Escuela 231 de Pichi Leufu

“Seño, Seño, ¿Qué hace Señorita? (Teach, teach, What are you doing teacher?)” I didn’t have to turn around to know who was at the door.

“Preparing English classes for next week Marcos.”

“Can I help Seño?” his high pitched voice now in my ear as he pulled on my shirt.

“I don’t think so Marcos. Not today anyway. Thanks for asking.”

Marcos always wanted to help, or hug, or kiss you or climb you as if you were a tree. Actually all the kindergarten students did, all four of them, and a few of the first graders too. Maybe it was because at five, being at a residential school, miles away from their parents, and any type of civilization for the matter, from early Monday morning till late Friday afternoon resulted a bit difficult for them to wrap their brains around. Frankly, it was hard for me and I am 32, not five.

By now Marcos had plopped himself down in the chair next to me, and I knew that there was no way I was getting rid of him till the dinner bell rang at 9:00 that night. I handed him a notebook and a pencil from my bag, and asked him if he wanted to practice his letters we had been working on in class, “Yuupeee!” he shouted grabbing the little green notebook and pencil from my hand.

“What should I draw Seño?” he looked up at me with his big brown eyes, a smile from ear to ear, dirt smudged across the bottom of his chin from an early outdoor game with the other kids. Sweet, sweet, sweet were the words that came to mind and yet I knew Marcos. He could be as sweet as sugar one minute and the incarnation of the devil himself the next. That was part of his charm.

I picked up the book and flipped to the last page written on, “What letter did you write here Marcos?” I asked pointing at the picture of the seal and the letter F.

“Foca, Foca. Fff, Fff, Fff” he chanted in a sing song voice.

“That’s right. The Fff from Foca. So what comes after Fff?”

Marcos jumped down from the chair, pushed his stained shirt sleeves back up over his hands and skipped across the hall to the primary classroom to look at the ABC chart I had pasted to his desk earlier that week. In seconds he was back, panting, “Gato seño. Es un gato, gato, Ggg, Ggg, Ggg.”

“That’s right Marcos. It’s the Gggg of Gato. So, go ahead and draw a picture of gato and then you can write the G.” But I didn’t really have to tell Marcos to draw the cat; he was way ahead of me, head down over his very own notebook.

For the last four weeks, since starting at the residential rural school in the province of Pichi Leufu, Argentina, I have had my eyes opened, not just by Marcos, but by every single one of the 30 students at Escuela 231 de Pichi Leufu.

Situated 65 kilometers from the town of Bariloche, down a bumpy, curvy, hilly, dirt road that becomes impassable in the winter months; the students of public school 231 travel distances and routes to get to school I had only heard about in stories from my grandparents or in rerun episodes of “Little House on the Prairie.” Aldana and her sister Fiorela walk an hour and a half every Monday (and back again on Friday) to meet the bus that picks them up at the “main” dirt road near their house. Niko drags five-year old Luciano down the dirt trails from his house in the mountains above the school, only 45 minutes on Mondays but the return on Friday back up the hill is more like two hours, that is if Luciano isn’t too tired. Rocio Belén travels three hours on horse back from her far flung house in the mountains to the only driveable road in the area, where she is then picked up by a bus and driven another hour to their haven of a school, the only place with electricity in miles around.

Here in this windy, unforgiving climate, there is no internet and no cell service. There isn’t even phone service and twice daily, families gather around the radio, at 8 am and 6 pm, to listen to the “socials”, radio broadcasts on the local public radio station, where they hear not only the local and national news but also any news from family and friends attempting to communicate they way you or I would use the phone or an email, “Maria Hernandez of Pilka would like to inform her sister that their mother is gravely ill. Please come home when you can.” “Sandro Coña of Comallo: please report to your brother in law’s stables tomorrow at 10 am for work.” “Damián Escudo would like to inform Sergio Valdez that Maria has begun her labor.” And on and on . . . Everyone’s personal business broadcasted on the local air waves . . . their only mode of communication between their far flung houses in the middle of no where.

Here, on my breaks between the regular academic classes from 8 to 1 and my English and Computer classes in the afternoon, I would head out of the school on my daily run and see no one, not a house, not a car for the entire hour and a half, just mountains, rocks, the river and the road, stretching out for miles in both directions. At times, I would come across a cow or two, a flock of geese, a herd of sheep or possibly someone on horseback, but even that was rare.

Here, in Damian´s 6th and 7th grade combination class, the six students, boys and girls alike would fight for whose turn it was to share a song with the class. Not a shred of the typical adolescent embarrassment evident as their sweet voices filled the room with music, their classmates accompanying them on the drums or the tambourine.

Here, in the kindergarten to 2nd grade classroom, the kindergartners would sit up just a little bit taller in their seats as I walked I after recess, handing them their green ABC notebooks, “Is it time to work with you Seño?” they would ask, their voices a miniature version of their older siblings, cousins and aunts and uncles in the school.

Here, in the continuing education adult classes that 3rd through 5th grade teacher Andrea taught in the afternoons, we hiked to houses with large holes in their tin roofs from the last big hail storm. No plumbing, no electricity, but a never-ending supply of mate to offer to their Seño and her visiting teacher friend from the United States. Their hospitality was palpable as we passed the hot, bitter drink around the circle, and they thanked us profusely for traversing the roads to come and help them learn.

