Catherine and I celebrated our 3 month travel anniversary yesterday in exactly the same place where we started our adventure - Lima, Peru. We were so ecstatic to be back in Lima and to indulge in real luxuries. Upon getting to Lima we went immediately to Vivanda - the Whole Foods of Lima. We got wonderful produce and desserts and wine. All this in a clean space with delicious aromas. We also had the most awesome ceviche ever!
After three months of a completely nonexistent gay social life we immediately found info on a gay bar in Miraflores having its weekly girl night. Woo-hoo! We went on a crazy five hour shopping spree, got done up in our new outfits, and headed out to feel liberated. Luckily BoBo Bar was super close to our hostel and it was not shady at all. Unfortunately, we were two of only four girls there. Ha! There were two straight couples engaged in heavy making out sessions and that´s about it. We had a great time getting drunk and thinking about how much we will enjoy our return to Philly and NYC gay life. The night ended with Catherine badly spraining her ankle running down the steps at McDonald´s. That´s our own story :)
We have since left Lima and our now quickly making our way up the Panamerican Highway to Bogota. Our goal is to make it there by December 15th. We decided today that we are sooooo ready for Bogota and Christmas and family and friends and that we are sooooo done with buses. Rather than backpack and explore northern Peru, tomorrow we head to the beach resort town of Mancora. We´ll ¨vacation¨ there for a few days and then we´ll head to the valley of longevity in Ecuador before making our final bus stretch from Quito to Bogota.
Although we miss all of you...we just do not want to end our adventure. In just three months we have experienced so many new things. It´s just incredible. Every morning I awake with a huge smile on my face knowing that we´re super lucky and that there is still so much more to live! I do hope some of you come to visit to share this with us.
My apologies for the blog. We´ve been moving super fast in the past few weeks so I´m terribly behind on posts but I plan on updating you with stories on Potosi, the Salar de Uyuni, and Chile in the next few days. I did have a chance to upload all our pictures so check them out.
Samaipata and Parque Nacional Amboro - ttp://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909186#226832048
Parque Nacional Torotoro -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909261#226839077
Sucre -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909236#226833574
Cordillera de las Frailes -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909390#226841921
Mercado de Tarabuco -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909403#226843106
Potosi y Las Minas -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3909426#226844923
Salar de Uyuni -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3910432#226912002
Valle de la Luna, Chile -
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3910496#226912552
November 30, 2007
November 25, 2007
A Little Help From My Ivy League Friend
After being quoted an exorbitant $200 per person to visit rural communities in the Cordillera de las Frailes, we decided to go out on our own. Six weeks in Bolivia gave us the confidence to pack our bags with the bare essentials, hop on the local bus, and secretly hope that we would be OK.
The most difficult thing in Bolivia is getting accurate information. This is due to various reasons: things change constantly, locals have no real sense of what goes on around them, locals are terribly wary of tourists, or locals could care less about tourists. To gather information one has to poll at least five people in the hopes that maybe two will give a similar response or will point in a similar direction. Catherine frequently alludes to the "rational" response. I have found that to be mostly nonexistent. For example, if it is a rational choice to catch a bus at the bus terminal, my six weeks of "experience" tells me that the bus departs from some random corner at the opposite end of town. Unfortunately, the Lying Planet does not help.
For our adventure I felt quite confident because all the people I polled gave me the same information about our local bus and its departure time and location. Our first collectivo out of the center of Sucre took us too far past the bus stop but we quickly hopped off, hopped on another, and were at the stop in no time. We arrived an hour early and the bus was already bursting at the seams. I walked on first and immediately I whiffed the strong smell of coca leaves and sweat. The people were campesinos heading to their very remote homes in the mountains. Their faces were dark with sun and grit. They looked up towards us, their timid nature never actually allowing for eye contact, and I smiled gleefully knowing that we may not get seats. The aisle was packed with bags, babies, and bodies. Standing for two hours on a very unsteady bus on a dirt road would be horribly uncomfortable and unsafe. We got off and I went looking for the driver in hopes of getting some special tourist treatment. I spoke to maybe five supposed drivers who were all quite intent on overcharging me and providing me no help. I finally found the bus attendant and he secured us two very decent seats. Catherine sat with the locals in the back and I shared the front cab with the driver, a cholita, a pedagogical researcher, and the bus attendant.
Yes, a pedagogical researcher. I met Elvis while waiting to board the bus. He was on assignment in the region to assess the progress of student learning in the very remote towns in the Cordillera. He was taking the bus three hours to Potolo, the last stop, and then walking for five hours to his central post. Remote. Kids walk up to five hours to get to school and another five hours to return home. Based on his assessments he makes recommendations to the Bolivian government to receive more resources and implement new programs to improve learning. He also works closely with the families in the community aiming to change cultural attitudes about the importance of education.
Elvis and the rest of my front cab companions were very entertaining and sort of helpful with information on our stop. We got off at Chaunaca with two local women who were also doing the three hour walk to Maragua. They nervously giggled wondering what we were doing in the middle of nowhere all on our own. After twenty minutes of walking we came to a river that was too high to pass. We waited like the locals and soon we hopped in the back of a truck and crossed the river. The workers and the women laughed when we jumped off the truck and declined the ride to Maragua opting to walk instead. We like to pretend to be the common people.
