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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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
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
Thursday, November 4, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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.
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.
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