Other Climes

See the city anew

2010-09-24T21:10:00.006-03:00

In the Mission District, where Z and I live, not going gaga over local mural art is tantamount to high heresy. It's simply not done. And yet, truth be told, we'd grown less than impressed by the neighborhood's dominant aesthetic. This past month that began to change.

The Women's Building at the corner of Lapidge and 18th street is a women-run arts and culture space that among other things offers pay-by-the-minute legal advice, Friday night Shabbat for the San Francsco's hip and happening young Jewish community, lectures on class war and gardening, and many a raucous quinceñera. It also boasts one of the most celebrated murals--the MaestraPeace--in the 415. Z claims it's a four story monument to breast worship. Others see it as a tribute to the working women of the world. Come on by and you make the call.

Throughout September the building's facade was transformed into an aerial dance space, mesmerizing passersby and our neighbors alike. For weeks we watched as the Flyaway dance troupe practiced gracefully while suspended from a network of wires, pullies, and ropes. Night after night we were treated to a poly-rhythmic soundtrack, something that Douglas Coupland might have called love songs written by cash registers for adding machines. The dancers, lean and lemur-like, seemed to float, oblivious to the incessant pull of gravity, twisting in and out of each night's darkness.

Part of the beauty of returning from a year away has been seeing our adopted hometown through new eyes. These warm nights of dance and drums have done just that.

I left my ♥ in the fog of San Francisco

2010-08-21T23:36:00.004-03:00

Really? Seriously, you call this summer?

At least the critters are cute here.

Positive Vibrations

2010-08-21T12:20:00.000-03:00

California's granite paradise: The Incredible Hulk

I'd only been back in SF for a few days when I got a call from my old friend Jerry Dodrill who was offering me a chance to return to the Incredible Hulk outside of Bridgeport in the Eastern Sierra. Jerry's a professional photographer and the Hulk boasts some of the best climbing in the whole range, so the decision was an easy one to make.

Jerry channeling his inner-rastafarian

Our route was 'Positive Vibrations', named for the Bob Marley classic, and if you've been following this blog you'll know that there may be no toilet paper on the road less traveled but the Cult of Bob is never far away.

In any case, the route went well, I made a new friend, and got a full dose of natural vitamin D before returning to work teaching in San Mateo.

Here are some images from the day.

Several hundred feet up the route

Inshallah. ¡Cumbre! Mahalo.

Descending to food and warmth

La vegetariana peligrosa

2010-08-20T12:51:00.002-03:00

Back on home turf...

Looks can be deceiving...

Re-entry

2010-08-07T19:28:00.013-03:00

We're now back in the deep fog of summer in San Francisco -- in fact, Marty is off climbing again on one last run to the Sierra before school starts -- but there was one part of the trip that I didn't want to leave out.

When we flew out of Buenos Aires (in the CRAZIEST airport situation I have ever seen, if my Spanish and Google-gibberish-translation didn't make that clear: lines and lines and lines and lines... turns out Marty is a rather impressive queue-jumper when absolutely necessary), I flew to DC. Marty flew through Atlanta, so he couldn't join me on my somewhat last-minute stop to visit friends and family. Instead, he went to his parents' and (how did you guess) to the Sierra to climb.

When I arrived in DC, I realized suddenly how appropriate, if unplanned, it was to have a moment to appreciate the capital, and see some of the most famous sights of my own country. And it was a delight to visit family and old friends after being so far away for so long.

And, of course, I was pretty excited about potable tap water.

Yes, I took a picture of a water fountain: it seemed to me to symbolize all that is good about the public trust

I thought I'd be exhausted upon return, but I found that I really wanted to hike around and see the sights here in Estados Unidos. So I trooped through the Capitol (got swept up into an uninformative tour but it was great to see the interior) and the Supreme Court building, and wandered dreamily through the gorgeous Library of Congress. And with the help of an icy lemonade, I braved the sweltering sun and walked the length of the Mall to visit and read the entire Lincoln Memorial.

The Capitol: imposing under a muggy sky

A San Franciscan and Baltimorean too

A model of the Statue of Freedom atop the Capitol: it may look dignified at first, but look at that bird

Hallowed halls: the Library of Congress

The quiet heart of the library, as seen through a small window for the Great Unwashed

A slightly surprising genre included in the library's lovely murals

I was lucky to be visiting friends who live just a short walk from the Mall; in fact, just a short walk from pretty much everything.

My hosts, Laura and Edgar, with their impossibly cute and mellow baby, Emmett

Relaxing at home with drinks of choice

Edgar thought I should take a picture of the NPR building; upon reflection, he was right. It was something I was very happy to come back to. (TV news, not so much: we miss BBC and Al Jazeera!)

Almost as important as public water

I visited just one of the Smithsonians, the Natural History Museum, which was full of visitors from other countries. It was a treat to walk through an exhibit on the ancient history of humankind with people from all over the world, musing on our common ancestors.

And of course I had to visit the National Botanical Garden. Despite its imposing name, it's rather small and is largely indoors, but it's a very pleasant place.

South American orchid

To my delight, I found the garden has a special area on Hawai'i -- no other state is called out in this way -- in recognition of the uniqueness of Hawaiian flora.

The botanical garden, the museums, the monuments and halls of government -- they were all free to visit. As I wandered through it all I felt enormously appreciative of things that are public.

The next day, I schlepped my enormous backpack over to DC's impressive train station -- fortunately it was a very short walk -- and after some initial confusion (you'd think I'd be pretty good at this sort of thing by now) I got on my train to Baltimore. It was nice to have one more train journey in this trip; to our disappointment, we rarely traveled on trains. Buses are far more common now, especially in South America, where many old train lines are just rusting away (though in Argentina, one possible presidential contender wants to restore the old train lines -- an exciting propect).

In Baltimore, I visited aunts, uncles, cousins -- and my mom, who actually flew out from Hawai'i. Without much lead time, my cousin Karen organized a big dinner full of summer produce -- in fact, the entire time I was there, I gorged myself on corn and tomatoes and peaches, oh my! It's fun going straight from winter to summer.

Family reunion! Everyone's happy after trying the coca tea and chocolate

My mother and I -- along with every child in the Chesapeake Bay region -- took a day to visit the National Aquarium. Despite the madd(en)ing crowds, and the fact that it's far from free, it's impressive -- how many aquariums include a small fauna-filled rainforest?

The jellyfish exhibit was a sobering demonstration of dying seas, where jellyfish predators have been fished to extinction; they're also better at surviving pollution and climate change. At least they're prettier than cockroaches.

Here we got to see some more South American denizens.

This may take a second to see: look for the caiman's shiny eye, just above water (like at Iguazu Falls, Argentina!)

A gorgeous scarlet ibis from northern South America -- we saw buff-necked ibises in Patagonia on our ill-fated Torres del Paine hike but these are their tropical cousins

Another high point of my Baltimore stopover was visiting my friends Cy and Rob. Embarrassingly, I have no photos of Rob, just lots of pictures of Cy and the dogs they were taking care of. I think they will be getting their own dog any minute now: they got very comfortable while dogsitting.

Cy clarifies a point while the dogs listen closely

Though Cy is originally from Hawai'i, she is now quite the Ballmer booster.

To test this bench-avowed hypothesis, I returned to California.

California: summit to sea

2010-07-28T11:27:00.006-03:00

Shooting Stars in the high Sierra

After flying to the US from Argentina I got a little antsy. There'd be no more rickshaws, guanacos, or empanadas to be found and I was worried about taking up bad habits from the past. Z spent a week out in the Baltimore/DC area, visited friends and family, and experienced some serious heat and humidity. Cambodia had prepared her well. I would have just melted.

The best part of the greater LA area is getting away, and there are some really wonderful places to escape to when the mercury rises and the smog obscures the mountains. Rick Graham, my uncle and longest-running climbing partner, and I headed up the East Side of the Sierra Nevada in search of long days on clean granite. We secured a permit for the North Fork of Lone Pine Creek near Mt. Whitney and climbed the 'Mithral Dihedral' on Mt. Russell (14,086 feet), and what a gem it is! The route takes its name from a rare metal from Tolkein's Middle Earth and follows a beautiful 300-foot long vertical corner. This was Sierra rock climbing at its finest.

Massive Mt. Russell looms above

"Mithril! All folk desired it. It could be beaten like copper, and polished like glass; and the Dwarves could make of it a metal, light and yet harder than tempered steel. Its beauty was like to that of common silver, but the beauty of mithril did not tarnish or grow dim." Gandalf, Lord of the Rings

Still climbing together: 23 years and counting

Tulainyo, North America's highest alpine lake

Elizabeth returned a week after I did and we quickly scheduled a trip to Crystal Cove, a special beach where my grandparents used to rent a summer home in the 60s and 70s. It was overcast but the waves were enormous and impressive. Perhaps most importantly, delicious date shakes could be secured at a shack above the beach on the Pacific Coast Highway.

My grandparents, Jim and Liz, brother Paul, and aunt Phoebe

It feels good to be back stateside. And I can honestly say I've never appreciated safe tap water as much as I do now.

We took our backpacks and went huge, the last time

2010-07-25T15:42:00.005-03:00

[More-or-less English version below]

Desde Cusco, fuimos a Buenos Aires al fin de nuestro gran aventura. Fue un placer de ver los amigos en nuestro departamento en Talcahuano -- ¡y también habia, claro, fiebre de Mundial! Por supuesto, también habia un feriado (el día de independencia), y muchos negocios estaban cerrados.

Tratamos de visitar el museo de inmigración, pero también estaba cerrado. Pero cuando estuvimos caminando por la ciudad, nuestra ultimo camino allá, encontramos una muestra de fotoperiodismo, de muchos fotógrafos Argentinos, de 2009. Los fotos fueron muy grandes y muy impresionante.

Fuimos con amigos a un cafe muy típico, La Poesía, en el barrio viejo de San Telmo, para ver el partido final del Mundial. Fue emocionante, pero tuvimos que salir antes del fin del partido! En la calle afuera de nuestro departamento, escuchamos la gente gritando -- fue el gol de España, y España ganó!

Por el momento, todo de Buenos Aires fue de España. En nuestro departamento, dimos felicitaciones a nuestra compañera de casa, que es realmente de España. Despues de unos fotos (¡que todavia necesito de nuestra amiga!), llevamos nuestras mochilas enormes y salimos, la ultima vez.

En el taxi al aeropuerto, todo la ciudad estaba fiestando, con banderas rojo y amarillo. Una linda vista de la ciudad que vamos a extrañar.

El aeropuerto fue un quilombo pero con mucha suerte encontramos nuestros aviones y salimos para volver a los Estados Unidos, al fin, finalmente, de nuestra gran viaje.

...

I dropped this into Google Translate to check my Spanish. The combination of my errors and its misunderstandings is too good to fix, so I think I'm just going to offer you the translation verbatim:

...

From Cusco, we went to Buenos Aires at the end of our great adventure. It was a pleasure to see friends in our apartment in Talcahuano - and had, of course, World [Cup] fever! Of course, also had a holiday (Independence Day), and many businesses were closed.

We try to visit the museum of immigration, but also was closed. But when we were walking around town, our last journey there, find a sample of photojournalism, many photographers Argentinos, 2009. The photos were very large and very impressive.

We went with friends to a typical cafe, Poetry, in the old quarter of San Telmo, to see the World Cup final match. It was exciting, but we had to leave before the end of the game! In the street outside our apartment, we heard people screaming -- was the goal of Spain, and Spain won!

For now, all of Buenos Aires was in Spain. In our department, we congratulate our home colleagues, which is actually from Spain. After a few photos (which still need our friends!), We took our backpacks and went huge, the last time.

In the taxi to the airport, the city was partying with red and yellow flags. A beautiful view of the city that will be missed.

The airport was a mess but with luck we found our planes and went back to the United States, at last, finally, our big trip.

The Cappucino Kid

2010-07-25T11:03:00.001-03:00

Puzzled by the ritual of mate? Just not sure about the legality of coca tea? Had your fill of extraordinary malbecs? If you´re in Buenos Aires, you´re in luck. Porteños speak coffee and wouldn´t be caught dead drinking the dreaded Nescafe, let alone something as morally reprehensible as decaf.

They also seem to have a knack for building extravagent surroundings for your daily constitutional. Take for instance the mighty El Ataneo, the operahouse-turned-bookstore that is without peer.

A bookstore to end all bookstores

Refurbished box seats make great places to read

Un cafesito, por favor

Built in 1858, Café Tortoni is another caffeinated institution well worth at least one visit. Artists, authors, and heads of state have all paid Tortoni a visit and its storied walls and amiable mozos (waiters) add flavor to any of the many drinks on offer.

Inside the famed café

The old master himself (a regular)

Another old master; perhaps he's been working there since Borges stopped by

Z with Borges

No, it´s not a privatised club for intellectuals but a state of mind for all those who refuse to submit to the way our world is run. ...

--The Style Council

Cusco or Cuzco or Qosqo, Peru

2010-07-20T18:50:00.000-03:00

The cobblestone streets in Cusco are narrow and treacherously slippery at times, but I think this may be overstating the case.

The streets here were so narrow that when we first arrived, late at night after the guinea-pig-and-chicken bus, we opened our cab doors and gently grazed the walls. I asked our taxi how he would get out. “Can you turn up ahead?” I asked solicitously. “Oh, no, there’s no out there,” he said. And backed up the entire length of the street.

But I guess they've had time to get used to it in colonial Cusco, especially in the hilly and quiet San Blas neighborhood. Our second hostel was apparently in a 350-year-old building.

1660 Año

Cusco is a much more cosmopolitan place than the Bolivian towns we'd been in lately. And more touristy: we saw (and heard) more Americans than we had encountered in ages... must be summer! Still, it's a beautiful city.

Colonial buildings and brooding skies

We enjoyed wandering through its streets and trying not to be intimidated by Quechua spelling.

Roof cows watch over most of the houses. They’re often intertwined with a cross but they seem not to be at all Catholic. I’ve been told they’re good luck. And wouldn’t you feel better with these guys on your house?

Public art--from murals to decorated letter drops--is popular.

Reminds me of Roman Holiday

One of the treats of walking around Cusco is the peeks you get into courtyards.

Although it's hard not to like the white-washed colonial buildings with their ornate doorknockers and quiet courtyards, you do get some reminders that all this was built on top of an Inca city, often cannibalizing its stones for new buildings.

