Choosing My Own Adventures

Nothing Says Ukraine Like a Long Train Ride...

2011-04-03T07:48:00.004-05:00

The title says it all...and I couldn't wait for Heid to get a glimpse of Ukraine first-hand.

After spending a few days in the Western Ukraine city of L'viv, I wanted to head down to Simferopol, where I taught English for a spell. From there we could make a quick trip to the Black Sea, visit my former colleague Olga and just see the place I once called home. But, first a 24-hour train ride lay ahead.

I didn't even struggle a little bit when buying the tickets. However, when we boarded the next morning I soon realized that I neglected to make one important request: to have a cabin away from the bathroom. In fact, we were right next to the loo which, as previous experience has shown me, can lead to some unpleasant odors. Luckily, however, nobody was sharing our four-bed cabin...at least not immediately.
After a few hours of chilling in our cabin and playing cards, we arrived in the town of Ternopil...and with that came our cabin mates, Nikolai and Victor. The two burly middle-aged Ukrainian men entered our compartment with a couple of small bags and a big suitcase, which they proceeded to try, unsuccessfully, to fit beneath the bench in numerous different ways. Finally the hoisted the massive thing into an overhead shelf. Shortly afterward came the obligatory introductions, where I explained my rudimentary knowledge of Russian, Nikolai tried some broken English, Victor explained he would only be speaking Ukrainian (as he has great pride in his homeland) and Heidi smiled and nodded.

Shortly thereafter Nikolai, from the bench the two men shared across from us (which would later serve as a single bed that evening), explained it was time for lunch. He grabbed a fully-packed duffle bag, unzipped it, and began emptying its contents onto our tiny shared table. First came the table mats, plastic silverware, napkins, toothpicks, cups and shot glasses (despite the fact that alcohol consumption is now forbidden in train compartments. That being said, this is Ukraine and such a rule is like outlawing gay men from a Cher concert. Who is going to enforce it? Certainly not Cher's publicist!)

Next came the liquids, which included a 2-liter bottle of sparkling water, four small bottles of beer and about 1.5 liters of samogon, or Ukrainian moonshine. Although vodka is probably the national drink of this country, samogon is what puts the hair on your chest and makes a boy a man...or an alcoholic. But all those drinks are worthless without some food...

From his, seemingly, endless bag Victor produced a bounty of edibles: a dozen hard-boiled eggs, bread, deer-liver pâté, salo (cured slabs of pork fat), pickles, a couple of different pickled beet salad spreads, and even a whole chicken (fully cooked, and still warm, as if he picked it up at the train station). I knew where this was headed, and my suspicions were confirmed when Victor set four plates and began spreading the pâté on four pieces of bread. I whispered to Heidi that our pathetic store-bought sandwich would stay in its bag, as we were about to get down Ukrain-style. While she prostested and asked me to do the same in Russian I explained that such efforts were futile.

In the tongue of his motherland Victor explained that we were guests of his country, in response to Heidi's feeble attempt at a "no thank you" with the wave of her hand. "Vceo domashnie," he proudly explained to me. In turn I quickly translated to Heidi that this grub was home-made and declining such an offer would be nearly insulting. Of course, if you accept ones food, you must also take his drink.

"No, daviete," Nikolai exclaimed as he raised his shot glass, moments after his business partner topped off the four shot glasses with the clear fire-liquid in the unassuming (re-purposed) water bottle. In suit, we all raised our plastic cups and clinked them together to a toast to us ("Za Nas!"). I showed Heidi that a pickle chaser helped with the burn and she grabbed one too.

For the next hour we had a long, and hearty, meal along with some good conversation. Nikolai had worked in Canada for six years and was anxious to try his hand at rusty English, while I was more than happy to speak to them in Russian, which is a close cousin to Ukrainian. Along with the food came a few more shots, and a glass of beer. (I merely pointed out that I hadn't seen honey beer in Ukraine before and, seconds later, the bottle was opened and a plastic cup full of the brew was in my grasp!)

After the meal we talked football (aka soccer): Dynamo Kiev was playing Italy that night and the guys were bummed they wouldn't be able to watch because they were on a train to Simferopol. A little later we all started to pick up reading materials and the compartment fell silent for some time.

At dinner Heidi and I snuck off to the restaurant car, for some peace and quiet. The guys were great but too much time in such a confined space with strangers can be taxing.

A little after 9pm we were back in the car and reading, while bathroom smells seeped in through the wall and Victor sung along to Ukrainian pop music which blared from his cell phone, apparently unaware of our presence...or simply convinced that everyone else in the world longed to hear those tunes as well. Being too polite to say anything, Heidi and I sat in agony until a lady from the next compartment over came in around 11pm and politely implored him to turn the music off. Without even acknowledging her he shut it off and we were able to sleep, or at least rest.

You can certainly lay out on the bunks, but the tracks are often uneven, leading to a bumpy ride. Beyond that, after a day of consumption men are more likely to snore, and the two of them took their turns filling the void of the evening with loud inhalations. (I'm sure I participated as well.) Nonetheless, I did manage to get some sleep, albeit not the most restful of our year-long journey.

After sunrise, we all lay in our bunks, wide awake, until an hour or so before arriving in Simferopol. At that time we took turns washing up in the bathroom, folding our bedsheets and packing up our luggage. When we pulled up to the station, we both thanked the men for their hospitality, shook hands and headed our separate ways...

Reflections on Auschwitz & Schindler's Factory

2011-04-03T06:20:00.005-05:00

Having traveled the last four months without the assistance of those nifty guidebooks, after the last one was pilfered, Heidi and I knew very little about Krakow's tourist attractions...save those which loom heavy in the hearts of many the world over.

Just outside of Krakow is the town of Oświęcim, which Hitler converted into a place of imprisonment and extermination for Jews, Roma people, POWs, Polish intelligentsia and scores of others. I was drawn to the place and almost felt obligated to visit, not for the same reasons I was attracted to Iguacu Falls or the Parthenon, but because of something deeper. Perhaps it is the innate humanity within each of us which drew me to this place, to remember and pay homage to the victims of one of the most horrendous acts of genocide the world has ever known. Moreover, it was important to stand amongst those hallowed grounds to reflect that man, although inherently good (in my humble opinion), is also capable of such evil atrocities. After all Hitler, Himmler and all of the rest of those involved in these crimes against humanity were, indeed, human. As hard as it is to fathom, they had parents, and many went home to their children after, what they saw as, a hard day's work leading unknowing Jewish women and children into gas chambers which the victims believed to be disinfecting showers.

All told, it is estimated that approximately 1.5 million people were killed in the Auschwitz Death Camps in fewer than five years. Such a staggering figure is hard to truly grasp. Walking through Block 4 of the Auschwitz main camp one starts to get a small sense of the scale at which the murdering took place: huge piles of shoes, prosthetics and everyday items, such as brushes, pots and pans. Another room (which was closed during our visit) has just some of the 7 tons of human hair removed from the victims prior to extermination.

After being unloaded from crammed train cars the prisoners were sorted on site. With the wave of a finger an SS doctor would determine whether people were fit to work, or to be immediately sent to the gas chambers. About three-quarters of the people, including most women and children, were immediately sent to their deaths. Those that initially survived worked dreadfully long days, spending their evenings in cramped and unsanitary conditions, eating very little...about 20% of that recommended by nutritionists.

By the time the Red Army liberated the camp, in January 1945, the Nazis had destroyed all but one of the crematories, in an attempt to hide evidence of their crimes. Only the weakest prisoners remained when the Russians entered the camps, 7,500 in all. About 20,000 other prisoners were taken to a German concentration camp, on a forced march, when the Allied forces began closing in on the camp. (Many were liberated in April 1945 by the British.)

Needless to say, the visit was both powerful and solemn.

A couple of days later we visited the factory of Oscar Schindler, made famous by a Thomas Keneally book and Spielberg film.

A Nazi Party member and opportunistic businessman, Schindler came to Krakow shortly after the Germans took hold of the city. There he bought an old enamelware factory and used forced Jewish labour to make pots, pans and munitions. As the man witnessed atrocities, perpetrated by Nazi soldiers, he became increasingly protective of 'his' Jews, often regardless of personal risk or cost. All told, he is credited with saving the lives of 1,200 Jews who would have, otherwise, almost certainly have been sent to the death chambers.

The museum itself is a well-designed, albeit lengthy, group of displays, focusing on life in Krakow during the Nazi invasion. Of course, there were also displays about Schindler's factory and numerous videos with reflections from survivors of the nightmare. If you go, give yourself about three hours...and sneak in a snack!

Budapest & Prague: Two birds of a feather...

2011-03-22T14:04:00.031-05:00

I guess they are neighboring countries, so one shouldn't be surprised there are so many similarities, but Budapest and Prague are a couple of real Twin Cities. I will try to run down a list of the numerous similarities, as well as note a couple of the differences I noticed. (Budapest pics are on the left and those of Prague are on the right.)

*Both are cut into two by a river: The Danube in Budapest and the Vltava in Prague.

*Both have prominent castles: Aptly, and respectively, named the Buda and Prague Castles.

*Both towns have beautiful cathedrals.

*Both are known for curative waters. Budapest is well known for its many public baths. We visited the The Széchenyi Spa in Budapest, the largest and most magnificent of them. For about $15 we spent the day going from outdoor baths, to saunas, to indoor baths, all of varying temperatures. It was quite the relaxing experience. Alternatively, just outside of Prague are the Carlsbad Mineral Springs, also known for the curative properties of its waters. Sadly, we did not make the trip.

*Both have famous bridges: In Budapest you have the Chain Bridge and in Prague the Charles Bridge.

*Both have lots of grafitti. Although the Lennon Wall in Prague is a sanctioned place for taggers, it is grafitti nonetheless. This picture in Budapest is also an impressive part of street art, although illegal.

*Both have a place for couples to lock up their love.

*Prague and Budapest were both former Communist towns which have since fully embraced capitalism.

*Both of the old cities have Jewish Quarters and, as such, were occupied by Nazi forces during the Second World War.

*Public transport is very well organized, and tourist friendly, in both cities, complete with buses, trams and metros.

*Tasty and hearty cuisine is not in short supply in either of the towns.

*Both towns are VERY touristy!

Despite all of the similarities, there were a FEW differences...

In Budapest...

*You can enjoy a VERY inexpensive cultural performance, thanks to government subsidies. We checked out Don Pascuale at the National Opera House. Our box seats, right next to the Presidential Box, ran about $9/piece. And, the cheap seats are about $2!

*There is a stunning National Parliament Building.

In Prague...

*You can check out the quirky Zodiac Clock, complete with hourly appearances by the 12 apostles.

*There is a TV tower with barcode babies scaling the sides.

*One can enjoy a glass of beer brewed at the monastery.

*You can visit a church adorned with HUMAN bones (a little ways outside of the city).

*Someone tried, unsuccessfully, to break into our hotel room! (The cops later broke the door down so we could make sure nothing was stolen.)

Sarajevo in Pictures...

2011-03-14T09:45:00.008-05:00

This bridge, known today as the Latin Bridge, was where a very important event occurred, which led to the beginning of World War I. It was here, on June 28, 1914, that Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, was assassinated. This is Skender, our guide during a day trip retracing the siege of Sarajevo by Serbian troops. During the mid-90's conflict he was just a boy and his father became part of makeshift military forces while his mother kept Skender safe at home. He recounted those days with us in chilling detail, stating that heat, water and even food were often in short supply. Only on rare occasions, when the air-raid sirens fell silent for an extended period of time, did he get to play outside with his friends...for a hort time.

Looking down at Sniper Alley from a hill above Sarajevo. This is an important crossroads that was constantly in the scope of snipers during the mid-90s siege. Hundreds of civilians were killed while merely walking to across this street, in search of food.

One of the few buildings not yet rebuilt since the devastation caused nearly 20 years ago. The large bricks on the right filled the hole of a mortar round, but hundreds of holes from small arms fire remain.

This tunnel once spanned more than 800 meters, below the Sarajevo Airport runway, and was the only connection to the outside world for thousands of residents of Sarajevo during the siege. Food, arms and other goods were carried, day and night, by hand and in carts in this dark and damp tunnel, saving untold lives. Prior to its construction people were forced to run across the runway and were often hit by sniper fire when doing so.

One of many "Sarajevo Roses" found throughout the city. These are scars in the concrete created by deadly mortat rounds during the mid-90s conflict. They were later filled with red resin, so that the victims may never be forgotten.

One of two memorials for the victims of two separate massacres at the Markale Market in Sarajevo. During the two shellings, more than 100 civlians, waiting in line for food, were killed while hundreds more were seriously injured and maimed. The second shelling led to NATO involvement in the conflict. In the reflection you can see that the market is back to business-as-usual today.

A couple of old-timers passing a cool Sunday afternoon with a little larger-than-life Chess.

The beautiful Old Bridge in Mostar, Bosnia, which was the site of intense destruction between 1992 and 1993. Shelling destroyed a Franciscan and Serbian Orthodox Monasteries, as well as a Catholic Cathedral and many other monuments.

Serbia Haiku

2011-03-04T10:47:00.003-06:00

Belgrade cold and snow

The hostel warm but stinky

Smoky restaurants

Two days is plenty

Military Museum

Relief from the cold

Pedestrian street

Cobblestone and boutique stores

Snow and wind are fierce

Internet cafe

Man shamelessly watches porn

My headphones don't work

Cafes have good food

But they are filled with smokers

Waiters speak English

Someone stole our juice

From the community fridge

Karma is a bitch!

S-O-F-I-A B-U-L-G-A-R-I-A

2011-03-04T09:54:00.004-06:00

Six-hour walking tour. What better way to get acquainted with the Bulgarian capitol city than by foot. In temperatures hovering around freezing we strolled by the Presidential offices, the statue of Saint Sophia, old guys peddling communist-era antiques on the street and myriad other sites. It is a beautiful city, and very walkable, but when it is so cold it should probably be broken up into a two-day affair.

One leva tea at McDonald's. Given the fact that we have gone from a hot African summer to the cold Balkan winter in a matter of weeks, the temps are a bit jolting, even for a couple of weather-worn Minnesotans. As such, it is great to be able to duck into the familiar Golden Arches for some hot tea, a place to warm up and a clean bathroom...all for less than a buck.

Fairly priced, tasty, food. It isn't Buenos Aires, but the food in Sofia is pretty darn good, and definitely cheaper than most places with similar fare. Besides an amazing home-cooked vegetarian meal, we also enjoyed delightful pastas, soups, pizzas and pastries while on the town.

Impromptu cultural performance. After the aforementioned homemade meal our Couchsurfing hosts and their friend ducked out of the kitchen, threw on some traditional garb and entertained Heidi and I with instruments, singing and dance of their heritage.

Affable Hosts from Couchsurfing. I continue to be amazed by the hospitality of people on Couchsurfing and Niki and Eli were no exception. They invited us into their home, made us feel very welcome, and treated us to a number of meals. They went above and beyond with the cultural performance, drive to the mountain and paying for our final meal in Sofia before it was even served (in order to avoid our protests).

Bus-riding scofflaw. On Sofia public transport you are required to have a validated ticket, which is purchased before boarding and validated by an archaic hole-punch-like device on the bus. While removing my ticket from the punch it ripped. Minutes later two ladies boarded to make sure nobody was trying to cheat the system. Well, they either didn't buy, or didn't care for, my story (and I'm sure the language barrier didn't help). So, I had to shell out a 10 leva fine right then and there.

Unpleasant Pumpkin. While in Ukraine I had tasted some warm baked pumpkin, skin on with brown sugar. It was delightful. While on our walk I spied something similar, on the street, which roughly translated to "sweet pumpkin" from the cyrillic words I recognized. Heidi wanted a chunk so we bought it and gave it a try. Disgusting! Not only was it not sweet but ice cold. The picture says it all...

Lovely mountain hike. Our Couchsurfing hosts drove us up to the Vitosha Mountains, which are just on the outskirts of the bustling city. After a short drive we got out and had a nice hike in the alpine setting. The trail was a bit slick, from all of the other hikers compacting the snow, but the sun was shining and the scenery beautiful. By the time we turned around to head back down we were all warm and removing some of our layers.

Great street exchange rates. Twice during our walk through Sofia, some guy approached us with a fishy story about being from the Czech Republic and wanting to buy foreign currency at a great rate...much better than that being offered by the legitimate outlets. I know it was a scam and figured he was handling counterfeit notes. I refused his offer, first politely and later more sternly. When I relayed the experience to a hostel employee I learned that the scam was giving foreigners old leva, which are now worthless. Sadly, I was told, others weren't so keen and fell for the scam.

A long wait for the police. On our way down Vitosha Mountain the tires on our hosts' little Mitsubishi lost traction on a curve and we had a low impact crash into a vehicle heading in the opposite direction. Luckily, nobody was hurt but we did have to wait for police to come and fill out a report. By the time we left, more than two hours later, we were all thoroughly chilled to the bone.

Rila Monastery. Originally built in the 10th century, this beautiful monastic residence is tucked away in the Rila Mountains, more than two hours from Sofia. It was built by the students of St. Ivan of Rila who lived in a nearby cave, with no possessions, for many years. The church has numerous vivid depictions of the book of Revelations. The setting is serene and breathtaking.

In search of a skating rink. Heidi and I had hoped to complete our day-tour of Sofia with a nice time on the outdoor skating rink in a park on the outskirts of the city center. We found the park easily enough, but we had no idea that the park was so huge. By the time we found the sheet of ice, more than an hour later, we were cold, miserable and in no mood to skate.

Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Planned exactly 100 years (to the day) before my birth, this is one of the largest Eastern Orthodox churches in the world, with the capacity to hold 10,000 people inside. It is adorned with beautiful murals and an impressive iconostasis (which we weren't allowed to photograph).

Istanbul: Where Asia Meets Europe (Literally)

2011-03-02T07:53:00.010-06:00

Tourist Sites

Istanbul is, if nothing else, a Mecca of tourist sites. And, it really is no wonder. Divided between Asia and Europe the city is truly a cultural crossroads, and has played home to many different ethnic group and religions.

The Sultan Ahmed Mosque (aka The Blue Mosque). Built at the beginning of the 17th century, this enormous edifice is still a functioning mosque, although it is overrun with shoeless tourists much of the day. It is popularly known as The Blue Mosque due to the beautiful tiles on which line the interior walls. It is only a stone's throw from Hagia Sofia.

Hagia Sophia. Dedicated in AD 360 this impressive structure as served as served as both an Orthodox and Roman Catholic Cathedral, as well as a mosque. Today it is open to the public as a museum and for 20 New Turkish Lira you, too, can marvel at its wonder. When the place was converted to a mosque the old Orthodox mosaics were only plastered over, and not destroyed. As such, a number of them have been uncovered and are visible again today. Some of the enormous interior pillars are now crooked, but large exterior buttresses support the weight enough that the entire joint doesn't collapse.

Topkapı Palace. Completed in the mid-15th century, this enormous palace served as the primary residence of the Ottoman Sultans for nearly four decades...and it comes with all of the distractions necessary to keep him occupied: a royal harem, relics of many Muslim prophets, and the keys (and rain spouts) from the Kaaba, the most sacred site in Islam. The treasury shows off the richest of the royal booty, including the Spoonmaker's Diamond (which was recovered from a trash heap), the Topkapi Dagger, illuminated pages of the Koran and some intricately designed, and extremely ornate, flintlock weapons. And the aspiring Ottoman prince can head on over to the circumcision room for the ancient rite of passage. (You have no idea how grateful I am that this is performed shortly after birth.)

Istiklal & Galip Dede. It is said that these two famous Istanbul streets see more than 3 million visitors on a given weekend day, and it's no wonder. The former is a huge pedestrian mall lined with familiar retail shops, as well as cute local boutiques. Dede is a narrow extension thereof and is full of little shops filled with stringed instruments, including violins, mandolins and the obligatory guitars. Also, one can find some souvenir items, including beautiful lights or hand-decorated plates, all without the hassle of the Grand Bazaar.

Grand Bazaar. The Grand Bazaar is one of the largest, and oldest, covered bazaars in the world. Spanning 58 streets and more than 4,000 shops, it is quite an impressive place. Sadly, it is also home to a number of rather persistent, if not downright pushy, salespeople. As such, Heidi and I cruised through this tourist trap, taking little time to admire the lamps, rugs, tea sets, jewelry and Turkish Delight for sale.

Cuisine.

If you come to Turkey expecting to get cheap eats, think again. Sure, it can be done, but this a place where the people take great pride in their food. As our hotel was situated in the shadow of the Hagia Sophia, most of the nearby restaurants catered to foreigners, with waiters speaking a respectable amount of English, Russian, Spanish, Turkish and, no doubt, even some Japanese and German too. One night we got our grub in a place where there were five tables occupied by people from five different countries, none of which was Turkey.

The food itself is colorful and tasty. From spinach dishes to kebabs, Turkish pides to traditional döner sandwiches, not to mention lentil soup and pomegranate juice, the Turks take their cuisine seriously and know how to whip up a good meal. Add some apple tea in a traditional glass, or even some salep and you've got the perfect excuse to sit around the table with great company for a little longer than necessary. Top it off with some baklava or freshly made Turkish Delight and you're in Heaven!

Cultural Experiences.

For my birthday, I made Heidi try out two things she might not otherwise be terribly enthusiastic about: hit up a Turkish Bath and have some nargile. Like I always say, when in Rome...

Turkish Bath. I picked a hamam on the Asian side of Istanbul for a few reasons. First, I thought it would be cheaper, less touristy (and, thus, more authentic) and it gave us an excuse to cross the Bosphorus and go into Asia, as the continent wasn't really a part of our itinerary otherwise. Heidi and I entered the Azizye Hamam through the gender-specific entrances, agreeing to meet back in about 90 minutes.

I walked in to a common room with a bunch of men sitting around, all wrapped in peştemals, a traditional wrap with a plaid pattern. I was immediately identified as a foreigner and directed, via hand signals (as English was not spoken there), to a small room with a bed where I disrobed and put on my peştemal. When I emerged my tellak (masseur) directed me to a room with marble floors, walls lined with wash basins and a raised and tiled platform in the center of the room, known as the belly stone. I was instructed to lie down on said stone, but it was too hot to the touch and had to wait for my tellak to return with another piece of cloth to serve as a barrier between the scorching stone and delicate dermis, as another guy chuckled at my reaction. After some time my guy returned and motioned for me to follow him.

We entered another room, where a large naked man with soap suds covering his entire frame was being scrubbed down by another tellak. I sat down and my manservant lathered me up, thankfully avoiding the area covered by my cloth (showing respect and awareness of my foreign modesty). After I was all full of suds, I got a quick massage and was rinsed off. Next he put on a rough mitt and forcefully scrubbed my skin, dead chunks balling up everywhere. Another rinse, more soap (this time getting dangerously close to the "inner sanctum") and a final rinse. I followed that up with some alone time in a steamy sauna, showered off and returned to my one-bed room, where another guy (the yanaşma) toweled me off and wrapped a second around my head. I got dressed, had some tea, paid up, and was on my way, leaving with some very soft skin.

Nargile. This is, basically, a big water pipe with flavored tobacco in a bowl, which is topped with very hot coals. As the user draws from the pipe the smoke is cooled by the water and inhaled. As it was my 32nd birthday, I convinced Heidi to give it a go too. When in Rome and all...

I chose apple flavor fro a wide assortment of choices. It was smooth and tasty. Heidi tried it, didn't gag, and pondered the point of the entire exercise. We played Checkers and, after a few more puffs, both became slightly light-headed. As the coals grew cold a man came around and changed them out with hot red ones. The thing seemed to burn endlessly. Then, our heads began to ache, no doubt from the smoke, mine slightly and hers pounding. She took the rubber match in Checkers and we left for fresh air and ibuprofen.

USA Day. Being on the road so long, it is nice to take the occasional day to enjoy the creature comforts of home. So, we took a day off from the standard sightseeing and strolled through a Western mall, grubbed at the fanciest Pizza Hut I have ever seen and took in The Fighter (a pretty good flick) at the theater. We topped the day off by picking up the final installment of the Harry Potter series, of which Heidi has read the other six, while I have only sampled the penultimate novel. It was a nice escape from, what can be, a grueling travel schedule.

Greece: Doggies and Ouzo and Feta...Oh My!

2011-02-22T06:15:00.020-06:00

After making it through Immigration with no troubles Heidi and I headed out of the airport, in search of some public transportation into the center of Athens, where we had booked an inexpensive hotel for a few days. We hiked over to the Metro (aka subway) station only to be greeted with signs stating that a strike had shut down the rail system. So, we walked over to the bus station, where we could take an express bus to whisk us into town...or not. The drivers were also on strike! Apparently the city is, of late, frequently crippled by these work stoppages, as labourers protest paycuts in the midst of the country's ongoıng financial crisis. As such, our only option was to take a cab into town, to the tune of about $50. (Given that gas is going for more than $8/gallon I guess it was a fair price.)

Upon arriving at our hotel we were greeted by a friendly receptionist who spoke no English. That conundrum was quickly remedied, however, when she called an English-speaking member of the staff on the phone. That gal proceeded to talk my ear off for about 15 minutes. Our room was a simple thing with a recently remodeled bathroom, TV and fridge. It was the first of two places we stayed in Greece that had a nifty little contraption to save energy. The outlets and lights in the room only worked once the key fob was placed in a little socket in the wall. Pretty cool little gadget!

