Here's some of my favorite photos from the 10 rolls of film I took on my trip to South America. Not sure why, but the digital images I got on CD are a little grainy. I like em anyways.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Cast and Characters: Part 1
Disclaimer: I started this blog about two months ago, and had intended to get all the interesting people I'd met into this one blog. But, it's been tough since coming home to get this finished. Who knows, the muse doesn't like the Phoenix heat I guess. This is just part one. More to come. PS. It's pretty long.
I have a buddy that often says "art immitates life". Jeff is a big fan of the movies, as most aspiring film writers probably tend to be. Sometimes, when hanging out with him, you get the feeling that Jeff`s life is really just Jeff`s Movie...always in production, never edited, and rarely censored. Life immitating art. Talking with Jeff usually feels a little more like dialogue than normal conversation, and sometimes you`re just there for his monologue. Don`t get me wrong, he`s not acting. The script never lacks sincerity, depth, breadth, drama, banter and comic relief. In Jeff`s movie, there`s never any doubt who the lead man is, and he`s a commanding presence. Miss you Jefe, miss you every day.
Lately, with so many people mentioning "all the interesting people" I must be meeting during the course of my travels, I`ve come to think of my trip as a scene in Joey`s Movie. The fact that I`m traveling alone (not counting my One True Travel Buddy till The End) doesn`t really lend itself to a thick plot or very rich character development. This scene is more like a long string of interesting and sundry cameos. The end of the production is still unknown, and only time will tell what twists the plot will take...but I thought the public might like to get to know some of the more outstanding characters thus far.
In Order of Appearance:
Joey. The Traveler, played by me of course. Laid back Arizonan who espeaka da espaneesh. Typical mid 20`s traveler, avoiding the responsibilities that his age and society are pushing onto him back home. Not trying to "find himself", just trying to figure some things out and have some adventures. I realize that in everyone elses movie, I`m a cameo known as The Mormon. "Wow, can`t say I`ve ever met one of those before". The guy that went out, but didn`t drink any booze. Asked for herbal tea instead of coffee, and didn`t try to sleep with anyone. I know that some other travelers wonder what the hell I`m traveling for, if I pass on local grass. I`m sure I must be one of the most enigmatic, or at least wierd, cameos in everyone else`s movie. I don`t think my religion is the only thing that defines me, and I don't usually bring it up when talking with people...but it comes up, inevitably. People rarely take the time, or have the interest in knowing why I act the way I do. Meanwhile, I`m just glad to stray from the stereotypical american backpacker: ignorant, obnoxious, drunken, horney college boy.
The Cast of the Ecuadorian OC. In the "hit" TV show (I swear, I`ve only seen a couple episodes) there`s a poor part of town; Chino I think. In this South American version, there's a rich part of town. The whole country is caught in a grinding cycle of poverty while the party boys and girls from Guayaquil`s gated communities lounge at the yacht club, pay $20 cover fees and weekend at their daddies beach houses. They have group names, and webpages to post the fotos of their parties. How I infiltrated this upper strata of society is still a myster to me...but I`m not complaining. For once, the misconceptions about americans having money worked in my favor.
The Patient English Volunteer/Travel Writer. I met Donna Tipping on my adventure into the Amazon Jungle. A lanky, yet elegant bird with a lovely accent, Donna made what could have been Apocolypse Now boat rides seem like fuzzy scenes from Out of Africa, Howards End, or some other boring British film with good scenery and actors like Rupert Murdoch or Emma Thompson. We spent two of the most interesting and enjoyable weeks together. She taught me the Queens English and a great game called Red or Beer. We discussed at great length the difference between buscuits, crackers and cookies. She`s the kind of person who avoids coca-cola products because of their environmental and social irresponsibility...but not really. She`s quick to laugh, and dance silly dances with little Peruvian girls that had adopted her as fun-big-sister donna. I miss Donna. Read her version of part of our trip. She`s a great writer.
Pepe Lopez and Juan "El Tigre" Debardales. Pepe was a big part of my Amazon experience. He took Donna and I safely down the Napo River, and in the course of the trip, we became friends. He invited us to stay in his home, with his wife and 5 daughters tending to our every need....why not? He`s a habitually happy guy with a nervous kind of energy that only seemed to focus or calm down when he sat at the helm of a boat to direct it through floating logs and sand bars. Pepe was born in an indigenous village on the Amazon, and at age 11, identified by traveling priests as an astute student, he was taken to Iquitos to study. Proud of his heritage, his life is an amazing story, and Pepe is an impressive story teller. 25 years of guiding adventure tourists in the Amazon have given him an impressive collection of antecdotes to draw from.
Pepe sold Donna and I on a 4 day "survival" excursion in the jungle...which is where we met Juan "The Tiger" Debardales. When I met Juan, he was working on finishing a canoe he had fashioned by hand from the trunk of a large jungle tree. Pepe introduced him as a tiger because Juan´s hunting prowess was second to none. I started calling him Tiger after I found out that he had 9 children. He said making babies was the principle passtime in his house...no electricity, no TV, nada. Over the next few days I would learn that Juan was probably the manliest man I´ve ever met (and I was a logger). You can´t be soft and survive in the jungle. He had a wealth of knowledge about every poisonous or useful plant and animal in the jungle, and when it came time to sleep, we all hopped into hammocks while Juan just cut some palm leaves, laid them on the ground and called it a bed. He taught us to drink fresh water from jungle vines, make salad from the heart of a palm tree, and fish for piranhas. Was there anything he couldn´t do with a machete?? Good natured and sometimes almost silly, Juan had the most sincere, high pitched, effortless laugh. If he wasn´t a damn leopard hunter, I´d say it was a giggle. But Juan, like Chuck Norriss is far too manly to ever giggle. If you think otherwise, Juan will roundhouse kick your throat. Me, Pepe and Juan spent 3 days making jokes and laughing heartily while swatting away mosquitos. The dynamic duo, with about 2/3 of a mouthful of teeth between them both, made the jungle excursion very memorable.
The River Cook: This guy's name was Gulliver, and it seemed fitting. He was the jolly, portly cook and part owner of the first hammock boat I rode on en route to Iquitos. Gulliver took a liking to Donna and I immediately because he wanted to "practice his English". He would tip us off early when dinner was ready, and cooked us some incredibly tasty impromptu river ceviche. This guy was crazy, but in a good way. He's one of those people that other people always say "that so-and-so, he's quite a character". From what I could tell, Gulliver didn't think it was worth saying words or forming sentences unless they evoked laughter. He has everyone around him in stitches at all times, and laughs at his own punchlines until it looks as if he might need an O-2 mask to recover. Gulliver invited us to his restaurant in Iquitos, and after a few rounds of beers I came to the conclusion that Gulliver acts like he does because he's in a constant state of half drunkeness--he likes his beer.
From the Henry II:
The Colombian Artisan: It's a whole subculture; the grungy, dred locked "al-natural" makers of all things involving hemp and beeds. Hippies without a cause, they're too mellowed out on weed to protest any type of social injustice aside from a hard bargain by a cheap tourist. They can live for months and months on notoriously small budgets. I met Katalina on my Hank Deux ride out of Iquitos, and she being the only other foreigner on the boat, we became good friends, kept each other sane and watched each other's back. She was a college graduate with a marijuana leaf tatood to the back of her neck and a 150 dollar budget to get to Iguacu falls Argentina. She was on her way to meet her boyfriend who had been traveling, selling his wares for 4 years already. (No wonder artisans are always wiry and skinny...150.00 is VERY little money for such a long trip)
The Ex-Terrorist: Francisco was a tranquil, fragile looking guy with peaceful eyes and a soft voice. You'd never have pegged him for an ex-terrorist, especially when you learned that his current occupation was primary-school teacher. He occupied the same 3 feet of wooden bench during the 4.5 day trip; on the 3rd day he asked to borrow my cards and we began conversing. at the tender age of 14, he left his home in the mountains to look for work in the amazon region...which in Peru or Bolivia means that he heard you got paid well for working in coca fields. Soon he found himself embroiled in the hostile workings of Peru's leftist guerrilla movement, The Shining Path. For several months he endured their grueling "training' in the jungle; food deprivation, near-death jungle marches, military tactics--all designed to turn a 15 year old kid into a tough, indoctrinated, ruthless guerrilla. (Flash to Joey, eyes wide...jaw down in his hammock..."you?!, Really?? Wow!") He openly admitted to having participated in multiple "acts of violence". Bombings, and whatnot. But the life he found himself living wasn't what he'd bargained for, and it didn't suit him, so when he was put on guard with another young guy, he convinced him to flee together. Leaving a militant leftist guerrilla movement is no easy task according to Francisco. He and his co-AWOL-buddy had a weeks-long near death trek through the jungle to get away. Then he had to join the opposition (Peruvian Army) "for protection" from the people who's secrets he knew. Terrorist to Military Man to School Teacher....nothing unnatural about that progression I guess. He musn't have been a very good teacher though because he'd traveled 6 days back to the place of his nightmarish experience for a job interview...just to be denied the position. At least leaving there this time he wasn't running for his life.
I have a buddy that often says "art immitates life". Jeff is a big fan of the movies, as most aspiring film writers probably tend to be. Sometimes, when hanging out with him, you get the feeling that Jeff`s life is really just Jeff`s Movie...always in production, never edited, and rarely censored. Life immitating art. Talking with Jeff usually feels a little more like dialogue than normal conversation, and sometimes you`re just there for his monologue. Don`t get me wrong, he`s not acting. The script never lacks sincerity, depth, breadth, drama, banter and comic relief. In Jeff`s movie, there`s never any doubt who the lead man is, and he`s a commanding presence. Miss you Jefe, miss you every day.
Lately, with so many people mentioning "all the interesting people" I must be meeting during the course of my travels, I`ve come to think of my trip as a scene in Joey`s Movie. The fact that I`m traveling alone (not counting my One True Travel Buddy till The End) doesn`t really lend itself to a thick plot or very rich character development. This scene is more like a long string of interesting and sundry cameos. The end of the production is still unknown, and only time will tell what twists the plot will take...but I thought the public might like to get to know some of the more outstanding characters thus far.
In Order of Appearance:
Joey. The Traveler, played by me of course. Laid back Arizonan who espeaka da espaneesh. Typical mid 20`s traveler, avoiding the responsibilities that his age and society are pushing onto him back home. Not trying to "find himself", just trying to figure some things out and have some adventures. I realize that in everyone elses movie, I`m a cameo known as The Mormon. "Wow, can`t say I`ve ever met one of those before". The guy that went out, but didn`t drink any booze. Asked for herbal tea instead of coffee, and didn`t try to sleep with anyone. I know that some other travelers wonder what the hell I`m traveling for, if I pass on local grass. I`m sure I must be one of the most enigmatic, or at least wierd, cameos in everyone else`s movie. I don`t think my religion is the only thing that defines me, and I don't usually bring it up when talking with people...but it comes up, inevitably. People rarely take the time, or have the interest in knowing why I act the way I do. Meanwhile, I`m just glad to stray from the stereotypical american backpacker: ignorant, obnoxious, drunken, horney college boy.
The Cast of the Ecuadorian OC. In the "hit" TV show (I swear, I`ve only seen a couple episodes) there`s a poor part of town; Chino I think. In this South American version, there's a rich part of town. The whole country is caught in a grinding cycle of poverty while the party boys and girls from Guayaquil`s gated communities lounge at the yacht club, pay $20 cover fees and weekend at their daddies beach houses. They have group names, and webpages to post the fotos of their parties. How I infiltrated this upper strata of society is still a myster to me...but I`m not complaining. For once, the misconceptions about americans having money worked in my favor.
The Patient English Volunteer/Travel Writer. I met Donna Tipping on my adventure into the Amazon Jungle. A lanky, yet elegant bird with a lovely accent, Donna made what could have been Apocolypse Now boat rides seem like fuzzy scenes from Out of Africa, Howards End, or some other boring British film with good scenery and actors like Rupert Murdoch or Emma Thompson. We spent two of the most interesting and enjoyable weeks together. She taught me the Queens English and a great game called Red or Beer. We discussed at great length the difference between buscuits, crackers and cookies. She`s the kind of person who avoids coca-cola products because of their environmental and social irresponsibility...but not really. She`s quick to laugh, and dance silly dances with little Peruvian girls that had adopted her as fun-big-sister donna. I miss Donna. Read her version of part of our trip. She`s a great writer.
Pepe Lopez and Juan "El Tigre" Debardales. Pepe was a big part of my Amazon experience. He took Donna and I safely down the Napo River, and in the course of the trip, we became friends. He invited us to stay in his home, with his wife and 5 daughters tending to our every need....why not? He`s a habitually happy guy with a nervous kind of energy that only seemed to focus or calm down when he sat at the helm of a boat to direct it through floating logs and sand bars. Pepe was born in an indigenous village on the Amazon, and at age 11, identified by traveling priests as an astute student, he was taken to Iquitos to study. Proud of his heritage, his life is an amazing story, and Pepe is an impressive story teller. 25 years of guiding adventure tourists in the Amazon have given him an impressive collection of antecdotes to draw from.
