pauls-paradigm2

05.02.08 - Qosq'o (Cuzco)

2008-11-24T13:33:00.000-08:00

Inca Adulation

There are few places which innately "feel like" the center of the known world and this is one of them. Greek mythology places the navel of the earth in Delphi, where its powers equipped the oracle with foresight. Polynesian culture settles the planetary belly button (also an "outtie") on the coast of Easter Island, while the Inca cultural belief endows the first Inca (ruler), Manco Capac, with finding the "qosq'o" right in the center of what Spanish colonization has linguistically morphed into the city name of Cuzco. From the 12th century until conquest by Francisco Pizarro in 1533, Qosq'o was the capital and literal center of the Inca world.

It is not "corny" to aptly describe the oldest continuously inhabited city in South America as "grand". Qosq'o has become an amalgamation of firm Inca foundations, topped with colonial architecture.

The Spanish conquistadors took pride in leveling each Inca cultural center along the pillaging path, and where deemed appropriate, replaced native structures with imperial icons. Such is the case with the cathedral of Cuzco, placed on the foundations of the razed 12th Inca's ruling palace.

If one can set aside the conquistador bludgeoning of the Inca populous, the Plaza de Armas is stunning. The central garden is the best kept I've seen in South America. If you can find an open bench, sit and soak in the ambiance. Anytime of day is perfect and you just might need the rest from the less dense oxygen availability at this altitude. (I couldn't decide which "cathedral picture" to post, so you get them both.)

Look up to catch a glimpse of exquisitely crafted towers, ...

... or enjoy a fountain-side moment. The senses seem to be stimulated by the emitting energy of this former capital city.

Befitting any major Spanish colonial center, there is no shortage of very large churches. "Kitty corner" to the cathedral is the equally impressive Iglesia de La Compania de Jesus. (I hear the tour is worth the effort, but we were all "big churched out", opting to enjoy the external architecture.)

Three main squares anchor the downtown and Plaza San Francisco could easily be spotted from Plaza Regocijo by sighting the bell tower of Iglesia de San Francisco.

We had three main objectives for the day: (1) explore, (2) buy rail tickets to Machu Picchu, (3) find better accommodations. We were well under way on the exploring front and found that Qosq'o has incredible restaurants and I mean that in a local and metropolitan comparison context, i.e. no holds barred this was good food, 4 stars at 2 star pricing. So, filled with brunch we headed to find a hotel and the train station.

Historic Qosq'o is charming for a street plan hundreds of years in the making. By modern standards, each street would be a tight single lane, which could even make a European flinch. Taxi's and locals manage by driving extremely small cars and squeezing up to the sidewalks to pass stopped vehicles only on select streets. For comparison, this was the broadest street I could find, which led down to the central market. (Note the linguistic "middle ground" spelling on the hill side of "Cusco", replacing the Spanish installed "z" with the phonetically Incan "s". )

Western Qosq'o is known for artisan neighborhoods. Hand crafted doors, painted in a blue familiar of the Mediterranean and the Moroccan Rif mountain town of Chefchaouen, pronounced their electric presence on the white building backdrop.

On the way to the new hotel, Hotel Los Ninos, we passed through quadrangles dedicated to tailoring and then entered the music guild neighborhood. (Note the harps carved into the balustrades above the entrance.)

After securing rooms, we headed back through the Plaza de Armas, and on to the train station offices, for information on train tickets to Machu Picchu. Our backpacker sense of monetary perspective was STUNNED. For instance, first class train fare is over $600 USD round trip or a more manageable $140 USD for "backpacker class". Believe it or not all these tickets were sold out for literally months in advance. So, our choice had become "find a way to the town of Ollantaytambo and catch a train from there for roughly $60 USD return. The actual ticketing process takes hours of multiple quaying opportunities, but in the process we met a couple of Dutch guys and decided to split a cab tour of the Sacred Valley with them on the way to Ollantaytambo. Success! Now we were only a single day of touring away from one of life's great aspirational moments, climbing Machu Picchu.

05.01.08 - To Cuzco

2008-09-17T22:49:00.005-07:00

Inca Indoctrination

Crossing the border from Bolivia to Peru one thing is definitely clear, the Peruvian tourist industry knows there's a difference between "cattle class" and "courting currency class". For around twenty dollars one can take an ultra-modern tourist coach from Puno all the way to Cuzco. I'm sure during "high season" this bus is packed, but for the less than a dozen passengers boarding today, it was portable luxury. One ticket provides not only transportation but tour guide, multiple "point of interest" stops and a buffet lunch. As much as I loved the rustic nature of Bolivian travel, "Vive la contrast!"

Elevated by the potential of the day, Puno actually looked picturesque, passing by through UV tinted windows and low spectrum morning light.

Over the first rise, the shallow bay side depths of Lake Titicaca spawned thick groves of totora reeds. The volume needed to serve as a useful resource for crafting boats, houses, and floating islands now came into perspective.

La Raya, which is the highest mountain pass in Peru, was our first tourist stop of the day. This location provided the first opportunity for bus drivers to "stretch their legs" as aside from the view, this gravel turnout is solely populated with eager craft vendors.

"Picture? Picture? ... Two dollars." Well that's true if you stand with the actual llama. This distance shot elicited a dollar donation to the cause.

Who couldn't help support the mother of this cute little girl. It was perfect, we both spoke Spanish on the same level, so life was good and I got to learn all about her doll "Pedro". She was so tiny, it was almost as if a "live doll" were carrying a plastic one. However, there was no doubt as to which one was truly animated, with her child-like excitement and care for her "nino" companion.

Another hour and a half further down the road we stopped at a regionally impressive Inca (local spelling Inka) museum, where photography was strictly prohibited, with two exceptions. First was the production and installation of "good luck" bovine caricatures along the roof line. Hey, Germans cut a sapling and nail it to the highest point in a roof under construction, so who's to knock the Peruvians for having a differing luck avatar.

The other photo point was this historic timeline of native civilization, as compared to "Western" cultural development. It was actually really informative, so feel free to "zoom in" and take a look at the parallels.

Peru continues to be an arid land. Maybe all the lush green pictures of Machu Pichu and the excitement to see this wonder have led to a visual "tourist bias". With a little expectation clarity, the desolate ranch lands of Southern Peru are really quite spectacular...

... in the same way that the American Southwest draws its own beauty.

The day's schedule included almost hourly stops along the way. Compared to the drone of a non-stop route, we welcomed the diversions and cathedrals would soon become the theme.

Architecturally, these stone and mud-brick structures dominate most of the small town skylines. The detailed four-hundred year old effort caught both the sun and our eye.

Once inside, we learned a few cultural points from our local guide. (FYI, "English Speaking Guide" is a very relative concept, but since we were traveling on a national holiday the "Spanglish" effort was appreciated.) The "upside" of non-traditional guiding was to receive a slightly less edited perspective. Our guide pointed to Spanish conversion efforts, as a controlling mechanism of the local populous (similar to the Potosi efforts in Bolivia). In a convenient belief blender Mary was elevated as the Inca replacement for Pacha Mama or the deified Mother Earth. Shiny objects, such as mirrors, were embedded in the altars to mystify the locals. Ultimately, according to the guide, religious efforts were really about management and control of a native people as a submissive labor resource in the wealth mechanism of the Spanish Empire.

On a lighter note, Lipika and I were captivated by this blond stray puppy. He was so good and cute we just wanted to... send him to a Vet, get all needed rabies shots, have him bathed, flea dipped, groomed... and then we might pet him... haaa.

Lunch was provided at a quite good buffet restaurant and came accompanied by our first real dose of the cliche Peruvian Pipe band. Yes, you can hear a similar group playing "The Condor Passes" at any shopping area literally all over the world, but somehow hearing the music while actually being physically located in Peru was soothing.

Andahuaylillas was touted as the "Sistine Chapel of the Americas", by our tour group anyway, for the compliment of hand painted fresco walls. It is good to be proud of local assets, but by this point, lunch had made many of us more interested in the museum facilities next door.

In the museum we caught an actual glimpse into an Inca nobility practice. For some reason, the Inca thought it a sign of beauty and social standing to shape the skull into an extended conical design. This process started with "binding boards" strapped to an infants cranium and continued until the post adolescent skeletal formation was complete. That couldn't have been comfortable.

Our next to last stop of the day was Raqchi, the Inca temple grounds dedicated to the god Wiracocha. The complex entrance was flanked with a beautifully sturdy volcanic stone Catholic church. In moments, the source of material would be clear.

A maze of craft stalls slowed progress, but "high traffic" tourist locations provide for less aggressive vendors, leading to greater purchase intent. Free to browse, I bought my sister a couple of curios for her "world travel" shelf. The similarities of dress and physical manifestation between the truly native Peruvian people and Chinese mountain peoples is still striking. The coloring and design of this hat reminded me of the Nashi women of Western China near Tibet.

The remains of the the massive Inca temple are few but towering. Foundations are built from darker volcanic rock and sand stone, with true elevation gained from courses of mud brick. This five story center wall must have been very impressive over five-hundred years ago. (Currently, all historic brick walls are capped with tile roofing to help preserve the remains.)

The load from massive wooden beams would have been shared with supporting columns. Note the volcanic stone base and transition to earthen bricks. What is important about this is that the nearest source of this type of stone is over ten kilometers removed. So every piece of stone was hand carried over six miles to this position.

Other, smaller buildings adjoin this main temple. These structures are about two and a half stories in height and served as dormatories for temple virgins who attended religious instruction. Similarly to the Greek custom, selection as a temple virgin granted very high familial esteem.

Most of these "trainees" would not make it through the culling process. Many would be returned to their families, a few would be chosen as secondary wives to the Inca class of nobility, and equally remote were the dual possibilities of either becoming a polygamous wife to the Inca ruler or living as an "actual temple virgin".

The Inca civilization was socialist in many aspects, believing in certain "communal rights". Pivotal to successfully managing power was to insure that the populous was fed. So harvest, by and large, became the property of the state, stored in time of abundance in anticipation of dearth. Below are grain silos designed for the dry, high altitude, conditions. Only the foundations of a few remain from over a hundred original buildings, hence the easy source of building supplies for the church building conquistadors.

Last on our full day tour was a minor gift shop, home to a few incredibly soft alpaca.

Who could resist the opportunity to feed this bundle of white fluffiness. (Check out the white eye lashes.)

If you've never had the opportunity to touch a baby alpaca, go out of your way to try it.

There's nothing so soft and plush to be found in South America ...

... unless, of course, you are a lover of guinea pigs... but we all know what they are used for here. (I don't think there will be any temptation to repeat last night's dinner any time soon.)

It is always an honor to be greeted by royalty, even if it is a 30 foot bronze Inca. After a leisurely bus bound day, we were excited to be in the Inca capital of the world. The setting sun added to the mystery of the location. The thrill of exploration had returned!

And now for those who persistently pester for more moments of in depth "travel reality", here you have it. Way back in the Bolivian Amazon Basin... a bar tender who had been a native of Cuzco recommended that we stay at his friend's hotel. Well, in the tourist and backpacker heavy Inca capital, twenty bucks will get you a cot with transparently thin sheets, itchy wool blankets, no running water (actually intermittent) and a local family partying until four in the morning. Yikes, we needed to do better.

04.30.08 - To Puno

2008-09-17T22:49:00.004-07:00

Can You Peru?

The Bolivia / Peru border was surprisingly "right around the corner" from the city limits of Copacabana. The bus stopped not more than ten minutes into our journey on the Bolivian side, where of course I was extorted once again by uniformed Bolivian officials. Upon entrance, along with my $120 USD dollar visa ($100 official tax & $20 that the official demanded to complete the process in less than a week, realistically a two minute procedure) an entrance card should have been given. With no entrance card it was difficult to make an exit. No worries, the official simply charged me twice the posted fee. Unfortunately, I only had about one and a half the amount in a mix of US and local currency, which he accepted without hesitation. Enough, a simple walk through the arch and this petty thievery would be reduced to less than an inconvenient memory.

So, Peru received an open entrance gringo smile.

Hassle and Visa excise free Lipika seemed unfazed by the boarder crossing with an EU passport, focusing instead on a perky pup wanting a handout.

On the drive to Puno, we encountered an interesting phenomenon. To the untrained eye, one wouldn't know that this was a major passenger van station. It literally was a straight portion of road where vans pulled off on either side to exchange north and south bound goods and passengers. Never mind that this was the only trade and passenger route north, we waited for the better part of 20 minutes for the vans to settle down and then allow southbound traffic to flow, before we finally started for Puno once again, via this artificially constricted single lane gauntlet.

I really wish that my perspective on the day could have been more positive, but in reality we definitely wished for more time in Copacabana. So as needed as yesterday's rest had been, the palliative recuperation wasn't complete and we were both a little "cranky". So Puno was reduced to just another town with a "Plaza de Armas" adorned with requisite cathedral, ...

... another "Parque" celebrating Spanish independence, ...

.. relatively historic rail lines, ...

... and a crappy hotel that would never live up to the Copacabana Cupola. Interestingly enough, the tradition of making miniatures of what one desires and getting it blessed in Copacabana is alive and well in this neighboring city of Puno, Peru in spite of the necessary border crossing. (Funny that the concept of wealth is still in US currency.)

Progress towards these "blessed" goals is moving in the right direction. The first two floors of the actual hotel are complete, so maybe the future floors will follow in time.

In reality, we hadn't come to Puno for the town but to visit the resourceful Uros People. After decades of invasion and looting from the Collas and Incas the Uros took to Lake Titicaca. The surrounding bay is filled with totora reeds, which have a natural buoyancy. So instead of waiting until morning we joined a chartered evening cruise.

Along the channel our vessel passed a much more historic craft, the Yavari. What makes this ship so impressive was its path to creation. The Yavari is a British commissioned iron hulled, coal fired (or here in Peru dried llama dung fired) steamer, entirely reconstructed on the shores of Lake Titicaca from crated materials sailed around Cape Horn, delivered to the town of Arica and then delivered by train to the foothills of the Andes. At that point, the thousands of parts were packed on mules and delivered to Puno, where it was reassembled for launch in the year 1870. The Peruvian Navy abandoned the ship to mothball and rust until a non-profit acquired the vessel for conservation and reconstruction. The hope is to have the roughly 140 year old ship ready for floating tours in a few years.

Safely off the coast of Puno, the Uros strategy (similar to that of the Venetians) was effective in limiting the raiding potential of their warring enemies. A few hundred inhabitants still live on five main floating islands. The central island comes complete with school and local government. Guide books tout the tourist experience as "shockingly commercialized" and the exposure did have the marginal authenticity of a Waikiki luau.

As the boat pulled up along side the island, no one seemed to question the durability or seaworthy nature of the floating grass layers. Ignorance may be bliss, so what the heck, I jumped off as well.

A local guide helped to shed some structural light on exactly how this aqua terra firma was constructed. As it turns out the actual reeds are just a "top dressing" for the true firmament, a naturally occurring and harvested "peat layer" under the water fields of totoa reeds. Closer to shore, buoyant cubes of root bound peat are cut, culled and towed by boat out to the floating islands. The reed top layer is then pealed back and a new layer of peat is added and sown into the floating mass. When a level layer is completed, then the top treatment of cut reed is replaced. The deepest, under water, layers continually erode, so the replenishment process is continual and systematic. Interestingly, the islands are not fixed but anchored via a system of ropes to the lake floor, therefore making them theoretically mobile. (Structural demonstration model below.)

The reeds are naturally moist enough for cooking ember placement directly on top of the surface layer, without fear of setting it or the peat layer afire.

Despite commercialization by the Uros, a setting sun scene was really quite beautiful, releasing imagination of what historical "true life" might have been.

For today, could one expect anything less than electricity and televisions, even in this isolated waterborne environ?

I suppose the efficiency of solar panels makes a lot more sense than stringing underwater electrical cabling out to a moving populous target.

Technology advances in all forms, with lumbering reed boats being replaced by more nimble rowboats.

As long as the tourists will spend a dollar, blame really can't be lain for the cultural equivalent of "strip malls" adorned with trinkets and hand woven goods.

And if the "strip mall" is fair game, then so is the "mom and pop" convenience store.

Lipika thought long and hard about this hand woven tapestry of native design, but ultimately "backpack space" prevailed and we left the island physically empty handed...

... but not without a few decent shots. This red-eyed bird was practically tame and a beautiful specimen.

What's not to love about water, a setting sun, and reflections?

We were treated with a visual contrast of the historic man-powered reed boat (in the foreground), and the relative ease of a family pram, propelled by a single ten year old girl guiding her bow sprawled younger sister.

In spite of the "Disneyland Affect" the local Uros people were friendly and easy to release a smile, which at least made the experience for two sceptical gringos go a little more smoothly.

Back in Puno, this Cuy couldn't muster a smile, but not many things can after being deep fried. Every year I try to eat something completely different and fried guene pig should fit the annual bill.

Actually, in Peru, Cuy is a specialty food for celebrating festivals or special occasions. Unlike the locals, who prize the skin and fat layer beneath, I stuck strictly to what dark meat could be found. This was not exactly a filling meal and one not recommended for the gastronomically questioning.

Lipika was absolutely "not game" for the experiment, which is totally fine, however the highlight of the day was meeting up with Morgan and Kelly once again. I love how travel plans can naturally overlap in continental travels, especially with good folk like these two. We had traveled together in the Pantanal of Brazil and Samaipata, Bolivia. They are fun natured Aussie's who tried one fried and one baked Cuy between them. I think the general consensus was to "go for fried". Smiles all around and that was a good way to end the day!

04.29.08 - Copacabana

2008-09-17T22:49:00.003-07:00

Overcoming Denial with a Birthday Gift

At times, the speed of life serves as a helpful tool, aiding in the prolonging of denial. But then, denial eventually over stays its welcome, gradually dragging one down until no rushing momentum can delay the inevitable facing of fact. I (we) had reached just such a precipice. No matter how many exhaustive day trips we tried to cram in between our "Death Road" experience in La Paz and today, doing personal business with Ken's death needed direct individual exposure. While hiking on Isla del Sol we almost literally bumped into a couple who had been on the biking trip with us. Instead of taking the "refund option" they decided to accept a re-booking. For their efforts, they did finish biking down the "World's Most Dangerous Road" right past the scene of eight more deaths. Maybe we needed this reminder to "do business" with our emotional connection to the experience. Either way Lipika and I were both craving a vacation from our vacation. Unfortunately, the room in which we were staying was booked for tonight, but while eating breakfast the hotel manager offered us a bungalow for the same rate. Taking a walk down the trail, the welcoming vista and contemplative setting made this decision a "no brainer".

This was exactly what was needed: beautiful stained glass windows, outdoor hammocks, ...

... harbor views from the second floor, ...

... an efficiency kitchen for many rounds of hot tea, ...

... and a super cool hand-hewn hot shower (complete with live plants).

Outside on the lawn, there was a view of possibly the most interesting architectural house in Copacabana. (I wonder if it belongs to the German owner of the hotel complex?)

Deep in thought and trying to think through the calendar of the remaining days in South America, Lipika caught me off guard. It was chilly outside but the sun and lake side air beckoned, so long as the laptop battery lingered.

About two in the afternoon we headed into town, passing by the hotel staff busy with a game of volleyball. All that was needed was a garden hose for boundaries, a string tied between two poles for a net, a ball, and a willingness to share some fun. The balance between the competitive and gentile natures was fun to witness. There was no "spiking" of the ball, but a well placed strategic shot was applauded by both sides.

Wandering down towards the internet cafe uncovered hidden secrets, like this rose arbor lining a restaurant path.

I buried the afternoon in the internet cafe, hopelessly trying to catch up, with more than six weeks of blogging in arrears, while Lipika ambled in an effort to find some "retail therapy".

On the approach to town, I noticed the Cerro Calvario, a 3,966 meter hill just to the north, which of course must be climbed.

While Lipika called her boyfriend Dirk, I climbed the hill, racing the setting sun. The low light angles stretched Copacabana's buildings, enlarging the visual footprint of the last Bolivian weigh point before the Peruvian border.

Various Catholic monuments adorn the crest of Cerro Calvario, most of which appear to be private family alters.

Given the vantage point, this vista is popular with ambitious tourists, so entrepreneurial vendors follow suite. It is interesting to see the hand painted Coca-cola brand mark on a former sarcophagus, currently used as a "lock box" for tourist refreshments and wares.

The light was really tricky and this super long exposure hides the fact that we were nearing darkness.

Isla del Sol seemed an impersonal blot of stone out on the edge of Lake Titicaca. The prior day had not been a bad one and I was grateful for the experience, however the weight of this needed day of recovery inevitably cast a cloud over the memory.

