The White Trousers

     The first time I met Uyuriy was at the Milhouse Hostel in the city center of Buenos Aries.  It was after midnight and I wanted to sleep.  I occupied the bottom bunk near a small patio.  We left the doors open to let the breeze in.  Across from me was a man who appeared to be sleeping.  I had a smoke, brushed my teeth and got into bed.  Uyuriy waited until my eyes were shut to begin speaking.
     "You from America, yes?"  He asked in a loud whisper.  I responded yes.  "Good.  America is King.  No one fucks with America."  He had what sounded like a thick Soviet accent.
     I said something to the effect that he was right; we were the last true super power.  Then I turned my back to him so he might understand that I didn't want to talk.  There was a brief silence where I could hear the curtains moving in the wind.  The traffic from below reminded me of the busy city.  I was almost asleep.
     "No true!"  He exclaimed and sat up in bed.  He turned his body and placed his feet on the dark tile floor.  "History shows us there is always waiting someone to take over.  U.S. is not last super power.  They could be but will not be."  When I didn't answer he continued.  "We could not defeat China, no one can.  Their army is to big.  They have standing army of one billion people.  And now they buy up everything American.  Total shame."
     Out of politeness I turned back around but kept my head on the pillow.  Uyuriy took this as his cue to go on. "I tell you this.  President Bush Jr. never should have entered Baghdad.  Most sucessful war ever fought.  In six days U.S. defeated all Sadam's army without one casualty.  Six days!"  He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees now.  "But why he enter?  Now 4000 casualties.  Lots of Arabs love U.S.  We could have got them to enter and fight.  U.S. cannot win a civilian war.  Doesn't have the guts for it.  To much humanitarism.  They should learn from Isrealis.  They are killers of women and children.  Butchers of innocent men.  The have no right to be in Hezbollah!"  The last he shouted rather loudly.
    He had changed the subject three times now and I was oddly curious as to what his point would be.  "Uyuriy,"  I said in an almost pleading voice.  "It's really late.  Can we talk about this tomorrow?"
     "Yes, yes, yes.  I am old man.  Tell me to stop talking and I do it.  Goodnight Ryan of U.S."

