The morning of our tour of the salt falts, my coworker was feeling much worse. He looked much worse too (no offense bro). But we packed up our bags and made the walk to our tour agency anyway. Here we ditched our bags and went looking for a bus to book back to Sucre after the tour, hopefully for the same night. It took six bus companies but we found one that would get us directly to Sucre without having to stop in Potosi again and without having to switch busses. That secured, it was time for some breakfast before our tour`s departure. I ordered my coworker two large glasses of fruit juices and I downed another Americano breakfast (my favorite - typical).
As we waited at the office for all the provisions to be packed into our truck, my coworker started feeling worse and decided it would be best to skip the trip. Clearly I was bummed. Who was going to take all the pics of me now? Or speak Spanish for me? But he decided he needed to go ahead and catch a bus to Sucre then and rest at his grandparents` house. I couldn`t argue with him and just wished him well as I jumped on board my jeep with the other four people in the group.
My group included two Isrealies who had just finished their conscription and two Swiss girls who unwillingly got stuck in the back of the truck, just over the tires. Everyone was quiet at first; the Swiss girls talking amongst themselves in Swiss-German and the Isrealies talking in Hebrew. And the guide humming flute music to himself. That left me to stare out the window.
Our first stop was our guide`s house where he picked up some laundry. That duty taken care of, we moved on to our first official stop: the train cemetary. Not all that exciting. Not sure why it`s on the tour. Just a bunch of old locamotives abandoned and rusting on the outskirts of the town. We dutifully took pictures and then let the guide know we were done and very much ready to move on. Next it was to a small village that technically, I believe, worked directly gathering the salt for distribution; but seemed to exist soley to sell tourists ashtrays and figurines made our of salt. There was a little salt hotel where everything was made of salt, even the beds (mmm...comfy). And some salt sculptures that a woman tried to charge me 5 soles to view. They weren`t that interesting. We let our guide know we were, again, ready to go.
On to the salt flats. It was wild. We were suddenly surrounded on all sides by white. Lots of white. We made a stop in the drier area of the flats and, skipping the second salt hotel, played with various poses in the salt desert. It took a few goes, but I finally was able to explain to the barely English speaking Swiss gals what I was trying to acheive in my fool-the-eye pics. Though they still couldn`t get most of the pics just right, they did manage to get one the way I wanted it (see photos for bottle posing). Once our guide grew tired of watching us pose with various food packaging, he summounded us to move to the next spot.
We drove further into the flats as the landscape became more and more surreal. The horizon disappeared as the clouds melded into their reflections in the salt water. It felt trippy. Woooaaaaahh.
Watching other trucks in the distance sail across the flats looked like they were flying in mid air. We eventually arrived at Isla Incahuasi in the middle of the flats. Here an "island" full of cactus seemed to rise up from the waters. There were trails to hike up for better views of the surroundings. But mainly the crowds of trucks and their passengers stopped here to have lunch and walk through the salt water. And take more pictures. It was a very cool experience and I am still going back and looking at the pics a month later.
It was getting late in the afternoon and time to get to our hotel for the night. We sailed on through the trippy landscape and I fought off heavy eyes so I could take it all in. My truckmates were out for the final hour`s drive back.
At our hotel, with nothing to do in the two hours before dinner, I ordered a grande beer and pulled a plastic chair outside to watch the sunset. An American from Iowa and his girlfriend, a Dutch gal, joined me as did the Isreali guy. The couple were aid workers and we spent the evening talking about their work and their travels. Dinner was better than expected and bed time was early - in my shared dorm.
To see photos of the Salt Flats and surrounding landscapes, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603705286504/
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Bouncing Across Bolivia on Unpaved Roads
Waking up on January 2nd was a struggle. The 30 hours of solid drinking had exhausted me. But it was finally time to leave Tarija, my coworkers family, and the comforts of being chauffered around on paved roads. We were off to see the salt flats of Bolivia, the largest in the world and the other highlight of my trip to this country, and I needed to get moving so we could catch our bus across the country.
I moved very slowly. Papito made home-made ravioli for lunch. This dish had been talked up all week and had anxiously been waiting for him to get down to it. It was delicious (well worth all the hype) and helped get me moving a bit more quickly.
That afternoon we checked on busses going in our direction. It wasn`t easy. Several were full. Most didn`t go exactly where we wanted to end up. We finally settled on an over-night bus to Potosi, the highest city in the world. There we would find another bus going to Uyuni and the salt flats. We figured an over-night bus would save us time as we could just sleep as we made our way to our destination. By daybreak we would be well rested and ready for our next bus. We were that niave.
Tio got us back to the bus station later that afternoon in time to catch our 6pm bus. The bus left much to be desired - including shocks. And we were seated in the back, right on top of the wheels. It was only about 40 minutes later, when the bus took a left turn off the paved road and onto a dirt road, that we realized we would be getting no sleep that night. Just to test the waters, I pulled out my iPod in an attempt to block out the droning of the rattling windows. And I discovered all of my music had been erased. Strike three.
There was no bathroom on the bus, so 2.5 hours into the trip we pulled off at a small village surviving soley on the stopped busses. A collection of small restaurants (I use this word loosely) and shops sat in the middle of no where, way up in the mountains. Looking for, and not finding a bathroom, I took a cue from the women squating near a stream and walked down to some bushes. The tall grass hid the stream/sewage water, and I stepped right into it up to my shins. That would be a smell that wouldn`t leave my boots and socks for another two weeks. The driver said we would stop here for 20 minutes. We were stopped for close to an hour. Not such a big deal unless you find yourself locked on the bus as my coworker did. The driver locked the bus after he got off. My worker was just going to chill in the bus for the 20 minutes. But when the 20 minutes came and went, he decided he wanted off. Thems the breaks.
Since we couldn`t sleep as we bounced all over our seat that night, my coworker brought out his iPhone and we watched a movie. Then another. Then another. Then we just sat in the dark and tried to will ourselves to sleep. No luck. I hate busses in Bolivia.
At 5am we finally arrived in Potosi. Exhausted and broken we got off the bus and went walking through the cold air (an unwelcome change from the warmer air of Tarija only 11 hours earlier) towards the bus station across the street. People laid on the floors of the station covered in layers of blankets or burried in sleeping bags, waiting for bus offices to open or their bus to leave. Everyone looked cold. We couldn`t find a bus office advertizing Uyuni and finally asked some one how to get there. There was a street just 10 minutes away full of bus companies offering rides there. Why they were operating there and not out of the bus station like everyone else I have no idea. But it seemed to fit with the overall oddity of S America. So we taxi`d there at 5:20am. Everything was, of course, closed. And now we didn`t have the slightly warmer bus station to keep us slightly more comfy. We out in it and cold. We asked a man on the street what time the offices opened. He shrugged. We asked another man. He thought maybe 8:30. sigh.
So we waited. We met another backpacker as we waited, a Bolivian out seeing his country during a 10 day vacation. We passed some of the time talking to him. Actually my worker did, as they talked to each other in Spanish. They took pity on me every 15 minutes or so and offered some English for me. But then it was right back to Spanish.
When the offices opened at 8am, we quickly snatched up two tickets for the first bus leaving at 10:30. That was a little too much more time to kill standing in the cold so we decided to catch a cab into the city center and see what it had to offer for a couple of hours. We found a warm cafe with free internet. Dos Americano breakfasts por favor. We slowly warmed up. With little enthusiasm, and an increasingly heavy backpack, we walked around the city plaza and down the colonial streets of this UNESCO World Heritage sight. It was raining. We grew tired of exploring quickly. Why not just wait in the bus office? Good idea.