Lipika showed up just in time for the final rays of sunset and an exercise in the use of "fill flash". No fill flash...

... and now fill flash. It must have been a good call.

With the sun setting across Lake Titicaca, in the direction of Peru, the deepening impact of spending the last day in Bolivia struck home. This is a beautiful, exotic country, whose people can be lovely, while maintaining an overtly anti-American government. Living the divergent lifestyle of embrace combined with government sanctioned extortion all wrapped in an ecological wonderland leaves me longing for more time in this beautiful place, with cautious optimism held on the side.

So, "Happy Birthday" to my sister Kristen, even though I received the gift of regeneration this day I was sending warm wishes your way, into the setting sun. Cheers.

04.28.08 - Return to Copacabana

2008-09-17T22:49:00.002-07:00

A First Time for Everything

After a chilly night in Yumani, I think we were both ready to welcome the sun and head for Copacabana. Our hotel manager suggested leaving for the ferry an hour and a half early. (Maybe, since we were the only guests he was trying to clean the rooms early in the day.) So, reasonably bright and early, we headed for the winding trek downhill to the port.

Along the way, we noticed a church yard being put to full use as solar powered brick kiln. The earthen rectangles hinted to the visual of loyal parishioners, seated in pew rows.

Two archeological sites were on the exploration agenda. First, the Escalera del Inca or stair case of the Inca's, which should lead directly to the port.

As we huffed and puffed our morning lungs to life, walking downhill, an elderly native gentleman cruised right past, heading uphill, with complete ease. (See him by the entrance?)

What made the gentleman's trekking ease even more impressive, was that he had just climbed hundreds of steps up the side of the hill on the Escalera del Inca. This stair case is over 500 years old and in very active use each and every day.

Casually enjoying the scenery, there was a rustling noise behind and guess who was washing his hands in the stair case spring water? As it would turn out, this energy packed man would be our vendor of tickets for a return by boat to Copacabana. Note the white piece of cloth used as a backpack. The funny thing was that later he opened his cloth pack and inside was a perfectly kept leather brief case. So he was a living blend of the traditional and modern literally rolled and bound into one.

Never a stranger to a pose, Lipika and I joked about how it could be possible to take an hour and a half to reach the port, when we were practically there in less than fifteen minutes.

The town of Yumani literally sprung into existence because of this fount of water. Uphill, near the top of the stair case, the Fuente del Inca flows directly out of the ground. This natural source of clean spring water has supplied the local villagers for hundreds of years, with little interruption.

The port was very quiet and there was well over an hour to kill after securing tickets.

So, I ventured up the rocky beach to see what could be found and was met by a pair of green eyes. This little one must have thought himself to be well camouflaged and hidden because there was hardly a movement while passing by.

The use of colors, incorporated into the daily life of Bolivia, has been quite a display. Even the care in painting this striped wooden dory green on the outside and a complimentary shade of blue inside provides a color field foundation for the hand-woven red wool blanket secured as an outboard motor cover.

Rounding a corner, a traditional reed boat came into view. So, curiosity pushed footsteps down the trail and across a dodgy wooden plank to the stone dock.

The detail work of the puma head bowsprits were impressive, but on closer inspection really quite modern in construction.

Because each head was hand-made there is individual character to both port and starboard creatures. When sailing across Lake Titicaca they must appear as dueling leviathan, jockeying for lead position.

Returning to the main port, the color display continued. Local women, topped with bowlers, are far more colorful than their male counterparts. Since time is a relative thing in Bolivia, it was a good guess that we were finally approaching departure when the indigenous islanders started to gather.

I love this picture, which Lipika took, for so many reasons. It is a great snap shot of where Bolivia culturally stands or in this case sits, today. Externally, there is much visual tradition, with the added youthful defiance of a modern and practical sun hat. Internally, as in her carrying blanket stuffed with a modern black case, the outlook is respectfully modernizing.

This new mother was gorgeous in her hand embroidered dress, fancy felt bowler hat, and colorful carrying blanket. She was "dressed" for traveling to a destination, as opposed to making a jaunt to the mainland market.

Life is always good for providing moments of humility. While casually baking in the roof deck bench seating, during the two hour trip back to Copacabana, I heard an American accent. Typically, this is ample reason to turn the other way, but this time the tone seemed benign. In chatting with the woman across from me, it turns out that Bolivia is her 95th country to visit over the last 5 years. Wow, 40-something seems pretty meager in comparison. During the months of Oct-Nov-Dec she does medical device "rep-ing", earning enough to basically fund 8 months of travel. Kudos, this Detroit native has successfully figured out how to feed the travel addiction.

Copacabana, what a welcome visual! Typically, I love the water, but the less than 5 mile an hour pace of this overburden, under-powered, glorified skiff was making me anxious to touch earth again.

Time for a few hours of pampering. It was decided to splurge and book a room at the Cupola, a.k.a. the highest rated and most expensive hotel in town... at a whopping $34 USD for the suite.

Our two room spread came with top floor views, ...

... after climbing the laddered stairs and entering through the oddly placed floor/roof hatch (depending on whether one was ascending or descending).

The view, hammock, and hot showers we all overly appreciated. Personally, the extended nap in the hammock was a real winner.

Refreshed, relaxed, and revived for blogging, we headed into town to the only local high-speed internet cafe. By the time I finished, blurry eyed after hours of staring into the screen, it was dark.

The Cupola Cafe is already a favorite and in the perfect location. Unfortunately, given the reputation and appreciation of ex-pats the dining room was entirely full, so we ordered diner to be delivered to the room.

When the waiter arrived, I reached into my back pocket to pay... and there was nothing there. How could I have been so stupid! Today was literally the first and only time in almost two years of travels that I put cash in my back pocket. Lipika had given me about $100 USD in Bolivianos to carry and wearing my new sweater it was much too hot to wear my usual backpacking vest (the chest pocket of which is where I typically keep passport and cash). While ordering dinner at the restaurant's front counter, in a room filled with ex-pats, some guy kept bumping into me and my backpack. At first this was confusing, because there was plenty of room to pass by, but obviously he was doing the classic "bump and grab" as a distraction to lifting the money from my back pocket.

The travel guides actually warned of rampant petty theft in Copacabana, but stated the greatest occurrence is during rowdy festivals. The piece left out of the commentary was that much of the larceny is committed by ex-pats who have stayed too long and are a little short. 20/20 hind sight, the restaurant lobby of the Cupola is the perfect "hit zone" because in a total ex-pat environment people let their guard down, subsequently making things just a little too easy for the motivated pick-pocket.

04.27.08 - La Isla del Sol

2008-09-17T22:49:00.001-07:00

The Inca "Isle of Eden"

"Windows" as a metaphor for visibility into the deeper thoughts and emotions of the human condition are practically cliche, but there is truth in the transparency of the tangible experience. I stood a long time this morning at the hotel window and soaked in the morning sun and clarity of the moment.

The hotel window framed an aquatic scene worthy of a much better photographic equipment than the replacement camera purchased in La Paz.

Our objective today was to venture to the figurative and literal birth place of the Inca Empire, Isla Del Sol. For Inca faithful this bit of upturned striated rock birthed the earth's population with a simultaneous revealing from the depths of Lake Titicaca of Manco Capac, the first Inca, and his sister-wife Mama Huaca. In the Inca "Garden of Eden" liturgy there is no logical disconnect between brothers and sisters procreating to populate the earth. In fact, each successive ruler was the product of the first generational son and his sister... and we thought the "blue bloods" were inbred. In fact the only major conflict prior to the arrival of the Spanish Conquistadors was between two ruling brothers, the elder born from the ruling Inca and a secondary wife vs. the younger born of the union of his father and the maternal sister of the Inca.

In order to venture to the physicality of this alternate creative source we needed to board another private Bolivian ferry. These overcrowded vessels are less seaworthy than appearances. The underpowered outboard engine struggles for propulsion. It was easy to joke that "Thank goodness there's wasn't a headwind this morning; it might turn the two hour trip into four." A reasonably powered boat could have easily made the traverse to the near side of the island in half an hour and completed the far side delivery with an additional fifteen minutes.

Have no fear... the Bolivian Navy was safely "in charge" from the security of terra firma.

The still clarity of the day did not go unnoticed, especially as our inexpensive cameras struggled to deal with the overabundance of glare and UV radiation. Everything was getting washed out or automatic digital overcompensation drug images to a dark blur. No worries... the undulating island was still visually captivating.

The inhabitants of Lake Titicaca have a rich heritage of sea faring, primarily in historic bound reed boats brought to world attention by the Contiki voyages of the 1970's, where a historically accurate reed boat sailed the Pacific to Easter Island and beyond. It is speculated that the second tribe, to the Polynesians, on Easter Island were actually Inca's.

By and large, traditional reed boats have been exchanged for more modern wooden fishing and ferry vessels. (This beach scene could just have easily been a visual capture from Greece or Turkey.)

Tourist economic impact leaves an immediate impression. This little guy met the boat to ask for candy and lead visitors to his mothers handy craft display. (At least he was child-like enough to ask for candy first.)

So much of the foundational economy is funded by tourist dollars that the weight of expectations can be overwhelming, especially when we were seeking the solace of a day of outdoor exploration.

After a brief tour of the local Inca museum and purchase of our tourist permission ticket, the trail out of town towards the main ruin site guided to a few moments of uninterrupted ambling.

The island's foundational building material is earthen bricks, formed of dense soil, water and natural binders, then formed and dried in the intense high altitude sun. With so few native raw materials to work with, life's effort is simply on display.

Lipika and I came across this sad little piglet penned along the path. He was so cute and alone. It tugged at heartstrings to see him mope, spawning Lipika's phrase "Ein Schwein ganz allein" or one pig utterly alone. There's a children's book in this phrase just waiting to happen.

So much for little pink piglets. This breed is rightfully shaggy, to fend off the glaring sun, while providing an insulating layer against the cold. Even though it is sunny the 10 degree Celsius or 50 degree Fahrenheit temperature can be brisk in the shade or when the wind blows.

The inhabitability challenge of the island bridges technology gaps. Maze is still grown as a staple, while galvanized steel roofing gradually replaces thatch.

There is no rest for the escapist tourist or the trapping vendor. Quite often local craft purveyors will "set up shop" directly in front of where one needs to travel. In this case, patience tolerances were being tested and we graciously declined persistent offers and hastily headed up the path, unwittingly bypassing one of the key island sites. It wasn't instinctual for us to have physically pushed past the local woman, to the right, instead of heading up the main path.

So we missed the footprints of the Inca God Viracocha, where he was supposed to have emerged from Lake Titicaca, but we did make our way to the rock of the Puma and the main Inca sacrificial site.

At this point, it was no surprise to find the high sacrificial alter being used as a sales venue.

Directly across from the Inca table or altar is the Rock of the Puma. It is said that this is the source of the name Titicaca or Lake of the grey puma. Honestly, no one knows the true naming origin. However, it is humorous to see/hear how western culture has influenced the humor of the Bolivian vs. Peruvian rivalry over this shared body of water. A local guide jokingly told us that the waterway derives its name from the fact that Bolivia gets the "titi" and Peru owns the "caca". See... potty humor is internationally universal... haaa.

A few meters north of the Rock of the Puma are the Chincana ruins, known as the labyrinth. It is believed that sinful Incas would wander the winding passageways as a cleansing ceremony. By the time the navigation was complete, their error would be self evident and the path to restitution clear.

The delineation between where the labyrinth ends and monastery ruins begin has been washed away with time.

So, the consciences of these sheep should be as "white as snow" after spending countless days wandering the labyrinth to graze. Somehow, I think the guy in the back must be in denial.

Twelve kilometers of exposed trekking at altitude can be slightly more challenging than anticipated. The highest point is just over 4,000 meters or roughly the summit of California's Mt. Shasta.

We decided that a geologic safari and enjoying the day was far more important than setting any speed records, so admired the view of upturned rock and sea.

Then there was this little cutie, out in the literal middle of the island. She was keeping her Mama company while she peddled hand made jewelry. It worked. We stopped and Lipika supported the family venture.

Appropriately placed, just up the trail from our nursery aged friend, was this tortoise shaped rock. Somehow, this formation appeared much more tangible is shape than the "Rock of the Puma".

Did you know that the earth recycles its rock formations every 20 million years? With that in mind, the jagged edges of obviously upturned stone plating makes sense, as the earth churns its composting surface layer.

Who needs a clothes dryer when there is thatch and solar heating so readily available? The open display of most aspects of life was empathetically appealing.

Our trek from Cha'llapampa to Yumani took about five hours, with ample stops for sight seeing, picnics, and rest breaks. Beautiful views of the Andes helped to ease the annoyances. The island is actually split into three districts and each extracts a "road tax" from tourists. Ultimately, the financial penalty is a little over $2 USD, but the annoyance of being persistently hassled makes the process burdensome. Unfortunately, local, state, and national governments have no accountable way for single assessment, to then be equally redistributed to the three communities. The current system allocates funds most equitably to each community, while demanding patience from travelers.

What a picturesque day! Exchanging the morning window view for the evening vista seemed like a fair trade. Both are beautiful. Seared from the sun and wind exposure, there was very little bodily resistance to an early dinner and impending sleep.

04.26.08 - To Copacabana

2008-09-08T15:16:00.000-07:00

From the Masses to Symbols of Mass

It is always nice to leave any town with a smile, even if all it takes is a chocolate bar and a liter & a half of water. Lipika really likes La Paz and has already planned a return visit. For my part, I'd love to see La Paz again, but long after "much water has passed under the bridge" and the emotional ghosts have vaporized.

Unlike our early morning original La Paz arrival, a mile or so from the bus station, our departure required exacting location. The bus station itself is majestic and a sentimental tribute to some of the great train stations in Europe. However, with the tight alley approaches, it is completely understandable why an arriving full size coach would much rather skip the navigational headache.

The native people continue to be a spectacle, in a good way. Their blend of earth tones and vibrant colorings both play into the landscape of everyday life and project from it at the same time.

Transportation consisted of an overly packed "half coach length" bus. Every seat was taken, along with any aisle space and the descending internal stairs. This time there was no separation between the passenger cabin and the sole driver. In fact the "shot gun" position and the middle seat were eventually filled for maximum occupancy.

One aspect of South America (and the third world for that matter) that I won't miss is the constant cloud of diesel exhaust, choking transportation time. If the vehicle in front is not generating a nauxious cloud, then with rare exception the body of your passenger vehicle would have convenient body cracking to take advantage of self generated carbon monoxide.

On the banks, separating the channel between Lago de Huynaymarka and Lake Titicaca, modern transportation meets the ancient path. Incredibly, traveling vehicles board wooden (log bound) vessels for ferrying. These longboats are "hand polled" from their resting ramps and then directed by less than fifty horse power outboard motors across the deep channel waters.

Passengers must quay for one of several sorely underpowered ferry boats. (Check out the mini-outboard attached to the back of this departing vessel.)

While waiting in line we witnessed physical confirmation of a local guide's commentary of a week prior. He said, "You can know where a woman is from by how short her dress is." Apparently, the further South one travels, the lower the hem lines. So, presently, we must have representation from both the North and the South, in a single apparel sampling opportunity.

There is stature to elders here in Bolivia. This Senora looked as weathered as time itself, but carried an intrinsic "respect gathering" aura.

Lipika and I wandered down to watch the barge landings, with particular interest for the safe arrival of our coach. This inadvertently allowed us to skip a police checkpoint. Both land masses on either side of the water are Bolivian, but several passengers were delayed and ultimately detained by police for lack of proper identification.

Less than an hour's travel later, I almost missed the Copacabana vista from the racing bus. Now that we were in sight, the driver poured on speed. Could this little lakeside town be the inspiration for the Copacabana song?

Hunger had crept in, as we raced the clock. The Cupola Restaurant closed for lunch at 2:00 pm and we didn't want to miss the treat. The guide books rave not only about the food but the accommodation as well. Today we would have to be sated with amazing gnocchi with goulash and chocolate fondue con freshly cut fruit, as the hotel was completely booked.

The view from the deck did not disappoint either. Copacabana is set between two large hills, (technically mountains as each is over 3,900 meters above sea level) along the southern banks of Lake Titicaca. Charm exudes from this place. It may be the juxtaposition of the millions of La Paz citizens, compared the the quaint thousands here, but Copacabana will seize your heart almost immediately. (Our hotel for the night is the tallest pink building, just a block from the beach.)

Waves of tourists flood Copacabana daily, as it is perfectly situated as the last town before heading into Peru, or conversely the first one between Puno, Peru and crossing the Bolivian border. One of the things that I appreciate about Lipika is her compassion for the "locals" where ever we may travel. Today, she was helping one of our tour agents with her English homework, which just happened to be a Spanish to English translation describing the town's Cathedral complex.

Inspired by the lesson, we headed for a personal viewing of the Moor inspired, Spanish constructed Cathedral. I always seem to waver at the phrase "Spanish constructed" because in reality indigenous people slaved over the construction for a hundred and fifteen years, under Spanish task masters (1605 to 1820). Today, the Cathedral is still the center of city life occupying a complete side of the Plaza 2 de Febrero. Vendors line the entrance gate selling everything from food stuffs to all things Catholica.

A massive outer courtyard surrounds the actual Cathedral, much like a fortress. Here the masses would receive not only their religious indoctrination but also ruling proclamations.

The courtyard, in essence, was the people's Cathedral, complete with alter and impressive arching dome.

While the Spanish ruling class could take full advantage of the inner sanctum.

Of course, since the Spanish Conquistadors were routed over 100 years ago, the current Cathedral is utilized by all the citizens. This Cathedral also houses the wooden Virgen de Copacabana where faith inspires fortune. Apparently, if one stands before the statue and prays for good fortune, it will be granted. This has spawned the interesting practice of bringing miniatures of desired objects before her for petitions of a grander more life size response. Taken a bit further, when a major purchase, such as a car takes place, the new owner brings the car to the gates of the Cathedral to be "blessed" by the priests and sprinkled with holy water for protection while traveling the deadly Bolivian road ways.

An interesting carving marks the large wooden door entrance to the Cathedral. At first glance, the Virgin Mary is being crowned by a priest and blessed by a bishop, while submissive locals celebrate musically. Natively carved, the power structure is detailed and ultimately subverted, without the church's conscious knowledge.

First, the priest and the Bishop are on almost equal footing, as they would have had the greatest personal impact on the local peoples. Mary is not is a position of elevation. Despite the coronation scene, she is reduced and physically beneath the priest and Bishop, an interesting twist to traditional Catholic dogma. Then note the fiddle playing genetically Spanish-mixed character is centered, watching literally over the lowest figures in the relief, indigenous pipe players.

Then there is the subtle "Trump Card" of the entire effort! Notice the flower above the Bishop's head, in the highest position of the carving. This is no random beautification project, but the most sacred ceremonial Inca flower. So despite all the dogma and overt submission in the scene, the Inca artisan trumps the day with a defiant statement of percevereing indigenous beliefs, as this Cathedral's foundations settle on the edge of the most sacred Inca lake and the physical center of their "creation" beliefs.

04.25.08 - To La Paz

2008-09-05T21:11:00.000-07:00

Something Lost, Something Regained

Returning to La Paz was a point of mixed perspective. I was ready for heat and humidity relief via a return to a cool high altitude environment, but both of us held a little trepidation of haunting Death Road memories waiting to be overcome.

Thankfully, overnight there was only a misting sprinkle. Since the ground had shed almost all of the nocturnal moisture, the airport lay open for grass field take-offs and landings. So, after an abbreviated breakfast, we jogged to catch an airport bound bus.

The last couple of weeks have be almost completely void of panicked bus sprints or self-induced drama. Unfortunately, today was the exception. Our British travel buddies were a little more high strung than Lipika and I. While eating breakfast, one of them came jogging up to our table because the bus was leaving earlier than expected, while a block away the other did a spastic yelling and jumping routine. (For context, the bus would cost about a two dollars for the both of us or a cab about five dollars.) Caught in "their panic" of the moment, we paid for breakfast and went jogging down the street with bags in hand. Unfortunately, my camera bag was unzipped just enough to launch its contents, lens bevel first, into the cobble stone street... $350+ USD gone in an instant of needless energy. This was not a good cost benefit equation, save three bucks and lose $350. Surprisingly, rage was not my first response, but calm self-aware resolve not to let "other's stress" negatively affect my future decisions. We stopped running. The chirping Anglo monkey show continued on the corner as we walked calmly to the bus stop. The bus ran it's natural route, completing an end of divided boulevard U-turn to head our way. Lesson learned.