This is particularly explicit when you visit the Church of Santa Domingo, built directly on the central Inca site of Qoricancha, or Temple of the Sun. Many of the walls inside remain. The walls were once covered with sheets of gold, and Atahualpa ordered his people to tear it down to try to buy his freedom back from Pizarro and the Spanish conquistadors. Once they got the gold, however, they killed him.

Smaller stones of the colonial building above, enormous gray Inca stones below -- the Inca stonework is much better, too

Another extraordinary sight that the Spanish reported at Qoricancha (before, presumably, stripping it) was a garden made entirely from gold, silver, and jewels, right down to the insects and the clods of dirt and grass. Today there is a rather nice large garden behind the site -- all natural. And there's a museum below with rather disturbing displays of trepanned skulls (a 60% survival rate!), skulls shaped into oblongs, and mummies.

Around town, many indigenous people sell weavings, hats, socks, etc. Some also bring alpacas or llamas with them to get people to take pictures. It's quite an experience to go down Cusco's foot-wide sidewalks behind the shaggy swaying rump of a llama.

Once you get a couple of blocks downhill from Cusco's main plaza, the tourists start to thin out, the architecture becomes more of a mix of colonial and modern, and things start to bustle. Here we came across all sorts of interesting markets and entrepreneurial street vendors.

For example, the quail cart guy:

Is it just me, or does he look like Hugo Chávez?

This is quite a contraption. Eggs and cooking setup above, actual quails below.

Ice cream at speed

Pedal-powered beer billboard

A gizmo for advertising your own wares

We also explored an enormous market which sold everything from the ubiquitous llama hats to colorful jello desserts to large dead pigs to huge slabs of chocolate... and much much more.

We spent a long time ohing and ahing at the produce, which is far more diverse than what you see in American supermarkets.

The market spilled into the street outside, too.

Our last night in Cusco was memorable: first the cooks in a tiny vegetarian restaurant cooked us a special Peruvian dinner--they'd offered earlier to make us a saltado de soya if we came back at an appointed time, so of course we did. It was delicious. We perched on stools and chatted with the other diner and devoured our treat.

Then we went off to try pisco. I can't say we could tell much difference between piscos--it's all high-octane but fairly palatable liquor--but we did get an awfully good drink with some sort of passionfruit. I think it was maracuya. We have a picture, anyway. Yum.

Maracuya demo

And yes, we still made our early-next-morning flight to Buenos Aires.

Sacsayhuaman and Incamelids

2010-07-20T18:45:00.000-03:00

Sacsayhuaman, an enormous Inca site, is a shortish walk uphill from Cusco. We spent a morning exploring the ruins and looking ridiculous in the Inca "throne."

The site itself is impressive.

The stonework here is careful and exact, even with stones that sometimes weigh many tons. The trapezoid shape the Inca liked is common, and the walls also have a slight angle inward (from bottom to top) to add stability. Many stones were removed by the Spanish to build Cusco, but you can understand why they didn't take the ones that are several meters tall....

We've heard several different stories about the meanings of the site: its zig-zagging walls (above) may represent lightning, or they may be the teeth of the puma-shape formed by the whole city of Cusco. The three levels (also above) may represent the underworld (snake), earth (puma), and heavens (condor). Some say it was a religious site, some a fortress.

We heard much of this from our guide, who looked quite imposing in the Inca throne.

The beribboned (beyarned?) llamas grazing nearby were also notable.

The most fun part of touring the site is going down the slide, once a play area for Inca children. Unfortunately, although our guide told us to brake with our hands, we weren't paying attention to the verb; Marty may have thought frenar meant "zoom" or something, because he went really fast.

This would have been fine, but he gashed his hand at the bottom. So we had a little medical interlude, in which our worried guide took us over to the red cross tent and Marty got enormous amounts of iodine and bandages put on. (It worked though: healed fast!)

We visited another nearby site, and on the steep walk down to town we were charmed to come across a "camelid demonstration center." This august-sounding institution consisted of a field with a couple of rusting soccer goalposts and three pairs of South American camelids: 2 llamas, 2 vicuñas, and 2 alpacas.

The alpacas almost aren't believable. What other animal looks more like something you'd win playing darts at the county fair?

In Ruins: the Sacred Valley

2010-07-11T12:57:00.019-03:00

"One problem for serious-minded archaeologists is that ancient Peru seems to have flirted with every element of archaeology that the public most like to sensationalise and which as a consequence professionals like to downplay: human sacrifice, stargazing, wild sex, psychedelic drugs and the mummification of the dead, let alone leaving treasure concealed in pyramids."

-- Hugh Thomson, Cochineal Red

It may look like Lhasa, but the Inca were no Buddhists

Even if you're not into the sensationalism, you might think Machu Picchu has it all: lawn-mowing llamas, massive rock, sun worship, vizcachas.

But there's more to Peru than the greatest hit. We hopped back on our Peru Rail train and alighted at Ollantaytambo, which is a small and beautiful village near the confluence of the Patakancha and Urubamba rivers.

Ollantaytambo was the royal estate of Emperor Patchacuti, who conquered the region, built the town, and moved many a stone. The town itself is full of Inca walls and waterways, and has been consistently inhabited for nearly 700 years!

What remains of the Inca compound is above the town, set around terraced hillsides with an elaborate irrigation system. It, like much of the Urubamba river valley, catches beautiful late-day light.

A few days in the so-called Sacred Valley offered a nice way to slow down before returning to Buenos Aires.

If we understand it correctly, these bulbous extrusions allowed greater leverage when moving the stones -- usually they were then removed once the stones were in their final place

The chakana, or three-stepped cross, is faintly visible at right. This was a symbol the Inca borrowed from an earlier culture, along with the meaning of the "trilogy" their architecture sometimes refers to: the snake of the underworld, the puma on earth, and the condor in the heavens

A dry waterway

Going up the ingenious stairs in one terrace: just long flat rocks extending out -- these are used today, too

A working waterway

A tiny oasis around another fountain

Ferns aside, this valley is generally very dry and warm during the day, quite unlike the lushness around Machu Picchu. (And like any desert, cold at night.) Hugh Thomson, whose book we were reading as we were there, compares it to southern France. He lived here for a year and so it is possible this is wishful thinking on his part, but in any case it was a good place to hike.

One thorny plant thriving in the dry climate

Lupine, familiar from dry California

From Ollantaytambo, we hiked an hour or two back along a valley, contouring among crop terraces and surprising the occasional goat, to reach another Inca site called Pumamarca. There was no entrance fee, there were no signs, and there was no one there at all, so we wandered around guessing at the function of the various crumbling walls, then had a picnic.

The remains of the Pumamarca site

On our final morning in Ollantaytambo, some wrangling with a cab driver got us a ride to the Urubamba bus station. From there we caught a slow but pleasant local bus down the Sacred Valley to Pisac, our last stop before returning to Cusco.

Pisac was another small village set below steep Inca terraces. Usually people bus up and walk down to explore the extensive ruins, but we figured we'd walk up. Turned out this was one of those enterprises where, when you reach the top, you're glad that at the bottom you didn't know how far you'd need to go. Anyway, it offered spectacular views.

Rings made of stone on either side of a doorway -- perhaps a red velvet rope passed across...

One especially interesting thing about this site is that, at the top and across a valley, there are pocked cliffs that acted as an Inca burial ground. I don't know whether the holes have always been there or whether they were made by grave-robbers, but it's ultimately an enormous vertical cemetery.

The scale may be tough to see, but the green stuff is trees -- it's big

After sitting up top, watching the early sunset (early sunsets and late sunrises are an occupational hazard of valleys), and listening to the evening sounds of the town drift up, we descended to Pisac for the night. In the morning, we wandered through the lively market.

Traditional dress... and yes, that squash is bigger than that baby

Powders for painting and dyeing: the colors they make aren't necessarily the colors they look -- want purple? try the green

After almost a week of climbing Inca stairs and relaxing in the Sacred Valley, it was time to go. We shouldered our bags, walked to the edge of town, and got back on a crowded minibus to stand and sway our way up the switchbacks to Cusco.

Sun and stone in the selva: Machu Picchu

2010-07-06T21:05:00.018-03:00

If at first you thought you had to get up at 3:15 a.m., getting up at 3:45 wasn´t so bad. And we were sipping espresso by 4:30.

It was a little surprising that there was espresso in Aguas Calientes (the tiny but growing-before-your-eyes town at the base of Machu Picchu), and it was very surprising that it was available 24 hours a day. But it will not be surprising to you at all that we started our hike with it.

Time check, post-espresso

Powered by the bean, we donned our headlamps and followed a small trail of flashlights along the Urubamba river, crossed the bridge, and plunged into the dark forest to spend the next hour or so huffing and puffing up the switchbacks. All told the trail gains about 3,000 feet. We must have been pretty fast (a combination of caffeine and several weeks at high altitude), as we passed many people along the way.

I had a momentary thought, sweatily stepping onto to the umpteenth knee-height stone stair, that perhaps we were first! But it was not to be. We burst out of the forest and into a waiting area behind several large groups... their guides probably really made them get up at 3:15.

What was the hurry? Good question. Partly, I guess, to see dawn at Machu Picchu. Partly to see Machu Picchu with fewer people. See below for both.

Machu Picchu with no people, really, and Huayna Picchu looming in the background

And partly because you can climb Huayna Picchu, the peak behind the iconic images of Machu Picchu, but to do that, you have to get there really early, because they limit the number of people they allow to go up.

Sun beginning to hit the Vilcabamba range

Oh, sure, you can take a bus, at the sloth-like hour of 5:30. But we had already opted not to do the Inca Trail or a similar trek, largely for cost reasons. So we wanted to get some hiking in. Especially if by hiking we could get there first.

Wearing all the layers we´d shed on the hike up: cold but happy

As we wandered through the ruins on our way to Huayna Picchu, we got an extra treat. Some people were talking about chinchillas, and they pointed one out in the rocks above.

Only it wasn´t a chinchilla.

Peering out from behind the greenery

It was a vizcacha! We´d been wanting to see this animal ever since we were in Patagonia. Actually, ever since before we left the US, when we saw a picture of one in a catalog that was so absurd we had to put it on the fridge. And then we saw it in a nature special. But we never saw any in Patagonia or in the altiplano of Bolivia. So this was a very exciting moment.

It was very still, so it may have been warming up. We learned from the nature special that vizcachas are a little like butterflies, or cold-blooded animals... they go into a state of deep torpor every night and can´t really move in the morning until the sun hits them, when they can suddenly bound off.

Later, I realized that the little brown tic-tac like droppings in many niches of the ruins were probably left by vizcachas. Machu Picchu may well be crawling with these rabbit-like critters. Later we also got an even better sighting.

But meanwhile, we were off to Huayna Picchu when the trail opened at 7.

It´s as steep as it looks but fortunately not as impregnable

Wildlife along the way

Oh boy! More stairs!

The climb to the top was another 1,000 feet or so, but the view was well worth it.

We found ourselves a little eyrie to perch on, had our second breakfast, and spent about an hour in the sunshine.

Eventually we figured we´d better get back and explore the site itself.

Plant life along the way: this looks to me an awful lot like uluhe, a native Hawaiian fern ... I think I also saw it in Southeast Asia... I believe it´s known to occur in all these places, but it was so strange to see it here!

After a bit of botanizing, we wandered among the ruins.

Trapezoidal windows: the Inca built their buildings and windows using this shape for greater stability -- this and other Inca sites have survived many earthquakes that have caused colonial walls to crumble

But gravity, entropy, etc. have taken their toll... rocks slipping above a massive altar stone

Rings made of stone: roof materials were tied to these rings atop the walls

More trapezoids: the door and the cleverly shaped rock above it

The Inca went to what looks to me like an enormous amount of trouble to sometimes carve stones to fit into other stones, jigsaw-like, rather than carving all the stones into squares

This may be more clear: see above where the same stone zigs and zags several times to fit with the stones above it

Intihuatana, often called the ¨hitching post of the sun¨: just a few days ago, on the winter solstice, the sun rose and set directly in line with this. These exist in many old Inca ruins but were usually destroyed by the Spanish to combat ¨pagan¨ sun worship -- fortunately the Spanish never found this site

From what I´ve read, Machu Picchu may have been a kind of ¨stately pleasure dome¨ for Inca nobility, where perhaps 500 - 1,000 people lived at any one time. It may not have been entirely religious, but it was a site for rituals, with a temple and various sacred carved rocks aligned with the sun and with mountains, which were objects of veneration for the Inca.

Machu Picchu was built so as to maximize sun exposure. The buildings and the stepped terraces minimize shade and so the Inca were able to grow many different plants here, and also stay warm even at about 8,000 feet in elevation.

They had an ingenious irrigation system which is still visible today; water moves through twists and turns in stone, pouring from level to level throughout the site. I don´t know where the water comes from now, if it still comes from snow melt or is somehow piped in using modern technology. But the sound of the trickling water in the heat of the day, coupled with the extraordinary views on all sides, does evoke Shangri La.

A rock carved to follow the lines of the mountain beyond

We decided on another short walk, this time out to the ¨Inca drawbridge.¨ Fortunately the route was shady, as by now the sun was blazing and it was hard to remember my early-morning wish for gloves and a scarf.

Along the way there were more spectacular views of the snow-covered Vilcabamba mountain range, and some closer views of trees covered in epiphytes. I had been surprised by the jungle-like surroundings of Machu Picchu -- in fact, this was one of my favorite things about the site. Suddenly, after weeks of high dry altiplano surroundings, we were in humid cloud forest, with ferns and orchids and tropical flora and fauna.

Red bromeliads perched up high

Look closely at the right wing of this butterfly: you can actually see through to the petals of the flower below

Fortunately, our walk didn´t involve a great deal of elevation change, because by now we were a little tired. It did, however, offer a pretty daredevil experience: we rounded an abrupt turn in the trail and saw the bridge below us: a few logs perched above a chasm.

I was wondering whether I was really up for crossing it when we saw (to some relief on my part) that you were not actually allowed to go all the way to the drawbridge. Instead, we stopped and had lunch with a view.

The bridge was ingenious, though. Restored to beautiful condition, it made clear that the Inca could easily pull back the logs and effectively close off their mountain fastness. With a long cliff above and below, it was hard to see where any trail at all could have gone. Eventually we saw a line of green bushes crossing a sheer rock face beyond the bridge; this area has not been restored and looks so precarious I think it´s unlikely that it will be.

