I had heard that Argentinos, especially porteños (the citizens of Buenos Aires) were snobs. That they all considered themselves European and therefore better than the rest of South America. I had heard that 97% of Argentina is considered "white" or of European descent, making it the least diverse city in the Americas.
I had heard that they didn`t even make women`s clothing sizes above a two and that women in Buenos Aires were insanely small due to a large occurrence of eating disorders and super model syndrome.
I had heard that there were more psychoanalysts per person in Argentina than in any other city in the world (outside of New York). I had heard that apart from NYC, Buenos Aires has the largest Jewish population living outside of Israel.
I had heard that even the Spanish in Argentina was different, that the people used vos instead of tú and that any y or ll was pronounced as a soft j sound, making the Spanish sound like a cross between Italian, Portuguese and the Castellano it actually is.
I had heard that Porteños cued for everything and that a trip to the bank, post office or phone company could be an all day affair.
I had heard that Buenos Aires wanted to be Paris or NY or both. That it felt it didn´t belong in South America. Frankly, before arriving to the capital of Argentina, I wasn`t sure I was going to fit in, let alone want to fit in to this snobby, neurotic city of people.
But like all information received second hand, it is meant to be investigated and examined first hand, and when I did finally arrive to the hot city of Buenos Aires on the first day of summer, I realized that what I had heard was going to be challenged by what I would see, taste and hear once I was there.
That is not to say that I can challenge the statistics that Buenos Aires has a large Jewish or psychoanalyst population. I cannot speak to either of those statistics. (Incidentally, I wonder if those two stats are related, given our propensity toward guilt, self-deprecation and martyrdom.)
And certainly the statistic that you must stand in long lines for any type of bureaucratic business I found to be true with my new cell phone, that unfortunately can make but not receive phone calls. After three phone calls and four visits to the telefonica/movistar office in both Buenos Aires and Mendoza, I realize that it is true that standing in lines is a way of life in Argentina and despite the heat and the seeming ludicrous nature of all the standing around to be told where to stand next, for the most part, it is an accepted part of life, and most people accept this colossal time suck as an inconvenience one must endure. (While standing in one of the three lines that day, images of angry New Yorkers kept popping into my head. There they would be, standing in lines for hours on end just to be told to stand in a subsequent lines, and the riots that would logically ensue from such bureaucracy. I was also reminded of the social security office I recently visited with my grandfather when I was in Brooklyn last, where clearly you expect to wait, be mistreated and subsequently misinformed about what to do, where to go and who to contact. This has been my experience with the cell phone. And don`t bother calling yet, it still is not accepting incoming calls!)
But line standing aside, walking down the busy main streets in the center among outdoor cafes, clothing shops and a plethora of outdoor restaurants and bars, I was struck by its uniqueness. Buenos Aires has nothing to do with Lima or Quito or any other Latin American city. Indeed there are moments where you really could be in Manhattan or Madrid or Paris. And other moments where you know the only place you could be is exactly where you are, Buenos Aires, the capital of Argentina.
The restaurants fill at 3 in the afternoon for lunch and again at 10 at night for dinner. The bars, open all night long, serve liters of Quilmes, the national beer, wine by the gallon and petite cups of espresso to the throngs of local and international patrons. The shops offer all the latest fashion in sizes that range from 0 to 20, so yes, while they do have sizes for people that are for all intents and purposes starving themselves to death, they are not the only, nor the most prominent sizes around. And while there does seem to be a preponderance of beauty salons and hair removal facilities for women, the women for the most part, seem to come in all shapes and sizes.
Riding the metro from one end of the city to the other, I was struck by the extreme whiteness that surrounded me. Unlike while traveling in Ecuador, Bolivia, Peru or even the Dominican Republic, I do not stick out like a sore thumb in Buenos Aires. I am just one more young, fair skinned citizen with blonde hair. Sure my eyes and my extremely large backpack give me away, but not quite as quickly or as easily as my skin anywhere else in Latin America.
In Caminto, a neighborhood at the south end of the city, you can dine while watching the tango, and expression of Argentinean art and suffering. Formerly a dance done principally by sailors and prostitutes, the tango has become an icon of the Argentinean soul. And as the fancily dressed couples engage in the vertical version of a horizontal expression, they wear pained expressions; heads held high, the music filled with the suffering of the Argentinean history.
In el jardìn botànico and the jardìn japonès, you can wander for hours lost in green space, oblivious the city of 13 million inhabitants around you.
And as you make your way down any street, prepare to be accosted for money or food from the less fortunate children of the city. Juggling barefoot between the cars, dirty hands outstretched, your heart will break as you do or do not hand over the spare peso or medialuna from your breakfast plate. Like all major cities in the world, Buenos Aires has a homeless population . . . with a very young face.
Of course if you are a woman, you will have the unfortunate experience of hearing at least one whistle, smooching sound or piropo, a comment made by a man of any age supposedly designed to "honor the beauty of women" but actually just an expression of extreme machismo or sexism. Yes, surprise surprise, machismo is alive and well in Argentina and depending on how much you feel like arguing with strangers, you could spend quite a bit of time retorting to these sounds and comments as you make your way around town.
Buenos Aires and as I continue to travel, Argentina, like all places has a reputation. Just like all Californian women have blonde hair and everyone in the Bay area grows marijuana. Just like the Irish like to drink and the English all drink tea. Just like New Yorkers are rude and southerners slow, the reputation is what you hear before you visit an area in the world. Reality is what you discover once you go for yourself.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
I wish you enough in 2007
I wish you enough
I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough 'Hellos' to get you through the final'Good-bye'.
I found this poem today when I was looking through some old emails and I thought it appropriate for the bringing in the new year. To help us to better appreciate what we have in our lives: the friends and family that we love and that love us, our health (for those of us healthy enough to say that), a roof over our head, food on our plates.
I am especially appreciative these days to be in a place without mosquitos. I arrived to Buenos Aires about a week ago and have spent the last week in a state of enough. Enough sun to not need a jacket and to make me smile from head to toe. Enough new friends on Christmas Eve to make a big festive dinner with drinks and dancing. Enough drinks to make the next day a little bit sluggish. Enough cafes to have a nice strong double espresso. Enough strength in my hip to be able to run through the park and along the river without pain. Enough time on my own during the secular holiday season to really make me miss John, my friends and my family.
Enough time with my loved ones via email, skype and phone to know that I am really not alone, no matter where I am.
I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough 'Hellos' to get you through the final'Good-bye'.
I found this poem today when I was looking through some old emails and I thought it appropriate for the bringing in the new year. To help us to better appreciate what we have in our lives: the friends and family that we love and that love us, our health (for those of us healthy enough to say that), a roof over our head, food on our plates.
I am especially appreciative these days to be in a place without mosquitos. I arrived to Buenos Aires about a week ago and have spent the last week in a state of enough. Enough sun to not need a jacket and to make me smile from head to toe. Enough new friends on Christmas Eve to make a big festive dinner with drinks and dancing. Enough drinks to make the next day a little bit sluggish. Enough cafes to have a nice strong double espresso. Enough strength in my hip to be able to run through the park and along the river without pain. Enough time on my own during the secular holiday season to really make me miss John, my friends and my family.
