Macchu Picchu and the Sacred Valley

Gen, Ash, Lloyd and I left Cuzco for Macchu Picchu, taking a tour through the spectacular Sacred Valley- at 110 kilometers per hour. The driver inexplicably turned around on our way to the train station, claiming traffic that was apparently conveyed during an active phone call, and retraced our steps back through Cuzco proper, the four of us hang from our oh-shit bars and rather preferring to survive than catch our train. We missed it. The tour company, after some haggling, agreed to pay the upgrade for the next train rather than having us was for a train that would arrive a few hours before our pre-sunrise ascent up to the ruins. The train ride was glorious, following the brown rolling river along the cliffs covered with vines and fragrant flowers, and we were offered quinoa mint salad and a small mashed sweet potato stuffed with strips of grilled meat, perhaps llama. The windows on the roof of the train allowed us to peek up at the rounded mountain tops, imagining Incans using machetes through the thick brush to find the perfect spot to set up an agricultural, spiritual, political, economic and religious center. We arrived in Aguas Calientes, and dreamt of jungles and storytales. It was raining while we waited for the bus at a quarter to five the next morning, but the buzz kept us awake. Our guide told us of its founding by an American history teacher, and how most of the findings still reside in Yale University. While he talked, the steam floated onto, off of, around, and underneath the vegetation on the surrounding mountains, and suddenly, the postcard image appeared, with much more awe and wonder than can be imagined. We wandered amongst the massive stones carved with inginuity and covered with moss, learning about the barbarity of the Spanish conquistadors who failed to find Macchu Picchu (which is actually just the name of the nearest mountain, since history of the name along with many other much desired facts we never passed down from the local Incans who fled into the jungle). The construction was meant to last centuries to the seemingly invincible Incans, who sadly only inhabited the city for less than one hundred years, less time than the time of contruction. Every building was centered around the sun, ancestors, the natural flow of water from the surrounding sources, and the all powerful royalty. The four of us sat on a terrace, took a million pictures, pet a two day old llama, and left a little more spiritual.

Death Road on a bicycle- wise?

I slept through the hour and a half ride leaving from La Paz. I woke  to a car that seemed to have travelled to the Andes- snow caps, icy lakes, 4640 meters of noticeably chilly altitude. The death road connected La Paz with all of northern Bolivia where the southern tip of the amazon lies, and La Paz doesn’t sit very far north. Five years ago, the government (finally) decided to splurge for an alternative route. 26 cars on average spilled over the side of the cliff per year for lack of sleep, sobriety, or even minor lapses in attentiveness. At points, the road is 3 metres wide- and its a two lane road. Tiny memorials dot the road sides including one at a particularly precarious curve remembering martyrs who were thrown for their vocal outcries which disturbed the despotic anti-democratic governments stronghold over one of the countries many revolutions, a sign that the severity of the roads name was not lost on the Bolivians who had no other choice on the transportation of coca and coffee from the Yungas or necessities for their families in the steamy lowlands bordering Brazil. It is the only stretch of road in the country where you drive on the left, giving way to those coming on the right, so drivers can measure in millimetres tire space from the sheer drop below. The 64 kilometres of over 3000 meters of vertical descent begins in Ansel Adams mountains painted with prayers and hopes- " Jesus es la luz", "Te amo Dios". The waterfalls thaw quickly as we descended into an anti-plato sparsely covered with hearty, determined plants, but the fauns only appear where the ferns grow large enough to hide behind and leaves have evolved into advanced drainage systems. I’d say we rode through waterfalls, but I fear the image it paints in your mind. This wasn’t water crashing against rocks, but mists floating straight from above like a shower through a fine sieve, an illusion that seemed a natural atmosphere given a narrow road carved almost lengthwise cave against the stern valley wall. The group stops every twenty minutes or so to give our hands a rest from the juttering over unpaved roads and for me, the slowest, to catch up but I don’t mind after an occasional large black butterfly is framed by the stunning valley views and I can see hawks soaring from the other side of the water mists.

Highest city in the world-GASP.

So, Chelsea and I have left the three temporarily for Potosi, the highest city in the world at 4,070 meters. Highest airport, highest golf course, you name it, the city likes her superlatives. Chelsea and I wheeze with each step, and marvel at the locals who run up the steep streets. Its famous for the Cerro Rico silver mine that helped finance Spain´s most prosperous years. It therefore has a darkness that is said to be palpable...for most of the year. This, however, is not most of the year. This is pre-Carnaval, and the haggard workers have crawled from the mine and are ready to party. Today, Chelsea and I were splashed with water and sprayed with silly string, so we are now taking shelter in an internet cafe over looking a parade of children and a marching band dancing down the street, covered with confetti and sporting masks and wigs. We leave tommorow for Oruro where the festivites are expected to increase ten fold. I´ve got my eye on a red wig with devil horns.