I already was in awe of the aerobic capacity of the Inca -- who though shorter than Marty and I probably skipped lightly up steps that were thigh-high on them -- and now I also admire their heads for heights.

Also, they were very good at choosing views. When we came back from the Inca drawbridge -- along the original entrance path, presumably -- even after we´d been wandering all over the site, the vista was breathtaking.

Later in the afternoon, we descended the trail to Aguas Calientes, where we fully intended to go visit the hot springs. Instead, after returning to our hotel 12 hours after leaving it, we fell accidentally asleep, waking only for a late dinner. Perhaps that had been enough for one day.

Miss/Won´t Miss, or anticipatory nostalgia

2010-07-06T20:48:00.008-03:00

(An all-inclusive list, perhaps a bit more slanted toward South America)

Won´t Miss:

- Anaerobic bus rides
- Inane, unavoidable Skype conversations overheard at internet cafes
- Traffic that keeps you up at night: the whine of scooter horns in Hanoi, the mid-range rumble of rickshaw motors in Delhi, the belching buses and yelling men in Buenos Aires
- Horizontal rain and borderline hypothermia (Torres del Paine)
- The omni-presence of K´naan´s ¨Wave Your Flag¨

Will Miss:

- Coca tea, made from leaves (Bolivia and Peru, not so legal in the US)
- A more relaxed relationship with time (¡tranquilo!)

- Traveling by water (Lake Titicaca, Vietnam, Kashmir)

- Street markets and the cash-and-carry economy (everywhere)

- Public pay phones

- Being mistaken for French travelers (all over)
- All things Lady Gaga (SE Asia especially)

- The entire South American camelid family

Thoughts turning homeward

2010-07-03T23:29:00.003-03:00

We´re in Peru´s dry, sunny, and scenic Urubamba River valley, having gone to Machu Picchu yesterday (more on that to come!). Although this area is known for its Inca towns and massive cliff-hanging ruins and lovely weather, it is not known for the speed of its internet connections. So we may need a few days to blog on our recent adventures.

But in response to some entirely reasonable questions, here´s an update on our return plans.

In a (rather unbelievably) short time -- on July 11 -- we will be flying back to the US. Marty will arrive in LA July 12.

I am on a separate ticket, as mine is on frequent-flyer miles, and I´ll be squeezing the utmost out of my ticket by staying a week in DC and Baltimore to visit friends and family (hooray!). So I will get to LA July 19.

We are by now inured (addicted?) to seat-of-our-pants planning, so our date of arrival in San Francisco is not entirely set. It´s probably July 25, but if we have to run off to the Sierra or something, and nothing is pressing, it might be a few days later. And of course it´s all dependent on the extreme good nature of Marty´s parents, who helped us move our things to their garage and will hopefully also help us move them back.

That´s it in a long-winded nutshell. And yes, we are looking forward to coming home!

dance dance revolution

2010-06-29T20:43:00.001-03:00

Go back and check out Marty´s somewhat belated post on dance in Sucre (teaser: some truly fabulous bug-eyed masks)...

All aboard... welcome to Peru

2010-06-28T22:28:00.010-03:00

Elizabeth deserves credit for coining the term ¨Third World Transportation Fatalism¨ but she coined it for humans.

In a year of firsts (yak-butter tea, houseboat in Kashmir, five-day stomach Exorcist reenactment) the trip from Copacabana to Cusco was our first bus journey in which chickens and guinea pigs outnumbered human passengers.

Bags of cuy (guinea pig) are below, bags and crates of pollo above

How anyone could eat something with eyes this big is beyond us, but to each their own, I guess

Most of the animals were in the cargo area, but a few (presumably very special) chickens came on board with us, and clucked quietly when the bus swayed.

All this and much more came on board with us... notice the seething bags...

This wee Peruana seemed delighted by the spectacle

Sun, sacrifice, and small dangerous boys

2010-06-28T20:30:00.014-03:00

I like getting on boats whenever possible, and so while in Copacabana, we decided to head out on Lake Titicaca for a trip to Isla del Sol. Isla del Sol is a very small but long-inhabitated island, about an hour and a half from Copacabana.

From the small bay, we hopped on one of the many boats ferrying people over. Our boat lingered several minutes past its supposed launch time, and more and more people kept piling on. Finally, the captain came up top and said, ¨hey, [we put too many people below and] the boat is too heavy in back, will anyone sit up on the front tip of the boat, in front of the railing?¨

Yeah.

Hunkered up front with the Bolivian flag

It was great.

As we rounded the corner of a peninsula jutting into the lake (one that we had earlier aimed to bike to, though did not reach), we suddenly saw the Cordillera Real. On the lake, surrounded by low golden hills (not unlike, Marty pointed out, the East Bay hills), in the hot sun, it was easy to forget we were at 12,000 feet or so. Until those 20,000-foot snow-covered giants popped up.

Reed boat against a rather spectacular backdrop

When we arrived at the small bay of the Isla del Sol, it was already 3:30, three hours before dark, and we got a few different estimates of how long it would take us to hike the length of the island. We should not have been surprised by these varying answers: it´s sometimes hard to pin facts down in Bolivia.

Anyway, we thought we´d better get moving, so we huffed and puffed our way up the Escalera del Inca. This is a tall staircase of dark stone that climbs from the lakeshore up to and through the little town of Yumani; along it runs the Fuente del Inca, a spring trickling down the hill.

You may have noticed an Inca theme here: the Isla del Sol is an ancient site of many ancient Andean ruins (some pre-Inca), and there are Inca creation myths about the island, so some call it the birthplace of the Inca. Inca artifacts have also been discovered underwater near the island. There is almost no information about this that we found on the island or in Copacabana, so we largely enjoyed the island for its natural rather than its historical value.

The path we took from village to village may have been historical -- it´s wide enough for two people to share easily, and is bordered by stones the whole way. It seems like a lot of work for modern-day people, who wander all over the hillsides, not just on this path.

It was a beautiful place to walk.

A few of the locals

We saw almost no one on our four-hour walk from shore to shore, with the exception of some toll collectors. I don´t know if these toll collectors were on the up-and-up or were just extortionists, but we paid. Our trust was shaken because each toll collector would tell us we didn´t need to pay again, and that anyone who asked was just malo. But then that argument didn´t work with the next guy. We wished they´d sort it out among themselves.

¨No, no, that last toll you paid only covered the first third of the island...¨

At the very far northern tip of the island, we arrived at some pretty spectacular ruins, a sort of a stone labyrinth of walls and doorways, with stairs down to the water. We enjoyed wandering through this, ducking through low archways, ending up at dead ends, and temporarily evading one toll collector.

Nearby was a massive stone table, with low stone chairs arranged uncomfortably far away (at least for dining), where they say the Incas made sacrifices. I couldn´t decide if it was disrespectful to sit on the mesa but I guess it´s pretty disrespectful to sacrifice people. Or even critters.

Sacrificial and perhaps sacreligious

The moon and the sacred rock (at left)

Night was falling as we started the end of the walk down to the shore, where we devoutly hoped that we would find dinner and lodging. It was far too cold to camp on the beach.

Arriving in Challapampa

Fortunately, we did in fact find lodging at the bare-bones but perfectly serviceable Hostal Cultural, which may have had the cheapest room we´ve had on our whole trip, at about five dollars. We wandered out again looking for dinner and found an obliging family restaurant who cooked us up a prix-fixe meal of quinoa soup, eggs or pasta, and coca tea.

We woke up early to the braying of our neighbors.

After some more eggs and bread we were on our way back to the southern end of the island. We could have waited for a boat to pick us up, but honestly, Challapampa didn´t have a lot of entertainment offerings for the next four hours.

There´s always pick-up soccer... or carrying a truly enormous amount of reeds

The boats of Challapampa

Looking back at the village

We think this may be a burro-llama cross

The entire island, and most of the hills along the shores of Lake Titicaca, are heavily terraced. Apparently, at least on the island, these terraces are very ancient and carefully made, with layers of stone and sand beneath each level to allow them to drain. They have an effect from a distance almost like geological features.

Today people appear to grow wheat and corn on these terraces, and perhaps other crops -- it´s a little hard to tell, as it´s the dry season now, and most fields were covered with stubble and/or haystacks.

We made our way in a fairly leisurely fashion back to Yumani. Our most memorable stop along the way (aside from our rather pathetic nuts-orange-Snickers lunch stop) was to try to put out a fire.

Two little boys, maybe 5 or 6 years old, were hollering and whacking the ground uphill from the path. We saw as we drew closer that the grass was burned in big circles under them, and then realized that the edges of the circles were still on fire. We went up to help put the fire out, stomping around on the low flames.

Then we realized they were also lighting more fires.

Just a couple of nights before had been the celebration of San Juan, when people all over Copacabana lit fires in the streets and on the hills -- filling the town with smoke -- and asked for new things in the coming year. The kids said this too was for San Juan. Maybe they´d forgotten to ask for something.

We put their new fires out and tried to give them a stern talking-to about how peligroso this was on an incredibly dry island. I hope it worked, but who knows.

A couple of sun-soaked hours later, we arrived at Yumani. After clambering over a couple of fences to try to get a late lunch, and getting turned down, we arrived at what looked to us like paradise.

The La Paz beer, which features both a merry barrel-riding king and a picture of the unlovely brewery

It took a while, but it lived up to its billing: how often do you get quinoa along with your broccoli, onion, and locoto (spicy Bolivian pepper) on your pizza?

Worth the wait

We both almost fell asleep on the boat ride back to Copacabana. Good thing we had a long night ahead in a good bed before the bus to Cusco....

Apologies in advance...

2010-06-23T21:46:00.013-03:00

We´ve arrived in Copacabana and fear that our friends and family will now have that gawd-awful Barry Manilow tune stuck in their heads. We are really sorry about that. If there is any justice, he´ll be first against the wall when the revolution comes.

(Extra points to anyone who can tell us why he sang about a club named after a small Bolivian town.)

Just so you know where you are, the main plaza´s statue is highly informative

And also beautiful

The 3.5-hour drive away from La Paz gives one a whole different perspective on Bolivia´s altiplano. Endless red brick buildings in various states of disrepair give way to the spiny Cordillera Real, dry fields, and a seemingly endless supply of neatly arranged haybales.

Elizabeth remarked, and I agree, that there´s something very appealing, possibly on an evolutionary level, about stacked hay in late-afternoon sunlight

After a quick unloading of passengers, our bus was loaded on its own little raft to cross the strait of Tupiza, while we skipped across the lake in a boat.

The bus, contrary to its listing appearance, did not sink into the lake

Copacabana is a tiny town nestled between several extremely dry hilltops. We just happened to arrive the night that locals set large swaths the hillside ablaze in celebration of San Juan, a regional Catholic celebration, though it could have just as well been another night of the Aymara new year... or World Cup festivities gone awry.

What exactly are all these eucalyptus trees -- from Australia, Z points out -- doing in Bolivia?

We were quick to locate a cafe where we imbibed much-needed espresso, shared an extremely good brownie, and embarked on our first game of Scrabble en español. Despite my weak vocabulary and general frustration with board games I was actually ahead most of the game but then Elizabeth pulled ahead and trounced me. Z´s use of the high-scoring ´double-r´tile in corre (run) might have been the final blow, but I´m psyched for a rematch in San Francisco. We just need to find a board.

¿En serio?

We stopped by the Basilica of Our Lady of Copacabana, an imposing blindingly white Moorish-influenced cathedral on the main plaza, with charmingly tilted tile rooftop decorations. It may be a poor pueblo, but no expense seems to have been spared in constructing the church.

Interesting mix of Anglican-Incan-Moorish styles

The moon over terraced hills

The ends to our days were nothing short of aesthetic overload... a frequent sensation on this trip. We kept running out to watch (and take more pictures of) the sunsets.

Buenas noches indeed!

Grrr, say the local dogs...that´s my lake weed!

It´s much colder than you´d think

Feliz Año Nuevo Andino: 5518

2010-06-22T12:08:00.012-03:00

(Warning: a few of these images are not for the faint of heart.)

Monday, June 21 marked the Southern Hemisphere´s winter solstice and the beginning of a new Andean calendar year, 5518. We didn´t have the will to take a midnight bus to Tiwanaku for the big ´hands to the sun´ celebration, but we did make it over to the small alley where curanderos (traditional healers) sell dried llama fetuses, herbs, amulets, and other items of significance to (indigenous) Aymara and Quechua people.

Beautiful fruit

Llama fetuses, aka where David Lynch got the idea for Eraserhead

Apparently it´s not uncommon for folks to miss the big sunrise celebration, so the local TV station does a whole show with a local curandera who dolls up a her own llama fetus with a little fuzzy hat (not unlike those rasta beanies that are a staple of all liberal arts universities) and some tinsel, splashes it with some flammable liquid, reads the ´signs´of the liquid splattered on a nearby wall, then sets the whole thing on fire. ¡Muy intenso a las ocho en la mañana! (Translation: Not what you might be expecting to watch with your Wheaties...)

I´ve talked to others about the practice of making offerings to pachamama (Mother Earth), and apparently an actual llama fetus is not necessary. Small chalk tablets bearing an image of a llama can also be used. Different tablets are used to signify different requests for wealth, health, education, and maybe just a new car.

Sunrise at Tiwanaku, courtesy of the AP.

After wandering through La Paz´s ¨Witches´ Market¨ to get a full morning of local color under our belts, we took a series of cabs out to Valle de la Luna (Valley of the Moon), an area of arid badlands just outside of La Paz. A miniature version of Bryce Canyon in Utah, the valley is a surreal landscape of rain-sculpted clay towers, runnels, and unusual colors. There are also some wonderful cacti and, rumor has it, vizcachas.

We never came across any, but do yourself a favor and watch this video. Now!

Welcome to the moon

No, really, we´re not in Utah

Moon over cactus

We caught a packed local micro back to town and, again, Z felt the full brunt of a South American leaner. Beware, these cholitas look innocuous, but those layered skirts and bowler hats pack a punch.

Luckily, respite was found with cold beverages and unusual sentiments scrawled on the wall of a fried-chicken establishment.

Liqueur de coca, mmmm...

Though their numbers are small, Bolivian vegetarians speak up

¡Feliz Año Nuevo!

