpaca in tow was immediately at the door of the van. “Take a picture! Take a picture!” A man with a domesticated eagle on a rope(wings not clipped) stood offering the same opportunity. The villagers were lined up on display. The tourists exploiting the villagers for pure entertainment and photos to show back home and the villagers exploiting tourists for money to buy CD’s and things they see the tourists bring with them. Sad.

Before we reached the best condor viewing point, we passed through a 400 m (1320 ft.) tunnel that made me feel like I was on the Magic School Bus. Of course the tunnel wasn’t lit at all, so we plunged into the cave with our mediocre headlights. Seeing the exit brought a new meaning to “light at the end of the tunnel.”

The terraces that we saw during our canyon approach made the sightings of the day previous seem like child’s play. Hundreds and thousands of feet up on steep canyon walls were small fields of corn, potatoes and beans, crops that had found a home continuously in this exact place for more than a thousand years. Amazing. I felt so honored to be able to walk among and feel such a part of all this history.

Our arrival to the condor viewing platforms was anti-climatic, to say the least. Hundreds of tourists swarmed the cliff ledges covered in cement and rock walls. The first condor I spotted was far enough away that I didn’t get the impression of a bird with a 10 ft. wingspan weighing 30 pounds. I was however, amazed by the depth of the canyon which seemed to plummet eternally down. I wish I remembered the Grand Canyon better. When I saw it as a young girl, all I remember is thinking, “After all the warnings to stay away from the edge, it must be that a kid could probably fall in just for looking.”

I got my first breath-taking glance at the monstrosity that is the Andean condor when a swoosh above my head tore my gaze 9,842 feet from the floor of the canyon to the sky directly above my head. I felt like I had been zapped back in time to the Jurassic period when mosquitoes were the size of birds, and dragonflies were two feet long. Color me impressed. Satisfied with my fifteen minutes of condor watching, and hungrily eyeing the apparently deserted trail that skirted the cliff side off into the distance, I noted the 45 minutes left before scheduled departure and rocketed away from the masses. I am still befuddled at the complete lack of people not even 1/4 of a mile away from the hub. Seven minutes down the trail and I had the whole place to myself, and then some. As I trekked onward, I thought about how sad it is that so many people fail to appreciate and therefore fail to relish in their good fortune. It seemed like most the people on the viewing platforms were just there to check off item #63 on their “things to see” lists before moving on. Scurry to the viewpoint nearest the van door, snap a photo to show back home, and head back to town. Never mind the gorgeous purple lupine growing everywhere. Never mind the unique orange alpine flowers or the neon green birds. Never mind the robin-sized hummingbirds flitting about. How can you be in a place like that and not be completely in awe of the incredible and fortunate advantages you have in life? Just then I crested a hill on the trail and came face to face with a bull who looked like he wasn’t even going to think twice about knocking me off my soap box with his horns. I stopped dead in the trail, fight or flight adrenaline doing the rapid fire thing in my brain. I thought about Millie all warning us to be careful around the bulls in these parts as we hiked the trail yesterday afternoon. No more than seven feet between me and the unwelcoming, ground-pawing guy with the spikes. I figured I could probably disappear right back over that hill crest within five seconds if I was lucky. Two steps backward and I turned to quicken my pace and slow my heartbeat. Probably not a close call, but I wasn’t about to stick around to find out for sure.

A quintessential moment in the canyon - a condor takes flight

A quintessential moment in the canyon – a condor takes flight

I arrived at the van just as the group collecting had commenced; perfect timing. We stopped during our return to Arequipa to hike. I busted ahead of the group and got to spend time hanging out with our driver all by myself. He was awesome and introduced me to cactus fruit. One was like a kiwi and really sour, and the other (off a prickly pear, or “tuna”) was really sweet and bright red. Our driver was such a cool guy. He also told me all about the politics of the region and alerted me to the fact that the canyon had been closed up until two days ago because of protests. First the volcano, now this! I hope my luck doesn’t run out any time soon!

As the group loaded up in the van for the last leg of our journey back to town, Brett commented on the high quality tires. First I noted the Goodyear brand before I realized he was throwing around a little sarcasm regarding the tread. Actually, there was no tread. I chuckled to myself as I climbed in the seat right above the tire.

When we got back to town, we were once again herded as a group into a pre-arranged restaurant. Personally, I was getting sick of the “okay, now it’s time to spend your money at this venue/in this town.” I said so to Brett, and he and I ditched the group to share a much cheaper meal that we could eat in the plaza in the center of town. We met up with the group to return to Arequipa. The drive back was really rough. We drove on the shoulder of the road almost the whole way, because the asphalt was toast. We also passed a frozen waterfall, which was gorgeous. I had a great time because I got to talk to Millie the whole way back. We talked about the differences between our countries and how hard it is to get a visa to the U.S., no matter who you are. It was so rewarding to be able to interact with someone who wasn’t a tourist!

Am looking forward to my next few days when I won’t have to be immersed in other tourists!

Tactless, Terrible Tourists

ARGH!! I’m at this internet café in Perú right now. About 1/2 an hour into this entry (so about 1/2 way finished) suddenly the entire shop goes black. Great. Just frickin great. And of course I hadn’t saved anything. I groped for my purse in the dark lest it somehow be heisted in all the pandemonium that I was expecting to ensue. Instead, we all just sat there in the dark as they rooted around the shop with candles searching for the breaker. Here goes my second attempt to recount the events of May 16th.

Today was the beginning of a two-day, one-night tour to Colca Canyon, the second deepest in the world and home of Andean condors (one of the largest living birds). I’d have to say, all things considered, this venture comes out in the red at the finish line. Definitely more bad things than good. The good can still be appreciated, but I found myself disappointed far more often than delighted.

The problem? Other tourists. I’m not saying that being a tourist is necessarily a bad thing (as that would make me a total hypocrite), but I firmly believe those who are privileged enough to travel should hold themselves to a respectful and responsible standard of behavior. Many tourists aspire to such a standard; I meet them in hostels all the time. However, the kind of people you find on pre-programmed and primped tours are not generally the enlightened and respectful types whose company I much prefer. As such, I spent two days witnessing some of the most appalling and destructive tourism that I’ve ever seen.

Day one, I got up early to get my last of the week’s three showers. Breakfast at the hostel was amazing. Ham and cheese omlette with “arequipan” (a type of bread made in the city) and coffee (again!). I’m really lamenting my downward spiral into a coffee addiction. People down here look at you like you’re crazy when you turn down “café” in the morning. To avoid the stares of horror and disbelief, I’ve taken to giving in to all the offers. And I have to admit it’s growing on me. Argh!

During breakfast, I had a little chat with Marcus (the older British guy) and a young Australian couple. Got my hopes up about spending the day with the Aussies only to be shot down ten minutes later when our guide arrived with room for only Marcus and I. I had been soaking up sunlight on the roof patio enjoying my last moments of stillness before hitting the road to the canyon. I decided that Marcus really wasn’t all bad; really just your typical tourist. A truck driver for a grocery chain, he was on a three week “holiday” (as they call it). We followed the guide down to the standard transportation, chock full of passengers. The slightest touch of anxiety worked its way into my bloodstream as I realized my pack, essentially everything I own, would be riding on top of the vehicle. Problem? Uhmm… I hope not. Worries are as follows:
1) How well attached is my bag going to be when we flying across the landscape of potholes we’re sure to encounter on our journey?
2) Is the sun pounding down on my luggage going to wreak havoc on the three disposable cameras waiting to be developed? What about the film waiting to be shot?
3) If it rains, literally all of my material possessions will be soaked. Clothes, copies of documents, books, food. Not the biggest worry, but a nail-biter for sure.
Ahem. I am happy to report nothing came of items one and three. We’ll see about #2 after I pay a visit to Costco in Eugene.

We stopped several times for photo ops before we all got to stretch our legs in the first village we came to (immediately preceding the beginning of our four hour dirt road travels). It was here that I got to know Brett, the only other lone traveller in our group (besides Marcus). Five Italians, two French, Marcus, Brett, driver, guide, and me! Brett and I were equally uninterested in patronizing the sandwich/tea shop and opted for a walk down to the river. The cliffs of the arid high plain were absolutely gorgeous. We had a great chat about our similar life situations (i.e. travelling in spite of the accompanying lack of security that touring necessitates). He had given up his home and his job as a construction project manager in the middle of London’s Heathrow Airport project. We talked about how strange we both think it is that so few people believe they are capable of doing the exact same thing. Quite refreshing. True to his New Zealand nature, Brett decided he’d go for a cup of tea, so I camped myself out on the van’s roof rack against the stack of luggage and cracked my new book.

