And I turned 21 in prison doin' life without parole

Good evening fine damas y caballeros, the first draft of this writing was brought to you from my little cubicle in Copacabana, Bolívia on the shores of Lago Titicaca. By staying in that little embellished space, I had set a personal record in the category of cheapest place of lodging. One night set me back 15 Bolivianos which is the equivalent to $2.15 U.S. dollars, and let me tell you, this joint was worth every penny. A bed, hot shower, secure location along the main drag Avenida 6 de Agosto, I mean really what more can you ask for? I arrived in the late afternoon of Sunday, November 28th, reluctantly saying farewell to La Paz, only to find a healthy and flourishing tourist town at about 4,000 meters above sea level. After having dinner with my friends Gustavo, an outspoken Brazilian from Fortaleza and Djamel, a gringo originally from Tulsa, we were walking through the streets of "Copa" and stumbled onto a gran fiesta that filled an entire block on the far side of Plaza Sucre. This was the first time in my travels that I've actually seen and partaken in consuming alcoholic beverages on the streets. Bands, that I have reason to believe were not actually playing, but rather aptly performing the motions to accompany a CD or MP3 disc that was blasting music throughout the whole community. 3/4 liter bottles of Paceña beer were being sold for 8-10 Bolivianos and passed around among many a publicly drunken Bolívian, Argentine, Italian, Austrians, Brazilians and gringos. The dancing didn't stop until after 2 in the morning, but I myself decided to retire early at around 12 o'clock or so. It was ironically sobering to see some finely-dressed Bolívians "stagger-dancing" only to fall flat on their faces a minute later. I know I have no place being on a high horse here, because I too have been in their situations more than once, but that night we helped more than one individual to literally get back on their feet. One particularly memorable up-righting came a little later in the night when we were supporting a Bolívian gentleman. Another of his fellow countrymen decided to pull a mischievous prank and "depants" the intoxicated fellow. Utterly unaware of his embarrassing state, a particularly kind Bolívian individual took it upon himself to pull his trousers back up to full-mast. I inquired as to the purpose for such copious quantities of beer, stages at both ends of the street and overall merrymaking, as if there has to be a reason right? Evidently, a different individual or group sponsors this same get-together every year in preparation for another gran fiesta in February. And I mean really, what better was to prep for a party than by partying?

The bus ride from La Paz to Copacabana was quite interesting. We entered into a suburb of La Paz on its high, outer rim and pulled onto an entirely too narrow and crowded street for our big bus. Turning onto the street, we very nearly took out the awning of a juice stand. Later on, further down that same street, I heard a crunching sound that uncannily resembled that of cars running into each other. Sure enough, a little white taxi, similar to Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi", had unsuccessfully attempted to merge onto the congested road. And enormous crowd that would dwarf that of Americans who gather to see a crash site, formed almost immediately around the carnage. Not 5 minutes after the incident, a verbal agreement was reached between the two drivers, with the consensus of the people, that it had been the little white taxi driver's fault for pulling out in front of the big, multi-colored bus. A few minutes down the road, we stopped again and the drivers of the two automobiles conferred with a police officer. Without the eternal hassles of matters such as insurance or police reports, the whole ordeal set us back a mere 15 minutes. 

About 2/3 of the way through the journey, we arrived at San Pablo de Tiquina and everyone proceeded to file off the bus. I had never seen a bus empty out so quickly and with such a sense of direction for just a pee-stop, that I knew something was up. I suppose that it is your responsibility to know how the order of operations works when you're crossing a body of water, or just the fact that you are crossing a body of water, but having never made this particular 3 hour trip before, we were unaware that the passengers could not stay on the bus while it was ferried across to San Pedro de Tiquina. Frantically scrambling to collect our belongings, Gustavo, Djamel and I found the motorized vestibule that was meant to tote the passengers across the short span of the beautiful, Lake Titicaca and successfully reunited with our bus on the other side.

During the three days before leaving La Paz, I had the opportunity to climb a moutain, Huayna Potosí, 6,088 meters above sea level. On the day before climbing the mountain whose Aymara name means La Cordillera Joven más Alta or, the Highest Young Mountain Range, someone robbed my camera right out of my backpack while it was strapped to my shoulders. They must have been very sneaky because normally I'm pretty good about staying alert in public, especially when carrying my red, REI backpack. This time, a short walk down the street, crossing the main drag of Avenida Mariscal Santa Cruz and on up the tourist-laden street of Sagárnaga was all the thieving bastards needed to unzip the front pouch and snatch the camera. The good part is that the majority of my pictures were backed up on a disc, the bad part is that there were many award-winning snapshots, okay maybe not award-winning, solely saved on the memory card in the camera. Bottom line is that there was no physical violence involved, and it really was the first bad thing that's happened in my travels thus far. Knock on wood.

I greeted Thursday, the 25th of November, or "Thanksgiving" as some yanquis like to call this particular day, with bright eyes, full of anticipation. I couldn't get much sleep the night before because I was too excited to scale the first mountain of my life in the days to come. For $145 U.S. dollars, "Mountain and Jungle Tours" provided transportation to and from base camp, shelter, meals, guide and all the gear needed for the trek. Helmet, goggles, polar fleece, snow pants and jacket, mountaineering boots, crampons, gaiters, ice pick, gloves and harness assured a safe and sound ascent to the top of Huayna Potosí. The list just mentioned, a little will power and an acclimatized body were all that I needed to complete the journey. I normally multiply the number of meters by a factor of 3 to arrive at the measurement's U.S. equivalent, which would put the hill at 18,264 feet above sea level. But the "standard" to metric converter on my cellular telephone states that one meter is approximately equal to 3.28 feet, which puts Huayna at 19,973.75 feet above sea level. I'm not sure which conversion method is right, and it probably doesn't actually matter, but "almost 20,000 feet" sounds a whole lot better than "just over 18,000". That Thursday, I stashed my stuff I wouldn't need on the trail, free of charge, at the wonderful Hospedaje Milenio. Arriving at "Mountain and Jungle Tours" at 9 o'clock in the morning, I found myself plagued by a particularly nasty case of the dreaded descompuestos. The pharmaceutical drug, "ciprofloxacin", helped me out when either the food or the water gave me Bolívia's version of "Montezuma's Revenge". It's just not politically correct to say "diarrhea" in front of such a varied and cultured audience. The chofer and I were the only ones in the van, but the company let me embark on the solo mission without extra fees nevertheless. 8 people from the same company were descending that day and man, did they look whipped.

We took advantage of the first day to get better acclimatized to the elevation of the 4,700 meter base camp and practice using the new gear. My guide, Felix and I hoofed it up to the lowest glacier where I practiced climbing on the ice with crampons fixed to the bottom of my boots. A while into the training session, Felix attached a tornillo, or climbing bolt to the top of a 6 meter ice-wall. Using a figure 8 knot, I was hooked to a climbing rope that ran through the bolt that was sunk into the ice and down to a belaying device. The two front spikes on my pair of crampons and the two pick axes allowed me to scale the vertical wall twice. Felix assured me that there would be no parts of the actual ascent where I would need to climb in this manner.

On the second day, after a night of sub-zero temperatures in our refugio, I slimmed down my pack even more and we set for high camp. At an elevation of about 5,100 meters, I was thankful to reach this way point and set my pack down. That afternoon was mainly used to battle more descompuestos, read my epic fantasy and rest up for the early departure for the summit that would come just minutes into the next day.

We left high camp at 12:45 AM, which means that I had to be fully dressed, packed up and have broken the fast by that early hour. The half moon provided the light that the headlamp, attached to my helmet, did not. It felt a bit surreal trekking over the ice in the middle of the night. 3 pairs of socks, thermal underwear, fleece and snow pants, a t shirt, fleece top, flannel and jacket all worked together to keep my body temperature at an unbearably high level that I actually had to remove layers. Only one time did Felix attach a tornillo so that myself and the other climbers would be safe in case of a fall. The 39 year old veteran guide and I were the first ones up the hill that morning, followed closely by another Swiss fellow named Cedric and his guide. Cedric's wife had come down with a bothersome case of altitude sickness so she was not able to attempt the summit. When we reached the 6,088 meter mark, the sun hadn't yet even poked its head over the Easter horizon. It was about 5 AM, the wind was-a-whipping and the temperatures frigid so we didn't end up staying at the summit to watch the sunrise. I became quite annoyed with the rush and hurry in returning to base camp. Felix's normally calm and reserved nature had changed to encouraging us not to stop. I had to physically stop walking in order to initiate a much needed break, but hey, we reached the summit in about 5 hours and were the first ones to the top so boo yah. On a clear day, with the sun out, they say you can see all the way to Lago Titicaca, which also happened to be my next destination. The views of the Cordillera Real were stunning, the slightly taller Mount Illimani looming just past the valley in which La Paz hides itself. It was fun to look down and experience a bit of vertigo at such heights. Apparently, in the Southern Hemisphere's winter, people even tote their skis to the top and enjoy an extremely steep ride down. I was wishing for this opportunity on the descent, especially when the spikes of of my crampons started to slide on the loose rock scattered about the crest of the mountain that led down from the summit. I could be wrong, but the reinforced plastic helmet probably wouldn't save your skull if you were to, for some reason, take a plunge. It was scarier going down because there was much more light so you could see exactly where and on what kind of features you were maneuvering. After a few short hours of being led like a burro, we made it down to high camp, proceeded to pack up our suitcases and reached base camp all before noon. A taxi carried our exhausted bodies back to La Paz, where it was a shock to see all the hustle and bustle after 3 days of serene and wonderful solitude. If I was tired, which I certainly was, I can't even imagine Felix's condition seeing as how he had literally made the same trip back to back. I may be too close to the forest to see the trees, but I attribute climbing Huayna Potosí to one of the three greatest accomplishments I've done in my life, the other consisting in that of being named Class of 2006 "Mr. CHS" and graduating from college. The last one remains on the list even though I might have to rely on my pizza delivery skills to pay the bills for a bit longer.