The bus was running late. Or so the office manager said. It seemed more like it was not working and thus not coming. An older german man waiting for the same bus threw a fit and demanded his money back. The manager hid from him in another agency`s office. He found a cop. The cop seemed to have little sympathy for either of them as he clearly wanted to just be inside where it was warm. But the man managed to get his money back. Then he suggested we do the same and go across the street to the other bus company. We discussed it, decided we didn`t want to be stuck there, and my coworker offered to argue for our money as I went across the street to buy two tickets on the other bus. When I returned he had not yet gotten the money back. The manager was hiding again. Tickets were only about $4 so we decided to eat the cost and just go with whichever left first.
Our first choice finally arrived and we decided to go with it. I hoisted my big pack to be tied down on top of the bus. We boarded. It wasn`t pretty. And it was very tight. We looked across the street at what seemed to be a much larger bus. Off our bus we went. My coworker pleaded with the man on top of the bus to untie and lower my pack again. And across the street we jogged. The bus wasn`t in much better condition. But my bag would go underneath (out of the rain) and there were fewer people on board so it felt less squeezed.
The 7 hour trip to Uyuni only took 5 hours. This was because our driver refused to stop. It was bittersweet. I wanted to get threre quickly to secure a tour of the salt flats for the next day. But I also needed to pee. Badly. And we were on another unpaved road which didn`t help my bladder.
When we arrived we went looking for a hotel in the small town with flooded streets and walkways. It was an ugly town. And the rain didn`t help me appreciate it any more. But the bathroom at the hotel did. Checked in and bags ditched we went looking for a tour operator. We found three with varying levels of costs and offers. When one later told us they didn`t have enough people to form a tour, we went with the one that seemed to have a shred competency. Now, time to eat.
Excited to find the pizza place our guide book touted as "Uyuni`s best all around choice", we went off in search with stomachs growling. But we couldn`t find it. On the second try we discovered it inside a hotel. But it was closed due to lack of customers. So we settled on a random pizza place, with painfully slow service, near the hostel. My worker was growing increasingly more sick and couldn`t finish his meal. With our three day tour taking us into the middle of no where, we called it an early night and went to bed. It was nice to close my eyes and lay in something that didn`t move. It wouldn`t last.
To see photos of the Salt Flats and the journey there, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603705286504/
I moved very slowly. Papito made home-made ravioli for lunch. This dish had been talked up all week and had anxiously been waiting for him to get down to it. It was delicious (well worth all the hype) and helped get me moving a bit more quickly.
That afternoon we checked on busses going in our direction. It wasn`t easy. Several were full. Most didn`t go exactly where we wanted to end up. We finally settled on an over-night bus to Potosi, the highest city in the world. There we would find another bus going to Uyuni and the salt flats. We figured an over-night bus would save us time as we could just sleep as we made our way to our destination. By daybreak we would be well rested and ready for our next bus. We were that niave.
Tio got us back to the bus station later that afternoon in time to catch our 6pm bus. The bus left much to be desired - including shocks. And we were seated in the back, right on top of the wheels. It was only about 40 minutes later, when the bus took a left turn off the paved road and onto a dirt road, that we realized we would be getting no sleep that night. Just to test the waters, I pulled out my iPod in an attempt to block out the droning of the rattling windows. And I discovered all of my music had been erased. Strike three.
There was no bathroom on the bus, so 2.5 hours into the trip we pulled off at a small village surviving soley on the stopped busses. A collection of small restaurants (I use this word loosely) and shops sat in the middle of no where, way up in the mountains. Looking for, and not finding a bathroom, I took a cue from the women squating near a stream and walked down to some bushes. The tall grass hid the stream/sewage water, and I stepped right into it up to my shins. That would be a smell that wouldn`t leave my boots and socks for another two weeks. The driver said we would stop here for 20 minutes. We were stopped for close to an hour. Not such a big deal unless you find yourself locked on the bus as my coworker did. The driver locked the bus after he got off. My worker was just going to chill in the bus for the 20 minutes. But when the 20 minutes came and went, he decided he wanted off. Thems the breaks.
Since we couldn`t sleep as we bounced all over our seat that night, my coworker brought out his iPhone and we watched a movie. Then another. Then another. Then we just sat in the dark and tried to will ourselves to sleep. No luck. I hate busses in Bolivia.
At 5am we finally arrived in Potosi. Exhausted and broken we got off the bus and went walking through the cold air (an unwelcome change from the warmer air of Tarija only 11 hours earlier) towards the bus station across the street. People laid on the floors of the station covered in layers of blankets or burried in sleeping bags, waiting for bus offices to open or their bus to leave. Everyone looked cold. We couldn`t find a bus office advertizing Uyuni and finally asked some one how to get there. There was a street just 10 minutes away full of bus companies offering rides there. Why they were operating there and not out of the bus station like everyone else I have no idea. But it seemed to fit with the overall oddity of S America. So we taxi`d there at 5:20am. Everything was, of course, closed. And now we didn`t have the slightly warmer bus station to keep us slightly more comfy. We out in it and cold. We asked a man on the street what time the offices opened. He shrugged. We asked another man. He thought maybe 8:30. sigh.
So we waited. We met another backpacker as we waited, a Bolivian out seeing his country during a 10 day vacation. We passed some of the time talking to him. Actually my worker did, as they talked to each other in Spanish. They took pity on me every 15 minutes or so and offered some English for me. But then it was right back to Spanish.
When the offices opened at 8am, we quickly snatched up two tickets for the first bus leaving at 10:30. That was a little too much more time to kill standing in the cold so we decided to catch a cab into the city center and see what it had to offer for a couple of hours. We found a warm cafe with free internet. Dos Americano breakfasts por favor. We slowly warmed up. With little enthusiasm, and an increasingly heavy backpack, we walked around the city plaza and down the colonial streets of this UNESCO World Heritage sight. It was raining. We grew tired of exploring quickly. Why not just wait in the bus office? Good idea.
The bus was running late. Or so the office manager said. It seemed more like it was not working and thus not coming. An older german man waiting for the same bus threw a fit and demanded his money back. The manager hid from him in another agency`s office. He found a cop. The cop seemed to have little sympathy for either of them as he clearly wanted to just be inside where it was warm. But the man managed to get his money back. Then he suggested we do the same and go across the street to the other bus company. We discussed it, decided we didn`t want to be stuck there, and my coworker offered to argue for our money as I went across the street to buy two tickets on the other bus. When I returned he had not yet gotten the money back. The manager was hiding again. Tickets were only about $4 so we decided to eat the cost and just go with whichever left first.
Our first choice finally arrived and we decided to go with it. I hoisted my big pack to be tied down on top of the bus. We boarded. It wasn`t pretty. And it was very tight. We looked across the street at what seemed to be a much larger bus. Off our bus we went. My coworker pleaded with the man on top of the bus to untie and lower my pack again. And across the street we jogged. The bus wasn`t in much better condition. But my bag would go underneath (out of the rain) and there were fewer people on board so it felt less squeezed.
The 7 hour trip to Uyuni only took 5 hours. This was because our driver refused to stop. It was bittersweet. I wanted to get threre quickly to secure a tour of the salt flats for the next day. But I also needed to pee. Badly. And we were on another unpaved road which didn`t help my bladder.
When we arrived we went looking for a hotel in the small town with flooded streets and walkways. It was an ugly town. And the rain didn`t help me appreciate it any more. But the bathroom at the hotel did. Checked in and bags ditched we went looking for a tour operator. We found three with varying levels of costs and offers. When one later told us they didn`t have enough people to form a tour, we went with the one that seemed to have a shred competency. Now, time to eat.