The walk to Maragua was easy and pleasant. The horrible mist and rain of the morning totally cleared and the beautiful mountain scenery kept us company. We made it to Maragua by early afternoon and immediately started our search for Don Basileo, resident in charge of the community based cabanas available for tourists. We had read that back in 2001 the rural communities of the Frailes decided to proactively embrace tourism. With the help of a government agency they learned about the tourism industry and constructed the cabanas using traditional building methods and materials. We were very excited about directly supporting local initiatives towards economic autonomy. Since Don Basileo was the only resident in town with a phone his house was easy to spot because it a had a huge telephone sign outside. He proved to be elusive. No one answered his door, the lady across the dirt path told me she didn't know a Don Basileo, and further down the path at the school I was told he was out in the fields and we would have to wait.
While sitting on Don Basileo's front stoop the school kids were dismissed and they found great delight in our presence. They giggled, snickered, and pointed. Some would muster up the courage to respond to our hellos while most nervously ran past. A few kids hung around Don Basileo's house until finally they overcame their fear and ventured inside the house. "Hola, esta Don Basileo?" The little girl answered, "No, mi papa esta in Sucre. Regresa el domingo." Shit, it was Thursday and it was already 4pm. Her true precocious nature quickly emerged and she volunteered that Don Roberto down the path was in charge of the cabanas while her dad was gone. "Gracias!" Off I went to find the even more elusive Don Roberto. Everything in Maragua was on the same dirt path that was about three blocks long, yet up and down I walked looking for Don Roberto's house. I asked locals for help finding Don Roberto, but children responded with requests for candy and adults with offers to sell their textiles.
Almost two hours after arriving in Maragua I found the toothless coca leaf chewing Don Roberto and the keys to the cabanas. In his Quechua Spanish hybrid he set us up and explained that we would have dinner prepared by a local woman. No electricity, no water, and no firewood didn't matter because we were finally in from the cold and had a comfy bed to crash on.
The following morning Don Roberto started us off on our day long hike to Potolo, the next small village on the community based tourist circuit. For four hours we climbed one steep hill after the other. By the time we made it to the dinosaur tracks we were quite pooped. Roberto lead us to the "well defined" trail to Potolo and in his pseudo-Spanish pointed out the village in the distance. We paid him and parted ways.
Thirty minutes into our solo hike we foolishly decided to walk off the road and take a "shortcut". Very soon after we found ourselves smack in the middle of mountains and ravines. Dark grey clouds hovered above us and the loud roar of thunder accompanied intense winds that made it difficult to even hear each other. Panic set in, a small argument ensued, and we realized we were totally lost. The village that had been so easily distinguishable just thirty minutes earlier was now possibly one of two villages we could spot far away past many more mountains and ravines. We struggled up steep mountains and practically slid down precarious loose dirt ravines. We were both incredibly scared. We were lucky that it was still early in the afternoon but we knew the looming storm would be dangerous given the terrain. We continued up and down for over an hour when Catherine noticed a red truck in the horizon - the road! We decided to hike down to the dried up riverbed guessing that it would eventually lead us to the road. Luckily we were right and within 45 minutes we could see the road and the first sighting of a person since leaving Don Roberto. Excitedly I approached the boy on the riverbank loading his donkeys with goods. He saw me coming and nervously tried to walk away. "Hola! Estes el camino a Potolo?" He shyly turned to face me with his Harvard sweatshirt and answered, "Si." The most prestigious bastion of American education advertised right there in the middle of nowhere on a twelve year boy loading his donkey.
Within thirty minutes and after seven tough hours of hiking we finally made it to Potolo, the supposed more "advanced" of the local villages. I looked for the Professor in charge of the cabanas and of course found that he was in Sucre. Some random cholita was instructed to take me to Lenora, the second in command. Lenora turned out to be a very childish twenty-five year who giggled and snickered and told me the cabanas were fully occupied.
Occupied? We were the only two crazy tourists in the dirt patch doubling as a town. I told her I wanted to see the cabanas and when we arrived she half explained that engineers were occupying the rooms and that there was only one available room in a cabana that we would have to share. She also told me that the kitchen was locked and that no one had the key. For this great service she wanted to charge the same price we paid the previous night. "Hell no!" I offered her half the price and she flatly refused. I told her I would sleep in the church and she told me the priest was in Sucre. I told her I would sleep in the school and she told me it was closed until Monday. I walked the dirt patch of a town thinking bad thoughts of hurting Lenora. I finally had the idea to suggest that we would only need to occupy one bed therefore "justifying" half the price. Finally, an agreement. We went to sleep after a lovely meal of crackers and water.
The next morning we quickly booked it out of Potolo. We were very lucky to get seats on the bus. For three hours I talked to a very friendly old man a curious ten year old. They were fascinated with the war in Iraq, the "reality" of American movies, and the riches of the US. At one point the old man half jokingly offered to sell me his baby nephew.
We were very happy to return to Sucre, check into our very comfortable hotel room, wash off three days of soot, and appreciate our luxuries. We decided to put hiking on hold for a while.
The most difficult thing in Bolivia is getting accurate information. This is due to various reasons: things change constantly, locals have no real sense of what goes on around them, locals are terribly wary of tourists, or locals could care less about tourists. To gather information one has to poll at least five people in the hopes that maybe two will give a similar response or will point in a similar direction. Catherine frequently alludes to the "rational" response. I have found that to be mostly nonexistent. For example, if it is a rational choice to catch a bus at the bus terminal, my six weeks of "experience" tells me that the bus departs from some random corner at the opposite end of town. Unfortunately, the Lying Planet does not help.
