Travels in Latin America by Jay Philip Williams

Update From Home

2009-01-06T12:42:00.000-08:00

I'm home. Got here yesterday. Things are a mess and there's so much to do to get things back in order. After I get things under control, I'll begin to write blogs about the final stretch of my trip from Managua, Nicaragua, all the way up through Mexico and into El Paso, Texas, and on up to Tacoma. I'll also edit the last several thousand photos I shot and get them up to my photo site.

To make your life easier, just subscribe to the RSS feed so you'll be notified automatically when I post new entries and not have to check back every day. I'll try to post the blogs using the dates of their actual occurrence for some continuity. Thanks for sticking with me, all.

Internet in Latin America

2008-12-28T20:10:00.000-08:00

The vast majority of hostels that I've stayed at during my travels in Latin America have had broadband and WiFi. In fact, that's one of the criteria I use when I select a hostel. Having WiFi for my laptop makes all the difference in the world. Most hostels also have a computer or two for the travelers to use.

There are also many locutorios in almost every city. These are Internet Cafes and usually also have telephones. You use the computer or telephone (you can usually call anywhere in the world) and then pay at the front desk on your way out.

It just occurred to me that it might be useful to share what Internet speeds I've encountered during my trip, so I'll post the ones I remember here (not many) and I'll update this post as I think of it.

Buenos Aires, Argentina (download) — 3Mbps
Salta, Argentina (download) — 1Mbps
La Paz, Bolivia — 650Kbps / 116Kbps
Tupiza, Bolivia — horribly slow
Lima, Peru — 450Kbps / 140Kbps
Quito, Ecuador — 460Kbps / 122Kbps
Managua, Nicaragua — 440Kbps / 170Kbps
Puebla, Mexico — 1Mbps / 180Kbps
Durango, Mexico — 786Kbps / 95Kbps

To test your Internet speed, use Speedtest.net. It's great.

Christmas Update From Latin America

2008-12-25T09:38:00.001-08:00

I know some of you are wondering where I am. I haven't been updating my blog regularly, as I've been moving fast, and photo editing and writing the blog take loads of time. There will be a lot of blanks I'll have to fill in after I get home—which should be in less than two weeks.

I'm currently in Puebla, Mexico, with my friends Tim & Barbara-Lee Glessner. If you want to see where I am at any given moment, either look at my facebook status or check my travel map. I try to update both of those regularly.

The remainder of my trip may look something like the following: go to Mexico City tomorrow for the day, go to Tequila for a day, go to Durango for a day, head up to Los Mochis and take the train through Copper Canyon getting off in one or two places for a day (horseback riding?), then take a bus to Ciudad Juarez, cross the border, and hitch a ride to Seattle.

Walk for Your Food

2008-12-24T20:30:00.001-08:00

Although this happened to me in Puebla, Mexico, it could've been any Latin American city. Wherever you may find yourself, I recommend you do what I did.

My friend Tim had dropped me off in downtown Puebla to walk around some, take some pictures, and just get to know the city a bit. He was going to meet me several hours later and we would decide what else to do then.

Before he took off, he had pointed me in the direction of a market where I could find a bathroom, so that's the first place I went. Like many of the toilets in Latin America, there was no toilet seat, but unlike many of the toilets in Latin America, it actually flushed. At a fair number of the baños you'll encounter in this neck of the woods, there is someone who works there who has a 50-gallon drum of water—or a hose—and a 5-gallon bucket that he uses to flush the toilets manually.

After relieving myself, I proceeded to the cathedral—which has the tallest towers in Mexico—and to a few other churches. By this time—probably an hour-and-a-half later—I was pretty hungry, so I decided to find some place to eat, which brings me to the point of this post, really nothing more than a simple travel tip.

I wanted to find a small outfit with good, cheap, authentic food. That meant getting away from the main plaza where the cathedral was. I normally just look for a hole-in-the-wall, an uber-small restaurant where locals are eating. I headed back toward the market where I hoped to find such a joint.

On a street corner in the same neighborhood as the market, I found a nice looking place. It looked like a candidate. There was a menu sitting on a table near one of the large, airy, entrances. I picked it up and gave it a quick once-over. A quick scan down the price column told me all I needed to know: 50, 70, 90 pesos. Coke: 15 pesos (probably a 355 ml glass bottle). I continued with my original plan and went a bit farther, arriving at the market. At either end of one of the aisles of the market were vendors selling food.

I approached the metal cart and stood by, as they were currently cooking for those who were already standing around and had ordered. The cart had a large, thin, circular plate mounted on top—a cooking surface—which was quite far from flat from years of hard use. This metal disc was raised several inches above the surface of the cart to make room to build a fire underneath. Red-hot coals were working on my behalf, firewood and oxygen for the cooking of my meal.

They were cooking only a few different items, not too different than loads of the food you'll find in Mexico—tortillas with stuff inside. The lady grabbed a fist full of dough, plopped it down onto a cast iron press, closed the handle forcefully, opened it back up and rotated the now-tortilla-shaped dough a bit, then pressed again. Upon opening the tortilla maker once more, she removed the thin, round, uncooked tortilla from between the two sheets of wax paper and threw it onto the steel griddle next to the other tortillas that were already cooking.

I didn't understand the names of all the ingredients that were at my disposal. She pointed at another guy's quesadilla and asked if that would work for me. It looked like what I wanted so I told her to go for it. The meat, a beef, was called chorizo, and the cheese that was used was very stringy, but nice when melted. There was some lettuce thrown in and some salsa for a bit of twang.

I paid 14 pesos for this freshly-made delight. That's about a dollar.

There was a guy standing by the stand who had just finished his food and was sipping a bottle of pop. I asked him if it was cold. "More or less," he said. I felt one of the bottles of Coke that was sitting in the plastic crate next to us and it definitely wasn't too terribly frosty. I asked him where there was a store and after some grimacing and squinting he pointed to the next corner, verified by the cook. I walked the block and bought a chilly 600 ml Coke for 8 pesos.

Moral of the story? When traveling in Latin America, get away from the tourist spots, look for the tiny joint where the locals are eating, save your money, and enjoy a treat. I've experienced the fruits of this bit of extra labor countless times during my trip and it's worth the walk.

Oaxaca, Oaxaca

2008-12-21T20:33:00.000-08:00

I had only one day to spend in Oaxaca before meeting up with my friends Tim and Barbara-Lee Glessner who are missionaries in Puebla, just over 200 miles to the northwest, or about a four-and-a-half-hour bus ride.

I arrived early in the morning after an all-night bus ride from San Cristóbol de las Casas. The bus station was quite nice and had a few things that would make possible a great one-day visit to this lovely town. The first thing that it had was a secure place to store all my luggage. It would have been impossible to enjoy the sights while lugging all my things around, so I was quite pleased with this. After leaving my things and getting a receipt, I paid to use the restroom, then proceeded to the second important feature of the bus station—a tourist information center. The info dude gave me a map, which had myriad churches to visit (as you have probably gathered if you’ve been reading this blog for very long, I love taking photos of these old churches!) and other points of interest. I asked if he could recommend anything particularly noteworthy, since I had only one day to spend in the city. He did say there was supposed to be a concert that evening and marked the location on the map.

With that, I headed out. The first order of business was breakfast. I was hungry and needed fuel for the day. Just across the street from the bus station, I found a small restaurant which was called Comedor La Estancia and was open for breakfast. I had a tlayuda, which is a crispy tortilla with your choice of meat (I got beef), cheese, avocados, and tomatoes. Price? 25 pesos. Not bad.

Post food, I took out my map and began to wander around, visiting churches, parks, and other landmarks. Each landmark—church or otherwise—had a nice little sign on it, describing what it was and giving its history. They were definitely prepared for tourists. A quick snapshot of each sign made it easy to get all the pertinent info.

I swung by the location where the concert was to take place a few hours early (mid-afternoon) just to make sure I knew where it was and to make sure it was still on. When I first got there, setup was well underway. A stage had been assembled and the sound system was put together and a sound check was in progress. I wandered around the neighborhood a bit longer, but didn’t go far. Returning to the concert location at around 5:00 PM, I snapped a few photos before the concert started and watched the singers test the mics and work out the last few kinks in preparation for the moment of truth.

The concert was put on by the Seventh Day Adventist Church and was really the first time it felt like Christmas to me, despite the fact that Christmas was only 4 days away. The concert was very well done and featured some very talented groups and soloists along with your typical mediocre folks (gotta start somewhere, right?) and children’s groups. The leader of the main vocal group seemed a bit bossy and arrogant—doesn’t every church have one?—but they were a top-notch ensemble. I quite enjoyed it, as did the group of hundreds of locals that had gathered. The church folks were all very friendly and after the concert was over, they loaded Christmas punch into cups from giant aluminum tubs and passed it out. It had big chunks of fruit in it and was excellent. I was grateful and it felt good being included, the gringo just passin’ through.

After the concert, I swung by a burger cart in the street nearby to get some grub. While I was waiting my turn, Juan, a librarian from UT, El Paso, said hi and bought me dinner. We met up with some friends of his—a writer and a husband and wife from The States—and went to a restaurant where they got some food and we all sat around and chatted for a bit. The main thing I remember is their belittling me for thinking George Bush was an okay guy and for having voted for him. That really surprised them. Apparently, they thought everyone was liberal.

From the street in front of the restaurant, I said goodbye and made my way back to the bus station in the dark. The bus was to leave quite late, so I got my items from storage and just hung out for a while. We left around 11:30 and arrived in Puebla at about 4 AM. My friend Tim had given me his address which I had written down on a piece of paper and had put in my pocket. I had a taxi driver take me to the general vicinity of Tim’s and Barbara-Lee’s house, but he couldn’t find it—Tim had warned me that it could be difficult to find. I also had written down Tim’s phone number, so I borrowed the cabbie’s cell and rung Tim. He explained to the driver how to get to the house and we arrived within minutes.

In typically gracious fashion, Tim welcomed me despite my having arrived at the pre-butt-crack of dawn. I slept until about 9:00, then got up and officially began a very pleasant Christmas stay with the Glessners in Puebla, Mexico.

A Bunch of Random Schtuff

2008-12-20T07:02:00.000-08:00

When you visit ruins such as Machu Picchu (Peru), Copán (Honduras), or Tikal (Guatemala), there are normally guides at the entrance that you can hire. They will walk around the ruins with you giving explanations of all manner of things, such as dates, rituals, habits of the people, religious practices, etc. Hire them! They are worth every penny. You will come away with far more knowledge and appreciation of what you've seen than if you walked around by yourself guessing at what's what.
The bus station in Panama City is unique. You will see literally hundreds of school buses, all pimped out—wild paint jobs, lots of chrome, and other decorations. Kind of funny, kind of crazy.
In Copán, Honduras, I was bitten by far more bugs while visiting the ruins in one day (and on the island of Utila, Honduras where I stayed for the week before that—sand flies) than on the entire previous ten-and-a-half months of my trip. Bugs can be very annoying. My ankles and feet itched for days.
Currency in Latin America—this is both from experience (to the best of my recollection) and from what I've heard.

Ecuador's official currency is the US dollar.
El Salvador's official currency is the US dollar (I was told this by someone else).
All other countries in Latin America have their own currency.
All Central American countries that I have been in (Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, and Guatemala) accept payment in US dollars, but give change in the local currency.

I stayed at a hostel called El Hostal in Antigua, Guatemala. I recommend it. It was nice, clean, the staff was friendly, the breakfast (included) was great, and they have WiFi. The one caveat is that the mattresses are lousy.
I stayed at a hostel called Los Camellos in San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico. It's cheap, clean, and they have WiFi. No breakfast included, but breakfasts at these places usually aren't great, anyway, so just go out for breakfast. Recommended. I was going to stay at Las Palomas, but it was full. I showed up and talked to the lady, though, and it looked really nice. Plus, they have WiFi, so if you have a laptop, consider it as an option.
The farther north you travel, the smaller the modes of transport seem to become. In Argentina, it was double-decker buses. In northern South America and some of Central America, it was single-deckers. Then in northern Central America it became mini-vans. The company I went with to get from Copán, Honduras to Antigua, Guatemala was Plus Travel Agency. The vehicle was in horrendous condition. The transmission sounded like it was going to explode. A CV joint went out an hour into the trip. The driver was strange. He may have been drinking. Not sure. Regardless, he was off somehow. There are only two agencies in the town that drive this route. I would try the other one next time.
From Antigua, Guatemala, there are tons of travel agencies you can use to get to San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico—or any of a number of other places. To get to San Cristóbol de las Casas, Mexico, most of them charge $60. I found one that charged $40, but I was very skeptical of the service I would get. I took them anyway. The vehicles were excellent and the drivers very professional. I told the second driver he was the best one I'd had on my entire trip. CAT rent a bus. CAT stands for Centro America Travel. They've got an address in Copán (I just noticed) so they may be the other agency there.

Antigua address: 6ta. Avenida Sur No. 10C
Copán address: Barrio El Centro (it's a small town—if you walk for a minute, you can find it)

San Cristóbol de las Casas

2008-12-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

I’m not usually much of a shopper, but in this case I wanted the best deal, so I did a fair amount of walking. I’m skeptical of prices that seem too good to be true, but the outfit looked respectable and the gal behind the desk was cute. So, I bought the ticket that would take me out of Central America to my home continent (I paid $40 instead of $60).

The ride from Antigua, Guatemala into Mexico to San Cristóbol de las Casas would take the better part of a day, but with a good van, the best driver of my entire trip, a nice family from Mexico city, and an Angelina Jolie lookalike from France, my surroundings and situation could have been far worse.

On the downside, I did feel kind of sick for quite some time as the roads leading northward in this part of Guatemala to the Mexican border were as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. There was also tons of roadwork going on in Guatemala—and speed bumps. I had never seen so many speed bumps, both in Guatemala and Mexico.

As we left the lush, leafy, greenness of Central America, the landscape turned dry and rocky, dominated by pine trees.

As with many border crossings, the town of La Mesilla was hopping. I would have liked to have spent some time wandering around there, but we were stopped simply to get our passports stamped and to connect with another van. Maybe next time.

Once we got into Mexico, I was impressed with the highway. Reminded me a bit of home. Better than many roads I had seen on my trip. More speed bumps.

Part way to San Cristóbol, we pulled off to get some food. It was a nice restaurant and I was hungry. The food wasn’t spicy at all. In fact, it was rather bland. This was the beginning of a discovery for me. Throughout my time in Mexico, I would find that the food got spicier the farther north I went, and that the less I paid for a meal, the better I liked the food—and not just because I’m a cheapskate!

We arrived in San Cristóbol just in time for Iana (the French Angelina Jolie) to catch her bus back to Mexico City. She had been in an exchange program for the past 6 months and had 2 days left in Mexico before returning home. After that, the bus dropped off the Mexican family of 4 at their hotel. They were reasonably well off. They stayed at a nice hotel, and whenever we ate together, it was at a somewhat pricey restaurant. I was last on the itinerary. The driver dropped me off at the hostel. I gave him a generous tip and told him he had been the best driver of my trip.

After entering the hostel, I was informed they were full. The nice lady called another hostel, however, and was told they had a room. So, with backpack, camera bag, small guitar from Salta, Argentina, and a couple bags of things I had bought in Guatemala in hand, I marched the 8 blocks in the dark to hostal numero dos. I had to stop for rest along the way, but I finally made it.

The family from Mexico City—Vicente (dad), Tere (mom), Vicente Jr. (son), and Renata (daughter)—was going to swing by my hostel the next morning so we could spend the day together. The only problem was that I was in a different hostel than I had told them I would be in and they would never find me. Despite my horrendous memory, I remembered where they were staying and I caught them in the lobby as they were heading out to drop off their laundry. After the laundromat, we went to a nice restaurant for breakfast. Following that, we spent all day bumming around the area together.

San Cristóbol de las Casas is a city only slightly smaller than my hometown of Tacoma, with a population of just over 140,000. It sits much, higher, though, at almost 7,000 feet. It was named after a Spanish priest who actually defended the rights of the natives rather than slaughtering them—a pleasant bit of history unlike much of Latin America’s tumultuous past. Nice to have someone stick up for you when most folks just want to kick your ass and take your stuff. And of course, most of the inhabitants are Catholic, with a mix of indigenous beliefs thrown in for good measure.

Besides bumming around San Cristóbol de las Casas for several hours, we traveled in a minivan to a small town a few miles away called San Juan Chamula. It has only a few thousand inhabitants who live around the perimeter of the town and on farms outside the town. In the center of the town is a large plaza which hosts a daily market and a church with its own grand plaza, complete with gazebo. When we were there, some kind of ritual was going on with tree branches scattered around the perimeter of the church’s plaza. They were preparing to walk that perimeter and weren’t allowing photos. Also, cameras weren’t allowed in the church. I bought a few tangerines and clay figures in the market. We weren’t there long, but it was worth the jaunt. We crammed into a taxi for the ride back to home base and split the fare. The driver stopped on the way for me to shoot a few photos overlooking the town.

Something that cracked me up in Mexico was the lights in churches—fluorescent lights as the primary light source (very cold, dark, and dreary), light bulbs standing in for candles, and strips of neon framing a painting of Jesus. Hilarious.

After getting back from San Juan Chamula, my friends went to their hotel to clean up and I went back to my hostel to put on warmer clothes. We were to meet in the plaza to go out to dinner together and I showed up about an hour early. I saw many young girls—probably 6 years old and up—selling blankets, necklaces, and other things tourists might want to purchase. They wore sandals, had filthy feet, and the weather was getting colder and colder as the sun went down. Apparently, there aren’t any child labor laws in Mexico. I felt sorry for these little girls.

That night, we went out to a nice—and expensive—restaurant with live music, first two fellas playing a marimba, then a man and woman playing classical guitars and singing. After that, we went to a small but popular coffee shop where they were roasting their own coffee. After that, I exchanged hugs with my new Mexican friends and we parted ways. They invited me to stay with them if I ever visit Mexico City. Although I enjoyed San Cristóbol de las Casas and San Juan Chamula, the highlight of my visit was spending time with my new Mexican friends.

Next on the itinerary? Oaxaca for a day, then Christmas with my friends Tim and Barbara-Lee Glessner in Puebla, Mexico.

Antigua, Guatemala

2008-12-19T20:57:00.000-08:00

There were three things that stood out to me in Antigua—the myriad churches, the gargantuan market, and the stunning girl behind the desk at the hostel, Ana.

Robb Wilkinson, a Cal Poly student whom I’d gotten to know on our adventurous trip up from Copán, and I decided to spend the day together getting acquainted with Antigua. Robb was a real mellow guy from what I could tell and was perfectly happy hanging out with me. This is good because a lot of folks wouldn’t be happy doing what I like to do, which is walking around taking pictures. To hang with me when I’ve got my camera and there are lots of really old, crappy buildings around, it takes someone who’s not in a hurry. Robb was great.

When you pick up a copy of the tourist map after arriving in Antigua, you’ll notice no fewer than 23 little icons representing the churches you might want to visit while wandering the quaint, 16th-century city’s narrow, cobblestone streets. Robb and I wandered those streets for several hours, but couldn’t quite find it within ourselves to visit all 23. While church hopping, we noticed smoke belching from the peak of Volcán de Fuego every fifteen or twenty minutes. That was pretty cool. Another pleasant surprise was running into Jes and Haley, a couple Canook gals I’d gotten to know while learning to SCUBA dive in Honduras. We dived with the same outfit and in fact stayed in the same dorm.

So, the four of us headed to the market and bummed around there for a while. The market in Antigua is one of the most amazing markets I visited on my entire trip. Its awesome factor was up there with the market I visited in La Paz, Bolivia. It was broken up into a few clearly different chunks.

First was a nice, covered area, surely targeted at tourists. It was pretty spiffy with quite nice spaces for the vendors to lure in the visitors, people like me who wanted to buy some nice keepsakes to take home. I had bought hardly a single thing on my trip up to this point. Here, I bought a handmade quilt and a few hand-carved wooden masks. I wish I had bought a hammock here, but we were being sticklers on price and we didn’t get the deal we wanted. Robb and the girls were all pretty hard core barterers.

Second was an outdoor area with many food vendors, but interspersed with all the other typical vendors selling random things. Since Christmas was just around the corner, you could find Christmas trees and various decorations for said trees.

Third was an area I explored alone. The next day, I went back to the market by myself and passed through the same area where the food vendors were located. After another inexpensive meal of chicken, rice, and a Coke, I continued farther along this outdoor market street. Toward the end of the street, there began what I would discover was an enormous covered area—primarily a world for locals. It wasn’t nice like the tourist area and didn’t sell carved masks or hammocks. Let me repeat, this area was vast. Here were sold spices, meat, fruit, vegetables, weaved baskets, clay pots, and other items required daily by every family. Also in this area were table after table after table of used clothing and shoes, apparently shipped in from the States.

While in this dark and dirty Latin American supermall, I ran into a gal I recognized from Honduras. She had also been on the island of Útila. A common friend had introduced us back then and we recognized each other in the market. Jennifer, a New Zealander, had been travelling for 6 months and had 4 to go. She had met a guy earlier on her trip and was really into him. And I mean really. She was so into him, she was going to the spend the next 3 months with him taking meditation classes near Antigua. We found some fresh fruit juice and then I proceeded to hang with her for a bit while she looked through mounds of clothing. I can’t take much of that so I headed off to explore more of the market before too long. Once again, I found that the people I met were a highlight of my trip.

The second day I went to the market, Robb climbed a volcano. Jes and Haley had done it and highly recommended it. I didn’t feel properly equipped to make the climb, so I passed. Back in the hostel room, some new people showed up: a girl from the States who had moved to Honduras to teach—where kidnapping are rampant, she said—and a couple brothers who were spending their two weeks of vacation in a few Central American countries. While we were visiting, Robb got back to the hostel after his run-in with the volcano. He hadn’t fallen in, but he was a mess. He hadn’t heeded the advice of Jes and Haley. He had worn his sandals instead of getting hardier footwear. In all fairness, we did look for shoes for him in the market, but didn’t encounter anything quite big enough for his feet. His feet were absolutely filthy and a bit scratched up, but he was in pretty good condition, considering what he’d just done.

We all went to a club where there was to be Salsa dancing. At first it was just our female roommate, the brothers, and I. After showering, Robb showed up. I never did get up enough nerve to ask any locals to dance. Our female friend became quick acquaintances with an Antiguan guy. Us guys didn’t stay too late. The next morning when I got up to leave, the gringa still wasn’t back. She either got murdered or got lucky. I’ll probably never know.

Ana, the gal at the desk, was stunning. She was a local and had just gotten a new fully-manual 35mm camera. I offered to help her learn how to use it, nice guy that I am, but unfortunately, we never did connect.

Were I to travel more extensively in Central America, I would most certainly return to Antigua to visit Ana and see how her photography is coming along.

Terrible Travel Troubles

2008-12-18T16:28:00.000-08:00

As I sit on the bus here in Chiquimula, I enjoy all kinds of entertainment out the window. Presumably, we'll be waiting here until the bus fills up—I'm not really sure. I'm not even supposed to be here, but I'll enjoy it as much as I can. Here's what I see:

A man is pulling a big wooden cart with a few piles of some kind of melon.
A taxi driver has a dirty, semi-transparent green bucket of about a gallon capacity. It's filled with water. He's pouring water into a small green tray which he's holding in his other hand and tossing the water onto his dirty taxi. He wipes the wet rear window with his hand. He tosses more water onto the rear bumper. Mud and dirt pour off the car into the street.
A woman in a skirt walks past with two dead chickens hanging from her left arm and holding a pair of black boots in her right hand.
A boy of about ten years is walking around with a big pile of newspapers stacked on his head. He gets on the bus to try and sell a few.
A family of four rides past on a small scooter. The family includes husband, wife, a little girl, and a baby.
A man gets on the bus selling sugar coated peanuts. He takes one peanut with a pair of tongs and gives it as a sample to each passenger. I buy a few packets and ask him to get me a Coke from across the street. When he returns with my Coke, I buy an extra packet of peanuts.
There is a small restaurant across the street. It's open air—no doors or windows in front—as are most such places in Latin America. A couple guys sit at the counter, talking and eating, another man reading the paper. There is an old steel wheel with legs welded to it sitting on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant and a grate sitting on top of it—a typically-resourceful Latin American solution (it's a barbeque).
Another man pulling a big wooden cart walks past, laboring to pull his load. His cart is filled with melons, cantaloupe, onions, tomatoes, and other produce.
Across the intersection, a woman sits at a rickety wooden table with three baskets on top of it. The baskets contain pieces of watermelon and other things I can't quite make out from here. She sits and waits patiently for customers. Other vendors nearby do the same thing.
A man with a blue pole about 8 feet long walks around trying to sell the myriad bundles of cotton candy which are attached to the pole. Another man—his competition—does the same.
A baby, just old enough to walk, in a pink-and-white-striped jumpsuit sucks on a bottle and wanders around on the sidewalk.
A small pickup truck with a dozen people in the back drives past the bus slowly. That's common transportation in these parts. Some of them are filled to overflowing.
A man who works for the bus company is walking around in the street yelling out our destination, a typical marketing strategy in Latin America.
There is trash in the street. There aren't too many garbage cans around, so the streets and sidewalks are where the trash goes. Not all Latin American countries are like this, but many are.
A man drives by on a scooter. To the back are bungeed two 5-gallon propane tanks. They are horribly rusty. Apparently the stringent safety regulations regarding propane tanks in the States are overblown.

My day started by rising at about 5:15 A.M. I showered, put my toiletries in my backpack, and left the hostel. I walked across the street and down a couple doors to the small company that would be driving me from Copán, Honduras direct to Antigua, Guatemala.

As we headed out, the transmission of the minivan made a horrendous whining sound as though it was about to explode. I didn't have high hopes. Maintenance had not been performed on this vehicle.

The driver had asked me twice where I was from and had done the same to a guy from Japan. I had spoken with the driver earlier in Spanish. He later asked the Japanese guy if I spoke Spanish. I didn't know if he was drunk or just had a really bad memory. Regardless, it wasn't confidence inspiring.

About an hour into the trip, the driver slowed down for some speed bumps as we passed through a small town. Each time we accelerated, I heard a loud popping sound. At first I didn't think much of it, knowing the condition of the vehicle was not good. As we pulled away from the third or fourth speed bump, there was a grinding sound. At first, I thought the driver was just grinding the gears, but it quickly became clear to me we were losing a CV joint. The vehicle would not move forward—only grinding. I knew that was the end.

The driver got out and talked to some locals. He asked how much it would cost for them to take us to Antigua—in the back of their pickup truck. I wasn't excited about that prospect. I ended up hopping a minivan—typical public transport here—to Chiquimula where I would catch the next bus to Guatemala City, then a connecting bus to Antigua. None of the other 6 passengers came with me.

Now, as I sit here waiting for the bus to fill, I look out the window and what do I see? My six long lost friends. I guess they hopped another minivan and they've caught up. Within minutes, we're off to Guatemala City.

That segment of the trip went without a hitch. After getting to Guatemala City, we split taxis to save on cost—we had to catch taxis to Zone 3 to hop the bus that went to Antigua. Supposedly, it left from the bus terminal, but when we pulled up, there was only one school bus sitting there. Not much of a terminal. We piled in and off we went.

