No, I Don´t Want to Buy Weavings. Potolo, Bolivia

More glorious camion rides later, in the minuscule village of Potolo, I discovered that I´m probably the first gringa ever to arrive there without the intent to stock up on indigenous weaving. I actually think they began to despise me, inviting me into their huts hungrily hoping I would buy buy buy like the slews of foreigners before me. The disappointment was widespread and it turned out to be an awkward day of wandering the same three earthen streets upsetting the population of this adobe oasis left and right with my reluctance to reach for a dollar filled wallet. The hounding demands of "Don´t you want to buy weaving" soon we´re followed by responses from passerbyers "No, she doesn´t want to buy anything". Then I felt, or hopefully imagined, the words behind their stare, "Well then what are you doing in our village gringa?". In disgust of myself, I paid one woman for a photo. After her endless begging for something, this is all I could imagine I wanted from her. Sadly, this was followed by another woman who, overhearing the conversation, insisted to me that she has traditional clothes to...she can go home and change...and then I can pay her for photos as well. Tourism is a wild beast of camera clad power dynamics.

By nightfall, I was sitting at Potolo´s only street stall, trying to eat away the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach with a plate of fried chicken and mayonnaise. A feeling of otherness, undeserved riches, and sadness for the poverty of the homes I had been invited into. It wasn´t just their poverty, but the fact that "poverty" is far more than complex than simply material and, at the same time, nothing more than relative and perspective, and this relativity takes on a mangled face when their economy is propped up, and their self-worth surely diminished, by weaving-wanting, white tourists. And all of it is really nobody´s fault persay, just the way of things, and this is perhaps the saddest part. So I liberally squeezed out the mayonnaise while Jon Claude Van Dam fought the entire South Pacific in full-volume dubbed Spanish, and village boys gathered around one of the only TVs within hundreds of miles to cheer him on.

Outside Sucre

The Chileno shared my desire to leave Sucre in the throws of its own squables. So we took to the highway once again, with plans to reconvene at our destination; a major intersection in the city outskirts where highways converge and camions sit waiting to carry peasants into the mountainous country-side. Christian had a sizable head start as I waited for the appropriate micro to travel, stop and go, though the streets of urban, third-world chaos. But I passed him on a long stretch of incline, throwing him a peace sign out the window, and we arrived almost at the exact same time. Aboard the first camion we encountered, the scene was pretty much what we expected, the marvel of transportation that could never, EVER exist in our parts of the world. Large, open bed trucks full of everything and anything you could almost ever and never imagine are by far my favorite means of transport. "Do you think they are more strange to us, or us to them" I questioned. A minute´s pondering and a quick analysis of the puzzled stares we were receiving, and I´m pretty convinced they were more interested in the two undeniable outsiders nestling into the hay covered bed of the truck.

We accepted an offer to share in the marry, early-morning drinking of rubbing alcohol with some very inebriated young men. This we immediately regreted, and declined all further insistence, on account that it was akin to drinking acid. So much for trying to fit in with the locals. After a couple hours we unloaded our bags, waved good bye to the drunks and puzzled faces, and began our day of hiking.

We calculated that we walked over 50 km that day, due to being lost and re-found, lost and re-found all the live long day. Such days truly exhaust my Spanish vocabulary. So, between views of 2500 year old rock paintings and a scenic stint down an ancient Incan trail, we succumbed to silence. By 11pm, hungry, incredibly thirsty and exhausted, we finally arrived both at our destination and the realization (always after the fact) that over half of our hike could have been avoided with slightly better map reading skills. Awesome. Anyway, we camped out, ate our fill of camp stove delicacies and I gave the leftover packet of mayonnaise to the exalted virgin statue that lived in the little chapel we were camping behind. Ok, albeit a bit blasphemous, but I maintain that if these Virgins like mayonnaise half as much as the populations that worship them, my gift is going to go over fabulously in the realm of the goddesses.

In the morning, we finally went our separate ways, the last words I heard from Christian were "Siga Viajando!", or "keep traveling" as he waved from his bike, that was surprisingly unharmed after its rough ride with the cargo of the previous days camion ride, and took off back in the direction of Sucre and eventually, someday, Chile.

Sucre Part 1

The Chilano and I split-up in Potosi, him leaving one day before me, with plans of reconvening upon arrival in Sucre. Mid-afternoon the following day, I was on a bus effortless cruising the mountainous terrain by way of combustible engine, when I passed him huffing and puffing, by bicycle, up the highway. I swallowed the urge to make sassy faces at him through the window. We managed to find each other, in a city, Sucre, literally under siege by protest.

So Sucre wants to be capital of Bolivia. Bueno. Actually, more accurately, the citizenry just down right refuses to admit that 100 years ago Sucre lost a civil war that relocated the official federal headquarters to La Paz. With a bullheadedness that I´ve learned is very Bolivian, they just won´t let it die and seem to be willing to pull the entire country into a nation-wide spitting match over the issue.

Basically, its a political mess; a class-war generations old, predicated on the under-education of basically the entire population. To start, Bolivia is proudly presenting the world with one of the only examples of an indigenous president; a president, Evo Morales, who is full blooded Native Indian, figuratively one of the opressed rather than a descendant of Spanish Colonizers. His platform is saturated with promises to elevate the poverty and oppression of Bolivian native peoples and, to achieve this, he has taken his governance on quite a radical path, nationalizing various industries, rewriting the constitution, and becoming strongly aligned with Hugo Chavez of Venezuela. He´s blatantly challenging hundreds of years of history where "rich" and "colonial blooded" have been basically synonymous, and upsetting more than a few prominent people in the process, among them is Sucre´s relatively weathy population.

Logistically speaking, Sucre has basically no reason to be the Capital of Bolivia. With a population of 250,000 it completely lacks infrastructure as a global city; such as sufficient federal buildings, an international airport, or a work force properly educated and trained to make a federal government function. Nor does Bolivia have the money to develop it as one. Yet the entire city is parading through the streets, unified under this cause. So why does everybody continue to be so insistent? I tried diligently to get to the bottom of this conundrum during my visit. I made it a habit of asking everyone, and I mean everyone, to give me valid, political reasoning why the capital should be moved to Sucre. Here´s all I got...

"Because Sucre is the TRUE capital"...

"Because Sucre was the capital FIRST"

"Because democracy was born in Sucre"

"Because Sucre is centrally located in Bolivia"

"Because changing the capital will bring more money and development to Sucre"

Bueno, basically there doesn´t seem to be one reason that carries much political backbone. In the end, its a way for a rich urban populous (Sucre is one of the richest cities in the country) to express their descent for a federal government (Evo Morales) that for once, isn´t putting them first. Its an excuse to take to the streets and to light things on fire in the name of their own pride and anger.

I´m sure without the blockades in the streets, everything from boulders to trucks and buses to flaming tires and brush fires, Sucre is just a charming city. I visited some great museums and even got a tip from one of an indigenous village known for its weaving, in the surrounding mountains. With the arrogance of the protesters heating up and weighing me down, it was time to get out of the city. Don´t get me wrong. I love protest, but only when its fighting to overturn an unjust status quo, not maintain it.

Potosi, Bolivia

Potosi, Bolivia is perhaps one of the strangest places on earth. And frankly, I´m shocked to have not known anything about it before my visit to Bolivia. In fact, for about one hundred years (about 1560-1660) it was the largest, most prosperous, booming city in the Western Hemisphere provoking a common Bolivian phrase "vale un Potosi" (rich as Potosi). But today Potosi is as poor as it once was prosperous, and, despite huge advancements in mining technology, workers are as exploited as ever. The cerro itself resembles a giant honeycomb, whose open cells bear mute testimony to its gaudy–and tragic–history. With a local economy tied tragically and swinging like an unpredictable pendulum according to global mineral prices, today only a few things are certain. The work is unbearably barbaric, a form or mining with hand tools and man-powered pulley systems that lower the littlest of the men (or often children) into dynamite blasted-out shafts that extends deep into the heart of the mountain. The average miner will last only ten years before contracting a fatal respiratory illness. For the exception of a few recently formed cooperatives for the laborers, its everyman for himself. Thus each man is earning the cash equivalent of what minerals he hauls out of the mountain each day. There are effectively no labor laws or regulations, so, in search of their fortune, in hopes hitting it big, and the chance to never have to wake another morning to return to that mountain, men will work 10, 12, 15, or sometimes 20 hours without rest. They earn between $8-$12 per day and there is absolutely never a lack of labor. Almost all of them are indigenous Indians that have migrated from the countryside; some of the poorest people in the world that live their lives caught in the cracks, in the margins, of our tragic dance of modern development.

