04.03.08 - To Samaipata

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

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

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

"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.