The Invisible Man

The Journey Home

2005-04-27T06:31:00.000-07:00

My flight from Lima was scheduled at a very early 7:30am, meaning that I was up by 4 in the morning. After checking in, going through security, and being on our American Airlines flight, I was more than ready to return home. As the plane began to accelerate down the runway and pick up speed, it suddenly braked with a jerk, sending us all lurching forward as we came to a stop and producing a plume of smoke on our right side with a scent of burnt rubber. After taxing back to our gate, we learned that there was a problem with one of the engine's air filters, and would have to be fixed before we left.

All of us 200 or so passengers were herded into a waiting area for more than 3 hours until they fixed the problem and we were able to get on our way. By the time we made it to Miami, my connection to San Francisco had already left, despite my record time of 30 minutes making it through immigration and customs. I went to the American Airlines counter to see what they would do.

As I expected (and needed, as I have exhausted my funds) the airline provided me with a flight the next morning, a hotel room, and a food allowance. For that I was grateful, but did not particularly feel like a valued customer that they were concerned about inconveniencing. The food allowance was only $10 for dinner and $5 for breakfast. I didn't want to seem picky, so I didn't raise a fuss, although I would have preferred to eat something better than fast food after 3 months of traveling, 3 hours of waiting, 6 hours in a plane and spending the night alone in a strange city. (Plus, it was fast food instead of Mom's cooking waiting for me in California that night!)

Unfortunately, my slighted feelings were confirmed by a French tourist who I had talked to on my flight from Lima who was also delayed on his connection to Paris. From our conversation in the lobby of the hotel we were both put up in, I know that he at least received a voucher for dinner and lunch the next day, and that the value of his lunch voucher alone was $20.

Here, I will openly wonder what the basis of American Airlines' system for compensating inconvenienced travelers is. Some differences were clear, but I thought they would not matter: he was from France, I the U.S.; he was in his 50's, I am 24; he was Caucasian, I am African American. I won't be presumptuous enough as to make a guess as to the criterion by which American Airlines used to make their decision for different compensation levels, but I will get an answer from them.

That said, the same patience I needed throughout my time in South America (on buses, in stores, in hotels...) was still needed for the final legs of my journey home and is an important part of what I have gained through my travels over the last 3 months. Along with that, is an appreciation for the increased importance of families and relationships in South America, and the eagerness by which they demonstrated it. Also, I have more appreciation for the order, stability and trust that we have in American institutions, and a better understanding of how our superior wealth comforts all aspects of our daily lives. Of course, my use and comfort with the Spanish language (or castillano, if you will) is greater than it has ever been before, and I have had the privilege to visit some of the most spectacular cities and landscapes in the world in just a matter of months.

To me, it is an enigma as to why the cultures and economics of North and South America, the nations of the New World, are not more closely related and working together. However, after this fulfilling experience, I hope to find more ways of making that happen.

Lima, Peru

2005-04-26T04:03:00.000-07:00

Having only a day and a half to spend in Lima, I mostly stuck to the Miraflores neighborhood near the beach, and explored it on foot. It was filled with Lima's middle class, with American-style malls, department stores and eateries dotting the area. However, the affluence the area did not quite match what I have seen in Sao Paulo, Buenos Aires, or Santiago. Nonetheless, the rocky beach was beautiful, I waded in the warm water, and I cheated for the first time on my trip by eating at Pizza Hut.

On the second day, my friend Christian, who met me at the airport, recovered from a one-day sickness and I joined him and his girlfriend for the evening. Downtown Lima, where we ate dinner, is filled with large plazas and colonial architecture, but is far more spread apart than other downtowns. From there we visited a bohemian neighborhood next to the coast and enjoyed views of the water while we sat in a small plaza.

It seemed to be a fitting cap to my trip, spending time with Christian who I met in the first stop of my journey, Rio de Janeiro. Being able to see him, meeting up with my Argentinean friends in La Plata, and staying with a friend of a friend in Sao Paulo were definitely highlights of my trip. Anyone can go travel to see a new place, but it is hard to understand it without an introduction by a local.

A view of Miraflores, Lima, Peru.

A cathedral in downtown Lima at night.

Christian and I.

Christian, myself and his girlfriend at the end of my last night of the trip.

Leaving Cusco and the Andes

2005-04-24T15:47:00.000-07:00

For nearly 3 weeks, I have lived in, and explored the world of South America's Andes highlands. While the regions of South America have a lot common, in many ways, the highlands of the Andes were a world apart from the places I had been. While Chile and Argentina had strong European and cosmopolitan influences, Bolivia and Peru have been more isolated and shaped by indigenous culture and peoples. While the southern cone of South America had modern roads, infrastructure and amenities, the Andean highlands were unmistakably third-world, with decent housing, sanitation and roads all being challenges to obtain.

That said, Cusco was the jewel of the highlands. While the city is definitely over "touristized," the diversity of culture of the people, the gorgeous colonial architecture, the church-lined plazas, cobblestone street, and natural setting easily overrode the negatives and made it a great place to rest up both before and after the Inca Trail.

The night after the trail, I slept for 13 hours in my comfortable Cusco room, and took it easy the entire day. In the evenings, I was able to meet up with many of my trailmates, Armelle and Gerard from France, Silvio, Constanza, Romina, and Patricia from Argentina.

Today I took a flight from Cusco to Lima, and was pleasantly greeted by my friend Christian, whom I met at the beginning of my trip in Rio. I was also welcomed by the beautifully warm weather and the familiar Pacific Ocean after 3 weeks of chilly, near-freezing temperatures. My trip feels like it is effectively over, since my flight home leaves Tuesday morning, but I still have all day Monday to get a feel for Lima, Peru's capital city.

The main cathedral of Cusco, on the central Plaza de Armas in the center of the city. The Peruvian flag waves in front.

Another view of the plaza.

Another cathedral on the Plaza de Armas.

A gated roadway in Cusco.

Another cathedral along a cobbled roadway and wall in the city.

A chance meeting outside the Inca Museum in Cusco with Duda, my friend from Sao Paulo who I last saw in January.

Another colonial street in the city.

Photos: Macchu Picchu

2005-04-23T18:51:00.000-07:00

In the foggy morning, Macchu Picchu comes into view.

Macchu Picchu.

Looking downslope.

I have arrived.

The city to the left, and the Urubamba River valley to the right.

Looking back up to the Puerta del Sol.

The doorway to the city.

A view from inside.

Looking back uphill at the guardtower.

Another view from inside.

One of our guides, Ernesto speaking to our subgroup in English.

A temple usually used for llama sacrifices, and rarely, for human ones.

Temple of the Sun.

The "country" royal palace. The main royal residence was in Cusco.

The Macchu Picchu Orchid, which only grows in this area.

A grand courtyard between temples on the higher plateau of the city.

Another temple.

A special stone which marks the cardinal directions from within the city.

A carved rock, reflecting the mountain range right behind it. It was believed to be used as a map to demonstrate how to reach another settlement behind the nearest mountain.

An astrological stone used to mark summer and winter solstices.

Llamas in the central courtyard.

Temple of the Condor. The central stone on the ground represents its head, while two large stones behind it represent its wings.

Looking towards the farm terraces.

A crypt inside the city, with the steps representing part of Andean religious belief that is related to the form of the Andean Cross.

Looking back.

Eating lunch after our final day. From left to right, Constanza, Silvio, Gerald, Myself, Krishna, Vivek, Sami, Arhmelle, Romina and Patricia.

Our guide Ernesto and I, both glad to be finished!

Photos: The Inca Trail

2005-04-23T17:23:00.000-07:00

Beginning the Inca Trail. From left to right, Flavia, Silvio, Isabella, Mary Angela, Constanza, Ahmelle, Patricia, Gerald, Krishna, Romina, Sami, Vivek, and me.

One of our guides, William, discussing Inca religion in some ruins on the first day.

The valley where we camped the first day.

Crossing the Urubamba River to begin the trail on the morning of the 2nd day.

A view of ruins placed at the confluence of the Urubamba River and a smaller mountain stream that leads into the mountains. We took a left and headed upward.

A bit of relief in the cold snow melt of the mountain stream after climbing for a couple of hours.

Everyone else relaxing as well.

The trail begins its steep ascent without relief until Dead Woman's Pass.

The landscape changes to forest.

Falling short of our goal, we camp on a small plateau still 3km from Dead Woman's Pass.

The view from the campsite looking the other way into the deep valley from which we came.

On the morning of the 3rd day, finally reaching Dead Woman's Pass.

Jubilation.

Our guides, Ernesto and William.

At the lowest point between the first two passes, the path rises again.

An unforgettable view from the bottom of the valley off to the right.

Looking back up at Dead Woman's Pass.

Inca ruins of a religious purpose between the two passes.

An Inca Tunnel after the second pass.

The trail continues...

...and continues...

A second tunnel.

In the midst of this long, 3rd day, it begins to rain.

Beautiful flowers I couldn't pass up.

Ruins on the other side of the 3rd pass. The path descended drastically from this point forward.

Mountains to the north of the trail, across the Urubamba river valley, which is far below the picture.

A gorgeous rainbow in the same mountains minutes later.

The morning of the 4th and final day.

The ruins of Puerta del Sol (Doorway of the Sun), from which it is possible to see Macchu Picchu...

...however, because of the ubiquitous clouds, we could not.

Macchu Picchu (Inca Trail, final day)

2005-04-22T13:10:00.000-07:00

In the morning after our last night of camp, we awoke at 5am to a light drizzle that quickly turned into a steady rain. After having our usual breakfast of pan(bread), pankekes(pancakes), and tea, we set out for the last stretch of the Inca Trail, in the midst of an enveloping and ubiquitous fog.

Fortunately, our group decision the night before to set off 1 hour later than the other groups worked to our advantage. Despite sharing a campsite with the other groups for the first time, and despite the massive number of them, we didn't run into any other groups along our way there. The trail was as quiet, empty, and, seemingly, ours as it had been the entire 4 days.

The trek, while short, was still a bit of a challenge, not because of the terrain, but because all of us had extremely sore and tired muscles. The shortest climbs, or stairways downward were taken slowly and with extra caution. Nonetheless, the last challenge of the trail presented itself as a practically vertical set of twenty or so stairs to reach a small plateau. There we saw that we were close to our goal, as we had reached the Inca Puerta del Sol. (Doorway of the Sun.)

From that vantage point, we waited 20 minutes for the clouds to clear so that we could get a view down to the famed city of Macchu Picchu. But the weather did not cooperate. Disappointed, but heartened by our proximity, we began the final descent to the ruins. Knowing that the goal was close, I took a much slower stride than in days before an had a great conversation along the way with our guide Ernesto.

Finally, mid-descent, the clouds began to break and the sun squirted through, giving us the first glimpse of Macchu Picchu. While I had seen the setting in pictures a hundred times before, I was not prepared for the grand size of the entire city. In its day, Macchu Picchu not only housed over 2000 residents and was the location of the Inca royal "country palace," but it included several temples, astrological sites, a rock quarry, and acres upon acres of terraced farmland.

After taking more pictures than I can count, our guide took us on a tour of the complex, not only explaining the significance of the buildings, but also sharing a little bit about Inca religious beliefs and their evolution. After spending 3 and a half hours in the complex, I was exhausted, not only from the time walking around and listening to the commentary, but from the cumulative 4 days of unsurpassed physical effort. Also contributing to my exhaustion was the rapidly changing environment of the ruins, as trainload after trainload of tourists began to fill up the park. Frustration from the increased gridlock, and vastly different vibe they projected than our fellow hikers assured me that I had enjoyed as much as I was going to of the park that day.

That said, the first 2 hours at the park, between 8:30 and 10:30am were tranquil and perfect. In confirmed all of the suggestions I had received to do the hike in order to enjoy the park before the hordes of people arrived. Furthermore, the 4 days of hiking felt like a communion with nature, in mountainous settings that were breathtaking, traversing through vastly different climates. Day after day, the purity of the land and air, and the beauty of the landscape seemed to be magnified into an unforgettable experience. And pushing myself to the physical limit day after day is something I'll always remember.