Pepe sold Donna and I on a 4 day "survival" excursion in the jungle...which is where we met Juan "The Tiger" Debardales. When I met Juan, he was working on finishing a canoe he had fashioned by hand from the trunk of a large jungle tree. Pepe introduced him as a tiger because Juan´s hunting prowess was second to none. I started calling him Tiger after I found out that he had 9 children. He said making babies was the principle passtime in his house...no electricity, no TV, nada. Over the next few days I would learn that Juan was probably the manliest man I´ve ever met (and I was a logger). You can´t be soft and survive in the jungle. He had a wealth of knowledge about every poisonous or useful plant and animal in the jungle, and when it came time to sleep, we all hopped into hammocks while Juan just cut some palm leaves, laid them on the ground and called it a bed. He taught us to drink fresh water from jungle vines, make salad from the heart of a palm tree, and fish for piranhas. Was there anything he couldn´t do with a machete?? Good natured and sometimes almost silly, Juan had the most sincere, high pitched, effortless laugh. If he wasn´t a damn leopard hunter, I´d say it was a giggle. But Juan, like Chuck Norriss is far too manly to ever giggle. If you think otherwise, Juan will roundhouse kick your throat. Me, Pepe and Juan spent 3 days making jokes and laughing heartily while swatting away mosquitos. The dynamic duo, with about 2/3 of a mouthful of teeth between them both, made the jungle excursion very memorable.
The River Cook: This guy's name was Gulliver, and it seemed fitting. He was the jolly, portly cook and part owner of the first hammock boat I rode on en route to Iquitos. Gulliver took a liking to Donna and I immediately because he wanted to "practice his English". He would tip us off early when dinner was ready, and cooked us some incredibly tasty impromptu river ceviche. This guy was crazy, but in a good way. He's one of those people that other people always say "that so-and-so, he's quite a character". From what I could tell, Gulliver didn't think it was worth saying words or forming sentences unless they evoked laughter. He has everyone around him in stitches at all times, and laughs at his own punchlines until it looks as if he might need an O-2 mask to recover. Gulliver invited us to his restaurant in Iquitos, and after a few rounds of beers I came to the conclusion that Gulliver acts like he does because he's in a constant state of half drunkeness--he likes his beer.
From the Henry II:
The Colombian Artisan: It's a whole subculture; the grungy, dred locked "al-natural" makers of all things involving hemp and beeds. Hippies without a cause, they're too mellowed out on weed to protest any type of social injustice aside from a hard bargain by a cheap tourist. They can live for months and months on notoriously small budgets. I met Katalina on my Hank Deux ride out of Iquitos, and she being the only other foreigner on the boat, we became good friends, kept each other sane and watched each other's back. She was a college graduate with a marijuana leaf tatood to the back of her neck and a 150 dollar budget to get to Iguacu falls Argentina. She was on her way to meet her boyfriend who had been traveling, selling his wares for 4 years already. (No wonder artisans are always wiry and skinny...150.00 is VERY little money for such a long trip)
The Ex-Terrorist: Francisco was a tranquil, fragile looking guy with peaceful eyes and a soft voice. You'd never have pegged him for an ex-terrorist, especially when you learned that his current occupation was primary-school teacher. He occupied the same 3 feet of wooden bench during the 4.5 day trip; on the 3rd day he asked to borrow my cards and we began conversing. at the tender age of 14, he left his home in the mountains to look for work in the amazon region...which in Peru or Bolivia means that he heard you got paid well for working in coca fields. Soon he found himself embroiled in the hostile workings of Peru's leftist guerrilla movement, The Shining Path. For several months he endured their grueling "training' in the jungle; food deprivation, near-death jungle marches, military tactics--all designed to turn a 15 year old kid into a tough, indoctrinated, ruthless guerrilla. (Flash to Joey, eyes wide...jaw down in his hammock..."you?!, Really?? Wow!") He openly admitted to having participated in multiple "acts of violence". Bombings, and whatnot. But the life he found himself living wasn't what he'd bargained for, and it didn't suit him, so when he was put on guard with another young guy, he convinced him to flee together. Leaving a militant leftist guerrilla movement is no easy task according to Francisco. He and his co-AWOL-buddy had a weeks-long near death trek through the jungle to get away. Then he had to join the opposition (Peruvian Army) "for protection" from the people who's secrets he knew. Terrorist to Military Man to School Teacher....nothing unnatural about that progression I guess. He musn't have been a very good teacher though because he'd traveled 6 days back to the place of his nightmarish experience for a job interview...just to be denied the position. At least leaving there this time he wasn't running for his life.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
FYI
I'm home. I got home a couple weeks ago; just in time for the Darnell family reunion in the white mountains (a blogworthy event in and of itself).
I came home mostly for financial reasons. But now, I really wish I had stayed in Brazil for World Cup...I know...it was a stupid decision. Don't rub it in, and don't ask "what are you going to do now?" because the answer is, I don't know. Asking about "my future" just compounds the depressing fact that a week ago I was an adventure-travel-blogger and now I'm a directionless 26 year old who moved back in with his parents.
Keep an eye out for a couple of finish up blogs.
I came home mostly for financial reasons. But now, I really wish I had stayed in Brazil for World Cup...I know...it was a stupid decision. Don't rub it in, and don't ask "what are you going to do now?" because the answer is, I don't know. Asking about "my future" just compounds the depressing fact that a week ago I was an adventure-travel-blogger and now I'm a directionless 26 year old who moved back in with his parents.
Keep an eye out for a couple of finish up blogs.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Shakedown
The bus is stopping. Now what? I was just dozing off, finally. It must be around 1 in the morning…couldn’t be a food stop. Maybe refueling. Now the lights are coming on and people are starting to bustle, waking up, sitting up.
Through the door in the front comes a woman and a big guy that doesn’t look Brazilian, more like a big Austrian. The woman is wearing black pleather pants and a dark vest with some emblems on it. Serious faces, Uniforms. Now they’re rummaging through people’s bags…..
Oh, a Shakedown.
I remember a shakedown on my way out of the jungle in Peru. Before the bus took off, a man had made a speech about taking animals out of their habitat. Then he’d done the sneaky, hand-you-a-piece-of-candy-like-a-gift-now and charge-you-for-it-in-a-minute trick. That night, as we crossed the state line, I’d seen a woman get hauled off in handcuffs for illegally transporting a little jungle monkey. Big risk to take, just to hear your friends say “cool monkey”.
But these guys are thorough. They’re not just rummaging now, they’re searching. Like a 1 a.m. adult Easter egg hunt on a deserted inland Brazilian highway. The first two pass me without noticing the shoulder bag I have stashed under my feet. Of course there’s nothing illegal or even scandalous in my bag. Books, journals, my camera bag. All very benign. Yet I feel nervous. I don’t want them to notice it and think I’ve been hiding it, so I’m acting as touristically oblivious as possible.
Now a third guy is getting on the bus. He looks like the guy you’d expect to be waiting for you on the other side of the interrogation table when you get “taken downtown”. He’s gruff, brusque and prickly. He is here to find what the other two tenderfoots didn’t. And he does. On his second sweep he makes me pull out my bag. Shit. But why am I nervous? I’ve got nothing to hide, my papers are in order, I’m legit; however, past experience has taught me that being legit isn’t really any guarantee. A corrupt official can sometimes see a foreigner just like a thief sees them, as a target. Their tactics are different, but the results are usually the same, loss of property.
He´s pulling out the camera from my bag.
Seu Nota?? “Your receipt?”
Oh man, here it goes. I’m on a 2 day bus across Brazil, and at 1 a.m. in the middle of nowhere this guys is eyeballing my Mom’s 35 mm camera and asking me if I have a receipt. He’s found his plastic egg with the special prize inside. My digital camera was stolen a week earlier by a conniving, sneaky Argentine, and now my back-up film camera was about to be “confiscated” by this Brazilian cop.
Earlier, I read about a man's experience visiting silverback mountain gorillas in their natural habitat. Now it occurs to me that dealing with authority figures in Latin America is unsettlingly similar. When they charge, you have to hold your ground without challenging their position. Keep your eyes and head down, don’t question too much, remain docile, try not to stick out of the group. Hope for mercy; it’s usually a bluff to let you know who’s in charge.
In my worst possible Portuguese;
nota? -stammer- eh..nao…nao sei.
My mouth says “Reciept, I….I don’t know”. But my face is saying “Please officer, my Mom will kill me if I don’t bring her camera home. I’m just a nice, innocent tourist trying to enjoy your friendly, famously fun-loving country. Please, I have no idea what’s going on here, I won’t be any trouble. Just act like I’m not here.” And gratefully that’s what he does. He plops my camera down as if to say “stupid American, doesn’t have his receipt.” Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry.
During my camera scare, some other guys had been popping their heads onto the bus and calling out numbers for the unlucky lottery. If your seat number is called, you get to get off the bus and unpack your baggage from the storage departments underneath, then they send you on a cruise with a giant cardboard check…but only after they unpack your bags to look for pastel painted chicken ovum.
Now it seems the officials feel that one of our unlucky winners was being less than cooperative, so, peeved, they force all the passengers off the bus and inform us that thanks to her everyone gets searched!! The Silverback Male delivers a hard blow. By now, I’ve realized that these apes aren’t looking for eggs…it’s contraband they’re after. We step off into the Brazilian night and I realize we’re not alone in this situation. Several other buses are being searched, and a camera crew is shining a blinding light all around while filming, giving the scene a hectic, rather unnerving feeling. Our bus pulls around next to a truck full of boxes. Boxes full of other boxes. Other boxes that have electronics inside. Plastic Egg, Foil Wrapping, Hershey’s Chocolate. These guys had been busy, and are still busy packing and loading confiscated equipment.
They begin to pull out my bus-mates bags. Mostly they are brightly colored, plaid tarpaulin bags. Bags you’d want to pack a picnic in, only your picnic would easily last an entire summer pulling sandwiches from these bags. They are gigantic. I’d seen them loading these bags between two and three people at the station, and now I’m amazed that I hadn’t even wondered what was in those huge bags. Clearly, my co bus-riders hadn’t gone across the border into Paraguay to visit long lost cousins. Electronics are 1 quarter the Brazilian price in Paraguay, and they had stocked up to ship some back for sale. In my broken Portuguese I find out that things such as CD players, car stereos and any computer related electronics are considered contraband. (Side Note: I like that word contraband…would be a good name for a rock band, Contra – band…get it?? “Contraband rocks a million stadiums!!”)
In a short time, one of the officials takes a razorblade to the side of a big picnic bag and we all find out why the girl on our bus hadn’t been cooperative. She has 2 giant bags full of the new Contraband CD. Now I’m having a flashback…This girl was seated right behind me. Before the bus had taken off from Foz do Iguazu, she and her brother had taken great trouble to stuff a hard box underneath my seat, making it a little uncomfortable. I’d thought for a while about what words to say to ask them to move it. I’d thought “why don’t they just put it in an open seat? There’s plenty of space.” I never once thought it might be something illegal they didn’t want found. Then my butt went numb and I’d forgotten about it. Until now.
Do I say something? I know they’re hiding something illegal under MY seat…and that makes me uncomfortable in more than one way. Could I get busted for something here???...
Chief Gorilla: “What in the world is an American backpacker doing smuggling a car stereo under his seat?”
Young Male “I don’t know chief, but we’ll sure as hell beat the confession out of him!”
Dubious. A much more likely scenario is that if I say something, I make a few vehement enemies on a bus ride that still has 40 hours to go. Sleep with one eye open, if you dare sleep at all. So I decide to keep my mouth shut. After all, these people were just trying to make a buck, not necessarily an honest buck, but a buck nonetheless. What’s more is that they’re going to need that stereo under my seat to help recoup a miniscule portion of the approximately $5,000 worth of Easter eggs confiscated by the Customs goons.
Now it seems that the drama is close to over for our bus, and we’re going to go. My backpack was ignored and not searched…because what insane backpacker would carry around a bunch of hard drives? No eggs in there.
I’d have to say that through all this I’ve learned something. The moral of this Brazilian shakedown story is this: If, in the night, some big Brazilian gorillas come looking through your picnic bag for Easter eggs, make sure you have the receipt for your Mom’s camera and you hide your Contraband CDs well.
Ok, there’s no moral to the story really, but that’s my shakedown story anyways.
Through the door in the front comes a woman and a big guy that doesn’t look Brazilian, more like a big Austrian. The woman is wearing black pleather pants and a dark vest with some emblems on it. Serious faces, Uniforms. Now they’re rummaging through people’s bags…..
Oh, a Shakedown.
I remember a shakedown on my way out of the jungle in Peru. Before the bus took off, a man had made a speech about taking animals out of their habitat. Then he’d done the sneaky, hand-you-a-piece-of-candy-like-a-gift-now and charge-you-for-it-in-a-minute trick. That night, as we crossed the state line, I’d seen a woman get hauled off in handcuffs for illegally transporting a little jungle monkey. Big risk to take, just to hear your friends say “cool monkey”.
But these guys are thorough. They’re not just rummaging now, they’re searching. Like a 1 a.m. adult Easter egg hunt on a deserted inland Brazilian highway. The first two pass me without noticing the shoulder bag I have stashed under my feet. Of course there’s nothing illegal or even scandalous in my bag. Books, journals, my camera bag. All very benign. Yet I feel nervous. I don’t want them to notice it and think I’ve been hiding it, so I’m acting as touristically oblivious as possible.
