Mother H

Where the sendero ends...

2008-08-25T23:13:41Z

Sideways and thruwards,
Forwards and onwards

There were jungles, beaches, and leaf-cutter ants,
Sand in my ears, backpack, and pants

Sunburns on my chest in the forms of Picasso,
This pace - our minds- we cannot slow

We drank the juice from a coconut husk,
and ate jungle fruits on the beach at dusk

Corals, fish of rainbow colors in great sums,
Could anyone in right mind be caught in the doldrums?

The heat was oppressive and the humidity high,
We fought the ocean´s current, thought we might die

Golden monkeys their throaty calls we did hear,
In our hearts´ was a little feeling of fear

We crossed to Venezuela, a "Little Venice",
The poverty, crime, and danger we could not miss

Finding a hostal, alot we did spend,
In this country, paying lots of money seems to be a trend

"Gringo, Gringo, Gringo," he called,
The look on my face was less than entralled

Where I came from, where I´m going - I have a vague notion,
Feeling in need of some regular motion

To Caracas we go, on a road by the sea,
The final stop on this long journey.

Where the sendero ends... remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Ruffled feathers

2008-08-18T14:42:13Z

We pulled ourselves out of Salento after some much needed relaxation time. Our travel pace has been rigorous thus far, never staying more than 3 nights in any one place, but this seemingly endless cycle of packing, finding a bus, riding the bus, disembarking, finding a hostal, eating, and trying to catch sleep amidst the constant bustle of wherever we are has left us tired. I think this hurried pace is largely due to our currently restless mindsets. We´re both thinking about our nearing separation and what awaits at home - good and bad.
I´m anticipating American personal space (although personal space of any country would be appreciated). All the locals seem accustomed to constant interaction with one another and are not at all bothered during the long bus rides by the blaring radios, amped television sets with poor reception, and constant searching for ring-tones. Pilar and I always seem to be the ones asking for change in a given moment and no one seems to mind our impostions, they just seem pleasantly accepting of any situation presented to them.

Medellin, like Cali, had little to offer us other than the corpulent figures of Botero´s paintings and sculptures. The cities have not held our interest because of the inherent difficulites of getting around within them and because of their, generally, more dangerous setting. So after a couple of days we bought tickets to Cartagena, a bus ride that proved to be one of the most difficult thus far.

The ride was supposed to be 12 hours but we arrived sometime after the 17-hour mark because of a nasty accident and, then, our bus breaking down in the middle of the night. I was in the somnabulic depths of a sleeping pill experiece when, at 3:00 AM, we were required to disembark and change buses. Pilar led me aboard the new bus like a doe leading a suckling fawn. We tried to catch some rest but were constantly awakened by some thoroughly hammered Colombianos, returning from a festival, that stayed up the whole night drinking rum from styrofoam cups and chanting well-known Colombian tunes. The same morning, after giving up on rest, I reached a boiling point with the partygoers after they started smoking within the frigid, hermetic bus cabin. I tried talking trash in spanish although, eventually, I just spoke English to them as they stared dreary-eyed and uncomprehending at me. Pilar calmed me down and they cursed me in a number of ways.
Sometimes I just want to hole up and not talk to anyone, but Pilar pulls me out of my shell and reminds me that I´m not here to read books and play mind games - I´m here to experience another place and its´people.
Finally, we arrived to the Texas-like heat and humidity of Carribean-side Cartagena, a beautiful colonial town that claims UNESCO status for its´historic seaside fortress and accompanying structures. Pilar is seemingy approached every few moments by lusting Colombian men that offer various one-liners, propositions, and pantomimes. Apparently, my presence does little to convince them that Pilar is spoken for.

We snuck into the Hilton hotel and soaked up the pleasing luxuriant atmosphere after wondering around for awhile and visiting the sight of 18th century catholic inquisitions.

Onwards to Santa Marta.

Ruffled feathers remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Workin´it out

2008-08-15T01:00:27Z

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I love Java, I love tea

2008-08-10T23:56:43Z

Cali was enjoyable simply because of the lovely French-Colombian couple who owned our hostel. They helped us with all manner of things and were always eager to chat about the country. The city itself had little to offer other than a thriving salsa-club scene that we were too hesistant to visit and usually too tired. Also, I didn't want to make the locals look like simpletons with my cutting-edge, nuevo-salsa steps.
After a few days, we jaunted up to Buenaventura in a steamy bus with loose seat-cushions and angular seats. Buenaventura boasts the highest murder-rate in Colombia because of its´importance in the inter-continental drug trade. The only reason we went to the city with a homicide rate 24-times higher than New York metro-area was to catch a bus to the beach town of Ladrilleros. Other than having a sleepless night, we had no problems in Buenaventura and caught the boat during a morning of heavy rains. Although well off the beaten path, Ladrilleros proved to be expensive because of its´blossoming courtship with tourism. The town was soaked daily with tropical rains and every building and structure was rotting from the inside-out with mildew. Our little hostel room had the distinctive odor of tinned cat food. We visited the lovely beach with big breakers and reggaetone and had another sleepless night because of the constant sounding of the night-shift workers in the shop below the hostel. It again rained heavily the next morning, but we decided to catch a small boat to the bay to catch glimpses of migrating whales, we were incredibly close to humpbacks.

