Crossing back into the land of Spanish speakers required an all-night bus to the border of Brazil and Argentina. When I returned to Campo Grande after my four days in the Pantanal, I immediately trotted over to the office where I signed up for my tour. I was hoping to leave my pack there for an hour or so while I bought a bus ticket and checked my email. I looked through the glass door and saw the same girl who sold me the trek google chatting with friends. I asked her if I could leave my bag. She sighed and said the office closed an hour ago and she was just chatting with friends.
I mentioned the many power outages that happened back at the camp and said I wanted a $100 refund. That got her attention. I told her I was only kidding, but I don't think she fully believed me. Suddenly she was offering to escort me to a ticket counter and be my translator to buy my ticket to Iguazu - my next destination.
Once I had my ticket in hand, the tour gal asked if I wanted to get some dinner - her treat. I agreed to dinner, but knowing she was a single mom I said I would pay. She took me to a grill out in front of the bus station where a guy was cooking up strips of beef and chicken. Five bucks bought us a few strips of beef on sticks and a Fanta each. She asked if I wanted to stick around for the night and go out clubbing - saying she wanted to make up for the power outages by showing me a real Brazilian night out. My bus was leaving in 20 mins so I told her I would take a rain check. I was behind by several days and needed to get to Buenos Aires - so I gave her a hug and thanked her for the efforts. Twenty five minutes later I was onboard the bus, fully reclined, and watching Little Man in Portuguese.
When I woke up 7 hours later I was in a small city about an hour from Iguazu. The bus driver motioned (he only spoke Portuguese) that I was to get off here and wait two hours for a bus to Iguazu. First order of business? Find a bathroom and brush my teeth. I forgot I was still in Brazil as the area seemed a bit more upscale. When the Jehovah's Witnesses approached me and asked if I had found Jesus in Portuguese, I quickly remembered where I was. I watched the custodians sweep the same floor three times before, at 6am, I was on another bus to Iguazu.
I woke up about an hour later in Iguazu - on the Brazilian side. My guidebook suggested I take the city bus to the main bus terminal in the center of town. That would cost a dollar where a cab would cost around $10. I was all for saving money. Except I had no idea how the buses worked. I paid my fare when I boarded but got into an argument 10 minutes later when the fare collector suggested I go past his gate and sit down and then asked for the fare again. Not knowing any Portuguese, and he, not knowing any Spanish or English, we argued in our separate languages for a few minutes until he got frustrated and just ignored me. And then I pleaded in broken Spanish that he let me know when we hit the bus station. He chuckled and ignored me again. Fortunately bus stations are pretty obvious. Unfortunately my bag was still sitting at his feet.
After pleading with the fare guy for several minutes he tossed my bag out of the bus. I gathered it and went looking for a cab. I found the cab from "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air". Seriously, it had dice in the mirror. If anything, I would say this cab was rare, but I thought nothing of it and said "yo home to....um, my hostel".
He wanted to practice his Spanish and English. I tried. It was good to hear Spanish again. Despite what he told me, his Spanish was really good. I couldn't keep up. And so I told him for the rest of the cab ride I would teach him English.
I arrived at my hostel a few minutes later. It was a resort. There was a pool with a full bar. Ping pong and fooseball tables. A garden with hammocks and lawn chairs. And a soccer field and basket ball court with lighting. To bring me back in they showed me to my dorm bed. I dropped my stuff, took a shower, signed up for a tour of the falls and took a long nap. A looong nap.
There was still much to be done that day....
To see pics of my time at Iguazu, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603820470641/
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Quiet Time in the Pantanal
My time on the farm in the Pantanal was a bit lonely. After the first night with the Australians, Germans, and Mario, the traveling hippie Brazilian, I was the sole guest at the farm. When I woke up on the first morning I was told the Australians had already left. Mario and the Germans were going on a horse ride before their departure at 11am. Since the horse ride was the only activity that morning I joined them.
I've only ridden a horse once before - when I was 14. I wasn't exactly thrilled with jumping on one that morning but what else was I going to do? Fortunately it was a small horse and seemingly calm. As we rode into the tall grass my horse was determined to stay behind the other horses. I would tap him occasionally to get him to catch up with the others, which he did, only to fall behind again a few minutes later. It wasn't until an hour later, when we were out of the tall grass and on a dirt path, that he decided we wanted to lead the pack.
Along with the Germans there were two girls from Smith College in Massachusetts, both clearly had experience with horses. As we hit the dirt trail they broke into a gallop ahead of the rest of us. It was at this point that my horse decided to test my meddle. He (maybe she?) broke into a quick gallop after the two horses the Americans were riding, with me holding on with all the energy I could muster at nine in the morning. It was thrilling - considering the one time I had ridden a horse before I did nothing more than walk it a few paces. It was also very scary. I had no idea how to get him to slow down. I pulled back on the reigns and that slowed him down a bit. But as soon as I released them he galloped off again after the two lead horses, with me bouncing hard on the saddle. I regretted wearing the thin pants I had put on that morning instead of my jeans (variety in travel attire is over-rated). He kept me in the lead for the rest of our ride, never letting another horse pass without a race ensuing.
When we returned to the farm - and my feet to solid ground - I headed to the shower, gingerly washing my newly chafed legs. The Germans, Mario, and the Smith girls hopped into the big truck to head back to the bus stop. Suddenly it was just me as the sole guest on the farm. I talked to the guide about what activities he had planned for the next three days and also asked if any other guests were coming. A few might be coming in tomorrow, he said.
They never came. For the next three days it was just me on the farm. The family (owners) didn't speak English, and only a little Spanish, so they pretty much left me alone, having nothing to say to me. The cook would ask me questions as she served me my meals. But I had no idea what she was saying and would just smile and nod or shrug my shoulders and mutter something in Spanish. I looked forward to each day's activities just so I could converse with someone; even if guide's English left much to be desired, it was better than not talking at all. That afternoon after everyone left I hung out in the hammocks until the guide took me out to the river for my first solo activity: piranha fishing.
I was really excited about this; the one thing I wanted to do in the Pantanal was catch a piranha. Even when I turned to find my guide shoulder deep in the same river we were going to fish for the piranhas, my excitement only paused for a minute. When he assured me the piranhas would only bite if I was bleeding, I reluctantly and cautiously made my way towards the center of the river. I caught six piranhas - two of which my guide deemed large enough to keep for dinner that night. The other four he took off my hook (I refused to put my fingers anywhere near them) and casually tossed them in the water in front of me. I cringed each time he did this, waiting for a now agitated monster fish to start gnawing at my mid section.
My piranha dinner that night - two fried fish and a soup - didn't quite live up to the hype. But it was a welcome change to the constant rice and beans. After dinner I played a quiet game of ping pong with the owner's son - neither of us able to say anything to the other. And then to bed early.
The next day it was pouring when I woke up. But that didn't keep my guide from taking me on my morning's activity: a walk into the jungle. With the rain we didn't see much. There were a few monkeys and raccoon-like animals. But mostly I swatted at the ridiculous number of mosquitoes and tried to keep my camera dry. It was cool to watch my jungle guide swinging his machete back and forth at branches and low hanging vines.
For the rest of the time on the farm I did a small boat ride down the river, looking for more animals and then a "safari" ride at dawn down a dirt road. The upside is this time I was able to take pictures of all the animals I saw during my trip to Costa Rica a few years ago, when my camera broke and had to rely on my friends photos. But it was mostly just a chance for me to relax for a few days on a farm in Brazil - something to do as I crossed from Bolivia to Argentina. It wasn't until about an hour before I was to leave that the guide and his English speaking wife sat down with me and chatted me up; my first full conversation since I had been in Brazil.
That afternoon of my fourth day on the farm I was driven back to the mosquito-infested bus stop, on the way passing a truck full of guests on their way to the farm. All of them were apparently from Australia and England - and didn't speak a word of Portuguese.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
I've only ridden a horse once before - when I was 14. I wasn't exactly thrilled with jumping on one that morning but what else was I going to do? Fortunately it was a small horse and seemingly calm. As we rode into the tall grass my horse was determined to stay behind the other horses. I would tap him occasionally to get him to catch up with the others, which he did, only to fall behind again a few minutes later. It wasn't until an hour later, when we were out of the tall grass and on a dirt path, that he decided we wanted to lead the pack.