Having been robbed (which I may have mentioned one or twelve times previously), and coming from Africa, we were lacking the proper attire to deal with the cooler winter climate. Luckily we found a second-hand shop on our first night there and each picked up a couple of decent used sweaters.

The next day we were walking through the chilly rain, en route to the Acropolis, when we came across an REI-like store called Polo. Initially, we popped in to the place just to get out of the rain but ended up wakling out of the joint with new rain jackets, thermal tops & bottoms, and fleece hats, gloves and scarves. Given the amount of stuff we got I was pretty pleased that it only cost €130, everything being discounted by 25%. The timing could not have been more fortuitous and we put the stuff to use almost immediately.

Despite our groovy new gear the driving rain was still plenty cold and uninviting (but, luckily, we were staying dry). As we were within the shadow of the Acropolis a man popped out of a cafe and invited us in for a warm drink. That was all Heidi needed and before I could ask her opinion she was inside, removing her layers and warming up by the fireplace. We were the only customers in the place and enjoyed some (overpriced) hot chocolate and baklava next to the crackling fire. As it was still raining when we left we decided to forego the Parthenon for the day, instead opting for the (indoor) Acropolis Museum, where many of the artifacts from the ancient city are now housed, including nearly one-third of the Parthenon frieze (the rest being scattered throughout museums around the world). It was a slick new museum, albeit not terribly spellbinding.

For €12 the Acropolis Ticket covers admission to Acropolis (where the Parthenon can be found) and a number of secondary archaeological sites, including the Temple of Zeus, Roman Agora, Ancient Agora, Hadrian's Library, the Theater of Dionysus and Kerameikos. Over two days we visited all of the sites, save for the last (which is the cemetery of ancient Athens) as we had become a bit ruin-weary by then. There we were, taking in the centuries-old remains of an ancient civilization and could think nothing other than: 'Ah, it's just another toppled column.' Given the time of year we didn't have to deal with huge crowds but my memories of the Parthenon will always be a bit marred by the scaffoldings surrounding it, as part of an ongoing restoration project.

We got up early Sunday morning to take a ferry to the Greek island of Santorini, where we would spend the remainder of our time in the country. We checked out just after 5am and walked to the main road, where we caught a cab to the nearest (operating) Metro station. (Taking the taxi directly to the port would have cost about an extra €20.) We bought our tickets and grabbed a bite to eat before boarding the giant Blue Star Ferry vessel Ithaki. This was a much more luxurious boat than that which we took to Zanzibar. There were multiple restaurants, a gift shop and plenty of room below for cars, motorcycles and semi-trucks. After being booted out of some higher class seats Heidi and I sat down at a table and passed the time by playing cards, reading and catching up on blogs.

Upon arrival in the port we were disappointed by the fact that our hostel didn't pick us up, as their website claimed. We hopped on the local bus and found our accommodation with the help of a few locals. The place got rave reviews online but we weren't impressed. First off, we were disturbed relatively early in the morning, two days in a row, by jackhammering from the floor above. Beyond that the room smelled like mold, the TV was janky and the staff wasn't all that helpful. So, despite the nice furnishings, we got the heck out of there as soon as our reservations expired.

As for the island itself, Santorini is a beautiful respite from the hustle and bustle of Athens. As it was the low winter season, a number of the shops and restaurants were shuttered and the streets weren't packed with foreigners, leaving us with a much more pleasant experience than I would expect during the summer.

We spent one afternoon with a walk to the neighboring village of Firostefani, where we enjoyed a nice afternoon picnic, complete with wine, cheese, bread, salami, oranges and olives, complimented wonderfully by my company and a great view of the volcano caldera. Later that night we hopped a bus for Oia, a village on the northern end of the island, known for its picturesque sunsets. We joined about a dozen other tourists who walked throughout the labyrinth of pedestrian alleyways, snapping photos along the way. As the sun went down the winds picked up dramatically and we bundled up accodingly.

On another day we took a bus to the deserted beach town of Parissa (which is quite lively in the peak summer season) for a hike to Ancient Thira on top of Messavouno mountain. Along the entire journey we were accompanied by anywhere from 1-4 dogs. They were all friendly animals and seemed to have no motivation for following us, except that it was just a way to pass they day for them. The ruins themselves were impressive, if for no other reason than the fact that they are on top of a rather steep (albeit not terribly high) mountain. We walked back down the other side and bid our canine friends goodbye when the bus pulled up.

Santorini is also the home of the, rather cheesy, wine museum which was another necessary stop during our time there. The museum houses a number of corny displays tracing the history of Santorini wine making, dating back to 1660. Sadly, photos were not allowed (and our camera was held during the tour) so we weren't able to document the underground displays of donkeys with mechanized ears alongside mannequins dressed in period costume. The entire display was in an old undergound tunnel, once used for wine-making, which stretched 300 meters. The tour was capped off with the opportunity to try a red, white and nummy dessert wine.

Besides the sites the food really stole the show for Santorini. Everything was rich, flavourful...and, no doubt, fattening! We stuffed ourselves with excellent gyros (chicken and pork only, as lamb wasn't available), fried feta covered with honey and sesame seeds, stuffed grape leaves, lamb spaghetti, greek lasagna and lots of yogurt. We rounded out our Greek culinary experience by sampling a little bit of ouzo, the licorice-flavoured liquor preferred by island dwellers.

Tanzania and Zanzibar

2011-02-18T06:24:00.005-06:00

(Note: Sorry about the lack of photos but this internet cafe in no good for uploading. If you wanna see the pics go to my Facebook album.)

Since we had already gone on a couple of safaris, and we were a bit road weary from, seemingly, constant travel, Heidi and I decided to spend all of our time in Tanzania on the island of Zanzibar, along with a few days in the capital city of Dar es Salaam. That being said, our Ukrainian friends from the train (in the previous blog) certainly made every attempt to convince us to accompany them to Ngorongoro Crater...most certainly for a better price rather our company. We politely declined the offer and, after a few days in Dar, purchased ferry tickets for the island. Prior to departıng the mainland we spent a couple of days in a shabby motel which was a bargaın, especially considering the almost necessary A/C in the heat of summer. Rooms were spartan with the exception of large flat-screen TVs, which had four channels broadcasting a mıx of Swahili news, dubbed over Phillipino soap operas and terrible musıc vıdeos.

Dar es Salaam is a chaotıc tangletown with numerous buildings under construction or renovation, although modern construction equipment is rarely used, with contractors, instead, opting for stick-built scaffoldings and hoards of cheap labourers. Meanwhile the streets are filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic, frustrated drivers honking their horns while scooters zoom through narrow spaces and pineapple salesmen negotiate their carts through the gridlock.

The large East-Afrıcan port city is ethnically diverse with a mix of African Christians, Muslims (of both African and Arabic descent) and Indians, with a spattering of whites and Asians as well. The muezzin singing the daily prayers can be heard in every corner of the city, from Mosque Street to United Natıons Road. Muslim women often walk the streets fully covered, with only their hands and eyes exposed, while other ladies don short skirts and heels. For great Indian food at fair prices one need only to wander down to Indian Street.

On our fırst day in town Heidi emerged from her shower in a slıght panic. Her eyeglasses, previously damaged by a mıschievious capuchin monkey ın Bolivia, had finally snapped at the bridge. We asked the friendly ladies at reception for directions to an optician, but instead they beckoned a security guard who took us over to a shoe repairman on the street. We bought some super glue, at his direction, and a crowd of men gathered, hemming and hawing, as the repairman glued the frames and held them steady. When he released his grip so did the glue. After a second attempt we were told that which Heıdı had known from the start: the glue wouldn't work. We hopped in a cab to an optician and, less than 30 minutes later, her old lenses were in new frames. We really were quite fortunate the glasses held until we made it to Dar, where frames are abundant and prices reasonable.

Our other tasks ın Dar were also rather mundane and included finding a bathıng suıt for Heidi and more anti-malarial medicatıon for both of us (as our original supply was pilfered and we only purchased a partial replacement in Zimbabwe). The latter task was completed rather effortlessly, with Heidi getting the daily Doxycyclene and myself opting for Mephaquin, a weekly medicine which is very spendy back home (and has been known to cause psychotic dreams and panic attacks in some people).

Despite a number of beaches, in and around the city, swimwear is not abundant in the House of Peace (the literal translation for Dar es Salaam). We hired a cab driver to assist us in our endeavor and he took us to a little boutique in a beachside hotel. They had about 8 suits to choose from, all of which were made for waifs or teenage girls! Next we stopped at a used clothing stand, where the suits were 'like new.' Besides being clearly worn, all of those seemed to be one-piece suits for Lane Bryant models. We found a third store, which was a boutique of African-inspired Italian clothes and they actually had a nice selection, not to mention a 50% off sale on all swimwear. Heidi ended up with a nice new two-piece for about $23. (I chose to just wear the shorts of my convertible travel pants for swimmıng.)

Upon our arrival in Dar we instructed our driver to take us to a well-known backpackers haunt called Jambo Inn. En route he called a colleague who met us there and convinced us to go to the aforementioned place (wıth A/C and charging the same price). This man, Norman, explained he also operated a tour company and could help us wıth our needs, if so desired. Being that he wasn't pushy, and seemed genuinely friendly, I contacted him before we took of for the island of Zanzibar.

Once Norman explained all of the tours available we made a list of the four we most desired: a tour of Prison Island, the obligatory Spice Tour, Swimming with the dolphins, and snorkelling off Mnemba Island, known for colorful fish and beautiful coral formations. For all four, including transportation, he quoted us $460. I explained that the price seemed high (after all, we are talking about Tanzania here) to which he replied, 'But this is a lot of activities.' After looking to Heidi, who merely shrugged, and asking this man if we could trust him, I agreed...having forgotten the advice given us by Josh in Zimbabwe (who lived in Tanzania most of his life): When a Tanzanian sees a white person they will, initially, quote a price about double what they'll accept, and from there a bargaining game wıll ensue. I, trustingly, gave him half of the money on the spot, so he could 'forward it on and begin making arrangements.'

After a rowdy two-hour ferry ride, with opposing soccer fans jeering one another with chants and vuvuzela horns (gearing up for the big evening match between Simba and Yanga) we arrived at the port of Stone Town. We disembarked into a sea of chaos, with porters everywhere, yelling soccer/football fans and people maneuvering wheeled luggage through the masses. As if entering another country, foreigners are required to fill out immigration documents and have their passports stamped. When we finally left the port we were greeted by Ali, Norman's Zanzibari colleague.

Following formalities, Ali walked us to our accommodation, the Princess Salme Inn. We hadn't made reservations but the place got good reviews online, so we chose it. Once we arrived we were shown a simple double and quoted a price of $35/night. Having thought it was cheaper online, and being on edge from being treated like an ATM for the past three months, I flipped out! 'You are trying to charge me mzungu prices,' I yelled at the young attendant, which he denied. I demanded to see a price list, which he said they didn't have. 'Then show me receipts for other customers,' I angrily ordered. The boy pulled out some receipts but flipped through them so quickly I couldn't study them, further convincing me I was being hoodwinked. I angrily proclaimed I'd be taking my business elsewhere. My tantrum raised the attention of the manager who greeted me and asked me what the problem was, to which I stated my case. She invited me to their computer where I could look up their rates online and show her what I saw. With Heidi, Alı, the manager and the young attendant looking over my shoulders, I clicked on their site and found the price: $35/night. Talk about feeling low! I apologized profusely for the next five minutes, all through the booking process and for days to come. Frankly, I was surprised they didn't ask me to leave after my tyrade. (The place ended up being absolutely great, with an amazing complimentary breakfast and wonderful staff. We even got an upgrade when we returned a couple weeks later.) Shortly thereafter the real shyster, Ali, collected the remainder of our balance for our four tours, having experienced none of them.

To my relief, the next morning our driver, Rashad, arrived at our hotel early to take us on our spice tour. We went to a small plantation and had two young men show us around, one giving the tour while his counterpart retrieved various spices and fruits. At the conclusion of the tour we were fed a bunch of incredibly fresh fruits, dressed up as the 'Spice King & Queen,' and hit up for tip money and to buy some locally grown spices. (I had already decided to tip our guides but was a bit perturbed when they said nobody paid them and they performed the service solely for tip money. If this was true, why was I paying so much for the tour? And, if not, I don't appreciate being deceived.)

We had a couple of hours for lunch before meeting up with Rashad, once again, for our tour of Prison Island. This was sold to us as a place where slaves were held (before being shipped around the world for sale), as well as a location to interact with giant tortoises. Turns out the place had no historical remnants of its history as a slave-holding location, nor did it ever serve as a prison. One was built but the British converted it to a quarantine station, given the importance of the nearby port and the risk of an epidemic. The building actually never served any purpose, save its current one as a tourist trap and hotel (and its not even the original). The tortoises, on the other hand, were quite spectacular.

The island houses a sanctuary for these colossal shelled creatures, which were once driven to the brink of extinction. Dozens of the Aldabra Giant Tortoises, of varying size, chill in relative comfort, free of predators and other dangers. Their ages are painted on their shells, the oldest of which was a hatchling during the American Civil War! As the turtles slowly walked towards us, competing for the lettuce leaves we held, their shells creaked unnaturally, as a joint without cartilage might. We also had the opportunity to pet their surprisingly long and leathery necks. It was a really cool experience and certainly the highlight of the unimpressive Prison Island.

We spent one more day in Stone Town, just wandering through the city of narrow twisting alleys, full of curio shops, papaasi (wannabe tour guides, although the literal translation of 'ticks' is often more appropriate) and calls of 'Karıbu,' the Swahili word for 'welcome.'

The night we ate at Forodhani Gardens, an open-air seafood extravaganza in a park along the Indian Ocean. I had raved to Heidi about this place ad nauseum, as I had experienced it on a trip to the island four years prior. Basically, dozens of cooks set up tables loaded with, primarily, seafood. The customers choose what they want and it's heated up on a nearby grill. Some other people offer the local take on pizza, fresh fruit or sugar cane juice. That night we had lobster, king fish, calamari, chipati bread, sweet banana and a vegetable samosa...all for about $14. Truth be told, the food wasn't all that great, and certainly not the incredibly fresh fare I have romanticised about from my previous visit. (Since then we've heard some people speculate that the fish might sit out on those tables much longer than I'd care to know!)

The following morning we took a minibus to Teddy's Place in Paje, a rather small German-run operation with 7 thatched bandas and a cute bar, all with white sand floors. It was a real relaxing place and only about 100 meters from the crystal-clear waters of the Indian Ocean. We had, initially, booked the place for 4 nights but ended up staying for 8 because of the price and atmosphere. While there we did lots of nothing, ate a bunch of amazingly fresh seafood from various joints along the beach, and took almost daily dips in the warm and inviting salt water. Our only excursion was to Kimikazi to swim with the dolphins.

Rashad picked us up at 7am and we were heading out in the boat less than an hour later. (Apparently, our sea-dwelling mammalian friends head out to deeper, and thus cooler, waters as the day progresses.) Our little boat, carrying Heidi, myself and two crew, joined about 8 others who tooled along in search of fins piercing the water's surface. Once we got close we'd don our snorkelling gear and our guides would order: 'This side! Jump now! Look down.' We'd hit the water and be just feet away from up to six dolphins at a time. We'd swim with them for a few seconds before they disappeared into the blue abyss deep below. At that point we'd climb into our respective vessels, only to do it all over again. All in all, we probably had about 8 jumps before we headed in to shallower waters for some mellow snorkelling. It was an exhilarating experience (which I didn't fully appreciate at the time) albeit a bit disheartening too. I only hope the dolphins, being pursued by an armada of tourists, view the daily ritual as a game rather than intrusive and harassing.

The entire island is an odd combination of juxtaposition and contradictions. Bikini-clad foreigners walk along the same beach as devout Muslim women, covered from head to toe in flowing robes and a hijab. At low tide these women are out farming seaweed (for use in expensive cosmetics), or burying coconut fibres (to be used for rope) earning around $1/day. As the tide rolls in foreigners rent expensive kite-surfing equipment and skim across the ocean, the seaweed plots only inches below. Muslim men tend bar at various resorts for Westerners who stumble to bed early the next morning, just as the muezzin is heard calling out morning prayer from the minarets which tower above all other structures in the village.

After a relaxing stay in Paje we headed to the northern part of the island and a village called Nungwi. From there we were to take a boat to Mnemba for some phenomenal snorkelling, the last of our (overpriced) pre-paid tours. We got a decent place, not far from the beach, for $35/night (thanks to a couple of travelers we met at Teddy's) after initially being quoted $10 more. That night we had, in my opinion, the best seafood of the trip: three large intact fish (tuna, Red Snapper and Dorado) were on a table along the beach. We pointed at what we wanted and, a while later, large grilled fillets were served to us as the tide rolled in, literally over our feet. I had the tuna and Heidi the Red Snapper.

Rough waters made navigating the ocean dangerous, so our snorkelling excursion was postponed and, a day later, canceled altogether. A boat sank not far from Nungwi and 18 people died when another capsized near the neighboring island. Ali said he'd refund us for the snorkelling...$60! Considering we paid $460 for four tours, and this was one of the most extensive, I was none too pleased, resolving to stay on Zanzibar an extra day, and involve the local authorities, if need be. We ended up getting $110 only minutes before boarding our ferry off the island (which I stıll felt was unfair but much better than nothing).

We had an extremely rough ferry ride back to the mainland. About an hour into it people were vacating their seats, instead lying on the floor, while others expelled their lunches into plastic shopping bags. Heidi and I were both a bit queezy but faired better than most, combatting the vacillating movements of the ship by focusing on a steady object off in the horizon.

We spent the next four days in Dar es Salaam, and watched as the tensions mounted in Cairo (our next destination) and protests grew larger with calls for the president to step down. After spending one night trying to convince Heidi it would all blow over, I finally realized she was right (and we ought to skip it) the following day. Brad LaNasa, our travel agent (who comes highly recommended) worked some magic and got us re-routed, skipping Egypt altogether and spending extra time in Greece, with a one-night layover in Doha, Qatar (which included a complimentary hotel, courtesy of Qatar Airways).

The Little Engine That Couldn't: Two+ Days on The TAZARA

2011-01-23T09:24:00.004-06:00

Following a rather unimpressive week in Zambia, mostly situated in the capital of Lusaka, Heidi & I began our journey to Tanzania, via the TAZARA train. The Tanzania-Zambia Railway Authority operates two weekly trains in each direction. The journey from Kapiri Moshi, Zambia to Dar es Salaam, Tanzania is supposed to take just over 48 hours, with numerous stops of varying length along the way.

Tickets ran about $35/pp fir first-class accommodations, which consist of four-person sleeper cabins, with each compartment separated by gender. We were able to subvert that rule, however, instead sharing a compartment with another foreign couple that also didn't want to be separated during the arduous journey.

We arrived at the Kapiri station about three hours early and plopped down in some plastic waiting chairs, electing to forgo the first-class waiting area, which was merely another part of the cavernous waiting hall appointed with mismatched and well-worn couches. An hour before our scheduled departure we grabbed a bite from an establishment across the street. Meanwhile, the ticket counter remained closed and other backpackers began spreading rumors of a possible labor strike. (We purchased our tickets in advance but were, nonetheless, concerned about a potential work stoppage.)

The train rolled out of the station two hours late, but not before we were moved to a compartment other than that assigned to us: it was directly next to the toilet. From my experiences with train travel in Eastern Europe I knew that our proximity to the loo would lead to some olfactory discomfort as the trip progressed.

We quickly became acquainted with our compartment mates, a middle-aged, Russian speaking, Ukrainian couple on holiday from their jobs as doctors in a Zambian village which they have called home for the past six years. With typical Ukrainian hospitality, they shared their homemade lunch with us, while I struggled to recall the language which I hold so dear to my heart. Meanwhile, Heidi shot me looks of exasperation, as Tatyana and I both tried teaching her basic phrases.

Over hard-boiled eggs and rice-stuffed green peppers we discussed our travels, malaria (which both physicians have contracted on multiple occasions), the challenges faced working in Zambia (including nearly two years without pay) and the fact that nearly 15% of Ukraine's population works abroad, in search of a livable wage. Eventually, the conversation slowed, at last coming to a halt with the participants turning, instead, to books, magazine and silent reflection. Moments later the rhythmic rumble of the locomotive stopped, while employees feverishly navigated the darkness outside with incandescent flashlights.

After more than an hour of sitting we all started wondering what the delay was, and when it would be remedied, but couldn't get a straight answer from any TAZARA representative, most of whom disappeared during the delay. Around 8:30pm our compartment decided to try and get some sleep, despite the audible exuberance coming from the adjoining lounge car. Shortly thereafter the electricity, throughout the train, went out, throwing us into complete darkness, causing Heidi some anxiety and leading to random knocks on our door from intoxicated revelers passing by. Nearly 12 hours later, as we were all sleeping, the train lurched forward and we continued our journey, with a new locomotive, well behind schedule.

Throughout the next two days we bounced and jerked along the tracks, over rivers and ravines. Each time we stopped at a new village or town, we were met by, what seemed like, the entire population, with new passengers boarding, adults peddling snacks and belts, and children standing outside of first-class passenger cars begging for nearly anything. "Give me money. Give me your shirt. Give me bottle," they pleaded to the foreigners sitting in their, relatively, comfortable compartments. Doctor Tatyana even went as far as making some kids dance in exchange for an empty water bottle. While she thought it amusing, I perceived it to be more than a little humiliating and uncalled for.

On numerous occasions the smell of sewage seeped into our compartment from the toilet next door. At times the stench of stale urine, pooled on the stainless steel floor only feet away, became almost unbearable. Our only relief was opening the window and imploring Hilda, our attendant, to clean the filth up...or at least mask the stench with some disinfectant.

The bathroom compartment consisted of a little more than a stainless throne lacking a seat, with a hole large enough to see the tracks below. Having paid for the added luxury of first class, our compartment was issued one roll of toilet paper for the trip. Another room had two sinks, which often ran out of the (non-potable) water, while a third room housed a shower (which I elected to skip during the ride). As it's nearly impossible to go more than two days without a BM, try as I might, this ride was no exception. At the time my bowels felt as if they might involuntarily relieve themselves I went for it. I had to decide between trying to squat while bouncing down the tracks (risking falling onto the nasty floor), or going while stopped, so that the salespeople right outside could see my excrement fall onto the tracks. I chose the latter, expecting it would be the most pleasant option for me.

We crossed into Tanzania in the middle of the second night, well after we had retired for the evening. First we were greeted by customs agents with a quick stamp of our passports (as we already had visas) and then came the money changers. As passengers are required to pay for food (on the train) in the currency of the country of travel I was obligated to exchange for some Tanzanian Shillings...at the exchange rate these sharks demanded. Having neglected to check the fair market rate ahead of time, I exchanged most of my Zambian Kwacha for about an 80% return! It must be nice to be a money changer without competition! (That being said, every passenger was in the exact same boat as me.)

Finally, after about 64 hours we pulled into the bustling and chaotic Dar Es Salaam station and began our adventures in East Africa...

Sistah Sistah

2011-01-23T03:19:00.025-06:00

From behind a filthy window at the airport lounge we peered down at the people in arrivals, trying to determine which of the white women was the one we sought: Heidi's sister Amy. After hedging our bets we made our way downstairs for the joyous reunion. Following an affectionate sisterly embrace Amy scrambled back to customs, with the (mandatory) information on our accommodation during her time in Zimbabwe.

The three of us stayed with the Giddens' for one night, before catching a coach the following morning to a stop near Hwange National Park, where we would embark on a safari. The bus ride took about seven hours and included two boxed meals from "Chicken Inn," consisting of one piece of fried fowl and a bunch of greasy & soggy fries.

After getting dropped off we were met our driver, who would take us the additional 90 kilometers to Miomba Lodge. On the way we made a quick detour, as we met up with a safari vehicle in hot pursuit of a lion. We spotted the animal, from a couple of hundred meters, near the Hwange airstrip where Amy snapped a couple of pictures from afar.

Upon arriving at the deserted lodge we realized we were the only guests, and it seemed as if very few visitors frequent the place. Later that night, however, we were joined by four other Americans (including three from Saint Louis Park) who camped on the grounds for the evening.

We were waited on by Gladys and Tokes, who were meek yet welcoming and hospitable. The two of them whipped up some lovely meals for the three of us, as we were far from any other dining options.

We stayed in the most basic accommodations offered, which consisted of three single beds with en suite bath. Comparatively, it was a fairly good bargain but also much less extravagant than the tree houses, which are elevated and look out into the bush, giving guests the opportunity to spy wildlife from the comfort of an armchair.

The next morning we were met by Steven, our safari guide. Our chariot for the day was an old 4WD pickup, with elevated benches across the bed (for better game viewing). We loaded in and rumbled down the road to the park entrance, where we each shelled out $20 before being allowed to enter.

The park was fairly devoid of tourists, but Steven explained things were beginning to pick up after the low point, about two years earlier, when international headlines about hyperinflation, food shortages and election violence all but killed the industry. In the early 90's the area was enjoying its peak of activity, with as many as 100 safari vehicles, fully loaded, in the park every day. Nowadays, Steven seemed content to get a small group, like us, once a week!