After being thoroughly soaked by the boat ride and less than charmed by the Ladrilleros, we went back to Buenaventura and then bought tickets onward to Armenia - a city on the edge of Colombia's coffee growing region. The driver of our micro stopped incessantly during the journey to load up on streetside sweets and grilled meats and would then ferociously assault the road and its´plentiful curves in order to make up for lost time. We arrived late and were wearily greeted at our hostel door by gaunt prostitutes wearing loose-fitting jean shorts.
Deciding to move along the next day, we took a micro to the small town of Salento in the Valle Cocora.

This is the most beautiful place I´ve seen so far in all of this 5-month journey. Daily precipitation gives the area a tropical aura, but the waether is always cool and pleasant. The gentle, cultivated hills are plush with fruit trees, coffee plants, and (excuse the Texan in me) healthy, fat cows. The ambiance is intoxicating.

We went to the plaza and I ate a fried banana with cheese, mushrooms, and tomatoes while Pilar looked for an elusive money-changer named Juan Luis. We hiked into the valley the next day and the landscape continued to be stun us with its´ fertility, beauty, and variety. Ascending from a dense, tropical creek-bed we caught glimpses of hummingbirds as the landscape became alpine-esque. We had pipe-dreams about making a life here.

Our hostel had visiting arrangements with a local farm, so after walking down for about an hour along a dirt road we found the estancia of Don Elias. The Don showed us his plethora of fruit plants (pineapple, mandarin, raspbery, and banana) and coffee bushes and delighted in answering our questions with an old, toothless smile. He and his wife prepared us coffee from the farm. Wow!

Onward to Medellin tomorrow.

I love Java, I love tea remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Dazed and Confused

2008-08-09T03:03:55Z

Our time spent in Lima was much like the city´s weather, dreary. I spent most of the time in my head thinking about what I should do once I get back to the States. Five months seems to be too long for me to travel, I need to do something to keep my mind occupied, to feel like I´m advancing myself in a credible fashion. I´m lucky to have the luxury to take a trip like this, but sometimes it´s hard to focus on what I´m seeing because of my want.
Pilar and I tried keeping ourselves occupied in Lima by visiting the many museums and religious sites. I´d had enough of those too. After seeing Pizarro´s body in the Lima Cathedral I vowed to stay out of museums and churches for awhile. The rest of the time there is hazy. An exhibit on the varieties of the Peruvian potato, a ceviche seafood medley, a thousand fast food restaurants. Peru is being reeled in by global corporations and the hook is set in Lima. There´s even a Chili´s restaurant. I must say we were tempted to eat there for familiarity´s sake.
Western desires aside, we had no problem with the crime there, something we had been repeatedly warned about. Now that we´re in Colombia we have begun to think more about safety and crime. I´m not really worried about kidknappings or abductions, those things only happen to businessmen or more valuable travellers (right?) just petty street crime. When we arrived in Cali we strolled to a street market a policeman recommended to us. Once there we were convinced that a few men were shadowing us, apparently, we were correct because a nearby street cop chased off the men and later told us they were definitley thieves. We´re trying not to be to paranoid about these sorts of things because what, then, would be the point of visiting here? But it is tricky because there are almost NO gringos. I saw none our first day and five the second. I´ve had to forego wearing my stars and stripes Hawaiian shirt.

Other than our one fearful encounter, Colombia is fantastic. Warm weather, lack of other gringos, unbelievable landscapes, and excellent food (mostly free of gluten). There are ridiculous varieties of fruit for me to try.
Colombia´s reoutation has kept it off the map for most tourists, it feels like we´re having some very fresh experiences.

Dazed and Confused remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Adios Peru

2008-08-01T22:01:25Z

After Arequipa, we took an overnite bus to Ica - a dusty little town to the north and about 250 km south of Lima. I gave Pilar one of my infamous sleeping pills so she could try and make it through the noisy night. This proved to be great fun for me because I got to listen/watch her stumble and mumble through the night as she awoke to go the bathroom.
We were both asleep when the bus arrived in Ica at 4.30 AM, where we were hustled into an idling cab. Thankfully, we found a hostel at that hour and drifted off to sleep for a few hours. When we awoke we realized two things. One, it was Peruvian Independence Day
Two, there was practically nothing to do in Ica
After going to a sight where, supposedly, withcraft was practiced many years ago and visting a local winery

we travelled to an outdoor restaurant that we heard was good fun.