Enough time with my loved ones via email, skype and phone to know that I am really not alone, no matter where I am.
May the new year bring you and all of your loved ones enough. . .
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Quitter
I stood outside of OB´s cage, fumbling with the keys, "Which one is it?" I hissed as the mosquitos descended upon me in a dark, black cloud of venom. I waved my hand in vain around my face and ears.
"Fucking bugspray is absolutely useless." I didn´t want to have to take out the mosquito net, but at this rate, I was never getting into this cage to clean and feed my unfriendly ocelot.
The mosquito net was damp and smelled of a mixture of citronella and sweat from having been in my back packet and as I tied it around my hat, sweat immediately begin to run down my forehead down my cheeks onto my neck. My personal sauna was complete: black rubber boots to my knees, two pairs of cotton pants, three shirts, a safari hat, the smelly, wet net and bright orange rubber gloves, the kind you use when you clean the bathroom or the dishes and don´t want to wrinkle your hands.
In reality, the work probably wouldn´t have been so bad if the mosquitos weren`t so ridiculous. Or if it wasn`t so incredibly hot, but of course part of the reason it was so incredibly hot, was the quantity of clothing to prevent the mosquitos from eating you alive. So far, from what I could tell, it was NOT working. My feet were so badly bitten, they were a red, swollen version of their former selves. Would they ever go back to being normal? I could not at that moment be sure. I wondered briefly as I finally got the cage to open if you could die from too many mosquito bites. I hoped not.
"OB. . ." I called softly searching the cage for her leopard like print. She was nowhere to be found. I sighed heavily as I saw that she had left all her dinner untouched again for the second day in a row. I took a deep breath, held it in and approached the festering, maggot covered raw slabs of meat that I had placed the night before on the banana leaf. I grabbed it quickly and pitched into the deep brush of the jungle outside of her cage. "I wouldn`t eat it either," I remarked to OB whereever she was, "I don`t blame you." But she should want it, what was going on with this strangely shy animal. Why wasn´t she eating? And why was I, without any relevant experience with any animals, let alone wild animals, the sole responsible party to take care of her in this state. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. I was beginning to wonder about this organization.
I splashed the iodine water on my gloves and the wood where the rotting meat had been and began to scrub. The buzzing in my ears got louder and I flicked my iodine soaked hand in the air to chase the mosquitos waiting just outside my net to eat me alive. The sweat poured down my face, my chest, my legs. I was covered in sweat in this smelly cage in the middle of nowhere, with a cat that could care less that I existed. I didn´t even really like to play with house cats, what had I been thinking? Had I completely forgotten who I was when I signed up for this adventure. I had to get out of here. No way I was lasting two whole weeks in my own personal hell. I mean, yeah, it´s good to challenge yourself, but this was ridiculous!
After feeding OB her newest meal she wouldn`t eat, I wandered around the cage to try to locate her. The cage was not that big, she had to be here somewhere. "OB, " I called softly, "¿dónde estás gatito? come out and say hello. . "
I looked into the wooden shelter where I had placed the meat, but no OB. I searched on the wooden plank laid out for her to sun herself, no OB. Finally, I found her curled in a little ball in the hay in the second wooden shelter. The hay smelled damp and moldy and I wondered if that was why she was so lethargic. Tomorrow I would change the hay and clean the cage properly. That is if I didn´t run away screaming later that night. "Come here OB. Come say hello."
OB pulled herself up and sauntered across the cage to rub her head against my legs. For a moment, I forgot the mosquitos and the heat and the raw meat and stared in wonder at this wild ocelot with her soft, spotted fur as she rubbed against my legs just like every sad little kitty that just wants love and affection. I pulled off one of the orange rubber gloves and wiped my sweaty hands on my dirty pants. I reached down slowly to offer her my hand, "Hola amor, hola gatito." She looked curiously at my hand, licked it once with her sandpapery tongue and then promptly bit me. That was the end of my friendliness. I jumped back, surprised and shouted, "NO! OB! NO!" Yeah, I am sure that helped. She just stared at me as if to say, "Duh, chiquita, what did you expect? After all I am a wild ocelot." Right.
I locked up the cage, walked down the jungle path to Engine´s cage, my stomach cramping as I walked. All day long my stomach had been hurting. I wondered what it was. I heard Engine before I reached his cage, his trademark growling having given him his name. I locked him in the small cage so I could enter and clean his cage, there was no cuddling with Engine. But at least he ate his food. The smell of something rotting was overwhelming as I approached his sleeping shelter. What was that smell? Then I saw it, a dead, rotting rat. "Great, just great." I wiped my eyes against the mosquito net with the back of my glove and sighed heavily. This was a test I was bound to fail. The rat, about the length of a football lay crookedly in Engine´s sleeping hay. "That´ll teach you to try and eat his food ratty," I said as I brushed the rat from the wooden plank onto the dirt floor with a rake. "Come on little ratty, let´s go," I murmered the stench of rotting rodent making my stomach lurch as I dragged him across the cage, accompanied by Engine´s pacing and growling in his little holding cell.
"Yeah, Yeah, coming I am coming." I called to him. This was so not my ideal job. What had I been thinking. My stomach could hold on no longer. I no sooner got the rat out of the cage, then that day´s lunch came back up to haunt me. "Yum, french fries and eggs a second time. Mmm, mmm, mmm." I slipped the mosquito net back in my pocket. That would need to be washed and finished cleaning and feeding Engine, my body a quivering mass.
As I walked back along the path, I swatted aimlessly at the air, my stomach alternately cramping up with waves of naseau. I had to get out of hear. A job worth doing is a job worth doing well, my father has always said. For me, this job was just not worth doing.
Then it hit me, still over a kilometer from home, my stomach had a violent cramp. I was not going to make it. I looked around to see if anyone was coming. Left, right, left. Not a sole in sight. This was not going to be pretty, but there was no way I was making it all the way back to the bathrooms. I stepped off the path, prayed for solitude and slowly lowered my sweat covered pants. Instantly the mosquitos swarmed my butt and thighs. I knew this was not going to be pleasant, especially not later when I reviewed the damage the mosquitos had done.
Back on the trail, I spoke softly to myself. "Just explain to Noemi that you have to go. It´s ok if you leave early. You tried it. It´s just not for you." I had all but convinced myself when I got to the crossroads to head back to the camp or head left to where Natalia and Magnus worked with a Puma named Wayra. I vaguely remembered Natalia telling me she was on her own today and instinctively I turned down the path.
Really, in retrospect, Natalia was the reason I didn´t leave that very night. Natalia, a tall thin blonde girl from Sweden who had been at the park for 5 weeks along with her classmate, Magnus. Natalia, who had called me America that night when everyone else went to Guarayos and I couldn´t, because I was on a night watch that never happened. Natalia was the reason I stayed three additional days, making it exactly a week when I finally jumped ship.