So now, completely dependent on Lipika's camera, we caught final airborne glimpses of the Rio Beni town of Rurrenabaque, while the pilot headed back "up hill" to the El Alto and La Paz.

The thinly oxygenated, high altitude (3,660M) air was the counter to a beautifully crisp La Paz morning. Mount Illamani lay perched at the end of most Eastward facing streets. The city was buzzing with humanity and this was our day to dive into the sea.

Along the way, we would play the "photo game", which takes two participants. The decoy, me, stands within range of the photographer's actual target. The the photographer can take a stealthy exposure, without annoying the locals. Note the man approaching over my right shoulder.

And, there you have it. The set up is relatively simple, while the rest is up to the photographer.

This shot was executed in exactly the same way, with really nice candid results.

The Palacio Legislativo rests in central La Paz on the Plaza Pedro D Murrillo, since being moved from Sucre. The structure is impressive, but my empathy is still with the citizens of Sucre who longingly smart from their stolen seat of legislative power.

The South side of the plaza boasts the Palacio Presidential, formal residence of US detractor President Morales. With Lipika primarily at the artistic director helm of the day's photo shoot, you never know what kind of candid characters will show up leaning against light poles.

There remains a great deal of pride in the Spanish Revolution Era for Bolivians, so the country's honor guard still wears period uniforms.

Lipika must have thought this one was particularly handsome and may have even garnered the twinges of a stoic smile.

A few door entrances up the street, Calle Comercio, lay the tomb of a Bolivian founding father. Aside from that brief snippet of translated information there weren't many clues for added significance.

But, the tomb site did provide nice visual perspective into the main plaza.

The city itself is dramatic: for reasonably maintained Spanish civil architecture in a punishing environment, ...

... with beautiful reaching bell towers, ...

... and broad boulevards (this one in front of Plaza San Francisco), ...

... but for me the prize remains the people. The modern pageantry of daily demonstrations, when combined with the flair of native dress adds emphasis and curiosity for the wandering traveler. Hopefully, this view doesn't belittle their cause, but compliments with a stranger's appreciative eye.

We continued through city streets and markets, hunting for a first quality, reasonably priced replacement camera. Finally, in a street near the Mercado Negro, a compromise was struck and a camera purchased.

04.23 & 24.08 - Bolivian Pampas

2008-09-04T18:17:00.000-07:00

Two Days of Amazon Basin Indoctrination

It is really difficult to beat a river's edge sunrise in the Pampas. The squelching humidity amplifies the lower end of the color spectrum and seems to make the fire flash of sunrise linger unnaturally long.

But, if you get a little too "spacey" over refracting light, Pedro is more than willing to snap things back into full focus.

Pedro is a wild alligator, which has been supplementally fed at this camp since he was just a couple of feet long. His six-foot plus muscled body would be no match for the incidental tourist. But, then there are those who are willing to place their bets and attempt a "nose pet".

This, however, is not Pedro. Meet Pequeno (Tiny), an eight foot plus black cayman. Pedro lost the back portion of his tale a few years ago to Pequeno. The gators are relatively docile or will run the other way. Cayman, however, are the bulls of the Pampas and will stare you down without intimidation.

Pequeno always had one eye on whomever or whatever was moving and he deserved the same attention in kind. The amazing evolution of the white crane, pictured, is that his feet are a distinct yellow, matching the combination of hazy waters and river mud. Pequeno couldn't be bothered with the colorful feet, as he keeps an eye of the white part.

The camp cook's daughter is cute as can be and probably about six years old. In the morning she plays with squirrel monkeys, but keeps an equal eye out for Pedro.

Breakfast with Barbie is a tabletop affair, even when Pedro is not around. It just seems to make sense to stay elevated when distracted with eating...

... unless, of course, you are eating a piece of fruit and grandpa is standing near. (Note the missing tail section on Pedro.)

The heat of the day builds quickly in the Amazon Basin. It is not even ten in the morning and temperatures are pushing 100 degrees Fahrenheit already. This morning we are on a mission to find an anaconda or maybe a cobra. (Go ahead, sing along... "my anaconda don't want none unless she's got buns hon... baby got back.) But, while on the river, the guide spots a lemur. Do you see it?

Hanging in the trees, this grip equipped, slow motion eating machine fascinated. How could something this slow have survived all these millenia?

A cormorant greeted us with literal open arms or wings if you will. These birds do not come equipped with oil glands, like ducks or geese, to keep water from penetrating their feathers. So, contrary to popular belief, they are not cold (especially in this heat) but are using the sun's energy to dry out water logged wings and plumage. Once sufficiently lightened, they will return to easier flight patterns and eventually dive right back in the water while fishing.

Chasing ever narrowing tributaries, the boat rams into the mud shore and then it is time to trudge into the undergrowth. Considering we are hunting for giant snakes, combined with the number of other field dangers, this random entrance feels a little sketchy.

As several folks on the trek learned, you really don't want to tangle with these swamp wasps.

A local Snail Hawk must be happy and full.

Pushing further from the river banks, the foliage transitions from broad leaved varieties to taller grasses.

If you are ever thirsty in the morning, dew drops funneled down this broad leaf would do the trick, but right now I follow the guide's lead. Instead, we each pick a large leaf, fold it in half (end to end) and use it as a fan. It is remarkable how this simple trick can break the stillness enough to be felt.

The Pampas is alive with fauna and flora, sometimes occupying the same space. In capturing this flower image, there was the bonus of a bright green grasshopper.

Color is everywhere, once you take the time to notice the ecosystem that exists below the tall vegetation. Snail eggs strike a bright pinkish-orange against the muddy saturated floor.

Taking "point" with the guide, we slog through knee deep humus. In the heat, each sucking footfall withdrawal drives energy out of our stamina reservoir. I've come to realize that the rubber boots supplied are not to keep us dry, but to protect from the sharp grasses and what ever else lives below knee level. (So this is a picture of me taking the picture below.)

Somehow, our guide puts on a convincing show of direction and Anaconda hunting skills. He had prepared us for which dangers to be aware.

So, this is a perfectly good reason for wearing knee high rubber Wellingtons. Small cobras, just like rattle snakes, are actually far more venomous, i.e. deadly, than the adult counterpart. We were just as happy to leave the "catch and release" to the guide.

The group "fun card" was punched long ago. Ambient temperature is actually a good ten degrees hotter in the grass swamps than directly next to the river and we are drained and wilting. These grasses are a solid six feet high and no joy to push through.

There were flashes of relief, in the form of visual interest. The shear volume of blooming plant life is an energy boost.

So, to increase our odds of flushing out an anaconda the group split in two, fanning towards a focal point. (Are you feeling the dragging sense of time?)

Finally, the two guides walked off towards the horizon, in search of serpents. Shaded by the trees, we joked that they were really killing time, smoking a cigarette, just over the horizon. The entire group had had enough, leading some to seek solitude leaning against a tree trunk. My cure was to climb into the broad branches to catch wisps of breeze wandering about at ten feet or more off the ground.

Mercifully, the guides called off the search, but not before pointing out a depression in the grass and proclaiming it to be an anaconda nest. (Either that or they were busy creating the gringo illusion, while just out of sight.)

So, after lunch I opted for the hammock while the rest of the crew went piranha fishing. This was fun about four weeks earlier in the Brazilian Pantanal so there was no need for a repeat performance. Despite of, or maybe because of, my group diminishing nap, the eco-tourist fishing energy was high.

The British contingent led the charge in piranha count...

... and by early afternoon the grass improvised stringer was complete. The fishing crew unselfishly shared the fried prize with me over dinner and the delicate white meat was just as sweet as remembered. (Thanks for the pictures, Lipika.)

The late afternoon created a hunting expedition of another sort. This time we sought pink dolphins, not to eat, but to swim with.

These creatures are amazingly curious, swimming right into your midst. A playful nudge or grazing passing by is not uncommon. I wish the flood of tourists would not have converged, because the jabbering Hebrew disturbance in the pristine setting was so out of place it was even beginning to annoy our two segregated travelers.

The final day brought a gorgeous sunrise with grass field placement.

Once again, we road in our motorized canoe, broached the mud bank and hiked into the swampy grasslands for a solar sensation.

So dense was the humidity that the penetrating orange pierced the visual horizon and then was lost behind a shade of aqueous airborne greying.

There were two animal sightings needed to declare the trip a success. First, the pink dolphins and they rose to the occasion almost immediately. Second, the capibara, waited until the final moments. Capibara are the largest rodents in the world, weighing in at about the mass of a large pony or small horse. Supposedly, the small ones are good eating, so these several hundred pound monsters should be left alone to breed and make the more readily digestible variety.

Leaving our camp was a little bitter sweet. The experience was well worth the effort, but life is hard out here. The conveniences of unheated showers, toilets, beds, and great food are all here, but the heat with humidity was too high to make any of the added benefits comforts.

The good thing was that our group was smiling and we really did have a good time together. The surprise of the journey was when our Israeli trekkers recognized the vast disturbance and inconsideration of their countrymen and women. One is seeking a degree in diplomatic relations. It was not hard for him to admit that the world's first direct contact impression of Israeli's, as demonstrated by it's traveling youth, is a bad one and will be a public relations obstacle to overcome.

So now, the five hour reverse path back to Rurrenabaque was at hand. The Cambodian architecture still fascinated...

... as did our Bolivian driver, ...

... who still persistently drove on the wrong side of the road. (Now, the wrong side has been taken in each direction. Go figure?)

And, the head-on game of "chicken" persisted with on-coming tractor trailers.

The hours could not pass fast enough on this kidney and lumbar jarring transit. As the trees became more prevalent, passing in the rear view mirror, we gathered energy because they were the tale-tell signs that Rurrenabaque was approaching.

Damn, did this little back-water town ever feel sweet! We were ready to throw digestive discretion to the wind and drink as many crushed ice or blended cold drinks as the evening would allow.

04.22.08 - To Rurrenabaque & Beyond

2008-08-30T23:05:00.000-07:00

No Pampering in the Pampas

One hour by plane or 16, bathroom deprived, hours by bus... hmmm, choices, choices?

This particular choice was rather simple for kidney dependent travelers. We left just after sunrise from La Paz in a small but sufficiently powered twin-engine prop-plane. The funny part of the navigational path is that we didn't even clear the summit of Huayna Potosi. In fact we skirted off in a valley to the right, avoiding the need to gain altitude over any of the local peaks.

The terrain is almost mystical, approaching the town of Rurrenabaque. The pilot zipped through descending valleys to a verdant cliff, over which the lushness of jungle covered the horizon. The transition from muted greys and whites, of high altitude environs, to the rich green and dark browns of the Amazon Basin transpired over a single ridge line.

Then, a moment for the dramatic, was our grass field landing. A "fly by" showed that the strip was clear, then the pilot lined up and gently set the plane down over as long and gentle an approach as I've witnessed. Maybe he was attempting to minimize the lumpy surface by gradually settling down. If there is any rain, then the airport is closed until the mud dries. Given this is a rain forest, we were exceptionally lucky to have a perfectly clear and beautiful morning.

Bolivians can be strict in their protocol, even in the tiniest of airports. We found it a little comical, and joked about feeling "safe" after seeing the sole contents of the local fire management team resting in the plane's shadow.

Rurrenabaque is "jungle quaint", reminding me of parts of Cambodia. We even noticed that some of the people we remarkably "Thai" in their physical appearance. The sustenance of the town's economy is Eco-Tourism. Each day, a veritable fluvial flood of gringos arrives via three direct flights and several buses.

Tourists attract characters of all shades. This American transplant has been selling baked goods, while handing out tracts, for the last fifteen years. His prices would have been right at home in the States and the good thing was that the quality actually matched the investment.

Our general rule of thumb has been to do business with the oldest and most recommended companies, when there are questions of safety. This puts us on the slightly more expensive track, which can have the added benefit of eliminating "buzz kill" trekkers and our least favorite Israeli hoards.

Sometimes, more established isn't always better, as it may also mean getting the oldest equipment. So we headed off to the Rio Madidi with a four hour excursion in a questionably ancient Toyota Land Cruiser, which needed somewhat frequent cooling/watering breaks. To add to the fun, our driver was a prototypical Bolivian driver who took to driving on the wrong side of the road. When an oncoming vehicle made its way up the two-lane dirt road, he would wait to the last moment and make a dash for the right side, before righting the lumbering truck back to the left hand lane. We were all a little bewildered.

Thankfully, the group stopped for lunch about three hours into the journey, providing the opportunity for our aching backs to recover somewhat from the bench seats, set on the cargo bed, facing each other in "1940's safari style".

It felt like the movie "Biloxi Blues", when Mathew Broderick's character said, "Its hot. Its Africa hot. Its Tarzan hot. Its hot, hot!" The sweat was a constant flushing of fluids, so good thing the first course of lunch was a piping hot bowl of soups... haaa. Actually, I liked it and piled my rice and bit of chicken into the bowl for flavor. On the way to the bathroom, this little fella happily greeted all passers by. His spirit gave a needed boost, as he seemed to smile with his enthusiasm.

Another hour down the road and we were there, where ever "there" was. The continuing parallel between the Southeast Asian peninsula and the Amazon Basin persisted with very similar housing construction methods.

The boat on the left was ours for the taking. Only one thing was missing, preventing a successful launch, our motor. It seems the company only had one motor and the other boat was still heading up river to drop off the previous travelers. So we waited and waited, as literally over a hundred obnoxious Israeli trekkers piled into canoes and took off with their less expensive guides (insult to injury). As an aside, these canoes are still constructed traditionally from a single tree hull, which has been hand carved and burned out, then reinforced with more tourist friendly gunwales/side boards.

After another hour, we were finally, patiently, on our way. At the time this unexplained truancy was taxing, but the group decidedly opted for a positive experience and set aside reservations once under way. The back story to all this was that a previous group had gotten stranded on the river for 14 hours when the other motor broke-down. So, our minor delay paled in comparison to their very real headache. (Yes, luggage does get wet and the humus dense water leaves an irrevocable stench... one of my dampened shoes will never smell the same again.)

Quickly, the river level vistas off of brown reflective current, matched with lush undergrowth, soaring trees, and amazing cumulus clouds wiped any logistical frustration from our minds.

The Amazon Basin is famous for many unique creatures and the prize here is the fresh water pink dolphin. Do you see him? These mammals are extremely difficult to catch on film, with visible surface breathing only taking a fraction of a moment. The optical challenge is that the water is so darkly dense with decomposing materials that it resembles a nice pint of Guinness more than the clarity of a local swimming pool. So, by the time a pink dolphin blow is heard, one must turn, point, and shoot, with the hope that just maybe there will be a photographic glimpse.

Who's a lucky photographer? I guessed where this pair may surface and almost missed the opportunity in amazement. If you haven't read the blog entries back in Patagonia, you may be wondering why I'm so hard on the Israeli travelers. Well, here is another perfect case in point. Beyond be self-centered, loud, and completely inconsiderate to locals, they were inexcusably obtuse when it came to the environmental preservation. These malignant savants smoke where ever they go and thought it a pretty amusing game to flick their spent cigarette butts at the pink dolphins. This was so unbelievably obtuse I could hardly contain the frustrated rage.

Thankfully, we parted ways, with our guide taking the advantage opportunity of skimming ahead to put some distance between. This way, we might be able to catch glimpses of more sound averse creatures, which might be intimidated by the cackling gaggle of Middle Eastern morons. Why do they bother to come to a pristine ecosystem if they just want to party and destroy it? Thankfully, as the gap widened our fauna sightings increased, starting with this river turtle.

The Madidi National Park is known for biodiversity, especial avian. (Unfortunately, I can't remember the name of this tree top dweller, with the majestic cranial crest of plumage.)

Blue herons searched for fish near the water's edge or for each other in the bush tops.

A white headed eagle was a prized find, as there isn't much tolerance for intrusion, so the picture had to be taken from over 100 yards. (Ergo, blurring.)

A Snail Hawk was one of my favorite flying predators. Fluffy grey feathers, combined with deep red eyes made for quite an impression.

A pre-historic bird loves these swamps. (I guess all birds qualify as technically pre-historic but this one leaps deepest into the fossil record.) The brilliant coloring reminds me of the Australian Cassowary, another dinosaur era bird.

Then there was the king of evolutionary developmental history, next to the cockroach of course, the alligator. There always seemed to be at least one pair of eyes keeping track of movements on the river.

Our boat was comfortably filled, with Lipika and me ...

... our own male duo of Israeli travelers, with a pair of English adventures in the bow, and ...

... a lone Frenchman in the back with the guide.

Enormous trees occasionally line the river banks, providing perch points and dominant visual interest.

But, what is even more fun is the mid-level trees and bushes, because they are home to boisterous Howler Monkeys. Their audible grunting expectorant thunders across the swampy lowlands. As much as howlers are heard, they are oppositely seen. So, it was fun to catch a few fleeting glimpses.

Squirrel monkeys are much smaller than howlers and complete extroverts, when it comes to eagerly gobbling up free bananas. Check out their little fingers. It is amazing how perfect they are. Creation is a pretty cool thing.

Ah... home for the next couple of nights. There are mini-rooms with twin cots, complete with scrim mosquito nets and even showers of freshly pumped river water. What ever the ambient temperature, simply add seven to ten degrees to get the mosquito protected bed climate. At night, I couldn't stop sweating, even after a pool of dampness soaked through the sheet and oozed between me and the plastic coated mattress.

After getting "settled in" there was time for a quick lounge in one of the several hammocks. The shade/indirect light brought slight relief to the hundred plus degree heat, redoubled with indigenous humidity levels.

A clammer of clapping beaks overhead kept interrupting our conversations. As it turns out, a pair of storks were nesting (among other things) about ten meters above our heads. Each would swoop across the pampas to collect more nest fodder, then the clapping and commotion would start up again. (The keen observer might notice the source of avian adulation below.)

Our guide was the "Rico Suave" of the Bolivian water ways, although there was some speculation as to which side of the river he motor his canoe. Of course that was ultimately a non-issue for our quality of tour, but some speculated how difficult it must be in this macho-centric environment.

The evening destination was a group gathering point, cum sunset viewing station and bar. As it turns out, the various camps convene in the evenings for a literal social hour around sunset.

This particular venue lauded cold beer (luke-warm but tasty none-the-less) and a perilous plank walk, lined with multi-national flags stations. The scaffolding teetered with just Lipika and me balancing along the stanchions. There was no way we were going to risk this event with 100 of our closest Israeli travelers.

About thirty people stood, balanced, and sat to watch the sunset from the rickety structure, while an alligator waited below for a catastrophic nibble. (Note the eyes in the water below.) Unfortunately, still reeling from the cigarette flicking incident our motives weren't exactly pure in which direction we were leaning.

Well, nothing actually happened except a few wabble and acohol induced staggers. So to end the day on a good note, we all enjoyed the sunset and hoped for a nocturnal cooling spell, which never came.

04.20 & 21.08 - Mt. Huayna Potosi circa de La Paz

2008-08-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

One Step Too Far

A new day brought a new challenge and hopes that reflection on the previous day could be masked, at least in part, by the challenge of climbing Mt. Huayna Potosi, which stands just shy of 20,000 ft. As we made way through the winding La Paz streets, gradually gaining altitude, it was not hard to notice who the wage earners in this society were. Bowler wearing matriarchs manage the businesses and much of the trade economy. This model reminded me of Africa, where wives similarly try to manage funds, against a "spend focused" male physical dominance.

Our route would bring us to the very rim of the La Paz basin and the large open air city market.

The higher the elevation, the less sophisticated the retail process, but the bowler clad entrepreneurs continued to ply their trade, in whatever space or venue available.

Near the market, a group of men played futbol. Despite the government trying to make "United States Bashing" the national sport of choice, the people still cling to an abbreviated version of the world's greatest sport. (The sides are only six vs. six, including keepers.)

The dirt surface makes for a fast paced, foot-skill heavy game, resulting in "out of bounds" plays almost every moment. It made me wonder why there weren't any "set plays" off of throw in balls. Maybe there are rules against, but there was a real strategic opportunity for "headers" and one-time "volleys" on goal.

The driver picked up our guide, along with food stuffs, completing the pre-climb rationing, so we continued winding alley by alley to escape from El Alto (La Paz's newest expansion, keeping the theme of seemingly random development) out to the expanse of the leading plain.

On this reasonably clear morning, Mt. Huayna Potosi was easily sighted off to the left. The pyramid shaped snow cap impressed, even from more than 20 miles away.