The bus stopped dozens of times as we drove across and out of the city. By the time we hit the open road, there were three people to a seat—space was tight, but this was normal for the locals.

Part way to Antigua, I heard a funny sound from across the isle. A little boy was holding a sack. A chicken poked its head out. The boy's mother opened her bottle of water, filled the cap, and pushed the chicken's beak into the water. You've got to make sure your chicken gets water to drink before you chop its head off. A happy chicken is a tasty chicken!

We arrived in Antigua none the worse for wear. I'm sure it took a bit longer than the mini van would have, had it not busted the half shaft, but it was probably a bit more interesting. And in times like these, you commonly make new friends, so it's not all bad. What could've been a terrible trip wasn't so bad after all. Long live Latin America!

Copán

2008-12-17T21:29:00.000-08:00

After a week relaxing and learning to dive, it was time to continue north. I decided to skip Tikal as it was too far out of the way and I didn’t have the time. Copán, however, was another Mayan ruins that was on the way to Antigua, Guatemala, so I headed there. As luck would have it, Brandon Olson was headed the same direction, so we planned on going together.

We met near the dock at around 5:45 AM, as the ferry leaves Útila each morning at 6:20. At least it’s supposed to leave every morning. The past few days, it hadn’t, due to strong winds. This morning, we were in luck. I also met a great guy that had been hanging out with Brandon for the week—Matt, a Marine who was on leave. We got to know each other a bit while we waited for the ferry to arrive and during the one-hour trip back to the mainland.

After the quick jaunt across the pond, Matt went his way, and Brandon and I made our way to the bus station where we had some time to kill before departure. The bus station was surrounded by a market, so we strolled around a bit, looking for a good place to have breakfast. We finally found what looked like a good place for an inexpensive, home-cooked meal. It was run by a single woman and she prepared our meal in front of us as we sat on bar stools at the counter. Eggs, meat, potatoes, and juice hit the spot.

Back by the bus, we waited a few more minutes before boarding. I picked up a couple Bachata CDs for just a couple bucks from one of the many nearby vendors. Part way through the several-hour trip to Copán, the bus pulled over for lunch. It was a pretty amazing rest stop. It was a huge building with a sloped roof on all sides and was open air. There were sofas, restrooms, and a restaurant inside. Outside was a nice swimming pool. It was one of the more interesting rest stops of my trip.

We arrived in Copán Ruinas, the small town near the ruins, in the evening. We found an inexpensive but decent hostel, dropped our stuff, and then headed out to get some dinner. I don’t think this little town is a party town, but no matter—we were tired. We went back to our room, did some reading, then hit the hay.

We got up at a decent time, around 7:30, got some breakfast, and then set out. You can catch a little auto-rickshaw-type taxi, but we elected to walk to the ruins. They’re only about a half-hour away on foot and the weather looked good. We took our time and shot a few photos of some old stone carvings along the way. During the first few shots, Brandon realized he had left his spare camera battery back in our room, so after we got to the ruins, he hopped a taxi back to the room to retrieve it. The taxi was only a few bucks and he was back before I knew it. I spent those few minutes looking at a large model of the ruins and looking at some maps in the visitor’s center.

We bought our tickets and headed in. Copán is the southeastern-most ruins of the Mayan civilization. The Mayan territory stretched all the way up to the top of the Yucatán peninsula and over to the Pacific Ocean. Copán is along the northern border of Honduras. These ruins were inhabited between the 5th and 9th centuries by some 20,000 Mayans.

As I’ve stated elsewhere in my blog, each ruins I’ve seen on my trip are different than the rest. It’s fun to see how the people in a particular region used whatever tools, resources, and landscape they had at the time to build their own, unique world. Copán has its own mysterious vibe, being somewhat hidden in the jungle and having myriad statues. These ruins also had a place where the people played a sport, called Mesoamerican ballgame these days, certainly for lack of knowing the name originally used. As human sacrifice was common in the old days, I wouldn’t want to lose a game of Mesoamerican ball. Talk about pressure to win!

A few interesting tidbits about the Mayans? Their writing system used glyphs (think hieroglyphics) and had more than a thousand different symbols. They used base 20 and base 5 numbers. They had a surprising knowledge of astronomical objects. They practiced human sacrifice.

After visiting the main Copán ruins, take a taxi just a few minutes farther down the street to Las Sepulturas. This is another site with more ruins, albeit smaller than the main Copán site. As long as you’re in the neighborhood, go see it. Brandon and I elected to pay a guy at the gate a few bucks to be our guide. He knew quite a bit about the ruins and gave us some good info while leading us through the site. There is a river near this site and in 1998 when hurricane Mitch struck, the flooding was such that this smaller site was revealed for the first time. At least that’s the story according to our guide.

During my trip, I had hardly any encounters with bugs. At Copán, I got assaulted. Also, while visiting the smaller ruins, it started raining. So, while not a perfect day—hot, rainy, muggy, and buggy—the ruins were a pleasure to visit and I couldn’t have had a better travel partner than Brandon. We really enjoyed ourselves.

Útila the Hun

2008-12-15T13:04:00.000-08:00

For almost 10 months, I had been spending money but hadn’t been making any (with the exception of two weeks in Buenos Aires doing some software development for a friend back home). I had decided to cut out something that had been in my plans since before I began my trip, but was now having second—er, third—thoughts. I was going to skip SCUBA diving, but I was now close to Honduras and I must’ve heard the ocean, fish, and coral calling my name. I e-mailed a dive shop on Útila and got the specifics. It was actually pretty cheap, so I went back to plan A. Warm waters of the Caribbean, here I come!

Adrian got up at the butt-crack of dawn to take me to the bus station. I had a ticket for Tegucigalpa, Honduras. I didn’t know how I would get to La Ceiba—the launching point to Útila—from there, but I’d find out on the way. The bus broke down about an hour from Tegucigalpa—busted radiator hose I think. That’s where I met Brandon from Colorado and a couple girls. We were all heading to Útila to take SCUBA lessons, so we got to chit-chatting about what busses we could catch from Tegucigalpa and what time they left.

Another couple girls were on a missions trip with YWAM and had called their sponsor who showed up in a small pickup truck to get them and take them the rest of the way into town. I asked them if we could bum a ride since we didn’t have long before we’d miss our connecting bus in the city. The bed of the truck was piled high with people and bags and the cab was filled to capacity with more bodies.

We arrived in Tegucigalpa around 2:00 PM. The bus was leaving at 3:30, so the timing couldn’t have been better. The kind gentleman dropped us off at the bus station. Before he left, I ran in and checked on the availability of seats. The four of us were in luck. We thanked him and he left with his worker bees. We bought our bus tickets, then went next door to get some lunch. It felt so good to have tickets and know we would make it to La Ceiba the same day. I didn’t want to burn a valuable day because of bus problems.

It’s a straight shot north to La Ceiba from Tegucigalpa, but there’s no road that takes the crow’s route, so you have to go through San Pedro Sula, then cut back to La Ceiba. The bus driver knows the way. The four of us got a room together that night on that waterfront town, then got up early to make sure we were at the ferry dock in plenty of time. We got to the dock, bought our boat tickets, then waited to leave. It’s about 20 miles out to Útila from the mainland, but the ferry smokes. It takes only an hour to get there.

Once on the island, the four of us split up and went our separate ways. Well, I went one way and the other three went another. Each of us had specific dive shops in mind. I followed complex directions I had received via e-mail some days earlier. “Once on the island, turn right on the main street. We’re on the left after about 10 minutes.” On this little island, there’s one main drag and one street branching off from the center of Main, lined up with the ferry dock. Main street is about wide enough for one car or two ATVs. Most folks rode bicycles, motorcycles, ATVs, or walked. The occasional car would pass by.

Along the main drag are 3 or 4 churches, shacks posing as restaurants, houses on stilts—in case of hurricane—a few stores, and a dozen dive shops. That’s the deal on Útila—you go there to learn to dive. I found Útila Water Sports with no problem and checked in. I was shown across the street to my room in their two-story housing complex.

Back across the street in the office/dive shop, I was given some paper work to fill out—I guess if you drown, they don’t want you suing them. I aced the medical section of the forms, except for my asthma. Little did I know that that one little checkmark would almost be the end of my diving trip. I was introduced to the man in whose hands I would place my life for the next week. Okay, that’s probably a little dramatic. Martin, from Belgium, was one of the nicest guys I have ever met. He was also a wonderful instructor. I couldn’t imagine having gotten anyone better.

Before my first trip under the surface, I had to get written permission by a doctor, due to my asthma. There’s a local doctor, but there’s also an American doctor who goes simply by Dr. John. The dive shop sent me to him. They said the clinic opens at 9:00, but I should show up early. I was there around 8:00. The sign said they didn’t open until 10:00. I needed to get in quickly so I could start my dives in the afternoon, so I just waited on one of the benches on the front porch. The dive shop also warned me he was a bit eccentric and that he shows up whenever he feels like showing up.

At about 10:00, another fella showed up, a regular patient of Dr. John’s. He was an elderly black fellow, probably in his 80s. His name was Dolores Cordón. He and his wife were both born here on the island, while one of his parents was from the mainland and the other from the Caicos Islands. His four children were all in the States, and he had spent many years in New York. He came to see Dr. John regularly to get his diabetes checked. He was very pleasant and I enjoyed talking to him while waiting.

It began to get hot, so I walked a block down the street and got a Coke, then walked back to the clinic and continued to wait. At 11:00, the (very cute) nurse showed up. She had me fill out some paperwork, then led me into a room in the back of the clinic where she proceeded to take my blood pressure, then had me blow into a device that measures lung capacity—a standard test given to sufferers of asthma. After this, she sent me back out onto the porch to continue waiting.

At 11:30, Dr. John showed up and began seeing patients. By 1:00 PM, he had finished seeing all of his patients—except me. A friend of his had stopped by and they were inside shooting the breeze. I can be an extraordinarily patient guy. I had been waiting 5 hours and the Dr. was yakking with a friend. I poked my head in the door and kindly asked if he could see me now—I didn’t know if he was aware he still had someone waiting. He turned to me and said, in a rather raised and agitated tone “I’ll see you when I want to see you! If I want to see you now, I’ll see you now! If I want to see you at 4:30, I’ll see you at 4:30, so get behind me, and if you don’t like it, then get the fuck out!”

I sat back down. At about 1:30, I determined that if he hadn’t seen me by 2:00 PM, I was going to go back to my room, pack my things, and leave the island. At 1:40, the nurse called me in and had me go to another room in the back. A couple minutes later, the doctor walked in, talked a bit, asked me some questions, did a couple quick tests, then signed the waver so I could dive. He acted like nothing had ever happened.

On my way out, the nurse and the receptionist apologized.

Here’s a rundown of my week on Útila:

Day 1: I began watching a series of videos and going through a lengthy list of related questions.
Day 2: I saw the doctor. Martin and I went over all the material and I had all my questions answered.
Day 3: I did my first two dives. We began in about 10 feet of water near the pier. I practiced removing my mask under water, replacing it, and then clearing it. I also had to remove the SCUBA tank and vest (called a BCD, or buoyancy control device) under water and then replace them. These exercises are all just meant to help the beginner get comfortable under the water. Panicking at 100 feet under the surface could end your life in a big hurry.
Day 4: I took the written test and missed three out of 50. Two of those were arguably very poorly worded and unclear. Oh, well. I just had to pass, so I can’t complain too much. I also did two more dives. On these dives, we went out in the boat and dived around the reefs. On the last dive, Martin even let me take my camera, which he wouldn’t normally do with a bigger class. It was just the two of us and he knew all I wanted to do was take pictures. At the end of this day, I was a certified Open Water Diver.
Day 5: I did two dives—a deep dive where we went down to a shipwreck at 100 feet and a PPB, or Peak Performance Buoyancy, dive. Normally, a diver’s ears shouldn’t hurt, but my left ear was bothering me by the end of this day. It was unrelated to the fact that we went to 100 feet. By “equalizing” as you go deeper, the pressure on your ears is completely normal, just like at the surface. Sometimes, divers get infections or other problems from the water in their ears.
Day 6: I did my three last dives—Naturalist, Navigation, and Search & Recovery. For the Naturalist dive, I took loads of photos and later had to identify the things I had photographed, for the Navigation dive, I practiced navigating with a compass and by counting kicks, and had to make my way back to the boat from some random location some distance away simply by following the path we had originally taken by recognizing landmarks, and for the Search & Recovery dive, I practiced swimming in different search patterns and raising an object from the bottom to the surface in a controlled ascent using a special balloon made for just such a purpose. By this time my left ear was really hurting and I had earned my Advanced Open Water Diver certification.
Day 7: I just relaxed. I walked around the island and took some photos, as I hadn’t gotten much of a chance to do that so far. It was a nice way to end the week.

As part of the two courses I took, I could’ve gone on 8 more dives, called Fun Dives, where you can do whatever you want—take pictures, go to different parts of the reef, or practice skills you’re interested in improving. My ear was bothering me too much and I had a schedule to keep. I can go back sometime down the road and do my Fun Dives.

My last day on the island, I wanted to walk around some and take photos. I hadn’t really had a chance to do that during my busy week of diving, so I wanted to make sure to snap a few shots so I could remember this crazy island. The island is pretty simple to navigate with just two main streets. There are also several really good restaurants that are popular with the tourists. I should mention that everything is pretty expensive there. Remember, it’s really just a tourist destination. Even though many of the tourists are backpackers and don’t have tons of money, it’s a challenge to find a good deal on food, especially if you eat out.That brings me to a point about my lodging.

I was given an unclear description via e-mail by Kate, the dive shop manager, about room pricing, and discovered the problem only when I handed over my credit card the day before departure. She refused to budge and insisted that the misunderstanding was my fault. When I decided there was no hope she was going to do the professional thing, I said “Fine, I’ll pay. Just keep in mind that your e-mail is unclear and other people are going to misinterpret it, just as I did.” That was one of only a few sour moments I experienced while on the island.

Largely, it was a wonderful week. Útila Water Sports was a good shop with good people and good equipment. If you want to learn to dive, I recommend it!

Giving Thanks With the Mingos

2008-12-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

For months, I had been looking forward to the day when I would see my friends in Managua, particularly my good friend Adrian (no offense, Cheryl). Adrian is from Buenos Aires and some years earlier he married Cheryl, a gal I had grown up with back in Tacoma. They are now missionaries and have lived in various and sundry locations in Latin America. When I got far enough along my route, we finally determined that I would arrive when Cheryl’s parents were there, so I would see the whole clan. Moreover, I would get to enjoy a good, old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner.

Although probably 8 months had passed since I got robbed blind in Buenos Aires, I was still feeling the repercussions. Emergency passports have far fewer pages than a standard passport and mine was full before I left the shores of Colombia. Luckily, Central American countries don’t seem to care about stamping your passport. They just make sure it’s current and that you don’t look like a criminal and then wave you through. So, I made it to Nicaragua with my thin passport. Managua would be a perfect place to replace my temporary passport with a full-blown one. I wouldn’t mind the wait because I’d be with friends and wouldn’t need to worry about spending the last little bit of my money on a long-term stay. One of the beauties of friends.

Long story short, I went to the US embassy—the most expensive building in Managua—within a day or two of arriving, submitted the passport application, and my new passport arrived from The States in less than two weeks. I stayed a few more days before continuing on my way.

Rewind.

Upon arriving in Managua on the crazy bus ride from Costa Rica—things had calmed down by this point—I showed the driver’s assistant the piece of paper with the Mingos’ address written on it and asked him where I should get off to place me closest to their house. He actually told me to get off right where we were parked—the bus had just let a few people off and hadn’t yet begun moving again. Moreover, the driver and his right hand man were trying to kick off some deadbeats who hadn’t paid and who were refusing to disembark. Although the other passengers were already gone, this little insurrection gave me plenty of time to gather my things and set foot on Nicaraguan soil.

Apparently, this was the terminal, although the bus was to continue through the city and this looked simply like a seedy and dirty market. When some taxistas approached me, I told them I needed to call a friend who lived nearby who would come get me. One of the drivers gave me his cell phone and I called Cheryl. I told her I was in town and gave the phone back to the taxista and asked him to tell my friend where we were so she could come and get me. The taxista charged me 20 Cordobas—about a dollar—for the call.

After I got off the phone, a hooker—and not an attractive one—approached me and attempted to sell me her services. I said no thanks. With that, one of the taxistas made some comment about possibly giving my business to one of his buddies—a guy. I told them I wasn’t gay. By this time, we were all having a pretty good laugh.

I thanked them for their help, picked up my things, and walked out of the market and over to the street to wait for Cheryl. By the time she arrived, I had told probably a dozen passing taxis that I didn’t need a ride and, when they looked at me cross eyed, that someone else was coming to pick me up. I was relieved to see Cheryl. I hadn’t seen anyone that I knew for about 10 months. It was good to see a friendly face—an old friend. Although I was now accustomed to the common Latin American greeting—a kiss on the cheek—I gave her a good old-fashioned Williams greeting—a big hug.

Cheryl’s parents—Chuck and Dottie Tucker—were already there visiting and stayed until after Thanksgiving. It was great to see them, too. They spent several hours every day repainting the outside of the house. They finished the job right before they left.

My first order of business was to get to the US embassy and get a new passport. Cheryl took me there within a couple days and we got that ball rolling. The rest of my time there consisted mostly of relaxing. I made a permanent imprint on their sofa. Think Homer Simpson. I spent loads of time on my laptop, watched a fair amount of TV, and the kids even got me to try their dance pad—Dance Dance Revolution. They all made fun of me, but I think I probably did about as well as the average first-timer. I think they would say I was much worse.

Each morning when I got up, I would eat a bowl of cereal and then hop on my laptop to check e-mail. I would do this in my permanent seat on the sofa. Right about this time, the maid would show up. She would ask me to move, then she would proceed to move all the chairs and sofas out from the walls throughout the house. Next, she would sweep and dust the entire house. A few hours later, she would move my sofa back against the wall. Why couldn’t she just sweep behind my sofa, then move it back against the wall so I could sit back down while she cleaned the rest of the house? I think she was just trying to annoy the gringo. It worked.

Adrian acted as my guide for a couple day trips to nearby towns. I consider him one of my very best friends. Not infrequently when we’re together, we laugh so hard we cry. This visit was no exception. Thankfully, he didn’t crash his pickup truck during these episodes.

We visited León, about 50 miles to the north, Salinas Grandes, a fishing village near there where the Mingos work with the local people, Masaya, which is about 15 miles to the south, and Granada, about 10 miles past that. We mostly just hit the main squares and markets.

While in Granada, we swung by Lake Nicaragua for just a peek. It’s the largest lake in Central America—just a bit smaller than Lake Titicaca in South America—and the 21st largest lake in the world. Another interesting thing we saw was an artist carving a beautiful design into a pair of maracas. These are gourds from the jicaro tree and are used as a percussion instrument. This was one of many instances during my trip where I witnessed a truly skillful artist. The most excitement we had, however, was when the pickup broke down in Granada. Adrian said it was a bad part of town, but we lived to tell about it.

We sat and chatted with the locals until a tow truck showed up and gave us a lift back to Managua. About an hour into the ordeal while Adrian waited with his dear truck, some kids and I walked to a pizza joint and I bought some pizza for Adrian and me and some for the kids. One of the guys that was hanging around with the truck and us had a freaky pot belly with a gargantuan scar. He said the police did it, but who knows the true story.

When the tow truck first showed up, Adrian told me the driver said he had to ride in the car behind the cab—it was on a flatbed—but he agreed with me that that was ridiculous and the driver relented and let us both ride up with him. So, we chowed down on our pizza and guzzled our Cokes on the way home.

Thanksgiving was another matter. No pizza. With a house full of Americans, there was only one option—a full blown turkey dinner with all the trimmings…except a turkey costs over $50, so we made due with a chicken. Including the maid, we were a baker’s dozen.

For most other meals, we were a mere dozen. I don’t know how Cheryl does it. If she weren’t so easy going, I bet her head would explode. Six crazy kids and a psycho husband’ll do that to you. The Brady Bunch was tame.

Although I loved seeing my friends, my head was about to explode. I had dropped scuba diving from my itinerary due to pecuniary problemas, but I reserve the right to change my mind at any time for any reason. I decided to go through with the underwater adventure. So, the northern coast of Honduras—specifically the island of Útila—was my next stop. Chau, good friends.

Adrian and I were sitting inside on the sofa when I looked out the window and saw what looked like heavy rainfall. As it turned out, it was just this variegated squirrel who had gotten into a coconut and spilled its milk all over creation.

Costa Rica to Nicaragua—Psemi Psycho

2008-12-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

Crossing from Costa Rica into Nicaragua was surreal.

It all started with the guy at the bus company in San Jose telling me I should just show up in the morning and I would be able to get a ticket. I asked him repeatedly if there would be an available seat and he assured me there would. You can see what's coming. I got there early—about 6:20—and there was already a big crowd. It was probably 40 minutes before the doors opened and I got to the ticket counter. There were no seats left. I was pissed.

I walked down the street—with all my stuff—and talked to a taxista. He recommended a bus station that was just a stone's throw away. The bus wasn't direct, but it was cheap. I would have to get another bus on the other side of the border. I got a ticket and got on this bus with no problem. A couple hours later, we got to the border.

The bus came to a stop quite a ways before customs. We sat for a while, then pulled out of line and passed a big line of other vehicles. We pulled back into line, then pulled back out and passed more. When we actually got to the Costa Rican side of the border (i.e., the near side), I saw more semi trucks than I had ever seen in one place in my life—by far. Maybe more than I had seen in all the rest of my life put together.

When I got off the bus, I was bombarded by a ton of money changers. They wore ID badges, so presumably they were legit. I got my passport stamped, then changed some pesos and a few extra dollars, then walked about a quarter mile to the Nicaragua border.

More semi trucks. There were a couple booths which I though were maybe customs. I pulled out my passport and the guy looked at it, but this wasn't customs—he told me to continue on. I would say things were rather chaotic, disorganized, and not at all laid out well. A kid had offered to guide me to customs, but I had refused. I just kept asking directions and finally made my way there.

A guy in an official looking shirt who said he worked for customs told me what line to stand in and told me there was a seven-dollar fee to enter the country. The guy behind the counter stamped my passport, took my money, and gave me some papers. All the while, the guy in the official looking shirt shadowed me.

Then the guy in the official looking shirt took me to a different building (I told you things were not laid out well) where I put my things on a counter. He had said something to me about twenty dollars and told me he'd do the talking and to be quiet. In a minute another guy came in and opened the top of my backpack. He looked in quickly, then opened the box that my small guitar was in. He asked me a couple times if it was new and I replied no. When receiving something in the mail in Latin America or crossing a border, if asked if the item in your package or box is new, always reply NO. They're just itching to tax the living daylights out of you.

I closed up my backpack and the guy in the official looking shirt took me to where the buses leave—there were no parking lots, just dirt everywhere. One bus was about to pull out. Things were very chaotic—lots of yelling and excitement. They told me to get on. I asked if I should put my backpack below—the way I have done on every single other bus I've ridden on this trip. They just repeated that I should get on the bus, so I did. I wandered to the back. Another guy took my backpack and threw it on top of the back row of seats. I sat down with a big wad of papers that the customs folks had given me and we took off.

Part way to Managua, a guy came down the isle collecting people's fares. Mine was $4. This kind of ticket payment is common in Latin America. The buses will stop at ANY random location to drop someone off or pick someone up. So, you can either go to the bus station and buy a ticket and take the bus from there where, or you can wait outside the bus station and get on there or at some other random spot in the city, paying once the bus is underway. I don't really think there's any difference.

We arrived in Managua within a couple hours. I got off at the terminal, which was just a crazy market. I called my friend Cheryl on a taxista's cell phone and had him tell her where we were. Within about 15 minutes, she arrived. In the meantime, I had to tell about 20 taxistas that I didn't need a ride. Cheryl pulled up. That was the first time in 10 months that I had seen anyone that I know. It would be good to relax with friends for a couple weeks.

Costa Rica

2008-12-03T20:59:00.000-08:00

Costa Rica is famous for its lush forests and its exotic and ubiquitous wildlife, so I wanted to get a taste of that during my brief stay. A quick trip to the Internet cafe near my hotel in San Jose got me off and running. I found a place that was not too far from the city and sounded interesting—The Butterfly Farm. Although there was a company that put on a tour that included The Butterfly Farm and one more interesting stop, I couldn't get a hold of them, so I contacted The Butterfly Farm directly. My plan was to ask the folks there for a recommendation on what to do next. I was really just interested in filling up one day with a few cool activities.

The Butterfly Farm will send a van to a few of the main hotels in San Jose and pick you up, take you to the farm, and give you a tour, all for $35. That sounded like a pretty good deal, so I took a taxi the brief distance to one of their pickup points and got a ride. Their facilities are quite nice and their staff very professional. They also speak English, which I think is important since, even if you speak Spanish, some of the lingo they use is specialized.

So what is The Butterfly Farm, exactly? Well, it's a company that has about 300 breeders around Costa Rica who breed butterflies (Some of the breeders make up to $3,000 per month—pretty smokin' wages for a someone living in Latin America). They then sell the butterflies to zoos and other people and companies around the world who need or want them. For example, once the queen of Holland was having some big shindig, so she ordered 5,000 blue butterflies and let them out at this event for spectacular effect. The Seattle Zoo & Aquarium also buys some of their butterflies from The Butterfly Farm. Some music video also included a gazillion butterflies, so this is where they came for their supply.

The way they can supply so many butterflies is because of the breeders who are working for them. The Farm itself doesn't breed any of these butterflies. They breed only enough to make the tour interesting. They walk you through the process of the growth of the butterfly from the time they're a caterpillar to the time they fly away—at least as far as the net will let them fly (the main part of The Butterfly Farm is enclosed in a giant net). In the wild, only 2% of butterflies survive, but in these controlled environments, 95% make it to the air, so there are lots of these amazing creatures for you to observe.

After my time at The Butterfly Farm, I asked them for a recommendation for something else to do. There is a zoo called Zoo Ave not horribly far away. Their van took me part way and I took a taxi the rest of the way. This zoo has loads of birds—as you might have gathered from the name—and a variety of other random wildlife. It's actually some kind of reserve to help injured birds. The English portion of their Web site doesn't seem to work, so if your Spanish is good, you can get more details on their Web site.

I realize there is an enormous amount of nature and wildlife to see in Costa Rica—a day isn't quite adequate. However, it takes money (i.e., time) and I'm just about out of that. So, I got a little taste of it, then moved on. I'll give it a fairer shake next time around.

In The Zone

2008-12-02T19:04:00.001-08:00

I wasn't planning on spending much time in Panama, as I was anxious to get up to Nicaragua to be with my friends, the Mingos, so I picked the most obvious tourist attraction to visit: the Panama Canal. Besides, I had recently read a book on it and so had a new perspective on what went into it. It's a marvel of human engineering, costing a pile of money and and a pile of lives to create.

The French are the ones who began building the Panama Canal back in 1880, although at this point, the United States actually wanted to build a canal in Nicaragua. After years of digging and tens of thousands of dead Frenchmen—mostly from Malaria and Yellow Fever—the French operation went belly up. The United States supported a Panamanian revolution against Colombia—Panama was a province of Colombia at that time—and it succeeded, if only by the skin on the Panamanians' teeth, then purchased the existing infrastructure and ditch from France for $40 million. This was a smokin' deal and Teddy Roosevelt wanted to make his mark, so the bargain was sealed.