Not to say that Natalia didn´t support my decision. She was immediately sympathetic as she twirled the humedor, trying to drum up smoke to keep the mosquitos at bay. She understood my predicament exactly. It was miserable there and the animals were never going to be released, a fact that disappointed both of us, even if we technically understood the reasons behind that decision. This was not the place either of us had imagined and now that the mosquitos had descended upon us like a bible plague, there was very little anyone could do, besides get bitten and scratch.
After Natalia´s prodding, I decided I could stay on till Friday, the day that she and Magnus would also head to Santa Cruz. I could spend the weekend with them and then head to Argentina to meet back up with John. It sounded like a good plan. Especially the part where I got a new friend to hang out with, confide in, bitch to and in general have fun. I realized that is what I had been missing for a long time. Funny how sometimes you don´t even realize what you are missing until it reappears in your life.
I have to say that the rest of the week was a bit of a blur. My jaguar, Sama, was destined never to get used to me in only three days and spent more time ignoring me or charging the bars than actually coming over to the edge of the cage to be put on a leash and attached to his runner. Engine continued to growl and OB, unfortunately for her, continued to ignore me and not eat. I did manage to clean her cage and get the vet to give her an anti-parasite shot. I do hope that helps.
The Americans from Arizona arrived Tuesday or Wednesday night, and after an initial snap judgement based on their state of origen and twangy drawl, I got to know that Matt and Mike were liberal Bush haters too. Fantastic.
We did manage to escape the park two nights to head into the "town" of Santa Maria, a small community 8 kilometers down the road, easily reached by any passing bus, called a micro, or truck heading that way. The canned beer wasn´t exactly cold, but the mosquitos were laughable and it was good to be able to sit in short sleeves without fear of attack.
Looking back on the experience a week later in an internet cafe in the hot, busy city of Buenos Aires, I feel happy I stuck it out. No, I didn´t make it the whole two weeks and so I guess, yeah, that makes me a quitter. But I did make it longer than I ever imagined I would. I learned something about myself, made some friends and hopefully, helped some animals a bit.
"Fucking bugspray is absolutely useless." I didn´t want to have to take out the mosquito net, but at this rate, I was never getting into this cage to clean and feed my unfriendly ocelot.
The mosquito net was damp and smelled of a mixture of citronella and sweat from having been in my back packet and as I tied it around my hat, sweat immediately begin to run down my forehead down my cheeks onto my neck. My personal sauna was complete: black rubber boots to my knees, two pairs of cotton pants, three shirts, a safari hat, the smelly, wet net and bright orange rubber gloves, the kind you use when you clean the bathroom or the dishes and don´t want to wrinkle your hands.
In reality, the work probably wouldn´t have been so bad if the mosquitos weren`t so ridiculous. Or if it wasn`t so incredibly hot, but of course part of the reason it was so incredibly hot, was the quantity of clothing to prevent the mosquitos from eating you alive. So far, from what I could tell, it was NOT working. My feet were so badly bitten, they were a red, swollen version of their former selves. Would they ever go back to being normal? I could not at that moment be sure. I wondered briefly as I finally got the cage to open if you could die from too many mosquito bites. I hoped not.
"OB. . ." I called softly searching the cage for her leopard like print. She was nowhere to be found. I sighed heavily as I saw that she had left all her dinner untouched again for the second day in a row. I took a deep breath, held it in and approached the festering, maggot covered raw slabs of meat that I had placed the night before on the banana leaf. I grabbed it quickly and pitched into the deep brush of the jungle outside of her cage. "I wouldn`t eat it either," I remarked to OB whereever she was, "I don`t blame you." But she should want it, what was going on with this strangely shy animal. Why wasn´t she eating? And why was I, without any relevant experience with any animals, let alone wild animals, the sole responsible party to take care of her in this state. Yeah, that made a lot of sense. I was beginning to wonder about this organization.
I splashed the iodine water on my gloves and the wood where the rotting meat had been and began to scrub. The buzzing in my ears got louder and I flicked my iodine soaked hand in the air to chase the mosquitos waiting just outside my net to eat me alive. The sweat poured down my face, my chest, my legs. I was covered in sweat in this smelly cage in the middle of nowhere, with a cat that could care less that I existed. I didn´t even really like to play with house cats, what had I been thinking? Had I completely forgotten who I was when I signed up for this adventure. I had to get out of here. No way I was lasting two whole weeks in my own personal hell. I mean, yeah, it´s good to challenge yourself, but this was ridiculous!
After feeding OB her newest meal she wouldn`t eat, I wandered around the cage to try to locate her. The cage was not that big, she had to be here somewhere. "OB, " I called softly, "¿dónde estás gatito? come out and say hello. . "
I looked into the wooden shelter where I had placed the meat, but no OB. I searched on the wooden plank laid out for her to sun herself, no OB. Finally, I found her curled in a little ball in the hay in the second wooden shelter. The hay smelled damp and moldy and I wondered if that was why she was so lethargic. Tomorrow I would change the hay and clean the cage properly. That is if I didn´t run away screaming later that night. "Come here OB. Come say hello."
OB pulled herself up and sauntered across the cage to rub her head against my legs. For a moment, I forgot the mosquitos and the heat and the raw meat and stared in wonder at this wild ocelot with her soft, spotted fur as she rubbed against my legs just like every sad little kitty that just wants love and affection. I pulled off one of the orange rubber gloves and wiped my sweaty hands on my dirty pants. I reached down slowly to offer her my hand, "Hola amor, hola gatito." She looked curiously at my hand, licked it once with her sandpapery tongue and then promptly bit me. That was the end of my friendliness. I jumped back, surprised and shouted, "NO! OB! NO!" Yeah, I am sure that helped. She just stared at me as if to say, "Duh, chiquita, what did you expect? After all I am a wild ocelot." Right.
I locked up the cage, walked down the jungle path to Engine´s cage, my stomach cramping as I walked. All day long my stomach had been hurting. I wondered what it was. I heard Engine before I reached his cage, his trademark growling having given him his name. I locked him in the small cage so I could enter and clean his cage, there was no cuddling with Engine. But at least he ate his food. The smell of something rotting was overwhelming as I approached his sleeping shelter. What was that smell? Then I saw it, a dead, rotting rat. "Great, just great." I wiped my eyes against the mosquito net with the back of my glove and sighed heavily. This was a test I was bound to fail. The rat, about the length of a football lay crookedly in Engine´s sleeping hay. "That´ll teach you to try and eat his food ratty," I said as I brushed the rat from the wooden plank onto the dirt floor with a rake. "Come on little ratty, let´s go," I murmered the stench of rotting rodent making my stomach lurch as I dragged him across the cage, accompanied by Engine´s pacing and growling in his little holding cell.
"Yeah, Yeah, coming I am coming." I called to him. This was so not my ideal job. What had I been thinking. My stomach could hold on no longer. I no sooner got the rat out of the cage, then that day´s lunch came back up to haunt me. "Yum, french fries and eggs a second time. Mmm, mmm, mmm." I slipped the mosquito net back in my pocket. That would need to be washed and finished cleaning and feeding Engine, my body a quivering mass.