Potosi is the "worlds highest city" and at 4000 meters the altitude is really no joke. For me, a flight of steps equates near heart failure. I can´t comprehend the physical exertion of the miners. To cope, the miners have mouths packed with coca leaves (and rotted teeth), literally dripping with the green juices. The leaf of the Coca plant, a source of enormous controversy in between the Bolivian and American governments, is proven to help alleviate altitude sickness, hunger and fatigue and has been used socially, culturally and ritually by Andean people for more that 2500 years. Initially it was outlawed by Spanish colonialist, until they quickly realized the benefit it produced in their enslaved labor force.

Christian, the Chileno, and I arrived at another unknown dark middle-of-the-night, freezing hour. And again I passed countless pitch-black, shivering hours inside the bus, waiting for day break. But if its between this and paying for a room, I´ll take it, chilled bones and all. At day break, we found a room, and set out to see the mines. There are tours. Oodles of tours where they´ll take you up the mountain, give you a silly full body miners suit to wear, boots, helmet and all and after prancing around in your funny new clothes and posing for smiling group shots, "Hey, look at us, we´re real miners" they do explosive demonstrations so you can ooh and aah at the homemade dynamite. Then they´ll take you into the mine to see how the men work and even hand over a shovel or two to let the bravest group members give it a go. The biggest tourist brute will swing the pick or the shovel a few times, grinning while his girlfriend takes photos, and then collapse in high altitude exhaustion. Sorry to sound like a pessimist, but this is just nauseating. We´re talking about one of the gravest workers rights situations in the world, an emblem of global inequality, and a mine that has taken the lives of over 8 million slave laborers (both literal slaves and economic slaves). This is like getting a pretend number "tattooed" on your arm before skipping your way, camera clad, through a concentration camp. I just couldn´t do it. So Christian and I asked for bus directions to the mine and just took ourselves up the mountain to check it out. Finding a way in proved easy as everyone was keen take a few Bolivianos to walk us around their work sites. And hey, better the money goes directly to them, then to some tourist agency called "Gringo Enterprises" in the city. We visited a few sites. Absolutely chilling places where each gaping entryway into the mountain was blackened by the blood of a llama, its bones and skulls littering the ground, left over from a twice annual sacrificial ceremony to keep the miners safe. At one, I was riveted, my feet cemented in place by the impressionable, unforgettable site of one group of young men marching, trance-like, from one of the shafts. There headlamps produced a strange suspended bobbing light against their blackest of black work environment, like orangish glowing stars dancing from the depths of the mountain. And finally they emerged into the daylight, rocks crunching under weathered shoes, with bodies, and presumably lungs too, powdered ghost white by the fine mineral dust of their dynamite explosions.

Un Chico Chileno

My first encounter with the Chilean was spotting him, hauling booty, across the giant frozen deer lick (if you didn´t grow up in Michigan, maybe it escapes you that this is a referance to a giant block of salt). He was wearing some sunglasses-goggle-things that made him look strikingly like a grasshopper. The carload of us took to hooting and hollaring at him, giving him props for taking on such an expidition by bike. Later we actually met him while our 4x4 stopped off on the "Isla del Pescado", a fish shaped island peppered picturesquly by cacti. We learned he had actually come all the way from Chili, on his bicycle. And then again he and I met, the night the three-day tour concluded, and I was aboard my next overnight bus to Potosi. I´m sitting there waiting for departure and guess who stumbleds aboard, hagarded as ever? Having removed his sun-goggles, it was clear and comical to see that the combination of relentless high-altitude sun, its intensified glare off the blaring white salt flats, and his buggy eyewear had produced serious facial tan lines that made even the worst farmers tan look normal. Now, goggles down, he had an incredibly impressive liking to a racoon. We became instant friends.

Salar de Uyuni

Mom was delyed several days due to a very inconvienant pickpocking incident in the Rodrigez Marketplace of downtown La Paz. But the day she left, I got out of town on the first available bus to the Salar de Uyuni, the worlds largest salt flats. Like Utah, minus the mormons and with a lot more salt. The bus arrived a little earlier than expected (what, am I in Bolivia any more?). And since there is next to nothing one can do when arriving in a new city at 2am, its helpful that in Bolivia it is permitted to sleep in the bus until day break; which I did, shivering in the briskness of the below freezing night. The odd, salty landscape of the Salar is certainly as awe-inspiring as pictures make it out to be. But there´s one thing that pictures can´t convay, the COLD, the very, incredibly, three days of bumping along the desert in an unheated 4x4 and sleeping in equally unheated "hotels" in the middle of the oppressive salt dessert, cold. Not only is it 4:30 am when they hustle you out of bed to be whisked away in the 9-person-packed 4x4 to see various heavily touristed, yet incredible attractions, but its 10 degrees below zero...and we´re talking celsios. And its a good thing the desert doesn´t offer many driving obsticals because our driver, Jose, had only one fuctional eye, the other was either missing or somehow out-of-wack, hidden behind a crazy mess of guaze and medical tape.

Family Time Conclusion Aug 1st-14th

After chasing down monkeys in the forest and eating precariously preserved foods for three days in the Parque National de Madidi, we headed to Copocabana situated gorgeously on the shore of el famoso Lago Titicaka, the worlds highest navigable lake. Copacabana just so happened to be gearing up for its once annual fiesta of the Virgin. Every city seems to have some Catholic Virgin to whom the citizenry attribute scores of miracles. Therefore virginity, though only in women, is very highly regarded. Of course this disparity; virginity in women but not men, is mathematically, absolutely impossible given that it takes two to tango. Thus, the exalted virgin bit is merely a patriarchal sham of organized religion to dominate and control the sexuality of women, if you want to know how I feel about it. Anyway, Copacabana was busy honoring the Virgin by baptizing the hoods of extemely festively decorated cars, buses, taxis and all else motorized with holy wine. Where or how this tradition originated is beyond me but taxistas and bus drivers were arriving in flocks from far flung Bolivian villages to have the Virgin work her magic on their automobiles. Aside from this odd automobile baptism, Bolivians were getting absolutely sloshed in the streets and gorging on the multitude of sweets from the millions of vendors that had set up shop to take advantage of the festival´s crowds. Escaping the furry, we headed via a tourist packed ferry, to Isla del Sol, and arrived there not to long after the advent of electricity. We easily passed two days by hiking ancient Incan terraces and llama watching on this land where, according to dogma, the first two Incan gods (man and wife) rose together out of the lake. Returning to Copacabana, only long enough to catch our onward bus, we were off to Cuzco, the original capital of the Incans and later Repubic of Peru.

Cuzco is an absolutely gorgeous city, chock full of brilliant restaurants, cobblestone streets straight out of your wildest colonial architectural dreams (if you have those), and fabulous fair-trade-option-shopping. We were sure to take advantage, sampling oven roasted Guinea Pig, a national delicacy served roasted, head, little feet, tail and all. We can thank ancient Anden Indians, who were the first to domesticate the Guinea Pig, for our little fury pets today. Machu Picchu was, of course, nothing short of incredible, though unfortunately, Aguas Calientes at its base, is a tourist dump. I happily was able to count on my brother to wake at 4:30am to hike to Machu Picchu, avoiding the slew of tour bus that carry the daily limit of 500 visitors to the top of the mountain. Judging by the dangerously small size of the steps all over the restored archaeological mecca, I´m convinced that Incans had microscopically small feet.

Lastly, I must make comment to our mountain bike trip down the "Worlds Most Dangerous Road". "Our" being only Mom and I...can you imagine Randy (clumsy and absent mind being among the many adj one could use to describe him) embarking on a bicycle ride that involves cliffs and potential death?! We descended about 12,000ft over the course of 42 miles, in about 4 hours. Simply put, the unrivaled feeling of flying by bicycle past a bus full of Bolivians gazing in astonishment out their windows at 40mph is just plain indescribable.

I want it that way...

I am currently sitting in an internet cafe in the corner of the world where Bolivia meets Paraguay meets Brasil. I´m trying, rather unsuccessfully (but oh my is it an adventure) to get to the Rio Paraguay from where I have heard its possible to hitch rides on cargo boats all the way to Asuncion. The river, however, seems allusively out of my reach. More on that to come. However, I would simply like to note what has brought me here this evening; a recent friend who dragged me here demanding I translate Backstreet Boys lyrics for him into Spanish. So after we print out the words to these lovely world hits circa 1999 (?), I´ll be spending the evening laughing with my dictionary. Tu eres mi fuego...mi unica deseo...me crees cuando digo...Yo Lo Quiero Asi. How weird...the words fire and desire rhyme in spanish as well...