Excited to find the pizza place our guide book touted as "Uyuni`s best all around choice", we went off in search with stomachs growling. But we couldn`t find it. On the second try we discovered it inside a hotel. But it was closed due to lack of customers. So we settled on a random pizza place, with painfully slow service, near the hostel. My worker was growing increasingly more sick and couldn`t finish his meal. With our three day tour taking us into the middle of no where, we called it an early night and went to bed. It was nice to close my eyes and lay in something that didn`t move. It wouldn`t last.
To see photos of the Salt Flats and the journey there, follow this link:
http://flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603705286504/
This Family Likes to Drink - And I Get No Sleep
Christmas morning I woke up hungover. That was a first.
There was nobody gathered around a Christmas tree eagerly awaiting presents. That was also a first. There were no presents to hand out. The smallest cousin got his Wii the night before and that was it for presents. On the actual day of Christmas the idea was just to spend time with the family. And we did this at a public pool. Another first.
The first thing I did on Christmas day was call home to wish my family a merry Christmas. That was about the only thing I did that day that seemed tied to the holiday.
The pool outing was interesting. We all piled into two trucks and drove to this large, German-run pool complete with basketball courts and a bar. It was a little chilly and about to storm, so my coworker and I made a b-line to the bar as the uncles went straight into the pool. We watched them play and carry on from the comfort of the bar. Until the thunderstorm started. And then we were all huddled into the small bar. So after an hour at the pool, it was back to the house.
The following days were fairly routine. Random relatives would drop in each day to say hello and pay their respects to Papito. We would generally sleep in as late as possible - usually until one of the cousins couldn´t wait any longer for the nicer shower in our bathroom and come through waking us up. Afternoons we would eat a big lunch and later we would go to the Puente, a large covered area by a bridge where locals sold various foods cooked on-site and other locals gorged themselves on these empanadas, ahmintas, and home-made sweet drinks. At night the cousins who were old enough (and one who wasn´t) went out to dip into Tarija`s night life. Tarija`s night life is apparently at it`s peak this time a year, when kids from all over the country are in town visiting family. It`s remarkable; sort of like American families who know other families only by the time they spend with them at the beach or other annual vacation spots. All the kids know each other from the two weeks a year they see each other out at the bars and clubs in Tarija. But Tarija isn`t really a backpackers destination. So, being one of the only gringos in the city, I stood out at the bars and clubs. I am sure people will remember me, too, when I go back next year. At the end of the night, usually around 5am or later, we would stumble to our beds and sleep as late as possible the next morning.
This routine was occasionally broken up. We would go out to a big dinner at a restaurant. And one day we visited one of Tarija`s vineyards - Tarija is home to the highest vineyards in the world. Another full day of drinking wine.
But all this eating and drinking finally took its toll on me on the eve of New Year`s eve. After another trip to the Puente, my stomach started to cramp something awful. I had been waiting for this. So far I had been fairly lucky with my eating adventures in S America. In fact, I had started to believe I was immune to all the dangers that come with eating foods my weak American stomach isn`t used to. But now my stomach was in bad shape (I blamed the fried cornmeal from the Puente - I had serious doubts about the hygiene of the woman cooking them in the big black, crusty pan) and I wasn`t excited about having pissbutt the day before big parties were supposed to go down.
All day New Years eve I was trying various combinations of pills hoping to relieve my stomach of its burden and better my chances of having a decent New Years out. Who celebrates New Years in a different country without drinking? Not this gringo. Pepto wasn`t working; the white, toxic drink tio gave me to down (with a pinched nose) wasn`t working; even the drugs proccured from a drive-thru pharmacy were only stopping the pains for a few minutes at a time. I relunctantly avoided the asado-cooked meats offered up for lunch that day and the glasses of wine that accompanied them. I spent most of the day lying on the bed watching whatever movies I could find in English (and some that weren`t). As each hour ticked down I prayed for my stomach to grant me this one night. I promised it could be as upset as it wanted to be on January 2nd. But tonight was my night.
It didn`t listen. And so I decided to ignore it.
The family toasted away on the patio and I took no part in these toasts. But when it came time for the cousins to pile into the car for the formal party we had all bought tickets for earlier in the week, I clinched my stomach and made my way gingerly to the car. My coworker and I discovered a few days after we bought the tickets to this event that it was a formal one. Neither of us had anything remotely resembling something formal. His cousin, all decked out in her formal dress, didn`t make us feel any more confident in our jeans and button-up club shirts. But we went anyway.
And when we arrived and saw all the guys in attendance wearing suits, we pretended not to care and went for the free drinks. An hour later, when the heavens opened up and let forth the mighty roar of a heavy downpour, we smiled at each other and watched as the fancy shmucks all dolled up for their party got drenched or clung to each other as they pressed to the edges of the meager tents set up outside. The last laugh was on me, though, when I got stuck talking to one of the more boring of these shmucks for hours while everyone darted off to the dance floor. And there was no ditching him. For two hours I listened to him drag on about how great American music was (using some interesting examples to illustrate his point) and how good he was at mimicking their sounds with his band. When he excused himself to head to the bathroom I darted in the opposite direction to find my coworker and curse him for stranding me (I had been waiting for this moment, wondering how long a guy downing mug after mug of beer and glass after glass of whiskey could possibly hold it for so long).
As the party wound down, and I got slightly more eniberated with each drink I could find, the sun started to breach the horizon. I was ready for sleep. The cousins weren`t. Apprently there was an after party in the main plaza. It took very little convincing to get me to go. My coworker wasn`t biting. He went straight to bed. And, at 7am, instead of going to sleep, I followed the cousins to the city`s plaza where everyone who was at the party, and still dressed in their formals, were drinking beers (etc) from boxes by their feet.
It was here I learned about the strong feelings of distaste for one another that each half of Bolivia felt for the other. Well, mostly how much people from Tarija don`t like people from La Paz. The people of Tarija, in general, are not fans of the president and blame the people of La Paz for putting him in office. They don`t stop to consider that these people visiting Tarija are mostly white and don`t like Evo Morales either. Or the large amounts of alcohol in their systems at this point didn`t let them stop to think that point through. And these huge amounts of alcohol only fueled this dislike. Fights broke out every where. Over something as simple as a different accent.
Some how I managed to avoid all these confrontations. In fact, the only incident I encountered was a guy offering me his pink tie when I mentioned how much I liked it. For the rest of the morning I felt a bit more formal. Even as I got progressively more drunk. As the time coasted toward noon, the visitors from La Paz started heading home, and the locals of Tarija broke out into song. The sight of the man bent over himself on a park bench with a puddle of vomit in front of him was enough to convince me it was time to call it quits. And home we went.
Only to be told we needed to get ready for Papito`s birthday party. I made the effort to at least shower the previous party off of me before getting back into the car to be shuttled to another tio`s house for the big BBQ. My stomach had long since ceased to be in pain. Or it was so full of booze that it was numb to the pain. So when crusified pig was offered up, I dove in. When more wine was offered, I dove in. And my buzz continued. My sensitivity grew. I told my coworker how much I appreciated being with his family during the holidays. It was a hushed, serious moment. But one that was overheard by the tios. They pressed me to make a formal annoucement telling the entire family what I had just told my coworker. They weren`t taking no for an answer. And so I suddenly found myself standing in front of the entire family, seventh glass of wine in hand, telling them how much I appreciated each of them. They didn`t understand a word, so my coworker stood beside me and translated. There were toasts. There were hugs and kisses and offers to host me next year. Eventually me, my coworker and the tios were hugging, eyes welled-up, telling each other how much we loved each other, man. It was a mess. But an endearing mess. I felt loved. And very drunk. The hours after this are a blur. Drinks were spilled, shirts were changed, and at some point I found myself sitting at a restaurant in the middle of the night, drinking more.