We had a grand ole´time eating big plates of food, drinking wine, and dancing to the live band. The whole restaurant crowd was on their feet dancing and the band called out Pilar and I for a toast. Something to the effect of "Let us toast these foreigners who are here with us on our Independence Day." Excellent folk. Pilar and I tenaciously debated the value in celebrating our respective nations´ birthdays, then we saw "Meet Dave" overdubbed in Spanish. Yikes.
Exiting quickly from Ica the next day we went to nearby Huacachina, a small town in the sand dunes centered around a small lagoon.

After strolling around town for awhile, we took a group ride in a dune buggy across the bizarre landscape. It was like a rollercoaster ride.

We reached a series of dunes where our group hopped out of the buggy to prepare to sand-board. Like snowboarding, except, well, on sand dunes.

I was over-confident because of my succesful first-try and I nearly knocked myself out on my second attempt after losing my balance. The 3rd and 4th tries were fine, then I, once again, flipped ass-over-tea-kettle down the 5th dune after accumulating a great deal of speed. I am still sore.

We made it to Lima the next day - nearly 8 million people and, according to everyone we talk to, crime-ridden. However, everyone has been extremely friendly in dispensing advice. Our first taxi-driver (a very, very large man) was a little crazy and, in between unwrapping candies, told us incorrect things about our hostel´s side of town. As we sat in the mind-numbing traffic a traffic cop caught sight of Pilar and I within the taxi and came over to check the driver´s papers and to make sure the gringos weren´t being hassled. He didn´t have something and received a ticket. This city is crazy, like Los Angeles.

We head to Colombia tomorrow.

Adios Peru remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Johnny American

2008-08-01T21:55:22Z

Johnny American remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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As I walk through the valley...

2008-07-26T19:58:44Z

We took a bus from Arequipa to Cabanaconde - a dusty little town on the edge of the Cañon del Colca. The bus ride was, as usual, loud, dusty, and generally uncomfortable - I have grown accustomed to this by now, but Pilar's tolerance for these sorts of activities is short. I fought with the woman seated in front of me over opening the window- I needed air to alleviate the troubles the Dean Cain kung-fu movie was causing. The argument devolved to a sort of petty squabble over the fact that she had her window and I had mine - eventually I didn't even want the window open but I kept it agape strictly on principle.
We arrived in Cabanaconde after about 6 hours and Pilar haggled us a excellent deal at a hostal. We ate at a local restaurant popular with the few backpackers in town and went to sleep.
We rose early the next day and began the tortuous trek down the canyon. A condor swooped right over our heads and landed not more than 20 meters from us - amazing. The rest of the hike down was awe-inspiring, we chewed coca and took in the incredible rock formations that transformed near the bottom into nearly tropical environs.

After about 3 hours, we had finally descended the 3191 meters and had reached the almost non-existent town of San Juan de Chuccho where we lunched.

Feeling a bit rested (however, still exhausted) we decided to keep walking for awhile longer to Sangalle another small pueblo in the cañon nicknamed "The Oasis" because of its lush vegetation and spring-fed swimming pools.Pilar wanted to shorten the estimated hike time of three hours so she asked the local restauranteur about a shorter route. He drew us an absolutely confusing map on a napkin and we were off! Almost as soon as we left we were lost, but Pilar was diligent in asking the sparse population for directions. We soaked in the rich, fertile landscape and quibbled a bit over appropriate paths and trails. I was firmly in the camp of intuition while Pilar relied on locals´knowledge. I think I was right once.

Successfully reaching Sangalle, we met the owner of a hostal whose limited competition in the cañon had made him lazy, irritable, and resistant to doing anything remotely helpful and/or pleasant.

"You have a gluten-allergy?...I guess I can make you an egg, but I won´t be happy about it."

"You want to see the shitty, bamboo hut before you rent it? (exasperated) Fine."

"You just want to buy a glass (not a bottle) of our overpriced wine? We´ve never done anything like that before."

"You want me to not be a complete ass in every action I perform...No can do."
We listened to rats crawl across our roof that night and the next day Pilar tore into him before we hiked back to Cabanaconde. Once there we bought some Gato Negro wine and were shocked at it´s spoiled flavor (we´ve drank enough to know). We tried to return it but, oddly enough, the shop owner thought it tasted just dandy (after consulting with the local woman buying onions).
Had an excellent dinner of alpaca steak, took the bus back to Arequipa the next day. We head north tommorow to Ica or Pisco.

P.S. Finally, I got to try Guinea pig.

As I walk through the valley... remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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dancin' at the cañon

2008-07-25T23:51:53Z

dancin' at the cañon remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Paucartambo

2008-07-21T20:59:58Z

Paucartambo remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Where have all the nuns gone?