In the afternoon, the group reunited in a small restaurant in the nearby town of Agua Caliente while we waited for our trains back to Cusco. It was good to see each other, and we traded stories from our day's experiences as well as our contact information for the future. Again, I was incredibly fortunate to be placed with this group of people who were mostly from South America. Observing the group dynamics and characteristics of many of the other groups, dominated by and catered to Western tourists who just wanted to party on the trail, I know that I would not have enjoyed my experience as much had I been with them.

For me, the Inca Trail was more than just a hike, it was a journey to understand something of Inca and Quechua culture, to respect and appreciate the uniqueness of the Andes, and it was a vehicle through which to test oneself and make a reflection of the soul. To those ends, my groupmates served as partners, and my experience was the richer for it.

The Trial (Inca Trail, day 3)

2005-04-21T19:37:00.000-07:00

I completely understand now why some people call it the "Inca Trial." It is definitely a test, and a kind of measure of worthiness and determination. I thought that yesterday was difficult, but today we walked from 5:30am until 7:20pm, nearly fourteen hours of continuous hiking, minus breaks and lunch. I definitely have a blister now, and my legs are so tired and sore that I can hardly move around in my tent. Yet I have a ton of satisfaction in the fact that I have walked further and higher than I ever thought possible.

We awoke at 4:30am and set off at 5:30 to conquer the final 1/3rd of the infamous climb to Dead Woman's Pass. Even yesterday's hike did not prepare me for the ferocity of the climb, nevertheless, I was the second to the top, and celebrated with a shout having reached the 13,776ft pass. If you were to have invited me to camp at 6000ft and then climb to a 13,000ft peak with you, I would never have attempted it, but the allure of the Inca Trail has drawn me to do more than I ever would have before.

Surprisingly, the descent down the other side of the pass was just as difficult for me as the climb. My surgically repaired knee reacts especially badly to going down steep stairways.

We had a late breakfast at the lowest point between the two passes, in the midst of intense sunshine and 70 degrees (Fahrenheit) of heat. It was a disorienting change from the near-freezing temperature of our high-altitude campsite earlier this morning. We continued from there to the second, slightly lower pass where we learned about an Inca ceremony thanking Pachamama (Mother Earth) for good provisions during a journey.

From there, we descended and then climbed again to the third and final pass of the trail. Along the way, we passed through the dense vegetation of the "cloud forests," named because of the sub-tropical growth of the area, and the fact that it is at such a high elevation that clouds routinely pass through the forest several times a day like fog.

Immediately after the third pass, we waited for our guide to talk to us about a set of ruins there, but it began to downpour. So instead, we immediately began the extremely steep descent toward our campsite, which consisted of a stairway of supposedly 2000 stairs down. Along the way, as I kept count, we caught sight of the nearest settled town to Macchu Picchu, Agua Caliente, as well as a spectacular rainbow, hung between two clouds at the level of the string of peaks across the deep valley to our right.

While walking, day turned into night very quickly, and soon it was necessary to descend by flashlight. It was dark when we finally came to the sign directing us to our camp, and by that time, I had counted 2094 stairs. Tired, hungry, and rushed by the darkness, we were comforted by the thought that we were near our destination. Little did we know that we still had 598 stairs down to go. When we finally arrived, at 7:15pm, it had been pitch dark for an hour, I was exhausted, and my legs were jelly. I don't think I've ever been so sore or tired.

The good news is that tomorrow is the 4th and final day, and we only have 6km to go, as opposed to the 22km and 3 mountain passes we did today. Should we wake on time and stay on schedule, we should arrive at the ancient city 2 hours before the first train of tourists, giving us some time to explore its mysteries without distraction.

Inca Trail, Day 2

2005-04-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

Day two got started a little slowly, with the wakeup call coming at 5am, and us not getting going until 6:30. We started along the trail cutting through the valley along the river until we reached the ruins of Llactapata, a large complex which in its day contained residents, commerce, and farming, as well as being a military checkpoint from its strategic location in the valley.

From there we continued along a taxing path that included many climbs and descents, until we reached a bridge crossing a smaller side river. With a little bit of time on our hands, we lost our shoes and socks and dipped our feet in the chilly water of the snow melt.

The bridge marked the beginning of a grueling 9km stretch of the trail that would elevate us over 3000 feet, until we reached the Dead Woman's Pass, which sits at 13,776ft. The path was merciless, continuing with a steep incline without a level portion or a descent for the entire way. At several portions, the path was so steep that the Inca constructed stone stairways to make the climb. But some of the inclines were so sharp that they were steeper than a normal staircase.

For me, this 2 and a half hour portion of the hike (after 5 hours of strenuous hiking already) was a great test of physical willpower. When the step paths would turn a corner, I would pray to see an even stretch, but every turn led to steeper and steeper inclines, some which seemed to go straight up. There was no relief, and having to maintain such a slow pace, it was impossible to judge my progress.

Overall, we did not reach our goal today of camping on the other side of the pass, as half our group struggled with the ascent, and needed additional time to finish it. Nonetheless, it was an impressive effort. 18km and elevating over 4000ft on the day. Unfortunately, I can tell that I am already getting a blister, and both of my knees are sore on the eve of a huge descent. But I was surprised that I was able to do what I did, as I was the first in the group to reach the campsite, despite never having done a hike like this ever before.

Our campsite tonight is just a couple of kilometers away from Dead Woman's Pass, and has a spectacular view down into the valley from which we just climbed. Exactly opposite us is a grand mountain that must be 3000m from base to peak, and surrounding us at our high altitude are a group of peaks that guard our small plateau.

Tomorrow will supposedly be an easier day of hiking with us attempting to cover 22km, with the last half of the hike going downhill. If we are successful, it will leave us with 6km to go to Macchu Picchu for the final day. Tomorrow we will attempt to leave at 5 in the morning.

Inca Trail, Day 1

2005-04-19T18:16:00.000-07:00

Day one of this trek has been a little bit disorganized and late-starting, but has been wonderfully beautiful nonetheless. The day started slowly, with my van pickup only coming late, then, after a much longer drive than I expected, we stopped for breakfast in a small village called Urubamba for 40 minutes. By the time we finally got to the trail, it was after 11am.

We started 5km back farther than usual because of repairs being made to the dirt road, so our hike of substance was only from km 77 to km 82. After lunching and setting up camp we had some time to chill. Our group included an Argentinean couple, an Argentinean mother and daughter, a French couple, 3 east Indian friends, 3 Brazilian cousins, and me.

After the break our two guides led us from our camp 5km to a small Inca ruin on the other side of the river from the trial. There, they shared small theories on how Macchu Picchu was hidden from the Spanish (it was only discovered again in 1911). They also explained the significance of the style of architecture of the ruins, including the significance of the number of windows featured in temples.

Upon returning to the camp, I was again I couldn't help but notice the beauty of the place we were in. A fertile valley, with a rocky, rolling river cutting down the center. On both sides, the landscape climbs steeply into sharp peaks, and, in places, are capped with snow that looks close enough to touch. The rolling clouds that threatened rain, but never delivered, allowed just a sliver of sunlight to filter through, highlighting the hillsides and creating a surreal effect.

Still being 46km away from that ancient city, I already am experiencing the satisfaction and wonder of being in such a spectacular place. Tomorrow should be the toughest day of hiking, as we will cover 24km, including a harrowing 9km ascent to 4200m, a place called Dead Women's Pass. In order to achieve this, we'll all rise at 4:30am tomorrow morning, drink our ordered cups of coca tea, and get on our way.

The Adventure Begins...

2005-04-18T21:08:00.000-07:00

I am currently sitting in a cold, Cusco internet cafe, keeping the owners up much later than they would like, but I thought it was important to write that I am beginning the Inca Trail early tomorrow morning.

By the time I reach the mystical city of Macchu Picchu, I will have trekked almost 50km, and climbed and descended over 6000ft. It will take 4 days, so they'll be no posts or pictures for a while, but I hope to bring back something spectacular...

The Motorcycle Diaries

2005-04-17T15:03:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching "The Motorcycle Diaries," and it has had a much more profound impact on me than I expected. The timing to see this movie for the first time was perfect, at a point where both the loneliness of my journey was pulling me into a shell, and when then the constant begging and selling that I have encountered Cusco (and in the Andean highlands) was nudging me toward bitterness.

I won't recount the movie for those who have seen it, but for those who haven't, it is fascinating and I recommend it highly. Whether I agreed with his methods or conclusions I cannot say (as I don't know much about him), but it was inspiring to see Che Gueverra's character become motivated by the many injustices and imbalances that are still clearly delineated by race in South America today.

Overall, the movie led me to make unfair comparisons to my own travels, due to the quality of his writing and the depth of interaction he had with people along the way. But perhaps, most importantly, watching the movie has given me new energy to complete this trip as I had started it... eager to have genuine interactions with people, and to keep my eyes and ears open to all of the spectacular experiences around me.

The Last Laugh

2005-04-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

Almost 5 weeks ago, Bolivia faced a political and transportation crises, as members of its poor, campesino population objected to a government contract with a private company by blockading the roads into and out of all of Bolivia's major cities. It was not a hard thing to do, as the road network there is skeletal, and traveler's were stuck for over a week, or had to purchase air tickets. That commotion almost caused me to skip doing Bolivia altogether, until I thought better of it. That's why it was especially ironic that on what should be my last bus ride on this trip, in Peru, we should be stopped by a road blockade.

After leaving Puno, Peru at 4pm, already 30 minutes behind schedule, we almost ran into an open fire in the middle of the road with a multitude of large stones spread about the street. Apparently, the villagers of the town were protesting a failed promise of the government and were determined to hold up the buses heading to Cusco. After about 30 minutes of watching the flames leap into the air, our bus attendant came down the aisle, asking for a collection to see if the villagers would let us pass. Everyone contributed, tourists and Peruvians alike, and we were finally granted passage.

Not one hour later, while we were still discussing our amazement at the blockade, we ran into another much stronger one. Upon stationing ourselves behind a line of buses and trucks, our bus driver simply turned off the engine and lights and waited. To satisfy my curiosity I ventured outside and found that there were over 30 buses, trucks and personal vehicles on both sides of the blockade. Upon reaching the center, there were about 80 people milling around, and at the center of them all was a large old trunk of a tree sprawled across the road. Hanging onto the tree for dear life were at least 3 older women of the village.

Nowhere to be seen in either of these incidents was the Peruvian police, or the caterras, who are usually quite thorough in searching for customs violations at random points along Peru's highways.

Fortunately, this stoppage seemed to work its way out in just over 2 hours, and after a ridiculous 30 minutes of non-cooperation as to which side should pass through first, we were on our way. We arrived in Cusco almost 4 hours behind schedule, at 1am. I called a hostel, checked in, and that was the night.

Floating Islands

2005-04-15T13:01:00.000-07:00

Exhausted after a day of speed hiking on Isla del Sol, I boarded a bus in Copacabana, an crossed the border into the last country on my trip, Peru. Upon reaching Puno, on the other side of the lake, I got a room, ate dinner and called it an early night.

This morning I took my first "touristy" tour of the trip. Along with me to take a half day visiting the floating islands in Lake Titicaca were 2 Irish girls, a couple of Germans, 2 Spaniards and a big group of 6 middle-aged American ladies. In the boat, our tour guide gave us a briefing in English before we left, and at each island we visited. For once, there was no doubt that I was on the Gringo Trail.

The floating islands were neat, but definitely sufficient for a half-day. At 30 minutes away from Puno, the small reed-islands are populated by the Uros people, who fled to the islands to escape the influences of the Inca and the Spanish. Today, the islands definitely survive on the tourism generated, yet it was an interesting way of life to observe.

This afternoon it is off to an eight-hour bus ride to Cusco, to rest up for a couple of days and prepare to walk the Inca Trail.

Photos del Isla

2005-04-13T17:54:00.000-07:00

The island was so beautiful, I could only cut it down to 21 photos...

A view of Copacabana, Bolivia from the ferry to Isla del Sol.

Marisa and I on the ferry.

The dock on the southside of Isla del Sol, with the Inca Stairway looking less steep than it was in the center of the photo.

Here's a better view.

Near the top of the island, with parts of the village of Yumani in the background.