As I walked back along the path, I swatted aimlessly at the air, my stomach alternately cramping up with waves of naseau. I had to get out of hear. A job worth doing is a job worth doing well, my father has always said. For me, this job was just not worth doing.
Then it hit me, still over a kilometer from home, my stomach had a violent cramp. I was not going to make it. I looked around to see if anyone was coming. Left, right, left. Not a sole in sight. This was not going to be pretty, but there was no way I was making it all the way back to the bathrooms. I stepped off the path, prayed for solitude and slowly lowered my sweat covered pants. Instantly the mosquitos swarmed my butt and thighs. I knew this was not going to be pleasant, especially not later when I reviewed the damage the mosquitos had done.
Back on the trail, I spoke softly to myself. "Just explain to Noemi that you have to go. It´s ok if you leave early. You tried it. It´s just not for you." I had all but convinced myself when I got to the crossroads to head back to the camp or head left to where Natalia and Magnus worked with a Puma named Wayra. I vaguely remembered Natalia telling me she was on her own today and instinctively I turned down the path.
Really, in retrospect, Natalia was the reason I didn´t leave that very night. Natalia, a tall thin blonde girl from Sweden who had been at the park for 5 weeks along with her classmate, Magnus. Natalia, who had called me America that night when everyone else went to Guarayos and I couldn´t, because I was on a night watch that never happened. Natalia was the reason I stayed three additional days, making it exactly a week when I finally jumped ship.
Not to say that Natalia didn´t support my decision. She was immediately sympathetic as she twirled the humedor, trying to drum up smoke to keep the mosquitos at bay. She understood my predicament exactly. It was miserable there and the animals were never going to be released, a fact that disappointed both of us, even if we technically understood the reasons behind that decision. This was not the place either of us had imagined and now that the mosquitos had descended upon us like a bible plague, there was very little anyone could do, besides get bitten and scratch.
After Natalia´s prodding, I decided I could stay on till Friday, the day that she and Magnus would also head to Santa Cruz. I could spend the weekend with them and then head to Argentina to meet back up with John. It sounded like a good plan. Especially the part where I got a new friend to hang out with, confide in, bitch to and in general have fun. I realized that is what I had been missing for a long time. Funny how sometimes you don´t even realize what you are missing until it reappears in your life.
I have to say that the rest of the week was a bit of a blur. My jaguar, Sama, was destined never to get used to me in only three days and spent more time ignoring me or charging the bars than actually coming over to the edge of the cage to be put on a leash and attached to his runner. Engine continued to growl and OB, unfortunately for her, continued to ignore me and not eat. I did manage to clean her cage and get the vet to give her an anti-parasite shot. I do hope that helps.
The Americans from Arizona arrived Tuesday or Wednesday night, and after an initial snap judgement based on their state of origen and twangy drawl, I got to know that Matt and Mike were liberal Bush haters too. Fantastic.
We did manage to escape the park two nights to head into the "town" of Santa Maria, a small community 8 kilometers down the road, easily reached by any passing bus, called a micro, or truck heading that way. The canned beer wasn´t exactly cold, but the mosquitos were laughable and it was good to be able to sit in short sleeves without fear of attack.
Looking back on the experience a week later in an internet cafe in the hot, busy city of Buenos Aires, I feel happy I stuck it out. No, I didn´t make it the whole two weeks and so I guess, yeah, that makes me a quitter. But I did make it longer than I ever imagined I would. I learned something about myself, made some friends and hopefully, helped some animals a bit.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Back so soon?
I sat in the top bunk in the cabin last night listening to the rain fall steadily on the tin roof. I had not been in a bunk bed since my days as a kid at Camp Tockwogh. Somehow the top bunk was more fun then. And it didn´t even have a mosquito net.
I know you weren´t expecting me to write for two weeks until I was back in "town" again where there is internet and phone and other signs of civilization, but I was forced back to town after less than 24 hours at the reserve.
Mosquitos or rain. That´s the choice here. And not much of a choice I might add as the mosquitos still swarm you when it´s raining.
The rain began last night in earnest for the first time this season I was told (Go figure.) and today as I stepped into my borrowed knee high rubber boots, I realized this volunteer stint was not for the squeemish or light hearted.
So I donned my waterproof pants, wished once again, my rain jacket was still waterproof, doused myself in natural mosquito repellent and wandered outside in the pissing rain and swarms of mosquitos. I was eaten alive through my clothes instantly. Quite fun.
I met Lisa, another volunteer from England, who put me to work immediately cleaning and feeding the parrot cages. I could handle that. I was asked at least a dozen times before breakfast how long I would stay since at least 5 of the 10 volunteers are leaving this week. I was as non-commital as possible. I am not sure I am cut out for this type of work.
After 20 minutes of following Chris and Jonathan on a brisk walk through the jungle, wading through muddy water up to my knees, we arrived at my cats´cages, OB and Engine, two spotted ocelots. Engine, an apparently misunderstood cat, cannot be handled, walked and must be locked up in a small cage to be fed. I don´t know how much I will get to know him. OB, though I did not see her today as she is very shy, apparently warms up to you and once she trusts you can even be walked. Of course, both are wild and while, they are nowhere near as big as the Jaguars, they are not to be taken lightly. I reassured Chris I would never take a wild animal lightly.
Yaguaru, the Jaguar we fed today was an entirely different story. I don´t know if I have ever been that close to a Jaguar before, an impressively large cat with tan spots. He licked Chris and Jonathan´s hands hello before devoring a raw egg they gave thim to destract him while they locked him to one side of the cage to clean up and feed him. Apparently he can be walked with two men (or very tall women), but has a tendancy to pounce. Hmm, not sure that I will want to do that even if given the opportunity.
Surely, this park that rehabilitates sick wild animals to health and reintroduces them to the wild, that is all volunteer run is an amazing organization. But this morning as my feet pruned and I resisted the urge to scratch the mounting number of mosquito bites I was incurring, I was not so sure, that the amazing place was for me.
Now equipped with brand used second hand pants and a long sleeved shirt, mosquito netting to make a personal hat, plastic gloves and more repellant, I will return to give it the old college try. I owe it that.
Mosquitos or rain? How´s that for a choice?
I know you weren´t expecting me to write for two weeks until I was back in "town" again where there is internet and phone and other signs of civilization, but I was forced back to town after less than 24 hours at the reserve.
Mosquitos or rain. That´s the choice here. And not much of a choice I might add as the mosquitos still swarm you when it´s raining.
The rain began last night in earnest for the first time this season I was told (Go figure.) and today as I stepped into my borrowed knee high rubber boots, I realized this volunteer stint was not for the squeemish or light hearted.
So I donned my waterproof pants, wished once again, my rain jacket was still waterproof, doused myself in natural mosquito repellent and wandered outside in the pissing rain and swarms of mosquitos. I was eaten alive through my clothes instantly. Quite fun.