For our adventure I felt quite confident because all the people I polled gave me the same information about our local bus and its departure time and location. Our first collectivo out of the center of Sucre took us too far past the bus stop but we quickly hopped off, hopped on another, and were at the stop in no time. We arrived an hour early and the bus was already bursting at the seams. I walked on first and immediately I whiffed the strong smell of coca leaves and sweat. The people were campesinos heading to their very remote homes in the mountains. Their faces were dark with sun and grit. They looked up towards us, their timid nature never actually allowing for eye contact, and I smiled gleefully knowing that we may not get seats. The aisle was packed with bags, babies, and bodies. Standing for two hours on a very unsteady bus on a dirt road would be horribly uncomfortable and unsafe. We got off and I went looking for the driver in hopes of getting some special tourist treatment. I spoke to maybe five supposed drivers who were all quite intent on overcharging me and providing me no help. I finally found the bus attendant and he secured us two very decent seats. Catherine sat with the locals in the back and I shared the front cab with the driver, a cholita, a pedagogical researcher, and the bus attendant.
Yes, a pedagogical researcher. I met Elvis while waiting to board the bus. He was on assignment in the region to assess the progress of student learning in the very remote towns in the Cordillera. He was taking the bus three hours to Potolo, the last stop, and then walking for five hours to his central post. Remote. Kids walk up to five hours to get to school and another five hours to return home. Based on his assessments he makes recommendations to the Bolivian government to receive more resources and implement new programs to improve learning. He also works closely with the families in the community aiming to change cultural attitudes about the importance of education.
Elvis and the rest of my front cab companions were very entertaining and sort of helpful with information on our stop. We got off at Chaunaca with two local women who were also doing the three hour walk to Maragua. They nervously giggled wondering what we were doing in the middle of nowhere all on our own. After twenty minutes of walking we came to a river that was too high to pass. We waited like the locals and soon we hopped in the back of a truck and crossed the river. The workers and the women laughed when we jumped off the truck and declined the ride to Maragua opting to walk instead. We like to pretend to be the common people.
The walk to Maragua was easy and pleasant. The horrible mist and rain of the morning totally cleared and the beautiful mountain scenery kept us company. We made it to Maragua by early afternoon and immediately started our search for Don Basileo, resident in charge of the community based cabanas available for tourists. We had read that back in 2001 the rural communities of the Frailes decided to proactively embrace tourism. With the help of a government agency they learned about the tourism industry and constructed the cabanas using traditional building methods and materials. We were very excited about directly supporting local initiatives towards economic autonomy. Since Don Basileo was the only resident in town with a phone his house was easy to spot because it a had a huge telephone sign outside. He proved to be elusive. No one answered his door, the lady across the dirt path told me she didn't know a Don Basileo, and further down the path at the school I was told he was out in the fields and we would have to wait.
While sitting on Don Basileo's front stoop the school kids were dismissed and they found great delight in our presence. They giggled, snickered, and pointed. Some would muster up the courage to respond to our hellos while most nervously ran past. A few kids hung around Don Basileo's house until finally they overcame their fear and ventured inside the house. "Hola, esta Don Basileo?" The little girl answered, "No, mi papa esta in Sucre. Regresa el domingo." Shit, it was Thursday and it was already 4pm. Her true precocious nature quickly emerged and she volunteered that Don Roberto down the path was in charge of the cabanas while her dad was gone. "Gracias!" Off I went to find the even more elusive Don Roberto. Everything in Maragua was on the same dirt path that was about three blocks long, yet up and down I walked looking for Don Roberto's house. I asked locals for help finding Don Roberto, but children responded with requests for candy and adults with offers to sell their textiles.
Almost two hours after arriving in Maragua I found the toothless coca leaf chewing Don Roberto and the keys to the cabanas. In his Quechua Spanish hybrid he set us up and explained that we would have dinner prepared by a local woman. No electricity, no water, and no firewood didn't matter because we were finally in from the cold and had a comfy bed to crash on.
The following morning Don Roberto started us off on our day long hike to Potolo, the next small village on the community based tourist circuit. For four hours we climbed one steep hill after the other. By the time we made it to the dinosaur tracks we were quite pooped. Roberto lead us to the "well defined" trail to Potolo and in his pseudo-Spanish pointed out the village in the distance. We paid him and parted ways.
Thirty minutes into our solo hike we foolishly decided to walk off the road and take a "shortcut". Very soon after we found ourselves smack in the middle of mountains and ravines. Dark grey clouds hovered above us and the loud roar of thunder accompanied intense winds that made it difficult to even hear each other. Panic set in, a small argument ensued, and we realized we were totally lost. The village that had been so easily distinguishable just thirty minutes earlier was now possibly one of two villages we could spot far away past many more mountains and ravines. We struggled up steep mountains and practically slid down precarious loose dirt ravines. We were both incredibly scared. We were lucky that it was still early in the afternoon but we knew the looming storm would be dangerous given the terrain. We continued up and down for over an hour when Catherine noticed a red truck in the horizon - the road! We decided to hike down to the dried up riverbed guessing that it would eventually lead us to the road. Luckily we were right and within 45 minutes we could see the road and the first sighting of a person since leaving Don Roberto. Excitedly I approached the boy on the riverbank loading his donkeys with goods. He saw me coming and nervously tried to walk away. "Hola! Estes el camino a Potolo?" He shyly turned to face me with his Harvard sweatshirt and answered, "Si." The most prestigious bastion of American education advertised right there in the middle of nowhere on a twelve year boy loading his donkey.