     That was how I came to know him.  His full name was Uyuriy Mylko.  He was born in the Ukraine in a town called Lukansk in December of 1940.  I had mistakenly placed his accent as Russian.  In the days that followed Uyuriy would explain to me that he was a war time child.  His mother did not have enough milk to nourish him so he remained small and weak.  As a youth he was forced to wear braces on his legs and left inside to read while the other boys played sports in the field.  His father had other plans for his youngest son.
     In the Ukraine world of academics the highest honour to be bestowed on a scholar is when he achieves his second doctorate.  This normally happens when a man is in his late fifties or mid-sixties and has devoted his entire life to the art of higher learning.  Uyuriy's father decided early on in his son's life that he would be the youngest man ever in the Ukraine to achieve this honour.  He would be thirty-five.  As a result the boy was forced to to rise at 5:45am everyday to to begin his studies.  History, mathematics, literature.  While the other kids played he poured over his books and gradually developed a resentment for the life his father had chosen.  A destiny that he was powerless over.
     At the age of fifteen in 1955 Uyuriy had had enough.  He left his family and ventured into the city to live with the gypsies.  The braces had long since been taken off his legs.  He was not strong like the other men but had strength of character and wit.  Despite the fact that he remained slender with almost no muscle, he had grown quite tall.  He was picked up by the policia and returned to his father four months later.
     When he was nineteen he attempted and succeeded at crossing into France and assuring his freedom from a tyrannical political regime full of corruption and violence.  He was on French soil for less than six hours and began to worry about the fate of his older brother and father.  Begrudgingly he enlisted the aid of some French merchants who helped cause a distraction while he crossed back into his country.  His best friend, (whose name he would not give), escaped into Finland and made the mistake of asking a local policeman for aid.  He did not know that although the Finnish people hated the Soviets with a passion, they were locked in a political agreement and anyone caught crossing the border would be detained and returned into the custody of the Soviet Army.  His friend was never heard from again
      This was the life that Uyuriy had led; so unlike anything we fourth and fifth generation Americans know today.  My financial troubles or car problems pale in comparison.  Having friends assassinated by Soviets, secretly crossing borders for freedom and worrying about the massacre of your family are out of my conception of reality.  This made Uyuriy all the more fascinating to talk to.  The other boys in the hostel viewed him as an old annoyance who didn't belong there and talked to much.  His stories of political war and and pre World War II tyrants didn't fit in with there desire to get drunk and fuck a woman for the night.  He could talk above the pounding Spanish Techno music that played twenty-four hours a day.  But I was the only one who listened.
     For two days we walked the Plazas of Buenos Aries.  Up to Casa Roja where Eva Bron gave her famous speeches to raise money for the poor.  Down to the Congress building which is the political heart of Argentina.  We walked along the old port which has been transformed into a massive tourism hotspot, lined with restaurants and bars.  Over to La Boca and the art district then across town to Palermo where the wealthiest patrons have their colonial mansions.  Even though Uyuriy was one year away from turning seventy, I could barely keep up with him.  He walked with a purpose as if we actually had somewhere to go.  Once while we were heading down a small residential boulevard we passed a graffiti painting of Che Guevara.  Uyuriy looked around frantically until he found a small stone on the ground.  He threw it wildly at the wall.  This infuriated some local men standing outside a corner fruit market and they started to approach us.  I grabbed Uyuriy by the arm and pulled him around the corner.  "Socialist pigs!  Communist bastards!"  He shouted.  "They revere Che for his boyish good looks and charm.  He is a murderer!  A doctor of death, not medicine.  Thank God the CIA had him assissinated.  He would have been worse than Castro for this country."
     In 1976 Uyuriy escaped to the U.S. through Italy and France.  He would not elaborate which was unusual for him.  He liked to talk.  He worked two jobs, married a lady from California and within five years was able to buy some property in West Virginia.  Shortly after that the U.S. government hired him as a language specialist.  He worked with Ukrainian refugees mostly but briefly mentioned interrogation.  I pressed him for more information but he would only smile and say that that was not to be talked about.  He retired thirty years later with a full pension and a home in Washington D.C.
     While I passed the humid days on the balcony smoking my cigarettes, Uyuriy would wash his clothes in the sink and hang them to dry four stories above Av. de Mayo.  One day he was working frantically at the dirt and sweat that was consuming the white trousers he wore every day.  They were beyond repair and needed to be thrown away.  "Hey Uyuriy, why don´t you get yourself some new pants, those are filthy?"  I said.
    "Why," he replied.  "So I look then like a rich tourist?"  He didn´t look up from his scrubbing.  "I´m fearing they will not let me on the plane.  I look like terrorist in these pants.  I get them clean soldier."
     He called me soldier because of my name and its connection with the movie Saving Private Ryan.  He thought is was a funny joke and I admit it amused me to be of service to his poor humor.  The truth though, was that I had been called this many times before in Argentina when I told people my name.  I was constanly being called Bryan.  When I tried to correct people they would say, "Oh, like the soldier!"  That took a while to figure out.
     "Suit yourself."  I said.  "But those pants couldn´t even be used as a surrender flag.  They´re ruined.  Get yourself a nice pair of beige trousers for the plane.  At least you´ll be a well dressed terrorist."
     Uyuriy ignored my sarcasm.  "They call this country dangerous.  That everyone will rob you.  Hold on to your bag and don't take your money out on the street.  So foolish.  I say to you if men are watching you, walk over to a trash can and rummage through it.  Ha!  That will make them think you have no money or you are crazy.  Trust Uyuriy, they will leave you alone."  He sat on his bed and took out a white grocery bag. From it he produced a small bottle of red wine, some fresh bread, a tomato, cheese and salami.  "Today I eat like the Mediterranean.  You want?"  He cut a slice of salami and handed it to me.
     The sun was dipping down and streamed into the room.  I kept my bandanna close so I could dab my forehead when needed.  We ate his food and he let me ask him questions so I could get the names and dates correct.  My feet, bare and dirty, stuck to the floor.  Despite a soft breeze, the air in the room was stagnant.  It hung on our clothes like a peasant begging for his life.  It drug me down and made me want to drink.  Hanging from the ceiling was an air conditioner unit.  For five pesos ($1.25 U.S.) we could have had it turned on but we both agreed that there was something pleasant in our condition.  Why ruin it with cold air.
     Uyuriy finished his wine, wiped the bread crumbs from his sheets and stood up to leave.  I took a paperback novel from by pack and laid it down on my bed.  He left the room and said nothing.  In the absence of company I thought of lonliness and starred at the cheap wooden boards that held the matress above me from falling.  I couldn´t figure out if I was happy or not.
     The door opened and Uyuriy walked back in.  He didn´t bother to close it behind him.  He stepped close to my bed and looked down at me.  Perhaps down on me, I don´t know.  Still thinking of the matress boards, I didn´t sit up.  "Are you married?  How old are you?"  He said.
     "No I´m not.  And I am thirty-six."  I replied.  I could hear his laundry falling off the rail from the balcony.  "You need to be married.  I tell you this.  Go to Romania.  Or to Prague.  Make no difference which one.  Go to these place and find a wife.  A good wife, twenty years old.  Is ok for you, no?  Take her to U.S., have babies.  No black woman, No Mexicans!"  He sat down on the edge of my bed.  "I love America.  I love my country.  Is my country, I am citizen now.  I love America.  In one hundred years I am scared.  Not now but then.  Go to east of Europe and find a wife.  Preserve our genes."  Uyuriy stood up and walked towards the door.  He stopped and turned back towards me.  "Besides they are quiet.  Know how to treat man.  I say to my wife, when I am at work I am king.  When I come home you are queen.  This house," he shouted, "is your Kingdom!  But why when I come home why you have to talk so much?  Blah, blah, blah.  I love you!  I want sex and food and children and clean.  I love you but why you have to talk so much about nothing?"  His hands appeared to be conducting the symphony coming from his mouth.  I raised in my bed a little and set my book down.  "This is what an American wife will get you.  Listen to Uyuriy.  A Romanian wife?  She will give you silence."  Then he left the room.

     Uyuriy was a war time child.  He had a war mentality that years of peace could not soften.  He drew his line in the sand as a young man and then walked away; opinions formed.  He loved America and everything American because of the opportunities it had provided him.  America, like Uyuriy, hated the Soviet Union.  This made us allies and he was a man of honor.  For that reason alone I found myself on his side of the sand.
     I checked out of the Milhouse Hostel the next afternoon and moved my meager belongings to a quieter side of town.  Uyuriy had already left for his morning walk; I never got to say good-bye.  I wish I could have said sorry for the hardships he´d been through but I never did.  I wish I could have thanked him for his thirty years of service to the U.S. government.  We did not exchange emails.  He was not on Facebook.  I never told him the name of my blog.  I stood in the quiet of my dormroom, both packs strapped to my body and wanted to hear the voice that never stopped talking.  He was the man I turned my back on the first night we met so I could get some sleep.  Uyuriy, I hope one day you get your white trousers clean.