Salar de Uyuni with a cut on my foot.

So, I won´t linger on this- my laptop got stolen. Lloyd and I met Chelsea the Canadian, Ash and Gen the English couple in Iquique, Chile, and decided to huff it to Bolivia together. We were standing in a circle around our small mountain of luggage at the bus station, and while I was retrieving my passport, a cunning thief lessened my weight. There. Now we can move on. We took a horrific overnight bus to Oruro, and booked our nights for Carnaval in the city which is dubbed the second best is South America. Then, another horrific train ride for Chelseas birthday landed us in Tupiza, where we booked a four day tour up to Uyuni, stopping almost every thirty minutes at amazing rock formations, large reflective lakes full of flamingos, and large plains full of llamas celebrating the arrival of Carnaval by wearing large red earrings. Lloyd supplied coca leaves for the gringos in the car who took turns suffering from altitude sickness, we slept under piles of alpaca blankets to curb the frightening chill at altitudes nudging 5,000 meters, and held our noses at the sulfur geysers that bubbled like the Bog of Eternal Stench. The highlight is the Salar de Uyuni, the worlds biggest salt flat, where the reflection settles to form a perfect double image against a near perfect white sky, providing perfect photo opportunities. And yes, I did have a cut on my toe.

Sundance and Butch

It seems like a land that would draw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid. I grew up adoring that movie, never knowing it wasn't entirely true. My dad, the same man who introduced me to the classic Redford-Newman flick, gave me In Patagonia before we left for Christmas. It touches upon the legend of the Wild Bunch and their addiction to hold-ups. Lloyd and I are in El Calafate now, in the heart of Patagonia. The town is full of watery-eyed, gortex-clad, walking stick-toting tourists who come to talk amonst giants- the famed landscape of Patagonia. The wind is incessant, and so seems to uproot the majority of the surrounding flora, save for some blustered wildflowers. Artisan chocolate and slow smokoed lamb smatter menus. Microbrews and malbec are guzzled while the sun circles the sky lazily, never fully commiting to the concept of setting for a full nights rest. Parrilla is on every menu, and visible from every restaurant window with the intentions to draw drooling masses inside. A meager, smoky fire sits under inclining steak stretched thin and taut over a wooden cross. Glaciers and ice capped mountains always seem to sit just on the other side of the range, accessible by inventive transport methods- mountain bike, 4x4, horse, Zodiac, and raft. The fruit is surprisingly fantastic, and we are frequently offered fresh raspberry jam, small bowls of cherries while we wait and curiously, a plethora of nectarines, whose orchards surely cannot survive a season in Patagonia's inhospitable climate. Even the fauna is limited to a few small ostriches and some rugged looking llama.

Hiking the W in Torres del Paine National Park

I walk like I'm trying not to wake the baby. I have blisters on the majority of my toes, and before my shower today, I smelled so bad the sleeping bag was threatening not to sleep with me anymore. My legs wobble like a newborn calf, I've been consuming nothing but dehydrated food, I ache in body parts I didn't know I even had, and I'm only on day three of five. Somehow, someway, I still have unfettered, no show of flagging peace and satisfaction, the kind that comes from accomplishing something just slightly tougher than you should be taking on. Hiking the "W" in Parque Nacional del Torres del Paine is my first time carrying my own gear- tent, sleeping bag, mat, gas stove, and food for five days. Luckily, the glacier water is delicious and "safe to drink", I'm assured. But if you haven't heard from me in a while, assume the water is not "safe to drink" and I've died from giardiasis. Lloyd hates to hike, and I use that strong word consciously here. So, I am left to heft my gear myself. My travelling companions have been just shy of completely deranged. At the first camp which sits at the foot of the lake that Glacier Grey spills into, I saw a German man swim out to an iceberg and clambour onto it. I caught him as he walked back to his tent and asked him if he had done it before, secretly hoping he would encourage me to try it myself. He told me it was very sharp, and I looked down to where a beed of crimson began to form on his knee. He promptly wiped up the blood and sucked it off his finger, quickly and with the look of a guilty six year old. He also shaved his entire body, eyebrows included. Later, I came across a young Chilean woman sitting in the scrub just off the trail, shoveling berries she was plucking off the bushes around her into her indigo dyed mouth. Then, during my hike up the Valle Frances from the Campesito Italiano, I asked the world's worst photographer to take my picture. At first, he forgot to actually push the button. After showing him the photo was not actually taken, the picture I was left with was a photo of my moments before I actually smiled, so I have this dumb, relaxed sweaty look on my face I hope I don't usually wear with the glacier behind me, just not in the frame with me. Sigh. I did, however, see horses rolling in the wildflowers, mountains towering around my tiny self, and slept like the dead despite the famous Patagonian winds trying to get into my tent at me.