Down the road after tea-time, we had our first alpaca sighting. They are much like llamas, but smaller and better for eating, I’m told. They’ve got 1/2 the fatty/c  cholesterol  business that comes with beef and taste great. All the alpacas were actually in some kind of combo livestock herd with sheep and llamas being nudged down the roadside to some unknown destination.

As we passed through the pampa, we got to see several of the birds for which the reserve was created, including the basket-ball sized booby that I spotted on the return trip from the geysers in Chile. The “pampa” is basically high desert marsh. The only solid ground to stand on are tuffets of spongy moss that sink several inches when you step onto them. My parents described something similar when they went on a fishing trip in Canada several years ago. Perhaps it is the same?

I felt my lungs begin the high-elevation struggle as we slowly wound our way towards “the highest point” that our guide, Millie, had been talking about all day. 4,910 meters. 16,203 feet to us American types. I’m pretty sure it’s the highest I’ve ever been. Being at that kind of elevation makes you want to hold very very still. On the way up, Millie had been describing a popular local and tourist activity to partake in once we arrived. From the view point, three volcanoes, gods to the Andean people, stand proud in the background. You choose your god, make a wish, collect a pile of rocks, and build her or him a tribute of worship. It was uncanny all the cairns rising up like  stalagmites  from the earth. At one point, after scurrying up the hill towards a point of interest, I found myself ridiculously out of breath. I mentioned this to Brett as we fell into step, expecting sympathy. Instead, he put my physical experience into perspective for me by pointing out that we had only reached the half-way point for Mt. Everest. And to think I’d had lollipop dreams of climbing it all through high-school.

Having spent only ten minutes in El Punto Alto, Millie herded us back into the van to begin our descent into the mouth of the Colca valley. We arrived in Chivay, our “base camp,” where I got to try my first alpaca steak. Just as legend has it, it’s delicious. And, as promised, doesn’t even begin to resemble the slimy fattiness of beef steak. Yum! As we ate, I listened to Marcus proliferate stereotype after stereotype concerning just about any group of people he could get his hands on: Germans, Australians, Peruvians, Canadians, even Italians (remember there were five sitting not 16 inches away). This was to be the beginning of the flood of ignorance and self-importance that would follow me throughout the tour.

When our bellies were full, we checked into our hotel. I had prepared for a bare-bones venue because of the shockingly low price-tag on the tour, but instead found cozy rooms with enough blankets to warm a herd of elephants. This is one of those moments when I get to feeling guilty about all the damn privilege I have. The tour was $60 Peruvian dollars, and included twelve hours of transportation, an English speaking-guide,  accommodation   breakfast on day two, and a guided day hike upon our arrival to the valley. No way even $60 American dollars would get you something like that in the U.S. And to top it all off, $60 Peruvian dollars (called soles [soul-lace]) is a mere $18.50 to my pocket book. I get to feeling like such an ass. How unfair that it can be so easy for me to take advantage of something like this, whereas so many of the world’s people would be spending anywhere from a week’s pay to a year’s savings to do the exact same thing. What makes me so special? Not one damn thing. Ugh.

Brett and I spent our 30 minute group-break walking around town after lunch. It was so refreshing to finally find myself in the company of someone who seemed to be travelling  responsibly  as opposed to the entirely selfish self-importance that I cringe to find in so many tourists. It had been weeks since my last thought-provoking, intelligent conversation with another traveller, and the first time I’d met anyone as passionate as I was about responsible tourism. I was thrilled.

Back at the hotel, Millie was rallying the troops for our afternoon exploration into the hills around the village where terraces built for pre-Incan farming were still in use. It was so incredible to walk among such a timeless piece of the past. As we scurried along the loose hillside trail, we passed all sorts of cacti and flowers. Millie pointed out a cactus parasite and explained about the different agricultural offerings being produced right before our very eyes. As we rounded the next bend in the trail, two native girls, probably six and ten, came into view. Both were in traditional garb and had a host of beans, corn, barley, etc. to demonstrate the commodities produced by the valley. Both girls were shy, which made it  particularly  strange to find them there on the trail. Millie picked through their supply holding up each item for us to see. The cake-taker was this: our guide started talking about traditional dress and before I knew it was absolutely pawing the girls’ clothing as she searched for examples of the painstaking embroidery used by the native group. It was like the girls weren’t even people, but just little statues put here on the trail for tourists to oooh and ahhhh and take pictures of. Brett and I agreed later that it was nearly sickening. I don’t know why people can’t see how humiliating it could be to make your living being the poked and prodded novelty on display for whomever finds it appropriate to barge on in to your world and do whatever they damn well please. Personally, I’ve only ever had one experience like this, but it was enough to know that I would hate it.

Tangent: when I was a sea-kayaking guide on Yellowstone Lake, I had to return to the launch alone one day to retrieve the medicine of a tourist with a heart condition. As I paddled quickly past West Thumb Geyser Basin, I heard voices float down to the lake from the trails no more than 50 feet away. Among other phrases of exclamation, I heard, “Mom! Look! What’s that!” I glanced toward shore only to find that “that” was yours truly in a sea kayak. I was so stunned that I almost stopped paddling as three different groups of at least 20 tourists total hurried for their cameras to capture the supposed Kodak moment. It felt so strange to have people treat me like I was one of the park animals or an  erupting  geyser put on this earth for their amusement. I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to live with that every single day of your life and how drastically it could change your existence. End tangent.

Once we got back to the van after our “Let’s take pictures of all the novel natives” session, we headed for the hot springs. On the way there, Brett and I talked about  similar  revelations we’ve had as a result of travelling. We had similar conclusions reached through different experiences. For me, I was already aware of the gross inequality that festers in the world. But being aware of it and witnessing it first-hand in contrast to your very privileged life are two completely different things. One of my many reasons for coming here was to put myself in this situation, to show myself how terribly small my problems are. It makes the rest of my life seem so easy compared to the challenges forced down the throats of the rest of the world’s people. Brett’s recounted his similar experience after a conversation with his guide on Mt. Kilamangaro. The guide, thirty-something, wanted very badly to marry his girlfriend, but her father didn’t approve because the man didn’t own a goat. Brett said, “here I am toiling over whether or not to marry my Danish girlfriend and therefore forever choose an existence between London, New Zealand, and Denmark, and this man can’t execute the decision to marry the woman he loves.” Heavy, heavy, heavy. I will try and get down off my soap-box now, as I’m sure my sensationalist writing about adventures is far more entertaining than me ranting about the moral issues currently twisting their way through my days. On with the novel.

Once we got to the hotsprings, I changed my mind about paying the $3 (US dollars) to dive in. Basically, they were glorified swimming pools. It would have been nice to soak in the warm water, but due to my ignorance that accompanied my first stages of budget planning, I’m down to pinching pennies. I didn’t know how much bus tickets would cost, so I chose to think of them as a “splurge” expense in my budget. Little did I know I would be splurging to the tune of $80/week. I reworked my budget as soon as I realized how out of control it was, but I was already $160 too late. And I am realizing as I type that for most of you reading this, maybe that’s not a lot of money. For a young woman still reeking of her university education whose only goal is to stay as far away from a cubicle as possible, it’s a lot of money. I’d be hard-pressed to spend that much in a month in the states. I’m definitely learning a few lessons, though. And realizing even more about my privilege. #1, if you can’t estimate an expense, err on the side of caution. #2, I am very lucky to have led a life where I could just buy more food if a meal didn’t fill me up. When I first arrived, Jared was talking about getting himself down to two meals a day to save money. I thought, (food-lover that I am) that’s crazy! Food is the last thing I would give up to save money. Well, I’m down to bottom of the barrel. For the first time in my life, instead of asking myself, “what am I hungry for?” the question has become, “can I wait a little longer to eat?” At the point-of-sale, I find myself stretching every cent I can, opting often for more filling, less nutritious foods. It’s definitely a lesson in living, and I am so thankful that I’m not faced with this kind of existence in any permanent sort of way.

Ack. Sorry. Anyway, so no hot springs for me. I opted for journaling down by the river in the moonlight and watching the big dipper rise (upside down!) on the horizon. Buenas Noches!