Family Time...The Amazon

I skipped out of Cochabamba late in July to sleep fantastically on an overnight joint back to La Paz. This is when I awoke, stumbled groggily from the bus, to a city that was gorgeously blanketed in snow. Within two days I was met by members on my family (Mom, Randy and Joe) brave enough to test their stomachs and patients in a country like Bolivia. We had an itinerary pretty much settled, but judging by certain unplan-ables, like the snow and Bolivias love for erecting political blockades in the streets as a means for getting their way, we knew we were ultimately just resting on luck. But really, when aren´t we though, no? The next two and a half weeks unfolded rather fabulously, riddled expectantly by intra-family annoyances while transversing environments as vast as ancient civilizations on the Isla del Sol of Lake Titicaca, Machu Picchu, Parque National de Madidi on the fringe of the Amazon Basin, gargantuan sprawling cities like La Paz and Arequipa, the tourist trap of Aguas Caliates (but with good food), world heritage site Cuzco and, of course, the death defying "World´s Most Dangerous Road" by bicycle.

We took off immediately by plane for Rurrenabaque (45 minutes), the jumping off point for visits to Parque Nation de Madidi (known most notably for housing 10% of all bird species know to man). I have never, in my more recent days of "adulthood" been arrested by such fear as that afternoon. The pilots were conveniently sitting directly in front of me causing me to conclusively decide I would prefer not to know exactly what they´re up to. Within minutes we were literally bouncing through a mountain pass where the peaks, albeit mighty and remarkable, were cutting wounds in the Bolivian skyline much higher than our meager little flight machine and dangerously close to the planes flapping wings. And yes, these little wings were virtually flapping as the wind currents hurled us through the Andes. I mean really, isn´t the whole point of flight to put you ABOVE the ground. This sight, of looking up in horror to the drastic snow peaked mountains directly outside my window, was soon replaced by that of looking down onto a dirt runway that had seemingly been carved straight out of the Amazon, for our aircraft's landing convenience, in the very recent past. But I was purely elated to see the land rushing up to meet our lovely little craft, even if it was bumpy red dirt.

Within two days of the jungle tour Mom was unfortunately met by a dreadful introduction to the weaknesses of the western gastro-intestinal system...or perhaps the relative harshness of unrefrigerated meats and irrigated by only-the-good-lord-knows-what vegetables. So we idled town the Beni River, a sort of intestinal-shaped passage into pristine Amazon forests, to the romantic sounds of her puking over the side of the boat. Forest walks were met by considerably more flora than fauna. Though, as we were told, this type of habitat actually houses a myriad of animals, however hidden brilliantly by thousands of years of evolutionarily attained tricks and the thick jungle landscape. We did happen upon...or were happened upon rather, by a passing herd of wild boar. We stood frozen while the foliage (like the ground beneath of very feet) not more than 10 meters in front of us shook violently for minutes as they passed in a fury of ugly snorting and a equally wretched smell.

In the same hike, our fabulous guide was able to identify the sounds of Howler Monkeys in the canopy above. "Quieren ver los?" He turned around and asked with the heavy undertones of boyhood excitement. How can you turn that down...yes, of course we want to see then. And we were off on a full sprint, bushwhacking our way after him as he called out responses to our ancestral friends. And believe you me, there was a point in the midst of this little adventure where I was leaping over a downed log, after frantically running blindly through the forest for what surely felt like much longer than the reality, that I swear to god I made internal contact with some long ago forgotten part of my DNA. Ya, sounds a bit ridiculous, but for the following moments, I wasn´t just on vacation anymore, I was part of the forest and needed to catch those howler monkeys. Ok so maybe it was just remnants of a country childhood where any sound was enough to send you on an adventurous rampage after imaginary demons...or my recent viewing of Mel Gibson's historically incorrect, generally sucky but high adrenaline Apocolypto...but it was AWESOME. Eventually, we caught up with them, surely thanks more to our guides cunning than my recently resurrected wild ways.

July in Cochabamba

After deeming my attempt at spirituality in La Planeta de la Luz an utter failure, I returned to civilization, Cochabamba that is, its cafes and pubs and my love of watching the real world, in all its beauty and ugliness. With about one month until a long awaited visit from my family, I decided to just stay put there, gorge myself on picante cheese empenadas and seek out more classes in Español. For one month I proceeded to live a life that can really only be summed up by the word "easy", yup, purely easy. After hugging farewell to my wonderful Brasilian counterpart, I moved to a hostel en el centro where my very basic room cost me the grand total of about $3 nightly. Our previous abode, in what I could tragically refer to all the glue sniffer part of town, was a local not quite up to even my single-woman-traveler standards.

I woke daily for spanish classes from 8:30am until noon, until that got too pricey and I cut the lectures to a couple times weekly. Afternoons were spent on homework, coffee and enjoying the myriad of life displayed in La Plaza Principal. Its impossible to not fall in love with a plaza like Cochabamba´s; full of joke tellers who have a charming knack of making me, the gringa, the but of their jokes if I hang around listening too long, jello vendors (Bolivians LOVE jello), indigenous women cloaked in traditional garb and funny hats pushing carts of oranges destined to be whipped up into fresh juice right before your eyes, hippies selling thier artisan works for enough dough to move on to the next stop, Evangelists, and hip young couples in tight western jeans sucking on each others faces. I developed lovely routines of returning day after day to consume enormous fruit salads boasting all colors of the rainbow in the 25 de Mayo market and gladly paying the woman standing on the corner with the perpetually hot basket tamales 2.50bs (30 cents) for the best tamales know to man. I became a frequent visitor of CoCafe, a hip little number on Calle España, and grew to become friends with its owners and regular clientele. My personal favorites, two traveling musician from Argentina, constantly pleased the crowd with their folksy duos and typically rowdy and boisterous Argentinian flare. Leaving Cochabamba meant leaving this life of leisure and luxury...but the time had come. I had a family that would be arriving very soon to La Paz, and there´s only so long you can justify living like a princess in the "underdeveloped world".

Planeta de la Luz

Diego, my Brasilian Compañero, and I arrived via our hitched ride, to Cochabamba in the evening somewhere around the end of June (june 23rd?). Enchanted by Cochabamba´s vibrant alternative culture, artsy cafes, and live folk music we decided to stay a couple days before I set off to encounter an eco-community I was determined to live in until the end of July. Our weekend unfolded wonderfully, full of the aforementioned cafes and live music, thanks to yet another latino festival, San Jose.

Come Monday morning I packed up and left Cochabama for the eco-community in her outskirts, however, again not alone as Diego decided he had some extra time and would be interested in seeing what this community had to offer. Upon arrival the contrast between the dozen or so gorgeous natural buildings and the sprawling, neglected gardens (if you could even call them gardens) was shocking. We quickly learned that the projects founder and organizer had been away for almost one year promoting an upcoming course to be held at the overgrown site the next month. Coincidentally, in my previous communication with the coordinator, he had mentioned nothing of this break in activity. It was more like an eco-ghost-village than an active project and I immediately knew I couldn´t stay there. Despite its potential, what could I do, alone, with all that land in such a short time. However, during our taxi´s climb up the mountain we noticed another community and decided to check it out.

Immediately upon entering the walled community, Planeta de la Luz (planet of light), we were intrigued. Weaving our way through skillfully maintaned gardens, we first passed the salon, where Reiki (a healing artform) was in action. New age hippies were sprawled on the floor while the smoke of burning incense whisked around them. After being given a tour, introduced to a handful of folks and filled in on the functions of the community, we decided to give it a go.

We began with open minds and hearts...that quickly began to shift into scepticism and endless side conversation about the ludicrousy of the whole scheme. I was subjected to hours of lectures regarding various aspects of the meaning of life by Chamalu, the head master, or guru if you will. Being that the whole shin-dig went down in Spanish, I understood about 20% of his supposedly other-worldly words; my basic lessons in Guadalupe had not prepared me for this kind of language. My linguistic ignorance allowed my mind to wander and focus on other, more apparent things, like how during each session Chamalu was flanked by various women in the community who encouraged his rambling with constant body massage and pillow adjusting. After a couple days it became clear that Chamalu had two favorites, both sharing the ripe old age of 17, who spent their days prancing around the community, dressed in mere shreds of traditional fibers, providing eye candy for anyone with eyes. We took part in daily rituals and activities of varying interest, the highlight being a ceremony in the community´s absolutely gorgeous temple.