Along with the Germans there were two girls from Smith College in Massachusetts, both clearly had experience with horses. As we hit the dirt trail they broke into a gallop ahead of the rest of us. It was at this point that my horse decided to test my meddle. He (maybe she?) broke into a quick gallop after the two horses the Americans were riding, with me holding on with all the energy I could muster at nine in the morning. It was thrilling - considering the one time I had ridden a horse before I did nothing more than walk it a few paces. It was also very scary. I had no idea how to get him to slow down. I pulled back on the reigns and that slowed him down a bit. But as soon as I released them he galloped off again after the two lead horses, with me bouncing hard on the saddle. I regretted wearing the thin pants I had put on that morning instead of my jeans (variety in travel attire is over-rated). He kept me in the lead for the rest of our ride, never letting another horse pass without a race ensuing.
When we returned to the farm - and my feet to solid ground - I headed to the shower, gingerly washing my newly chafed legs. The Germans, Mario, and the Smith girls hopped into the big truck to head back to the bus stop. Suddenly it was just me as the sole guest on the farm. I talked to the guide about what activities he had planned for the next three days and also asked if any other guests were coming. A few might be coming in tomorrow, he said.
They never came. For the next three days it was just me on the farm. The family (owners) didn't speak English, and only a little Spanish, so they pretty much left me alone, having nothing to say to me. The cook would ask me questions as she served me my meals. But I had no idea what she was saying and would just smile and nod or shrug my shoulders and mutter something in Spanish. I looked forward to each day's activities just so I could converse with someone; even if guide's English left much to be desired, it was better than not talking at all. That afternoon after everyone left I hung out in the hammocks until the guide took me out to the river for my first solo activity: piranha fishing.
I was really excited about this; the one thing I wanted to do in the Pantanal was catch a piranha. Even when I turned to find my guide shoulder deep in the same river we were going to fish for the piranhas, my excitement only paused for a minute. When he assured me the piranhas would only bite if I was bleeding, I reluctantly and cautiously made my way towards the center of the river. I caught six piranhas - two of which my guide deemed large enough to keep for dinner that night. The other four he took off my hook (I refused to put my fingers anywhere near them) and casually tossed them in the water in front of me. I cringed each time he did this, waiting for a now agitated monster fish to start gnawing at my mid section.
My piranha dinner that night - two fried fish and a soup - didn't quite live up to the hype. But it was a welcome change to the constant rice and beans. After dinner I played a quiet game of ping pong with the owner's son - neither of us able to say anything to the other. And then to bed early.
The next day it was pouring when I woke up. But that didn't keep my guide from taking me on my morning's activity: a walk into the jungle. With the rain we didn't see much. There were a few monkeys and raccoon-like animals. But mostly I swatted at the ridiculous number of mosquitoes and tried to keep my camera dry. It was cool to watch my jungle guide swinging his machete back and forth at branches and low hanging vines.
For the rest of the time on the farm I did a small boat ride down the river, looking for more animals and then a "safari" ride at dawn down a dirt road. The upside is this time I was able to take pictures of all the animals I saw during my trip to Costa Rica a few years ago, when my camera broke and had to rely on my friends photos. But it was mostly just a chance for me to relax for a few days on a farm in Brazil - something to do as I crossed from Bolivia to Argentina. It wasn't until about an hour before I was to leave that the guide and his English speaking wife sat down with me and chatted me up; my first full conversation since I had been in Brazil.
That afternoon of my fourth day on the farm I was driven back to the mosquito-infested bus stop, on the way passing a truck full of guests on their way to the farm. All of them were apparently from Australia and England - and didn't speak a word of Portuguese.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Figuring Out How Things Work (in English)
I was feeling a little lost when I arrived at the farm in the middle of the Pantanal. So far I wasn't hearing much English, and very little Spanish either. Granted I was in a Portuguese speaking country, but I had hoped some one would speak some English. And then I met Mario. Mario was in my dorm room when I walked in to drop off my bag. He introduced himself right away in perfect English and I knew we would be great friends. Turns out he was a Brazilian on a quest to see as much of his country as possible. A bit of an aged hippie, Mario was traveling with a German family who, I believe, was footing the bill.
But he was a very nice guy, offering to give me a quick tour of the place (in English) and how everything worked. The place was set up for travelers - it had several dorm rooms, a fairly large dining hall/lounge with a bar(ish), a rec room, and a pool. But it was empty. As Mario informed me, all the guests were out doing activities with the two (English speaking) guides. English speaking guides? Awesome.
He suggested we grab two beers from the bar and hangout by the hammocks. I thought that was a fine idea. And so there is where I was filled in on what I could expect here at the farm. Meals were included as part of the package, but drinks were not. Beads were offered for "purchasing" drinks other than tea and water. I was handed a bead necklace worth about $40 and immediately took off the appropriate number of beads to buy a grande beer. At the end of my stay I turned in what was remaining of my beads to see what I owed in cash. I went through two necklaces.
Mario told me the main guide was another Brazilian who spoke OK English and his wife, who was from Australia, spoke much better English but wasn't as knowledgeable. The main guide took the guests out twice a day to do various activities. If there were several people at the farm, like there were that day, his wife would take another group on a different activity.
As he was explaining all this the two groups returned; the German family from a horse ride and the large group of young Australians from a piranha fishing trip. I was excited to see so many people there that could speak English, and when dinner was served I made a point of talking to as many of the Australians as possible. As the night rolled on I generally became a part of the Australian group - a group of about fourteen kids between the ages of nineteen and twenty eight who had signed up for a six week tour of South America. They were staying in each country for about a week. *whew* Tomorrow was their final day in the Pantanal before leaving for Rio. We downed Caprihiñas and chatted until their overland guide informed them they would be waking at 6am for a horse ride before leaving for Rio at 9am. And that killed the party.
I finished my night out amongst the hammocks with Mario and his German friends. They had obtained one of the farm's guitars and a music book and were singing songs ranging from "Imagine" to "The Girl From Impanema". The main guide was with them and this is where I found out what I would be doing the next day: a horse ride into the tall grassfields at 9am. Everyone else would be leaving before lunch, leaving me as the sole guest on the farm. Fortunately I now knew how everything worked. No English required.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
But he was a very nice guy, offering to give me a quick tour of the place (in English) and how everything worked. The place was set up for travelers - it had several dorm rooms, a fairly large dining hall/lounge with a bar(ish), a rec room, and a pool. But it was empty. As Mario informed me, all the guests were out doing activities with the two (English speaking) guides. English speaking guides? Awesome.
He suggested we grab two beers from the bar and hangout by the hammocks. I thought that was a fine idea. And so there is where I was filled in on what I could expect here at the farm. Meals were included as part of the package, but drinks were not. Beads were offered for "purchasing" drinks other than tea and water. I was handed a bead necklace worth about $40 and immediately took off the appropriate number of beads to buy a grande beer. At the end of my stay I turned in what was remaining of my beads to see what I owed in cash. I went through two necklaces.
Mario told me the main guide was another Brazilian who spoke OK English and his wife, who was from Australia, spoke much better English but wasn't as knowledgeable. The main guide took the guests out twice a day to do various activities. If there were several people at the farm, like there were that day, his wife would take another group on a different activity.
As he was explaining all this the two groups returned; the German family from a horse ride and the large group of young Australians from a piranha fishing trip. I was excited to see so many people there that could speak English, and when dinner was served I made a point of talking to as many of the Australians as possible. As the night rolled on I generally became a part of the Australian group - a group of about fourteen kids between the ages of nineteen and twenty eight who had signed up for a six week tour of South America. They were staying in each country for about a week. *whew* Tomorrow was their final day in the Pantanal before leaving for Rio. We downed Caprihiñas and chatted until their overland guide informed them they would be waking at 6am for a horse ride before leaving for Rio at 9am. And that killed the party.