Now a third guy is getting on the bus. He looks like the guy you’d expect to be waiting for you on the other side of the interrogation table when you get “taken downtown”. He’s gruff, brusque and prickly. He is here to find what the other two tenderfoots didn’t. And he does. On his second sweep he makes me pull out my bag. Shit. But why am I nervous? I’ve got nothing to hide, my papers are in order, I’m legit; however, past experience has taught me that being legit isn’t really any guarantee. A corrupt official can sometimes see a foreigner just like a thief sees them, as a target. Their tactics are different, but the results are usually the same, loss of property.
He´s pulling out the camera from my bag.
Seu Nota?? “Your receipt?”
Oh man, here it goes. I’m on a 2 day bus across Brazil, and at 1 a.m. in the middle of nowhere this guys is eyeballing my Mom’s 35 mm camera and asking me if I have a receipt. He’s found his plastic egg with the special prize inside. My digital camera was stolen a week earlier by a conniving, sneaky Argentine, and now my back-up film camera was about to be “confiscated” by this Brazilian cop.
Earlier, I read about a man's experience visiting silverback mountain gorillas in their natural habitat. Now it occurs to me that dealing with authority figures in Latin America is unsettlingly similar. When they charge, you have to hold your ground without challenging their position. Keep your eyes and head down, don’t question too much, remain docile, try not to stick out of the group. Hope for mercy; it’s usually a bluff to let you know who’s in charge.
In my worst possible Portuguese;
nota? -stammer- eh..nao…nao sei.
My mouth says “Reciept, I….I don’t know”. But my face is saying “Please officer, my Mom will kill me if I don’t bring her camera home. I’m just a nice, innocent tourist trying to enjoy your friendly, famously fun-loving country. Please, I have no idea what’s going on here, I won’t be any trouble. Just act like I’m not here.” And gratefully that’s what he does. He plops my camera down as if to say “stupid American, doesn’t have his receipt.” Apparently, he’s got bigger fish to fry.
During my camera scare, some other guys had been popping their heads onto the bus and calling out numbers for the unlucky lottery. If your seat number is called, you get to get off the bus and unpack your baggage from the storage departments underneath, then they send you on a cruise with a giant cardboard check…but only after they unpack your bags to look for pastel painted chicken ovum.
Now it seems the officials feel that one of our unlucky winners was being less than cooperative, so, peeved, they force all the passengers off the bus and inform us that thanks to her everyone gets searched!! The Silverback Male delivers a hard blow. By now, I’ve realized that these apes aren’t looking for eggs…it’s contraband they’re after. We step off into the Brazilian night and I realize we’re not alone in this situation. Several other buses are being searched, and a camera crew is shining a blinding light all around while filming, giving the scene a hectic, rather unnerving feeling. Our bus pulls around next to a truck full of boxes. Boxes full of other boxes. Other boxes that have electronics inside. Plastic Egg, Foil Wrapping, Hershey’s Chocolate. These guys had been busy, and are still busy packing and loading confiscated equipment.
They begin to pull out my bus-mates bags. Mostly they are brightly colored, plaid tarpaulin bags. Bags you’d want to pack a picnic in, only your picnic would easily last an entire summer pulling sandwiches from these bags. They are gigantic. I’d seen them loading these bags between two and three people at the station, and now I’m amazed that I hadn’t even wondered what was in those huge bags. Clearly, my co bus-riders hadn’t gone across the border into Paraguay to visit long lost cousins. Electronics are 1 quarter the Brazilian price in Paraguay, and they had stocked up to ship some back for sale. In my broken Portuguese I find out that things such as CD players, car stereos and any computer related electronics are considered contraband. (Side Note: I like that word contraband…would be a good name for a rock band, Contra – band…get it?? “Contraband rocks a million stadiums!!”)
In a short time, one of the officials takes a razorblade to the side of a big picnic bag and we all find out why the girl on our bus hadn’t been cooperative. She has 2 giant bags full of the new Contraband CD. Now I’m having a flashback…This girl was seated right behind me. Before the bus had taken off from Foz do Iguazu, she and her brother had taken great trouble to stuff a hard box underneath my seat, making it a little uncomfortable. I’d thought for a while about what words to say to ask them to move it. I’d thought “why don’t they just put it in an open seat? There’s plenty of space.” I never once thought it might be something illegal they didn’t want found. Then my butt went numb and I’d forgotten about it. Until now.
Do I say something? I know they’re hiding something illegal under MY seat…and that makes me uncomfortable in more than one way. Could I get busted for something here???...
Chief Gorilla: “What in the world is an American backpacker doing smuggling a car stereo under his seat?”
Young Male “I don’t know chief, but we’ll sure as hell beat the confession out of him!”
Dubious. A much more likely scenario is that if I say something, I make a few vehement enemies on a bus ride that still has 40 hours to go. Sleep with one eye open, if you dare sleep at all. So I decide to keep my mouth shut. After all, these people were just trying to make a buck, not necessarily an honest buck, but a buck nonetheless. What’s more is that they’re going to need that stereo under my seat to help recoup a miniscule portion of the approximately $5,000 worth of Easter eggs confiscated by the Customs goons.
Now it seems that the drama is close to over for our bus, and we’re going to go. My backpack was ignored and not searched…because what insane backpacker would carry around a bunch of hard drives? No eggs in there.
I’d have to say that through all this I’ve learned something. The moral of this Brazilian shakedown story is this: If, in the night, some big Brazilian gorillas come looking through your picnic bag for Easter eggs, make sure you have the receipt for your Mom’s camera and you hide your Contraband CDs well.
Ok, there’s no moral to the story really, but that’s my shakedown story anyways.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Money Changes Everything
"Where you from Mister?"
Why should this matter? I thought.
"I`m United-Statesian". Because that`s how you say it in Spanish.
"Look, it`s 2 Dollars. That`s nothing to you. The difference you`re talking about is 20 cents."...long pause...
Dammit, he was right. I`d been on the phone with this guy trying to get him to lower a $2.10 hotel room to $1.90. All at once I came to the realization, This is ridiculous. What was more ridiculous was that I had been walking around LaPaz for the past 4 hours checking EVERY hostal, trying to find the cheapest possible lodging for me and my 2 Swiss travel buddies. It was exhausting and absolutely not worth the 20 or 30 cents per night we were trying to save. Irony`s swinging doors gave us a good thump on the ass; we ended up staying in the very first hostal we had checked and passed on as too expensive, 4 greuling hours earlier.
I think few would admit it, but one of the reasons people travel is to feel superior. And nothing does the trick like watching your dollar (euro, pound or yen) stretch like a romanian contortionist. What was once a 6 inch bill magically seems to be a mile long. And it`s a great feeling...but like most things that feel good, it can do tricks on your head. It messes with your perspective on things and their value.
At a 3 a.m. stopover en route to Machupichu, I met a large group of Israelis (more in another blog) that had let a bus leave them behind because it was charging 1 sol-30 cents- more than they wanted to pay. They opted to sit in the middle of nowhere, in a cold, dark night and wait to see if they could save those 30 cents. That`s crazy, I know, but those saved cents will buy a meal later, or a souvenier. It adds up, and being in a country for a while changes your point of view. It`s all about context. You get used to haggling everything... whether you`re israeli or not.
Thus, for someone with any kind of conscience, budget traveling in underdeveloped countries can be a constant battle of economic emotion. Yes, economic emotion. Am I appalled at the social injustice and cyclical poverty? Of course. Am I also elated that I can buy a 3 course meal for a dollar. Of course. I empathize with your inability to find work and put food on the table, but if I had to choose a direction for your currency, I`d choose devaluation. Sorry. It`s an internal struggle in which your social conscience battles with your traveler`s pragmatism. After all, if this country wasn`t so poor (also known as cheap) I wouldn`t have the chance to come here at all...Then you hit Chile.
Damn the Chileans and their smart fiscal policy, their judicious administration, their devotion to open markets and free trade, damn their strong peso. Their currency is strong, but to make matters worse everything is in thousands. An empanada could cost you $1,200 pesos. What?? To add to the confusion, they use the dollar sign $, to denote pesos in thousands. Come on guys, be practical, lop off a couple zeros will ya? After the initial shock of the new currency, I began to become indignant. I had crossed into Chile from poverty stricken and landlocked (thanks to the Chileans) Bolivia. In Bolivia, hostals were 2 dollars. In Chile, 9. I began to secretly hope for an Argentine-esque crisis to hit Chile. Hyperinflation -- Economic Meltdown -- Great Tourism. There was so much I wanted to see in Chile, but the buses...oh the prices of the buses!
You`re thinking. Wow, this doesn`t sound like the Joey I know. How Selfish, how insensitive. Well, don`t worry...it`s mostly tounge in cheek. Mostly. I`m happy that Chileans are paying 70 bucks for their jeans...and I`m crushed when I see Bolivian fathers eeking a living by selling menthol on a bus. But, I have to be honest, I do occassionally wish for some countries to stumble on hard times, just so I can travel there on a small budget. Maybe it stems from a subconscious desire to feel currency superiority. Yes, currency superiority. Or maybe I`m just cheap and want to travel a lot for a little. Who knows.
I heard in Thailand you can get a nice hut on the beach for a dollar a day....poor Thailand...I gotta get there sometime soon, before things get better for the Bot.
Why should this matter? I thought.
"I`m United-Statesian". Because that`s how you say it in Spanish.
"Look, it`s 2 Dollars. That`s nothing to you. The difference you`re talking about is 20 cents."...long pause...
Dammit, he was right. I`d been on the phone with this guy trying to get him to lower a $2.10 hotel room to $1.90. All at once I came to the realization, This is ridiculous. What was more ridiculous was that I had been walking around LaPaz for the past 4 hours checking EVERY hostal, trying to find the cheapest possible lodging for me and my 2 Swiss travel buddies. It was exhausting and absolutely not worth the 20 or 30 cents per night we were trying to save. Irony`s swinging doors gave us a good thump on the ass; we ended up staying in the very first hostal we had checked and passed on as too expensive, 4 greuling hours earlier.
I think few would admit it, but one of the reasons people travel is to feel superior. And nothing does the trick like watching your dollar (euro, pound or yen) stretch like a romanian contortionist. What was once a 6 inch bill magically seems to be a mile long. And it`s a great feeling...but like most things that feel good, it can do tricks on your head. It messes with your perspective on things and their value.
At a 3 a.m. stopover en route to Machupichu, I met a large group of Israelis (more in another blog) that had let a bus leave them behind because it was charging 1 sol-30 cents- more than they wanted to pay. They opted to sit in the middle of nowhere, in a cold, dark night and wait to see if they could save those 30 cents. That`s crazy, I know, but those saved cents will buy a meal later, or a souvenier. It adds up, and being in a country for a while changes your point of view. It`s all about context. You get used to haggling everything... whether you`re israeli or not.
Thus, for someone with any kind of conscience, budget traveling in underdeveloped countries can be a constant battle of economic emotion. Yes, economic emotion. Am I appalled at the social injustice and cyclical poverty? Of course. Am I also elated that I can buy a 3 course meal for a dollar. Of course. I empathize with your inability to find work and put food on the table, but if I had to choose a direction for your currency, I`d choose devaluation. Sorry. It`s an internal struggle in which your social conscience battles with your traveler`s pragmatism. After all, if this country wasn`t so poor (also known as cheap) I wouldn`t have the chance to come here at all...Then you hit Chile.
Damn the Chileans and their smart fiscal policy, their judicious administration, their devotion to open markets and free trade, damn their strong peso. Their currency is strong, but to make matters worse everything is in thousands. An empanada could cost you $1,200 pesos. What?? To add to the confusion, they use the dollar sign $, to denote pesos in thousands. Come on guys, be practical, lop off a couple zeros will ya? After the initial shock of the new currency, I began to become indignant. I had crossed into Chile from poverty stricken and landlocked (thanks to the Chileans) Bolivia. In Bolivia, hostals were 2 dollars. In Chile, 9. I began to secretly hope for an Argentine-esque crisis to hit Chile. Hyperinflation -- Economic Meltdown -- Great Tourism. There was so much I wanted to see in Chile, but the buses...oh the prices of the buses!
You`re thinking. Wow, this doesn`t sound like the Joey I know. How Selfish, how insensitive. Well, don`t worry...it`s mostly tounge in cheek. Mostly. I`m happy that Chileans are paying 70 bucks for their jeans...and I`m crushed when I see Bolivian fathers eeking a living by selling menthol on a bus. But, I have to be honest, I do occassionally wish for some countries to stumble on hard times, just so I can travel there on a small budget. Maybe it stems from a subconscious desire to feel currency superiority. Yes, currency superiority. Or maybe I`m just cheap and want to travel a lot for a little. Who knows.