Only once annually, in celebration of the winter solstice, the temple´s giant drum beacons all members to enter, one-by-one for this sacred ceremony. When it was my turn to enter, I was promptly sent back to my room to change into a skirt. Women, apparently, are not allowed to enter in pants. This, however, was not the beginning and only served to deepen my feeling like the bad kid, or the spiritual outcast at Planeta de la Luz. Inside, the temple was huge and empty save for an alter blanketed in lit candles and the members of the community perched in meditation, "indian-style" on the floor. After coming to the conclusion that maybe we had simply been summoned there to meditate the action finally began.

We are now all standing in a circle, holding hands, in the middle if the temple. One of Chamalu´s hot-bods, dressed in her regular next-to-nothingness, begins to dance around us with a single burning candle in her hands. She lights an individual candle for each of us, all the while music booming from the temple´s new-age surround sound system is chanting the words "Mira la Luz, Solo la Luz" (look at the light, only the light) again and again and again and again. Just at the point when I think I might be hypnotized forever by this repitituos chanting, Chamalu´s voice brakes the monotony in full amplified echo effect. I´m immediately reminded of one of the final scenes in "The Wizard of Oz"; when the motlé crue is finally standing face to face with the bellowing voice of the wizard, who is really just a man, a fake, behind a curtain. Reassured and excited that I had not, in fact, been hypnotized, I had to hold back my laughter at Chamalu´s voice echoing around me.

Parts of the ceremony certainly held value and deserve significantly more than my ridicule. There was a traditional offering of Coca leaves to Pachamama, or Mother Earth, and some extremely hippie dancing, that I was able to get down with. But when the night finally ended with half the community drenched in their own tears, others collapsed in exhaustion on the floor, and yes, of course, another young lassy in the arms of Chamalu, I was happy for it to be over.

Up to Speed

There is no order here...but I feel as though I can´t move on until I fill in some of June´s gaps (the gaps of April and May being way to far back for even attempting at resurrection). So let´s backtrack a bit, way back to my re-entry into Bolivia (after Brasil, its Permaculture Conference, gun shots in the night, a brief trip up the Atlantic coast and two very brillant weeks of romantic interlude in Rio) I crossed back into Bolivia on June 11th after illegally extending my stay in Brasil by two weeks, a fact which I was lucky went unnoticed by the border official thanks to my successful strategy to strike up chirpy, flirtatious niceties BEFORE handing over the passport. From the border, I bordered the notorious "death train", rightfully named for its propensity to derail and dish carnage into the semi-tropical Bolivian landscape. Trains always hold the promise of countryside unable to be seen anyway else. So, as promised, we seemingly passed straight through the backyards of rural poverty...me marveling in my mind over how life within the walls of those sandy-floored, slanted shacks unfolds for their inhabitants. While gasping for the hot, sticky air and bargaining with persistent child vendors, I was brought back to memories of endless train rides across India, only this time trading empenadas for samosas and CocaCola and jello for chai. I suspect it was within the confines of this humid, unsanitary transport that I encountered the little critter who crawled into my head and caused all the trouble I had written about previously. (as a side note, the critter was in fact found, dead, in my head on the third day I return to the hospital to have the wound cleaned). After rocking and rolling its way for 20 hours across Western Bolivia, we arrived, alive, at our destination, Santa Crux, Bolivia, and I moved immediately onward to the tranquil, sleepy village of Samaipata where two notable things happened; firstly, I began growing the horn I have now mentioned several times, and secondly, I met up with a lovely Brasilian named Diago with whom I began two weeks of amiable, adventure-filled travel that included hitching rides with impossible-to-understand Bolivian truckers and a week spent within an underpants-less, new-age spiritual community; Planeta de la Luz.

Another Month Has Passed...

Equal to my love of places whose public transportation can always find room for one more, is my love of places that house markets where twenty simple steps can put you face-to-face with potential purchases of everything from underpants to Coca leaves (oh how the American government would loath to know how often these delicious leaves are chomped up in my mouth), dishware to freshly cooked up cow intestines, and herbal remedies to hand-woven alpaca legwarmers. The multitude of legwarmers sold and sported in the streets of Bolivia desperately begs to question if this fabulous 80s fashion trend wasn´t in fact influenced by our llama-herding, Andean neighbors to the south.

I rolled into La Paz at the pitch black 6am hour to find the world´s highest capital city blanketed in snow. Snow in July is a concept completely foreign to my logical sensibilities...but with its bitter cold, came warm memories of Christmas in Northern Michigan, snowfort making, and the simple, peaceful, stillness of freshly fallen snow.

After being robbed and promptly hightailing it out of town on my previous attempt, I´m giving La Paz another go...and the crisp starkness of this morning´s sunrise, illuminating the orange-brick buildings that percariously coat the natural crater of La Paz with a chaotic layer of human development, was enough to begin melting the cold heart I had toward the city. La Paz is perhaps the only city in the world literally built inside a crater, with the peaks of Bolivias highest mountains shadowing the city in their ever snow-capped gloriousness. Other than shooting the world´s most dangerous highway tomorrow by mountain bike (a day trip outside of La Paz), and receiving my family who will arrive to visit and travel with me on Saturday, I´m now waiting with open arms to see what else this city has in store for me.

Of things lost and stolen...

If you are lucky enough to travel in South America without having your camera lifted, there surely must be someone up above looking out for you. Clearly, there is no one up above looking out for me. To go into much detail would include resurrecting memories put to rest months ago, but the story outline is amusing and worth a brief retell.

Border crossings have never been my forte. The transverse between Peru and Bolivia during my cross-continental voyage was no exception. I crossed in midday and all formalities, exit stamp, entry stamp, black market money exchange, etc went according to plan. On the way to meeting up with a collectivo (informal, privately owned minivans that are a widely used form of transport all over the "developing world") I began chatting with a friendly woman, or rather, she began chatting with me. Both heading in the same direction, to La Paz, we ended up in the same car. The three hour ride included some pleasant small talk between us, general niceties and the like. Rather than interpret a little everyday niceness as a cause for alarm, I generally welcome these interactions as opportunities to practice a little Espanol. The collectivo dropped us in Cemerario, a not so charming barrio of the Nation´s Capital. I immediately set off in search of internet to get the contact information of a friend who I was planning on staying with. My border crossing amiga was there once again, by my side, advising that I best get the heck out of dodge (in this case Cemetario) due to its less than hospitable reputation. "I`m on my way home, there a nice internet cafe along the way, I can drop you there. Lets go" she said. Although, in reality, it was more like "Me voy a mi casa y hay una buena tienda de internet alla. Puedo dejar te alla, si quieres. Vamos." And this is how silly trusting me got properly scammed.

Within thirty seconds our taxi pulled over and an over-sized, not-so-gentle-man waving a "Policia" identification card climbed in...and thats when the real fun began. I was accused of transporting drugs across the border and a virtual explosion of yelling and chaos ensued; a whole slew of exciting details to tedious to recount. A quarter-hour of struggle and screaming boils down to...me refusing to give up my things to this crook...who was both demanding to search them and telling me he was taking me to the "station"...my "friend" insisting that I had to do as he said...and me begging the the taxi driver incessantly to please pull over the damn car (that he was just driving aimlessly along seemingly deserted city streets) so I can flee. I have heard rumor more than once that there are actually criminal rings that function under the guise of "police stations", entire centers of cons artist posing as officers. I certainly didn´t want to end up at one of those. Eventually, I folded to the policia´s aggressive demands mainly on the grounds that I was helpless and he could, quite literally, kill me if he had the mind to. I gave up my things one by one, handing them over so he could crudely rub them all over his fat nose in a feigned effort to "sniff out" any illegal substances. It all climaxed in one final burst of yelling and demands, ending with the taxi pulling over bearly long enough for the woman to reach across, open my door, and literally shove me to the curb. They were respectable enough actors. It certainly didn´t occur to me until after the taxi sped away and I was stranded camera-less, lost, and crying on some unknown La Paz side-street that surely all of them; the taxi driver, the "police officer" and "my friend" were accomplices to the crime.

Growing Horns

Yesterday, I awoke and before even having the time to wipe the sleep from my eyes, was bit by a toucan while piling my plate high with the free breakfast provided by the hostel. Undoubtably the perfect way to start a day that went on to include minor head surgury. This however, is completely unrelated to being bit by the toucan who has a harmlessly dull beak and wouldn`t be capable of injuring much more than an insect.