The safari started out rather slowly, with very little wildlife on the horizon. After an hour or so we stopped at a picnic site, to use the restrooms, where we were, at least, able to capture some photos of various skulls of animals native to the area. When we headed back out things started to pick up a bit...

After only spotting some impala here, and a partially submerged crocodile there, other fauna began to emerge from beyond the thick foliage which had previously camouflaged them. Through a dense grove of tress we were able to catch a glimpse of the light spots of a young giraffe, followed by another. As we moved on two bull elephants could be seen feeding off in the distance. The man-made watering holes were not teeming with fauna, as they are during the dry season when the life-giving resource is only available in a few spots throughout the park.

Eventually we came upon a group of pachyderms feeding alongside the dirt road Steven was driving us down. We stopped. Slowly, more and more of the multi-ton giants emerged from the thicket, uprooting and munching vegetation as they walked. More than a dozen of the beasts crossed our path, front and back, taking little notice of their admirers fervently snapping pictures. On the other side of the road they drank from large puddles and sprayed dirt on their thick skin, in an attempt to cool off from the midday heat. For minutes we watched in silent awe, snapping myriad photos, as newborns and adults alike went about their daily business. (At more than 40,000, Hwange boasts one of the largest elephant populations in the world.)

Before leaving the park we came across zebra, warthogs, baboons, ostrich, distant wildabeest, a crocodile, giraffe, elephants and unknown number and species of birds; enough, at least, to make any Audobon Society member green with envy. All in all, it was an excellent safari, especially given the time of year (wet season), although I left a bit disappointed, as we were unable to spot the illusive king of the jungle, who we had teased us with its presence only a day earlier.

The following day we were transported back to our City Link bus pickup point: the Halfway House Hotel (aptly named, as it is nearly equidistant between Victoria Falls and Bulawayo). When we arrived, around 3pm, were were promptly informed that the bus company had phoned to inform us that the coach would be about 4 hours late, arriving around 9pm. We grabbed some food and tried to pass the time with card games, conversation and reading. Nine o'clock came and went with no sign of the bus. "It will come," we were assured by numerous local men who had taken interest in our plight. At 10pm a hotel employee informed us that everything would soon be closing and we would have to decide whether or not to take a room (as the only thing at Halfway House is the hotel and adjoining bar & restaurant). We convinced the understanding staff to give us until 11pm to decide, as we feared the coach would arrive the instant we shelled out $80 for the room. Around 10:40pm, as the witching hour approached, the bus arrived and we frantically sought out the security guard to unlock the gates, lest we get left behind. We scrambled for seats among the other travel-weary passengers (some of whom left Harare 15 hours earlier) and were off.

We pulled into Victoria Falls around 1am, got a taxi (which an apologetic bus employee paid for out of her own pocket) and arrived at our hostel minutes later. There the guard roused the manager, who sleepily led us to our dorm. As we apologized for our tardiness she shrugged it off with an expression we have fully come to appreciate: "This is Africa!"

Victoria Falls is an adrenaline junkie's dream, with activities revolving around the magnificent natural wonder for which the Zimbabwean town is named. There you can have your choice of bungee jumping, whitewater rafting, lion walks, extreme zip lines, elephant-back safaris and helicopter rides...all for very steep prices. To offset those expenses many people seek out budget lodging, of which our hostel is one of the cheapest. As such, these very same adrenaline junkies are pounding drinks and listening to heart-stopping bass until midnight every night, making rest beforehand nearly impossible.

We spent a day or two just chilling before going to the main attraction, but those days weren't without their stresses. Almost as soon as we left the safety of our hostel we were consistently bombarded by street touts and hustlers, offering everything from carvings to late-night booze cruises to cocaine. Moreover, a simple "no thanks" will not suffice with these lads, as they follow you down the street inquiring, "But, do you know how much I am asking?" Otherwise, they offer to trade for your sunglasses, shoes, cap, or shirt right off your back. (One day I wore my now tatty knockoff Manchester United jersey to some curio shops and was asked by nearly every shopkeeper to trade it.) All the while these salesmen are making statements contradictory to their actions, such as, "No pressure," "free to look," or, my favorite, "Hakuna Matata" (which is Swahili, a language not native to the area). One kid actually accused me of not buying from him because he was black, to which I had to take issue. After all, would I really travel across Africa if I had a problem supporting black business?

Christmas Eve Day was spent at Victoria Falls, which was only a 20-minute walk from our lodging. All the way we could see the mist and hear the thundering roar produced by the falls. While plenty of street entrepreneurs hassled us along the way they quickly disappeared whenever a police officer came into view.

It's $30 to enter the falls, which is on par with Iguazu in Argentina, although this park is far less developed with fewer facilities and unprotected cliffs with drops in excess of 100 meters. We spied a couple of monkeys and a kudu, although the real draw is (obviously) the falls themselves. While Iguazu Falls is wider it is also broken up into a series of numerous different falls, so Victoria Falls holds the claim of the largest waterfall in the world, on account of the longest single curtain of water. The day we toured the falls was during the dry season, which meant a better visual experience, as greater quantities of water create a mist which so dense it nearly completely shrouds the beauty of the falls.

The entire walk, along the Zimbabwean side of the falls, took about two hours. It truly was some amazing scenery, with beautiful rainbows and heart-stopping drops. That being said, I think I was more impressed with its South American counterpart, if for no other reason than the greater number of catwalks affords the visitor many more vantage points, providing for a fuller day (and, in doing so, giving the budget-conscious traveler more bang for their buck).

Christmas was spent at Shoestrings Backpacker's Lodge with dancing and drumming, performed by a ragtag group of boys aptly named the Tin Can Kids. Their percussion instruments consisted of old cars springs, metal cans and plastic jugs. The kids, although not overly impressive, were very cute nonetheless, and performed for donations, proceeds of which would go towards education costs. We were also entertained with some traditional dance and even sang Christmas carols by candlelight...after which the program returned to the club standards of Rihanna and Young Jeezy.

The day after Christmas a City Link Coach brought us to Bulawayo, a rather unimpressive city with the second largest population in Zimbabwe. There we found a moderately well-appointed triple room and passed a few days by eating Chinese take-out, taking Amy souvenir shopping (at a cool co-op where all of the crafts are created by artists with disabilities) and arranging a day trip to Matopos National Park, known for its intriguing balancing rock formations, millennia-old Bushmen cave paintings and a rather impressive rhino population.

Driven to the brink of extinction, due to the ridiculous price a horn fetches in parts of the Middle East and Asia, the rhino has recently thrived in Matopos, thanks to new security measures, including de-horning and an armed ranger patrol. These men, equipped with well-worn Kalishnakov rifles, numer about 50 and are free to shoot suspected poachers on sight. While the Parks Service no longer reports rhino population estimates (so as not to entice more poachers) it publishes any case of a suspected poacher being shot. Signs warn visitors to remain in their vehicles, except at selected viewing platforms, in order to avoid being mistaken for an illegal hunter.

Becks, our guide, brought a couple of loaves of bread to the rangers at the gate, explaining that they are, essentially, stranded for weeks at a time and really appreciate such gestures.

In the game park we immediately came across a group of hippos frolicking in a large pond. As their skin is extremely sensitive to the sun's rays, they spend most of the daylight hours submerged in murky waters. As such, we would only catch a glimpse of the beasts when they came up for air; even then we were able to spot only the tops of their heads. Nonetheless, it was pretty cool to see them interact, all the while making funny, and seemingly jovial, noises.

Next we went in search of the rhinos, of which both white and black meander throughout the fenced in park. Along the trek we stopped to check out rock formations and also spotted baboon, antelope and giraffe. After a few hours our guide gave up, explaining that the dense vegetation hindered our luck. Upon leaving a ranger explained that the rhinos recently moved deeper into the park, as the result of some recent poaching incidents.

We rumbled over to the historic side of Matopos where diamond magnate and colonialist extraordinaire Cecil Rhodes is buried meters from ancient cave paintings. The San are a nomadic people (popularized in the 80's with the comedy The Gods Must be Crazy) who once roamed Zimbabwe and Matopos, now displaced to parts of Botswana and Namibia (and fighting for land rights there...especially since a large diamond reserve was discovered on some of their Botswana territory). Now the only evidence of their former presence here are the ancient cave paintings, carbon dated to be 3,000-6,000 years old and created by mixing blood with a particular tree bark.

The result of a lack of preservation, many of the paintings have worn away due to overzealous tourists seeking "great" pictures of themselves touching the sacred artwork. Our guide managed to show us two fairly well-preserved paintings, one of which was quite off the beaten tourist path. The paintings illustrated hunting parties and the prey which sustained their people, namely large cats and rhino. It was quite an experience to trace the footsteps of a people who had been in that same spot thousands of years before Christ walked the earth.

With a little more time in the day, and a desire to show some Americans how most Zimbabweans live, our guide took us through the oldest ghetto in Bulawayo. Within walking distance of the Central Business District, it was built decades earlier so that working-class blacks could more easily get to their jobs, no doubt serving privileged whites. The neighborhood is a ramshackle collection of concrete homes and tenement housing in very poor condition with yards of dirt strewn with litter. While there, we stopped at a store, had some soda, and snapped pictures of curious kids, delighting them with miniature likenesses thereof, on our LCD screens. While most people were friendly and amused by our presence, we certainly got some scowls as well. Upon leaving our guide explained that the neighborhood is plagued by alcoholism and drug abuse; two problems which seem all too prevalent in ghettos the world over.

The lack of energy in Zimbabwe was no more obvious than it was in Bulawayo, where many gas stations simply had no fuel, while those that did had lines, of more than a dozen cars, snaking around the corner and into traffic.

We spent our last two nights with Amy at Boulder's Creek Lodge, a once thriving hostel and campground on the outskirts of Harare. When overland tours regularly came through, prior to the turn of the century, the place hosted 50-60 guests nightly. Now they are lucky to receive a handful of guests every month. In 2001 the owners were forced to shut down for a spell, when any sort of food became extremely scarce. Since, they have reopened, but not without their share of difficulties. The government (of Zimbabwe) has, on two occasions, seized all of the assets of the company's foreign currency deposit accounts. And while some government small fish have made attempts to seize the property from its white landowners, those were short-lived after a call to one of the establishment's investors: a nephew of President Robert Mugabe.

Our stay was an enjoyable respite from the hustle and bustle of Central Harare, although some local people showed up on New Year's Eve and partied until the break of dawn, making Amy's last night in-country less than restful.

We said our goodbyes to sistah at the airport, where a Customs official completed her sendoff with a $100 fine for overstaying her visa. Some confusion, during her arrival to Zimbabwe, led to her only being granted a seven day visa, while most tourists receive 30.

The next day, after what seemed like and eternity, Heidi and I hopped a bus out of Zimbabwe and into Zambia. Along the way we hit numerous check points, where greedy traffic cops seek bribes as zealously as a babe searching for its mother's teet. Two women on our bus were each fined $20 for peeing in the bushes at one of the stops, and one of them got slapped with an additional $20 for protesting. (Apparently, being a traffic cop is a very enviable position in Zimbabwe because one can earn $200-300 daily in "fines" [e.g. off-the-record bribes].)

Life with the Giddens'

2011-01-23T02:21:00.004-06:00

Just days after losing nearly everything at the hands of some rogues, including my faith in humanity, Heidi and I were hosted by Josh and Virginia Giddens, in their suburban Harare home, for five days. We were put in touch with the family by a friend of Heidi's, whose other friend met Josh and his parents in Tanzania. After sending the couple one text message we were invited into their home without hesitation. We caught a cab and were, forthwith, inside the walls of their Mount Pleasant compound.

To some the term "compound" may evoke visions of religious fanatic David Koresh's burning village in Waco...but, here, I use the term much more generically. The Giddens' have, what I call, a compound for two reasons: the property is surrounded by an 8 foot wall and consists of multiple structures.

I was immediately struck by the enormity of the place, complete with numerous gardens, a pool, multi-stall garage, guest house and a single-story family home with an impressive footprint.

We were greeted in the driveway by the matriarch of the family, a charismatic Westerner with short brown hair and a diminutive frame. She explained that Josh was at basketball practice and invited us in.

The couple teaches International Baccalaureate curriculum at the America International School of Harare, which caters to Westerners, expats and the children of embassy workers from around the globe. This is their third year at the school and they expect to be there for one more before heading off to another school, with new cultural surroundings and a different set of challenges. (They are considering a locale in Eastern Europe and currently have a handful of potential schools in mind.)

One night they explained their motivations for teaching abroad. First and foremost, it seemed to me, was the benefit of their children, Miriam (11) and Peter (3). The quality of education at an International School, coupled with the cultural diversity thereof, cannot be equaled in the United States for an insignificant sum of money (whereas the education is free in Zimbabwe, as they teach at the school.) Moreover, this educational experience is going to put the kids in a more enviable position, when it comes time for college admissions, than their American counterparts.

Beyond the educational benefits, the quality of life (in some respects) is much better than it would be for a couple 0f young teachers back home. First off, the school pays for their housing. Secondly, despite a rather modest income (by American standards) they are able to employ three local people, who also live on the grounds. Elizabeth and Patience work as general housekeepers, tidying the home, washing dishes and taking care of laundry, while a third employee spends his days tending to the garden and manicuring the grounds. (Patience is the mother of Elizabeth, who has two children of her own, a small girl who is strapped to mommy's back all day long and a 7-year-old boy, who is Peter's best bud.)

While I have heard some whites refer to the local workforce as little more than cheap labor the Giddens see them as an extension of their family. Taku, Peter's friend, often joins the family for dinner. Furthermore, when they first arrived in country, Zimbabwe was going through some extreme economic turmoil, and the people in Patience and Elizabeth's home village were starving. The Giddens, with the help of their church, delivered food packets and even hired some farmers to come in and teach the locals how to create sustainable agricultural projects. Now they only have to bring seeds to the village annually.

As if taking care of their own family and employing three Zimbabweans isn't enough, the couple has also taken in a young Kenyan woman, completing her final year of studies at the International School. Joy is 19 years-old and still returns to Kenya to celebrate holidays with her family (hence I presume they host her so that she can receive a better education than if she were just at a local school back home). She is wise beyond her years, incredibly bright and quite well-rounded, sharing a sibling camaraderie with both of the children. She hopes to study in the United States upon completion of her studies in Harare.

Originally, we planned on leaving the Giddens' the day that Heidi's sister, Amy, was to arrive in Harare (to spend her winter break with her kid sister). But the couple extended themselves even further, inviting us to stay a bit longer, offering another room for Amy. We accepted and Josh even hauled us to the airport to pick Amy up...twice! (Upon arriving, the first time, we learned that a connecting flight left without the US passengers and Amy would be spending the night in Ethiopia. Had we taken a taxi we would've spent about $50, there and back, all for not.)

While staying with them we shared family dinners, played board games and just generally felt welcome. Needless to say, we really enjoyed our stay, as well as their hospitality and graciousness. It was just what the doctor ordered, reinvigorating my spirits, and faith in people.

From Rags, to Riches...to Robbed.

2010-12-16T06:48:00.003-06:00

After a very uneventful, and rather boring, four-day stay in Bulawayo (Zimbabwe's second-largest city), we were ready for a change. We decided to hop the overnight train to the capital city of Harare, opting for the (presumed) comfort of a sleeper car over the cramped seats of a combi or touring bus. Besides, at $10/person for first-class it was a bargain, compared to the rates at some of the dumpy lodges and hotels we've experience in the country.

The train was to depart at 8pm and arrive in Harare around 9am the next day. (Certainly a much longer ride than the five hours in a bus, but it was much less expensive, we could stretch out, sleep, and save on one night's accommodation.) As soon as we boarded we began to understand the drastic differences in price.

The floor boards in the hallway of our car were rotting out, to the point that someone is gonna fall right through to the tracks in one of the trips very soon. The entire train car reeked of body odor but, sadly, this is fairly common in buses...and just strolling down the streets of Zim. And, the door to the compartment adjacent ours was in such need of some WD40 that it let out a terribly high-pitched screech whenever the door was opened or closed, and that was quite often. The toilet was disgusting, covered in a black film which I would prefer to never know the source of. But, at least we had a private compartment...

Our first-class compartment was filthy. I mean straight up nasty. It appeared as if maintenance and cleanliness were two things that had not yet been imported to the country. Heidi had decided she would sleep sitting up, not wanting to get her clothes, sleep sheet or body infected by whatever lurk on the pleather bench seats/beds. (Luckily, we were offered bedding, which appeared clean, and were able to put a barrier between ourselves and the remnants of previous passengers.) And as for security, our door was initially built with a sturdy lock (which was now broken) and a little slide chain, similar to those found in hotels and apartment buildings. The little knob for the slide was so worn that it didn't stay in place and was replaced with a large screw fastened into the chain. Nice!

After some time the two of us managed to get some sleep, although it was much less comfortable than the trains I have slept in before (in Eastern Europe). When I awoke the next morning I was sick. My head felt stuffy, pounded terribly and I had convinced myself that it was the result of the nasty odors and invisible creepy crawlies throughout the train. Moreover, I really had to make a #2, but would've rather stuck my ass out the window than use that bad excuse for a toilet. Since we had only about 90 minutes to go, I decided to hold it.

Nine o'clock came and went. Our sheets were collected and another railroad employee popped his head in to tell us we were almost there. Looking out the window I saw no evidence of a city of more than 2 million, but rather that of agrarian society. Finally around 11am, after I had concluded I would die, and gave Heidi my final wishes, we started to see piles of garbage, cramped together buildings and masses of people. Thirty minutes later we were disembarking, giving everyone else in the station something to look (or stare) at. (Apparently, the whites of this country don't take the trains or combis as we get stared at like nobody's business every time we do.)

We ran into some kind of rally about human rights at Unity Square, and the place was packed. People were whipped up into a fervor, but broke up fairly quickly when the keynote speaker was whisked away by a small motorcade. After that we grabbed some pizza and hailed a taxi to Greystone, the neighborhood where we would be staying for 2 nights with Idir, our Couchsurfing host.

When we pulled up to the address given us, after the cabbie asked three groups of men where it was, we were sure a cruel joke was being played at our expense. The home was in a small cul-de-sac with only 4 others, each of which were behind large stone fences with very well manicured shrubbery. The taxi driver pressed the button.

I explained to the disembodied voice on the other end that we were looking for Idir. The man stated that he wasn't there, but let us in anyways. Turns out the guy was the property owner and Idir was renting his guest cottage. The gentleman welcomed us and gave me Idir's cell number, which I promptly called while the man stood watch over us. Over the phone, Idir explained that we should make ourselves comfortable and he would be in a little later, as he was at work. The landlord let us in the cottage and we plopped down on the couch and watched the Food Network until our friend returned home.

Idir was extremely charismatic and friendly from the get-go. He showed us around the house and offered to let us use the showers, which we were both in need of after the arduous train journey. While Heidi was washing up we chatted and I learned that he is an Algerian national working, on contract, here for a company called Telecell, helping to update their network. He explained that he had had similar jobs all over the world, particularly throughout Africa. He was fairly young and was ready to get out later that night and show us a night on the town, and we didn't want to be rude...

As he was leaving for an hour or so, we inquired about nearby dining options. There were none. He then offered to drop us off somewhere or let us dig through his cupboards. (His contract was ending, and although he planned to return in about a month, much of the food would go bad, so he offered it to us, if we could prepare it.) We decided to stay there, whipping up a simple salad and some pan-fried potatoes while he darted out to visit a friend.

When he returned it was time to go. He brought us to a place called Lime, which was similar to nightclubs back home. He continued his generosity by paying our cover before I knew what was going on. And, he even got the first (and later, second) round of drinks. He then took off for a company Christmas party, leaving Heidi and I at the club for about 90 minutes, where we just chatted and people-watched as the DJ played hits from the 90s and machine-generated fog filled the room. Upon his return we took off for a disco down the road.

As we waited in line to pay the $10 cover Idir received a call from a friend. There was a happening private party right next to the Chinese Embassy, and we should go there. Thank God! The last thing I wanted to do was pay $20 to get on a dance floor with a bunch of 19-year-olds. That being said, the people watching outside was a trip and a stark contract to the street scenes of central Bulawayo or Harare. Here kids, black and white alike, were decked out in the latest designer fashions, pulling up in imported European rides that were thumping like my Cadillac back at Henry High. Good times...

Some guards outside the party directed us where to park our car on the lawn, blocking in a dozen others in the process. The party was complete with a DJ and throngs of beautiful people from all over Europe, Africa and India. This was certainly a party for children of diplomats and other movers-and-shakers here in Zim. It was a wild sight, but it wasn't our scene. While Heidi and I stayed close, refusing to mingle with the strange crowd, Idir did the same with his Egyptian buddy. After an hour or so he was ready to go, and so were we. He offered to take us back to the disco we left, but we were spent and all of us headed home for the night.

The next day Idir invited us to lunch with some of his friends. A fellow Algerian was preparing couscous hand-rolled by Idir's mother in Algeria. How could we refuse? We offered to get a bottle of wine for the hosts but Idir refused, as he had a box of soda, beer, wine and liquor which he was already bringing. (Basically, he was cleaning out all drinks from his house, as he was returning to Algeria the following day.)

For lunch we were also joined by a couple of French girls (working at their embassy), a young German woman (in country with an NGO), the Egyptian buddy from the night before, the host, and Momma Rose and her family. Momma Rose is an old Irish lass who spent 30 years in Zimbabwe, before leaving for Italy with her husband when the political situation started to get hot. She was accompanied by her daughter (who recently moved back to Zim, from NYC, to get cheap labor to help raise her son) and her grandson. They were all a trip and seemed to have the mentality that the locals are a bit sub-human to themselves. Rose stated that she never exploited any blacks during her time in-country, but the way they both referred to their helpers was just a little jarring for me.

Together, we shared a wonderful meal of couscous, which was covered in a meaty broth to add some flavor. The conversation was wide-ranging and, at times, interesting but I couldn't help but feel out of place. The French gals seemed a bit self-righteous and Momma Rose's crew a little bigoted. Thankfully, the three North African men were all very engaging, friendly and intelligent. I must say it was a very strange mix of people, but they were all there for a good reason: to bid Idir adieu.

The next morning Idir was leaving very early, allowing us to sleep in and leave at our leisure. As we retired that night we said our farewells, and he even gave us 6,800 Kenyan Shillings (about $80), stating he wouldn't be using it and we should. We explained that we wanted to do more to show our gratitude, but he declined anything else, stating that is not the purpose of Couchsurfing, and suggesting he might hit us up for a place to crash in America someday.

Around 11am (the next day) we ambled out of the gates of our temporary home, with Idir's dog chasing us down the long drive. (She had become quite attached to Heidi, and the opposite was true as well.) We had about an hour walk to the nearest bus stand, where we would take a combi into central Harare and find a budget place to crash. As Heidi's back was hurting, I carried both bags for half the distance. As we were getting fairly close to the main road a little VW Golf pulled up and the driver asked if we wanted a lift.

Exhausted and sweaty I quickly accepted. Being a fairly small ride, the driver stated that we could put the bags in the trunk. After loading them in we hopped in the car.

As we headed down the road the driver engaged us with conversation about Wikileaks, what we thought of Zimbabwe and other rather inconsequential topics. I explained that we really liked the people and felt very safe here. After a short ride he pulled off the road and stated we could catch a bus at the corner. We thanked him for his kindness and I tried to give him some money for gas, but he repeatedly refused. We hopped out and as I opened the trunk the car sped away...with our bags still inside!

I yelled at the top of my lungs, hoping he had made a mistake and simply forgot, but this was clearly a deliberate act. A nearby security guard ran out to check out the commotion, as another man ran towards us and a group of ladies looked on. Everything was gone. We had our cash, credit cards and passports, but everything else was in the trunk of that God-forsaken Volkswagen.

(Usually we keep the hard drive, camera and mp3 player in a separate bag, which never leaves our side. But that day I told Heidi we should put everything in our backpacks, as the combis are very cramped and more bags just mean more hassle. It was the perfect storm of crapiness for us, and made the criminals' haul slightly more valuable than worthless. Beyond the bags and aforementioned electronics there was little more than stinky clothes, toiletries and anti-malaria medicine.)

On the verge of tears, and pissed at myself for being too trusting (i.e. gullible) we moaped over to a nearby military base, explaining what happened to the two camouflaged kids toting AK-47s. They were of little help, but a guy driving into the base said he would take us to the police station after he got some things from inside.

The police station was little more than a counter with two female constables and a two-way radio. There we filed the report, after which we took a cab to the Central Police Station for an official stamp from the officer-in-charge. From there we went to he US Embassy, knowing full-well that they would likely be of little assistance on a Sunday.

After explaining our predicament to the Zimbabwean guards I was allowed into their little outpost, while Heidi sat under the midday sun. Inside I spoke with an American woman, over the phone, who extended her (rather insincere sounding) sympathies and told us to come back the next day.

The following day a consulate officer gave us some info on getting money wired (from family) and where to get more anti-malaria pills before sending us on our way.

At our budget lodge, on a rundown little street close to central Harare, I told our tale of woe to a group of Zimbabwean men who asked how we were finding the country. Once we got into our room I was scolded by Heidi for doing so. She told me that I need to stop telling everyone our business, instead keeping things simple and polite. Although I am rather trusting of people, in general, perhaps she was right...