Glacier Perito Moreno

The first big sight in Patagonia happened to be my first glacier. Breathtaking. It is not the world, let alone Argentina's largest, but it is my first ever, so to me, it is. In the winter, the glacier pushes up against the peninsula that houses the viewing boardwalkds, blocking water from flowing into Lago Argentina. In the summer, the ice melts by the warmed water, creating a bridge connecting the peninsula to the glacier. A cruise ship could fit under this bridge. On average, every two years, the bridge cracks away from the ice and tidal waves into the water. I could use some cute euphemism here, like shamu washing over its viewers, but I can only imagine the heart stopping roar and beauty of something of that magnitude crashing on that moment of that day you happen to be sitting there, taking an unassuming bite of your sandwhich from the viewing platform. Lloyd and I only caught small calvings, six foot tall chunks of ice that crack loudly away from its 22 story mother and slosh noisily into the lake. The glacier is quite active- it moves on average two meters per day. You can hear the cracks and shiftings of ice from deep inside the glacier, and when you hear that boom, you look up from your travel book, and everyone stops talking. The colors in the wall of ice were astonishing. Yes, ice is white, but it is also blue. A rainbow of blue, from a pale sapphire to a solid cobalt to a black navy creeping into the deep calvings to the black veins that show like rings on a tree.  Quite satisfying.

I Got My Hair Pierced in El Bolson.

It seems like a land that would draw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I grew up adoring that movie, never knowing it wasn't entirely true. My dad, who introduced me to Butch and the Kid, gave me In Patagonia before we left for Christmas. It touches upon the legend of the Wild Bunch and their addiction to hold-ups. Lloyd and I are in El Calafate now, in the heart of Patagonia. The town is full of watery-eyed, gortex-clad, walking stick-toting tourists, who come to walk amongst giants- the famed glaciars of Patagonia. The wind is incessant, and so seems to uproot the majority of the surrounding flora, save for some blustered wildflowers. Artisan chocolate and slow smoked lamb smatter menus. Microbrews and malbec are guzzled while the sun circles the sky lazily, never fully commiting to the concept of setting for a full nights rest. Parrilla is on every menu, and visible from every restaurant window. A meager, smoky fire sits under inclining steak stretched thin and taut over a wooden cross. Glaciers and ice capped mountains always seem to sit just on the other side of the range, accessible by inventive transport methods- mountain bike, 4x4, horse, or boat. The fruit is surprisingly fantastic, and we are frequently offered fresh raspberry jam, small bowls of cherries and, curiously, a plethora of nectarines, whose orchards surely cannot survive a windy, snowy life in Patagonia. Aside from empanadas, fast food life is limited. This is a culture of restaurants and slow cooked meat. Even beverages are slow. Yerba is a drink that requires an immense amount of intricate rituals. Mine is a wooden cup, made from trees up in the north west near Salta. I've been told that the flavor of this wood affects the yerba so dramatically that most people prefer gourds or metal. You fill your mate (the cup) 2/3 of the way with yerba (the tea like substance that Argentines inhale). Placing your hand on the top of the cup, dump the yerba out onto your hand and reverse back into the cup, thus allowing the silt to stick to your hand. Wipe your hand on your jeans, or Lloyd's jeans, as the case may be. Create a mini-hill in the cup after you dig your straw into the yerba, then pour hot, NOT BOILING, water onto the bottom of the hill, the opposite way your would pour a beer to avoid head. Refill infinite number of times. Enjoy. Tada!

Dedo Gordo.