I finished my night out amongst the hammocks with Mario and his German friends. They had obtained one of the farm's guitars and a music book and were singing songs ranging from "Imagine" to "The Girl From Impanema". The main guide was with them and this is where I found out what I would be doing the next day: a horse ride into the tall grassfields at 9am. Everyone else would be leaving before lunch, leaving me as the sole guest on the farm. Fortunately I now knew how everything worked. No English required.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
Okay, Who's Taking Me Where? - Going to the Pantanal
I had set my watch alarm for 7am on Sunday morning so I could pack up my bags and get to the trekker's office by 8. It seemed that each week my bag managed to get bigger even tough I was constantly throwing stuff out. Instead of checking out immediately, I left my bag behind in the room and walked across the street to the bus station where the trekking office was. Still closed. Friggin' Latino time.
The manager I met the night before in the cyber cafe eventually came jogging around the corner towards me. There was a change of plans. I seemed like a nice guy who was looking for something special, he said. He informed me that the tour was still on for that day if I wanted to go. But I would be staying at a farm he has recently decided to stop using for his customers because of the eco damage they do. Also, the group going was 16 people big and a "party group" that just got in that morning. Again, if this was my bag, I could get on the bus at 10am.
But he felt I wanted something a little more relaxed, a bit more focused. He offered to take me to another, rival company in the bus station that used a different farm - one that he wanted to start using in the future. He had spent some time in the U.S. and had a special love for the people from there. And he wanted to make sure I would be happy with my trip. Even if it meant handing me off to another company.
I didn't know what to make of the situation so I just agreed to meet with the other company. Apparently the rival company didn't know what to make of the situation either. They looked a bit skeptical when he ushered me into their office and explained what he was doing. They thanked him, as did I, as he turned to go - and he said, again, he wanted to make sure I was happy with my experience and that he just didn't think his trip was going to be perfect enough. Not now. Okay.
So I talked with the woman in the new office. She was still a little weirded out by this rival company bringing her business and said so. But she set up a trip for me at the same cost. After explaining the difference between the two farms I did feel better about where I was going. And so I paid her and she walked me upstairs to buy the bus tickets. Seems I would be taking a regular bus out into the Pantanal and someone would pick me up at a stop and drive me the rest of the way in. Whatever.
This bus didn't leave until 1pm so I had the rest of the morning to kill. I went back to check out of my hostel and brought my bag back to the new company's office. With four hours to go, I decided to walk to the city center and see what else Campo Grande had to offer. If was like any mid-sized city. But most everything was closed this time on a Sunday morning. So I just strolled. I checked out the parks & plazas. I also tried to use an ATM other than the one by the bus station that was charging me $4 fees with each pop, with no luck. Seemed no bank ATM would accept my card. I noticed a McDonalds and was surprised to see that, unlike every other city I had been in, this McDonalds was completely empty. But one street up I found where all the city's inhabitants go on Sunday morning: a huge indoor market full of vendors. I killed an hour and a half checking out the various stalls and what they had to offer; smiling and saying non each time someone said something to me in Portuguese.
At 12:30 I was back at the bus station collecting my bags and being shoved towards the buses by the woman who sold me my trip. Apparently buses in Brazil leave on time here. Another thing about the buses here: they were immaculate, with large reclining seats. I was going to enjoy this four hour ride. I turned my iPod on and wrote in my journal until I nodded off for the last three hours.
I woke a few minutes before the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere and the driver came back and shouted at me that we were at my stop. Glad some one knew. I grabbed my bag and hurried off. It was drizzling. And I really was in the middle of nowhere. There were two small shacks with wall to wall screening. I lugged my pack up to a porch and waited for my ride. Then I realized why the shacks were lined with screening: mosquitoes covered me. As I smacked them away, I dug around in my pack for my DEET. I poured it over every inch of exposed skin. It helped a little. I wondered how long it was going to take for my ride to arrive.
A truck pulled up 15 minutes and 150 bites later. I ran towards it and threw my bag (and the 50 mosquitoes still attached to it) into the back seat before jumping in myself. There was a man of about 40 with his two young daughters up front. He said something in Portuguese, I shrugged my shoulders. He said what I think was the name of the farm, I said "sim" (the third word I learned in Portuguese). He said something else and off we went; the four of us smacking different areas of the cab killing each of the mosquitoes I let in.
The trip to the farm was down a very bumpy dirt road. It took an hour to get there and on the way I learned the man spoke a little Spanish. I tried to start a conversation in Spanish but it didn't go very far. Mostly we just rode in silence.
When we arrived, the older of the little girls showed me towards the main building. I met the man's wife and fortunately she spoke a bit more Spanish. At least enough to tell me where I was sleeping and how to ask for a beer. I dropped of my bags and asked for that beer and met one of the guests at the farm: Mario - a Brazilian who spoke fluent English. Mario would be my savior for the rest of the evening.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
The manager I met the night before in the cyber cafe eventually came jogging around the corner towards me. There was a change of plans. I seemed like a nice guy who was looking for something special, he said. He informed me that the tour was still on for that day if I wanted to go. But I would be staying at a farm he has recently decided to stop using for his customers because of the eco damage they do. Also, the group going was 16 people big and a "party group" that just got in that morning. Again, if this was my bag, I could get on the bus at 10am.
But he felt I wanted something a little more relaxed, a bit more focused. He offered to take me to another, rival company in the bus station that used a different farm - one that he wanted to start using in the future. He had spent some time in the U.S. and had a special love for the people from there. And he wanted to make sure I would be happy with my trip. Even if it meant handing me off to another company.
I didn't know what to make of the situation so I just agreed to meet with the other company. Apparently the rival company didn't know what to make of the situation either. They looked a bit skeptical when he ushered me into their office and explained what he was doing. They thanked him, as did I, as he turned to go - and he said, again, he wanted to make sure I was happy with my experience and that he just didn't think his trip was going to be perfect enough. Not now. Okay.
So I talked with the woman in the new office. She was still a little weirded out by this rival company bringing her business and said so. But she set up a trip for me at the same cost. After explaining the difference between the two farms I did feel better about where I was going. And so I paid her and she walked me upstairs to buy the bus tickets. Seems I would be taking a regular bus out into the Pantanal and someone would pick me up at a stop and drive me the rest of the way in. Whatever.
This bus didn't leave until 1pm so I had the rest of the morning to kill. I went back to check out of my hostel and brought my bag back to the new company's office. With four hours to go, I decided to walk to the city center and see what else Campo Grande had to offer. If was like any mid-sized city. But most everything was closed this time on a Sunday morning. So I just strolled. I checked out the parks & plazas. I also tried to use an ATM other than the one by the bus station that was charging me $4 fees with each pop, with no luck. Seemed no bank ATM would accept my card. I noticed a McDonalds and was surprised to see that, unlike every other city I had been in, this McDonalds was completely empty. But one street up I found where all the city's inhabitants go on Sunday morning: a huge indoor market full of vendors. I killed an hour and a half checking out the various stalls and what they had to offer; smiling and saying non each time someone said something to me in Portuguese.
At 12:30 I was back at the bus station collecting my bags and being shoved towards the buses by the woman who sold me my trip. Apparently buses in Brazil leave on time here. Another thing about the buses here: they were immaculate, with large reclining seats. I was going to enjoy this four hour ride. I turned my iPod on and wrote in my journal until I nodded off for the last three hours.
I woke a few minutes before the bus stopped in the middle of nowhere and the driver came back and shouted at me that we were at my stop. Glad some one knew. I grabbed my bag and hurried off. It was drizzling. And I really was in the middle of nowhere. There were two small shacks with wall to wall screening. I lugged my pack up to a porch and waited for my ride. Then I realized why the shacks were lined with screening: mosquitoes covered me. As I smacked them away, I dug around in my pack for my DEET. I poured it over every inch of exposed skin. It helped a little. I wondered how long it was going to take for my ride to arrive.
A truck pulled up 15 minutes and 150 bites later. I ran towards it and threw my bag (and the 50 mosquitoes still attached to it) into the back seat before jumping in myself. There was a man of about 40 with his two young daughters up front. He said something in Portuguese, I shrugged my shoulders. He said what I think was the name of the farm, I said "sim" (the third word I learned in Portuguese). He said something else and off we went; the four of us smacking different areas of the cab killing each of the mosquitoes I let in.