An inordinate amount of dirt had to be moved to build the Panama Canal—many, many times that which was excavated for the Suez Canal. Some wanted to build a sea-level canal which would have required even more digging. Moreover, the level of the oceans on either side of the isthmus of Panama is unequal. So, a canal with locks was built. To reduce the amount of digging required, the Gatun Dam was built across the Chagres River, thus creating Gatun Lake, a major chunk of the distance crossed by ships navigating the canal. To get up to the level of the lake, ships are raised by two sets of locks on the Pacific side—the Miraflores Locks and the Pedro Miguel Locks—and by one set of locks on the Atlantic side—the Gatun Locks. The Miraflores Locks are the only ones open to the public.

The visitor center is quite nice and has a movie theater which shows a mediocre film about the canal, and a quite decent museum with audio, video, and some nice models. The museum also has a mockup of the bridge of a container ship. Outside the "front windows" are several video screens. A video is played in high speed of the shipping passing all the way through a set of locks. It's a pretty neat perspective.

And, of course, there's a nice outdoor area for watching ships pass through the canal. I spent the better part of an hour watching a large container ship pass through the locks (it takes about 9 hours for a complete canal passage). What I did not see was a Nimitz-class United States aircraft carrier pass through the locks. Our carriers and certain cargo ships are what are called post-Panamax ships. A Panamax ship is a ship of the largest size that can fit through the canal. A post-Panamax ship is one that is larger than can pass through the locks.

Many of the systems which control the locks are original, but a few systems have been upgraded, such as the mechanisms which open and close the lock doors. The original mechanisms were mechanical, but have been replaced by hydraulic systems. A major upgrade to the Panama Canal is coming in the form of a complete new set of locks running parallel to the original set. The current set of locks is expected to reach maximum capacity by around 2010, so a new set of larger, more water-efficient locks will be completed by 2015, so augment the current locks and handle larger ships.

Out of the kindness of his heart, Jimmy Carter gave the Panama Canal to Panama, despite the fact that we had helped Panama become an independent nation and had purchased the rights to the dirt. There are differing opinions on the matter. Our sailboat captain, Mark, was quite bent out of shape about it, upset that we would just give it away. He complained about the doubling of the fees to navigate the canal, saying what used to cost him $80 now costs him $800. According to some, that extra money is simply lining the pockets of the politicians. Who knows.

Another sailor who was also anchored near us in the San Blas Islands, also from the United States, said it didn't really matter, at least militarily—one of the biggest complaints about the Canal no longer being under U.S. control. When the canal was built, he said, we needed to be able to move our battleships between oceans to be able fight a war in whichever theater it occurred. Now, we have carriers (our main projection of power) available for use in any theater, at all times. There's no need to be able to move our navies between oceans. I tend to agree with his analysis. Moreover, it was feared the Canal Zone would go to pot once we left. In fact, it seems to be doing just fine. It appeared in good shape and as though all was running fine from what I saw.

The next time I'm in Panama, I'm going to check out more of the country. I've been to the canal twice now. I want to see what else is there. People rave about the country. Next time around, I'll see for myself.

Cruising in the Caribbean

2008-12-01T07:09:00.001-08:00

When I began thinking about this trip to Latin America a couple years ago, I discovered you couldn't travel overland from Colombia to Panama—you travel through the Darien Gap pretty much only if you are a survival expert or have a death wish—so I had to choose how to get myself from South America to Central America so I could get home eventually. Flying is lame so I found an alternative, something much more interesting and enjoyable in this case—sailing through the Caribbean, from Cartagena to Panama.

You can just show up in Cartagena and go to the marina, asking around, but a better method, based more on reputation and recommendation, is to stay at Casa Viena, a decent hostel in a decent part of town. They know several boat captains and will try to help connect you with those boats. They got me in touch with Mark, captain of Melody, a 44-foot, steel-hulled, sloop.

Mark had married Paola, a lovely woman from Cartagena, 8 years earlier, and she came along with us and helped Mark with all the duties. Aurelia, a nice Panamanian gal, also joined us. She was relatively new hired help, and also assisted with all duties, from keeping watch at night to cooking in the cabin, which became an oven in and of itself during the preparation of the meals.

You never know who's going to be joining you on this type of trip and that can either make or break it. I showed up at about 6:25 A.M. on Thursday, November 13th. I was the first one. I dropped off my things, then walked a half-block from the marina to a store, woke up the owners, and bought Coke, juice, and some cookies. When I got back to the boat, some more folks had shown up, and we waited a while longer for the rest. There were nine of us total: 2 gals from Ireland, a couple from New Zealand, 4 guys from Australia, and yours truly. Everyone was pretty cool, and we all got along just fine.

The plan was to spend the first two days traveling to the San Blas islands. Then, we would drop anchor and just hang out for two more. While there, we would go snorkeling, fishing, swimming, and mostly just do nothing. There was also a small island where we could chill on solid ground. It had nice sand beaches, loads of palm trees, and was your basic island paradise. We could get there in Mark's small RIB (rigid inflatable boat), or for those in good shape or, like me, in bad shape but foolishly not afraid of drowning, or confident in one's floating-on-the-back abilities, you could swim there. On day five, we would go to El Porvenir, Panama, only a few hours away. Then, we would go to Panama City in a 4x4 and get dropped off at our hostel of choice.

When Mark had purchased and rebuilt his boat years earlier, he had gotten a good deal on a great engine. Besides, he was a mechanic, so even if the engine failed, we were in good hands. The entire front third of the boat was his workshop—it was a mess—and he had previously traveled around doing work on other people's boats. These points are important because we actually did hardly any sailing during the entire trip. If we had relied entirely on the wind, it would've taken days longer to arrive at the islands, so we motored almost the entire trip, both from Cartagena to the islands and from the islands to El Porvenir.

Not having the sails up much during the first two days, we were rocking quite a bit due to the waves. I ended up taking two anti-sea-sickness pills during those first days. I think someone else threw up, but the trip went largely without health incident. After anchoring in a lagoon in the San Blas islands, we were able to spend two days in very calm waters. Those two days at anchor were definitely the highlight of the trip.

Several times, Mark took a group of 4 or 5 of us snorkeling on the other side of the reef (we were in a lagoon formed by a coral reef). It was a good experience, although because of my mask not sealing well and the size of the waves (water not infrequently entered my snorkel), it was very tiring and not as enjoyable as it could have been.

Mark also ran people over to a little island probably a quarter mile away on occasion, just so they could relax on dry land. I had been thinking about swimming over to the island and took the plunge one morning when I got up, probably around 7:00. It was a pretty good workout, but by floating on my back occasionally, I made it. Unfortunately, on the way over, I got stung by something. It hurt for a couple hours (after I got back to the boat later, Mark looked at the welts on my arm and figured it had been some chunks of a Portuguese Man O' War). While on the island, I sat, walked, did some thinking, and just enjoyed the quiet and solitude.

After I had been there a while, the sky began to darken, then it began to rain. I figured I'd head back, so I walked back around to the near side of the island and waded out into the water. By this time, the rain was coming down pretty hard. I ended up just hovering in the shallow water with my nose down at water level, enjoying the view of the drops of rain hitting the water like little clear balls bouncing off a big blue table.

I swam back to Melody with some fear and trepidation. Didn't really want to get stung again. When I finally made it back, the others on the boat said they had been worried about me. Some them had figured I had drowned and they had begun taking dibs on my stuff. One of them wanted my camera gear, another my laptop. I was still in the water when I was informed that breakfast was over. I said I didn't care and that I was just going to fix myself a PBJ. Paola and Mark were in a hammock stretched out over the front deck area. Paola wanted to know what a PBJ was, so I swam toward the front of the boat and explained it. Pretty wiped out, I swam back to the stern and dragged myself up over the transom.

I began to tell the others of my sting and at that point, Mark called me forward. When I got up to the hammock, he asked me in a very serious tone why I was breathing so heavily. I made an unrelated comment, and he repeated his question with a very stern face. I answered that I was breathing hard because I'm fat and out of shape and had just swam a quarter mile! He had been stung by some sea creature before, and that specific animal paralyzes the lungs. I told him I had been stung a couple hours earlier and that eased his fears that my lungs were currently being paralyzed by venom.

Later that day (the second day at anchor) saw some more excitement. Henry was one of the Australians and his life revolved around fishing, kind of like mine and photography. He had been trying and trying to catch fish on this trip with no luck. Around mid-day, however, his luck changed, and with a bang, he began hauling in little fish (don't know what they were) and they were coming in fast. He was going to use them as bait for some of the bigger fish he was really after.

I didn't really care about fishing, but I was pretty excited about the nurse shark in the water. It was suggested that that kind of shark wouldn't attack a swimmer in the water, so I grabbed my Panasonic TZ-3 in its underwater case, a mask and snorkel, and jumped in. This didn't please Henry too much, as he was afraid I would scare his fish away, but I was thinking about taking pictures of sharks, not about Henry's little fishies. He never mentioned it again. I think he got over it, thankfully.

I have to admit that swimming with a shark was extremely exciting. At first, the shark was swimming along the bottom, about 12 to 15 feet below me. I snapped a few pictures. A little while later, I saw the shark much closer to the surface. He was swimming straight at me—right at my nose. When he got within about 2 meters, I got a bit frightened, but kept my camera pointed at him and kept shooting. Then he turned toward the left. I kept shooting. Whew! That made my heart race.

A little about life on the boat. As far as sleeping goes, we were spread out between some beds in the cabin, a few in back by the wheel—that's where I slept—and the hammocks up on the front deck. I didn't sleep too well. The first night, we were motoring and rocking. The other nights, it was just the hard cushions that did it. Not really that comfortable. I think the people down below slept the best—their beds were relatively normal. Those in the hammocks complained of pains in the backs and in the early morning hours of getting cold when the breeze picked up. Nine people was really a pretty tight squeeze in this boat. As I said before, it's really great that we all got along.

The food was quite good. Mark had picked up lots of fruit and we all snacked on that throughout the trip. Paola and Aurelia really worked hard in the kitchen and fixed lots of outstanding meals. From what we heard, food wasn't all that great on many of these boats, but we all agreed that the food aboard Melody was great. Mark was right when he said we wouldn't go hungry on this trip.

Before we left Cartagena, Mark had collected everyone's passports and gotten our exit stamps for us. That was convenient. The last day of the trip, we dropped anchor next to an island near the Panamanian coastline and Mark hopped in his RIB and went ashore with all our passports to get our entry stamps into Panama. Again, nice, simple, and convenient.

We motored on a little farther and dropped anchor again, this time for the last time. A large dugout with an outboard engine pulled up next to us and we offloaded all our things into the canoe. The canoe took us ashore (a dollar a head) where a 4x4 awaited our arrival. This vehicle ($25 a head) took us to Panama City. Initially, the way was quite rough. A non 4x4 would never have made it. Eventually, we hit the Pan-American Highway. We stopped at a nice local restaurant—grass roof and all—and had lunch. There were fewer chickens running around when we left than when we got there.

A one-and-a-half-hour trip—the estimate we were initially given—turned into a seven-hour trek. I was the last one dropped off. It was dark. I had said goodbye to the last of my compatriots and at last felt like the voyage was over. It had been a very nice—and thankfully relatively uneventful—trip.

Need to travel between Panama and Colombia? Take a sailboat. It's a minor adventure, it's fun, it's relaxing, and you may even make some good new friends.

If you want to get a hold of Mark, captain of Melody, you can send him an e-mail.

Colombia: Land of Drug Lords and Supermodels Posing as Regular Women

2008-11-28T17:55:00.001-08:00

For years, Colombia has had a reputation as a country where you will almost certainly be kidnapped and held hostage for ransom by drug lords or revolutionaries upon setting foot across its borders. That reputation is still reality in the minds of some. In the minds of those who have actually gone there, Colombia is a land of prosperity, hard-working, confident, friendly people, modern cities and transportation networks, and thousands of absolutely stunning women walking the streets (those of you who are female might think the men are attractive—don't know).

My first stop in Colombia was Cali, Salsa capital. Unfortunately, I was there only during the first half of the week while not much dancing was going on. I should mention my first taste of Salsa in Colombia. The bus that I caught from the southern border to Cali played Salsa for the first several hours of the trip until it was late and everyone went to sleep. Similarly ubiquitous in Cali, I could walk down the street in the evening and be within earshot of three restaurants from which Salsa was floating over the air. I'm not just talking about three specific restaurants, either. I could walk farther, and hear another several restaurants playing Salsa. I'll have to wait until my next visit to Cali to see if they actually know how to dance Salsa—I'll explain that statement briefly.

A few other interesting things that stood out to me in my first Colombian city were the clothing of the motorcyclists and the street-naming convention.

Cali was the first city I've ever visited or heard of where the streets don't have conventional street names. In Latin American, that would mean streets named after famous Spanish Generals or a famous local leader who killed a famous Spanish General. In Colombia, the streets are named simply:

Av—Avenida
Cl—Calle
Cr—Carrera

Each of these street types is followed by a number. For example, Cl. 36, or Av.5. There are a couple others, but I don't remember what they are. Not creative, but simple and consistent. Go to Google Maps to see examples.

The striking thing about motorcyclists isn't that they're always splitting lanes or that they consistently filter up to the front of the line at traffic lights, but that they wear safety vests. Each vest has that motorcycle's license plate number on it in reflective material. Apparently, in times past, it wasn't uncommon for a guy on a motorcycle to go zipping by a motorcade, assassinating some important person, a la Clear and Present Danger. Supposedly that's the reason for the vests, and also for the law that two men cannot be on a motorcycle together.

Cali is like most large Latin American cities, in that much of it is modern—not that different than many cities in the States—but it also has an older part of town where you'll find lovely older churches, plazas, and houses. A walk of several hours got me to the old part of town, to some plazas, to the river that runs through the center of the city, and to a small joint where I had some of the best chicken I've ever had in my life. You never know what you'll bump into.

I saw a bit of the raw flavor that I like to see as I travel in Latin America in an old, colorfully painted bus packed with people and without any windows. The top was loaded with a variety of cargo. The bus stopped and some guys who were riding on the outside of the bus loaded some big bags—probably 100 pounds—of wheat, or some such product, onto the roof. The people in the bus grinned and laughed as I took pictures of their ride. Typically-friendly Colombianos.

There was also an interesting city block in this part of town. Picture a small, green, square, metal building, about 12 feet on a side, with a sloping, metal roof. There were probably ten of these in a small, cozy, area near the street. All of these buildings sold books. Different and nice.

Want a nice view of the city? It's not cheap, but you can take a taxi up to Cali's Cristo. Who knows how many places in Latin America have a statue of Christ on top of a mountain, but Cali is among them (others I've seen were in Rio de Janeiro and also in a small town near Salta, Argentina). You'll also find other large statues on top of mountains. There's one of the Virgin Mary in Quito and one of Saint Peter in a smaller Ecuadorian town (Alausí?). Anyhoo, from this hill in Cali, you've got a really great panoramic view of almost the entire city.

From Cali, I took an overnight bus to Medellín. I was planning on going to Bogotá, but when I looked at a map more closely, I saw that Bogotá would be out of the way, and I had a schedule to keep. Medellín was more directly in line with Cali and Cartagena, so that's where I went.

Among other things, Medellín was the headquarters for Pablo Escobar's drug organization (he was the 7th richest man in the world in 1989), it's the 2nd largest city in Colombia (2.4 million people), Juanes was born there (he's a world-famous singer, extremely popular among listeners of Spanish music), and it's got universities and loads of commerce and industries.

One of the things that I will always remember about Medellín is its Salsa. Although Cali is the Salsa capital, I assumed you couldn't go anywhere in Colombia without there being loads of joints you could go to to dance Salsa. I asked the hostel owner where I could go and he told me about a part of town where there were several places. He said I just needed to ask a taxi driver to take me to something like Avenida 70. That's what I did and that's where I went. I paid the driver and got out. He told me the best joint was on the far corner, so I walked one block to that particular restaurant. These weren't clubs, per se. They were all just restaurants where there was dancing. They were all open air—no enclosing front wall, just a half-wall. I walked to the "best" place and just leaned up against the half-wall separating the restaurant from the sidewalk. I wanted to scope things out from a distance before taking the plunge. After observing for a few minutes, I thought to myself that this couldn't be right. There were quite a few couples dancing. They were holding each other close and shuffling their feet back and forth a little bit, but they weren't dancing Salsa. This is strange, I thought. So, I took a stroll down the block and looked into some other restaurants from whence was emanating Salsa music. Hardly anyone was dancing in those places, so I began to head back towards the first place to make sure I hadn't been hallucinating.

There was a group of girls who had just arrived to this block. They were standing in the street apparently trying to decide where to go for dinner and dancing. I asked them what the best place around here was for dancing Salsa. They pointed to the same place. I said they weren't dancing Salsa there. They were just shuffling their feet a bit. I asked if there was a place where people really danced Salsa here in Medellín. Anywhere at all in the entire city? Where they do turns and dance figures and patterns? You know, Salsa? Nope. That's it. So, no Salsa in Medellín. Made me wonder what kind of Salsa they dance in Cali? I hope to find out some day.

There are apparently a couple cable cars—called teléfericos in Latin America—in Medellín. I took one to the top—there are a few places you can get off on the way up—to try to get some good shots of the city and to visit a library containing books donated by Spain. In the car with me was a middle-aged man, a very pretty woman with her child, and a young guy named Omel. Omel was friendly and seemed anxious to be my guide up on his hill. He was headed home from work, but had time to show me around and buy me a Coke. We walked to the library together and perused its several floors. Its most notable features, I decided, were its view and its interesting architecture. The book collection wasn't noteworthy. There were many students from local schools there studying and using the computers. Omel and I walked around a bit more, then made our way back to the teleférico. I thought it was odd when I noticed a beautiful woman—or two or three—walk by and noted their beauty, when Omel shrugged his shoulders and expressed wonder at my admiration of said females. He later grudgingly admitted his proclivity towards homo sapiens of the same sex.

Another notable, albeit less awkward, moment came when a girl said hi to me in the subway and began speaking to me in English. Donia is a very smart, young, Colombiana, who is very proud of her city. She's a 20-year-old math teacher. She asked me what I had seen so far while in Medellín. As she kept listing notable spots, I kept answering in the negative. She was aghast at the myriad attractions I had missed. As my bus was leaving later that night, I didn't have loads of time. What little time I did have, however, I spent with Donia dragging me around the city, showing me some new things. She bought me a natural juice drink and was going to pay for multiple taxis, but I wouldn't allow that. She was very generous with her time and money. We visited Plaza Cisneros, Pueblito Paisa, and Plaza Mayor. We could've kept going—and she was crazy enough about her city to continue all night—but I had a bus to catch, so she sent me on my way and headed home.

After a wonderful evening, I boarded the bus for a long ride to the northern tip (almost) of the country and the continent. I had heard Cartagena was a beautiful city with some lovely old architecture and I knew it was a port city so there might be some beautiful beaches, but my main goal upon reaching the city was to arrange a ride in a sailboat to Central America. I had to get to Panama and wanted to avoid taking any planes in my journey north.

I didn't know when I'd be able to catch a boat, so I had to find one that would leaving within the near future, as I didn't want to spend ages in Cartagena. The ideal boat would be one leaving in a few days. That would give me a chance to see the city, but get me on my way soon. As it turned out, there was a boat leaving three days later. Mark, captain and owner of Melody, a 44-foot, steel-hull sailboat, came over that night and discussed the details with me. I paid him on the spot—$350 to Panama, everything included for 5 days.

Backing up a few hours to mid-afternoon, I learned that I had arrived in the middle of a big celebration in Cartagena—Fiestas de Independencia de Cartagena de Indias—a multi-week ordeal with multiple parades and other goings on, a la Carnaval. Combined with the fiestas was a competition called Velada de Eleccion y Cornacion de la Reina de la Independencia 2008-2009, a Colombian beauty pageant. Quite unfortunately, the boat was leaving before that, so I'll have to wait until next year to shoot that. I spent several hours shooting a parade near the hostel and managed to get barely any foam, water, or paint on me. I think some people gave me a little more respect because of the big camera. Didn't wanna ruin the photo gear, I guess.

The next day, while bumming around old town, I ran into a vendor from whom I bought some fake Cuban cigars (I didn't know they were fake at the time). He informed me of another parade that wasn't mentioned in the paper. I was glad to hear about it. Unfortunately, I spent most of my day trying to get cash, so I arrived after the parade was over. I did, however, still end up getting some nice people shots. Then, of course, I got the fistful of paint in my eye by some nice, young lady. That ended my photo tour prematurely. I went to the hospital, got my eye rinsed, and got some antibiotic drops.

On the way to the hostel from the bus station when I first arrived in Cartagena, I passed lots of interesting things I would have liked to have photographed—neighborhoods, markets, and people, of course. Maybe next time. The sailboat schedule took precedence.

Other than getting paint in my eye and being ripped off by a money changer in the street and by a vendor selling fake Cuban cigars, I enjoyed my brief stay in Cartagena. I plan on returning there one day.

Planning on visiting Latin America? South America? Colombia should be on your short list. I barely scratched the surface during my brief visit, but really enjoyed it.

Colombian Women?

2008-11-25T15:14:00.001-08:00

I won't even bother writing anything other than I'm reminded of Rio de Janeiro—every shade, gorgeous, and nice! Just look at the photos. Some of the images were too wide for the blog, so you can click on them to see a larger image. Just hover over them to see which ones are clickable—or go to my photo site to see the originals.

Update from the Isthmus

2008-11-19T12:53:00.001-08:00

Editing photos and writing this blog takes hours and hours and hours. I'm currently traveling at a pretty fast pace and don't have tons of spare time for those. When I'm in a place, since I don't have much time, I want to see the town and shoot pictures, so I've gotten behind on the blog and the photos, and I'm pretty sure it will stay that way until I'm home. The possible exception might be Managua, since I'm planning on staying there for more than one week with my good friends, the Mingos. So, here's an update on what's going on.

I just posted a blog entry about my time in Ecuador. At the moment, I'm in the hostel in Panama editing some photos from Colombia. I also need to write a blog entry about Colombia—I visited Cali, Medellín, and Cartagena. From Colombia, I took a sailboat to Panama. That took 5 days and we spent a couple of those just lounging around in the San Blas Islands. That was a very enjoyable trip and there were 8 other really nice travelers along for the ride, along with the captain Mark (from the States), his wife Paola (from Cartagena), and a third crew member, Aurelia (from Panama). I didn't sleep too well on the hard cushions, so I've gotten some much needed rest here in Panama.

While here in Panama, I ran a few errands and saw the canal.

One errand was to buy a couple more USB hard drives for my photos. The two 250GB drives I've been using are full. That's 250GB of data, not 500, as the drives are mirrored. I bought two more Western Digital Passport drives, also 250GB. They're quite a bit more expensive here than in the States, but I had no alternative.

Second, I went to the U.S. Embassy to get more pages in my passport. It's full. My original passport was stolen with tons of other things about 8 months ago. I am still feeling the pain of that day. The embassy won't add pages to a temporary passport. I have to get a new, normal, passport. That takes 10 days. So, I'm going to attempt to cross two borders—that's 4 stamps—on a full passport. Since I'll be staying in Managua for a week or so, I'll go to the embassy my first day there and get the new passport ball rolling. I'll leave after I get the new passport.

Third, I went to the canal. I had been there a number of years ago with my good friend Matt Powell, but it was good to see it again, especially after reading a great book about it.

Tonight, I head for San Jose, Costa Rica. The bus leaves at 10:00 P.M. and will arrive in San Jose 16 hours later. I'll be there a few days and hopefully shoot some animals, then take a bus to Managua.

After a few days of putting antibiotic drops in my painted eye, it's doing much better—pretty much back to normal.

Okay. Back to the photos of Colombia. Keep your eyes peeled for those. Hopefully, I'll be able to upload them while in Nicaragua, maybe within a week, or so.

Cuenca and Quito

2008-11-18T18:41:00.001-08:00

When I entered Ecuador, the first thing that struck me—besides that fact that I was near the equator, yet it was rainy and cool—was the wide road with nicely blacktopped surface. It was one of the nicer roads I'd seen on my trip. More? The taxis I took in Ecuador all seemed like brand new cars (one of the taxis I had taken in Lima had literally been about to fall apart—I'm not exaggerating, really!). They were the nicest taxis I had taken on my trip. More? The Ecuadorians seemed to be an industrious people. Throughout the country, I saw clearly-delineated fields where people were growing their crops. Others were building or repairing houses or other buildings. I don't remember any beggars. The beautiful rolling hillsides were dotted with houses. I wasn't struck by the densely populated shanty towns (didn't see any), but by what would normally be a life reserved for the well-to-do—a decent house in the hills with lots of space around it. I really couldn't believe it. That's the kind of pad I'd like for myself!

As outlined in another post, the bus drivers were a bit on the wild side. The bus ride to Cuenca was slightly nerve racking, but beautiful. We climbed up and up, into the fog as the lush green vegetation absorbed the moist air. Occasionally, if the fog broke, I could see a thousand feet down, into the depths of the valley. The bus stopped at random intervals to drop off a local at his house or to pick up some school kids on their way home from school, then drop them off five or ten minutes later. We eventually exited the fog, which revealed rugged mountains, dry and dotted with trees and brush.

We passed many small groups of houses along the road, barely worthy of the name village, and occasionally, a larger town. Several times, I wondered if we had arrived in Cuenca—I didn't know how big it was. When we finally arrived, I realized that Cuenca was much bigger than I was expecting. After getting a taxi to my hostel, I took a brief nap, then headed out to explore the town a bit and take a few photos. I walked the few blocks to the main plaza and was immediately approached by some local high school students.

These students were doing a school project. They had to find English speaking people, take them to a local attraction and interview them in English. They took me to the hat museum—Museo del Sombreros. I found the name strange, as it didn't really seem like a museum, but a place where hats were made and sold. There were hundreds of hats, all hand made, initially weaved by women hired just to weave the raw hat, then trimmed, shaped, and decorated right in the museum. The hats which used a coarse fiber were inexpensive—around $15—and somewhat stiff. The hats with a fine weave take much, much longer to weave, are very supple, and can cost hundreds of dollars.

The students' camcorder battery was low from the day's previous interviews and so they had to charge it. While we waited, we went to the cafeteria located above the museum, and they bought me a hot chocolate. There was also a nice view overlooking the city, so I snapped a few shots. When the battery was ready to go, the students wrote their questions down on a piece of paper—I helped them with their English—they asked me the questions, and I answered. Their English left something to be desired, but at least they were working at it. It was really nice to meet them and hang out for a couple hours. They were a great bunch of kids.

I left Cuenca the next morning and took the bus from hell to Quito. As I am writing this, you can rest easy in knowing that I made it alive, if only just.

Quite is not unlike many cities in Latin America in that is it situated in a valley. The city is oriented in a north-south direction and is long and skinny, not unlike the shape of Chile.

As my time was brief and it was raining most of the time I was there, I didn't really do too much exploring. I did make it to the top of Panecillo Hill to visit the winged Madonna, a 45-meter-tall monument built in 1976, and to several of the plazas in old town. The plazas all used a similar architecture, that of the Spanish baroque style in use in the 16th century when the Spaniards conquered this area. I found it a bit plain and unattractive, but for that very reason interesting. It was different than any architecture I had yet seen on my trip.

