Tales from a Rolling Stone

My So-Called (Ghanaian) Life

forgettable_blue — Tue, 26 May 2009 00:58:00 GMT

I realize that I am a jerk in that I always swear to be better about updating this thing and never do. I really have tried to think of things to write too, but every time I try to scribble something out I feel like I pretty much captured it all when I detailed Ghanaian finger-food, dance performances at funerals, and the seemingly endless marriage proposals. It really took until today after seeing monkey being sold on the side of the road for chow and hearing about witches being exiled from their communities that I decided that there were still interesting stories to be told.

Although before I continue, let me just clarify that despite popular belief, Ghana/Africa is not just filled with Lion King type animals for dinner and crazy voodoo beliefs. There are shiny new buildings, hip bars, candy at the checkout counter of my grocery store, and bad reality TV shows. The local chick I live next door to is a financial analyst for an an international bank. I just choose to talk about the more unique side because, well, who wants to hear about my trip to the shopping mall anyway?

So I begin.

As stated before, I came to Ghana to work at an organization that deals with human and environmental security. When I got there, one of the first things my boss asked me to do was help with office management and take some responsibilities off his plate. I told him that I would, but that it may take a few weeks because I wanted to get an understanding of the organization first. Easy enough. Between power lines spontaneously bursting into sparks outside of my window and nearly falling on the cows that occasionally graze there (which I stopped counting after three times), I spent my first few weeks fundraising and observing, trying to figure out just what the organization did. It didn't take long to realize that my boss was right – he was overburdened, and this was due to the fact that half of his staff didn't know what their jobs were. It may sound ridiculous but its true – some people straight up didn't know what they were responsible for and so just didn't do much of anything.

Knowing full well that trying to fundraise nine hours a day for nine months would do my head in, I decided to do what any idiot recent college grad would do, and with an artificial tone of wisdom (of which I had none), I sent my boss a formal needs assessment and set of recommendations for the individual, team, organization, and all sorts of other made-up nonsense, and quickly found myself putting new systems in place, reorganizing the accounting system and doing far more restructuring than little Sara should have been given the authority to do. All of a sudden I was the one running meetings and my boss was asking me for management advice.

Dear boss, are you aware that I'm 23 years old and am making things up as I go?!?!?

Anywho, for all of you who have asked me what I do, that's it. I do a lot. And I'm happy to report that productivity has increased, even if it may be because I think I scare everyone I work with. It is kind of fun to be scary, however.

But enough about me and back to Ghana. Much more interesting.

As I mentioned before, Ghanaians are incredibly friendly people and just love the fact that I come from Obama-country (or Obama-land depending on who you talk to). People frequently come up to talk to me on the street, and although a lot are trying to sell me something, many others just want to talk or shake my hand. Not too long ago I even got a round of applause because a minibus driver let me in the car when it was already full (a big no-no). “Hey obruni, what's your name?” one guy yelled, and the other 15 or so passengers started cheering and clapping after I answered.

You know you're not in Boston when...

Anywho, although Ghana is a very well-governed African nation enjoying technological advancement, economic growth and the material perks of our ever-shrinking world, it is also a country that is still very much in tune with its traditions and cultural beliefs. For example, aside from its democratically elected government, communities are also governed by traditional authorities such as chiefs, who ascend to the throne upon receiving a special stool. Additionally, Ghanaians are very superstitious – many believe in curses that can be brought on by the spirits of ancestors, and if misfortune falls upon a member of one of its smaller village communities, it would not be uncommon for a widowed elderly woman to be accused of witchcraft and exiled to live the rest of her life with other alleged witches, sometimes in chains. Polygamy is also still common in many of its smaller village communities. My co-worker even offered to make me his second wife.

Thanks Sammi.

All that said though, before anyone thinks, “I knew it! Africa is a savage land where the most powerful people live in the tallest trees!” (which is what my co-workers swear all Americans think about Africans. Well that and that all Americans think that Africa is a country (thank you Sarah Palin)), do also know that there are ATMs, Oreos, and Friends on TV. It just so happens that you can carry a Visa card and believe that the spirits of your ancestors can seriously mess with you if you misbehave. Personally, I like to view it as just open-mindedness. But in all seriousness, as globalization and education gain traction and reach more people, many traditional beliefs are fading out with each younger generation. On one hand, a person could argue that this is increasing equality and opportunity for some of Ghana's marginalized populations (e.g women), but on the other, their traditions and beliefs have defined the richness and uniqueness of their culture, and its sad to see them given up for Western trends and values.

Which are what again?

But Ghana is very much a developing country and developing it is. Yesterday I went to a meeting in a small community which has no access to clean water, and has no toilets in the village to boot. The meeting was about two local non-profits working together with the community to build a water pump that could be maintained by those in the community, not only for access to clean drinking water, but for desperately needed hygiene as well to prevent diseases such as typhoid, cholera and diarrhea. In the past, do-gooders did visit communities such as these and provided them with water rigs, but unfortunately, they did not consult or involve the communities they came to “help,” who having not invested in the pumps themselves, did not keep them maintained and when they broke did not know how to fix them. Thus through this model of involving the community members and educating them about the importance of clean drinking water and proper sanitation has proven to be a much more effective and sustainable model. The education at our meeting was very interactive, and we ended the meeting with a hand-washing demonstration and song to the tune of Row Row Row Your Boat that went:

Wash, wash, wash your hands after the latrine,

And before you eat your food

Else you get diarrhreaaaaaaaaaaaaa

An.Absolute.Hoot.