Early on in my time in La Paz I had the opportunity to visit the pre-Inca ruins of Tiwanaku. The walls and gates here were a bit neglected, despite the 150 workers our ho-hum guide Fred claimed were currently working on the excavation site. There were more exhibits in the first museum that were closed because they were "under construction", than there were rooms that were open. Am enormous rock statue that was decorated in carved fish, a symbol in Tiwanaku culture for power of the sea, pumas, power on land and condors, power in the air. Braids lined the back of the giant stone neck which caused early archaeologists to think that the statue represented that of a woman. Current scholars and researchers now believe that it was common for both men and women to wear braids in their hair during the 2700 years (approximately 1500 B.C.-1200 D.C.) of this society's flourishing. These people engineered complex irrigation systems that efficiently distributed water to help cultivate the more than 300 types of potatoes, along with an abundance of quinoa and other plants. But the quinoa was not only used as a grain, as it exists in its most popular form today, but they also made a hearty milk out of the multi-faceted crop. At 3840 meters above sea level, the ancient Lake Ballivan surrounded the central site where priests, governors, nobles, scientists and other important people spent the majority of their time. Fred informed us that the Tiwanaku people would painstakingly transport the rocks needed to build the impressive structures from a nearby mountain using boats. You can bet the the upper class managed this process well. Nobility even had their own cemetary, in the Aymara language, Putuni, where religious specialists would open the tombs once a year in order to give the mummified bodies nourishment and libation to assure their contentment in the afterlife. "Mummified bodies" is not just an expression here, the Tiwanaku people, derived from Inti Wanaku, meaning "Children of the Sun", actually removed the internal organs and entrails of the dead noblemen and wrapped them in cloth fibers in order to preserve their fallen comrades' physical shapes. About 300 D.C. the level of the legendary lake rose to a level that destroyed some of the temples that the commoners strove so hard to construct. A particularly fascinating subterranean temple had 175 stone carved faces that represented different ethnic groups from not just around the continent or the globe, but the universe. There are even two alien faces and a person from the invariable land, now known as Asia. The Tiwanakus could predict the rainy and dry seasons by observing the stars from their observatory whose equivalent meanings from the Aymara word Akapana, into Spanish is Él que Guía la Luz and English, "He who Guides the Light". They had 52 weeks of the year, just as we do, but the first month of the year was June rather than January. Their most important festival was Fiesta del Sol when they made offerings to the various gods during a 4 week period. But it wasn't until the final stages of the Tiwanaku empire that they could afford human bodies for sacrifice. 

A few days later, I heard "The World's Most Dangerous Road" calling my name. After doing some research on the innumerable tourist agencies lining Sagárnaga Street, I finally settled with "Pro Downhill". 400 Bolivianos seemed like a reasonable price and the guide that would lead the string of bicycles down "Death Road" seemed competent and sober. After the breakfast, included in the price, consisting of bread, butter, jam, cantaloupe, real and therefore real good coffee and mozzarella cheese, we loaded up in the van and set off for la cumbre, or, the top of the hill. The company outfitted us with knee and elbow pads, jersey, protective vest and pants, full-faced helmet, goggles, gloves and a badass "Kona" bike with full suspension and hydraulic brakes. The ride was so cushy that it felt like I was riding a motorcycle. The first part of the ride was on pavement and it was easy to pick up a good click. It was absolutely amazing to see the change in landscape so quickly after leaving La Paz. Immensely deep gorges forrested by sub-tropical flora surrounded us as we rolled from an elevation of 4,800 meters down to 1,300 in a matter of a few hours. We stopped quite often, I surmise, because without the stops, the trip would be over much too quick. The temperature change was also quite extreme, going from freezing to balmy with the descent. The Bolívian forces that be have constructed a new highway for cars, trucks and buses while the second part of the ride, the actual dirt and gravel "Death Road", is left mostly to thrill seeking tourists such as myself. We only met one car on the way down and managed to share the road in a civil fashion. When the ride was said and done, they had a cold beer waiting for us at the bottom. We also hit up a hotel complete with chicken, salad and fries buffet and a swimming pool. What a hoot.



When it was finally time to leave La Paz, I found myself nostalgically saying good bye to the baker ladies on Calle Sucre and to the great people that bust their butts to keep Hospedaje Milenio running smoothly. One of the workers, Marí and I were talking one day and it turns out that she works 10 hours a day, 6 days a week and gets paid 700 Bolivianos a month. That's an approximate equivalent to $100 U.S. dollars per month for a whopping 240 hours of work. Or if you want to think of it this way, she makes just under 3 Bolivianos an hour, or $0.42 cents an hour. But everyday she goes about cleaning up for sloppy and often unappreciative tourists like myself with a smile on her face. To all the Marís of the world, thank you.

Just don´t tell ´em that you know me

La Paz is an amazing city, not just for its astonishing physical layout, but also for the high-tempo and frenetic energy that pulses like a tecno beat in a dance club. None of the descriptions that I read about the city even come close to capturing its essence and I have no doubt that this one will fall short as well. Approaching from the Southeast, the 52 passenger bus rolled smoothly across the altiplano due to the paved roads that faithfully supported its tires. Passing through many pueblo and aldeas, we would occasionally pick up salesmen hawking differnt types of wares. Just outside of Cochabamba, three ladies hopped on with their satchels of bread, sweets and another popular combo, roasted corn and cheese. I was hesitant to partake in the the latter option as I observed a young lady reach barehanded into her pail to produce a chunk of white material. A little further down the road, a man joined the merrymaking selling anti-parasite tea. At first I thought that he was delivering an evangelical message, but it became clear that his Western-based medical theories were actually endorsing a remedy. By the time the last salesman started into his spiel, I was frankly fed up with suave talkers attempting to solicit the funds that the passengers on the bus probably didn´t have for a product that they probably didn´t need. All I wanted to do was read my book, "House of the Spirits" and look out the window at the distant, snow-covered peaks in peace. The living advertisement finally cemented his jaw as we arrived in El Alto, a suburb just outside of La Paz. Nearly half the bus disembarked here, carrying a multitude of wares all covered by the ubiquitous blue utility sack. I would tend to think that the bus companies could charge extra for bringing along a small store, but then again, "this certainly isn´t Kansas anymore Toto".

After leaving El Alto, an immensely humongous valley with houses plastered to its walls and high rises blanketing its center revealed itself. The city that sits 3600 meters above sea level, that is considered by outsiders and negated by many residents to be Bolívia´s capital city and was an initial spectacle unlike any I had ever seen. I don´t know what it is about busses and fights, but I almost witnessed another one when we pulled to a halt and were retrieving our bags from the bowels of the bus. Apparently there was a discrepancy over one brute´s bag, so he proceeded to yell at the young man unloading the baggage. He eventually reached a boiling point and attempted to push and kick the employee. I decided it was about time to high-tail it on outta´ there, as much as I do enjoy spectating a good squabble every once in a while...

Hoofin´ it down the street with the destination of Hostal Milenio in mind, I sniffed it out without much to do at all, which is surely a first in itself. Going out on a limb for you all and exposing my inner nerd, I walked in to the chosen place of lodging and my eres went immediately to the book exchange to the right of the reception desk. On the second shelf down was the third book in Robert Jordan´s "Wheel of Time" serie, The Dragon Reborn... in English! I was beside myself due to the fact that I had finished the second book of the series early on in the journey. I was hankering for more fantastical literature like a schoolboy does for his sweetheart on the playground. I traded my two haggard copies of "Devil in the White City" and "The Da Vinci Code", set my bags in habitación numero 5 and proceeded to take a stroll through the streets of La Ciudad de las Estrellas. This nickname comes aptly from the infinite amount of lights that cover the valley come nightfall, you really can´t see that many stars given the million or so people that live in La Paz proper and the other million in its outskirts.

On the morning of the 18th I bee-lined it for El Museo de Instrumentos Musicales where I found a collection of musical instruments larger and more varied than I ever imagined could exist. Charangos, a much smaller version of the guitar with 5 string, whose bodies consisted of armadillo carcasses and others of turtle shells. Double-necked guitars lined the walls that would make Jimmy Page drool. Wooden horns, that I was sure were impossible or at least impractical to play until I saw a picture of a Bolivian performing the feat, spanned a good 5 meters (yes 15 feet) overhead. Crazy and completely unique instruments that whose designs I had not fathomed came from all over the world. Guests could even try their hand at playing some of them. The owner of the impressive museum, one Ernesto Cavour, asked to see my ticket first hand, but promptly departed without further conversation after he was assured I had payed the 5 Boliviano entrance fee. Apparently in his musical career that has spanned more than 50 years he has performed all over the world including in Japan, Germany, France, the United States, all over South America and definitely many more locations. In the last exposition I found posters advertising both his solo concerts and those in which his band rocked the house, awards from record companies and the Bolívian government and a stack of records "to beat the band", to borrow the colloquialism. An impressive sight indeed.

Rambling on throughout the city I stumbled onto "Olliver´s Travels", the one and only "fake English Pub" in La Paz. I was disheartened to find the same selection of light, watered-down beers common to all the other parts of Bolívia that I have been able to frequent. If you like PBR, Coors Light or Busch, well, Bolívia is surely your hog-heaven for beer. I walked out of the place without taking advantage of the free bathroom. Already having to take a leak I decided that the next restaurant I see would be a 2 for 1 shot, bathroom and lunch. This turned out to be a mistake. Silpancho is a typical Paceña (of La Paz) dish and Silpich´s happens to serve an extra large version. Two eggs over easy on top of a sheet of beef, a foot and a half in diameter, on top of potatoes, served over rice disappeared from my plate as I either forgot or politely ignored rule #2 of life in high altitude cities. Anda lento, come poco y duerme solito, or rather, "Walk slow, eat little and sleep by your poor little self" did not find themselves as being part of my central tenets that day. My luck with women dictates that I hardly ever have to worry about breaking rule #3 and having never experienced altitude sickness before, I attacked the meal with tenacity. My stomach was still queasy and I was still plagued a nice case of los descompuestos during the writing of the original draft, a day and a half later, although I am presently flourishing at nearly 4,000 meters above sea level.