I think around this point I was found to be sleeping at the table and we called it a night at 1am only to come home and break out more wine and more toasts. Some how I managed to find my bed around 4am. At least I think it was 4am. The next day I would leave Tarija and my second family on a bus bound for Bolivia`s salt flats. My liver needed the break.
For pictures of my New Years in Tarija, and my entire time there, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603709649737/
There was nobody gathered around a Christmas tree eagerly awaiting presents. That was also a first. There were no presents to hand out. The smallest cousin got his Wii the night before and that was it for presents. On the actual day of Christmas the idea was just to spend time with the family. And we did this at a public pool. Another first.
The first thing I did on Christmas day was call home to wish my family a merry Christmas. That was about the only thing I did that day that seemed tied to the holiday.
The pool outing was interesting. We all piled into two trucks and drove to this large, German-run pool complete with basketball courts and a bar. It was a little chilly and about to storm, so my coworker and I made a b-line to the bar as the uncles went straight into the pool. We watched them play and carry on from the comfort of the bar. Until the thunderstorm started. And then we were all huddled into the small bar. So after an hour at the pool, it was back to the house.
The following days were fairly routine. Random relatives would drop in each day to say hello and pay their respects to Papito. We would generally sleep in as late as possible - usually until one of the cousins couldn´t wait any longer for the nicer shower in our bathroom and come through waking us up. Afternoons we would eat a big lunch and later we would go to the Puente, a large covered area by a bridge where locals sold various foods cooked on-site and other locals gorged themselves on these empanadas, ahmintas, and home-made sweet drinks. At night the cousins who were old enough (and one who wasn´t) went out to dip into Tarija`s night life. Tarija`s night life is apparently at it`s peak this time a year, when kids from all over the country are in town visiting family. It`s remarkable; sort of like American families who know other families only by the time they spend with them at the beach or other annual vacation spots. All the kids know each other from the two weeks a year they see each other out at the bars and clubs in Tarija. But Tarija isn`t really a backpackers destination. So, being one of the only gringos in the city, I stood out at the bars and clubs. I am sure people will remember me, too, when I go back next year. At the end of the night, usually around 5am or later, we would stumble to our beds and sleep as late as possible the next morning.
This routine was occasionally broken up. We would go out to a big dinner at a restaurant. And one day we visited one of Tarija`s vineyards - Tarija is home to the highest vineyards in the world. Another full day of drinking wine.
But all this eating and drinking finally took its toll on me on the eve of New Year`s eve. After another trip to the Puente, my stomach started to cramp something awful. I had been waiting for this. So far I had been fairly lucky with my eating adventures in S America. In fact, I had started to believe I was immune to all the dangers that come with eating foods my weak American stomach isn`t used to. But now my stomach was in bad shape (I blamed the fried cornmeal from the Puente - I had serious doubts about the hygiene of the woman cooking them in the big black, crusty pan) and I wasn`t excited about having pissbutt the day before big parties were supposed to go down.
All day New Years eve I was trying various combinations of pills hoping to relieve my stomach of its burden and better my chances of having a decent New Years out. Who celebrates New Years in a different country without drinking? Not this gringo. Pepto wasn`t working; the white, toxic drink tio gave me to down (with a pinched nose) wasn`t working; even the drugs proccured from a drive-thru pharmacy were only stopping the pains for a few minutes at a time. I relunctantly avoided the asado-cooked meats offered up for lunch that day and the glasses of wine that accompanied them. I spent most of the day lying on the bed watching whatever movies I could find in English (and some that weren`t). As each hour ticked down I prayed for my stomach to grant me this one night. I promised it could be as upset as it wanted to be on January 2nd. But tonight was my night.
It didn`t listen. And so I decided to ignore it.
The family toasted away on the patio and I took no part in these toasts. But when it came time for the cousins to pile into the car for the formal party we had all bought tickets for earlier in the week, I clinched my stomach and made my way gingerly to the car. My coworker and I discovered a few days after we bought the tickets to this event that it was a formal one. Neither of us had anything remotely resembling something formal. His cousin, all decked out in her formal dress, didn`t make us feel any more confident in our jeans and button-up club shirts. But we went anyway.
And when we arrived and saw all the guys in attendance wearing suits, we pretended not to care and went for the free drinks. An hour later, when the heavens opened up and let forth the mighty roar of a heavy downpour, we smiled at each other and watched as the fancy shmucks all dolled up for their party got drenched or clung to each other as they pressed to the edges of the meager tents set up outside. The last laugh was on me, though, when I got stuck talking to one of the more boring of these shmucks for hours while everyone darted off to the dance floor. And there was no ditching him. For two hours I listened to him drag on about how great American music was (using some interesting examples to illustrate his point) and how good he was at mimicking their sounds with his band. When he excused himself to head to the bathroom I darted in the opposite direction to find my coworker and curse him for stranding me (I had been waiting for this moment, wondering how long a guy downing mug after mug of beer and glass after glass of whiskey could possibly hold it for so long).
As the party wound down, and I got slightly more eniberated with each drink I could find, the sun started to breach the horizon. I was ready for sleep. The cousins weren`t. Apprently there was an after party in the main plaza. It took very little convincing to get me to go. My coworker wasn`t biting. He went straight to bed. And, at 7am, instead of going to sleep, I followed the cousins to the city`s plaza where everyone who was at the party, and still dressed in their formals, were drinking beers (etc) from boxes by their feet.
It was here I learned about the strong feelings of distaste for one another that each half of Bolivia felt for the other. Well, mostly how much people from Tarija don`t like people from La Paz. The people of Tarija, in general, are not fans of the president and blame the people of La Paz for putting him in office. They don`t stop to consider that these people visiting Tarija are mostly white and don`t like Evo Morales either. Or the large amounts of alcohol in their systems at this point didn`t let them stop to think that point through. And these huge amounts of alcohol only fueled this dislike. Fights broke out every where. Over something as simple as a different accent.
Some how I managed to avoid all these confrontations. In fact, the only incident I encountered was a guy offering me his pink tie when I mentioned how much I liked it. For the rest of the morning I felt a bit more formal. Even as I got progressively more drunk. As the time coasted toward noon, the visitors from La Paz started heading home, and the locals of Tarija broke out into song. The sight of the man bent over himself on a park bench with a puddle of vomit in front of him was enough to convince me it was time to call it quits. And home we went.
Only to be told we needed to get ready for Papito`s birthday party. I made the effort to at least shower the previous party off of me before getting back into the car to be shuttled to another tio`s house for the big BBQ. My stomach had long since ceased to be in pain. Or it was so full of booze that it was numb to the pain. So when crusified pig was offered up, I dove in. When more wine was offered, I dove in. And my buzz continued. My sensitivity grew. I told my coworker how much I appreciated being with his family during the holidays. It was a hushed, serious moment. But one that was overheard by the tios. They pressed me to make a formal annoucement telling the entire family what I had just told my coworker. They weren`t taking no for an answer. And so I suddenly found myself standing in front of the entire family, seventh glass of wine in hand, telling them how much I appreciated each of them. They didn`t understand a word, so my coworker stood beside me and translated. There were toasts. There were hugs and kisses and offers to host me next year. Eventually me, my coworker and the tios were hugging, eyes welled-up, telling each other how much we loved each other, man. It was a mess. But an endearing mess. I felt loved. And very drunk. The hours after this are a blur. Drinks were spilled, shirts were changed, and at some point I found myself sitting at a restaurant in the middle of the night, drinking more.