I have been living for several years now with a small benign cyst growing peacefully and slowly on my head...just a harmless, genetic little bump that mirrors those on the heads of generations of women in my family. My Grandma had one that grew so enormous it influenced how she wore her hair and her ability to wear hats! However, during a small and enjoyable jaunt to the nearby village of Samaipata, it began hurting something serious and growing at a shocking rate. I thought my head would explode. Within four days, I basically had a small horn the size of a golf ball growing out of the side of my head and knew it was time to make a trip to hospital. I returned to Santa Cruz, Bolivia, the most prosperous city in the poorest country on the continent and sought out the best clinic in town. Just inside the door, any of my worries about seeking health care in yet another third world country quickly melted away. This was by far the cleanest and fanciest place I`ve seen in months. I waited all day to see the doctor, a magnificent woman who chatted relentlessly, calling me "Mi Amor, Mi Amor" while she sliced into my head and removed the horridly infected cyst on the spot. The infection, she told me, was probably caused by a bug...although, despite her digging around, she was unble to find the sucker. Now, I`m walking the streets of Santa Cruz looking like a plane crash victim; a big white bandage taped on my head.

Guadalupe to Lima

Disclaimer...spell check is currently disabled...

Coincidentally, I happened to be leaving Guadalupe the same night as the brother of a friend who was setting out, to the nation`s capital, in search of his fame and fortune. Opportunity for a better life, or at least a better income, is quite nearly impossible to come by in a town like Guadalupe. So we embarked together, with his entire extended family as a going away party, on a night bus to Lima. The bus arrived just slightly shy of 5am and since my next bus wasn`t scheduled to leave the city until nightfall, we went immediately to his Aunt's home to rest, eat and spend the day. The family of four lived in an average neighborhood in Lima...entirely lacking in anything resembling urban planning, just a sprawl of chaotic, economically depressed, open market, madness with the trademark straydogs running amuck. Their home, a one room cement box, was completely without windows, only a door opening to the front, and its interior told the story of each year of their lives; walls covered in childern`s posters, shelves of toys and sports articles. Everything of their lives was packed into this one dark room. There were only two beds from which the father wakes each day to attend his PhD course in dentistry, the wife the her office administration job, the son to his first year of university and the daughter to high school. This seems to me to about sum up the definition of lack of opportunity all too prevalent in the world; people whose daily lives exemplify serious determination towards education, professionalism, and success, yet remain in absolute poverty. Furthermore, on this day, they were happily accepting a fifth member of the family into there basic quarters. He and I spent the day being hosted graciously, napping in one of the beds, getting overfed, and watching Borat on the TV which seemed to never get turned off. Finally, after being included in a ridiculous session a family photos, I set of to catch my 20 hour bus to Cuzco.

Backtracking

Falling behind makes the task of catching up frighteningly impossible. Everyday I think about how I can remedy this nearly 2 month absence in communication. Where should I begin? What can actually be said that can accurately give justice to the life I wake up to everyday? I just have to start somewhere...something I'm growing to realize I should apply to my life in general.

I returned to Guadalupe for the Semana Santa (Easter Weekend)...flocking to the beach for four days with the entire population of the peruvian inland to feast on fried food snacks and locally brewed alcohol. In the nights we packed into a filthy abandoned ranch house to chat and sing by candle-light and finally calapse for sleep on matresses...me trying my best to ignore their horrid musty smell and subsequent thoughts of their life cycle. Living a second time in Guadalupe proved to be even better than the first. Daily walks through the main plaza re-confirmed how essential community and familiarity are for my sanity. I thrive on the routine of seeing and greeting and chatting and sharing time and space with the same smiling faces everyday. The traveling backpackers circuit simply can't provide that.

After two more weeks of aroebics at the Radical Gym, and spanish classes in the house of Jose Mora, it was time to embark on my cross continental trek to Brasil. For months I had vollied back and forth about attending the International Permaculture Conference in Sao Paulo, Brasil but when I recieved information with more detailed description of what it would entail, I was sold. A non-profit organization working with youth in the favelas (slums) of Sao Paulo had been granted about 45 acres of mainly forested land for their project. This type of wild space is altogether unheard of in Sao Paulo, which is, with 20 million people, the largest city in South America. These last standing trees and unencroached openspace speaks as testiment to the goodwill generated by the beautiful work of the non-profit. The first ten days of the conference would consist of a design course where the participants would develop a largescale plan for regenerating the land and creating community-based systems for sustainable food production and income generation. Even if it meant crossing the entire South American continent by land in two weeks, I wanted to be a part of this.

It was from here in Vilcabamba that I set off to attempt volunteering at the reforestation site I had arranged. Upon arrival in Vilcabamba I called the project coordinator who informed me, to my dismay, that he was actually on vacation for the remainder of the month. This fact was quite a surprise as he had mentioned nothing of the sort in our semi-extensive email communication up to this point. None the less, I was told that there was someone at the project site that could help me engage in a project so I set off on an hour long four-by-four trek switchbacking straight up to a magnificent mountain peak where a gorgeous farm house was perched. The site was truly breathtaking and access to my own kitchen for the first self-prepared meal in months was enough to hold me there despite the seeming lack of work in the absence of the project coordinator. There was only one man residing there during the coordinator´s vacations and my presence meant that he was free to leave his post and hike down the mountain each evening, after a full days work, to sleep and eat in his mother´s home (according to a seemingly continent wide custom of living with your parents until marraige). So each night, he would leave me alone to watch some of the most perfect sunsets of my life, revel in the simple act of food preparation, and watch DVDs in Spanish until late in the night. My "volunteerism" for that period can be better translated as house sitting. So, after a week of wondering if there could be more to this experience than weeding the lawn on my hands and knees by day, house sitting by night, and fending off occasional passes from the resident mama´s boy, I decided it was time to leave. Besides, Easter week was nearing and I had an invitation to spend it back in Guadalupe with friends.

Valley of Longevity

Nearly a month has passed since I departed dear Ecuador to reconvene with friends from Guadalupe for the Samana Santa (Easter Week). Lacking time and memory, I simply will report that any searcher of gorgeously tropical, Andean, and generally preserved and thusly pristine (and for this largely overpriced) property in the Spanish speaking world shall look no farther than Vilcabamba, Ecuador. This quaint little village hosts a shockingly international community of new-age hippie type organic farmers and chic cafe owners all drawn to the valley under a common purpose; to live forever.

According to an article I read during my stay at the "Reforestation Project" (which I will expand upon later) a study was conducted by National Geographic Society after many visitors took note of the surprising numbers of extremely elderly people in the Village of Vilcabamba. The study that unfolded yielded that one´s chances of living to age 100, in general, are somewhere in the ball park of one in 174,000. In short, don´t hold your breath. However, in the village of Vilcabama ones chances are sharply (a gross understatement) increased to one in 46...yup, that´s 1/46. However can this be you ask? Is it the food, the climate, the lifestyle in general? Further studies concluded that, in fact, its the water which has traditionally been pumped and consumed directly from rivers that originate in the mountainous Amazon basin of Southern Euador and Northwestern Brazil. They are, quite literally, drinking the purest water in the world and consequently living longer than anyone on the planet. If you actually needed another argument for conserving the rainforest, there you have it. Its a life giving force of astronomic proportions.

Enchanted Morning (March 22, 2007)

This morning was a morning to remember. Maybe it was waking up in the tiny Andean town of Chuncílan to catch the 3am bus or, once aboard, its dim red interior lighting creating a mesmerizingly tranquil ambiance, or the Latino love songs blaring from its speakers, or the hologram revealing Jesus from one angle and the Virgin Mary from the other tastefully taped over its dysfunctional television or the fact that this day happily marks my two months of traveling in South America... but whatever the reason, I was wide-eyed, bushy-tailed and feeling painfully romantic about the world at large. It was as though my love affair with this planet, with traveling, with sitting still and watching a foreign world go by, was brand new again.

According to national economists, Thursday´s mark the day of one of Ecuador´s most important indigenous markets in the village of Saquisili. Thus, even at 3am, market goers of all ages were awaiting on the roadside around ever dark corner. Given my intensely romantic feelings toward the world, the sight of ancient looking indigenous ladies waiting by the roadside with bags of oranges and a sheep was about enough raw, real beauty to wet my eyes. Simply put, it was a morning worth the cost of the flight itself.

The especially early hour meant trading the feeling of eminent death by way of plunging into a soft, fluffy, fogginess, for that of plunging into a deep, dark, abyss. As to be expected, the darkness certainly didn´t stop of driver from forging onward with such haste that the words "He does this everyday" became my mantra as I awaited the sunrise.