A day or two later, when we returned from buying some new (rather expensive, but cheaply made) clothes the manager came to our room and said a man wanted to speak with me about what happened to us a couple of days prior.

The man was a middle-aged black dude with a shaved head and salt-and-pepper beard. He asked me to sit before stating that he was sorry to hear what happened to us, but could help us get our things back. What the hell? Immediately I thought this man was working in cahoots with the thieves who had, somehow, found us and came to extort us for our luggage. My head began to pound as a rush of emotions, from relief to anger to violence, filled my being. The I began the interrogation...

The stranger calmly stated he didn't know these men, but could get the things back via African juju: black magic. He offered to perform a spell on my leg, making it swell to twice its normal size, in order to prove his abilities but I declined, instead continuing with questions in order to determine if this man knew our assailants. During our conversation he made two phone calls to someone (that sounded like a woman), speaking in an unfamiliar tongue which was interjected with English words from our conversation.

The man stated that the criminals would be compelled to bring our things to us, due to the juju, if I performed a spell which he would give to me for $30. After our things came back to us he would require an additional $150. Well, even if he was in cahoots with the bastards I would shell out $180 to get all of our things back. So, I inquired more: how would the criminals know where to bring our things? He explained that, since they dropped us off at the lodge, they would know where to go and the juju would force them to do it. But, they hadn't dropped us here and had no idea where we were staying, I explained. Stunned, the man stopped and thought. He explained that the juju would not work, and apologized before walking away. A woman also staying at the guesthouse, who knew this guy, was listening in and explained that another, more powerful, man would visit her he following day and could, possibly, help us. I shrugged and returned to my room.

I am fairly certain that none of those people were affiliated with the thieves, instead either genuine believers in the powers of juju, or simply con artists looking to make a buck on our misery. Regardless, the whole situation made me (and later Heidi, when I explained everything to her) even more uncomfortable, so we decided to check out the next morning and find another place to stay.

Now we are staying with a wonderful couple, who we got hooked up with via Heidi's friend Lorie (and her friend Michelle). With only a text they invited us into their home, which is already plenty full with two kids of their own, another girl they are caring for, two dogs and a cat. They are teaching at the International School out here and have a lovely home, with a beautifully manicured garden. We are sleeping in the rather basic, but nonetheless fabulous, guesthouse. They have been nothing but very kind, even having us join them for a family dinner last night. Their kindness and generosity, along with that of many other people we have encountered, fills my heart with joy...especially after the dastardly act of a couple of dudes whose actions made me want to hop on a jet plane and go home only a few days earlier. (Had it not been for my wonderful Heidi boo, I probably would've done just that.)

Dollar Dollar Bills Y'all...in Zimbabwe!

2010-12-08T07:16:00.006-06:00

Zimbabwe is a country of very recent political and economic turmoil. President Robert Mugabe rules with an iron fist, and has "won" some elections via very questionable methods, including bribery, intimidation, torture and murder. Only recently has he agreed to share power with the Prime Minister, who represents the opposition party. Sadly, that agreement was only symbolic (to pacify the people) and the power still remains firmly in the hands of Mugabe's Zanu PF party.

In the last decade Zimbabwe experienced unheard of hyperinflation. According to Forbe's Magazine, by December 2008 annual inflation was estimated at 6.5 quindecillion novemdecillion percent (6.5 x 10¹⁰⁸%, the equivalent of 6 quinquatrigintillion 500 quattuortrigintillion percent, or 65 followed by 107 zeros – 65 million googol percent). Needless to say, life savings were wiped out and even bread became something most could not afford. As a result, the government abandoned the Zimbabwean Dollar last year and adopted the US Dollar as its currency (despite the fact that it was previously illegal to use USDs in Zimbabwe!)

So, who wouldn't want to come visit, right?

Unfortunately, I have no pictures to post for this blog, as taking photos on the street is currently illegal in Zimbabwe...as is being a homosexual (but only if you are male)...oh, and so is writing anything disparaging about President Mugabe (so if I get locked up please delete this blog). The day we arrived in Bulawayo a protest by gays and other sexual minorities was quickly quashed by police.

We left Botswana for Zimbabwe in short order, as we were desperately hoping to find some reasonable accommodations at a fair price. Our tour book, published just last year, stated a backpacker's joint in Bulawayo would cost $5/pp for a dorm and $20/night for a private double. But, when we got there we discovered prices had dramatically increased, with the doubles going for $60/night. We haggled for $50 and stayed for two nights, before moving on to the ratty, but functional, YWCA where a double is $20/night.

While prices for some restaurants are equivalent to those back home, other places are really cheap. We have had sadza and beef twice, for about $1/plate. (This is a traditional meal which is eaten by hands. The sadza, made from corn meal, is balled up and used as the utensil and flavor sponge.)

Power also seems to be unreliable here in Zimbabwe. One night we splurged and had a nice meal at a local sports club. When power went out there they had a backup generator: a sure sign that the occurrence is not a rarity here. When we got back to the hostel they had candles all over and flashlights for us to use. We also met a white Zimbabwean who started leasing out his gas station because of the unreliability of fuel in the country. We have seen numerous gas stations with signs stating that there is no gas or diesel available. Those that do have it are charging just over $5/gallon!

Speaking of the white guy we met on the street, he was quite the storyteller. Upon seeing us he practically ran over to greet us. When he realized we were foreigners he opened up. The older gentlemen, who smelled of beer and had quite the neck beard going on, stated that he once owned an 18,000 square kilometer game farm just outside of the city. He used to take "people like (me)" there in order to hunt the wildlife that roam there. About four years back the government seized his farm and tossed him in jail. (This was part of a widespread government initiative seeking to right the wrongs of colonialism, thereby seizing land owned by whites and giving it to black Zimbabweans.) The nine Land Rovers he purchased, for game drives, sit next to his fuel station, rusting out.

The man was clearly bitter, pointing to some blacks on the street and stating that they are the ones who are driving the latest model cars and wearing the newest fashions. He recalled how government officials have intimidated him, even stating that it is possible that he could disappear, and would never be found by anyone. He also mentioned a (presumably white) friend who was extorted at one of the many police roadblocks around the country...simply because his truck was too dirty! (In reality, he said, it was just one of many ways that the police use their power to get bribes, or make life hell for those who object.) Although the man was clearly racist, he had a lot of interesting things to say, and I appreciated listening to him. And, although colonialism was the cause of many injustices, worldwide, I question whether the current land seizure program (which continues rolling along) is really the best way to right the ship...

One final note: Although the currency is the US Dollar, all change is given in South African Rand, as nickels and dimes are nowhere to be found here in Zimbabwe. Additionally, South African Rand and Botswana Pula are widely accepted, albeit for a sometimes unfair rate. And, the money here s straight nasty. Since banks here don't have the ability to exchange spoiled bills with the Federal Reserve they remain in circulation, often looking more like dookie brown than dollar green. And there are more two dollar bills here than at Monticello (the home of T Jefferson, not the town in MN).

Needless to say, Zimbabwe is a trip! Soon, we'll be off to the more touristy areas of Harare, Victoria Falls and Hwange National Park, as Heidi's sister is coming over to join us for Christmas.

Pole, Pole, Pole Our Boat...

2010-12-08T06:35:00.005-06:00

After staying in the rather unimpressive capital of Gaborone, Botswana for a couple of days (with a very gracious Peace Corps Volunteer) Heidi and I hopped on a cramped minibus, bags in tow, for the bus terminal. The terminal is a chaotic mix of hawkers, minibuses, full-size buses and travelers where the western tourist can become easily intimidated.

Heidi and I had planned to head for the town of Maun, along the eastern edge of the Okavanga Delta, where we would chill for a few days and take a trip up the river in a traditional boat, known as a mokoro. As our book stated there were no direct buses we planned to travel to Francistown, overnight there, and continue on the next morning to our ultimate destination. Luckily, Heidi spied a full-size bus bound for Maun, so we inquired with the driver: it would arrive around 9pm and he would help prearrange lodging for us, so two clueless honkeys weren't roaming the streets after dark. Good enough. We hopped on and waited for all the seats to fill up, at which point we'd depart.

The ride was about 10 hours and nothing too interesting. Most stops were only long enough for passengers to get off, while others scrambled on to fill the vacant seats...and sometimes stand in the aisle. Additionally, men and women alike would hop on to sell cold drinks, (cold) fried chicken & chips, magazines, belts, and pretty much anything else one might need. We had some fried chicken around lunch time, having missed an opportunity to eat on a previous bus trip. It was greasy and cold, but it was sustenance.

As we arrived on the outskirts of Maun the driver stopped and called a lodge from right outside of its walls, inquiring if rooms were available for us. It was full. We continued on to the BP station in town, where all of the remaining passengers exited the bus and were whisked away by waiting taxis, friends and family. Meanwhile, we stood there...clueless. The driver explained the person he had charged with finding us a room wasn't answering, but he did finally reach him and the young man arrived in a rickety taxi a few minutes later. He drove us to a budget hostel in town. It, too, was full. I asked if we could use his phone and call a place in our book, but his phone's battery was dying and couldn't make calls. So, we hopped back in his car and he drove us to another place. It was also fully booked!

Just down the road was another spot, for around $100/night. It was way out of our budget but it was also late and we didn't have the luxury to be picky. Regardless, they had no rooms for us either. At the next lodge the manager explained they had one vacant room, but it was reserved and if we took it we would be subject to eviction, should the party who held it arrive. No dice! The manager was nice enough to call a place in our guidebook and inquire for us. Rooms were available. Score. He reserved a spot, under our name, and we were good to go...or so I thought.

Turns out that neither the manager or our driver knew of this other place...or how to get there. He asked for directions on the phone, but they both still seemed bewildered. So, we jumped in the car en route to the area where we thought the place was. On the way we came to the lodge I initially wanted to call, and our driver asked if we wanted to check there. Why the hell not. After driving off the highway we drove along a muddy road, surrounded by water on both sides, until finally pulling up to a gate. Our driver yelled for the watchman. Luckily for us there was a room...or rather a tent. It wasn't just any tent, but a nice canvas job on a concrete slab, covered by a corrugated steel roof. Inside were two comfy beds, and a small table with a lamp. Quite a nice little spot. We snapped it up, and thanked the driver for his troubles, both in words and Pula (the currency in Botswana).

Our digs ended up being a fabulous little spot, for a reasonable price. Both the toilets and showers were outside, with no roofs, surrounded by reed and bamboo for privacy. Rather than having doors a simple rope drawn across the entrance indicated whether or not the facilities were occupied. We were right on the river and the bar was also outdoors, complete with a pool table, thatched roof and a great vibe.

The next day we registered, got some groceries in town, and booked a mokoro trip up the Okavanga Delta. A mokoro is a traditional Botswana boat, and is made by carving out a single log. The task is arduous and can take up to three months, completed solely by the individual who will act as the poler, or operator, of said vessel.

After a one hour ride up the Delta in a speedboat we were dropped off on the bank of the river, near the village of Boro. There we met Timon, our poler for the day, and hopped into his boat. Our camp supplied little plastic chairs, for back support, and we were off. Between Heidi, myself and Timon, the boat was absolutely full. While we sat, he stood in the back and pushed us along with a pole, much like an Italian gondola.

The edges of the boat sat just inches above the surface of the crocodile-infested water, and we had a very slow leak too. About once an hour Timon would take a break from poling to sponge out some of the water that had accumulated on the bottom of the boat. "No worries," he assured us as he squeezed the excess back into the river. What we did have to worry about, he observed, was angry hippos or elephants. Although such incidents were rare, they could certainly cause us plenty of problems. He also stated that the crocs were not aggressive and we should remain calm if we saw any, as anxious passengers could cause him to lose his balance, and overturn the mokoro.

As he pushed us through reeds and along water lilies he explained something about the indigenous uses of the mokoro, which ranged from transport, to fishing, to going into the delta to harvest reeds for home building. Beyond that (and the occasional speedboat or tour plane flying overhead) it was absolutely silent and serene.

Timon also explained that he was part of a polers cooperative in Boro. The prices for mokoro rides are fixed and all of the community shares in the profits brought in from the venture. Every morning a number of polers show up in the center of the village and learn whether or not they will have to work that day. He had been working in that capacity for 15 years and said he enjoyed it.

After nearly two hours in the mokoro we pulled up to an island and disembarked for a bush walk. Timon prepared us for disappointment, explaining that, in all likelihood, we would see nothing more than scat and tracks, as most animals were inactive during the heat of the day (and it was HOT). But, as soon as we emerged from some flora there was a lone bull elephant gnawing on some grass. He was a good 200 meters away, but Timon told us to proceed with caution, and we took refuge behind a termite mound. If the beast smelled or saw us there could be trouble. As the pachyderm rumbled closer to our position our guide moved us further into the bush. Then the giant turned and headed the other way, so we continued on our walk, transfixed on the elephant for some time.

Along the way we also saw antelope, a warthog, a water buffalo carcass and myriad species of bird. All in all it was a very nice nature walk, but we were both exhausted by the time we arrived back at the shore for lunch, before heading back to Boro and our awaiting speedboat.

Random Items from South Africa...

2010-11-29T07:23:00.008-06:00

Sorry it's been so long since I have posted a blog but internet access in South Africa has either been painfully slow, expensive or both. We are now in Gaborone, Botswana where it seems to be a little better. Beyond that, there is nothing much to do in this little national capitol, so I'm gonna try to catch you up on our last week or so in South Africa...

Bob Has His Head in SKY.

SKY stands for Soweto Kliptown Youth, and is a foundation for the children of Kliptown, one of the poorest areas in Soweto, a very large town on the outskirts of Jo'Burg. Kliptown is the home to some 50,000 people, in a huge informal settlement that consists of ramshackle homes, porta-potties and shared wells for hundreds. As an orphaned child, Bob grew up on these very streets and wanted to make sure other kids didn't have to go through what he did, so he founded SKY...AT THE AGE OF 16! Today SKY feeds three squares to about 300 kids every single day. Beyond that, the organization has a daycare for working mothers, and is home to more than a dozen children who have nowhere else to go. He has taken some of the poorest children in South Africa to compete in soccer tournaments in Norway, and other points abroad...all for free! Bob is an amazingly inspiring man and I was truly blessed to spend some time with him, just chatting and learning about his philosophies on life. He even abandoned his, relatively, comfortable bedroom so that the kids who live at SKY have a refuge from their shared bedrooms, if they need a little space or added comfort. All of the money for SKY comes from private sources and grants which Bob seeks out. I met this guy and there is nothing shady about him. There is no channeling money for personal gain, or anything. He is just a sincere man with an enormous heart and genuine concern for the Kliptown kids. If you can, consider giving something to SKY and let Bob know what a wonderful thing his organization is doing...

Please Boss...

After Jo'Burg we went to Cape Town for four days. There we explored the city center, checked out a castle established in the late 17th century by the Dutch East India Company, visited the opulent waterfront and took a hike to the top of Lion's Head peak. Our visit there was fairly nice but, all in all, I wasn't a big fan of the city...or the country as a whole. While apartheid was abolished two decades ago, it still seems like most of the power, and wealth, is in the hands of the minority: those of European descent. Things have improved greatly, but there is still a mentality that whites are better, smarter and more privileged than those who have lived on this land for millennia. I was often called "boss" by black South Africans asking for a handout, and it made me cringe every time. Perhaps that is merely a term of respect here...but I think it harkens back to the days when former President Nelson Mandela was serving time on Robben Island and black school children were being forced to learn Afrikaans.

It's Freakin' Expensive Here!

For some reason I thought that stuff in Africa would be cheaper...especially places to stay. Well, that's certainly not the case. For the first two nights in Cape Town we shelled out somewhere around $43/night for a double room, or two bunk beds. We were on the rather trendy Long Street, but that is 4 times more than we spent in some touristy areas of Bolivia. Luckily, we did manage to find a place for nearly half the price for our final two days in Cape Town. And, while we had an en suite bathroom at that place the neighborhood was a bit sketchier and we really had to be back by nightfall. One night we ventured out for pizza a few blocks away and by the time we headed back --around 8:30pm-- people were already starting to eye one another with suspicion on the street.

We have also encountered expensive lodging in Kimberley, Mafikeng and now in Botswana. I think the main reason for this is the lack of an established backpacker network. Most of those who travel in Africa have some cash and yearn for luxury accommodations. In fact, I am beginning to think that backpacking in Western Europe would have been cheaper, simply because there is a network of hostels all throughout the continent. When you have a $70/day budget (for two people) and $45 is going towards lodging there isn't much money left for anything else, and that blows!

A little US History...in Cape Town...

The Confederate warship the CSS Alabama spent a short time in Cape Town during the US Civil War. The ship was built, in secret, by some Brits and handed over to Confederate troops. While the ship never docked in a Confederate Southern port, it terrorized Union vessels --primarily merchant ships-- around the world during the Civil War. In all, the ship was responsible for the destruction of 65 Union vessels, never harming crew or passengers of the enemy, but rather detaining them only until they could be dropped with a neutral party. During its South African expeditionary raid the ship stopped in Cape Town for provisions. As a result, the ship is a piece of South African lore, complete with an Afrikaan tune entitled, "Daar Kom die Alibama." The ship was destroyed by the USS Kearsarge, off of France, in 1864.

A Big Hole, Thousands of Lives Lost & One Mammoth Diamond Empire.

From Cape Town we took a bus to Kimberley, where we were dropped off (around 1am) in the tourist center parking lot, along with a handful of other travelers. Luckily, we had made prior arrangements with a guest house/hostel in town and the proprietor said we could give him a ring when we got in, and he'd come swoop us up. Unfortunately, the phone only accepted pre-paid cards, but a very nice man allowed us to use his celly. Our driver was there a few minutes later and we were off to la la land.

The impetus for our visit to Kimberley was to visit the, aptly named, Big Hole. The Big Hole is proported to be the largest hole, excavated by hand, in the world (although there is some controversy surrounding this as a historian, a few years back, made a claim that the title really belongs to another open pit diamond mine in South Africa. But, I digress...). Even more importantly this is the spot where Cecil Rhodes created the De Beers company, named after the family farm on which a diamond was found...leading to the coming frenzy which brought some 50,000 hopefuls to Kimberley.

Initially, the Big Hole was a number of separate claims, with each being pain-stakingly dug by individual people, and their help. But, through time this changed and two men competed for control of the entire mining operation...one of whom was Cecil Rhodes. Eventually, he bought out Barney Barnato and De Beers was started. Today the company only controls 40% of the diamond industry, although it used to have its paws on more than 90%. The diamond trade is a business which I am not too fond of, and this visit only solidified that. The rush for the diamonds at the Big Hole resulted in the loss of countless lives (estimated at between 20,000-30,000) all for a poultry 3 tons of diamonds. Is it really worth it?

(There is actually a rich diamond field in Arkansas but, because conditions for miners are so poor, it will never become a commercial operation. That being said, you can take your family there and go dig for your own treasure, for only a few bucks. Hillary Clinton's 4 carat rock on her wedding band came from that very field.)

A Portrait of Long Street, Cape Town

2010-11-18T08:48:00.003-06:00

Sitting on the balcony of our lodging for the night in Cape Town, South Africa, I take some time to just watch the world go by...

The entire evening, football fans are walking up and down the street, donning the yellow and gold of team South Africa. Many faces are painted, the revelers hooting and hollering, while many others are blowing the God-forsaken vuvuzela, a plastic horn which gained international notoriety during the 2010 World Cup. Around 8pm the thickness of football fans on the sidewalk increases, and their joy seems to indicate that their team was triumphant. (It wasn't until the next morning that I learned the team, in fact, fell...to the USA of all teams, just down the street at Cape Town Stadium, during the Nelson Mandela challenge.)

The most flamboyant of all fans is a rather skinny black man, draped in all sorts of yellow and gold, along with the colorful South African national flag. On top of his head he his wearing, or rather carrying, a headdress which towers more than two meters above his dome. It has six vuvuzelas protruding from all sides and additionally consists of a hodgepodge of housewares, including boxes, bags, garland and anything else that is colorful, eye-catching, and blows in the wind. Truly, a spectacular homage to Bafana Bafana (a Zulu term which means, "Our boys," and is the local nickname for the national team).

While the football fans leave the pubs, and nearby stadium, two scantily clad women in high heels take up posts on the street corners. They don't appear to be prostitutes...but aren't far of either. They are both handing out fliers, but only to men. And, not only are they hitting up pedestrians, but also bouncing out into traffic as well, high heels clicking on the pavement along the way, in order to solicit their (stripping/exotic dancing) services to guys in their cars, waiting for the light to turn green.

As I watch the world go by, I take note of the roof of the Grand Daddy Hotel, just across the street from me. Atop the third floor of this rather chic Cape Town hotel sits seven vintage Airstream trailers, imported form the United States. The shiny, aerodynamic mobile homes now sit there for the African traveler who wishes to, as their website puts it, "pimp their park life and flash their trailer trash." (At nearly $180/night that is one experience I didn't need to experience.)

A Cape Coloured woman, who is clearly down on her luck, walks up and down the sidewalk, with a lime green backpack on, asking passers-by for change. She is met with a chorus of shaking heads. She persists with a cabbie, and he finally obliges her with a few pence. (Cape Coloured is a commonly used term here on the cape and refers to people of either mixed ancestry, or those of Malay descent brought to this part of the world, by the Dutch East India Trading Company, for slave labor.)

A man with a bright orange vest scrambles up and down the road, directing motorists as they park along the street. With a combination of whistles and hand gestures the man, working solely on tips, prevents the motorist from hitting the car behind them, or from scraping his fancy rims on the concrete curb. As you handle your business, whether it be for work or pleasure, he'll also keep an eye on your ride. (But be sure to tip, lest you get jacked.) Music begins pumping out of a nearby dance club.

A black public safety officer wearing a neon green vest, armed with only a radio and baton, pushing a rickety mountain bike, calls a young man over to him for an unknown offense. The man, amongst a gaggle of other pedestrians, realizes he is being summoned and only continues walking, now a little faster, away from the cop. The cop motions again, this time raising his voice, only just slightly. The man keeps walking, and begins to jog as the cop starts trying to negotiate the crowds with bike in hand. As the violator rounds the next corner the officer gives up and radios in a description of the offender. A car horn honks.

As night begins to blanket the cape On Broadway Theatre lets out from a showing of, "Cracks in the City," the comical performance of a multi-cultural female foursome. The crowd is well-dressed and mainly white. They scurry along quickly to their waiting chariots so that they might drive off to the comfort of their secure suburban flats or houses with 8 foot concrete walls and electrified fences. All the while bass thumps from passing cars and an errant vuvuzela sounds from the mouth of a tipsy football fan down the street.

A white plain-clothes officer patrols Long Street in an unmarked white pickup with matching topper. On two occasions he stops parked (black) taxi drivers, blocking them in and lighting up the surrounding buildings with blue from his hidden emergency lights. The officer gets out. He is wearing jeans, a navy polo and has a revolver on his hip. He photographs one of the taxis, most certainly for operating without the proper license, and orders the driver to get lost and not to return. The second cab driver is legit and is released a short time after his paperwork is scrutinized.

Around 10pm a small sidewalk cafe next to the theatre closes down for the evening. The balding and middle-aged (white) proprietor shuffles onto the sidewalk and stacks the white plastic chairs before hauling them in, followed by a couple of tables. The lights click off a the door locks.

An angry black transvestite, wearing a shoulder-length blond wig, black heeled boots, a tight short black skirt and grey top, clomps across the street, with little regard for the cars zipping along the road. She is upset and begins yelling at someone (whom I cannot see because they are below me) in an indigenous tongue, likely Xhosa or Zulu (although difficult to say, as there are 11 different official languages in South Africa). After she says her piece she walks away briskly, from the direction she came, only to return and yell just a little more. Again, she leaves.

A car with a noisy exhaust passes by.

Long Street.

My South America Excellent Eleven...

2010-11-14T08:15:00.020-06:00

...because a Top 10 is so cliche.

11. Spying penguins, from a rocky boat. Islas Ballestas. Paracas, Peru. There aren't a lot of places in the world where you can see penguins waddling along in their natural habitat. Luckily for me, I was able to go on a (relatively inexpensive) tour where our very skilled boat driver took us extremely close to the rocky outcroppings, in very rough waters, which the Humboldt penguins call home.

10. Strolling through the Witch's Market. La Paz, Bolivia. This is, without a doubt, the only place I have been where you can pick up a llama fetus, talisman, and an aphrodisiac on the street. The dried fetuses were the most bizarre sight amongst the goods for sale, and are buried by the poor when a new home is constructed.

9. Bodega Wine Sipping. Cafayate, Argentina. I have never been a big fan of wine, nor do I know much on the subject. In Cafayate, as a result of perfect conditions, the myriad bodegas and vineyards make the divine drink difficult to avoid. Over the period of a few days we visited four vineyards, giving me an appreciation for the work that goes into producing the stuff. And, the free samples were a nice bonus too!

8. Overnight family stay on the tranquil Taquile Island. Lake, Titicaca, Peru. Truly, this entire tour was really quite pleasant, and a bargain at that. The unique, man-made, Uros islands were fascinating, as were the cultural & societal norms on Amantani (island). But, sharing a home with a humble family on the incredibly quiet Taquile island was the frosting on the proverbial cake. Beyond their graciousness and the town dance (in which we participated), it was quite relaxing to hear sheep out the window, rather than incessant horn honking.