Here, at the river a ten minute walk from the school, on a Thursday afternoon, the last hot summer day before the winter set in, 30 kids splashed in the water. Not more than half of them in actual bathing suits, their shorts or underwear soaked, their lips blue in the setting sun. They ran and dove and laughed and played and begged me to show them how I swam till I got in and froze my butt off too.

Here at the rural Olympic Games in the 300 inhabitant town of Comallo, we snuggled into our mattresses at night, two groups of students and teachers from two rural schools, asleep together on the floor of a gymnasium, preparing to play each other in Soccer, Chess and the 100 yard dash. We would win few medals the following day, but regardless of how much or little we won, the kids would give it their all, play their hardest, be the best sports they knew how to be.

I went to Pichi Leufu to help. To give the 30 students and 3 teachers some of what I had to offer. My expertise. My good will or something like that. And I am sure I did help. Every little bit helps in this world. But, now as I look back on the experience, I realize it wasn’t really me helping them. Because, what I got back in return was way more than I could have ever given them in 45 minute English or Computer classes, in daily reading or writing lessons.

It was them that taught me something about learning. In the dining room waiting for a small voice to bless our food or in the dorm rooms at night, tucking them in with a bedtime story, or on the recess yard, watching kids from aged 5 to 13 playing soccer together . . . it was not me who taught them, it was them who taught me. About love, about life and hardship and tenacity and togetherness.

Last Thursday after dinner, as I said my good byes in the dining hall, tears dangerously close to the edge of my eyes, one of the “tougher” 6th grade boys, Erik, raised his hand, “Seño?” he questioned, and I nodded for him to go one wondering what profane word he would ask me to translate into English. “Seño,” he said again, his voice almost a whisper, all eyes in the room on him, necks straining to see him as he spoke. “How do you say, ´Please don’t leave us?´ in English Seño?”

I shook my head, unable to respond, a small, sad smile on my face. I walked over to his table where all the 6th and 7th grade boys sat, and as the whole cafeteria erupted into applause, I reached down and hugged Erik, tears running down my cheeks, “Gracias Erik. Gracias, alumnos de 231. I´ll miss you too.”

The solo, not so solo backpacking trip

Truth be told, I didn’t want to go backpacking alone. Not just because I thought my father would verbally "kill me" if he found out, though that was definitely part of it. I could just hear him in the little voice in my head, “Jennifah, are you insane? A woman alone in the wilderness? Don’t be so naïve. The problem is you are too trusting! Do you want to give me a heart attack?” And on and on and on . . . that must be the Jewish father in him. But really, I didn’t want to go alone, because frankly, I was a bit scared. Sure, I know what you’re thinking, scared? After all that she’s done on her own, by herself? She’s scared? But it’s true, I was.

So, I went looking for the potential backpacking partners: Salvador a fellow traveller from Guatemala on break from his university in Brazil and Diego, a guy that works at the hostel I tend to stay at when in Bariloche for the weekend. Of course, Salvador was no longer anywhere to be found. He had moved on to the next town, as travellers have a tendency to do. And Diego, well Diego, was asleep when I called and had no intention of getting up any time soon.

Upon realization that I was on my own if I was going to go up into the mountains last weekend, I did what I do best, I procrastinated. First, I attempted to find a place to fix my now broken digital camera. That took up a few hours. I, then, had to look for some sort of picture taking device, given that I wasn’t going to go up into the mountains with no camera. That too took time. I had to food shop so that I would be well prepared up there all by myself. And of course, since Friday is my only week day in civilization since starting at the rural school, I had to go to the post office to mail yet another batch of postcards. By this time it was almost 4:00 and now it seemed late to start out. But as I sat there in the hostel trying to figure out what else I could do for the weekend, Gustavo, one of the hostel´s employees looked at me and said, “Go already, you’re driving me nuts. You’ll be fine. The route’s well marked. You have time before sunset. It’ll be fun. Just go.” So, I went.

It was after 5 when I got off the bus and headed down the dirt road alongside Lago Gutierrez to enter the Nahuel Haupi National Park, and almost 6 when I finally got the permit and the directions on how to find the trail head. The ranger assured me that it was nearly impossible to get lost and that I should have no problem making it to the camping area by 10 when the sun actually set. I must have asked him at least twenty times if I could get lost, until finally he looked at me as if to say, “Seriously, are you really that dumb or deaf or do you just not understand what I am saying in Spanish?” He didn’t say that of course. He just laughed pointed down the road and told me to go on and get started before I lost the daylight I had remaining. Clearly, I was still procrastinating.

In the end, the ranger and Gustavo were both right, the trail was well marked. I think even my mother wouldn’t have gotten lost on this trail and she could get lost in our house going from the kitchen to the bathroom. But no one, not the ranger, not Gustavo, not John, who had done the route a few weeks earlier, mentioned, “Oh yeah, by the way, it’s four hours UP hill.” So there I was sweating my catooties off with a backpack as heavy as I had ever carried it. This camping on your own made for a strenuous trip.

As the sun dipped behind the mountain, the refuge and camping area still over an hour away, I began the last long uphill stretch for the day. I walked bent over forward, taking miniscule steps, the backpack feeling like three thousand pounds instead of thirty. Behind me, I heard voices and turned around to see who would clearly now pass me as I moved turtle like up the mountain. There on the trail about 100 feet below me were two young boys hiking obviously much faster than I. They caught up to me, slowed their clip, and as we made our way up to the camping next to Refugio Frey, we began to chat.