In mountaineering terms, without acclimatization, we would be attempting the near ridiculous. Our goal was the peak, at roughly 20,000 feet, in less than 24 hours. Had this been the Mt. Aconcagua expedition, our group would take ten days to establish proper acclimatization prior to attempting this height. Instead, we were looking to summit and return in less than a single day. Calculated risks are taken with every climb and this was no exception. In actuality, we would be ascending and descending quickly, garnering the benefit of over a month at altitudes greater than 12,000 ft.

The hike up to base camp was little more than a three hour slog through glacially deposited skree fields. The geological rubble is never really a great joy to trek through, but is the defining hope for more comfortable ice trekking further uphill. For a sense of perspective, this alpine hut rest at an altitude higher than any mountain peak in the lower 48 United States.

Fog or sky cover was a welcome relief from the intense sun. My biggest threat in climbing continues to be overheating in sub-zero temperatures. So the shaded slopes helped to keep the sweat to a minimum, while aiding in better bolder visibility. Lipika and I reached the shelter with relative ease, ate a good sized dinner, and were ready for an early evening crash, in preparation for our mid-night summit bid.

We woke in the pitch dark of a crystal clear night to "gear up", starting the climb on crispy ice and powder drift.

Our guide was surprisingly attentive to details, double checking every piece of equipment, like the tail of my crampon strap (sleepily neglected by yours truly).

Once Lipika was strapped in, harnessed, and roped into our three person line, we were ready to head up hill.

The night could not have been more beautiful and perfect. There wasn't a cloud in the high altitude sky, the moon was full, the ice was firm but not painfully hard and the breeze was slight.

At this altitude, the pace is sloooow. Imagine a dirge procession and divide the pace by two. Lack of oxygen makes the heart race, if the bio-tachometer comes anywhere near red-line, which in this case would be only about the equivalent of 3,000 rpm. If for any reason one feels like breaking out into second gear, the lack of oxygen will definitively establish a bodily stall.

To climb these types of mountains takes physical preparation, mental fortitude, unwavering drive, skill, and many times luck. Tonight we had most of the criteria but not all. Physically we were strong. Emotionally, exhaustion had set in, cramping our drive to the point of doubt. As soon as we began to doubt "Why we were doing this?", the summit bid was effectively over. Our bodies could blindly pace uphill, but that is tempting fate with inattentive reflexes. The truth of the matter was that neither one of us had anticipated the emotional drain of Ken's death a little over 24 hours prior.

So, instead of pushing on into the night for a now unfulfilling ascent Lipika and I gave a "group hug" in admitted submission and turned downhill. The sun brought new brilliance to our backtracking. Looking uphill there was accomplishment to enjoy, even without fruition. (Our path went just to the left of the snow capped false summit.)

The final return slope was just beginning to soften in the penetrating heat of the early morning. The high altitude meteorological system helps to preserve the footing of the glaciers by producing covering fog by mid-morning, but just like most glaciers on the planet, this one is receding as well.

After a nap and breakfast, with boots pointed downhill, we were ready to shake the snow, mud, and dust off of this experience. It is hard to make the right decision and it is ultimately rewarding, but defeat is always a little bitter. El Alto stretched out to once again to meet us, prior to the ultimate La Paz basin rim.

As the fastest growing city in Bolivia, just the portion of La Paz stretching into the high plain would populate the average mid-size city in the United States. Part of what makes this city so expansive is that there is relatively no high-rise building. By and large the population lives in five story or lower structures, which is a good thing, given the frequency of earthquakes and the sub-standard construction.

Decades old bus designs served as a surprising welcome post. With all its beauty and struggle, La Paz is a fascinating city and one I hope to see repeatedly.

As nomads, we were heading home, as any place that feels comfortable becomes, especially if more than one night is spent in the same hotel.

04.19.04 - Death Road

2008-08-21T22:15:00.000-07:00

A Glimpse into the Void

Peering from the hotel window, off to the left of Mt. Illamani, La Cumbre and our morning adventure lay. Lipika and I nurtured a healthy dose of nervous anticipation. Given the hype of descending over 11,800 feet, from the Bolivian Andes to the jungle floor below and having watched the Discovery Channel documentary, aptly named "The Death Road", to bike on the world's most dangerous road seemed tangible. After all, there weren't any reported biking deaths in the documentary, which just detailed illustrations of the over 200 annual passenger vehicle fatalities, more than any other stretch of road on earth.

Our starting point was the saddle between two peaks, known as La Cumbre, about fifteen miles outside of La Paz. For our advertised adrenaline adventure we simply chose the oldest and best bike tour company, Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking, the one featured in the Discovery Channel documentary. There would be three groups of fifteen riders, each with guide and support vehicle. A fellow American and recent acquaintance, Ken, would be riding in the group in front, followed by two others.

The high altitude sun was piercing, as usual, but armed with sunscreen, a healthy dose of caution, nerves, and a smile it was time to get outfitted and tackle the challenge.

The entire crew was literally covered with protective gear, from the obvious helmets, goggles, and safety vests, to layers of outer wear and the company's flaming buff.

The guide was a Brit, with a knack for the dramatic. Everything was a verse of "do this, or do it exactly this way, else you will die." Thus far, the Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking company has guided over 30,000 tourists down the World's Most Dangerous Road, known on as the Yungas Road to the locals, without major incident.

Protective statues of Jesus dot the landscape of South America and this was one place where every road occupant, on bike or in vehicles, could use some shielding. Our crew even took the extra step of pouring grain alcohol on each tire and then a drop on the ground as a sacrificial offering to Patcha Mama for protection.

The first 12 miles of the the road are beautifully paved, with the only real danger being the unpredictable Bolivian drivers (who often drive drunk or high on stimulants) and handling the curves at over 30 miles per hour.

The really good news about Gravity, as an expedition company, is that they are careful and prepared, almost to an extreme. About every three miles, each group of 15 riders and their guide would stop for a briefing, where the next three miles of travel were mapped out in careful detail. (Our guide was picturesque against a clearing morning fog.)

We got to experience an optional three mile uphill slog, at altitude, prior to entering the "actual" death road or "World's most dangerous road" section. A slight right hand turn off of the pavement yielded a gravel road entrance. The guides conducted one final equipment check, for each bike and then challenged with "Want to know how to die at ten miles an hour?" That was a rhetorical question, because he was going to show us no matter what the response. All he did was take a random bike, accelerate to ten miles an hour and then lock up the breaks and ask, "How far did I just skid?" Six feet... Then he responded, "You will only have a foot and a half room to operate in for the next 27 miles. Do not ever lock up your breaks!"

Now, intimidated into submission, the group headed for the real test of endurance and psychological battle. The smallest cliff , for half a days ride would be over 100 ft. This one was significantly higher than that. (Note the bus negotiating the turn, in proportion to the cliff.)

To make things even more real our guide gave the group a brief review of the bicyclist toll over the last couple of weeks. Two weeks prior, a French woman fell off the edge and died five hours later. Last week, a rider lost his foot in a tangle with other bikers and a truck. Now we were stopped just before a hairpin turn because the guide's radio was alive with news of a woman, from Gravity's first group being injured from a fall ahead. (The first group's chase vehicles mark the spot off in the distance.)

As time slogged by, the mood changed from talk of minor injury to murmurs of something more fatal. Thirty riders waited a quarter mile away in radio silence as all the Gravity guides worked vigorously further down the road.

Over two hours passed and there was no sign of the woman who had gone over the edge. Incidental tourist doctors stood near the edge, hapless, and helpless to assist.

Then, we were all shuttled back up hill to a minor village near the road's source. The first group, from the stopping point further down the road, headed out first, with tear filled eyes. (Heading up the hill I dared to look back and down to an orange-clad body, some 200 ft or more down the rock strewn cliffs. Survival would be an impossibility.) Now, all three Gravity groups were huddled in one location. Every woman was accounted for, and then it struck. "Where's Ken?" I muttered to my self and then audibly, while pushing through the crowd. Finally, I approached the first group of riders, who had isolated themselves from the remaining riders. "It was Ken, wasn't it?" finally phonated. The response was a question, "Did you know him?" (Past tense was not the linguistic form I wanted to hear.) "Yes..." Nothing further was needed. It hadn't been a woman who had fallen, but Ken.

There can only be praise for Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking and their handling of this situation. Every aspect was completely professional. They were able to descend, via a winch system attached to each chase vehicle, get Ken on a backboard with CV collar and perform CPR for an hour and a half, prior to acquiescing his death. The guides were heart broken. Lightning had struck the most prepared and professional outfit and there was absolutely nothing that they could have done better. The Bolivian bureaucratic snags were bafflingly frustrating, as we had to wait for over an hour at a checkpoint, because the guards weren't sure of what to do with an ambulance carrying a foreigner's body.

As night fell, the mountains filled with fog and clouds, only adding to the dread and sense of gloom in the air. We were each stunned and crushed in midst of our own individual coping process. Lipika and I had a pretty quiet night, in denial, overrun by disbelief and eager for a change of physical/emotional scenery. The morning would bring a sprint up a 21,500 ft peak and we were hoping this titan struggle would help distract from the day's trauma.

04.19.08 - Death Road Preface

2008-08-21T21:56:00.000-07:00

Please Remember to be Kind

Before heading to the day's review, I thought it fitting to share with you all an e-mail sent out to family and friends, one day removed...

Hello Family and Friends,

This is not one of those junk chain e-mails, but a true story of my last 30 hours in Bolivia.

Yesterday morning, I went to the hotel next door for their breakfast buffet, with a travel buddy. After arriving, we were seated at a table next to an American. Being more outgoing these days, I chatted him up for about five minutes getting all the cordial info: name, where from, how long here, etc. He was not feeling well and told me so.

Heading to the buffet, my friend Lipika asked if we should invite him to sit with us. I gave her a non-confirming glance, but she pressed on. ¨He´s sick,¨ I said. (Selfishly, I had just gotten over being sick and just wanted an uneventful breakfast.) This didn´t faze her willingness to embrace a solo traveler. So we ended up having breakfast with Ken, learning even more about him and enjoying the better part of an hour together. He was suffering from altitude sickness, so we urged him to drink much more water. He suggested a 16oz bottle, while I countered that it would be much better to buy a two liter, as he wouldn´t want to carry the extra weight around town so it would force him to drink more water.

All three of us were excited to try mountain biking ¨the world´s most dangerous road¨. So we all decided to use the best company and ride together.

This morning, the mountain biking group met at a cafe before jumping into the vans. Ken happily saw me sitting at a table with an open seat and joined us again for breakfast. Today he looked infinitely better and was excited about the success of the two liter bottle trick. As it turned out, there were three groups of fifteen riders and Ken was in the first group while we were in the third. He was happy, excited, and we agreed to meet at the bottom (some 62 kilometers away) and to have breakfast back at his hotel buffet the next morning.

Ken died today. Unfortunately, he went off the edge of a 500 foot cliff. This was devastating for the entire group of riders.

So, my encouragement to you is to resist the urge to be insular. If you can, reach out to someone. This story could have had a very different 30 hour sequence, where no one reached out to a lone traveler who was not feeling well and eating breakfast in solitude and went on to face eternity alone. I´m grateful to have had a travel buddy to force me out of a comfort zone to embrace a stranger.

There is no other way to say that this isn´t a tragic day for Ken´s family. I know that these kinds of e-mails float around and get deleted, as I´ve deleted more than my fair share as well. Each of you know me, better than most, so try to give an honest heartfelt effort to be overtly kind to someone, in your own good time. Even if you never see the fruit of your efforts, it will be worth every moment.

Cheers and love to you all,
Paul

04.18.08 - To LaPaz

2008-08-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

Sneaking-Up on 1.5 Million

Last night's bus trip broke with traveling tradition in several ways. First, we were surprised to head right back to Potosi and then follow through in the direction of LaPaz. Second, the operators actually made several restroom breaks along the way (in addition to a functioning "on bus" option), which was a nice change from being locked in the body of the bus while the drivers went off to take care of business. And finally, bus origination departure time can be relied upon, but after that travel is an exercise in ever increasing delay. So, imagine our surprise to arrive in La Paz a few hours early at around 6:00 am? We were still on the verge of sleep when the coach came to a stop on city streets. (The bus driver didn't feel like winding his way up to the actual station, so expelled passengers about a mile short of the mark.)

This premature exodus must be a common occurrence, because cabs flocked around the bus to transport the willing to local destinations. We took a short ride up the valley slope to Calle Illampu, which looked pretty desolate.

As we approached Calle Santa Cruz, one of the main open market areas, vendors were busy preparing for the start of the day.

From the hotel room vista, the relative size of Bolivia's largest city couldn't actively be grasped in the early morning fog blanket. Somewhere, out in the mist over 1.5 million residents were either sleeping, preparing for their morning, or already hard at work. After a ragged night's bus laden attempted rest, there were no arguments against taking a nap.

Mid-morning brought a differing view of this basin city. The bulk of La Paz's residents live in the sloping bowl hillsides or over its rim in el alto. Wealth and status have a direct correlation to altitudinal positioning. La Paz rests over 2.5 miles up, or roughly 3,660 meters above sea level. At this elevation hundreds of meters make a noticeable difference in quality of life and oxygenation, so the closer one lives to the bottom of the valley, the higher the property value. Our hotel was on the edge of more struggling neighborhoods, which may or may not have utilities.

Regenerated, Lipika and I headed downhill to the Plaza de San Francisco. The massive church was closed, but the scene generated a snapshot of typical Bolivian life; in the shadow of Spanish colonialism and oppression, locals seek shelter from the elements, snack on maize, and the dominant female matriarch looms large.

La Paz maintains an endemic interchange of pedestrians and vehicles occupying a tangle of roads and sidewalks, who's individual function is sometimes confused or interchangeable. The vehicles are mostly dated, but the buses are especially impressive for antiquated design and durability. This former "gold rush" town, founded in 1548 by Alonso de Mendoza, seems to have paved the winding and muddy horse/mule trails to form a macadam, cobble stone, and gravel labyrinth.

One of my goals, in traveling, is to visit as many different modern art museums as possible. La Paz actually has a decent rendition, for a struggling third world environ.

No photography was permitted inside, but a few external sculptures played the visually surrogate themes of internal artwork. This particular installment symbolized the sacrifice made by indigenous peoples, in the mining industry, to support the wealth of ruling Spanish colonizing forces, with their close governmental/missionary connection to the Catholic church.

Bolivians, especially the current ruling party, share an emphasized glamorization of all things native, especially symbolic feast and celebration elements. So the other dominant theme of both this sculpture and the museum was the indulgence of native expression. (There is obviously nothing inherently wrong with this, but the overabundance arguable swayed Museo de Arte Contemporaneo in the direction of a native arts collection, leaving diversity to the non-Boliviano artists displayed.)

After the museum, we signed up for our following morning biking expedition (down the "Death Road") and headed to a cafe for a mid-afternoon snack. Petty theft is as common here as any other city, but one of the deterrents was pretty clever. By simply using the chain and clip, attached to a solid chair frame, the absent minded "purse grab" could be slowed to near elimination. (NYC restaurateurs may want to think of installing something like this.)

Clearing evening skies revealed one of the other wonders of La Paz environs, amazing mountains. Mt. Illamani soars to 6402 meters or just shy of 4 miles into the stratosphere. Mt. Illamani is only one of six mountains visible in LaPaz, depending on vantage point. Tomorrow, we will start our bike ride just to the left of this monster, at the summit divide separating Illamani and it's alpine neighbor.

Meanwhile, despite approaching dusk, the day is not lost for "patch shopping". In an attempt to find flags or "banderas" for every South American country visited, I wandered the Calle de Santa Cruz...

... only to find boundless opportunity to purchase random apparel and footwear, but no patches. Oh well, there are more countries and markets to explore, in time.

04.16 & 17. 08 - Sucre

2008-08-17T16:42:00.000-07:00

Exploring "La Ciudad Blanca"

Hostel Charcas was located directly across the street from the Iglesia San Francisco, which meant that we were absolutely in the "center of it all". The traffic outside on Calle Ravelo was non-stop. Traffic police maintained a constant chorus of whistle chirps and stutters. For the life of me I couldn't figure out which blast meant to go and which meant that traffic should stop. Using their hands to mute the vibrating whistle bead the oratory left a promising headache on the rise and a heightened desire to explore the city. The whistle blasts were so consistent, that even when traffic had calmed down for the night and the police had gone home, the resident parrot kept mimicking banter going most of the night.

The main entrance to Iglesia San Francisco, which served as a troop barracks in the Spanish revolution, among other things, has subtly captivating detail. Since everything is painted a bright white and the high altitude sun glares from above, there is relatively little incentive to look upwards. But, if you do take the chance to peer (early morning and sunset are the best times) the frieze designs are impressive.

Facing the main entrance of Iglesia de San Francisco, if you head to the right (corner of Ravelo and Aniceto Arce) is a classic church square lined with native craft vendors... this is where the good quality goods can be found.

Lipika is a good soul with values which brought me back to my German childhood. She had found a 5 Boliviano coin on the street, about $0.75. This may not be much to a gringo traveler, but could make a nice difference in a native person's day. So, Lipika was on a mission to find someone to bequeath her monetary find. A local woman, sitting with coca leaves under one eye, to help with a condition, was more than happy to be the recipient. Both women were happy for the transaction.

The two square blocks around Iglesia de San Francisco fills with local life. Children focus on homework, while sitting on the street corner.

Or, if you would like to see a real food market in action, simply walk around to the left of the church entrance and prepare to be amazed with produce, but be careful with photos as the vendors here aren't so amicable.

Ironically, we climbed right back up the hill to our lodging location of the first night in Sucre. Off in the distance is a row of connected arches, which house a craft market with the best views in town.

One of the beauties of South America, and Bolivia in particular, is by keeping an open eye for simplicity, beauty will find you. Everything from a Mom waiting with her son...

... to a dog waiting patiently in the doorway takes on new, added, meaning.

Finally reaching the hilltop market, there was a wealth of hand crafted goods to choose from.

But, Lipika was not so sure about a grey hat for me, so trustingly I acquiesced and got a brown one instead.

Our reward for shopping here is another chance at incredible city-scape views. (The tower to the right is Islesia de Santa Monica, while the tower to the left is the Cathedral, with the former Capital building flying the national colors in the center.)

The advantage of a complete lack of sky scraping structures is that church towers poke into the heavens with clarity. In modern, Western, culture we have lost this metaphorical stretch in the shadows of our new sleek glass encased business temples, which value the separation of looking down on others more than peering upwards into imagination.

Unlike Valparaiso, Chile, which still baffles the imagination as to why it has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Sucre's merits as a capsule into Colonial Spanish architecture is clear and undeniable.

The Bolivian Supreme Court building stands majestically at the edge of Parque Bolivar.

The municipal theatre and former opera house looks like it would be equally comfortable in Vienna as Sucre.

This post office headquarters blends historic architecture with modern communications, all while celebrating the 20th anniversary of this vital function.

Sucre is also know for its city parks, far superior to any other Bolivian attempts. The range of flora here continues to impress.

Walking the city, we decided to take a rest on one of many cast framed benches, which could easily have been of colonial period design, save the 2004 seal.

Actually, truth be told, the bench was a good place to recover from a wasp sting. This aggressive variety was particularly vehement, swelling my entire forearm. As the venom quickly spread, my bicep remained locked in a state of constant constriction. It took the better part of 20 minutes for things to settle and the muscles to release, which was when this photo was taken (so imagine the "real time" impact).

Just when tempted to think I was in bad shape, the king of Spain saved me from self-pity. Even though colonial freedom came in 1825, the locals make sure to remember the weight of empirical rule and publicly shun symbols of burden where ever possible.

Kitty-corner to the former capital building of Bolivia, under renovation after recent riots, lies the Casa de la Libertad.

This structure was the focal point of the revolution and where the Bolivian declaration of independence was signed. Visiting the historic site allowed Lipika a refreshing splash of Deutsch. Our guide spent several months in Munich as an aupare, remembering an incredible vocabulary from this stint in the 1980's. (I figured either German or Spanish would net about 50% comprehension, so at least someone should fully receive the data... and of course be willing to answer questions.)

This gilded loft hangs over the entrance to the first hall of state for Bolivia.

Initially, this room served as a royal magistrate chamber, however, post-revolution it seemed fitting to use for legislature. Just to the right of the main chamber is a smaller hall, which houses the very first Argentine flag. It was used in battle against the Spanish, as part of the Bolivian liberation quest, so has significance for both countries. At this point, there is a technological stalemate for possession. The Bolivians have agreed that the flag belongs to Argentina, but if it is moved from the current resting place it will deconstruct to shreds. So, for now, the historic relic stays put.

Originally one of the oldest colleges, the current building boasts large courtyards and systemic colonial architecture.