2008-07-21T20:58:42Z

After our non-stop, photo-till-you-drop tour of the Cuzco area - Pilar and I were quite exhausted. We took a couple days off in Cuzco bumming around and haggling for clothes, jewelry, etc. We met up and had a BBQ with my friends, Joel, Eileen, Lucas, and Mariano from Bolivia. Joel and Eileen are renting for $200/month a fantastic apartment in the upper part of Cuzco. We bought a whole bunch of meat and veggies and sat down for an afternoon of cooking that was relaxing and delicious - although a Canadian guy lectured me for the better part of an hour on American politics. Some French travellers stopped by and I tried, and failed (quite comically), to have a conversation about Mali.
We hopped on a bus that night to Arequipa,

a large city in Southern Peru that is known for its' whitewashed, volcanic-rock building facades and its' nearness to the deepest canyon in the world - Cañon del Colca.
We found a wonderful hostel and strolled around the town's parks.

Next day, we visited a nunnery where Dominican sisters lived in complete seclusion from the outside world. Beautiful old place.

We head to the cañon tommorow.

Where have all the nuns gone? remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I lost my pen

2008-07-20T21:41:02Z

Lovin' time in Pukapukara

Food protest

Traditional Garb

Incan Salt Pans

Waiting....

Pisac

I lost my pen remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I lost my pen

2008-07-20T19:30:18Z

Lovin' the cheap food

Pisac

Pukapukara

Tiempo del Asado

Oh my goodness

Mi guia

Local Delicacy

I lost my pen remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Paucartambo

2008-07-17T00:38:08Z

After our whirlwind Incan tour we caught word of the Virgen de Carmen festival in the nearby town of Paucartambo. So we hopped a bus there understanding that because of the festival we might not be able to find a place to stay and might have to sleep outside. Luckily, Pilar befriended a couple from Lima who knew of some clandestine places to stay. When we arrived the town was already in a state of pandemonium. The streets were crowded with 18 different groups of parading dancers and musicians, each representing different aspects of the complicated religious proceedings.

We searched for some places and finally found a beautiful hacienda that had been converted into hostel by the wild-eyed, now-drunk owner. We were thankful to have a bed.

We went back into the streets and watched the proceedings for the next few hours.

Wild-costumes, crowd interference, dancing, and drunk spectators - a real festival.

We went back to the hostel where the owner and his kooky friends were getting shitfaced. The friends knew no bounds of personal space and were pressing us for interaction. Things continued to get stranger as they got more drunk. We left again for the square where an old couple invited us to dance with them - Pilar, of course, quickly picked up the correct steps I just did my "dance-in-circle" routine. Really genuine, fun people. Dangerous fireworks and LOTS of drinking.
We bumped into the crazy friends again who didn't want to let us leave, they explained how nice the hostel was because it was not only a hostel, it was, apparently, an informal sanitorium for the owner and his friends. That explained alot about the awkward happenings.

We returned to Cuzco the next day.

Paucartambo remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Inca Time

2008-07-17T00:12:14Z

After hanging around Cuzco for a couple of days and visiting some sites we began our journey to Macchu Picchu by way of Santa Maria and Santa Teresa - two small towns in the upper Amazon. As we ascended up the mountains surrounding Cuzco it was not hard to believe why the mountain bastion of Macchu Picchu had eluded European discovery for nearly 500 years. The landscape went from the relatively dry hills to precipices of several thousand feet, densely covered in jungle. All within about a 2-hours journey.
We reached the town of Santa Maria had some jungle juice and hopped another colectivo to Santa Teresa - a small town very near Macchu Picchu. We soaked in the thermal baths and prepared to depart at 4 in the morning to Macchu. The route to MP by way of Santa Teresa is more difficult and requires about 8-hours walking roundtrip, but it avoids the expensive tourist train and complimentary rip-off, train town. We awoke, met a Belgian hippie, and began the dark walk along train tracks to MP. It was fucking dark and dangerous. We crossed over a railway bridge in pitch darkness and sang "yes, Jesus loves me!" in attempt to conjure courage.

We finally reached the gates of MP after a ridiculous final ascent by the way of the Incan road. Virtually straight-up the hillside. The park was already bulging with tourists, but we paid the overpriced ticket, I bought a red bull and entered the park. It had taken us 4 hours to walk from Santa Teresa.
Macchu Picchu truly is amazing. It remained hidden from European eyes until 1912 because of its geographical isolation and its' importance to the Incan culture. It is speculated (no one knows for sure because there is no Incan writing) that kept there were the Virgins of the Sun that served the Incan priests and leaders. It might also be where the last Incan emperor retreated shortly before being captured by the Spaniards elsewhere. Possibly the original Temple of the Sun is here. There really isn't a good way to describe MP in words.

We wondered around for awhile and I ascended the peak behind MP - Huayna Picchu.

We descended and began the 4-hour walk back to Santa Teresa and along the way found some avocadoes and bananas to eat.