That night under a moon so full it felt like daytime, the three of us sat eating rice primavera and talking about what people always talk about when they are traveling, how it is that you go to be in whatever place you are currently in. Martín and David were both university students in Buenos Aires on their summer vacation. They had been coming to this same mountain since they were twelve. For them, it was like coming home. For me, it was a group of people to camp near, not quite so alone in the wilderness afterall. Of course, it did cross my mind that these two teenaged boys, could indeed be murderers, rapists or thieves, but in lieu of foraging a place on my own in the dark, I decided to risk it.

In the end, I decided against putting the tent up since the boys were without a tent and the night was clear. Despite the brightness of the moon, a good number of stars shone above us, and as we climbed into our respective sleeping bags, a shooting star zipped across the night sky. I breathed in the clean mountain air; lay in my bag, glasses off, world a fuzzy blur, listening to the river rushing below and the howl of the wind in my ears. This was life. And to think I hadn’t wanted to come camping by myself.

It was either the sun or the large quantity of dust in my face that awoke me the next morning hours before either of my two "campsite mates." I tapped around on the ground searching for my glasses, covered in a film of light brown sand and wiped them and my face on the already dirty sleeve of my sweater. The morning was crisp and as I sat eating my cheese and tomato sandwich, writing in my journal, I thought maybe I would continue on to the next refuge, Jakob, instead of heading back down to Lago Gutierrez that day. David and Martín had sworn it was worth the five or six hour hike and that really it was just two big up hills and two descents. "No big deal," they assured me, "Piece of cake." Really, the next time some one tells me that the two up and down hills are no big deal, I will make sure to ask them to be a bit more descriptive before making a decision about whether or not to follow them up the mountain.

We set off as a group but within minutes I realized, there was no way I would keep pace with these young kids and told them to go ahead, which of course, they did. That’s not to say I never saw them again. They would wait to me at the top of the summit or the bottom of the descent before moving on for most of the day. So I was alone, but not completely.

I am not sure there are words to accurately depict what kind of day Saturday was, other than perhaps pure torture. If Friday’s ascent had been more up hill and more strenuous than I had imagined, well, Saturday’s hike made me long for the hours of late Friday afternoon heading toward Frey. The first section of the day, an hour climb to a glacier lake left me breathless but still in good spirits. There, David and Martín awaited me sprawled out on rocks and taking pictures of the scenery. The next segment continued up through the snow and onto a path entirely made out of large boulders that required you to quite literally lift your body up from one to the next, looking for a handhold while desperately holding on with one hand and your foot to the rock beneath you. I reached the top and took in my surroundings, Tronodor Mountain to my left, Nahuel Haupi Lake shining below fringed by snow capped peaks on every side. It was indeed breathtaking, that is, if the climb had left me with any breath to be taken.

What ensued from then on, I swear, can only be described as sheer masochism, or is it sadism? I always get those two confused. The descent to the river from the top was nothing short of sliding straight down a mountain, praying as you careened downward, that the landslide you were creating as you slid snowboard style down the hill was not being repeated by someone directly above you. By the time I got down to the ravine, my shoes were absolutely filled to the brim with dirt, rocks and probably a few flowers I destroyed on the way. I was beginning to question the decision made in the beauty of the morning light to continue to Jakob, but looking back up over my shoulder, I knew it was too late now.

After a quiet lunch by a waterfall, we set out toward the last up and down hill sections of the day. David warned me that what had come before paled in comparison to what we would encounter on the next two sections. At that moment, my ignorance was indeed bliss. I lost sight of the two boys immediately upon beginning the ascent up a rock strewn side of a mountain and for over an hour, sweat poured down my face into my eyes, my mouth and down my neck as I labored upwards toward the summit. As I struggled up, up, up, I scanned to rocks above me looking for the tell tale red dots marking my way. I promised myself not to stop for more water till I reached the next trail marker swatting dozens of Tabanas, the large black biting flies, as I walked.

Up ahead as my watch read 5:30 in the afternoon, I could make out Martín’s head, the sun blotting out the rest of his body. “Is that the top?” I cried out, praying for an affirmation.

“¡Sí!” came the much needed reply as I pulled myself up the last section and sank onto the hard earth.

“Thank god,” I breathed as I pulled out my water and finished the rest of the bottle. “I am dead.”

“Not so fast,” David pointed to the horizon, “That’s where we’re going.”

I looked across the valley and sure enough, there was a small house, el refugio San Martín and camping. But where was the trail? I continued searching to no avail and finally asked the question, dreading the inevitable answer, “And the trail?”

They exchanged wary looks that did not calm my spirit before David finally spoke, “Just take your time. It’s a bit steeper than the first descent and since it’s mostly rocks, it’s very slippery. Take your time. Take it slow and we’ll see you at the camping.”

“Take my time, take it slow. Take my time, take it slow. . . ” I breathed in and out as I stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt, stepped and then slipped and then fell on my butt. My hands were scraped raw, the back of my leg bleeding from one of the many falling rocks, my heart raced, the tabana flies swarmed and the sun beat down mercilessly from above. This was NOT fun, in any way, shape, or form. What kind of masochist was I anyway? I must have been insane when I decided to go on this hike! I could hear my father’s laugh in my head as I relayed the story days later. That is if I didn’t fall to my death trying to get down the mountain. The boys long gone; my head pounding, visions of broken legs, cracked skulls and night fall began to race through my mind.