With the looming clouds and hints towards rain, we thought it might be a good idea to grab some dinner, on the main square, prior to catching an evening bus to LaPaz.

Somehow, we have managed to keep our sense of humor over the consistent drone of near sleepless nights traversing a patchwork of paved and not-so-paved Bolivian infrastructure.

Or, it could simply be that my goofy cowboy hat, left over from the solar, still brings a laugh to Lipika, which in turn becomes contagious.

04.15.08 - Sucre

2008-08-12T22:17:00.000-07:00

Something Old, Something New

Our hotel came highly recommended by friends for the hilltop view of the city, great food, and incredible rooms. Well, two out of three wasn't bad. These clear skies and incredible landscapes simply can't be beat, especially when combined with near German quality breads for breakfast. However, at more than $35 a night, the spartan but expertly clean room simply felt over-priced.

This is the exact same shot as last night, but this time in the daylight.

While Lipika talked to her boyfriend Dirk, ...

I was able to check out many more of South America's incredible flora.

Moving to a new, less expensive, hostel across the street from Iglesia San Francisco, our roof deck had nothing to be ashamed of with this fuchsia display.

Iglesia San Francisco is an incredible complex, dominating a square city block. There are so many different views, that it is hard to find the perfect shot.

Subdued detail is everywhere and some of these pictures are added here just so I will have the chance to remember.

The Plaza 25 de Mayo is the figurative and literal center of Bolivia. The Cathedral marks the Western corner of the square, ...

complete with storied statuary. Even though the architecture is of Spanish design, much of the labor was native, including the casting for the statues. The Inca were a relatively technologically developed empire, prior to foreign occupation.

Just to the left of the Cathedral is Calle de Nicolas Ortiz or the "holy grail" of Gringo Eateries, which line the entire left side of the street.

After declaring and finally winning independence from Spain in 1825, Sucre was the state and civil capital of the new republic, aptly named after its liberating leader Simon Bolivar. During that same period the city's name was changed from the Spanish dictated Chuquisaca to Sucre, in honor of the focal military resistance general. More recently, the city of LaPaz has taken the status of "state capital" from Sucre, although the nations supreme court still convenes in the traditional local chambers.

Looking at the beautifully designed and colorfully decorated former capital building, I assumed that renovations must be under way, due to the plywood covering lower windows. Actually, what happened was the locals took revenge on their historic capital building a few weeks ago, because they were angry over an impending vote on a new constitutional and the migration of the national assembly to LaPaz. I understand the anger portion, but if a mob trashes the assembly building, does that really help their chances of the legislature returning? Where would they meet?

Our adventure target of the day predates the liberation and formation of Bolivia by a few million years. We were headed to see dinosaur foot prints at Francesa's cement quary. Spare change will get you a lift in this nifty contraption to the fringe of town and history.

If you close your eyes, forget about the altitude, imagine there are vast quantities of humidity hanging in the air, and soak up the sun, we could have easily been entering a theme park in Florida. The hype and visitor center were impressive, thanks to a multi-million dollar grant by the world monetary fund.

From across a fairly wide expanse, complete with working cement quarry, a sheet of solid volcanic sub-straight stands vertically.

Millions of years ago, this slab was nothing but swamp bed near a lake. As a local volcano erupted, mega-tons of ash fell from the sky and settled. The dinosaurs must not have been too ignorant, because they fled the scene. As various layers of ash covered the tracks, the amalgamation hardened at differing rates, resulting in a firm foundation and a solid covering layer.

Gradual crust uplift and movement set this hundreds of meters long sheet on its side. Fortunately, for the preservation of the footprints, the thinner covering layer, shielding these dino-impressions is of no value for the manufacture of cement. So local laborers excavated along this natural divider for the better part of 30 years, before someone noticed that the thinner skim coat was fracturing, revealing an interesting pattern underneath.

Since importance has been put on these footsteps, preservation has been accomplished in typical Bolivian style, meaning, keep mining full speed ahead and allow the gringos to fund a visitor center across the valley. Well, hopefully the volcanic stone is strong enough to endure direct exposure to the weathering elements, after being covered for millions of years. The mining contract is due to expire in about five years, so we will have to see if it is renewed.

A beautiful advantage of the cement quarry location is a spectacular view, back towards the outskirts of Sucre. The newly constructed suburbs lay across these high mountains like a napkin across the rolling contour of a lap.

04.14.08 - Potosi to Sucre

2008-08-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

To Hell and Back

After a rough night's nervous rest, it was time to face the demon in the bright morning light, before meeting him personally in the darkness. Pictures hardly portray the ominous nature of this massive and eroding peak. It is postulated that there are so many unsupported mine shafts here that one day the earth will simply implode, netting a mountain 1,000 meters shorter than today's teetering conglomerate.

Given the Monday morning timing, many miners are recovering from a weekend of partying or are busy with inter-coop soccer matches, so the "miner's market" is pretty quiet.

At the miner's market we buy coca leaves and an activating base paste for the miners. It is tradition for mine visitors to bring gifts of coca leaves, soda, ...

and dynamite.

With gifts in hand, we headed to the changing room to get protectively layered.

Lipika was kind enough to model all the gear, including the thick miner's helmet.

Preparation for the next several hours of sub-terranean groveling droned painfully long, but finally, staring up the mountain nervous butterflies pushed at stomach walls.

Then, there it was, narrow gage rail leading to a minor hole in the mountain, ...

hardly taller and wider than a hand-pushed ore cart.

There is practically nothing mechanical in this mine, save a drill for laying dynamite. Human will propels the industry. Years ago, the Bolivian government basically leased the mountain to dozens of competing mining co-ops, which they tax and monitor. As an outsider, when a controlling government walks away from a 500 year old source of billions of dollars in wealth, this should be a clear sign that meaningful mining has come to an end and the mountain is spent.

In the times of Spanish colonialism, the mother veins of silver would run two-meters wide. Now, a hair-line trail, hardly visible to the untrained eye garners attention and excitement. Mining Co-ops are actually re-entering colonial shafts to extract what was too insignificant to prior generations.

Over a kilometer into and under the mountain, with our group of two plus guide, there is no buttressing of walls or ceiling. (Actually, that ended very close to the entrance.) Our guide explains, "It takes time and money to put supports into the mine. We don't want to waste the money and if we use time for that we are not making money by removing the minerals."

But aren't the miners afraid of collapse?

"That is up to fate."

Each step we take, deeper into the mine, we are tempting the same fate and I don't particularly like the odds. The average, over hundreds of years, equates to several people dieing each day under this mountain. This fact looms in my mind as each of us balances across two slick logs, over a vertical shaft, to approach the most dangerous event of the day.

This may be a good moment to point out that our tour is in an actual functioning co-op mine. Rock and ore are being dumped from above, in intervals, falling between the logs to a collection point too far below to see with the aid of flash. On the other side of the pit is a lone plastic rope, no thicker than the average index finger. We are now to climb this line upwards, using the wall as a foot fall and guide, straight up 20 meters.

Our reward is the deepest part of the active mine shaft. Since this co-op operates at the bottom of the mountain, they have access to the deepest veins. The air is thick, with sparse oxygen and soaring temperatures. It may be alpine and cool outside, but the deeper one ventures, towards the center of the earth, the hotter and less existent life becomes.

In exchange for gifts of soda, dynamite, and coca leaves, we are given the opportunity to take a shift shoveling the blasted fragments. Needless to say, I've got "no skills" and am a good source of laughter for these sub-terranean laborers.

Lipika garners miner interest and cheers of support... and actually moves far more ore than my attempt. Notice the young miner just to the right. His cheek is swollen and this is not from tobacco. He has packed his cheek with coca leafs, then activates the stimulant with some of the gritty base material. The young men work twelve or twenty-four hour shifts, without food breaks, so the coca leaf stimulant propels them forward.

An interesting side-line is that native women are not allowed "inside" the mines. It is considered bad luck. But, in recent years, the flow of gifts from tourists has seemed to relax the "Men Only" rules.

The return climb, down the vertical shaft, posed a different and far more dangerous situation than the ascent. First, the undersized rope was actually made of blue plastic and was now covered in a slick earthen glaze. Second, there is no secondary rope system, i.e. if you slip or fall, you are likely dead. I wrapped the blue cord around my arm a couple of times and "went for the burn". There is no time to panic and no need for a cry of "help" as no one could provide aid. This was a rare moment of complete self-reliance... live or die, your choice.

Tens of meters beneath, this simple ore trap served as loading bay for the hand propelled process of extricating. These two men, plus one more out of frame, would now push a fully loaded mining cart the kilometer or more to the surface entrance, where it would be dumped. The empty rail cart is then pushed, uphill, all the way back to this point... at a jog.

Following behind the ore cart, our group of three simply couldn't come close to keeping pace with these uber-laborers (sorry, no umlaut on this keyboard). So, just shy of the entrance we ventured down a short shaft to find El Teo, the devil. This simple hand carved and constructed devil represents one of the most demonic additions to South America from the colonizing Catholic faith, as led by the Spaniards.

The local history tells the story that hundreds of years ago, the Spanish were literally working the local labor to death. They had brought thousands of slaves from Africa, to increase the labor pool, but the high altitude exertion and cold outside temperatures killed them off in a matter of weeks. So, to insure production levels, native slave miners were worked even harder. Finally, the indigenous laborers reached a flash point and refused to work. The Spanish had been "Evangelizing" the locals with their Catholic faith. So, the leaders created a new incentive for the native population by creating a physically present underworld god. They taught that above ground, their Catholic god reigned, but underground El Dio rules. The Ketchua language does not have a "D" consonant, so this demonic anti-god became known as El Teo. If they did not work hard, then El Teo would cause bad things to happen to them. What is more motivating, an invisible Catholic god or a tangible underground god that has the power to kill you?

The indigenous people brought El Teo presents to appease him and returned to their slave labors. The genius of this cultural manipulation icon was blending native beliefs with Catholic. The Ketchua believe in Pache Mama, mother earth, and a father sky. These two deities have sex every day at the rising of the sun and produce all the abundance of life on the earth's surface, as a result. Now, El Teo, with his massive phallus, breeds with Pache Mama under ground, as well, and his semen is represented in the veins of silver and ore in the rocks.

The local miners make offerings to El Teo daily, often drinking 160 proof alcohol with him and covering him with streamers during celebrations. (The empty bottles at the idol's feet are considered part of the offering.) One would think, that after so many years, miners would abandon this tradition, but despite the expulsion of the Spanish these "good luck" symbols are hard to part with.

Light has never been more welcome, than leaving this mine. Our guide rambled on and on about El Teo, with story after testimonial story, meanwhile we were ready to "get the heck outta Dodge!" Soaked with sweat, the cool alpine air was a welcome relief.

I was glad for the experience and empathy generated for these tremendously hard working miners, most of whom will never reach 40 years, but this is an opportunity I don't care to repeat. Without safe working conditions, almost every single career miner with die young, either from accident or lungs filled with dust. There wasn't a single laborer older than me, and yet they appeared withered and wrinkled. The truly sad thing is that many of them started, nimbly, in the mines at the age of ten and now in their twenties are strong but broken old men.

The juxtaposition of a beautiful afternoon and Cathedral to the mines made the centuries of torment more tangible. The amazing thing, to me, is that after receiving their liberation from Spain the native people didn't demolish the Cathedrals, much in the same way the Spaniards had razed their Inca temples.

I was a little numb from the experience, as we drove from the highest civilization in the world to the former capital of Bolivia, Sucre. In the clear evening sky, Sucre lay across the valley and hills like a glitter blanket, with the Cathedral San Francisco at its center. Selfishly and burdened by the day's experience, I was ready for a lighter atmosphere.

04.13.08 - Potosi

2008-08-10T15:41:00.000-07:00

A History of Conquest

There is something a little eerie about waking up in the world's highest city. At 4,060 meters in elevation, Potosi's historic towers seem to, and actually do, reach into the heavens. To give a benchmark, at more than 12,000 feet, Potosi lies at more than twice the elevation of Denver, Colorado, famous for being the "mile high city". At this height, waking "night gasps" for oxygen aren't a factor when sleeping, but with the exertion of normally paced walking down the street, lack of oxygen can sneak up on you.

Of course, the locals have adjusted to the altitude over generations, so we really shouldn't have been surprised to find the city center flooded with children and a regional road race running competition. (I love that their pinned numbers are hand painted on cloth fabric swatches.)

Given that it is Sunday, there are few sites to be had except for the Casa Real de Moneda or the Spanish Royal Mint, first constructed in the 1750's to manage coin production from the literally hundreds of tons of silver mined here each year.

The restored colonial building is worth the architectural viewing effort, with beautiful courtyards, ...

thickened treasury vault walls, topped with cupolas, ...

curved Spanish tile roofs, ...

and graceful repeating arches connecting the ante-building with the actual "forging and stamping area" of the mint.

The courtyard main entrance to the building is oddly centered with an almost demonically smiling figurehead, which oddly enough likely captures the gluttonous conquering disposition of plundering Spanish colonialism.

In the mid-eighteenth century, this room constituted "state of the art" coin manufacture. The mechanized stamping process minimized variation in weight and size of the empires money supply.

Lacking electricity, "mule power" drove the labyrinth of coin stamping mechanisms. Animals would work twelve hour shifts at the turn wheel, then be relieved by another grouping. The work was so intense and persistent that these beasts of propulsive burden could only manage a mere six months before ultimately breaking.

Of course, money needs a safe means of transportation and storage, so strong boxes were constructed.

Check out the "keying system" for this royal safety box. I'm not sure duplicate keys could be readily made at the local hardware store for this door.

A surprise find, in one of the empty vaults, was the main alter piece for the town's cathedral, which is currently under renovation.

Completing the Casa Real del la Moneda tour, ...

we headed back behind the closed cathedral to venture into the "working area" of Potosi.

We were a little surprised to find portions of the market open and preparing for Monday morning business. As with other third world eating efficiency, nothing is wasted.

Although, this "madam butcher" was in no ways amused by Lipika's inadvertent camera flash, disrupting her bovine skull butchering efforts.

Mmmm... dinner.

The beauty of detailed architecture is when extraordinary towers light up the evening sky with color, angles, and design.

The beauty of clear, black, evening sky was enhanced by the illuminated pyramid outline of the Potosi mountain. If you didn't know any better, one might think that this visual display was a ski resort, instead of geographic epicenter to the greatest loss of human life in history, with over 8 million souls lost under this lit apex, since the inauguration of Spanish colonial reign. So, guess what the target of tomorrow's exploration will be?

A Little Patience

2008-07-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

Hello Family and Friends...

I know it has been an unbelievably long time since the last entry, so thanks for your patience!

Recently, life has been consumed with traveling across the United States by car, under a seemingly constant deluge of rain. There have only been 4 days of rain-free summer since leaving San Francisco, June 2nd.

After returning to the Bay Area, August 8th, then there will be a full press to catch up with the South America travels, followed by filling in some really interesting gaps like Mt. Everest.

Hopefully, you will be willing to check back in about a week or so... and thanks for the many "what's happened to your blog" e-mails. I love that so many of you are interested and loyal. So again, I'm sorry for the the weeks of gap and thanks so much for your continued interest.

Cheers,

Paul

04.12.08 - To Potosi

2008-06-10T19:57:00.000-07:00

To the Center of the Known World

Tupiza was a decent one day excursion to a two horse town. Some people fall in love with the locale, but we planned an early exit instead. Transportation in Bolivia is either by bus (reasonable in price and speed), train (reasonable in price and who knows when the strike riddled system will deliver), or personal taxi (expensive but fast). We chose the bus to Potosi, complete with "state of the art" spider web windshield cracks.

Busing Bolivia demands flexibility as well. Who knows who or what will be sharing this mode of transport... maybe even a shipment of complete stocks of maize?

Speaking of corn, the bio-scape of under-developed South American countries has not be congenial to my digestive track or my flora has been too amicable to microbial intruders. Either way, the last 16 hours of chills and sweats left me craving a simple meal of soup and corn. This is not your average sweet corn but chalky yellow starch nuggets. The simplicity helped to steady things.

It's got to be good... because if Granny was eating it, then its all good. She was my tennis shoe wearing culinary inspiration.

Ah, Potosi, the center of life on the planet 500 years ago. Did you know that in those colonial times Potosi, Bolivia was the wealthiest and largest city on the planet? London and Paris paled in comparison on both accounts. The reason being, that Potosi held the largest known silver reserves in the world. The Spanish held hundreds of thousands of native workers in slave or conscript conditions to feed the wealth of the Empire. As a result Potosi grew to mammoth economic and human proportions.

What remains is a crumbling framework of opulence. The colonial structures are a withering reminder of former greatness. Just as the silver veins have been exhausted and the mines left to native generations, so the former estates and government buildings have followed suite.

Classic Spanish design elements still linger through the old town, in spite modern threshold improvements.

The orange building to the left is our hostel, which seems to be in the very shadow of the Potosi mountain. It is not a beautiful mountain, but a creepy pyramid of foreboding presence. Over 8 million miners have died inside since tunneling began around five hundred years ago. It is said that, "This mountain eats men."

From the roof-deck of the hostel, we could be looking out over any number of clay tile roofed Spanish towns, but instead it is not hard to be reminded that we are in one of the poorest countries in South America.

All it takes is a peek out of the port hole bathroom window towards the mines, noticing the neighborhoods descend in poverty order toward the overwhelming plight of abject want. This is a very odd city of great former beauty, tremendous impoverishment and stolen wealth, that dazzles and deadens it successive moments.

04.11.08 - Tupiza

2008-06-10T05:59:00.000-07:00

Ride 'em Cowboy!

There are a couple of reasons to come to Tupiza. One of them is to ride the canyon's via horseback and imagine yourself as either Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid, or if you prefer one of the posse that hunted them down. But, first you must ride past the "Devil's Gate" on your way into the steep walled canyons.

Being a PG-13 type blog... I won't give you the Spanish name for this valley, but it is called "The valley of ....(s)". I think you can take one look at the stone pillars pictured and figure it out.

Even though our ride was during the mid-afternoon, the sun was intense and we welcomed the narrowing canyon, with its added shade.

Our horse's seemed to naturally know the way (I'm sure through the drone of daily repetition), but this didn't make the three hour ride any less fun.

At the end of the canyon, Lipika and I were given an hour, by the guide, to scramble up the narrow gaps and enjoy the amplified orange colors. Deep in the crevasses the ambient lighting on the floor gave evening shadow during the mid-afternoon.

Returning to the horses, my three dollar investment in a cowboy hat on the Salar was reaping dividends once again. The Bolivian high altitude deserts are no place for the UV wary.

Finally, leaving the valley, we were treated to a Tupiza display of ascending mountain ranges in three distinct colors. The mineral segregation in Bolivia is truly amazing. I don't know how this happens geologically, but the result is a pretty cool visual.

Local guides are pretty amicable, but unreliable. The classic example was on our return to the town of Tupiza via horseback. The most direct route is straight up the raid road track. After asking the guide if there are any trains in the afternoon and receiving reassurance that there were none, guess what chugged up the track? Oh well, at least the horse's weren't freaked out and there was room to trot off into a playground. Our five hour ride was cut short through a tour agent miscommunication, resulting in a three hour excursion. Actually, there were no complaints from us, as the three hour walk, trot, canter, and gallop left us plodding along, nursing our best "cowboy stride" bow-legged walk.

04.10.08 - To Tupiza

2008-06-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

Dusty Roads Through the Land of Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid

Leaving Uyuni brought mixed emotions. We had a really good time in a local bar, which had the most friendly and hospitably proprietor yet encountered in South America, but the calendar pushed us onwards. Tupiza was the next target and only a mere seven hour bus journey away. The catch was that, by and large, the journey contained about four hours of "white knuckle" cliff driving on single track, with no bathroom breaks. Angela, a fellow traveler met in Spain called this leg of the journey, "The scariest bus ride in the world." ... an understandable statement.

Despite the cloudless, blue skies and penetrating radiant heat, water poured on the engines simply froze in place. It is a strange sensation to be hot in the direct sunlight and then bone chillingly cold, in a matter of moments, after stepping into the shade.

Part of why our trip became so protracted was an hour plus lay over in some quaint little town between Uyuni and Tupiza. (These may look like train tracks, but they are really the directions to the local WC, i.e. in and around the tracks is the WC, which took a little while to figure out.)

We killed the time by eating local food and wandering the length of main street. In the primary town square, a strange erection to local miners combined with a defunct single engine airplane graced the plaza. We couldn't figure out what the connection could be, but there you have it... installation modern art in minor Bolivian village.