I heard in Thailand you can get a nice hut on the beach for a dollar a day....poor Thailand...I gotta get there sometime soon, before things get better for the Bot.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Long Overdue Travel Update
I`ve been a slacker, I know. This travel update is long past due. My many readers(3 or 4 at my last estimate) must be chomping at the bit. The simple explanation for my latent blogging is that I`ve been adjusting to the new surroundings of the southern cone of South America. It`s been slightly challanging to find blogworthy events in the more developed and...lets call them "less adventurous" countries of Chile and Argentina...but let`s be honest, it`s mostly because I`ve been lazy. There`s plenty to write about.
On the third day of my jeep tour of the Salar de Uyuni, I hopped off the tour (which headed back to Uyuni) and headed across the border of Chile. Going from Bolivia to Chile was traumatic. Sure, Chile was nice, but 8 dollars for a hotel room?? If South America were one big boxing ring (what, you never saw a boxing match with 11 competitors?), Chile would be winning in a dirty way. Hitting below the belt...hitting the pockets. Luckily, I have a cousin that lives in the middle of the destert in Chile, not far from where I crossed the border. He makes furniture out of rough cut chilean lumber and on the weekend he moonlights in an Elvis cover-band... Just let those last two sentences sink in a bit. What??? His name is Sterling (or papa-bear)...but more on him in another blog. I stayed with Ster for a little over a week and basically did what I like to call "recharging the batteries" (which involves many activities, and inactivities; one of which is literally recharging my batteries).
We went up to his father in law`s extra house in Calama where Sterling has his improv woodshop, to work on his furniture. I planed his future headboard, and he fixed it. From Calama I took an luxurious and expensive bus to Salta Argentina, Sterling went back to his bizarre life in Antofogasta.
Wow. Argentina at last. Salta was a very beautiful, clean, medium sized city. Immediately I noted the Argentine wanna-be-euro feeling (I think I just "smithed" that word, and just verbed the word smith). Actually, I`ve never been to Europe, but Argentina is what I imagine a country would be like if it were a wanna-be-euro country. They have great italian food, with sidewalk cafès and they give you little glasses of soda water to wash your food down with. That`s nice. Thanks Argentines. In Salta I hung out with the Roma-blooded German and The Falconer (more in another blog). They were a most pleasant couple to third wheel it with.
From Salta I went to Córdoba, where I stayed in my first dorm style hostal. I let a group of Israelis convince me to go out dancing with them. We were sitting around chatting and learning hebrew. When 1 a.m. roled around I asked if they were still going out. Yes. Really?? Apparantly people in Argentina don`t even show up at the disco until 3 a.m. That explains the fact that everything shuts down from 1 until 5 every day...recuperation afternoon naps. The Argentine schedule is another euro (Spanish) carryover...siesta in the afternoon and open until late. Dancing was fun until I almost got my ass kicked by a drunk argentine a-hole at the coat check. Then, recognized as a week link, I was elbowed and shoved and yelled (argentines are great at yelling) out of line by another group of a-holes. It was shameful. An Israeli girl ended up getting my coat for me. My friends laughed.."come to Israel, we`ll teach you how to push". Well, come to the US and we`ll subsidize your pushing classes. In Cordoba I roomed with the Traveling Acrobatic-Dance Team...two colombians. Again, more in a future blog.
From Cordoba I rode to Rosario because someone said it was nice. It was nice.
From Rosario I came on an overnighter to Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires is mammoth. It reminds me - and once again, I`m making comparisons based on knowledge I just don`t have...but bear with me - it reminds me of a mixture of New York, Rome, London and Paris. It`s got a few parts with big lights and whatnot that are Time Square-ish, but not quite. It has several walking streets, with street cafès and pizzerias that remind me of what Rome is like in my imagination. Some of the big avenues are reminiscent of Paris`s...in the movies. And Bs. As. is full of old, tall buildings with that euro-feel that must come from London.
I`m staying in a hostal right next to the world-famous Milhouse...we get the rejects. The Milhouse is famous amongst backpackers for it`s "ambiance". Which means that it`s a nonstop party, and the receptionist makes jokes about threesomes to you and your friends. Buenos Aires is supposedly THE place in South America for nightlife...easy access to all the goodies. Cocaine, weed, E, booze, sex, etc, etc. My roomates, Casper and Jasper, the Decadent Dutch Duo (more in another blog) would definitely seem to corroborate these rumors. There timetable seems to be the inverse of mine. I usually wake up when they come in from their nightly debauchery, and I generally wind down when they`re gearing up to head out in search of coke and an easy score.
I`m anxious to get on the road again. I`m waiting for my visa application to wade through the cesspool of red tape at the Brazilian Consulate. Supposedly I get my passport and visa back on Monday. It cost me 100 bucks...tit for tat...very cute Brazil, very cute.
On the third day of my jeep tour of the Salar de Uyuni, I hopped off the tour (which headed back to Uyuni) and headed across the border of Chile. Going from Bolivia to Chile was traumatic. Sure, Chile was nice, but 8 dollars for a hotel room?? If South America were one big boxing ring (what, you never saw a boxing match with 11 competitors?), Chile would be winning in a dirty way. Hitting below the belt...hitting the pockets. Luckily, I have a cousin that lives in the middle of the destert in Chile, not far from where I crossed the border. He makes furniture out of rough cut chilean lumber and on the weekend he moonlights in an Elvis cover-band... Just let those last two sentences sink in a bit. What??? His name is Sterling (or papa-bear)...but more on him in another blog. I stayed with Ster for a little over a week and basically did what I like to call "recharging the batteries" (which involves many activities, and inactivities; one of which is literally recharging my batteries).
We went up to his father in law`s extra house in Calama where Sterling has his improv woodshop, to work on his furniture. I planed his future headboard, and he fixed it. From Calama I took an luxurious and expensive bus to Salta Argentina, Sterling went back to his bizarre life in Antofogasta.
Wow. Argentina at last. Salta was a very beautiful, clean, medium sized city. Immediately I noted the Argentine wanna-be-euro feeling (I think I just "smithed" that word, and just verbed the word smith). Actually, I`ve never been to Europe, but Argentina is what I imagine a country would be like if it were a wanna-be-euro country. They have great italian food, with sidewalk cafès and they give you little glasses of soda water to wash your food down with. That`s nice. Thanks Argentines. In Salta I hung out with the Roma-blooded German and The Falconer (more in another blog). They were a most pleasant couple to third wheel it with.
From Salta I went to Córdoba, where I stayed in my first dorm style hostal. I let a group of Israelis convince me to go out dancing with them. We were sitting around chatting and learning hebrew. When 1 a.m. roled around I asked if they were still going out. Yes. Really?? Apparantly people in Argentina don`t even show up at the disco until 3 a.m. That explains the fact that everything shuts down from 1 until 5 every day...recuperation afternoon naps. The Argentine schedule is another euro (Spanish) carryover...siesta in the afternoon and open until late. Dancing was fun until I almost got my ass kicked by a drunk argentine a-hole at the coat check. Then, recognized as a week link, I was elbowed and shoved and yelled (argentines are great at yelling) out of line by another group of a-holes. It was shameful. An Israeli girl ended up getting my coat for me. My friends laughed.."come to Israel, we`ll teach you how to push". Well, come to the US and we`ll subsidize your pushing classes. In Cordoba I roomed with the Traveling Acrobatic-Dance Team...two colombians. Again, more in a future blog.
From Cordoba I rode to Rosario because someone said it was nice. It was nice.
From Rosario I came on an overnighter to Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires is mammoth. It reminds me - and once again, I`m making comparisons based on knowledge I just don`t have...but bear with me - it reminds me of a mixture of New York, Rome, London and Paris. It`s got a few parts with big lights and whatnot that are Time Square-ish, but not quite. It has several walking streets, with street cafès and pizzerias that remind me of what Rome is like in my imagination. Some of the big avenues are reminiscent of Paris`s...in the movies. And Bs. As. is full of old, tall buildings with that euro-feel that must come from London.
I`m staying in a hostal right next to the world-famous Milhouse...we get the rejects. The Milhouse is famous amongst backpackers for it`s "ambiance". Which means that it`s a nonstop party, and the receptionist makes jokes about threesomes to you and your friends. Buenos Aires is supposedly THE place in South America for nightlife...easy access to all the goodies. Cocaine, weed, E, booze, sex, etc, etc. My roomates, Casper and Jasper, the Decadent Dutch Duo (more in another blog) would definitely seem to corroborate these rumors. There timetable seems to be the inverse of mine. I usually wake up when they come in from their nightly debauchery, and I generally wind down when they`re gearing up to head out in search of coke and an easy score.
I`m anxious to get on the road again. I`m waiting for my visa application to wade through the cesspool of red tape at the Brazilian Consulate. Supposedly I get my passport and visa back on Monday. It cost me 100 bucks...tit for tat...very cute Brazil, very cute.
Friday, April 28, 2006
La Paz: Chuño
"Eat the Nasty Shiz!!" It came like a ghost-voice from the past. Was it Chad Crosby yelling it?? Or had I heard all my friends say it so many times in their respective Chad Crosby voices that I`d come to attribute the heinous command to him? Either way, that`s what was echoing in my ears as I prodded and contemplated THE nasty shiz...Chuño (choo-n-yo).
My good friend Tom, who`s an expert on all things Bolivian, had insisted that I try chuño. According to him, eating chuño puts you into an elite group and creates a special bond with fellow chuño consumers; like being blood brothers, but cullinary. I felt like the kid who contemplates his buddies bloody hand and hesitates, knowing it`s a foolish commitment he`s made. Damn Tom and his powers of persuasion.
My first clues that the chuño would live up to it`s infamous reputation were the responses I got from the Bolivians I asked about it. It wasn`t easy to find, so I had various chances to see the reactions of the people as I asked for the mystery food. Despite it being a relatively easy word to pronounce, most people did a double-take and asked if I had really asked what they they were asking if I had really asked. So I would ask again. "¿Sirven Chuño?". Then their face would show bewilderment, as if to ask "How does this clearly non-bolivian guy know what chuño is? and more importantly, Why the hell is he asking to eat it?" When I would clarify and drive the point home, "Yes, I want to eat chuño", their faces would usually get a sort of devious "well, you asked for it" look, and they would laughingly point me in the direction of another place where I might be able to find chuño. Apparently, no gringos ever eat chuño, because they don`t have it in any restaurants that could possible serve tourists.
I finally found the chuño in the 5th place I checked. It was in the dirtiest, cheapest little food stand in the public market. Fitting. My request had caused quite a stir, and a small crowd of entertained Bolivians watched attentively as I recieved my plate of fried chicken, shredded lettuce (that`s salad) and Chuño. I realized what Tom had meant when I`d asked if chuño was potatoes...he`d replied "well, it WAS potatoes". In my search I`d found out that the food was indeed once potatoes, but through a process of dehydration and repeated treatment the chuño was reborn as Potato`s Devil Spawn. The Bolivian peasants make the food by taking the small potatoes common to the altiplano and stomping barefoot on them. They lay them out on the grass during the day and let the sun dry them, and at night the small potatoes freeze. As they thaw in the sun, the peasants stomp them again, and set them again to dry. This process is repeated until the little guys are black as night and dry as sand. This way they can be preserved for very long periods of time, and then soaked and cooked to be given to the first gringo loco enough to actually ask to eat them.
As I started to chew my first bite of chuño, I noted the faint resemblance to potato...but only in texture. My chuño was a little cold, and it felt like maybe I was eating an inadequately cooked old potato that had been in the fridge for several months. The flavor took a moment to soak into my virgin tastebuds, but when it did, I began to wonder if a stray llama hadn`t wandered past and crapped these black balls of disgustingness onto my plate. Then the smell wafted back into my throat and nasal passages. I had the sudden sensation of a mini Bolivian peasant stomping in the back of my mouth. Dirty peasant foot, smearing around on my tonsils and tounge. Luckily, these smells and flavors were gone as quickly as they came. With enough salt I was able to eat all the chuño I was given, and I suppose with some very strong salsa or ranch dressing, one might come to enjoy chuño...in a very self-abusive, simply-eating-to-survive sort of way. Thanks Tom!!!This blog inspired by Steve Don`t Eat It!!! which is hilarious.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Salar de Uyuni Tour
Click on Photo to see Salar Photo Set. (I suggest starting from 228,000 Words and reading the blogs chronologically) |
From Tupiza, I rode to Uyuni standing up on a bus FULL of Israelis (side note, one Israeli, great. a few Israeli`s still fun. a dozen Israeli`s...unbearable. The problem is, they don`t travel, they migrate in giant packs. another, entire blog should be dedicated to this topic).
I set up a three day tour, with plans to hop off half way through the third day, close to the border of Chile and cross over to Antofogasta. I rode with a cool Spaniard guy, a super nice Irish couple and three crazy Slovakian girls. Our "guide" didn`t like to talk, our cook had a crazy giggle and our Jeep "El Rayo Veloz" <> (dubbed sarcastically) had to be fixed every time we stopped. 15 minutes into the ride, we broke a spring. It was a blast. Santos (our guide) had only 3 cassette tapes, with about 8 songs each. One was a Worst Hits of the 80`s Mix, the others were "Nacional"...horrid Bolivian Music. It became the big joke with every other car we`d meet, we would try to get them to trade tapes.
The Salt Flats were truly amazing. I wish I could go back and stay like a week just taking crazy pictures.