Next day we had some trouble getting to Ollantaytambo but Pilar was a first-class negotiator and we succeeded in our travels. I am accustomed to using a "good cop/bad cop" form of negotiation - now I just play stupid cop because of Pilar's expertise and "take-no-prisoners" attitude. Unquestionably, here I'm at a disadvantage compared to Pilar. She gets so much more out of the places and people we're visiting because she can speak the language - I probably come across as a sort of intelligent cow. I return your gaze, but there just isn't a lot of understanding going on. Nevertheless, I enjoy.
We arrived in Ollantaytambo and found a beautiful hostel and I accidentally erased all of my photos while sitting on the toilet. We visited the ruins where the Incas won a battle against the Spanish by flooding the fields below the fort and rolling boulders onto the poor bastards.
We moved onto Salinas - old salt drying beds, then to Moray - a kind of Incan laboratory for crops - descending circular terraces set within a natural bowl valley.

Finally, our whirlwind 'Incan Ruin Tour 08' concluded in the town of Chincheros where the Spanish built a beautifully painted church over some Incan structures. Really lovely little place and we ate a nice lunch with rice and tripe.

Exhausted, we returned back to Cuzco and a local computer whiz recovered my photos

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Saqsaywaman

2008-07-11T01:55:35Z

Cuzco is like the disneyland of South America - more tourists than natives. But the place deserves the visitors - it is absolutely beautiful. The city is set within beautiful hills with a dozen old churches and cathedrals. This was the premier city of the Incan empire for many years that, at its' peak, stretched from Quito, Ecuador to northern, Argentina/Chile. When the Spanish arrived here in the early 1500's they, of course, killed the Incan Emperor (not before demanding a ransom of gold) and tried to assume power of the empire. It took awhile, but they succeeded, even though the Quechua language of the Incas survives with some 5 million speakers. Cuzco reflects the struggle of the empires. Spanish churches are built on the foundations of Incan sites and colonial buildings are set within the confines of the narrow streets that Incans only made large enough for load-bearing llamas.
I bumped into the Argentineans and Brit/Aussie I met in Argentina - they all succeeded in getting jobs here in various restaurants. I was to catch up with them at some bars but, evidently, my food poisoning was actually a parasite. Apparently, while the amoeba is chowing down on my hard-earned food (within my gut) it emits a gas. So my abdomen swelled just a bit. But I eliminated that little fucker with some strong anti-parasitics. I blame the trout in Copacabana.
After some recovery time, it was the day of Pilar´s arrival. It was ill-timed because the entire country of Peru was on strike for various economic reasons. When I exited the hostel to go to the airport the streets were COMPLETELY blocked with crowds and there were no cars, taxis, colectivos - nothing. I asked a police officer how I could get to the airport and he flagged down his friend on a motorscooter. He agreed to take me there for free. As I clutched to his midriff, the crowd threw a few rocks at us because it was disrespectful to be driving during the protests.
Pilar arrived and we were both completely shocked to see one another after nearly 4 months. We didn't know how to greet one another, but we quickly caught up.

The next day we visited the ruins of the Incan fortress saqsaywaman (yes, it sounds like 'sexy woman' if you can't, like me, pronounce quechua). Unbelievable place, we just mulled about the massive rock walls for a few hours and remarked at the unbelievable masonry skills of the Incas. They had only bronze tools and had nothing stronger than a llama to move 200 ton blocks that fit together without any bonding-agent.
We head to some smaller towns in the next few days to soak in some hot springs and visit more ruins including Macchu Picchu.

Saqsaywaman remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Chau Chau Bolivia

2008-07-07T01:22:06Z

After Potosi I made my way to lake titicaca - on the border with peru. I arrived at the bus station from Potosi at 6 in the morning. It was downright freezing, I curled up into my little, blue sleeping bag in the terminal and tried to divert my attention. I bought a ticket for a small colectivo to Copacabana, about 3.5 hours from La Paz. I was astounded at the landscape when we arrived there. Copa is small - maybe 50,000 people and nestled between two massive hills and set on the sapphire-blue waters of the lake.
Stunningly beautiful - one of the seven wonders of the natural world. I found a cheap place to stay and wondered to the cathedral where the clergy was blessing newly purchased cars. Afterwards, I walked up one of the large hills where catholics have built tributes to the virgin mary. They were spraying beer on one another and lighting candles.
Copa is a neo-hippie hangout - plush with dredlocked, hemp-braiding folk. A pleasant change from the rest of Bolivia.
Next day was July 4th, I tried to conjure the spirit of the holiday, but had no luck. I hiked to Yampupata - a small town the almost touches Isla del Sol.

Isla is where Incan mythology places the birth of the sun god. It's a small little island and stuninngly beautiful and without motorized vehicles. I met two Belgian girls on the hike and we all rented a rowboat with a guide to take us to the island. We weren't aware that part of the deal included us rowing with him. Difficult work at 4000 meters, but we managed.