Needless to say, I took it easy on Friday the 19th, sleeping in and drinking trimaté, a concoction containing manzanilla, coca y anis, or, camomile, coca leaves and anise. This infusion turned out to be a great help for the digestive tract. Not having the energy to do much else, I plopped down on a bench in Plaza Murillo and watched innumerable amounts of palomas, or, pigeons being fed from children and adults that shared more or less the same level of excitement. The little girl to my left, funded by her grandparents´ seemingly endless supply of Bolivianos, was more aggressive than most. I found myself laughing when she tried to grab the winged creatures, feathers scattering everywhere. The chitlin was successful on more than one account and the other kids around her would automatically stop what they were doing to stare with bulging eyes at this rebel child. The grandparents paid for a photo to be taken of the young girl holding one frightened bird for a mere 10 Bolivianos. A while later the granfather and I got to talking about the verbal calls the Bolívian troops used in la Guerra del Chaco. Apparently the troops stationed on a hill near the present-day border of Bolívia and Paraguay would sense that someone was approaching and emply a call and response system to verify that it was in fact friendlies. The troops on the hill would call out ¡Plato! or, "Plate!" and their comrades woudl know to answer with ¡Cuchara! or, "Spoon!" to verbally acknowledge that they fought with the same cause. When the need to change the verbal accord presented itself, the Bolívian army started using the call and response of ¡Pantalón! or, "Pants!" and ¡Calzoncillo! or, "Underwear!" Despite the ingenious system they had for recognizing their own troops, Bolívia ended up losing a vast amount of oil-rich land to Paraguay in this war. Later on in the conversation he launched into the necessity to have Jesús in your life so we discussed religion for a while. I admitted that I believe there is a higher power out there, but for me, religion or spirituality is a very personal phenomenon. I told him that I experience God through being in nature, meeting people and hearing their hardships, struggles and triumphs. Nevertheless I did appreciate his benedictions that "God will protect me".

Teeming in the streets of La Paz are lustradores, or, shoe-shiners that wear masks to cover their faces. I asked why people of their profession wear the masks and the answer I got served to generate many more questions in my mind. Accoring to this one 20 year old individual, the masks conceal their identity so that the lustradores are not discriminated against in their daily lives. He said that the general population think that all shoe-shiners drink alcohol and inhale cheap substances to get high while on the job. This kid didn´t seem to be under the influence, but there was no way to tell for sure. In high school, when he started shining shoes to make an extra Boliviano on the side, he didn´t wear a mask. Some of the other kids in his classes at school would ridicule him to a point that made him conform to the shoe-shiners´ code and put on the mask when he was working. Just the other day I was walking through an alley that had many food vendors closer to the entrance, but became more sparse as the alleyway continued on. Three lustradores were seated on the stools they use to support customers´ feet, facing the wall. Their masks were raised up over their foreheads in order to eat a bowl of soup, but they still guarded their identities by sitting so close to the wall. Even the grandmother of the bird-catching little girl I mentioned earlier told me, "Ahh, no necesitas sus servicios", or, "Ahh, you don´t need their services". It´s definitely true that the shine product would have been a waste on my old sneakers, but I couldn´t help noticing the despective tone in her voice. I wonder if shoe-shining is disrespected "solely" in Bolívia, or if it is just as looked down upon in other regions of the globe? Was it always viewed as a way of earning a buck for the lower classes, since the first entrepreneur whipped up a batch of leather shine and took to the streets, or has the degredation of the profession devolved over time?

The bottle was dusty but the liquor was clean

I find it enjoyable to walk around in a city which is what I mainly did in Cochabamba. Oh, and I went to the zoo. Rather than planning out your day, which I admit has its advantages as well, just seeing what you can find with a vague mental image of a city´s plan in your head can also lead to some interesting occasions. The market to the Southeast of Calle Ayacucho y Aroma is a labyrinth of narrow passageways where you can surely find everything you need and probably more. I stocked up on pepinos (cucumbers), tomates (tomatoes), manzanas (apples) and my personal favorite, mangos. The taste is what brings me back time and time again, but a mango is more complicated than one might think. Some people go right after it, eating the skin and all. I like to remove the outer layer leaving patches on what I´m going to call the "North and South Poles" of the tropical fruit for grip. This allows for efficient handling while carving away, much like one would a turkey during a Thanksgiving feast, but on a much smaller scale. It´s also important to develop a personal preference as to how ripe you want the mango to be when you do choose do delve into the delectable delight. If I could be so bold as to offer a recommendation, I would advise that you choose somewhere in the middle between completely ripe and still yet green. Upon performing the squeeze test right there in the market, your fingers should leave an indentation. If the outer layer springs back immediately, you´ll know that it´s overripe. Contrarily, if the mango feels more like an apple, you´ll know it´s still too green for comsumption. Simple yeah? Now, if you plan to devour the firm mango in 3-5 days, the latter description would serve you well. One thing to keep in mind is that the maximization of mango consumption can be harmful to the gums. Just like chewing sunflower seeds, the fibers closest to the husk that guards the enormous seed inside can become lodged in between your teeth and even cause the dreaded receeding gumline. But unlike its distant relative, the apple, the enamel on your teeth will remain intact no matter which method  you choose to utilize. Thank you for tuning in to this week´s episode of Elvagabundonumerouno´s Comida Sensible. Make sure to drop in next week when a special guest delves into the incricate world of the artichoke.

Whoever would give me the right to have my own reality television show should be immediately hired at VH1.

On the second and last day in Cochabamba, I hiked up to the towering statue of Jesús, that watches over the city in his whitewashed robe with outstretched arms and a maniacal look in his eyes. Hey, if you knew that one of your best buddies was going to see you out to the lethally oppressive authorities, your tranquil demeanor might just disappear as well. With a 360º view of the city, I watched an airplane taxi to the far end of the airport and take off. From far away, it doesn´t seem like these giant mechanical birds should be able to lift off the ground.

Eating a salteña on the way to the bus terminal, I had no qualms about paying 25 Bolivianos for a bus ticket to La Paz. A 7 hour drive for just under $3.50, I just don´t understand how goods and services can be so cheap! For instance, I had a meal tonight, consisting of a tasty noodle soup accompanied by half a piece of artesan´s bread, a heaping mound of noodles, spicy chicken with green peppers, and a personal sized Sprite all for 18 Bolivianos. That´s slightly more than $2.50 U.S. dollars. Before I get too carried away I should probably step back and remember that it´s not all about money. It´s all relative within our interconnected world and the high standard of living that I get to enjoy comes directly at the sacrifices that others make on a daily basis. But man it´s cheap down here.

Before "turning on, tuning in and dropping out", I´d like to clarify that comments are welcome to be made by one and all. I know that I´ve given a bit of flack to a few certain beloved individuals about the frequency of their comments, but I assure you they were purely made in jest. So, by all means, comment away peanut gallery!

...together, more or less in line we just keep truckin´ on and on

Hoofing it into town from Chorillo with a swollen backpack strapped to the shoulders, I had officially set out on the road again, the destination being that of Cochabamba by means of Mairana. You have probably heard of the Cochabamba "Water Wars" when citizens rose up against the privitization of water. Today, bottled water is still sold in the stores because the water de grifo isn´t potable, but at least corporations don´t have unadulterated rights to make a huge profit off of something that everyone needs to live.

Waiting on the side of the road, just outside of Samaipata, for a taxi that would tote me to Mairana, the thrill of moving locations swept over me once again. Some people are addicted to cigarrettes, some are addicted to gambling and some sad sappy suckers are even addicted to porn. If I could go so far as to give a self-diagnosis, I would say that I am addicted to traveling. Like any addiction, one continually needs a more of it to feel that same rush or "high". But unlike many addictions, that is if you keep on your toes, travel is not self-debilitating or destructive. It does, though, debilitate your bank account, no matter how thrifty you are. This is precisely one of the main reasons why I decided to fly on back to the good ol´ U.S. of A. after a mere 3 months abroad. That, and I absolutely couldn´t stand the fact of missing Christmas with the family. Being abroad certainly makes me appreciate the life I have back home. This journey of time and space was a much needed break from the monotony that often plagues life in the Northwestern-most of the continental 48, but I have no doubt that, come December 13th, I will be ready to return "stateside" and pick up where I left off.

A few things you can expect if you ever decide to make the trip to Bolívia. #1 Don´t be surprised when, eating in the central market in the city, a mother is tenderly breastfeeding her baby behind the counter. Hey, you don´t even have to pay extra for the additional proteins and nutrients, they come complementary with your meal! #2 Don´t take it personally when, upon entering a business where normally "the customer is always right", the attendant looks at you like you´re the scum of the earth. Like Tom Hagen once said to the late Sonny, the first-born son of Mario Puzo´s "Godfather", "This is business not personal". That´s a direct quote from a personal favorite of Robert Duvall´s many characters. Or if it makes you feel better, make an about face and walk on out that door. Ronald Reagan´s "magic of the market" has nothing on Bolívia´s laissez faire model; there is undoubtedly another business that´s identical to the one you were just in right down the street. #3 This one applies to any Latin-American country and not just Bolívia. Although I have not visited the vast majority of them I feel confident in saying that you will see the Latin-doppelgangers of many of your friends and relatives. I would advise against approaching them immediately in joyous embrace but rather watching from a distance until you inevitably find out that it´s not actually the person you know from back home. #4 Resist the urge to violently shout: "TURN THAT SHIT OFF!!" at the almost ceaseless blasting of Latin-American youth´s favorite music: reggaton, pronounced "re-gah-tone". Yes it sucks, yes it is comercially fabricated to appease the dance crowd, but Latin-America´s heartbeat definitely pulses to to the repetitive rhythym of this style of music.

The list is not complete by any means, but as I think of more pre-trip advertencias, I will post them to this entry. I understand the "comfort zone" and the act remaining inside it or stepping outside, but I don´t honestly know if I have one. I´m sure this is not the case, but my "comfort zone" might be slightly expanded, relatively speaking. Cochabamba has been a wonderful and lively city, but once again, the traveler has to get his fix. It´s time to move on to La Paz. #5 When you go to the Bolívian bus station, hoping to reserve a place on the next day´s bus outta´ town, don´t be disheartened when the attendant tells you, "mañana, no más".

I was totin' my pack down a dusty Winnemucca road...

¡Muy buenas tardes uno y todo!