Within thirty minutes and after seven tough hours of hiking we finally made it to Potolo, the supposed more "advanced" of the local villages. I looked for the Professor in charge of the cabanas and of course found that he was in Sucre. Some random cholita was instructed to take me to Lenora, the second in command. Lenora turned out to be a very childish twenty-five year who giggled and snickered and told me the cabanas were fully occupied.
Occupied? We were the only two crazy tourists in the dirt patch doubling as a town. I told her I wanted to see the cabanas and when we arrived she half explained that engineers were occupying the rooms and that there was only one available room in a cabana that we would have to share. She also told me that the kitchen was locked and that no one had the key. For this great service she wanted to charge the same price we paid the previous night. "Hell no!" I offered her half the price and she flatly refused. I told her I would sleep in the church and she told me the priest was in Sucre. I told her I would sleep in the school and she told me it was closed until Monday. I walked the dirt patch of a town thinking bad thoughts of hurting Lenora. I finally had the idea to suggest that we would only need to occupy one bed therefore "justifying" half the price. Finally, an agreement. We went to sleep after a lovely meal of crackers and water.
The next morning we quickly booked it out of Potolo. We were very lucky to get seats on the bus. For three hours I talked to a very friendly old man a curious ten year old. They were fascinated with the war in Iraq, the "reality" of American movies, and the riches of the US. At one point the old man half jokingly offered to sell me his baby nephew.
We were very happy to return to Sucre, check into our very comfortable hotel room, wash off three days of soot, and appreciate our luxuries. We decided to put hiking on hold for a while.
November 14, 2007
We Love Previas, We Love Cochabamba
Our trip to Parque Nacional Torotoro almost didn´t happen.
We arrived to Cochabamba happy to leave the heat and blandness of Santa Cruz. It was 6am and we left the bus station on what has become our normal trajectory upon arrival to a new city - get from the bus station to the plaza, walk with 30lb+ backpacks searching for adequate housing (we usually walk to at least three different places), secure a room, find a cheap lavanderia, eat, and explore. At 6am with 30lb packs and nowhere to go Cochabamba was quite dumpy. At 10am, freshly showered and with checklist complete, Cochabamba quickly became our favorite city.
The city was vibrant with its very own peaceful culture. It was certainly not overrun by backpackers or other tourists therefore people were not pushy or shady. It had a perfect combination of cholitas, students, street vendors, and professionals. The market near our hostel had beautiful produce and an endless of array of treats. The weather was absolutely perfect. Warm and sunny during the day and breezy during the evenings. We found a real movie theater, healthy food, and plenty of wide streets to do people watching. We were very excite about Cochabamba.
We were also excited that we had planned our arrival perfectly in order to get the one weekly collectivo to Torotoro. Unfortunately, the evening before our departure I got a killer fever and intense body aches. By midnight I knew I wouldn´t be able to make the 4am wake up call for the 6am departure. We were totally bummed. We didn´t have time to wait another week for the collectivo and Torotoro had been a must see for us. The following morning, while I sulked in bed feeling sick and sorry for myself, Catherine went to a local travel agency and in her much improved Spanish she booked us a three day tour to Torotoro. By the next morning I was no longer sick and a beautiful white Previa picked us up for our adventure. We were off!
Torotoro certainly was not a disappointment but certainly not without its challenges. On our way there, our trustful Previa had to "off-road" past mounds of rocks and dirt that were piled practically in the middle of the road. Evo´s assistance to rural communities has been very evident during our travels and in Torotoro there was work on improving the quality of the road. Good for the future, bad for us. We had to get out of the Previa, move big rocks out of the way, push the Previa, and then repeat at the next mound. I can´t believe the Previa didn´t die on us.
The mounds in the middle of the road:
The trusty Previa working hard:
We eventually made it Umaljanta, an underground river in a cave. Catherine and a Belgian tour mate Leen, hungout outside of the cave due to their claustrophobia, and I ventured in with our enthusiastic guides Felix and Eddie and three other travelers, Stefan, Hans, and Ana. The cave was spectacular. We rappelled down ropes, crawled through tiny spaces, got wet, saw stalagmites and stalactites, and totally bonded. Loved it!
Small spelunking spaces:
The following day we saw tons of dinosaur footprints. It was crazy to see real evidence of dinosaurs out in nature. It is one thing seeing dinosaur bones in a fancy museum or detailed illustrations in a book, but to see real live prints. We were very impressed. We then trekked to a huge canyon in the mountain range and found a lush waterfall at the bottom of the canyon were we splashed and bathed. Our trip with Felix and Eddie was a totally different experience than with pain in the bum Martin. They were knowledgeable, respectful, involved, and enthusiastic. In the evening we saw a completely dark night sky full of thousands of twinkling stars sharing the stage with intense lightning storms in the horizon. Beautiful.
Huge footprints could be seen all around Torotoro:
Our trip was almost totally perfect other than for the kamikaze driving of our Previa chauffeur. On the way home we actually almost drove right off the cliff. Most drivers here are crazy, but this one had no sense of shifting gears or of rounding curves. It didn´t help that he also probably couldn´t see very well. We all got out, yelled at him, and crossed our fingers that we would make it back alive. Luckily, the Previa prevailed.
Happy Turkey Day!!
November 8, 2007
Thank Goodness for Canadians
Enjoying Parque Nacional Amboro
"First class?"
Getting to Santa Cruz was the culmination of our longest and most difficult bus rides to date.