7. Hiking to hidden waterfalls along the Rio Colorado. Cafayate, Argentina. We almost didn't make it to this hidden gem, as I was too cheap to shell out some $5 to have a local kid guide us. Luckily, some young girls saw me leading us up the wrong riverbank and corrected our course. After a two-hour walk we arrived at the third, and most spectacular, waterfall. The water was extremely frigid, but we had brought our suits and were obligated to utilize them. After another small group left we were the only people at this great little spot, making us feel like the only people in the world. (Sadly, the walk back out, plus 5 more kilometers back to town, wasn't romantic, so much as backbreaking.)

6. Sandboarding & riding a dune-buggy in the desert. Huacachina, Peru. This place is truly a little oasis, and a great getaway from the main tourist track in Peru. Surrounded by a lake, this seemingly sleepy village is perfect for a postcard, as seen from a distance. Get a little closer and it becomes clear that this is a haven for adrenaline junkies and young backpackers looking to let loose. Although we didn't exactly fit the profile it was nice for a couple of days. And the highlight was doing 60 mph up and down sand dunes, only to be let out of the buggy and given a board to ride down on.

5. Climbing to the top of Huayna Picchu with the sun rise. Machu Picchu, Peru. Getting up at 4:30am isn't usually very rewarding. But when the payout is a picture-perfect day on a peak nearly 1,200 feet above the ancient site of Machu Picchu it's more than worthwhile. Getting up to the top is about a two-hour hike, at a very reasonable pace. It's pretty steep at times, but certainly possible for anyone in decent shape. Only 400 people are allowed to climb Huayna Picchu everyday, so get there early and get your admission ticket stamped. The only drawback is that it's packed at the top!

4. Following the Che Guevara trail. La Higuera & Vallegrande, Bolivia. I learned a lot about the iconic revolutionary hero as we followed the last days before his execution, arriving at the spot his lifeless body was photographed by the world press exactly 43 years, to the day, after the historic execution. He was certainly an amazing man, who held noble ideals and gave himself to causes he believed in worldwide. His greatest flaw led to his untimely demise: an unwillingness to negotiate via any means other than force.

3. Gazing down the Devil's Throat. Iguazu Falls, Argentina. With 275 individual falls, Iguazu is truly a spectacle to behold. From the Argentine side there are a number of breathtaking vistas from which to admire the rushing water, with some catwalks close enough for a good soaking. But, the highlight of Iguazu is certainly La Garganta Del Diablo, better known as the Devil's Throat. You are perched right above the gigantic U-shaped waterfall, rife with rainbows and fluttering birds, which make their nest behind the mighty falls.

2. Partying til the break of dawn with a fellow Northsider (and her studly Argentine man). Buenos Aires, Argentina. They say that Porteños party like nobody else, and Chelsea and Ale certainly showed us that was the case. After a dinner, sometime around 10pm, we started off with a couple of libations at their pad, only to head out to the FIRST party just after midnight. We hit the club as the clock neared 3am! And when we finally emerged from the subterranean disco the sun had already made her appearance...for the following day!

1. Kickin' it with capuchins @ Inti Wara Yassi. Villa Tunari, Bolivia. If you are a frequent reader of my blog you may find this a bit contradictory to statements I made in the blog about this experience. True: it was grueling work with long days and no time off. True: the dormitory conditions are slightly better than horrendous. That being said, it's hard to fathom something more rewarding on this journey, thus far. I was privileged to have the honor of working with capuchins in their natural habitat. While the alpha male would, occasionally, challenge me by jumping on my back or showing his very sharp teeth, some of the others would groom me, or even nap in my lap. It is certainly not for the faint of heart, but is an incredible experience and one I will never forget.

Two Weeks in the Paris of South America...

2010-11-08T15:48:00.021-06:00

Well, we´re wrapping up our time in Argentina...not to mention South America. Although we have both had a wonderful time on this continent, I think we are also both ready to move on to something new. (Truth be told, I´m getting a little homesick too. Having been away from the people and things I love for months is extremely challenging and would be downright unbearable without Heidi.) On Thursday morning we´ll arrive in Johannesburg for another round of culture shock, and a trek that should take us, overland, from South Africa to Nairobi in about 10 weeks.

Since arriving in Buenos Aires we have been the guests of Chelsea and Ale, and they have been more than accommodating to our every need. (For those of you who don´t know, Chelsea is a friend from back home who moved down here about a year ago after falling for her very dreamy Porteño, Alejandro. He and I first met nearly two years ago when he came up to Minnesota to stay with Chelsea for six months.)

Grub

One of the things that stands out most about Argentine culture, especially in the glamorous metropolis of BA, is the cuisine. The majority of Porteños take their dining experiences very seriously, and as such the majority of restaurants have white linen table service with bow-tie clad waiters. Even at your typical pzza and pasta joint the experience is much more than just one for the taste buds. Unfortunately, the added quality of service, and attention to detail with the meals, adds to the final price. Dining out here is nearly as expensive as it is in the U.S., although you will get more bang for your buck down here...most of the time.

Since arriving we have feasted on baked Keppe at a Middle-Eastern restaurant, had McDonald´s delivered, licked our fingers after devouring pizza with palm hearts, and eaten some fabulous steak that our host prepared for us. Beyond that, we have sampled more amazing flavours of ice cream, from artisanal heladerias (ice cream shoppes), than I care to mention in this blog. The food has been outstanding, and much better than anything we experienced in either Peru or Bolivia. Like I said, there is a price to pay for the higher quality...and that affects the bottom line (not to mention my attitude since I can be a little Scrooge-like while we are on such a tight budget.)

The Cafe

We also ate a very hearty, and tasty lunch, at a cafe run by Ale and his sister, Anahi. The two of them just took over the joint about six months ago but seem to be doing well for themselves. It´s in a business district and serves up coffee, medialunas, and some lunchtime fare to busy executives from early morning to early evening during the week. The food was good and the atmosphere is clean and modern. My only suggestion would be to raise the prices, as some of the stuff is priced considerably lower than it is at neighboring eateries.

A Piece of America

On our first full day here we took a trip to the US embassy, in order to have pages added to our passports. (Although we both have a number open right now, the State Department advises travellers to African nations to have lots of open spaces for visas. Some tourists have been denied entry to a country for not having THREE clean pages!) While the process was rather quick it was pretty disappointing to learn that the fee is $82/pp, as opposed to the price from just a few months ago, when it was Free-99. But, what´s a guy to do? Although sitting in the embassy was a rather unimpressive experience, it was unique to have a man with clear English help us, and to see all the red, white and blue throughout the place. I rejoiced in sitting in a little piece of America, lamenting only that it lacked the Mountain Dew and overweight majority that I have come to miss back home.

Turistas

As for being tourists, we have done plenty of that too. We got a tour of the House of Congress which, while impressive from the outside, is totally worth skipping. From there we walked down the main drag to the Pink House, the South American version of our White House. The feminine-hued building was the site of national mourning only days earlier, as former president and sitting first-husband, Nestor Kircher passed away the day we arrived in Capital Federal. In San Telmo we window shopped among numerous antiques, and peeped out a Russian Orthodox church, built with materials shipped over from the Motherland. We were amongst a handful of tourists at the tomb of Evita Peron at the famous, and beautiful, Recoleta Cemetery. The four of us strolled amongst the waterways, skyscrapers and fancy restaurants of Puerto Madero, sipping on overpriced drinks as the sun set behind us. And we, quite literally, smelled the roses on a stroll through El Rosedal not to be confused with the mall in the St. Paul suburb.

The Countryside

We also got out of town on two occasions. First, Heidi and I took a two-hour bus ride out to San Antonio de Areco, a quite little town about 70 miles outside of the city. There we checked out a traditional gaucho estancia and marvelled at the spectacular works of the multitude of silversmiths throughout the peaceful village. The weather was perfect and it was nice to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city, if only for an afternoon. (Sadly, we timed our visit poorly, missing the Fiesta de la Tradicion by only a day. There we would have seen gaucho demonstrations and people all geared up in the traditional clothes of yesteryear.)

The following day all four of us, and Ale´s bud Christian, took a train out to Tigre, a town that many Porteños visit for weekend getaways. The place is along the river and many residents live in neighborhoods along a series of waterways throughout the delta region. We spent that afternoon just strolling about and checking out the things for sale at the rather large weekend market. Unfortunately, the wares available were more geared towards the BA resident looking to add some pizzaz to their home decor, rather than the gringo tourist looking for a cool bracelet.

Illin´

Sadly, we have slowed down a bit over the past few days, as Heidi has been battling an upper respiratory illness. My self-diagnosis is a non-contagious strain of bronchitis brought on by the city´s pollution and abundance of cigaretter smokers. (She seems to be improving but we plan to get a professional´s opinion if she has not improved by tomorrow. We actually went to the hospital today, but only the ER was open due to a municipal holiday. A doctor there said only people needing immediate medical attention should wait.)

Ganked

The day we went to the embassy I also withdrew 800 pesos, equivalent to about $200. Chelsea was nervous about me carrying around that kind of cash, stating that our next stop was in a bit of a sketchy neighborhood. I told her I´d take some of the loot out of my wallet before that and place it somewhere else...just in case. Well, as we waited in the embassy I took out the majority of the cash and put it in a zippered pocket close to my chest. I also put my credit card there, but put it back in my wallet a short time later, after convincing myself it was much ado about nothing. Of course I didn´t feel that way after three punks on the subway relieved my of the wallet and its contents.

The subway was pretty busy, and bodies were definitely touching as the train sped from station to station. Two stops before our final destination three kids got on the train, clapping and singing as they embarked and shuffled right over to me. Suddenly they stopped with all of the noise. A minute later we got off and I, being the paranoid type, checked the pants pocket which held my wallet and Heidi and my passports. It had been secured with a zipper and velcro flap. The zipper was open...and the wallet gone! As we reviewed the situation Chelsea said she heard one of the kids say, "It´s mine," no doubt talking about my cheddar. Although I was pretty pissed about the situation, I was glad that they left the passports and that Chelsea advised me to move the majority of my money elsewhere. All told, the kids got the equivalent of about $25. I called my bank and canceled the credit card as soon as we got back to Chelsea and Ale´s crib. (I have a different bank card, for just such a situation, so we still have access to cash. What sucks is that the card that got stolen charged no ATM fees and actually REFUNDED thoses from other banks. So, now I have to pay about $10 in service fees for every withdrawal, as opposed to $0 with my stolen Charles Schwab card.)

Nightlife

For most Argentines, dinner is between 9pm and midnight. As such, they get a later start on the evening than I am accustomed to. As a result of the later start, they also have a much later finish, as Heidi and I experienced the night we went out with Ale, Chelsea and (their friend) Becky for some Halloween parties on the Saturday before the 31st.

I think we ended up leaving for the first party around midnight. It was heavily attended by expats, and they were in full swing by the time we arrvied. We hung out there for about two hours, mainly sticking to ourselves, drinking beer, dancing and eating cookies before heading to the club...a little after 2am! After paying our entry fees we slowly made our way through the throngs of revellers down to the dance floor. At that point we were two floors underground, among thousands of drunk and sweaty Argetines, and all I could think is that we would certainly die in the event of a fire. (Tragically, nearly 200 people died, and hundreds more were hurt in a club fire here in BA less than six years ago, causing the auhorities to crack down --at least a little-- on dangerous clubs.)

After grabbing our drinks we moved up one floor, as the dance level was so packed it was nearly impossible to move, let alone get your groove on. On the upper floor we had some wiggle room and just kind of chilled out, dancing the night away. When we finally emerged from the joint we were greeted by daylight. It was very surreal walking the streets of Buenos Aires at 7am on a Sunday morning exhausted and in costume.

Culture

We also attended a couple of Avant-garde performances while in BA. The first was a tribal dance show, which a friend of theirs was performing in. Honsetly, the show was not very good at all, and I dozed off a couple of times. It seemed to be a group of women, who enjoy being looked at, putting together rather boring dance routines and performing them to tribally-influenced club music, all the while wearing somewhat scandalous clothing.

The second show was much better. Bruta Fuerza is a traveling show which is sort of an extra-sensory acid trip. The entire audience is stuffed into a relatively small room and the show begins with a man on a stage in the center of the crowd. As the show progresses different stages open up in other areas of the room, forching the audience to move. Water is sprayed down on the spectators and some performers even come within inches of the crowd, via a see-through stage that drops from the ceiling above. It´s unlike anything I have ever seen, although a bit like Cirque Du Soleil. It was certainly entertaining and worth the price of addmission, although I much prefer the 60 peso ($15) price to the $80/ticket being charged in NYC right now.

2010-10-26T08:38:00.016-05:00

Upon leaving the relaxing setting of Cafayate we hopped a bus back to Salta, from where we would make a connection to Puerto Iguazu for a look at some of the most impressive waterfalls in the world. After a four-hour bus ride we arrived back in Salta and decided to head back to the hostel we had stayed at on our earlier visit to the city. Unfortunately it was full. The man at reception suggested a couple of other budget options...which were also full. We ended up walking around to half a dozen hostels before finding one with a room at a fair price.

In order to break up the 19-hour bus ride, just a bit, we chose to stop in San Ignacio, home to some of the most well-preserved Jesuit missions in South America. Settled in 1696, the Jesuits left the mission in 1768 after begin expelled. Although the mission was destroyed in the early 19th century it remained lost in dense vegetation for nearly a century, and restoration began some 40 years later. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is now the second-most visited place in Northeast Argentina, seriously lagging behind Iguazu Falls.

The place was quite impressive, built from local red sandstone. Equally as interesting, however, were the principles upon which the Mission was founded. Of course the Jesuits were imposing their religion on the indigenous Guarinis, but they also offered a sort of Utopia as well. The missionaries offered security, medicine and also allowed the Guarinins to keep some of their traditions...as long as they didn´t interfere with the belief in their new (Christian) God.

The next day we waited along the side of the road, and waved down a bus to Iguazu...with the assistance of a very friendly local man from the tourist office. Upon arriving in Iguazu we stopped at a booth in the bus station offering double rooms for about $25 USD, nearly double what we paid in Cafayate. Nonetheless, it seemed like one of the cheaper options so we started walking for Resedencial Uno. Although the room was rather uminpressive we decided to stay. That may have been a mistake. Quite frankly, the joint was a dump.

There was constant construction, with hammers pounding on the floor above us until 10pm. The circuit breaker for our room cut out multiple times, including twice while Heidi was showering, leaving in her in the dark with no hot water. The bed was a little gross, and Heidi woke up the first morning with bites all over her midsection. (Although I am relatively sure it was not bedbugs, I´m still a little suspicious.) The TV room smelled like dog, with common room couches covered in animal hair. The day we decided to watch a movie the power to the TV went out, as too much power was being used elsewhere in the hostel. Oh, and breakfast consisted of bread, tea, and Tang-like juice. But, we came for the falls and not the hostel...

Iguazu Falls consists of 275 separate falls over an expanse of nearly 2 miles. Local legend has it that a god planned to marry a beautiful mortal woman. When she fled with her mortal lover in a canoe the god sliced the river in two, condemning the couple to an eternal fall. Although not quite an eternal drop, some of the falls descend quite a bit...up to 270 feet. While the falls can be visited from both Argentina and Brazil, 2/3 of them are in Argentina. (This was good for us, because crossing into Brazil would have run $100/pp for visas.)

We paid the "special" price for foreigners (about $22 USD) after a 10-minute wait in line. Regardless, the spectacle is well worth the price of admission. There are a handful of different trails on the Argentine side. We started off with the Circuito Superior, or Upper Circuit. This walk provided panoramic views of the falls from the Upper Iguazu River. Next we hit up the Circuito Inferior, which take you much closer to some of the same falls as the Upper Circuit, however from much lower, allowing you to cool off a bit in their misty expanse. After eating our packed lunch we headed for the highlight of the day: Garganta del Diablo (aka The Devil´s Throat.)

On this walk you follow a series of catwalks across the river, just feet away from an older collection of catwalks which remain in the water after being destroyed during a flood less than 20 years ago. The entire time you can hear the thunderous rushing of thousands of gallons of water, however the water all around you is only moving slightly fast. Finally, you are there: looking right down into a gigantic U-shaped waterfall that is too impressive for words. The rainbow-laden mist created by such a mass of falling water makes it impossible to see the bottom. Across this enrmous falls one can eye the catwalks of the Brazilian side as well. It was certainly a spectacular natual wonder, and should not be missed on a visit to this region of South America.

We rounded off our trip to Puerto Iguazu with a walk, the following day, to Hito Tres Fronteras
where the borders of Brazil Argentina and Paraguay converge. Honestly, it´s nothing spectacular to see...but kind of cool to realize that you are only a stone´s throw away from two other countries. Each country is marked by an obelisk painted the same colors as its flag, making it easy for visistors across the river to differentiate which country they are looking at.

Cafayate: The Land of Enchantment

2010-10-19T16:19:00.011-05:00

After crossing the border in to Argentina, where we had our bags thoroughly searched by customs agents, we stopped no less than three more times for inspections. At some of the checkpoints we had to produce our documents and answer questions about our business in Argentina. At all of the stops someone inspected at least some portion of our luggage as well, both by hand and with drug-sniffing dogs. I wonder if Argentine officials are as dilgent at every border crossing, or if they take special care at all Bolivian crossings, due to the country´s notorious reputation as one of the prime cocaine manufacturers. After a total of about 18 hours on the bus we arrived in Guemes, about an hour away from our ultimate destination of Salta. We hopped another, much less comfortable, bus and made our way to Salta.

We spent three days in Salta but didn´t do anything of great import, as we were trying to pinch a few pennies, so that we could splurge a but in Cafayate, our next stop. Salta is a very European feeling town, with a lovely central plaza and a circus-like atmosphere along the pedestrian walkways after 9pm. Nearly all stores shut down in the mid-afternoon for the seemingly mandatory siesta. And a number of eateries don´t even re-open their doors until 9pm! That made finding a place to get our grub on at 8pm a little more complicated than expected.

After three nondescript days we were off to Cafayate. We had checked out hostels online and they all ran around $30/night for the two of us, which was a large chunk of our (combined) daily budget of $70. So, we decided to check out the other options in town and go with one of the onine hostels if nothing better presented itself. Well, as soon as we stepped off the bus we were nearly accosted by folks trying to get us to stay at their lodgings. We grabbed a few pamphlets, without committing to any and made our way to the two cheapest to check them out. The first was not quite as advertised and we decided to check on the next place, despite an enticing $12.50/night cost. The second place was a family´s home with an addition and three extra bedrooms for tourists. The rooms were all fairly new with nice private bathrooms. The joint also had a kitchen and laundry tub, so we booked a room for a pleasant $15/night. (Later I came to notice the other two, occupied, rooms had a TV and cable, which ours lacked. This was slightly disappointing but a TV probably would have kept us away from the good stuff the town has to offer.)

Cafayate is known for its wineries...and they certainly abound in this town. We have visited four of them, over a few days, getting tastings at every one: Domingo Hermanos, Bodega Nanni, El Transito and Bodega Etchart. All of them produce Malbec/Cabarnet Sauvignon (red) and Torrontes (white) wines. Heidi and I both enjoyed Bodega Etchart the most, which had an informative, bi-lingual, tour and a tasting of four lovely tasting wines. We even had a group of school children watching us taste the wines. (Quite the interesting field trip, if I do say so myself.) The late harvest Torrontes has a higher concentration of sugars and I love the sweetness thereof.

Argentina is also known for its beef, so Heidi and I split a steak one night (and half a pizza, all in order to save a few pesos.) It was pretty darn tasty, despite the fact that the waitress tried to jack us for an extra ten pesos! Also, as we were sitting there, a bohemian artist came by, trying to sell us some of his handmade jewelry. We declined, only to have him come back at the end of our meal and start making something out of wire, with Heidi´s name on it. I should have protested immediately, but instead got husteld for $5 after a quick show. (I did try to haggle the price, so he handed me his wire and pliers, insisting I do the same with his name.) I guess Heidi did get a nice little personalized photo holder out of the deal, so it´s not all bad.

On another day we took a hike to some hidden waterfalls, which we were told is a beautiful walk. After taking a taxi out to the start of the trail a young Argentine boy offered to guide us, to the tune of about $7.50 USD. I figured we could get there on our own, and turned him down. Luckily, some young girls pointed us in the right direction as I started leading Heidi and I the complete wrong direction. About 40 minutes into the walk Heidi began voicing some concerns about my navigation skills, but I insisted all we had to do was follow the river and it would be all gravy. She still wasn´t comfortable. I stated that if we stayed put a group of tourists would most certainly come by with a guide...and in about 5 minutes one did, to her relief. We continued the trek with the group within eyesight the entire time, until we stopped for lunch and they passed us by. But we made it to our ultimate destination after about three hours: a beautiful waterfall with frigid ice cold water. We had packed our swim gear, so we found a cove and changed, while the other tourists (with the guide) just took in the beauty and scenery. As I stepped into the water I began to second-guess our decision to wade in the waters. It was straight up freezing!!! Nonetheless, I waded to about waist deep before getting out. On a second attempt I made it under the falls. It was refreshing, I guess, but I couldn´t wait to get out and avoid hypothermia. The walk back took another 3 hours and we were both pretty beat up by the time we got to where our taxi dropped us off. Unfortunately, no taxis were around and we had to hike another 3 miles back into town. It was an exhausting day!

The next day we took a very scenic horseback ride through the desert. It really was fun, and Heidi particularly enjoyed it...but three hours on horseback does not happen without consequences. My but is pretty darn sore today, as I type this. That being said, I did have a good time and it beat any sort of trail ride I have ever been on. And, considering it was just the two of us and our guide, it was pretty special.

Inca Ruins, Natural Beauty & Che´s Final Days

2010-10-15T15:48:00.004-05:00

After leaving the refuge and spending a couple of days in the relatively modern town of Santa Cruz, Heidi and I headed off to Samaipata, Bolivia, a relatively sleepy town catering to tourists looking to visit any of the surrounding places of natural beauty. After a 3 hour ride on horrible roads in a cramped mini-van we found a modest little hotel for about $10/night.

Since it was still early in the afternoon we decided to hire a cab to take us to El Fuerte, an archaeological and UNESCO World Heritage site about 10 km outside of town. Although the ruins of an ancient Inca settlement are nestled around the main site, it is believed to pre-date that culture, having been constructed by the Chanes people for religious purposes. The main part of the site is a gigantic sandstone rock covered with various carvings, including animals and many other items. A History Channel series on ancient aliens gave some credence to the theory that the sandstone was once an alien launching pad. Anyways, we walked around for about an hour before heading back into town.

Our next goals were to take a guided nature hike through some part of a forest and to follow the Ruta del Che, a tourist trail following the final days of Ernesto "Che" Guevara´s life, and dream of leading a continent-wide revolution against Yankee Imperialism. After speaking with a couple of tour guides we decided to go with an outift called Roadrunner´s (for our hike), owned by a couple of friendly European chaps who loved Samaipata so much they decided to call it home. (Incidentally, one of them told us his house and land cost $65k USD and would have cost well over €1 million back in his home of the Netherlands.) For about $20/pp we were taken on a half-day hike with a four other tourists through El Refugio Los Volcanes, part of Amboro National Park with beautiful sandstone formations, but no volcanoes. (They also offered a tour on the Ruta del Che, however it was about $300/pp for a three-day tour...and that was way over our budget. Instead, we got free advice from them on how to do the tour ourselves!)

Our tour through El Refugio Los Volcanes started at the fancy Laguna Volcan Hotel and Golf "Eco" Resort. It´s a beautiful little resort which has bankrupted two previous owners, despite the land having only cost $1,000! Now it´s owned by a European consortium of millionaires as a pet project which will never realize a profit. (Inbcidentally, we learned that the "eco" in Bolivia just means the resort is in a natural setting, but there is no real concern for the surrounding ecosystem. For example, golf balls are launched from the driving range into the lagoon, since the splash allows you to better spot how far the ball flew.) Anyways, our guide Martin just took us to the resort as a jumping off point for our hike along the edges of Amboro and then along the Rio Colorado.

Along the tour we had some beautiful scenery and lovely views. While we spotted very little wildlife our guide was extremely interesting, showing us different plant life and explaining myriad things along the way. For example, Amboro is largely unexplored with many undocumented animals and bugs. (A new species of monkey was discovered there only two years ago.) Moreover, this remote part of the park has only been crossed once, and it took 20 days to hike across just over 40 miles of wilderness! We stopped along the river twice for some quick dips to cool off, before making our way back to our waiting car. The entire hike took about 5 hours and was great...with the exception of Heidi rolling her ankle four times.

There are a number of Westerners who have set up shop in Samaipata, either to operate tour outfits, or to feed the hungry tourists. As such, the gastronomic choices were much better in this quiet hamlet than in many major cities we have visited thus far. The Crazy Cow and Tierra Libre are two such restaurants, offering up excellent fare, including healthier options than your typical fried chicken with rice and potato chips, which can be found on nearly every corner in Bolivia.

From Samaipata we wanted to get to Vallegrande, in order to start following the Ruta del Che. Our first goal: wave down a bus to pick us up. We waited on the side of the road and the first bus stopped when we waved. As a number of passengers got off to urinate on the side of the road we paid our fare and hopped on the rickety, and slow moving, bus. Huge bags of rice lined the aisle, forcing half of the passengers to walk over them in order to get to their seats. The bus stopped one more time, for a lunch break, before rumbling into Vallegrande.