It was time to escape the frenetic energy of Boloívian cities and seek refuge in the countryside. Saying adiós to Santa Cruz, I hopped in a taxi for the village of Samaipata, about two and half hours to the west. Set in "the Elbow of the Andes" at about 2,000 meters above sea level, the name Samaipata's sifgnificance comes from Quechua, meaning "rest at heights" or "rest at altitude". On the taxi ride out of town, our driver slowed to a stop behind traffic that was all saorts of discombobulated on both sides of the road. Cars facing the wrong direction, unless you're in the UK, drivers attempting to maneuver around the congestion, motorcyclists actually succeeding at it and pedestrians of all shapes and sizes navegating around the blockage. When I asked one of the other passengers in the car what was going on, the individual simply replied, "bloqueo". Well that explains a lot... After another couple minutes I inquired more specifically of the type of bloqueo and another person answered, "camiones con arena", or "trucks carrying sand". I soon figured out that the workers transporting the sand were not satisfied with their salary and had decided to park their trucks in the middle of the road so their cause might be better heeded. Luckily for us, another taxi driver, of the same company, was aptly parked on the other side of the human-induced road block. So we got out, transferred out persons and baggages and headed on up the valley. I later thought about the possibility of an emergency on the side of the bloqueo that the hospitals were not, and thanked the cosmos that nothing of the sort came to be. When we stopped for gas, the gas stations were chalk-empty as well. Our driver sniffed out a little family run tienda that happened to have a few gallons of the refined crude.

When we arrived in Samaipata, one of the other passengers in the taxi offered me a place to stay at his house about 30 minutes outside of the village. I was leary to accept the offer off-hand, so I asked him a few questions about the place to test the legitimacy. It seems only right to maintain a certain level of healthy skepticism when dealing with new people, but also remembering that if you are completely closed off living in fear, you could miss out on some golden opportunities. This fellow, Ishbar, seemed trustworthy so we hopped on his 150 cc dirt bike and tore off down the road. His wife Simona, their two young daughters, and the dog Lotus were out in the yard when we opened the gate to the small community of Chorillo. If these people would not have so generously taken me in, I'm sure that I would currently hold a different impression of Bolívia. The members of this young familiy were some of the nicest people I've had the opportunity to meet in my journey thus far. I traded some manual labor working in the garden, transplanting flowers and trees, moving dirt and rocks and attempted to unravel an unruly ball of string that ended in a rat's nest bigger than any I've managed to create while fishing. The second day in Chorillo, Ishbar took me on an epic hike. We saw a couple of condors flying majestically above their buzzard cousins, some giant swallows that supposedly migrate from Canada and a bunch of parrots. Hiking up through the entrance of Parque Nacional Amboró, we summited the "grandfather" of mountains in the area with spectacular views of Samaipata and el Muele del Diablo, further afield in the park. Another day we ventured to the El Fuerte Inca ruins that were unlike any I've ever seen in pictures. On the top of a solid rock monolith the ancient peoples used this place for rituals, living and trading. Seats and stairs of all sizes were carved into the rock face that allowed for a perfect view of the flat field below. In the center at the very top of the rock formation is the "Priests' Chamber" where tey carried out rituals involving water and quite possibly the fermented corn drink, chicha. The formation is itself not only oriented from East to West, but also served as a "rest stop" and trading location for the tribes that were traveling from the altiplano, or high plateau of the Andes, the Amazon Basin and even from further South or East. The feature that struck me as the most intriguing were two rectangular channels, roughly 30 meters long and a half meter wide, that were also situated with an East to West orientation. Connecting the channels were zig-zag patterns that probably represented one of the three types of serpiente cascabel, or rattlesnake that are present in the area. The diamond-back rattlesnake pattern supposedly creates a spectacular mirage effect when inundated with water and viewed from the West towards the rising sun. Many reconstructed rock walls surround the incaica rock top that were probably used for housing, markets and storage. The last feature to be viewed on the self-guided walking tour is a hole, about a meter wide in diameter whose length is yet to be determined. On a hill adjacent to El Fuerte there are five holes similar to the one just described. Plans are in motion to discover the function(s) of the holes. Tunnels? Wells? Mines? Only time will tell...

My week in the mud house constructed entirely by hand was refreshing. I had the place all to myself with a sink, chair and table, counter, fireplace and possibly the best of all, a hammock on the first floor. Sleeping in the loft directly above left me well-rested and recharged to continue the journey. In the mornings, flocks of parrots would swoop, noisily into the peach orchard on the other side of the ravine. Lightning bugs flashed with a duration much more brief than the ones I remember catching as a kid. There were two enormous, resident spiders that I kindly expelled to the out of doors. Life in the country was hard to leave, indeed.

I made a $461.70 U.S. dollar blunder since my last entry that I must confess. Apparently you can't actually buy a round-trip ticket from San Francisco to Lima and utilize only the return half. I could blame the airline companies but then where would I be? Right back at square one, that's where. So, I booked a one-way flight from Lima to San Francisco for nearly double the price. Nothing like learning lessons the hard way right? Well, I guess it is better than spending all my money and having to hitch up North through Panamá back home.

All I am askin` for is ten gold dollars, and I can pay you back with one good hand

On the second to last day on Potosí, I met a friendly group of Italians, originally from just outside of Milan. They had been hanging out in Buenos Aires for a while and, like me, decided to trek on up north and fly home in December. Micaela, Giulia and Luca were a tight-knit group and I learned later that they were involved in a love triangle. Not the kind where jealousy and back-stabbing avail but a relationship where kindness, caring and love are the central tenets. Let me tell you Luca is a lucky guy. There wasn´t any extra room in the threesome for little old me, but they did accept me as their traveling companion for a few days. We hopped on a bus for Sucre and I was ecstatic to find that the trio was traveling with a guitar in their possession. While the three lovers were engaged in romantic embrace and conversation, I would contentedly find my way out the door to strum the six string.

The majority of Bolívians still consider Sucre to be the capital of the country, although the congressional seat finds itself in La Paz. La Plata as the first Bolívian capital was originally called, and later Charcas, is still home to the Supreme Court and retains the prestigious "constitutional" capital title. After circling the block 3 or 4 times, I finally found what I was looking for and wandered into Museo de Etnografía y Folklore. The collection of about 50 or so traditional masks that Bolívians wear during festivals and holidays was staggering. The purpose for dawning the masks is so get in touch with a specific deity or celebrate a certain aspect of life. For instance, Carnaval is incorporated into today´s modern society to give thanks for an abundant harvest. It´s fascinating to see the effects of el sincretismo, or syncretism, and the overlapping traits of religious customs that were present before the arrival of the Spaniards and those that the Conquistadores imposed upon the "New World´s" population. El Tío, who is originally thought of as the guardian of the mines by the native population was dubiously dubbed the Devil by the invading force, which is why he now sports a pair of horns. His inherent evilness was derived from his dwelling place, sub-terranea. In certain places of Bolívia, citizens even weat the mask of "Lucifer", in Biblical tradition the angel who betrayed God and was expelled from heaven. The indigenous people´s panetheistic beliefs allow for whorship of more than one God. The quote from "National Lampoon´s Chrismas Vacation" is surely appropriate when Ellen´s father invites cousin Eddy and family to stay for the holidays. "Sure, there´s plenty of room". There was also an elaborate dragon head that I would have mentally pictured in a Chinese celebration, many zoomorphic representations such as the sheep, bear and frog, and maks that represent the dual relationship of sun and moon, just to name a few. In the next sala, or rather exposition room, were artifacts and diagrams of a little-known indigenous group that once lived close to what is now known as Sucre. Today, the indigenous population is categorized into 3 main groups: the Aymara, Guaraní, or descendants of the Inca whose Quechua language is still widely utilized. But these three were and still are the most influential of the people that originally inhabited this land. The Spaniards were so good at what they did, that they supported key indigenous groups through political and economic means in order to gain allegiance from the tribes of lesser status as well. The most powerful and influential tribes/groups served as an intermediary for the supplanting of Spanish laws and customs for the many of the ones already in place of pre-Columbian South America. In U.S. schools they (barely) teach about the Aztec, Maya and the Inca but with such an expansive landmass and geographic separation there were innumerable tribes residing in the southwestern continent.

In the most recent census, which was performed in 2001, somewhere along the lines of 87% of the population checked a box next to one of the indigenous groups named in the census, making Bolívia the "most indigeous nation of South America". Even the country´s president, Evo Morales prides himself on pre-Columbian values and beliefs. He is the first non-mestizo to hold the Bolívian presidential office in history. He has acquired such strong support from the pueblo, that the governing bodies made an amendment to the constitution in January of 2009 to allow him to maintain his position for a second term. There´s even talk of permitting him a third term which would extend until 2020. His widespread support is evident just from riding a bus through the countryside. Signs declare unity under Evo´s rule in pueblitos and ciudades grandes alike. Another census is set for next year in 2011 and it will be fascinating to see how the country´s population racially identifies when, contrary to the vast majority of places in the world, having indigenous roots is viewed as a positive.

Due to Sucre´s colonial history as the capital city, the infrastructure around the central plaza is impressive. There seems to be much commerce and people behave as if there is a pressing task at hand. A number of poeple have asked me about the pace of life in the U.S. In court it would be undoubtedly be considered as "leading the witness", with the most common inquiry, "la vida en las Estados Unidos es bastante agitada?" Agitada´s English translation literally being that of "agitated", but can also mean "rushed" or "hurried". The nature of stereotypes is strange. We think that they´re all lazy and they think that we are too busy, which is probably just not the case.

I parted ways with the Italian lovers; they headed for Cochabamba and I sought out the city of Santa Cruz, which also happens to be the furthest Eastern location I will be able to frequent on this journey. The bumpiest bus ride I´ve ever had left Sucre at 3:00 PM and rolled into Santa Cruz at just before 8:00 AM the next morning. I thought the bus was going to tip over on more than one occasion and a couple of hours into the trip, I began to feel a "crink" in my neck. I finished a book, "The Devil in the White City" and also had to keep pushing the older gentleman seated to my right back into his seat after he had fallen asleep. I had the grand opportunity to sit in the middle in the very back of the bus, like I said it was a bit rough going on the dirt roads. I awoke before the sunrise and lush mountains extended high into the air in all directions. Undergoing this welcome climatic change, a readout on a television said that it was 32 degrees Celcius (about 90 degrees Fahrenheit) in Santa Cruz proper. I know, Western Washington has spoiled me with its uber-moderate climate, but man it felt hot.