We have finally made it to the wind-swept land of Patagonia. Mariah suggested many places in South America, but El Pueblito Hostel in the town of El Bolson is the only accomodation she recommended. Figures. Its hippy heaven. On our first night, we heard of a refugio, a refuge, called Dedo Gordo, Fat Finger. We packed a sandwhich and a warm pair of socks and hiked an impossibly steep hike five hours up the hills surrounding the valley El Pueblito nestles into, past waterfalls, wildflowers, and gauchos. Halfway, we caught up with seven Argentines, who were, aiding a strenuous hike with some tobacco smoke. They had ginormous bags, and I suddenly begin to feel we were underequipped with out baby day packs. They had sleeping bags, food, pillows, sleeping mats, lots and lots of things we did not have. When we reached the refugio, Lloyd was certain we hadn't reached the place yet. It was, maybe, MAYBE, 75 square meters. That's right. 8x8 feet. And 16 people slept in it that night. And two kittens. We filled each space of it, and everything hangs strategically from the rafters like an ecclectic laundry line. The four hour hike in the windy hills have left me slightly ill, so the gracious and slightly eccentric hosts have offered me a teaspoon of prepolio, which, from my broken spanish, translates to a kind of miracle liquid made from bee venom diluted in pisco, a very strong alcohol. It's horrible, but I pretend it works for everyones benefit, who want to see the american girl cured with a beloved argetine medecine. We were the only non natives, cats included, so we sat on a bench, massaging our weary feet and happily accepting the sitting down position. I was on a bench inches from the cast iron stove, apparently on the cats beds, because they perched on my knees, occasionally clamboring for the knee closest to the warmth. The windows were plastic sheets, I figure because getting most anything up into a place as remote as that required horse transport, surely, and glass isn't something a courrier would accept as a parcel if he travels by horse. Three people got lost on the hike up, not paying close enough attention to the red splotches of paint on a tree every fifty feet or so. They realized they went to far when they hit snow. SNOW, people. They owners of the place told me it once took someone nine hours to find the place. They made us a hearty starchy dinner while the 12 other hikers looked over their undercooked plain noodles with jealousy. I have no idea what the gypsies names are who I've been stuck with overnight in thie generous kitchen they calla refugio. Candle wax drips down empty bottles of Mendoza Malbec, Mate cups sit hald forgotten under various sausages drying on strings nailed to the walls of this rudely carved cabin, and the music from a pair of bongos, a guitar and a harmonica mix with the heat from teh sooty, cracked stove in the center of the room. Out of pity, we were placed closest to the stove, and given scratchy blankets. The next morning, we have a fill of coffee and homemade bread (they really do that well in this country) and dulce de leche (that too!), and paid the bill, which COMPLETELY cleaned us out. So much so that after our four hour hike back down the mountain, we didnt have enough to take the bus back into town. We had to convince a skeptical taxi cab to get us to a bank. After a microbrew in town and a huge lunch, we fell asleep back at El Pueblito at six p.m., and slept through the night, sore and very happy.

One uncomfortably intimate evening with Buenos Aires' domestic airport.

I'm not sure if we can tack this up to rustiness or cockiness, but I effed up. Royally. And I dragged Lloyd with me. We spontaneously purchased tickets last night to Ushuaia, the world's closest port to Antarctica, Argentina's mot southern city, "the end of the world". I haven't heard great things about it (expensive, grey, disappointing), but we needed to pick a direction in this pointy country, and bragging rights were not far from our minds. I booked us two tickets for a flights from Buenos Aires domestic airport to Ushuaia on January 13th at 5:00. I am not sitting in Buenos Aires' domestic terminal food court, baggage strewn at my feet, on January 13th, and the time is now 6:58. 6:58 p.m., 13 hours and 58 minutes after the flight took off at 5:00 a.m. Sigh. Stupid military time. Without an extra charge, we can take tommorow's 5 a.m. flight to Ushuaia...if two seats open up. Luckily, the airport is open 24 hours, Lloyd doesn't hate me, and I've got some documentation to take care of.
7:48- I buy hamburgers in the refreshingly crowded food court. We have yet to attract the attention of the employees who, I am sure, love watching sweating, swearing souls beat feet through the crowded terminal, hair unkempt, shoes untied, jackets trailing out of closes suitcases. I have offered to play as Lloyd's personal servant for the reminaing hours until, fingers crossed, our flight takes off, but he'll insist a burger will do. Fine. Done.
8:09- Vodka is added to our cokes.
8:54- Seats in food court are getting REALLY uncomfortable, but according to Lloyd's recent toilet break, there areother backpackers, who, apparently, also need to sleep in the airport because they too come from countries who don't observe military time because its STUPID.
9:30- Paige finishes her book, and sadly discovers that Lloyd doesn't like cards.
9:35- Paige gives in and watches soccer, which plays 29 hours a day in this country.
10:16- We move out of the food court when luckly locals are packing up and go home and sleep in their own beds. We watch an episode of Family Guy, one we've watched so much we quote most of the episode. Pretty sad when you watch television just to pass the time. Waiiiittt.... Isn't that what t.v. is for??
2:08- Jolt awake on the hard marble floor of the airport, zamboni type machine almost runs over my feet.
3:20- Check in our bags
5:01- Plane for Ushuaia leaves full as a tick on a dog, without Lloyd and Paige aboard.
5:02- Paige cries.
5:48- Retrieve bags from "Lost and Found". I am marginally relieved that they are not on their way to Ushuaia without their owners.
6:15- Moves in a hazy state for the next ten hours, misses a second flight to Ushuaia, gives in a buys a ticket to Bariloche, paying, in total, more than the longer flight to Ushuaia. Not the second sigh of the day.
I could go on. But I'm not too keen to relive the experience. All you people need to know is that we made it. To Bariloche, that is.