The trip to the farm was down a very bumpy dirt road. It took an hour to get there and on the way I learned the man spoke a little Spanish. I tried to start a conversation in Spanish but it didn't go very far. Mostly we just rode in silence.
When we arrived, the older of the little girls showed me towards the main building. I met the man's wife and fortunately she spoke a bit more Spanish. At least enough to tell me where I was sleeping and how to ask for a beer. I dropped of my bags and asked for that beer and met one of the guests at the farm: Mario - a Brazilian who spoke fluent English. Mario would be my savior for the rest of the evening.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
This Is Harder Than I Thought - Entering Brazil
Brazil is a huge country; about the size of the U.S. To try and see it all in a couple of weeks is ridiculous. So I decided to save Brazil for another time - when it could be a trip in itself. But I needed to get from Bolivia to Argentina, and going through Brazil's Pantanal - the large grassy wetlands teaming with wildlife in the country's south - to get there seemed to be the easiest route. Besides, it would give me the opportunity to go fishing for piranha. And who would pass that up?
Going through customs at Campo Grande's airport in Brazil reminded me that I was entering the only country of my trip where Spanish was not the first language. I tried using some Spanish with the guy going through my bag. He replied in Portuguese and then in English that I was in Brazil now and people wouldn't understand Spanish.
Maybe if I slurred it a bit?
I tried that approach with the taxi waiting just outside the airport. He just stared at me. I pointed to the hostel listing in my good book. He nodded and started driving. The ride was quiet - clearly he didn't speak English either. When we arrived at the hostel I was thankful there was a meter in the car. I fished through my pockets for a few of the Brazilian Reals I had just withdrawn from the ATM in the airport and thanked the driver with a "gracias". He tapped my arm and said "obrigado".
Now I knew two words in Portuguese.
Fortunately the young guy behind the desk in the hostel spoke fluent English (and Spanish) and directed me to a private room with its own bathroom. I was exhausted. I needed to set up a tour into the Pantanal - the main reason I was in Brazil - but first I needed a nap.
When I woke up three hours later I took a shower (showerhead just to the left of my toilet - no curtain) and decided to search for something to eat before looking for my tour. I had sent an email to a trekking outfit that was supposedly located in the bus station across the street. So I popped into a diner next to the station. I just pointed to what I wanted and also said the word Fanta. The food I had here pretty much set the bar for all the food I had in Brazil. It was terrible. Now don't get me wrong. I'm sure Brazilian food in general is delicious. Just not in the Pantanal. No matter where I went in the Pantanal the food was awful. But it filled me up. And so, after finishing my reheated whatever they were, and watching a dubbed Britney Spears movie on the TV everyone's eyes were fixed on, I went looking for the trekking company in the bus station. It was closed. With no hours posted.
There is nothing to do in Campo Grande. At least not where I was staying in Campo Grande. It's not really known as a tourist destination. Just a city where one can find tours into the Pantanal. Seemed like the perfect time to catch up on blog stories. I bought a Fanta and a candy bar (the best thing I had to eat in Brazil) and hit the cyber cafe by the hostel. First I sent an email to the closed trekking company saying I was in town and hoping to do a four day tour soon. Then I worked on uploading pics and blog stories for the next several hours.
In that time I got an email back from the trekking company asking where I was staying and that they could get me a tour for the next day. I offered that I was at a cyber cafe next to my hostel. An hour later a man walked into the cyber cafe and asked if I was Dan. He explained he was the manager of the trekking company and had been at the hospital all day with his mother in law. He asked that I meet him the next morning at 8am to get everything worked out and that I could be on a bus by 10am. I said obrigado and finished up my blogs entries. It was 10pm and with nothing to do I decided to get some sleep. The next day I would be hitting the Pantanal.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
Going through customs at Campo Grande's airport in Brazil reminded me that I was entering the only country of my trip where Spanish was not the first language. I tried using some Spanish with the guy going through my bag. He replied in Portuguese and then in English that I was in Brazil now and people wouldn't understand Spanish.
Maybe if I slurred it a bit?
I tried that approach with the taxi waiting just outside the airport. He just stared at me. I pointed to the hostel listing in my good book. He nodded and started driving. The ride was quiet - clearly he didn't speak English either. When we arrived at the hostel I was thankful there was a meter in the car. I fished through my pockets for a few of the Brazilian Reals I had just withdrawn from the ATM in the airport and thanked the driver with a "gracias". He tapped my arm and said "obrigado".
Now I knew two words in Portuguese.
Fortunately the young guy behind the desk in the hostel spoke fluent English (and Spanish) and directed me to a private room with its own bathroom. I was exhausted. I needed to set up a tour into the Pantanal - the main reason I was in Brazil - but first I needed a nap.
When I woke up three hours later I took a shower (showerhead just to the left of my toilet - no curtain) and decided to search for something to eat before looking for my tour. I had sent an email to a trekking outfit that was supposedly located in the bus station across the street. So I popped into a diner next to the station. I just pointed to what I wanted and also said the word Fanta. The food I had here pretty much set the bar for all the food I had in Brazil. It was terrible. Now don't get me wrong. I'm sure Brazilian food in general is delicious. Just not in the Pantanal. No matter where I went in the Pantanal the food was awful. But it filled me up. And so, after finishing my reheated whatever they were, and watching a dubbed Britney Spears movie on the TV everyone's eyes were fixed on, I went looking for the trekking company in the bus station. It was closed. With no hours posted.
There is nothing to do in Campo Grande. At least not where I was staying in Campo Grande. It's not really known as a tourist destination. Just a city where one can find tours into the Pantanal. Seemed like the perfect time to catch up on blog stories. I bought a Fanta and a candy bar (the best thing I had to eat in Brazil) and hit the cyber cafe by the hostel. First I sent an email to the closed trekking company saying I was in town and hoping to do a four day tour soon. Then I worked on uploading pics and blog stories for the next several hours.
In that time I got an email back from the trekking company asking where I was staying and that they could get me a tour for the next day. I offered that I was at a cyber cafe next to my hostel. An hour later a man walked into the cyber cafe and asked if I was Dan. He explained he was the manager of the trekking company and had been at the hospital all day with his mother in law. He asked that I meet him the next morning at 8am to get everything worked out and that I could be on a bus by 10am. I said obrigado and finished up my blogs entries. It was 10pm and with nothing to do I decided to get some sleep. The next day I would be hitting the Pantanal.
To see pics of my time in Brazil, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603948681054/
Monday, March 17, 2008
Last Chance Bolivia
On my last day in Bolivia I mingled with the rich, the foreign, the exotic. What better way to spend my last day in the South American continent's poorest country? After one last family meal with my coworker's cousin's family - with more delicious food on sushi place mats - I headed out to the Guembe Orchid and Butterfly Bio-Center, a resort like private park that houses (supposedly) the world's largest butterfly farm as well as several pools. The cousin told me about the butterfly farm on my first day as a suggestion for something to do. And, when I didn't bite, mentioned all the pools there. Jackpot.
The private park seemed to be a destination for the rich; the $10 entrance fee being steep enough to keep most locals out. But it was set up as a reserve to preserve the flora and fauna of the region. Although most of the locals can't afford to come in, they are offered jobs within the park - the park claiming this as one of the ways they give back to the community. Whatever the goal of the park, it provided me with something to do for my last day. We walked to the butterfly farm. Interesting enough. And yes, quite big. After chasing around a large, bright blue butterfly for 15 minutes trying to get a decent picture, we gave up and headed for the pools. The pools were what I had been dreaming about since I arrived in Santa Cruz: a shelter from the heat of the tropics. When we arrived at the pools we found a bar. That was the other part of my dreams and I lived those dreams when I ordered a rum & coke and then dove into the pool.