Finding sanity in the white city

Finally, after checking into the Hotel Caminante Class in Arequipa, I got the shower I had been waiting for. I think, on average, I get about four showers per week. 4.5 if I’m lucky! Suddenly I appreciate hot cascading water like never before. Because I’d spent the previous three days flinging myself north, north, north through Chile and Perú, I was aching for some non-bus station food.

I ventured towards the main plaza. As soon as I set foot on the sidewalks surrounding the square, I was inundated with offer after offer for breakfast. Every single restaurant on the stretch had a waitress standing outside trying to drag tourists up to the terrace. After ineffectually trying to deflect the offers, I finally gave into scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee at a table overlooking the plaza.

Since I had so recently crossed the border, my pockets were still devoid of the almighty dollar. However, I still needed to go through the budget planning routine before I could allow myself to swipe my card at the ATM. I sat for over an hour watching the parades(something very official going on – everyone dressed in business clothes), working out a route, and estimating cost of activities in Perú. When I arrived at the bank, I was disappointed to see that the machine wasn’t indoors like almost all are. Deep breath, and go.

After reading Lonely Planet’s suggestion that you take at least two ATM cards, lest one be swallowed up by a machine, I now have this fear that my only source of cash flow is going to leave me high and dry unexpectedly. Who has more than one ATM card? I punched OK after going through the  rigmarole   and to my horror, the machine started beeping like mad. “Oh, #@&%!” I thought. “This is how I’ll meet my end. Standing here on Avenida Santa Clarita on a Sunday in Perú. Just great.” No message appeared on the screen, so I just started hitting “cancel” like mad. I think an angel from the beautiful cathedral down the street must have passed my way, as the machine miraculously spit my card out. Strike one. I  hoisted  my guide book out of its holster searching for bank number two. Do or die! Thankfully, my relationship with this machine was all sorts of mundane and I was back in the black before my heart rate could return to normal.

As far as the planning bit goes, I’m really starting to get the hang of this. Because I’m going at a really fast pace compared to other tourists I meet, the lessons that all travellers have to learn have been coming at me at the speed of light. I’ve definitely been learning from the fatalities, so to speak. I’m glad I’ve finally arrived at this point; getting here has been awfully challenging. I appreciate all the benefits I get from being challenged (this, after all, is one of the main reasons I decided to come here in the first place), but sometimes it’s just so damn nice when life will just hand you the glass of lemonade instead.

Arequipa, the city itself, definitely has its own unique flavor. I reached a relieving revelation here. Walking down the street sometimes is a chore in itself because of all the cat calls and horn honking that it provokes. The horn honking especially gets on my nerves… I think a  remnant  of my childhood bicycling days. Well, I got so fed up that I finally turned to stare at one of the honkers and found myself eye-to-eye with a taxi driver. For all of three seconds I thought he was just your run-of-the-mill slime ball. That is until the next taxi did the same thing. And the next. And the next. Well, aren’t I the halfwit. Here I am getting all worked up over the  exorbitant  amount of attention being a solo gringa provokes only to find out that taxi drivers are just trying to get some business. Oops. Oh well. I’m getting used to feeling slightly incompetent all the time. Shopping is the worst. Buying fruit can be a chore, but it’s totally worth it. Fruit is dirt cheap here. I got an avocado, a banana, some oranges, a pound of grapes, and an apple for three Peruvian dollars, which is only one U.S. dollar. Awesome! I could really get used to this!

Arequipa also has something new to offer in terms of the travel culture. The ages of my co-travellers seems to be climbing the further north I go. In Argentina and Chile, I almost never met anyone over the age of thirty. However, walking around the city, I bump into several gringos who are sure to have grandchildren. It’s nice to see the mix changing a little. And speaking of older tourists, I’ve decided that I should give the older British guy a chance. Probably he’s really nice and was just having a terrible day or something, right? I really need to work on searching out the best in people instead of maintaining rock-bottom standards and expectations. It’s kind of funny the expectations tourists seem to have of one another. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been in a dorm room with another person for some  abominable  amount of time before either of us were brave enough to venture an “hola” or “hello.” I think what happens is no one is all that confident in their Spanish, and you can never really be sure what someone’s first language (English? Swedish? French? Swahili?) is going to be. In effort to save face (i.e. not to end up in an “I-don’t-know-how-to-talk-to-you” situation), we just don’t talk at all. I’ve taken mental note and will now attempt to break the mold whenever possible.

Calama, Iquique, Arica, Tacna, Arequipa!

Travelling alone is really not bad at all. It`s so nice to be able to do whatever you want whenever you want to. You`d think you`d get lonely, but I stay in hostels so often that there are always people around. You can have your ten minute chats, and you have opportunities to get together with people and go out for dinner, but then you don`t have to put up with the painstaking group decision-making process. And you don`t have to feel bad or anti-social when you spend three hours at an internet cafè catching up with your online journals and e-mailing. Plus, other travellers aren`t generally all that great. Usually I`d almost rather be by myself. The times that are the hardest are when I have to deal with really challenging situations alone. And I`ve had a LOT of those, recently. It`s been rough.

First of all, I left San Pedro de Atacama for Calama in the afternoon after spending the entire morning at the geysers. I arrived two hours later. There were two groups of gringos on the bus that I probably could have started up conversations with, but I get preemptively annoyed by travellers who seem all-too stereotypical. Really, I shouldn`t be so damn closed minded and I shouldn`t be expecting the worst from people, but I am and I do. Plus, they were all in groups. It`s a lot more uncomfortable to crack into a group than it is to connect with another solo traveller. So, I decided not to try and make any friends. I started feeling ill on the bus. I didn`t know if was food issues or too long without seeing a toilet, but I felt awful when we arrived. If someone would have tried to mug me or something, I would have apathetically puked on them. That`s how bad it was.

The bus dropped us at a satellite office of the company I was travelling with. I went in to ask for directions to the next station. Through the haze of my illness, I got an address and something about turning at a church and walking several blocks. The man at the counter said, “It`s at least a half hour walk. You should probably take a taxi.” I saw no reason to do that when I had seven hours to kill before my next bus, plus I was almost out of money, so I told him so and nursed myself to the next station. Side note: being out of money is not a good thing to be. I was almost out of Chilean pesos, but I wanted to wait until I got to Iquique (where I was going to go paragliding and buy my final Chilean bus ticket) to make a withdrawl so I would have a better idea of how much to take out. Frickin` Wells Fargo charges an arm and a leg everytime I use foreign ATM, so I wanted to make it count. Too much money withdrawn, and I lose even more on changing pesos into soles for Peru. Too little, and Wells Fargo would tag me with yet another withdrawl fee.

Anyway, back to my seven hours to kill in Calama. Sometime within those seven hours I wanted to 1) take care of my stomach problem, 2) do some internet business, 3) make a phone call or two (it`s so cheap in Chile!). I kept passing all sorts of call centers and internet places on my way to the station. However, because of my desire to vomit, I decided I should just get to the bus station so I`d have a home base. Well, turns out the other station wasn`t a conglomerate of companies like usual (think airport), it was an independent terminal. This means minimal services for one company instead of fifty… kind of like hanging out at the Gillette Airport for seven hours, only it was located in the industrial section of town. After I got my stomach problems taken care of, I tried to decide if I should pay to leave my pack in the baggage check and walk to cheaper services (food, internet, phone) or if I should save myself the hassle and just pay the  exorbitant  amount the bus-station internet place was asking. I only had about two hours of daylight left. Considering the location of the terminal, I decided it was best if I just hung out. After spending as much time as I could stand staring at a computer and letting my thoughts seep onto the screen (two hours is usually my limit), I went to use the phone. I discovered, to my dismay, that my phone card wouldn`t work at the public phones and the call center wouldn`t let me use the card I had because they don`t get a slice of the action. Bummer. This is when it sucks to be alone. When you`ve got no home, you have no way of getting in touch with anything familiar, you feel like crap, and the only meal you can get is Oreos or fried mystery items. Times like these, it would be so nice to have someone. Nonetheless, I persevered.