No, there isn't a rose between his teeth.

We were introduced into the sensuous world of tango in its appropriate capital. Now, let me say that days before I left, I had breakfast with my dad and seamus mcjorge, a very dear friend of ours. Seamus has become an avid salsa enthusiast after some trips to Cuba, and in the midst of gushing of its awesomeness, mentioned how stuffy tango is and how he would never want to, ahem, make love to a tango dancer. We sat in the french brasserie inspired cafe near Casa Rosada, Argentina's version of our White House, and watched some mesmerizing dancing on stage. The piano, cello, flute and ever so tangoesque accordian crooned emotion for the couple, who slank (which I believe is the past tense of slunk) around the stage, he with an unfortunately childish ponytail and she with heels and a revealing new outfit for each song. He flung her around, she kicked between his legs, a good time was had by all. All said and done, the tango is, to Seamus' credit, a technical dance meant for straight legs and rigid arms, all with heavy overtones of lust. A strange combination that seems to work for experienced lovers who understand each other very, very well.
To make the situation all the more charming, the show was held in Cafe Tortoni, the oldest cafe in Buenos Aires. It seems to capture Buenos Aires' european heartbeat, with its very french architecture, a wide bar filled with vermouth and backed by a large mirror, the name Cafe Tortoni painted with a stylized hand behind a tuxedoed waiter drying brandy glasses sullenly with a tea towel.

Oh, and then someone tried to pick lloyd's pocket on the subway. Ahh, the sophistication of travelling.

Settling

So, Ive got the double L down. Its "j". Like, Me jama Paige. Moving on. Lloyd and I managed to score an amazing room in the same hostel, after last nights live concert right outside our room carried on so loud and so long that the sweltering heat didn't seem to affect me. We are now perched on the corner of the block, looking down onto a moderatly busy intersection, but with superb views of all four directions. There is a curious closed patio facing the corner, where I shaved Lloyd's head this afternoon. I opened the three ten foot windows in the two by two space, and I imagined leaning out a la Evita, to speak to the citizens of the great city of Buenos Aires. It was all very romantic. Speaking of Eva Peron, we stopped by her cemetary yesterday, great big giant buildings erected in the honor of the cities wealthiest members, clad in ebony slabs and ivory angles. Tommorow, we tango. Well, technically, WE don't tango per se, but we have perchased tickets to see a show at cafe totori, the oldest cafe in Buenos Aires, where, going back to romanticism, I imagine Borges scribbling away or Che smoking a cigar. It was a day of Paige's imagination gone haywire.

Arrival

So, my mom keeps reminding me that if I continue on with my dream of being an interpreter, I will be able to continue travelling for many years to come. I am trying to eat this up, but, to be honest, the title of this blog could have also been the last hurrah. I am returning to school in a matter or mere months, and so I need to backpack it up like the half adult that I am.
I arrived in Buenos Aires today, in order to hit up Patagonia before it turns into a frozen wasteland, opting instead to see it with the rest of the travelling world, more specifically, every nationality besides american, BADAM BING! Anyone?
Its quite hot, but more noticable are the locals. They don't look mexican. Yes, I know its terribly racist to say this, but I don't have experience with anyone more south than mexico, and I was not expecting europeans and asians and the like. I like it. This means I fit in. And for the most part, I do ok, struggling through with my meager spanish, but what the hell is with the brazilian shu or ju? Its weird. Callao isnt "Cayao", its "Cabjwasdfa*&$%o". I'm outta my league. Where is Vista Del Sol when I need it? Well, were off tonight to get some beef and wine, then lying motionless in bed for ten or so hours, not so much sleeping as doing my best to become one with a really uncomfortable pillow and bed (ahhh hostels, how I've missed you so.)