I liked the vibe of Quito. It was modern, yet with lots of old flavor. I know it had several places for dancing Salsa, although I didn't make it to any of them. The people seemed nice—a trend that I saw in Ecuador. Unfortunately, my schedule dictated that I move on. When I'm in South America again, I'll swing through Quito for a more extended visit.

Colombian Hospitals and Life as a Cyclops

2008-11-12T19:47:00.001-08:00

I'm behind on my blog, in case you hadn't noticed, so here's a brief update.

I'll be working on a post about Ecuador and another about Colombia over the next several days, while sailing from Cartagena to Panama. We leave at 6:30 in the morning (Thursday the 13th) and will sail for two days straight. Then, we'll spend two days in the San Blas Islands, then, on Monday, continue on to Panama. We'll take a 4x4 from where we hit land down to Panama City, where I'll spend a couple nights before heading to Costa Rica.

If you were wondering about the title to this post, here's the scoop. There are lots of parties going on right now in Cartagena. They're celebrating their independence and having a contest for the Colombian beauty queen (Fiestas de Independencias de Cartagena de Indias and Miss Colombia—unfortunately, I will be missing Miss Colombia, as it takes place tomorrow, after I leave). These parties are going on for a couple weeks. I'm glad I was here to experience a little bit of it, but would have loved to have spent more time here.

I went to a parade yesterday. People were spraying foam all over the place—cans of foam were for sale—and throwing water and flour. Some guy took a handful of flour and plastered it onto my face, getting it directly into my eye. I was okay, though. Didn't make me happy, but no big deal.

Today, I went to another street party. Got a few photos, but was just getting warmed up. There was also lots of paint being shared amongst the partygoers. A girl took a handful of paint and basically grabbed my face, hammering my eye with a finger. My eye was logged with paint. At first, I couldn't even open it. It stung a fair amount and I was quite bothered that particular partier—there are some who are quite inconsiderate, even rude, while others exercise some respect. I began to wipe the paint out of it, but wasn't really making much headway, so I bought some water and rinsed it out. Still, things weren't returning to normal. For a bit, I feared my LASIK surgery had been undone. Those who've had their corneas cut with a razor blade know what I'm talking about. I decided I should go to the hospital. I like seeing.

I caught a moto-taxi to the hospital—they use motorcycles here in Cartagena as taxis, in addition to cars—gave them my info, and got seen pretty quickly. The doctor shined a flashlight in my eyes, had me look in different directions, and had me close my eyes and then pressed on them, asking me if it hurt. Then a nurse rinsed out the questionable eye, put some antibiotics in it, put a patch over it, and gave me a shot of cortisone. I paid them, caught another moto-taxi, went to a pharmacy and got some drugs—more antibiotic creme and a couple other things—then got dinner and went back to the hostel.

My eye feels like it has sand in it, but I'm supposed to be fine. At least that's my assumption. The doctor didn't act like I was going to go blind. I guess I'll find out. I'll have plenty of time to take it easy and let the eye rest, out of reach of crazy partiers, while sailing during the next several days, so my eye should have a nice, relaxing time to heal.

Crazy Crossing

2008-11-06T07:13:00.001-08:00

Crossing the border from Peru into Ecuador was an experience. I took a bus from Trujillo to Tumbes, a town not far from the border. As I stepped off the bus, I was met by a man who asked me if I was going to Ecuador. I told him I was and that I wanted to go with Cifa, a company that had been recommended to me back in Quito because it is an international company—it would take me straight across the border, from well within Peru all the way to Cuenca, Ecuador. He told me they left in 10 minutes and that I had to hurry. I asked him how much the taxi would cost and he told me $2. Going to the bathroom was the most important thing to me in the world at that moment, so I took care of that first.

After I exited the baño, we grabbed my backpack off the bus and hurried off to a taxi. We threw my bags in the back and I got in the back seat. The driver (a different man) started chatting with me. I asked him why we weren't leaving. He didn't answer. A couple minutes later, the first guy got in the back seat next to me and another guy, an employee of the bus company (the bus I had just exited) got in the front seat. He was wearing a vest and cap and looked official. So, now there were three men and me. We headed out.

There had been a change of plans and I hadn't been informed. We were heading to the border, to a town called Aguas Verdes, about a half-hour's drive. I was warned about this border crossing. It's dangerous. The unsuspecting tourist will get robbed—or worse. These men told me this was where we were going, but I was skeptical. Why were there three men in the taxi with me? I half expected that they were going to drive me to a remote location outside Tumbes, rob me and leave me. I placed my hand on my pocket knife—a sharp 3-inch affair with half smooth and half serrated blade. I wanted to make sure it was there. I wondered to myself, if they pulled over and demanded my money and my things, which one I would start with and precisely how I would start. A simple shove into the chest? Slit the throat? I didn't cherish the though, but I was done being robbed. I respect people who fight back against crime, and think the ones who allow themselves to be victims are pathetic. At least if I got robbed again, it wouldn't be because I wasn't paying attention. I would be ready.

I asked why we were going to the border and not simply to Cifa, as I had requested and been told we were doing. I was informed there were going to be protests at the border later in the day and buses and other vehicles wouldn't be able to cross. We would have to hurry before the border closed if I wanted to make it into Ecuador today.

When we arrived at the border town, we saw the buses and other vehicles parked. The protests had begun, apparently, and the border was closed. The driver turned down a side street. We wound around through a maze of narrow passages. The car stopped and a police officer stepped up to the window. The guy in the front seat with the vest on told me I had to pay the office $40 for protection. I knew this was a dangerous crossing—I had been told that by people who had nothing to gain by lying. I wasn't really in my element. I pulled $40 out of my camera bag and handed it to the cop. We continued a few more blocks. The man in the vest also told me I needed to give him $35 to cover his cost (i.e., the taxi) plus the bus to Cuenca. He would get the ticket for me once we were across the border.

At that point, the car stopped, the vested man and the man next to me got out. I was instructed to follow suit. We would be crossing the border on foot—just what I was told not to do—and I would catch a bus on the other side to Cuenca, my first Ecuadorian destination. The man who had been sitting next to me grabbed my backpack and slung it over his shoulder. The driver asked me for a tip as I was about to step out of his cab. This was an expensive trip. The $35 I had given the vested man would cover the taxista's fee. I wasn't going to give him a penny more. I grabbed the rest of my stuff and the three of us headed out.

We headed into the market. I had no idea where Peru ended and Ecuador began. This was the craziest market I had seen. There was barely room to move. The street was filled with men pulling carts—they were in gridlock. We squeezed between them. There were vendors everywhere. There was raw meat hanging from hooks. It was chaotic. We moved fast and stayed together. I wished I was alone with just my camera. The setting was amazing. I thought to myself "I've got to come back and photograph this place."

Aguas Verdes is a small town of only a few thousand. It's mashed together with Huaquillas, a town on the Ecuadorian side. Residents move freely between the two towns to trade, sell, and barter their goods. Immigration control is farther inland on both sides of the border.

At some point—I don't know when—we exited Peru and entered Ecuador. We had left the market behind and the streets were calmer. We approached a taxi driver. Apparently no buses were leaving from this town, also due to the protests. I would have to take the taxi to Pasaje and catch a bus from there to Cuenca. The taxi would cost $25. The bus from there to Cuenca would cost $5. The man in the vest begged me for a tip, saying that would be his only pay. I gave him a five-dollar bill but told him he had to give the taxi driver $5 to cover my bus ticket in Pasaje. I also gave him my last few dollars' worth of Pesos. I was already spending a fortune to get across this damn border, so another five bucks wouldn't kill me. At least that's what I tell myself to feel better. What it comes down to is that I'm a softie. I need to work on my negotiating skills.

The taxi ride went without a hitch. The roads were nice. We arrived in Pasaje in an hour, or so, the driver got me a bus ticket, and collected his $25.

I may have just been robbed by the nice men in the taxi, but I did make it from Peru to Ecuador with all my belongings—minus about a hundred bucks—and with my life. I'll never know what would've happened if I'd saved my money. Maybe nothing. Or maybe I would've ended up with even less.

Cusco, Lima, and Trujillo

2008-11-05T07:34:00.001-08:00

At this point in my trip, I had already entered turbo mode, so I'm not spending loads of time getting to know places, unfortunately. My main reason for going to Cusco was to visit the ruins perched on top of Machu Picchu.

The thing that stood out to me the most about Cusco was the volume of tourists. There were more than I had seen in any other place on my trip. With about 400,000 folks visiting the ruins each year, I shouldn't have been surprised. Many of the locals speak English, so as to be able to sell their wares more effectively to the tourists. I had juice at a place called Yajúú! so that gave me a little taste of home, too (even the same font as Yahoo! if you didn't pick up on the similar name). With cobblestone streets—in the old part of town, anyway—and old churches around the perimeter of the main plaza, the city has a look and feel similar to many in Latin America. Up to this point in my trip, however, I hadn't seen many red tile roofs, but this city is covered with them. The view out the hostel windows reveals a city that appears to be made almost entirely of red clay. With church steeples poking up through the sea of tiles, the sight is beautiful.

The main tourist drag stretches in both directions off the main plaza and over part of its length is walled with large stones that the Incas somehow shaped to fit perfectly together. One cannot slide a piece of paper between the rocks, they fit so tightly. Along this street are many art galleries selling beautiful art by local painters, masseuses offering their soothing services, and restaurants for every taste. You'll find more of the same just off the plaza. Elin and I even ran across a club where we danced Salsa for a couple hours.

I was sitting on a bench in the main plaza when a local boy sat down next to me. He was from a small town far out of Cusco, but his parents didn't have money so he was living with his aunt and uncle in the city. Still, he didn't have enough money for school and he was asking for money. He told me $20 would be enough to pay for the rest of his school year—a few months. I asked him if that's how much the entire school year cost. He said yes. We went to McDonald's and I bought us a couple Fruit 'n Yogurt Parfaits. After we were done, I told him I'd walk to his school with him and pay his tuition. Unfortunately (for him), he told me his school is very far away and it would take hours to get there. I figured as much.

A note about trash: There are city workers who keep the streets swept and free of trash here in Cusco. This is something you'll see in some Latin American cities.

If you've got a couple days on top of your visit to the ruins, you'll find enough to keep you busy in Cusco.

Although I wasn't able to visit Arequipa, I'm told it's very nice and should be your next stop on the way to Lima, if you're headed north.

Although I barely scratched the surface of Lima, I can say that for the most part, it's a big, modern city—kind of what I expected. I saw a few old churches from the outside, an old government building—with an armored vehicle parked out front and a guy manning a machine gun on top—the main square, and a market. Pretty typical stuff.

The highlight of my visit to Lima had to be seeing an old friend, John, whom I had met in Puerto Natales several months earlier. After John left Puerto Natales (while I was still there), he went to Panama, but left when the rain started getting to him. Lima was his new home of choice. I met him at his hostel, in the upscale district of Miraflores, and we had lunch together and then I got some ice cream. We visited for a couple hours. It was fun to see him and catch up on life.

On the way back from visiting with John, I stumbled across a parade in celebration of the birthday of the barrio (neighborhood) in which I was staying—Barranco. That was a pleasant surprise for me and I took some photos as I strolled back to the hostel along the parade route.

My last stop in Peru was Trujillo, a little more than halfway up to the border with Ecuador. When I decided to go to Trujillo, I didn't know what I'd find there, I just knew it was a big dot on the map, so I figured there'd be a bus going there and it would get me part way up to Ecuador, the next country in line. I told some other backpackers where I was off to next, and they kindly pointed out that there are some ruins around the city. That would be perfect.

To get to the ruins, I took a collectivo—basically a minivan, cheap and packed with people—and arrived in about 15 minutes. Unfortunately, they weren't letting anyone in. I had to wait about 20 minutes until the king and queen of Spain and the president of Peru came out. That's not so bad! I knew the king and queen were visiting town, but didn't know I'd bump into them here. I shot some photos as their cars sped past, but didn't get anything earth shattering.

As I was walking into the ruins, I met Simon from England. We walked around the ruins together, and spent the rest of our day together, until I had to catch my bus.

The ruins were very different than those of Machu Picchu, but were interesting in their own way. Instead of being made from piling rocks up, mud bricks where their construction material of choice. Time had been hard on the city, but there was plenty left to see and enjoy. The specific ruins I visited were called Chan Chan, but there are several sets of ruins surrounding the city. The city was built by the Chimu people around 1300. They were later conquered by the Incas. On the way back into town, we stopped at another set of ruins, but of a temple instead of an entire city. It was called Huaca Esmeralda. It was much smaller, but had all the same features and used the same construction methods as Chan Chan, and, I presume, as all the other ruins in the area.

Although I sped through Peru, I enjoyed what I saw. It's a place to go back to a second time for more thorough exploration.

Up the Andes

2008-11-01T09:20:00.001-07:00

If you spend much time traveling the the Western parts of South America, you'll spend time in the Andes mountains. I've been in the Andes mountains off and on over most of my trip.

The Andes is the longest mountain range in the world, stretching out over approximately 7,000 kilometers, the entire length of South America. It's also the highest mountain range outside Asia—the highest in the world, of course, being the Himalayas. The average height of the Andes is about 4,000 meters.

The Andes actually comprise several mountain ranges, including two primary ones—the Cordillera Oriental and Cordillera Occidental—and some smaller ones. In between the two primary ranges is the altiplano, or high plain. This area is in the central part of the Andes, mostly in Bolivia, and averages about 3,300 meters in altitude.

Since arriving in Bolivia several weeks ago, I've been mostly in the Andes. I started with a 4-day tour in Southern Bolivia (between 4,000 and 5,000 meters), then went to La Paz (about 3,600 meters), then to Lake Titicaca (3,812 meters), Cusco, Peru (3,310 meters), Lima (sea level, as it's on the coast), Trujillo (on the coast), Cuenca, Ecuador (2,500 meters), and now Quito (2,850 meters).

From Cusco to Lima was an uneventful 24-hour bus ride. Lima to Trujillo was also not too bad, and only about 10 hours. Trujillo to the border wasn't a big deal and another 10 hours, or so (the border crossing into Ecuador was crazy—busy, apparently dangerous, and expensive). Although all these drivers pass cars and trucks, I didn't feel that death was imminent.

Traveling by bus through the Andes can be a harrowing experience. Maybe it's just the bus drivers in Ecuador. The trip from the Peru/Ecuador border to Cuenca (5 hours) was a bit scary because of the steep cliffs off to the side and the near zero visibility due to fog, but the trip from Cuenca to Quito was particularly coronary-causing.

I had just met Matt from North Carolina at the bus terminal and he would be getting off the bus a couple hours before Quito for an adventure into the outback of Ecuador—into the more remote parts of the Andes (I envy him!!!). Matt is a photographer for a local paper in North Carolina and brought a small digital camera and a rangefinder—a Voigtländer (the oldest name in cameras—1756). I swear that our bus driver thought he was driving a Ferrari in a Formula I race. Or maybe he gets a thousand-dollar bonus for arriving early. Or maybe he's just really competitive. Matt and I were both beside ourselves—we couldn't help laughing. The way this guy was driving this big bus was just ridiculous. A blowout or a slick spot on the road or a broken axle and you would've had 50 dead people—most likely a crumpled wad of sheet metal and guts recovered from the bottom of a thousand-foot cliff. It was one of the more exciting 9-hour periods of my entire trip. Psycho.

Tomorrow, I'm headed to Cali (1,000 meters), then Bogotá ("2,600 meters closer to the stars", their catchphrase) , and finally—for South America—Cartegena (sea level on the northern coast of Colombia). So, I still have some ground to cover in the Andes. Let's hope for sane bus drivers. I'd really like to live to enjoy Central America.

Machu Picchu

2008-10-31T10:05:00.001-07:00

Machu Picchu is the most well-known Inca ruins around and the most visited tourist attraction in Peru. It's about 50 miles northwest of Cusco and is on a mountaintop at 2,400 meters. Machu Picchu is actually the name of the mountain on which the ruins sit (picchu mean peak in Quechua).

If you want to visit this site, you'll start at Cusco. There were more tourists in Cusco by far than I had seen anywhere else in my 9 months' of travels. Still, it is a nice city with the usual plazas and Spanish-built churches. It also has some amazing walls built of really big rocks that have edges that fit together perfectly. How the Incas machined these rocks to achieve this kind of fit is astounding.

If you want to hike the Inca trail—a four-day affair—you have to schedule it about three months in advance. There are also other options for hiking to the ruins. If you're into hiking, check it out way ahead of time.

The more common alternative is to take the train or a bus to Aguas Calientes, a small town within a stone's throw of the ruins. There is a train that goes all the way to and from Aguas Calientes from Cusco, but it's slow and kind of expensive. A quicker and cheaper alternative is to take the bus, or better yet, a cab, part way, to Ollantaytambo, then the train the rest of the way. Go to the bus station and talk to a cabbie on the street. Within a few minutes, he'll have rounded up four people and you can go straight to Ollantaytambo (the bus will go to Urubamba, then you'll have to catch another one to Ollantaytambo) for 10 Solis. Book the train from Ollantaytambo to Aguas Calientes and back a couple days ahead of time at the train station—or online.

From Aguas Calientes, you'll want to rise early. You can either hike up a thousand stairs to the site, or you can take the bus. The day before you go up, you should buy the entrance ticket and a round-trip bus ticket to the ruins in Aguas Calientes. The first 400 people in the ruins have the option of climbing Huayna Picchu, the big mountain behind the ruins. Make sure to take the path to the right after you enter the ruins. The one to the left simply goes up some grueling switchbacks and will take you much longer to get to the entrance to Huayna Picchu—there's a hut at which you sign in and get let into the trail leading up the mountain.

The view from the top is fantastic. There are some ruins on top of this hill, too. How these people did this is baffling. The terrain is steep and they worked with big rocks. Makes me wonder how many of them died while building these sites. There are lots of opportunities for one to fall and die while doing this hike. If you're afraid of heights, you probably won't make it to the top. If you're not, you have to do it. Once on top, the view is worth the exertion—if it's not clouded in and raining.

Something funny? When we were on our way down—I climbed Huayna Picchu with Rich from Seattle and Julie from Canada—we saw one guy going up wearing a heavy parka and another guy wearing flip-flops. Psycho, both!

After you enter the site, Huayna Picchu is on the far side. On the near side—near the top of the switchbacks by the entrance—is a trail leading to the Sun Gate. The Sun Gate is where those hiking the Inca Trail will first glimpse the site. If it's clear, you can see the Sun Gate from the site. You can hike there for a great view in about an hour.

If you've got time, I'd recommend spending a couple nights in Aguas Calientes, and taking the first day to walk around the ruins. A private tour guide will give you a better understanding of the ruins if you've got a couple extra bucks to spend. Take the second day—the morning is really all you need—and climb Huayna Picchu. For me at least, after climbing Huayna Picchu, I was pretty wiped out and would've enjoyed the ruins more if I'd had more energy. If you're pressed for time, however, like me, the whole ball o' wax is doable in one day.

Note: I stayed at a hotel that is cheap and clean. The owner was also really nice. It's called Hospedaje California. When I arrived in town, the train pulled up on the lower track (below the main track and train station), next to a row of stores and hotels, and near a couple banks, a stone's throw from the bridge. This is where it is located. I recommend it.

Isla del Sol and Bugs

2008-10-31T09:23:00.001-07:00

The boat for Isla del Sol left at 9:00 A.M., so we woke up sometime between 7:30 and 8:00, leaving enough time for a shower and breakfast. Emelie hadn't slept well as she was feeling ill. She opted not to go on the trip, so Elin and I set out together.

The boat ride took about two-and-a-half hours and was beautiful but cold, at least for those of us on the top deck, out in the elements. There are some ruins on Isla del Sol and a beautiful hike around the island, leading to the ruins and then much farther south to where the boat would pick us up later in the day for the trip back to Copacabana.

Lake Titicaca is located on the border of Bolivia and Peru and is just over 3,800 meters high. It's the highest commercially navigable lake in the world and the largest lake in South America. It's about 120 miles long by 50 miles wide and is almost 300 meters deep.

There are many ruins on the island, but we went to a good sized site on the northern end of the island. Near the ruins, we came across a huge rock slab with a local man describing traditional ceremonies and selling trinkets. I asked if it had been used for sacrificing virgins and suggested we sacrifice Elin. Apparently, that wouldn't be possible. She bought a little statue which is supposed to help heal sickness. The man did some chanting and waved his hands over the statue. The idea was that it would help make Emelie better. We believe his ritual sucked the sickness out of Emelie—she was feeling better when we got back—and transferred it to the person standing closest to him during the ritual—me. I got sicker and sicker over the course of the day. The ruins were nice. The usual. A bunch of rocks piled up with a great view over the lake. These people really knew where to build their ruins.

I didn't know how Emelie was doing at that moment, but I knew that I had diarrhea. I had gone to the bathroom when we arrived on the island, but diarrhea works fast. I hiked fast—and alone, at this point—in hopes of getting back to civilization before—well, you know. I was able to keep this up for quite some time, but every so often, the pressure in my bowels increased and was stronger than before. Then it would subside. I knew I couldn't keep this up much longer. I hoped the town where we were to meet the boat was just over the next rise. It wasn't.

I came to a small group of houses where some locals lived. I asked if there was a bathroom here and said I would pay to use it. I was told there was no bathroom here. Apparently, the people who live on Isla del Sol are magical people. They don't crap. I was at the end of my rope. I walked about 30 meters farther, to a brick wall that seemed to mark the boundary of the small town. Next to the wall was some trash, including what looked like toilet paper. Good enough. Between the wall and the paper, I had myself a bathroom. I made it by the skin on my teeth.

As I got closer to my destination, some civilization appeared. Apparently, the locals think that the tourist will be tired and hungry by this time. In the town through which the dirt trail wound were scattered myriad restaurants. I plowed ahead and looked for sings of a real bathroom. A bit farther on, I saw a nice looking hostel. There were two women squatting next to the building washing laundry and hanging the dripping clothes on a wooden fence. I asked if they owned the place and if I could pay them to use the bathroom. One Boliviano was all it took. Now, I just had to make it a couple hours back to the mainland.

The boat pushed back and set out across the great expanse of water that is Lake Titicaca. I felt like I had a grip on the diarrhea, but not long after we left shore, the stomach cramps began. I didn't mean to ignore the nice lady I had met from Oregon, but I felt really lousy. I was on the top deck and felt pretty sure I was going to hurl. I got up without notice and climbed face first down the steep stairs to the back of the boat where the pilot was steering, one foot on the outboard motor closer to him, the other motor lashed with a length of rope.

I told him I didn't feel good and began to lean over the side of the boat near where he was sitting listening to his transistor radio. He directed me to the stern. I made it and leaned over the edge. For the time being, I kept my stomach contents in place and began to feel better over the duration of the trip.

When Elin and I arrived back to the room, we learned Emelie had been vomiting all day. She felt better now and the three of us went out for dinner.

My diarrhea continued. A couple days later, on the way to Machu Picchu, I vomited. Thank Pete I had taken a taxi (along with some nice folks from Spain). If I had gone in the bus, it would not have been a pretty sight. I vomited again after arriving at Aguas Calientes, the town from which you take a bus up to the actual ruins.

After I got back to Cusco from the ruins, I learned Emelie had gone to the hospital. She had been informed that she had three kinds of salmonella and a parasite.

I felt moderately sick for a few days after I vomited, but now, about a week later, I feel pretty good. I think my body took care of the bugs all by itself.

La Paz to Copacabana

2008-10-31T08:52:00.001-07:00

Leaving La Paz was a bit loco—translation nightmare. There were some demonstrations in one of the big squares, just outside the government buildings. Roads were blocked off, crowds filled the streets, and the cops were out in force—many carried tear gas canisters and launchers.

I had shared a room for the last few days with Elin and Emelie from Sweden and we were all headed north to Lake Titicaca, so we had lunch together, went back to the hostel to pick up our stuff, and hit the streets to hail a cab. A taxista pulled over and quoted us fifteen Bolivianos, but it ended up being twenty by the time we got to the bus terminal.

The trip started out at a crawl until we had gotten away from the extremely congested area around the demonstrations. We had to climb the hills toward the upper part of the city, skirt the mess, then descend back down to the station. Some of the hills in La Paz are quite steep. Unfortunately, on one of the hills, the taxi had to slow down for other traffic. The driver tried playing tricks with the clutch—I thought he was going to burn it up—but whatever he tried didn't get enough power to the wheels to get us up the hill. We wondered if we were going to have to get out and push. Don't laugh. Elin and I had to get out while he and Emelie drove up to a more gentle slope a few hundred meters ahead. At almost 3,700 meters, Elin and I almost passed out by the time we got to the cab. We were huffing and puffing like mad. After getting back in the cab, we told Emelie she was paying the whole fare.

We arrived at the bus station at about 3:00 P.M. We went to one bus company that went to Copacabana, but the lady said there were no buses leaving today—from any company—because of the demonstrations. We walked about fifty meters to another company and bought three tickets for Copacabana. The bus left at 3:00 P.M. It was just after 3:00. The lady called the bus and told them to wait. For some reason, the bus left from a different part of town. We hustled out front with the lady from the bus company and she arranged for a taxi to take us to the bus. We had no idea where we were going, where the bus would leave from, or what kind of bus we'd be riding in.

We arrived at a random corner in a random neighborhood of La Paz. The bus was a micro. It had seats for probably twenty people. The driver threw our bags on the roof and covered them with a blue tarp. We boarded the bus, found some empty seats, and apologized to the other passengers for being late.

We clawed our way out of La Paz, stopping behind other cars and buses that stopped in the middle of the road from time to time, passing others. And of course there was the ubiquitous honking. We eventually crested the valley top and slipped into El Alto, one of three cities comprising the La Paz metroplex (La Paz, El Alto, and Viacha).

We passed dozens of welding, body, and auto shops—these kinds of things get grouped together, possibly to make it easier for the consumer to find what they need. You just go to the right part of town for your need. We passed collectivos—basically mini-vans—lined up for blocks. It must've been the part of town where you catch rides, sort of an informal bus station. It was a hectic city. I wished I had visited here while in La Paz.

Within several minutes, we left El Alto, and said goodbye to La Paz. We were headed north, to the southern end of Lake Titicaca, where there was a very popular and touristy town called Copacabana. From there, we would take a boat out to Isla del Sol to visit some ruins and do some hiking.

Shortly after leaving the more densely populated area around La Paz, I noticed the Andes mountains off to our right. It was the most beautiful section of Andes I had yet seen. I made a mental note to come back here and spend a few days trekking in this area. There were some beautiful photographs to be had here.

At about the halfway point of our bus ride, we came to a branch of Lake Titicaca that we had to cross. We were instructed to get off the bus which proceeded to drive onto a barge. We purchased boat tickets for a couple Bolivianos—i.e., they cost a couple Bolivianos, we didn't buy boat tickets for other people—and got onto a small boat. There were only a few of us on this boat, as most of the passengers had filled up another boat in front of us and had already set out across the choppy lake. We waited another ten minutes or so until another vehicle arrived and our boat filled up. The ride across the lake was slightly rough, but we made it without capsizing.

Upon reaching the other side, the girls and I searched out a bathroom. When we found it, it was closed, so we did what anyone in Latin America does when nature calls. We found a fence, a wall, or a tree, and went. It at least gave the illusion of some privacy.