Dark as a dungeon

The Bolívian town of Potosí has an economy that has been based on mining for hundreds of years. The Conquistadors found an abundance of silver in Bolívia´s oldest mine, now called Cerro Rico. The "notorious" mine tour was a real trip filled with interesting facts of history, small spaces and even some relious aspects. 100 Bolivianos ($ 14 U.S. dollars) bought me a ticket to where a lone miner was pounding away in the heat where light and oxygen are scarce. Don Carlos, our guide, is an ex-miner who called it quits after a few years striving in the dark dapths of the mountain. On the way to the mountain, we took a couple pit stops to put on rubber boots, outerwear, a helment and a lamp and stop at the "Miners´ Market". It´s customary to buy supplies for the miners and give them as tips for sharing their stories, workload and other insights. In Bolívia, it´s legal to buy dynamite, a fuse and a granular product that supposedly augments its effects at any age, or any intentions you may have for its use. There were bottles of 98% alcohol in the store as well. Don Carlos pointed out that the miners drink this because they are accustomed to such harsh conditions, they might as well drink some harsh concoction as well. At first we straight up didn´t believe him, but when he proceeded to pour a capful of the pungent solution normally used for cleaning and took a shot of the stuff, our eyes nearly popped out of our skulls. Yes, it´s true, rather than drinking tequila, rum, vodka, whiskey, absinthe or everclear, Bolívian miners essentially drink rubbing alcohol. I´m a man. Benja and Teresa (from "Bar-thay-low-nuh") bought two complete packages of dynamite and I bought a sort of juice supposedly meant for high altitudes, coca leaves and hand rolled cigarettes for the hard-working soul. Potosí is revered in the Lonely Planet guidebook as a UNESCO world heritage site that sits at just above 4,000 meters above sea level. Don Carlos said that without adding the coca leaves one by one to the bitter amalgamating ball of green goo in the side of your mouth, working in the mines would be impossible. La doble is a double shift in the mines consisting of 24 hours of back-breaking work. Good thing there´s coca leaves indeed. Even after I had a cheekful of the demonized plant´s leaves in between my cheek and teeth, added the bicarbonate/catalyst that helps release the plants restorative juices, I felt no unusual sensation whatsoever. Call it tolerance. Just kidding. Supposedly the leaves´ have the curative effects of suppressing hunger, combats the discomfort of extreme temperatures and even helps with digestion. When the Brazilian fellow was struggling with altitude sickness, the only "cure" that was given to him was maté de coca although he still continued to have no energy at elevation.

Crawling through tight spaces, walking through strange-colored puddles and climbing down rickety old ladders, we finally arrived at the place Don Luis was hammering away at the next spot in the mountain to be blasted. He was working in an are of about 3-4 feet in height, 5 or so feet wide, that extended further back into the mountain about 12-15 feet. This emaciated elderly gentleman had been working in the mines for 38 years. Three out of four of his sons also work in the mines with him, the youngest one being 15. After we had exited the mine, I asked why Don Carlos had stopped being a miner and his response was sobering after all the chewing of the coca leaves. Dark, dark humor. Anyways, he had one friend that had died, way before his time of "silicosis", and another of cancer so he decided to get out while he still could. The miners don´t wear any protection over their faces nor gloves. An actual dynamite explosion was next on the list, outside of the mine, that resembled the sound I would imagine a cannon to make. We stopped at one of the many refining plants in town where all the rocks and minerals taken from the mine are piled, sorted and sifted in an intricate process. They use chemicals in Bolívia to separate the minerals and ores into their pure forms using chemicals that are illegal in most other countries. I asked Don C about the environmental implications of the mining industry and his answers were along the lines of any hard-working man. It is imminently important that the miners are able to support their families through this industry, even if it is at the risk of their own health. But, I think there also must be a compromise in environmental health and economic well-being, otherwise the industry and the lives the workers try so hard to provide for may be lost. It seems though, that the majority of Bolívians in Potosí are mainly concerned with putting food on the table. A positive aspect is that it is not a uber-mining corporation that is entering into Potosí and reaping the benefits at the population´s expense, at least not directly. The mines on Cerro Rico function as a cooperative where each part is owned by a man who has worked fere for at least 10 years. No women are allowed to work in the mines because it would cause Pachamama to become jealous. So, despite potential health effects to the surrounding population, pollution to the rivers and crops that these rivers serve to irrigate, the decision to continue mining is being made by the same people it is economically helping. The Johnny Cash song "Dark as a Dungeon" was playing through my head throughout the whole tour. And indeed, Don Carlos informed us, some men become addicted to the possibility of "winning the lottery" and striking it rich within a particular plot of mountain space. I´ve added a verse and the chorus of the song sung also by Merle Travis, Dolly Parton, Jerry Garcia, probably among others, for your enjoyment.

Well it's many a man that I've seen in my day
Who lived just to labor his whole life away
Like a fiend with his dope and a drunkard his wine
A man will have lust for the lure of the mine

Where it's dark as a dungeon
And damp as the dew
Where the dangers are double
And the pleasures are few
Where the rain never falls the sun never shines
It's a dark as a dungeon way down in the mine

We were 90 miles outta Atlanta by sundown rollin´ cross the Georgia state

The original draft of this one occurred on the day that in the States would be called Halloween. I have covered some ground and had some of the best experiences that I have had thus far in my journeys. The timeline of this entry will be a bit mixed up, but the important part remains the same, well that is if there was an important part. In Potosí, Bolívia the residents celebrate this holiday a bit different as I found out yesterday. Día de Todos los Santos, or All Saint´s Day is a period of about 3 to 4 days where many businesses are shut down to take part in remembering loved ones. A tour guide at one of the companies in Potosí offered to take us to a part of town where people who have lost a loved one open their houses to anyone who is willing to join. Even gringos. It was slightly strange at first, entering the houses that had a small black plastic bag above the door in a group of 10 to 12 tourists. Upon entering the house of the family of the deceased, we approached the shrine, decorated with artesan sweetbread, a picture or two of the fallen, a cross (sometimes constructed by two blacklights) and candles. We would say a silent prayer, wish the deceased´s spirit a successful journey to the afterlife or do whatever ritual best suits the individual to show respect and pay homage to the deceased. Then we would take a seat around the room, many were big, open, garage-types and someone from the family would bring you a tray of 3 or 4 little glasses of alcoholic beverages, a bag of biscuits, wine and chicha. The latter is a corn-based drink that undergoes a process of fermentation and additions of other products unbeknownst to the writer. It is considered an insult to refuse the alcohol, but the biscuits may be put in your pockets or other satchel. Small portions of the drinks are poured onto the floor before or after taking a swig, in order to acknowledge Pachamama, or what also might be known as "Mother Earth". The literal translation from the Aymara and Quechua languages: Pacha being "world", and Mama being "Mother". The kids partake in their version of "Trick or Treating". Rather than collecting a hodge-podge of sweets, they fill up plastic sacks with biscuits and tote them around the streets. As we walked further up the hill, the trend of the South American towns and cities held true. There seems to be a correlation between poverty levels and elevation of home placement. In my experience, those who are more financially stable or belong to the higher echelons of socio-economic classes generally live further down the hill and those pertaining to lower socio-economic classes generally live further up the hill. We passed a few kids, the oldest being no more than 11 years or so, that were frying llama, french fries and cooking garbanzo beans. A Boliviano or two could get you a  modest meal that was served in a small plastic bag. To give you an idea, one U.S. dollar is equal to 7 Bolivianos. The last house we visited was the furthest up on the hill and the family was paying homage to the father who had died from silicosis from working in the mines. It was getting later in the day and it was evident that the guests of this household had been partaking for quite a while. I pulled out my emergency hackey sack to distract the drunk individuals from gifting me with another shot of wine. It worked for a while, but then I continued into the room where people were seated remembering the late miner. After saying the prayer, sitting down and receiving my drinks, a few over-attentive Bolivians uttered some incomprehensible phrases and invaded the comfort zone. Time to go. One of them impeded the process of leaving but luckily another grabbed him by the coat which allowed a quick and much needed escape. It was certainly interesting to see how Bolivians celebrate this holiday, to see how it differed from the Halloween I knew growing up and also which celebratory traits the two cultures share. I´m glad to say that Pachamama was there to receive the over-abundance of alcohol that the friendly people bestowed upon me.

Here´s where a time lapse occurs and we actually travel back in time to a few days prior. Arriving in Uyuni on Saturday the 30th around 1:00 PM after a 3 day tour of the desert, I got to experience my first bus ride in Bolívia traveling to Potosí. We had some time to kill before our bus departed at 6:30 that same night. The machine that would carry us further into the heart of Bolívia to the northwest, the "Mega Scorpion", was surrounded by Bolívians and the random tourist that were thoroughly engaged in the task of finding a place to store their bags beneath the bus. This was no easy task, but once accomplished we made our way to our designated seats. In the front of the bus was a real taco of people, taco being Chilean for traffic jam. And I really don´t want to stop using Chilenismos just because I´m not in Chile anymore because they´re so gosh darn cool. They were shouting at each other rather fiercely that I honestly thought that a fight was going to break out. Grácias a Dios the (non)customers anger was diffused using raised voices. The dispute occurred between a lady, who visibly held a ticket in her hand, and 4 or 5 other men who assumedly wanted that ticket. The aggressors were pushed off the bus while the police eventually meandered over once the situation was well under control. The bus driver changed a tire 5 minutes before we took off. When the bus was in motion, René who was sitting next to me gave a startled lurch. There was a shaggy dog that could very well have been Benji´s doppleganger under the seat in front of him. A cat seemed to whine almost constantly from somewhere in the back of the bus. Seated next to the window, I watched on as the bus came dangerously close to sheer drops on the edge of gravel roads. The bus hurtled through the night towards a thunder storm, which I had the privilege of watching from slightly less than a bird´s eye view. Arriving in Uyuni around 1:30 PM, Benja, Teresa, René and I shared a cab at $5 Bolivianos a person that carried us to our respective hostels. So far, the dog under the seat in front of us has been the moment that embodies my travels here in Bolívia. Very well may be a slight case of culture shock.

I have to remember to maintain a sense of humor when experiences that I´ve never encountered come about. If not, they can turn out to be unpleasant and possibly worse: I will miss a learning opportunity. You don´t see when you´re not looking. Time warp! My sense of humor was utterly non-existant on Thursday, October 28th when we arrived at the border between Chile and Bolívia. The customs "official" took my passport, and put it in a drawer, which was in direct violation of my personal mantra of never separating with the document. U.S. citizens have to pay $135 U.S. dollars and jump through a series of hoops that is based on a sort of reciprocal relationship between the U.S. and Bolívian governments. Every other nationality, that I´m aware of, is free to pass through the Bolívian borders nearly unobstructed. *Insert complaint about U.S. Government here* Our chofer, whose name we (including the company´s driver of the first van that carried us to the border) did not yet know, had also not yet arrived at the dropoff point. My passport was to be held at customs until the arrival of this mystery man, who turned out to be Walter, so it could be safely toted to Uyuni where I would fork over the dough. When a 5 foot or so Bolívian appeared and announced his presence as the driver, I continued to ask for my passport, explaining that it never leaves my person. Luckily, Walter´s height had no effect on his driving skills, attentiveness and sense of responsibility for the group.