I met Lisa, another volunteer from England, who put me to work immediately cleaning and feeding the parrot cages. I could handle that. I was asked at least a dozen times before breakfast how long I would stay since at least 5 of the 10 volunteers are leaving this week. I was as non-commital as possible. I am not sure I am cut out for this type of work.
After 20 minutes of following Chris and Jonathan on a brisk walk through the jungle, wading through muddy water up to my knees, we arrived at my cats´cages, OB and Engine, two spotted ocelots. Engine, an apparently misunderstood cat, cannot be handled, walked and must be locked up in a small cage to be fed. I don´t know how much I will get to know him. OB, though I did not see her today as she is very shy, apparently warms up to you and once she trusts you can even be walked. Of course, both are wild and while, they are nowhere near as big as the Jaguars, they are not to be taken lightly. I reassured Chris I would never take a wild animal lightly.
Yaguaru, the Jaguar we fed today was an entirely different story. I don´t know if I have ever been that close to a Jaguar before, an impressively large cat with tan spots. He licked Chris and Jonathan´s hands hello before devoring a raw egg they gave thim to destract him while they locked him to one side of the cage to clean up and feed him. Apparently he can be walked with two men (or very tall women), but has a tendancy to pounce. Hmm, not sure that I will want to do that even if given the opportunity.
Surely, this park that rehabilitates sick wild animals to health and reintroduces them to the wild, that is all volunteer run is an amazing organization. But this morning as my feet pruned and I resisted the urge to scratch the mounting number of mosquito bites I was incurring, I was not so sure, that the amazing place was for me.
Now equipped with brand used second hand pants and a long sleeved shirt, mosquito netting to make a personal hat, plastic gloves and more repellant, I will return to give it the old college try. I owe it that.
Mosquitos or rain? How´s that for a choice?
Friday, December 08, 2006
Felices Fiestas y Ciao
Just a quick note to let you all know that today I head to an Animal Reserve in the northern tropical forest of Bolivia to volunteer for two weeks. The organization helps sick animals recover and get back into the wild. You can check out the organization if you like at
http://www.intiwarayassi.org/preguntas_esp.shtml
There is no electricity, and therefore no phone nor internet.
So I wish everyone a happy holiday season and I expect to be in communication around the 25th.
In the meantime, feel free to write and I will write back when I can.
Felices fiestas. . . and happy solstice. . .
http://www.intiwarayassi.org/preguntas_esp.shtml
There is no electricity, and therefore no phone nor internet.
So I wish everyone a happy holiday season and I expect to be in communication around the 25th.
In the meantime, feel free to write and I will write back when I can.
Felices fiestas. . . and happy solstice. . .
Misguided
It might very well be a pre-requisite of the job. It might be that when one goes to get a job as a local guide, the job description reads, "Must be able to torture foreign travelers by being moody, defensive, surly and generally uncomunicative. Must be able to lie and then blame traveler if caught in that lie." Call me crazy, but it seems to me that with every male guide in South America we have, I am more and more convinced that that is the job description they have read and the job for which they felt most suited.
Or perhaps, it is me. That is always an option when you have the same experience multiple times. That no, it is not that, they are all jerks. It is actually me that is the jerk. And believe me I have spent some time thinking about how defensive these guides get when I ask them simple questions such as, "Do you know where we are going?" Admitedly, that could make anyone defensive, especially if you are Latino man being asked by some blonde, blue eyed gringa who doesn´t "know her place." (nor does she want to know).
But that being said, whether it´s me or them or a combination of both, I have got to say that I believe that I may be done with guided tours. A statement that in the coming months I will have to figure out if is even possible to manage. Afterall, every hiking trail, natural wonder and national park is controlled by the toursit industry and therefore requires the services of a "knowelgeable local guide" to complete one´s experience.
We had arrived to Sorata, Boliva toward the end of November after a stint in Copacabana, the local sites, the surroundings villages and a full day´s walk across La Isla del Sol. We had had music and passion, you know, it´s always the fashion at the Copa. No really, Copacabana had been an experience in and of itself and even though it had none of the spice inherent in good ole Barry Manilow´s song, we had enjoyed ourselves. The highlight of course for me had not been the "ruins" atop the local peak or on the island of the sun, but rather the fact that I could hike to these supposed ruins with relatively no pain in my leg. It was highly possible that I was going to be able to do some more serious hiking and running in the near future. So it was with high hopes and thoughts of birthday celebrations that we arrived to the temprate, sleepy town of Sorata. Tourist season long since a memory, we had the town essentially to ourselves and decided we might as well trek on up to see these glacial lagunas people raved about as long as we were there. We figured John could carry the bulk of our gear and I could carry myself for the 4 day trek and if that worked out for my leg, I would be as good as new.
So it was with excitment and anticipation that we set off early on Thanksgiving morning up into the hills of Sorata toward the snowcapped peaks of Illampu and Ancohuma (also called Janq'uma) under the careful supervision of our small Bolivian guide, Eduardo. Of course we couldn´t actually see any snowcapped peaks, due to the thick cloud cover hovering overhead, but we knew they were there and that made us happy. There were four whole days ahead of us to see lakes, glaciars and snowcapped peaks and other local delights.
I guess we should have known that Eduardo´s true guide personality would come out eventually but on the first day, apart from the fact that he insisted a tired horse carry our backpack instead of John, we pretty much got along. The sun was shining, the sky was a deep blue and as we ascended up past the mud bricked houses of the local communities and indigenous woman with babies tied to their backs as they herded sheep and llamas, we were oblivious to what lay just ahead of us.
And I am not just talking about the weather. Though in retropspect, if it hadn´t been pouring rain and freezing cold, I am not sure we would have doubted Eduardo as much as we did. Of course, it was raining though. When do I go on any sort of multi-day backpacking trip or summit any sort of mountain when the weather is good. (Remember Cerro Chirripo, Baxter peak, Cadillac mountain, the Great Smokey Mountains, Pico Duarte . . . yep, all rainy with no vistas).
On the morning of day two of our four day trek to las tres lagunas (three lakes), we awoke ready to see the first set of lakes. It was going to be an easy hike and my leg was ready for a break after five hours of uphill we had done the day before. It wasn´t actually raining anymore and even though the clouds were so thick and low that I could actually reach out and touch them, I wasn´t letting that ruin my high spirits. I drank my nescafe crouched on the damp field, mountains all around, a multi-pronged stream meandered through the impossibly green pastures, llamas of every color, shape and size grazing as I ate my oatmeal. Life was good.
As I think about it now, I should have known that Eduardo didn´t know where Laguna Illampu was from where we were. It should have occured to me when he mentioned for the second time that the weather was ominous and that we could skip the first lake and just head for Chillata, where we were supposed to camp later that night. It should have occured to me, but it didn´t. We were too excited to get up into the glaciars. To see the cristal clear waters of glaciar lakes surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world outside of the Himalayas. This was adventure and we wanted to be part of it. So when Eduardo told us it would be an hour´s walk to the first lake, we packed up and headed out and up.