Wrong Again

     Imagine arriving at LAX alone, with no real idea of the city layout, being turned away from your accomodations at 1:30 am and not able to understand the language.  That´s how I found myself in Buenos Aries on January 3rd.  This is a town of endless night-clubs, tango, restaurants and cafes.  In the city center (which was where I was) nothing closes until 4am.  I was not alone on the streets.  This is not necessarily a good thing.  With one backpack on my back and one strapped accross my stomach I was an easy mark for a quick robbery.  I may be a forgeiner but that much I already new about Buenos Aries, the most romantic city in the world.
     And there was the humidity.  I had just flown from El Calafate deep in the south of Patagonia where temperatures dippoed below freezing even in the day.  My dress was more accomodating to hiking and keeping warm than strolling the boulevards a buzz with well dressed tourists and prostitutes.  The magnitude of heat and humidity filled my body with salt water until I overflowed and it escaped through every pore.  I took out my blue bandana and dabbe my face and forehead.  Within minutes I was wringing it out in the gutter and potter plants which lined the streets.  By now I had been turned away by every hostel and hotel within a three block radius and the concern on my face was only amplified by my sweat and the late hour.  I needed to find a place to sleep.  I needed rest and a chance to look at city maps.  I wanted a glass of wine but for once reason won the battle over desire.  Not even I was stupid enough to make that mistake.
     By 2:30am I was entering the Four Star Hotels that lined the streets of Ave 9 de Julio and Av de Mayo.  I was willing to pay the $400 pesos just for some peace of mind.  Again I was turned away everywhere.  I refuse to believe they were all at capacity but in my present dress with boots and sandals strapped to the outside of my worn and beaten pack, I think I was refused a room for fear I may make it smell.  And I guarantee I would have.
     After walking the same bit of stree for the third time, afraid I would get lost (from where I didn´t know), I came accross a small sign that simply said Hostel.  I rang the bell and waited.  My pack was growing heavier with the passing of night.  Blisters on my feet, ripened by Patagonia, stung and I prayed the skin just hold on a little longer.  I rang again.  A fat matronly señora camed to the edge of the stairwell and staired down at me.  She wore a filthy cotton skirt that went to her knees and a blue tank top that barely held on at the seams under the weight of her massive fallen breasts.  Her sandals were a cheap plastic variety and one had been duct-taped back together.  She looked more like a sweaty madam at a back-alley brothel than the owner of a hostel.  But she was my last hope.  I smiled warmly and waved.  When she was done inspecting me and perhaps somewhat assured of her own safety she buzzed me in.  I climbed the two stories worth of stairs and entered the common area.  The walls were no less than eighteen feet high but the ornate molding that once lined the ceiling had long since decayed from water damage.  Where holes had developed in the walls she hung sheets to cover it up.  The tile was cracked in many places and a few boards had been put down so her high paying guests wouldn´t trip and kill themselves.  Her hostel was no cleaner than she was.  It was also no cleaner than myself.  The smell of roasting sweat and stale cigarettes pushed down from the hot air above.  For the moment it was the most beautiful hostel I had ever seen.
     She had a bed for me.  I shared a room with seven other Israelis whos combined perspiration outweighed my own.  The word for bed sheets in Spanish is hojas or ropa de cama.  She had none.  And no pillow.  This would be one of the worst best-night sleeps I would ever have.  Under her harsh appearance and untrusting gaze she was quite motherly.  I had woken either from sleep or late night TV but she fumbled around in a damp utility closet until she found a thick blanket.  She draped it over the mattress, spotted and stained from years of neglect and apologized in a way that said ´What do you expect?´more than ´sorry.´ I paid her the thirty eight pesos and dreampt in Israeli.  The following morning I drank her instant coffee and ate two mezalunas that were surprisingly fresh and soft.  I thanked her and headed up the street.

     Buenos Aries is a literal maze of Plazas, Museums, Cathedrals and stone work.  It boasts a four to one girl/guy ratio which is all to evident.  The wealthier areas of Palermo and Relocata are a short subway ride away.  Here you can watch professional dog walkers stoll by with as many as fifteen dogs and sip quality coffee on a sidewalk cafe.  I have been traveling for two and a half months on what was supposed to be a seven month journey but looking at my bank statements I knew I would never make it to Colombia, Equador or Venezuala.  I had long ago given up on Brazil due to my lack of VISA and the high prices during carnival.  My vagabonding was going to be cut in half and there was nothing I could do about it.  With a cauldren full of sorrow, anger regret and love I reluctantly purchased my ticket back to the United States.  This trip of a lifetime has been more like a lifetime worth of lessons learned the hard way.  I must remember to shelve them for future days.

During a difficult portion of my trip I recieved an email from a rather wise person.  He said two things which are quotes:

1)  Even death is not an escape from your current dilemma.

2)  If you have no path, any path will get you somewhere.

He has this tendency to piss me off and send me powerful thoughts just when I don´t want them but most need them.  The rest of the time I believe he listens to me ramble and quietly laughs at the riddle of life.  Thank you person.

      If you get the chance to travel do it.  If it doesn´t always go your way expect it.  In the theater there is a saying: Íf your going to fall, fall big.  Make it fantastic, entertaining and large.  Then get back up and keep going.´ The applications are large I think.  Didn´t someone say that art immitates life? 


This dog is my hero!

People

     I fear El Calafate will go unwritten about.  Other than Moreno Glacier there is not much to do in this small town.  It was the hostel i Keu Ken that caused me to stay for Christmas and it was the hostel that caused me to go back for New Years.  There is nothing like the wonder of people to make you fall in love with a place.  Ruins, glaciers, spires and salt flats are wonderous and they deserve to be seen but people are where the magic is.  People are why we wander.  Friendship is to be coveted like our National Parks.  Spend a few months without it and you´ll appreciate it all the more.  I think even the lonely would agree.  Those who long to be lost in solitude for long periods of time still want their story told.  A story unto itself is a summer solstace without a harvest.  We want to be heard.  Alexander Supertramp died next to this realization.  What a chaotic and mystic journey he must have had to reach that conclusion.  Right now words are pouring from me but a Rottweiler has taken to my side and I feel more compelled to pet him than right about my experiences.