We arrived at the small town of Yumani and found a cheap hostel perched on a hillside and remarked again and again at the beauty of the surroundings. We drank alot and I got food poisoning again. The stars were unbelievable - possible to see the thick band of the milky-way. The next day we hiked to the temple of the sun and soaked up the atmosphere.

I was meditating next to the ruins when some English arrived. I could hear them guessing as to what I was doing sitting so still. They correctly surmised I was meditating and guessed I was soaking up the energy from the Incan power centers. Huh? Dude, I only energy-bathe when I'm wearing my geode-power satchel.

We trekked for what seemed like an endless amount of time - things made complicated by the triple whammy of hangover, food poisoning, and severe altitude. But the scenery overpowered all and we arrived at the northern end of the island at the pueblo of Cha'llapampa. We hopped a boat back to Copa and I bought a bus ticket to Cusco for the next day.
Goodbye Bolivia. It's been nice, but I will not miss the women pissing in the streets, the bitterly cold nights, or the gastrointestinal war I've waged here.
I arrive in Cusco tommorow and soon thereafter will meet my friend Pilar from Spain. Pilar lives in Madrid and is skipping out on some flamenco dancing opportunities to come explore the continent. It will be nice to no longer travel alone, especially with a native spanish speaker.
So many foreigners I meet here have a similiar story to Pilar's and mine. Work sucked or wasn't what they wanted - so they quit and went travelling. No one seems to have regrets. Talking to all these well-to-do foreigners and seeing the Bolivian lifestyle has once again reminded me of how much opportunity I have back in the States. I hope I have the clear sight when I return and choose to do something worthwhile. There's always H-E-B!

Chau Chau Bolivia remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Dynamite and dust

2008-07-01T22:19:16Z

Sucre was a lovely town with whitewashed walls, beautiful architecture, and winding cobblestone streets, although I didn't find much to do there. Mostly read in the plaza.
I've been surprised at my pace of travel thus far. I believed I'd take more time at each stop, but have, instead, been moving every 3 days or so. This is the sort of travelling I was reared on with my family. Break-neck, sun-up to sun-down activity. I feel it's good for my mind and spirit - I feel a renewed confidence in my ability to anticipate my needs/wants and to deliver. Maybe it's the sleeping pills.
Elections for the new governor of Sucre province took place while I was there. The province banned alcohol consumption for two days because of Bolivians' drink-till-you-fight/drop habits. This perturbed the Irish and English at my hostel.
Took a bus to nearby Potosi the next day - at 4060 meters the highest city in the world. Potosi was established by the Spanish in the 16th century because of the rich silver deposits contained in the nearby "cerro rico" or "rich mountain." Thus began hundreds of years of mining misery. The Spanish shipped in African slaves and natives from other territories by the millions to work the mines. The miners were usually forced to work for 20 hours at a time until they died of starvation, exhaustion, disease, or any other number of possible dangers. It's estimated 8 million people have died in the mines - earning it the nickname "the mountain that eats men alive." Potosi was once larger and richer than London or Paris at its' time, but most of the mineral wealth has now been exploited. Nevertheless, Bolivians still work the mines in organized cooperatives that are able to set wages, hours, etc. But the conditions are still appalling. Average life expectancy of a miner is 10-years once he steps foot in the shafts. Silicosis pneumonia kills most, a kind of miners' lung. Others are crushed or blown apart in dynamite accidents/fights. I wanted to see them - found a company that offered cheap tours and signed up. Not sure why I want to see something as awful as this - maybe that bloodlust part of me or a part that wants to remind myself of how lucky I have it in life.
First, we were given jumpsuits and boots then taken to the miners' market to buy coca leaves, soda, and dynamite as gifts for the miners. The guide loved demonstrating how safe the dynamite was by throwing it on the floor. We made our way to the mine entrance that was stained black with sacrificial llama blood. Miners' pay homage to a devil-god called "tio" because of their proximity to hell when deep in the mine. They tribute him with cigarettes, blood, coca leaves, and 96% alcohol that they also imbibe.
The mine was a nightmare of cramped tunnels, mud, and dust. The walls quivered with the dull explosions of dynamite as we descended to the third level. There we met some coughing, dreary-eyed miners shoveling rubble into a winch system. Back-breaking, mindless work. They joked about the gringos paying money to come down here, I felt ridiculous.

Most of the miners are here because there is no other work to be found or because mine companies ask no questions about their workers' origins. Many are proud of their jobs and many are not.
By the time we made it back out everyone was gasping for air because of the dust and altitude. My throat and lungs burned and I was incredibly thankful I was not a miner. Before we could head back the guides wanted to show us one last thing. The little Bolivian man broke apart the dynamite stick, put it in a plastic bag and pured in some ammonium nitrate to make it more powerful. He lit the fuse and passed the bomb around so everyone could get pictures with it. I declined and gained some distance from the group. I trust no one - including myself - with explosives. He dashed down the hill and hastily buried the package, awkwardly ascended, and waited a minute. The explosion was more felt than heard, although the sound was deafening. Now I know.
I went back to the hostel and tried to wash the accumulated filth off, no luck though, still stink of the place. Tomorrow I go back to La Paz on my way to Peru.