I think we had been walking up for about two hours when I finally questioned Eduardo on the accuracy of his time estimate. "One hour to Laguna Illampu?" I asked sweetly, making my voice as innocuous as it possibly could be.
"It´s because you are walking so slowly that we are not there yet." he retorted, a comment I am sure they taught him in that "how to be a big jerk to your clients guide school" that they all attend. I laughed in response. I was out of shape, but there were no lakes in sight and the horse was barely keeping up with John and me.
At three hours, when I asked again, a hint of edge creeping into my question, Eduardo suggested leaving the horse behind and hiking the rest of the way without the added burden of the horse on slippery rocks and loose gravel. I zipped my rain jacket up and pulled the hat further down over my ears, it had begun to rain.
"You know we´re over 15,000 feet." John told me as we waited for Eduardo to accomodate the horse and our belongings. "I thought the lake was only at 14,500?" I looked up toward the thick clouds and wondered if the lake was on the other side of the summit. This was not an easy day.
We climbed up through mud filled paths, our feet slipping as we tried to go higher. I could see Eduardo and John up ahead, rocks slipping down toward me asj their feet loosened them from their precarious position on the mountain.
"CABOOM!" I jumped as I heard the explosion, looking around for what had caused it as the bang echoed in the valley around us.
"What the fuck was that?" I thought and called up to Eduardo in Spanish to find out. (No I didn´t quite ask like that).
"They´re mining." he called back down as I reached where they waited on the side of the mountain.
"Mining? Mining? They are exploding part of the mountain? Do you really think it´s safe to be hiking up here while they are exploding dynamite?"
Eduardo shrugged. The tactic of the defensive. He was admitting to nothing. He had also learned this method at his "how to put your clients in danger guide school." It was working beautifully.
After the next explosion and harder rain, John suggested we skip the first lake and head to Chillata. We had already been walking for over three hours, it was pouring, they were exploding the mountain and honestly between you and me, there was no lake in the hills. So frustrated, cold and wet, we headed down, down, down to where the horse was and then further still, almost back to where we had spent the night, before heading back up the other side of the moutain.
It was about 3:00 when we declared mutiny on Eduardo. We had been walking for five hours in the freezing cold rain, we were in the middle of seemingly no where and Eduardo had spent the last fifteen minutes with a local woman gesturing down toward a deep valley filled with rocky passes, rapidly flowing rivers and no sign of a second lake. It was then that we asked him if he really knew where he was going, and admitedly the way we asked would have made the Dali Lama defensive, but in our defense, we had been lost all day long and had seen NOTHING we were supposed to see on the trek. The hillsides were beautiful, but we had paid a guide to show us glacial lakes. A guide who had no map, no compass and no waterproof clothing in the rainy season. It did not leave us feeling all that confident in his abilities to "guide" us.
Unfortunately, we were really too far to turn back to Sorata the way we had come, so with little other options, we followed the guide and our tired horse slipping and sliding down the shale into the valley. We never did make it to Lake Chillata that day. At around 6:00 that evening, in the fading light of dusk, the rain and the thick clouds, I declared that we had arrived at our campsite, at the laguna or not. We could barely see our hands in front of our face, let alone the slippery trail that the next day would lead us up out of the valley to the lake. It just wasn´t safe.
So two against one, John and I took control of our trip and spent the night alongside the river. We did finally make it the following day to both Laguna Chillata, and then after another four hours up into the snow across slippery shale rocks, river crossing and loose rocky trails to Laguna Glacial. And as our luck would have it, the weather even broke for a few minutes to reveal the magic of that Glacial lake with it´s surrounding 20,000 foot peaks, before we headed back down to Laguna Chillata in what would quickly become hail.
Ok you say, so you had one bad guide. It happens to everyone sometimes. But it doesn´t stop there. From Sorata, we headed to La Paz and then onto Southern Bolivia to the town of Uyuni, famous for the largest salt flat in the world. It is the reason that toursists flock to Uyuni and John and I were no exceptions. We wanted to drive across the pristine white salt flats of Salar de Uyuni, take silly pictures playing with perspective, stay in a salt hotel and visit the colorful lagunas of the southern lowlands.
We booked our tour taking the advice of the guidebook for a change, not willing to chance another bad experience. Tunapa tours was recommended in both Footprint and Lonely planet, how could we (and the other five people that booked along with us) go wrong?
We should have known right from the start that we were in trouble. In theory, the tour left in our 4WD jeep at 10:30 in the morning. And so at 11:00, when Erim, Kay, Justin, John and I sat outside the tour guide´s office as a French couple berated the booking agent, I went into inquire when we would leave. She assured me in just a few minutes and I chalked up the French couple´s anger to the stereotype of their nationality, rather than to something the tour office had done.
From there it was just one thing after another, from Cristobal falling asleep as we drove across the pristine white salt flats, the jeep slowly veering right and then back to center as he realized he had fallen asleep, to lunch at 4:00 that afternoon. When I asked Cristobal why lunch was taking so long, he told me it had been my fault. That if I had shown up at the lunch spot early, it would have been ready earlier. This too I realize is one of those "blame your client" tactics that they teach at the "how to really make your client angry guide school." I know because he did it again later when we got the second of three flat tires, telling Frenchie (our nickname for the French man in our group) that the flat was his fault. (At least I didn´t get blamed for everything.)
Now, don´t get me wrong, I don´t mean to imply that just because our guide made us sleep in the hotel employee section of the hotel and didn´t carry a jack to change the flats we kept getting and thought that a vegetarian meal was just the part of the meal that didn´t include meat, that our trip was not breath taking, jaw dropping and interesting. Our group, a couple from South Africa, a couple from the middle of France, Erim, a web consultant from Emeryville, CA and John and me, we banded together in the face of this adversity in the only way we knew how. We laughed. And when the Moby song came on the radio, "Ain´t nobody knows my troubles but god," we cracked up changing it to, "Ain´t nobody knows my trouble with guides." Frenchie absolutely loved that one. Though I don´t think our guide thought it was quite as funny.
And really, even though I personally don´t know if I would spend another three days in a bumpy jeep with six other people for over twelve hours a day, the scenery was absolutely amazing. From the thousands of square miles of absolute blinding white as we drove through the salt flats, to the former islands dotting the salar, it´s natural occuring rocks coral from when it had been the sea, to the twelve meter tall cacti that grew all over the islands surface, making Saguaro State Park in Arizona look like child´s play. To the hundreds of pink flamingos that balanced gracefully on one leg as they fed on their breakfast, lunch and dinner of salty brine in la laguna colorado, the red waters stretching out on all sides of them, a biting wind forcing us back into the safety of the jeep. To the strange rock formations that seemed to sprout out of nowhere in the baren landscape of the desert, to the bigonias that pranced through the sand, seeming to have nowhere in particular to go. To the naturally occuring hot springs where we warmed our frozen feet, mountains rising up in the distance framing the border with Chile. To the geysers shooting up out of the ground, not a guard rail in sight to protect the visitor. Thermal smoke rising up out of deep holes of boiling mud, our surly guide leaning against the jeep, blowing the horn to signal that our fifteen minutes had passed.