My steak is ready and the owner hustles me inside.  I´ve asked for jugoso (rare) and it comes out raw.  The Argentinians cook their meet all the way through and have little sense of temperature.  The old man that owns this place is so sincere I dare not ask for it to be put back on the grill.  With a look of honest pride for his food he asks me how it is.  I smile back with a resounding ´Muy Beuno!´  He has put some Irish music on just for me, mistaking my heritage.  The meat, almost completely raw and cold, will be one the best steaks I have in Argentina.

So goes my final night in El Calafate.

Thanks

i Keu Ken

Down South

Patagonia is where the wind strips you raw and lonliness is the only thing worth thinking about.  Away from the picturesque Fitz Roy and the glacier it is still a vast uninhabitale stretch of bare tundra.  Copella is the native plant and it grows everywhere.  Even when the wind takes an occasional pause to draw more breath they remain bent over as if trying to protect themselves.  Frozen in fear and wonder from a power for which they have little defense.  But yet they prosper.  That is obvious by the fact that they cover thousands of square kilometers where other flora has failed.

     I am finding that this corner of the earth to be my favorite so far in my travels.  It is calm in its hostility.  You know what to expect here in the south.  Wind and cold.  Clouds tumble by overhead, migrating to warmer weather.  I think often they get caught in the Andes and stay for generations.  Not to unlike the Germans and Welsh that have been here for years.  They have acclimated both to the climate and culture.  Many Welsh residents only know their homeland through pictures on the internet.  This is their home.  Next to their traditional foods sit empanadas and chorizo.  They are wonderful to talk to.

       Put Patagonia today is much changed from from when Bruce Chatin first wrote about it in the 1970`s.  His book In Patagonia would change the way the world say this place.  Not that people really even thought of Patagonia before that; not on a global scale anyway.  Today the Gaucho Trail is a well worn path that is not easy to get off of.  Hostels, restaurants and tour guides have sprung up everywhere grabbing for the pesos brought by tourism.

       I am sitting at a wine and cheese bar in El Chaten.  It is called Rincon del Sur.  Fifty years ago El Chaten didn`t exist but today it hosts a the Los Glaciares National Park with over ten buses arriving daily.  It is the smallest town I have been in and I cringe to think what it will look like in five years.  It is fast becoming a haven for rock and ice climbing, trekking and glacier viewing.  Cerro Solo, Egger Torre, Poincenot and Fitz Roy peaks all keep El Chaten safely nestled under a blanket of shadow and mystisism but still the buses come.  In any other setting the Techado Negro peak would be a main attraction but next to Fitz Roy it plays a faint and distant fiddle.  Beautiful nonetheless.

      

       To my point.  I am at Rincon del Sur sipping on a Malbec and eating olives.  I`ve asked the owner, Sebastian De Angelis if could sell me a wine opener as I lost mine in Bariloche.  He has none for sale but has many he can give me.  This sparks a heated argument between him and his wife, Marcela, all in Spanish.  She is unhappy with his gesture.  She knows I would have paid at least 30 pesos for it; it was a quality opener.  But he will have nothing to do with that and hands it to be with a warm smile.  Their daughter, an eight year old girl named Florencia has attached herself to my leg.  I pick her up and set her on the counter to play with her.  I am happy to have a new friend and happy for the gift.  I am especially happy for the olives which are salty and taste great after a days hiking.

     In total I will have spent six days in El Chaten.  Fellow travellors tell me I am crazy and will get bored but a strange thing has occured.  My hostel is completely filled with Israelis.  In a broad Picaso stroke I will paint them as a people who keep to themselves.  They are not unfriendly although I think many westerners would disagree.  They simply don`t mingle with other trekkers unless they are from their own country.  In this setting I have found myself most alone.  More prone to drink and dwell on the properties of lonliness (which are dangerously close to insecurity).  But I have not become lonely.  I have not succumed to drinking as in other towns.  The solidarity I feel is making me more resourceful and my inner thoughts are taking on a new interest for my mind.  Someone once told me that solitude is a powerful thing to overcome but if accomplished opens windows to the world that are unparalled.

     After my bus ride I checked into my hostel.  It was getting late but al Chorrillo del Salto offered a perfect two hike where I could unwind and listen to the waterfall.  The rain and wind didn`t bother me but made it impossible to light my smoke.

     The next morning I saw a break in the weather that I was told hadn`t happened in the last eight days.  I had already packed a lunch of apples, bananas, chocolate and a sandwich consisting of salami, cheese and avocado.  I quietly left the Israelis sleeping and and headed off towards Laguna de los Tres on a 13 mile hike in the hope of seeing Fitz Roy and Poincenot peaks up close and without cloud cover.  The prize is a frozen lagoon that hides deep down at the base of these stark and naked spires.  It is in the picture above. But the weather is fickle and keeps me guessing.  The trek is steep and considered the hardest day hike in the park.  Its slopes are akwardly rough at times but in reality it is the constant change in body temperature that people battle.  Within minutes I had sweat through my long underwear and had to disrobe in a fire cold wind so I could tie it to the outside of my pack to dry.  This left me pretty cold and susceptable to the thirty degree temperature and snow blowing in from the north.  I had also sweat through my Alpaca hat but dared not take it off.  Sometime after about two hours my body settled into a grumpy state of complacency and found comfort where there was none.  I was happy not to be miserable.  I passed Lago Capri and at higher altitudes saw Lago Madre and Hija with great clarity.