The Man of Your Life

However, at around 5am as we rounded a corner in the dim light of pre-dawn, we were met by a long line of various vehicles jamming up the precariously narrow, dirt passage. Quite a distance up the road, but within visibility, a passenger bus like ours was clearly stuck. For about thirty minutes I watched quite a ridiculous charade of the bus, engulfed in exhaust and a gaggle of heaving, pushing, and pulling men, slowly advance up the pass; getting stuck, advancing meters, getting stuck, advancing meters until finally it crested the hill chased by a long line of its passengers racing to hop back in before it descended.

With the roadway now cleared, the long line of waiting vehicles from both directions, began attempting the pass. Several large cargo vehicles and four-by-fours (one containing a cow most certainly headed for market) were slightly luckier and struggled, fish-tailing and tire-spinning their way successfully to the top in one try. Unfortunately, the next rear-wheel drive passenger bus (again like ours) wasn´t so lucky and quickly became lodged sideways in the road. This time, I climbed down from my poor vantage point and hiked up the road for a better view of the action.

Approaching the scene, the situation became clear; it was like mud bogging the Andes with a bus. Men in waders, armed with shovels, sloshed around a 50 meter stretch of the road attempting to create traction by bringing dry dirt from the side embankments unto the roadway...embankments that are sure to erode dangerously as they´re carved into, but that´s next weeks problem. Typically, an even larger group of men stood idly by shouting out orders and opinions about the best way to go about unstucking the bus. The bus, cheerfully named with cursive red paint on its front grill, "El Hombre de tu Vida" or "The Man of Your Life", (which I found to be hilariously ironic) spent the next hour-plus with its wheels helplessly swallowed in mud, being pushed, prodded, and tied to other vehicles until finally it was pulled free by a tractor that seemingly appeared out of nowhere to its rescue.

Watching the scene was quite incredible and I couldn´t help but be overcome by thoughts of development. Its so easy to sit back and wonder why poor countries can´t just work harder...grab life by the bootstraps, rise out of poverty and develop for godsakes. I have been privy to hearing countless similarly closeminded and borderline racist comments. But watching that scene was a sobering dose of reality. There were men in business clothes, presumably headed to the city for work, ruining their one pair of dress shoes as they tried to push the bus out of the mud and several dozen young kids in school uniforms (who had woken up to catch a 3am bus to school in the city) who took to walking the rest of the 10km hoping to still make it on time. Similarly, the prospect of missing a weeks worth of income was surely quiet horrifying for the countless women headed to Saquisili´s Thursday market. I hardly believe improving infrastructure, such as paving, creating gutters or regrading a road that connects rural indigenous people to the closest major city is a top priority for a corrupt government in Quito. Especially so, considering there seems to be pretty serious racism towards indigenous peoples everywhere in Latin America. Thus, the people are left with little options other than leaving the house everyday of the rainy season equipped with rubber boots and shovels.

A Race to the End

Somehow with the excitement and adrenaline of freedom, The Man of Your Life carelessly forget to retie the multitude of goods on the roof of the bus with the rope that had been removed and unsuccessfully used in the attempts of the previous hour. It wasn´t long before woven baskets were rolling down the hillside and The Man of Your Life was obligated to stop and send passengers out in retrieval. Our bus, having cut in the long line of awaiting vehicles in attempt to pull The Man of Your Life free from his unfortunate position AND having successfully shot the bog in a single try was now barreling in at top speeds to overtake The Man of Your Life. Feeling thankful that we were simply in motion again, I was shocked by our drivers recklessness abandon for the highway ahead. What´s the rush...aren´t we all just thankful to be alive?

Within moments, the pieces started to fall together. The hours of being occupied by the mud meant that the roadside was ripe and brimming with potential passengers. Maintaining the lead on the road ahead translated into securing all those fares. The tension of the past two hours of waiting in mud-stuckiness quickly dissipated. It was a race, and we were clearly winning. With boyish glee, one passenger became the self-proclaimed scout and took to keeping a raucous, competitive eye on the road behind us. Another bus had also successfully shot the bog and was close on our tail. Between the driver, the ticket collector and this self proclaimed scout, ensued a ridiculous game of probability. Their coordinated effort consisted of the driver, driving with manic precision, his eyes on the road and his ears sharply in tune to the shouts of the scout and the ticket collector who were weighing the odds of picking up each passenger and reporting to him whether to full stop, slow down, or leave them in the dust. Picking up passengers depended on the distance of our lead and a quick determination of how rapidly the potential passenger can be shoveled into the bus. People with to many goods were simply left on the roadside. Better to forgo one fare but maintain the lead. Able bodied young men didn´t even get a full stop and were encouraged by the ticket collector to jump onto the moving bus as it rolled past.

The whole busload of felt hat wearing mountain people became entrapped by the fervor and excitement of the game and soon everyone was in cahoots shouting at the roadside waiters "Rapido, Rapido, Vamos, Vamos!" and extended arms helped literally pull stunned people from the side of the road safely onto the bus. We rolled into Saquisili moments later, with a busload full of fare-paying, ginning, passengers feeling as though we had just crossed the finishline, first. It was quite a well coordinated, it not slightly chaotic, undertaking. But, all said and done, I´d trust that driver to drive me and my first born around the world a hundred times over.

Ecuadorian Overview

Ecuadorians seem to have an insatiable thirst for mayonnaise. Its like nothing I´ve ever seen before but works out splendid for my palate. I can´t speak much to the in-home cuisine, but every corner restaurant and street vendor boasts a long list of deep fried specialties, generally served with bits of fried pork and mayonnaise. Like much of Latin America, its a corn loving culture as well. Street corners are clogged by countless vendadoras selling steamed cobs for mere cents and are sure to roll it in a vat of mayo before handing it over to you. In Quito, I actually saw a man eat a plate of plain white rice smothered in mayonnaise.

Of the three days spent exploring Quito, one of the more miraculous aspects was a five meal streak of eating accompanied by a some random Ecuadorian man who simply invited himself into my presence. Its certainly seems to be a culture that is struggling with the concept of independent womanhood. Every time, the intent has been seemingly good-natured and is a welcomed opportunity to practice my Spanish but, I must admit, I´m looking forward to branching beyond the conversation about why I´m traveling alone and where my boyfriend is. One of my meal accompaniments was a 16 year old boy who was absolutely beside himself with humiliation as his father unabashedly was attempting to set us up by pulling out a chair at my table and insisting his son join me. The meal took an embarrassing nosedive for both of them upon realizing that I was 25.

From Quito I headed south and traversed the infamous Quilotoa Loop, a rural highland pass that dangerously skirts gorgeously carved canyons cut through the Andeas and kisses Ecuador´s most picturesque crater lake, Laguna Quitlotoa. The bus rides were starkly memorable both in the fact that they were absolutely horrify in an exhilarating "this sure would be a great way to go" sort of way and in the sheer quantity of people they managed to fit inside. I certainly have a profound attraction to countries sporting bus lines that always have room for one more. One journey was spent sitting on the floor of the asile-way, cradled in the shins of a woman that had her shirt pushed up to her neck exposing both of her breasts to her infant daughter, while a frail, elderly, one-eyed man practically sat in my lap.

I´m Clean

Yesterday, I took the first hot shower since I left the states. It was like little droplets of melted heaven all over my body!

Leo Horiscope for March 14th 2007

Today you will be a complete push over. If jewelry is thrust in your face, you will buy it like its the last jewelry on earth. If a taxi driver insists there is no other way but an expensive direct route to the border, you will blindly accept his offer. If a man in plain cloths tells you that he is working with "Ecuadorian Intelligence" as a border companion, you will let him walk you over the border, to the bus station, and then to a taxi station for the Ecuadorian immigration office...at which point he will, like everyone else today, demand that exorbitant amounts of money are completely ligate. And you, being tired and alone and understanding about a quarter of what´s going on around you, will again accept the offer. But when you´ve had enough, you just might deny the only legitimate truth teller all day.

My border crossing was kind of a mess. I mean, I´m alive, in one piece, with all of my belongs. But, yesterday was a day that made me question if I really am a seasoned traveler. Do I always just BELIEVE whatever newfangled story someone throws my way?

My determination to get the heck out of tourist-haven, bikini-mecca Mancora landed me as the first passenger in a "shared" taxi late in the afternoon. Immediately, the driver began insisting that I wouldn´t make the last bus from the border to my destination, Quito (the capital of Ecuador) if we waited around for more passengers. Ok, ok, I agreed to pay for the full taxi. Its less than $7 and I needed to make that bus. Throughout the trip, his stories continued until I was enough convinced that the only way I was going to get to Quito was if he drove me directly to the border, making special stop offs at the bank and the immigration offices, rather than having him simply drop me off in a nearby town where I would handle the rest on my own. Again I agreed to his proposition, but this this time it was significantly more costly.