Street Scene, La Paz

2010-06-20T19:24:00.020-03:00

Illimani (21,125' / 6439m) dominates the skyline

After returning to Uyuni from three spectacular, freezing days on the Salar, Z and I wolfed down a pizza and immediately boarded an overnight bus to La Paz. Though it was billed as a ´cama´ bus, our chairs didn´t really recline that much, but at least there were blankets, and, more importantly, a toilet. (Of course, a toilet at the top and back of a tall bus on dirt roads, with a door that doesn´t lock, makes for a real bronco-ride experience, but bruises and all, we´re still happy to have had it...) Such are the luxuries of Bolivian overland travel!

The road was bumpy, dusty, and at times, downright noisy as a group of boisterous Bolivianos boarded at 3 in the morning in Oruro. We arrived in La Paz in the dark and first saw a gorgeous bowl of yellow lights under jagged mountains. Then as dawn broke we were able to check into a hostel and get some rest. (Z got in a few hours of shut-eye while I barely managed an hour´s rest in 10 hours of travel.)

Indefinite street repairs make walking a challenge at this altitude

La Paz is not only very high (3,650 m) but also beautiful and chaotic.

A very local breakfast in Bolivia consists of api (hot purple cinnamon-y corn drink) con buñuelos (deep-fried sweet bread) and we were quick to procure ample sustanence for our first forays around town. I had taken a cooking class in Sucre that taught us how to make buñuelos, but those were much more like donuts, with a donut´s requisite heaviness. The street-side variety is far superior. Plus it´s the size of a platter.

The fresh fruit selection here is incredible

Orange juice vendors abound

In many ways, La Paz reminds us of places we visited in India last fall. The air is incredibly dry, a rabbit warren of cobbled streets and mud-straw buildings cling to the hillsides, and public transportation operates with a logic of its own. The most notable differences are that women are visible here, nobody stares at us, and people are affectionate in public, which is great. Also, voceros on buses holler out their whole routes (partly because many people here can´t read -- logical when you think about it).

Balaclava-clad shoeshine guys: Z jumped about a foot when one offered her a shine

Delightful local micros crowd the streets

It´s good to know local graffiti kids appreciate las llamas

One of our favorite outings was to Inglesia San Francisco, which was founded in 1548 and has undergone repairs and reconstruction ever since. Below are some images from inside, out, and above.

Where fertility symbolism mingles with Catholic iconography

A guardian at the church entrance

Within the hallowed halls

The roof and its chessmen-like ornamentations

Saint Francis loves the deer...

...and the rabbits

Perhaps the most imaginatively colored J.C. ever

Can you tell that we´re happy to be in the sun?

La Paz also boasts an ingenious, if rather confusing, network of walkways that lead to a mirador (lookout) and children´s park. After a few false starts, advice from small children, and at least one case of fence-jumping, we made it to the top.

The zig-zags are the pathway -- we followed some of them, anyway...

Banked walls and rental bikes...fun for all ages!

Another unexpected treat was meeting up with an old friend from an entirely different world. I had originally known Karin as a member of the all-women punk band Spitboy, who I saw many times in the mid-90s. She left the Bay Area and started up a downhill mountain bike tour company with her husband. They also have two rad kids living the high life with them in the city of peace.

Then:

Karin is playing bass in the lower right image (Intermission fanzine, 1992)

Now:

With Alistair, Connor, and Kale...rockers, all (kung-fuers, too)

In La Paz, more delights await us around any corner (and there are many!).

Altiplano aventura

2010-06-20T10:35:00.022-03:00

They told us it would be really cold, and they were right, but it was worth it.

Heeding the warnings, we loaded up on fuzzy sweaters and headed out to the Salar de Uyuni, which we´d never heard of until we reached South America, but that many travelers told us was the high point of their trip through the continent.

And yes, it was worth getting cold. It was even worth having my hands get so dry that they´re spontaneously (still) bleeding. It was worth having the jeep break down three times and learning five Bolivian songs by heart.

To get there, we took a long bus ride from Potosí to Uyuni, which at first glance seemed like a godforsaken town. (And after spending two evenings and a morning there, I can affirm that it really is a godforsaken town.)

That didn´t matter, though, because after trying to evaluate the inflated claims of several tour companies, we picked one and were off on a three-day trip through otherworldliness.

The Salar de Uyuni is a massive, flat, high lake of dried-up salt from an inland sea that existed about 25,000 years ago, we were told. Today, locals mine the salt from the edges and travelers visit the middle. One day, locals (or multinationals) may also mine the lithium there, but for now the salt flats are relatively untouched.

Our tour first visited what is essentially a steam engine graveyard. We were amused to hear from our driver that ¨we put all the old trains together here so they wouldn´t make many places ugly; then we made it a museum for tourists.¨

¨Se necesite un mecanico con experiencia¨

After appreciating the graffiti, we were off to the salt factory.

Our diminutive but very energetic guide, standing where the salt is boiled

Where iodine is added and then the salt is, well, dumped in a big pile

Then you scoop the salt into little bags and seal them up with flame, see?

After visiting a salt factory in Laos, we were interested to learn that Bolivian salt-making does not seem to include a cleaning step. We found this somewhat distressing since they use surface salt, from a place driven on by lots of jeeps.

Once we had refused the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy salt ashtrays, we finally got to head out to the desert to take silly photos.

This is a big thing at the Salar, where the air is so dry and clear and the ground so white that you essentially lose all sense of depth perception, at least in photos, and can do all sorts of wacky things. We weren´t really very good at these photos and we hadn´t brought many props. So instead we did cartwheels and yoga poses and had a good time.

You get very breathless doing this, we noticed, as you´re at about 12,000 feet elevation here.

Still salt, not lava, but an interesting texture

Musing over the texture -- notice the hexagonal squares in the salt here too

We stopped at an island in the salt -- once an island in the sea, and just as effectively marooned today -- that was home to some truly enormous cactuses. Apparently there are 2,500 cactuses on the very small Incahuasi island. Also some vizcachas, funny looking rabbit-like creatures that we´d been hoping to see but didn´t.

Nine hundred years old and still growing

The remains of the salty lake lapping up on the shore

An arch of coral, hundreds of miles from any modern sea

And gorgeous views

As the sun went down and the temperature dropped, we headed out to a small pueblito on the edge of the Salar to sleep in a salt hotel. This was not, as I´d been imagining, like those ice rooms or ice hotels they carve in France and Russia. Fortunately it was a good deal warmer. It was more like big cinderblocks that happened to be sparkly if you got them in the right light.

The next morning, we were up early for some Nescafe (yes, we´ve actually gotten quite used to the stuff) and a big day of driving almost to Chile.

Dawn over salt

What, you don´t dry your meat on the nearest cactus?

We had heard the same five-song CD of bouncy Bolivian tunes for the entire day yesterday, and as we drove out into the desert once more, our trusty driver started it up again. I couldn´t decide whether it was better or worse to try to discern the lyrics: yes it was Spanish comprehension practice, but then you were much more aware of the repetition...

Morning light

Today´s landscapes were very different, with sand dunes and distant volcanoes and windswept grass. I kept trying to get pictures of the grass as it was such a distinctive shape.

See the grass in the foreground

We also got to see more wildlife on our second day out. First, we just saw glimpses of animals in the distance, sometimes the more domesticated llamas and their, more delicate wild cousins, the vicuñas. As we visited lakes later in the day, we saw more animals closer up.

Vicuña or llama footprints

Flamingos at Laguna Colorada -- there are several species here. The Salar is an important breeding ground for them, and in the summer, there are thousands -- these are just the hardy winter souls.

Vicuña

The llamas, more domesticated, sport red ribbon earrings

But they are still dignified

A cargo train disappears into the distance, carrying minerals to Chile

There was a lot of driving on this trip, and not a lot of shelter for pit stops. Battle-hardened from India, though, I made it work.

Happy that I found a bush that was more than two feet tall...

Our local companions included a capable but moody driver (who occasionally fell asleep on the Salar, but we didn´t get too worried, since there wasn´t really anything he could run into) and a rather shy but resourceful cook (when confronted with four or five vegetarians after expecting two). Our fellow travelers included a German woman and three young Londoners who kept us entertained.

The backseat peanut gallery

Although the long hours of driving made everyone a little giddy, we were all pretty subdued on the third morning. It had been a cold night in a bare-bones shelter near the large and gorgeous Laguna Colorado, and it hadn´t started getting any warmer at 5 am.

But we got up, packed up, and loaded things into and on top of the jeep. The cook, rather to our amusement, staged a rebellion and sat in the front seat, which the German woman had staked out for the last two days. It turned out it was just too cold in back. Marty and I got her to come in next to us, where Marty had (very cleverly) thought to spread out a sleeping bag. I lent her my hat and mittens, the German woman got up front, and we were off.

The cook´s sun hat was not helping her stay warm, but Marty was well bundled

We drove along for a few minutes when suddenly we stopped. I don´t know how many degrees below zero it was, but the car was overheating. Something was frozen in the engine. Our driver tinkered for a bit and Marty got out to help. Then the driver took the cap off the radiator and steam exploded in both their faces. Fortunately they were OK. That cooled the engine a bit, we went back for more water for the radiator, and we were off again.

As dawn broke, we reached the highest elevation of our trip, at 4,950 meters or about 16,200 feet. It was still very very cold, but I didn´t care; I got out, because this was the first time I´d ever seen geysers!

Not unlike our radiator earlier -- this is an artificial hole drilled for an abandoned energy-generation attempt

Natural geysers

A few minutes later, and somewhat lower in elevation, we arrived at the true testing point: the hot springs.

It was very warm once you were in the water, they said. We all approached the steaming pool and peered in. Some other people had arrived before us and a few brave souls were submerged. The rest of us huddled around it in our giant puffy coats and hats and llama-themed fuzzy things.

Maybe just putting the feet in would do.

But I had put my bikini on at 5 am, damn it. Might as well go for it. Taking off many layers of clothing, I went in. Marty followed.

They were right! It was warm!

Getting out was of course the hard part. We contemplated staying until summer.

But breakfast called and we somehow managed to get out and into dry clothes without any changing rooms and without going hypothermic. We did get some surprising effects on our hair, which due to some hard grey substance in the water ended up closely resembling the local grasses.

Our final day consisted of a long drive through high red deserts past volcanic mountains that looked like giant spilled paint.

Las Montañas Coloradas

Oh, and the car broke down two more times. Once a flat tire -- fixed rapidly -- and once a more serious breakdown when the engine again overheated. Fortunately there´s a spirit of one-for-all among the drivers, and a few others pulled over and crawled under the car and banged on things and replaced other things and eventually got the coolant circulating. Marty got out and helped, I wrote in my journal, the German woman planned how we would fit ourselves and all our things into the other jeeps, and the backseat brigade played 20 questions with pop stars.

Eventually we were on our way once more, speeding back to Uyuni with time only for brief pit stops (wherever I could find tallish rocks or slight depressions in the ground). The scenery continued to be majestic except when sandstorms hit.

Before the polvo

Amid the polvo

Interestingly, at this final point in the journey, we learned that the driver also had an Ipod with lots of other songs besides the 5 greatest hits. Energized by the new playlist, we bumped and bounced over the dirt roads, finally got onto asphalt, and made it back to Uyuni. In spite of three breakdowns in one day, we´d arrived in time for our overnight buses for the next adventure...

Some dance before departure

2010-06-19T14:32:00.006-03:00

Just before leaving Sucre for the Salar Elizabeth and I went and experienced Origenes: bailar espectaculo, a cavalcade of dance from throughout the pueblos of Bolivia. The dancers were phenomenal, the costumes colorful, and the music loud. The night consisted of little taste of each region and ethnic group within the country and was a delightful finish to out time in Sucre.

The night began with a recreation of the pujllay, a celebration of pacha mama that takes place in Tarabuco each March. There´s a lot of foot stomping at the pujllay!

Note the platform shoes!

The structure behind the dancer is constructed of offerings made to pacha mama

A number of other dances were elaborate courtship rituals from different places in the countryside. Some of the costumes had a distinctly Spanish flavor while others were uniquely Bolivian--layers and layers of fabric set aloft in a flurry of twists.

Others were simply strange and wonderful. I think this is a human-cum-condor figure.

Maybe the coolest part of the night were the diablada and tio supay dancers from Oruro. The masked devils are actually miners´ protectors while working below the surface. Oruro itself is a pretty god-forsaken place but it would be a real treat to see the annual carnival in all its glory.

Chinese dragons, eat your heart out

At the end of the night, dancers pulled audience members up on stage for a final blow-out. Let me state for the record that these dancers are wicked fit! I´m generally in pretty good shape and have no trouble with altitude, but afterwards, I was winded!

Sucre sweet and bitter

2010-06-13T18:05:00.009-03:00

The steep streets of Sucre

Teetering here at 13,000+ feet in Potosí, I thought I´d follow the advice to rest at a high elevation and so am catching up with another blog post, this time about Sucre. Marty has already done some great posts, but I couldn´t resist chiming in. (This will surprise no one.)

Sucre is a lovely tranquil city, full of narrow cobbestone lanes, whitewashed buildings, red tile roofs, and teenagers. (OK, sometimes it´s not so tranquil -- especially when on Saturdays at siesta time the teenagers in the brass band practice a song that lasts 2 hours.)

Its streets are steep -- it´s sometimes reminiscent of San Francisco -- and the sidewalks are narrow. So narrow that it´s not uncommon to actually bump into people when rounding a corner!

The city is at about 9,000 feet in elevation, which until today seemed quite high; when I arrived a week ago I had to walk much slower than usual. It´s very dry, as well, which makes for gorgeous blazing midday temperatures and cold, starry nights.

A sunny afternoon (like most) at the Recoleta mirador

The always-tranquil cementario

Sucre is a very old and proud city. It was founded in 1538 and is full of churches that actually date back to the 1500s. The declaration of Bolivia´s independence from Spain was signed here in 1825, and Sucre residents call their city the heart of Latin American independence, saying that the first cry for independence was uttered here in 1809. Sucre also is home to a very old and famous university that was founded in 1624; for centuries, the city has produced doctors, lawyers, and other professionals.

Perhaps partly because of a class schism, Sucre residents are on the whole not happy with their president, Evo Morales, widely lauded as the country´s first indigenous president.

Sucre is the original capital of Bolivia and is the seat of its judiciary. It claims the status of ¨constitutional capital¨and doesn´t recognize the move of the capital to La Paz as legitimate.
This may seem like a quibble but is a serious dispute.