From the top of the island, with snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera Real in the distance.

The hostel I stayed at on the top of the island, Puerta del Sol.

The view south from my bedroom.

The view outside my door, facing west, over the balcony.

The village of Yumani in its entirety, from the second-highest peak on the island.

From the summit, the view of the northern end of the island.

Beginning my trek at 8am on the second day.

Following the path along the island's eastern edge.

A small creek along the way.

A cobblestoned stretch through a smaller village.

Now, on the northern end of the island, the path leading west toward the Inca sacred sites.

The view looking north.

According to Inca legend, the rock from which the sun and moon emerged. The sun from opening above, the moon from the one below.

Just to the left of the last photo, and a part of the same rock, Titicaca, the Rock of the Puma. (It is a quarter view of a Puma's head, with the mouth large and wide open, nose to the left, indentation for the eye in the center, and a hint of an ear to the upper right.)

Looking in the opposite direction, facing the Puma, the Inca sacrificial table.

On the Island of the Moon, the building that housed the Inca's Virgins of the Sun.

Isla del Sol, day 2

2005-04-13T17:15:00.000-07:00

The second day on Isla del Sol was as fulfilling as the first. It was relaxing to wake up to a 270 degree view of the lake, on an island free of cars, noise, and pollution. After waking at 7:30am and grabbing some breakfast, I hiked from the southern tip of the island to the north. Along the way were tranquil hills and valleys, rocky streams and pastoral farmland nestled between the hills and the lake.

Along the way I ran into a young guy, about my age, who was walking with his wife, mother, and donkey to pick up some potatoes from the village at the northern tip of the island. Along the way he pointed out several plants growing on the hills that people chewed on or boiled as natural health remedies. Among them were natural mint and eucalyptus leaves.

After 3 hours of hiking, I discovered that I still had to cross a few more hills to reach the Inca sacred sites. In one massive rock was the image of a puma, nostrils upturned, facing the lake. The name of the lake, Titicaca, means Rock of the Puma. According to legend, this was the site where the first Incas appeared, and where the sun and moon emerged from openings in the rock. Opposite the massive stone was a sacrificial table with a circle of chairs around it.

Having seen the part of the island that was the purpose of my visit, I hurried back to the northern village to catch a ferry back. Along the way, we visited the island of the moon, which has ruins of the convent that used to house the Virgins of the Sun. Two hours later, our boat pulled back to the mainland of Copacabana, but the tranquility I acquired on the Isla del Sol remained.

Isla del Sol

2005-04-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

After a night in the quiet town of Copacabana on the banks of Bolivia and Peru's Lake Titicaca, Marisa and I took a one-and-a-half hour ferry to the legendary Isla del Sol.

According to Inca mythology, this island, which sits close to the center of the lake, was not only the site of creation, but also the birthplace of the sun. The island is green and lush, and from the top of its second highest peak, you can see the mountainous shoreline in all directions, including a line of spectacularly snow-capped peaks to the east. Lake Titicaca is also known as being the highest navigable lake in the world, at 3800 meters, and has water bluer and more pristine than even my favored Lake Tahoe in California. With all of the spectacular views in every direction, it is no wonder that the Inca considered this to be a holy place.

After arriving at the small dock on the southside of the island, Marisa and I scaled the famed Escalera del Inca (Inca Stairway) a few hundred feet up to the village perched on a small plateau there. After looking around a bit, she returned to Copacabana to catch a bus to Cusco, while I found a quaint but simple hostel near the top of the village with views of the lake on 3 sides.

For lunch I visited a small family restaurant where I was treated to some of the best Trout I have ever eaten in my life. It was caught just off the island this morning. Since then, I have done some hiking, reading and taking pictures.

Even now I as I sit on this hilltop, it is tough to believe that I am in such a beautiful place. For the 3rd time on my trip, I am experiencing the joy of finding a place here in South America that I have dreamed about. I look forward to what will come.

Peace in La Paz?

2005-04-12T12:35:00.000-07:00

Despite a harrowing experience with a fake police officer, and the theft of one of my traveling partner's plastic bag of personal items, La Paz, the world's highest capital city at 11,500 feet, was just as fascinating as I expected.

The 3-day tour dropped us off in Uyuni, Bolivia, a flat, windswept town that has little going for it besides the tourism from multiday tours like mine. Having bought a train ticket north towards La Paz, for 1:20pm in the morning, I searched for a good bite to eat, and found an excellent one, thanks to my Lonely Planet guidebook. Minuteman Pizza is 2 blocks southwest of the train station and is run by a guy from Massachusetts who settled down with a Bolivian woman in Uyuni. The pizza there was incredible! After more than two months of some of the weirdest and quirkiest pizzas you could ever find, I was in heaven eating a genuine New York style pizza.

After stuffing myself, I went to the train station to wait, and encountered a girl from another tour that I had met a while back. Marisa was going on the same train, but in a different car, so we agreed to meet up and travel together to La Paz.

On the train I ended up sitting next to a very intelligent and ambitious Bolivian girl named Soledad. Just finishing college, she was focusing her work on tourism, and saw it as a means for Bolivia to increase in wealth, win friends abroad, and preserve their unique cultures. We had a very long and interesting conversation in English, until the other passengers needed to fall asleep.

After changing from train to bus in a rough mining town called Oruro, our bus mad a spectacular descent into La Paz. First we drove through La Paz's rapidly growing suburb and slum, El Alto, which has a dizzying altitude of 4100 meters. From there the road made a wide, snaking turn to descend more than 1200 feet, into the narrow valley that houses La Paz's 2 million residents. The view was breathtaking, as the city has only one major thoroughfare, running north to south along the base of the valley. The rest of the city spreads upwards on both sides of the valley, until one side finally reaches El Alto. Again, only pictures can hope to describe it.

In La Paz, Marisa (from London) and I stayed at a wonderful guesthouse just north of the center of the city, on Av. Montez, called Arthy's. It was the perfect place to rest up after the arduous 3-day journey, followed by an overnight train ride. Arthy's was clean comfortable, and run by a wonderful man by the name of Ruben and his family. The hospitality they showed me, and their eagerness to go the extra mile when I needed it will never be forgotten.

After a few days of La Paz's crowded streets and bustling markets, Marisa and I were more than ready for the tranquility offered by the mystical Lake Titicaca, on the border with Peru.

The Cordillera Real mountain range on the approach to La Paz.

Busy and chaotic El Alto, a suburb of La Paz and South America's fastest growing city.

The view of La Paz while descending from the plateau along one side of the narrow valley.

Another view of La Paz during the descent, with a magnificent peak covered by clouds in the background.

Basilica San Francisco, a beautiful church on a downtown plaza.

A statue of one of Bolivia's most famous artists, opposite the basilica on the same plaza.

From the same position, downtown La Paz, looking north.

Plaza Murillo in downtown La Paz, which houses Bolivia's legislative and executive branches of government. (The judicial branch is seated in Sucre.)

A view of a La Paz street that is steep enough to be in San Francisco.

A quaint colonial neighborhood looking down one side of the valley and onto the other.

The Altiplano of Bolivia (Photos)

2005-04-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

Below are almost 30 pictures of the other-worldly landscapes of Bolivia's Altiplano region.

The very secure border control station along a dirt road between Chile and Bolivia at 4,200 meters.

The first salt lake we encountered on the Bolivian side of the border.

A common view in the Altiplano on the first day.

A relaxing, if shallow thermal pool.

Hot geysers at over 15,000 feet.

Up close and ugly.

Rose-colored Lake Colorado, beside which our bare-minimum lodgings were.

The other side of Lake Colorado with piled salt deposits in the distance.

A spectacular rock formation at the beginning of the second day.

More of the rock formations, including our tour's two 4X4's.

More amazing rocks.

The view from the front passenger seat during the some part of the 8 hours of driving.

A beautifuly-reflecting lake.

A full view of the lake.

A new lake with close shots of flamingos, the Altiplano is apparently is the area with the highest number of one of the three major types of flamingos.

Our 4X4 crossing a mountain stream.

Another group of amazing rock formations.

It might sound corny, but these rocks look like something that would make up some sacred Vulcan temple...

A lush river valley in southwest Bolivia as we came out of the isolated highlands into settled areas.

A dusty Bolivian ghost town by the name of Julaca, which died when the local mining industry was privatized 10 years ago.

The beginning of Day 3, the final day, after just entering the partially submurged Salt Flat of Uyuni.

Gratuitous shot.

After turning off the road and entering the lake, the horizon is indistinguisable.

It almost looked like we were flying.

Having reached the exposed salt surface, we took a photo. From left to right, the members of our 4X4: Damien, Phil, Phil, Scott, me and Dave.

Yummy! Pure salt crystals!

The salt hotel.

Uyuni, Bolivia, our final destination.

Salar de Uyuni

2005-04-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

The third and final day of our journey began ominously, despite a surprisingly comfortable night of sleep. Our tour's (Colque Tours) hired driver for our 4X4 was still drunk in the morning after a night of revelry at the dorm with the other tour workers. But fortunately, after 30 hairy minutes of driving, it was clear that our driver had sobered up and was back in good form.

Upon leaving the dormitory, we headed down a dirt road that lead straight into the Salar de Uyuni, the worlds largest salt plain with an area of over 12,000 squared km. After driving for 5 minutes along the road and taking some photos, the driver pulled a fast one on us. He made a sharp left turn off the road and into the shallow water covering the miles of salt. The 6 or so inches of water created a startling visual effect, as it reflected perfectly all the hills and mountains surrounding the plain. And, in certain directions, the sky and ground met, making the horizon indistinguishable.

After driving through the water for another 40 minutes, the salt lake gave way to a blindingly white plain of pure, dry salt. According to our driver, a full meter of salt stood between us and the ground. After an additional hour of driving over what looked like a perfectly flat snowfield, we visited a small hotel made entirely out of salt blocks, and witnessed workers extracting salt from the lake.

Arriving in Uyuni, Bolivia at midday ended our journey, with a meal of rice, potatoes, tomatoes and llama meat, capping a spectacular trip. Without doubt, Bolivia's Altiplano (high plain) region was some of the most amazing landscape I have ever seen, and making our way through those unspoiled and isolated lands for 3 days was as natural an experience as I have yet to have. The extremity of height, lack of moisture, and harshness of the landscape can perhaps only be matched by a couple of places in the world. As it is, the Andes is the world's second highest mountain range. As much as I may try to write about it, the only way to communicate the awesomeness of what I saw will be through pictures, which I will labor to produce in the next couple of days.

Adventure in the Altiplano of Bolivia (High Plain)

2005-04-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

At the end of the 2nd day of a three-day journey across the Andes from Chile to Bolivia, I am in awe of the landscape we have seen. We left San Pedro, Chile early Tuesday morning to climb over 2000 meters (6000 feet) to reach the Chilean-Bolivian border, which was only reached by dirt road. After crossing the border in our tour's 4X4, the seven of us (5 British, our Bolivian driver and me, amazingly the group's translator) followed the gravel road for upwards of 6 hours. We passed numerous majestic Andean peaks, 2 gorgeous salt and borax lakes, a hot spring pool, and a series of shockingly hot sulfur geysers bubbling out of the ground. We ended the day at a very basic and shabby camp building on the edge of Lake Colorado, where microorganisms made both the water of the lake, and the flamingos that consumed them turn pink.

The climate in this area was absolutely otherworldly. Upon crossing the border and afterwards, we never descended below 4000 meters (about 12,000 feet), and at our highest point, the sulfur geysers, we were at 4870 meters, which is 15,290 feet! At this altitude, the mornings and evenings were freezing, while midday was warm. Of course, the air was also extremely thin, and I felt the effects of the altitude all day, through heavy breathing, a headache, and a drastically reduced appetite.

The second day had us continuing north through the unpopulated highlands of Bolivia, finding 2 magnificent rock formations and finding an amazingly reflective lake nestled between several peaks. After more than 8 hours of driving today, we stopped at a much more modern and comfortable dorm, which sits at the magnificent edge of the Salar de Uyuni (the Salt Flat of Uyuni). Tomorrow morning we will cross it.