So, I began to do the only thing I could think of to help the situation. Obviously, I began to talk to the flies, “Please,” I implored, my voice a high pitched whine, “Please tabanas, please leave me alone. I just can’t handle you too.” Bam, I fell again and the tabanas swarmed around me.

When that didn’t work, I thought, maybe I would try the universe. Perhaps I was starting too low on the hierarchy, “Um, hello, Universe? Could you help me out here? I get you can’t make this go any faster. But could you at least get rid of these flies? I just can’t take it anymore.” I was defintitely losing my mind.

But of course, that too failed. Out of entities, insects and people to plead for help, I thought to even try my mom, figuring she might have some pull with someone up there, but no such luck.

Finally, fifteen falls on my you know what later, I reached flat ground. Turning around to look up behind me, the mountain loomed above me sneering sinisterly. I swear, the mountain was definitely laughing.

“Home free!” I thought. I would have skipped down the flat trail if I could have, but my legs were screaming and refused to do much more than a lopsided, slow stroll. In my head, I skipped toward the refuge on muddy trails, thinking, “I mean really, how hard could the last few kilometers be?”

“Glunk” was the sound I heard, as my left foot, followed by my whole left leg slipped down into the mud, just as if I had stepped in quick sand. I lurched forward quickly pulling my right foot with me. Luckily it came free. But the left one was completely stuck. I began to dig out my leg, mud flying everywhere, and as I dug, more mud sunk on top of my shoe and leg. Faster and faster I dug, alternately leaning forward to support myself on the muddy ground to try to pull my left leg out of the hole, but to no avail. I was stuck. I stood there, sunken into the ground, looking around the deserted trail. No one in front of me, no one behind me. I called out for help, no answer. My watch read 7:00 pm, three hours to sundown and getting colder. “I’m either going to start hysterically laughing or hysterically crying.” I said aloud to no one in particular, as I struggled once again against the cold mud around my leg. Laugh it was. Cracking up, I dug, pulled, dug, pulled, tried to take my shoe off, dug, pulled, till finally, POP! Out came my leg and BAM! I landed face first in the mud.

Scrambling to get out of there before I sunk again, I unfortunately, missed the trail marking flag telling me to cross the river at that exact spot and so oblivious and covered in mud, continued on my way to clean myself off. Not two minutes later, I reached the end of the trail, faced with an impassable point in the river. Clearly this was not the way. I turned around to see where I had gone wrong, and BOOM! Back down in the mud, this time on my right side. I shook my head as I stood up, “You have got to be kidding me.” I muttered as I headed back down to the river to clean myself off again. To the right I saw what looked like it might be a trail if you could get through the brush that had overgrown the beginning, so I headed up the hill to try it out, but no, it was merely another mud trap waiting for a cold, exhausted, fed up hiker. Yep, that would be me.

Now once again, covered in mud, I gave up trying to clean myself off and headed back the way I came. How the heck was I ever going to find my way to the campground? This was the unfortunate part of hiking alone with the sense of direction of a flea. So much for well marked.

Luckily for me, just as I was about to throw myself in the river and give up on life, a couple came down the muddy path and together the three of us, determined that the trail crossed the river back at my mud hole, with no bridge, three small rocks to step on and a steep drop off to the right. Clearly this was the way. However had I missed that?

And forty muddy minutes later, I dragged myself into camp to a bemused couple of boys, just about to send out the search party.

I know what you must be thinking. Sounds like fun, Jen. Lots of fun. And I admit, if the trip had ended then, it might very well have been my last solo backpacking trip ever. Fortunately for my future forays with Mother Nature, I settled into my muddy sleeping bag and slept like the dead under another amazing moon, and awoke the next day ready for my last stint on the trail before getting back to Bariloche.

By the time I had finagled a cup of coffee from the refuge, the boys had already headed out, so, I decided to put a little music to my hike. I broke out the ipod, donned the head phones and I was off.

What a hike home it was. I don’t know exactly what it was that made the hike back to Bariloche so completely rejuvenating. Maybe it was just the sense of self accomplishment for having gotten through something on my own that had scared me. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t fallen down the mountain or gotten stuck in the mud and frozen to death. Or perhaps it was the music that accompanied me as I literally ran down the trail past yellow, orange and purple flowers, through sunlit trees and across rivers with no bridges, a rope keeping me from falling down the waterfall below. I don’t know exactly what it was, but four short hours later when a dirty, muddy, smelly, sore version of Jen skipped the last few feet to the trailhead, I wasn’t the least bit bothered that I had just missed my bus back to the hostel in Bariloche . . .I knew I would find my way, just fine.

Clarification

I know the last entry confused some of you that talk to me more frequently so I thought I would clarify what´s going on. I am still volunteering at the rural school 65 km outside of Bariloche and staying there during the week. The "paria" entry was from the week before I began at the school, but I was behind in publishing due to my lack of contact with modern technology. I am currently working on an entry about the school, but may publish some other entries in the meantime that are already done. . .