We arrived in Vallegrande on October 9, exactly 43 years to the day that Che Guevara was executed in the nearby village of La Higuera. As such, a number of people with Che gear were milling about, including about 50 men on motorcycles, no doubt as an homage to the fallen revolutionary hero. We checked into another modest place, running just under $9/night. After shedding our gear we headed to the main square, where we checked out a sparsely adorned, yet extremely informational, museum about Che, and booked a tour for the following day, which included sites in La Higuera and Vallegrande. (Incidentally, the tour was about 20% of the cost of the one quoted in Samaipata, covering the same historic places but not including food or lodging.)

After grabbing a salteña and some freshly made juice at the local market we met with our guide at 8am. He explained that we´d be meeting a different guide after a 2-hour taxi ride to La Higuera. Well, we never got a guide but our taxi driver was extremely nice and made some stops along the route for Che-related photos, including a natural rock formation known as the Beret of Che and at a vantage point not far from where Guevara was captured by Bolivian forces.

Guevara chose Bolivia to start his South American revolution because it was relatively centrally located on the continent. There he and 51 others began setting up base somewhere outside of Vallegrande. When a group of revolutionaries asked a local man to advise them where they could find clean water their fate was sealed, as the local informed the CIA-advised Bolivian forces and 1,800 troops were called in to ambush the guerillas the following day. Guevara was wounded and captured and taken into the schoolhouse of La Higuera, where he remained until October 9, 1967 when he was executed. Today the schoolhouse stands as a museum to the man, and an homage to the revolutionary ideals which he represented.

After La Higuera we headed back to Vallegrande, where Guevara´s lifeless body was taken via helicopter following his execution. His body was taken to the laundry building of the Señora de Malta hospital, where it was washed and later displayed to the world press...prior to his hands being severed and flown elsewhere for purposes of fingerprinting. (The launsry room stands today as a place of pilgrimage for those who idolized the man and, more importantly, what he represented.) His body, and those of 6 other guerillas killed, were then buried in a mass grave, to be lost for decades.

In the mid-90´s American author and historian Jon Lee Anderson published a book, with an account from a Bolivian soldier, stating that Guevara was buried somewhere near the Vallegrande airstrip. This led to a two-year long search, ending in the discovery of the mass grave in 1997. The legendary icon would then be moved, along with his 6 comrades, into a nearby mausoleum. This was the last stop on our tour along the Ruta del Che.

Today three of the guerillas who fought alongside Guevara are still alive, one in France and two in Chile. Despite the majority of those in the movement having met a violent death, the ideals of Che live on today in the hearts and minds of people all over the world...

Life with the Monkeys

2010-10-05T10:40:00.007-05:00

After a six hour bus ride our driver dropped us off on the side of the road, right across from our destination: Inti Wara Yassi´s Parque Machia. The animal refuge is located just on the outskirts of the sleepy town of Villa Tunari, which once overtly prospered from the numerous cocaine production facilities in the nearby jungle...and was also the site of a CIA-backed massacre of 28 coca growers from the area in 1988. But, we had sought the village for different reasons altogether: two weeks of volunteering with some rescued animals.

We arrived early in the afternoon and were informed that a tour would take place around 5pm, so we crossed the rather dangerous Rio Espiritu Santo Bridge in order to get some grub and work clothes in the village. We had a nice meal and spent nearly an hour rummaging through second-hand clothes which we´d use for our daily chores at the park. I ended up with some women´s elastic-band linen pants and a blue dress shirt, while Heidi got some pants which still had the tags from Marshall´s and a pretty pink Liz Claiborne shirt.

The tour took us through monkey quarantine, the bird area, the kitchen, clinic, cafe and other essential places. We did not get to see any of the large cats or Balu, the giant bear. (The cats are stictly off-limits to anyone not assigned to their care. I did end up seeing Balu later on in my time there, but never had my camera in-hand at the time.) After the tour we were assigned our jobs and asked to pay up. I was assigned to Monkey Park, Heidi got the clinic and Emily (a French woman who arrived the same day) got monkey quarantine. We were all pleased with our new duties and made our way to our hostel: Copa.

The hostel was a dump, to say the least. Ants were crawling around in our shower, the door to our room was "secured" with a janky little loop for a padlock, our pillows were soiled and stinky and the screens on the windows were full of giant holes, big enough for entire mosquito colonies. The crazy thing is we were told, by other volunteers, that we had the NICE room, complete with an ensuite shower...that didn´t catch on fire occasionally like the other one.

We had dinner with about 10 other volunteers at Jazmin´s, one of the more popular eateries for the volunteers in town. Heidi and I had a Hawaiian Pizza, which was complete with ham, canned fruit cocktail (minus the juice) and LOTS of cheese. We had a nice conversation with a couple of the volunteers, including a lovely British couple that had arrived only four days earlier. Stan had been jumped by Roy, his puma, earlier in the day and was still visibly shaken.

The next morning our jobs as endentured slaves began. We got to the Inti Wara Yassi (IWY) cafe just before 7am and ordered some scrambled eggs. After about 20 minutes I was off to work with Renaldo, a Bolivian in his mid-twenties who has been at the park for about two years. We carried two large plastic barrels of food up to Monkey Park and so the day began.

Monkey Park is really just a park for capuchin monkeys. The refuge also houses Spider Monkeys, but they stay in Spider Park, so as to keep confrontations at a minimum. Capuchins are rather small monkeys, although the larger males (especially Solin, the alpha) are incredibly strong and have some teeth which can inflict lots of pain. Speedy, one of the larger males, was lacking a tail: a battle scar from another large male who wanted to ensure that Speedy would never become the big boss. All in all, the park consisted of about 40 capuchins, the majority of which were all free to come and go as they pleased. Three newbies were kept on cords, and in cages overnight, to give them time to be accepted by the group. Since the park is in the lower Amazon basin, it was rife with other wildlife too. In my two weeks I saw numerous species of birds, tejones, yellow squirrel monkeys, capybara, a giant armadillo, turtles, an anaconda, various butterflies, and spider monkeys.

The first couple of days were absolutely grueling and it took some time before I got into a groove. Even so, fourteen srtaight days of work is no fun. (If you work a month you get one day off!) Almost every volunteer wore Wellie boots, which are basically just rubbers for you feet and ankles. While they kept us dry, and our hiking boots intact, they were incredibly uncomfortable, especially walking up and down hilly and uneven terrain.

A typical day for me went something like this:

6:20am- Time to wake up. Since we´re going to get dirty anyways, there is no point in showering. We brush our teeth, get dressed and head down to the cafe for breakfast.

7am- Breakfast. Wolf down some scrambled eggs and a banana.

7:15am- Prepare monkey breakfast. Break bananas in two and toss them into one of two large plastic barrels.

7:30am- Up the hill. A ten or fifteen minute walk up numerous steps gets us to the entrance to Monkey Park, which is off-limits to tourists. We then have to negotiate tricky, and often slippery, slopes to actually get down into the park. Along the way we almost certainly encounter Solin, who is challenging us for our food. On two occasions he jumps on my back, but I remain calm and he doesn´t sink his teeth into me.

7:45am- Feed the monkeys. We walk through the Amazon to a series of 8 feeding bowls, which are hoisted high into the trees on a pulley system. We place bananas in 5 of the bowls and api in three. (Api is a special porridge for the animals, injected with vitamins by the vets in the clinic.)

8:00am- Chill and observe the monkeys. Renaldo and I just hang out with the monkeys, interacting with them and making sure that the big bad boys don´t attack any of the new guys in the group.

9:00am- Clean. Scrub pooh out of the three small monkey cages, used to house the little guys at night. I also clean the larger cage, where the little guys feed without the hassle of the big boys. Other tasks include raking and shoveling dirt.

10:50am- Back down the hill for monkey lunch. I would bring the two buckets down, as well as blankets for the three little monkeys. Clean the blankets and start soaking lunch in disinfectant, which consisted of papaya, bananas and, on rare occasions, oranges or pineapples. After 15 minutes of soaking I would start cutting them into manageable pieces for my capuchins.

11:50am- Back up the hill to feed the animals. For the first few days I went up by myself, but Solin, Speedy and a couple of other thuggish monkeys were waiting for me and would jump me for lunch. After getting wise I started seeking out and escort; often a vet who had gained the respect of the monkeys. After that I only had one incident. Solin jumped me and Luis, the vet, and took BOTH barrels of food! While I was amused at Luis´lack of control over the animals, I had to run and get help from another vet.

12:00pm- Monkey lunch time. While walking through the jungle I would constantly hear the trees rustling overhead. Most of the time it was a small capuchin, or just a bunch of pesky yellow squirrel monkeys, but I was always looking over my shoulder to see if it was Solin waiting to get me alone and chew on my face.

12:30pm- My lunch. For a little more than $1 we could buy a great vegetarian lunch at the IWY cafe below. Some folks would go across the bridge to run errands, but one hour isn´t much time, after taking the time to cross the bridge and return.

1:30pm- Back up to the park. Upon my return Renaldo would head down for lunch, leaving me alone with the monkeys. I´d put water in some of the bowls and just keep an eye on the monkeys.

2:30pm- Renaldo would return and I would head into the jungle to clean out the bowls, where the sun had begun baking the papaya.

3:50pm- Back down the hill AGAIN. Tim to start preparing monkey dinner, which consisted of the veggies in the pantry. Those included beans, lettuce, beets, carrots and cucumbers. Before cutting them, I would have to soak them for 15 minutes.

4:50pm- Last time up the hill for the day...with another escort.

5:00pm- Monkey dinner. Veggies in five bowls and api in three more.

5:40pm- Time to tuck the monkeys in. The three babies have to be rounded up and placed in their cages for the night. Afterwards, we place a tarp over the cage and head back down the hill for the last time.

6:00pm- Usually the work day is over and I chill at the cafe for a short time. Every third day, however, I was responsible for cleaning the kitchen. Typically, I was assigned to work in tandem with some cat people, but they usually didn´t show up, leaving the work to me alone.

6:30pm- Back to the hostel for a shower. Heidi and I also would wash our undergarments before putting on clean clothes and heading into town for dinner.

7:30pm- Hike across the dangerous bridge and find some food.

9-10pm- Get back to the hostel and get some sleep...so we can do it all over again the next day.

In the two weeks we were at the park somewhere near a dozen volunteers left early, for various reasons. Most of the people felt it just wasn´t for them. A number of the jobs are no more than cleaning pooh, washing blankets and sweeping ALL DAY long. Moreover, the people in charge didn´t do much to make volunteers feel appreciated or tend to their needs. I would be pretty disappointed about that too. Although days were long, I was fortunate enough to work directly with animals, as well as see a number of other species in the wild.

Although the experience was difficult, to say the least, I have sympathy for those running the park. They have an extremely tough job on their hands. The park land is owned by the government of Villa Tunari, so the mayor tells the park whether or not they are open to tourists...and all of the proceeds from ticket sales go to the municipal government. Beyond that, a road was just built right through the park, displacing the majority of the animals. The campesinos, or local peasant farmers, threatened to take the park by force if they weren´t allowed to build the road, so permission was granted. Now the capuchins are often spotted down on the road, where they used to kick it in the trees that were previously there. The capuchins are curious and thieving little bastards too, so they are often stealing stuff from people below and I predict someone will kill a monkey when it bites them.

The park wants to move some of the animals to its other locations, as a result of the new road, but the mayor is insistent that the animals are also property of the village, as the critters live on public land! That all being said, the government, municipal and federal, doesn´t give any financial support to the park...despite constantly bringing more animals by. While we were there an oscelot seized at a cocaine factory and 200 birds from an illegal breeding operation were dumped off at the park.

Needless to say, we were both ready to go. This was certainly an unforgettable experience. Although I miss my monkeys I am glad we are gone and wouldn´t really recommend the ecperience to anyone...although you could never get the kind of animal interaction I had anywhere in the United States.

Zebras, Witches, and Coca...Oh My! La Paz, Bolivia.

2010-09-18T12:56:00.018-05:00

Upon arrival in La Paz, Bolivia we made our way to our lodging for the next few nights, the very nice Hotel Fuentes, conveniently located near the city center and just steps away from Calle Sagarnaga, locally know as "Gringo Alley," since most of the shops and restaurants cater to the tourists. (Speaking of tourists, we have run into quite a few on our journey, however we see almost none from the good ole´US of A.) Here you can buy all sorts of handicrafts, exchange money, book tours throughout the countryside, or eat at a Thai fusion restaurant. And, you will most certainly be offered fake fossils from a shady looking dude. Honestly, the street was both comforting and a little annoying, being that it is a pseudo-cultural experience.

Since we´ve been here I have been offered marijuana once and cocaine twice. And the guys making the offers are none too discreet either. The first dude just spotted us walking amongst the locals and shouted out, "Hey man. Are you smoking the joints?" When I replied I wasn´t he retorted: "Cocaine?" We kept walking.

On the second occasion we were just chilling out on the curb, eating some American junk food (consisting of Pringles for the lady and Snickers for myself) when a dude walked by and said, "Cocaine?" rather loudly, amongst a small crowd of locals and within earshot of a local police officer. And this was in broad daylight! Luckily, he kept walking when I shook my head. I guess it´s nice that neither of the guys were taking the high pressure approach.

As most of you know, cocaine is a processed stimulant, with one of the critical components being the coca leaf. Well, we wanted to learn a little more about this leaf, which has been demonized in the west and used for centuries as an important herb in South America. So, where to? That´s right: The Coca Museum. The museum is a small, but very informative, place which gives a very objective and balanced view of coca...and cocaine.

Coca leaves, for example, serve to aid the human body in numerous ways: to reduce pain, assist in digestion and (perhaps most importantly for the gringo) to alleviate the symptoms of altitude sickness. Almost all Andean people use coca leaves and some cultures (e.g. the people of Taquile island in Peru) greet one another with the exchange thereof, rather than a handshake. The plant has been used by indigenous peoples for more than 4,000 years and the first opposition appeared when Europeans arrived, and attempted to subdue the natives. The Catholic Church Council of 1569 decreed that the plant should be eradicated because it had Satanic powers. This was quickly reversed, however, so the users of the plant could be taxed.

Many centuries later, Western scientists were able to isolate the cocaine alkaloid from the leaf, creating a much stronger drug, which became used for many medical purposes. Freud wrote of the drugs wonders. Ernest Shackleton used cocaine on his way to Antarctica. It was available for purchase in pharmacies on Beale Street in Tennessee. But, only five years later the drug was made illegal by the US government after a member of the Pennsylvania pharmaceutical board claimed that, "most of the attacks upon the white women of the south are the dirtect result of a cocaine-crazed Negro brain."

Despite its illegal status, and our government´s so-called "War on Drugs," the United States is one of many countries which LEGALLY produces cocaine. Stepan Company imports around 100 metric tons of coca leaves every year, in order to extract cocaine (for pharmaceutical companies) and the sell the cocaine-free leaves to Coca-Cola and Red Bull. Many other Western nations have legal cocaine operations too, all the while the DEA is destroying clandestine manufacturing plants throughout South America. It is just a bit hypocritical...don´t ya think?

After we left the museum we walked through the Mercado de Hechiceria, otherwise known as the "Witch´s Market." Here you can get your standard witch fare of soapstones, talismans, llama fetuses and aphrodisiacs. The fetuses are prominantly displayed and typically buried during the construction of new buildings, as an offering to the goddess Pachamama, or "Mother Earth."

Oh, and I have to mention the zebras...

In order to combat the crazy drivers on the streets of La Paz, the city has begun implementing zebras to help pedestrians cross the streets. People are in zebra costumes throughout the city center, assisting people at crosswalks. The more enthusiastic ones will dance in the street, push cars out of the way and give a "thumbs up" to the curious onlooker. It´s a great way to keep people safe, and maybe put a smile on a face or two as well.

After La Paz, we left for Cochabamba on a rather boring 7-hour bus journey, which ran us about $6/pp. Cochabamba is a bustling city which doesn´t see many tourists, and so it doesn´t have a lot to offer, in terms of cultural centers, etc. (But good food is cheap as a result!) We came here as it is a jumping off point to our animal refuge near Villa Tunari, a few hours away.

While here we did stop at the Palacio Portales, a beautiful home constructed by Simon Patiño, the "King of Tin." The man was a self-made millionaire and wanted to flaunt his wealth to all in his hometown of Cochabamba. Sadly he died before completion of the place, and it was made into a museum. His great-grandchildren still run the foundation (and live off of his hard-work) which oversees maintenance of the joint. For about $1.50/pp we got to tour the magnificent structure, which has intricate woodwork throughout, paintings replicating those in the Vatican and a garden that would make Martha Stewart blush.

Tomorrow, we´re off to Villa Tunari and Inti Wara Yassi for two weeks of fulfilling volunteer work...

Island Life...and Border Madness

2010-09-14T17:07:00.018-05:00

Puno was our last sop in Peru and a rather unimpressive town at that. The main reason travellers make a stop there is to book a tour of some of the islands on Lake Titicaca. At 12,500 feet above sea level, it is the highest commercially navigable lake in the world, and 21st (globally) among all lakes in size. The lake is home to more than 40 islands, not all of them natural, and reaches depths greater than 900 feet.

The lake is spilt between Peru and Bolivia, which means one can only visit certain islands from each side. Isla del Sol, or Island of the Sun, is the largest island on the lake and has spiritual significance for the Andean peoples but is reached from Copacabana in Bolivia. It sounded interesting, but the tour from Peru took us to three different islands with significantly different cultures on each one, so we opted for the latter.

We booked a tour for just over $20/pp, and that included boat transport to the islands, guide, 3 meals and a family stay on one of the islands. Not too shabby!

Our bus picked us up at 7:30am. We were the first on and tooled around the city for another 40 minutes as we picked up two dozen other travellers, hailing from Israel, Australia and Germany, as well as a strong French contingent. We all loaded on to a rather rickety looking boat and headed out to the Uros Islands, which were, by far, the most fascinating.

The Uros Islands are a series of manmade islands which have been on Lake Titicaca for more than five centuries. The Pre-Incan Uro peoples fled the mainland in order to get away from the much more powerful Inca Empire. They created the islands from reeds in the lake. The dense roots of the reeds act as the base of the islands, and are both thick (about 6 feet) and bouyant. Next the reeds themselves are laid on the base, in perpendicular layers. Finally, reed homes are placed on the islands, which are anchored in nearly 90 feet of water with ropes, rocks and the like.

It was fascinating to visit the Uros Islands, although much of the culture has died out and little remains, except for the Uros who maintain existence on the reed islands in order to satisfy curious tourists. The few others maintain themselves through fish farming. They have gardens and ponds on the little reed islands and it is really quite interesting. Our guide said that a number of years ago there was an effort to educate parents on teaching their offspring how to float even before walking, as a handful of young children died when they fell off the edge of the island. We were on the islands long enough to snap some photos and buy some souvenirs, if we were so inclined.

From there we hopped on the boat for a slow and steady three hour tour to Amantani island. The 6 sq. mile island is home to about 800 families in six villages. About six years ago they began the practice of hosting tourists in family homes for overnight stays, as there are no restaurants or hotels on the island. As it is so far from the mainland, electricity is powered mainly through solar panels which adorn almost every corrugated steel roof on the island.

Once we reached the island we were introduced to our families and taken to our respective homes for a little lunch. From our bedroom we had a beautiful view of the lake and everything was very serene. The incessant horn-honking and carbon emissions from the mainland were replaced by the baahing and poop of the numerous sheep on the island. After a short rest our meal was ready: a simple yet divine combo of soup, one egg, some tomato slices and cooked tubers, including your basic potato and some other unidentifiable, yet similar, food.

Next we went for a hike to the peak of Pachatata, which means "Father Earth" in Quechua. The island is also home to Pachamama, or "Mother Earth." Both peaks have temples at the top which are home to annual religious ceremonies for the local people. The rest of the year tourists make the treks to snap photos and -you guessed it- buy souvenirs. After we climbed down we were met by one of our host sisters, shown the way home, and fed a lovely meal of soup, rice and a noodle dish. Once again, we had no meat but the food was very good and quite filling.

Around 8pm our host sister, Emily, knocked on our door. She came in with a handful of traditional clothes for Heidi and I to wear at a little dance put on for us tourists. Playing dress up was lots of fun, albeit a bit odd. (Would I have been laughing and having a good time had this been for a powwow hosted by Anishinabe peoples in Shakopee?) At the village hall we danced for a spell while some local guys played some traditional music. After three or four dances we had had our fill, as had our host mother (going through this numerous times every week), so we suggested leaving. Well, we started a trend and the fiesta was over less than an hour after it started.

The next morning we were fed a very basic breakfast and hopped on the boat for a very rocky one hour ride to Taquile. This island is unique in that it is based on an ancient Incan moral code of collectivism and is, for all intents and purposes, a truly communist society. There are no police on the island and all grievances are addressed every Sunday by a weekly meeting of the 25 jefes, or bosses, who are chosen in annual elections. The bosses determine which restaurants the tourists will visit and establish fixed prices for all goods being sold, including meals. Every Monday the money is divided amongst all families.

The people also have a distinctive style of dress, and one can garner much information solely based on the style of one´s clothes. Women typically wear numerous skirts at once, as larger size is a sign of beauty in the culture, in stark contrast to the "waif is beautiful" traditions in many western cultures. Also, women choose their beaus and give potential suitors the nod with a wave of a colorful pom-pom on their clothes at semi-annual fiestas.

After finishing the tour we bought bus tickets for the following morning and got a hostel right across from the terminal.

Our bus pulled out at 6am and by 9:30am we were in the first of a few lines crossing the border into Bolivia. In this first line we merely had our passports stamped with the exit stamp from Peru. A walk of a couple hundred meters and we were herded into the Peruvian Police station. They wanted to check us for any contraban. That went smoothly except when one of the officers found a piece of paper, jammed in our tour book, folded in a manner often used to transport drugs. He gave Heidi a questioning look and she replied in kind, also not knowing what it was. They were both relieved to realize it was only a stack of passport photos, for obtaining visas at border crossings.

From there we walked across a bridge into Bolivia, where we filled out one form and notified someone we were Americans. (The US is, I believe, the only state which must pay a $135 visa fee upon entry into Bolivia. It is President Evo Morales´way of returning the gesture that the US extends when Bolivians wish to visit my homeland.) We were shuffled to another desk, and given another form. We also shelled out three Benjamins to satisfy the fee. The lady quickly returned. Something was wrong with one of our bills. (I´m still not sure what it was.) They really are quite picky about getting pristine tender. We took out another Benjie and she accepted, returning a little later with our change. She then put visas in our passports and brought us to another desk. There another woman took our forms, stamped our passports and instructed us to get copies of the passport and visa at a shop across the street. We hustled over, accomplished our task, and headed back to her, elbowing our way through the motley crew which all wanted stamps in their passports. She gave us a little slip needed for departing the country and we headed for the bus. Given the process is so arduous for Americans, everyone else was already at the bus, waiting for us. After a couple more passport checkpoints on the road we arrived in La Paz...

Colca Canyon: A Spectacle Indeed, But Not Grand!

2010-09-10T19:28:00.017-05:00

After Machu Picchu we stopped back in Ollantaytambo for a night before taking a two-hour ride on a colectivo (basically a mini-van that acts as public transport) back to Cusco. From there we hopped in a taxi and went to the bus station, where we bought tickets for an evening bus ride to Arequipa. The ride would leave at 9:30pm, which saved us the cost of a hostel, so we sprung for the fancier, fully-reclining seats. We chose not to go with Cruz Del Sur, because they are so damn expensive, and this alternative, CIAL, seemed competitive: dinner, bathrooms, fully-reclining seats and en-route films. So, we bought the tickets and killed 6 hours walking around Cusco, doing the internet thing and looking at souvenirs.

As the bus loaded I stood outside, ensuring our bags would be loaded on the bus, going as far as to tell the 10-year-old luggage boy not to overlook our gear. We hopped on and the bus rumbled away from the terminal. It became clear shortly thereafter that this was no comparison to the quite ritzy Cruz Del Sur. Although the bus was similarly equipped we had no trays for our food, the meal was pretty nasty, and there were no jacks for earphones...so everyone got to listen to Clash of the Titans in Spanish, like it or not. Well, I watched the movie (with English subtitles) before falling asleep...for about three hours. Around 4am both Heidi and I were brought back from our slumber due to the frigid temperatures on board the bus! It was darn near freezing. I could, quite literally, see my breath. (In fact, Heidi got annoyed that I kept showing her that I could make my exhalations visible.) Unlike Cruz Del Sur (which gave some pretty pluch coverings), we were all given very thin fleece blankets for the ride. I was in short sleeves and even my toes were cold. Eventually, Heidi and I rounded up two extra blankets from empty seats and did our best to stay warm. Apparently, some of our fellow passengers had been through this before, having brought heavy jackets and thick blankets. Even so I heard one (presumably) Peruvian woman complaining that she, too, was frozen. As we arrived at the bus station the following morning the sun has risen and the heat of the day was beginning to return.