Dynamite and dust remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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third-class seat

2008-06-28T20:58:18Z

I saw some ruins outside of Samaipata the next day. A pre-Inca site with ceremonial figures carved into a huge slab of rock, El Fuerte. I Walked back to town - beautiful countryside - mandarin orange country.
I tried to buy a overnite 2nd class ticket to Sucre (about 12 hours), but all were sold out so I bought 3rd class. I thought the ride would be terrible so I went to the local pharmacy staffed by a 15-year old Bolivian girl. I asked for something to help me sleep on the bus. Two options, both prescription strength: mild or strong. Strong, of course.
Waited at a restaurant and met some Australians. The bus was an hour late and was absolutely packed. There were people riding in the luggage compartments in the bottom of the bus. I quickly hopped aboard and left my book on the counter at the restaurant. Fuck. I have a problem with losing things lately.
Stopped for a greasy dinner.
Party Time.
Took one - felt good - hung my head out the window like an jubilant dog. Shot some photos of complete darkness. This isn't working - I need another.
After this I remember only fragments of the night. Had hiccups at some point. Got out to pee wearing my headlamp in the middle of nowhere. Wrote something in my journal. Next thing I definitively remember is a policeman on the bus asking me for my papers.
"Gracias, David Hixon"
"And a good day to you, sir"
Arrived in Sucre - the Australians had arrived on another bus - they had my book!
Today - dinosaur tracks. Tomorrow is election day.

P.S. The following is what I wrote in my journal - atleast what I can make of it:

The bus is full of anomalies. I have the hiccups. Things are going quickly outside. We must keep a calm positive and enjoy the progressive workings of our truck trip.

Saw a giant gopher cleaning out its burrow. Saw Santa Claus disguised in the trees.

Hi
Hippopotamus Rocks

Hiccups
Richeousness of river crossing?

Great Eagle commands
- size of one tree

The stars were like wadded beautiful wallpaper of death - bonewhite plants grasping for sunlite.

Lament Women as
shrub

Hiccups!

third-class seat remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Leave your idealism at home

2008-06-27T13:22:20Z

I recovered quickly from my illness and was ready to get out of La Paz. I had been there for 4 days at the time of my departure. I hopped on an overnite bus to Santa Cruz - a city that is the jumping off point for exploration into the surrounding jungles and continuing journeys to the pantanal of Brazil. The bus was fine other than some 7 AM, wake-up, latino rock. Santa Cruz was sunny and warm - a nice departure from the high-elevation, cold of the rest of Bolivia.
When I arrived I went straight to a mini-bus colectivo stand to catch one to the small town of Samaipata. A small pueblo known for several reasons: UNESCO ruins, gateway to Amboro national park, proximity to the site Che Guevara`s death.
I met a strange Swiss woman and her tiny dog at the Samaipata taxi stand. She was a self-proclaimed "Modern Che." She fought with the colectivo drivers for a lower fare and, when rebuffed, convinced me to come with her to find a lower fare to Samaipata. She talked a thousand words a minute in Spanish at me.
Found a lower fare. Showed me pictures of Che done with Eucalyptus leaves. She proclaimed "Me encanta niños (I love children)" as she awkwardly tried to give some coins to a child washing his father`s car - a reward? a handout? She chastised a local woman who threw her trash on the sidewalk. Everyone just stared at her in disbelief. I didn`t want to be associated with this woman.
On the road to Samaipata now.
Stopped. A landslide had blocked the road. Everyone piled out and faux-Che found some fellow Fench speakers. She cursed the Bolivian people as worthless. What is this Chihuahua-toting, idealistic, communist-wanna-be doing here and why am I stuck next to her?
Arrived. Thank you Jesus.
Samaipata is a beautiful town of 3000 residents, nestled in the Cordillera Oriental. There are, of course, a few Germans living here and even a couple of Texans. Their accent warmed the cockles of my heart.
I went with a group of Americans to the nearby Parque Nacional Amboro - a huge tract of land with some of the last untouched cloud forests in the world. Giant fern trees and wild guinea pigs. Like a Jurassic Forest - minus the Goldblum.

Leave your idealism at home remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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making music!