From the other side of the lake, we climbed up into the mountains. The sky grew dark, there was lightning and rain, and the sun disappeared. It was a beautiful evening as we watched the lake go by below.

During the rain, the windows in the bus fogged up. The driver wiped off the window in front of him with a rag, but we weren't convinced he could see, based on how he was driving. I thought there was a good chance he would drive off the road and over a cliff, but Emelie kept thinking positive thoughts. The rain stopped, I opened my window, and the windshield cleared up. The driving didn't really improve, but we pulled into Copacabana none the worse for wear. Thank you for those positive thoughts, Emelie!

A few men met us at the bus stop—simply at the side of the road at the main plaza. They wanted us to stay at their hotels. Elin went and checked them out while Emelie and I stayed with the bags. They both promised "Showers, 24 hours a day" but one of them had a private bathroom. That's the one we decided on. We took our bags, hiked the few blocks to our new home, dropped our things, and went out for dinner. After dinner, I went back to the room and went to bed, while the girls checked out the town for a bit. There wasn't much going on, so they returned before midnight. We all hit the hay, as tomorrow would be a long day—we were headed out to Isla del Sol for the day.

My Digital Workflow

2008-10-31T08:14:00.001-07:00

At least one of my readers has asked how I accomplish my photo editing and blogging. After 9 months on the road, my workflow has changed very little. I'm really happy with my process and my gear and will do it the exact same way next time around.

Here's my gear list:

Sony Vaio VGN-TZ195N laptop (tiny, carbon fiber, 48GB SSD, 2GB RAM, DVD burner)
Adobe Lightroom 1.3.1
Adobe Photoshop CS3
Microsoft Live Writer
Zenfolio for photo hosting
Blogger.com
2 Western Digital 250GB USB drives
Digital cameras

The blogging is pretty simple. I write the blog entries using Windows Live Writer. I don't need an Internet connection. I can write the entry offline, then post it whenever I have an Internet connection. I upload the photos for the entry to my Zenfolio site, add the photos to the entry (that part of the blog-writing process does require an Internet connection), then post the blog entry.

For photos, I attach the camera and one of the USB drives to the computer, then open Lightroom and import the photos into Lightroom with the USB drive as the location to which the photos are to be copied. I do 99% of my photo editing in Lightroom. I specify a few basic keywords upon import, then add others when the import is finished. I go through the photos, choose the good ones, make the necessary adjustments (I shoot RAW exclusively), export to JPEG, then upload the photos.

Sometimes, there are a few images that I delete. After the editing process, I plug the second USB drive into the laptop, so that now both USB drives are attached. At this point, I run Robocopy /MIR to create on the second hard drive an exact duplicate of the primary drive. So, both drives are kept in sync, including removing files that I may have deleted off the primary drive. At this point, I format the memory card(s) in the camera(s). On occasion, I create backups of the photos on dual layer DVDs and mail those home.

Adios, iPod #2.

2008-10-26T20:53:00.001-07:00

When I went on the tour in southern Bolivia, we spent hours and hours in the Land Cruiser. On day one or two, our guide, Juan Carlos, asked if anyone had an iPod. The vehicle was equipped with a wire tapping into the stereo by which we could listen to music from a portable music player. I volunteered mine, having a Latin Favorites list that I really like.

Juan Carlos liked my favorites, too, and asked for my iPod on the last day. We listened on and off over the course of the day. After arriving in Uyuni, everyone got their stuff out of the vehicle to find a hostel to stay in. I forgot my iPod in the vehicle. Presumably, our guide, Juan Carlos, forgot it, too, because he drove off with it.

I e-mailed the tour company the next day and, surprisingly, got a response a few days after that. Juan Carlos had already left on another tour and hadn't mentioned anything about an iPod to his boss. The company was going to check with him after he got back and possibly send me the iPod here in Lima.

I haven't heard anything since. If anyone goes on a tour with Tours el Grano de Oro from Tupiza to Uyuni, please kick Juan Carlos's ass, get my iPod back, and mail it to me. I'll pay the shipping and give you a big kiss.

The Sprint

2008-10-26T20:42:00.001-07:00

If you've been following my trip, you may be wondering when it will ever end. Well, the answer is soon. I'm running out of money. I'm going to try to arrive in Tacoma within about 6 weeks. That means I will be traveling northward at an ultra fast pace. I won't plan on spending more than about 2 days in any one place, with the exception of Managua. I hope to make it from here (Lima) to Tacoma entirely on land. It's possible I will have to fly some, but I really want to try and avoid that, if at all possible. So, faithful readers, hang on to your hats.

Northern Bolivia

2008-10-25T19:41:00.001-07:00

There are many outings one can take with La Paz as home base, and the one I elected was the Pampas tour. I wanted a taste of the jungle and knew this might be my only chance on this trip.

I had heard from more than one person that if you took the bus to Rurrenabaque, where the tour begins, you would take the plane back. The 18-hour bus ride is the commute from Hell. I'm usually a pretty slow learner—I've got to experience it to get it—but in this case I learned from others who had gone before. I splurged and booked the round-trip plane ride from the airport in La Paz to the little dirt strip near the town of Rurrenabaque, in northern Bolivia.

I had recently met Chris from Poland, as we were both staying at Wild Rover Hostel in La Paz. It would be good to know someone going into the trip. He had been living in New York for the past three years and was madly in love with the city. He loved the vibe, the night life, the people—the idea.

We caught a cab to the airport the day before the tour, so we could relax that evening in Rurrenabaque to start the tour fresh the next morning.

As we were about to go through the metal detector at the airport, I remembered I had my pocket knife with me. I quickly removed it from my pocket and tossed it into my camera bag, hoping that it would go unnoticed. No such luck. Security took me aside and went through my bag, removing the knife. I asked if I could just put it in my backpack. No problem. I left the security area, went back to the ticketing area, and was allowed behind the counter, where my bag was still sitting on the motionless conveyor belt. I removed the lock off the top pocket, slipped the knife in, and replaced the lock. This time, I made it through security without a hitch. I couldn't have pulled that off in the States.

Once in the plane and moving down the runway, the rollout was lengthy. We were at 12,000 feet and the air was thin. Even with flaps extended, the Fairchild 23 needed extra speed to create the pressure differential between the upper and lower wing surfaces necessary to suck the plane into the sky. We flew rather close to the jagged peaks of the Andes—it was spectacular. Within about 40 minutes, we descended to near sea level amongst a green landscape, and touched down onto a rough, dry, dirt landing strip.

Before the ground crew even cracked the door open, we could feel the heat and humidity. It would be an uncomfortable few days, but a good warm-up for my travels through Central America. After the stairs were rolled up to the door, we deplaned into a climate drastically different than that in La Paz. The changes that accompany a stiff change in altitude are stark. We were sweating before even picking up our packs.

A mini van taxied us to the town of Rurrenabaque, about a 5-minute drive along a rough but pretty stone road. Chris and I checked into a hotel recommended to us by the travel agent back in La Paz—Los Tucanes. The room was clean and had a private shower.

Before turning in for the night, I wanted to pick up a small day-pack to keep my few things organized on the trip, as there was no need to take my entire backpack into the outback for the few days of the trip. After packing a few clothes and several lenses and my extra D-SLR body into the pack and making sure everything was ready to go, we turned in. Although there was an oscillating pedestal fan in our room, it was a pretty toasty night. Welcome to the jungle.

The next morning, we got up in time to shower and get to the travel agency by around 8:00. I picked up my new day-pack, for which I had paid $7, and threw it over my right shoulder. The strap tore out of its bottom attachment point. Before the trip was over, the other strap had torn out—Chinese craftsmanship. It had served its purpose, and I just left it in our room when we checked out.

We arrived at the travel agency in plenty of time and were informed that the other adventurers had canceled—Chris and I were the only two left. The lady got on her cell phone and called another agency which, lucky for us, had space on their roster. While waiting for the transport to show up, we walked to a nearby restaurant and got some breakfast.

After we arrived back at the travel agency, a red Toyota 4x4 pulled up. The driver took our packs and threw them onto the roof under a blue tarp and tied everything down securely (we hoped!).

The outing began with a three-hour drive along a rough, dusty, potholed, rocky road. It was hot. It was dusty. Shortly after we got out of town, we were behind a motorcycle carrying a man, a woman, and a large bundle. Thankfully our driver was looking forward, as the motorcycle didn't like the rough, rocky, road, and crashed. Our driver swerved suddenly to avoid the downed bike. A second later, we were all looking out the back window at the man and woman slowly picking themselves up and dusting themselves off.

Our driver stopped and got out, presumably to help the accident victims. He walked over to a neighbor who had come out onto the road to see what the fuss was all about. We sat in the parked vehicle in the sweltering heat. Finally, someone said what we all thinking. If he's just going to stand there chatting with the neighbor, why doesn't he just get back in and let's get moving? The still Toyota had become like an oven. He must have felt the bad vibes emanating from within his ride. He came back and we took off.

During the drive, we all got to know each other a little bit. Romain, a French hippie, asked where I was from. I assumed he was traveling with Christophe. They looked like they were cut from the same mold.

"I'm traveling with my girlfriend, Elodie. We just met," and he pointed to Christophe.

Chris and I had run into Shane and Lucy at breakfast. We had talked to Lucy while Shane paid the bill. When Shane came back to the table, he said hi. He seemed a bit stuffy to me. He was a Canook who had been living in California for ten years. He was a software developer. Lucy was of Asian heritage, but was a native United Statesian, living in the Bay area.

For the first hour of the drive, Shane asked travel questions nonstop to Marina, a gal on extended travels from Spain. I thought he would never run out of questions. At least he wasn't talking about himself.

On occasion we would pass another motorcycle or a pedestrian, engulfing them in a thick cloud of dust. How could they see? How could they breathe? We all agreed that the park should use proceeds from the one-hundred-fifty Boliviano entrance fee to pave this miserable excuse of a road. Sure, the people we passed would benefit, but an excruciating three-hour, butt-numbing, snail-paced drive would be turned into a comfortable one-hour jaunt.

Shortly before we arrived at the river, we stopped in a small town for lunch. All the tour groups stop here before the three-hour canoe ride in the blazing sun. Upon exiting the vehicle, I spied a monkey on a fence. I walked over to him to shoot a few close-ups. He was into close-ups. He jumped off the fence onto my head and began to crawl around on me. It's difficult to take self portraits with a Nikon D3 and 24-70 f/2.8 attached—it's a heavy combo—but I managed to change some camera settings required for self-portraiture and snap a few. When we sat down to eat, there was a pig under out table which our waiter shooed away, and a very large bird standing a few meters away—he never moved.

Another fifteen minutes of driving and we arrived at the river. We were told our boat would arrive in about twenty minutes (they bring the previous group out, and pick up the new group). We stood around in the shade, shooting the breeze.

I discovered Shane was a systems developer. He writes software used for doing performance analysis on other software. So, he's really smart. I figured I should come right out and admit that he's smarter than I, a mere application developer.

"We're not smarter than you. Our intelligence is just different." We soon discovered—as his girlfriend pointed out—that we had the same exact sense of humor, terrible as that may be to some. We would have entire conversations where everything we said was facetious. An outsider would have thought we were crazy, but we knew what we were talking about—every word coming out of our mouths was ironic, a lie of sorts. Few chats are more enjoyable. This might not be such a bad trip.

Shane had a little multi-use gizmo with a compass, a thermometer, and a whistle, all built right in. He also claimed it had a clicker, a device for counting.

"On a previous trip, the compass got stuck, so we were always going the same direction. It works now, though."

"How about the thermometer?" I asked.

"It works."

A couple hours into the trip, I wondered aloud how many capybaras we'd seen. It seemed like hundreds.

"We've seen 481. My multi-tool has a clicker. Unfortunately, it's stuck on 481."

"Do you think we've seen that many Caimans?" I knew we'd seen a lot of them.

"Four-hundred-eighty-one," Shane answered.

We were all astounded at the usefulness of Shane's tool.

About an hour before we got to camp, the boat pulled onto a beach where there were already a couple boats moored. We spent about a half hour there and swam. This was a favorite hangout for pink dolphins. As we enjoyed the warm, but refreshing, water, we spotted several of them. They would just surface for a split second, blow a puff of air out of their air hole, then disappear below the surface.

Our guide was a slightly annoying canoe driver. I realize there might have been some shallow spots in the river—it was the dry season—but he was constantly changing the throttle position, even where there were certainly no low spots. Maybe he had a nervous twitch. Shane figured he was conducting some kind of systems test on the canoe.

There were several camps located along the river, all within a half hour, or so, of each other. Ours looked about as decent as any of them. The various tour groups stayed at these camps during their time here.

We had three square meals a day—and juice. The food wasn't bad, but the juice—the juice was awful. It came in all flavors, and it was all terrible. And it was all luke warm. One of the flavors was banana. We figured it was just monkey pee. Three days in the jungle without a cold drink is tough to take. In fact, in general, cold drinks are hard to come by in Bolivia. And when a street vendor tells you their Coke is cold, they simply mean it hasn't been placed in a microwave oven.

There was actually a "bar" about a 10-minute boat ride away, that had a variety of drinks for sale, and the drinks were cold enough to taste good, but certainly not icy-cold. We went there once—for a totally lame sunset—but if we'd had our druthers, we'd have gone multiple times per day.

There were basically four items on the agenda for this trip: swim with the piranhas, fish for pink dolphins, find an anaconda, and go Caiman watching at night, by flashlight.

The day we arrived at camp, things were a bit hectic. Our guide told us four other tourists had been lost during their anaconda hunting trip. All the guides were going to go out and join in the search. Within a few minutes, however, a guide pulled up in a boat with the four, hungry, very thirsty, formerly-lost souls.

The first night was a bit annoying. Everyone turned in at about 10:00. Everyone except for a group of people hanging out in the hammocks out in the common area. They were loud for quite some time into the night. The next morning when a few of us went to relax in the hammocks, we found a fair amount of trash on the floor under the hammocks. Although there are exceptions, this is the kind of behavior I have come to expect from young, traveling Israelis. Maybe it's just their way of rebelling after having to serve two years in their military.

The next day, our group, along with the Israelis (there was a French woman in their group, too), went on our anaconda outing. The other group led the way. Our guide was quite a ways ahead of our group. I wondered how our guide would teach us about the local flora and fauna at such a great distance. He did not shout this information the 100 meters back to us.

Shockingly, about an hour after our anaconda hunt began—and less than one day after four other tourists were lost—two members of our group were lost, Elodie and Romain. Considering the distance between our guide and our group, I did not find this surprising in the least, yet I was still flabbergasted that they would allow this to happen, especially considering it had happened only the day before.

Our guide had previously informed us that shorts would be fine for the hike. We traversed quite a bit of terrain with tough bushes. Shane's legs were taking a beating. You know those sensitive programmers. He was a bit put out about that.

A few of us had joined the other group to continue the hunt, while the others in our group turned around to look for the lost sheep. We eventually cornered a snake and the brave ones took turns holding it by its tail. It was about 7 feet long and 3 inches in diameter. I wasn't particularly blown away, but it was still good to see one. I would've been really annoyed hiking around in the heat for three hours for nothing.

The others in our group had encountered the lost group members and we crossed paths, us leaving and them coming. Shane, Lucy, and I continued back with the Israelis, and the rest of our (reunited) group continued on the search for an anaconda. On the way back, during a short break, the guide informed us that there were ticks in these here parts. This additional, omitted item, made Shane even more agitated. One would have thought that the guides would have told us this tidbit beforehand ("shorts and sandals are okay").

Moreover, the guides had apparently just assumed that we would bring our own water. They hadn't brought any. This was a mere annoyance to us, but could've been deadly to the lost group the day before—or to Elodie and Romain.

Later that day, after we had eaten lunch, we returned to the pink dolphin hangout and swam some more. When we arrived, some other boats were already there (What a pleasant surprise to see Dennis and Sylvia from Belgium, the wonderful couple I had spent four days with on the tour in southern Bolivia).

Shane was bound and determined to have a close encounter with the strange but beautiful pink mammals. He must have treaded water for an hour. I grabbed my Panasonic TZ-3 in its underwater case and took a few snaps out in the middle of the river. I never did get a photo of a dolphin. They were shy. Lucy and I swam out in the middle and joined Shane. Lucy let out a shriek and told us a dolphin had brushed against her feet. This happened a few times. She was freaked out and wanted out of the water. I thought she was a wimp—until it happened to me. As I was treading water, I felt something against my feet. This happened four times. I now understood why Lucy was freaked out. It was a mite scary. What an experience.

While headed back to camp in the boat, clouds moved in and the sky grew dark. By this time, we had seen so many capybaras and Caimans, we didn't give them a second thought. The storm clouds and cool temperatures they brought were refreshing.

After we arrived back at camp, I lay down in my bed for a nap. I enjoyed a wonderful hour of wind and rain along with the guitar playing and singing emanating from the dining area, floating through the screen and over to our set of dorm rooms.

After dinner, we gathered in our boat, flashlights in hand (or headlamps on head), and headed out for some night-time Caiman watching. This was very cool. Make sure to take your own light, ideally a head lamp, which you should have as part of your travels, anyway. The angle at which a Caiman's eyes reflect light is extremely narrow and you won't see the reflections form other people's lights unless they're along your line of sight (i.e., almost directly in front of or in back of you). At times, I was reminded of being on a ride at Disney Land, like Pirates of the Caribbean. This was really nice.

The night was cool. The previous night, I had wondered why there were blankets on the beds. That night, I used mine.

The next morning, we partook of the last event of the trip—we went fishing for piranhas not far upstream our camp. Each of us was given a small piece of wood with fishing line wrapped around it several times. There was a regular fishing hook on the end of the line. We were given steak for bait. We simply threw the line off the edge of the boat—the bow of the canoe was grounded on the shore—and the piranhas went nuts. After about 10 minutes of the piranhas eating our bait, Shane asked if we supposed to be fishing for piranhas or just feeding them. At this point, they were having a feast.

We ended up catching a few. Shane caught a catfish, too. I looked over at the Israelis. Their boat was sinking. I think they had cast their net on the opposite side of their canoe or something. They had piranhas coming out their ears.

We ate our catch along with lunch. The piranhas tasted like fish—remember, I'm not a food connoisseur. They didn't have much meat on their bones, but the fishing had been entertaining.

After lunch, we loaded our bags into the canoe and headed back downstream to our put-in point three days earlier. The trip back down stream and along the rough road seemed to go more quickly this time. Some group members thought the trip was wonderful while others were underwhelmed. We all had a good time, however, and enjoyed making new friends.

Cuzco to Lima by Bus

2008-10-25T07:45:00.001-07:00

The distance as the crow files? Three-hundred-fifty-five miles. The time? Twenty-four hours. That's an average speed of under fifteen miles per hour. Much of the drive is on twisty mountain roads through the Andes mountains. It's possible to drive for a long time in the Andes and not come to the end—or out the side. It's a really big set of mountains, I've noticed.

Our bus driver would have been fired if he were driving a limo (in the States, at least). He charged into all the corners fast, hit the brakes hard, and then took all the corners as fast as he could. It was uncomfortable, at least on the top deck of the tall double-decker bus, especially with lots of steep dropoffs to the side. Moreover, the stewardess wasn't very friendly and the dinner was sub-par, even for a bus. Not a great drive for me, despite the beautiful scenery.

However, I arrived in one piece, food in stomach, belongings in backpack, backpack in bus. Could've been much worse.

Taxis in Cuzco and Lima

2008-10-24T17:59:00.001-07:00

There are two kinds of taxis in Cuzco and Lima: white station wagons and teeny tiny hatchbacks of varying colors. Take the small ones unless there are several of you with bags and need the space provided by the white station wagons.

When you arrive at the bus station, do not take a cab right from the station. Throw your pack on and walk off the premises and flag down the little hatchback. You'll get a much better price. It also doesn't hurt to haggle as you're walking out to get an idea of the price you'll want to pay the cab.

Here's an example. When I arrived in Lima today, I got off the bus, got my pack, and walked out the front door. Immediately, several men came up to me and asked if I needed a taxi. I said yes and asked how much it was. There was actually a board on the wall of the bus station stating the prices to various parts of town. The price to the neighborhood of Barranca in Lima was listed as thirteen Solis. I said no thanks and kept walking. As I past the taxistas, I heard "twelve," then "ten," "nine," and "eight." I kept declining. I got other bids for nine again, which was funny since one of them had already said eight. I kept walking, figuring that I'd find a miniature car outside the gates. One pulled up and dropped someone off. I showed him the address of the hostel (which I had written on a small piece of paper before leaving Cuzco) and he said eight. I insisted on seven and he finally caved.

Seven Solis down from thirteen? Listen and learn, kids.

One last tip? When you leave your hostel, ask the staff how much the taxi should cost you to different parts of town so you don't get ripped off. You won't know unless you ask.

La Paz

2008-10-17T09:38:00.001-07:00

As I travel, I see commonalities between cities and also notice some new things in each new place I visit.

When the bus first peeked over the edge of the altiplano down into the valley where La Paz is nestled, I had flashbacks to Rio de Janeiro. The hillsides are covered in brick-colored houses all the way up to the rim, and the low points contain the wealthier houses and the downtown areas. The biggest difference between Rio and La Paz, of course, is that La Paz isn't perched over the ocean. In its background, however, are big, beautiful mountains. The setting is gorgeous, just a bit different.

The thing that might stand out the most at times is how you feel. Its elevation is over 3,600 meters, or almost 12,000 feet. I'm currently staying on the 4th floor of Wild Rover Hostel. When I get up to my room after hiking up all those stairs, I almost pass out. I'm panting like crazy. The same thing happens when you walk around outside. As the city is situated in an entire valley, almost every street is a hill.

La Paz has the biggest markets I've yet seen. I've visited a couple and I must say I've never seen so many individually packaged items in one place in my entire life. You can buy just about anything you want from cleaning products to any kind of food or produce to candles to shoelaces. You name it.

In other parts of the city, you may not find a huge market, but you'll find all the usual street vendors selling whatever your heart may desire, and at least the non-food vendors tend to bunch together. For example, you may find three or four guys making duplicates of keys or selling candles. I even saw a lady cutting out shoe inserts with a pair of scissors. Another beautiful thing you'll find in La Paz that I didn't encounter much in the more southern countries is street vendors selling slices of pineapple and cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice. A cup of orange juice costs about 28¢ and a slice of pineapple costs between about 14¢ and 21¢.

Almost regardless of which direction you head, you'll be on a hill. As if the hills and the altitude weren't enough to make life a challenge, the sidewalks are barely wide enough for two people to pass. And where there are light posts, there is barely enough room for one person to squeeze through, especially if you're wearing a backpack.

The streets are narrow and I've heard more honking horns in my few days here than in the rest of my trip put together (part of the honking is just taxis advertising their availability). There are myriad taxis and a couple other forms of public transport. There are what appear to be old school buses acting as the city buses. This is the first time I've seen these old buses used as the primary public transport on my trip. There are also loads of minivans with someone hanging out the sliding door hollering out the destination. They stop anywhere and everywhere picking up and dropping off passengers.

For the most part, when I've been hungry, I've just wandered around looking for a hole in the wall joint. The first day I was here, I had some beef, rice, soup, and a Coke. The price? Nine Bolivianos. In American, that's $1.29. Another day for lunch, I had chicken, potato, a nice bowl of soup, and some other gizmos on the plate that I didn't really like—nor was I able to identify them. The bill came to a whopping eight Bolivianos. That translates to $1.14. I have no idea how these people make a living. Their rent must be only five bucks a month.

I always like to get to a high spot when I visit a new city for some overview photos. I enjoy seeing the lay of the land. There's a hill right in the middle of the city called Killi Killi Mirador. It's a nice little park-like viewpoint with virtually 360-degrees' view of the city. At least from this hostel, it's very easy access. Six pesos will get you to the top in a taxi, and an easy 20-minute walk will get you home.

When I first arrived here after my trek in the south, I slept fine. I guess I had acclimated to the high altitude. Then I went to the north and the edge of the jungle. After returning from three days at sea level, I had trouble sleeping. Every few minutes I had to take a deep gasp of air. The next night I slept fine again.

Women in Bolivia? Well, the attractiveness quotient drops several notches on average in comparison with Argentina and Brazil. The missing European and African influence makes a really big difference.

A word about Wild Rover Hostel. It's a very nice hostel and is kept very clean. The bathrooms are very nice and are cleaned continually. There is a bar and I believe you can buy food there. It can get a bit noisy at night. Just reserve yourself a bed in the 4-bed room—it's pretty quiet. There is a travel agency situated in the main office for booking tours—convenient. They also have WiFi. If you're in La Paz, I definitely recommend staying at this hostel.

There's certainly much more to this city than I saw, but I'm on a mission—I'm headed northward, and fast. If I'm in this neck of the woods again, this is a city I'll come back to.

Cash Advances in La Paz

2008-10-16T10:48:00.001-07:00

This is just a quick travel tip based on my own experience. If you need to get a cash advance from a VISA card in La Paz, Bolivia, BCP won't do it. However, Bank Bisa will.

Also, certain problems with your bank account will cause your debit card to be marked by VISA as "lost." At this point, if you try to obtain cash from an ATM, the machine will not give the card back and it will be lost forever—i.e., unusable, as though it had been reported stolen.

Southern Bolivia

2008-10-16T06:21:00.001-07:00

I was really disappointed when I heard that U.S. citizens were being kicked out of Bolivia. A bit later, apparently no one was being let in, not just U.S. citizens. I was glad when I heard the coast was clear. In reality, it was mostly politics. The problems were in the east, I wasn't going anywhere near them, so there was no reason not to go. Thankfully, the Bolivians saw it my way.

I entered Bolivia at the spot closest to Salta, where I had been for over a month. After crossing the border into the city of Villazón, I got a ticket straightaway for Tupiza, where my tour through the outback of Bolivia would begin.

I showed up at a hostel which had been recommended to me by Edel (an Irish gal I had met in Salta), La Torre Hotel, checked in and discussed the tour possibilities. I booked the 4-day tour which ends up in Uyuni. From there, I would go to La Paz, then continue the northward sprint.

The tour cost 1,200 Bolivianos (about $170) and consisted of 4 days and 3 nights traveling throughout the remote wilderness of southern Bolivia. Food and housing was provided.

The 4x4 picked me up at 9:00 A.M. The guide threw my bag on the roof and we proceeded to another hostel to pick up the other 3 passengers. Our vehicle contained the guide, who drove, his mother, who cooked, Sylvia and Dennis from Belgium, Wei-Li from Singapore, and yours truly. We all got along reasonably well, which increased the enjoyment of the trip. The other vehicle contained a bunch of Irish folks, and our guide's brother who acted as their driver and guide.

Dennis was a geologist, which added to our resources for information on this trip through a constantly-changing geological smorgasbord of landscapes, Sylvia was a social worker who helped foreigners find work in Belgium, and Wei-Li was a recent college graduate with a degree in Poly-Sci who had been working with an NGO in Cochabamba (150 miles east of La Paz) for the past two months with sexually abused children.

The food wasn't fancy, but it wasn't bad. I certainly wouldn't call it exotic Bolivian cuisine. Normally, we had some kind of meat, along with vegetables, bread, and Coke, juice, or water. The food generally took the form of sandwiches, salads, and soups.