Photos of Chile

2005-04-04T20:15:00.000-07:00

The border between Argentina and Chile in the middle of the Andes mountain range.

A view of the 29 curves to descend from the mountainous border crossing from Argentina into Chile. Each of the curves are numbered and identified by yellow signs.

Another view of the 29 curves.

The beach at Vina del Mar.

A view of eastern Santiago from the cable chairs atop San Cristobal hill.

A statue of the Virgin Mary, atop San Cristobal hill overlooking Santiago.

Overlooking downtown Santiago from San Cristobal.

A Santiago office building at sunset.

The Atacama Desert in northern Chile, so dry that there aren't even desert brush plants.

The Inca ruins of Pukara, outside of San Pedro de Atacama.

Our spirit guide for the ruins.

Atop the highest point of the ruins, with the valley of the dead off to the lower right.

The Valley of the Moon at sunset, looking southwest.

The Valley of the Moon, looking east.

Biting off too much

2005-04-04T19:37:00.000-07:00

The trip from Santiago to San Pedro de Atacama took almost 24 hours by bus, I believe that it as a distance of over 1000 miles. The landscape changed drastically from dry hills surrounding lush valleys to the center of the Atacama Desert, the driest in the world. It was incredible to see a desert so dry that there was no vegetation at all in the landscape for miles on end.

San Pedro is a tiny town, an hour from Chile's border with Bolivia which seems to be populated half-and-half with international travelers and local residents. While the travelers come from all over the world, with a high number of French, British, and Germans, they are not your regular tourists. If a traveler comes to San Pedro, it is to experience the spectacular mountains and river valleys, and usually to take part in an outdoor adventure. Upon arriving Sunday, my first priority was to reserve a trip across the salt plains of Bolivia to drop me off in the town of Uyuni 3 days later.

In the day before the trip, I rented a bike and explored the area around town. I started alone in the morning biking to a place called Pukara de Quitar, which I explored with a Chilean I met along the way from Santiago. As Rodrigo and I approached the park, a mid-sized dog started to follow us, before running ahead and stationing himself right at the entrance of the park. The park was there to preserve ancient stone ruins of the Incas, and offered grand views of the San Pedro Valley all around. The dog followed us up all the way to the top of the hill, and back down. I jested with my friend that the dog was our spirit-guide.

Exiting, I met a recently-engaged couple named Kim and Stacey from New York, and I met another Chilean while riding further into the valley to Quebara del Diablo. I returned midday, re-hydrated and took off again on bicycle with Dave, a friend from the hostel. We set off for the Valley of the Moon in order to catch sunset, but 3/4ths of the way there, my bike broke down. After the chain fell off 8 more times, I finally gave in and shifted to a much lower gear, but that made riding on the hilly terrain difficult, and nearly impossible. After an incredible amount of effort we finally reached the valley in time for sunset. However, I knew that there was no way I'd make it back the 15km to the town after sunset. Fortunately, I ran into the couple from New York again, and Kim offered me and Dave a lift in the pickup truck he had rented. As tired as I was, and with as much misfortune as I had experienced, they were definitely angels in my path.

This night, I'll pack my things again and try my best to rest up for the 3-day trek across the desert highlands of Chile and Bolivia.

Back in the City

2005-04-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

Santiago, Chile, even though it only has about 5 million people, is an impressive cosmopolitan city. It is both the financial and political capital of Chile and was filled with wide boulevards and modern steel-and-glass skyscrapers spread out like a string from the center of town to the east. Best of all, it was a place filled with business people, hurried shopers and travelers, so my presence wasn't the main point of attention on any street.

As far as I know, Santiago is not especially known for any history or cultural outlets, so I decided to stay for just a couple of days before going north to the Atacama desert. Santiago followed through on its reputation as South America's most Americanized city, in fact, sometimes it reminded me of Texas. It is filled with American businesses such as Pizza Hut, KFC, and Blockbuster, to go along with the ubiquitous Burger Kings and McDonald's. Even many of the local bars and restaurants were laid out in a very American, TGIFriday's style, in stand-alone buildings built for that specific purpose. Both nights I visited Santiago's vibrant nightlife, visiting some pretty upscale clubs with music and decor not unlike what you'd see in the trendiest places in LA or San Francisco.

On the second night, my friends and I from the hostel met an interesting Chilean at a very exclusive afterparty in a private home. It seemed as if most of the guests either worked in the entertainment industry or were well-off for some other reason. Raul was no different, he came from the only remaining Chilean family to still produce and market high quality pisco (a white-grape brandy) to international clients. Somehow, the conversation turned to economics and social classes in Chile, and he gave us his view in his perfect English brought on by 8 years of private instruction. He bluntly asserted that, as a general rule, your wealth and social standing corresponds with the lightness of your skin tone in his country. In my estimation, his bluntness is quite correct, but not just in Chile, it is similar throughout countries in South America, having seen it in Argentina and Brazil.

After another welcome baptism in urban life, I am heading north to the sparsely populated Atacama desert, and Chile's frontier with Bolivia. For the next 3 weeks, my experiences are bound to be drastically different, as I'll be staying in not completely modern small cities and towns, most of them high up in the Andes mountain range. It will be a world away culturally as well, as the highlands of South America are a center of its indiginous cultures, and I am likely to run into people with whom I won't be able to speak to in English or Spanish.

Vina del Mar, Chile

2005-03-31T08:30:00.000-08:00

Vina del Mar was many things that I expected, it was a beautiful town located on the other side of the bay from Valparaiso on the Pacific Coast with many high-rises and quiet, but urban, beaches. For me it was a relief to visit the ocean again, it is calming to be near the water. I spent my days walking up and down the man pedestrian shopping street, and chilling out on the beach a couple of hours each day.

One difference was immediate however, and evidenced itself immediately upon my afternoon arrival, I stuck out in Chile, and in a much more conspicuous way than in Argentina. Reactions to me, when walking down the street, or sitting on the beach, were both positive and negative, but were m ore intense in both ways. At least five times I had people stare at me continuously, even after I was looking back at them, and one man started talking to me when he though I was Brazilian, but became disinterested after I told him I was not. And, as happens frequently since I've been outside Brazil, I was asked persistently by people passing by at night if I had any drugs on me that I'd be willing to sell.

Don't get me wrong, there were plenty of positive reactions as well, of equal intensity. Countless times people passing by would smile and give me a thumbs-up or a peace sign, and more than one group of jovial young people tried to wave me over to join them when I was walking on the beach. I never took them up on the invitations because I was just generally wary of the attention I was getting in general. Most strangely, though, at least 3 times I was walking along a well-trafficked street when someone in a car would honk, smile, and flash a thumbs-up to me while driving past in their car.

I've described all of this to illustrate the intensity of reactions I've received without so much as an introduction or conversation. I have had good, and very normal, interactions with store clerks, hotel workers, and waiters thus far, and I have already met quite a few chill Chileans on my travels thus far. Nevertheless, the intensity of my presence in Vina del Mar made me uncomfortable, and I regret that it was a relief to leave. (Just to be clear, there are quite a few states in the U.S. that I could name off that I don't feel comfortable being in as well...)

I am on my way to Santiago, which I expect will be just as metropolitan as every other large South American city I've been to thus far, and I've heard that it may be the most Americanized. Already I've heard more American pop music blaring out of car windows and stores than any other place I've been to so far.

Leaving Argentina

2005-03-29T09:10:00.000-08:00

Easter Sunday I found a great little missionary Methodist Church to attend with friendly people and a bilingual service. On Monday, I finally finished my IRS tax filling extension and confirmed my reservation for the Inca Trail, removing two urgent items that had been on my to-do list for over a month. Also, I finally met up with and spent the evening with Leigh, my friend from Buenos Aires who is now studying abroad for a year in Mendoza.

Having done all of those things just supported the sensation that my I have completed my time in Argentina, a place in which I had been for 2 months. I've come to like Argentina very much and have experienced amazing hospitality and genuine friendliness there. From the platenses I met in Rio, to my marvelous host mother, to people I talked to on the street, to the workers at the hostel in Mendoza, they've been friendly, helpful, and genuinely interested in getting to know me. I hope that I can help put to rest the unfair reputation Argentineans have for being arrogant and rude, I experienced the exact opposite. Buenos Aires may be the most polite city that I've visited in my life. Argentineans are very proud people, especially when it comes to their landscape and culture, but they are no more proud of their country and its beauty than I am of California and the United States.

Crossing the Andes mountain range this morning was spectacular, we were so high and there was so little vegetation that it was as if we were driving on Mars. Once we crossed the border, however, I felt an immediate difference in the place I was in. What it is, and what it will mean, I don't know yet, but do know that I should be leaving Chile by the beginning of next week, so I won't have much time here. Thus far I have been reminded of home by what is a very California-like landscape, with dry mountain ranges and very fertile valleys and basins. This evening I will return to the Pacific Ocean and my experiences of Chile will begin.

Un dia como un gaucho

2005-03-27T08:35:00.000-08:00

After a low-key day in Mendoza, I wanted to take advantage of the beautiful outdoors and the spectacular Andes mountains nearby, and my dorm-mates offered the perfect opportunity. Staying with me were a slightly older group of guys from Greater Buenos Aires, and they invited me to join them on what I like to think of as a Gaucho Adventure. (Gauchos are classic Argentinean cowboys.)

We left town around 2pm, driving west towards the Andes mountain range. After taking a short tour of a beautiful canyon, we were dropped off at a camp in the foothills to begin our hike. The landscape reminded me a lot of California's mountainous desert regions, but these mountains were even higher than the Sierras. We made our climb into the mountains using a dry riverbed as our pathway, until the bed gave way to a dry rocky creek. From there we started a steeper climb on the rocky terrain until we found a tranquil valley tucked in between several peaks. It was a spectacular place that we reached, a place not unlike what I had always imagined a hidden valley in the Andes would look like. A couple of young Argentineans were camping there and I envied them because I didn't want to leave.

After climbing over 2000 meters (6000+ feet) in a few hours, we retraced our steps almost all the way back before changing direction to reach a stable of horses. We arrived about 30 minutes after sunset, and were greeted by a modern-day gaucho along the way. It was only my second time ever riding a horse, but my nervousness was easily overcome by my exhaustion and thankfulness that I didn't have to walk anymore. So, after a quick sip of Matè to give us all a pick-me-up, we loaded up and rode off.

The horseback riding was actually more challenging than I thought it would be because of the conditions. We rode for nearly 2 hours through the desert brush of the foothills, mostly by moonlight, as the sun had set long ago. Adding to these challenges, my friend Sergio started to poke some fun at me and was looking for a response. But riding a horse at night, being witty, and speaking Spanish all at the same time was far beyond my abilities that night!

When we finally got back to the camp after 10pm, the tour staff had prepared a sumptuous asado for us, including some of Mendoza's famously tasty wine. It was a perfect cap to the day in the outdoors that I had been craving for so long.

Standing on a rickety bridge spanning an impressive canyon in the Andes just outside Mendoza.

Myself and the porteños standing in the dry river bed that was our principal path during the day.

An amazing sight, a small creek being swallowed up into nothing in the sandy river bed.

The Magical Place. The valley we reached at the top of the trail.

The view back down after we started descending from our summit.

The mountains at sunset.

A real gaucho.

Not a real gaucho.

Sergio, his friend, and I, getting ready for our ride.

Good Friday

2005-03-26T06:06:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Mendoza at 7:30 in the morning tired and disoriented, but fortunately my bus seatmate was also looking for a hostel and the tow of us set out to find one together. They were all full until we reached the Hostel Independencia at the edge of Plaza Independencia in the center of town.

I spent most of the day resting up, but I wanted to experience something of what a South American city had to offer on Good Friday of semana santa. While it wasn't nearly as spectacular as what probably took place in Còrdoba, Mendoza offered something impressive in other ways. In the south part of town there is what I could only describe as a religious park surrounding a Catholic church. The park consisted of 12 stakes adorned with mosaic tile pictorials of the stations of the cross. The stations were strung between two small chapels, one depicting Christ in a life-sized statue bleeding and in pain, and the other with a second statue of Christ in the tomb. What struck me was the thousands upon thousands of people crowded in the park, standing in line to touch the statues, pray and continue to the next station. There were families, young people, old people, all in a sacred state of mind.