     On this day Fitz Roy would not give.  I sat just above the base of Lago de los Tres and waited for that perfect picture.  The wind and cold, like termites, silently ate away at my core until I sucumbed to fear and slowly made my way back down to the valley.  My long underwear had long since dried but the effort of putting it back on seemd futile.  I would not see Fitz Roy in absolute clarity and who knows if I will ever be back.  That is the magic of its allure.  A light snowfall on my back knudged me down the trail and the wind laughed in my ears.  I never heard Fitz Roy say a word.

     The next day would prove equally as long but much easier.  The trail to Laguna Torre promises breathtaking views of the Torre Peaks but they are often covered in clouds.  Today it will not bend to my will.  Six hours of trekking through the back country proved only to be a peaceful walk.  I learned something here.  Somewhere between the 4th and 5th hour I settled into the realization that it is not about the picture I wanted to get but more about the struggle and enjoyment of the journey.  This may seem a basic and much written on topic but I`m telling you, go out and try to find yourself.  You may discover it is more difficult than you think.  I returned to my hostel, bought two empenadas and fell asleep.  When I awoke I found that the Israelis had stolen my Q-Tips.

     Get here quick.  Travellors before me are laughing at my late timing in their memoirs.  Get here quick.  Tourism is a deadly pen in Patagonia that I fear will have a sad story to tell in a few years.  Come and see for yourself before the locals all speak English and the peso is prettier than the peaks.  Better yet, come in the winter.  You will be more brave than I.

Getting On

       I can now say I´ve been to Peru, I´ve been to Bolivia, Chili and Argentina as well.  I´ve sandboarded in San Pedro de Atacama and trekked the four day infamous Inca Trail.  In Mendoza I paraglided for the first time and toured the Bodegas via bicycle.  I´ve been higher than 14,000 feet and stood mesmorized before the Andes Mountain Range.  Tomorrow, weather permiting, I will ice climb the extremely active Volcan Villarrica in Pucon, Chili before heading south east back into Argentina and on to Patagonia. 

If you could see through the window of your dreams what would lay beyond?

       For six weeks I had the best travelling companion I could have ever asked for.  Linda Batista worked for me at Tommy Bahama in Palm Desert, California.  Before she left to return to Santa Maria in the Azore Islands of Portugal we developed a friendship that would exceed both our expectations.  I had not seen her for over five years but through Facebook we managed to stay in contact.  When I told her my plans to backpack through South America for eight months her only response was, "Great!  Where are we starting?  Hoovie this will be the adventure of a small but fruitful lifetime.  Let´s go vagabonding!"  From there one we planned the trip together.

       Linda.  This blog is for you!  Thank you for your free spirited attitude and laid back approach to every obstacle we tripped over.  Thank you for you abundant laughter and always calling me on my bullshit.  Thanks for being cranky in the morning but demanding that you "shop till you drop."  Thanks for managing to trip, fall or stumble over every crack in the sidewalk or sewage drain you could find. I always waited for you to laugh first...and you always did.  You are one of the few people who laughs at your own folly before that of others.  Anyone can light up a room but you lit up entire Hostels.  Sometimes to the point of almost getting us kicked out!  Coco will never forget you.  In the next Lonely Planent book you will be mentioned as a warning to all International Hostels.  All of Ireland is in love with you and you left Brazil envious of your abs.  Colombia laments for another kiss, (if only you had drank his secret elixhar).  God only knows what La Paz and the Wild Rover would comment on.  You are a legend on three continents.  In Chili some petty thief is looking at your pictures thinking what a crazy chica you are.  They would probably return your purse just for the chance to party with you.

       I am left without a friend.  Without a travel companion.  Now I have to make friends on my own where once you made them for me.  You are the best!  Already I miss singing to Michael Jackson and howling at the moon every time you tried to carry a tune.  And I´ve never seen a person fall as much as you have.  Whether it was off a chair, into a pool, up an Inca step or over your own two feet; every day it amazed me.  But when I saw the wonder in your eyes I understood that you you are one of these magical persons who just don´t have time to look down.  Life is in front of you, not at your feet..  It holds so much wonder and excitment for you; I can almost see it going through your eyes, directly to your heart and back out through your smile.  Those who are fortunate enough to be around you appreciate a glimpse of life through your soul.

       To the family and friends that recieve gifts from Linda, enjoy them.  She had to buy a rather large duffle bag for all of her hairpins, dresses, skirts, magnets and earings she purchased.  Many Alpaca met their demise at the her demand for hats, sweaters, socks and gloves.  Now that I think of it, don´t thank her.  I think she bought it all for herself. 

Linda.  In Spanish and Portugal it means beautiful.  You are exactly that but with magic, wonder and amition as companions.  Here in Pucon where the days are as long as the mountains high I wonder, "Where is Linda?  Back to work.  Back to the Pub with fresh ideas."  Perhaps one day we will paraglide over you island.  I´m just a dish-dog looking for a laughing joke and some meager work.  Besides...someone has to tend the garden while you become an old cat lady.

Extreme Sports

       It's been a bit since I've posted but it really is to much trouble to deal with.  I've borrowed a buddies laptop from Ireland and am begging for more time with it.  Here are some pics of the last few weeks.  I will post more on Facebook because it seems to run a lot faster. 

Sandboarding has serious consequences!!!

Sunset hike in Valley of the Moon, San Pedro de Atacama, Chili.

Rockclimbing wall in Cordoba, Argentina.  To easy!

Linda paragliding in Mendoza, Argentina!!!  Crazy best time of my life

We kept saying we needed some activity and we got it.  Today we toured the Bodega's of Mendoza and tasted some of the best Malbec in the world.  Oh...and we did it all on bikes!  Life is about to slow down as Linda leaves in 10 days and I head south to Patagonia for some serious trekking and camping.  I'm more than ready to leave the cities behind and get back to these incredible mountains and glaciers. 