San Vicente
 |
"Here Death`s Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid"...what I really love about that sign is that they decided to make Deaths possesive. It takes the grammatical incorrectness to another level of confusingness...if confusingness is even a word. Click the picture to see the whole set.
I`m a huge fan of the movie with Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Maybe it`s nostalgic, because I remember watching it with my dad when I was younger, and he would point out the places..."that`s monument valley, by where we broke down that one time", "that`s up near Redondo in New Mexico, where I broke down with a load of logs once", etc.
So I was determined to make it to San Vicente. It`s the tiny mining town where Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid bit the bullet at the hand of the Bolivian Army. I arrived on an overnight bus to Tupiza at about 3:30 a.m. While I waited a few cold hours, I talked to a few locals about how to get to San Vicente. One truck goes at 3 in the afternoon and would leave me there in the middle of the freezing night, with not a single hotel or even a hostal within 100 miles. A return truck came back through on Wednesday, and it was Monday...I had to get to Uyuni, arrange a 3 day tour of the Salar, cross the border and get to Antofogasta by Saturday to see my cousin`s band`s first gig. So, I was forced to pay for a one day jeep tour.
As day broke in Tupiza, I realized that Butch and Sundance couldn`t have picked a more fitting place to come for their final hurah. It looked and felt just like their old stomping grounds in Arizona or New Mexico. I felt like I was in a mini Sedona, without all the crystal-power hippies and where a decent hotel costs 2 dollars instead of 50. I walked about a block and wandered into an open Mormon chapel, used the bathroom, sat through an early morning seminary class and ate some breakfast. Gracias Hermano.
I arranged my tour with a couple of Canadian guys. Our jeep driver was about 4 foot 6 inches. He told us the amazing story of how he was an orphan from an indigenous community in the middle of the altiplano. By a crazy twist of fate, he found his way to Cochabamba (the Bolivian Amazon Basin), and within a few years became one of the premiere cocaine producers in the region. By the time he was 16, guys in a white linen suits and and panama hats traveled in private jets to commission him to make a LOT of cocaine. Unfortunately, he also became one of the regions premiere consumers of cocaine as well. But then he found religion and a good evangelical priest helped him clean up. Wow.
San Vicente is in the middle of nowhere on the Bolivian Altiplano...not pretty. I can`t blame the director of the movie for shooting that final scene somewhere in Mexico.
La Paz:
click pic to see LaPaz Photo Set  |
From Copacabana, we headed to LaPaz. I liked LaPaz. It`s a big city, with two parts...the nicer, older part is down in a valley while the newer slums are up on the surrounding plateau...on the edge of the altiplano.
I was there on Easter weekend, so I have some pictures of the religious procession that`s customary on Good Friday. It`s a little unsettling to see the religious types in their pseudo KKK outfits, followed by the band playing some very depressing, dark marching music. I also got to see Evo Morales, the President of Bolivia, and the first Indigenous president of any South American country...he`s pretty chummy with Chavez.
Some of the other pictures from LaPaz are of Chuño, a typical food that Tom told me to eat, which I will never forgive him for. A blog for that later. Also, there are some pictures from a place called the witches market...where they sell black magic stuff and offerings for PachaMama (mother earth). For some reason, witches love dried up animals or animal parts. Here in bolivia, it`s dried up Llama fetuses that you see the most...I guess witchcraft takes on a local flavor like anything else.
LaPaz´s zoning committee must have OCD. It`s funny, almost ridiculous really, but it`s such an organized chaos that it`s hard to believe. There`s one block for selling light fixtures...and on that block there could be as many as 30 stores selling the exact same light fixtures. Another block is for selling soap, another for pants, another for juice, and so on and so on. All the same product, nobody attempting to distinguish themselves from the others. It was eerie at times. I guess I just missed the old American Entrepreneurial spirit of making a unique, better product in order to put your competitor in the dirt.
La Paz was cool though, very cool.
Typical Scenes from Andean Life
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Click on the picture to see some photos that show what normal life is like here in the Andean region. I realized that if I got home and only had beautiful pictures of countryside, awesome lookouts and tourist attractions...that wouldn`t be a very realistic representation of anything. So I started taking pictures of everyday stuff...which is tough because people don`t always like having their picture taken. Sometimes you have to be sneaky.
Lake Titicaca Area
Click on the Photo to see the Whole Titicaca Set.
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From Cuzco, I headed south with Clemencia to Puno. Puno is on the shores of the highest navegable lake in the world...the lake that every giggly kid learns the name of early and never forgets. Titicaca. Many of the photos in the Andean Everyday Life Set were taken by Clemencia on that bus trip.
Puno was a non-descript, dirty city with no real redeeming value other than being on the shore of Titicaca. From there, I took a tour of the Uros Islands and Taquile Island. The Uros are floating islands made from reeds. It`s quite incredible. The Uros people live on these tiny man-made floating habitats...almost like human lilipads. Everything, including their boats, are made from tightly woven reeds. When I asked why they don`t put some sort of sealant on their reed boats so they last more than a year, they told me that wouldn`t be in line with tradition...late adapters; could be a while before wireless internet finds the Uros people. The amazing thing is that when they have a disagreement, instead of fighting, they litterally cut the island in half, pull up anchor and resettle 50 yards away. 7th Day Adventists over there, Catholics over here, Mormons...where`s the mormons?? Over the water, off limits for missionaries I guess.
From there we went to visit the Island of Taquile. This place was pretty cool, if you like tourist traps. The Island was actually very pretty and the the stone pathways and climate made it seem like you were in the Italian countryside...or at least how I imagine the italian countryside to be. The men in this town are always walking around knitting caps. The white caps are for single guys and the multicolored one means he`s off limits. In one picture, I`m with an old dude and a japanese girl. Don Pedro and I were joking around having a good time...Clemencia took a picture and he charged her 50 cents! haha. The archway lookout points on the way down were very cool as well.
From Puno, we headed to Copacabana...where music and passion are always the fashion. Actually, Barry Manilow would have been bored of this Copacabana even before Lola and Tony`s tragedy occurred. It`s a very small place, with a pretty church, some artisans, good trout and daily tours of the Island of the Sun. We went on a half day tour, which was a mistake, because the Island was very cool. We should have stayed the night out there and seen the sunrise, but cheapness prevailed and we spent the evening walking around Copacabana, going back and forth between the two bars in town, trying to decide which was less dead. The Island of the Sun is where the Aymara and Quechua people believe that the Sun was Born. That`s just silly. I`m all for respecting old legends, etc....they`re even interesting sometimes. But while here, I came to the realization that most of them are just silly...the Sun was born out of Lake Titicaca??? come on people.
Lake Titicaca itself is very pretty. It`s a very beautiful color and seems quite clean...if it weren`t garunteed to cause hypothermia, I would have liked to swim in it.
228,000 Words
| If a picture is truly worth a thousand words, then yesterday I loaded approximately 228,000 words worth of pictures onto my flickr account. I hadn`t posted any photos since Cuzco and Machupichu, so there was a plethora fotos to choose from. I`ve organized them, for your viewing convenience, into different Sets. When I talked to my dad the other day, he complained that all my blogs are about getting around, and never really describe what I was getting around to. I tried to pull the old cliche about life being a journey and not a destination, but I don`t think he bought it. So, in the following blogs, I will give a brief description of the places I`ve been in the order I visited them, as well as a link to the photos. Enjoy. |
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Fear Factor Peru: Molina Express
There are certain things to be feared in life. Bears, Prostate Cancer, Sudden Public Incontinence. Call me unmanly or faithless, but I think Death is also one of those things. All faith or knowledge of a glorious afterlife aside, the actual process of dying is scary. Not what comes afterward, what preceeds. Whatever event or occurrance caused your hum-drum daily routine of being alive from one minute to the next to have a sudden attack of spontaneity. A fatal bus ride for example.
Before my ride aboard Hank Deux, I used to associate hammocks with sunny summer afternoons. Grammie`s back yard. A few of you, like me, probably remember a particularly "swinging" hammock on the well kept lawn in front of Christy Platt`s house. That`s all changed since the Henry II oddessy. Likewise, my gossamer childhood bus memories of Grizzly Adams lunchboxes, Josie the happy candy-giving bus driver and safe yellow transportation have been knelt down and shot from behind into a common grave by a truly fear inspiring assasin. The Molina Express. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Obviously, for me fear is a factor. I`ve always felt like the crowd pleaser Fear Factor (albeit a guilty pleasure) was missing the boat. Is it really scary to move rats from a bucket to a scale with your mouth, eat an elk penis or bob for brains in a vat of cow`s blood? They could rename the show Gag Factor. "Congratulations Sharon, you clearly have...(pause for added drama)...NO Gag Factor!!". Even when they do manage to pander to people`s fears (usually heights) there`s so many safety precautions that there`s no real fear involved. Unless you have a phobia of $1,000 harnesses and pretested lifesaving rope combined with 10 foot free falls. Come on guys, sign some waivers, lose the ropes, recruit some desperate hobos and make those people fear for their lives. If, by some fortuitous NBC fluke, I was given creative control of Fear Factor I would take it international. Farm it out. The real fear lies abroad. My first outsourced fear-job would be to the Molina Express Bus from Huancayo to Ayacucho Peru.
As the bus leaves Huancayo, Joe Rogan informs the contestant that his only task is to sit in the window seat above the back right tire. The only rule is that he must look out the window and down during the whole trip. No grabbing yellow flags or walking on top of the bus, just sitting and watching. Sounds easy right?? Until the mountains close in and suddenly the bus is on a 800 foot ledge, maneuvering a switchback that hangs the back right tire over said ledge, sending little rocks tumbling downward. Like a mini preview.
From personal experience, I know that the Molina Express would be a great Fear Factor. Of course a 13 hour bus ride would require a lot of dramatic overediting, but that`s what the guys at F.F. are used to. My adventure on the Bus of Death lacked an annoying taunting Joe Rogan and sadly also lacked a cash prize at the end, but there was no lack of fear. The fright began when I sat down and the nice lady next to me explained that 2 days prior, a bus from the same company had slid off a ledge and roled over twice before barely catching itself on the last flat, just before a nice 50 meter plunge into the river below. 6 Dead, many injured. This is the point where Joe Rogan yells in your ear "SIX DEATHS!!...12 HOURS OF PRECARIOUS SWITCHBACKS TO GO!!". But there`s more...the crashed bus didn`t only belong to the same bus company as the one we were riding, but was following the exact same route!! This is when Joe starts talking to the other contestants about whether or not I`ll make it through.
For me, this was when I started calculating odds. If a Molina Bus chrashed and burned 2 days earlier, the odds were low of it happening again....right??? Unless...Unless Molina consistantly hires incompetent drivers. It`s an ugly game your mind plays at this stage in the show. A survivor from the crashed bus was sitting nearby. I congratulated him on his bravery for taking the same bus 2 days later, and secretely hoped he didn`t have some sort of bad-bus mojo going on. The level of tension on the bus took a cattle-prod to the ass when the bus we were on, passed the wreckage of the bus we would have been on if we had left our previous destination 2 days earlier. 48 hours less in Iquitos, Guayaquil or Huaraz. Curtains.
I normally would have admired the river at the bottom of the canyon for it`s powerful churning chocolatey color. It looked like the Colorado in those rafting pictures. But from above the back right tire of the Molina Express I could only see Chocolatey Demise. Like the fate of Augustus Gloop, but without the suction pipe salvation or the Umpa Lumpas to pull me out. A Homicidal Willie Wonka River on Steriods. I really thought I might die, several times.
Aside from being cut into the side of a treacherous ledge, the road was in what we`ll call off-season condition. This road was lower maintenance than even the best girlfriend could ever hope to be. On two different occasions, all the passangers had to get off the bus because the road was so bad, our added weight would have sent the bus toppling over and down the ravine. The brave driver inched across, escape routes racing through his mind. On one such "everyone off" occasion we had to shovel dirt from a recent landslide to level out the road to a passable grade. The Peruvians were amazed that an American could shovel dirt. "Muy bien Gringo!! Chambeaste!!". A lady told me that once she was stuck like that for 2 days while the men fixed the road. Improv Road Crew.
Two Australians were on the bus as well. At one such scary moment, they decided that their lives were worth the 100 km walk to Ayacucho. They wanted off, and I`m sure if there hadn`t been such a language barrier, they would have convinced the driver to leave them there on that ravine ledge. Cue Joe Rogan, "SIX HOURS LEFT AUSSIES!! HANG IN THERE, THE ROAD GETS WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER!!". After some coaxing, they reluctantly got back into the bus, but they were traumatized. When I ran into them again in Cuzco, I found out that instead of taking another backroad bus from Ayacucho to Cuzco, they had added another 2 days and the price of a flight to their trip. In order to avoid another Death Bus experience, they had backtracked to Lima on a nice, paved highway and flown to Cuzco. I`m not kidding, Fear WAS a Factor.