Thanks for reading. . . çç
jen

El grupo paria

If I remember correctly, it was Lucas that I met first. He was lying in the top bunk when I came back from god only knows where, and as I entered the room, he sat up.

“Sorry to wake you,” I whispered as I sat down on my bed to organize my belongings.

“Nah, I was already awake.” He replied sitting up on one elbow, “Che, where are you from and why do you speak Spanish so well?”

I, of course, assumed he wanted what my mother told all men want, but I was in the mood to talk (when am I not?), so I laughed and asked him which version of the story he wanted, the abridged or unabridged one. He said he had time on his hands, so I told him the whole thing. I guess he didn´t really know what he was gettinghimself into when he first told me to go ahead and tell him the long version, but when I finished my life´s story, he nodded, climbed down off the bunk, told me he hoped to see me later and went into the bathroom to shower.

Later on that night, as I checked out my prospects for travel partners or potential friends for the week, I noticed there were two groups: the Israelis and the group from Buenos (Porteños). I saw Lucas among them, and thought about going over to sit with him and his Porteño friends. But they were all in the middle of making asado, which consists of grilling large quantities of meat, so you can imagine my hesitation. Plus, there was that voice in my head nagging me about Lucas´s intentions and anyway, I had to get up early the next day to go on the Tronador trip. So I called it an early night and hit the hay. That’s not to say that I was able to fall asleep when I went downstairs at midnight since the Porteños were just beginning to grill and it would be hours before dinner was actually ready. It had to have been 5 in the morning when they finally called it quits. So, when I got up the next day at 7:30 in the morning, sure, I tried to be quiet, but not that quiet. After all, what comes around goes around, right?

The next night as I waited for 11:30 to roll around, the obvious hour to get together with people for drinks, I saw Lucas and company once again. They had just come in from the balcony with pizzas and I stood by the doorway unsure about whether or not I should join them. After all, they were obviously life long friends and why would they want some silly Yankee at their table, just because she spoke Spanish.

Who exactly it was among them that told me to sit down and eat some pizza, I am not sure, but one of them finally spoke to me. I think they took pity on my pathetic expression, but whatever the reason, I wasn´t about to say no. Not even because I had eaten already. Of course, I told them that, but that didn’t matter in the least.

Seconds later, I had a slice of pizza and coca-cola and fernet, a liquorice flavored liquor very popular among Argentineans, and of course the group was dying to know where I was from and why I spoke Spanish so well.

Lucas held up his hand to me as if to say, “Let me do the talking.” And promptly launched into an abridged story of my life, Argentinean style. Once the collective laughter had died down, I figured it was my turn to question them, so I inquired about how they had all decided to come to Bariloche for their vacation.

“Somos parias,” explained Ricky, the others nodding their agreement.

“¿Parias?” I inquired, wracking the dictionary in my brain and coming up blank. This was a new word for me.

“Parias. Parias are people that don´t quite fit in. Actually, we all met yesterday here in the hostal. All of us ended up here in Bariloche alone and mostly unexpectedly, and found this group of misfits to spend some time with.”

“Yesterday?” I was incredulous. Just last night had been the night I watched them cooking up an asado as I headed for bed, as if they had been friends their whole lives.

“That’s how parias are,” Mariana explained, “Why don’t you join us tonight out for a beer? See if you might be a paria too.”

But, I couldn’t meet them out. I already had plans, so I wrote down my number and email in case we didn’t see each other and went out to find my new friends from the Tronador excursion earlier that day.

About mid way through the night, around 2 in the morning, I saw them saunter into Wilkenneys, a definite motley crew. There was Ricky, the business man in Bariloche because his work truck had broken down and stranded him there; Santi, the hippie, a chef who´s trip to Bariloche had been purchased last minute by a friend of his so he could go on vacation. Mariana, the teacher in the group on summer vacation, had come with a couple of colleagues that apparently didn´t see eye to eye. Ruben was the young, shy one in the group, in Bariloche a week earlier than his his friends with the look of a lost puppy. And then there was of course, Lucas, the one sure to pull a practical joke on you at some point in the evening, who had searched high and low in vain for someone to vacation with, but when no one was free, decided, "what the heck, I´m going anyway." They stopped by my table to say hello, but then went off to find a spot for themselves.

Later, on my way to the bathroom, there they were standing in a group cracking each other up. I never returned to my table.

Several Guinness and many hours later as we stood on the balcony of the Hostal Backpacker Nomad watching the sun come up over the lake, I thought to myself, “Here they are. I’ve found my travel group for the week . . . el grupo paria.”

I have to say that the rest of the week was a bit of a blur. After each late night, someone would usually remark, “Mañana arrancamos temprano.”

But perhaps, going out to dinner at midnight or Santi cooking fajitas at one in the morning prevented us from really getting up early to get to know the city of Bariloche and all it had to offer.

Yet, despite our late starts, we did manage to have a few daytime adventures as well. I believe the one most representative of them would have to be our trip to Campenario, one of the local mountains with some of the “best” views of Bariloche.

Of course, by the time we actually got to the mountain, it was already 6 p.m. and the cable car transporting people up to the top ran only to 6:30 so we had no other choice but to walk up. That was fine by me, since my preferred method of travel is usually the one involving a walk or a hike, but I had forgotten my hiking shoes and was in my flip flops. Come to think of it, so were Lucas and Santi. Ricky was the only one that had wear appropriate shoes. But since the park ranger told us it was only a 30 minute walk, we figured we could do it in flip flops and off we went to find the trail.