I must mention that during our ascent to the border, which lies at 4,200 meters above sea-level, one of the Brazilians passed out. The Chilean driver, Óscar, calmly stopped the van, exited the driver´s seat, strolled around the front of the rig, opened the right side passenger door and administered oxygen to the incapacitated fellow. Rubbing his sinuses and shaking his head, we continued on passing vicuñas, the llama´s skinnier cousin, and ever so sparse vegetation to the border.

The first day of the 3 day tour was the most spectacular. The other members of the tour included Benjamín and his wife Teresa from Barcelona, René from Switzerland, two Brazilian dudes whose names I never actually learned and our fearless yet extremely reserved guide Walter. Our "jeep", or rather our Toyota Land Cruiser, carried us most of the time comfortably to Laguna Blanca, Laguna Verde, a spectacular hot springs and finally to our resting place for the night, Laguna Colorado. I´ve never seen flamingoes in the wild before until this trip. And not just a few but a downright gaggle of pink birds. Thousands of them, each belonging to one of three species, lined the shores of White Lagoon, Green Lagoon, Red-colored Lagoon and most of the other lakelets we visited. This species seems awkwardly proportioned, but just to the untrained eye such as mine. When they fly, they first begin to run, bending their ultra-skinny legs. When the necessary speed for flight is reached, they begin to heave their wings that causes an effect that immitates a rope being whipped that ripples through their body, front to back.

When we got to our hostel on the first night, the owner was M.I.A. Luckily the hostel actually consisted of a compound of 10-12 hostels that were all used to house the same type of tourists making their way through the desert. Walter announced that the owner was not there, so we simply moved a door or two down and proceeded to unload our bags. As you probably well know, deserts are notorious for having an extreme contrast in temperatures from day to night. During the day, you could feel comfortable wearing a sweater, wool cap and windbreaker. During the night at Laguna Colorada, temperatures reached as low as -10 to -15 degrees Celcius. My long underwear, sleeping bag and its liner, and the many layers of blankets on the bed shielded me from the cold.

The next day was a long one, 7:30 AM to about 4:00 PM in the Land Cruiser with a few much needed stops. Being the youngest of the group, I was delegated to the back seat. It didn´t really make much diference though with landscapes such as that we were seeing anyone would be hard-pressed to be discontent. The windows provided great portals through which you could gaze at the towering volcanoes and vast desert that surrounded us for tens or maybe even hundreds of miles. Descending to a lower altitude of 3,200 meters, we stopped in the one-horse town of San Pablo. The small tienda offered snacks and other artesan goods. After leaving the pueblito, the Salar de Uyuni, or the Uyuni Salt Flat greeted us with a warm, no change in elevation embrace. The camino suddenly became a lot less bumpy. Some of the other sides of the salt flat were simply not visible. That night, we stayed in the Hotel de Sal, or Salt Hotel, where the bricks forming the walls, the tables and chairs, and even the floors were made of salt. We all thought this was a novelty, if not a bit impractical. Upon arrival to the last town of the tour, we discovered that making houses out of salt was not the exception but more or less the norm. Just like the food production system in the U.S. has done with corn and other subsidies, these people have found a use for an excess of one certain product. The "train graveyard" was the last stop on the tour. Locomotives that had outlived their years sat abandoned next to the train tracks that supposedly still functioned. Dust had well infiltrated our nostrils to the point where it may have even permeated our brains. Rolling into Uyuni at about 1:00 PM, I had to wait for the customs "official" to open the immigration building specially for me. Good thing I won´t have to pay the $135 dollars again in the next 5 years when I come back to Bolívia.

Traveling back in time once more to the days in San Pedro de Atacama before our epic 3 day tour, I was able to have some great experiences as well. I swam in a lake that contained abotu 80% salt, 7 times more than the ocean on the tour of Laguna Cejar. I submereged completely in the lake, remembering to keep my eyes closed. All I could smell or taste for 20 minutes or so afterwards was salt. The sides of my back burned from nearly constantly wearing a backpack. Chafing had developed that I was not aware of until the salt water infiltrated the small but ubiquitous cuts. I have never been able to float so easily in my life. The salt solidified and caked onto the body, but the tour guides were well experienced and stopped a short ways down the road at Ojos de Salar. These two craters were filled with fresh water that did a nice job of removing the caked-on salt. I hadn´t done a gainer in a year or so, but went for it anyway coming up a little bit short. See what a few summers away from the good ol´ Snake River does to a guy? Our last stop was at a shallow salt lagoon to watch the sunset and to toast with a pisco sour and hors d'oeuvre consisting of raisins, peanuts and black olives.

I also joined in on a combination tour of Valle de la Luna and Valle de la Muerte. The person who "discovered" Death Valley originally bestowed it with the name of Valle de la Marte for its similarity in color to the red planet. Over time, the name was mispronounced and evolved into the equivalent of the same site in California: Death Valley. Sunset at Moon Valley was stellar. The sun´s rays lit up the Andes Cordillera, opposite to the setting, life-giving star, in brilliant colors of orange, red and eventually purple tones. Needless to declare, life is great when you´re on an extended vacation. I will miss Chile and a piece of my heart will always fall on the soil of this great state. What I will not miss is the prices of goods and services that reflect the relatively high standard of living present there. The stamp in my passport is good for 4 years without paying the $141 U.S. dollars, and I still need to see Patagonia... This is Elvagabundonumerouno, from Sucre, Bolívia signing off.

Beat it on down the line

During the first draft of this writing, Monday October 25th, I had found myself stranded in San Pedro de Atacama, in the middle of the Atacama desert about 45 minutes from the Chile-Bolívia border. I had spent my very last pesos on a half hour of internet use which I used to call the bank to inquire why my debit card wasn´t working. I didn´t leave myself enough time for the funds to be verified by the uber-corporation Schwab from our small town credit union. Good lesson to learn, it´s a bit scary being so far away from home with nothing but a credit card with a $1,000 dollar limit. That last sentence makes me realize how fortunate I really am because it´s probably more than most people have in Bolívia in general.

I had let La Serena, Chile at 6:30 PM on Saturday the 23rd and after finishing a book and after many playing hours of Gameboy I arrived in Calama the next day at 9:30 AM.  I bought a ticket for San Pedro and arrived in the desert oasis around 1:30 PM. If it weren´t for the flocks of tourists that donate their hard-earned dinero to the area, I have no doubt that the small pueblo would barely exist. My purificador, or water purifier has come in handy since the water in San Pedro is not potable. A few of the workers at my hostel were amazed at the small contraption I produced from my bag. At first they were skeptical, but then Javi asked me to fill herher bottle. She was surprised that it tasted much better than the arsenic-containing H2O that flows from the tap. Wandering around the dusty streets, I ran into a friend from Valpo, Andrea, who runs a coffee shop close to where I stayed in the pensión. She was with another friend, Brooke from California, so we sat and talked for a while in the main plaza. It turns out that these two girls had hitched all the way from Valparaíso to San Pedro, a journey of 22 hours or so by bus. One of the tour operators in San Pedro had taken a liking to them, offered them free tours and a job, to be paid on commission, promoting his company. I was their first potential client. But it was difficult to take a tour without money, neither did I possess the beautiful looks and shining personalities of these two girls. We hitched a short way out of town where Andrea and Brooke had done their laundry. A skinny man named Javier was wallowing around in the dust in a mud hut preparing some noodles. He reminded me slightly of my uncle Doug, but much more preachy and judgmental. After niceties were exchangd, he launched into a spiel on the evils of anyone who had a lot of money, or possibly just more money than him. Brooke, who lives in Malibu and studies in Santa Barbara looked nervous. Money corrupts, buys elections, makes one insensitive to those around him or her and to the earth. Yes. I agree, but I do not believe that money unequivocally makes a person bad. "I can live just like this, here in my home, 100% happy and totally free of the system", Javier exclaimed. Great. How is your life benifitting others? I felt so strongly about this because a lot of his ideas were good, but it was a prime example of the pointing the finger when 6 more are pointing right back. I found out later, that greatly helped explain his behavior, that he once had a cocaine habit.

Anduvimos de dedo, or we hitched back into town, Andrea and Brooke went back to work and I set off for Pukará de Quitor, a lookout adjacent to some ancient Atacameño ruins, from where you can see for miles up and down the valley. The sun`s rays started to wane, so I called off the full trek, hiked up a little hill and ate some carrots, bread and an apple and watched the sunset.

Jack Straw from Wichita

I sit here on this 23rd day of October with my liter of Escudo, that`s Chilean for piss-water, or beer, in the town of Coquimbo. The month of rent expired in the pension in Valparaíso and it was time to rubber tramp it up north. La Serena and little sister, Coquimbo are 450 kilometers or so north of Santiago on the Pacific Coast. I got off the bus the other day, packed to the gills, with directions in my head to an inexpensive hostal in La Serena. After searching for what seemed like hours because of the miniature house on my back and asking many an innocent bystander how to find Hostal Hibisco, blisters starting to form on my feet I stopped into a natural remedies store, Hierba Santa. I knew I had to be close, but the Peruvian lady sitting at the counter didn`t know either. She asked her husband of the hostel`s wherabouts but he was unsure as well. The two conferred for a moment and offered me a room in their house, connected to the storefront through a door in the back. $5.000 pesos a night, which is right around $11 US dollars or so, is $2.000 pesos less than any hostel I`ve been able to find so I took them up on their offer. This might be a good way to get to know some more normal, hard-working Chileans from the 4th region of Chile. It turned out to be a great opportunity to meet Ruben and Lila, her daughter and granddaughter and to be temporarily a part of their family. We exchanged phone numbers, emails and Lila even has a daughter in Lima and a brother in Iquitos that can possibly help me down the road.