I think around this point I was found to be sleeping at the table and we called it a night at 1am only to come home and break out more wine and more toasts. Some how I managed to find my bed around 4am. At least I think it was 4am. The next day I would leave Tarija and my second family on a bus bound for Bolivia`s salt flats. My liver needed the break.
For pictures of my New Years in Tarija, and my entire time there, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603709649737/
Random Thoughts on My Short Time in Brazil
Portugues is an odd sounding language that I never seemed to get. It`s hard to describe what it sounds like. Some people speak it and sound like Milla Jovovich`s character in The 5th Element. Others sound like the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. It`s sort of like a sexy mix of German and Spanish.
The buses in Brazil were so much better than Bolivia. More comfortable, smelled better, functioning tvs (and no reggaeton), bathrooms, and paved roads. But the cost is several times more.
I am finally finished with the high-altitudes portion of my trip. Thankfully.
I have entered the high-costs portion of my trip. Brazil was ridiculously expensive. The dollar trades at 1.78 to 1 but everything in Brazil is twice as expensive. So I didn´t end up saving any money. I have no idea how the people, who live on a minimum wage of $400 a month, survive with those prices.
I rode a horse. It was a bit scary. He liked to break into a gallop fairly often and I almost fell off three times. I am not that comfortable with horses. Nor did I think to wear thick pants for the ride. My legs were completely chafed the next day. And my arse felt like I had been in an American prison over-night.
Birds in the Pantanal sound like screaming kids. It`s annoying during the day and terrifying in the middle of the night when you are half awake.
My guide in the Pantanal described all the mosquitos there as a sort of water torture that weeds out the weak. I was slapping myself silly for five days.
I watched a dog hump a large pig there. Think about the results of that...
There are lots of obese people in Southern Brazil. I think it`s because of the heat. I just wanted to sit around and not do anything either.
Do you know the mother who ignores her screaming child as it bounces around public places annoying everyone? Both mother and child were on my bus out of the Pantanal.
Apparently giving a thumbs up in Brazil is the equivilant of saying "thanks".
The buses in Brazil were so much better than Bolivia. More comfortable, smelled better, functioning tvs (and no reggaeton), bathrooms, and paved roads. But the cost is several times more.
I am finally finished with the high-altitudes portion of my trip. Thankfully.
I have entered the high-costs portion of my trip. Brazil was ridiculously expensive. The dollar trades at 1.78 to 1 but everything in Brazil is twice as expensive. So I didn´t end up saving any money. I have no idea how the people, who live on a minimum wage of $400 a month, survive with those prices.
I rode a horse. It was a bit scary. He liked to break into a gallop fairly often and I almost fell off three times. I am not that comfortable with horses. Nor did I think to wear thick pants for the ride. My legs were completely chafed the next day. And my arse felt like I had been in an American prison over-night.
Birds in the Pantanal sound like screaming kids. It`s annoying during the day and terrifying in the middle of the night when you are half awake.
My guide in the Pantanal described all the mosquitos there as a sort of water torture that weeds out the weak. I was slapping myself silly for five days.
I watched a dog hump a large pig there. Think about the results of that...
There are lots of obese people in Southern Brazil. I think it`s because of the heat. I just wanted to sit around and not do anything either.
Do you know the mother who ignores her screaming child as it bounces around public places annoying everyone? Both mother and child were on my bus out of the Pantanal.
Apparently giving a thumbs up in Brazil is the equivilant of saying "thanks".
Sunday, January 27, 2008
A Waste of Time?
Readers: on my Flickr page where I post all the pictures, each album is set up with comments about each picture (I have taken some pretty unusual pictures that need an explantion). I just discovered yesterday, through my hosts in Buenos Aires, that the slide shows for these albums don't automatically show the comments. Are you, readers, seeing the comments that accompany the albums? The reason I am so far behind in posting new stories is because it takes a long time to upload the pics and add comments. I shudder to think that I have spent all this time writing up commentary to these albums and no one is seeing them (and that people are looking at some of these pics, not seeing the commentary, and wondering why the hell I took a picture of a shoe).
Show of hands: are people not seeing the commentary when viewing the pics? Please comment.
Show of hands: are people not seeing the commentary when viewing the pics? Please comment.
Update
Currently I am in Buenos Aires staying with my previous neighbors from Capitol Hill. They live in a brilliant apartment just minutes from everything in the city and in just 24 hours I have managed to see quite a bit of the city. More importantly I have already had a steak & wine lunch. When you visit Argentina, try the Lomo and ask for it "jugoso". Best steak I think I have ever had. The melted cheese side dish was pretty damn good too.
Guess what I am having for lunch today. Yep, same thing. And checking out the big antiques market (anyone want anything - JL, I am looking in your direction) and a tango show. My hosts have been here about a year and a half and recommended several great places to check out, including a wine bar and a mansion-turned-bar, both of which I explored thoroughly last night until 5am (I won't go into the details of my travel buddy - who I met up with again - having a bit of an messy accident at the end of her drinking excursion last night). Chris and Beverly (and their new addition to the family) have been excellent hosts and are making my stay here an easy, relaxed, and fun break before heading off to Antarctica in a few days.
I am planning to update the blog Tuesday during some down time in Ushuaia. Hopefully I can get through Bolivia during that time. Depending on how late I am out tonight I may try and get a post or two up before I leave Buenos Aires. Stay tuned readers...
Guess what I am having for lunch today. Yep, same thing. And checking out the big antiques market (anyone want anything - JL, I am looking in your direction) and a tango show. My hosts have been here about a year and a half and recommended several great places to check out, including a wine bar and a mansion-turned-bar, both of which I explored thoroughly last night until 5am (I won't go into the details of my travel buddy - who I met up with again - having a bit of an messy accident at the end of her drinking excursion last night). Chris and Beverly (and their new addition to the family) have been excellent hosts and are making my stay here an easy, relaxed, and fun break before heading off to Antarctica in a few days.
I am planning to update the blog Tuesday during some down time in Ushuaia. Hopefully I can get through Bolivia during that time. Depending on how late I am out tonight I may try and get a post or two up before I leave Buenos Aires. Stay tuned readers...
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Status Report
I am in Iguazu, on the Brazilain side. I am also staying at a resort of a hostel, with a soccer field, a basketball court, a pool (a bar to go along with that pool), and crazy amount of green space. And free internet. But for a limited time. Tomorrow I go to the Argentina side. And then fly to Buenos Aires. Do you miss me? I miss me too. I will write more soon, I swear. As for now..It's bed time for bonzo....
Saturday, January 19, 2008
A Different Approach to Christmas Eve
On the morning of Christmas eve I found myself waiting at an airport in La Paz, with a couple I had met only the night before, for my coworker to arrive from the States. The parade of people coming past us from his flight had dwindled to just a hand few of passengers when he finally came walking out. We had started to believe he was stopped at customs because of all the gifts he was bringing into the country for his family.
Fernando had graciously offered to meet me halfway through my journey and invited me to spend the holidays with his family in the southern Bolivian city of Tarija. I had been eagerly awaiting this part of my trip since he had invited me months before I left. I knew the holidays were going to be tough without my family, so being with any family would help make them pass a bit easier. Little did I know how much a part of the family I would feel during this Christmas.
We checked our flights on to Tarija for later that day to make sure we were still good to go. Okay, Fernando checked them. He´s the one that speaks fluent Spanish. His uncle picked us up a short time later and drove us (and all our luggage) to his house in La Paz. At the house I met Fernando´s grandfather and aunt, as well as a few cousins. We had been invited to lunch and I was pleased to find we were getting a full-on home cooked meal. To start it out, there a toast with Singani (the traditional liquor drink of Bolivia. We moved on to the dinner table and out came the courses. I was completely full by the time dessert (a rum ice cream) arrived. This would become a ritual when eating with Fernando´s family. Eating until I couldn´t move. After lunch it was time to catch our flight to La Paz. We said our goodbyes as our taxi waited outside. The family told me I was invited back any time. I promised to take them up on their offer.