I remember the first dinner.

Wei-Li: "I prefer raw sugar. It makes the tea taste better."
Jay: "What's raw sugar?"
Wei-Li: "It's unprocessed."
Jay: "How do you process sugar?"
Dennis: "When you get the juice out of the sugarcane or sugar beets and let the sediment settle, you get sugar crystals. That's raw sugar."
Wei-Li: "You see it in your supermarket. It's darker and the crystals are bigger."
Jay: "And it tastes better? I'll have to try it. Where do we get sugar in the States? Hawaii?"
Dennis: "I'm guessing Cuba."
Jay: "You're saying we have communist sugar in the United States?"

We moved on to some other subject for probably ten minutes when I made another comment about raw sugar.

Wei-Li: "I can't believe we're still talking about raw sugar."
Jay: "We're not. We talked about something else for a while. Now we're talking about raw sugar again."

Raw sugar came up several times during the remainder of the trip and we all got a kick out of it.

Over the coming days, we saw the Laguna Verde (Green Lagoon), Laguna Colorada (Colored Lagoon, it was red), mountains of many colors, many salt flats, donkeys, llamas, guanacos, vicuñas, and a variety of birds and plants. We spent approximately three days passing through territory that I would have liked to have taken a month to photograph.

We passed through some small towns, including one where the guides had grown up. Their grandmother still lived there and we got to peek into her kitchen. It was an extremely small mud-brick cubicle made just for cooking. The people who lived in these villages were indigenous, and clearly hadn't had much outside influence. They lived many, many decades behind the times. I don't think most of the houses had running water or electricity. It was good to see some non-touristic places. Not all the tours take you to places like these.

We had a lot of time just to look out the windows at passing scenery in between key points. We passed the time by either napping, shooting photos out the window, or talking. One such conversation yielded a quotable quote. When I commented about llamas being wild, Wei-Li's retort was:

"If they run into a man-made enclosure when you wave a stick at them, they're not wild."

In these villages, as in La Paz, the people have a fit if you try to take their photo. At best, they demand money for a photo. This is in stark contrast to Rurrenabaque, in the north, where the people were very friendly and weren't bothered in the least by photo-snapping visitors.

Mid way through the tour, we stopped by a natural hot spring during our lunch hour. We took a dip in a really nice pool, and then had lunch. While eating, there was a small tornado out on the salt flat which stretched across a lake. It was pretty exciting. Unfortunately, I didn't get a photo of the tornado at its climax. We also visited some geysers—sort of a mini Yellowstone. I have to say that the variety of landscapes we viewed on this short trip was astounding. There was something different around every corner.

On the last day, we visited the Salar de Uyuni, the world's largest salt flat, at over 4,000 square miles, and over 3,600 meters high, in the altiplano of the Andes mountains. It's about 25 times the size of the Bonneville Salt Flats in the U.S.

We stopped in the middle of this vast, white, dried up lake for photos just prior to sunrise. We pulled off the main beaten path, and I figured I would just walk a hundred feet or so off the "road" for a clean photo of the pentagonal salt formations. Although I can't prove this, I don't believe there is a spot you can go in the salt flat where there are not vehicle tracks. Wherever a vehicle drives, it crushes the rims of these pentagons. It makes it difficult to get great photos of the area. These pentagons apparently re-form with rain, but I'm not sure how long it takes.

Bolivia is not taking care of this amazing place very well. They should define just a couple approaches to Mount Tunupa, a small mountain in the middle of the salt flat. There is a great infrastructure on the mountain and all the tour groups go there. When you hike to the top of the cactus-covered island, you see tracks approaching from every direction, and you see tracks in between the main approaches.

After visiting the salar, we went to its edge, where the salt is harvested and processed. There were three machinery doing the processing. I talked to the folks running one of them. The contraption was a 1946 truck chassis, completely stripped of the body work and accoutrements. What was left was the chassis, wheels, engine, and transmission. Attached to the transmission was a sheet metal contraption with some kind of impeller inside, driven by a belt powered off the output shaft of the transmission. One or two people shoveled salt into the top, and a finer version dropped out the bottom.

When I approached, the engine wasn't running. Liquid was pouring out the bottom. I didn't investigate closely, but something wasn't right. After some fiddling, one man turned a hand crank on the front of the engine, while another poured gasoline into the carburetor. The straight six sputtered to life and the salt processing began. They all wore ski masks to protect their faces from the bright sun reflected from the bright salt at this high altitude. They also wore sunglasses. Sunburn and snow blindness (salt blindness?) are serious risks in this environment. In return for "permitting" me to photograph their work, Max, the leader of the gang, requested a fresh drink for his posse. I thought that was pretty reasonable. I brought them back what was left of the juice we'd had for breakfast—more than a liter.

Nights were cold, and days were hot when in the sun and cold when the wind blew. Plenty of layered clothing was good to have, as was a warm hat. The temperatures were quite tolerable, even at night since we had blankets, but in the winter, I believe it is bitterly cold—this is from reports I've heard.

We spent most of the trip between 4,000 and 5,000 meters. I didn't feel the affect of the altitude until the third day. My legs hurt, I was very tired, and at lunch time, I couldn't decide if I was going to pass out or throw up. I ate very little. When we arrived at the hostel at about 5:00 P.M., I just fell into bed and slept for a couple hours. I ate a lot for dinner, and after a good night's sleep, felt like a new man.

We had our final lunch on day four in a salt building. We'd stayed in a salt hostel the night before, and we visited a salt hotel-turned-salt museum just before lunch. Other buildings in the area were also made of salt. I guess you work with whatever building material is plentiful in your location.

This is a great tour and if you're in Bolivia, don't miss it. We went with Tours el Grano de Oro. They did a good job.

Into Bolivia

2008-10-10T19:09:00.001-07:00

I have a lot of catching up to do with regards to updating my faithful readers, so this is going to be a shotgun blog, using my patented bulleted-list style.

I am no longer in Argentina. Of the almost eight-and-a-half months of my trip so far, I have spent probably close to six of them in Argentina. I have made many good friends and have gotten to know a couple big cities quite well by actually living in them. My trip hasn't gone anything like I had planned. I'm very sad to leave Argentina, which is a good thing. I hope to return one day.
I left Jujuy at 2:20 A.M. on Saturday, the 4th, on a bus headed for La Quiaca, a small town along the northern border of Argentina.
We arrived at 7:00 A.M. I grabbed my stuff and marched across the La Quiaca River and went through Bolivian customs without a hitch, arriving in the opposite border town of Villazón, along the southern border of Bolivia.
As I crossed over the river, I couldn't help but notice that the river bed didn't contain much water, but contained loads of trash.
I bought a bus ticket from Villazón to Tupiza, a 3-hour bus ride to the north.
The bus didn't leave until 10:00 A.M., so I had a couple hours to hang out. I bought a Multivitaminico (a really lame name for a drink that contained banana, apple, sugar, non-alcoholic beer, an egg, some nuts, and maybe some other stuff I'm not remembering) which was pretty good, and a little later some chicharron de chancho (meat from a pig) and mote (maize). I tried some of the aji (pronounced uh-hee) on the meat, which is a salsa (sauce) made from tomato, onion, oil, salt, and some kind of pepper. It's much spicier here than in Argentina.
The bus ride was interesting. It was entirely on dirt roads. Every so often, we'd come to a little town in the middle of freaking nowhere. The houses were of large bricks covered with mud, with roofs of straw and mud. These little towns reminded me of the ghost towns in and around Death Valley, California, except people actually live here. Virtually unimaginable to me.
I arrived in Tupiza early afternoon and checked into La Torres hostel, which had been recommended to me by Edel, a nice English gal I had hung out with in Salta (we were both staying in the same room at Las Rejas Hostel B&B). My room cost 50 Bolivianos, or just over $7. I had a private room with 2 beds and my own shower.
I booked my tour (the reason I was in Tupiza) and walked around the town a bit, snapping some photos. There's really no reason to go to Tupiza (that I can imagine) other than taking the 4-day tour through the southern Bolivian wilderness and ending up at Uyuni. That's what I did.
In Tupiza, the Internet is horribly slow. I was able to read mail in an Internet cafe, but it was too slow to write or reply to anyone. The browser wouldn't load my Web mail page. No WiFi in the whole town either.
The tour I went on began in Tupiza and ended in Uyuni.
- It took 4 days and three nights. To be more precise, it took a few hours more than 3 days, but was spread over 4 days. We left at 9:00 A.M. on day one and arrived in Uyuni at about noon on day 4. It was a great trip.
- We saw some extremely remote wilderness in southern Bolivia. We stopped in several small villages where indigenous people lived and even visited the grandmother of our guides.
- We saw several lagoons, lots of flamingos, some other birds, and llamas.
- The deserts and mountains never seemed to end. Southern Bolivia is a vast wilderness.
- For a photographer, this tour just scratches the surface. I would like to come back and hire a guide to cover the same ground—around 700 kilometers—but in about a month's time.
- The tour included lodging of sorts, 3 squares a day, and a good guide. The total cost was 1,200 Bolivianos, or about $172.
In Uyuni, I visited the train graveyard, a long stretch of a couple tracks with old, rusted out steam engines, and old cars, wheels, and trucks lying around. It was fascinating to me. I'll post a gallery dedicated to the train graveyard.
From Uyuni, I caught a train to Oruro which cost 101 Bolivianos (less than $15) and took about 7 hours. It left at midnight, so I wasn't able to enjoy the countryside too much. As the train got to within about a kilometer of Oruro, vast areas of garbage appeared. I imagine there were many square kilometers surrounding Oruro covered with a thin layer of garbage. It was incredible.
On the plus side, south of Oruro is a gigantic lake with thousands of flamingos. If you like flamingos, you have to come to Bolivia, as there are myriad lagoons and lakes with the funky pink bird hanging out.
From Oruro I took a bus to La Paz, as the train ends in Oruro. The bus cost 15 Bolivianos, or about $2, and took about 3 hours.
On both buses I've taken since arriving in Bolivia, the driver stopped shortly after we began the trip, got off the bus and disappeared for a few minutes. After a bit, people on the bus started yelling "Vamos! Vamos!" After a few restless minutes, the driver reappeared and we left.
Now I'm in La Paz. I'll be leaving tomorrow (Saturday, the 11th of October), boarding my first plane since I flew to Rio de Janeiro in late January, and flying to Rurrenabaque, in northern Bolivia, just a 45-minute flight. On Sunday morning, we head out on a jungle tour. I'll swim with pink dolphins, catch piranhas, and see other jungle wildlife, or so I'm told. The total cost including flight is less than 1,700 Bolivianos, or about $240.
On Wednesday, I'll fly back to La Paz for a few more days before heading to Peru.

Someone please remind me why I decided to hitchhike to Bolivia!

2008-10-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

It was 8:15 A.M. when my friend Florencia flagged down a taxi and headed back into Salta to go to work, leaving me at the edge of town. She had met me at my hostel at 7:15 A.M. and had helped me get to the best spot on the outskirts to hitch a ride north to Bolivia.

I was glad the weather was clear and warm. At least I could suffer rejection in comfort. After more than two hours holding my arm out, I was reminded why I'm not in sales—I don't take rejection well. At this point, I thought that maybe after Florencia got off work, she would swing back to see if I was here. It would be good to see her again. Or maybe I would hail a taxi (at any moment), go to the bus station, and do this the easy way. The way most travelers do it. Buy a bus ticket and get right to where I want to go.

Just when I was about to crack, a small, white, Budget-Rent-A-Car car, pulled over. There was a policeman in the passenger seat. His window was down. I asked if they were going north, if they were going to pass through Güemes, a small town at which I could hitch a ride farther north, or at which one could head south, if so desired. They said yes. I hesitated in disbelief for a moment, but then went around to the back of the car as the driver got out. I threw my pack in the trunk and he closed the hatch.

The policeman was from a little town East of Jujuy and was getting some training in Salta. He was just hitching a ride home after his work week. This had been his routine for a few months now.

Adam was from California and had been traveling the world for some number of years. He was collecting some money from a work accident—he had been a heavy equipment operator—and had some more cash flow from inheritance. He was tired of the people in the United States and was scouring the globe for a new place to live.

"People in the States just think about money. They've lost their values, their sense of right and wrong, and it's just getting worse."

"How did you find Australia?", I asked. "The people there are really nice, aren't they?"

He said, much to my surprise, that it was even worse.

"I really like Argentina. The people here are great," he said.

Visions of the guy that stole my bag and the people who pick-pocketed me in Buenos Aires danced in my head.

"How long have you been here?"

"Two weeks."

Maybe he was just choosing to ignore the bad apples, or possibly just hadn't met any in his brief stay here.

He was driving north from Salta to San Pedro to check out some land. He said you can buy several thousand acres for only a couple hundred grand. He'll spend half the year hear and the other half in Chile if he goes through with it.

He ha mentioned that he liked writing. I asked what he wrote.

"I haven't had anything published, but I'm deep into Buddhism." he said. He then said some deep stuff I didn't understand, a few words about global warming that I ignored, and something about being on the same frequencies as other people, to which I just grunted. Although I'm not sure we were on the same frequency, Adam was a nice guy and gave my spirits a lift. I hoped he would find a peaceful life in this land of really nice people.

When we got to the "Y" in the road where our paths led in different directions, he dropped me off and continued north-east, while I walked a few hundred meters to the highway that led slightly west of north to Jujuy.

I was hoping that my wait would be shorter this time.

The clock ticked. The sun beat down on me. I could feel my neck and my right arm burning. Dozens of cars passed, most of the drivers not even looking in my direction, as though I didn't exist. I stood up as a car approached and stuck out my thumb. I sat back down on the guardrail after he had passed. I repeated this dance numerous times. One car passed with three men in the front seat. The one in the center flipped me off.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I was seriously questioning my sanity. Several tour buses passed me by. "I could be on one of those right now," I thought to myself—more than once.

Mid-afternoon, I heard a horn honk behind me. I was facing the oncoming traffic and after the last car had passed, I sat back down and looked for the next car. I hadn't seen the small, silver Renault pull over a hundred meters down the road. I threw my pack on, picked up my camera bag, and hustled down the shoulder.

"You going to Jujuy?" This was my new plan. Just get to Jujuy, buy a bus ticket, and enjoy the good life.

"Yes."

"Can I come?"

"That's why I pulled over. The trunk is unlocked."

I walked around to the back and pulled on the trunk. It was unlocked, but not unlatched. A big chunk of plastic broke off the hatch lid. "Shit! I guess I need to push the button first."

I got my bag in, closed the hatch, and walked around to the passenger door. The driver looked at me funny and I told him I had just broken his car. He stepped out to take a look, fiddling with the piece of plastic that I had placed in the trunk. I think his idea was to glue it back later. Beautiful. I just broke the car of the guy that's offering me a ride.

He was virtually impossible to understand—I would place him in the top three of my most-impossible-to-understand-Spanish-speakers list.

We took off and quickly got up to speed. We passed other vehicles. He told me hitchhiking was forbidden here. The speedometer read 160 kilometers per hour, or almost 50% over the posted limit (that's almost 100 miles per hour). He had a cigarette in one hand and dialed and spoke on his cell phone with the other. We were going around corners, relatively sharp ones considering our pace. If we had a blowout, I was quite certain we would both die. At least—if the tires held—I would be in Jujuy really quickly.

When we got to the outskirts of Jujuy, his car began to make an awful sound. The two-foot-long piece of pipe that connects the header to the exhaust pipe had broken. He had had it welded back in Salta, but the weld had just given out. He pointed out the new pipe in the back seat.

He told me we were going to his house. He had just given me a ride and he was a big guy—probably over 300 pounds. I wasn't going to argue with him. We would probably just stop by for a minute, then he would drop me at the bus station. After all, he had insisted that it was much safer to take the bus. He pulled up along the curb in front of his house and parked the car. He told me to get my things and come with him. He checked that the trunk was locked and said my backpack would be okay.

He opened the gate and I followed him through, greeted by his two big, friendly dogs. I felt rather like I was intruding, but set my things down on the living room floor. His wife greeted me and told me to come along. I followed her into the dining room. He was already seated and motioned to the chair across from his. His wife proceeded to feed us a large plate of pasta and chicken followed by a bowl of soup. I was extremely thirsty after spending almost five hours in the sun without a drink. He and I gulped down a couple liters of Coke alongside the meal.

According to his wife, Lia, this isn't the first time Rolando had brought home a backpacker. The last time, his visitor stayed for a week.

"I worked in the Jujuy government for 32 years. I enjoyed it," he tells me, "but now I race cars for fun."

He's got a small, tricked out car in the driveway. We continued to chat at the dinner table while he puffed on a few CJs—cigarettes made in Jujuy.

"These are made right here in Jujuy."

"Where is the tobacco grown?" I ask.

"Jujuy. It's all done right here," he explains.

"So you smoke them because they're better?"

"No. They're cheap."

After lunch, his wife offered their sofa to me, as the siesta is the standard afternoon activity in Latin America. I'd had a tiring day, so I took her up on the offer. She had been on her lunch break and was headed back to work, so she took off and I crashed.

Several hours later, I got up and Rolando was no where to be found. I was thirsty and wanted to replenish the Coke that we had finished for lunch, but the gate was locked. Rolando's mother-in-law was home and looked for the key to let me out, but there was no key to be found. Rolando had one and his wife had the other. So, grandma and I chatted for a while. She was 84 and retired at 39 from nursing, but went to work at another hospital. Her husband died in 2002. She got very sick after that but was recently doing better. She seemed to be getting around okay.

Before long, Rolando got home and let me out to go get some Coke. Shortly after I got back with the Coke, things started to hop. A friend of theirs, a mechanic, came over and pulled Rolando's broken Renault into the driveway and began to tear the exhaust system apart while Rolando and his son watched. Then their son's exquisite girlfriend, Mercedes, came over. She and Lia fixed panchos (hot dogs) while the guys all hung out in the driveway. Some other friends stopped by for a while, but didn't stay for dinner.

After the Renault was fixed, the guys began to tinker with the racer. At about 12:45 A.M., they fired it up for a test drive. It was loud. They took it for a spin around the block and woke up anyone who had previously been asleep within a 6-block radius.

At 1:00 A.M., I grabbed my bag, said good buy to the son, his girlfriend, and the mechanic. Rolando, Lia, and I got into the once-again-quiet Renault and headed to the bus station. My plan was to take a 1:30 bus which would arrive in La Quiaca at about 6:15. After arriving at the station, we found that no seats were available on that bus, so I got a ticket for 2:20 with another company.

Rolando began chatting with some other Argentines while we waited for the bus to roll in. He introduced me to them and we ended up traveling on the same bus to La Quiaca. When my bus pulled up, I thanked Rolando and Lia for their hospitality. They had been amazing.

They are the reason I hitchhike, I remembered.

Bolivia, here I come!

2008-10-02T14:51:00.001-07:00

For a bit, US citizens weren't allowed into Bolivia, then no-one was allowed in. That has changed now. For those of us from the States, you need a visa in your passport if you want to visit Bolivia. Take the following items to the Bolivian consulate (double check their Web site):

Photocopy of your passport
Photocopy of your proof of Yellow Fever vaccination
Photocopy of your hotel reservation
Photocopy of your bus or airline ticket into and out of the country
Photocopy of a VISA card
A passport photo
$135

I went to the Bolivian consulate here in Salta, Argentina to get mine. I had to go to a bank here in the city and deposit the $135 in the account of the Bolivian consulate, then take a photocopy of the receipt back to the consulate with me. Then I had to convince them not to make me show them a round trip bus ticket, since I'm planning on hitchhiking into the country from Argentina, then exiting to the northwest into Peru a few weeks later. I have no round trip ticket of any sort. This didn't cause too much flak.

I had my visa one day after taking all the requisite items to the consulate. It's a 5-year visa (like my Brazilian visa had been), but is in a temporary passport that expires in March. The reason my passport is temporary is because it's a replacement for my original (the one that had the 5-year visa for Brazil in it) that got stolen in Buenos Aires back in March. So, the 5-year visa for Bolivia is really good only for a few months. At least that's plenty long for this trip.

Moreover, my proof of vaccinations was in my stuff that was stolen back in March. I had to wait for several weeks here in Salta for a replacement. So, interestingly, 5 months later, I'm still feeling the sting of being robbed in March.

In the morning, I'm planning on sticking my thumb out and catching a ride north to Bolivia. Should be interesting.

Salta, Argentina

2008-10-02T13:48:00.001-07:00

Between fiestas, day trips, and being a nice city in and of itself, Salta is worth a visit. There are any number of places to visit in the surrounding areas—I went to Cachí, farther up into the Andes, and later to Cafayate, Animaná, San Carlos, La Caldera, San Lorenzo, and Quijano—and the city has a few nice old churches.

The dance scene in Salta is interesting. I looked and looked and asked around and had a tough time finding out where to go to dance. The guy at the first hostel I stayed at said there are no Tango classes in Salta. My own conclusion regarding Salsa—after a period of denial—was that there is no place to dance Salsa in Salta. For a city of almost a million, this information was hard to digest. Here is the reality of it.

There is a Tango instructor that comes from Jujuy twice a week to give Tango classes—every Tuesday and Thursday from 8:30 P.M. to 10:30 P.M. The men in Salta are not falling over themselves to learn Tango. The instructor was a man—then there was me and 15 women, with a mean age of 68. And my friend Sandra skewed the age downward! Go figure.

Regarding Salsa, there is no club in Salta where you can go to dance Salsa every weekend. Incredible! There is one joint—Studio 54—which offers many classes in Salsa and has one Salsa dance per month. The first class I went to was a class to learn shines, a solo dance danced in the middle of a Salsa song as a break between partnering. There were about 15 women and me and one other guy. I was baffled. When I went to the regular Salsa class, things seemed more normal to me. There were probably 10 pairs of partners. To me, the highlight was Rueda de Casino, one of the most fun dances in the whole world—I can say this because I am so experienced in so many forms of dance. All of these classes are held three times per week. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, you've got a class for Salsa shines at 3:00 P.M., Salsa classes at 7:00 P.M. and 9:00 P.M., and Rueda de Casino at 10:00 P.M. Rueda de Casino three times per week?!?!? I had hit the jackpot.

A word about the capabilities of the Salsa instructors here in Salta. When I went to the first class—Salsa shines—the instructor (Ceasar) did what you would think all instructors do. He put his left foot down on the first beat of the phrase. I've gotten to the point where this impresses me because so many teachers don't seem to hear the difference between the odd bars and the even bars. My worship session came to an abrupt halt when, upon a new song, he started a bar off. Much to my surprise, my position changed and my worshipping resumed, albeit a notch higher in intensity, when the song dropped a bar. To those of you not musically inclined, what this means is that instructor knew the song had a phrase with an odd number of bars in the intro and he started off by a bar on purpose so that we would fall into sync a little ways into the song. My compliments of the Rueda de Casino instructor (Javier) are similar. We are always on. These are very enjoyable classes. If you're in Salta, go to Studio 54, located at 1055 San Martín, for the Salsa and Rueda de Casino classes.

Within the city, there are several things of interest to visit and do. There is a mountain to the East of the city called Cerro San Bernardo which has a cable car running to the top. You catch the car just across the street from a big park called Parque San Martín, where there is a street market every day. The cable car costs 10 pesos and from the top you can see the whole valley with its almost 1 million residents. This park and cable car are located on the main drag, San Martín, near the bus terminal.

If you head West on San Martín, you'll come to city center. To your right will be two peatonales, or pedestrian streets, common in Latin American cities. The first one is called Alberdi and the second Florida. They both have lots of shops and are busy with people around the lunch and evening hours. Filling the borders between Florida, Ituzaingo (the next street West), and San Martín is a huge market, the Municipal Market—very nice. It's a good place for eating lunch or dinner, buying fruit and vegetables, and browsing or buying lots of locally-made textiles like hats or sweaters made of llama wool. If you eat there, expect myriad vendors to walk up to you and sell you all manner of goods. I got so annoyed, that I made a sign to display to them instead of having to tell them "no" every time they approached. This was both effective and entertaining. It even got a laugh out of a few of them.

Northwest of city center (if you consider the area around the Municipal Market city center) just a few blocks is the main plaza, Plaza 9 de Julio. In the plaza is a beautiful cathedral, but don't expect to be able to get away shooting photos inside it while a mass is in progress. The photo Nazis will bust you with near certainty.

There are other churches and museums to visit, too, but I won't list them here. Your hostel should have a map and will point out these things for you. If you stay at my recommended hostel—Las Rejas Hostel B&B—they have a map with all the points of interest listed. Not infrequently, you will also find various fiestas going on in the city, by both locals, such as gauchos, and folks from surrounding countries, such as Bolivians.

Here are a couple recommendations for places to eat:

Rosemari, for ice cream.
La Cantarella, on the corner of Ibazeta and J.M. Leguizamón, for great empanadas, pizzas, and milanesa.
Roque Garcia, at Entre Rios and Pedernera, great empanadas.
Arroyo, near San Juan around the 2000 block. I don't know exactly. They are supposed to have the best empandas in town. Only on Saturdays and Sundays.
La Casona del Molino, at Luis Bulera 1. This place is called a peña and there are groups of people (just regular customers) in the different rooms of the "pub" who bring their guitars and other instruments and sing traditional Argentine folk songs. It's fantastic and this one is one that tourists don't visit—it's an amazing experience.

Blind Dog

2008-10-02T13:15:00.001-07:00

I was reading in the park one day, as I got in the habit of doing here in Salta, when I noticed a fairly good sized sound reinforcement setup effort under way at the outdoor venue nearby. Long story short, a local group, Perro Ciego, or "Blind Dog," was to perform that evening. Their vocals aren't exactly my cup o' tea, but they're all good musicians. The kids up front were going nuts, jumping around like loonies. It bordered on dangerous. It was pretty fun to watch, and a little hairy to photograph. I thought it was humorous to see dogs walking around (or lying down) on the stage. Another funny thing—for power, they ran a wire up to the nearby phone pole and tapped right in to the power along the street. That's Latin America for you—the dogs and the power. I enjoyed the concert.

Downloads:

Both of these songs were recorded by me at the concert on an M-Audio Microtrack II digital audio recorder.

The Search for Serenity

2008-09-24T13:23:00.001-07:00

Having recently had my heart thrown to the ground and stomped on by a local girl, sitting in my room moping was about the worst thing I could do. I had slept in, I had finished reading The Rivers Ran East, I had read whatever e-mails were waiting for me in my inbox, responding if necessary, and I had done all the Web surfing I could stand—which wasn't much. Having run out of ways to distract myself, rather than suffering more boredom in the hostel, I decided to head to the park and begin my last book—The Old Patagonia Express, by Paul Theroux. Some fresh air and sunshine would do me good.

After tossing the one-inch-thick paperback into my camera bag and my camera bag onto my back, I headed out. The plan was to go to Parque San Martín, where I could get some peace and quiet. I went in my usual direction—head left out the front door, then take an immediate left on Mitre which turns into Alberdi at Belgrano, where all the cross streets change names. Then I would hang a left on San Martín, the main drag in Salta, walking until I got to the foot of Cerro San Bernardo, a landmark mountain, always looking over the city, always acting as a compass, in case one loses one's bearings. The park stretches for several blocks like a welcome mat in front of the mountain.