We threw rocks into the deep spots of river crossings and waited for a backhoe to make a washed-out switchback drivable again. A smart Ayacucho local would sell T shirts on the bus: "I Survived Molina Express, Huancayo to Ayachucho -- Rainy Season ´06". Fortunately, we didn`t slide off any ledges, and there were no deaths. It`s not that I didn`t enjoy the Molina Express. It was exciting. It was just a little more adventure than I had bargained for. If they had advertised it as a "4 Wheeling Passanger-Bus Adventure Tour", I probably would have payed a few extra bucks for the kicks. And of course if Joe Rogan had dangled $50,000 in front of my face, I would have done the ride duct-taped to the outter ledge side of the bus, soaked in cow`s blood, while chewing dirty rats for 13 hours. You know how many more bus rides $50,000 will buy...how long you can travel on that kind of cash??? Thank you Joe Rogan.
(for more info on these awesome bus rides, check my buddy Tom`s blog... www.botrash.com )
(check out a few other pictures of the Death Bus ride.)
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Before my ride aboard Hank Deux, I used to associate hammocks with sunny summer afternoons. Grammie`s back yard. A few of you, like me, probably remember a particularly "swinging" hammock on the well kept lawn in front of Christy Platt`s house. That`s all changed since the Henry II oddessy. Likewise, my gossamer childhood bus memories of Grizzly Adams lunchboxes, Josie the happy candy-giving bus driver and safe yellow transportation have been knelt down and shot from behind into a common grave by a truly fear inspiring assasin. The Molina Express. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Obviously, for me fear is a factor. I`ve always felt like the crowd pleaser Fear Factor (albeit a guilty pleasure) was missing the boat. Is it really scary to move rats from a bucket to a scale with your mouth, eat an elk penis or bob for brains in a vat of cow`s blood? They could rename the show Gag Factor. "Congratulations Sharon, you clearly have...(pause for added drama)...NO Gag Factor!!". Even when they do manage to pander to people`s fears (usually heights) there`s so many safety precautions that there`s no real fear involved. Unless you have a phobia of $1,000 harnesses and pretested lifesaving rope combined with 10 foot free falls. Come on guys, sign some waivers, lose the ropes, recruit some desperate hobos and make those people fear for their lives. If, by some fortuitous NBC fluke, I was given creative control of Fear Factor I would take it international. Farm it out. The real fear lies abroad. My first outsourced fear-job would be to the Molina Express Bus from Huancayo to Ayacucho Peru.
As the bus leaves Huancayo, Joe Rogan informs the contestant that his only task is to sit in the window seat above the back right tire. The only rule is that he must look out the window and down during the whole trip. No grabbing yellow flags or walking on top of the bus, just sitting and watching. Sounds easy right?? Until the mountains close in and suddenly the bus is on a 800 foot ledge, maneuvering a switchback that hangs the back right tire over said ledge, sending little rocks tumbling downward. Like a mini preview.
From personal experience, I know that the Molina Express would be a great Fear Factor. Of course a 13 hour bus ride would require a lot of dramatic overediting, but that`s what the guys at F.F. are used to. My adventure on the Bus of Death lacked an annoying taunting Joe Rogan and sadly also lacked a cash prize at the end, but there was no lack of fear. The fright began when I sat down and the nice lady next to me explained that 2 days prior, a bus from the same company had slid off a ledge and roled over twice before barely catching itself on the last flat, just before a nice 50 meter plunge into the river below. 6 Dead, many injured. This is the point where Joe Rogan yells in your ear "SIX DEATHS!!...12 HOURS OF PRECARIOUS SWITCHBACKS TO GO!!". But there`s more...the crashed bus didn`t only belong to the same bus company as the one we were riding, but was following the exact same route!! This is when Joe starts talking to the other contestants about whether or not I`ll make it through.
For me, this was when I started calculating odds. If a Molina Bus chrashed and burned 2 days earlier, the odds were low of it happening again....right??? Unless...Unless Molina consistantly hires incompetent drivers. It`s an ugly game your mind plays at this stage in the show. A survivor from the crashed bus was sitting nearby. I congratulated him on his bravery for taking the same bus 2 days later, and secretely hoped he didn`t have some sort of bad-bus mojo going on. The level of tension on the bus took a cattle-prod to the ass when the bus we were on, passed the wreckage of the bus we would have been on if we had left our previous destination 2 days earlier. 48 hours less in Iquitos, Guayaquil or Huaraz. Curtains.
I normally would have admired the river at the bottom of the canyon for it`s powerful churning chocolatey color. It looked like the Colorado in those rafting pictures. But from above the back right tire of the Molina Express I could only see Chocolatey Demise. Like the fate of Augustus Gloop, but without the suction pipe salvation or the Umpa Lumpas to pull me out. A Homicidal Willie Wonka River on Steriods. I really thought I might die, several times.
Aside from being cut into the side of a treacherous ledge, the road was in what we`ll call off-season condition. This road was lower maintenance than even the best girlfriend could ever hope to be. On two different occasions, all the passangers had to get off the bus because the road was so bad, our added weight would have sent the bus toppling over and down the ravine. The brave driver inched across, escape routes racing through his mind. On one such "everyone off" occasion we had to shovel dirt from a recent landslide to level out the road to a passable grade. The Peruvians were amazed that an American could shovel dirt. "Muy bien Gringo!! Chambeaste!!". A lady told me that once she was stuck like that for 2 days while the men fixed the road. Improv Road Crew.
Two Australians were on the bus as well. At one such scary moment, they decided that their lives were worth the 100 km walk to Ayacucho. They wanted off, and I`m sure if there hadn`t been such a language barrier, they would have convinced the driver to leave them there on that ravine ledge. Cue Joe Rogan, "SIX HOURS LEFT AUSSIES!! HANG IN THERE, THE ROAD GETS WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER!!". After some coaxing, they reluctantly got back into the bus, but they were traumatized. When I ran into them again in Cuzco, I found out that instead of taking another backroad bus from Ayacucho to Cuzco, they had added another 2 days and the price of a flight to their trip. In order to avoid another Death Bus experience, they had backtracked to Lima on a nice, paved highway and flown to Cuzco. I`m not kidding, Fear WAS a Factor.
We threw rocks into the deep spots of river crossings and waited for a backhoe to make a washed-out switchback drivable again. A smart Ayacucho local would sell T shirts on the bus: "I Survived Molina Express, Huancayo to Ayachucho -- Rainy Season ´06". Fortunately, we didn`t slide off any ledges, and there were no deaths. It`s not that I didn`t enjoy the Molina Express. It was exciting. It was just a little more adventure than I had bargained for. If they had advertised it as a "4 Wheeling Passanger-Bus Adventure Tour", I probably would have payed a few extra bucks for the kicks. And of course if Joe Rogan had dangled $50,000 in front of my face, I would have done the ride duct-taped to the outter ledge side of the bus, soaked in cow`s blood, while chewing dirty rats for 13 hours. You know how many more bus rides $50,000 will buy...how long you can travel on that kind of cash??? Thank you Joe Rogan.
(for more info on these awesome bus rides, check my buddy Tom`s blog... www.botrash.com )
(check out a few other pictures of the Death Bus ride.)
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Thursday, April 06, 2006
MaPi postcard shot
I met a Swedish packpacker (Clemencia) and we hiked up to MaPi together. Her digital camera broke after 4 shots of the Llamas, so being the gentleman I am, I offered for her to take pictures with my digital since I`ve provided myself the luxury of two cameras. Check out some of the photos she took.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/82872306@N00/sets/72057594100533864/
ps. we`re traveling together to lake Titicaca and into Bolivia...she`s chipper like a swede should be.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/82872306@N00/sets/72057594100533864/
ps. we`re traveling together to lake Titicaca and into Bolivia...she`s chipper like a swede should be.
Friday, March 31, 2006
South American Manequins Freak me Out
These manequins are just a few of the most bizarre and creepy manequins I`ve encountered. I`ll try to keep posting them as I find them.
I think this one looks like what a Child Molesting Soccer Coach would look like if you could see his soul.
I think this one looks like what a Child Molesting Soccer Coach would look like if you could see his soul.
pucalpa manequin 2
sign near boy..."magic shirt`s that turn kids into demon-manequins Only 3 dollars!!"
Ayacucho manaquin 1
was it the same tragic accident that took her eye and her hand?? we`ll never know, she`s mute.
Amazon Mass Transit: Henry II
Getting to and away from Iquitos Peru is no cakewalk. Unless you want to die of malaria, starvation or loss of blood due to mosquitos while trying to machete your way through the 100`s of miles of surrounding Amazon Jungle, there are only two modes of exit; River or Airplane. There are no roads in or out. For a shoestring traveler like myself, 2 options become 1 option at the prospect of spending a weeks budget on a 2 hour flight. In a cruel trick of communist-like elimination of choice, there are only 2 companies that travel up river from Iquitos every few days. Which means that if you want to be picky and wait for the "better" (because it`s relative really) boat, you may have to wait for up to a week...and that`s how you end up on the Henry II.
Actually, the Henry Boats are rumored to be the better of the two options; which by the end of this blog, if I`ve done my job, will inspire the most deeply sincere feeling of pity and sorrow for those who embark from Puerto Masusa rather than Puerto Henry. A promotional pamphlet for Henry II (or Hank Deux, as I affectionately dubbed him just now), might read like this:
Henry II is a 3 story cruize liner with a pool and rock climbing wall on the top level, ballroom, bar/discoteque and all-you-can-eat buffet on the second, and comfortable, private rooms with beds and daily cleaned sheets on the lower. A landmark of environmentally conscious construct combined with maximum luxury, Henry II measures an impressive 40 meters in length and 6 meters in width. The wrought iron roof and floors are excellent for retaining the sweltering amazon heat crucial to turning the boat into a luxurious sauna from 9:30 to 3:30 daily...mandatory. H2 is trimmed with specially reinforced welded rebar, strong enough to resist the weight of innumerable hammocks, and even the most corpulent suicide victims. 5 environmentally friendly bathrooms (using river water and used-TP wastebaskets to retain harmful odors that could polute the Amazon) combine both shitter and shower functions in a 2.5 by 4.5 foot space...for your convenience. The servile staff of the H2, in a symbolic effort to protect you from malnutrition while aboard the vessel, will serve breakfast lunch and dinner from 3 top of the line 20 gallon kettles. (dishes and utensils not included). The owners and operators of the Henry II are so confident in it`s ability to accomodate people, and so anxious for your patronage that they`ve recently announced the exciting news...Henry II has NO MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY!!! ALL ABOARD!!.
I got aboard early (because experience has taught me to get to places early) and hung up my newly bought hammock, which turned out to be way to small. A Colombian girl heading to Argentina, and who would be the only other non-peruvian traveler aboard the H2, set up next to me. An energetic young chef`s assistant set up next to me on the other side and together we defended our territory and kept a keen eye on our bags because everyone we talked to said that there were theives aboard these boats. The boat filled with people, but the space per person was well distributed and reasonable...like Arizona Real Estate. After about 5 hours of intense waiting and anxiously watching our bags the Bad News spread like cancer through the boat. "not enough cargo" "leave tomorrow"...evil rumors. Sorry to our hundred-something passangers, the Henry II won`t be going anywhere today. False Alarm.
I came back the next day only to find my dreams of Arizona, 1/2 acre plots of land with water rights shattered by a New York City scramble for 600 square foot apartments. My little daily journal entry from Day 1 reads: When space began to run our, people start hanging hammocks where there`s not really space for a hammock. There`s a frantic feeling. The boat is FULL. There must be a plethora of health codes that the Henry II is flaunting at any given moment....My hammock is too small, I won`t sleep much. Food is shit, served by 2 jotos. I should clarify though, the food wasn´t really excrement, it just tasted like it. On second thought, considering the conditions it was prepared and served in, the fecal content may have been high enough to classify it as literal shit, rather than food. "Thank you Fecal Vision!!" We were so piled up, a family of 4 with a 2 year old occupied the floor near and beneath our hammocks. At one time I counted 170 hammocks with an average of 3 people per hammock when you account for babies, children, double sleepers, floor dwellers, etc. Not a cubic foot below 5 feet went unoccpied.
My entry from Day 2 says: This boat stops at every tiny river settlement, people get off and on, but it always seems like more people get on than off. A Smiley 7th Day Adventist preached apostate doctrine to some other guy, and then treated us ALL to an unsolicited barrage of evangelist "I love you Jesus" songs. I love hymns...but I hate that EFY junk. The hours passed slowly and languidly like the jungle sliding past outside the window. The Heat was unbearable. Makes me wonder if the Henry II wasn`t originally designed as a gigantic baker`s oven, then on second thought they added a few windows and an engine to make a boat instead. The people hanging in hammocks are definitely reminiscent of giant hunks of meat on a rotiesserie, with the sun heating the metal roof and slowly roasting the flesh, while the juices ooze...quarter turn, quarter turn, quarter turn. Unconfortable, as an adjective, doesn`t do justice to these conditions.