We checked in to our hostels and just got some shut-eye, beneath thick blankets, for a number of hours. Afterwards, we got up, got our fill of meat at an Argentine steakhouse and started looking for Colca Canyon tours. (Colca Canyon is the second deepest and longest in the world. There is a deeper one in Peru and the Grand Canyon is longer. It is also about 4 hours from Arequipa and you, pretty much, need to be on a tour to get there.) We consulted our Rough Guide on South America for suggestions of some tour operators and checked them out. The "basic" tour was typically two days and one night and consisted of numerous stops while on a tourist bus. We found one operator we both really liked, offering a 4-day tour that was very environmentally concious and seemed great...to the tune of $400/pp. We ended up going with the standard tour with an outfit called Wasi, which we just happened upon. They quoted a price of 65 soles/pp (or $23), about half of the next closest quote.

The day before we were to leave Heidi got pretty sick and spent the day in bed. I went out, had a burger, and got some bread and bananas to try and settle her stomach. The next morning she wasn´t 100% but agreed to go to on the tour, more than likely because she didn´t want to hear me complain if she asked to stay in bed (leaving us out 130 soles for the tour). The bus ride took us to nearly 15,000 feet above sea level, and did a number on Heidi´s already ailing body, despite sucking on coca candies along the way. The tour was going to some hot springs after a short rest in our hotels, but we decided to forego that, in the hopes Heidi would be better in time for the dinner and show put on for touristas later in the night. Well, she was still sick and insisted I go anyways. So, I went to the restaurant in Chivay solo. I took a seat at the group table and felt a bit like an ass, all alone. Eventually, a Spanish family (as in from Spain) started chatting with me a bit, asking about Heidi, and making me feel a little less awkward. The dinner was very overpriced (which I expected) and the show seemed a little contrived. That all said, I had an okay time. I did do a little dancing (as did everyone else) and tasted alpaca for the first time (nothing to write home about).

Heidi wasn´t sure if she would be well enough for the next day, which consisted of being in the bus for 12 hours, more or less, with stops at certain viewpoints along the canyon, and at "indigenous" villages along the route. (The "indigenous" villages were little more than contrived tourist traps, rife with souvenirs and animals willing to pose for pictures..for a price, of course.) But, the next morning she said she felt much better and agreed to go. Unfortunately, I had come down with some intestinal issues, but I wasn´t going to let that stop me from going on something I already paid for. A little after 6am the bus arrived to pick us up and we were off.

After stops at a number of little towns for 15 minutes at a time we arrived at the highlight of the tour: The Cruz Del Condor viewpoint of the canyon. From about 4,000 feet above the canyon floor hordes of tourists take endless snapshots, in an attempt to capture photos of the Andean Condor, which has the largest wingspan of all land birds, stretching up to 3.2 meters (or about 10.5 feet). Well, Heidi & I were certainly no exception. After hanging out at the viewpoint for a while, we all hopped on the bus and drove for a couple of minutes before disembarking once again, this time for a 40 minute walk (which Heidi declined). The endpoint of the walk was a viewpoint which was renamed for a young woman who got a little too close to the edge and took a fatal 4,000 foot plunge. After that we headed back to Chivay for lunch, where Heidi and I snuck off to a restaurant other than the one the touristas were herded into, saving about 50% on our bill.

On the 4-hour drive back to Arequipa we simply retraced our trail, stopping only twice: once for the toilet and once at Patapampa, a viewpoint nearly 3 miles above sea level. There we had a view of numerous volcanoes and Mismi Mountain, where the great Amazon River starts as a little trickle. We were surrounded by the obligatory ladies peddling souvenirs, as well as thousands of little rock formations which act as offerings to the mountains, from both the travellers and indigenous peoples alike.

When we got back Heidi was not up to another long bus ride to Puno that day, so we returned to our hostel, checked in, and then headed out for some drugs (for soroche/altitude sickness and motion sickness) and dinner. We had some grub at a nice little cafe which seemed very western, in comparison to most of the joints which offer the standard fare of rice, french fries and chicken.

Arequipa seems like a much cleaner town than most other metropolitan areas we´ve visited in Peru, and I wish we would have been able to check out the town a bit more. I even scoped out a few Radio Shack stores in town! That all being said, the town was crawling with tourists and I think Heidi and I are ready to get away from all of the fellow backpackers for a spell. That will happen in about a week, when we head to a wildlife refuge in Bolivia in order to volunteer for a couple of weeks and get VERY close to some wild beasts. (Quite frankly, the whole idea is both intimidating and exhilarating.) But first, we´re taking a two-day tour of the Peru side of Lake Titicaca, where we´ll visit the manmade Uros islands (which have been inhabited for hundreds of years) and spend the night with a family on another island. Then to La Paz, and finally big cats and hard work!

My Head is in the Clouds (Literally): Visiting Machu Picchu

2010-09-04T14:02:00.020-05:00

It´s no easy task getting there without a tour guide, but walking in the gates of such an ancient wonder, while the sun is just starting to peek over the mountains, makes it all worth it.

It all began back in Cusco, where we hopped a glorified passenger van for a two-hour ride to Ollantaytambo. O-Town is the closest place to Macchu Picchu which can be reached via motor transport, as there are no roads to the ancient site. From there you have to either pay hundreds of dollars for a guided 4-day trek down the Inca Trail, walk (illegally) down the tracks for 9 hours, or take the train which, as mentioned in the previous blog, is controlled by a monopoly, thus allowing Peru Rail to gouge tourists on the prices. By driving to O-Town, and not taking the train directly from Cusco, we saved more than $100, and got to stay in this groovy little town (where we are, once again, as I write this blog). After spending a night here we took the cheapest tourist train to Aguas Calientes, also known as Machu Picchu Pueblo, to the tune of about $65/pp round-trip. (Peru Rail also provides a, presumably, much cheaper train available only to locals. If you board that puppy and the policia see you they will give you the boot. After all, Westerners all have oodles of cash, right?)

We were supposed to be greeted by a representative from our hostel at the train station upon arriving in town, but they were nowhere to be found. (I should add here that we were in the train station for about an extra 15 minutes after disembarking, as Montezuma had come to visit my tummy that day...so our greeter probably got sick of waiting and went back to the hostel.) So, we walked to the information center and got quick directions to our hostel. After walking uphill for 6 blocks we arrived to the least impressive lodging we´ve had thus far. As this town is geared towards touristas, prices are considerably higher, so I convinced Heidi to stay in a dorm with bunks for a significant savings. The dorm had five beds, consisting of two bunks and a single, and nothing else. The two available bathrooms were unimpressive, if not downright dirty, although hot water was abundant (and this is very important to the weary & stinky wanderer). Our stay there only got worse, as I rubbed my fleece against a wall with wet paint (which wasn´t labeled in any language). Thankfully, Heidi helped me get some of the yellow paint off my sleeve.

As you walk up the main street (which is eerily free from cars, as the only ones in town are buses to Machu Picchu and cops) you are inundated by people hounding you to try their restaurant, or get a massage from them. We chose a nice looking restaurant which proudly advertised meals for 15 soles outside. Well, it was another bait and switch. Upon sitting down we were given the other menus, with mains ranging from 25-50 soles. When I asked for the menu economico the server´s mood quickly soured, despite us being the only people in the joint. Nonetheless, we had very nice two course meals for 15 soles. We would´ve returned too, had it not been for the attitude of our server.

We grabbed groceries for breakfast and lunch (having read that the only options at Machu Picchu are quite expensive) and turned in just after 8pm, as we planned to wake up at 4:30am, in order to get on one of the first buses to MP. (If you ever do this be sure to buy your bus and MP admission tickets the day before, as the bus line is quite long in the morning and MP tickets are available only in town and not at the site itself.) We munched on our breakfast while in a rather long line, especially considering it was only 5am and still dark outside. The buses started loading at 5:30am and we boarded about the fourth to leave. (Some people choose to walk to the site from Aguas Calientes, but it is a 1-3 hour trek up a very steep trail, so we decided it was worth forking out $7/pp one-way, with the hopes of walking the trail back down from the site. In fact, one woman who made it about halfway up gave up and tried flagging down our bus from the side of the road, to no avail.

Before entering the gates a man asked if we wanted to climb Huayna Picchu, the peak often seen in the background of Machu Picchu in photos. It´s about 1,200 feet higher than MP, and only 400 people are allowed to scale it per day. We said we wanted to go at 7am, and got our tickets stamped as such.

Once inside I was in such a tizzy about getting to the gates of Huayna Picchu that I didn´t really even stop to enjoy the site or take it in. We arrived at the gates to Huayna Picchu about 20 minutes early and just chilled out. As soon as the gates opened we lined up, showed our stamps and signed in with our name, nationality, and time in (so they could come looking if we didn´t sign out later in the day). The hike up Huayna Picchu is said to be possible by anyone moderately fit, and is also said to take about an hour. The first part is certainly true, although it can be challenging at times, as the stone steps can be steep and wet, and there are a few rock formations at the top you have to really squeeze through. As for an hour, that´s probably only possible if you are in tip-top shape. For us, it took about 90 minutes, but we weren´t in a race at all. Getting to the top of Huayna Picchu, tears began to swell up in my eyes. I´m not sure if it was the result of our accomplishment, sinuses, or something mystical. Nonetheless, if was quite a sight to behold: looking down on MP among the clouds. Sadly, the peak is rather small and gets cramped quite quickly, with people vying for specific spots for their Facebook photos (myself included). We stayed at the top only long enough to catch our breath, snap some photos and chomp down on some cardboard-like granola bars.

The way down is, obviously, much easier, although the first 15 minutes is quite steep and a number of people, Heidi included, were a little nervous and went down very methodically. (Again, it wasn´t a race so I didn´t care about anything more than the two of us making it down to the bottom in one piece.)

By the time we made it down it was 9:30am so, naturally, we left the ruins for some lunch. (Food is, technically, prohibited at the site, although this rule didn´t appear to be enforced. I suspect it´s just a means of getting people to pick up after themselves and not act like pigs amongst centuries-old ruins.)

After grubbing on some tuna fish sammys, oranges, peanuts, water and chips we went back to explore the ruins a bit. We walked around, shot some photos and then started for the Inca Bridge, which we knew little about. (It should be noted here that we were blessed with a beautiful day. It rained the three days prior to our visit and I heard a guide say she has only seen the ruins half of the time she has been there, as the result of cloud cover and showers. We got nothing but sun, and our skin even got a tad bit burnt as a result.) Little did I know that the bridge was so far from everything else. It took about 45 minutes to get there and wasn´t all that great once we arrived, but the walk did get us away from the throngs of tourists which were beginning to overtake the site.

Upon returning to the main portion of the ruins, we were both getting a bit tired, so we just walked around a little more and shot a couple more photos before calling it a day at 1pm. Seven hours is probably more than enough for anyone at MP. I didn´t feel we were there too long, but it was certainly time to go. We stopped on a bench to rest a bit, and then got our passports stamped in order to prove we´ve been to the sacred Inca city. We had planned to hike back down to Aguas Calientes, but Heidi desperately wanted to take the bus, as the day had taken its toll on each of us. So we forked out another $14 and took a comfy ride back down to the city.

I thoroughly enjoyed MP, despite the multiple ways in which they jack the tourist who chooses to visit the place. That being said, if you plan to go I highly suggest: (a) you go early and (b) you climb Huayna Picchu (if you are physically able). Getting to the top is so rewarding, even if there are a bunch of Israeli jackasses up there hogging all of the picturesque viewpoints.

After a rather unimpressive dinner (at 4pm) we soaked our weary bones in the town´s hot springs. As Heidi put it, they certainly aren´t Sandals´caliber. In fact, they are a bit nasty and a shower afterwards is imperative. (And, watch your step as they serve beer in glass bottles and shards on the ground aren´t unheard of.) That being said, it was rather relaxing and we had a really nice chat with a couple from Australia that has spent the past five months touring South America on their bicycles. As they put it: there´s always time for work later on.

From here we head back to Cusco, and then to Arequipa. I don´t know much about that area, except that some of the people see themselves as altogether separate from Peru, even carrying Arequipian passports. It is also not far from Colca Canyon, which is more than twice the size of the great fissure in Arizona, so that should be something to see...

Time for a side note: Heidi came across a great little spot to eat here in Ollantaytambo called Hearts Cafe. It´s run by a British lady and she funnels 100% of the proceeds to sustainable projects for the local communities, such as clean water and birth control. Beyond the great things she is doing the food is really tasty too, although prices are closer to western standards. Anyways, if you have a little room in your heart, and some spare pocket change, consider making a donation here and tell them a gringo (named Heidi) who was passing through suggested it.

Cusco: The Gateway to Machu Picchu

2010-08-31T13:30:00.006-05:00

After a 15-hour bus ride on something John Madden would be jealous of, Heidi and I arrived in Cusco. I managed to get a little shut-eye on the journey, while she was terribly ill and competing for the bathroom the entire time. The road was extremely windy, and climbed thousands of feet, leaving her suffering from both altitude and motion sickness. I really felt bad for her, as we weren´t able to sit next to each other and the scenery really was quite stunning. We were even served dinner and breakfast on board and the food was quite tasty, equivalent to something you might find on an international flight.

While Heidi spent the first day in bed I went out and explored the city a bit. I wasn´t 100%, suffering from a little light-headedness, but all in all I adjusted quite well, and have no right complaining, given what Heidi went through. It´s day 3 in Cusco and I think she has finally adjusted, with the assstance of come coca tea and leaves to suck on. We are nearly two miles above sea level and altitude sickness is not uncommon. I guess I was just lucky...

Cusco was the Inca capital and has been inhabited for more than 800 years. It is a beautiful city near the Andes. Many of its inhabitants still wear traditional dress, and some even speak only Quechua, refusing to assimilate to the Spanish language which was forced upon the indigenous peoples by the Conquistadors centuries ago. Today it is mainly visited by travelers as a gateway to Machu Picchu. Most people tend to fly into the cty, rather than go through an experience similar to Heidi´s on our bus. (That beiong said, many people still need to adjust to the altitude upon arrival.)

Yesterday we walked around a bit, checking out the main square and purchasing train tickets from Ollantaytambo to Machu Picchu. (Machu Picchu is accessible only by rail, and served only by Peru Rail, so the monopoly allows the company to jack fools on prices. Since Ollantaytambo is the closest town to the sacred city serviced by bus, we are traveling there before hopping on the train. This will save us in excess of $100!) The square is the most impressive we´ve visited thus far, despite being constantly hounded by people peddling all kinds of souvenirs and offering to shine our hiking boots. A bunch of folks mill about in traditional clothing too, often with cute animals, offering pictures with tourists. Heidi was dying for one, so I asked how much and they said whatever we feel is fair, so I took the picture. Of course, after the photo, they asked for 10 soles, the equivalent of more than $4! I gave them 4 soles and still felt ripped off...but it is a cute picture.

Did I mention dinner was only 3.5 soles? Less than the picture and just over $1. What a steal. We have been eating at restaurants frequented by locals and the prices are about one-tenth of what they would be in the tourist eateries! Good stuff.

It´s important to mention that we have plenty of down time too. Washing clothes (by hand), blogging, playing cards and watching TV are common past times used to fill up times, often after dark when travel on foot isn´t advised. Last night Heidi even acted as my hair stylist, which may afford my readers a few laughs.

Tomorrow we head to Ollantaytambo by bus, spend a night there and then take the train into Aguas Calientes, the town just outside of Machu Picchu. We will spend the night there and get up before sunrise, in hopes of catching the sun as is crests the sacred site. I´m really psyched about it, as I have heard numerous times that Machu Picchu is one of those places that pictures just don´t do it justice.

Sandbarding, Stumping...and Soda

2010-08-28T14:02:00.014-05:00

It´s been 10 days since we left the great union which has afforded me & Heidi the opportunity to embark on this adventure...and so far, so good. Although we miss our friends and family dearly, neither of us have suffered any horrible illnesses and we haven´t encountered any major problems.

As I write this, Heidi and I are in an internet cafe in Nazca, awaiting an 8pm departure to Cusco, the gateway to the famed Maschu Picchu (which is the most-visited spot in South America). Since the bus ride to Cusco is 15 hours we sprung for a fancy bus with Cruz Del Sur. The tickets are considerably more expensive than those we purchased for the shorter rides (on less comfortable buses), but this bus has fancy, fully-reclining seats, on-board meals and, most importantly, two bathrooms. I´m not sure we´ll have the opportunity, or budget, to spring for these buses often, but our first long distance ride calls for something special. And, since it´s an overnight bus getting some shut-eye is ever so important.

After Pisco we stopped in Huacachina, a little desert oasis which has been overrun by tourists in search of a little adrenaline rush via the dune buggy tours and sandboarding opportunities which abound in the area. Heidi and I were no different. A short taxi drive from the bustling city of Ica and we were checking into the Casa de Arena hostel, known for its late-night poolside parties. (We chose the joint because I told the taxi driver we needed something cheap and this is what he recommended.) We picked a room with a shared bathroom, which saved us about 7 bucks per night. It was spartan, but served it´s purpose as a place to lay your head for the night.

The first day we just hung out and relaxed, as Heidi wasn´t feeling her best. We grabbed a bite at an inexpensive restaurant along the lakeshore. Only one other table was occupied, and the Backstreet boys were coming from the speakers as a scraggly kitten rubbed our legs, begging for a little taste of our grub. After dinner we retired for the evening. Thankfully, there was no poolside party and we fell asleep pretty early, despite music blaring from a nearby nightclub.

The next day we had arranged to go out and try sandboarding. Basically, it´s something like snowboarding but in the desert. We were herded onto one of three dune buggies, strapped in and were off...but not before stopping to pay a "tourist tax" (above and beyond the fee of the tour) prior to buzzing off into the desert. I was in the front of our buggy, while Heidi was strapped in the back next to a couple of Aussies. Immediately, the driver was taking us up big dunes, down crazy drops and speeding across a span of desert at what seemed like 60+ mph! It was a ton of fun. I placed a bandana around my face after eating a little sand.

After about 15 minutes we stopped and got out to try sandboarding. The boards were waxed with candle wax and we strapped in. Some people chose to go down on their stomachs while I decided to try riding down on my feet. I made it a couple of feet before going down hard enough to elicit an empathic response from the onlookers. A few more tries, all with with the same result. Heidi went down on her tummy and seemed to really enjoy herself. When she took video of me I didn´t fall, but my board wasn´t waxed well enough so I went down the dune at about the speed molasses moves in mid-winter.

After some more zooming through the desert we stopped at some bigger slopes. I went down on my stomach the first time, intimidated by the size of the dune. It was fun, but once I got down near the footprints in the sand )at the bottom of the dune) it really hurt. On the last dune of the day I went down on my feet again, figuring it was the least painful of my options, even if I would be falling the entire way down. Surprisingly, I made it down in one piece, without falling! We hopped back in our buggies and headed back, but not before watching a beautiful sunset.

After leaving the desert oasis we came here to Nazca. Although we knew we weren´t going to spring for a private flight over the famed Nazca Lines it was a little closer to Cusco, and was certainly worth a stop. There are a couple of viewing points of some of the formations, so we opted for a guided tour instead. It was a fraction of the price of a flyover, and far less impressive too. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. It was interesting to learn about the lines, and the ancient peoples who created them, but we were only were able to see a couple of formations, after which we were taken to a homely museum built as an homage to the German woman who devoted her life to the study of, and fought to protect, the centuries-old lines.

And now, a few random bits:

Just because I complain about stuff doesn´t mean I´m not having an amazing experience. I could see how a stranger reading my blogs might think that I am an ungrateful person who does little more than complain about petty things which are, all in all, inconsequential. The fact is, I am loving every bit of this adventure and having an amazing time. All in all, the local people have been extremely friendly...and honest. I really am grateful for this opportunity and know how lucky I am, thanking God for this opportunity each and every day.

It´s definitely campaign season. You know how annoying the campaign ads are on TV back home? Well, rest assured it is far from unique to the US. Elections are this fall in Peru and it seems like every billboard, sign post and shanty home is covered with political advertisements. Entire buildings are painted for specific candidates and I wonder whether people are that devoted to their candidates, or if they´re being paid to decorate their homes and businesses in such a manner.

No Mountain Dew...but plenty of Inca Kola. I love my Mountain Dew and drink it nearly every day, while in the United States. I have only seen it once in Peru (and surprisingly did not buy any) so I have had to find a new vice. That is none other than Inca Kola. Until fairly recently this outsold even Coca-Cola in Peru. It is a yellow soda with a bubble-gum like flavor. I enjoy it thoroughly, as do most of the locals...or so it appears.

I am very excited about Machu Picchu, although it will be nearly a week before we get there. We´re going to spend a few days just getting acclimated to the elevation while in Cusco. (Sickness is not uncommon and typically treated here with a tea made from coca leaves.)

Nickled and Dimed in Pisco

2010-08-24T12:23:00.020-05:00

At the behest Felipe, our hostel host in Lima, we decided to make a stop in Pisco, in order to visit Paracas National Reserve and Isla Ballestes, also known as the "Poor Man´s Galapagos," as it is much cheaper to visit than the famed Ecuadorian ecosystem. After a four hour bus ride we were dropped off along the Pan American highway, a few kilometers from Pisco. Since we had arranged a hostel in advance someone was waiting for us as we disembarked, and he got us into a reasonably priced taxi and we were on our way. The minute we walked in to the hostel we were accosted by a friendly woman peddling tours to the aforementioned locations. Although we read that tours were cheaper if booked directly at the tour offices we succumbed and bought tours from her. (It was easier that way and she was a representative of the agency we booked through, so the mark up was likely negligible.)

The tours were back to back and we had to be ready to depart our hostel at 7:15am on Monday morning. We were joined by a couple of Brazilian dudes on our tour, while an Austrian delegation from our hostel did the same thing with another agency. The agency car took us along pothole-filled roads and past numerous decimated buildings on the way to our fiberglass speedboat in the bay. (Pisco and the surrounding area was devastated by an earthquake in 2007 and much of the town remains in ruins. In fact, we drove past a protest Monday afternoon where residents were voicing their displeasure with how slowly progress was being made in the rebuilding efforts. In much of the town sidewalks are non-existent, buildings are crumbling and the city´s underground infrastructure lay in ruins.)

Once we arrived at the dock the nickle and diming began. You can´t fault a people for trying to better themselves, but these saavy Peruvians get the tourists right where they want them on these tours and then extract every centimo they can from you. We were sold on an all-inclusive tour, yet each had to pay a 1 sole dock fee in order to get on our boat. Granted, 1 sole is about 40 cents, but Heidi & I are budget travelers and not ballin´out of control like this French couple we saw, geared up to the hilt with new and fancy digs from the French equivelent of REI. But, I digress...

We were 2 of two dozen tourists, of many nationalities, onboard the boat, which was equipped with some pretty serious horsepower (dual outboards of 200 hp each). As we cruised towards our destinations birds could be seen dive-bombing unsuspecting prey below the water´s surface, while we zoomed by rickety boats carrying fisherman and a giant oil platform (which are, incidentally, the two main industries in the area). After about 15 minutes we arrived at our first destination: the Paracas Candelabra. This etching in the sand predates the famous Nazca lines and was carbon dated to sometime around 200 BC (and remains to this day because of the arid climate). The impressive image is some 600 feet long and many hypotheses exist as to its purpose and origin. Of course candelabras did not exist at that time and the site gained that name many centuries later when the Spaniards came across it. It is more likely a representation of a native cactus which may have served an important spiritual function, as the plant contains mescaline.

Another 15 minutes and we were amongst the astounding Ballestas islands, which are known as both the "Poor Man´s Galapagos" and "Guano Islands." (The second name is the result of all of the bird shit that covers the area. It is a protected area, but the poo is harvested every seven years and shipped to three continents, as it is rich in nitrogen.) The islands are a number of rock formations which contain many species of birds, including penguins, not to mention sea lions. Birds flourish all year long, as the result of abundant food sources nearby. Our skilled driver took us within feet of crashing into a number of rock formations, all while 5 foot swells rocked the boat...all in the name of good pictures. The area has been protected for more than 30 years, but traditional fishing practices are still allowed. While we were out there we came across a dude who was diving for something, using an old-school line from the surface for air. It looked pretty scary to me, but the man still waved when he saw a boatload of gringos snapping photos as he surfaced.

We started heading back just as the rocking of the boat started to get to Heidi. Amazingly, she fell asleep on the ride back to shore! The islands are an amazing ecosystem, but I couldn´t help but think how devastating an accident (like that which happened in the Gulf of Mexico not long ago) would be to the wildlife and tourism industry in the area.

As we walked off the dock a couple of dudes were offering fish pieces to feed to the pelicans. I grabbed one and encouraged Heidi to do the same. It was only after we fed the birds and they took off their hats that I realized we were, once again, being nickled and dimed. Nothing in life is free, so we tossed a few soles into their caps for the privilege of feeding some birds fish guts. It continued on-shore as a friendly, yet insistent, woman walked over to us peddling chocolate-covered nuts. I declined a few times, and then she unwrapped a piece and said, "free." In Spanish, I asked why and she, of course, responded with an answer I could not decipher, so Heidi and I split the candy. My gal loved it and I parted with another 5 soles for 5 more pieces. They were quite good, but damn...