More pics will be on Facebook so check it out.  More writing later when I really have time.  At least my journal is slowly filling up. 

Salar de Uyuni

       A four day journey through the salt flats of Uyuni, Bolivia.  They are the worlds largest stretching 6479 square miles.  Beyond that is tens of thousands of miles of volcanic minerals reaching as high as 15,000 feet.  I am going to let the pictures speak of the trip but there is one story to tell.
      

       The Toyota Landcruiser is arguably one of the best off road vehicle in the world.  Tough, reliable and durable under tremendous stress both from driver and terrain.  I have owned two myself and have never been disappointed.  You could even call me a bit of an enthusiast.  My old FJ55 was a 1971.  To this day it is my favorite car I´ve ever owned.

       You can imagine my excitement when we arrived via tourist bus to Uyuni, Bolivia only to discover that all the tours were taken by Landcruiser.  Although none dated back as far as my FJ55, many of the older ones were FJ60 and FJ62 which date back to 1989.  The newer cruisers (which we were in) were more luxury vehicles in the U.S.  The rounded body and high roofs lent themselves to the Baby Boomers and would comfortably seat 7-8 people fr family travel.  I have always laughed at these trucks thinking of them more as an expenisve mini-van than an actual off-road vehicle.  I couldn´t have been more wrong.

       Our driver, Raul, was a sort and capable man of few words.  I don´t think I ever saw him without his sunglasses on or without a fiendish grin on his face.  He was born to race to Baja 500, only he had no idea what that was.  He adorned a full body aviator suit every time he climbed onto the roof to load our gear and food supplies.  He was, I would say, a Bolivian bad-ass.

       Day two of our trip commenced at 8am with the usual bread, jelly and tea.  Raul loaded up the packs and hearded us into the truck.  Along with Linda and myself were four Irish guys on a break between school and the world of work.  They were cordial and polite, not at all like the other Irish we had met along the way.  Ny that I mean that they were mostly sober and a bit reserved.  We loved them and were fascinated by their shy nature.

       And that was how day two began.  I was a little tired and spinning from the constant climb in altitude.  Our average elevation was around 12,500 ft.  I´m not sure if I was daydreaming about U.S. comforts long gone or trying to take a picture but I was jarred by the sudden halt of te truck only ten miles outsdie of camp.  Even after only one day we had pretty much become accustomed to the violent rolling of washboard roads at 110 kph (68mph) which our calm but psychotic guide seemed to enjoy.  Even at times when an experienced driver might switch to Low Gear, Raul prefered gasoline and speed.  I prayed for his suspension system and tires.

       Why were we stopped?  Raul put the truck in park, lifted his sunglasses (for the first and only time) and turned around to look at me.  We had no common language with which to communicate but I understood at once what he was saying by his hand signals.  He pointed at me and began to turn his hands as if holding a steering wheel.  He wanted me to drive!

       In any other situation I think I would have paused for a moment to ask myself why.  But here we were, six travellers lost in world´s largest salt flat somewhere in the Bolivian desert and our dear Raul was handing command of the mother ship to me!  I was out of the truck and around to the driver´s side before he could tip his sunglasses back down.  He tried to expalin the gears but I already had the truck moving.  "Sesenta!  Sesenta, no mas!"  He would yell.  60 km per hour is only 37mph and I know good old Raul never travelled any slower than about 80 km.  He was trying to keep me honest.  I rolled the truck foward, excellerated and took my first really good look at the road ahead.

       If you´ve ever seen old animal trails you know that they diverge.  They branch off and splinter every hundred yards in multiple directions only to meander back to an original path.  This was no different.  I wondered about gaining speed when every minute a new road appeared.  I looked back at Raul, now sitting next to Linda, for some advice but his hand signals simply motioned me foward; he seemed not to care where I went.  As best I could tell Raul wanted me to go about 70 mles ahead and to the southeast of a mountain that shared a border with Bolivia and Chili.  That was at best an educated guess.  The Irish boys remained cautiously quiet and I decided to see what this truck could deliver.

       Before passing out on Linda´s shoulder Raul informed us that yesturday was his birthday and he was too tired to drive.  That would explain the music and playful groans of a woman we had heard late into the night before.  With that, he was asleep.  Linda said he stunk of booze.  Good for Raul!  Hate the player not the game.  If a man, in this vast desert, can get can a piece of ass, why not?  Who were we to judge?  Hit it and quit it from Bolivia to Chili!  Raul who was about to party, we salute you!  I think all the men (and maybe even Linda), were more than little jealous. 
       For now there was the road to think about, or lack there of.  By now we were beyond the salt flats.  Volcanic ash and dried mud from the rainy season formed deep grooves in the road.  I used these tracks from last season´s treks to find my direction the best I could. 

       In the far distance, up along the mountains and directly ahead, we noticed some lumps in the landscape.  We all agreed that it must be a town.  Road or not we were going to head towards it and see if we couldn´t buy some water.  On this decision Raul was quite passive and we took his snoring as a sign of agreement.  Tracks in the mud would veer off to the left and right but everything seemed to be taking us in that direction.  And it was none to early.  We needed our daily dose of Coke and Pringles.  The hearty were already talking about a noon glass of red wine and piece of bread.  I had long ago rolled down the window and started smoking, acting the part and demanding to be tipped in Bolivian Pesos for my role as tour guide.

       In hindsight I´m not sure if the road became more difficult or I just started to proceed with more caution because this group of buildings was definetly not a town.  A dozen or so oval structures took shape.  They were lined in a very organized fashion and had a short five foot wall encasing the entire area.  As I had never seen any round architecture before anywhere in South America (other than a church dome) I believed them to be tents.  In my mind this could only mean one thing.  Military.