I thought maybe I could get an earlier ticket (after all, Iquique is a popular destination) and found out the only other departure had been driving out the gate as I was walking in that afternoon. So, stuck I was. And it continued on like that for the next two days, basically. I arrived in Iquique at 5;30 in the morning, and chose to walk to my hostel, ten blocks from the station, instead of spend the small amount of money I had left. That was a mistake. I passed more prostitutes and strip-bars than I`ve ever seen in my life. The first two places I went didn’t seem to exist (thanks Lonely Planet). In fact one of the addresses turned out to be an abandoned building with a door hanging open and crooked on it`s hinges. A taxi driver had been following me for about four blocks by the time I got to the third place. He parked and got out while I was still waiting for them to answer the door. Scary. Times like this it would ALSO be nice to have someone. When he realized that I had already talked to someone inside on the intercom, the driver got back in his car and left. Phew.

The next day also had several challenging moments that would have been more easily dealt with if I had been with someone else. I had decided to save my money and not go paragliding since I awoke to the most bleak landscape I’d ever seen. Really. It was total desert. I guess I had failed to notice the Chilean promo at the beginning of the Lonely Planet chapter: “Atacama desert, world’s driest, covering the northern portion of Chile and Peru.” Fantastic! I wasn’t really mentally prepared to be travelling through a movie quality expanse of sand. At breakfast, I met my first American since I left the company of Jared and Eleanor. It was disheartening. She was from Wisconsin, and completely unfriendly. Argh! In light of no longer having anything to do in Iquique, I took a bus four hours north to Arica on the border between Chile and Peru. To cross cheaply, you have to bus to the border, take a colectivo (a kind of taxi service) across the line, then buy another bus ticket from the other side. It`s way more expensive to get a bus across the border (so I am told). So, I arrived on the Chile side having no idea where and how I get this “colectivo.” I was directed to what looked like a run-down flea market outside the bus station. Apparently, this is the “international terminal.” Not quite what I was expecting, but I`m getting used to bus stations that look like food courts. A giant maze of people and all their crap (I`m talking 10-15 pieces of luggage per person!) blanketed every piece of pavement available. As I tried to ignore all the “Taxi! Taxi! Colectivo! Tacna! Señorita!” and coinciding cat calls, I searched fruitlessly for something that would explain to me just exactly how all this was done.

Finally, I sought out the help of a woman in a call center. She took me under her wing and basically did everything for me. Times like that, it would have been nice to have another person to be confused with. Alone and confused is not fun. It was a good lesson for me, though. I’m so independent and set on doing things on my own. It was really valuable for me to be put in a situation where I was entirely at the mercy of the people. I definitely came to terms with the fact that you have to trust people, and you can’t always have the safety net of the gringo river to float yourself down.

The colectivo is a taxi that takes reservations, basically. You sign up, and when the car is full, you leave for the border. The driver helps you with all the formalities, and then drops you off in the town on the other side. Crossing had it’s moments. For some reason, some people were skipping the baggage scanning, which caused them to be swarmed upon by border police, C.O.P.’s style. Probably they just had fruit or something that was really valuable to them. The people were screaming at the cops hanging on to their baggage for dear life as ten officers surrounded them and ripped their luggage out of their hands and carried it off. Crazy!

We arrived in Tacna (on the Peruvian side) just as the sun was setting. From there, I had to figure out how to get to the next town, because there were several bus terminals. This is becoming more and more common, but it’s weird. It would be like Delta, United, and Continental all having their own airports. It was a mass of confusion and decisions. Do I want to walk to a hotel alone in the dark in this city? Should I go on to the next place right now and have to find my way around there at midnight? Should I hang out in the bus station for five hours and take the last bus possible which will get me to the next place at 5 in the morning again? Questions like these would be a lot easier to answer, and at lot less important, with another person. Being alone, you have the added burden of having to be concerned for your safety all the time. With another person, you`re a lot less vulnerable and therefore have a lot less to think about and a lot less to weigh in terms of decisions.

When I finally arrived by bus, at midnight, to the place I am now (Arequipa), the taxi driver was really nice, helpful, and didn`t try to rip me off. However, the first hostel I went to was full, and he assured me the others on my list were quite popular and would be full as well. (Turns out he kind of scammed me on this.) So, I let him take me to a place a few blocks away. It wasn`t a hostel, which equals more lonely, but I took it. It wasn`t bad, but I wasn`t tired, and it sucks to be essentially trapped in a tiny little room. Can’t leave for lack of safety, but too bored to stay. If I was travelling with someone else, or even if I was at a hostel, I could have gone to the common room and met up with people who wanted to go have something to eat or drink. Instead, I was relegated to hibernating in my barren, piecemeal room until I could fall asleep.

To make matters worse, I awoke to some guy with a Boston accent swearing in English at god-knows-who. I couldn`t tell if it was coming from outside or from within the hotel. He kept calling someone an asshole and sounded abnormally angry. Then I heard him walk up to the front desk, ask what “that goddamn kid is doing on the floor” and say, “Yeah, just give me the fuckin`key.” Jeez! I decided to vacate pronto. (Also another time that it would have been nice to have someone… in the event that I had to interact with this crazy bastard.) I tried the shower. As I suspected, cold water only. I promptly packed my bags as quietly as possible and high-tailed it to the front desk. I walked to the place that had been full the night before. They now had space, so I got a room. It was adorable, clean, had hot showers, and a patio terrace with views of the town and volcanos. After the past three days, it`s a dream come true! There was some weird, 40-something British guy checking in when I got there. He`s going on the same tour I am tomorrow (a two-day visit to the second deepest canyon in the world, home of the Andean condor- one of the biggest living birds). I`m not really looking forward to spending time with him. He makes me uncomfortable, watches me too much, is really awkward in conversation, and was really impatient with the staff (it`s HIS fault if he can`t understand things. Learn Spanish, for christsake, and stop expecting the world to cater to YOU!). Anyway, it would also be nice, in this instance, to have someone to join up with in order to keep him from wanting to befriend me. Perhaps there will be another single traveller on the tour!

World`s Highest Geysers

I would say 3:40 dawned bright and early, but dawn comes LONG after 3:40. I did manage to roll out of bed, despite my track record, at the first sound of my alarm. I got my 85 layers of clothing on, as recommended by the guide book, the tour vendor, and other travellers, and headed downstairs. The lights were off in the reception area, which meant no one to return my key to. The receptionist had assured me that the tour departed from our hostel, but there wasn`t another soul in sight. I chose to go stand outside in the street (just a dirt path, really). 4:08 and still no one. Finally, a young woman walked out the front gate. I threw out the standard “Hablas inglès?” To which she replied “Yes, please!” Her name was Mamika, from Japan and attending school in Australia. Sure enough, five minutes into our conversation, the van driver showed up.
After 15 minutes of driving from hostel to hostel, we headed off for El Tatio, the world`s highest geyser field.

The reason the tour starts in the middle of the night is to allow us to reach the geysers by dawn when the temperature difference at 14,000 feet is the most extreme. It took over 70 miles of nothing but dirt roads, some of the roughest I`ve ever been on, to get there. You`d never find your way without a guide service. The van was full of individual straight backed seats, which had every passenger contorting her/himself into all kinds of odd positions in the name of comfort. Despite the seats, it was the best vehicle I`ve been in so far combined with the best driver I`ve had. Except for the parking brake, which seems not to work in ANY of the vehicles down here, the van was in great shape. The driver was a native from one of the villages near the geyser field and was the first person I`ve seen even consider caution while behind the wheel. And he still managed to do an excellent job of getting us safely around the slower tour vans.

El Tatio at dawn

El Tatio at dawn

When we arrived at the geysers, the guide gave us an introduction which included the fact that El Tatio means “the old man that cries” in one of the native languages, and the giant hunk of machinery plunked down in the middle of the whole thing was to supply the world`s largest copper mine (100 miles away) with electricity. Wow. El Tatio was definitely NOT what I was expecting. First of all, there are almost zero conservation measures in affect. We drove right over the top of several fumaroles and small geysers! We also drove through the rivers created by the run-off. The fifty or so crossings per day have to be wreaking havoc as far as erosion is concerned. No official bathroom means the field of rocks above the field are actually a toxic waste hazard waiting to happen. Inadequate signage leaves tourists highly uninformed and therefore in danger if they don`t know about the behavior of geysers. No boardwalk through and among the geysers means visitor can walk where ever their feet will carry them, a problem for several reasons.
1) The ground among and around geysers is always hollow. In many places, the crust separating you from the boiling water below is inches thick (i.e. not thick enough to hold the weight of your average tourist). Most people that visit have no idea that the “neat hollow sound” you hear when you walk is actually a threat to your life. Several people have died here. One geyser is even named “El Frances” for the three French tourists that fell through the crust and boiled to death a few years ago.
2) Ecosystems around geysers and hotpools are really fragile. The bacteria that grows needs a very specific environment in which to thrive. That`s why you see the different colors in pools; each color is a different type of bacteria that thrives at a different temperature. Having hundreds of feet tramping through it daily pretty much wipes it out. People also toss in their lucky pennies and cigarette butts, which changes the chemistry of the water and kills the bacteria. Guide services use the hot pools to warm the milk for our morning coffee!
3) People don`t know how hot the water of a geyser is nor how unpredictable eruptions are, both in frequency, duration, and intensity. As a result, people climb up the cones of a freshly erupted geyser to have a look inside, and stand as close as possible during eruptions so as to procure a little heat in light of the freezing morning temps. (Genius! What are you going to do when the geyser stops putting out heat and you`re now 50% wetter than before?) Countless tourists have been scalded.