I hadn't gone south for one block to Avenida Belgrano before seeing that the road was mostly blocked with people. Cops were standing guard, holding ropes, some people were holding Roman Catholic paraphernalia, while others were squeezing through the corners of the crowd to make their way parallel to Ave. Belgrano.

Not wishing to fight my way past the crowd—and not believing I would be allowed to cross Ave. Belgrano here—I backtracked and went one block farther east before trying to head south. Meeting the same roadblock, I hung out for a few minutes and snapped some photos. After weighing my options, I decided to follow the trickle of people filing through the edge of the tightly packed parade-waiters, thinking I might find a chink in the law enforcement's armor mid-block, as the intersection seemed to be quite heavily fortified. I ended up traveling more than one block along the sidewalk, and, taking advantage of the conspicuously absent parade, followed some stragglers across the wide avenue.

Glad to be done with the crowds, I briskly made my way to the park, dodging more-casual pedestrians, and skillfully picking my way across traffic at busy intersections. Upon arriving, I was surprised—and disappointed—to find the park not peaceful at all, but bustling with the typical locals plus a sliver of the 300,000+ visitors who had come to this northern Argentine city for this weekend's well-known and very popular fiesta.

In 1592, two statues—one of Christ and the other of the Virgin Mary (later to be called the Virgin of Milagro)—were sent to Salta from Spain, a gift from Bishop of Tucumán Fray Francisco de Victoria. In 1692, severe earthquakes destroyed the city of Esteco, Argentina. While the earthquakes were shaking the foundations of Salta, its inhabitants prayed to the statues and the earthquakes stopped, sparing Salta Esteco's fate. The cessation of the tremors was attributed to the Virgin of Milagro. Ever since, pilgrims from all over Argentina have trekked to Salta every September to honor the statues. It's the largest celebration in the country.

Able to find neither a quiet nor comfortable spot to read in the park—and not being able to concentrate, anyway, my mind being distracted with bittersweet memories of love—I decided to head back to the hostel. Being clever, I headed north immediately, believing for some reason that the crowds must be centered around city center, but not in the eastern part of the city, north of the park. Unfortunately, the throngs lined both sides of Ave. Belgrano for almost its entire length, all the way to this, its eastern end.

As I hiked northward, I slipped in behind a gal who seemed to be on a mission similar to mine—get to the other side of the avenue. She was plowing her way through the crowd, and it's always easier to let someone else break fresh snow and just follow in their tracks. When we got to the police cordon, she convinced the cop to let her cross, but his generosity ended at one body, despite the fact that there was still no sign of a parade.

If I were bolder, or more accustomed to lying, I could've pulled out my massive camera and told him I was a photographer from the United States writing a story for a paper, as my friend Bruno had done on multiple occasions, winning us free entrance into several tourist attractions in Cordoba and Mendoza. However, as my ex-wife will attest, I'm not a very good liar. Or maybe I could begin smoking marijuana. Perhaps that was Bruno's trick.

The cop told me there was no cordon one block farther downstream—farther away from my hostel—and so I headed in that direction, fighting my way out of the packed crowd at that intersection and into another one at the next. I think the cop had been smoking something, as the situation was no different a block away. Backtracking yet again, I figured I'd try the mid-stream crossing technique again. Falling in line behind some other people who were also trying to get closer to el centro, we shuffled our way along the sidewalk, inching ever closer to my home, my respite from the madness—interesting how my perspective of the hostel had changed from prison to respite.

When crossing one intersection, I did a double-take when I saw someone who looked familiar. It was the cute girl from Salsa class who always has trouble looking into my eyes for more than one second when we dance. I give her a hard time about it and bob my head around trying to intercept her line of sight while we dance. We both laugh about it and occasionally she even makes eye contact.

I caught her attention and mussed the hair on her forehead. She looked at me, smiled, and mouthed the solitary word hola to me. I returned the greeting and pressed on. [She's the one on the left in the photo.]

I fell back in line behind a couple people who were parting the waters for me, making my journey just a bit less painful. Within less than a block, we came to some kind of construction of corrugated metal—one of the most common building materials in Latin America, right alongside concrete and bricks. There appeared to be a way through, but the contrary was confirmed by someone standing nearby. While the others turned around and headed back, I decided to stay put. I'd had enough fighting for the day. At least I was stuck next to a tall, attractive woman, with impossibly pouty lips smothered in lip gloss. Between watching the parade and staring at those lips, I figured the time would pass quickly.

I would just wait for the procession to pass, which was now in full swing. I wouldn't exactly call it a high-energy parade. Priests in robes and others dressed in everyday clothes walked, some carrying, well, Roman Catholic stuff, mostly statues of varying sizes of Christ nailed to the cross, painted blood dripping from his hands and feet, and, of course, a red daub of Parker's best representing the wound in his side.

There were loudspeakers installed in strategic locations throughout the city with announcements made over them, and songs played through them. The crowds joined in, singing praises to Jesus, or Mary, or the saints, or whomever the Catholics worship. I even recognized one of the tunes. That's at least one thing the Catholics and Protestants have in common—the melody of a song.

At one point, the police lowered the rope they had been holding taut in front of the worshippers. A few folks filtered into the road occasionally, joining those already parading down the avenue toward the monument of General Güemes. I thought about trying to pass for a Catholic worshipper, but just stayed put. Damn you, woman with voluptuous, pouty, glossy lips!

Within a few minutes, the ropes came down for good, the main procession having passed us by. Already, thousands and thousands of Argentine pilgrims filled the wide avenue to capacity. I cautiously—and as quickly as possible—threaded my way across the street, trying not to be swept too far downstream before reaching the other side. At the far side, I began paddling upstream furiously, toward the next tributary, which would lead me safely away from the overpowering current of pedestrians.

Having milked my analogy of the street with a river for probably far more than it's worth, upon reaching the next cross street, I met a very solidly packed wall of onlookers, blocking my way out. I said permiso (the Spanish version of "excuse me"). Nothing happened. Again, permiso. Nada. How about get the hell out of my way because here I come? That, along with not-insignificant exertion from my short yet strong legs, got me started. With continued permisos, and my newly acquired forward momentum, the crowd began to part for me. They could see, beneath my Oakleys, I meant business. One older man actually made a concerted effort to help me on my way, stepping aside with a kind look on his face, possibly seeing the out-of-place foreigner was having a tough go of it, and wanting to offer some encouragement. I threw him a gracias.

Within fifty meters of the main drag, I was free and clear.

Back near Las Rejas Hostel, I went into the corner restaurant, still thinking about the scrumptious looking steak I had seen someone else order the night before. I ordered one for myself along with a salad and a Coke. I asked for the salad to be brought out before the steak, as the Latinos are in the habit of eating the salad and the main course all at once, and, rather than watching my steak get cold while I ate my salad, I figured I'd take advantage of good timing. The steak was, in fact, quite good, and I thoroughly enjoyed a break from the pile of people, to use a Spanish expression. I took pride in seeing—on the television!—the mayhem I had just escaped, while I sat in peace, savoring some good—albeit normally over-hyped—Argentine cow meat. The cameramen for the news had gotten some nice aerial shots and angles from tall buildings that I had missed from ground level.

After dinner and a short rest back in the hostel, I decided to try my luck in the jungle again. I was told there would be a show at the monument of General Güemes, which is located at the end of the very street Las Rejas is on—Avenida General Güemes. Besides, I had never visited the large statue.

At about the half way point, I ran into a crowd thick enough to make any attempt at additional forward progress a waste of my time. I just decided to hang out, take some photos of the crowd, and see what happened. Music came over the loud speakers and thousands of people around me began to sing. It must have been the Argentine national anthem. It didn't sound like a church song. Being buried in this crowd of thousands lifting their voices was a beautiful experience. At this point, a helicopter flew over the crowds and its crew threw thousands of rose petals out the door. The people smiled with glee as they reached toward the sky to try to catch the red petals as they rained down.

After the singing ended, attention turned toward the monument. Shortly, I could see that what people were looking at was another procession. A large statue was being brought back down the parade route, possibly to be returned to the main cathedral in Plaza 9 de Julio. I aimed my Nikon D3 in the same direction as the thousands of point-and-shoots and cell phones snapping photos of the spectacle. As the image passed, the crowd began to flow back towards city center, following the object of worship back in the direction from whence it had come. I just stepped aside and watched the crowds pass, snapping the occasional photo of an interesting passerby or of yet another statue being carried in the arms or on the backs of the more dedicated of the Roman Catholics.

After the bulk of the crowds were gone, I moseyed on down to the monument of General Güemes, looking for any sign of a show or concert. It didn't look like there would be any. Still, the statue was located in a nice park with a view of the city, up a slight hill from the average elevation of the flat city, so I decided to stay a while.

Now, it was peaceful. I snapped a few photos of the towering reminder of the famous Argentine general who defended Argentina against the Spanish during the Argentine War of Independence, then just hung out and looked over the city as the evening sky faded from light blue to gray to black, as lights flickered on across the city and began to stand out more starkly against the increasingly contrasting background. This was a vantage point from which I had not previously seen the city and I enjoyed the view and the peace. It was quiet. The air was still, the temperature comfortable. Kids climbed up the base of the statue and on large surrounding rocks. Mothers walked with and watched over their children. Schoolgirls walked through the park, arm in arm. Boyfriends and girlfriends kissed and held hands. Families sat, snacking and chatting. I had finally found what I had been longing for the entire hectic, stressful day. I was near humanity, yet there was a modicum of solitude. Life was good.

Driving Drunk in Salta

2008-09-24T13:03:00.001-07:00

Some Video Clips

2008-09-14T15:48:00.001-07:00

These are some video clips shot with my Panasonic TZ-3—don't go on a trip without a point-and-shoot camera that can shoot video (most can). I had never planned to use my P&S in this way, but it really captures another dimension than stills.

Travel Tips

2008-09-13T08:15:00.000-07:00

I will be updating this post as I travel and learn more, so whenever you see it at the top of the page, please check it for new info.

Bring US Dollars, anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand
- They're used every day in Ecuador.
- If the ATM isn't working, some places will exchange them for local currency. This can be a lifesaver—it was for me yesterday.
- Some other places (hostels in Chile, I've heard) will give a significant discount for payment in USD—this may depend on exchange rates and economic predictions.
Photography-related tips
- Keep your camera put away until you're ready to take a picture.
- The crappier your camera bag looks, the better.
- The easier your camera is to access, the better.
- Don't leave your SLR at home—once you're at your destination, you'll wish you had it.
Buses are ubiquitous down here. If you travel much in Latin America, you'll end up on a bus. At the bus terminal, the ticket agent will tell you that your bus will pull into a specific bay—and they will commonly give you a range of possible bays. Make sure to check with the bus driver of any bus that pulls in near your departure time, even if it's not one of your "possible" bays. Not infrequently, the bus will pull into a different bay, and you don't want that bus pulling away without you in it.
Regarding theft and hanging on to your possessions
- If green goo from air conditioning units drips onto you and some friendly people show up immediately to help you clean it off, here's what you do.
  - IGNORE THE GREEN GOO!!!!!
  - Make sure you are aware of and in control of your bags.
  - If you have a wallet, cash, or valuables in your pocket, you might want to put your hand in your pocket to make sure those things stay there.
  - Last, but not least, I would recommend punching, head butting, eye gouging, or slitting the throats of the criminals who want to steal your stuff.
  - Later, you can dab your finger in the green goo and taste it—it's really just mustard.
- If someone gets your attention and points to money or a wallet lying on the floor, here's what you do.
  - IGNORE THE MONEY OR THE WALLET!!!!!
  - Make sure you are aware of and in control of your bags.
  - If you have a wallet, cash, or valuables in your pocket, you might want to put your hand in your pocket to make sure those things stay there.
  - The criminal put the money or wallet there to distract you while they steal potentially massive quantities of your extremely valuable possessions. I'm using big words here with good reason. You need to trust me on this.
  - They want you to bend down to pick up the money or wallet, even if just to help return it to its owner. While you're doing that, they will steal your stuff!!!!!
- If someone gets your attention and acts like they need help or directions with something and want you to look at a map or step away to help them, here's what you do.
  - TELL THEM YOU DON'T SPEAK SPANISH OR JUST IGNORE THEM!!!!!
  - Make sure you are aware of and in control of your bags.
  - If you have a wallet, cash, or valuables in your pocket, you might want to put your hand in your pocket to make sure those things stay there.
  - If you step away from your things or look away for even just a few seconds, they will steal your stuff.
- Just heard another technique. If you have a pile of bags on the floor that you are watching, someone might trip over one of the bags. At this instant, when you turn your attention to them, someone on your other side will grab a bag and book. In my opinion, this is a tough situation to deal with. Ideally, you have three people in your group. Two can watch the bags while one-at-a-time goes to the bathroom or goes to buy a ticket or whatever. Or, just situate the bags in a corner, where access is limited. No one can trip, and there aren't multiple directions your attention could be focused.
- Don't leave your things lying around loosely at hostels. Hide them away or put them in a small bag. Best of all, lock them up or get a private room. I had a ninety-dollar pocket knife stolen from the shelf next to my bed in Rio.
- There are many travelers you'll meet who are wonderful. They are trustworthy and will lend you money or help you in other ways if you need it. A highlight of your trip will be meeting people like this and becoming friends with them. On the other hand, there are travelers who are idiots: loud, obnoxious, and thieves. Those are the ones to be wary of. The challenge can be telling the difference. I hope you're a better judge of character than I am.
- Just because your point-and-shoot camera is in a little pouch hanging around your neck, don't assume it's safe. Your camera could get "pick pocketed" right out of the pouch! You'll still have the strap around your neck and the little camera bag will be on the end of it—just minus the camera! NEW
- If you bring a watch, make sure it's one you don't mind parting with. You can get that watch ripped right off your wrist. This is obviously not a sly or tricky theft technique. Someone I met back in El Chalten had a very expensive watch ripped right off her wrist. If your watch is a piece of crap, it probably won't get stolen. If it's nice, you're just asking for it. Remember—your camera has a clock in it. You can use that to tell time. I didn't bring a watch and haven't missed it too much. NEW
- When traveling by bus, keep your really valuable things in your day pack—photo backups, camera, VISA card, passport, money, etc.—and don't store your day pack in the overhead bin. Keep it at your feet and keep it situated so that it would be difficult for someone to unzip a pocket while you sleep. Better yet, just pretend it's your girlfriend and hug it while you sleep. People will steal things out of your day pack and even your pockets while you're sleeping on a bus, so be careful! NEW

Corrientes—People, not Places

2008-09-11T15:05:00.001-07:00

I wanted to see something new in between Posadas and Salta, so I stopped off in Corrientes, about 4 hours and 33 pesos ($12) West of Posadas. When I arrived, at about 8:15 P.M., a lady at the bus station saw me staring at the map on the window of the abandoned tourist information booth and asked what I was looking for. She ended up telling me that there are some Jesuit ruins nearby that I could go see. The next morning, I asked 3 or 4 other people about them (so I could figure out how to get there) and no one had a clue, nor any recommendations about what was worth seeing here in Corrientes. Way to get rid of the influx of money from the tourists!

Instead of staying another night, I bought a ticket for Salta on a bus leaving that night at 8:45, then decided I'd just bum around town for the day before continuing West. I hopped on a city bus, got off downtown, and spent the afternoon walking around and enjoying the nice weather and the Río Paraná which separates the Chaco and Corrientes provinces and on which the city of Corrientes is perched. I ended up talking to some folks who were passing the day fishing and another guy training on his bicycle.

The Corrientes waterfront is pretty nice and quite active, with many burger trailers and parks. There were no roller-bladers—the surface is a bit rough for that—but there were lots of joggers and walkers. At some spots, there are beaches or areas where one can descend down near the water's edge. One in particular seemed popular with some folks doing a bit of fishing. I never did see anyone pull in a fish, but had a nice chat with a few of them. One fellow comes here when he's between work, and apparently things are slow right now. There were a couple families sort of making a picnic out of it—a nice way to pass the time.

Another fellow, a bit older, Ricardo, comes here regularly and proved you don't need the latest high-speed gear—carbon fiber pole and uber-expensive reel—to go fishing. His fishing equipment consisted of a bamboo stick wedged between some rocks and two or three pieces of rebar stuck into the sand. You'd be surprised how far out you can throw a line with your hand. Swinging about a 4-foot length of line with lead on the end gives you a fair amount of inertia. He got a good 50-foot "cast" out of it. Ricardo speaks Portuguese and knew a few words of English, too. Something he was a bit less educated on was American politics. Many Latinos want to know what I think of George Bush, for some reason—I think I'll start asking them what they think of their president. That's some fodder for good conversation!!! Ricardo didn't ask me that, but did ask about our political parties. Which party is Bush from? How many parties are there? Just two? Political conversations don't thrill me like they used to, and I'm glad this one was uneventful. After Ricardo gave me an orange, he mentioned that there was a zoo just a short walk from here and that admission was free. A few minutes later I headed out.

When I was within striking distance of the zoo, some girls who had been fishing with bamboo poles earlier—mainly for kicks, while mom did the serious fishing, with no pole of any kind, just the line—came along in the opposite direction. Apparently reading my mind, they told me the zoo was closed. With that, I headed back in the direction of city center to catch a bus back to my hotel, pack up, and get across the street to the bus terminal.

On the way, I ran across a plaza—not hard to do in Latin America, as there are normally several in every city. In this one, there was a guy doing some tricks on his BMX bike. He was amazing! Daniel actually competed in the Latin X-Games in 2002 and was invited by ESPN to compete in the full-blown X-Games in Brazil in 2003. After that, between marriage, having a son, and the pressure of practicing 7 hours every day, he gave it up for a bit. After giving his heart and life to God, he is living a more balanced life and is happy. He's practicing a couple hours every day and wants to get back into competition. He's thinking about moving to the States or Europe some day where there are more opportunities to compete. He has also started is own bicycle frame-manufacturing company, and I saw him testing his own product. I was really impressed!

Although I didn't see any great tourist attractions in Corrientes, I met some great people—even better!

Subscribe to my Photos

2008-09-11T07:58:00.001-07:00

Zenfolio has recently added an RSS feed to their site. So, you can subscribe to my Featured Galleries & Collections or to my Recently Added photos. Just go to my photo site, then click on the little icon next to the minus sign on the right-hand side of my Featured Galleries & Collections, then choose your preferred feed and add it to your favorite news reader.

You can also go into my Latin America Favorites gallery and subscribe to just that individual gallery so that whenever I add new favorites, you'll be notified. It's much easier than checking back regularly!

Trinidad, Oberá, and Seeing Red

2008-09-11T06:44:00.000-07:00

I think the main reason tourists come to Posadas, Argentina, is as a launching point to visit the Jesuit Mission ruins in Trinidad, Paraguay. A two-night stay is enough for the visit, as a day is all you need to get to the ruins and visit them.

You take a bus from within Posadas to Encarnación, Paraguay, for 3 pesos. You can catch it at the terminal or anywhere along its route through the city. To get to Paraguay, you have to cross the Río Paraná (Paraná River) and pass through customs—the river forms the border between the two countries and is the second longest in South America. There doesn't seem to be any problem getting through customs if you just want to visit the ruins. Get off at the bus terminal in Encarnación—just ask someone on the bus to let you know when you've arrived at the terminal, as it's not obvious.

From the terminal in Encarnación, catch the bus to Trinidad. It costs about $1.50, which is 6,000 Paraguayan Guarani—you can change your Argentine Pesos for Paraguayan Guarani at the terminal in Encarnación, if you need to. Good grief, people! Print some new money with smaller numbers on it (one-thousand Guarani amounts to about 25¢)! Make sure to tell the driver you want to visit "las ruinas" and ask him to tell you when to get off. The ruins are not at any terminal, so you'll just zip on by unless you know when to get off.

The day that I visited the ruins, the weather was miserable—think winter in Washington. It was rainy, windy, and cold. You have to walk about a half mile along a rock road to get to the ruins. By the time I got there, my feet were soaked and I was generally pretty unhappy. There's a restaurant just a stone's throw from the ruins and I hoped they were open. I was very pleased when the door swung open with a gentle push. I entered, used the bathroom, ordered a hot chocolate, and spent about 30 minutes sitting next to the fire drinking my pitcher of super-heated liquid (10,000 Guarani). This was so nice and just what I needed to prepare me to wander around the ruins.

To get into the Jesuit Mission grounds will set you back 5,000 Guarani, or about a buck-and-a-quarter. These ruins are a World Heritage Site, by the way. You'll want at least a couple hours to thoroughly investigate the area. It was fun to let my imagination run wild picturing these men in the wild frontier piling these rocks one on top of the other and creating these beautiful structures—much more fun for me than for them, I'm sure. Now, much of the material is missing, and the rest is falling apart and defaced by visitors with little respect for the past. Nevertheless, if you're in the area, this is a must see.

There are more ruins in Jesús, about 20 or 30 kilometers farther on, but apparently you'll need to take a taxi, at least part way. The lady in the restaurant told me that no buses run to them. They are much smaller, I was told. If you've got time and feel like being thorough, go for it.

If you're an observant reader, you will have noticed that I implied you might have problems getting through customs if you want to do more than just visit the ruins. I discovered this today after packing my bag, checking out of the hotel, traveling on the bus through Posadas to the river, going through Argentine customs, crossing the river, and talking to customs in Paraguay. By this time, my left arm was numb from the 50 pounds on my back. Apparently, Americans need a VISA to get into Paraguay. I don't have one. The consulate doesn't open until Monday and I don't want to stay in Posadas any longer. So I burned a couple hours and a couple spaces for stamps in my already-crowded temporary passport for no reason.

The guy at Paraguayan customs did tell me about something I could do in the meantime, assuming I wanted to pick up a VISA in Posadas in a couple days. There is a fiesta in Oberá. The official name is "XXIX Fiesta Nacional del Inmigrante," or The 29th National Party of the Immigrant. So, I went back across the river to the terminal in Posadas and caught the next bus out to Oberá. I didn't even know where Oberá was—I'd never heard of it, in fact—and was hoping this guy knew what he was talking about.

Well, 10 pesos, 110 kilometers, and 2 hours later I showed up in Oberá. It's an interesting city. It's got the usual run-down buildings and junk lying around that you find all over Latin America, but it's also got some surprisingly nice houses, sidewalks, and streets. It had a different look and feel to it than what I had yet seen.

Another interesting observation applies to this whole region of northern Argentina, and probably at least to southern Paraguay. You see red dirt everywhere! The bottom half of many of the cars is solid red, and the clay gets caked onto the tires of bicycles, and, especially with the rain, your shoes become a mess and you can't help but track the red goo inside with you.

Thankfully, Oberá also has a nice little tourist information center not far from the bus terminal. I made a visit to it after swinging by a hotel across the street from the bus terminal and being told there weren't any rooms in town. The lady in the tourist information center called around and found a hotel with a vacancy for me. I also grabbed a map and a pamphlet describing the fiesta. After walking the few blocks to the hotel and checking in, I set out for the festival. NOTE: The tourist information center at the bus terminal in Corrientes appears to be abandoned.

The festival reminded me of the Puyallup Fair which is also going on right now. I don't feel like there's a whole lot I miss about "home" but the Puyallup Fair is one of them! Although I never used to be able to imagine living anywhere but the beautiful Pacific Northwest, the longer I'm on this trip, the more I'm convinced that anyone can grow to view any place as home.

Anyhoo, the fiesta certainly wasn't up to Puyallup Fair standards, but I enjoyed my brief time there. There was one main stage, an area with various international foods, and...well, that's about it. There weren't a lot of people, the schedule of performances on the stage was pretty slow, and it was cold. I caught a taxi back to the hotel for fear of rain. What a change from 2 weeks of 70-degree weather in Salta!

At this point, I'm not terribly motivated to jump through the hoops to get into Paraguay. I'm having my vaccination sheet mailed to a friend's house in Salta, then I'm going to head to Bolivia. At least I can tick Paraguay off my list, since I did visit the ruins.

New Photos

2008-09-10T13:54:00.001-07:00

Overloaded

2008-09-03T06:33:00.000-07:00

I left Iguazu Falls this morning and took a bus to Posadas, just south of the southern tip of Paraguay. It cost 37 pesos (about $12) and took 6 hours. They leave every half hour. It stopped frequently and passed through all kinds of poor and interesting areas—probably towns that are on few (if any) maps.

After arriving, I had a taxi take me to Vuela el Pez hostel. In reality, it was more complicated than that. There is some problem with their address as listed on the Internet. Apparently, it's the only hostel in Posadas, and I figured I'd go cheap—i.e., the hostel. As one of the reviews online said, you really need to get directions to the place, or you probably won't find it. My recommendation? Instead of spending your money on a taxi (I got overcharged by my taxista according to the hotel manager—make sure to look at the meter before paying), just walk two blocks from the bus station to SC Hotel—unless you're planning on staying here a while and need to pinch pennies. It's 60 pesos a head and the rooms are sweet. There isn't Internet, so just walk to the YPF gas station a couple blocks away to use a computer.

There's a monster supermarket just 3 blocks away—one of the biggest ones I've seen on my trip (think Fred Meyer Superstore). I walked there to buy some grub for dinner. I felt like Mr. Burns after he had fired Smithers and had to go shopping for himself for the first time in his life. "Ketchup? Catsup? Ketchup? Catsup? Ketchup? Catsup?" I walked around for a couple minutes, got brain overload, then decided to just find a restaurant. The bus station and supermarket are right next to each other. As you exit the supermarket, turn to your left, walk one block, then cross the street. There's a parrilla there—that's a meat restaurant. I got the fixed size meat platter—4 kinds of meat—for 12 pesos ($4—all you can eat meat platter is 20 pesos, or just under $7), mixed salad ($1), and a Coke ($1). A perfect dinner for a great price. If you're in town, go there! I ended up eating there a few more times while in Posadas.

Onward and upward.

Onward, Downward, Then Upward, Then Downward, Then Upward

2008-09-02T12:41:00.001-07:00

I left Salta yesterday at 3:00 P.M. I took a bus straight to Foz de Iguazú, the place I went at about week four of my trip, more than 6 months ago. When I left here the first time, I left some things behind, things I didn't need and figured I wouldn't bother carrying down to Patagonia. They were: my dry bag, maps, books, insect treatment for my clothing, and my "business" cards (cards I had made up with my name, e-mail address, blog address, and photo site address—they worked great for handing out to people I met along the way). I told the kind folks here at Hostel Inn Iguazú that I would be back in about 6 weeks to collect my things. Well, more than 6 months have passed and they have no idea where my stuff is. If my things haven't turned up by morning, I'll head out on a bus for Posadas, back south, the way I came. It's located just south of the Paraguayan border. I'll probably spend a night or two there, then I'll enter a country I have, as of yet, never visited. I've been bopping around the same two countries for the past 6 months, so I guess it's time to move on—and without the added weight of books, maps, insect treatment, my cards, and my dry bag.

As an aside, when I arrived here in Iguazu Falls today and got my bag off the bus (Flecha Bus), it was clear my backpack had been tampered with. I don't think anything was gone. For the first time on my entire trip, I think, the bag handler didn't check my tag when I retrieved my bag. Normally, when you put your bag on the bus, they put a tag on it and give you a matching number. Then, they require you to give them the stub before they will give you your bag back, after verifying that the stub you have matches a bag under the bus. Not today. On the same bus, another guy had his iPod stolen from his bag from under the bus during the trip. I've had good experiences with Plusmar, Andes Mar, Via Bariloche, and Crucero del Norte, but I think any of them is really a crap shoot. You may have problems, you may not. Just don't leave anything valuable in easily-accessible outside pockets of your pack. You're best off keeping critical items in your day pack with you in your seat.