Morales declared La Paz the capital in 2007 (among other changes to the consitution) and the residents of Sucre protested. The protests escalated, the military came in, miners came in from Potosí bearing (and throwing) dynamite, and it got very ugly. Three young Sucre residents died.

The way I was told the story, a mob took over the streets, burning buildings. All the prisoners were released for their own safety. The police, overpowered, actually left the city. They walked to Potosí, I was told, as no cars or trucks were allowed in or out by the protesters. They told Sucre residents that everything would descend into chaos, but people actually organized themselves, the mob dispersed, people fed each other, and generally kept order until the situation ended. The prisoners even went back to the jail of their own volition (presumably because without it they were homeless).

Unfortunately, about a year later there was some very ugly retaliation against campesinos supporting Morales.

I heard about all of this from my Spanish teacher, who said that many people don´t like to talk about it. There isn´t much confidence in the government here, though.

It´s hard to know how to evaluate all of this -- some may be class resentment and some may be real fear of repression and autocracy -- but I was grateful to find out more about what goes on beneath the surface of what is, no matter what, a beautiful place.
.

Dinosaurio Anniversario

2010-06-12T19:57:00.017-03:00

Really, folks, what says ¨I love you¨ more clearly than a trip to a cement plant?

Lucky for us, Sucre boasts one of the world´s largest collections of dinosaur huellas (footprints) left in ancient mud, stumbled upon by industrious cement magnates.

Check out those eyebrows!

Reptile appreciation in full effect!

Long ago, there was a lake that was drying and a wide variety of critters romped around. Time passed, the topography changed radically, and the lake bottom was shoved up and sideways, leaving a broad vertical wall covered with dino tracks.

There are hundreds of tracks from hundreds of species. Some look like big round hippo prints, some almost like shoe prints, and some like bird claws, complete with scratches.

The drawback is that you view them from quite far away, across a gorge, so you may want to zoom in on the photo below.

Click to enlarge. Note how the tracks zig-zag all over the place

If you arrive in the right light, the sun lights up the tracks across this veritable prehistoric freeway.

These huellas are about six feet across

El Parque Cretacico is one of many examples of Bolivia´s economic contrasts. A twenty-minute bus or taxi ride outside of the city center takes you far from white-washed colonial adobes toward the much more impoverished campos. Pavement quickly runs out and life seems far more hand-to-mouth. Giant hairy pigs mingle with stray dogs, and homes look one rainstorm away from melting into the red earth below.

Then all of a sudden there is a modern, attractive museum with beautifully detailed replicas of species that have been found at the site. Way nicer, as we told the guide, than the similar places we´ve been in the U.S. No expense seems to have been spared (for instance, they repaint the dinosaurs every year!) and the soundtrack that plays while you walk around adds to the authenticity of the terrible lizard experience.

One odd thing, though, is that the cement plant continues to function and two big landslides have occurred in recent years, piling rubble against the wall and destroying some prints. They´re applying for UNESCO status; hopefully that will result in more preservation of this incredible site.

All told, the park rocked. As did our fourth anniversary. The internet suggests flowers or linen for such an occasion, but we were pretty happy with ancient critters.

Tango vampiring and other Buenos Aires nostalgia

2010-06-12T19:51:00.009-03:00

Right before I left Buenos Aires, I got a little tango-crazed.

I blame it in part on a new friend, Elise, who came to stay in our multinational apartment (housemates from Chile, Bulgaria, Germany, Australia, Peru, England, Australia, Spain, etc etc) and promptly caught me up in her wake, so we roared around from milonga to milonga (milongas are tango dance clubs). By the time she´d left I´d finally gotten around to having a private tango class (in my room!) and was hooked.

I guess it was also that I was about to leave Buenos Aires and was in a rush to cram everything in before I left. I don´t have many images -- hopefully Elise (ahem!) will send a few more -- but here are some photos of the very atmospheric performances of El Afronte, the tango "orquestra tipica" that Marty and I saw early on in our stay.

Whaling on the bandonéons

Pianists are not known for their good posture...

High drama from the cantante

I wasn´t as bad as another friend, the original tango vampire, who regularly got home at 7 a.m. and couldn´t poooossibly meet me before 2 p.m. But I did start staying out very late. This was a little inconvenient as I had Spanish classes from 9 to 1 every day. And also was volunteering in the afternoons (for the lovely Fundación Vida Silvestre Argentina, whose mission is as good as its critter logo). Oh, and I had more private Spanish classes.

Turns out, at least for short periods, sleep isn´t as necessary as I thought.

The night before I left, I made another friend go to two milongas with me, both after midnight. One place was so plain it was like a school cafeteria, but full of dressed-up older folks who were having a great time. I had a Fernet and cola and we watched. We were lucky enough to see some folclorico, which I thought looked like a mix of flamenco and some sort of heron mating dance. Haughty and flirty and fun all at once.

And as long as I´m wrapping up Buenos Aires -- appropriately looking back through a foggy lens at the city of nostalgia -- here are a few more images:

A blurry moment with Elise at the milonga and generally cool cafe La Catedral, before we were taken on a 3 a.m. city tour by a friendly architect

I didn´t blog about it, but one of the best parts of my time in Buenos Aires was teaching yoga to a mix of travelers, students, and locals at a studio in a beautiful old house in the Recoleta neighborhood. Taking these photos in a San Telmo doorway was pretty fun too. People weren´t sure what to make of it, especially the more inverted (upside-down) poses...

With my Spanish teacher Carolina, who looks very serious here but is actually very funny (and very patient)

Our street amidst the bicentennial celebrations

Don´t cry for me

Las Cataratas, Los Critters

2010-05-31T23:42:00.017-03:00

Last week I headed out with a friend to the Argentine tropics to see Iguazu Falls, or, as they're called here, Las Cataratas. Iguazu is at the very tip of a finger of Argentine land that pokes northeast between Brazil and Paraguay. In fact, there's a place you can stand in the town of Puerto Iguazu where, we were told, you could throw a rock across one river to Brazil and across another to Paraguay. Not wanting to provoke any international incidents, we didn't try that.

Which country today?

As it turned out, I couldn't visit Brazil without buying a rather expensive visa -- it used to be possible to go to Foz do Iguazu for the day without one -- so we stayed firmly planted in Argentina. No hardship there, really. The Argentine side held plenty of wonders.

On the silly but cute little train to the falls: me, my friend Jemma, and a contemplative Argentine

The Iguazu River runs between Brazil and Argentina and at the point of the falls is 1.5 kilometers wide. In perhaps almost as impressive a feat of engineering as of natural superlatives, the boardwalk to the falls in this place is a kilometer long.

Most superlative of all, of course, are the falls themselves. Apparently Iguazu, in the indigenous Guarani language, means Big (i) Water (guazu). Well put.

As you walk along the boardwalk to reach the falls, you see white clouds of water vapor floating up long before you see the falls themselves. When you reach the Garganta del Diablo, or Devil's Throat, words pretty much fail you. But I'll try. It's a kind of giant cul-de-sac of water thundering down in all directions, not just along one wall or down one rock face, but in a big U of falls to your left, spreading out before you, then curving around to your right, beneath you, and then out to your left again. When you look down you can't see the bottom at all. You know it's a long way down but all you can see is clouds of vapor booming up from the impact of the water.

The view of one small part (across to Brazil) at La Garganta del Diablo

The boardwalks are built in such a way that you can look straight down over the falls in some places (and at La Garganta del Diablo, you cannot see the bottom). As I remarked to Jemma, if you saw anything like this from a boat on the river, you would be about to die.

Sound and movement give you a much better sense of the falls than photos...

Obviously the falls are the big draw to Iguazu, but for us an enormous highlight was seeing all sorts of exotic animals. It was remarkable to leave a busy, wintry Buenos Aires, spend a night on a bus watching bad movies (and being offered whisky, or in Jemma's case, being hit on by our bus attendant), and then emerge in the tropics, in a sleepy little town full of red dirt and banana trees and warm wet air. (Not unlike Hawai'i!)

We got to see all sorts of interesting critters. The monkeys may have been the most entertaining. Well, no, maybe the coatis. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

We saw this fish several feet below the boardwalk, holding on somehow against the flow of the water.

We also saw this very naughty lady feeding the jays

A jay with a little more self-respect -- and check out the blue eyebrows!

A wistful monkey moment

We walked through the jungle along a small trail called Sendero Macuco, named after a native bird. Apparently only 2% of visitors go on this trail. (Like at most parks, I guess.) The monkeys, however, came out in force. They followed each other along a path through the trees, one moment nimble and agile, and the next, hurling themselves into the next tree, branches swaying, leaves falling, making a big comical mess.

Monkeys snacking on some sort of delicious palm fruit -- one later took umbrage and started raising his eyebrows and shaking his palm leaf at us. We were suitably intimidated.

The tiny but lovely falls on the Sendero Macuco

A view of the gorgeous jungle from the top of the falls -- it seems endless. Unfortunately, only 60,000 hectares still exist of an expanse that once covered 1 million.

A leaf insect -- so realistic! -- that we never would have seen had it not alighted on a rock

In our first afternoon in town, we had a few hours but not enough time to visit the park, so we went to a wildlife sanctuary called Guira Oga, which means "home of the birds" in Guarani. It was a treat, a kind of a preview of the many animals we might later be able to see in the wild.

I won't post many photos they mostly show cages and aren't pretty, but the animals seemed well cared for, and the guides were friendly and informative -- one chatted with us all the way back on the bus. (I will even forgive him for telling us that meat-eaters live longer than vegetarians.)

They somehow make the whole operation work just off of occasional donations and the entry fees. It's run by a couple and their daughters, at least one of whom is a veterinarian. They also take volunteers, in case you know anyone who's looking!

(Even if you don't plan to visit, you can click on the link above to enjoy the sounds of the place.)

The refuge started as a haven for birds, primarily -- the owners are falconers -- and there's an entire room full of incubators which in turn are full of eggs.

The next generation

A watchful peregrine falcon

The capybara, my candidate for world's absurdest animal (well, ok, there's also the Chinese water deer). We didn't see these in the wild but Marty had a great post about them back at Easter. They're the world's largest rodent, about the size of dogs, even though they look like hamsters.

The next day, in the park, we took a boat ride, the "Paseo Ecologico," and it was incredibly tranquil, even though we weren't far from the falls and had to wear dorky life preservers. I didn't know the Spanish names for any of the plants our guide told us about, and he often didn't know English names, but we were able to use Latin, which is, of course, the whole idea of Latin names. Pretty great.

Oh, and we saw caimans. That's right, caimans! Like alligators! Four of them!

Here's one now.

The part in the picture is about 3 feet long -- the tail, which is huge, muscular, and prized for its meat (and could knock all your teeth out) is probably another 3 or 4 feet long.

Fortunately all the caimans were snoozing in the sun and seemed uninterested in having people-kebabs. Also, a couple of them were quite small -- one, just a year old, was only about a foot long, like a big lizard. It was strange to me that they grow so much without changing proportions -- as if a baby looked like a small tall person.

We wondered at this a bit before realizing it must be a walkway for the animals, like the monkeys and coatis.

One of many gorgeous butterflies

We are now reaching what I have to admit was the high point of the trip for me: coatis. Coatis are a lot like raccoons, only reddish brown and snufflier. They root around in the leaf litter for bugs and other delicious food items.

The coatis at Iguazu view the bridges for people as if they are bridges for coatis. So they traipse along the banisters, much to the delight of all the people.

It seems that the naughty lady on the boardwalk is not the only one who has fed an animal at Iguazu. The coatis may be a little spoiled. They are quite interested in what people smell like. One was very thorough in pointing its long and no doubt extremely sensitive nose at us.

Encounters with not-so-wildlife

I imagined it thinking, "ok, let's see, here we've got bread, cheese, an apple, oh, no, two apples, some nuts, oooh, this one's got chocolate..."

Well, when it was sniffing at me, it overbalanced a little and had to put a foot out. On my stomach. Somehow I also got a photo of this.

"Oh yes, this one definitely has chocolate in that pack"

I would just like to state for the record (and I think the photo corroborates this) that the wildlife molested ME.

Once we'd finished cruelly refusing to feed the coatis, we went on to see more falls. Yes, there were more. Lots more. It's probably apocryphal, but one story says that Eleanor Roosevelt visited Iguazu and said, "Poor Niagara!"

Iguazu Falls is quite a lot taller than Niagara, and is wider by some measures than Victoria, though more water flows through Victoria and it's more one big sheet of water. I've seen various different measures and they're all kind of confusing, but suffice it to say that Iguazu is one of the biggest waterfalls in the world.

On the way up, Jemma had set a clear goal for this trip: she wanted to see toucans. We saw toucans at Guira Oga, but of course it'd be better in the wild. Our boat guide had told us that they're like government employees: visible before 9 and after 5. And sure enough, at 5:05, some toucan-like birds came out: chestnut-eared aracaris. Quite spectacular, with red bands across their chests.

And then the toucans in all their glory, absurd beaks and big dark eyes and all.

As if all that weren't enough, we decided to round out our day in the park with a full-moon hike.

First we had to kill a couple of hours drinking beer as the sun set, then watching the southern constellations come out. It was lovely. It felt like we were all alone: no one seemed to care about two gringas standing around looking at the stars after the park had closed.

We ate a quick dinner and then headed back to the Garganta del Diablo for another look, this time by moonlight. Unfortunately Jemma's camera was a little overwhelmed by all the darkness, so we weren't able to get many photos. And it was wet. But it was gorgeous and ghostly and the falls were somehow much more intimidating.

In which I try to salvage a picture w/too much Photoshop... but you can sort of see the moonlight and the water whooshing into the Garganta, no?

If you look closely you can actually see the moon over Jemma's shoulder. You don't have to look closely to see how wet we got!

Poor Niagara perhaps. But I feel very lucky.

Bicentenario, now with pictures

2010-05-30T20:53:00.002-03:00

With the help of a friend's camera, here are a few more views of the celebratory madness that was my neighborhood for Argentina's 200th birthday:

The streets were very, very full -- and this is a very wide street, at 14 or maybe 18 lanes, depending on how you count

The Last Supper: Jesus has an asado (Argentine BBQ) -- kind of a weird choice for a government-sponsored decoration

The rather creepy and overdone display I referred to earlier

The streets were packed. I came back a few times later in later days, thinking I could see more of the various displays when fewer people were out. Each time the streets were even more full. On the actual day of the bicentenario (Tuesday), it took me a half-hour to cross the Avenida 9 de Julio.