I don´t know if it was the altitude or the Singani, but the entire plane ride to Tarija had me feeling ill. I didn´t want to talk, I didn´t want to sleep, I didn´t want to do anything. I just wanted off that plane. The turbulance added to my misery. When we landed in Tarija 90 minutes later I bounded from the plane. The temperature was much warmer as Tarija is at a much lower elevation than La Paz. This I was looking forward to.
When we got our bags and walked to the waiting area we found Fernando´s entire family waiting for us. Grandpa (Papito), uncles, aunts, cousins; everyone that was staying in the house with us. Hugs and introductions all around and then pile into an SUV bound for home. Everyone staying in the house was from La Paz and had made the trip down by car the days before to spend the holidays with Papito. The man is like the Godfather of Tarija. The entire time I was there people were dropping by to pay their respects. And the reverence for this man was incredible. He seemed to deserve every bit of it. A man of few words, when he spoke everyone came to attention.
At the house Fernando and I were given one of the main bedrooms where we unpacked and settled. I was quickly ushered out to formally meet everyone. Immediately wine was offered up. I was taught te invito (I invite you) and told whenever some one says this to another person, that person has to follow up a drink of the same amount taken before the glass is handed off. The phrase was repeated all night and throughout my time in Tarija. By dinner time I was already tipsy. Tarija is wine country and the people of the area are proud of their wine (from the highest vineyards in the world). They are only to eager to share their wine. And Christmas eve was no exception.
Dinner was a three meat soup with large chuncks of pork, chicken and beef. A fork and knife were set with the spoon in order to cut up the meat from the soup. The portions were large. I went back for seconds anyway. It was delicious. There were toasts throughout the night. As well as many more te invitos. As midnight approached the frequency of exploding fireworks in the streets increased. And at midnight Papito offered a toast with champagne. Everyone raised their glasses and Christmas was ushered in. In the nativity scene in the house hallway, baby Jesus was placed in the previously empty manger and prayers were said. The youngest of the cousins was given his Christmas presents: including a Wii and games, which we took turns playing into the night.
Belly full and slightly inebriated, I finally turned in around 2:30am. Not exactly how I have celebrated Christmas eve in the past. But a welcome experience during my first holidays without my family.
For pictures of my Christmas in Tarija, and my entire time there, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603709649737/
Fernando had graciously offered to meet me halfway through my journey and invited me to spend the holidays with his family in the southern Bolivian city of Tarija. I had been eagerly awaiting this part of my trip since he had invited me months before I left. I knew the holidays were going to be tough without my family, so being with any family would help make them pass a bit easier. Little did I know how much a part of the family I would feel during this Christmas.
We checked our flights on to Tarija for later that day to make sure we were still good to go. Okay, Fernando checked them. He´s the one that speaks fluent Spanish. His uncle picked us up a short time later and drove us (and all our luggage) to his house in La Paz. At the house I met Fernando´s grandfather and aunt, as well as a few cousins. We had been invited to lunch and I was pleased to find we were getting a full-on home cooked meal. To start it out, there a toast with Singani (the traditional liquor drink of Bolivia. We moved on to the dinner table and out came the courses. I was completely full by the time dessert (a rum ice cream) arrived. This would become a ritual when eating with Fernando´s family. Eating until I couldn´t move. After lunch it was time to catch our flight to La Paz. We said our goodbyes as our taxi waited outside. The family told me I was invited back any time. I promised to take them up on their offer.
I don´t know if it was the altitude or the Singani, but the entire plane ride to Tarija had me feeling ill. I didn´t want to talk, I didn´t want to sleep, I didn´t want to do anything. I just wanted off that plane. The turbulance added to my misery. When we landed in Tarija 90 minutes later I bounded from the plane. The temperature was much warmer as Tarija is at a much lower elevation than La Paz. This I was looking forward to.
When we got our bags and walked to the waiting area we found Fernando´s entire family waiting for us. Grandpa (Papito), uncles, aunts, cousins; everyone that was staying in the house with us. Hugs and introductions all around and then pile into an SUV bound for home. Everyone staying in the house was from La Paz and had made the trip down by car the days before to spend the holidays with Papito. The man is like the Godfather of Tarija. The entire time I was there people were dropping by to pay their respects. And the reverence for this man was incredible. He seemed to deserve every bit of it. A man of few words, when he spoke everyone came to attention.
At the house Fernando and I were given one of the main bedrooms where we unpacked and settled. I was quickly ushered out to formally meet everyone. Immediately wine was offered up. I was taught te invito (I invite you) and told whenever some one says this to another person, that person has to follow up a drink of the same amount taken before the glass is handed off. The phrase was repeated all night and throughout my time in Tarija. By dinner time I was already tipsy. Tarija is wine country and the people of the area are proud of their wine (from the highest vineyards in the world). They are only to eager to share their wine. And Christmas eve was no exception.
Dinner was a three meat soup with large chuncks of pork, chicken and beef. A fork and knife were set with the spoon in order to cut up the meat from the soup. The portions were large. I went back for seconds anyway. It was delicious. There were toasts throughout the night. As well as many more te invitos. As midnight approached the frequency of exploding fireworks in the streets increased. And at midnight Papito offered a toast with champagne. Everyone raised their glasses and Christmas was ushered in. In the nativity scene in the house hallway, baby Jesus was placed in the previously empty manger and prayers were said. The youngest of the cousins was given his Christmas presents: including a Wii and games, which we took turns playing into the night.
Belly full and slightly inebriated, I finally turned in around 2:30am. Not exactly how I have celebrated Christmas eve in the past. But a welcome experience during my first holidays without my family.
For pictures of my Christmas in Tarija, and my entire time there, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603709649737/
Moving Toward Christmas in Bolivia
Two days before Christmas I was awake at 7am on the Isla del Sol on Lake Titicaca, staring out at the beautiful scenery of the lake and the snow capped mountains in the distance. It was a tranquil morning. And I felt so far removed from any upcoming holidays.
My travel buddy woke up a short time later and we both took in the morning views. The views included several locals hiking down the path past our hotel with crates of empty beer bottles on their backs. We heard the ceremony go well into the night. Evidence of the night´s fun stumbled past us as a few older drunk men were helped down the path.
The woman managing the hotel made us a small breakfast which we gobbled up. After packing our things, we walked downhill to the port to wait for our boat back to the mainland. We were an hour early and used the time to read and nap some more.
Our boat back was near empty this time as we continued to enjoy the peace and quiet. Back in Copacabana we found a restaurant and ordered more fried trout (seemingly the only thing to eat on Titicaca) and a grande beer for lunch. Our bus was leaving around 2pm so we had some time before having to pick up my bag and laundry and riding towards our next destination of La Paz. We chatted about the odd asian-latin-fusion sounding music playing over the speakers, and what we were each going to miss most about the holidays at home.
Just before boarding our bus, I called my coworker´s childhood friend in La Paz to make sure he and his wife would still be meeting us at the bus station. They had generously offered to do this and host us at the apartment that night. My travel buddy was flying to Buenos Aires the next morning and I would be meeting my coworker at the airport and then flying on to meet his family in Southern Bolivia. They were planning on meeting us when we arrived. I thanked them and hopped on board our bus.