At the first immagration office we picked up this alleged "Intelligence Officer" to accompany me over the border. Being that I can speak 6 weeks worth of Spanish, I was pretty much under the impression that it was standard border crossing protocol to have this "officer" walk you over. With great embarrassment, I admit now that I was most certainly duped. That dude worked for the intelligence office as much as you or I. He did, however, walk me safely to the bus station, all the while telling me about all the drugs he can get from Columbia.

At the station two notable things happened...

One, I realized I had been lied to yet again by the taxi driver. Many more buses departed later into the night. An expensive, direct, personal taxi ride certainly lined the drivers pockets, but was not necessary for me to "make the final bus".

Two, just as I was boarding, I was frantically approached by an Austrian man who explained to me in broken English that he had been robbed (pointing out a sizable lump on his head) and needed my help in getting to Quito. By this time, I was slowly putting together all the myriad of ways I had been "gringoed" and was feeling exhausted with other people demands about the way things have got to be. The bus was literally pulling away. In one ear the staff were yelling for me to get in "Nina, Nina Vamos!" in the other, the alleged (I don´t trust anyone at this point) Austrian is shouting that he is helpless and moneyless. To make a long story not quite as long, if you happen to encounter a wandering Austrian out there somewhere who looks like he´s been hit over the head with a frying pan, be sure to tell him I´m terribly sorry. I just wasn´t in any emotional position to hand another bill into the mouth of someone´s demands. Sorry Mr. Austrian, I hope you found your embassy.

All said and done, I woke up with my arms tucked away inside my t-shirt, on a frigged bus that was rolling safely into Quito, which is, to my surprise, a gorgeous city perched amongst luscious foliage, in the Andes.

Some Reflections Upon Leaving Guadalupe...

Firstly, I will always wonder why neither of the toilets in the Casa de Jose Mora (where I was studying Espanol) and many others that I have experienced nationwide don't have toilet seats. Is this a cultural phenomena? I don't know...I'll keep you posted. For now, every moment of accidental contact with that cold raw inner rim conjures up bad memories of when my brother or that kid I sat next to in second grade forgot to put the seat back down.

Secondly, I've been meaning to inform you all that I am now merely two degrees of separation away from both both Miss Peru (who is the niece of Jose Mora, my teacher) and the President of Peru (who is the first cousin to Lucy, Jose's wife). That sure beats my previous claim to fame of being only four degrees away from Seinfeld!

I departed from Guadalupe last week and have admittedly been a terrible blogger. Largely, and greatfully, I believe this can be acredited to the fact that my days at the Radical Gym actually materialized into friendships and I had a social life in Guadalupe. Peruvian young people have proven to be a wonderfully fun-loving lot. It doesn't take long to fall in love with riding on the back of motorcycles or pick-up trucks headed towards the pacific coast.

I've spent the last week working my way up the PanAmericana towards Ecuador. I took a sizable stop off in Chiclayo, a city in the North of Peru, to visit some fabulous archaeological sights. After befriending the police guard man who is supposed to be employed to protect the tombs, he offered to lower me over the guardrail and into one of them. Imagine that, I sat right next to a pre-Incan skeleton!

Now I sit in a beach town called Mancora on the northern coast of Peru near the Ecuadorian border. It seems to attract an interesting cross-section of party loving beach goers, bronzed surfers and Peruvians with money. Its similar to Goa, for my Amigos from our days in India. In search of a non-overpriced meal, I'm dodging barefoot tourist-hippies in the street. This may come as a surprise to many of my family members who probably consider me to be amongst this lot of folks, but, I think its quite strange to pretend like you don't have $80 shoes in your hostel in places where there are people who, quite literally, can't afford shoes at all. Tourism is a strange animal.

Tomorrow, I'm hoping to make it over the border to Ecuador. I've contacted a group that's doing a reforestation project there that takes volunteers. Provided it works out, I'm looking forward to posting up somewhere again...being constantly on the move alone is both too expensive and lonely.

Getting There is Half the Fun

In retrospect, we had no idea what we were getting into when Keagan, a recent newcomer and fellow gringo at the Guadalupe Spanish School, and I made plans to journey to the Andean town of Cajamarca for "Carnival". Given its nation-wide reputation for intense merrymaking and debauchery during Carnival, all formal bus-lines offering services out of Guadalupe were booked far in advance. We had to take matters into our own hands.

Now, there´s tourism...and then there´s standing on the side of the Pan-American highway pondering between the enormous, flatbed semi loaded down with the metal rods, bundles of seemingly man-made brooms, and a pretty tough looking band of young men in the midst of an operation to create make-shift sidewalls for the vehicle out of logs and plywood...or the slightly more apealing, seemingly more roadworthy, over-sized truck with a steady steam of people, goods and animals piling in the back.
For Option Number One see http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s248/nikkiewest/DSCF0292.jpg
For Option Number Two (exterior) see
http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s248/nikkiewest/th_DSCF0306.jpg

and Loading Up (interior) see
http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s248/nikkiewest/DSCF0293.jpg
After choosing the later and elbowing in with the rest of ´em, a quick head count yielded a total of about 55 persons, several gargantuan bags of fruit, firewood, a couple bags of live chickens and...oh wait, what´s that sound? yup, there´s a pig in here somewhere. Making best use of every inch, countless bulk packages of toilet paper were tied precariously on top of the cab with twine...one of which we lost midway up the mountain pass, causing quite a stir, and a brief stop-over so someone could fetch it from the middle of the road.

Within an hour, nearly everyone had collapsed into a messy, half-sleeping entanglement on the hay covered bed of the truck. With the nearest shoulder a possible pillow, the degree of intimacy between utter strangers, set against a backdrop of drastic Andean skyscapes, was truly striking. As for Keagan and I, we were content to try our luck at riding the top rails to take in the views of the surrounding landscape and truck-bed beneath us...until we were stopped at a police checkpoint and forced to climb down. Henceforth, I rode the remainder of the 6 hour journey perched atop of a bundle of firewood that a man in a Hooters hat graciously offered, with two bags of swinging chickens directly in my face.

As we neared Cajamarca, we began to get a feel for what was in store...every vehicle passing from the opposite direction was absolutely covered with splatters of bright paint and children of all ages lined the streets of every village armed with water balloons and buckets. I learned quickly that either gringas make the best targets, or I´m graced with a magnetism for water balloons. Defying logic, I was blessed by literally 90% of the water that was hurled over the walls of our truck. By the time we reach Cajamarca I was grinning madly, dripping water all over the nice man in the Hooters hat.

Sweatin´ to the Oldies...

In effort to find some alternative outlet for getting out of the house, perhaps making some friends, and procrastinating my nightly homework, I´ve just become "Radical Gym´s" newest, and maybe first, gringa member. What an honor. Judging by the commotion I stirred up upon signing up, I think I´m going to be quite the hot number there...and perhaps the best piece of advertising they could have hoped for! The gym looks something like what Arnold Schwarzenegger's first basement set-up could have looked like. Although, I´m not sure if Arnold is as excited about fluorescent green wallpaint as it seems Peruvians are. Its a crude, cave-like space about the size of a large bedroom, full of old machines from the 70s. There´s even an adjacent "aerobics studio" that was full of women dancing to The Hansons and, afterwards, using measuring tape around their waists to check the progress. I´m thinking this is going to be pretty awesome.

Radical Gym-Session 1

I´ve just come from my first work out session at Guadalupe´s "Radical Gym" after which I´ve decided that I really must hire me my very own contingent of Latin men to watch me while I workout all the time!! It really does something positive for your stamina. Whereas I generally tend to be quite a quitter when it comes to the gym...I now find myself barreling forward at rapid speeds, very conscious of my form and posture! It also helps that, this morning I dug my ipod from its dormant place in my bag. So, to the tune of MIA and La Tigre, I was able to ride that stationary bike all over Portland's east side...down to Hanna and Wolfs old house (where I danced a number or two in their old basement), along Alberta (paying homage to the CCC and La Bonita), to 28th and Burnside (with a stopoff at the Hungry Tiger) and up and down NE 14th at high speeds (I love NE 14th). My contingent of onlookers were quite intrigued by the post-workout Yoga, and I was compelled to lead the lot in a brief, invigorating, and certainly ridiculous, session of poses. I was outside of myself looking onto the situation, bursting with laughter, the entire time. I promised the instructor that tomorrow, I´d be present for the 5pm aerobics class...