Imagine a family vacation, 5 days of driving without the threat of "stopping this damn car right now" or "leaving you on the side of the road" to discipline the kids. No pit stops, no hotels at night...find a space in the car and hold on tight. Now imagine that of the 4 kids, one is a kleptomaniac, necesating an incesant and nerve wracking vigil. Multiply that vacation by 30 something families and put them all together in a common space, fit for only 10 families. I consider myself a patient and longsuffering person, but my journal entry from Day 3 illustrates the zenith of my desperation: Help!! Feel like I`ve slipped into one of Dante`s level`s of Hell, or perhaps the transport vessel from one level to another. Today was a rough day aboard the Henry II. Some repulsively odiferous Mystery Shit appeared RIGHT by our hammocks, and the only people to act were me and some self-righteous "God is watching my good deads" preacher lady. What a show she made, practically yelling, announcing her sainthood. New people came aboard and crowded us. An annoyingly terse chola with two equally annoying little boys, a 10 month old baby, another in the oven, a chicken, a box of chicks, a dog, etc. etc. etc. That lady`s voice, as she yelled constantly at her sons, was like sandpaper on an exposed nerve...perhaps my last nerve. Desperation!!! Anxiety!!! There are 4 babies under 2 years old within a 10 food radius, and another 50 within earshot...the next one to scream I`m throwing out a window.
I`ve never punched babies, like my friend Robert Pollak, but I came close to throwing down with a few of the screamers aboard Henry II.
Of course, it wasn`t all bad. There were breif moments of respite when one could go upstairs and get some fresh air. In an attempt to fill the hours, I was able to read a bit, write some and learned some new worthless games that would be a smash hit at any LDS singles family home evening. Day 4 was much better than it`s predecessors, and I actually felt like I might have been growing accustomed to my small space and the random whiffs of nose-hair melting odors. Could it be that the Henry II was growing on me??? Nope. I think I was just learning the art of "turning off the comfort switch" which Peruvians seem to have mastered. These people are impervious to discomfort. They enjoy comfort when they can, but in it`s absence they bear the most extenuating conditions with a certain apathy that would make even the most stoic of stoics green with envy. In Day 4 "we stopped at Cotamampa and a German guy with his daughter tried to come aboard. The pathetic look of desperation on his face was kindof sad. He was awkwardly looking for space, where there wasn`t any. They didn`t come aboard, decided to wait for the next boat."
I also came to learn the sad stories of some of the people aboard with me. The family on the floor beneath us were headed to Pucalpa, but en route had been notified that their house had burned to the ground in their absence. Nothing left but ashes. Brutal Homecoming. Franscisco, who had been sleeping and sitting on the same 4 feet of wooden bench for 4 days, told me about his adolescent encounter with the Shining Path. He had been involved at the age of 14 in Peruvian terrorism, and had escaped only by fleeing through the jungle in a weeks-long survival trek. He was returning to his home after traveling weeks for a job interview as a teacher, only to be denied.
All in all, it was a rough ride aboard Henry II from Iquitos to Pucalpa. But a special feeling of comraderie developed between those who weathered that passage together, probably from being literally piled upon one another 24 hours a day. Would I recommend the Hank Deux to a fellow traveler? If you`re poor. If not, don`t be a fool, take the plane. I was trying to remember the day the H2 left me at the port in Pucalpa, but my memories lack the image of Henry the Second in that port. Then I realized it was because upon reaching the ground, I never looked back.
To see a few more pictures from my trip on Henry II, click http://www.flickr.com/photos/82872306@N00/sets/72057594095380177/
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Overnight Bus Phenomenon
Since the great majority of people in South America don`t own a vehicle buses are the main mode of transport. There are buses to any part of any country that can be reached by land. Their quality is varied from the antique schoolbus repainted in patriotic colors, to the tourist double decker bed-seat that serves meals with little cups of cola. Despite their sundry makeup, there are phenomenon that appear regularly on the Overnight Buses:
The Snore: Deep and Loud, the kind that`s constantly threatening to blast the adnoids into the back of the throat of the snorer and choke him into consciousness. The Snore on the overnight bus isn`t steady and rythmic like it`s prostrate relatives. The bumps, dips and curves of the road create a melody with crescendos, key changes and anthemic choruses. The Snore makes it`s home exclusively in the gullets of the Deepest Sleepers; those who lay unshaken by bus stops, turned on lights, river crossings, police shakedowns, screaming babies and guerrilla attacks....until it`s their stop, then some magical force (perhaps The Snore itself) gives them the awakening kiss, telling them that their dozing has come to an end. Fresh and well slept, the Deepest Sleepers and the latent Snore are a vile team that deprive all around them of what they so effortlessly enjoy.
The Crowder: This guy once heard of a thing called personal space, but he was too busy making other people uncomfortable to find out what it meant. Sitting next to this space invader is a constant battle for centimeters of arm chair and leg space terriroty, until you realize that the struggle is futile. The Crowder´s war machine is apparently equipped with armor against any and all uncomfortable touching...he feels nothing. (Side Note: The Crowder tends to be overweight, middle aged and male, and is absolutely never an attractive woman)
The "Made for Latin American Overnight Bus" Movie: There`s Made for DVD, there`s Made for TV, there`s Made for Jennifer Lopez to act in, and then there`s this. I once had a friend that would rate a movie by watching the preview and asserting at which stage of movie-life she would see it in. "I`ll see that one in the dollar theatre", "Rent the DVD", etc. From Opening Day on down through waiting for it to come to TV on TNT, her system seemed complete until I witnessed the monstrosity of the Made for Overnight Bus Movie. A movie that could only be shown to a group of people who`s only chance of escape is to throw themselves out the window of a moving bus.
Always an action flick, but without the budget to explode much more than a shack and one old car, all MOBMs have but one plot: one, semi-attractive guy with character flaws, sortof a bad boy if you will, but a heart of gold and stolid old fashion convictions about right and wrong fights single handedly (of course the moral support of "the people" and "the girl") against a corrupt gang of some sort. The actors are always horrible, and also unknown unless their names are Van Damme or Norriss... then they`re just horrible. Roundhouse kick to your head.
In one Van Damme MOBM I saw, he and his drunken Indian Vietnam Vet buddy have special connections with the coyotes in the desert, and actually howl like coyotes to signal each other while taking down the two rival groups of desert rowdies that stole his motorcycle and left him for dead. This wasn`t a comedy, but I had to laugh out loud several times during Van Damme-coyote montages. I know what you`re thinking...but you CAN`T not watch. Morbid curiosity or old fashion masochism, I don`t know, but the MOBM is engrossing.
(It`s only fair for me to mention that on one bus ride, I did see Gladiator in English with Spanish Subtitles. So it`s either one extreme or the other.)
oh yeah...Coyote Moon got 4 stars on IMDB....that means it was bad, even for a Van Damme Movie.
The Dead iPod: Nothing can give you the redass quite as violently as when your One True Travel Buddy to The End (your iPod) gives you the flashing battery. If it flashed a hand with the middle finger flipping you off, it`d be less painful. Your last and sometimes only defense against The Snore and the sound of the ill-timed motor without a muffler is your favorite playlist. Hold back the tears, shift your weight to keep your extremities from falling to sleep, and wait for morning.
The Confessor: "What are your beliefs about incest?" It seems that when people find out that you have some sort of moral anchor (being the member of the LDS church in my case) all confessions and awkwardly personal stories become fair game. On an overnighter from Trujillo Peru tu Tumbes at the Ecuadorian border, I met Mario Tello, who`s name I won`t change primarily because he`s not innocent and therefore deserves no protection. Mario blew me away with the question about incest. He`s from Iquitos in the Amazon region. Upon moving to Lima, out of all the 12 million people to meet and start fornicating with, he hooks up with his half sister. Apparently unbeknownst to him, his new mistress (b/c yes, he has an union libre wife back in Iquitos) was the result of an adventure his father had had many years prior. Mario came to find out about his incestuous predicament a few years later, when he went with his father to "meet" his long lost half sister, and found that he already "knew" her, in the biblical sense. Their reunion as brother and sister sparked their passion again; and with full knowledge of their kinship. I`ve come to realize that the catholic confession booth isn`t solely for the anonymity of the sinner, but to avoid the awkwardness evoked by the scandalous admissions. Maybe they should install them on buses.
These Buses are crazy and fun, and a microcosm of South America. My list is just the tip of the iceberg...many remain unrepresented. The Transporter, the Chatter, etc. If you`ve ever been on a crazy bus anywhere, leave a comment and share your experience.
The Snore: Deep and Loud, the kind that`s constantly threatening to blast the adnoids into the back of the throat of the snorer and choke him into consciousness. The Snore on the overnight bus isn`t steady and rythmic like it`s prostrate relatives. The bumps, dips and curves of the road create a melody with crescendos, key changes and anthemic choruses. The Snore makes it`s home exclusively in the gullets of the Deepest Sleepers; those who lay unshaken by bus stops, turned on lights, river crossings, police shakedowns, screaming babies and guerrilla attacks....until it`s their stop, then some magical force (perhaps The Snore itself) gives them the awakening kiss, telling them that their dozing has come to an end. Fresh and well slept, the Deepest Sleepers and the latent Snore are a vile team that deprive all around them of what they so effortlessly enjoy.
The Crowder: This guy once heard of a thing called personal space, but he was too busy making other people uncomfortable to find out what it meant. Sitting next to this space invader is a constant battle for centimeters of arm chair and leg space terriroty, until you realize that the struggle is futile. The Crowder´s war machine is apparently equipped with armor against any and all uncomfortable touching...he feels nothing. (Side Note: The Crowder tends to be overweight, middle aged and male, and is absolutely never an attractive woman)
The "Made for Latin American Overnight Bus" Movie: There`s Made for DVD, there`s Made for TV, there`s Made for Jennifer Lopez to act in, and then there`s this. I once had a friend that would rate a movie by watching the preview and asserting at which stage of movie-life she would see it in. "I`ll see that one in the dollar theatre", "Rent the DVD", etc. From Opening Day on down through waiting for it to come to TV on TNT, her system seemed complete until I witnessed the monstrosity of the Made for Overnight Bus Movie. A movie that could only be shown to a group of people who`s only chance of escape is to throw themselves out the window of a moving bus.
Always an action flick, but without the budget to explode much more than a shack and one old car, all MOBMs have but one plot: one, semi-attractive guy with character flaws, sortof a bad boy if you will, but a heart of gold and stolid old fashion convictions about right and wrong fights single handedly (of course the moral support of "the people" and "the girl") against a corrupt gang of some sort. The actors are always horrible, and also unknown unless their names are Van Damme or Norriss... then they`re just horrible. Roundhouse kick to your head.
In one Van Damme MOBM I saw, he and his drunken Indian Vietnam Vet buddy have special connections with the coyotes in the desert, and actually howl like coyotes to signal each other while taking down the two rival groups of desert rowdies that stole his motorcycle and left him for dead. This wasn`t a comedy, but I had to laugh out loud several times during Van Damme-coyote montages. I know what you`re thinking...but you CAN`T not watch. Morbid curiosity or old fashion masochism, I don`t know, but the MOBM is engrossing.
(It`s only fair for me to mention that on one bus ride, I did see Gladiator in English with Spanish Subtitles. So it`s either one extreme or the other.)
oh yeah...Coyote Moon got 4 stars on IMDB....that means it was bad, even for a Van Damme Movie.
The Dead iPod: Nothing can give you the redass quite as violently as when your One True Travel Buddy to The End (your iPod) gives you the flashing battery. If it flashed a hand with the middle finger flipping you off, it`d be less painful. Your last and sometimes only defense against The Snore and the sound of the ill-timed motor without a muffler is your favorite playlist. Hold back the tears, shift your weight to keep your extremities from falling to sleep, and wait for morning.
The Confessor: "What are your beliefs about incest?" It seems that when people find out that you have some sort of moral anchor (being the member of the LDS church in my case) all confessions and awkwardly personal stories become fair game. On an overnighter from Trujillo Peru tu Tumbes at the Ecuadorian border, I met Mario Tello, who`s name I won`t change primarily because he`s not innocent and therefore deserves no protection. Mario blew me away with the question about incest. He`s from Iquitos in the Amazon region. Upon moving to Lima, out of all the 12 million people to meet and start fornicating with, he hooks up with his half sister. Apparently unbeknownst to him, his new mistress (b/c yes, he has an union libre wife back in Iquitos) was the result of an adventure his father had had many years prior. Mario came to find out about his incestuous predicament a few years later, when he went with his father to "meet" his long lost half sister, and found that he already "knew" her, in the biblical sense. Their reunion as brother and sister sparked their passion again; and with full knowledge of their kinship. I`ve come to realize that the catholic confession booth isn`t solely for the anonymity of the sinner, but to avoid the awkwardness evoked by the scandalous admissions. Maybe they should install them on buses.
These Buses are crazy and fun, and a microcosm of South America. My list is just the tip of the iceberg...many remain unrepresented. The Transporter, the Chatter, etc. If you`ve ever been on a crazy bus anywhere, leave a comment and share your experience.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
hammock boats
I`m headed out of Iquitos today toward Pucalpa, to continue South to Cuzco, Titicaca and Chile. I bought a hammock yesterday and will be riding for five days up the Amazon in the same hanging state as the pupa in the picture...I won`t have wings when I get off the boat and out of my cocoon-of-a-hammock, but after five days of sweaty cramped metamorphosis, I`m sure it will feel like I`m flying. Hopefully, I`ll have a chance to write some good descriptions of my experiences here in the Amazon, which have been incredible.
ps. I accidentally bought a hammock that is a good two feet too short for me...these could be long days.
ps. I accidentally bought a hammock that is a good two feet too short for me...these could be long days.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
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Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The Isle of Gallardo
The vacation is over, back to traveling. For the last week and a half I`ve been living quite high off the proverbial hog. When I came from Huanchaco to Guayaquil to visit my old friends the Gallardo Family, I had planned on staying only a few days...I promise. I arrived on Tuesday and my hosts insisted that I accompany them to their beach house in Salinas for the weekend, which just happened to be Carnaval. Why not? (Salinas is to Ecuador what Cancun is to Mexico). Carnaval in Ecuador is basically a 4 day long water fight (sometimes egg, urine, etc...it gets ugly) with a lot of partying, dancing, beaching and eating interspersed.