The bus ride was just a few hours. We passed a few interesting landscapes but overall, it was mostly just farms, small run-down villages, and distant mountains. When we approached La Paz the scenery was suddenly in a frenzy. Small buses packed full of people, pedestrians filling the empty spaces in the streets where cars didn´t, roaming malnurished dogs every where. As we rode down the winding express way towards the terminal we could see all of La Paz proper laid snuggly between the mountains. La Paz is the highest capitol in the world and I was not looking forward to continuing the high-altitude problems with breathing.
When we arrived at the terminal we went looking for our hosts. After 30 minutes of not being able to find them, I gave them a call. Apparently we had arrived at a different location from where the bus operator told me and I had in turn told our hosts. 20 minutes later our hosts found us and we drove back to their apt; a very comfortable apartment not far from where my coworker grew up. I took a much needed shower and unpacked a bit. We all relaxed with a drink and chatted. Mauricio and his wife Ide met each other in college in Santiago, Chile, and now worked in fields way over my head here in La Paz. Both hoped to return to Santiago to work soon. Ide was from Belize, meaning she spoke English, and acted as my interpretor. Though Mauricio seemed to speak enough English to understand what I was saying.
To thank them for picking us up and giving us a place to crash for the night, I offered to buy them both dinner if they chose the restaurant. They picked a nice place in a hotel not far from the apartment. We all ate heartidly and continued to chat about college, Bolivia, and my coworker. They were leaving the next day to drive 8 hours to meet Mauricio´s family for the holidays after dropping us at the airport. So we headed back to the apt after dinner and a short stop at the grocery. My travel buddy and I got the spare room - she had the bed, I had several layers of blankets on the floor to sleep on (one of the most comfortable night´s sleep I had had in days).
The next morning we all woke at 5:30am. Ide had prepared a table full of breakfast options for us. After dressing and packing, we chowed down on toast, ham & cheese, Fruit Loops, coffee and tea. And then we raced to the airport in a SUV packed full of luggage and presents. Ide made sure my travel buddy caught her flight. We said our goodbyes (the last appearance of Regina in my travels) and Mauricio, Ide and I went off to wait for my coworker to arrive. When he finally did, the start of my Bolivian holidays would be underway.
My travel buddy woke up a short time later and we both took in the morning views. The views included several locals hiking down the path past our hotel with crates of empty beer bottles on their backs. We heard the ceremony go well into the night. Evidence of the night´s fun stumbled past us as a few older drunk men were helped down the path.
The woman managing the hotel made us a small breakfast which we gobbled up. After packing our things, we walked downhill to the port to wait for our boat back to the mainland. We were an hour early and used the time to read and nap some more.
Our boat back was near empty this time as we continued to enjoy the peace and quiet. Back in Copacabana we found a restaurant and ordered more fried trout (seemingly the only thing to eat on Titicaca) and a grande beer for lunch. Our bus was leaving around 2pm so we had some time before having to pick up my bag and laundry and riding towards our next destination of La Paz. We chatted about the odd asian-latin-fusion sounding music playing over the speakers, and what we were each going to miss most about the holidays at home.
Just before boarding our bus, I called my coworker´s childhood friend in La Paz to make sure he and his wife would still be meeting us at the bus station. They had generously offered to do this and host us at the apartment that night. My travel buddy was flying to Buenos Aires the next morning and I would be meeting my coworker at the airport and then flying on to meet his family in Southern Bolivia. They were planning on meeting us when we arrived. I thanked them and hopped on board our bus.
The bus ride was just a few hours. We passed a few interesting landscapes but overall, it was mostly just farms, small run-down villages, and distant mountains. When we approached La Paz the scenery was suddenly in a frenzy. Small buses packed full of people, pedestrians filling the empty spaces in the streets where cars didn´t, roaming malnurished dogs every where. As we rode down the winding express way towards the terminal we could see all of La Paz proper laid snuggly between the mountains. La Paz is the highest capitol in the world and I was not looking forward to continuing the high-altitude problems with breathing.
When we arrived at the terminal we went looking for our hosts. After 30 minutes of not being able to find them, I gave them a call. Apparently we had arrived at a different location from where the bus operator told me and I had in turn told our hosts. 20 minutes later our hosts found us and we drove back to their apt; a very comfortable apartment not far from where my coworker grew up. I took a much needed shower and unpacked a bit. We all relaxed with a drink and chatted. Mauricio and his wife Ide met each other in college in Santiago, Chile, and now worked in fields way over my head here in La Paz. Both hoped to return to Santiago to work soon. Ide was from Belize, meaning she spoke English, and acted as my interpretor. Though Mauricio seemed to speak enough English to understand what I was saying.
To thank them for picking us up and giving us a place to crash for the night, I offered to buy them both dinner if they chose the restaurant. They picked a nice place in a hotel not far from the apartment. We all ate heartidly and continued to chat about college, Bolivia, and my coworker. They were leaving the next day to drive 8 hours to meet Mauricio´s family for the holidays after dropping us at the airport. So we headed back to the apt after dinner and a short stop at the grocery. My travel buddy and I got the spare room - she had the bed, I had several layers of blankets on the floor to sleep on (one of the most comfortable night´s sleep I had had in days).
The next morning we all woke at 5:30am. Ide had prepared a table full of breakfast options for us. After dressing and packing, we chowed down on toast, ham & cheese, Fruit Loops, coffee and tea. And then we raced to the airport in a SUV packed full of luggage and presents. Ide made sure my travel buddy caught her flight. We said our goodbyes (the last appearance of Regina in my travels) and Mauricio, Ide and I went off to wait for my coworker to arrive. When he finally did, the start of my Bolivian holidays would be underway.
Island of the Sun & of Very Little Oxygen
After our day of exploring the reed islands on the Peruvian side of Titcaca, we were ready to see the islands on the Bolivian side. These weren't floating islands, but they were believed by the Incas to be their birth place. What the hell, I just wanted to attempt to cross the border, and it was on the way to La Paz where I would meet my coworker in two days.
We took a taxi early in the morning to the bus station in Puno where we bordered our bus for Copacabana. The bus was filled with backpackers, most likely because it was the one bus company recommended by Lonely Planet. Funny how that works.
The bus arrived at the Peruvian/Bolivian border a couple of hours later and waited for us to manage border crossing formalities. I showed the Bolivian border police my U.S. passport and they ushered me to a back room where one other U.S. citizen was waiting. Every other backpacker was spared the need for visa formailities. But the process went quickly. They seemed less concerned with all of my paperwork and more concerned with the $100 I had to pay to get the visa. In the end, my paper work was barely glanced at and shoved in a manilla folder and then into a drawer. Probably never to see the light of day again. But I had my visa so I didn't care.
We arrived in the grand Bolivian town of Copacabana a short ride later. Copacabana is small and, short of witnessing the "blessing of the cars" that we had missed by an hour, there was little to do but relax and enjoy the many restaurants serving more trout. We agreed to buy a boat ticket to the Isla del Sol immediately, along with a bus ticket to La Paz the next day. I left my large bag at the bus office, along with my dirty laundry (and the promise they would wash it), and we took a leisurely stroll down to the port to find our boat. It was easy. There was a large crowd gathered to board with us.
The boat ride was long, again. The wailing child and the loud Brazilian kids on board didn't make the ride any more pleasant. I read, my travel buddy dozed. It started to rain just as we arrived to the Isla del Sol 90 minutes later. Just in time to deboard on an island with no clue where to go. There were no roads, and with the hilly terrain and seemingly hidden town, we were at a loss as to where to go. So we just started walking up the same Inca stairs other people were climbing. The lake is at such a high altitude that walking any stairs is tough. Especially with the added weight of a backpack. People were struggling. The stairs seemed to go up forever. Local kids took advantage of the situation by offering to carry bags for a fee. Few people took the offer. One British girl, who was really struggling, refused to let the kids help her with the bag for the hefty sum of 75 cents. The kids were harrassing her and I felt bad for her. So I offered to carry her smaller bag the rest of the way up. Finally, seeing their last opportunity had vanished, the kids left us alone.