Next we headed to the Paracas National Reserve, which is basically a desert that used to be a part of the ocean floor. (A 5 sole entry to the park raised my ire even more, feeling like a dumb tourista!) Little molluscs, millions of years old, litter the ground, as do larger mammal bones farther away. The tour through Paracas consisted of a number of stops, the last of which was the most discouraging. The tour was concluded, our guide explained, but we wouldn´t be heading back to town for another 75 minutes. However, there just happened to be three restaurants right there, in the middle of nowhere, if we wanted to pass the time and fill our empty bellies.

As we got off the bus we were accosted by men and women holding menus and giant fish. They all wanted us to eat at their restaurants. By this point I wasn´t gonna be pressured. Heidi and I examined our options and went to, what seemed like, the best deal: a "budget" menu with two courses and a soda for 15 soles each. As we sat down we were given a completely different menu, with prices 3-4 times higher! WTF! I was getting a little pissed by this time and asked for the menu we were shown before sitting and, begrudingly, they obliged. We both had soup and Heidi got a fried omelette while I had chicken and rice. The meal was oky, but the setting along the seaside was pretty fabulous. We even had a seagull swoop down and grab a chicken bone from my soup bowl, after I had put it aside. Brave little bugger! When the bill came it was 36 soles! I know 15x2=30, so I raised another stink. The waitress had brought more soda than we ordered, but I complained and we split the difference: 33 soles and we were outtie. (Despite the haggling I left a tip because I felt kind of bad. What is wrong with me?)

From there the bus took us back to the centra plaza in Pisco, where we kicked it for a while before finding a cheap, yet tasty, pizza joint on one of the many streets torn up after the earthquake from three years earlier. All in all, we had a nice time on the tours, but I can´t help but feel I am being taken advantage of with the constant nuevo sole here and 70 centimos there. I am really turning into a cheap bastard...but you gotta do that if you are unemployed and trying to travel for 8 more months.

We were gonna head to Nazca next, but Heidi convinced me to check out the village of Huacachina, known for its sand dunes, dune buggy tours and sandboarding opportunities. It took some arm-twisting, but it sounds like fun. Tomorrow we head there, with no reservations, bus tickets or arranged lodging. While this sounds mundane for some, I like to plan my bowel movements, not to mention every other detail of life. Talk about living dangerously...

No Beans About It: The Food in Lima is Muy Excelente!

2010-08-21T18:39:00.009-05:00

We arrived in Lima around 430am on Wednesday morning and, after breezing through customs (not having any checked luggage) headed for our hostel, and a little shut-eye (as neither of us was able to sleep on our red eye from Miami). Upon exiting we were inundated by cabbies, chose one randomly, and agreed to the standard fare of 45 soles without haggling. (They say you can get a better deal outside the terminal but you also run the risk of being taken somewhere and robbed.)

When we arrived at the address of our hostel there was nothing to indicate it was indeed a refuge for international travelers. A couple of shady looking dudes were loitering about in the street and I was a little worried. But our very friendly cabbie used his cell to call the hostel owner, Felipe, who quickly let us in, showed us our room and wished us a good sleep.

Lima is a bustling metropolis of about 9 million people and exhaust fumes fill the air, while cabbies and buses zoom down the road, making the pedestrian feel a bit like Frogger. It can be a bit intimidating navigating the city streets, to say the least. So, on our first day, after a sufficient nap, we merely walked around Barranco, the neighborhood of our hostel. It is known as a bohemian district, with lively nightlife and numerous artists. We are blocks from the ocean, but only a few brave souls were out there surfing, as it is the heart of winter here.

For lunch we looked for a place busy with locals and found just that in a very non-descript restaurant with about 8 tables and one server. Lunch was just over $3 each and consisted of soup, rice, chicken, salad and a cola. It is, by far, the best bargain we've had in Peru. But we've enjoyed lots of other meals. We've feated on traditional anticuchos (skewered meat) at a lovely restaurant suggested by our host, Felipe. While strolling in a park home to a bunch of feral cats, we shared a little dessert known as mazamorra con arroz con leche, which is served warm and consists of rice pudding and a purple corn starch. And, right next door to the hostel is a lovely little bakery with some of the yummiest treats I have ever seen or tasted, and all for a song. There we've enjoyed lemon meringue pie, donuts cut in half and filled with all kinds of goodies and a caramel-filled trumpet looking pastry, not to mention some grubbin' empanadas filled with ham and cheese. We've also tried the national drink of Peru, a Pisco sour, which tastes a lot like a Maragrita and is made with Pisco (a Peruvian liquor), lemon juice, egg whites and simple syrup. This place is a gastronomical delight and, for that reason, I wish we could stay longer.

The people here have been very friendly too, especially towards a couple of tourists who know very little Spanish. And the kids REALLY love seeing a couple of gringos. On two occasions we became the attraction for students, despite being at some very cool places in and of themselves (the changing of the guard at the House of Government and the National Museum). The kids at the changing of the guard even asked for our autographs. I thought it was neat, but after obliging one I had to sign about 30 more!

As for the town itself, we mainly stuck to three districts: Barranco, Miraflores and central Lima. In the center we saw the aforementioned changing of the guard, and also visited the monastery & catacombs of San Francisco, a 17th century church which is the final resting place to some 25,000 Peruvians (and on the tour you get to see a bunch of femurs and skulls) as well as an impressive library of historic significance. In Miraflores we stuck to Kennedy Park, where we caught a guy busking with a unicycle and Heidi drooled over the cats which live in, and roam freely throughout, the park. (Felipe said that a few were placed in the area many years ago to tend to a rat problem, but the felines multiplied so the city just made them the main attraction of the park.) In Barranco we mainly chilled in the square, ate and tried the Pisco Sour mentioned above.

Today we visited the National Museum, which houses a number of fascinating artifacts from indigenous cultures throughout Peruvian history. It is also the home to a sobering photo display recounting the internal conflict in Peru, which is still going today and has cost more than 70,000 people their lives. (The conflict has wound down significantly since 2000, but is still a factor in some areas.) The trouble started when the communist party, known as the Shining Path, sought to replace what it termed as the bourgeois democracy with a "New Democracy". More Peruvians have died in this conflict than in all wars combined in the previous 182 years of independence!

After the museum we hopped on a city bus to Miraflores (this can be quite daunting for the non-native) and visited Huaca Pucllana, an adobe pyramid built around 500 AD right smack dab in the middle of Miraflores. Sadly some of the complex was destroyed by housing construction, before the government stepped in and protected the remainder. And earlier in the day we even came upon an impromptu, but very colorful, parade.

As for navigating the city, it's most easily done by taxi. The city buses are manageable, but you have to be brave and willing to ask other passengers for help. The city also just opened something called the Metropolitano which is a slick rapid bus service with dedicated lanes, so you zip right past the gridlocked traffic. I understand a lot of Limeños opposed the Metropolitano, but it is very easy to navigate, clean and modern.

We head to Pisco in the morning, via a four-hour bus ride. Buying the tickets was much easier than anticipated and, hopefully, the ride will go just as smoothly!

One last note: If you are coming to Lima soon, feel free to skip MALI, the local Museum of Art...at least right now. They have an exhibit consisting of videos, some of which are quite disturbing. One was a 2 minute short of a naked woman, shown from the knees to shoulders, standing on a beach hula-hooping with a barbed-wire hoop! It ended by zooming in and slowing down, so one could see the marks left on the woman's naked torso as she hooped it up. I understand art is subjective, but are they serious here?

What to Wear?

2010-08-16T12:13:00.007-05:00

First off, I’d like to apologize to my loyal readers for not posting something sooner. Just under a month ago Heidi and I returned to Minneapolis, having completed the U.S. leg of our so-called “gap year.” Unfortunately, the stresses of the road, coupled with the death of a friend’s grandmother, precluded us from making it to the Big Apple. Otherwise, we pretty much made it everywhere we had hoped and I would characterize the journey, thus far, as a success. That’s not to say it hasn’t been hard and we haven’t had our share of struggles, both as individuals and a couple. That being said, we are stronger for those tribulations and fully prepared for the next leg of our journey, which begins in Lima, Peru in a matter of hours (fewer than 72 to be precise).

Since we have been home we have both had the opportunity to mentally recoup and spend invaluable time with friends and family. It truly has been great to see all of you…and if I missed you we’ll have to hook up in April upon our momentous return. (And to all of those concerned with my last, short-lived, blog post, I apologize for any undue concern or stress that may have placed on you.)

Since we are backpacking for the next 8 months, over three continents and more than a dozen countries, we will have to carry our own gear a significant amount of time. As such, what we pack is extremely important. While you might bring a 50 pound suitcase for a weeklong trip to Mazatlan, that just isn’t feasible for a situation such as ours. When taking intra-city buses one will often have to keep their gear on their lap, or pay for an additional seat…and everyone dreads standing around the carousels at the airport wondering when- or if- their bag will arrive. As a result, Heidi and I have jammed the next 8 months of our lives into 46 liter backpacks from the Osprey Porter series. The bags are also the maximum size allowed to be carried on board a commercial airliner. While Heidi’s weighs in at about 25 pounds, fully packed, mine is just a few more pounds. So, what does one take on a round-the-world journey with a variety of destinations and climates? Well, here’s what I am taking along. (Heidi’s list is similar, although we have some variations in our lists. For example, Heidi has a South America guidebook, but no camera, as we decided to share each of these items to save space/weight.)

Clothing:
2 REI long sleeve button shirts (fast-drying, synthetic material)
1 REI short sleeved button shirt (also fast drying)
1 Rocky Mountain Hardware synthetic t-shirt
1 Brooks synthetic A-shirt
2 pair REI convertible travel pants (lightweight, fast-drying and synthetic)
1 pair of Speedo swimming trunks
1 pair lightweight synthetic shorts (for sleeping, sports, etc.)
1 Kangol baseball cap
1 Columbia wide-brimmed hat
1 bandana
1 pair light fleece gloves
1 lightweight fleece hat
1 Merino wool v-neck sweater
1 mid-weight fleece jacket
1 packable water-resistant windbreaker
5 pair synthetic boxer briefs (fast-drying, odor resistant)
5 pair socks (all fast-drying; of varying thicknesses)
1 pair thermal underwear (top & bottom)
1 pair Merrell Sandals
1 pair Vasque hiking boots
1 pair sunglasses
Necklace and bracelet (from Tanzania)

Personal Care:
1 REI fast-drying travel towel
1 REI fast-drying travel washcloth
1 roll Travel toilet paper (ESSENTIAL!)
1 stick Old Spice deodorant
1 toothbrush
1 small tube toothpaste
100 yds. Dental floss
1 bar Dr. Bronner’s 18-in-1 Castille bar soap (for bathing, shaving, clothes, etc…)
Gillette Mach 5 razor and 3 cartridges (may be brought on plane)
Nail clippers
Tweezers
Plastic comb
30 Q-tips
188 malaria pills
Basic First-Aid kit
Sewing kit
Eyeglass repair kit (for Heidi)
Small bottle 100% DEET insect repellant
Small bottle shampoo
Travel clothesline/universal sink stopper
Emergency poncho
Umbrella
Silk sleep sack (for hostels, etc.)
Inflatable travel pillow
Eye mask
Small roll of duct tape
1 Platypus brand collapsible 1L water bottle

Electronics/Entertainment:
Canon S3IS digital camera
4 extra AA lithium batteries (for camera)
1 LED headlamp (Heidi has a mini flashlight)
Seagate Free Agent 250 GB hard drive
Two 4 GB SD memory cards (for camera)
Two 1 GB miniSD memory cards (for mp3 player)
Sansa SanDisk e250 mp3 player (8GB)
Cheap digital watch
Unlocked cell phone (for use with local SIM cards and as alarm clock)
Duracell 4 GB flash drive
2 electric outlet adapters
1 deck playing cards
Book: The Gulag Arhcipelago
Small notepad
Small journal

Organization/Security:
1 Osprey Porter 46L backpack
1 Eagle Creek clothing organizer
1 Cable and TSA-compliant combination lock (for backpack when on buses, in hostels, etc.)
1 space saver bag (for bulkier clothing items)
2 mesh lingerie bags (for organizing clothes in backpack)
1 medium sized garbage bag (to put backpack in during deluge)
1 Tupperware container (for electronics/small items)
1 Travelon neck wallet (Heidi has a money belt)
1 Vicotorinox Velcro wallet
1 case for sunglasses
1 canvas tote bag (for day trips, shopping, etc.)
Copy of passport and other pertinent documents
16 extra passport photos (for visas along the way)
ATM card(s)

One thing to keep in mind is that most items can be purchased anywhere on the road. If we need more clothes we can buy them. They even sell batteries and socks in the third world! Who knew that people in developing nations still need to eat, drink and have the basic necessities of life?

Stay tuned for life in Lima and points beyond in out next installment.

Life on "The Rez"

2010-06-10T07:59:00.001-05:00

I wonder what that dude with the scraggly hair and hoodie does all day? Was he motioning to me, or just generally waving his hands? Heidi returns from the gas station on the corner of the highway, clearly dissatisfied. “Well, didn’t they have a bathroom?” I asked.

“No,” she explained with angst in her voice, “The guy didn’t speak good English. I dunno what he did speak but he said, ‘it no work.’

“Do you wanna try that gas station across the street, or just look for the place?” I inquired.

“Let’s just get there and then I can go,” she declared, becoming increasingly frustrated with the combination of her physical condition and my incessant badgering. She threw the van in gear and we started driving up and down the streets of McLaughlin, SD, looking for any sign of the Natural Law Institute.

McLaughlin is a town of fewer than 800, set up in the traditional grid pattern. There are probably only a dozen or so city blocks in the town center, so we figured we could simply spot the place. But after driving up and down about half of them we became increasingly frustrated, and I more brave. “I saw some kids downtown. Let’s go ask them.”

Heidi pulled into a parking spot right in front of the downtown senior center where three Native youth were loitering about on the sidewalk out front. “Excuse me,” I inquired rather sheepishly, “do you know where Robert White Mountain’s house is?”

“Robert White Mountain? Go down to the school and hang a right. You’ll go up a block and see a red house on the corner. That’s his place,” a long-haired teen explained while motioning in the air at the same time. Two minutes later we were at the place which we would call home for the next four days.

“You must be Guy & Heidi,” said a friendly white woman who opened the door before we could knock. She was carrying a hefty toddler of Native descent. “I’m Beth, Robert’s wife. He’s just across the street checking out a sofa the neighbor’s giving away. He should be back pretty soon.”

The Natural Law Institute is a non-profit, and the brainchild of Robert White Mountain, a proud member of the Hunkpapa Lakota, the nation most well-known for the famous Chief Sitting Bull (who refused to agree to any treaties with the US, arguing that the white man would never honor the deals it struck with the indigenous peoples. In the late 1800’s Sitting Bull was killed at the orders of Colonel McLaughlin because he was seen as a threat to the peace on the Standing Rock Agency, which the Colonel was responsible for. More than a century later, a number of Sitting Bull’s descendants live in a town, on the Standing Rock Reservation, named after the man who ordered the great Hunkpapa leader killed. [Many of the Lakota people refer to the town as Bear Soldier, however it is legally known as McLaughlin.])

White Mountain formed the non-profit after seeing a tremendous need for a positive, Native-run, resource in the community. Among his goals: get youth interested in Lakota culture, empower the community, create sustainable community-based agricultural projects, create sanctuaries for the buffalo and end what he refers to as, “the Indian Wars.”

“I’m not Indian,” the hulking man explained with a rather serious look in his eyes. “Indian is a word they created. Indians are hopeless, helpless, uneducated and savage. I’m none of those things. I am Hunkpapa Lakota. I am not an Indian.”

After exchanging the obligatory greetings we helped White Mountain hoist a shabby and torn leather sofa onto his minivan, so that his nephew Chat could use it. “It’s pretty nice,” the nephew stated approvingly. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but think the only place that couch belonged was in a landfill. We dropped it off at Chat’s house, one of sixty in a new Federal housing development, before taking a quick tour of town.

“With 60 new families getting shipped in it’s gonna be HOT this summer. And they just spent another $26 million for a surge in police, for a total of 72 on ‘the rez’. Most of those are here because crime is the worst here in Bear Soldier,” Robert explained to me and Heidi as he drove us through Native neighborhoods, occasionally waving to a friend.

He was right: The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) recently received a $26 million federal grant in order to, temporarily, increase the police presence in an attempt to reduce crime by a whopping 5%. Robert allowed me to peruse a thick report, issued by the BIA, on the surge. No permanent solutions. No community involvement. Simply an increase in police presence, creating an even greater sense of a police state on “the rez.” This was the Indian Wars White Mountain was referring to.

“They say they want to improve things. Well, you don’t do that by sending in the cavalry. How is this any different than what they did here 100 years ago?” he quizzed the naïve Minnesota couple who had just arrived to get their hands dirty and learn about the Lakota culture while, perhaps, cleansing their psyches for not being like the Wasichu who came before them.

Wasichu (wa-shee-choo) is a Lakota term and has come to refer to white people, although the literal translation is “fat eater” or “one who eats the fat.” And, that’s exactly what the settlers who came across the plains in the 18^th & 19^th centuries did. They exploited the land, settled on buffalo migratory lands (which was also used by the indigenous people for hunting), and brought with them delights such as smallpox and the poison which still plagues 90% of the Standing Rock Agency’s native population: liquor. From there came broken treaty after broken treaty, herding a proud nomadic culture onto a small patch of barren land (much of which isn’t even Native-owned today). And when resistance to the government’s actions continued there was a systematic destruction of one of North America’s last great mammals: the buffalo. The bison population was nearly wiped out completely, all in an attempt to quell the “savage” Natives who had the audacity to refuse the gracious handouts which were being offered them. It worked: Sitting bull was murdered and the remaining Lakota had little choice but to move onto the agencies/reservations, or face certain death. “As the buffalo goes,” White Mountain explained to us, “so go the Lakota people.”

As we were being educated in the home of Beth & Robert a siren, like those for severe weather, went off at 6pm (“slow time.” The reservation sits just west of the Missouri River, which divides Central and Mountain Time zones. While McLaughlin is technically in Mountain Time many of the Natives go by “fast [/Central] time,” while the whites and governmental agencies go by “slow [/Mountain] time.”

“Don’t worry. There’s no severe weather. That’s just the old curfew siren. One goes off at 6 and another at 10. Back in the day they could shoot an Indian if they were out past that time,” White Mountain explained.

“So why does it still go off?” Heidi wondered.

“Who knows… Probably just nostalgia,” he guessed.

Time after time during our short experience at Standing Rock Agency I was overwhelmed by the conditions faced by its inhabitants. White Mountain is a firm believer that we are all responsible for ourselves, but the fact is these people start out squarely behind the 8-ball. With very little business or industry in the area unemployment runs rampant…somewhere in the area of 85% (contrasted with the statewide unemployment rate of 5.3% in South Dakota.) With so few opportunities many people are forced to take a government handout to survive; this totals about $400/month. (Taking any employment means the loss of this benefit, and with very few FT, well-paying opportunities most people choose to take the monthly check and stay unemployed.) These conditions merely perpetuate a feeling of despair, and a lack of motivation to make a change for the better. Sadly, it really is no wonder that 24 people committed suicide in McLaughlin within 21 days last year.

In the center of town there is an entrepreneurial center, designed to help people create their own small businesses; it often sits empty. Many of the indigenous people have the opportunity to attend classes at Sitting Bull College with no cost to themselves, yet they lack the desire to get educated only to sit at home unemployed afterwards. (In fact, most qualify for an additional stipend upon completion of courses. Previously, the stipend was paid out ahead of time and often wasted on booze.) The fact is that many of us would buckle under the pressures which are faced daily by the Hunkpapa Lakota, along with many other proud nations which have been relegated to small patches of land that also lack the opportunities these United States are known for.

The Natural Law Institute serves as a beacon of hope in an otherwise sad and depressing land. With various (and extremely small) grants the institute has begun a fruit orchard, planting 98 trees last year. A community garden sits empty in the Bear Soldier South housing development, waiting for its occupants to begin reaping what they sow. Another larger garden is situated next to the home which houses the Institute: much of the food will be distributed to the community, either through large meals or for personal use. Additionally, White Mountain had teamed up with animal rights activist Jane Goodall, in an attempt to create a refuge for some of the few remaining genetically pure bison, which roam the plains near Yellowstone. But, with large federal grants going to increasing the police presence, rather than positive community projects, the progress is slow-going.

With the exception of some curious- and bored- neighborhood girls, the majority of the work performed at the Institute is done by White Mountain, his family, and volunteers from outstate. Until the community rallies around this man’s vision The Natural Law Institute will certainly be fighting an uphill battle.

To learn more about the Institute, or to help, please check out http://www.thenaturallawinstitute.com/. Please share this with anyone and everyone you know so we can help put an end to the Indian Wars.

Yellowstone In Pictures

2010-05-27T22:06:00.003-05:00

Music: "Scenic World," by Beirut

The Latest From Haiti...via Wyoming

2010-05-27T15:51:00.003-05:00

(Note: This is a couple of days old and contains literary nonfiction. That is, the quotes aren't exact but rather an attempt to capture the gist of the conversation.)

The Latest from Haiti, via Wyoming

So, we are spending the evening in Cody, Wyoming at the home of Couchsurfing member Blacktent, otherwise known as Pat. At present, Heidi and I are holed up inside her fifth-wheel travel trailer, which she has set up in her driveway for people of our ilk. She was gracious enough to host us on less than 24 hours notice and, after arriving around 7pm, providing us with some very interesting conversation…some of which I will share with you now.

Pat is in her late fifties and, although her hair is slightly frazzled (as a result of smoking), is an attractive woman with a slender face. (I have little doubt that she had to fend off gaggles of suitors in her earlier days.) She was a traveling nurse who spent more than two decades of her life roaming the world (for leisure), while bouncing from gig to gig in order to support her wanderlust. A little more than ten years ago a contract brought her to this tourism-based town, where she also found love. Sadly, her husband succumbed to colon cancer last summer, leaving the former gypsy of few possessions with a house, barn, four horses and a couple of pickup trucks.

Today Pat is another statistic amongst the ranks of the unemployed, having not worked for a year. She spends her days entertaining weary and wayward Couchsurfers who, no doubt, provide her with some much-needed companionship following the untimely, although not unexpected, death of her husband.

After welcoming us into her home and offering the obligatory drinks, she returns to her roost on the couch, an eclectic mix of music (ranging from Loreena McKennitt to Kenny Rogers) playing quietly in the background. After some polite conversation she begins to feel more at ease with our presence and heads over to the wood-burning stove, where she sits upon a stool and grabs an American Spirit cigarette from the pack on the floor. She cracks the door of the stove ever so slightly, allowing the orange glow to emanate as the fire crackles more audibly.

Pat recently offered to volunteer in Haiti, where she spent two weeks administering aid in camps. Her primary camp had 1,800 residents but the work was slow. “Most of my job was little more than putting on band-aids or changing dressing for those who were seriously injured in the quake. A few amputees were being fitted for prosthetics too.” She goes on to recall that the sounds of the camp were not those of sadness and despair, but children laughing and basketballs bouncing on the hard-packed earth. “You know, they're island people and they just kind of go with the flow.”

As she exhales another drag she recalls the variety and sheer volume of non-Haitians in the country. There are your “do-gooders” (as she called them), the journalists (or those representing themselves as such), and “the Palm Beach types,” with designer suits and fancy wristwatches, eyeing that piece of damaged oceanfront property as a site of a possible five-star resort to be had for a song.

As we continued talking I recalled my time as a journalist, loathing how the slant of some stories was chosen even before the reporter walked out the door, in order to get the true pulse of the people. “There was this one guy shooting a documentary,” she began. “He was kind of a Michael Moore look-alike: middle-aged, not quite as fat, but with that droopy dog-faced look. He was filming a documentary and his focus was the misery of the Haitian people.” This “documentarian” would go into the absolute worst slums of Port-au-Prince in order to find what suited his angle, even if it was in direct contrast to what the majority of the Haitian people were experiencing.

“We were doing really good things at our camp,” she continued, and so they invited this man and his all-female crew over to illustrate what’s going right on the island nation. “Well, he looked around for a minute and didn’t like it, so he left…completely ignoring this side of the story.” Meanwhile, the only misery Pat saw was in the eyes of this man’s crew, sick of being ogled and hit-on by their creepy and lonely employer.

Pat said there were three types of NGO (non-governmental organization) workers present in Haiti. First, were those who enjoyed the nomadic lifestyle, managed to get funding for it and, perhaps, did some good along the way. Next are the overly altruistic and idealistic types, who believe small deeds can change the world. And, lastly, are those like her: just bored and looking for a way to lend a helping hand. Perhaps this is an overly-simplistic categorization of the types of people who offer their services to those in need, but it does cover a majority of them. (I would venture to throw a fourth category in there, which includes the people who are sent by a higher order, believing the only real help they can provide is to convert the heathens.)

“The fact is things aren’t so bad there. At the end of the day there was plenty of beer, and it was cold and cheap, so things had to be pretty good.” Once again, she explained that these were island people…but not just any island people: they were Haitians. For decades, and perhaps centuries, the majority of the nation’s inhabitants had been subjected to, what you and I would consider, destitute living conditions, corrupt governments and sub-standard healthcare. Now, at least, the countryside was teeming with do-gooders taking part in the trendiest of relief efforts, offering bottled water, socks and medicine.

If only someone would start working on a plan to dispose of the plastic bottles, shipped in by the plane load, piling up in the streets amongst the other mounds of trash.