Lucas led us up the dusty, steep trail along side the cable car, and immediately I knew something was wrong. I tried to convince them as we slipped and slid and fell in the dust on the side of the mountain that there was no way that this was the trail, but to no avail. By then, Lucas had broken one of his flip flops and Santi and I were laughing so hard, we could barely pull ourselves any higher on the trail. We had been “hiking” a little over ten minutes and less than 50 meters when we heard from down below, “¡Chicos, esto NO es el sendero!”

Of course it wasn’t the trail. . . how could it have been a trail that takes only 30 minutes to reach the top, recommended for families and whoever decides not to take the cable car as a leisurly hike.

We nearly died laughing then, the other visitors and rangers down below, looking up at us in our complete stupidity, shaking their heads. But now that we knew that this wasn´t the trail, we had another, bigger, problem; how to get down. Santi immediately began to slide down the mountain, followed close behind by Richard, luckily stopping themselves on a tree in the middle of the “path.” Lucas, following their example, flip flops in hand, flew by me and nearly right by Santi and Ricky as well, at a velocity that could not have felt good on his poor bare feet. Luckily for him, Santi was quick with a hand out to stop him from breaking his neck.

I was another story. I was not about to break my leg, my face or even my flip flops getting down the mountain and despite Santi´s insistence that he could catch me as I ran down, I sat down on my butt and did the old "slip on down," kicking up clouds of dust as I slid.

So there we were, 30 minutes later, covered in dust, a broken flip flop and no closer to the top . . . complete parias.

After a few more false starts and three or four breaks to fix Lucas’s flip flops, take some silly picures and enjoy the scenery, we did finally make it to the vista point and it was well worth the effort as we stood up on the tower at the top of the mountain, looking out over dozens of lakes, islands and mountains that dotted the horizon.

We set the timer on Santi´s camera to capture the moment and as the camera went click, a desire to punch the air matrix style kicked in, and so in the spirit of the strangeness of the day, I did. And wouldn’t you know it, when we looked at the photo, there was Santi jumping high into the air, Ricky, in a karate pose and Lucas looking like Jackie Chan, definite paria style.

November´s photos: A little bit of Peru and Bolivia

I decided to change my mode of sharing photos to Yahoo photos. It seems a bit easier to manage with the captions and organization. Hopefully the link works. If it doesn´t, please let me know and I can send it to you via email. I believe you can view the photos without having a Yahoo account, but if you want to save them, you will need to sign in or sign up.


The photos are from November. Better late than never I guess. They are of the brief time we spent in Peru, John´s trek to Machu Pichu and the first few weeks in Bolivia. In case you are interested, we had about double the amount of photos as are in the album, but had a disk storage catastrophe and lost about 300 of them. So enjoy the 200 or so I posted and just imagine how long over 500 would have taken you to view (and me to post.)


http://new.photos.yahoo.com/album?c=jensteiner39&
aid=576460762386331035&pid=&wtok=zhss.y.jA2ANgrMHcNNu4g--&ts=1170032875&.src=ph#page1

I have two more disks of photos waiting to be uploaded. Maybe next weekend when I get back into civilization again as there is no internet, phone or cell service at the school where I am volunteering.

The Legend of Amancay*

The truth is, once I got to Bariloche, the urban center of Argentina’s Patagonia region, I was not so sure I wanted to continue exploring. I was having one of those moments that happen during extended travel when things just feel yucky. I missed my family and friends, the solo travel wasn’t all that fun yet and I just didn’t feel like going out there to meet new people, see new sights and expand my mind. Plus I was tired of answering, "Vos, de dónde sos y por qué hablàs tan bien el castellano? (Where are you from and why do you speak Spanish so well)"

But after a day or two of down time in the hostal and aimless wanderings around a town that reminded me a bit of a bigger version of South Lake Tahoe, with it’s blue lake and large snow capped mountains, I decided to get motivated and sign up to go with a group to see el Volcán Tronador. I figured this way I would see something, do a little hiking and maybe meet some new friends and get rid of the deep blue funk.

The next morning, we set off in the in yet another mini-van, filled with 8 Argentineans, a Peruvian, an Israeli, a German, an English girl, myself and our two Argentinean guides and before I knew it, we were all friends planning our adventures for later that night.

Throughout the day, we hiked, chatted and got to know one another in one of the most beautiful areas of Argentina. While the mountains are not as tall as Aconcagua, the diversity of plant life, the glaciers and the crystal blue of the lake come together to leave you feeling as though you stepped out of reality and into a nature show.

It was during the third mini-hike of the day that we came across the Amancay flowers, bright yellow, floppy petals with bits of red splattered on the inside.

“Do you know the legend of Amancay?” Our guide Martín inquired. But not one of us did and so, like a good guide, he began to tell us the tale . . .

“Once upon a time, in the frigid Patagonia region of Argentina, there lived a princess named Amancay. Amancay, the daughter of the Mapuche tribe´s cheif, was well loved and respected by the members of the tribe. She was known for her selfless nature, her kindness and her truthfulness. Amancay always kept her word.