After our vacation in Coroico we took a 15 hour night bus to Rurrenabaque. The ride was on a very narrow dirt road with mountains to one side and sheer drops to the other. Thankfully the full moon provided welcome light for the treacherous route. Quite often the bus would stop, assess the situation, slowly maneuver its way back, and let another vehicle squeeze by. This was done to the loud chorus of agitated locals screaming at the driver to hurry up claiming that there was ample space for our bus. This made it difficult to get any real sleep. Luckily the bus provided ample leg room (it surely pays to be short in Latin America) and the road was not as bad as we had anticipated.
A few days later we bused it from Rurrenabaque to Trinidad. Another 12 hours, another dirt road. We bought our bus tickets and were told to be at the bus stop by 10pm because our bus was to depart between 10 and 10:30pm. In the dark we trekked to with our packs to the stop and we waited. And waited. And waited. Our bus arrived at 1:30am. By the time we departed at 2:10am we were absolutely exhausted. Unfortunately the next 6 hours were the worst stretch of road we have experienced. That meant no sleep and taking care of a belly sick Catherine. At our 6am stop, while others enjoyed tea and empanadas, I had Immodium for breakfast and Catherine had a barf. The next 8 hours were decent by Bolivian bus standards. The road conditions improved slightly and we only had the locals to deal with. A woman sat quite close to us that was not only loud and obnoxious but too overweight to allow for space for her three year old to share a seat with her. The poor kid sat on a duffle bag in the aisle for the entire 12 hours. I think he slept sitting up.
Our layover in Trinidad was for several hours and we were very lucky to secure a really nice hotel room with private bath and cable TV for just 10 bolivianos ($1.25). We showered, slept, watched TV, and then left Trinidad as quickly as we had arrived. Oh, the luxury of a fully paved road and a short 10 hour night bus to Santa Cruz.
"Autonomia Si"
Santa Cruz is Bolivia´s largest and wealthiest city. It differs so much from the rest of the country that it recently voted for political autonomy. Throughout the city you see white people driving around in expensive SUVs with pro-Santa Cruz stickers, signs, and flags. We found Santa Cruz to be a bore. We were actually looking forward to the upscale offerings of the city but they were hidden far from the center in securely gated communities. We quickly headed to Samaipata, a small town three hours west of Santa Cruz.
Yummy ice cream in the Plaza in Samaipata"Howdy!"
Samaipata seemed to be what we wanted. A very small village with a flower and art filled plaza, healthy organic food, and a local population not overridden by poverty. We stumbled upon a peach festival in the plaza and had breakfast at an organic farm where your food is picked after you place your order. Unfortunately, after about a day disturbing signs began to appear. While walking, I saw a black Hummer pass by the plaza. Sunny skies allowed us to see the huge and tacky haciendas built by weekender Crucenos. Even worse, we discovered the largest contingent of expat Americans we have met to date. It seems that a bunch of super booney Texans with heavy twangs have recently relocated to Samaipata in hopes of making it big. We were lucky enough to meet Bill and Denise, proprietors of La Casa Blanca, yes, The White House. They chain smoked, drank cheap beer, and trashed Bolivians - I suppose that helped them feel right at home.
"It was the best of times, it was the worse of times."
From Samaipata we ventured on a two day hike into Parque Nacional Amboro to see an enchanted fern cloud forest with our Dutch guide Martin and his Canadian friends Carol and Peter.
Martin, Carol, and Peter
Thank goodness that Carol and Peter were absolutely wonderful progressive country hippies from British Columbia because Martin was a real prick. During the first few hours of the hike I had to work very hard to convince Catherine not to rip him up. Albeit, he totally deserved it, I didn´t want to deal with an unpleasant two days in the middle of the woods.
Watch out Martin...She´s got a weapon and she will use it.
For over two hours our "well accomplished" guide complained that his pack was too heavy. He even considered giving some of his load to Catherine. He trashed the local guide that was with us saying that he was "full of bullshit." Mind you, the local guide and his family actually live inside of the park. He told us a bunch of "facts" that we later Googled and found to be completed incorrect. He didn´t bring enough water, complained about spiders, was upset that his pots weren´t washed properly after dinner, and was just a total idiot.
Luckily the wonderful company of Carol and Peter and the beauty of the forest made the hiking marvelous. We totally bonded with the Canadians talking politics, history, culture, gay rights, and travel. They´re actually traveling through Latin America on a motorcycle. Five years ago they traveled around the world on the motorcycle. We can wait to take them up on their offer to visit British Columbia and ski and hangout in the countryside. The fern forest was like a fairy tale forest. The first day was a bit wet and cold and we got to experience a lush and verdant ground cover under a tall canopy. Beautiful wild flowers, funky mushrooms, colorful lichens surrounded us and the abundant ferns. I half expected to spot knomes frolicking through the forest. Overall, Martin was defeated.
Crazy hair and an awesome time with the fernsA Sighting
Is that Liz, Matt, and Nathan in Bolivia???
November 1, 2007
No Pampering in Las Pampas
Day 1:
It started with trying to get a cash advance from the lone bank in Rurre after a day when everything was closed. I had 30 minutes to maneuver the irate locals and the system, hoping to get money for our tour. Fast feet, begging, and a hefty bank fee got me the money and we were ready for departure.
The 3 hour ride in a Land Cruiser through lush jungle and savanna was beautiful but very bumpy. Even Catherine couldn't nap. She tried valiantly but the road conditions were conducive to looking out the window and hanging onto your butt cheeks.