This proved to be our first real exposure to native "country or campo" dress. The women wear bowler hats, layered sweaters, stockings, and a form of flip-flops. For a fashion statement, it all comes together and seems to work for them or at least captured our attention any way.

These older ladies in the town square were classic in their attire.

After the break, we headed over several passes and skirted many a gorge. The bus passed within a few kilometers of where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were finally gunned down. Countryside miles passed by like an extended Hollywood western set. As long as you didn't pay attention to the cliff edges and the bus path along the narrow gage, all was well.

Finally we arrive in Tupiza to a find a moderately priced Hostel with a flowering tree, which at the time seemed like an oasis... but later just a big purple tree in a courtyard... haaa.

But we were most excited by the pool option, given the unrelenting heat of the day. As it turned out, the pool was beyond freezing, so relaxing in chairs to enjoy the cooling of the desert evening proved to be a better option.

04.09.08 - Salar Day 3

2008-06-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

Breakdown, Bath, and Bed

Objective number one, get to the thermal geysers for sunrise, was the initial plan. Our driver had other ideas. Unfortunately, we have experienced much more of a grumpy, non-english speaking, taxi service than a guided tour of the Salar. In the pre-dawn hours, our driver stopped to help another tour's truck, which was experiencing engine issues. No problem, but when two other trucks, from that other company showed up he should have returned attention to his clients. Instead, the local "let's stare at the engine contest" continued as time pushed towards sunrise. Then in a desperate attempt to make up squandered time he dashed across a rock strewn valley for an immediate punctured a tire. Sunrise was resigned to the idiot antics of our "no tip getting" driver.

Then, if I hadn't of insisted, he was going to simply plow right on past the largest geyser and keep on going. A good guide with a micro-grain of customer service is generally a good idea.

The other truck's guide, and owner of the company, tried to help out as best he could but the methodology that all companies on the Salar are forced to operate with is to hire a truck and driver from a collective co-operative pool. In essence, the only controllable differences in companies are the quality of food and lodging. Everything else is left to the luck of the driver pool drawl.

Despite the false start debacle, sunrise in the Salar can be a beautiful, light bending experience.

The good news was, that while breakfast was being prepared, a natural hot spring soaked away the bummer start to the day.

Collectively, we were resolved to make the best of our remaining time by joking and posing for a myriad of Steve photo-ops.

Or, actually I think Emily took this one... note the volcano reflection in the glasses... not the nose hair... haaa.

Despite the lack of guide, i.e. the grumpy driver should have been our guide as well, everyone was happy to have made the trip to the largest salt lake in the world and the driest desert, but we were whipped. Three days of eight hour plus off-roading can wear you out. So instead of heading back to the hostel, for another no shower night, we all wandered to a local hotel and soaked in the hot showers. Clean sheets on clean skin equated to instant sleep, unless you were of the "wild catter" persuasion.

04.08.08 - Salar Day 2

2008-06-05T06:53:00.000-07:00

Eggs, Birds, and Wide Open Volcanic Spaces

These volcanic gas bubble eggs were a pretty cool sight this morning. Over five hundred years ago, the natives would crack open an entrance into these formerly viscus, hollowed, magma chambers to create the perfect cross-dimension capsule for their deceased comrades.

The native ceremonial belief structure around death was similar to the Egyptians, in that basic mummification was also conducted here, and provisions for the after life were sealed in the vulcan eggs for use in the afterlife. The broken pottery jars, in the foreground, would have contained grains for later consumption, and of course the internal organs of the deceased as well. The fetal position of mummies symbolized a return to the womb, but to achieve this final positioning both knees and hips needed to be broken.

Even after desecration by grave robbers, it is amazing how the super dry desert environment has even preserved the discs between vertebra, allowing for a five-hundred year connection to be maintained.

Back to the driest desert in the world, we hunted for volcanoes...

... and managed to catch a glimpse of one smoldering giant on the Chilean border. Actually, this one was taking a bit of a nap, as I had seen much more impressive pictures from just a few days prior. (Note the little "puff" half-way down on the left.)

... Speaking of "little puffs", our surprise passenger was up to some gastrointestinal gymnastics. She was cute as can be and very well behaved, but could wipe out a nine-passenger Landcruiser with a single expulsion. We spoke in code, so that whomever was sitting next to the windows could arrange an emergency ventilation drill, by saying "Does something smell like Tibet in here?", which was more discretely and instantaneously communicated as simply "Tibet!" Unfortunately, the whole scenario reminded me of the Friends/Phoebe song "Smelly Cat", specifically the phrase "What are they feeding you?"

Dormant and semi-active volcanoes line the dried Salar lake bed, leaving smaller wet lakes in between. These waters are densely saline, creating a perfect crustacean habitat for migrating flamingos to feast upon.

The natural coloration of these tiny krill/shrimp type creatures are what actually give the flamingo their pink pigmentation. Without consuming vast quantities of these salt water crustaceans the flamingos would remain a more subtle dirty white color.

These birds are grazers and walk with their beaks below the water line. That way they can skim the muddy bottom. It is fun to watch their wandering "Etch-a-Sketch" patterns left in the lake floor.

There were several lakes on the day's agenda and this one served as "lunch break distraction". Apparently the resident photographer deemed it "impossible to shoot a reflection" here, so sorry Steve... here's the proof. :-)

Probably why he thought the odds were leaning towards impossible was the appearance of multiple dust devils, both in camp and across the shallow lake bed. These mini-tornadoes could whip up a furry in a matter of moments and sent us scrambling for the trucks when one gave our lunch site the "shake and bake" treatment.

After lunch it was time to experience lack of humidity in extreme. To get there our crew continued the off-roading adventure. (Thought of Dan D. all day... must go to the desert upon returning to CA.)

For a sense of scale, Steve took this picture of Lipika and I walking across the powdery dehydrated surface of the desert. Vast would be an enormous understatement of the expanse of nothingness. The silence was dense and almost heavy in this high altitude UV exposure basin. It was almost as if the grains of sand were consuming every vibration.

Now for some volcanology "coolness". Apparently, a local volcano started to erupt during the Ice Age. Millions of tons of ice slowed the magma flow as it struggled to the surface, eventually stunting the eruption. Then, after the ice age had passed and the volcano had gotten a second chance at releasing some energy, it threw these massive chunks of preformed, semi-solid, rock from the first eruption across the valley and some, like this one, landed with unique form. This particular rock is called the stone tree. (Again, for scale, this is about thirty-five feet high and completely impressive.)

The most visually impactful lake/volcano combo was the last of the day. The perfect cone, red lake banks, and salt rim were a study in contrast. (It would have been nice to have a "real camera" here.)

More flamingos enjoyed the brine feast. There were actually three distinct types of flamingos and today it is safe to say that we witnessed two.

Closer to shore, juvenile llamas captured our collective attention.

The llama herders put colorful yarn tassels in their animal's ears, in lieu of branding. The added benefit is that they look pretty cool as well.

Just so you don't think that we were "living it up" on the Salar, our cement constructed dormitory could have easily served as a "meat locker" when guests were not present. The night was cold, but the group's good natured humor and shared libations were warming.

04.07.08 - Salar Day 1

2008-05-29T20:36:00.000-07:00

The Biggest Salt Lake in the World

Emily, Steve, Lipika, and I were energized to get out of town and onto the salar. Its not every day that you get the chance to drive on the biggest salt expanse in the world. Our trusty stead was this Toyota Land Cruiser, from the early nineties.

The Land Cruiser is usually stuffed with six passengers in the two furthest back seats. The four of us had decided to go ahead and "buy out" the other two slots so that we could enjoy the scenery without playing "sardines" for three days of off-roading. To our collective surprise, we had a little bonus passenger, the cook's daughter. She was shy and really didn't want much to do with us, in the beginning.

Opposite, were the local school kids, who crowded around the truck to get a good look at the gringos. These girls loved to have their picture taken, along with the opportunity to laugh at their captured images, in the camera's LCD screen.

First on the day's itinerary was a visit to the "train graveyard". In the early part of the 20th century, the regions ailing steam trains were collected outside of Uyuni, to gradually decompose in the dry desert conditions.

Entire trains of engines and coal cars stood silently, in place, right where they had been laid to rest. Salvage seeking steel vultures have picked the cars clean of any loose materials of value.

It is a little strange to see the odd axle and wheel set, free to be pushed through the salty sands.

As a train lover, this was an eery site. The carcasses almost demanded respect, but it was beyond tempting to go ahead and climb across their spines.

The Bolivian salar is not only a natural wonder, formed when techtonic activity trapped and separated a sea of salt water from the ocean, but a source of income as well. A local co-op harvests, dries, adds the indoctrination of iodine, and distributes salt from the dried sea bed. First in the process is for the men to scrape and shovel mounds of top-layer deposits for initial drying.

(Also a good place to start to play with perspective.)

The salt mounds are then transferred to a crude production facility, where wood fired drying tables finish the dehydration process. Afterward, iodine is sifted through, to avoid salt poisoning, and then women fill one kilo bags by hand. The process is hardly exacting at any stage, but the guide explained that this saline product is purely for local consumption so process control is not of high importance. In this final stage, women seal the plastic outer bags by waving the folded open end over a propane gas flame.

After the salt manufacturing tour, we headed to "fish island", which was basically an outcropping in the middle of a salt lake. During the rainy season, the salt beds are covered with water and then it becomes a "literal island". The 360 degree vistas were impressive, along with the completely naked exposure to the high altitude radiating sun. What remains impactful to me were the forests of cactus. This one and hundreds of others are over 1,000 years old! Each grows less than a meter over a 100 year period.

Our lunch was a freshly cooked feast of Llama chops, fresh salad, and a nutty grain called quinua. It was a first for consuming both the protein and grain. Llama is actually not bad and very lean. The quinua needed a little finer sifting, as the crunchy husks really weren't that tasty.

Venturing out, on foot, into the expanse made it clear how this is the largest salt lake on the planet. The texture is punishing, even through boots. The geometric crystalization process leaves a rugged diamond pointed "cheese grater" surface. To even set a knee down, for a moment, to stabilize the shot, left indentations. (For scale, each one of these larger geometric shapes is between three and five feet across.)

Half the fun of the salar plain is to try to trick the camera into horizon perspective illusions.
Watch out for the scary cowboy hat wearing giant.

(Thanks for the shots Steve.)

I think there's something in my boot... better check?

Emily was not only hungry, ...

... but very strong, as well.

Then there was the random, ill advised, "judo moment". I felt like Inspector Clouseau, when Kado, who is hired to keep him on his toes, constantly attacks him at the wrong time. The salt flat is not a very good judo mat and not being as sturdy as Lipika's boyfriend it ended with a bruised knee... for the judo queen. Lesson learned, its not good to doubt the prowess of a judo player because you never know when they might attack.

After our picture taking marathon, we traveled along the flats for several more hours to reach our hostel. It is amazing, with the rough and corrosive salt roads, that these trucks have any rubber left on their tires or unrusted body panels.

After dinner, we headed out in the moonless night to visit an Inca graveyard. Despite the passage of over five hundred years and the destruction of grave robbers the naturally mummified bodies are still in remarkable condition.

Even a woven peasant hat remains affixed to this guys head. It really wasn't very creepy for an perfectly dark night, in strange surroundings. We marveled at the tombs and mummies, but also took perfect advantage of the millions of stars in the crisp, clear night sky.

04.06.08 - To Uyuni

2008-05-26T20:08:00.000-07:00

A Long and Dusty Journey

The bus to Uyuni left about nine in the morning from Sucre and was scheduled to make a stop in Potosi along the way. This was a "no frills" experience, meaning no bathroom, air conditioning, or curtains on my side of the bus to shade the scalding sun. But, the good news was that by day's end I would arrive in the famed salt flats.

Leaving Sucre, the landscape becomes almost instantly arid. The approach from Brazil, heading west, has been an environment rheostat, turning gradually less humid.

The city of Potosi, once the largest and richest city in the world, was only a three hour bus journey from Sucre. In the distance, the infamous silver mine mountain loomed. Five hundred years ago the Spanish built up the city of Potosi and its population to pull millions of tons of silver ore from these very mines. This singular mountain was essentially the greatest source of wealth for the Spanish empire. The human downside is that over 8 million people have died in the wealth extraction process.

From Potosi onward the road turned to a dirt dust entrenched wash board, hanging onto crumbling cliff faces. (Some more gradual than others, but still nothing you would want a bus to roll down.)

Without curtains to block the broiling sun, I donned sunglasses, pulled my cap down as far as possible and finally "gave in" to the draining heat for a nap.

The progress of our trip was marked not in miles but in high tension electrical lines. If we simply followed the wire ribbon it would lead to Uyuni.

Behind us we left the countryside thoroughly and freshly dusted.

As the landscape evolved, we actually came across an unexpected aquifer, where the bus driver made a stop to wash the dust from his face and revive his water bottle levels.

Along the day's journey there were a couple of seat-mates but the longest and most enjoyable were Junior and his Mom. He took a little while to warm up to me and the progressive expressions from this 13 month old tyke were priceless.

Who are you? (Don't mind my drool.)

Ok, I'll sleep on it.

What? You're still here? I thought I just dreamed about the funny looking man sitting next to me.

Ok, let's try out my rested lungs.

Junior's Mom had an ingenious way of making fresh baby food. She cut a corner of an apple off and then worked the meat of the apple out in slushy spoonfuls. This continued around the core until all the fruit was exhausted. This has to be better for kids than jarred and preserved product.

The day continued to wear on... and the scenery changed almost imperceptibly.

Abandoned houses and attempted farms or pasture lands occasionally dotted the landscape, providing a welcome focal point to the visual droning.

Rarely, a cluster of buildings resembling a pueblo swished by, embracing our following dust cloud.

Finally, as the light rays lengthened, we knew that both the day was coming to an end and so was this protracted journey, because these roads are too dangerous for this type of bus to navigate at night.

From the front seat of the bus and by hanging my head out the window for the last time today, I was treated to a double sunset, reflecting in the side bus door.

After a long, tiring, monotonous day (only really sparked by Juniors yearling antics) we finally reached Uyuni just as the last glimpses of light faded. Lipika, my German friend from the Navimag and Buenos Aires, had arrived a few hours prior and given the late hour we were both eager to dive into some pizza. We shared dinner with Steve and Emily, two other passengers from the day's travels and mutually schemed the best options for a trip together on the salar.

04.05.08 - Sucre

2008-05-26T19:20:00.000-07:00

A Stranger's Hand and Recovery

What a wild and crazy overnight bus ride that was! After boarding the bus in Samaipata, I found that my seat was already occupied by a local woman. Instead of raising a fuss, I just accepted my fate and sat in the seat next to her. Sometime around two in the morning there was the strange sensation of someone else's hands fishing through my front pocket. (I keep anything of value either locked in my pack or in this case safely zipped in the thigh cargo pocket of my pants, which I was firmly pressed between my leg and the seat.) Looking from the corner of my sleeping mask eye cover I could clearly see that it was the woman who had hijacked my seat, who had her right hand in my pocket. My response was a sharp and quick jab from my pointed elbow into the back of her hand, pinched against my hip bone. She reflexively retracted and promptly turned to face the window. We never achieved eye contact through the rest of the trip and she beat a hasty exit once we reached Sucre.

The other typically Bolivian nocturnal event was that the bus didn't stop for a bathroom break throughout the night, except for the drivers. They would stop the bus, do their business roadside, and then hop back in to continue down the road. The passenger compartment was separated from the drivers by a wall of Plexiglas and a solid door. It didn't matter how many people pounded on the door, for the same bio-break privilege as the drivers, it was never granted.

Reaching Sucre mid-morning, my urban Bolivian introduction continued. When asked if there were rooms available in the hostel, the attendant turned his back, flipped through papers, and then announced that the only vacancy was a single, which just happened to be the most expensive room. When his European boss randomly appeared in the lobby during the process, with a perfectly amicable and straight face the attendant then offered me three different less expensive options. I don't know what he would have to gain by "jacking me" or if it was simply a game of "screw the gringo". This was the same front desk clerk who would defy spirit of the "No downloading porn" internet signs by showing porn movies on the lobby television, while drinking beer with language students.

Oh well, maybe an afternoon of "all night bus" recovery on the back deck would help to put things in perspective. The cloud structures here are enormous. Rain seemed immanent on so many occasions throughout the afternoon, but as the heavy clouds approached they elevated and "blew out". It never rained.

After a nap and with a rejuvenated sense of energy and outlook I headed to the bus station to buy my bus ticket for the morning trip Uyuni. The return with good natured intentions culminated in another session of "screw the gringo". The bus ticket should only cost 40 Bolivianos and the receipt said as much, but the ticket clerk insisted on 50 Bolivianos, after the fact. The way it worked was I gave her a fifty Boliviano note and she refused to give me change. I grabbed a limp enforcement minded cop, who immediately sided with me, but deferred final judgement to the bus station commissioner, who just happened to be out of the office. It wasn't worth the few hours of waiting and process to contest the equivalent of a couple of USD, so I finally accepted the fact that I had "been had". The contrast between the helpful, tourist friendly, western Bolivia and the central region was becoming blatantly clear.

04.04.08 - Samaipata

2008-05-17T12:52:00.000-07:00

A Day for Amateur Botanists and Inca Archaeologists

The morning could not have been more perfect. A gentle rain shower broke in time for us to climb a hill above town, on our way to breakfast, where we could soak in the surroundings of this beautiful little town.

Last night, at dinner, we met a Texan, who had married a Bolivian woman and moved to Samaipata. After visiting the town, he told his wife that they had to figure out a way to live here. The answer was opening a hill top hostel and to boast of having the best breakfasts in town. Our international crew all agreed to be the judge of that honor.

Even walking along the road, wild flowers seems to be bursting with post rain shower vibrancy.

Then, a stroll around the hostel grounds revealed an amazing display of purposeful flowers.

I don't think that you could have made a more perfect collection of raindrops on the flowers, even with a spray bottle.

The flora photo shoot was interrupted by excitement and amazement back on the porch. Patrick's breakfast had arrived. Although not a proper "Irish Breakfast", there were absolutely no complaints about the Texas interpretation from our Dublin resident.

Filled almost beyond comfort, we headed to the local Inca Museum. Along the way, the morning silence was interrupted by a constant "moo-ing" noise echoing throughout the streets. Curious, I thought it might be some rural equivalent of a school bell. Instead, it was audibly invasive marketing. The local "fresh milk" delivery car wandered the street, with stainless steel can at the ready.

The Inca Museum was not to be left out of the botanical bonanza with this "Monkey Tail" Cactus. The spikes on this cactus were actually very soft.

There really wasn't much to this museum and admission was included as part of the general archaeological site fee. Two pieces were of ancillary interest. First was this "coffee bean" eyed monkey pot. Our Austrian guide loved to point out that the archaeologists totally miss named this pot because coffee beans hadn't even arrived in South America at the time this vessel was created. (Sorry for the fuzzy "low light no flash allowed" pictures)

The other piece, or two pieces of similar design, were these warrior "club heads". The actual stone bludgeons could be carved in a few days, but it took an additional five years for completion. Instead of cutting a branch for a club handle, the Inca would plant a tree in the center of the stone piece. When the sapling secured the stone star and grew to a sufficient length, it was cut down and the mace was complete. The philosophy of the Inca warrior was that if he were to take life, then the foundation of the power should come from Pache Mama (Mother Earth) herself.

With our Inca introduction, we were prepared for an archaeological expedition of sorts to the ruins of Samaipata. It turns out that the captivating rock structures from the previous day were actually the naturally created walls of the Inca fortification. The road was bumpy with several sharp drop-offs, leaving only random inches between the trucks gripping tires and the cliff's edge.

The center of archaeological attention was this strip of sandstone, which from above appeared more as a derelict sloping airfield than a point of international interest. What we were really viewing was the largest "temple of the sun" in the ancient Inca world.

Instead of the few meters long "liquid sacrifice trenches" of Machupicchu, this site contained two trenches over 32 meters in length. What makes this Inca site so special is the magnitude of efforts made to worship their Gods. Nowhere else has the shear size of this temple been matched. This was due to the fact that Samaipata marked the Western-most edge of the Inca empire, so the local ruler was facing opposing armies, many of whom far outnumbered his warriors. Therefore, these Inca outpost occupants needed all the good graces of their gods for survival and put an overemphasis on appeasing their deities.

At the base of the trenches are pooling medallions, one of a panther and another of a puma, symbolizing the earth portion of the Inca trinity: sky, earth, and the under world. This site was uncovered just over twenty years ago and the soft sandstone carvings have almost been erased by erosion. Our guide was pretty vehement about the Bolivian neglect of this world heritage site. In a few years there won't be anything left to protect.