Hostels in Salta, Argentina

2008-09-02T12:01:00.001-07:00

I won't elaborate on all the details regarding my hostel hopping while in Salta. Just be glad I did, so I could accumulate the experience and knowledge to share with the rest of you. Keep in mind, people's criteria for places to stay are different. What I like, you may not. I will not be held responsible if you are unhappy with your hostel! :)

Hostel Kaskai—Nice staff, nice area to hang out in with grass, tables, and chairs, but noisy—hint: I heard a lot of Hebrew. I hate noisy hostels. I don't know if this is the norm here. My guess is that it is. Not a great location. Quite out of the way. I bought a Coke here. It wasn't refrigerated and was a complete ripoff—8 pesos vs. 2-3 at other locations.
La Salamanca—Very close to the bus terminal and the cable car. There is also a big park right across the street which has street vendors every day. Not even a 10-minute walk to the heart of the city. Quiet, "breakfast" included (a pretty typical breakfast, which is to say not fancy), and a fridge full of reasonably-priced drinks. Reasonably priced rooms. A good place to stay.
Las Rejas Hostel B&B—Da Bomb! Nice location, quiet, a decent breakfast, family owned and operated, professionally run, maid service (i.e., fresh towels, a new bar of soap, and a clean bathroom every day), and WiFi. I had a private room, so I can't comment on the price of a dorm, for those pinching pennies. I thought the private room was reasonable, so I'll bet the dorm would be, too. Highly recommended!
Backpackers Hostel Salta—There are several hostels that fall under this umbrella. The one I stayed in was Backpackers Hostel Salta "Home" located at Buenos Aires 930. It was okay, but not the cat's meow. Most hostels I have encountered have the beds made for you. Here, they just hand you sheets. I have encountered only one other hostel in my travels thus far that have you make your own bed, and that was Hostel Inn Iguazú (pretty nice place with a sweet pool, by the way). Not a big deal, but another factor. A bigger factor for me was that they didn't have towels for you. A minus, for sure. Also, a big minus for me, no WiFi. The big plus was the BBQ they have here where there was a great authentic performance by a small musical group while a man and woman danced in the Argentine Folkloric style. It was very nice. Not a great location—a bit of a walk to anything good.

Argentina Desperately Needs Change!

2008-08-27T06:54:00.001-07:00

The first day I arrived in Salta, Argentina, I caught a taxi to the hostel. When we arrived, I gave the driver a 10-peso bill to cover the 6-peso charge. That's about three bucks to cover a two-dollar ride. The driver couldn't make change. He ended up taking about 5 minutes to run around the block asking other people for change.
Just a couple days ago, I took another taxi. The fare was 3 pesos and I gave the driver two 2-peso bills. He had no coins. Specifically, lack of coins is the biggest issue, not so much lack of bills—although lack of the right bills isn't uncommon. I ended up just saying to hell with it and letting him keep the extra money. I wasn't bothered because I gave up 33¢. It's the principal of the matter that really bugs me. [In reality the fare was about 2.60 and I was going to give him 3, to include a tip. I ended up giving him 4.]
I am embarrassed to tell this story, but I will, for posterity. The first time I was in Buenos Aires, I stopped at a street vendor who was preparing and selling sandwiches made from barbequed meats. I ordered a couple and he sliced up some beef and some sausage and threw it onto the grill. I pulled out a 100-peso bill—or about $33. He said he didn't have change. He took out his wallet and showed me that it was empty. At this point, I felt bad for the kid—he was probably 16 years old—and so I gave him the 100-peso bill, had him write me up a receipt, and told him I'd come back another day for change. I didn't have the heart to walk away and leave him with wasted meat on the BBQ. Unfortunately, his stand wasn't close to where I was staying. I made it back another day, but a different cook was there. Apparently, several cooks share the stand. I never did make it back when the kid was there, and so I lost about $25.
A few days ago, at a kiosk, I wanted to buy a bottle of Coke. It cost something like $1.75 (pesos) and so I stuck my hand out with a 2-peso bill. He didn't have change, so I walked away, despite the fact that I could've just given him the extra 8¢ (U.S.).
Conclusion: People who run a tight ship have change. If they really try, they can have change on hand, although it takes a concerted effort. People who don't have change may just be trying to rip you off, or they may just be bad at business. From here on out, if someone doesn't have change, I will just stand there and wait for them to run themselves ragged getting proper change for me. If someone doesn't have change, I will not buy something from them. If they want extra money from a tourist, they can get it from someone else—and they will.

Blinder Than a Bat

2008-08-27T06:32:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I was walking down the street here in Salta, Argentina, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man hustling along the sidewalk next to me. He had a long walking stick. It took only a moment for me to ascertain that he was blind. He seemed in an awfully big hurry for a blind guy—it had never occurred to me until that moment that blind people can't usually be in a hurry. This fellow demonstrated why.

As he hurried, almost frantically, down the sidewalk, he was thrusting his walking stick out in front of him and off to the side, at times over the edge of the tall curb—probably a foot-and-a-half down to the street. He was yelling something about "la puerta" or, the door. He was scurrying along to try and catch the bus and was asking where the door was, or that the driver keep the door open—I'm not sure exactly.

The climax of the show came next. On the sidewalk in front of him was a concrete light post. Lucky for the blind dude, there was a large metal sign—probably 3 feet wide by 4 feet tall—resting on its feet in front of the light post. He ran into the sign at a pretty good clip, but managed to stay on his feet and to continue on toward his goal.

By this point, he was next to the bus and people all around were looking uncomfortably in his direction. I saw that there was a line of people shuffling onto the bus and it was clear he would have no trouble catching his ride. I think some of the observers helped this poor fellow find the door at this stage in his race, but I can't be sure, as I never skipped a beat in my normal brisk pace.

Cachí, Argentina

2008-08-26T06:38:00.000-07:00

Salta, Argentina is the base camp for many tours. It lies near the foothills of the Andes mountains, and you can choose from any number of day trips that lead to outlying towns. One that I chose was to Cachí (1673), a small town a few hours away, up in the mountains (just under 2,300 meters).

I was the first one picked up in the large van at about 7:15 A.M. We made only one other stop and that was to a large hotel in the town center. The guide told me we would be picking up a bunch of old ladies. We had to wait about 10 minutes for them. As they began strolling out, I just knew I was in for a really boring day.

It took a few hours to arrive at Cachí and we stopped at a few key spots along the way, including a place where a local lady had a baby goat for the tourists to hold and be photographed with, and another where there were thousands of cacti stretching out across the desert.

We stopped for a couple nature breaks on the way up, including a nice lunch, where I ate goat meat—a first for me. Rafael, our tour guide (This was the first tour where he did all the talking. His mentor, however, came along for the ride, just in case of emergency, before setting Rafael loose on his own.), sat at the table with me and we had a very nice chat. He previously taught phonetics so we had a very interesting conversation about language.

We stayed in Cachí for a couple hours, free to wander around. There's the typical plaza, a nice museum with many artifacts gathered from the local area (Museo Arqueológico "Pío Pablo Díaz" Archaeological Museum), and a church. Rafael and I continued our time together while in Cachí. During lunch, he had told me how he calls his buddies "negro" (just a bit of local slang, I guess). When he talks to his American friends, he calls them "nigger," his English equivalent of negro. He had been to this town a few times before on previous tours. As we headed in the direction of the church, I asked him if he'd gone into it before. His reply was, "I'm not a Catholic, nigger. I'm a Mormon!" That totally cracked me up.

On the way back down, the mentor guide began to sing. It must have been a song by some Latin heartthrob (Luis Miguel?), because the ladies began to howl. Before long, they were all singing. This continued for the next hour. Dirty jokes were interspersed between the songs. Pretty fun group for a bunch of old fuddy-duddies. Still working on not making assumptions about people.

New Photos

2008-08-18T16:42:00.001-07:00

Check my photo site for new photos:

Bad to the Bone

2008-08-17T08:00:00.001-07:00

If you want to know how to be cool in Latin America, here are some tips (some of them apply anywhere in the world):

If you work at a park, wear all green (i.e., fatigues) with black army boots.
If you're a motorcycle cop—the kind that rides a dual-purpose bike—wear all green, army boots, and a fully equipped load-bearing vest. Never mind the fact that none of the little pouches in your vest have grenades or extra clips, or that you're carrying just a .38 Special.
If you work security at a supermarket, wear what appears to be a bullet-proof vest. Don't bother with a gun, of course.
If you're wearing a backpack, make sure to sling only one strap over your shoulder (this one is universal).
Wear your sweater on your back with the sleeves wrapped around your neck, like we used to do in the States about 25 years ago (that's not back, is it?).

Death Valley, Chile—er, Nevada—er...

2008-08-15T06:54:00.000-07:00

San Pedro de Atacama is a small town (about 5,000) in northern Chile, just a few miles from both Bolivia and Argentina. It's in the Altiplano, a high plain in the Andes mountains, at approximately 2,400 meters. It's the largest high plateau in the world next to that in Tibet. The Atacama is also the driest desert in the world.

Most of the town's inhabitants are dedicated to tourism. Although there isn't much to see in the town itself (an old church and a nice museum), there are many tour agencies offering excursions to surrounding areas. I took a couple tours—one for a full day in a couple small 4x4s with a small group high up into the Andes and another for a half day with a large tour group to a few areas closer to the town.

The full day tour took us very close to the Argentine border and up over 4,000 meters. We saw some salt flats and interesting rock formations not unlike what you'd see in the American Southwest. We stopped at a beautiful green lake which was partially frozen. During several of the stops we made, it was very windy and the temperatures were bitter cold. At the lake, my hands went numb after taking pictures for about 10 minutes. The altitude along with the wind make it very chilly. This tour was a bit more expensive because it was with a smaller group. It was about $85 (38,000 pesos). If you're a photographer, though, it's worth it. The stops are frequent and you have plenty of time to shoot.

The other tour, which was with a larger group in a small bus cost only 5,000 pesos, or about $11. The bus broke down a few times, we had to walk a ways, and we ended up arriving at our final stop for the sunset just minutes before it went down. This tour went to Valle de la Muerte (Death Valley) and Valle de la Luna (Moon Valley). As we were en route to Valle de la Muerte, a passenger kept comparing and contrasting this "Death Valley" with the Death Valley in The States.

Tourist: How hot does it get here?
Guide: 45º C.
Tourist: Death Valley, Nevada gets up to 47º. What's the lowest point here? Does it go down to sea level?
Jay: No, you moron. We're at a few thousand meters in the freaking Andes Mountains!!! (I didn't really say that, but I thought it)
Guide: No. We're at almost 3,000 meters.
Tourist: Well Death Valley, Nevada goes down to 300 meters below sea level.

I can't tell you how hard it was to keep my mouth shut. First of all, Death Valley is in California, not Nevada. It's all the more amazing this bozo didn't know that, as he's from Las Vegas! Second, Death Valley National Park has a low point of 282 feet below sea level. Other areas of the Park extend to over 11,000 feet. Last, the temperature record for Death Valley is almost 57º C. That's 134º F. Quite a bit more than 47º!

Anyhoo, it's uncanny how similar Valle de la Muerte is to Death Valley National Park in the United States. From the rocks to the colors to the sand dunes, they're very similar. If you want to visit this kind of landscape and you're in The States, just go to California. If you're in South America, San Pedro de Atacama is worth a visit.

There are other attractions such as geysers and salt flats with flamingos, so leave at least a few days for tours. You can also rent bicycles and pedal your way around if you want to save a few bucks, but there will be a lot you'll miss on bike. The bike is good only for some things that are close to the town.

Another thing I thought was amazing: 70% of the tourists who visit San Pedro de Atacama are Europeans. Of those, 40% are French!

The hostel I stayed in was Hostel Sonchek. It's a nice, peaceful place to relax. The facilities are good and the prices are low. Although there's no Internet, there's an Internet cafe next door (with WiFi). They don't appear to have a Web site, so you'll just have to Google them.

Another interesting tidbit about the town: they lose power regularly. About 30 Km away are gas generators. I don't know what the issue is, but power went out about 4 times while I was there over a 3-day period.

As far as weather goes, while I was in San Pedro de Atacama, in the sun I would sweat—and would have burned if I had stayed in the sun for a few hours without sun block—and in the shade I would get cold. So, you should have a variety of clothing, both for hot and for cold.

La Serena, Chile

2008-08-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

La Serena is about seven hours north of Valparaíso, by bus. I left Valparaíso Saturday night at 10:30 and got to La Serena at the butt-crack of dawn. I had e-mailed a hostel ahead of time for a reservation. This is definitely my recommendation, if possible. Use www.hostels.com or www.hostelworld.com to reserve a place for your next destination. Unfortunately, upon showing up in La Serena and getting dropped of by the taxi at the hostel (who took off immediately), I found out they were full. The Web sites clearly don't always reflect reality. Thankfully, another taxi pulled up right then and knew of another place that did, in reality, have a room. And even better, it was just a stone's throw from the bus station, so it would be easy to get my next ticket.

I tried to get the lady at the hostel to book me for a tour the next day, but she didn't know if there would be enough people. She said she'd let me know that evening, and if I couldn't get on that tour, there was another one I could go on. I was in my room from about 7:00 P.M. that day until 9:00 A.M. the next and never heard a peep. I felt far down under the weather and so didn't have the motivation to pursue it myself. So, I just tooled around town a bit and also swung by the bus station to bump up my ticket from 10:30 P.M. the next day to 4:30, a few hours earlier. If I wasn't going to go on a tour, I might as well get a head start on San Pablo de Atacama.

If you have the time and feel so inclined, La Serena is probably worth a stop. It's a nice little town and has a few nice historic churches along with the common avenue which is open to foot traffic only. I also found a nice little restaurant which had good food for a good price.

After my second lunch in this little joint, I stopped of at a small plaza to work my way towards completion of my current tome—Sailing Alone Around the World, by Joshua Slocum. Sitting next to me on the bench was an older guy, probably in his sixties, wearing a black leather jacket, brown leather slip-on shoes, and dark trousers, zipper to the bottom. He had a bag of what appeared to be garbage—myriad paper items. Maybe he's into recycling. He was reading a dirty newspaper, presumably today's edition, since that's usually how it works, but based on appearances, it could have been lying in the dirt for days. After he finished catching up with current events, he pulled out a piece of scrap paper from his collection, rolled it up tightly until it was about the size of a cigarette. He proceeded to take his homemade Q-Tip and clean the wax from his ear. The beauty of his Q-Tip was its reusability. With a normal Q-Tip, once you shove it in your ear and run it around a bit, that's all she wrote. With this chap's variety, you simply remove it from your ear and brush the muck off of it, then go back for more. Based on my observations, it's good for at least three cleanings. I'm going to guess that this chap doubled that, still having one ear to go. In the middle of all this, he stomped his feet, presumably to scare away the pigeons. He repeated the stomping when I got up to leave, although there were no pigeons that time.

La Serena, a nice little town, growing fast, and with tours that are supposed to be great. Worth a visit if you're traveling between Valparaíso and Calama or San Pablo de Atacama.

Valparaíso—Rio Jr.

2008-08-09T19:40:00.000-07:00

One of the first things that struck me upon arriving in Valparaíso, Chile, is its close resemblance to Rio, at least in some obvious ways. It's set on the ocean, its houses climb up the nearby hillsides, the poorer people have the best views, and their neighborhoods are also the most dangerous. Of course, it's much smaller—about the size of Tacoma, or a couple hundred thousand—and is a little mellower (than Rio, at least) in every respect.

Most visitors spend a couple days here, but if you have time, you could probably stretch it almost to a week. First tip: when you arrive, don't take a taxi to your lodging. They're a major rip off. Figure about $12 vs. $1 for a collectivo. Don't ask me how I know this—just take my word for it. In Chile, a collectivo is basically a taxi with a fixed route, and they're cheap (in Argentina, a collectivo is what they call their city buses). The buses in Valparaíso are also cheap and a good way to get around the city. They stop all over creation, not just at predefined stops, as in most cities.

The Yellow House is a nice place to stay and they'll take care of you. It's a Bed & Breakfast and probably not the cheapest place, but I recommend it. Martin, the owner, who is from Australia and who married a Chilena, works with a guy named Michael, who is from Germany and who also married a Chilena. Michael is a guide and he is excellent. His prices are great and he knows his stuff. He'll tell you all kinds of history and interesting facts—stuff you won't otherwise learn. He does a walking tour of the city and also a tour in which he takes you, in his car, to wineries, a fishing village, Pablo Neruda's house, etc. Highly recommended!

Unfortunately, something he told me disappointed me. The city is very colorful, but it got colorful starting only in around 1992, when an American moved here and began to influence the city's direction. I was hoping the color went way back, but alas, it's a modern invention.

I also took the quite-nice electric train to the nearby tourist destination of Viña del Mar. It's basically a smaller city that butts up against Valparaíso—it's roughly in the same bay. Many locals from Santiago—just 120 kilometers to the East—come here for the weekend. If you have extra time, it's worth a half-day visit. Put it at the bottom of your list, though, if you have limited time.

I went to a Tango class here, too, at La Piedra Feliz, on Thursday. It was very nice. Led by an older guy, it lasted two hours, and started out with a bunch of exercises that were meant to help develop the right style of movement for Tango. I really enjoyed that part. Then came the "normal" dancing. I have to admit that Tango is still almost a complete mystery to me. It's difficult for me to know when to start dancing (based on listening to the music) and I hardly know what to do when I start. I'll try to be patient and hope that it will come. I'm learning bits and pieces with each class, but putting it into practice is coming very slowly—kind of like the Spanish! I guess it comes down to time and practice—and patience.

Unfortunately, I was sick the whole time I was here. I got a cold in Mendoza and carried it with me through five days in Valparaíso, on into La Serena (about 7 hours by bus to the north), and all the way up to San Pablo de Atacama (another 16 hours north by bus). I'm on the mend, but still feel sick.

Goodbye Mendoza, Hello Valparaíso

2008-08-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

I went to bed around 2:00 A.M. on Monday, a few hours after buying a bus ticket online for Valparaíso, Chile. Unfortunately, the bus left at 8:30 A.M. that morning, so I didn't get too much sleep. I woke up around 6:30, showered, had a taxi run me to an ATM—time was short—and then take me back to the hostel, where I paid for my five nights. I had packed most of my stuff the night before and so was pretty much ready to go. The taxi waited outside for me. Within five minutes, I was gone.

Upon arriving at the bus station, I went to the Locutorio—Internet café, basically—and printed out my bus ticket with only about 15 minutes to spare. Once on the bus, I fired up my laptop and responded to a couple e-mails from Nadia, then put on my headphones and my sleeping mask. A couple hours later, I woke up, not sure if it was nighttime. Then I took my mask off. Blinded by the sun, it was 10:30 A.M. as we headed into the Andes.

At first, there were just traces of snow on the hills above us, but as we neared the summit, the snow came down to the road and its depth consistently increased. Eventually, it intruded onto the surface of the road. The winds increased and the visibility decreased. I knew we'd be heading down precarious hairpin turns on the far side and was moderately concerned for my life.

At the summit, we arrived at customs. After probably an hour going through the Argentine line, the Chilean line, and having our bags scanned, we were off. The driver proceeded with care, for which I was grateful. I put the music and mask back on, and caught some more Z's. I had caught a cold back in Mendoza a few days earlier and so needed some rest.

About eight hours after setting out, we arrived at the Pacific Ocean and one of Chile's most important sea ports. I took a taxi to a little bed & breakfast called The Yellow House Bed & Breakfast, at which I had made a reservation back in Mendoza after buying my bus ticket the night before after midnight.

Martin, an Australian who came here as part of his job in the petroleum industry, met me at the door and showed me to my room. Martin ended up sticking around here in Chile after meeting his wife—Lissette—who is a Chilena. Upon my meeting her a few hours later, she and I chatted for probably 30 or 40 minutes about Spanish grammar. She's a teacher and we had quite a nice time. We both love grammar!

I slept really well, something that hadn't occurred for the past few nights. It was very quiet and when I finally decided to get up at about 8:30 (9:30 to my body), Martin had breakfast waiting for me. He and I ended up chatting for probably over an hour. We got into some politics and I learned some interesting things. I had made a comment about the 40% export tax imposed on farmers in Argentina and that got the ball rolling.

The basic idea is this. The Argentine government imposed price caps some time ago on the petroleum, farming, and cattle industries. Despite inflation, these industries cannot raise their prices. How does one stay in business under these circumstances? Well, these business people did what any business person would do. They looked for a way to grow their business—they decided to export. The government didn't like being circumvented apparently, so they imposed a 40% export tax. The comment that I had made was that I had seen their president on TV begging the farmers to go back to work—they've been striking. My question to her is, who in their right mind would want to work just to give their money to someone else? If you want them to go back to work, quit taking all their money!

Moreover, the Argentine government cut natural gas supplies to Chile, apparently as punishment to the petroleum companies who refuse to do research regarding potential sites for obtaining gas. These companies are already operating at a loss due to the government-imposed price caps. Why would they spend more of their own limited money for this purpose? Now, Chile is pursuing alternative sources of natural gas. They are currently constructing a deliquification plant, so they can purchase liquified natural gas from abroad.

It is not uncommon for folks down here to ask me what I think of George Bush. Most of them think he is stupid. I guess it depends with whom you compare him. Regardless, the government of one's country does not necessarily reflect the people of that country, and I love many of the people in Latin America.

The next subject that came up was General Augusto Pinochet. In decades past, Chile had had to contend with violent leftist terrorists and communist leader Salvador Allende. When General Pinochet took office, he made literally a thousand new laws concerning the keeping of the peace and the health and growth of the economy. He also killed a bunch of communist bastards. The state of the country improved drastically under his rule. When he was voted out more than a decade-and-a-half later, he left without fuss. The current government has abolished many of the laws put into place by Pinochet, but the country continues to thrive thanks to the foundation he laid. He ruled with an iron fist and he no doubt did bad things, but the improvements that came to this country under his rule cannot be debated.

Last night, I went to the bathroom before going to bed. There is approximately a 2-inch step into the bathroom. I didn't see it. I kicked it. I think I broke the big toe on my right foot. It hurt—a lot. Thankfully, it doesn't hurt if I don't move it. Unfortunately, it does hurt when I try to walk. Not sure if I'll be able to go dancing this week.

Today, after sleeping in and having a leisurely breakfast, I walked a couple hundred meters up the nearby hill to a lookout over the city. I found a nice spot in the sun and read for about two-and-a-half hours. I'm re-reading the book Sailing Alone Around the World by Joshua Slocum, a wonderful adventure written by the first man to sail solo around the world. It was an amazing trip of over three years. He was an incredible sailor and a great writer. I aim to finish it while here and leave it behind here at the B&B. Then I'll continue on with the rather large book I began in Buenos Aires, The Path Between the Seas, about the construction of the Panama Canal.

The weather today was rather perfect. I would describe it as being comparable to a perfect Spring day in the Pacific Northwest. As I read, there were many distractions. There were the beeping and clanging noises of a busy seaport, containers being moved about, loaded onto ships, and cranes swinging round. There were passing students, apparently on their lunch break—or maybe they just get out earlier here than we're accustomed to in the States.

There was one particular pair of student lovebirds about ten meters from me. At first, they were kissing and hugging. Then out came the apples. Yes, the apples. The male of the pair made particularly loud smacking sounds as he ate. I normally have trouble concentrating, even without mouth noises. One of the things I hate most in all of the world is mouth noises. Yes, mouth noises. These make concentrating even harder for me to grasp than usual. Unfortunately, eating is a particularly healthy breeding ground for mouth noises and they were emanating profusely from his mouth. I'm guessing apples are very rare and very expensive down here, because he proceed to eat every last conceivable speck of meat from this apple. Not even all of the core was remaining when he was done. It was the longest apple-eating session in history, I am quite certain. When he was finished, his girlfriend proceeded to pick bits of apple from his teeth, and he proceeded to pick his nose. Not long after, they left. I continued to read and enjoy this almost-perfect day. I do believe I got some color back in my skin this afternoon.

Also while reading, I made a new friend. There are a number of dogs running around the city, like in most places in Latin America. I petted one for a bit, and she liked it. She put her head up against my chest and wanted more. As I was seated on the ground, she reared up on my back at one point and was getting a bit playful. I chased her away, but she came back later. What can I say. I'm likeable. She ended up sleeping for a bit with a friend on the warm ground next to me for a while, as I continued to read.

When I got up to leave after having sat for a couple hours, I could barely walk, my toe hurt so bad. I hobbled homeward.

I stopped by a nice, but expensive, restaurant on the way back to the B&B. It had a great view overlooking the city. It was a nice way to end a relaxing afternoon.

Upon returning to the B&B, I found my bed remade and a fresh set of towels for me, along with a new bar of soap and a new packet of shampoo. This place is classy and Martin and Lissette really look after you. Unfortunately, they keep it pretty cold, at least in the winter. When I mentioned this to Martin, he immediately proceeded to provide me with a space heater for my room, the heat waves of which I am enjoying at this very moment. There are also multiple WiFi routers in the 4-story house, so connectivity is not an issue.

Well, that's the state of things now. Tomorrow, I'll be going on a guided walking tour of the city. I'll keep you posted on how that goes, and on the condition of my big toe.

Travels in Latin America by Jay Philip Williams

Update From Home

Internet in Latin America

Christmas Update From Latin America

Walk for Your Food

Oaxaca, Oaxaca

A Bunch of Random Schtuff

San Cristóbol de las Casas

Antigua, Guatemala

Terrible Travel Troubles

Copán

Útila the Hun

Giving Thanks With the Mingos

Costa Rica to Nicaragua—Psemi Psycho

Costa Rica

In The Zone

Cruising in the Caribbean

Colombia: Land of Drug Lords and Supermodels Posing as Regular Women

Colombian Women?

Update from the Isthmus

Cuenca and Quito

Colombian Hospitals and Life as a Cyclops

Recommended Reading

Crazy Crossing

Cusco, Lima, and Trujillo

Up the Andes

Machu Picchu

Isla del Sol and Bugs

La Paz to Copacabana

My Digital Workflow

Adios, iPod #2.

The Sprint

Northern Bolivia

Cuzco to Lima by Bus

Taxis in Cuzco and Lima

La Paz

Cash Advances in La Paz

Southern Bolivia

Into Bolivia

Someone please remind me why I decided to hitchhike to Bolivia!

Bolivia, here I come!

Salta, Argentina

Blind Dog

The Search for Serenity

Driving Drunk in Salta

Some Video Clips

Recommended Reading

Travel Tips

Corrientes—People, not Places

Subscribe to my Photos

Trinidad, Oberá, and Seeing Red

New Photos

Overloaded

Onward, Downward, Then Upward, Then Downward, Then Upward

Hostels in Salta, Argentina

Argentina Desperately Needs Change!

Blinder Than a Bat

Cachí, Argentina

New Photos

Bad to the Bone

Death Valley, Chile—er, Nevada—er...

La Serena, Chile

Valparaíso—Rio Jr.

Goodbye Mendoza, Hello Valparaíso