Yeah, the guide had been surly. Ok, so he had said little more than, "Bueno amigos, amigas, ya estamos llegando a _______. Pueden sacar fotos si gusten. Tienen 15 minutos (Ok, friends, we´re arriving at ____________. You can take photos if you like. You have 15 minutes.) And he had blamed me for having no lunch, all of us for the hotel being booked and Frenchie for the flat. Sure, I felt misguided. We all did. But without Eduardo and Cristobal (affectionately, Colombo), would there really be a story to tell at all?
Maybe I will write a letter to that guide school. You know the one that trains their guides to mistreat their clients. Maybe, if I can find where they are located, I will write them a letter thanking them for yet another unforgettable experience.
Or perhaps, it is me. That is always an option when you have the same experience multiple times. That no, it is not that, they are all jerks. It is actually me that is the jerk. And believe me I have spent some time thinking about how defensive these guides get when I ask them simple questions such as, "Do you know where we are going?" Admitedly, that could make anyone defensive, especially if you are Latino man being asked by some blonde, blue eyed gringa who doesn´t "know her place." (nor does she want to know).
But that being said, whether it´s me or them or a combination of both, I have got to say that I believe that I may be done with guided tours. A statement that in the coming months I will have to figure out if is even possible to manage. Afterall, every hiking trail, natural wonder and national park is controlled by the toursit industry and therefore requires the services of a "knowelgeable local guide" to complete one´s experience.
We had arrived to Sorata, Boliva toward the end of November after a stint in Copacabana, the local sites, the surroundings villages and a full day´s walk across La Isla del Sol. We had had music and passion, you know, it´s always the fashion at the Copa. No really, Copacabana had been an experience in and of itself and even though it had none of the spice inherent in good ole Barry Manilow´s song, we had enjoyed ourselves. The highlight of course for me had not been the "ruins" atop the local peak or on the island of the sun, but rather the fact that I could hike to these supposed ruins with relatively no pain in my leg. It was highly possible that I was going to be able to do some more serious hiking and running in the near future. So it was with high hopes and thoughts of birthday celebrations that we arrived to the temprate, sleepy town of Sorata. Tourist season long since a memory, we had the town essentially to ourselves and decided we might as well trek on up to see these glacial lagunas people raved about as long as we were there. We figured John could carry the bulk of our gear and I could carry myself for the 4 day trek and if that worked out for my leg, I would be as good as new.
So it was with excitment and anticipation that we set off early on Thanksgiving morning up into the hills of Sorata toward the snowcapped peaks of Illampu and Ancohuma (also called Janq'uma) under the careful supervision of our small Bolivian guide, Eduardo. Of course we couldn´t actually see any snowcapped peaks, due to the thick cloud cover hovering overhead, but we knew they were there and that made us happy. There were four whole days ahead of us to see lakes, glaciars and snowcapped peaks and other local delights.
I guess we should have known that Eduardo´s true guide personality would come out eventually but on the first day, apart from the fact that he insisted a tired horse carry our backpack instead of John, we pretty much got along. The sun was shining, the sky was a deep blue and as we ascended up past the mud bricked houses of the local communities and indigenous woman with babies tied to their backs as they herded sheep and llamas, we were oblivious to what lay just ahead of us.
And I am not just talking about the weather. Though in retropspect, if it hadn´t been pouring rain and freezing cold, I am not sure we would have doubted Eduardo as much as we did. Of course, it was raining though. When do I go on any sort of multi-day backpacking trip or summit any sort of mountain when the weather is good. (Remember Cerro Chirripo, Baxter peak, Cadillac mountain, the Great Smokey Mountains, Pico Duarte . . . yep, all rainy with no vistas).
On the morning of day two of our four day trek to las tres lagunas (three lakes), we awoke ready to see the first set of lakes. It was going to be an easy hike and my leg was ready for a break after five hours of uphill we had done the day before. It wasn´t actually raining anymore and even though the clouds were so thick and low that I could actually reach out and touch them, I wasn´t letting that ruin my high spirits. I drank my nescafe crouched on the damp field, mountains all around, a multi-pronged stream meandered through the impossibly green pastures, llamas of every color, shape and size grazing as I ate my oatmeal. Life was good.
As I think about it now, I should have known that Eduardo didn´t know where Laguna Illampu was from where we were. It should have occured to me when he mentioned for the second time that the weather was ominous and that we could skip the first lake and just head for Chillata, where we were supposed to camp later that night. It should have occured to me, but it didn´t. We were too excited to get up into the glaciars. To see the cristal clear waters of glaciar lakes surrounded by some of the tallest mountains in the world outside of the Himalayas. This was adventure and we wanted to be part of it. So when Eduardo told us it would be an hour´s walk to the first lake, we packed up and headed out and up.
I think we had been walking up for about two hours when I finally questioned Eduardo on the accuracy of his time estimate. "One hour to Laguna Illampu?" I asked sweetly, making my voice as innocuous as it possibly could be.
"It´s because you are walking so slowly that we are not there yet." he retorted, a comment I am sure they taught him in that "how to be a big jerk to your clients guide school" that they all attend. I laughed in response. I was out of shape, but there were no lakes in sight and the horse was barely keeping up with John and me.
At three hours, when I asked again, a hint of edge creeping into my question, Eduardo suggested leaving the horse behind and hiking the rest of the way without the added burden of the horse on slippery rocks and loose gravel. I zipped my rain jacket up and pulled the hat further down over my ears, it had begun to rain.
"You know we´re over 15,000 feet." John told me as we waited for Eduardo to accomodate the horse and our belongings. "I thought the lake was only at 14,500?" I looked up toward the thick clouds and wondered if the lake was on the other side of the summit. This was not an easy day.
We climbed up through mud filled paths, our feet slipping as we tried to go higher. I could see Eduardo and John up ahead, rocks slipping down toward me asj their feet loosened them from their precarious position on the mountain.
"CABOOM!" I jumped as I heard the explosion, looking around for what had caused it as the bang echoed in the valley around us.
"What the fuck was that?" I thought and called up to Eduardo in Spanish to find out. (No I didn´t quite ask like that).
"They´re mining." he called back down as I reached where they waited on the side of the mountain.
"Mining? Mining? They are exploding part of the mountain? Do you really think it´s safe to be hiking up here while they are exploding dynamite?"
Eduardo shrugged. The tactic of the defensive. He was admitting to nothing. He had also learned this method at his "how to put your clients in danger guide school." It was working beautifully.
After the next explosion and harder rain, John suggested we skip the first lake and head to Chillata. We had already been walking for over three hours, it was pouring, they were exploding the mountain and honestly between you and me, there was no lake in the hills. So frustrated, cold and wet, we headed down, down, down to where the horse was and then further still, almost back to where we had spent the night, before heading back up the other side of the moutain.