Off to the right of the sacrifice area is a great lawn, where other ceremonies were held. This side of the rock actually served as a great seating area for the upper class to view events on the centered lawn. Just beneath their seats were the enclaves for the mummified bodies of "sun virgins" sacrificed in earlier offerings. It was a supreme honor for you, personally, and for your family if selected to be a virgin sacrifice. One of the Inca's nobles would search the countryside for girls of the age of eight. If fortunate enough to be selected, a girl would then receive five years of education and instruction. At the age of thirteen, the Inca would then select the finest of the girls to serve in the Temple of the Sun. Other girls would either become a consort to the Inca or another noble or be released back their families. Of the virgins selected for service in the Temple of the Sun, only the most select would then be sacrificed, should a natural disaster or tribulation occur requiring the satiating of Pache Mama (Mother Earth).

A little further right of the mummies were the niches for gold and silver idols to the various Inca deities. The remains of the noble seats are more clearly defined here.

A good aspect of this particular archaeological site is the ability to walk through the various portions of the ruins. On our way to another section we caught a glimpse of this really cool hairy caterpillar. "Look but don't touch" definitely applied to this situation, as a friendly petting of the quills would be rewarded with a venomous attack to the nervous system.

This is actually much more than a simple "hole in the ground", and still mystifies archaeologists. First thought to be an Inca water well, it is actually completely dry. One German archaeologist removed debris from the bottom of the well to a measure of more than 45 feet and never struck the water table. The Inca were master miners and stone masons, so a more recent theory is that this was an entrance to a "safe depository" where volumes of gold and silver were kept. There is some evidence to support this theory, since a magnetic compass will not work on the stone temple mount. This is characteristic of areas with large deposits of silver underneath the ground. Since the Spaniards never found the cashes of gold and silver in Samaipata, some believe that the Incas successfully "caved in" the leading tunnels, thus keeping their riches secure.

Returning to the site of the magnetic anomaly, the valley view portion of the temple rock is actually much better preserved than the theatre seating side. The mummy enclaves are much more crisp here, as the sandstone has been more protected from the elements. Five-hundred years ago the openings would have been sealed in silver and gold.

Supposedly, this is the classic sign post for an Inca temple, four boxes with a concentric second and deeper layer. Our Austrian guide explained that the four carved boxes symbolize the Inca creation story, when four brothers and four sisters emerged from lake Titicaca to populate the world. This may be a good time to mention that across the roughly twelve generations of Inca rulers, all except for one married his sister to procreate and produce the next generation of Inca.

Our driver has incredibly discriminating eyes, as he was able to spot this tarantula walking across the road. It was pretty amazing to actually view this large scale furry arachnid finishing his traverse into the safety of the jungle.

I love this town. Everything seems to ooze character. The Spanish design influence is apparent but there is an attitude of independence in the residents, who carry an outward looking disposition.

The town square is actually a garden and restored recreation of the key Inca symbols that are withering away to sand on the overlooking hill.

The town church is nothing exceptional, except for the local Catholic priest. He is an ardent biologist and the only known person to survive being bitten by both forms of local viper, twice, while managing to survive. These bites have only seemed to reinforce this stalwart environmental crusader.

As much as I have loved my time in Samaipata, it also served as a delineation marker, as evening meant leaving the company of Patrick, Morgan and Kelly. They have been a great support network and source of consistent humor though out our Brazilian and Bolivian travels. I hope that we get the chance to meet up again somewhere down the road.

04.03.08 - To Samaipata

2008-05-15T15:39:00.000-07:00

Rally Race to a Small Piece of Heaven

As the train stumbled into Santa Cruz, we were awakened by loud, projecting, voices. Somewhere along the rails, a legion of "snake oil" salesmen had boarded the Death Train. Most were unsuccessful in peddling their wares, but this particular fellow had talent. He was selling a "de-worming" powder, not for your dog but for you! His graphic detailed description of how dogs supposedly get rid of worms and how this powder would help each person do the same rendered the locals helpless to opening up their wallets. From the sounds of it, he was selling little more than a powdered laxative, but hey, "here's to creating consumer demand".

Santa Cruz proved to be little more than a breakfast refueling place and transfer station for a taxi to the pueblo of Samaipata. Literally the end of the line, the train pulled out of the station in the same direction in which it had come, moments after arrival.

The four of us crammed our gear and selves into a Toyota taxi, bracing ourselves for the two and a half hour drive. Leaving Santa Cruz, we had no idea that our driver fancied himself more of a rally racer than a passenger conveying businessman. Straddling the backseat hump, we raced along straight aways and unapologetically accelerated our way out of corners.

The rainy season, a few months back, had brought tremendous flooding and landslides. In many places the road was still washed out, with little signs of a definitive repair to date. The driver must have taken this as his dirt-slide permission slip.

Approaching Samaipata, massive sandstone cliffs rose above lush forests. These rocks were impressive and captivating.

Initially, the town of Samaipata appears to be an unimpressive backwater.

But, approaching the main square the streets begin to be cobbled and a respectable iglesia presents.

Then, a marvelous town appears, focused on the main square. The buildings and picturesque locale was so impressive that it reminded me of the town square in Sonoma, CA, but only this was more scenic.

Wandering off the town center one can find "true country life" being lived out in the form of small tiendas.

Moss appears to grow uninhibited here, covering any space it can get a purchase.

What makes this town even more charming, to me, is the attention to detail. Instead of straight iron bars, railing balusters curve and leaf.

Solid, single trunk, beams are carved in support of porches.

Then the prize for ingenuity definitely goes to the construction team of this native crafts building. Somehow, they managed to incorporate carved wood pieces, woven baskets, and metal work into the mortar and stone construction. This must be a facade, but still its an impressively innovative one for any part of the world, much less the deep countryside of Bolivia.

Our hostel was a random, "walk in" affair that proved successful. This view, through the front door, of the inside courtyard convinced us to take a second look.

Adobe brick and tile were timeless in their quaint appeal.

And, importantly, the lower structure was spotlessly kempt and clean. This jewel of a lodging spot only cost the equivalent of $3.50 USD per night, a real find. We could all definitely cozy up for a good recuperative sleep, to make up for the deprivation of the previous night.

Actually... I just liked this street dog and his expression in the picture.

04.02.08 - To Death Train

2008-05-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

April's Fool and a Not So Deadly Train

Bolivia was a complete "black box" for me. Who knew what was inside and how I would come out the other side? All that clearly stood between joining my Aussie friends and Patrick, in crossing the border today, was a $100 Visa.

So, I headed down the street to the Consulado de Bolivia. As a preface, I really don't have any problem with the recent establishment of a $100 Visa for United States citizens. Reciprocity of immigration fees is fair game in international politics.

What was logistically retarded was for Evo Morales to simply copy the U.S. Visa process requirements in his country. I understand his intent, but he is the leader of a third world country with practically no intellectual infrastructure to be able to handle the new process. The consulate assistant pulled out a binder of instructions and began to read and not very well at that... lips moving and slowly sounding along to a barely sliding finger. A classic example was that the form required that I fill in my arrival and departure flight information, of which I had none, since I would be arriving by foot and leaving by bus. The question of what to do was elevated to the next assistant, then to the consulate general and ultimately a phone call had to be made to the capital of La Paz. Now, repeat this process for every third line of the form. A ten minute process was taking hours.

Finally, after four hours of third world procedural hell instilled by an uneducated farmer President, all I needed to do way pay the $100 USD fee. Only having Brazilian Reals, the consulate offered a favorable exchange rate that equated to paying over $130 USD. Thankfully, Patrick being a trusting soul loaned me the cash in USD. OK, this process was about to end when the consulate then popped a $20 USD "same day processing fee" on me, a.k.a. extortion. For this they of course offered the same crappy exchange rate inflating the amount to about $26 USD of blood money. The perfect and obvious ending was a receipt for the $100 USD and not the $26 USD. Who was April's fool now?

Trying to put the half-day hell in the past, we all walked across the border. What a "shady" experience this was. One would think that we needed the typical immigration forms. When Kelly asked the primary official "if any were needed" he said, "no"... this was while the secondary clerk was nodding his head "yes", just out of view of the first. Paperless, the group crossed the border, entering a completely different world.

The three of us really had no desire to take the "Death Train", but a rail strike was in affect and the higher class train was not operating. So we climbed aboard the mysterious rail vehicle. As it turns out, the train is not named the "Death Train" because it moves so slowly that you could practically run along side and keep up, therefore the overnight ride can easily bore a passenger to death, but because locals used to sit on the roof of the train and fall from the jolting cars to their death. Thankfully, no locals climbed aloft on this particular trip.

The slow progress and open windows provided an "easy chair" viewing platform with complementary foot ventilation.

Bolivia still maintains a naval force for two bodies of water, this little Pantanal puddle and the shores of Lake Titicaca. Bolivia was actually much larger, as little as a hundred years ago. Brazil decided that the gas reserves in the Pantanal were too irresistible to pass up, so acquired about a 20 percent of Bolivia's total land mass to the East. Not to be left out, Chile insured that Bolivia would loose a full 30% of it pre-acquisition area by taking possession of the coastline. For all intents and purposes, Bolivia has been landlocked for the better part of a century now, with no hopes for retribution.

Morgan and Kelly were well prepared for a night of jostling on our way to Santa Cruz, or at least had the right "thumbs up" attitude.

Patrick joined in the favorable review, which may actually have been better collectively translated into "at least we were not stuck in Puerto Suarez for the night."

At every creeping stop along the rail line, vendors walk the length of the train selling everything from drinks, to empanandas con queso, to barbecue chicken or beef.

The passing countryside droned by at mediocre velocity. If we could just make a little more speed, a decent apparent wind would develop to cool the humid heated cars.

The other downside of crawling through the mosquito infested Pantantal was that we were sitting victims, supporting the indigenous food chain. None of us anticipated needing our mosquito repellent on the train, so the entire supply was safely packed in the closed luggage boxcar. We were now hopeless to the nocturnal feeding frenzy, while trying to catch a few winks of rest.

04.01.08 - Pantanal to Corumba

2008-05-15T15:22:00.000-07:00

Equine Adventures and a Horse's Ass

Marisa was a very active pig this morning and was very interested in everything our group was doing, despite an early morning “piggie yawn”.

This morning we were headed for the much anticipated “horseback ride in the Pantanal”. My trusty steed didn’t wither at the imposition of a photograph.

Patrick deserved the “red badge of courage”, as he was game for tackling one of his fears, horse riding.

Morgan was “all smiles” as the gaucho made sure he was well prepared.

To prove his equine fitness, Morgan started by corralling Marisa… well actually we were all amused by her persistence in wanting to be a part of the activity.

After eighteen months of travel and blogging, there hasn’t been a serious critical mention of an isolated individual, but our collective interaction with a single offender over the past few days was defining our “Pantanal Experience”. Frank is the epitome of the stereotypical ignorant East German from Rostock. We could all debate mildly and even ignore his “return to socialism” commentary (Why should a janitor earn any less than a doctor?), but his utter hypocrisy this morning set a new level of annoyance. The guide had given him the smallest horse of the bunch to ride and granted this was a much smaller horse. His response was to stomp away, with a tantrum, demanding a refund for the entire safari because, “I came for horse riding, not to ride a pony.” Well comrade, it seems that in your return to socialism scenario you wouldn’t have much choice in the matter would you? Why should a spoiled brat from East Germany, traveling on money given to him by his West German grandmother, have any preferential treatment for which horse he gets to ride over anyone else?

After chasing down Frank’s fifty-meter head start, the guide agreed to let him ride his horse. Now the great East German horse expert prepared to mount the horse from the right side (Que idioto, no). Realizing his mistake, he walked around the rear of the horse (equine etiquette mistake #2) and mounted from the left. Jolting himself upward the horse reacted and Frank jerked the reigns hard left, twisting the horse’s neck and then slapped the horse with the leather reign ends. The horse spooked and galloped off. Obviously not listening to the guide’s instructions, and more for the horse’s safety than Frank’s, the guide took possession again. With an impending stalemate approaching and most of us in stunned disbelief, thankfully Kelly jumped into action and offered to exchange her horse for the smaller one. Whew… after all the juvenile drama, we were finally off into the Pantanal.

Marisa seemed unphased by the excitement and content to stride alongside the line.

There was a mixture of terrain along the way and even some water crossings that threatened to get our boots wet. (Not this one, but later…)

Kelly set the amusement bar for the morning, when her horse, sensing that the barn was near, took off in a full gallop. Thankfully, the only thing lost was her hat, later recovered, and an extended howling scream, followed by amazed giggles and excited story telling.

A shower was definitely in the offing, after becoming one with the horse’s terrain and smell. In Brazil most of the showers are electrically heated at the shower head level. This is a sketchy proposition, given the third world electrical connections. To turn off the shower has become synonymous with receiving a muted 220V shock through the handle. If you try to adjust the temperature from the head, a not so diminished direct current may be the reward.

The humidity finally broke over lunch, with dense tropical downpours soaking the camp. It would have been nice if the management made us aware of the obvious leak and pooling water in the dorm rooms, that way we could have put our luggage on the beds prior to a thorough soaking. It is highly unlikely that this was the first occurrence of the added floor collection during a rainstorm.

Our trip back to the originating intersection to catch a bus to Corumba was an exercise in “truck mud-skating”. As entertaining as the ride was, we were all looking forward to the departure of Frank. His classic opinions were becoming so amazingly ridiculous that some were sure to endure. For instance, he ranted on about how over-rated Machupicchu was and that it would be stupid to waste your time there.

Then someone asked the perfect and simple question, “Have you been there?”

“Well no, but…” was the insipid reply that served as the final nail in the patience and credibility coffin… Adios and not a minute too soon to this “April Fool”!

Fortunately, I would be continuing to travel with a great natured trio of Kelly and Morgan (Aussies) and Patrick from Ireland. We traveled together in the direction of Bolivia and the border town of Corumba. Cooking dinner together, at the poolside kitchen of the hostel, I joked about skinny dipping later in the night. I actually did and it felt equally like a sloughing off of Pantanal heat and pompas East German hot air.

03.31.08 - Pantanal

2008-05-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

"Swimming with the fishes" and Other "Beasties"

The crew was energetic and a little nervous this morning for our task at hand, piranha fishing. Our imaginations teamed with ravenous schools of flesh devouring mini-monsters. All we needed to do was dip our fingers or raw beef on hooks into the river and the flesh would instantly be attacked in a liquefied flurry.

It turns out fishing for piranha is very similar to any other... bait the hook, toss it in the water, wait, wait some more, get bored, look at the birds and miss "the hit".

Fortunately, someone got lucky and happened to inadvertently pull the rod at the instant of piranha attack.

Oh, the "Bingo Winning Luck" of the Navimag must have rubbed off a little, because there was a little carnivore on my hook. (Come-on pucker up fishy.) Once we found the school everyone started pulling in the piranha. They would be part of our lunch today, so we were motivated by the experience and hunger. Those pesky little buggers were definitely crafty, leaving empty hooks more often than not. By the end of the morning, there must have been more beef eaten in the river than the pound weight of fish retrieved.

Having watched a Discovery Channel show on piranha, I was armed with the discrete knowledge that piranha typically will only eat dead flesh. So the guide and I jumped into the middle of the piranha haven for a quick dip. We were only joined by one other brave soul.

Ironically, the power of these little scavengers wasn't fully appreciated until eating them at lunch.

These miniature eating machines are all teeth and jaw. Many land based omnivores or carnivores would be envious of these dentin dynamos.

The reward for catching, cleaning, and cooking piranha is little more than a few bone choked bites of sweet white meat. The spines of backbone could easily be used for needles. There is nothing soft about this fish. Even the more flexible rib bones could make quick work of the roof of your mouth or cheeks, but experiencially the careful effort was part of the reward.

In the afternoon, we transitioned from potential predator to prey. The group traveled upriver, armed with inner tubes. The first animal appearance was unintimidating, but continues to raise the "moth or butterfly" debate. Here are the "moth points": it rests with wings open, wide body, and hairy. Single "butterfly point": straight, non-fern-like, knobbed antennae. Ok, entomologists, which is it or is this a blue winged hybrid?

A more serious threat would be the myriad display of alligators and cayman lining the banks. Actually we learned that they are more afraid of us than vice-versa, which was just a little comforting, inner tube floating down the river at their eye level.

The only real threat of a very pleasant afternoon was this blurred figure and his mate. These were giant sea otters, which sound docile enough but these buggers lost a few intimidation reflexes in the evolution chain. They will "take on" an aluminum boat without much thought at all. They were, in fact, the only creatures our guide showed any trepidation of or reflex against.

03.30.08 - Pantanal

2008-05-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

Avian Ignorance and Squishy Toes

We hardly got a decent night's sleep in preparation for our trekking this morning. The dorm room only had a single window, providing virtually no ventilation, and the fan was hardly motivating. The ceramic tile roof retained the heat of the day, turning our room into an oven that sleeps six. We each literally slept or tried to sleep in a sopping pool of our own sweat. I've never been this hot and uncomfortable, struggling to extract oxygen from the vapor rich, stagnant dorm room air. A little groggy, we headed out for a morning safari, which started with a slithery snake trail in the sandy road.

The first actual sighting was a grey ibis clinging to the top branches of a baron tree.

I should have written the names of the birds down after returning from the trek, but in full anticipation of bigger game I saved those memory cells for future sightings. So, these birds travel in pairs... and there you have it... names tbd.

Check out the beak on this yellow wood pecker. No doubt as to its purpose.

We were treated to a pair of blue macaws, which decided to "fly in" together for a drink from the well basin.

This bird is some kind of hawk, but reminds me of a very similar creature in Africa called a Secretary Bird.

Patrick, the guide, and I were trekking in the Panatal during the "in between" season. The wet season was a meter and a half of water table ago, but there is still another half a meter of evaporation left before the dry season. In the wet season, many animals seek higher ground, so there are concentrations and in the dry season the opposite clustering occurs around remaining watering holes. For us, the current challenge was to find wandering animals with equal volumes of Terra Firma and water supply.

Entering the jungle, it was a little disconcerting to abandon flip flops for barefoot plodding in the gooey pools of brown water.

Above us, howler monkeys were more interested in evading view than announcing their presence with deep throaty grunts.

The dampness of the jungle, of course provided for more mosquitoes than repellent could offend, and is a perfect environment for water borne flowering plants.

After our morning safari, we could count numerous bird sightings but nothing major to brag about. Hopefully, the afternoon trek would bring other animals into view, however having the barefoot and wet vantage point seeing a gator at close quarters may prove a little "too exciting". The avian extravaganza continued over our siesta, as more native birds flew into camp for the shade, water, and food.

After lunch we all climbed into the big open-bed truck for a drive to another walking safari area. This big diesel belching monster didn't provide for much wildlife "surprise factor". Cruising past a watering hole, we caught a fleeting glimpse of a capibara. This small horse sized mammal is actually the largest rodent in the world and a food source for locals. Hmmm... I hear the small ones taste better than the larger more "game-y" variety.

We were now off to a good start with gator sightings as well.

Continuing my avian name ignorance, this giant stork is actually the icon of the Brazilian Pantanal.

But, for me, the greatest excitement driver was our first glimpses of a toucan off in a distant tree. Surprisingly, none of the passengers knew about Toucan Sam of Fruitloops fame, but referred instead to the old Guinness ads. The Toucan flight pattern is awkward and amazing. He will gain altitude, in a head raised, flapping, laboring struggle, then follow the natural arc of the gravitational pull on his oversized bill. This results in a slow ascent, followed by a ballistic missile parabola style return to earth.

Entering the pampas, barefoot once again, the now larger group was a little apprehensive of the slimy bottom and potential for piranha, along with other ravenous creatures.

The reassuring fact was that cows continued to flank our paths, so if they weren't being eaten, then we should be relatively fine. The downside was that the afternoon was more of an exercise in waterlogged "prairie waffle" dodging than anything else.

A few creatures were docile enough not be intimidated by the thunder of fleeing, startled cattle and a herd of gringos to hang in the branches for a photo. This little guy was the same ant eater raccoon relative spotted at Iguazu Falls a few days before, but this time safely in native habitat.

The strange sensation was that the water was actually hotter than our body temperature, so it felt like walking through organic rich humus "jungle soup". The sensation was odd and a little uncomfortable. The experience made me think of the "frog in a pan" scenario, where the frog never jumps out because it is lulled by the ever increasing temperature until it is finally boiled.

Our guide did his best to spot animals...