In marked contrast to the serenity surrounding the icons was the ring of vendors selling prayer cards, flowers, food and candy in the area surrounding the park. It gave me the sense that I was attending a street fair and a pilgrimage at the same time. To my knowledge, not many Argentineans are regular church-goers, but religion obviously still plays an important role on days like Good Friday and in various other small ways that show themselves in various parts of society. The newspaper estimated that 100,000 people were to visit the park that day, and I don't think they were far off.

The church that anchors the park.

One of the three statues of Jesus.

People in line to visit the stations of the cross.

A close-up of the mosaic picture on the cathedral, depicting a scene where the Virgin makes an appearance with the Andes mountains in the background.

Photos of Còrdoba

2005-03-25T09:22:00.000-08:00

The first of many beautiful cathedrals I came across in Còrdoba.

Another one.

The oldest, and most important cathedral in the city. Later, I took a tour inside.

Questionable proof of my presence in Còrdoba...

Inside the Cathedral, facing the front altar.

Inside the cathedral, facing the rear.

A memorial in a Còrdoba park honoring fallen soldiers in the War of the Malvinas (the Falkland Islands War with the United Kingdom).

A painting of the Madonna with Child in Còrdoba's religious art museum. This piece came from Italy, and "black madonnas" are commonly found in the stained-glass windows of many Eastern European churches.

City of Cathedrals

2005-03-24T13:45:00.000-08:00

Tuesday night, a strike by Argentina's long-distance bus drivers had Buenos Aires's main bus terminal, Retiro, filled with irate travelers trying to escape the city for a vacation at the end of the holy week. Fortunately for me, the strike only lasted from 8-10pm, when government labor officials caved into having talks; my 1 a.m. departure time was saved.

Ever since I came down with the cold, I have been looking forward to leaving for Còrdoba to have time to rest as much as I needed to, and to be able to slow down. All of my time and energy were at a premium in BsAs. Còrdoba did not disappoint; I slept well on the bus ride there, checked myself into a hotel, and spent the day lazily walking around the city's historic downtown. Còrdoba is known as one of Argentina's most Catholic cities, and the city seems to have cathedrals on the corner of every other cobblestone street block.

Holy week certainly magnifies this impression, but Còrdoba seems to be a haven for Argentinean tourists, I have only run into a handful of foreign tourists thus far. The town is hosting a series of exhibits, plays, and processions in recognition of the holy week, or semana santa, culminating in a re-enactment of Christ's journey through the streets to Mount Calvary on Friday night. (I already regret that I will miss it.)

It strikes me that here people are not as squeamish about re-enacting and vividly experiencing these events as Christians in the U.S. might be. I even saw a live television program with an acted depiction of Christ in the Garden of Glesemethe that would have been downright controversial back in the states. Also, Catholics of various types, whether they are fundamentalist believers, or rare attenders, prominently display religious imagery, such as images of Jesus and Mary, and almost everyone wears some sort of cross around their neck or wrist. I don't know quite what to make of it yet, but to me there are the same echoes of sincerity, simplicity, and effortlessness that I have observed in the culture of most of the places I've visited thus far, and I find those characteristics admirable.

Tonight I have the feeling that I am prematurely leaving for Mendoza, not only because I'll miss the end of the semana santa festivities here, but because I didn't have the chance to explore some of the beautiful hills and tranquil towns that I've heard about that the are in the countryside just outside the city.

One Day in La Plata

2005-03-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

Midday Monday, battling an onsetting cold, I boarded a rickety, third-world style commuter train for an hour and a half journey south to La Plata. When I finally arrived, it was clear that I had left the modern, convenient, and very European world of Buenos Aires. The station was a bit run down, and the bathroom stall had a toilet without a seat on it. Nevertheless, there were two locutorios within a short distance, and I used one to check my email and call my friend to let him know I arrived.

When Gaston found me at our meeting place, he immediately greeted me like an old friend. In South America, it seems that hospitality and relationships take much higher priority than other places I've been. It had been 8 weeks since I'd seen him, Felipe, and Chino in Rio, but it didn't matter. In a short time walking around his neighborhood, I met his mom, Felipe's mom and dad in their wine store, and the 4th member of the tight group of friends, Chori.

Gaston and Chori took me on an unofficial tour of the City of La Plata, which was a more interesting place than I expected it to be. It was built some time after Buenos Aires and was master-planned by a famous architect with a grid network of streets crisscrossed by diagonal ones. All of the streets are "calles" and are identified by successive numbers, whether they run north-south or east-west. To my knowledge, there are no named streets in the whole city. Interestingly, the city was briefly named after Evita Peron shortly after her death. Evita was a famous, popular, and influential first lady back in the 50s or 60s, but today, her legacy is as controversial and divisive as George W. Bush's presidency. However, La Plata's biggest claim to fame is that the largest cathedral in South America was built there.

After touring the city and cathedral, Gaston had to work at the local convenience store and Chori and I hung out with him until the others arrived. Even though I hate the movie, the scene reminded me of the movie Clerks. When Felipe and Chino arrived, the four of us drove to the outskirts of town to have an asado at Felipe's house. Gaston arrived a little later with the meat and we started our late dinner. The time of sobremesa was great, with us all remembering the stories and crazy people we knew from our time in Rio. While it was satisfying to see that my Spanish had improved significantly from our time in Brazil, there were still many moments where I could not follow the conversation. Every day I experience the ups and downs of my progress, or lack thereof.

After the late night and comfortable sleep at Felipe's family's home, I ate breakfast with him and returned north to BA by train. Even though I had been fighting a cold the entire time there, I was very glad that I made the trip. For me, it fulfilled a promise made in Rio, and allowed me to once again experience the openness and hospitality of Argentines. I look forward to the day when I meet up with my amigos platenses again.

The cathedral in La Plata from the middle of a large plaza.

The cathedral up close.

The cornerstone of the city of La Plata, in the middle of the plaza facing the cathedral, in the geographic center of the city.

Chori and Gaston, surrounding their "old buddy," the architect of the city.

From left to right, Chino, Chori, myself, Felipe and Gaston during sobremesa.

A Long Goodbye

2005-03-21T09:45:00.000-08:00

Even though I haven't left Buenos Aires for good yet, I feel as if I have already gone. I am taking a trip tonight to visit friends in La Plata that I made in Rio, while I leave my things in BA with a friend to pick up tomorrow. But already, I feel like a backpacker again, I no longer live in the city where I had made my life for the past almost 2 months.

Saying goodbye to a group of friends and a familiar place is never fun, but it was particularly difficult to say goodbye to, and leave the house of Elsa, the wonderful, caring lady who it was my honor to have as a host mother for the past 6 weeks. She doesn't speak any English, so our communication at first wasn't easy, but improved with my Spanish over time. By the end, we would talk freely about life, family, religion and politics. My brother's visit and wonderful time a week ago only increased the richness of the experience that I had with her in her home.

I'm leaving not only the style, comfort, and familiarity of her home, but also the company of countless porteños and foreigners who became great friends and companions. I enjoyed living in Buenos Aires and I hope I get the chance once again. The people are quite proud but very friendly as well, and I think they have reason to be both. That city is a vibrant mix of Europe and South America, with an abundance of cultural outlets paying tribute to each. The transportation options there were the easiest and cheapest I've ever encountered, and there are enough different and interesting neighborhoods to keep even the locals occupied every night. And, needless to say, the nightlife here rivals any of the best places in the world, as porteños rarely, if ever, sleep. Buenos Aires is one of a kind, don't miss out if you have a chance to go.

On the right, Elsa, my host mother, with her friend, Gosho, before going to a wedding with a ceremony at 10 p.m. and a fiesta to last until morning.

Family Photos

2005-03-17T13:26:00.000-08:00

Posing with a group of Uruguayan re-enacters who greeted us in the town center of Colonia del Sacramento.

My brother and I in Colonia.

A typical street leading to the Rio de la Plata in Colonia.

Dancing at "The Limit" in Buenos Aires, the only hip-hop dance club I've found thus far.

My brother and I on Sunday, at the Artisan's fair in Recoleta, just north of downtown Buenos Aires.

Tango dancers, putting on a free show at the fair.

Myself, Adrianna, her husband William, my brother, Stefan, and Michael (from Germany) after watching the spectacular Tango musical, Tangera.

Dinner at my favorite restaurant, El Desnivel, with Michael(Texas), myself, Kara, Stefan, Michael(Germany), Sulie, my brother, and Matt.

Whirlwind

2005-03-16T13:31:00.000-08:00

As promised, I had no time whatsoever to keep this updated while my brother was here, there was hardly a free hour for us to rest the entire time he was here. However, it was an awesome experience in my life to be able to meet and spend time with my brother on another continent where no one in our family had ever been before. Because of all the sleep deprivation, my memories are a blur, but here's what I can piece together of what we did.

On his first full day, Thursday, Jamiah accompanied me to my daily Spanish lessons, and made it clear that he spoke the language much better than me. That night we went to a Salsa dancing lesson where we met up with another expat and met some Argentines. Later that night we visited an over-popular bar in Recoleta called Shamrock, which was so crowded that you couldn't even stand comfortably with your friends inside.

Friday, my brother and I were invited to dinner at Adrianna's house, one of my favorite Argentinean professors from the school. There we ate a stir-fry dish made by her Columbian husband (who is a decent clay court tennis player) and talked with their American 15-year-old son. Later, we visited a small hip-hop club, on Bolivar, in the San Telmo neighborhood called The Limit.

Saturday, after staying out way to late, my brother and I woke in a hurry after 2 hours of sleep to catch the regular ferry from Buenos Aires to Uruguay. After overcoming a ticketing mix-up, we slept most of the 3 hour journey, and enjoyed most of the day in the tranquilo town of Colonia del Sacramento. Only in Uruguay could my brother and I have enjoyed a $470 meal without a heart attack (that's $20 U.S.). That night we went to a party in my friend Kara's dormitory, filled with international volunteer workers and students. There were people from Spain, Austria, Japan, Brazil, Germany, Canada, and a ton of other countries I can't remember. With plenty of time to spare, we left the party at 2 in the morning to go to Plaza Serrano in the Palermo neighborhood to join a friend at another bar. At about 4, we stood in line for about 30 minutes to try to get in a recently reopened nightclub before we gave up and went to another one filled with a group of Argentinean girls who were so tipsy, they repeatedly fell backwards into us.

Sunday was much more relaxed, we woke after midday to recover, and then visited an artisan's fair in Recoleta where we met scores of interesting people. First, we talked to a 60-year-old protonño selling "natural clothes" who had never left the city in his life but had buena honda (a good vibe). Next, we shared ideas with another vendor in Spanish about the spiritual aspects of the "Live Strong" bracelets, which fund cancer charities, after which, the man gave me a rosary as a gift. Finally, we bumped into 3 girls from New York City who were in town for the week. That night we visited Teatro Astral where we watched "Tangera," an Argentine musical which chronicled the origins of the dance Tango while depicting a tragic love story at the same time.

Monday and Tuesday were days of rest, which we spent visiting museums and tourist spots around the city, and we enjoyed great food at my favorite restaurant in the city, El Desnivel, an Argentinean steakhouse on Defensa street in San Telmo. By the time my brother left Tuesday night, like me, he didn't want to leave.

My Argentinean Home

2005-03-11T12:18:00.000-08:00

With the arrival of my brother and after an email from a friend, I realized that I haven't shared any pictures yet of where I live and go to class. For now, I'll start with pictures of my neighborhood and home.

This is Avenida Corrientes, a major street with a subway line underneath that leads to my nieghborhood of Once.

Here is the street that I live on, Azcuènaga. I challenge you to say that name to a cabbie at 4 in the morning and get him to understand you...

Here is the humble building where I live with my Argentinean host mother. The inglorius dark-colored entrance at the bottom left does little to represent the comfortable home inside.

Here's the comfortable and stylish living room of the Señora, who is a modern art professor during part of the year.

This is my bedroom, with a simple bed, mini-closet and desk.

This is my own private bathroom, attached to the room. The other two students living with the Señora have to share the other bathroom, so it's been a nice perk.