When we made it to the top of the hill we still had no idea where to go. We saw a few signs for hotels, but most of the people who arrived on the boat had dispersed towards various places, following kids promising hot showers. We were determined to find something on our own. Why? I have no idea. Maybe the altitude was making us stubburn. But we walked to a nicer looking place just down the path. It was empty. But a young woman heard us walk up and offered us a room for $6. There was no running water or heat. But the beds were comfy and there was electricity. And the view from our room was incredible, with the lake and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Exhausted, we dropped our bags and crashed into our beds. There we laid motionless for the next half hour.
There are a few ruins on the island, but they were small and the walk to see them was several hours away. We didn't have the energy. And sunset would be arriving within a few hours. Despite this it was agreed we needed to go out and explore the part of the island surrounding us. We heard bad band music in the distance and that became our target. Making our way through a maze of paths and rock fences and up and down hills, we took in the views of our tiny town. Eventually we found the music. What accompanied the music appeared to be a wedding ceremony. There was a man dressed up with flowers around his neck. There was a woman with the same appearance. There were two families seperated by sex. There was a LOT of beer. Several dozen crates of it. And there was music. We asked the small kid watching the ceremony beside us what was going on. He said it was a graduation. Uh, ok. We were still convinced we were watching a wedding. So we stared. It beat going off in search of ruins. And the people didn't seem to mind us watching.
Eventually we grew tired of watching. Or I just grew too hungry to keep watching. We made our way up to the top of the the hill and found a restaurant over-looking the other side of the island. A trout dinner was only a couple of bucks and we declared this our dinner choice. Until it was discovered neither of us had money. Ugh. Back down the hill we hiked to the hotel in search of money. Not happy. Too tired. Want food.
Money in hand, we started back towards the restaurant. It was a slow return. The altitude had completely wiped me out. As had three nights with no sleep. When we eventually made it back to the restaurant we found a one man show. One guy was running the entire restaurant. He took our orders, we saw him slip out the back for indgredients from a nearby market, and then back into the kitchen to start cooking. I nursed my grande beer. We played cards. We admired the view. 40 minutes later our trout dinner was served. I dove in, salivating as the bites hit my mouth. We ordered another grande beer. We were suddenly tipsy - giddy even. Altitude or beer or both? Whatever it was, it was getting dark. Time to walk back to the hostel. There was nothing else to do on the island.
Back in our room at 7pm, bundled up, we tucked ourselves into our beds and started reading. I read until 11:30pm when I passed out. I finally slept most of the night.
For pics of the islands of Titicaca, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603664478790/
We took a taxi early in the morning to the bus station in Puno where we bordered our bus for Copacabana. The bus was filled with backpackers, most likely because it was the one bus company recommended by Lonely Planet. Funny how that works.
The bus arrived at the Peruvian/Bolivian border a couple of hours later and waited for us to manage border crossing formalities. I showed the Bolivian border police my U.S. passport and they ushered me to a back room where one other U.S. citizen was waiting. Every other backpacker was spared the need for visa formailities. But the process went quickly. They seemed less concerned with all of my paperwork and more concerned with the $100 I had to pay to get the visa. In the end, my paper work was barely glanced at and shoved in a manilla folder and then into a drawer. Probably never to see the light of day again. But I had my visa so I didn't care.
We arrived in the grand Bolivian town of Copacabana a short ride later. Copacabana is small and, short of witnessing the "blessing of the cars" that we had missed by an hour, there was little to do but relax and enjoy the many restaurants serving more trout. We agreed to buy a boat ticket to the Isla del Sol immediately, along with a bus ticket to La Paz the next day. I left my large bag at the bus office, along with my dirty laundry (and the promise they would wash it), and we took a leisurely stroll down to the port to find our boat. It was easy. There was a large crowd gathered to board with us.
The boat ride was long, again. The wailing child and the loud Brazilian kids on board didn't make the ride any more pleasant. I read, my travel buddy dozed. It started to rain just as we arrived to the Isla del Sol 90 minutes later. Just in time to deboard on an island with no clue where to go. There were no roads, and with the hilly terrain and seemingly hidden town, we were at a loss as to where to go. So we just started walking up the same Inca stairs other people were climbing. The lake is at such a high altitude that walking any stairs is tough. Especially with the added weight of a backpack. People were struggling. The stairs seemed to go up forever. Local kids took advantage of the situation by offering to carry bags for a fee. Few people took the offer. One British girl, who was really struggling, refused to let the kids help her with the bag for the hefty sum of 75 cents. The kids were harrassing her and I felt bad for her. So I offered to carry her smaller bag the rest of the way up. Finally, seeing their last opportunity had vanished, the kids left us alone.
When we made it to the top of the hill we still had no idea where to go. We saw a few signs for hotels, but most of the people who arrived on the boat had dispersed towards various places, following kids promising hot showers. We were determined to find something on our own. Why? I have no idea. Maybe the altitude was making us stubburn. But we walked to a nicer looking place just down the path. It was empty. But a young woman heard us walk up and offered us a room for $6. There was no running water or heat. But the beds were comfy and there was electricity. And the view from our room was incredible, with the lake and snow-capped mountains in the distance. Exhausted, we dropped our bags and crashed into our beds. There we laid motionless for the next half hour.
There are a few ruins on the island, but they were small and the walk to see them was several hours away. We didn't have the energy. And sunset would be arriving within a few hours. Despite this it was agreed we needed to go out and explore the part of the island surrounding us. We heard bad band music in the distance and that became our target. Making our way through a maze of paths and rock fences and up and down hills, we took in the views of our tiny town. Eventually we found the music. What accompanied the music appeared to be a wedding ceremony. There was a man dressed up with flowers around his neck. There was a woman with the same appearance. There were two families seperated by sex. There was a LOT of beer. Several dozen crates of it. And there was music. We asked the small kid watching the ceremony beside us what was going on. He said it was a graduation. Uh, ok. We were still convinced we were watching a wedding. So we stared. It beat going off in search of ruins. And the people didn't seem to mind us watching.
Eventually we grew tired of watching. Or I just grew too hungry to keep watching. We made our way up to the top of the the hill and found a restaurant over-looking the other side of the island. A trout dinner was only a couple of bucks and we declared this our dinner choice. Until it was discovered neither of us had money. Ugh. Back down the hill we hiked to the hotel in search of money. Not happy. Too tired. Want food.
Money in hand, we started back towards the restaurant. It was a slow return. The altitude had completely wiped me out. As had three nights with no sleep. When we eventually made it back to the restaurant we found a one man show. One guy was running the entire restaurant. He took our orders, we saw him slip out the back for indgredients from a nearby market, and then back into the kitchen to start cooking. I nursed my grande beer. We played cards. We admired the view. 40 minutes later our trout dinner was served. I dove in, salivating as the bites hit my mouth. We ordered another grande beer. We were suddenly tipsy - giddy even. Altitude or beer or both? Whatever it was, it was getting dark. Time to walk back to the hostel. There was nothing else to do on the island.
Back in our room at 7pm, bundled up, we tucked ourselves into our beds and started reading. I read until 11:30pm when I passed out. I finally slept most of the night.
For pics of the islands of Titicaca, follow this link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/15233918@N00/sets/72157603664478790/
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