... but the "take away" was more of the "jungle trekking experience", than meeting more than our fair share of gators. Walking, barefoot and vulnerable, is quite a different experience from seeing predators in the confines of a zoo.

On the drive back to the compound we were treated to a swampy sunset. The remaining, dwindling, hope was for cooler temperatures and sleep, both of which were not a likely scenario.

03.29.08 - To Pantanal

2008-05-11T17:17:00.000-07:00

Inflated Expectation and Reality

This morning I felt much better/stronger and was ready to face the heat and humidity of life in the Brazilian Pantanal. There was no idea what to anticipate, so my mind wandered to extremes, while taking in the passing scenery.

Safe, in the confines of a truck bed, I don't know who won the "staring contest" between this pooch and me?

But, we definitely could have used his help in clearing the road ahead. Argentina may be famous for beef consumption, but thus far I've seen nothing but cattle in the clear cut pasture lands and now all across the road, too.

After about three hours in a minivan, we were dropped at a rather nondescript intersection for cross-docking into a much more rugged and antiquated vehicle.

This diesel spuing monster was actually a pretty good mobile vantage point for the changing landscape. With each passing kilometer water density increased and so did the humidity.

The vinyl covered collective seat board, attached to an apparently shock-less frame, didn't seem like a good alternative to the natural jolt absorption of standing, so I enjoyed an hour and twenty minute leg workout on the way to the campo.

To my surprise, "Ecological Preserve" in Brazil doesn't exclude ranching. So, the Pantanal is literally swimming with bovine swarms, who reinforce the previous clear cutting of the jungle.

The Eco-Lodge itself far exceeded general expectations. The brick and cement buildings came with mosquito screens and a mildly functioning wall mounted oscillating fan.

Outside, hammocks awaited shade seeking passengers.

Imagination was met with real naturally extravagant trees, complete with no nonsense bark spikes.

The colors of even seemingly simple plants vibrated with an almost neon energy.

Excited to get out in the bush, to see the wild life, a few animals "beat me to the punch" and wandered into camp. Many parrots enjoy the shelter and occasional free food.

But the biggest surprise came in the little package of Marisa. She is a bush pig, separated from her mother and found by gauchos during the rainy season. The staff of the Eco-Lodge bottle fed her to health and now she is just as much a resident of the camp as they are. Marisa is super friendly and loves a pet of her thick quill like fur.

At just over a year, she is still very curious and came very close to giving the lens a good "snout sniff". Playing with Marisa only reinforced the anticipation for what the morning would bring in animal sightings out in the jungle.

03.28.08 - Camp Grande

2008-05-11T16:39:00.000-07:00

Exhausted and Revitalized

I'm not going to lie, that was an awful bus ride and lack of night's sleep. Arriving in Campo Grande, the option of heading immediately to the Pantanal was presented by the Eco-Tour operator, but the free night's stay in the hostel more than won the decision of the day. Armed with overhead ceiling fan, that functioned at a reasonable velocity, I was "out cold" for a solid six hours.

Now there was a mission for the mid-afternoon. I needed a long-sleeved shirt, running shoes, and mosquito repellent. The first item was purchased for the US equivalent of $6 from a small shop owner, who was so glad for the business he shook my hand for over two minutes. Next, I bought a pair or "no name" running shoes for use in the swamp waters. On the walk back to the hostel, I stopped for a freshly crushed sugarcane and lime juice drink. To my surprise, practically the entire sales staff of a rival shoe store were enjoying the same, behind the street cart. Despite minimal language opportunities between Portuguese, English, and Spanish, we shared many laughs and about 20 minutes of pigeon conversations. (Enough language barrier was crossed for the teenagers to give me good natured grief for buying my shoes at the "wrong store".) The people here are extremely friendly.

Continuing to make my way back to the hostel, the unprotected streets and short city buildings allowed the sun to weigh down heavily. Even when fully healthy, humid heat and I don't get along, so under the corporeal "healing burden" of my internal biological warfare it was time for a recuperative early evening "crash".

03.27.08 - Iguazu Falls (Brazil)

2008-05-11T15:30:00.000-07:00

The Bigger Picture

The rivalry between Argentina and Brazil took a humorous turn today. The border between the two countries is the Rio Iguazu and can be spanned via bridge crossing. Both sides are clearly marked by the painted country colors leading to the center. While crossing this morning a man had stopped his car just short of the Brazilian side, where he and his young son stood apparently enjoying the gorge view. With closer, passing and quickly shifting, view it was apparent that he was actually urinating on the Brazilian colored border wall. The tour guide and bus passengers laughed at the "father to son" active indoctrination of country loyalties.

As much as the Argentine view and experience of Iguazu Falls is a “do it yourself” no brainer, the Brazilian side is the opposite. The main hassles are distance/transport between the border crossing and the actual park, along with the unaided hassle of the actual immigration process. With a group, the crossing takes little more than ten minutes, in contrast to my Aussie acquaintances delay of more than an hour in trying to navigate the bureaucracy solo.

The downside of a tour, though, is the mandatory delays at “non-interest” stops like this geode extravaganza store.

If you are daring enough to try solo transport to the Brazilian park, you will be rewarded upon reaching the main gate. After paying fees and entering the gates, Disney Land would struggle to have a more organized experience, complete with double decked buses and automated listening tour while being transported to the main viewing point and paved trail.

There are tourist debates, as to whether it is worth the time to see both the Argentine and Brazilian sides of Iguazu Falls. Each provides a different experience. The Argentine side provides unmatched location and proximity to the Devils Throat falls and represents about 60% of the total World Heritage Site, but Brazil offers unparalleled vistas of the lengths of varying falls.

For broad views, the Brazilian park is well worth the transport hassle; visually demonstrating the native descriptor of "I-Guazu" or literally "Water-Big" (inverted gringo translation, big water).

The platforms also provide a vantage point to show "just how close" one gets to the Devil's Throat falls on the Argentine platforms.

The bio-diversity continued to surprise, but I'm still not sure whether this critter is just a moth in butterfly's clothes.

Unfortunately, I didn't write the name of this affable mammal down. He is a distant relative of the North American raccoon, but is actually a type of Ant Eater. The few creatures spotted didn't seem to mind the human invasion to the cool sidewalks.

The other downside of a tour was that the day lingered needlessly longer than the value added. We could have easily been back to Puerto Iguazu for lunch, but instead had to go to a Brazilian Buffet place and two other native craft shops before eventually returning just shy of 4:30pm.

Today also marked the end of my Argentinean adventure. Re-crossing the border, this time with backpack in tow, I headed to Foz do Iguacu to catch an overnight bus to Campo Grande. The warning about lower bus quality in Brazil was actualized, as this standard (not so clean) bus seat was the highest level of service available, as compared to the semi-cama Argentinean bus taken to Puerto Iguazu.

The good news was that the pharmacist at the bus station location was very helpful and friendly. So, "obrigado" for the kindness to strangers.

03.26.08 - Puerto Iguazu

2008-05-11T15:22:00.000-07:00

Process and Protocol

Bureaucracy is a remarkable thing. In Buenos Aires, to attain a Brazilian Visa would have equated to almost four days of consulate hassle. Puerto Iguazu offers a different scenario.

Simply show up with $110 USD before noon and return after 1:00 pm with a nice shiny Brazilian sticker visa glued to a clean page, with the word “GRATIS” stamped in 14 pt font across the top. My Portuguese in non-existent, but it appears that I just received a $110 USD “free visa”. Brazil is another one of the "reciprocity countries" in South America, which charges United States citizens the same fees charged their residents to enter the U.S. Fair is fair, but what is the "Gratis" stamp really necessary?

This was the perfect rest day activity. Unfortunately, my first bout of “aggressive intestinal bugs” were in full charge. Hopefully, this will dissipate soon despite Cipro having little to no affect. I’m planning to head to the depths of the Brazilian swamps, Pantanal, in two days and that would be no place to actually "need" medical care.

03.25.08 - Iguazu Falls (Argentina)

2008-05-11T14:32:00.000-07:00

Thunder, Wonder, and Fun

If traveling to Puerto Iguazu, the Argentine side of the falls can easily be accomplished without a guide or tour service. Simply take the public bus from town (clearly marked for the falls). It will drop you off at the park's front gate, for about 50 cents in fare, where a clearly marked map will lead you onward.

After paying admission, walk to the rail line and wait for the mini-train that will bring you to the Garganta del Diablo Station.

Leaving the station, the natural park sounds and insect life became immediately apparent, first with the appearance of this super colorful moth (I believe moths stand with their wings closed and butterflies with wings open, but any biologists can feel free to correct if I'm mistaken.)

Our next surprise was a praying mantis that wanted nothing to do with being saved from the footpath. Trying to move the little guy to a safer ground only reaped the reward of many “pin prick” bites.

The path to the Garganta de Diablo or Devil’s Throat is practically new, spanning several of the smaller tributaries to the falls.

From a distance there isn’t much impressive by the impending falls, but the thunderous plunging noise and spray hint to a different story.

Our guide tells us that we are lucky to have such small crowds, but towards the end of the platform the size of the falls were still masked.

Once safely in place, at the end of the cat walk, all the senses were then in perfect perspective, with visual plunge, courses of spray blasting across the edge, a rush of o-zone up the nostrils, leaving a slightly metallic ionized taste in the back of your throat and the resounding overbearing roar.

The width of the active falls doesn’t match Niagara, but the personal physical proximity can’t be matched. Iguazu is the largest falls in the world by width, but only in the swollen rainy season, when the Devil’s Throat is joined by kilometers of trickling edges.

The whole scene must have been distracting to Andrea, with all the mood enhancing free radical negative ions floating around, because she actually managed an honest smile in a pre-planned photo… sacrifices must be made in the name of documentation.

Across the gorge is the Pink Hotel of the Brazilian side, which is visually classic but still a bit of a wonder for its placement within a National Park, complete with wild indigenous jaguars (one even decided to take a park rangers child).

After the return train ride back to the originating station, there are two circuits to walk in completing the tour. The Upper Circuit (Circuito Superior) will bring you in close range to many of the smaller, but large by any other standard, falls that connect together during floods.

Power is still not a problem for these lesser falls, with millions of gallons cresting the cliffs. (Don't be fooled by a lack of comparison and the benefit of camera zoom, this expanse of water was over 50 meters wide.)

An added benefit of all the spray was not only its cooling affect but also the creation of tens of rainbows.

The Lower Circuit (Circuito Minor) brings you to a much recommended tourist opportunity. I am not usually the type to indulge in the obvious "tourist trap activity" for a hefty fee, but for $40 USD the riverboat ride is a “must do event”. First passengers are treated to a river level view of the larger falls.

Then, a return trip to the lower falls means a thorough dousing underneath the pressing spray. (Note the boat in the lower right corner of the falls.) If you chant “Otro, otro, otro …” the driver may reward with a second dunking.

I had a blast with Akemi, her son, and friend Megan (all from San Francisco). We were all filled with anticipation heading into the falls.

Then the captain provided time for a more relaxed pose on the bow, before our first and second row seated drenching.

After the rush of being pummeled by spray, the boat heads down river for a short truck driven safari ride back to the front gate and return buses to Puerto Iguazu. However, the most interesting sites of the 2,000 plant and 400 birds species were two insects and a bird.

(Check out the size of this ant in reference to Andrea’s boot. There were no “perspective games” needed, as this sucker was huge… and she didn’t really step on him.)

Another super colorful moth sighting…

And, no idea what the name of this bird was, but with multiple calls it was really interesting to watch.

So, net, net, Iguazu Falls on the Argentina side are a piece of cake to visit, if you are the DIY type. The entire experience will exhaust a full day, so leave early and enjoy a late afternoon exit.

03.24.08 - Puerto Iguazu

2008-05-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

Hurry Up and Wait

So the initial plan was to acquire my Brazilian Visa this afternoon, but since practically every major office in Argentina closes for the week prior to Easter and the day after, I was simply out of luck. The weather is unbelievably hot and humid, registering 42 degrees centigrade. It is everything we can do to just sit still and wait for the sunset to bring a respite. So, there will be an additional day needed in Puerto Iguazu, after viewing the Argentine falls and prior to heading to the Brazilian side.

03.23.08 - BA to Puerto Iguazu

2008-05-10T15:41:00.000-07:00

Catch-Up and Ride

Some days are simply meant for “sleeping in” and catching-up on blogging. Andrea and I were scheduled to take an overnight bus to Puerto Iguazu at 6:30pm, so that gave us an extended day to enjoy blogging, getting laundry done, and occasional runs for helado. At this point, we were both drastically behind on our respective blogs, so it was a day well spent.

After almost six days of being under the weather, it was great that Andrea was finally feeling well enough to travel and experience an overnight bus ride.

Andrea continues to be the Queen of goofing off while "conscious pictures" are being taken, so posting this picture is the fulfillment of a threat and mutual laugh at reviewing the results on the camera screen.

The second row of the upper level swayed more like the undulating deck of a ship than a bus, as we headed out of town, but we still managed to catch a reasonable night’s sleep (with the aid of two mini bottles of Malbec).

03.18 to 22.08 - Buenos Aires

2008-05-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

Beautiful Buenos

After Andrea and I moved from “Hostel Hell” into a more manageable location, the question became, “What’s not to like about Buenos ******* Aires?” (If you’ve been there you’ve seen the t-shirt and can fill in the blank.)

Buenos Aires really is a great city, filled with landmarks, great food, and nightlife. There was a little experience of culture shock, coming from the distances of Tierra del Fuego, but venturing out into the urban-scape was easy cure.

BA is a perfect city for walking, in sections. Having moved from the Palermo district to Monserrat, we were in easy walking distance of several city icons. Walking down Avenue 9 de Julio you can’t miss the defining obelisk in the center of this grand boulevard.

Walking east, towards the waterfront, the city cathedral looks like it belongs in Greece instead of Plaza de Mayo.

Kitty-corner to the cathedral is Cabildo building.

The brevity of description should be a first clue, that despite the design and unique pink stone of the government building, ...

... after a year and a half of travel, "landmark burnout" is in affect.

Only a few blocks away from the Plaza de Mayo lies the historic waterfront, which served as port to the city for centuries.

The distinctive Puente de la Mujer, in the middle of Dique 3, marks the middle of the passage way.

I'm not sure if this bridge is a physical testament to the persistent protests of mothers searching for their abducted sons and husbands during the darker government era of the past, but it is a beautiful addition to the city and serves as a gateway to the burgeoning Puerto Madera district.

Again, I'm not sure what this statue has to to with Holland or its proximity to the Puente de Mujer ...

... but don't you think she needs a hug?

The city of Buenos Aires has done an awesome job in renovating the docks into a very pleasant tourist walk, filled with accompanying restaurants and the much frequented Helado Tienda.

For the brave of heart and wallet, Calle Florida is five major blocks West of the Northern most dock. This is a fun place to watch "street tango" shows and do some U.S. price equivalent shopping, but watch your purse and wallets, as Calle Florida is the "pick pocket capital" of Buenos.

However, it is home to the best named shop in B.A.

If you walk the length of Calle Florida you will dead-end into Plaza San Martin, with its monument tower, ...

... random cool bird sightings, ...

... and flowering trees. (Just beware of where you sit and look as parks are famous public urination places and you may want to be careful on both counts.)

If you are not ready to watch the evening migrate into an 11:00 pm "early dinner"...

... and staying out till four in the morning, then Buenos Aires may not be your town.

Janne, Lipika, Linda, (Navimag travel buddies) and I met up for a few nights of fun, including Tango lessons, show, and dancing to live music. I now understand why Dan and Julie are big Tango fans. If you haven't been to a local Tango Hall to watch the locals amble around the floor in a web of twisted arms and legs, then the soul of Buenos has been missed.

The other evening activity that is a must is to try some of the great restaurants and bars in the Palermo District. Our hostess and B.A. native for the last year, Janne, proved that vegetarians can have a great spread as well. Later she introduced us to Frenet and Coke... somehow the rest of the evening is a blurr with a slightly bitter aftertaste.

Sorry for the "food shot" but there is an important "beef lesson" to be had in Argentina. Do not order an unspecified "steak" or you will receive a massive portion of vaca, which will only be about 30% edible. So, make sure to order "lomo" and then you will receive a tasty fillet cut that will blow your mind with flavor. Absolutely no steak sauce is required when the proper cut of beef arrives... yum!

With the potential for fundamentally delicious main courses in Argentina, the bread can be a polar opposite. The bread can be literally so bad that pigeons refuse to ingest the bland commodity. We watched pigeons literally land to "check out" the sidewalk bread and then turn their beaks up and fly away without a second peck.

Buenos Aires is known for several other things including their arts and cemetery scenes, both most famously located in the Recoleta District. Along Avenue del Libertador lies the Fine Arts Museum, Malba Modern Art Museum, ...

... and the Floralis Generica Monument. The Floralis Generica Monument is a photo sensitive Titanic stainless steel flower that opens and closes depending on the presence of sunlight.

(It also serves as a pretty good group "photo op" location.)

About a kilometer away and just behind the Buenos Aires Design Center...

... is the Recoleta Cemetery. Even for those who usually get "freaked out" by the cemetery scene, this was a stop well worth an hour or so.

Recoleta is the final resting place of Eva Peron (not pictured) and hundreds of the city's elite.

A stroll through the grounds is an architectural study stretching from turn of the century, through Deco, and beyond.

Even if you are not too keen on the stonework, there are always the very happy cats to pet along the way.

Buenos Aires is not without its interesting oddities, as well. Andrea has enlightened me to the world of "screening", which is basically a single color paper screen negative spray painted on buildings and walls throughout the city. I especially liked this one for its world wide message appeal of "locals only" pride.

The other visual oddity was this Mr. Spock or Mork from Ork meets the Star of David mosaic on a temple wall. Did the Raliens merge with Judaism? Does anyone have a clue on this one?

Of course I had barely touched the city in five days and it would be well worth a return visit to check out the colorful La Boca district, along with catching a Boca Juniors football match. For true Buenos fans, I'm sure there are a million great opportunities missed in this entry, so feel free to send an e-mail with suggestions or post a "must see" comment.

03.17.08 - Ushuaia to Buenos Aires

2008-05-02T15:36:00.000-07:00

Parting Ways

The morning light brought a completely different travel scenario than had been experienced in weeks. I'm going to use a grandmotherly lexicon to describe an incredible couple. Marijn and Lotte define for me what it means to be "delightful people". Each is remarkably open to welcoming other people, so collectively they are a "good will" force to be reckoned with. I'm definitely going to miss their easy going dispositions and litany of good natured humor. Wishing them "all the best" would be an understatement. So, a beautiful morning was made just a little more dull by their 6:15 am departure. Proving their openness to caring for others, Stephie tagged along for the sixteen hour bus ride to Bariloche, Argentina.

So that left Andrea and I to head-off for an evening flight to Buenos Aires. By the time mid-afternoon rolled around the sky was up to its continually evolving tricks, leading us to wonder about an "on time" departure.

Arriving an hour before the flight, combined with a five minute check-in process, gave us time to wander the grounds of the miniature "International Airport", complete with brand new terminal addition under construction to the right (if you can call it that). The perpetual wind gust was reflected in the tattered fringe of the Argentine flag.

Having killed about twenty minutes outside, led to indoor time extinguishing tactics like "let's compare passport stamps." The major surprise was finding the best passport photo I've ever seen. It still looks like Andrea, but somehow appears to be a German government professional portraiture at the same time... a bureaucratic impossibility, of course.

"In flight entertainment" consisted of this extremely "touchy" family. We were in awe and a little "creeped out" by the daisy chain of connection. Ok, here's the total tactile recap: Dad with head on wife's breast (not shoulder), while caressing adult son's head and hairline, with son and daughter snuggling under the same airplane blanket. Maybe it was just an unfair reaction from an East German woman and American man with similarly physically sterile upbringings, but in defense our Maori row companion thought it a little bizarre as well.

Our punishment for judging the in-flight "familial human cluster" was a 1:00 am arrival into the steamy nocturnal heat of Buenos Aires. Even in the middle of the night the city seemed to be on humid "simmer" mode. To add to the fun, our hostel was the worst in a year and a half of travel. Bunk beds were stacked three high, without being bolted to the wall, in stagnant windowless rooms. A dank moistness clung to everything, including the torn prison style mattress, limply draped over minimal wooden cross slats. (I unpacked my Thermo-rest backpacking sleeping pad to cover the nocturnal vileness.) To say that this place smelled like a locker room would have been a compliment. Now add hoards of loud partying Israeli's and locals to the smoke filled scene and there were just too many senses under attack for an eye mask and ear plugs to cover up.