So from Wednesday to Friday I woke up late, ate breakfast and lunch served by Mari the Empleada, swam in the Pool, read, ran errands with Mom Gallardo, and didn`t blog.
Funny that I should be an unproductive, lounging moucher while reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Somehow my conscience let me get away with it.
At niht I went out with Alejandra and Uti to Kareoke clubs and mingled with Ecuador`s elite singles. The most affluent playboys, pretty boys, mamma`s boys and vacant party girls; for a week I was a fly on the wall of the Ecuadorian 90210, or worse yet....it`s O.C. As shallow, pampered and eletist as they were, they sure knew how to have a good time.
Kareoke`s where you can`t hear the person with the mic because EVERYONE in the place is singing along at the top of their lungs. Concerts that get kicked off at around 2 a.m. and go until 6, with all the dancing your legs can take (cue the sarcastic remarks from Tom, Jared and Spencer about Joey and latin dancing), lounging by the pool of the Yacht Club, yup the Yatch Club, by day. I remembered why I love Latin America; Latin Americans. They`re just so laid back and fun loving...even the snobs.
Tuesday was the end of Carnaval, Wednesday was to be a day of recovery and Thursday I was headed for the Oriente (Ecuador`s Amazon jungle) for a crossing into Peru and a trip down the Rio Napo to Iquitos, the largest city not attainable over land. BUT, Mom Gallardo suggested a trip to Banos for the weekend. What the hell right??...another couple days of Mari`s cooking and service, poolide lounging and flirting with Alejandra and her friends wasn`t going to kill me. I began to feel like Odysseus who was "waylaid on the Isle of Circe (the enchantress who initially turned his men to swine), and spent a luxurious year enjoying the bounty of the Goddess". I knew I should move on, but couldn`t quite figure out how to do it, or really why I should.
Baños, or Bathrooms in the parlance of our times, is in the mountains in Central Ecuador. A tag-along on a family vacation, I wish I could say I enjoyed the 5 hr. car ride up through the fog drifted, zero-visibility Andean roads...but decaying infrastructure + thousand foot sheer mountain dropoffs + fog like Jimi`s Haze + crazy mario andretti ecuadorian driving does NOT equal enjoyable ride. Baños has been cool though. The Gallardos are gone since day before yesterday but not before we went on hikes, saw the pailon del Diablo and "bungee" jumped off a bridge.
On my own again, feels both good and bad. I`m going to miss the Isle of Gallardo.
for more pictures check out my flickr account http://www.flickr.com/photos/82872306@N00/
So from Wednesday to Friday I woke up late, ate breakfast and lunch served by Mari the Empleada, swam in the Pool, read, ran errands with Mom Gallardo, and didn`t blog.
Funny that I should be an unproductive, lounging moucher while reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Somehow my conscience let me get away with it.
At niht I went out with Alejandra and Uti to Kareoke clubs and mingled with Ecuador`s elite singles. The most affluent playboys, pretty boys, mamma`s boys and vacant party girls; for a week I was a fly on the wall of the Ecuadorian 90210, or worse yet....it`s O.C. As shallow, pampered and eletist as they were, they sure knew how to have a good time.
Kareoke`s where you can`t hear the person with the mic because EVERYONE in the place is singing along at the top of their lungs. Concerts that get kicked off at around 2 a.m. and go until 6, with all the dancing your legs can take (cue the sarcastic remarks from Tom, Jared and Spencer about Joey and latin dancing), lounging by the pool of the Yacht Club, yup the Yatch Club, by day. I remembered why I love Latin America; Latin Americans. They`re just so laid back and fun loving...even the snobs.
Tuesday was the end of Carnaval, Wednesday was to be a day of recovery and Thursday I was headed for the Oriente (Ecuador`s Amazon jungle) for a crossing into Peru and a trip down the Rio Napo to Iquitos, the largest city not attainable over land. BUT, Mom Gallardo suggested a trip to Banos for the weekend. What the hell right??...another couple days of Mari`s cooking and service, poolide lounging and flirting with Alejandra and her friends wasn`t going to kill me. I began to feel like Odysseus who was "waylaid on the Isle of Circe (the enchantress who initially turned his men to swine), and spent a luxurious year enjoying the bounty of the Goddess". I knew I should move on, but couldn`t quite figure out how to do it, or really why I should.
Baños, or Bathrooms in the parlance of our times, is in the mountains in Central Ecuador. A tag-along on a family vacation, I wish I could say I enjoyed the 5 hr. car ride up through the fog drifted, zero-visibility Andean roads...but decaying infrastructure + thousand foot sheer mountain dropoffs + fog like Jimi`s Haze + crazy mario andretti ecuadorian driving does NOT equal enjoyable ride. Baños has been cool though. The Gallardos are gone since day before yesterday but not before we went on hikes, saw the pailon del Diablo and "bungee" jumped off a bridge.
On my own again, feels both good and bad. I`m going to miss the Isle of Gallardo.
for more pictures check out my flickr account http://www.flickr.com/photos/82872306@N00/
Monday, March 06, 2006
Yerry`s Hymn
If I could have stuffed this little gordito into my backpack and taken him around with me for entertainment I would have.
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Quilcayhuanca
Video of the Quilcayhuanca Pass. 5,200 meters...about 15,000 feet. Sailor the Guide and Christian the German played by Sailor the Guide and Christian the German. All rights reserved
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Friday, March 03, 2006
Beached Jerry
From Huaraz in the high Andeas I headed for the coast to make my way up to Guayaquil. An overnight bus put me in Trujillo at around 5:45 in the morning, and I found my way to the main plaza; weekend party animals staggered toward home, a flaming tranny tried to convince me to go "rest" at his house ("baby, you look so tired, I won´t rob you...you can use my shower, take a nap, walk around my place naked"...no, not that last part, but that´s what his eyes said at the height of their creepiness), and a scattering of young guys in what looked like matador uniforms with puffier, even more flamboyant sleeves and shoulder pads began to gather around the central fountain. It was all quite surreal. Turns out they were musicians in what must have been the frustrated Peruvian version of mariachi.
Trujillo was dirty. As it got light I looked for a bus station to see about a ticket out. Someone said I should go to Huanchaco because of the nice beaches, so when a busted up, ancient VW bus (Kombi, typcical public transport) came by with a kid yelling "Huanchaco, Huanchaco!!" I got right on. Huanchaco is about .75 hour outside trujillo.
En route to Huanchaco, the thought hit me that it was Sunday, and this little town must have a set of hard working mormon Elders and a small chapel. As I got of the bus in a totally randomly chosen spot, I spotted a sharp looking guy pulling along a fat little boy, both in clean white shirts and ties. Mormons. Or J.W.´s who like to copy us in most areas besides sound doctrine. I suspected, and followed; and my suspicions were confirmed when they were joined by a few ladies in Sunday dress carrying indicative green hynmals. I struck up conversation and ended up going to church with them. It was a nostalgic 3 hours of tone-deaf acapela singing, apostate doctrine being thrown around in the small home turned meeting house. Awesome. Of course, they invited me over to their house for lunch afterward and of course I accepted.
The Familia Juarez. An awesome family of 7 kids, the youngest of which is the chubby 4 year old in the picture.
Converts of only 4 years, they still spoke nostalgically of "their missionaries" and Jorge the 16 year old choir director asked all sorts of questions about Utah and Temple Square. Jerry, the funniest little fat kid I´ll ever meet. (He wasn´t funny just because he was fat, he would have been quite a clown otherwise, but it sure added to his comedic charm.) "Amigo, draw me a picture of Tarzan! Amigo, did you abandon your family?" I have an awesome video of him singing Put your Shoulder to the Wheel, but I can´t seem to get CastPost to work...Spencer, a little help.
Anyways, they treated me like a guest that had been invited and expected rather than someone who had randomly wandered in off the street with a backpack and a sunburn. I ended up staying a couple of days in Huanchaco with the Juarezs. Good people. But, as the saying goes in Spanish, "el muerto a los 3 dias apesta", so I headed north toward Guayaquil.
Trujillo was dirty. As it got light I looked for a bus station to see about a ticket out. Someone said I should go to Huanchaco because of the nice beaches, so when a busted up, ancient VW bus (Kombi, typcical public transport) came by with a kid yelling "Huanchaco, Huanchaco!!" I got right on. Huanchaco is about .75 hour outside trujillo.
En route to Huanchaco, the thought hit me that it was Sunday, and this little town must have a set of hard working mormon Elders and a small chapel. As I got of the bus in a totally randomly chosen spot, I spotted a sharp looking guy pulling along a fat little boy, both in clean white shirts and ties. Mormons. Or J.W.´s who like to copy us in most areas besides sound doctrine. I suspected, and followed; and my suspicions were confirmed when they were joined by a few ladies in Sunday dress carrying indicative green hynmals. I struck up conversation and ended up going to church with them. It was a nostalgic 3 hours of tone-deaf acapela singing, apostate doctrine being thrown around in the small home turned meeting house. Awesome. Of course, they invited me over to their house for lunch afterward and of course I accepted.
The Familia Juarez. An awesome family of 7 kids, the youngest of which is the chubby 4 year old in the picture.
Converts of only 4 years, they still spoke nostalgically of "their missionaries" and Jorge the 16 year old choir director asked all sorts of questions about Utah and Temple Square. Jerry, the funniest little fat kid I´ll ever meet. (He wasn´t funny just because he was fat, he would have been quite a clown otherwise, but it sure added to his comedic charm.) "Amigo, draw me a picture of Tarzan! Amigo, did you abandon your family?" I have an awesome video of him singing Put your Shoulder to the Wheel, but I can´t seem to get CastPost to work...Spencer, a little help.
Anyways, they treated me like a guest that had been invited and expected rather than someone who had randomly wandered in off the street with a backpack and a sunburn. I ended up staying a couple of days in Huanchaco with the Juarezs. Good people. But, as the saying goes in Spanish, "el muerto a los 3 dias apesta", so I headed north toward Guayaquil.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Product Review for Tom
Hybrids, in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone, often end up severely injuring both birds without any fatalities; the Keen shoodles I bought for this trip are being put to the test. I wore them on my trek in the Andes, and had no problems...one bird down. The enclosed rubber toe saved my ugly digits from bloody stubbings countless times. I climbed and decended very steep inclines, traversed rock gardens and crossed rivers, and never had a problem. My only complaint would be that occasionally little rocks get stuck inside, and because of the form of the shoe, it´s difficult to do the "walking kickout". They dry out quicker than I had thought they would, and with a pair of socks (if you don´t mind looking like a BYU geek, or an hardcore granola) they´re very good for walking.
Yesterday I wore them to the beach, but this time, I think the stone hit the bird a little off center. I might have to buy some cheep flip flops since I´m headed to Guayaquil and it´s carnaval time on the beach!!
on a scale of 1 to 10 I give them an 8.5, reserving anything higher for equally functional shandles that don´t give you such wierd tan lines.
Yesterday I wore them to the beach, but this time, I think the stone hit the bird a little off center. I might have to buy some cheep flip flops since I´m headed to Guayaquil and it´s carnaval time on the beach!!
on a scale of 1 to 10 I give them an 8.5, reserving anything higher for equally functional shandles that don´t give you such wierd tan lines.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Trekking the Cordillera Blanca
Went trekking for 3 days in the Cordillera Blanca. It means White Mountain Range, or White Mountains...funny coincidence, but the White Mountains I come from in Arizona don´t have quite the vistas these do. I think the total was about 25 miles in 2 and a half days, but the second day we walked SRAIGHT UP the side of a 60 degree incline. We walked up one valley where mountains shoot up like pop-up book figures for the Gods, then we hiked up one of said mountains and came down the other side in another high-mountain valley. The mountain pass we went on was 5,200 meters...somewhere around 15,000 feet...shorts and ¨sandles¨. I went with this random German guy named Christian and a local Guide/Cook who´s name might be sailor...but I´m not sure. It was a good group, we had a good time (I even got to roll some rocks). From this internet cafe, I´m headed to Sailor´s house to hang out and watch Touching the Void! ha ha.
Check out this link for a few pictures from the area and the Trekking.
Check out this link for a few pictures from the area and the Trekking.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Vagando
To ¨vagar¨ means to wander, as near as I can tell. So I thought it appropriate that Ando Vagando (I´m out here wandering) should be the new address of my travel log. Check it from time to time to see what´s going on with my little tripping experience. I´m getting kicked out of the cyber-cafe now, but I´ll write tomorrow about roads that buses should never travel on, and the double decker buses that travel them through Andean clouds.
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