Lunch was a cheap cut of deep fried beef, milanesa de carne they call it. I devoured my beans and rice and continued my newly found carnivorous selectivity. I just can´t bring myself to eating red meat here...although I don´t think I could eat deep fried beef anywhere. To my surprise, Catherine ate her milanesa de carne but was grossed out by her beans. Luckily, neither of use was sick the next day.
After lunch our group hopped on a small wooden boat and enjoyed 3 hours of heat, mosquitoes, heat, and mosquitoes. We also spotted colorful birds, turtles, alligators, and pink dolphins. Even though tour groups come through daily, the wildlife is extremely abundant. However, mosquitoes do win the prize as the most prolific inhabitants of the pampas.
Day 2:
Torrential downpour. We woke up, dressed, ate, and waited. The rainy season has arrived. After an hour the rain slowed and we ventured out with our galoshes and rain jackets in search of anacondas.
The 1st hour was a blast. We got wet and dirty and felt like kids playing in the rain. The pampas were vast and verdant green. Below us was water up to our knees and lots of mud. Luckily the sun hid behind the clouds and not able to spoil our fun.
By the 2nd hour our futile search for anacondas got really old. By the point we were drenched and puddles of water and mud sat at the bottom of our boots. Swarms of mosquitoes hovered all around. I´ve actually never seen predatory mosquitoes like these that set up camp on people. Marc, a French guy we had met a few days earlier, walked in front of me and had used no repellent. His face, neck, and ears were covered with mosquitoes and a rotating colony of about 50 to 100 hungout on his back working hard to penetrate his rain jacket. They wanted blood and they had us outnumbered.
We ended up walking for over 3 hours. Yeah, we saw an anaconda. I think it was planted there by the guides. Catherine found the whole spectacle inhumane and ridiculous. We were happy to return to camp and find refuge in our mosquito nets.
Day 3:
Startled, I awoke in the middle of the night. Immediately the itching began and I noticed a new collection of mosquito bites all over my lower bum and lower back. A mosquito got into my net and took advantage of my heat-fighting pajama outfit of panties and a t-shirt. Not good. I got my head lamp and tried in vain to find the culprit in my small twin bed. I resealed my mosquito net and tried to sleep again. The victorious mosquito tormented me for at least another hour. I finally had to leave my mosquito net and search for my backpack which contained my deet, anti-itch cream and pants. The 5am wake up call was painful
After lunch Catherine and others geared up for swimming with pink dolphins. That meant washing off all mosquito repellent and jumping in waters full of piranhas and alligators. Catherine braved the mosquitoes but decided against meeting the dolphins up close.
On our boat ride back we decided against spending two more days on a jungle tour. We also decided against our anticipated two week cargo boat ride down the Rio Mamore in the jungle. Mosquitoes, heat, and "rustic" accommodations helped us decide to leave the jungle and head directly to Santa Cruz, the largest city in Bolivia.
Check out pics from Las Pampas: http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786346/1/218317549#P-1-9
It started with trying to get a cash advance from the lone bank in Rurre after a day when everything was closed. I had 30 minutes to maneuver the irate locals and the system, hoping to get money for our tour. Fast feet, begging, and a hefty bank fee got me the money and we were ready for departure.
The 3 hour ride in a Land Cruiser through lush jungle and savanna was beautiful but very bumpy. Even Catherine couldn't nap. She tried valiantly but the road conditions were conducive to looking out the window and hanging onto your butt cheeks.
Lunch was a cheap cut of deep fried beef, milanesa de carne they call it. I devoured my beans and rice and continued my newly found carnivorous selectivity. I just can´t bring myself to eating red meat here...although I don´t think I could eat deep fried beef anywhere. To my surprise, Catherine ate her milanesa de carne but was grossed out by her beans. Luckily, neither of use was sick the next day.
After lunch our group hopped on a small wooden boat and enjoyed 3 hours of heat, mosquitoes, heat, and mosquitoes. We also spotted colorful birds, turtles, alligators, and pink dolphins. Even though tour groups come through daily, the wildlife is extremely abundant. However, mosquitoes do win the prize as the most prolific inhabitants of the pampas.
Day 2:
Torrential downpour. We woke up, dressed, ate, and waited. The rainy season has arrived. After an hour the rain slowed and we ventured out with our galoshes and rain jackets in search of anacondas.
The 1st hour was a blast. We got wet and dirty and felt like kids playing in the rain. The pampas were vast and verdant green. Below us was water up to our knees and lots of mud. Luckily the sun hid behind the clouds and not able to spoil our fun.
By the 2nd hour our futile search for anacondas got really old. By the point we were drenched and puddles of water and mud sat at the bottom of our boots. Swarms of mosquitoes hovered all around. I´ve actually never seen predatory mosquitoes like these that set up camp on people. Marc, a French guy we had met a few days earlier, walked in front of me and had used no repellent. His face, neck, and ears were covered with mosquitoes and a rotating colony of about 50 to 100 hungout on his back working hard to penetrate his rain jacket. They wanted blood and they had us outnumbered.
We ended up walking for over 3 hours. Yeah, we saw an anaconda. I think it was planted there by the guides. Catherine found the whole spectacle inhumane and ridiculous. We were happy to return to camp and find refuge in our mosquito nets.
Day 3:
Startled, I awoke in the middle of the night. Immediately the itching began and I noticed a new collection of mosquito bites all over my lower bum and lower back. A mosquito got into my net and took advantage of my heat-fighting pajama outfit of panties and a t-shirt. Not good. I got my head lamp and tried in vain to find the culprit in my small twin bed. I resealed my mosquito net and tried to sleep again. The victorious mosquito tormented me for at least another hour. I finally had to leave my mosquito net and search for my backpack which contained my deet, anti-itch cream and pants. The 5am wake up call was painful
After lunch Catherine and others geared up for swimming with pink dolphins. That meant washing off all mosquito repellent and jumping in waters full of piranhas and alligators. Catherine braved the mosquitoes but decided against meeting the dolphins up close.