We killed several hours at the multiple level pools; gliding down the water slides, making trips to the bar, and avoiding the never ending gathering of bees around the edges of the pools. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable in Santa Cruz. All it took was a pool of cool water. The pools weren't terribly crowded. But the people sun bathing beside them and wading within them were certainly better off than the most of the city's inhabitants. Most a good deal whiter too. I heard several languages being spoken, most notably Germanic and French. We largely ignored our pool mates and enjoyed the empty spaces available.
My flight to Brazil didn't leave Santa Cruz until 4am, leaving plenty of time for a big dinner. And so we headed to one of Santa Cruz's premier places for Bolivian and Argentine beef & wine, as well as live traditional music and dancing performances: La Casa del Camba. I ordered the biggest cut of steak available. And I even tried the cow tongue dish my host ordered. The dancing was another Bolivian experience my coworker's cousin was eager for me to see and it was entertaining. Right up until the clouds opened up and rain swamped the open-air seating that was the majority of the restaurant. We quickly moved to a table under shelter and finished our meal with a torta tres leches. Then I noticed patrons could sign the wall of the restaurant. Signatures went back years. The servers couldn't produce a pen (I think the tradition is no longer encouraged) so we found our own and I signed the wall with a shout out to "autonomia", lest I have the cambas thinking I wasn't down with their cause.
Dinner ended late, with just enough time to go back to my hotel, pack up, and hunt down a taxi. The ride to the airport included windows down to keep the sweating at bay. There was a long line to the counter of my airline and it was here, while waiting patiently, I discovered my xerox of my now missing yellow fever card was not sufficient to get me onto the plane to cross the border. One of the requirements to enter Brazil, aside from a visa, is an official yellow card stamped to prove one has had the yellow fever vaccine. I was told to find the airline manager on duty to argue my case - the attendant manning the line was not going to let me through without the original card. The manager wasn't budging on the rules. Brazil would not let me into the country without it, and thus they would not let me on the plane without it. I had torn my bag apart earlier looking for it - now knowing it was not in there. My only option was to reschedule my ticket and apply for a new card. Defeated, I looked in my smaller bag for my spanish phrase book. I was looking for a phrase to convey the helplessness I felt. And there, on page 65, I found my yellow card.
An hour later I was on my flight bound for Campo Grande, Brazil. I slept the entire way, the air vent aimed directly at my chest. When we arrived in Brazil two and a half hours later, the third of the passengers not continuing on to Sao Paulo deboarded and headed into customs. I had no idea what the women in customs asked me. And when I asked her, in Spanish, to repeat what she said, she responded in English by asking if I knew any Portuguese. I did not.
And thus began my adventure into a country where the only word I knew was "non".
For pics of my time in Santa Cruz, follow the link below:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
The private park seemed to be a destination for the rich; the $10 entrance fee being steep enough to keep most locals out. But it was set up as a reserve to preserve the flora and fauna of the region. Although most of the locals can't afford to come in, they are offered jobs within the park - the park claiming this as one of the ways they give back to the community. Whatever the goal of the park, it provided me with something to do for my last day. We walked to the butterfly farm. Interesting enough. And yes, quite big. After chasing around a large, bright blue butterfly for 15 minutes trying to get a decent picture, we gave up and headed for the pools. The pools were what I had been dreaming about since I arrived in Santa Cruz: a shelter from the heat of the tropics. When we arrived at the pools we found a bar. That was the other part of my dreams and I lived those dreams when I ordered a rum & coke and then dove into the pool.
We killed several hours at the multiple level pools; gliding down the water slides, making trips to the bar, and avoiding the never ending gathering of bees around the edges of the pools. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable in Santa Cruz. All it took was a pool of cool water. The pools weren't terribly crowded. But the people sun bathing beside them and wading within them were certainly better off than the most of the city's inhabitants. Most a good deal whiter too. I heard several languages being spoken, most notably Germanic and French. We largely ignored our pool mates and enjoyed the empty spaces available.
My flight to Brazil didn't leave Santa Cruz until 4am, leaving plenty of time for a big dinner. And so we headed to one of Santa Cruz's premier places for Bolivian and Argentine beef & wine, as well as live traditional music and dancing performances: La Casa del Camba. I ordered the biggest cut of steak available. And I even tried the cow tongue dish my host ordered. The dancing was another Bolivian experience my coworker's cousin was eager for me to see and it was entertaining. Right up until the clouds opened up and rain swamped the open-air seating that was the majority of the restaurant. We quickly moved to a table under shelter and finished our meal with a torta tres leches. Then I noticed patrons could sign the wall of the restaurant. Signatures went back years. The servers couldn't produce a pen (I think the tradition is no longer encouraged) so we found our own and I signed the wall with a shout out to "autonomia", lest I have the cambas thinking I wasn't down with their cause.
Dinner ended late, with just enough time to go back to my hotel, pack up, and hunt down a taxi. The ride to the airport included windows down to keep the sweating at bay. There was a long line to the counter of my airline and it was here, while waiting patiently, I discovered my xerox of my now missing yellow fever card was not sufficient to get me onto the plane to cross the border. One of the requirements to enter Brazil, aside from a visa, is an official yellow card stamped to prove one has had the yellow fever vaccine. I was told to find the airline manager on duty to argue my case - the attendant manning the line was not going to let me through without the original card. The manager wasn't budging on the rules. Brazil would not let me into the country without it, and thus they would not let me on the plane without it. I had torn my bag apart earlier looking for it - now knowing it was not in there. My only option was to reschedule my ticket and apply for a new card. Defeated, I looked in my smaller bag for my spanish phrase book. I was looking for a phrase to convey the helplessness I felt. And there, on page 65, I found my yellow card.
An hour later I was on my flight bound for Campo Grande, Brazil. I slept the entire way, the air vent aimed directly at my chest. When we arrived in Brazil two and a half hours later, the third of the passengers not continuing on to Sao Paulo deboarded and headed into customs. I had no idea what the women in customs asked me. And when I asked her, in Spanish, to repeat what she said, she responded in English by asking if I knew any Portuguese. I did not.
And thus began my adventure into a country where the only word I knew was "non".
For pics of my time in Santa Cruz, follow the link below:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
What Is There To Do in Santa Cruz?
I ended up spending about three days in Santa Cruz before heading off to Brazil; mainly because I discovered the train was always full (I couldn't buy a ticket in advance) and I had no desire to spend 26 hours on another bumpy bus for $65. So I was looking for other ways to get to Campo Grande, Brazil. I checked with a few travel agencies and discovered there were flights but nothing under $175 - and that was if I bought a round trip ticket with a fee for not returning.
And so I debated what to do. My coworker's cousin offered lunches at her grandmother's house while I was in town. Having had brilliant luck with family-oriented lunches to this point in Bolivia, I happily accepted the invitation. For the next two days I cabbed out to the neighborhood where the family lived where I was presented with multiple course meals - all traditional and delicious. It was odd to see these traditional Bolivian meals served on place mats with sushi prints. Especially with full Spanish conversations going on. But I paid little attention and dug in.
My second afternoon in Santa Cruz I walked around the city to see what there was. The people of the city think themselves more Brazilian than Bolivian; especially with Evo Morales as their new president. There is a lot of resentment against him and the city of La Paz. So much so, I was told, that it is not uncommon for fights to break out between locals and people visiting from La Paz. Just hearing the difference in accents is enough to set some people off. Being no fan of Evo's after having to buy a visa to get in to Bolivia, I was ready to declare my allegiance to the residents adorning themselves with "autonomia" stickers and badges. Santa Cruz is trying, unsuccessfully so far, to win autonomy from La Paz. And hey, if that makes them happy - I'm behind them. Just don't hurt me.
The city's main plaza is in its historic center. Colonial buildings occupied each street and I enjoyed taking it all in - buying water from the people selling bottles from coolers on the corners (two extra Bolivianos for bottles from the cooler!). I ducked inside one of the food markets and found several stands selling the cold fresh fruit drinks with milk at less than 50¢ for a small pitcher. I ordered two - one made from fresh peaches and one from strawberries. The sweating stopped. Until I walked back outside.
Before it got dark I decided I should get back to the travel agency and buy that plane ticket. It occurred to me that I could pay cash for the ticket and they would have no way of tracking me down if I didn't do the return flight. And so I reserved the flight to Brazil for 4am the following night. I made the false reservation to fly back four days later and walked out with my tickets and my receipt for the cash purchase - how brilliant am I?