I Have a Crush on the Governor of Guadalupe

Whoever coined the phrase that New York is the town that doesn´t sleep has clearly never been to Guadalupe, Peru (Pop 30,000). I landed here on Jan 31st for a 5 week intensive Spanish program. Since that faithful day, Í´ve spent uncountable nights awake in my bed listening to all night wedding parties, pondering the cross-cultural connotations of "neighborly conduct". Additionally, as part of an interesting form of a neighborhood watch program, a team of men spend each night roving the streets blowing ear piercing whistles with all their might.

I´m staying and studying with a wonderfully warm and generous family. The photo was taken of the street, directly outside the front door. Its a informal type of program that entails two hours of classes each day, coupled with being a part of the ongoing lives of this enormous, three-generation household. I´ve concluded that there is somewhere in the ballpark of 15 people that live here at least part of the time. Among these is Jose, my teacher and the grandfather of the household, who has been Mayor of Guadalupe twice but was ousted both times after accusations of being a communist. Jose´s son, Rafael, is currently the Governor of the district and is quite a looker. Unfortunately, he is also married so my chances of becoming involved in the politics of Peru in this intimate fashion are hopeless. Living in this high society households ensures we have water (albeit cold) everyday, whereas the rest of the city receives this utility for only one hour each morning.

The town itself is certainly off the tourist cicuit and consists of narrow shop-lined streets situated around a main plaza that seems to be the most happening place for couples, romance, and the few with cars to cruise the strip blasting Madonna´s "Like a Virgin" at top volumes. It also is the place to go for Guadalupe´s specialty combination, turkey sandwiches and coffee, which the family insists is the best in Peru, something people travel great distances to savor. Twice now, I´ve seen a man on a bicycle transporting live turkeys to the cafes...a giant, two-wheeled mass of feathers riding across the plaza.

Canta

After curing my scabies, I set off with two Norwegians and one of their Peruvian girlfriend´s into the foothills of the Andes. Being many days (weeks?) past I´m not going to try and accurately recount the beauty there-in other than summarize...being amongst the nubby foothills of the Andes was truly breathtaking (whereas the bus ride there was more of a white-knuckle horror). There was a lot of hiking, some rather uninspiring horseback riding, extremely inexpensive tamale eating, and a lot of card playing. We spent some time wondering around the village, called Canta, that looked like what happens when a place is featured for one year and one year only in the "Lonely Planets Guide to Peru"...a near ghost-town dominated by crumbling, vacant guest-houses boasting, or perhaps haunted by, tales of a flourishing tourist past. It was vastly interesting if not a little depressing. Remaining locals traditionally farmed alfalfa in magnificent tiers up the sides of the mountains and were regularly seen sporting many varieties of the flamboyant, over-sized hats commonly seen in any photo shoot of South America. We managed to find the world most unplayable pool table in Canta´s only "sports bar", which was a decrepit, fluorescent green, one-room wonder with an exposed urinal on one wall and tables full of gambling townies (all men) on the other.

It was a glorious jaunt...tantalizing the senses for the Andes in full effect. The conditions for photos were pretty smug given the rainy season´s constant haze...but check out this amazing roofing job on the building show here!

Welcome to Lima...You Have Scabies

Scabies is a microscopic little pet that accompanies you everywhere in your skin, clothes and bedding. When it moves about on your skin, scouring you for its next meal, it causes an allergic reaction that results in rashy, insect-bite type bumps. I counted nearly 60 of these lovely little suckers before giving up the count due to the utter futility of the endeavour. The exciting part is that part of its life cycle includes burrowing into fleshy surfaces to lay its eggs. Wow, I was supporting another life form inside me. How grand, the closest to pregnant I´ve ever been! That is, of course, until I was able to, quite cheaply, buy the over the counter remedy that turned my skin into a toxic wasteland no longer able to sustain these pesty little bastards.

In all fairness to my own personal hygiene, I should add that I wasn´t actually diagnosed with scabies. After scrutinous online research revealed an exact symptomatic match, I self diagnosed...perhaps, however, it was the worse case of bedbugs known to man or some other scabies-mimicking allergic reaction. In any case, it made my stay in Lima itchier and longer than anticipated.

If You´ve Got it, or Think You Do, Flaunt It

Ok...Peruvian women are significantly more beautiful than Peruvian men, and they aren´t afraid to show it. Remind me to never travel in Latin America with a potential love interest. Here´s me in my really awesome, dirty cargo pants, tourist sandals and money belt, fresh off two-days in flight, sweating like a hog, walking astride these complete knock-out women dressed in whatever they can get away with. And, oh man, is it a culture of coupley romance and intense eye shopping. Finding a mate and openly staking your claim seems to be the preoccupation of most. And no matter who or how old you are, expect your back-side to get a serious once over as you pass. Its not especially crude...just the way of things.

Lima

For reasons I may outline in the next entry, my stay in Lima extended the typical airline layover or two day in-and-out of most travelers...In many ways, Lima seems to mirror the course of "development" in urban centers all over the world. The developed, rich areas are marked by intense westernization...McDonald's, KFC, Papa Johns Pizza, Chillies and several local varieties mimicking the "fast food" concept..so clean you could eat off the floor. These corporate giants move in with more foreign capital than local businesses will see in 20 lifetimes. Oh, but this globalism concept "is leveling the playing field" we say...(please note the sarcasm). While outside these oasis´ neighborhoods are endless sprawls of half-finished construction and semi-permanent housing.

As a tourist, its difficult to get of the beaten path, and judging by the youth hostel culture of drunken experience and travel flings, it seems to not be the goal of many. Ironically though, the stories of "encounters with locals", exotic illness, and uncomfortable bus rides flow grandiosely and competitively between travelers while inside the walls of hostel comfort. Its a culture I have a hard time wrapping my mind around.

I managed to find a Norwegian girl who´s studying for a year in Buenos Aires...together we explored the city, taking a tour to the top of a mountain to view it from high, the National Museum and piles of bones under the Cathedral to see its past, and walks in the city to enrich our understanding of its present. Still it was difficult to leave the prosperous streets of western Lima. One afternoon, upon unknowing crossing in to a neighborhood that seemed to finally resemble something of greater cultural intrigue...streets full of the everyday impoverished bystanders of modern development about their everyday livelihoods, sellers of every type clogging corners, animals astray etc...we were approached by a Police man who advised us to turn around and head back to the Plaza De Mayor (Main Square...where all the tourist destinations are). It was mid-day and the street was packed with people...I can´t believe there was any danger eminent. Tourism is one of Peru´s greatest industries...and poverty just doesn´t sell postcards.

Premise

With great sadness, I left Portland, OR more than a month ago to embark on another significant out-of-the-country exploit. The calling to head out again, this time to South America, was about the only thing strong enough to tear me away from the community of family-like friends, daily bicycle riding, promise of spring gardening, and all-around unsurpassable quality-of-life in Portland. Before leaving I cleansed myself of most everything I own, which wasn´t much, save what could fit on an airplane home to Michigan and a small amount of things in my old basement. In the event of ol´3637 NE 14th going back in the hands of the evil landlord, I´m praying that someone will be nice enough to fetch my trumpet, the only thing in the lot I would be heartbroken to lose, from an untimely dumpster demise.

I spent several weeks touring our grand USA, reconnecting with old friends and family, before missing my flight out of San Francisco International Airport on January 20th, 2007. Note to anyone who has never missed a flight...or anyone who is riddled by stress on the way to the airport...It doesn´t matter if you incorrectly have been telling yourself and others for months that your flight is at 10pm when its really at Noon, they just put you on another one. During these weeks of wondering in limbo across American soils, however, I was asked incessantly about my plans, goals and of course (from parents) "How I was going to use this towards my *future*". Most quires received, in response, a dumb-faced stare...or something I made up on the spot...or, towards the end, a more rehearsed version of the latter. I knew I wanted to focus on learning Spanish while living and working on organic farms. The contents of my bag included two pairs of underware, Spanish books, a headlamp, camera, ipod, two pairs of pants, 4 tank tops, two tee-shirts, one skirt, sandals and tennis shoes, toiletries, a water filter and iodine tablets, vitamins and the lonely planet travel guide to South America...ok, and a few other odds and ends like tape, pens, and ziplock bags that I won´t bore you with. Oh...and my one-way ticket to Lima, Peru.

15 days in-country has done little to solidify the vagueness...but has already succeeded to provide scores of cultural confrontations, language learning, new friends and memories...