On our boat ride back we decided against spending two more days on a jungle tour. We also decided against our anticipated two week cargo boat ride down the Rio Mamore in the jungle. Mosquitoes, heat, and "rustic" accommodations helped us decide to leave the jungle and head directly to Santa Cruz, the largest city in Bolivia.
Check out pics from Las Pampas: http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786346/1/218317549#P-1-9
Sabbath in Amazonia
Rurre is closed.
I walked around in the oppressive midday sun and the streets resembled that of a ghost town. Tin roofed wooden shacks shared blocks with one room brick homes while a few pedestrians comingled with motobike riders. Doors were kept slightly open in hopes of letting in the nearly nonexistent river breeze but most inhabitants of this small town stayed inside today.
"Hola, tienen agua?"
"No. Paro."
I made up that Rurrenabaque is like that everyday. Life is slowed to a near standstill while the sun beats down on this jungle town. Each day a few brave the heat and trudge to a friend´s house for a midday novela or they visit a neighbor to share fish and rice. Some swing on hammocks in their backyards or gingerly pick thru a child´s mane looking for jungle bugs. Most cannot be seen until the sun bids adieu.
"Hola, sirven amuerzo?"
"No. Paro."
In the morning we saw about 20 protesters walking the streets of Rurre. How they managed to shut the town down is quite inexplicable. Supposedly they were protesting new legislation Evo Morales recently proposed to increase taxes to generate revenue for social security for the elderly. Rurre is obviously not keen on the new social order. Rurre is also obviously not keen on working a full day.
Things were not quite back to normal by the evening hours but at least restaurants were open and bottled water was no longer a luxury. After a lovely day spent snacking on cookies and lounging in hammocks we were finally able to eat a meal and see some life in Rurre.
Mostly we saw Israelis.
Rurrenabaque is like little Jerusalem. There are tons of young Israelis who recently completed military service. During our travels to Peru and Bolivia we have met many military veterans but Rurre is definitely the capital. Anyone having problems on JDate should try a weekend trip to Rurre.
I walked around in the oppressive midday sun and the streets resembled that of a ghost town. Tin roofed wooden shacks shared blocks with one room brick homes while a few pedestrians comingled with motobike riders. Doors were kept slightly open in hopes of letting in the nearly nonexistent river breeze but most inhabitants of this small town stayed inside today.
"Hola, tienen agua?"
"No. Paro."
I made up that Rurrenabaque is like that everyday. Life is slowed to a near standstill while the sun beats down on this jungle town. Each day a few brave the heat and trudge to a friend´s house for a midday novela or they visit a neighbor to share fish and rice. Some swing on hammocks in their backyards or gingerly pick thru a child´s mane looking for jungle bugs. Most cannot be seen until the sun bids adieu.
"Hola, sirven amuerzo?"
"No. Paro."
In the morning we saw about 20 protesters walking the streets of Rurre. How they managed to shut the town down is quite inexplicable. Supposedly they were protesting new legislation Evo Morales recently proposed to increase taxes to generate revenue for social security for the elderly. Rurre is obviously not keen on the new social order. Rurre is also obviously not keen on working a full day.
Things were not quite back to normal by the evening hours but at least restaurants were open and bottled water was no longer a luxury. After a lovely day spent snacking on cookies and lounging in hammocks we were finally able to eat a meal and see some life in Rurre.
Mostly we saw Israelis.
Rurrenabaque is like little Jerusalem. There are tons of young Israelis who recently completed military service. During our travels to Peru and Bolivia we have met many military veterans but Rurre is definitely the capital. Anyone having problems on JDate should try a weekend trip to Rurre.
Alpha Cat Comes Out to Play
It came as no surprise that leaving La Paz was not as easy as we had hoped. Sure, a 6 hour mountain bike descent from 4700m to 1200m on the "World´s Most Dangerous Road" sounds intimidating, but after two months of travel I was undaunted by the beaten path. Wise Catherine felt otherwise.
When we arrived to La Cumbre at 9am we were met by Huayna Potosi, an imposing 6000m peak, and chilling cold. We bundled up, got our gear, and received the mandatory five minute tutorial on mountain bike safety and technique. We were obviously ready for our adventure.
We took off and immediately the wind and speed were exhilarating. Snow capped mountains surrounded us from above and sheer drops looked up at us. The asphalt road gave us enough bike stability to truly enjoy the speed.
The euphoria was not permanent. After whizzing downhill for over an hour our guide informed us of a "little" uphill climb we were to encounter before our switch to the gravel road. Up to that point I rode in the middle of the pack and given her fear of heights Catherine stayed in the back.
We took off and very quickly the uphill climb commenced. As I moved further and further towards the back of the pack I saw Catherine pass me and very quickly peddle pass all the others. I knew I wouldn´t see Alpha Cat for a long time...I just didn´t realize how long that would be. As Catherine was kicking major bum, my bum was being majorly kicked. Uphill biking at 3000m on a heavy mountain bike was certainly not what I had signed up for at office of "Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking." I peddled and I puffed for as long as I could. And that was quite long. I thought I had overcome the biggest challenge of the uphill and just as I rounded the corner I saw that it continued for a few more kilometers. I was not going to make it. Caesar, the assistant guide, rode next to me and I informed him that I would have to be "the" lazy American and take the bus to meet our group at the next rest stop. As Caesar and the driver loaded my bike on the bus, I barfed on the side of the mountain.