Mamika and I descended carefully across the field walking from geyser to geyser. She was environmental management major in school, and so was interested in everything I could tell her about geysers. I naturally walk pretty quickly due to growing up with a long-legged father, so Mamika took the responsibility of keeping our pace in check. At that altitude, you have to arrest your steps to an alarmingly slow stroll or else! Anything faster makes you want to vomit and/or gives you a violent headache (I found out later). With everyone walking so slow, I felt like an extra on the set of some zombie horror film. Weird.

After we visited the first of two fields, we went to the second where vistors could soak in some hot springs. I opted out because I would have to haul my wet clothing and towel around with me for the rest of the day as I travelled on to Iquique. Instead I opted to go for a walk off towards the mountains hoping to bump into some of the animals that inhabit the desolate high plain. I found more used toilet paper than anything else, and saw one lizard. Also, I saw a cactus with spines so dense that I mistook it for grass. The neatest part of my solo venture, however, was the grass mounds. There were little tufts of grass every few feet in all directions (see photo) that looked like some green thumb planted a grass bomb underneath the soil and it had exploded. Apparently animals had been grazing in the area, because almost every tuft had a sort of buzz cut gone wrong. Stepping on the tufts felt like standing on a wire brush. It was awesome!

exploding tufts of grass in the desert

exploding tufts of grass in the desert

On the way back to San Pedro from the geysers, I got my wish concerning animals. We saw a ton of wildlife and some awesome flora. First across our path was a small herd of vicuñas, a relative of the llama. See photo. It looks like a cross between an antelope and llama. A few minutes later, the road came within a stone’s throw of a desert marsh where these giant sage chickens were hanging out. They had bodies the size of basketballs, red heads, white necks and heads, and black everything else. I couldn’t believe their size! Finally we passed a bunch of domesticated llamas in a canyon. Instead of branding, the llama rachers tie all different colors of ribbons through the ears and around the necks of their animals. It’s really neat; they look so festive!

keepers of the desert - the vicuña

keepers of the desert Рthe vicu̱a

We stopped in a the only small village near the road on the way back to town to look at the 400 year old church and buy sopapillas or empenadas, if we so chose. I had a delicious sopapilla. Actually, make that two. I couldn’t help it! The buildings in the village were really neat to see. The walls were constructed of stones cemented together with mud, and the roofs were thatched grass from the limitless exploding tufts.

The last stretch back to town was full of rockish canyons of reddish brown stone. It reminded me of the rocks alongside interstate just outside Douglas, but reddish brown instead and tons more. Whole fields of them! It was like being on the moon or something.

I realized in the van on the way back that I’m really lucky to have English as my first language, but it’s also a disadvantage. The debatably postive side is that English is the second language of the world. Almost all the travellers I meet speak their native language, English, and limited Spanish. As a result, if you’re from any non-English speaking country, you’ve got to learn the language of the place you’re travelling to, at the very least. And anywhere you go, if you can’t understand the language, they default into English. So I have both the privilege of only having to know two languages, and the disadvantage of being less well rounded than the rest of the industrialized populace.

Also in the van I noticed something interesting as I listened to conversations in English, German, and Hebrew. As far as I know, all South American countries are referred to by their names, no matter the language. Bolivia is Bolivia in English, Spanish, German, Hebrew, etc. But it’s not the same for European countries. Germany is the English word. Deutschland (sp?) is what the Germans call it. Alemania is the Spanish word. Why is this?

When we got within range of San Pedro, the CB-like radio in the van crackled back to life. It’s something I’ve been noticing down here. Radios must be cheaper than phones or something, because lots of service vendors have them. Almost unfailingly, hostel hawkers that meet the buses have a radio they’ll use to alert the hostel of your arrival if you agree to stay. Interesting way of doing things.

Back in San Pedro (de Atacama), I had a few hours to kill before the bus departure, so I hung out in the main plaza and read my guide book. As I was planning my next moves, a radio blared to life somewhere and started blasting, of all things, Guns ‘N’ Rose’s “Paradise City.” Weird. Very surreal. Finally the bus arrived and I loaded up for what were to be three of the more trying days of my life.

Mullets

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires and was hanging out with Eleanor and Jared, they pointed out to me the preponderance of mullets, a haircut that was popular in the 80`s/early 90`s in the states. If you don`t know what a mullet is, I strongly advise going to google.com and educating yourself. You may be sporting one and not even know it! Anyway, why the talk about mullets? Well, on the bus between Salta, Argentina (where I was essentially stuck for an extra day due to few-and-far-between departure schedules) and San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, a really sweet, young, Argentinian woman sat across from me. She definitely belonged in the mullet club. Then I realized that Delfin (from Spain), whom I had been travelling with for a few days also had a mullet which was always under a hat. It`s just funny to see how entirely arbitrary and subjective fads and fashions are. The newest and latest here could be a fashion faux pas in the U.S., depending on who you ask.

The ten hour bus ride to San Pedro de Atacama definitely had it`s highlights. Not even an hour outside Salta, the bus came to a screeching halt behind a line of traffic stopped in the road. As all of us passengers craned our necks to see what the problem was, we saw the road up ahead laden with a huge group of people on either side. Robbery crossed my mind, but from what I hear, roadside bandits aren`t usually so methodical. Protests are really common here, largely due to overt government corruption (as opposed to the generally clandestine manipulation and deceit of more industrialized countries). One of the best ways to get people to listen is to affect their lives: this is often accomplished by shutting down roads. Suddenly instead of 100,000 people who want to do away with poor wages for laborers, you`ve got 500,000. The young woman with the mullet asked some folks outside the window about what was going on, and I heard them report that a road slide had blocked the road (“Both sides?” she asked). According to the bystanders, the road wouldn`t be open until three p.m. the following day. Great. Just great. I`ve already burned almost two days in Salta, and now this! You never know, though. So I crossed my fingers and opened my book. Sure enough, twenty minutes later the bus kicked into gear and we were on our way. As we passed the conglomeration of people on the road, I searched for clues as to what exactly they were doing. Best I could tell, the ditch was some kind of homeless camp with people coming out in droves carrying their bags full of their belongings. Once again, I am quite thankful that I have the resources not to have to sleep in a ditch alongside the highway every night.

As I tossed and turned in my seat on the bus, I realized, also, how thankful I am for my size. Not so small that I lack the physical presence that makes me feel capable and safe, but small enough to fit comfortably (and in several positions) into the minimal spaces offered on buses and airplanes. Anyone with legs longer than mine would have died on this bus. The cheap ones always have less leg room. No problem for me, though. They also have no T.V. to entertain you with movies, which I absolutely adore. If I`ve got the light of the sun, I`d much rather enjoy the scenery and my books without the sound of Jim Carrey`s voice blaring from the speaker eight inches above my head.

Speaking of scenery, the landscape on way to San Pedro de Atacama was much like that of Cafayate, but less remarkable than what I had seen before and quickly gave way to desert-like conditions. In several places, the road when right through the salares… dried up saline lakes that have left the ground blindingly white. It was really interesting to me that we would drive right through and environment that is so unique, but I guess maybe it`s only unique to me and not worth the extra money to build around it.

scenery (or lack thereof!) around San Pedro

scenery (or lack thereof!) around San Pedro

During the ride, I got to see my first baby llama! It was so CUTE! The llamas (I assume domesticated, but maybe not) were just hanging out alongside the roads like cattle. As we lumbered slowly uphill past them, they all got as far from the road as possibly (usually only 5 – 30 ft. in most places) and faced away from the bus. It was really strange. About half an hour later, we happened upon a building literally in the middle of nowhere. To my surprise, we slowed down and pulled in! I`m finding out that this is actually quite common. Buses are kind of like airplanes here in that the ticket usually comes with a meal or two (depending on the length of your ride) and each bus has at least one steward (always male) that turns the movies on and off, opens and closes the curtains and vents, serves the meals, and helps the passengers with their needs. Companies also often have their own restaurants in rather obscure locations, which explained our stop. We were here for our lunch!