2008-06-25T18:05:32Z

making music! remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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bedroom fantasy

2008-06-24T20:22:48Z

The last days in tupiza were spent mulling about with Mariano and Lucas (argentineans) and Eilleen and Joel (Aussie/Brit). We all hopped a bus to La Paz because they were headed for Peru and La Paz was the only other place I could go at the moment. All the other roads were still blocked. I overdressed for the bus ride, assuming it would be, like everything else in Bolivia, unheated. Dead wrong. I baked like a clam under my 6 layers of clothing as the woman behind me courteously adjusted my lumbar with her feet.
It was in the middle of this hellish experience that I began to feel sick. By the time I stepped off the bus 12 hours later in La Paz, I knew things were going to get worse. I quickly said goodbye to my travelmates (who I'll be meeting again in cuzco) and took an offer by a hostel hawker. Made the trek to the hostel and got an ubelievable deal - private room with cable TV and breakfast for 7 dollars. I was going to need the comfortability. I spent the next two days in bed (with the exception of a doctor's visit) dry heaving and familiriazing myself with the bathroom decor. The homecall doctor was busy treating a cocaine overdose so I found another doctor who diagnosed me with either salmonella poisoning or gastrointestinal staphylococcus infection. yikes. Never been so ill in my life.
I'm pretty sure it was that medium-rare llama steak I ate in Uyuni.

bedroom fantasy remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A salty birthday

2008-06-21T20:13:15Z

The next to last day of the desert tour our group stayed in a hotel on the edge of the salar de uyuni - at 7,000 sq. miles the world's largest salt flat. We were all glad to finish somewhat early that day because the two previous days had been long. Ou guides took us to some lovely sites but were always hustling us to leave as soon as we arrived.
That night was the 18th, the day before my birthday - the Argentineans and English/Aussie wanted to stay up until 12 to celebrate it even though we were leaving the following morning at 5 to catch the sunrise.
We met several groups of English in our hostel - one small group of very cool girls and the other a massive group of 20-somethings. I can only describe them as English frat boys and sorority sisters.
I tried not to drink much because of our early departure time - but my travel mates didn't help. Eventually, I found myself outside in the sub-zero temperatures at 4 in the morning with no shoes on. A move I like to call "The Nathan Christ". Finally, I headed back to bed at 4:45 AM and set my alarm for 5 AM. I, of course, awoke disoriented and just as drunk as I was 15-minutes earlier. I accidentally took someone else´s coat, crawled into the car and witnessed the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen. We finished the day in Uyuni at a train graveyard.
I'm in La Paz now, a city out of a dream/nightmare, all other roads to other cities are closed because of mining prostests. I'm sick again.

A salty birthday remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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photos

2008-06-20T17:35:56Z

http://www.flickr.com/photos/motherh/

photos remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Singani

2008-06-19T22:30:50Z

My second day in Tupiza was spent hiking around the area taking in the landscape - visited Cañon del Inca (with a small waterfall), Puerta del Diablo, and a valley of odd-shaped rocks names the valley of penises. Phallirific.
That night I hit the town with Joel and Eileen a English/Australian couple, respectively, and a plethora of other folk from our hostel. We started out at a restaurant named "The Alamo" - nice. Afterwards, everyone cleared out and Joel and Eileen and I wanted another drink. So we went to a karaoke bar and ordered cocktails of the local liquor - singani. Foul stuff that is thrice distilled from grapes. It is 80 proof and somewhere between tequila, vodka, and paint thinner. Apparently it has mildly psycotropic effects.
So after some of those I was feeling the music at the karaoke place - something I never do. I murdered a version of "House of the Rising Sun". Shortly thereafter the rest of the hostel squad arrived - apparently not really ready to call it a night. We ordered a bottle of singani and I convinced the multi-national squad to sing. The English sang Elvis' "Can't help falling in love" and me and a French guy sang "Michelle" by the Beatles. I tried to move people to the dancefloor but was unsuccesful. However, my gregarious attitude was, apparently, interpreted by a small gay, Bolivian man as invitation for courtship. Eileen made the situation worse by telling him, in spanglish, that I would come with him if he procured some margarine and a donkey. This surely confused the Boliviano. I made a hasty exit to my hostel.
Monday, I indulged myself and left on a 4-day tour of SW Bolivia with Eileen, Joel, and two Argentineans - Mariano and Lucas. The SW circuit of Bolivia is extremely dry, extremely high, and contains bizarre lagoons, volcanos, and geologic formations. The 1st day we were supposed to see some natural rock wonders but our guide, apparently, got lost in the maze of dirt tracks through the remote area. So we aimlessly off-roaded for 12 hours and saw some distant vicunas and a rodent relative of the chinchilla. Towards the end of the day the drivers, sensing our irritability, tried to cheer us up by singing quechua songs with mouths packed full of coca leaves. I wasn't having it.
The next morning we awoke to a temperature of -4 degrees fahrenheit and journeyed to an extinct volcano with an arsenic lake at its' base. We played 3-3 football at the end of the day, all of us immediately regretting this because of the 4000 m altitude. The Bolivians and Texan won.

Singani remains copyright of the author Sabrosa684, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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