That night I met the cousin of my coworker's cousin at a bar just down the street from the main plaza. The walk there was enough to have me soaked by the time I arrived, and it took three beers just to cool me down again. That's when everyone decided to call it a night. And so I sweated back to my hotel again where I tried to cool down again under my over-head fan. Tomorrow there were promises of pools...
To see pics from my time in Santa Cruz, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
And so I debated what to do. My coworker's cousin offered lunches at her grandmother's house while I was in town. Having had brilliant luck with family-oriented lunches to this point in Bolivia, I happily accepted the invitation. For the next two days I cabbed out to the neighborhood where the family lived where I was presented with multiple course meals - all traditional and delicious. It was odd to see these traditional Bolivian meals served on place mats with sushi prints. Especially with full Spanish conversations going on. But I paid little attention and dug in.
My second afternoon in Santa Cruz I walked around the city to see what there was. The people of the city think themselves more Brazilian than Bolivian; especially with Evo Morales as their new president. There is a lot of resentment against him and the city of La Paz. So much so, I was told, that it is not uncommon for fights to break out between locals and people visiting from La Paz. Just hearing the difference in accents is enough to set some people off. Being no fan of Evo's after having to buy a visa to get in to Bolivia, I was ready to declare my allegiance to the residents adorning themselves with "autonomia" stickers and badges. Santa Cruz is trying, unsuccessfully so far, to win autonomy from La Paz. And hey, if that makes them happy - I'm behind them. Just don't hurt me.
The city's main plaza is in its historic center. Colonial buildings occupied each street and I enjoyed taking it all in - buying water from the people selling bottles from coolers on the corners (two extra Bolivianos for bottles from the cooler!). I ducked inside one of the food markets and found several stands selling the cold fresh fruit drinks with milk at less than 50¢ for a small pitcher. I ordered two - one made from fresh peaches and one from strawberries. The sweating stopped. Until I walked back outside.
Before it got dark I decided I should get back to the travel agency and buy that plane ticket. It occurred to me that I could pay cash for the ticket and they would have no way of tracking me down if I didn't do the return flight. And so I reserved the flight to Brazil for 4am the following night. I made the false reservation to fly back four days later and walked out with my tickets and my receipt for the cash purchase - how brilliant am I?
That night I met the cousin of my coworker's cousin at a bar just down the street from the main plaza. The walk there was enough to have me soaked by the time I arrived, and it took three beers just to cool me down again. That's when everyone decided to call it a night. And so I sweated back to my hotel again where I tried to cool down again under my over-head fan. Tomorrow there were promises of pools...
To see pics from my time in Santa Cruz, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
Looking for Relief in Santa Cruz
When I arrived in Santa Cruz's airport, in Bolivia, I discovered the airline had left my backpack in La Paz. I was told to leave the name of my hotel and they would deliver my bag later that afternoon when it arrived on the next flight. I flipped through my Lonely Planet guide and found the name of a hotel near the main plaza and said that was where I would be staying. What more could I do?
Sweat. Santa Cruz was much warmer than La Paz - being at a much lower elevation the climate was tropical. This did not bode well for the guy wearing jeans and wool socks with nothing readily available to change into. I found a cab (one without a/c apparently) and directed him to the address in my guidebook. The drive took about 25 minutes, and although the cabbie had all the windows down, my t-shirt was soaked by the time we reached the hotel.
I paid him and went into ask for a room. They had plenty available. But the cheapest room was 130 Bolivianos (about $16) and I thought this was much too high. So I thanked the desk clerk and decided to check the hotel three doors down. He offered a room with cable TV and an over-head fan for 100 Bolivianos (about $12.50). So much better. I cranked up the fan, stripped off the wool socks, and stretched out to relax for a bit. Then I realized I had given the airline the name of the other hotel. Ugh.
I tried calling the number they gave me to tell them I had switched hotels. But all I got was a recording in Spanish. I decided I would walk back to the original hotel, tell them my situation, and beg them to hold my bag even though I wasn't staying there. Hopefully they would be sympathetic. They were.
Santa Cruz was the city from which I was going to catch a train into Brazil. There didn't seem to be much to do here other than sweat. And wait for my bag. But my coworker's cousin was in town from La Paz visiting relatives and offered to show me around. Not having anything to do other than wait & sweat, I took her up on the offer. But first I had her call the airline to see about changing hotel names for delivery. She got through to someone but was told they weren't going to deliver the bag - just send it to the airline office in town. Okay, that would be part of my tour. To kill some time we walked to the main plaza and checked out the church. I was looking for any relief from the heat - the cool air in the church, the shade of a tree, a cold drink. But the jeans and wool socks were just too much in that heat. I finally decided we needed to take a break at a restaurant on the square that had dozens of ice cream dishes. And there we sat for a couple of hours.
Finally, around 4pm, we took a cab to the airline office. We skipped the long line and walked back behind the counter (I was just following the cousin who seemed to know what she was doing) to a back office. There we (and by we I mean she) went about explaining the situation and trying to find my bag. Turns out it was being delivered to the hotel. Two cab rides and 16 Bolivianos later we got back to the hotel where my bag - and shorts & flip flops - were waiting.
I carried it up to my room and took a nice, long, cold shower. The relief of cold water and then shorts and flip flops immediately turned my foul mood around. I was ready to see what Santa Cruz had to offer - with a smile.
Still, not much.
To see pics from my time in Santa Cruz, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
Sweat. Santa Cruz was much warmer than La Paz - being at a much lower elevation the climate was tropical. This did not bode well for the guy wearing jeans and wool socks with nothing readily available to change into. I found a cab (one without a/c apparently) and directed him to the address in my guidebook. The drive took about 25 minutes, and although the cabbie had all the windows down, my t-shirt was soaked by the time we reached the hotel.
I paid him and went into ask for a room. They had plenty available. But the cheapest room was 130 Bolivianos (about $16) and I thought this was much too high. So I thanked the desk clerk and decided to check the hotel three doors down. He offered a room with cable TV and an over-head fan for 100 Bolivianos (about $12.50). So much better. I cranked up the fan, stripped off the wool socks, and stretched out to relax for a bit. Then I realized I had given the airline the name of the other hotel. Ugh.
I tried calling the number they gave me to tell them I had switched hotels. But all I got was a recording in Spanish. I decided I would walk back to the original hotel, tell them my situation, and beg them to hold my bag even though I wasn't staying there. Hopefully they would be sympathetic. They were.
Santa Cruz was the city from which I was going to catch a train into Brazil. There didn't seem to be much to do here other than sweat. And wait for my bag. But my coworker's cousin was in town from La Paz visiting relatives and offered to show me around. Not having anything to do other than wait & sweat, I took her up on the offer. But first I had her call the airline to see about changing hotel names for delivery. She got through to someone but was told they weren't going to deliver the bag - just send it to the airline office in town. Okay, that would be part of my tour. To kill some time we walked to the main plaza and checked out the church. I was looking for any relief from the heat - the cool air in the church, the shade of a tree, a cold drink. But the jeans and wool socks were just too much in that heat. I finally decided we needed to take a break at a restaurant on the square that had dozens of ice cream dishes. And there we sat for a couple of hours.
Finally, around 4pm, we took a cab to the airline office. We skipped the long line and walked back behind the counter (I was just following the cousin who seemed to know what she was doing) to a back office. There we (and by we I mean she) went about explaining the situation and trying to find my bag. Turns out it was being delivered to the hotel. Two cab rides and 16 Bolivianos later we got back to the hotel where my bag - and shorts & flip flops - were waiting.
I carried it up to my room and took a nice, long, cold shower. The relief of cold water and then shorts and flip flops immediately turned my foul mood around. I was ready to see what Santa Cruz had to offer - with a smile.
Still, not much.
To see pics from my time in Santa Cruz, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603952352167/
Thursday, March 13, 2008
They Calling Me
Where are those durn pictures? They're coming. I am going to Charlotte this weekend to see the folks for the first time since I've been back & to celebrate my 31st with my grandfather. I am taking the laptop, the pictures, and the Lonely Planet (don't have my notebook, so I'll cheat and take notes from my guide book). I PROMISE to have pics up before I return. And a few stories that I can remember.