And my favorite, the sometimes-fierce guardian of the parking garage next to our apartment, the dog Marty and I have named "Quilmes" (as he seems to always be hosting a small party featuring the national beer):

All dressed up for the occasion, with his very own chair, too

Only Here: 2

2010-05-30T19:33:00.003-03:00

The dinosaur tracks that were found outside of Sucre have spawned a pretty great telecommunications phenomenon: dino-themed phone-booths!

Ma Bell, take note. These are way cooler than cell phones!

Only here...

2010-05-23T11:56:00.003-03:00

The New Yorker has a column called ¨Rational Irrationality¨ and this, I suspect, could be Bolivia´s first contribution. Here, it makes total sense. Somehow, though, I don´t see the brand taking off en el norte.

¡Me ♥ las salteñas!

2010-05-22T20:56:00.005-03:00

Salteñas are to Bolivia what empanadas are to Argentina, little pockets of joy that are simply delicious. You can find them on many street corners but only one salteñeria in Sucre offers a vegetarian version, and it´s a doozy. The salteñas at Salteñeria Flores have slightly sweet corn flour exterior that encloses a medley of sauteed veggies and locotus, a variety of pepper. Me gusta muchisimo. ¡Uno mas, por favor!

To get in on the action, here is a recipe for vegan salteñas. Bake up and let us know how it goes. ¡Buena suerte!

Woven together in Tarabuco

2010-05-22T20:32:00.011-03:00

Tarabuco is a tiny, rural pueblo (village) in the Chuquisaca province of Bolivia, about two hours from Sucre. Its main claim to fame is its fine textile design tradition, but it also boasts a fine Sunday market and a really really freaky statue in the center of town.

Bloodlust is alive and well. Take that, first-world tyrants!

A week ago I loaded into a precarious bus with a dozen or so other students and clutched the side panels of the rickety vehicle in hopes that the driver wouldn´t pass on every blind turn. I was not lucky on that account, but was treated to a front-seat view of some magnificent landscape and a thrill-ride worthy of an amusement park. My compatriots, in the rear of the bus, were not amused.

The collective heat of this arrangement defies all logic

Like most Bolivian pueblos and campos, Tarabuco is incredibly poor, at least economically speaking. What it has a wealth of are extra-spicy peppers, vendors and traders of every stripe, and especially intricate woven goods.

Garments like these are still worn today (ASUR image)

While I was visiting I got a chance to watch a metalsmith hammer a pick-axe into fine form, meet a cobbler with a wicked sense of humor, and see a grown man muscle a freshly slaughtered pig down a narrow alleyway. I felt like I´d truly arrived!

A modern day Hephaestus

My kicks have seen better days

Give this man a wide berth

I´ve always loved fabric, and this leg of the trip has been a real treat. Some of my very earliest memories are of my mom carding wool, showing me how to drop spin, and weaving on a beautiful Swedish loom that took over our kitchen.

My current favorite textiles feature a character called El Supay. By various turns he´s considered the lord of liminal spaces, the son of Pacha Mama or Tierra Madre (Earth Mother), or, to Spanish conquistadors, El Diablo. In the delicately constructed fiber-arts of this region, El Supay holds sway over a subteranean world of fantastical creatures. Multi-winged griffins mingle with double-headed horses, strange rabbits, and condors. These masterpieces take months to construct and the very finest are displayed at ASUR, a museum of indigenous textile art on Calle San Alberto.

Slightly chaotic, totally captivating

The Jalq´a and Tarabuco weaving tradition is far from dead. A renaissance of sorts is underway where the oral tradition of textile design is being passed from older women to young girls who have found a passion for their craft. Men, too, have become excited by weaving and have developed a unique style of their own. The art and technology of weaving has remained the same for centuries, while designs have continued to evolve. The new work being done now is a reflection of each weaver´s imagination, not a duplication of previous forms.

Colorful work in progress

A young artisan at ASUR

El Supay detail

From the ASUR website:

Tarabuco was situated on the former Inca border with [other] groups farther east. To guard this border from constant invasions, especially by the Chiriguanos, the Inca moved warriors from several different provinces into this area... at some point the descendants of these different groups began to adopt similar customs and dress which, in spite of minor differences in the design of certain garments, gave them a common appearance.

Local performer at lunch

Hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Tarabuco

¡Viva la libertad!

2010-05-22T15:00:00.011-03:00

When my friend Chris said to me last night, "oh, I thought it was Marty's blog," I realized it was time to post....

I've been living a quieter life in Buenos Aires than Marty's adventures in Bolivia, though perhaps not literally quieter. This is a loud city. Colectivos (bus) rumble by at all hours (literally shaking this old house), men yell, horns blare, motorcycles buzz past carrying deliveries of empanadas and ice cream, and helicopters hover overhead.

The helicopters aren't normal here, but Tuesday is the Bicentenario -- Argentina is celebrating 200 years of independence from Spain -- and it's fiesta time!

Avenida 9 de Julio, one of the widest streets in the world, has been closed to traffic (inspiring much ire at rush hour over the last week) and huge stands and stages have been set up. The government is clearly spending an enormous amount of money on this. There is a stand for each of the country's provinces, with musical events, parades, and more.

(Marty has our camera, so I'm having to make do with photos from the web, and I can't find any yet of the current state of the Avenida, or of the stands.)

A slightly apocalyptic view of Avenida 9 de Julio and the Obelisk

I happened on a concert on Thursday night in front of the Casa Rosada (the Pink House is Argentina's equivalent of the White House). The band had come down from Jujuy, the very northern tip of Argentina, and it was a taste of the Andes, with most of the audience in ponchos and caps, waving Jujuy flags in time to the lively pan-pipe music.

An especially pink image of the Casa Rosada

I just have to include the coat of arms, which appears on the front gate at the Casa Rosada: Two hands clasped (the provinces joining together) with a pike (yes, the big stick represents power) and a Santa hat, oops, no, the hat of freed Roman slaves, and the same sun that is on the Argentine flag. And some laurel. Simplicity was not highly valued in 19th-century graphic design.

Last night, along Avenida 9 de Julio, I saw the stand erected by the Madres de la Plaza de Mayo (the mothers of the "disappeared" victims of the 1970's dictatorship). One of my teachers here says that the Madres and the current government are very close, and that the Madres are now quite a powerful group. That seemed borne out by the display's lavishness, which includes a giant sort of carousel with life-size plaster figures of women in white kerchiefs, rotating around a replica of the statue in front of the Casa Rosada. They're an impressive group that has done a lot for human rights in Argentina. But the display is still very weird.

The government declared an extra holiday this year, and everyone's celebrating the four-day weekend. I was out until a mere 2 am or so last night, but my housemate tells me that restaurants were busy at 3, and little old men and women were holding hands and walking through the streets at 4:30 am as if they were strolling along in the sunset.

I'll head out with some friends tonight to see the big Latin American music fest and will no doubt be joined by thousands and thousands of people. I live right at the epicenter of all the festivities, so it's loud -- there was still a concert of some sort going at 1 am last night -- but very convenient!

After all, how often do you get to celebrate a 200th birthday?

Eating (more than) sushi in Bolivia

2010-05-15T20:09:00.006-03:00

Believe it or not, Sucre has casa de sushi! ¡que rico!

The persistent question Z and I have had to grapple with in traveling to South America has been, But what can we eat? Afterall, El Sur is no vegetarian paradise like Southeast Asia or India. I was lucky to have a kitchen in Buenos Aires to gain respite from the culinary dominance of Italy, but here in Bolivia it would be slim pickins.

Or so I thought.

This is something akin to chili con carne (de soya)

Turns out you can buy leche de coco as well as a healthy sampling of carne de soya (TVP) at most markets here. Doña Margarinos has been extra-attentive, making sure I get enough to eat. El almuerzo (lunch) is the primary meal of the day and it´s a doozy. We have a new soup each day then a healthy piling-up of mixed veggies and potatoes, or rice and potatoes and pasta, or a delicious hand-made hamburguesa de lentejas (lentil burger). Suffice it to say, I´m not losing any weight in Sucre! The Margariños, on the other hand, eat a daunting selection of los carnes Bolivianos while amusing themselves with the estudiante flaco.

Today I returned the family´s generosity and cooked up three of my own dishes to share: an Indian curry (no se la nombre, ¿porque no ´curry de martín´?), a fritatta with hearts of palm (tortilla de españa con palmitos), and a Thai eggplant (berengena de Tailandia) concoction with three types of peppers in a spicy peanut-coconut sauce (salsa de coco con picantes).

With Señorita Margariños and one of the family´s cooks

Not to be outdone, Señorita Margariños also just happened to have a fresh helado on hand. How does this woman do it? She literally lives for her sons, Erik and Freddy, daughter Magary, and grandson, el bebito Octavio.

After she retired from the university where she taught Biology for 20 years she turned her attention to a perfection of the sweet arts, and does it with flare. The night I arrived a birthday party was underway and she´d made no less than eight types of galletitas (little cookies) and a sturdy selection of dulce de leche treats, each with a different topping (coconut, almonds, etc.)
Hypo-glycemic overload was quickly reached and I sank into my bed with a healthy smile.

Good thing I packed my toothbrush!

¡Muchas dulces!

Get in the slow lane

2010-05-11T21:26:00.011-03:00

I was a little bummed that I didn´t have more time in Potosi. I loved the landscape and, more honesty here, I found great food (hamburguesa de quinoa...are you kidding me?!) and evidence of a thriving thrash/metal scene. What more could I ask for?

Potosi triple threat: Black Angel, Old Funeral, AND Lord Satan

Well, as it turns out, the ride down from Potosi to Sucre (or Chuquisaca, as it is also known) is other-worldly beautiful. I missed the first bus out of town but found that you can walk a few more blocks past the mercado central and find a taxi. Or, more accurately, the taxis find you. ¨¡Amigo! ¡Una falta!¨ holler the drivers´ de-facto brokers/hustlers. It´s just like India only turned down to 2 from Volume 11.

Somewhere along the road

For 30 Bolivianos I was squeezed between two plump Bolivianas and treated to one of the most pleasant two hours in a car that I can possibly imagine.

At first, the scenery reminded me of the long, beautiful passages in Satanic Verses where Rushdie describes the city of Jahilia, the city made of sand where only the most outcast of untouchables carried water for fear of spilling a drop and toppling the metropolis. The dwellings along the hillsides outside Potosi are a dozen shades of russet, literally fading into the hills in certain light.

The city of Jahilia is built entirely of sand, its structures formed of the desert whence it rises. It is a sight to wonder at: walled, four-gated, the whole of it a miracle worked by its citizens, who have learned the trick of transforming the fine white dune-sand of those forsaken parts, - the very stuff of inconstancy, - the quintessence of unsettlement, shifting, treachery, lack-of-form, - and have turned it, by alchemy, into the fabric of their newly invented permanence.

After a few miles and thousands of feet drop in elevation the terrain transitions yet again, now taking on the same golden and brown hues you might find in the Galiban Range near Soledad in California. At the same time, I could imagine Maynard Dixon having painted here.

Still further, the rolling hills gave way to deep gorges and dry riverbeds, and the occasional pueblo. This could be the stomping grounds of the ancients, and for all I know, is.

The one constant was the prevalence of pro-Evo Morales graffiti (¡Evo-si! ¡Evo-lucion!). Bolivia´s first indigenous president enjoys unparalelled support among the rural poor and indigena communities of this incredibly diverse country.

Anyhow, Sucre is the true city of buenos aires. That other one is pulling a fast one on the world.

Old woman on the steps of the large cathedral on the plaza (Sucre)

Colonial palms above UNESCO site

Dino tracks are one of Sucre´s claims to fame

Verduleria cerca del mercado central

Los aires electricos

La ruta al Bolivia: un sendero dificil

2010-05-09T18:10:00.009-03:00

Day 1: Dog Rough Part 2

It all started innocuously enough: Elizabeth and I hoofing it to Retiro Station to find Puma Bus, buying a one-way ticket to Potosi, packing, departing. Somewhere around the ¨departing¨phase things went pear-shaped rather quickly. First, the bus was two hours late, and what´s more, it wasn´t even the aforementioned Puma Bus. In total, I took three separate buses to reach Potosi, and like its stealthy namesake there was not a Puma in sight. Nor was there food on board. Nor a toilet. ¨¿donde hay el baño?¨ queried the Argentines, Bolivianos, and Peruanos alike. ¨no hay¨came the passionless response.

27 hours and the entire box of crackers later we arrived at la frontera. The visa was fairly straightforward -- wait, pay, walk. The only problem was that our connecting bus to Potosi had apparently left, but lucky for us, the bus station attendant had a friend who had a ¨hostal¨ and for all of 6 Bolivianos we could have the pleasure of sleeping on mattresses on a wooden floor on the very chilly third floor. I opted to spend 9B more and sleep in a chilly fifth floor walk-up that was under construction, crumbling staircase and all.

Un ¨control" de policia -- donde no hay nada

This tunnel passage captures some of the essence of la ruta

There´s not much going on in Villazon, just a few dusty streets, a lot of women hawking delicious fry-bread (similar to what I ate on the Havasupai Reservation many years ago) and piping hot cups of Nescafe. I swear, if I return to yanquilandia with a taste for Nescafe, something will have gone horribly wrong! What Villazon does seem to be doing right is constructing its municipal play spaces and murals. City planners take note:

Seriously, kids, how rad is this slide!

Dig the critter on the right!

Day 2, Bus 3: further down the spiral, OR, la vida en una dia del mochilero

I awoke, refreshed and innocent, not unlike a child. With wide eyes I took in the surroundings. Pueblitos and cabritos blended into one. By noon, I had acquired the surliness typical of all adolescents. ¡Todo es malo! Maybe it that my legs no longer had feeling and my snot had taken on the reddish hues of the country-side. As day moved into night, a new-found appreciation of my circumstances took over my senses. The Buddhist in me appreciated all that purified water in a sullied land had to teach me. The advanced hours found me free of my metal vessel, walking unfamiliar streets, dodging errant drivers and the rogue-like gaze of los perros libres. At long last, a fine dinner was had and accommodation secured. I fell asleep an old man, but slept like a baby.*

One more tiny roadside pueblo

As true as the day is long, goats do roam

Day 3: Potosi

At 4,060 meters (13,320 feet), Potosi is hoppin´! I just happened to arrive at during the annual ¨Senorita Potosi¨event, basically a beauty contest which occasions a lot of marching band action. I was woken up to an all-girl drum group called ¨La Banda Senoritas¨ whose attire featured knee-high boots that would have made the Rockettes proud. Unfortunately, my camera was not handy.