I headed directly to the bathroom, where I once again wished I had my dictionary. There are always signs above the toilet telling you what to do with your toilet paper (in some places the plumbing can`t handle the paper and in others it can), but I never remember to look up the key vocab words. From the beginning, just to be safe, I was always tossing it in the trash in effort to avoid an embarrassing incident of a clogged and overflowing toilet. However, when I encountered a trash can with a sign on it indicating that you should NOT put your toilet paper in the garbage, I decided to break out the dictionary (thanks again, Kieran). Here you have it: inodoro = toilet, cesto = garbage can. No arrojar el papel en el cesto. Don`t throw your toilet paper in the trash. Check. More common, however, is, “Por favor, nunca tirar NADA ni papel en el inodoro.” Please, never throw ANYTHING, including toilet paper, in the toilet. One cultural hurdle down, ten to go!

At lunch, I met some other travellers. Funny to see how uncomfortable people are with difference. All the gringo travellers clustered at two or three different tables, and all the more local travellers formed groups at other tables. I met two young british women, both very nice, and an awful Australian. He had to be the most discourteous person I`ve encountered thus far. He had nothing but negative comments about the different ways of doing things in the countries he had travelled in, and complained incessantly and righteously about the bus company and the food (neither of which were particularly appalling). I wanted to tell him that if he was going to continue being so intolerant and narrow-minded, he`d be better off going directly back to Australia where he could bask in his undeserved privilege. Grrr! It`s really disappointing to meet people like this. When locals do have negative opinions of travellers, I think it stems from interacting with people like this guy. And speaking of local opinions, there is definitely a stereotype about young travellers. Nearly every hostel I check into sees fit to inform me immediately of parties that will be taking place, locations and closing times of the local dance clubs, and the nearest place to buy alcohol. I just have to laugh out loud; if I wanted to drink myself silly for six weeks straight, I could do it for a lot cheaper in the states. Why travel if you`re just going to live the same life and do the same things you`d be doing back home? Ack! Anyway…

When we left our lunch spot and headed back out across the plains, the paved road politely excused itself for the next several hundred miles. So much for reading. It was really strange to be humming along a stretch of bladed desert at 65 mph, for hours on end. We were gaining in elevation, though. The bleak, boring view out the window didn`t change, but the temperature did. Before I knew it, we were surround by snow patches in a landscape that resembled what Wyoming/Eastern Oregon might look like after getting hit with a nuclear bomb. To my dismay, I`m not invincible to the altitude. I first noticed it on the bus shortly before lunch. I was reading my guide book when I suddenly felt like I desperately needed air. The same feeling you get when you swim to the bottom of the pool and stay too long. It only had to happen twice before I realized what was going on. I can`t wait to see how I fare in LaPaz, Bolivia, the highest capital city in the world (12,078 ft.) or at the world`s highest geyser field tomorrow  (14,190 ft.).

Salar Atacama - one of the many dried up saline lakes

Salar Atacama – one of the many dried up saline lakes

When we finally arrived in San Pedro de Atacama, we had to go through customs before we could go into town. We had stopped about a hundred miles back at the Argentina exit point, but there had been no Chilean entry point. This is the first time the office hasn`t been right on the border, so it was a little strange. It was the same rigamrole as the last time I went into Chile. They are way more strict than any other country I`ve ever been too. They search everyone always. When we got off the bus, they had laid out a foam pad soaked with some kind of chemical. This was to be everyone`s first step. Thank goodness Chaco makes their sandal pads so thick. It would have been so nasty if the grimy liquid came spilling into my shoes. Ew! After the shoe cleaning and passport stamping, they brought a drug dog around. If the dog stopped at your pack, you were doomed to have absolutely every item taken out and looked out. Upon entry to the screening room I saw a young woman about my age who had suffered this fate repacking her bag. When I tried to get back on the bus after the screening, I found out that customs was also the bus stop, and arrival to San Pedro was by foot. Ummm…okay. That would explain the hostel hawkers. One guy was especially adamant trying to get me to go with him. I found the british women and invited them along for the ride, since there was no way I was getting into a car with this guy. Shortly thereafter, I found out by “come with me, I`ll take you” he meant, “I`ll walk you to the hostel.” Oh. Okay then.

The streets of San Pedro are really neat. It`s this great idyllic desert village with a very authentic feel to it. Lots of quaint little restaurants. The hostel was nice… more hotel-ish in that they didn`t have dorm beds. There were doubles and triples, all going for the same rate. At first I was disappointed that the british women weren`t keen on the idea of a triple (once I left, they`d be stuck with whoever the hostel chose to put with them). However, when I walked into my own private double, I was quite pleased with the way things had worked out. It was the first time I`ve had my own room in a place that WASN`T a total dive. Awesome! The showers were HOT, but quick. They don`t have much water in the desert, so conservation is a must. Also, the water is often heated by wood fires, which means that you`re consuming a huge amount of resources. It struck me how much I take for granted a nice, long, hot shower that goes for pennies in the U.S.

An Australian couple on their honeymoon had also just arrived at the hostel, so we invited them out to dinner. The two brits have a travel website that they wanted to update, so we spent some quality time in front of the computers before we ate. It was SO expensive! I swear, internet is the bane of a traveller`s existence, and yet entirely fantastic at the same time. When I get behind on journal entries, I start to get stressed out about it. Also, I have an unfortunate knack for detail, which means writing about a single day can take me upwards of an hour, sometimes almost two. I usually manage to relegate my usage times to days/hours when I`m just hanging out in a bus station waiting for a bus or when a museum sounds far less interesting than catching up on my journal. The upside to the internet is, when I`ve had a really rough go of it (i.e. having to face challenge after challenge alone with no moral support), it`s great to get to an internet cafè and find messages waiting from friends and family. Very comforting.

We had dinner at the nicest restaurant I`ve eaten in down here (I usually stay away from the expensive stuff). They had a $1 cover per person for the FANTASTIC music, and a warm fire very near our table. I finally got to try the national drink, Pisco sour. It`s a white grape brandy mixed with lime juice, among other things. Like a margarita, only more acidic. It was good, but REALLY strong. It didn`t go all that well with my dinner, which was also a tale to be told. As I was scanning the cheap dishes on the menu (starting at $7), I came across “avacado pasta.” It was either pasta or pizza if I was going to keep from breaking the bank, so I got it. It was basically avacado purèed and poured on penne. When I got to thinking about it, nutritionally it`s just like eating avacado on toast. While strange, it tasted great!

We were all beat after the long day of travelling, so we headed home. Walking in the front gate, Kirstin, one of the brits, said something about chocolate cake. Truly evil, I thought, and told her so. Much to my surprise, they were harboring a stash in their room and invited me to join them. Yum! After twenty minutes of travel talk, I retired to my own room. Thank goodness I had asked Xena for the time before I left; I almost forget the time difference between Chile and Argentina. I set my alarm for my necessary 3:45 a.m. rousing to go on the tour to the El Tatio geyser field, world`s highest, the following day. I can`t believe how fast time is going down here! My trip is almost half way over already!

Lucky to be alive!

I`m starting to realize that I`m crazy. From the moment I arrived in Buenos Aires, I`ve been meeting travellers. The first order of business, of course, is to exchange names, nationalities, and the amount of time that you`re travelling. Some the first folks I encountered told tales of anywhere from 4 mo. to a year and a half of travel. At first I was shocked that anyone would have the resources to travel that long. However, the more people I meet, the more I realize that I`m doing something almost entirely original. It`s completely common for travellers to find a town they like, spend four or five days eating, reading, sleeping, and exploring a little, and then move on to the next destination (which can be done relatively cheaply). Counter to that, my most  predictable  move is to read up on a town before arrival, decide what I`m going to do there and when I`m going to do it, arrive at the town, research onward departure times, find a hostel, have my planned adventure, leave. In fact, it`s a bit rare for me to spend more than one night in a town. I want to see as much as I can! People I meet think I`m insane, though.