       Up until this point we had been pretty jovial.  We snapped shots of Raul passed out and I swirved the truck west to east just to watch him sway in his sleep.  Bastard that he was, he remained asleep and stoic like an Incan stone artifact.  There was no denying what we were looking at though.  The road was even and I could tell it had been pushed to the side by a machine and grated.  The lack of rock made the tires quiet and the road took on an ominous sound.  White rock began lining either side of the road escorting us to a gate ahead.  Signs in Spanish gave directions but we had no idea what they said.  We did notice that they were not pedestrian in nature.  I felt as though we were entering area 51.  It´s one thing to see the familiar yellow signs with the sillhouette of a woman and child dashing across the road.  It´s another thing entirely when they have barbed wire, rifles and landmines on them.

       I reduced the speed of the Landcruiser to 30km and approached a clay hovel that had a decrepid wooden post blocking our way.  Along the mounside gypsm had been used to write the words Bolivian Militaria in giant script.  The Irish boys clutched their ipods and I could almost here U2´s Sunday Bloody Sunday coming from the earphones.  Linda was knudging Raul harder now but he was lost in the slumber of his birthday.  As the driver of precious cargo I tried to appear as though all was normal but I too, couldn´t mask my fear.

       Outside the gate were 3 young guards.  They couldn´t have been any older than eighteen and they all had Russian built AK47´s losely slung across their shoulders.  As I rolled the truck to a stop at the gate, I´m not sure what was noticed first, their amazement to see me driving or my fear of imprisionment and death.  The commander looked at me, then at the tour truck and back to me.  He furrowed his young brow; I could see this made no sense to him.  He may have tightened his grip on his rifle a bit when he motioned me closer.  I thought I was goig to be shot with only four Irish kids who loved the Beatles to bear witness.

       Linda knocked Raul so hard his head almost hit the window.  He didn´t need to raise his sunglasses for me to see the surprise on his face.  I think he dropped the pringles that had been nestled in his lap.  Feigning that all was as it should be Raul laughed, offered an hello and motioned the guard to the other side of the truck.  The guard wasn´t as confindent as Raul but he came around the back side to where the door had been opened.  Another guard took his place at my side and said nothing.
       It´s customary for guides to come upon check points or toll roads where they pay a fee which has already been included in our price.  They show ID, pay the money and off we all go.  This was a little different.  Raul fumbled around for his identification and then produced a rather large sum of cash.  He seemed a little out of sorts but cross cultural differences are hard to decipher.  Once the money had changed hands the tone of the entire scene altered.  The guards snickered at the fact that I was driving and made friendly eye contact.  A few even raised their hand in a welcoming gesture.
       The gate was lifted and we were allowed to pass through.  What exactly we crossed I´ll never know.  Raul laughed loud with a sense of new found ease, muttered something in Spanish and was back to his dreaming within minutes.  Not sure what to do, I kicked the truck into gear and proceeded towards Chili.  Not 3 miles down the road Raul woke and motioned for me to stop.  My day as a Bolivian Tour Guide was at an end.  Militia or no, I was sad to relinquish the wheel.

Here are pictures of Salar de Uyuni and the surrounding area:

      

    

uyuni - Create slideshow

La Paz

       La Paz.  With her dizzing off balance height, her whirlwind of traffic, people and vendors.  Her music never stops; locals and tourists alike delight in her sounds until the morning light is at arm´s length.  She is alluring like a woman engaged in an exotic and foreign dance and dangerous like a dark alley with to many encroaching shadows.  She takes your breath away.  Literally.  At 12,007 feet she sits as Inca once did overlooking her people, all the while grining at being the heighest city in the world.  
       As the locals sit selling their wares, chewing the medicinal and mythical coca leaf, tourists race like out of focus neon lights prepping their noses for the cheap cocaine.  La Paz is where you set your clock to noon so you know when to rise from a comotose slumber.  There is an old poem that says, ¨where the Inca shall find comfort and healing and prosperity from the coca leaf, the white man, when he attempts to let it enter his body, shall find only pain and his veins will run through his body in chaos.  He shall encounter only poison and a shattered mind.¨ That is a rough paraphrase but what an accurate prediction of the future.

       It is early today when I wake.  I sip on some coca tea that I bought from and exteremly kind mother who was selling on the street.  My head faintly pounds from the music and costumes of last night´s festivities.  I am toying with the idea of a brief walk down to the Witches Market where an exhilar for any aliment can be purchased.  Dried llama fetus´s hang everywhere.  When a new home is purchased they are burried in the front to wash the house clean and ward off evil spirits.  It is impossible not to stare at the tiny creatures, dried up with eyes wide open.  Such a brief moment they had in this world.  Their first breath was immediately followed by their last and in those eyes I see them screaming, ¨Wait!  I want to be a blessing in life before you make me a martyr in death.¨ Tiny forepaws that aren´t yet totally developed stretch up to cover their face rather than hang down to take a first step on dry soil and stumble to drink their mother´s milk.  I don´t know whether they are still born or untimely ripped from their mother´s womb.  I suspect the latter.  So hang the hundreds of MacDuff´s, killers of Macbeth just as the witches prophesied.
      My eyes wander over them, past the armadillos and charm braclets of animal claws and teeth.  Thousands of tiny viles filled with liquids and powders fill the stalls, promising to to cure everything from poor digestion to fertility.  I stop just for a moment to examine one witche´s brew a little closer.  It is enhance the size of a man´s member.  Hmmm....who couldn´t use an extra inch or two?  But the hag will not sell to foreigners and she cast an evil eye on me while I snap a photo and move on.
       I  stumbe and try to catch my breath on the steep cobblestone streets.  Around the corner is the famous black market.  Here in what consumes dozens of city blocks a person can buy anything from fabric to stereo equipment.  Tobacco, alcohol, toys, hardware supplies etc.  All of it seems neatly packaged and ready for Western consumption.  But it will never make the western shore.  Pirated, it now sells for pennies on the dollar in La Paz.  I had to pick up some Camel smokes since they were only four dollars for 10 packs!  I am amazed at the vast amount of toilets, faucets and piping s this whole continent seems to be void of any sort of septic system or sanitation.
       Tonight Linda and I have a ten hour bus ride that will herd us and hundreds of other weary travellors out of La Paz and south Uyuni where the world´s largest salt flats reside.  We will spend three quiet days in a Landcruiser touring southern Bolivia and camping in mud villages along the way.  It will be a welcome change to the disharmony of Bolivia´s capital.  I prefer the quiet open space and dirt roads of the country to the dazzling cities and throngs of local buses spewing out endless amounts of carbon minoxide.  When I go to wash my face and clean my nails, I like to know that I am washing simple soils rather than soot and exhaust fumes.