High and dry

Minus the platanos, this could be Ladakh

Potosi has a grim history. Its relative wealth stems from centuries of mining and exploitation of African and Indigenous slave labor. The mines are still operational and have become a bit of an ¨extreme¨ tourism destination, which is creepy on all sorts of levels.

One artist´s take on the mines

Enlarge the photo and check out el diablo above the tunnel´s entrance

I passed on la aventura subteraneo and took a brief tour of the Inglesia de San Lorenzo. I´m no Catholic but I appreciate a good cathedral, and this one delivered.

If the Church is still selling indulgences I could use one for forgetting to take off my visor

My guide explained that both Bruce Willis and Sylvester Stallone had walked the same steps to the top of the bell tower, then, inexplicably, he broke into Barry Manilow´s ¨Copacabana.¨ ¿Porque no?

In any case, the church´s interior is gorgeous. The floors are Canadian pine, the windows from Italy, and the massive organ hails from Germany. When given the chance, why not go big?

By noon I was tuckered out and needed to move on to Sucre. For 30 Bolivianos--roughly US $4.25 -- I hired a taxi and while sandwiched between two plump Bolivianas, headed downhill. But that story will require another post.

*The experience was entirely mine but the analogy was borrowed from ¨Life in the Day of a Mountaineer¨ by Peter Croft.

The long road ahead

2010-05-05T13:10:00.005-03:00

In a few hours I'll be boarding what looks to be the longest bus ride of my life: 36+ hours into Bolivia. A few friends have already recommended taking a pair of blinders -- some things are best left unseen -- while David Sedaris' endorsement of the StadiumPal has come up in many recent conversations. ¡Con suerte no necesito nada!

Z is going to stay put in Buenos Aires and keep taking Spanish here while she teaches another month of yoga at her studio. I've enrolled in a month long super-intensive Spanish course in Sucre that includes a homestay with a family, which should be interesting. In reality, it's the kind of total language/cultural immersion that I've been lacking in Buenos Aires.

I've road-tripped with climbers and toured with bands, which was fun and intense and challenging, but I've always felt a pang of regret for having not done this sooner. So, with a slimmed down backpack, a bunch of snacks, and a sturdy bladder, I'm heading north.

Inshallah. Cumbre. Mahalo.

Mascotas of the bodegas

2010-05-05T12:27:00.000-03:00

Back in Mendoza, we noticed what seems to be a rule.

Wineries must have dogs.

Probably the dirtiest dog I've ever encountered (at the Carinae winery). That didn't stop the love.

Second-dirtiest, also very pleased to be petted, at the El Cerno winery.

Cleopatra -- yes, Cleopatra -- was not actually at a winery; she, being a mountain dog, was at our lunch stop on our whirlwind "alta montana" tour of Aconcagua's environs. She's probably a whisky girl. I'm not sure if her full size is apparent here, but her head is about twice as big as mine. Marvelous.

postscript - on Fernet Branca

2010-05-04T18:46:00.002-03:00

I just have to add that Marty might be a little biased in his take on Fernet Branca. It's an acquired taste. I don't think he's going to acquire it any time soon, though.

It's a UNESCO thing (Colonia, Uruguay)

2010-05-03T06:44:00.014-03:00

Hop, skip, and jump in most directions in Buenos Aires and you'll still end up in Buenos Aires. It's a ridiculously large city -- more people live in the metropolitan area than in all of Bolivia! -- but not without its charms. We can't seem to get enough of the gothic architecture that lurks around every corner, and Elizabeth may even be developing a taste for Fernet-Branca, a peculiar Italian drink, often mixed with cola, that one might mistake for really, really strong cough syrup. Or an industrial pesticide.

Your typical more-or-less daily street protest in Bs. As., complete with explosions

Despite its charms, we needed a break from the noise of 353 Talcahuano (our very central address) and so boarded a Buquebus ferry and crossed the Rio de la Plata for Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay.

Officially already in Uruguay, according to our passports, while waiting for the boat

What the French called it a few centuries back

Founded in 1680, Colonia was established by Portugal and used as a strategic smuggling locale, and was fought over by Spain and Portugal and occasionally Brazil for about 150 years.

UNESCO protection status, though, seems to have quieted things down a bit. The cobbled streets and white-washed colonial architecture make for a most relaxing day away from the bedlam of our adopted city.

The street of sighs

The gate into the old city, a UNESCO World Heritage site

Rush hour

Colonia is known for having classic cars parked around its streets, rather like Havana, similarly the result of periods of relative wealth followed by periods of poverty. In leaner times, people held on to their cars and kept them running until finally the kinds of cars in Colonia had long since been scrapped in the rest of the world. Now there are fewer, as of course these old cars are quite valuable, and people have no doubt gotten offers they couldn't refuse. But we did see several, including a rather anomalous example.

No, there is not a plant behind the car, there is a plant growing out of the car

Bootful of aloe

Sunset atop the lighthouse

Recoleta cemetery

2010-05-03T05:16:00.011-03:00

A couple of weeks ago, we went with our housemate Jorge to the Recoleta cemetery, an exclusive final resting place for some of Argentina's wealthiest families; the cemetery holds generals, businessmen, presidents, writers, Nobel Prize winners, and most famously, Evita. It was first created in 1822 but only gained its present, ornate aspect in 1881.

Marty and Jorge

It's a strange place -- like a tiny city, with narrow streets and small decorative houses for each family. It's also noticeably, remarkably, blessedly quiet. Buenos Aires is a loud city, and there are big streets right outside the cemetery, but it's surrounded by a high brick wall (which reminded us somewhat incongruously of the wall around Chiang Mai), which must mute the noise. The sunny central plaza was relatively full of people, walking and chatting, but the small labyrinthine paths branching out from the center were silent.

The narrow lanes of the necropolis

Many of the tombs are in considerable disrepair (as not all the families have survived, or at least have remained rich). It seemed sad, but also strange to feel sad about what is largely a display of ostentatious wealth.

In some places, this disrepair is very picturesque.

In others, it's just ugly; windows are broken, and there are a few places you could actually reach in and touch a casket, a grotesque thought. My Spanish teacher said that brass is quite valuable and so many plaques and brass or bronze objects have been stolen.

Most of the mausoleums had visible coffins and stairs leading down to lower levels; this one was in unusually good repair

The imagery on this looks quite Mexican

The outside walls of the tombs bear plaques for particular members of the family; an especially popular (or powerful, or rich) person will have several plaques in their name put up by different groups of people.

I wondered if the employees of Señor Lavarello really loved him so much

The Duarte tomb -- Eva Perón's carefully embalmed body lies here after many strange travels, including being hidden here and in Europe, as well as at apparently resting for some time on Perón's dining room table.

My shirt fit right in with the iconography

The comfortable cemetery cats; one particularly friendly fellow had about 24 toes

Not sure why anyone would want a knocker, but it's a handsome lion

Marty had this to add, courtesy of the Smiths:

A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
...
While Wilde is on mine

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now?
With the loves and hates
And passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived and then they died
Seems so unfair
And I want to cry
...

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're happy
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
Oh Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And I meet you at the cemetery gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
But you lose because Wilde is on mine

Lessons in personal space

2010-04-29T22:39:00.005-03:00

A quick note on a Subte phenomenon here:

Buenos Aires subway cars get very crowded, probably more crowded than anything I've experienced on public transportation. But I have been on a lot of buses and a lot of trains, in a lot of cities, and I've never experienced this: when it's crowded here, some people LEAN. I mean, they really lean, letting all their weight rest against me. If I could suddenly dart away, out from under their body, they might fall to the ground.

Oddest of all to me, they seem to think nothing's odd about it. I squirm and try to poke them with my shoulder blades and even turn to look at them, and they pay no attention.

I've had it happen three times, have seen it done to someone else, and have talked to others here who've experienced it, so I think this is a bona fide phenomenon. Both women and men have leaned and been leaned on. Sometimes big people lean on little people! And the leaners all appear to be perfectly able-bodied people who can actually hold themselves up if forced to do so (e.g., when the car gets emptier).

I've been tempted to say, "¡Señor(a), no soy un muro!" (I am not a wall!) and have been told that this would be an appropriate thing to say. I've been too chicken to try it, though.

This behavior is annoying, sure, but it's also baffling. It seems like a very strange thing to do.

Does this happen anywhere else?

Grapes, poplars, and peaks: long weekend in Mendoza

2010-04-27T17:43:00.031-03:00

This time, we said, we were going to get the bus seats that lie all the way flat. No more of this partial-angle stuff for us. For the 14-hour trip to Mendoza, we were going to sleep at least half the time.

Oops. Otra manera de viajar indeed. We got seats called "cama" (bed) that were not in fact flat, then spent a good chunk of our time in Mendoza trying to fix that for the return trip -- quite a Spanish challenge. Still, by most measures, the trip was comfortable.

The critical difference

And inspired by our friends Blake and Rebecca, we got the seats up top and in front, with a window all the way across. (This proved a little harrowing on the way back when it turned out that the other bus company shaves an hour off its trip time by having its drivers stay in the passing lane, but that's another story.)

View from the front-row seats

Mendoza is the city at the center of Argentina's wine country, and people in Buenos Aires have told me it is "very clean." Porteños don't quite seem to mean it as a compliment, but it's true, and we found it extremely pleasant. The city's streets are wide, and more importantly to me, so are the sidewalks. (Buenos Aires has lots and lots of pedestrians, which is great, but most of the sidewalks are very narrow, and stepping into the street is a dangerous choice to make.) Best of all, the streets are lined with tall beautiful trees, mostly plane trees.

To us, Mendoza had some of the bustle of a city (except at siesta time, which they seem to take very seriously -- stores close from 1 pm to either 4 or 5!) and also enough room to stroll.

Mendocinos also take Sundays seriously. Most other days I probably couldn't have stood in the intersection to take this photo.

The city is extremely planned in a way that really works -- it doesn't feel fake, but again, very pleasant. It was more or less leveled by an earthquake in 1861, and was rebuilt with stronger buildings, wide streets and sidewalks, and many sizable plazas to provide places for people to go in an earthquake. It has many lovely old buildings, too, like this bank with an Argentine flag draped casually across its front.

We seem not to have taken any photos of this, but Mendoza has a very interesting system of waterways alongside the sidewalks, very much like in parts of Salt Lake City and other areas of Utah. These waterways are part of an ancient, pre-Spanish irrigation system that brings water from the snowmelt of the nearby Andes to Mendoza, allowing trees to grow in a place that would otherwise be far too dry.

Taking advantage of the pedestrian- and cyclist-friendly ethos of the town, we woke up early our second day to do a bike tour among wineries. And fortunately, after a grey and cold first day there, the sun came out.

Separated bike lanes

This was probably our favorite part of the whole visit -- cycling down poplar-lined streets

As we biked through Maipú from one winery to another, I looked up at the poplars and saw what I thought were enormous raptor nests. But no, there was an unmistakable noise emanating from them that no raptor would make: squawking. Instead, the nests were giant communal parrot apartments!

For our whole visit, with the fog and sun and dry air and wine and so on, Mendoza reminded us powerfully of California -- but the parrots and their nests reminded us that no, we're on the other side of the world.

Parrots in the poplars!

The wineries, and the Museo del Vino, had lots of cool old machines for us to inspect.

A bottle washer

Some slightly horrifying old wine containers... this section was from the 1500s, they said. Maybe just replicas, not sure. Next to these containers was an ENORMOUS hide stretched across a frame, from which wine would drain from some sort of probably natural hole in the hide -- it seemed too big to be a cow, but what else could it be? Perhaps were there Spanish elephant tamers and winemakers? Mysterious.

Planes -- a picture pretty much entirely for my dad

Grapes being picked over at a very small winery

The leavings of a bigger winery -- skin, seeds, and stems -- crushed and remarkably dry

And of course we sampled the wares. Yum.

We also visited an olive orchard and oil-making company.

A pity you can't pick them and eat them -- don't they look good?

We think this was used to create olive oil -- now it's more of a landscaping feature -- can't see anyone wanting to move it.

An old machine to smash the olives -- don't let our guide's strong thumb fool you -- they're heavy!

The somewhat more modern olive-smashing machinery

And oil refining technology

All these machines add up to some very nice products:

One of the best veggie lasagnas I've ever had -- light like quiche

But Mendoza is not only known for wine. And olive oil. And good food. It is also known for being near Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere (at 6962 meters or 22,840 feet). Aconcagua is a very serious thing to undertake climbing, but we took a little tour up into the surrounding mountains with a bunch of vacationing Argentines (which made for great Spanish practice).

The reservoir that holds Mendoza's drinking water

En route, we visited a little bridge at Picheuta built in 1770 along part of the Inca Trail. Here, in 1817, General San Martin and his men fought the first battle against the Spanish. We think.

A plaque dedicated to the General in a park back in Mendoza -- rub the Liberator's nose for good luck!

The Upsallata Valley is beautiful and incredibly dry, with rock that is colored red and white and yellow and purple -- clear indications of its volcanic origins. Sometimes it reminded us of Haleakala, sometimes Utah.

Seven Years in Tibet was filmed here, and it makes sense. Many parts were reminiscent of Ladakh -- especially when driving up and down this rather hairy switchback-y road.

I find these sorts of trips less alarming after India... but still kind of alarming

This twisting road leads to the border with Chile, and before that, to a big statue of "Cristo Redentor" that has a twin in Chile; Argentina and Chile erected them to celebrate having ironed out a border dispute. One would think there would be a lot more than two of these.

The statue wasn't too interesting, but the views were. It was very cold, too, as we were (suddenly) at 12,000 feet!

We descended from this high point to visit the Puente del Inca, a brightly colored natural bridge, site of a hot spring and an abandoned hotel.

Puente del Inca

Apparently the Puente, or bridge, formed from seepage from the spring -- largely sulfur, as you can see -- and the river eroded it away beneath. They say the Incas used this bridge to cross the river and may also have used the water for its curative powers.