Around the time of her 15th birthday, Amancay´s father became very ill. For weeks the local medicine men, witch doctors and anyone with any remote knowledge of how to cure rare illnesses, came to visit the chief to see if they could cure his ailment. But to no avail. It seemed, for all everyone tried, the chief was dying.

Amancay was devastated. She and her father were very close and at such a young age, she was not ready for him to leave her alone in the world. Tearfully, she went to see the medicine man and ask if there weren’t any more he could do for her father.

“Honestly, Amancay, your father is deathly ill. Unfortunately his sickness is so grave that the only thing that could save him is a special plant that grows in the upper most regions of the Tronador Volcano.”

“What?” shrieked Amancay, “There is something that I can do to save him? I must go at once!”

The medicine man shook his head slowly, “Sadly, I think that it will not be possible for you to obtain this special plant. It is virtually impossible to find not to mention the many dangers along the route.”

“Danger will not stop me, nor a challenging search. If there is something I can do to save my father´s life, I will do it. I must go and find this plant!” Amancay exclaimed and off she went to climb up Tronador Volcano and save her father´s life.

Amancay climbed for hours and hours, over ice and snow, lifting herself up from rock to rock, hand over hand, until blisters began to form on her finger tips. She was tired, hungry and she had barely reached the halfway mark to the summit. It was there that she encountered the condor.

“Stop right there little girl,” the condor shrieked in an evil voice akin to the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz. “You may not pass by me. I will rip your heart from your chest.”

“Please condor, let me by,” implored Amancay, “I am on a mission to save my father, a very important chief of the Mapuche tribe. He is gravely ill and the only thing that can save him is a special plant that grows on the summit of Tronador.”

The condor, touched by her bravery and sense of selflessness decided to let her pass, under one condition. After bringing the plant to her father, she must return to sacrifice herself and her heart to the condor. Amancay agreed without hesitation and continued laboring up the mountain to find the plant that would save her dying father.

Days later, back at home, her father quickly began to recover with the help of this special plant and the community rejoiced. A party was made in Amancay´s honor and the entire tribe attended the ceremony. Amancay was gracious and clearly relieved to see her father´s health improve, but now she had something else she had to do.

She kissed her father good bye, and true to her word, returned to the condor to fulfil her promise to him for letting her continue her journey early that week.

As the legend goes, after ripping out Amancay´s heart, the condor flew all over the Patagonia region, the heart clutched in his claws, her blood falling like rain, staining the earth below. Which is why today, whenever you come across the yellow Amancay flower, drops of the Princess Amancay´s blood remain, forever a testament to her sacrifice and her honesty.”

The end

*disclaimer: I have been volunteering for the last week at a school and for the last two weeks have spoken very little English. . .I am thinking that it shows in the narration of this legend and will probably be apparent in the next few entries. Bear with me folks.

Been a while: the high and the low of it

It´s like I fell off the face of the earth. I know. It´s hard to believe it´s been two weeks since I last wrote, but I guess time never does slow down, does it?

What can I tell you about the end of 2006 and the first two weeks of 2007. . .well, considering how much has happened, I will have to be brief and share the highlights. I promise to be better in the upcoming weeks and keep you up to date on my well being and activities. I know you hang on every word and no one likes the glaze over of lots of fun stories into somewhat of a list, but for lack of time and mounting memories. . .here goes the high and the low of it.

Well I guess the highlights of the last few weeks have been rafting along el río mendoza (Mendoza River), trekking up to and camping at base camp in el parque Aconcagua(Aconcagua Park, home to the highest mountain in the Americas), wine tasting in the region known for its Malbecs and sparkling wines, mountain biking through the red canyons of Talampaya and camping in el valle grande Great Valley) along side el río diamante (Diamond River) in el Cañon de Atuel (Atuel Canyon).

And I imagine the lowlights would be John getting some sort of bronchial infection for a few days after our trek, the incredible suffocating heat of San Juan, a lame ride through el valle de la luna (Valley of the Moon - we definitely do NOT like car tours!) and John and my ultimate decision to continue our travels on our own for the next period of time, much to my father´s dismay.

Sounds like the highlights win huh?

The rafting

If you have never donned a full wet suit, helmet, booties and waterproof jacket, grabbed an oar and slid into a rubber raft ready to spend the next three hours of your life being tossed around a large inflatable object, I highly recommend it.

Now, I know what those of you who have never rafted are thinking, "Jen, have you lost your mind once and for all?" No, really it´s true and anyone that´s rafted rivers with class 3, 4 and 5 rapids know what I am talking about.

Well the Mendoza river is no exception. . . just head about 2 to 3 hours south of Mendoza, where the chocolate colored waters beg the sudden appearance of Oompa Loompas and input the inflatable vehicle along with the guide and 5 other new friends into waters that are momentarily calm enough to allow entry and hang on. Of course, there the experienced guide is there, ready to direct you adelante (forward), atrás (back), or adentro (inside) as you plummet through the rough waves, large drop offs and manage to narrowly maneuver around rocks large enough to destroy your mode of transit. You may get tossed from the raft, but have no fear, just lay face up and let the river carry you till the kayaker, there for your safety, comes to the rescue. Ok, it might be 3 miles down river, but that is what the wetsuit is for, that way you don´t freeze to death. And the boat might flip over as you go over the biggest rapids and drop offs, but again, keep your wits about you and if you come up under the raft, just remember, "Don´t panic!"