It turns out the Hostal Hibisco was literally right around the corner, not half a block away. Funny how life`s plans can twist and be completely changed by coincidence, fate or some other force unbeknownst to us. I made my way to the beach, probably the last time I will be able to sink my toes into the sand for a while, and inquired about surfboard/wetsuit rentals. I would gladly pay US $11 dollars an hour, but the weather was overcast and cool for the first couple days here. Go figure the sun decides to come out on the day that I`m heading for the desert. Exploring the city, I found a scaled-down version of the archaeological museum I saw in Santiago. Rambled on down to the Plaza de Armas, which is just like Spain`s Plaza de España, in that it seems like every city, no matter how small has one. I wandered into the main cathedral in La Serena and realized that Thursday twelve o´clock mass was about to start. Uh oh. Better get outta here while I still can... No. I decided to stay for the duration, dawning my "Anthropological lense" to see what a Chilean mass was like. Hopefully this isn`t too technical a description, but it seemed like any other mass except for the padre and his helper spoke in Spanish, oh, and it was a lot shorter than all the others I´ve been to.

Roughly 30 minutes later, I emerged from the cold and solemn hall tp find a band setting up. ¡Buena honda! People adorning coats embroidered with the Gobierno de Chile logo, gobierno being government, were testing the sound quality, arranging cables and what not. Thinking nothing of the Government`s presence, I proceeded to cross the plaza, Gypsy women persistantly asking for money for their babies, to buy some postcards. The band started playing so I returned to the other side, skillfully dodging the gypsies, to find a badass quartet including an electric/acoustic guitarist, an electric/acoustic bassist, drummer and an accordian player. Is accordianist a word? Even though they were held at gunpoint to play Chile`s traditional Cuica music, it was hard to restrain myself from dancing. But I did a pretty good job nevertheless, in part, because informal dancers lined up across from their respective partners who knew exactly what they were doing. And my best attemp at describing the dance would surely be better than my best attempt at atually performing it. White handkerchiefs in hand, clapping above their heads, they proceeded to perform a type of "chicken and rooster" routine, coming close but not too close and then backing away again. Some fancy footwork and the uncanny ability to finish the routine exactly when the song ended was quite swell to observe.

On Friday, I hopped on a micro to Valle Elqui, or more specifically the town of Pisco Elqui. Shortly after leaving La Serena, we passed a rather large earth dam that was retaining an equally healthy-sized reservoir. It was after this point in the journey up the valley that vast vineyards of grapes started to proliferate. It was easy to see the water line, where the irrigation stopped and the steep dry mountains began. This area is surely (one of) the Napa Valley(s) of Chile. Many of the big pisco sellers have distelleries in the valley, including Capel, Mistral and Tres Erres. I may have touched on it briefly before, but pisco is a hard alcohol made from fermented grapes. Think wine on steroids. The "Piscola", pisco and coca cola, "Pisco Sour", pisco, lemon juice and sugar, "Papaya Sour", papaya juice, pisco and sugar are just a few of the specialties mixed with this dangerous drink. The type where one is enough, two is perfect and three is too much. Luckily, tourist season still hasn´t officially sprouted its full set of wings so the valley was relatively calm. Pisco Elqui is about an hour and a half from the Pacific Coast, in one of the innumerable drainages of the Andes Mountains. A quaint little town whose economy is undoubtedly fueled by the tourist boom in November, December and January and the sales and production of, yep you guessed it, pisco. Many more places than not had signs advertising places to stay, tours, tourist activities, food, spirits y punto. Exploring the town didn´t take too long, a couple main streets, a few back alleys and a main plaza. I wandered into a real touristy joint with gravel floors and a multi-armed lighting system in the shape of flower stalks spreading out across the main room´s ceiling. The one tourist accessory they don´t have in Pisco Elqui is a cajero automático, or rather, an ATM. But oh great, they accept credit and debit cards with the mere twitch of a pen. After my ham, tomato and cheese pizza, minus the marinara sauce of course, I asked the waitress if there was a path leading up to one of the surrounding mountains. She immediately mentioned that she had a friend who gives tours. "Yeah, but I´m really just looking to take a walk without the tour", I said. Accurate directions have been relatively hard to come by so far in my South American travels, but this lady accurately described my desired path. Maybe I´m getting better at understanding the Chilean version of Spanish, yeah, don´t break your arm patting yourself on the back buddy. Walking up the hill past the main plaza, complete with benches, a fountain, swingset, trees and even a church, I took a left just past the artesans fair and another right a block up the road to the promised land. Walking for a half hour left me sweating, parched and burping up pisco-flavored fumes. There was a nice rock to provide some shade at the first "leveling out" of the road. I wouldn´t have even noticed it if not for the mountain biker on the trail high above, leading further up the valley. Following it for awhile led to a smooth outcrop where the wind was whipping, the sun blasting and vistas stunning. It´s neat that vista mean the same thing in English and in Spanish. It was a great experience to sit down for a 30 minute meditation session in this miraculous location. There were towering peaks all around, expansive and brilliantly green vineyards covering the valley floor below and a solid row of alders that separated the green from the brown, the inhabitable from the uninhabitable, civilization from wilderness. I try not to think about the conversations I had with the cute girl, native to Elqui Valley, on the bus this morning, nor the process of comparing bus ticket prices for the upcoming journey, but what I am doing at the current moment: breathing and sitting. Cross-legged, palms facing up, letting nature´s best "freebie" warm the skin. Not a complete sentence.

Heading back down the valley, the town of Monte Grande is the birthplace and home for many years of Gabriela Mistral, or rather, Lucila de María del Perpetuo Socorro Godoy Alcayaga. She was the Chilean poet that won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1945 and passed on in ´57. I remember reading some of her works in prior Spanish classes, but as for their specific names or content, I am at a loss. Sacked of energy from the sun and all the tourist activities, I zonked out on the bus ride back to "Hierba Santa". Finished out the night with some seriously heavy conversations with Ruben about his involvement in various military factions helping to fight the Communists. I´ll try to expand on this later, because I really couldn´t believe the stories, but also didn´t think that he was lying or embellishing. When I wrote this it was 3 o´clock in the morning of October 24th, the Expreso Norte carrying me and my bags northward through the early morning fog.

I leave you now in the grace and favor of the Lord, whichever one(s) that may be. Buenas tardes gringolandia.

Wharf Rat

It was time to take a trip out of Valpo and experience the Chilean capital of Santiago. I packed up my bag on Saturday and hoofed it on down to the bus station, which also happens to be right across from the Congress building. I definitely didn´t get a jump on the day because my friend Sara, who also studied at Western, and I were out late the night before. I had the supreme privilege to be present during her karaoke debut. Is there a more appropriate first karaoke song than Journey´s "Don´t Stop Believin"? I personally can´t think of one.

I´m sure you´ve experienced the sensation of "sensory overload" many times before. The feeling of everything happening all around you at once washed over me immediately after getting off the bus. Trying to figure out where you´re going, staying aware of the personal space around you AND trying to take in the sights to gain a first impression of a new place can be hard to juggle indeed. My strategy is to first and foremost stay aware of the space directly around me, but also to notice the individuals in the immediate and surrounding vicinity. Then I start to tackle where I need to get to, and last but not least is gaining the first impression of an unfamiliar location. A good bit advice I once learned from "Hitchhiker´s Guide to the Galaxy" is Don´t Panic. It´s natural to feel overwhelmed when sensory overload kicks in, but problems can arise when the symptoms visibly manifest themselves in your person.

Arriving in the immense city about an hour before sunset, I jumped on the Metro, which we might call a subway, heading for the vague destination of Barrio Bellavista. After knocking on the doors of 4 hostels that were completely full up, I started to get a little nervous. I would pay more money to stay in a legitimate hotel before curling up in a bush somewhere. Luckily it didn´t come to either of these last resorts and I ended up finding a room at the inn at "Hostel Providencia". Dropping off my bag in the room, I headed back down the street, past Plaza Italia, to the lively sector of Pio Nono. Just walking down the street was a trip in itself. The bars and restaurants, or restobars, as Chilean business owners are fond of calling them, leave pedestrians a small lane on the sidewalk to pass through. Tables and chairs stocked with happy bodies and the overenthusiastic host obstruct an easy passage. Not that I aspire to hermit status, but just wasn´t quite ready for this extreme hustle and bustle of the main drag, I decided to seek out a Moroccan joint the guidebook mentioned called "Ali Baba". After hanging a few starboards and ports, I found what used to be the restaurant they were talking about. This wasn´t, by any means the first business or museum that the "2010" guidebook had led me astary on. I can only figure that because of the 8.5 earthquake in Consunción last February, many of the businesses and museums that were there when Lonely Planet came through had to move or shut down. Anyways, I explored some more and eventually stumbled on a place called "Istanbul" which specialized in one of my absolute favorite foods, the kebab. If you´ve never had kebab before, it´s a Middle Eastern sandwich type deal that resembles a gyro. With vertical,spinning posts of beef and chicken from which the meat is shaved. Accompanying this carniverous treat in a grilled piece of flatbread were spiced onions, tomatoes, lettuce, something resembling ranch dressing and spiced ketchup. A relatively inexpensive and delicious meal.

The next day I woke up early, okay I woke up at 8:30 and attacked the day with touristic ferocity. Gosh darnit, I´m gonna get my time and money´s worth out of this capital city. On Sundays most of the museums around town waive the entrance fee. El Museo de Bellas Artes was the first stop of the day. In the museum´s main hall college students were busy producing their own versions of bellas artes. One of my favorite exhibits was the film "The Last Silent Movie", which consisted of audio/visual recordings of languages that are now considered endangered or extinct. After a few well-spent hours of musing around the museum, I leather-tramped it over to Museo Histórico Nacional, which showcased some absolutely great paraphenalia from colonial times, the revolution and reconstruction periods and even more contemporary pieces. Half of Marxist President Salvador Allende´s token eyeglasses were on display in a glass case. All the Chilean newspapers were forced to report that he committed suicide after the golpe de estado, or rather, coup d´ etat carried out my the military on September 11th, 1973, but he was most definitely murdered. In another museum I stumbled onto some footage a reporter had captured of the brutal takeover in front of La Moneda, the palace where the president and congress reside. Shots echoed throughout the streets for hours, tanks reinforced the military´s dominating presence, airstrikes from overhead caused massive devastation and the firefighters were ordered not to intervene. In one part of  the documentary, the military even starts shooting at the very room in which the reporter and his staff are located. Elections were called off and anyone that was seen as a "threat" to the dictatorship started disappearing including reporters, leftist politicians, professors, protestors and even your everyday Joes.