It was about 3:00 when we declared mutiny on Eduardo. We had been walking for five hours in the freezing cold rain, we were in the middle of seemingly no where and Eduardo had spent the last fifteen minutes with a local woman gesturing down toward a deep valley filled with rocky passes, rapidly flowing rivers and no sign of a second lake. It was then that we asked him if he really knew where he was going, and admitedly the way we asked would have made the Dali Lama defensive, but in our defense, we had been lost all day long and had seen NOTHING we were supposed to see on the trek. The hillsides were beautiful, but we had paid a guide to show us glacial lakes. A guide who had no map, no compass and no waterproof clothing in the rainy season. It did not leave us feeling all that confident in his abilities to "guide" us.
Unfortunately, we were really too far to turn back to Sorata the way we had come, so with little other options, we followed the guide and our tired horse slipping and sliding down the shale into the valley. We never did make it to Lake Chillata that day. At around 6:00 that evening, in the fading light of dusk, the rain and the thick clouds, I declared that we had arrived at our campsite, at the laguna or not. We could barely see our hands in front of our face, let alone the slippery trail that the next day would lead us up out of the valley to the lake. It just wasn´t safe.
So two against one, John and I took control of our trip and spent the night alongside the river. We did finally make it the following day to both Laguna Chillata, and then after another four hours up into the snow across slippery shale rocks, river crossing and loose rocky trails to Laguna Glacial. And as our luck would have it, the weather even broke for a few minutes to reveal the magic of that Glacial lake with it´s surrounding 20,000 foot peaks, before we headed back down to Laguna Chillata in what would quickly become hail.
Ok you say, so you had one bad guide. It happens to everyone sometimes. But it doesn´t stop there. From Sorata, we headed to La Paz and then onto Southern Bolivia to the town of Uyuni, famous for the largest salt flat in the world. It is the reason that toursists flock to Uyuni and John and I were no exceptions. We wanted to drive across the pristine white salt flats of Salar de Uyuni, take silly pictures playing with perspective, stay in a salt hotel and visit the colorful lagunas of the southern lowlands.
We booked our tour taking the advice of the guidebook for a change, not willing to chance another bad experience. Tunapa tours was recommended in both Footprint and Lonely planet, how could we (and the other five people that booked along with us) go wrong?
We should have known right from the start that we were in trouble. In theory, the tour left in our 4WD jeep at 10:30 in the morning. And so at 11:00, when Erim, Kay, Justin, John and I sat outside the tour guide´s office as a French couple berated the booking agent, I went into inquire when we would leave. She assured me in just a few minutes and I chalked up the French couple´s anger to the stereotype of their nationality, rather than to something the tour office had done.
From there it was just one thing after another, from Cristobal falling asleep as we drove across the pristine white salt flats, the jeep slowly veering right and then back to center as he realized he had fallen asleep, to lunch at 4:00 that afternoon. When I asked Cristobal why lunch was taking so long, he told me it had been my fault. That if I had shown up at the lunch spot early, it would have been ready earlier. This too I realize is one of those "blame your client" tactics that they teach at the "how to really make your client angry guide school." I know because he did it again later when we got the second of three flat tires, telling Frenchie (our nickname for the French man in our group) that the flat was his fault. (At least I didn´t get blamed for everything.)
Now, don´t get me wrong, I don´t mean to imply that just because our guide made us sleep in the hotel employee section of the hotel and didn´t carry a jack to change the flats we kept getting and thought that a vegetarian meal was just the part of the meal that didn´t include meat, that our trip was not breath taking, jaw dropping and interesting. Our group, a couple from South Africa, a couple from the middle of France, Erim, a web consultant from Emeryville, CA and John and me, we banded together in the face of this adversity in the only way we knew how. We laughed. And when the Moby song came on the radio, "Ain´t nobody knows my troubles but god," we cracked up changing it to, "Ain´t nobody knows my trouble with guides." Frenchie absolutely loved that one. Though I don´t think our guide thought it was quite as funny.
And really, even though I personally don´t know if I would spend another three days in a bumpy jeep with six other people for over twelve hours a day, the scenery was absolutely amazing. From the thousands of square miles of absolute blinding white as we drove through the salt flats, to the former islands dotting the salar, it´s natural occuring rocks coral from when it had been the sea, to the twelve meter tall cacti that grew all over the islands surface, making Saguaro State Park in Arizona look like child´s play. To the hundreds of pink flamingos that balanced gracefully on one leg as they fed on their breakfast, lunch and dinner of salty brine in la laguna colorado, the red waters stretching out on all sides of them, a biting wind forcing us back into the safety of the jeep. To the strange rock formations that seemed to sprout out of nowhere in the baren landscape of the desert, to the bigonias that pranced through the sand, seeming to have nowhere in particular to go. To the naturally occuring hot springs where we warmed our frozen feet, mountains rising up in the distance framing the border with Chile. To the geysers shooting up out of the ground, not a guard rail in sight to protect the visitor. Thermal smoke rising up out of deep holes of boiling mud, our surly guide leaning against the jeep, blowing the horn to signal that our fifteen minutes had passed.
Yeah, the guide had been surly. Ok, so he had said little more than, "Bueno amigos, amigas, ya estamos llegando a _______. Pueden sacar fotos si gusten. Tienen 15 minutos (Ok, friends, we´re arriving at ____________. You can take photos if you like. You have 15 minutes.) And he had blamed me for having no lunch, all of us for the hotel being booked and Frenchie for the flat. Sure, I felt misguided. We all did. But without Eduardo and Cristobal (affectionately, Colombo), would there really be a story to tell at all?
Maybe I will write a letter to that guide school. You know the one that trains their guides to mistreat their clients. Maybe, if I can find where they are located, I will write them a letter thanking them for yet another unforgettable experience.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Fotos de Ecuador
I know these are a bit overdue but I had planned to edit, rotate, caption etc all the photos before dumping them all on you.
As it turns out, the internet connections are just too darn slow. So I figured that I would send out the link to the Ecuador photos and you all can look or not . . .totally up to you.
Just so you know, they are John´s and my photos, which is why there are so many of some of them. And because they are two sets, they are not in chronological order. Sorry.
Remember that you need a snapfish account to view them. Just sign up, sign on and browse away.
Peru and Bolivia pix to follow in the next month or so, as well as all the November Bolivia stories I have neglected to post.
Happy picture viewing. . .
http://www1.snapfish.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=53705077/a=5671161_5671161/t_=5671161
Let me know if the link doesn´t work.
As it turns out, the internet connections are just too darn slow. So I figured that I would send out the link to the Ecuador photos and you all can look or not . . .totally up to you.
Just so you know, they are John´s and my photos, which is why there are so many of some of them. And because they are two sets, they are not in chronological order. Sorry.
Remember that you need a snapfish account to view them. Just sign up, sign on and browse away.
Peru and Bolivia pix to follow in the next month or so, as well as all the November Bolivia stories I have neglected to post.
Happy picture viewing. . .
http://www1.snapfish.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=53705077/a=5671161_5671161/t_=5671161
Let me know if the link doesn´t work.
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