It was incredibly cold here, with a howling wind. The hot springs, though off-limits now, seemed quite inviting. Then again, it wasn't a big surprise that after a rock slide, the hotel had been abandoned.

Many people here were selling Andean crafts -- llama sweaters and hats and so on -- and we felt as if we had suddenly crossed into a whole different region, one more like Peru or Ecuador than Mendoza or Buenos Aires. Our driver even had coca tea at lunch -- another northern Andean touch.

Coca leaves -- to aid the digestion at altitude, we were told

Our lunch stop was a bit of a change from the wonders of Mendoza cuisine. The offerings were strikingly ample and strikingly monochromatic.

Yup, those are mashed potatoes on the rice. And they were good.

You can't see Aconcagua very well here but we are clearly shorter than it is

We stopped at a view of the second-highest peak, Tupungato, which our guide said was 6,800 meters but Wikipedia says is a mere 6,570 meters, or about 21,500 feet. Its name means mirador de estrellas, or loosely translated, Star View.

A better view of Tupungato

An appealing sentiment

And we got to see mighty Aconcagua. (Sentinel of Stone)

The tallest mountain outside of Asia

After more walks, more wine tastings, and more chats with the friendly staff of our hostel -- a real high point for my Spanish practice (although I'm convinced that it's their company policy to tell everyone their Spanish is good) -- we left Mendoza on another night bus. This time it was in seats as flat as they go, hooray!

And now we're settling back into life in Buenos Aires -- starting with a morning cup of mate.

(Post by Elizabeth)

Post-modern labyrinth

2010-04-19T11:44:00.004-03:00

We have finally had our first run-in with Argentinean bureaucracy.

I mean, sure, we've been to the panaderias where you buy first, wait for them to heat up your treats (if they're empanadas), then go over to the grouchy bored man in the corner to pay. Don't pay the pastry ladies. Even if you like them better than the grumpy guy.

And we've been to the heladerias where after you elbow your way up through the scrum you're informed you have to go to the register first and pay and then come back even though maybe you don't quite know what you want yet. Just assume you want a big cone and decide how to fill it later. Now you want sprinkles? Too bad. Next time plan ahead.

But that's all pretty small scale. It took a visit to the post office to get the full-value experience.

A week or two ago, Marty's mom kindly sent us a box of things we'd packed in the winter for a long-term Buenos Aires stay. (Thank you, Mary!) It arrived surprisingly rapidly. But then things got a little complicated.

The postman does not bring the package; he brings a notice about where you have to pick it up. I can understand this; he travels by foot and I don't think he could carry our box for blocks, much less anyone else's packages.

But later the same day, we got another notice. The two notices had the same tracking number but two entirely different addresses.

There were varying opinions on how to deal with this. People seemed to think we'd have to go to both, until we pointed out it was all one package, so it must be at one place. Seems logical, no? So we decided to go to the address on the notice that arrived later. It was also closer -- more or less walking distance. ¡Que buena! We left three hours before our Spanish class, so it seemed safe.

We entered the big Correo building and dutifully took a number. But no, said the woman at the entrance, we had to go to the other address. No, wait, we said, same tracking number! Ah, I see, she said. OK, go around the corner. Window 18.

We left and went around the corner. Nothing corresponded to the address on the notice. We walked a couple of blocks, then retraced our steps. We entered the only post-office-like place on the block -- which did not have the address identified on the notice -- and sure enough, that was it! Window 18? Step right over there. (There were no Ventanillas 1-17, but who are we to quibble? Ventanilla 18 was clearly labeled.)

This was all proceeding swimmingly. There wasn't even a line at the window! But then the friendly guy at Window 18 told us that no, after all, we had to go to the other address. "But same tracking number, and this notice came later!" This time, my magic incantation did not work. Sorry, he shrugged, it's over there. And, um, be prepared for it to take a while.

Hm. Well, fortunately, we had brought our trusty Guia (whose rather Byzantine method of bus-route-mapping, and the whole system of the buses, are probably worth their own post). So after much peering at the guide and flipping back and forth between pages and checking for correct change, we determined which bus to catch, crossed the 10 or so lanes of traffic, caught a bus to the Retiro bus station and found the large yellow edifice we'd been told to look for.

As we approached, we saw that a lot of people were loitering around the stairs. Well, maybe they're smoking. And some waiting is surely in order. Then we saw that inside, people were more or less smashed up against the glass doors like they were on the rush-hour Subte.

Marty took a deep breath, dived in, grabbed a number, and we retreated outside to the stairs. We went back to check what number they were on. 71. OK. We had 33. Oof. So we waited.

Sooner than I'd expected, the numbers passed 0 and started inching up toward ours. I went in and did my best intrepid-traveler-jostling-for-the-front-of-the-line impression. Because it seemed that even when people went up with the correct number, lots of other people went up to the counter and called things out and gesticulated and needed to be taken care of too.

So with my Vietnam-honed skills, I was right in the perfect position when 33 was called. I stepped up, brandished my number and notice, and my passport too (I'd been warned we'd need that). I was prepared.

The woman started to take my papers and read my notice, but a small man zoomed in at my left. Oddly, he too was brandishing number 33. I laughed at the typo. "C," he said, puzzingly. And then the woman was pushing back my papers. Sure, he could go first; I was prepared to be magnanimous. "Then I go, after him?" No, they said. This is the thing. He had number 33C. I had number 33D.

"You have to wait for 100 more numbers," they told me together.

Whoa. I retreated, shoulders slumped, and explained it to Marty. We went back outside and waited for another half-hour, then thought to ask someone how long the second stage would take. Because yes, after this wait, there was another, in another room, with another number, and what Marty called a loudspeaker announcer "speaking Burger King" that I suspect even for fluent Spanish speakers is tough to understand.

When the guy told us it would take half again as long in the other room, we left. We just barely made it back in time for our lesson. No box for us. I had to content myself with being pleased with our relatively successful use of the bus guide.

Marty, pobrecito, went back the next day, as I had to go to the yoga studio. He will have to continue the tale.

***
Day 2 -- The Rematch

We think Borges wrote about labyrinths because Buenos Aires is a labyrinth. I returned to Retiro via Subte, navigating a number of train transfers -- some planned, others not -- and once again hurried to wait.

The first hour went well enough and eventually I made it to the front of my line, signed a paper, and watched as my paper was literally pulled through a hole in the ceiling via dumbwaiter. It's one of the marvels of the digital age that one can talk over Skype with someone in Moscow for free or download copies of the Koran to your cell-phone and yet still have shipping managed in the fashion of the 19th century.

Then I went to the other room, where I sat another two hours trying to make sense of the utterances (not to be confused with real words) emanating from the speaker cone at the center of the room. Most of the time it sounded like a cross between a loud, dangerous sporting event and a construction site. (Einstürzende Neubauten playing the running of the bulls at Pamploma might be a stretch, but maybe you get the picture.)

In time I gave up trying to parse six separate Spanish numerals and simply focused on the final two. If I could hear anything remotely like "cuarento y dos" I'd be in luck. An eternity later I heard what could pass as "something-something-something-something-something-OH,"(sure, that might be it, they do drop the "s" sound a lot). So I made my way behind a secret blue door with a re-purposed subway turnstile and stood in another line.

Ticket in hand, I presented myself to the nearest postal operative and to my surprise, received a familiar brown box, the same box we'd packed four months back in Southern Caifornia. The woman behind the counter sliced through the label reading, "Possessions of Americans living in Buenos Aires," took a cursory look at the contents -- mostly shoes were visible from the top -- looked at me rather oddly, and sent me on my way.

Seven hours (spread over two days) and several kilometers of bus and train travel later I'm relaxing comfortably in a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt that doesn't look like a fuzzy dish towel. Still a little bemused, but grateful. Phew.

No mate left behind

2010-04-09T16:26:00.008-03:00

Cuando estudio sin mate estoy frustrado.

¿Porque no?

Cuando estudio con mate estoy tranquilo.

***
Another week of Spanish classes has come and gone. I dissected sentences, conjugated even more past tenses (there are several... sigh) and I got my head around a wide variety of pronouns. Not the most stimulating of topics, to say the least. In truth, it's just been plain difficult for me.

But midweek, Patricio (mi profesor) and I got on the topic of mate, and things began to pick up.

For some reason there's been a sudden inflation in the price of ground coffee in Buenos Aires and our wallets are feeling the pinch. In weeks past a 500-gram bag of coffee without sugar cost around 21 pesos, but all of a sudden the price leapt to over 30. ¿Porque? No one we've asked seems to know. If you can stomach coffee pre-packaged with 10% sugar, as it's normally sold here, the price has stayed even at around 11 pesos. Commodity dumping? We have no idea.

Anyhow, Patricio hipped me to all things mateada -- the ritual of mate -- from types of yerba (con palo versus sin palo (with or without twigs)) to how to heat the water (caliente, pero no hervida). As in any worthwhile ritual, there are many rules.

So now our class moves along briskly and Spanish is making more sense than before. Assimilation or simply caffeination? (Pardon me, mateination)

Whatever it is, I'm going with it.

The penny drops

2010-04-07T23:01:00.014-03:00

While walking back to our apartment tonight I suddenly realized why the hotel across the street, though in a beautiful old building, with a perfectly new-looking sign, never seems to be open during the day. All the shutters on the windows are pulled down.

But at night, on some of the rooms, they're up partway, and the reception area's open.

This all clicked as I glanced over and saw an older man standing in the tiny lobby waiting for a younger woman to make a transaction at the reception desk.

Ohhhh. It's a "telo."

The word is "hotel" backwards and in lunfardo, the Buenos Aires argot, it means, as I saw it rather nicely described somewhere, a "pay-per-hour love motel."

I may confirm my suspicions with the guys next door, who man the parking garage at most hours of the day and night. But I'm not sure I need to. After all, it's above "Eden," the "international club," whose sign displays a woman proffering an apple.

And here, in another rather fancy hotel nearby (see comment below), is the shower -- oddly set up so you can see in from the bedroom. Hmmm.

You be the judge...

2010-04-05T22:49:00.004-03:00

Yesterday was Easter and, while looking through some old National Geographic magazines, we came across this image:

I promise this image has not been doctored!

It was part of a larger profile on Venezuelan culture and, evidently, good Catholics can eat capybara during Lent as it is semi-aquatic(!)

Seems fishy to us too.

A new definition of civilized

2010-04-02T17:21:00.001-03:00

We found out a remarkable thing last week: in Buenos Aires, you can get pretty much anything delivered. In fact, there are even people here who will do your errands. Left your book at your friend's house? No problem. Pay a moto guy a dollar or two to go pick it up for you.

But to us, the most marvelous discovery of all was this: You can get ice cream delivered to your house. All the heladerias do it. Just call one up. It's even free.

Of course we had to try this, so a couple of nights ago I grabbed a magnet off the fridge of our apartment and called.

"Can you deliver?" "Claro!"

Heladeros of Buenos Aires, I love you.

I ordered a kilo of dulce de leche and a kilo of chocolate amargo. (The ice cream here is heavy and dense, so a kilo isn't as much as you might think.) I was very pleased at having successfully concluded a transaction in Spanish over the phone; my Spanish comprehension seems to drop dramatically when I can't see people talking.

The delivery guy was even able to make change for a 100-peso note, which here is a minor miracle. Change is jealously guarded. Smaller bills are, oddly, more valuable, and coins are the most valuable of all.

I carried the ice cream up our imposing marble staircase and scooped some out for myself, Marty, and a couple of our housemates, then sat and ate it grinning like an idiot.

What a great city.

Truth and justice taken to the streets

2010-03-24T19:41:00.010-03:00

In Argentina, March 24 is a national holiday, but it's not a celebration.

The National Day of Memory for Truth and Justice marks the day in 1976 when a military coup led by General Jorge Rafael Videla took over the democratically elected government of Isabel Perón (Perón's wife after Evita), starting the Guerra Sucia, or Dirty War.

Over the 7 years of the dictatorship, an estimated 30,000 people were "disappeared," a chilling euphemism for "tortured and killed." This was all part of the even more Orwellian-sounding "National Reorganization Process."

The Madres de Plaza de Mayo and the Abuelas de Plaza de Mayo are the two primary groups seeking out information about the missing people. The madres (mothers) began by standing in the Plaza de Mayo every week, waiting in a very public and brave way to get information about their "disappeared" children. They wore white kerchiefs on their heads; this is now the symbol of the movement.

See white kerchief on the dark banner, at right

The abuelas (grandmothers) work to reunite the roughly 500 illegally adopted orphans of the Dirty War with their families. These orphans, now our age, never even knew they were adopted. The people they have always thought were their parents may actually have been complicit in their real parents' deaths. It's hard to imagine what it would be like to find this out. Most orphans, we're told, choose to go back to their biological families, even if they've never known them at all.

The two groups organized a major march today along with speakers and singers. Argentina's president Cristina Fernández de Kirchner (who is definitely worth her own blog post) spoke as well.

Taking over Buenos Aires' biggest streets

"30,000 reasons not to pay the foreign debt"

Che and the Subte

We arrived at the Plaza de Mayo and it was so full we couldn't even see where the stages were, much less get close to them, but the action in the streets was more interesting anyway.

Marching tunes

Street theater

"For the right to abortion [that is] legal, safe, and free" As in almost everywhere else in Latin America, abortion is not legal in Argentina. According to the country's health minister, 80,000 women are hospitalized each year due to complications from clandestine abortions.

A few things we noticed, some in contrast to San Francisco (also a place accustomed to frequent marches and demonstrations):

There were really no police to speak of; the atmosphere was militant, though upbeat; there were a lot of young people; many of the people marching seemed to have darker skin and hair than the people we see on a daily basis in the center of the city; there were quite a few anarchists; there were lots and lots and lots of socialist groups (indistinguishable to us based on their various acronyms); and of course, as you'll see from the photos (especially the last one), there were some distinctly Argentinian touches.

Lots of big explosions and smoky flares, some releasing a lot of pink smoke. It is hard to imagine this happening in San Francisco without people getting alarmed and police clearing the streets. Here only the pigeons seemed to mind.

Very Argentine snacks: Quilmes (the national beer) and meat sticks of some sort

Where there is socialism, there is capitalism; a dexterous beer vendor weaves rapidly through the crowd

Enjoying a pedestrianized Avenida de Mayo on the walk back to our apartment

No march would be complete without mate