Back to the less pertinent narrative, my stomach was-a-rumblin´ after the second museum of the day, so I set out with grabbing a bite to eat in mind. Mercado Central is a huge indoor fish market with accompanying seafood restaurants to boot. Not being especially partial to seafood, I rambled on to the outskirts of the market and found a more low key joint to endulge my palate. The typical Chilean dish of Chorillana consists of a sturdy base of french fries, runny eggs and sauteéd onions in the middle, and bits of steak and chorizo sausage to top it all off. I´ve heard that some places take much pride in preparing this prestigious dish. You know how at some high-fallutin restaurants consider it an insult to ask for A-1 sauce with your steak? Well, rumor has it that some places consider it just as much of an insult to ask for ketchup with your chorillana. Luckily, this place was more down to earth, so I proceeded to douse the mountainous heap, meant for more than one person, with ketchup.

About to burst, and suffering from hunger pains, I walked to another exhibit that housed some neat and provocative photography from artists around the world. Everything from a dwarf in a wheelchair painting beautiful landscapes, to lesbians performing the act of love and quite a bit in between, the former and the latter that is. Museo de Arte Precolombino was next on the list and the only museum that charged for entry that day. They had to kick me out, not because of misbehavior, but because of the closing hour had arrived. The statues that ancient Central and South American pre-Columbus cultures took with them to the grave in order to ensure a safe and effective trip to the afterlife were fascinating. The pipes that they used to get in touch with a particular God were also very noteworthy.

It happened that my friend Kristin and her sister Julie were also in Santiago for one last night of fun before Julie headed back to the States. Without any prior planning, our respective hostels found themselves a mere 2 blocks away from each other. We met up for some dinner on the main drag in Barrio Bellavista. The Porotas con Longaniza turned out to be a sound choice, consisting of beans, pumpkin, some other forgotten ingredients all mixed up together accompanied with a couple of sausages. We ended the night with a drink at a restaurant designed for the elderly, seated as La Mesa Pablo Neruda, or Pablo Neruda´s table. Unsure of whether the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda had actually sat there, or they were just appealing to their target market of the elderly, we rambled back down the street and said our goodbyes.

The next day, I wasn´t feeling quite as ferocious about being a tourist so I slept in, took a shower, had a cup of coffee and hit the pavement at 1:00, or rather 13:00 hours. I sat down at one of those tables mentioned earlier designed to obstruct foot traffic and attract business. A 1/4 chicken with french fries for just about $4 dollars was the choice for today. When the waiter brought out the plate, I asked him for some ketchup and his response "Ahh, se acabó" made me laugh. They were out of kethup. As a spoiled gringo, I can say in good conscience that the lack of ketchup was definitely factored into the price of the meal. And it turns out that mustard isn´t that bad of a substitute for ketchup concerning its application to french fries.

Cerro Cristobal, or St. Christopher Hill was the next stop on the agenda. This is an 867 meter hill with a huge statue of the Virgin Mary looming over the city. It might not have been the best day to scale the hill considering the thick layer of smog that had settled over the city, but it was free and therefore awesome nonetheless. There were some break dancers putting on a spectacle under the Virgin´s watchful and protective gaze. Kids ran around throwing pebbles at each other. The sun beginning to set, I figured it would be better not to stay up on the hill, that Midwesterners would surely label as a mountain, after dark. So, I made the trek back down the hill and called it a day. Alright folks, I could continue rambling but I´ll explain about my failed attempt to reach the hot springs outside of town which included 40+ stops on the Metro and a lot of backtracking, thus. This is Elvagabundonumerouno writing to you for the last time from Valparaíso, Chile. Tomorrow, I leave for La Serena in Northern Chile and embark upon the northbound journey. Buenas tardes tv and radio land.

Echoes

"Overhead the albatross hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves
In labyrinths of coral caves
The echo of a distant tide
Comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine"

Okay, so it´s not a Jimmy Buffett song, but I felt a strong calling to bring a verse from my favorite Pink Floyd song to you in hopes that you might watch their DVD "Live at Pompeii". Good stuff. Now, maybe I have mentioned them before, the temblores that are extremely common here in Chile. So far, I´ve probably experienced 6-8 of these earthquakes whose epicenters are far off or possibly even underwater. They result in a shaking or trembling of the earth that rocks the old, wooden pension I´m living in. The other night, my bed got to rocking, no, not in the good way... and I sat up immediately because you just never know if it´s a real earthquake or just a temblor. This one happened to be the latter, but when I went back to sleep I started to dream about an extreme shaking of the pension. And in the ever-so-real dreamland, the structure almost fell over, but thankfully not in reality.

It´s hilarious to me that everytime I pass by the local pet food store, there are all sorts of pigeons getting a free meal of different types of feed and seed. With dog food, cat food, bird food to choose from, I just wonder which one is their favorite. I never cease to laugh when I pass the carnicería, or butcher´s shop, to find a vagrant guard dog sleeping just outside the wide open front door. You´re just torturing yourself pal, although at the end of the day, the well-rested canine might possibly get a handout for his invaluable services.

Two days ago, I set out to examine an old, rustic cemetary that I previously spied from the bottom of the hill. The elaborate graves consisted of immense monuments that would dwarf many a house in Valpaiaíso. I guess these tombs are a type of house as well, but are used to provide shelter for life after death. Sepulchres that guard your bones from the elements and scavengers during the long, cold, eternal resting place, located 6 feet under ground. Or should I say 2 meters bajo de la tierra? I was disappointed to see Cementerio Número 2 barred from entry, so I snapped a few pictures from outside the 13 foot, steel railing and continued on up the hill. I´ve recently taken to the rapidly emerging sport of "urban hiking". As the microbuses and colectivos quickly pass by, you must resist the urge to stick your thumb out and hitch a ride to the top. With my favorite blue shirt drenched in sweat, I rounded a bend and exchanged pleasantries with a fellow walking down the hill. His words rang clear, "Oye, te doy consejo, si continuas arriba del cerro, te van a robar". It´s English equivalent being, "Hey, I´ll give you some advice, if you continue up the hill, you´re gonna´ get robbed". He proceeded to tell me about another young kid that was urban hiking in the same place about a week or so before. Not sure if he was Chilean or a foreigner, or many other details at all really, except for that he had his backpack, wallet and cell phone all stolen from him in broad daylight. Thankfully I got to learn this lesson the easy way that day. I thanked the gentleman for his advice and stopped my progress up the hill, stood there for a minute or so and turned around. About 3/4 of the way to the bottom of Cerro Loma, I noticed some smoke emanating from a short distance to my right, probably about 150 yards or so as the crow flies. Immediately, my mind jumped to the possibility of a house fire. Sure enough, following the dark black smoke down to its source, I could see wild flames sprouting from somewhere behind a closely grouped bank of houses. Construction workers came out of their gated project right across the street, microbus drivers stopped on their respective sides of the narrow inclined street, and pedestrians all stopped to watch the blaze. Shortly after I stopped to watch the flames, volunteer fire engines came careening up the road, one after another, with horns and sirens audibly marking their arrival. Sometimes, the microbus drivers would gawk so long that traffic was backed up 6 to 8 cars deep. I experienced frusturation watching them press pause on their respective tasks at hand, especially when a fire engine would be one of the automobiles halted in line. Horns, swear words or shaking fists didn`t seem to have any effect on the drivers` thick skulls.

The next day, I was walking down the street past a little news stand and saw the foto of the tragedy from the day before. With the accompanying headline, "Horror en Cerro Loma", I bought the periodical for a mere $200 pesos, or about $0.45 cents. It turned out that a total of 3 houses burned that day from grease that ignited in the kitchen. Two bomberos, or, firefighters received minor injuries and were rushed to the hospital, and one or more bloggers got a terrible, non-fiction story to spread to the rest of the world.

I have a couple "good" fire stories from my youth that might apply here. When I was super young and my Pops was still living in Kendrick, Idaho and Ma had already moved into Clarkston, a neighbor boy was playing with bottle rocketsand started a brush fire. Luckily, Pops was right there with his shovel and easily put out the fire. Another time when I was quite a bit older living in the house on Grandview Drive, a good friend Nathan, Pops and I were lighting off fireworks out front. See, I`m glad I can look back on this now and laugh, but it`s generally an unusual choice to light the fuse on a firework whose function you have absolutely no idea. this one in particular was a high-powered "bee" which  took off-a-buzzing a good 18-20 feet and landed in the pasture behind our backyard. The dry weeds instantly ignited and I can vividly remember Pops saying, "Uh oh, that`s gonna be trouble". He ran inside, grabbed the phone and the firefighters came out and extinguished the burn. After the flames had been put out, Nathan`s question seemed so odd, "When you called 911, did they ask how may I help you?" Another time when John, Ma and I were living out on Alpowa Creek Road, we returned from a vacation only to find 360 degrees around our house, high up on the hill, had been completely charred. Thankfully, the green lawn and the brick house were left completely unscathed. My most recent bout with fire happened at our house on Cherry Street, that is now called "River Canyon Drive", or some other ridiculous monstrosity. An immense grass fire that had started somewhere up Asotin Creek was being fueled by intense winds and a new subdivision was currently being put in. Hence the reason for the renaming of our simple and wonderful Cherry Street. The flames came dangerously close to the framed walls and roofs that composed the skeletons of the houses to be. This burn somehow snaked around the subdivision, (had they remembered to pay off the fire gods too?) and wound its way to the draw in between our neighbor`s and our houses. This was the closest I`ve ever been to being on the front lines of fighting fire. In the evening, when the sun was hanging low in the sky, I hopped on the 4-wheeler with my boots, gloves, a shovel and a multi-gallon spray tank filled with water to offer my help. Go figure that they refused the assistance of a sober, able-bodied, albeit unexperienced young-in but accepted the help of a much older, yet experienced neighbor driving his 4-wheeler with one hand and toting a can of Keystone Light in the other. I speculate that it wasn`t the first can of piss-water that he had made his way through that day. But, when the fire was threatening out house, I did get to climb up onto the roof of the shop, spraying the area around our property with water. Figured I earned my keep for the day even if the "official" firefighters didn`t think I was worth much...

All for now, this is Elvagabundonumerouno signing out. Goodnight tv and radio land.