Adios La Paz.  Adios Boliva.
Estoy consados y debil con su enfermo.
Gracias para su casa y comida y personas,
Estoy caminando a la Sol.
Bienvendios Chili!

Oh Bolivia.

1-11-09

       It just occured to me to put the dates of when these were written because I don´t post them for days after. The sequence is European, day/month/year. It´s amazing how backwards the states are in everything. My fellow travelers look at me with glazed eyes when I tell them how many miles I´ve travelled or how high we are in feet. Why couldn´t King whoever have had a ten inch foot! We´d all be in the same page.

       Anyway...it´s 9:30 pm and Linda and I are rushing like mad lamas to make our bus from Cusco to Copacobana, Bolivia.  We have not travelled by bus yet but were quite accurate in assuming that it would be a mad house.  The station is cold and buzzing with an uncontrolled, incohearant level of noise and excitement.  We seem to be the only two travellers lost in its sea of irrational composition.  But when I slow down, breath deep and let the noise fade and the movement slow, I see another picture.  I begin to see the other scared faces speckled throughout the crowd;  travellers like us, who have no clue where they are supposed to be.  We are all clutching our packs, white knuckling it through the mass of locals, dogs, vendors and pick pockets trying to find our platform.

       Linda manages to find the right line and we make our way onto the bus.  One quick prayer for my luggage and on I go.  It´s now 10:50 and we were supposed to be on our way at ten.  We have learned not to be early now.  Licky for us our double decker bus is full of fellow nomads, weary and scared.  We feel safe enough to let our guard down and go to sleep, hoping that our day packs will be there under our seats when we awake.  The tempature drops to 50 degrees in the bus and now I am angry that I declined a blanket.  Such is life and the learning process begins.

       I am awoken to our caretaker hurrying us to get off the bus.  Peeking through the thin drapes, I peer out the window expecting to find the sleepy town of Copacobana on the shores of Lake Titicaca.  Instead I see desert.  Miles of dry and barren land in every direction.  Why are we being ushered off our bus?  Our bags are already on the dirt waiting for us.  One by one we gather our things and are directed to a very small bus, a van really.  It looks older than any Inca ruin I have seen but the motor is running so we get on.  Our driver takes us to the border of Peru and Bolivia and seems annoyed that he has to wait for me to get a Visa.  No other forgeiners need a Visa for Bolivia but since America declared a war on drugs (Bolivia´s number one export, and 80% of it to the U.S.A., this is how they responded).  Another 40 minutes to Lake Titicaca.  A small Bolivian boy and his father, who we squeezed in along the way, sit facing me and stare with faint interest at my skin and fair color.
       Finally we arrive and gather our belongings to begin a short hike up hill to our Hostel.  Copacobana is a quiet religious town thriving only because it sits next to Lake Titicaca.  The lake is a massive body of water at 3820m (12,532 feet) with two notable islands.  Isle del Sol is the birthplace of the sun in Incan mythology.  After staying one night in Copacobana we will take a two hour boat ride on the worlds highest navigable body of water and stay on the island. 

       At Copacobana near our hostel we found a local church that was built with a Moorish influence between 1605 and 1820.  The locals make long pilgrimages to see the monk who blesses them for health and prosperity.  I snuck a picture here while he was meditating (highly discouraged).  There is a chasm behind the church where for hundreds of years they light candles in hommage to the Virgin Mary.  Wax covers the floors and the walls are black with soot.  It is called Capilla de Vellos and if you ever visit, don´t miss it. 

       Linda and I will spend a quiet night here watching the sun dip over one of the world´s highest lakes.  We have no idea what to expect but have been told that for $5 U.S. we can get a room with a view of the lake.  We have to be willing to lug or packs up 200 meters of stairs but why not?  We are used to the abuse!

Vagabonding Life

It occurs to me now that I have always underestimated the value of toilet paper. It is unheard of in the public bathrooms and restaurants that I visit. I have learned to keep a stash readily available in my daypack and I´m finding that I use it more than anything else I have brought with me. And with a frequency that almost scares me.

To be caught without toilet paper can cause quite an emergency here. At a local market a man charged me .50 soles (.33 U.S.) to use the toilet. When I entered the tiny room I found it to be little more than a hole in the ground. No flushing required right? Looking around I found that there was no toilet paper. I left to find the kind man who had taken my money and inquire about my situation only to find him gone. Missing in action just like my toilet paper!

Moving on....what about mosquitos? We all hate them. They are tiny, fast and have an addicts taste for gringo blood. See my leg in this picture! That happened in about 30 seconds after changing into shorts at a patio cafe in Aguas Caliente, Peru. I ran my hand innocently down my leg to find it covered in blood. Twelve hours later my leg looked like this! Deet 100% is the common cologne for all smart travellers. Linda brought along a full body mosquito suit but I have yet to see her wear it.