Mi Hermano

2005-03-10T10:28:00.000-08:00

This week had been a little boring and laid back, but it picked up real quick.

My brother arrived from Spain yesterday night and is going to be visiting me here in Argentina for almost a week. What a small world we live in: it's very cool to be in South America for the first time in my life, and then have my brother arrive on this new continent to visit me. My poor mother!

I've already introduced my brother to one of the coolest places to hang out here, Milion, the mansion-turned-bar in downtown BA, and there are many more touristy things I plan to do with him this week that I've never gotten around to doing myself. Saturday, we'll take a boat across the "river" (which is really a bay, but looks like the ocean on a map) and visit Uruguay for a day, before coming back and hopefully watching a football match.

It's going to be a very cool, but very busy week, so don't kill me if there isn't another update until Wednesday!

The Gonzalez's

2005-03-07T13:38:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I finally got the opportunity to meet up with the family of a good college friend of mine who lives in Greater Buenos Aires. Mr. and Mrs. Gonzalez live in Martinez, a close suburb of the city, set not far from the Rio de la Plata. I was invited to one of the family's regular weekend asados, but my friend could not attend because he's still working in the States. To get to Martinez, I took the subway to the main downtown train and bus station, Retiro, and took a commuter train to Martinez. The ride took a total of 45 minutes and cost me the equivalent of $0.50 US.

When the train reached my stop, I was in an urban, but residential, area. Many of the buildings were free standing, and what looked like I a small-town main street was surrounded by wooded neighborhoods of private, individual homes. It was a great difference from downtown Buenos Aires, where tens of thousands of people live in crowded highrises above window-shop businesses and traffic-choked streets.

The Gonzalez home was not unlike many of the beautiful homes that I walked past, except that it was among the biggest. The home was divided into 3 buildings, with gardens in between, and was a mix of Mediterranean architecture with the comforting feel of wood and brick. The dining area included an enormous grill in the kitchen, a table that could easily accommodate 10 or more people, and a rustic decorations all around.

The Gonzalez's had invited many other people to dinner as well, an Argentinean-American couple from Conneticut, Mrs. Gonzalez's sister with her Uruguayan husband, and her Peruvian niece who is studying in Buenos Aires to be a pilot. The food was delicious, including Choripan (chorizo sausage and french bread), cuts of Lomo steak (tender beef), and cerdo (pork). The conversation was also easy, flowing seamlessly between English and Spanish. The Gonsalez's are originally Peruvian, and spent many years living in the States, so there was a lot to talk about.

After dinner, I caught a ride back into the city with her niece, Natalia, and her friend Juan. I joined them in going to a great bar in Palermo called "Por H o Por B" (a saying in Argentina that I still don't understand), and it was filled with tons of other young, boisterous Argentines. As an added plus, the background music was hip hop, a very rare find in Argentina.

In the Gonzalez family home after dinner, with Mr. Gonzalez on the far right, and Mrs. Gonzalez in white, to my immediate left.

Weekdays

2005-03-04T15:03:00.000-08:00

It's getting harder and harder to keep up with this blog, as I'm now just about as busy from day to day as I would be back home.

This week was typical, Monday night was low key, with a bit only a bit of studying after my classes in the morning and some reading later that night. Tuesday, I went to the gym in the afternoon, where Victoria, a member of the staff, greeted me with the usual Argentinean kiss and proceeded to help me with my workout. That night, I joined Megan to place called Notorius, a hip and ingenious cafe/bar where you could order a cappuchino, browse their digital music collection and choose to purchase CDs, if you like. That night, Notorius hosted a live music show as well, a young jazz pianist who played tranquil, but complicated, songs that fit the mood of the evening perfectly.

Wednesday, I watched Alexandro Magno (Alexander the Great, which I didn't think was that bad) at the movies by myself in English with Spanish subtitles. Thursday, I finally played my first game of tennis on a red, clay court, and I have the pink shoes to prove it! It was a lot of fun, even though I can't quite hit and slide like the pros do yet.

I also had a pretty strange dream after eating a rich and heavy appetizer at 12:30am one night. I dreamt that one night, here in Buenos Aires, I was staying in an extra bedroom of some other American ex-pats for the night when I was woken up at 1am. Apparently, the "Bank of Argentina" had "failed," or "crashed," or something, and the city was dissolving into chaos. Not believing it at first, I looked out of the window to see shops closing, stores being looted, and roving mobs of people in the streets. The American who woke me told me that all of us needed to get out of there fast, so I tried to call a real-life American friend of mine here in BA to warn him. However, I couldn't get through, and eventually I just had to take of with the people I was with, speeding away for Chile.

I guess I had a dream like that coming after discussing Argentinean politics with my teachers in class all week.

Pictures of Pinamar

2005-03-03T13:33:00.000-08:00

The hostel, Albergue Bruno Valente, converted from a hotel built in 1926.

The views from inside the dorm rooom and from the balcony.

The beach looking south, and then north along the Atlantic Coast.

One of many dirt roads leading from the beach back into town.

One of the "upscale" car dealerships along Pinamar's main strip, each model accompanied by a model. And, in case you were wondering, that slogan does translate to "have you felt like a Ford lately."

Juan the Porteño and Pinamar

2005-03-02T12:13:00.000-08:00

As much as I am fascinated by, and in disbelief of the nocturnal habits of Porteños living in Buenos Aires, I may have started to acclimate to their lifestyle.

I started the weekend on Wednesday night, joining my Londoner friend Rosi to a trendy, but laid back place called Acabar in the barrio Palermo for a few drinks until around 2am. The next night, my friend Mike (Texas) and I met up with two other American girls, Kara and Tara, at a funky place in Palermo called Mundo Bizzaro. Before we knew it, it was 4am. Finally, Friday, night, I had dinner with Karina and some other acquaintances I'd met in Iguaçu at a great parilla called El Desnivel for my second, sabrisima, dinner there. Afterwards we milled around for a bit before deciding to return to Mundo Bizzaro again, and stayed out until 4:30 in the morning.

The catch was that early on that Saturday morning, Mike and I were scheduled to take a bus to the Argentinean beach resort of Pinamar. I rushed home and packed for an hour until 5:30am, crashed for an hour and a half before miraculously waking at 7. After calling to wake Mike, I met him outside of the bus station with 5 minutes to spare before our bus left.

The ride to Pinamar was some five hours that I don't remember, I was fast asleep the entire time. We arrived to a partially-wooded, warm, sunny town with beautiful homes and quaint dirt roads. It was a welcome descanso from the noise, traffic, and polluted air of the city. On top of that, the temperature was a perfect 74 degrees and was a relief from the oppressive heat and humidity that I was used to falling asleep in every night in Buenos Aires.

The beach and the water were pristine, and the relaxation brought back memories and saudade of Brazil. The hostel was right across a dusty lane from the ocean and the entire town was accessible on foot. Saturday night we toured the town's main strip, which had all of the shops, restaurants and clothing stores you'd expect in a beach town. But it also had countless "upscale" car dealerships (only displaying the models) and sound-system specialty stores, each model accompanied by its own good-looking saleswoman. Needless to say, Pinamar is a playground for Argentina's upper-middle class.

The sunset brought with it the coldest temperatures I'd experienced on my whole trip, though not unlike those at the beaches in California at night. After eating at another sumptuous parilla, we listened to a live band playing on the street in front of a bar. It's a strange feeling to be in the southern hemisphere, in a Spanish-speaking country, listening to a rock band play Nirvana songs in English, nonetheless, it was a good time. After another 5 hour bus ride, it was back to the city, the heat, the pollution, and my daily Spanish classes.

Continuing... with Pictures of Buenos Aires

2005-02-24T12:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel guilty for being on a vacation like this when so much is going on in the world and people who are close to me are faced with so many commitments. But on the other hand, I've had my cousin tell me how much he's enjoyed my pictures, and how they help him look forward to coming home.

So here are my pictures, from Buenos Aires:

Avenida 9 de Julio in downtown Buenos Aires, with a smaller replica of the Washington Monument in the background.

The "Casa Rosada" of Argentina.

Busy Avenida Cordoba at midday.

From left to right, Michael (from Texas), Kyle and myself with two pretty Chileans at Hostel-Inn in barrio San Telmo.

Boarding a boat in the pastoral area of the Tigre river delta, an hour northwest of Buenos Aires by train.

Our destination: Akù Akù. A relaxing restaurant facing a canal with hammocks, lawn chairs and games.

Myself with my friends and fellow Spanish students, posing behind lawn game with indigenous origins. Megan, Leigh, and Michael (from Virginia).

Midday Sunday in the famous antiques marketplace of barrio San Telmo.

Myself with more students from the Linguatec Spanish school at a house party. Eric, Neehar, Matthew, Roberto, and Rosie.

Real Life, Iraq

2005-02-21T16:24:00.000-08:00

I guess that blogs were originally created with the purpose of distributing information as it happens, and with that purpose, this blog serves its initial use.

I just found out that my best friend from High School has been called up from the reserves for a tour of duty that could last for a year and a half. He is to report for duty at the end of March, and it is very likely he will be sent to Iraq.

I have feared receiving this news for almost 2 years, although in the last few months, the possibility had slipped from my mind. Even now, I have a cousin who is faithfully serving in Afganistan, and I have been selfishly thankful that his orders brought him there, and not to Iraq. But the possiblity I feared has now come to life, and I hope even more earnestly that the situation will be secured soon and our troops brought home faster.

I'm a little bit in shock, and a bit surprised as well by how this news has affected me. But all of these situations take on additional gravity when they involve those we care about. My cousin and friend are constantly in my thoughts and prayers, and so are the thousands of others, many younger than me, who, in service, are placed in danger everyday.

"La Cocaina" and Sunset (not what you think)

2005-02-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

It's pretty easy to meet new people here when you go out at night, either because people are that friendly or because everyone wants to talk to an exotic-looking foreigner (there's no blending in for me in Argentina...). So, for either reason, I have got to meet several Porteños when me and my friend Michael go out at night, including Carolina, who used to work for an airline and speaks English pretty well.

Wednesday night, Michael and I were invited to celebrate her feliz cumpleaños at her house in Palermo where we met her friends from work, school and her childhood. Most of her friends are not originally from the city, most are from small towns in provinces around it. In particular, one of her friends was named Paulo, and was from the northernmost province, Jujuy. He was a musician and sang a haunting song in Spanish about a mythical creature that roams the mountains of the northwest called "La Cocaina."

"La Cocaina" is a short, gnome-like creature with the face of an old man and a distinctive hat. It has one arm covered in llama wool and its other arm is made of steel. Wherever it goes, it carries a bulge of coca leaves (which are common in the Andes) it its mouth, thus giving it its name. The legend has it that when hunters lose their way in the mountains for several days, and lose all hope of finding their way out, that they often lie down and give up. Eventually one of the Cocainas finds them, and encircles them with a red string, in order to put their souls at rest or help it find its way onward. The end of the story matched the end of my comprehension of it, so if anyone knows more about the story, please share it, for me, what I did get of the story was a small triumph of translation.

Changing gears a little bit, I finally got to experience one of the best-known nightclubs in Greater Buenos Aires, Sunset. Unfortunately, the government here has still not recovered from the horrific nightclub fire tragedy of the new year, and clubs inside the city are still closed. However, at 3 a.m. Saturday night/Sunday morning, myself and a group of people, including my friend Roland from Iguaçu, spontaneously decided to jump in a cab and head for the suburbs and Sunset.

You would think that leaving for a danceclub at 3 in the morning may not be worth it, or that it could even be closed, but things in Argentina are very different. When our cab reached a point within a quarter-mile of the club, it was bumper-to-bumper traffic. At that point, we decided to walk from there and entered the sprawling club with several more people coming behind us.