Something else I`m learning about travelling, though, is that almost everyone I meet is travelling on an “around the world ticket.” Little did I know, there are conglomerates of airlines that sell tickets charging by the continent (not by the flight). Travel has to be completed within a year of your departure, and the ticket includes four free flights within each continent if you so choose to use them. Your route has to be set before the trip (i.e. Europe, Asia, Australia, U.S., Europe) and costs $75 to change. You pre-select your dates for flights between continents, but the dates can be changed, free of charge, as long as you don`t exceed your year of travel. The tickets cost around $3000. I really hope I am able to take the opportunity to do something like this while I`m young!

Now back to the travel stories. Winnie, Delfin, and I arrived in Salta after hailing the bus in the desert around 10 p.m. We were approached by the commonplace gang of hostel hawkers, which is always a bad thing when you`re in a group. What happens is this: each group member`s attention becomes occupied by a different vendor resulting in mass confusion along with continuing pressure from all the pamphlet wavers. AND we still needed to find out about onward tickets for the morning! Finally we told the group of travel maulers to hold while we searched. Winnie and Delfin found a bus that left for their next destination at 10 the following morning. Lucky me, it turns out departures to Chile, where I was headed, are only available on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday morning. Glory be, it was Tuesday night. As I waited for Delfin and Winnie to finish their ticket business, the disappointment of having to spend excess time in a city started to sink in. I cursed myself for not having the E.S.P. to know that this would happen so that I could have spent the extra time in Cafayate. I recovered quickly, however, as there was my delicious goat cheese purchase to be taken advantage of, along with the wine purchased by my travel-mates.

Delfin got us talked into a hostel farther away from the bus station than I wanted to be, but I acquiesced, given the hour. I decided I would look for my own the following day after I accompanied them to the station to purchase my ticket (my agency was closed upon our arrival). Ten minutes and one peso later (roughly 30 cents), we found ourselves in front of our hostel-to-be. The rooms and kitchen were standard. Our bathroom lacked a shower curtain, but I am told that is a common phenomenon in Argentina. And showers aren`t like they are in the U.S. In all the countries I`ve travelled in, the shower is merely a two inch depression in the floor with a curtain between it and the rest of the bathroom. So, if you can imagine this, you have no problem fathoming the sopping wet mess that results. Also, the hostel`s attempt at creating unique and defined spaces left most of the communal areas looking like they were under construction. Nonetheless, within thirty minutes we were happily enjoying our cheese and wine (and pizza that Delfin had ordered on the sly). After an extensive conversation about recreational drugs (turns out Delfin is quite the dabbler), I headed out to find a telephone office to make a sanity-maintenance phone call.

Breakfast the next morning was by far the most stellar I`ve seen in the way of palatable eats. For the first time at a hostel, I wanted seconds! And, I`m ashamed to admit, I keep getting lured into the coffee drinking business that goes on here. I`ve gone this long without getting hooked; I can`t give in! True to form (this holds true only for my travels here), I was the first one ready to go on account of my lack of luggage to be packed. Delfin and Winnie made their bus with a few minutes to spare, and I faced the music regarding a necessary 7 a.m. departure (the busses of both companies leave at this time) the next morning. That left me with 21 hours to kill. I made myself a to-do list which included a hostel search (closer to bus, please!), laundry, sunshine enjoyment, book completion, and internet, in that order. On my way to “Backpacker`s Hostel,” which I was referred to via a flyer from the night before, I had to trek past the town`s biggest park, San Martìn. Backpack on, purse dangling by my side, small map in hand, a bag of food trailing on my left side, and jeans rolled up to avoid my wet sandal straps (thank you shower), I plunged into the city, constantly scanning street signs and store fronts. I walked alongside the outer edge of the park for what seemed like ages. Finally, I glanced down to consult my map as I overtook an older couple on their right side. As I squinted at the tiny print on the map in hand, my world suddenly disappeared from underneath me. Some tree planting projects were taking place at the edge of the park, and my overtaking of the couple via a “mound of dirt” just off the side walk left me knee-deep in a slime hole complete with mud, clay, sticks, dirt, trash, and who knows what else! I let out a yelp as I realized everything I owned was about to be plunged into the murk and somehow managed a leap up out of the vacuum-seal muck onto the sidewalk. I quickly surveyed the damage, and to my dismay found that my rolled up jeans, my bare calves, my sandals, and my all ten of my little toes were covered in mud-slime. A man walking by had unwittingly become the victim of a few flying mud splatters and had the nerve to ask me what I thought I was doing. “Oh, sorry, sir. I was just enjoying my mud bath and free laundry service here in the park. I didn`t mean to disturb you. Thanks for helping me out of the tub, though.” Argh. I wish my Spanish was good enough to lay THAT one on him!

I found the hostel I had gone looking for shortly thereafter, and settled in after cleaning myself up. Laundry service was offered for a few pesos more than usual, so after scanning the availability (or lack thereof) of a lavendarìa within a few blocks of my new abode, I handed over my wash. With the sun shining and book in hand, I took off for the nearest plaza (a park with grass you can`t lie down on). I brought two books down here with me (thank you, Laurel, for the fantastic recommendations!) and was itching to get rid of the bulk of my 500-page novel. I found a bench in the sun, and slowly  rotisseried  myself as I devoured the chapters, wrote in my journal, and just stared at the trees and sky deep in thought. The plaza is an excellent place to spend time on account of the people, the pigeons, and the goings-on about the city. It`s really nice to be around the joyful and lively happenings that almost inevitably fill a city park. The pigeons cooing at my feet and the unbelievable amount of noise they make when they all take flight on account of a stray dog were definitely a plaza trademark. The synthetic bell that chimed the quarter hour all day served as a nice benchmark insofar as just how much time I was piddling away. A protest during the afternoon kept distracting me from my final chapters. The ice cream man (a commercially-supplied cooler strapped to the handle-bars of a bicycle made me feel like a kid again. It was interesting and educational to notice all the vendors constantly strolling by and  peddling  their wares. I`ve never really thought about how incredibly stable the economy is in the U.S. There are so many people down here who have to make their living by walking around with a box of strawberries, or pedaling around a basket of lunchtime delights. Their work isn`t done until they`ve sold the last drop after being rejected who-knows-how-many times and walking who-knows-how-many miles. Hence, the title of my e-mail. I started thinking about how truly thankful I am to have the means, financially, mentally, and physically, to live the life that I am living. I am so lucky to be able to afford to spend the entire day reading in the park instead of  peddling  strawberries or shoe-shines to feed my kids. I am so lucky to have two (almost normal) legs to climb the four sets of stairs at my hostel, two arms to tote all my gear, corrected-to-normal vision, normal hearing, a history of adequate nourishment (thanks Mom & Dad!). I am so thankful for the incredibly privileged life I have led.

As nice as it was to have an entire day with relaxing as the principle item on the agenda, I could only manage to enjoy about five hours of it before I felt utterly useless and slightly lame. By then it was too late to make my way to any tourist-draws, so I resigned myself (quite happily) to getting some groceries and making dinner. (Also thankful to be able to afford what ever I want at the grocery store.) After the creativity-free pasta dinner I made myself, I spent a little time online while listening to the desk-employee and his friends play soccer on a Playstation. Argentinians are INSANE about soccer… to the tune of killing a player who once scored the winning goal for the opposing team in some all-important game. To my chagrin, the acoustics in the room were abnormally impressive. Longing for the earplugs in my backpack back at the hostel, I cut short my typing after I couldn`t bear to hear another playstation-induced scream of protest or victory. I headed back to call it a night, repacked my bag with my fresh laundry, and awoke to the flip side of water shortages at hostels. Instead of only cold, I got only hot, scalding hot, water. No shower for me! Breakfast brought an offer of a taxi to the station with a young Dutch woman.

Chile, here I come! (again.)

Cafayate – a desert like no other

After staying in the roach motel in Tucumán and finally shedding the sentiment that accompanies living like a recovering heroin addict, I killed my bus-wait time by catching up with all this online business and making a belated “Happy Mother’s Day” phone call to my mother. I’ve decided that no matter where you go, food-wise, travelling sucks. In the states, it’s gross sandwiches fabricated who-knows-how-many weeks ago with potato chips to compliment the meal. Here, pretty much your only option in bus stations is pre-packaged food. I’m talking Saltines, Oreo’s, cookies… you name it. As long as it can be  artificially  flavored and  persevered, they’ve got it for sale in a South American bus station.