Catherine overcame all but two other riders and I had to take the bus. I certainly want Alpha Cat on my team.
We got on the gravel and I was TERRIFIED. I couldn´t control my bike and we were going soooooo fast on a road that was maybe 2m wide with a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other. I just did not expect to be so scared. For about over an hour of riding down the gravel I had countless moments where I thought I would hurl to my death. Anything in the path could have brought on imminent death. A small pebble, a hole, a bird. I had just as many thoughts of Catherine having an accident and I just could not get past my fear. It was totally horrific.
For the last hours of our ride, Catherine and I agreed to stay in the back of the pack, take it slow, take photos, enjoy the beautiful scenery, and stay alive. It was absolutely wonderful. Catherine was wonderful. She dealt with her own fears while supporting me and getting me back to a good place. The bike ride was certainly not her idea, but we enjoyed the last two hours of our ride. Do it again? Nope. Next time, we follow Catherine´s advice and hike.
We spent the next night enjoying monkeys, birds, nature, and the very welcome heat at an animal reserve. From there we headed to our first real vacation spot, the small town of Coroico. We´ve had an amazing time during our trip but sometimes it feels like work trying to find information, get a hotel, find a place to wash clothes, and all the other little things that we don´t have to deal with at home.
In Coroico we awoke to the songs of birds and the smells of nature. Trees and flowers surrounded us and we were totally secluded atop a hill in the jungle. We had planned to stay in Coroico for a day and do some hiking to waterfalls and coca plantations. Instead we stayed for three days and did nothing but read, sleep, and lounge. It was absolutely perfect and exactly what we needed after five hectic days in La Paz.
Pics from La Paz:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3754485#215975556
Pics from our bike ride to Coroico:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3754527#218309281
Pics from our vacation in Coroico:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786257#218311461
Pics from the animal reserve, La Senda Verde:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786323#218314519
When we arrived to La Cumbre at 9am we were met by Huayna Potosi, an imposing 6000m peak, and chilling cold. We bundled up, got our gear, and received the mandatory five minute tutorial on mountain bike safety and technique. We were obviously ready for our adventure.
We took off and immediately the wind and speed were exhilarating. Snow capped mountains surrounded us from above and sheer drops looked up at us. The asphalt road gave us enough bike stability to truly enjoy the speed.
The euphoria was not permanent. After whizzing downhill for over an hour our guide informed us of a "little" uphill climb we were to encounter before our switch to the gravel road. Up to that point I rode in the middle of the pack and given her fear of heights Catherine stayed in the back.
We took off and very quickly the uphill climb commenced. As I moved further and further towards the back of the pack I saw Catherine pass me and very quickly peddle pass all the others. I knew I wouldn´t see Alpha Cat for a long time...I just didn´t realize how long that would be. As Catherine was kicking major bum, my bum was being majorly kicked. Uphill biking at 3000m on a heavy mountain bike was certainly not what I had signed up for at office of "Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking." I peddled and I puffed for as long as I could. And that was quite long. I thought I had overcome the biggest challenge of the uphill and just as I rounded the corner I saw that it continued for a few more kilometers. I was not going to make it. Caesar, the assistant guide, rode next to me and I informed him that I would have to be "the" lazy American and take the bus to meet our group at the next rest stop. As Caesar and the driver loaded my bike on the bus, I barfed on the side of the mountain.
Catherine overcame all but two other riders and I had to take the bus. I certainly want Alpha Cat on my team.
We got on the gravel and I was TERRIFIED. I couldn´t control my bike and we were going soooooo fast on a road that was maybe 2m wide with a mountain on one side and a cliff on the other. I just did not expect to be so scared. For about over an hour of riding down the gravel I had countless moments where I thought I would hurl to my death. Anything in the path could have brought on imminent death. A small pebble, a hole, a bird. I had just as many thoughts of Catherine having an accident and I just could not get past my fear. It was totally horrific.
For the last hours of our ride, Catherine and I agreed to stay in the back of the pack, take it slow, take photos, enjoy the beautiful scenery, and stay alive. It was absolutely wonderful. Catherine was wonderful. She dealt with her own fears while supporting me and getting me back to a good place. The bike ride was certainly not her idea, but we enjoyed the last two hours of our ride. Do it again? Nope. Next time, we follow Catherine´s advice and hike.
We spent the next night enjoying monkeys, birds, nature, and the very welcome heat at an animal reserve. From there we headed to our first real vacation spot, the small town of Coroico. We´ve had an amazing time during our trip but sometimes it feels like work trying to find information, get a hotel, find a place to wash clothes, and all the other little things that we don´t have to deal with at home.
In Coroico we awoke to the songs of birds and the smells of nature. Trees and flowers surrounded us and we were totally secluded atop a hill in the jungle. We had planned to stay in Coroico for a day and do some hiking to waterfalls and coca plantations. Instead we stayed for three days and did nothing but read, sleep, and lounge. It was absolutely perfect and exactly what we needed after five hectic days in La Paz.
Pics from La Paz:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3754485#215975556
Pics from our bike ride to Coroico:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3754527#218309281
Pics from our vacation in Coroico:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786257#218311461
Pics from the animal reserve, La Senda Verde:
http://juicycat.smugmug.com/gallery/3786323#218314519
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