Sunset has two huge dance floors, at least 4 bars, terraces, and an expansive open-air patio. When we arrived, there were at least 1000 people dancing, some to a mix of Argentinean and various Latin music in the indoor dance floor, and others to Electronica and House underneath the covered canopy outside. Neither were my first choices of music for dancing to, but the lively atmosphere and the fact I hadn't been to a dance club for too long a time easily made up for it. This crowd, like every one I've experienced in South America, was raucous and fun-loving. Forget machismo, anyone and everyone is liable to get hit on or picked up at least a few times during a night there. Aside from those expected outlets, Sunset is particularly well known for its troupe of female dancers, who were all beautiful and quite fit. Between the dancers, the dancing, and all of the happenings in between, we hardly noticed when the sun came up, and neither did anyone at the club. It was a singularly unique experience for me to be with hundreds of people on a dance floor in the clear bright of day.

Even as we left the club at 7 a.m., it was still way more than half-filled, and didn't look likely to slow down anytime soon. As we passed many clubgoers who had stopped off to grab a bite of breakfast, I had to decline. By this time, all I wanted and needed was the comfort of my bed.

Weird Things About South America

2005-02-15T18:38:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me that while I think about, and adjust to all of the weird things I've run into every day, I may not have mentioned any of them here.

No matter what city you’re in, when you walk on the sidewalks in South America, water is going to drip down onto your head because none of the high-rise buildings have central air conditioning. They all have AC units crammed into the windows, hanging out over the street and dripping down for everyone’s benefit.

Another crazy thing is the driving, and if I can help it, I’ll never drive on this continent. Lane markings mean nothing, pedestrians have no rights whatsoever, and buses and taxis actually speed up to run you down when you cross the street. In Rio, at night, the cabbies cruise through every red light as if it were nothing, and it is nearly impossible to stand your ground while riding a herky-jerky local bus, even when you hold on with two hands.

Brazil had a couple of oddities of it’s own. For one thing, in all of the cheap places that I stayed in, Brazilian bathrooms were identical. They were closet-sized rooms with a stand-alone sink (no counter), a toilet, and a waterfall-style showerhead, basically hanging over the top of the other two. The floor was only an undivided square of sloped tile and a single drain, meaning the ground almost always covered in a slick mess… needless to say, taking a shower or using the bathroom when I stayed at the hostel there was pretty gross, and I tried to avoid doing either for as long as I could.

Also unique to Brazil, was a lack of worry about what Americans would usually consider revealing beachwear. It’s true that nearly everyone there wears a thong to the beach, and if they are not, they make it one! That went for guys too, and people had no qualms about walking 5, 6 or 7 blocks up from the beach in those skimpy clothes, without the need to cover up with a towel. And when it came to stores and restaurants, those businesses would find no use for the saying “no shirt, no shoes, no service,” I don’t think I ever saw anyone turned away, much less, given a sidways look.

Buenos Aires, however, has quite a bit more of the conservative Victorianism that I’m used to, and most of the amenities of a city in Europe. So, for now at least, my time of living on the edge is over. However, weird has not meant bad, and if you can’t deal with differences, traveling isn’t for you. I’ve been having a great time, enjoying every strange little bit.

Domesticated

2005-02-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

Even though I've now been living in the southern hemisphere's version of the City that Never Sleeps for more than a week now, my life has become a lot more boring. For one thing, I'm not living in crazy hostels anymore, I have my own room, bathroom, and a permenant place to keep my things without locking them up. But the biggest reason why things are a bit more normal are the starting of my Spanish classes at Linguatec, which begin at 9am and last 4 hours. The classes are great, with fun but solid teachers and some organized activities. Getting up for class everyday, though, makes me kind of feel like I have a 9 to 5 again.

As a result, I've gone out at night a little less, and my mind has had some time to wander. This week I ended what had been a self-imposed news blackout and read about the Iraqi election results and North Koreas bold assertion that they have "nukes." But the news that affected me most directly was a work stoppage by Buenos Aires' subway workers for the first four days of the workweek. As a result, the downtown area has been gridlocked with traffic, and for me, I had the choice of a 1 hour walk to class, or getting a taxi for every trip.

This week I also learned quite a bit about Argentine society, which is influenced far more by Europe than by the rest of South America. Despite having a magnificent, first-world, capital city, Argentina is devastated by poverty. This country also has a very high literacy rate and free public universities, yet the unemployment rate is nearly 20% and more than half of the country lives below the poverty line. The saddest and worst thing about the poverty here are all of the people begging on th streets, far too many of them small children. However, I guess that out hardship comes great character, because I have been surprised by th generosity of Argentines on the street giving change to beggars, more than happens in the U.S.

It is hard to understand how such a well-educated country with great cities and infrastructure can be so impoverished. A good deal of blame lies at the feet of the government here, which created the conditions for the recent economic collapse. Whith the currency devalued, the government prevented citizens from withdrawing any of thier savings, causing millions to have their assets cut in half, or to a third. It is no wonder that many Argentineans are careful to diversify their savings in foreign currencies, bank, and bonds, with only a little bit kept in-country. With so little investment here, it's no wonder that there are so few jobs. I've even heard of university professors working for free because they can't find another job and would just rather teach. I wonder what it will take to end this cycle.

Dias en Buenos Aires

2005-02-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

Saturday night I went out with a couple of cool Americans from the hostel, Kyle, from Seattle, and Michael, from Houston. After dinner, we went to a palacial mansion converted into a bar called "Million." It was a building squeezed in between others, like all of the buildings downtown here, but was clearly once a singular residence with 3 floors and built in a classical European style with huge staircases.

The next morning, after sleeping in and checking out of the hostel, I went to the local Catholic church in San Telmo for services. Until then, I hadn't been to church my whole time in South America. Even though there was plenty of standing, sitting, and repeating of creeds that I didn't know (much less in Spanish), it felt good to be in a house of God.

Later that day I contacted the lady whose home I will be living in for the rest of my time in Buenos Aires. Señora Sabato lives in a neighborhood called "Congresso," because it is near Argentina's national parliament building. The street she lives on is lined with business on the bottom floors but has many doorways that lead to private residences on the 2nd, 3rd and additional floors. Her entrance was no different and she led me up to her apartment. The Sra. is a very nice and motherly woman who is in her 60's and has grown children. She doesn't speak any English, but has hosted students from all over the world for years. After setting my things in the private room with a bathroom, we had dinner along with the other two students staying in her home. She baked a delicious torta made of cheese, egg and ham... I think she could have had a career as a chef if she wanted it.

After dinner, I explained to the Sra. the importance and significance of Super Bowl Sunday, and apologized for having to leave so quickly. It was 8:30pm when I rushed to an American sports bar in the Recoleta neighborhood where I was supposed to meet a group of friends for the game. Fortunately I found one of them, but not the whole group, but I was there in time for the start of the game.

After laboring to avoid all things overtly or stereotypically American for the past 2 and 1/2 weeks, it felt good to be part of a group of loud, rowdy Americans on Super Bowl Sunday. After all, it is an unofficial national holiday, where people either host or attend parties with family and friends, whether or not they care about the actual game.

As the game began, I felt a surprising welling of pride when former Presidents Clinton and Bush walked out onto the field together, united. And I also experienced an unexpected wave of emotion when I and the other hundred ex-pats joined in singing the national anthem and recognizing our men and women serving overseas. For this time, date, and place, nothing was more important than being American.

And with that, a great Super Bowl contest began, ending with the narrow and unfortunate loss of the Philadelphia Eagles. I do not reluctantly tip my hat to the Patriots however, they have clearly established themselves as the pre-eminent football team of this yet unnamed decade.

Just like Paris

2005-02-05T15:06:00.000-08:00

They say that Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America, and they're right. The city is beautiful and well-planned, with efficient mass transit and spacious avenues alike. In fact, when I arrived in the city 2 days ago by bus, I didn't feel any of the disorientation that I did when I first arrived in Brazil. To me, Buenos Aires seems and feels just like a major European city.

After arriving, I took the useful, but antiquated, subway to the neighborhood of San Telmo, and walked to a intimate hostel squeezed in between a hotel and a business. I visited Avenida Florida, a pedestrian street of both expensive and bargain stores which is famous in the city. Even as tourists and middle-class Argentineans crowded the streets, it was shocking how many beggars, both old an young, competed for space and asked for money.

That night I joined up with Karina, who I met in Iguacu Falls, for dinner with some of her friends at the "early" hour of 8:30. Porteños (people who live in Buenos Aires) typically don't have dinner until 10 or 11pm. We went to a great steakhouse that served a "Lomo" cut of beef that was absolutely delicious, and it only set me back the equivalent of $7 U.S. dollars. Everything is cheap here.

It was great to have a familiar and interesting group to hang out with on my first night here, and, as is typical here, the night lasted until 4 in the morning. While Buenos Aires is not as rhythmic and carefree as Rio, I think there is a great chance I'm going to enjoy my time here quite a bit.

Pictures Again, Finally!

2005-02-04T11:58:00.000-08:00

For all of the multitudes of internet cafes you can easily find in South America, finding modern computers that can transmit data over a USB port can be more of a challenge than it seems. For that reason, I still have pictures from Rio to show, and it cost me 12 pesos get my photos on a disk... well, whatever. Finally, pictures!

Ray, Michael, Christian and I in Rio.

The windy road between Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo.

Myself, Jessica, and Duda listening to live Bossa Nova in Sao Paulo.

Myself, Stephanie, Karina, and Archie overlooking the river that empties into Iguacu falls.

Just some of the 27 spectacular individual falls at Iguacu, from the Argentinean side.

Even this picture doesn't do justice to the breathtaking power of the water.

The sign says not to feed the animals...

...so the lady learns the hard way.

Archie imitates one of the many ridiculous signs around the park.

After the Iguacu Falls boat ride, we're soaked three times through.

From a town near the falls, the rivers converge to divide Argentina in the foreground, Paraguay to the left, and Brazil to the upper right.

A Backpacker´s Paradise

2005-02-01T01:56:00.000-08:00

Paudimar is the name of the hostel I´m staying at in western Brazilian countryside, near the borders of Argentina and Paraguay near Iguacu Falls. While still being a cheap youth hostel, it was set on a few acres of land and had a swimming pool, hot tub, an on-premises bar and grill, a soccer field, open grass areas, hammocks for lounging and free internet access. It´s no secret why I decided to stay here for 3 nights!

Aside from my partners to the falls, I´ve met some fun people here as well. For one night I was locked up in the Scandinavian contingent, the next day I chilled with a couple of Austrians, later I banged the soccer ball around in a 2-hour match with some competitive Brits, and I ended last night rabble rousing in the bar and pool with a couple of Irishmen.

Even with the great and relaxing time I´ve had here, it has been a significantly different experience from the other hostels I´ve stayed at in other ways. Unlike the hostel in Rio, this one is dominated by backpackers from wealthy, western countries, and I have had no need to speak anything but English my whole time here. Also, besides not seeing many Americans during my whole time here, I have seen almost no people of color. Of the eight Americans I´ve met on this trip, just today did I meet Leticia, who is Mexican-American and from LA. It seems to me that, from this point on in my trip, to meet an African-American, or any other black person outside of Brazil will be a rarity.

That said, I have encountered no problems throughout my time in South America, and I look forward to the temporary stability I will have in Buenos Aires. There I not only have my language program to start, and a host family to meet, but many other contacts as well. I will leave by "coche cama," the comfortable "sleeper" bus, midday tomorrow, thoroughly relaxed after my time in the backpacker´s paradise.

Iguacu Falls

2005-01-30T15:32:00.000-08:00

From Sao Paulo, my bus arrived an hour earlier than I expected. While still waking up, I notice all of the passengers quickly filing off the bus, so I quickly followed suit. I found myself bathed in sunshine, in small to mid-sized town surrounded by lush green countryside. It was a welcome change in weather and environment after the last couple of days of rain and noise in Rio and Sao Paulo.

After identifying the hostel I was looking for outside of the city of Foz do Iguacu, I took a taxi there alone to find it set in the countryside with land to spare. After getting my room and putting away my things I overheard a group of 3 people getting ready to visit the Argentinean side of the falls. I impulsively asked if I could join them on the spot, and they obliged.

Visiting the falls with Stephanie (from Canada) and Karina and Archie (from Norway) was a blast. We followed an elevated walkway along the ridge of the falls, passing over tranquil water that would soon drop over hundreds of feet. Then we went to the other side where we could see a vista of the falls that was so wide it took 4 shots of my camera to capture. Finally we boarded a speed boat where we got up close and personal with most of the 27 independent, magnificent falls, and got soaked head to toe in the process. After spending the full day at the falls, we retreated to the hostel, which ended up being a backpacker's paradise.