Until then, here's proof I was in Patagonia. And maybe a weeee bit lost. More to come!
Until then, here's proof I was in Patagonia. And maybe a weeee bit lost. More to come!
Monday, March 10, 2008
A Bad Start to the End of My Time in Bolivia
My last day in La Paz started with me thinking I was about to die. Bright and early I made my way to the shower, still very much asleep. The shower in my coworker's place doesn't come with hot water and so, like many shower heads in South America, a heating device was hooked up to cook up the water just before releasing it on the bather. These contraptions always look scary - with archaic wiring connecting from the shower head to a large switch that looks like what Dr Frankenstein pulled to bring his monster to life.
A few minutes into my shower I noticed bright flashes of light just above my head. I looked up to see sparks flying from the wiring of the shower head and then a large spark just before the wiring caught on fire. In the span of these few seconds I managed to get the shower curtain back and leap to the toilet four feet away - naked, dripping wet, but seemingly unscathed. I watched as the flame grew smaller and the wires melted away, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. When I gathered my composure, I tossed a small bit of water on the now tiny flame to put it out. Smoke filled the room. And I had 20 minutes to get down to my cab and head to the airport.
I dried off, made sure the fire was completely out, and got dressed. Then I left a note for my coworker's uncle who would be arriving that day. And I called his cousin to tell her what happened. Her response? "Oh, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."
Right.
Completely shaken, I grabbed my pack and went out to meet my cab to catch my flight to Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz is located in eastern Bolivia, at a much lower elevation. I was told to be prepared for tropical weather - a big change from the chilliness of La Paz. I wore jeans (it was still cold here after all) but wore a tee with my jacket, knowing I could dunk the jacket in my little pack once I landed.
The flight was quick enough and I was glad I had taken it instead of the 17 hour bus ride. But when I went to the small airport's baggage claim, and waited and waited, I couldn't find my checked backpack. An announcement was made when it was clear I wasn't the only one waiting for my bag 40 minutes later. But it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand it. All I caught was that I should get in line where something further would be explained. When I got to the front of the line I found one of the two guys doing damage control could speak a little English. He said the plane was over weight and so some of the bags were left behind for the next flight from La Paz. I was to leave my hotel name and address and the bag would be delivered later that afternoon. I could already feel the heat outside the doors and immediately regretted wearing my wool socks and jeans. There was no way I could change now. I was not liking Santa Cruz so far.
A few minutes into my shower I noticed bright flashes of light just above my head. I looked up to see sparks flying from the wiring of the shower head and then a large spark just before the wiring caught on fire. In the span of these few seconds I managed to get the shower curtain back and leap to the toilet four feet away - naked, dripping wet, but seemingly unscathed. I watched as the flame grew smaller and the wires melted away, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. When I gathered my composure, I tossed a small bit of water on the now tiny flame to put it out. Smoke filled the room. And I had 20 minutes to get down to my cab and head to the airport.
I dried off, made sure the fire was completely out, and got dressed. Then I left a note for my coworker's uncle who would be arriving that day. And I called his cousin to tell her what happened. Her response? "Oh, don't worry about it. Happens all the time."
Right.
Completely shaken, I grabbed my pack and went out to meet my cab to catch my flight to Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz is located in eastern Bolivia, at a much lower elevation. I was told to be prepared for tropical weather - a big change from the chilliness of La Paz. I wore jeans (it was still cold here after all) but wore a tee with my jacket, knowing I could dunk the jacket in my little pack once I landed.
The flight was quick enough and I was glad I had taken it instead of the 17 hour bus ride. But when I went to the small airport's baggage claim, and waited and waited, I couldn't find my checked backpack. An announcement was made when it was clear I wasn't the only one waiting for my bag 40 minutes later. But it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand it. All I caught was that I should get in line where something further would be explained. When I got to the front of the line I found one of the two guys doing damage control could speak a little English. He said the plane was over weight and so some of the bags were left behind for the next flight from La Paz. I was to leave my hotel name and address and the bag would be delivered later that afternoon. I could already feel the heat outside the doors and immediately regretted wearing my wool socks and jeans. There was no way I could change now. I was not liking Santa Cruz so far.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Going Down
Before leaving La Paz, there was one last thing I wanted to do. About an hour and a half north there is a stretch of road that was named the "World's Most Dangerous Road" by the Inter-American Development Bank in 1995. There were more deaths annually on this road than on any other road in the world. In 1986 alone there were 362 deaths. The road hugs mountains with steep cliffs over the edge. The majority of the road is barely wider than one car and it is not paved. Most of the deaths are caused by drunks drivers or speeding.
In March of 2007 a new, paved road was opened up following a safer route and most cars have been redirected to this route. The number of fatalities has dropped drastically and the road, now, is no longer considered the World's Most Dangerous. But it doesn't stop bike companies from advertising downhill excursions on the World's Most Dangerous Road. I, of course, wanted to go biking down this old superlative and so I signed up to do it (again) for the Monday before leaving La Paz.
I was up at 5:30 in the morning to get dressed and catch a cab into town. The company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, warned me to wear warm clothes since the ride starts at 15,400 feet. But they also suggested I bring a bag with a change of clothes since we would be descending 11,800 feet into the Amazon jungle. I met the other riders at a cafe where we were to meet our biking guide. When the guide arrived we were asked for proof of insurance. They weren't taking any chances with us - not when inexperienced bikers would be speeding down a gravel/dirt road beside 3,300 feet sheer drops.
We were piled into the back of a Landrover with our bikes stacked on top. The ride up was quiet - much too early for anyone to really talk to each other. Doing the road with me was a canadian couple, a dutch couple, and a german woman. Our main guide was originally from Cananda - he had moved to La Paz with his girlfriend 8 months earlier to do volunteer work with homeless children. To make some extra money he picked up this biking gig. He had been doing trek biking since he was a kid and was apparently thrilled to go down this trail each week. Our guide bringing up the rear was originally from La Paz. He was apparently the 2nd best down-hill biker in Bolivia. At the end of the trek, over beers, he showed me video of some of his downhill competitions. He admitted he wasn't able to the do the whole course - he chickened out on a 18 foot drop on one course.
When we reached La Cumbre, our starting point, we were told there were usually grand views of the surrounding snow capped mountains. But it was now snowing (in summer) and foggy. We could see about 50 feet in front of us. I was anxious to see how this would effect out riding. But we were immediately suited up with goggles, gloves, and water proof pants & jackets. It was freezing and I was glad I had layered up. Before setting off, a small container of pure sugar cane alcohol (97% alcohol) was passed around. We were told to take a shot and pour a small amount on mother earth for good luck.
Within minutes of starting the ride I was soaked - as we descended, the snow turned to rain - and my hands started to go numb from the cold. My goggles were almost as useless as going without them. We were doing 40 miles down the road, but fortunately the first section was on wide, paved road. Made things a bit safer. The only thing that really freaked me out was the occasional sharp horn blasts from truckers passing us.
Eventually the rain let up a bit and I could see the land we were riding through. It was beautiful. After about an hour we got to the section where the road split - old from new. And down the old we went. No more wide, paved road. As we passed the only guard rail (on the safest part of the road) it was clear the technical part of the ride was beginning. I wasn't shy. Off our lead guide bolted and off I went peddling after him.
I am not an avid biker. In fact, I rarely ride. Especially not on narrow gravel/dirt roads with 3,300 feet sheer drops to one side. I had no business trying to keep up with the guide. In fact, they encouraged us to go at a comfortable speed. But the thrill of flying downhill, hugging sharp turns, dodging larger rocks, and knowing this was the World's Most Dangerous Road was too much and I continued to peddle faster and faster. There were too many instances when I almost lost control or hit a rock too fast and came close to wiping out or going over the side of a cliff. But I was enjoying the thrill of it all.