Luckily for us, we did not flip over, we did not lose anyone to the chocolate colored waters and unlike the tourist I read about yesterday in the local paper, none of us had a heart attack and died. Good thing. . .

Aconcogua

El Parque Aconcogua, home to Mount Aconcogua is located about 2 miles from the town of El Puente del Inca, about three hours by bus from Mendoza. As you enter the park, you are immediately struck by the enormity of this mountain. Standing 6,959 meters (22, 841 feet) above sea level, Aconcagua is not only the tallest peak in South America, but the tallest mountain in all of the Americas, taller even than Mt. McKinley (Denali) in Alaska. It also has the distinction of being one of the only mountains over 20,000 feet which can literally be walked up from the north or "normal" summit route.

John and I, after looking into summiting the stone sentinel, realized that we had not the money (over $500 US dollars each!), the time (over 15 days or more with aclimitazation hikes), or the fitness level (Ok, so I have only been back to hiking and walking for a little under two months) to complete this daunting task. So we opted for the 3 day trek from el Valle de los Horcones ranger station up to the base camp at Confluencia (about 11,000 feet), where we pitched our tent amont dozens of other trekkers looking for a taste or a summit attempt. It felt a bit like being at a music festival or a pre-triathalon camp, with trekkers from around the world bundled up in their winter gear, cooking rice and pasta over mini-bunson burners, mixing liters of gatorade and chatting with each other about failed attempts to summit and plans for this year´s attempt.

And as our hiking history would dictate, despite the clear day of hiking to base camp and the full moon that bathed us in her bright light all night long that night, on the day we hiked to plaza francia (4,200 meters and the base camp for the southern access point to the summit), the clouds rolled in. I guess in retrospect, we should just be glad that the heavens didn´t open up, we weren´t dodging lightening bolts and our biggest challenge was John´s chest cold, already beginning to take hold.

But there was something Murphy´s lawesque about the the jagged peaks above us as we set out along the Mendoza river, flowing chocolate even at 11,000 feet until it became on solid glaciar, rising up from the water flowing beneath the surface like something out of Star Wars. We set out with the sun shining brightly over head, but an hour in, John pointed to the sky and said, "See that cloud?" I looked around for the cloud and there it was, a wispy nothing of a cloud, a ball of cotten in the sky. "We should take the summit pictures now, just in case," he added, pulling the camera out. His pessimism surprised me, I was rubbing off on him after all these years. But, far be it from me to play the optimist, so I just stood aside as he snapped the pictures, a few hundred meters from the best view of the mountain.

And as luck would have it, or karma or whatever it is that follows us around in this world, occasionally choosing you to beat with the unlucky stick, by the time we reached plaza francia at 4,2000 meters (somewhere in the range of about 14,000+ feet), the summit was gone. Vanished beneath a layer of clouds so thick, it might as well have been fog. We lay there on a rock, eating our trail mix, biding our time, waiting for the clouds to disapate, but after two hours, we had to face the sad reality that we would not be graced a glimpse. So, defeated, full of peanuts and coughing a bit more heavily, we made our way back down to Confluencia for the night.

Valle de la luna and Talampaya

After John recovered from his hooping cough or whatever it was that he had this time, we headed north into the steamy hot corner of San Agustín del valle fertíl, where we hoped not to be fertile ourselves, but rather to visit the famed Valley of the Moon, with its strange rock formations and red canyons.

It was here that once again, John and I discovered that even with knowledgeable, friendly informative guides, we do NOT like a tour that drives you from one "visual attraction" to the next, giving you 15 minutes to take photos with 50 other gawking tourists. But since we had paid for the tour, we made the best of it, "oohing and awing" with the rest of them, snapping our pictures of the el hongo (the mushroom), el cancho de bolas (naturally occuring spherical balls made of granite) and el valle pintado (the painted valley, which of course was difficult to see as the day was gray and so was most of this so called painted valley).

So you can imagine our delight when we arrived to Talampaya, the second park of the day, and were given the choice to go by foot, by mini-bus or by bike. There was no need to discuss, we paid the money, donned the helmets and off we went. . . into the deep red of the canyon, its walls rising up hundreds of meters above our head. Our mountain bikes handled well on the packed red sand as we made our way through the desert, that is until you had to cross the deep tracks left behind by the mini-buses giving a similar tour to the rest of the tourists. It was then that you had to pick up speed, hit it at and angle and keep the wheels straight as you crossed the tracks, or end up on the ground. I managed to only end up there twice, so that made me happy. Plus, I was so thrilled to be biking that I probably could have flown head first over my handlebars and sat up smiling.

The park, often compared to Zion National Park in the United States, is a series of geological formations created by water thousands of years ago. Unlike el valle de la luna, few dinosaur fossils are discovered there, but we did manage to see a few ancient petroglyphs (or a graffiti artisit with a sick sense of humor), a rock formation that looked a bit like a person riding a camel and some native parrots (yep, parrots in the desert, strange huh?) in the botanical garden section of the park.

Highlights and lowlights

So like life, the last few weeks has been a mixed bag. . .and I know I didn´t give you all the details about the wine tasting or the camping or John´s bronchial infection. . .but that is what personal email is for. Drop me a line and we´ll chat.

I had heard

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.

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.

May the new year bring you and all of your loved ones enough. . .

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.

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?

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. . .

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.