An Oasis of Modernity

2005-01-29T12:10:00.000-08:00

My visit to Sao Paulo was many things I expected, and many I did not. I expected, and saw, a huge, bustling city with similarities to Los Angeles and New York. I expected to be, and was, impressed by the financial centers, and I expected to see many outlets for Brazilian culture and history. What I did not expect was to step into a middle-class dream similar to life in the States that, up to this point, I had not seen in Brazil.

It was my pleasure to stay with Jessica, in her family´s modern and cozy house a few miles from downtown. The contrast between a sometimes dirty hostel with antiquated fixtures and no air conditioning (meaning doors and windows were open all night) to a clean, orderly and modern apartment just like my family´s condo in California was a shocking transition. From freeway driving, New York City traffic, and upscale malls like you´d find in Glendale or Burbank, Sao Paulo is the seat of Brazil´s middle class.

My time in Sao Paulo also included more traditionally Brazillian experiences, such as trying pastiolis (fried meat pies), carne seco (shredded beef eaten with bread), and pao de queijo, a type of cheese bread. Also, on my second night, we went to a local bar to listen to live performances of Bossa Nova and Forro music. One of the most widely known Bossa Nova songs is the "Girl from Ipanema."

My time in Sao Paulo was rounded out by two facinating Afro Brazillian women I met who both spoke only Portugese. The first, whose name is Rosi (pronounced "Hosi") worked for a food stand just outside the metro station I used when entering and leaving the city. She is roughly my age and told me that she moved to Sao Paulo from Salvador to look for work. She urged me to take my next trip up to the beautifly northeast coast of Brazil.

The second lady worked in a museam I visited, and I couldn´t help but share a little bit about race relations in the United States in order to find out what her opinion was of relations in Brazil. I only understood about a third of what she said (as it was in Portugese only), but the jist of it was that there were few problems between Brazillians of the same income level. However, the problem was that the vast majority of people living in favelas (impoverished neighborhoods with 3rd World living conditions) were dark-skinned people of African descent, and that it was hard for them to climb the socio-economic ladder because public education was so horrible. I really wish that I knew Portugese better so that I could have understood more of what she said.

Generally, that conversation highlighted the uniqueness of my time in Sao Paulo, within the span of a couple of days, I had a look at both the horrendous favelas and the burgeoning Brazillian middle class. For me personally, however, the time in Sao Paulo was a refreshing return to familiar comforts, helpful to strengthen me for the upcoming week in the countryside.

Saudade

2005-01-27T21:03:00.000-08:00

I am now in Sao Paulo after a 6-hour bus ride into the crowded, bustling, largest city in South America. Driving through the favelas of Rio on the way out of town was a little bit of a shock, as difference between wealthy Brazilians and poor ones is enormous. They truly live two different lifestyles, one in the First World, the other in the Third. The countryside between the two cities is gorgeous, and similar to California with rounded mountains and lush valleys. I have never seen grasslands that were so green and fertile.

I have come to Sao Paulo to meet a college friend of my ex-roommate, Jessica, and it has been a pleasure to meet someone on this trip that I know and have a connection to. She lives in one of the many, beautiful highrises that dot this city that reminds me so much of Los Angeles.

Last night, I accompanied her and her fiance to a uniquely named club, "Trash 80's," which, as you guessed, plays trashy 80's one-hit-wonders. The really interesting part for me was that while they played hits from the 80's that I knew, they also played many Brazilian hits from the 80's, which I found a lot catchier than most American 80's music. The club was filled with fun-loving locals who all seemed to have 9-5 jobs, but who go to the neighborhood bar to blow off some steam. It reminded me a lot of one of my favorite old haunts, the Press Club, in Sacramento.

While having dinner with Jessica and her fiance, Duda last night, she introduced me to the Brazilian word saudade when referring to an old friend of Duda's. The word can't be directly translated, but it means feeling a kind of longing, or nostalgia for a time past, an old friend, or a place visited. Apparently, it is a commonly-used word that permeates Brazilian literature and songwriting. I can truly say that even though I am thoroughly enjoying the company and hospitality of a friend while I am in Sao Paulo, I feel saudade for the people, places, and experiences of Rio as well. I will return one day, but for now I will visit this very interesting metropolis and will depart for Iguaçu Falls in a day.

Obrigado Rio (Thank you)

2005-01-26T09:59:00.000-08:00

The gravid sky finally broke open this morning, and it has been pouring all day. This weather has finally disrupted the pattern I had going over the past few days in Rio. Waking up a little late, organizing my room, meeting the new travelers, going to the beach, eating at Churrasqueria (Brazilian BBQ), and partying the rest of the night. In Rio, the bars don't close until 5 or 6 (if ever!) and I usually got home by sunrise.

This breaking of my schedule has given me the time to think over the past few days, and all of the great people I've met. I met the first American since I've been here, Laren, a sanitary water systems student from Colorado on her way to a world youth conference in Porto Alegre. I also met Gabriel, a Lebanese-born student from Sao Paulo with whom I had some great conversations. I hung out with a Brazilian from the swamps of Mato Grosso, played soccer with 3 Argentineans on the beach, visited the statue of Christ with two Israelis, and clubbed relentlessly with two amiable Irishmen. I struggled to learn Portuguese from a modeling agent named Rafael, danced samba on the beach with girls from Sao Paulo, and made a good friend in Christian from Peru, who works in Lima. My last day I met Michael from Sweden, and Diego from Columbia, to whom I promised to eventually visit his beloved country.

I have been benefiting from quite a comfort zone in Rio, as there has been a critical mass of the same people at the hostel since I've been here. In the last few days, however, many of them have left, stripping away the comfort and familiarity of the hostel which had given me a home in the city. There's no doubt in my mind that it is time to move on.

Obrigado, Rio. Thank you, for an amazingly great time.

Rio Pictorial

2005-01-25T11:10:00.000-08:00

It has been a few days since my last entry, and a lot has happened. So, instead of describing every little event, here are a few pictures of what I've seen and done.

In the taxi from the airport.

Hotel Turistico

A street performer in the central Rio neighborhood of Lapa.

Ipanema Beach on a cloudy, but very warm day.

The streets filling on Ipanema before a festival.

The main float of the "Banda de Ipanema" Carnival warm-up festival.

Thousands of people crowd the beach for the festival.

A group of young models who stayed at our hostel for 2 days.

After an impromptu samba party on Copacabana Beach with ladies from Sao Paulo.

The whole group from Sao Paulo on the same night in Copacabana.

Good friends in Hostel Tropícal.

The magnificent statue of "Cristo Redentor" overlooking the city of Rio de Janeiro.

Mis hermanos de Chile

2005-01-22T04:30:00.000-08:00

The main reason that I chose to stay in hostels is for the social outlets the provide to a solitary traveler. For me it was fortuitous to stumble upon Hostel Tropícal. This place is a draw for young, South American back packers from inside and outside of the country. Most of the travelers were from Brazil, Peru, and Argentina, with only a couple of "western" travelers (no other Americans yet), but things really got interesting when a group of 5 students from Chile arrived.

All were medical students, and Felipé, the leader of the group befriended me and was able to speak more words of English than the rest of his group. Hanging out with them was challenging, as we could only communicate in my halting Spanish. But I found that my language skills were improving greatly with all of the practice.

After going to the beach, we went back to the hostel for drinks and conversation. It was a noisy and jovial discussion that ranged from Chilean movies, to embarrassing stories from college and, of course, American politics. After filling the humid, 80 degree air with our noise, we went to a neighborhood in downtown Rio, named Lapa.

It is a lively neighborhood of colonial buildings crowded around snaking cobblestone roads. When we arrived near midnight, there were at least a thousand people packing the crowded streets, which were pulsating with samba, rock, raggae, and hip hop. The highlight of the night, was a samba drum group of 6 people who maintained a steady and enthusiastic crowd, dancing samba to the rhythms for the entire night. The music was so fun and natural, that I soon found myself dancing samba next to the locals without reservation.

The night ended as the sun rose, and the streets slowly cleared out, but I was distressed to find out that my Chilean friends were moving on to another town early that morning. Felipé invited me to look him up when I visited Santiago, and I promised to do that.

De Touristíca para Tropical

2005-01-21T09:32:00.000-08:00

I´ve finally been in Brazil for over 24 hours, and I´ve just gotten over the jet lag. When I did go out, it was to Copacabana to find a youth hostel to stay in. The first one I visited was full, due to the coming of Carnival, but the second had room to spare and was pretty cheap at $14 a night.

While taking the Metro yesterday, I couldn´t help but be impressed by the diversity of the people of Rio. Cariocas come in every conceivable shade of color and have varying degrees of African lineage, but what really impressed me was the effortless intermingling between them; neighbors of old and young sitting on porches, mixed families walking down the street and groups having dinner. While the U.S. is often called a melting pot, comparatively, the people of Rio put that notion to shame.

As an African American, I have never felt less self-conscious than since I´ve set foot in Brazil. I have made an effort to not overtly reveal myself to be a tourist and people rarely give me notice. In less than 2 days, I´ve had half a dozen people assume that I was Brazilian without asking, or approached me speaking Portuguese. The vibe in this country is wonderful.

Even when it was obvious that I was a foreigner, people have been friendly to me as well. I made another friend today in Marcos, a high-school age Brazilian who worked at a local street sandwich shop. After watching me stare at the Portuguese menu for 5 minutes, he offered me help with his limited English. I found out that he spoke more Spanish than English and we were able to communicate much better. The only bad thing was that the grilled cheese sandwich that he helped me order was the worst thing I´ve eaten since I´ve been here.

Cariocas

2005-01-20T10:53:00.000-08:00

I finally arrived in Rio de Janeiro at 10:39 local time, which is 4:39 pacific time, which means that, yes, I´ve been jet-lagged all day. But fortunately, American Airlines served up what seemed to be the best ham and cheese sandwich I have ever had in my life! It along with black coffee worked enough wonders for me to tackle this day.
Honestly, I was more than a little bit intimidated by the prospect of the beginning of this trip, as I would be visiting a new country and place for the first time in my life and I didn´t know anyone in the whole city. But that´s where the amazing spirit of the Cariocas, the residents of Rio stepped in.
The first resident I met was Henrique, and he threw me at first because of his heavy New York accent. He spent most of his high school years in New York City after growing up in Brazil. Now is a semi-pro/professional skateboarder and he just wanted to take a break and come back home. We had enough good conversation to fill all of the waking hours of the connecting flight from Miami to Rio. At the beginning of the week, I may meet up with his friends and hang out with them.
Upon finally arriving after nearly 14 hours in the air, I was bombarded by offers for tours, taxi cabs, and who knows what else, even before I left the airport building! To be expedient, I just took one of the taxi offers and picked a cheap hotel in a decent neighborhood to stay. The taxi driver was patient with my indecision, and the hotel managers, who can barely speak any English, smiled through my mangled Spanish/Portuguese conglomeration. (By the way, Portuguese is HARD, I feel like it is listening to Spanish being spoken in a French accent). After getting some quick shut-eye, I visited a couple of hostels and briefly waded in the ocean at Copacabana beach. It is very, very hot and humid here, I think I´ll be spending most of my time in the ocean for the next couple of days if I can swing it.
Also on the horizon for the next couple of days is visiting the Statue of Christ and the Sugar Loaf...

4:28am

2005-01-19T04:28:00.000-08:00

My journey begins in northern California, at 4:28 am, due to both last-minute packing and anxious anticipation of the trip ahead. A shuttle will arrive at in less than 4 hours to pick me up... I guess I wanted to add some intrigue and drama to even my ride to the airport!
I guess it's fitting that I should be up late, waiting for Departure day to arrive given that I've been waiting to go on this journey for over a year, since the point when this trip was first conceived.
In spite of my stubborness, drowsyness is slowly draining away any coherent thoughts I have, so I'll end my opening entry noting that in about 27 hours, I'll set foot Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Even just writing it sounds dreamy, sleep-deprived or not. On to new adventures...