Something that  strikes  me nearly  every time  I get on a bus is the big hurry that all the  buses  seem to be in. I’m not  complaining   but it’s just kind of nerve-wracking to feel the driver shift into gear before the baggage doors are closed. If you’re last on the bus, you better be good at surfing. It’s rough waters all the way back to your seat as the bus lumbers and sways out of the station faster than should be legal. Also, one of my biggest annoyances on the bus is that without fail, whenever I sit next to a male local, he always feels that it`s well within his right to worm his way into my space. Most of them are no bigger than I am, and so can`t pull the “I have long legs” card. It`s just somewhat humiliating to be outright disrespected like that. I know it`s something small, but when I have to hammer my leg against someone else`s just to help them realize that I`m a person and deserve space just as much as they do, it gets frustrating.

Moving on, I really appreciate the perspective I’m gaining while interacting with other travellers. I don’t realize that I’m sheltered in ways I never think to question. My most poignant example comes from casual conversation with Dan and some other Israeli folks I’ve chatted with in my travels. After talking about the skewed perspective that many people have about life in Israel (i.e. many think it’s terrorist central with the kamakazi crazies blowing themselves up at bus stops every 20 minutes), I thought (almost triumphantly, I am embarrassed to admit) that I’d kind of gotten the skinny that most non-Israelis haven`t. I put myself in my place, however, the next day. Dan, Liraz, Onit, and I were at the lake shore talking to the guy who rents out boats when the mid-day siren went off. The other three asked what the noise was all about. Their concerned stemmed from the fact sirens like that are used during war time in Israel to warn everyone to flee to safe houses when an air attack is about to happen.  Whoa. I can’t imagine riding my bike around my neighborhood as an eight-year-old only to hear a siren like that of the Emergency Broadcast System and know it means I have to start  pedaling  furiously for my life. Reality check.

The country-side between Tucumán and Cafayate, at first, was very much like western Oregon. The rivers here are really dry, though. I don’t know if that’s because it’s winter, or if Argentina is having the same poor luck that much of the rest of the world is enduring in terms of precipitation. Once we started gaining elevation outside of Tucumán, the forest gave way to some crazy jungle paradise. It was unbelievable! The trees were so thick, and we followed this fantastic little mountain stream all the way and back down. I couldn’t locate it on a map to figure out what the area was called, but I think it might have been a cloud forest. What do I know, though? I’ll definitely not forget it. The road was really tight and windy… a two lane that shrunk to one in many places and didn’t have a center line for the whole ten hours on the bus. Craziness!
Next, the scenery gave way to something that reminded me very much of north eastern Oregon, or at least the way it looked when Nate and I drove through there in April, and finally we made our way into the prairie/desert that is the soul of Cafayate. I felt like I was on a bus headed for home! Except for the fields of sagebrush sparsely populated by 10-30 ft. tall cacti looking like petrified soldiers with too many arms, I was sure I was in Wyoming.

When we pulled into Cafayate, it was night time. Since I didn`t have a map of the city, I didn`t bother trying to cull a hostel out of my nearly useless Lonely Planet guidebook. The first hostel hawker who approached me was really sweet and cut me an awesome deal on a room. I`ve never stayed so cheaply! Also, I don`t know what happened, but by some miracle, I could understand every single word out of her mouth! In our conversations, she alerted me to two items I tend to forget in all my wandering. First, people often don`t know what to make of me because I travel with such a small pack. I`ve worked my way down to a medium sized purse (donated by Eleanor, along with several other items I now own second hand… thanks dear!) and a school-sized back pack. Since I don`t have the lumbering pack of a trekker, people don`t peg me for a typical tourist. However, I`m also a gringa (white) and my clothes are different enough to keep people from mistaking me for a local. It`s a fun little game for me. Item number two is I forget that I look very young. Ema, the hostel woman three years my senior, was shocked to learn my age and told me she wouldn`t have pegged me for a day over 18. Reminded me that I should be aware of what kinds of consequences this might carry (besides getting carded in the states all the time).

I had met two other solo travellers, Winnie (a Canadian) and Delfin (from Spain), on the bus and got chummy with them. We found some sub-par dinner at a street cafè: pizza with olives and bell peppers. The cheese was un-identifiable, the olives were rotten, and I can`t vouch for the bell peppers because I don`t like them in the first place. We chowed down anyway, and by morning I was no longer harboring the worry that my stomach was going to be torn to shreds. Breakfast, as per the usual, was an egg and some yogurt that I picked up at the mercado across the street. It`s a weird life. You`d think you could just eat in restaurants all the time, but it doesn`t work out like that for two reasons. One, it`s terribly unhealthy. It`s awfully hard to come by anything that isn`t fried and the rolled through the salt bucket. Two, the portions are not what the majority of you (the Americans reading this, at least) are used to. In a restaurant or hostel, “breakfast” is always white bread with jam (butter if you`re lucky), and coffee with milk. You couldn`t find a place serving anything bigger to save your own life. I`ll just cook my own, then, thank you. If I`m going to eat like a bird, I`m going to make it count nutritionally. Okay… food is a pretty boring subject, so never mind about lunch and dinner.

Winnie, Delfin, and I went on a winery tour in the morning to kill time before the Quebranda (desert gorge) tour in the afternoon. If I had thought to get up an hour earlier, I could have done the five hour hike to a waterfall outside town instead. C`est la vie! After this wine tour, I`ve had my fill of bodegas. Although, I must say the wine here is incredible. And disgustingly cheap! A bottle of GOOD wine runs anywhere between $2 and $7. Amazing. If it weren`t for the small pack I mentioned earlier, you could bet your bottom dollar I`d be packing home lots to share. I highly recommend Argentina, even if it`s just for the wine! At the second (of three) bodegas (wineries) that we visited, they were selling cheese, too. They had some for sample with the wine, and it was delicious. And if you`ve spent much time in the kitchen with me, you know what an incredible statement THAT is, because I`m about as close as you can get to hating cheese and still eating it. This stuff was so good that I had the guts to buy a whole package.

After the wine tour, we spent an hour eating white rice, fried chicken, salsa, and white bread at a street cafè. At least it`s cheap, eh? Then, we loaded up into one of the death-trap vehicles that I am becoming surprisingly accustomed to riding around in. Meant for 12 and hauling 15, we headed out for the desert with Pedro, one of the most animated guides I`ve ever seen. The Quebrada de Cafayate was beyond words. It`s miles of giant landforms eroded away by wind and water with colors so variant and plentiful that you can`t keep your eyes still. Everything looms above you, looking deceptively smaller than it is. When you catch sight of a person or a vehicle against the enormous engulfing background, it nearly takes your breath away. Pedro drove us from place to place where we got out and hiked around as he pointed out different plants and landforms. The colors, he says, come from the abundance of metals in the soil there which oxidize as they are exposed. He was also a wealth of knowledge on desert plants, pointing out one especially plentiful bush whose trunk and branches never came in any other color but neon green. Turns out the plant does most of its photosynthesizing in the trunk and branches: cool!

See the road? These landforms just LOOM over you!

See the road? These landforms just LOOM over you!

As far as the company for the day, I have to admit there were some issues with a clingy guy from New Zealand. His name is Sam and he looks, acts, and talks just exactly like Napolean Dynamite. He turns what is normally a charming accent into fingernails on a chalkboard. The worst of it was, he decided that I was to be his pal for the day and so followed me practically everywhere. I kept dropping lines about my boyfriend and doing my best to be barely civil in the hopes that he would leave me alone. But, to no avail, I thought I had just escaped him and he`d be right there again. Nonetheless, I was still able to more-than-appreciate the glory of the Quebrada. The last place we went was called “The Ampitheater,” a small canyon, a maximum of 50 ft wide with walls looming well over 270 feet above our heads. Pedro, in his bantering way, sang us an amazing Spanish love song to demonstrate the acoustics from which the place gets his name. He had an incredible voice!

A view from the top - the valley leaving the quebrada

A view from the top – the valley leaving the quebrada

The sun had been sinking in the sky as we made our way to the turn around point on Route 68. Winnie, Delfin, and I all needed to go to Salta, which is farther along the same road, so we had decided earlier in the day to bring all our gear and flag down whatever bus or farmer we might to get us to Salta. Pedro knew the bus schedule and said it was best if we just waited for the bus coming from Cafayate. He stayed with us until it showed up and sent us packing with a smile. What an awesome day!