As we descended farther and farther we took breaks to check out the scenery or have a bite to eat, or make sure our brakes still worked. It warmed up a bit with each stop and a new layer would come off every rider with each stop. By the end most people were down to tees and their orange vests; a big change from the bulky layers we started with. I almost kept it all on despite the heat just so any spill I might take would be a bit softer.
Under waterfalls we rode, into more rain, through mini-rivers cutting through the road. When we finally arrived at the small village of Yolosa, we were all dirty and sweating. We had just a short ride left to Senda Verde Hostel, which doubles as an animal refuge - where we were able to take hot showers and eat a late pasta and salad buffet lunch while checking out the rescued monkeys, parrots, snakes, and wild cats. Everyone was exhausted. But we enjoyed seeing the hundred or so pictures our guides managed to take along the trail, now set up to play on a tv monitor.
The other riders were staying at this small town for the night. But I had a flight early the next morning to the other side of Bolivia and rode back with the driver and two guides. We stopped before driving back up the World's Most Dangerous Road and bought several beers for the ride back (the driver got a Fanta) and for the next three hours I chatted up my Canadian guide about his experiences in Bolivia. With only one stop for more beer and another stop when we almost hit another car coming the other direction on the Dangerous Road (coming too close to adding four more to the annual fatalities), we made good time back. They dropped me off back in the center of town around 9pm and I found a cab back out to my coworker's house. I managed to stay on the bike during the entire ride, but once I got to my bedroom I crashed hard.
For a few pics from the ride, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603819518089/
In March of 2007 a new, paved road was opened up following a safer route and most cars have been redirected to this route. The number of fatalities has dropped drastically and the road, now, is no longer considered the World's Most Dangerous. But it doesn't stop bike companies from advertising downhill excursions on the World's Most Dangerous Road. I, of course, wanted to go biking down this old superlative and so I signed up to do it (again) for the Monday before leaving La Paz.
I was up at 5:30 in the morning to get dressed and catch a cab into town. The company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, warned me to wear warm clothes since the ride starts at 15,400 feet. But they also suggested I bring a bag with a change of clothes since we would be descending 11,800 feet into the Amazon jungle. I met the other riders at a cafe where we were to meet our biking guide. When the guide arrived we were asked for proof of insurance. They weren't taking any chances with us - not when inexperienced bikers would be speeding down a gravel/dirt road beside 3,300 feet sheer drops.
We were piled into the back of a Landrover with our bikes stacked on top. The ride up was quiet - much too early for anyone to really talk to each other. Doing the road with me was a canadian couple, a dutch couple, and a german woman. Our main guide was originally from Cananda - he had moved to La Paz with his girlfriend 8 months earlier to do volunteer work with homeless children. To make some extra money he picked up this biking gig. He had been doing trek biking since he was a kid and was apparently thrilled to go down this trail each week. Our guide bringing up the rear was originally from La Paz. He was apparently the 2nd best down-hill biker in Bolivia. At the end of the trek, over beers, he showed me video of some of his downhill competitions. He admitted he wasn't able to the do the whole course - he chickened out on a 18 foot drop on one course.
When we reached La Cumbre, our starting point, we were told there were usually grand views of the surrounding snow capped mountains. But it was now snowing (in summer) and foggy. We could see about 50 feet in front of us. I was anxious to see how this would effect out riding. But we were immediately suited up with goggles, gloves, and water proof pants & jackets. It was freezing and I was glad I had layered up. Before setting off, a small container of pure sugar cane alcohol (97% alcohol) was passed around. We were told to take a shot and pour a small amount on mother earth for good luck.
Within minutes of starting the ride I was soaked - as we descended, the snow turned to rain - and my hands started to go numb from the cold. My goggles were almost as useless as going without them. We were doing 40 miles down the road, but fortunately the first section was on wide, paved road. Made things a bit safer. The only thing that really freaked me out was the occasional sharp horn blasts from truckers passing us.
Eventually the rain let up a bit and I could see the land we were riding through. It was beautiful. After about an hour we got to the section where the road split - old from new. And down the old we went. No more wide, paved road. As we passed the only guard rail (on the safest part of the road) it was clear the technical part of the ride was beginning. I wasn't shy. Off our lead guide bolted and off I went peddling after him.
I am not an avid biker. In fact, I rarely ride. Especially not on narrow gravel/dirt roads with 3,300 feet sheer drops to one side. I had no business trying to keep up with the guide. In fact, they encouraged us to go at a comfortable speed. But the thrill of flying downhill, hugging sharp turns, dodging larger rocks, and knowing this was the World's Most Dangerous Road was too much and I continued to peddle faster and faster. There were too many instances when I almost lost control or hit a rock too fast and came close to wiping out or going over the side of a cliff. But I was enjoying the thrill of it all.
As we descended farther and farther we took breaks to check out the scenery or have a bite to eat, or make sure our brakes still worked. It warmed up a bit with each stop and a new layer would come off every rider with each stop. By the end most people were down to tees and their orange vests; a big change from the bulky layers we started with. I almost kept it all on despite the heat just so any spill I might take would be a bit softer.
Under waterfalls we rode, into more rain, through mini-rivers cutting through the road. When we finally arrived at the small village of Yolosa, we were all dirty and sweating. We had just a short ride left to Senda Verde Hostel, which doubles as an animal refuge - where we were able to take hot showers and eat a late pasta and salad buffet lunch while checking out the rescued monkeys, parrots, snakes, and wild cats. Everyone was exhausted. But we enjoyed seeing the hundred or so pictures our guides managed to take along the trail, now set up to play on a tv monitor.
The other riders were staying at this small town for the night. But I had a flight early the next morning to the other side of Bolivia and rode back with the driver and two guides. We stopped before driving back up the World's Most Dangerous Road and bought several beers for the ride back (the driver got a Fanta) and for the next three hours I chatted up my Canadian guide about his experiences in Bolivia. With only one stop for more beer and another stop when we almost hit another car coming the other direction on the Dangerous Road (coming too close to adding four more to the annual fatalities), we made good time back. They dropped me off back in the center of town around 9pm and I found a cab back out to my coworker's house. I managed to stay on the bike during the entire ride, but once I got to my bedroom I crashed hard.
For a few pics from the ride, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603819518089/
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Pictures to Come
In spite of not having my journal and all my notes, I still plan to post the pictures from the trip with what details I can remember. I have three albums lined up to go and will publish them in the next day or two.
Coming up is my bike ride down the world's most dangerous road. Then a quick stop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, where the weather turned tropical and the traditional dishes kept coming. After that is my short trip into Brazil's pantanal region where I fished for piranhas while wading with them. And then crossing from Brazil into Argentina at Iguazu Falls.
By next week I hope to have the pictures from Buenos Aires, Antarctica, and the Patagonia region posted.
Stay tuned!
Coming up is my bike ride down the world's most dangerous road. Then a quick stop in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, where the weather turned tropical and the traditional dishes kept coming. After that is my short trip into Brazil's pantanal region where I fished for piranhas while wading with them. And then crossing from Brazil into Argentina at Iguazu Falls.
By next week I hope to have the pictures from Buenos Aires, Antarctica, and the Patagonia region posted.
Stay tuned!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
And Here I am
I arrived at Washington National Airport at 9 this morning. I was welcomed back to DC by an Argentine girl that was seated next to me on the flight. An odd return. The metro ride was long and lonely and when I got to my house it was empty.
There was a box of mail waiting for me. Literally, a large box of mail. Fortunately there was also a Duke/NC State game that needed watching so I was able to sort through the mail while screaming at rat-face on TV. My first college bball game of the season. And Duke pulled off the win at the last second. I really hate them.
Anyway, I am going to the bar to watch the UNC game at 3:30 with my new roommate. Apparently a new roommate moved in while I was gone. Life is back to normal.
For now.
There was a box of mail waiting for me. Literally, a large box of mail. Fortunately there was also a Duke/NC State game that needed watching so I was able to sort through the mail while screaming at rat-face on TV. My first college bball game of the season. And Duke pulled off the win at the last second. I really hate them.
Anyway, I am going to the bar to watch the UNC game at 3:30 with my new roommate. Apparently a new roommate moved in while I was gone. Life is back to normal.
For now.
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