(But also very exciting :))

What else. Let's see, the overt Christianity here still never ceases to amaze me, as it is everywhere. Who knew that people would be amazed that businesses in the US are not all named after verses in the New Testament, or that being Jewish is mutually exclusive of Christianity, so therefore no, I do not believe in Jesus (shocking). And yes, I have tried alcohol, abstained from by most observant Christians here, and no I cannot count how many times I have tried it (again, shocking). Yes, drinking is socially acceptable. Yes, some people have sex before marriage and that is considered common social behavior. Yes, women go home with men from bars. No, they are not all prostitutes.

There's nothing like a casual conversation with a Ghanaian to make you feel guilty for coming from a seemingly amoral society where its future leaders are preoccupied by drunken promiscuity.

Anyhow, as I'm beginning to notice that this is turning from novel to Tolstoyan in length, and its beginning to rain which typically forecasts an impending power outage, so I think I'll wrap this up with a few last highlights:

If you read my email you saw that I got mugged. It sucked and the guys pushed my friend, but having gone through it before, my seasoned yelling skills scared them away and I got to keep most of my stuff.
I went to visit Cape Coast and Elmina, two port towns that marked the center of the African slave trade. The local Ashanti chiefs traded most of the slaves to the triangle trade for guns and whiskey. Three centuries of sad history and 12 million estimated to have been shipped off to servitude. The holding dungeons at the castles were eerie.
I have become known as sports girl in my neighborhood from my morning jogs. People frequently come up to me and ask if I am said sports girl. This is generally followed by high-fives.
Little children like to give me high-fives and hugs just for being white. Others like to ask me for things just for being white. I may add that being white isn't totally understood by everyone, as I have had to explain that I actually do become lighter if I do not spend time in the sun. No I was not lucky enough to have a nice tan bestowed upon me at birth. Yes, my skin can turn frighteningly white when not under the African sun.

So all in all, that it my life here. I'm sure there is more, but as I mentioned I reckon the power will be outing itself fairly soon due to a storm. Because yes, despite popular belief it is not always hot and dry in Africa. And sometimes one may even find that he/she needs a jacket.

Okay fine, I have never needed a jacket in Accra. But just for the record I did freeze my ass off a time or two in Southern Africa!

White Funerals and Very Messy Hands

forgettable_blue — Mon, 6 Apr 2009 03:56:00 GMT

I was in Accra for less than a week when I attended my first funeral. I didn't know the man, supposedly he was the great-uncle of my country program director, although who really knows the relation. She introduced me to her “grandfather” telling me that many of the people at the 300+ person funeral were her grandparents so I'm not confident in the actual relation.

Anyhow, I was advised to wear either black or white to the ceremony, and since it was an occasion of mourning, I opted for black. When I got there, however, it was immediately clear that I would have stood out less donning a wedding dress.

What I was not told was that if somebody has died after the age of 70 it is considered a celebration and those attending the funeral wear white. Only if the deceased has died before 70 do people dare wear black. Lisa, another volunteer in my program was wearing a red outfit she had made in Ghana having been told it was funeral cloth. Again, she was not told that was in the Ashanti tradition, not the Ewe. So although Lisa and I stuck out like sore thumbs, I must admit that I spent a lot of my time admiring everyone else's wear. I would say that 80% of the men and women were wearing clothes made out of identical cloth; however, since it was all custom made I would see a row of women all wearing dress cut from the same cloth, but all in different styles. It was pretty magnificent.

(On a tangential note: I have recently learned that because western attire has become so much the norm in Ghana, many people make sure to wear their African style clothing on Fridays. Inspired, I'm getting a dress made today. Don't laugh.)

But back to the funeral. All in all, the event was a very interesting experience, and something Ghanians are known for. First of all, the man who died did so in January. Let me repeat, JANUARY! I guess Ghanian funerals can happen anywhere between two months and a year after the actual death, so this funeral was “early.” You should have seen the body too – it was an open casket. The man was still in good shape, just very waxy looking. Too much detail?

Anyhow, it wasn't the animated soulful church singing that surprised me next, but the conga line the relatives started smack in the middle of the service. Even more peculiar was at the reception afterwards, where not only were their traditional drummers (not so strange), but two kids who came out to do African dance in HULA skirts! You know I couldn't make that up.

In any case, there is a brief introduction to the vibrancy that often characterizes Ghanians and all that they do. I actually went to church with my landlady today and that was just as colorful and energetic of an experience. Singing, dancing, and even jumping, there was Preacher R. Kelly and Pastor Brian McKnight – everyone's voices were incredible - and only magnified by the fact that it was filled with 2,000-2,500 God-fearing Ghanians singing and dancing right along with them. I'm sure if synagogue was like that it would have a 70% attendance rate too :)

Ah but yes, Ghanians do love God and make sure to let it known, as a good percentage of all stores have God, Jesus or Jehova in the name. So far I've seen In Jesus' Blood Rice and Beans, God is Great Metal Works, the Jesus Connection bus stop, and my favorite, which is listed down below. There are even better ones too, I just cant remember them all.

Food-wise, its all eating with your hands here and that goes for everything. A very typical meal is a groundnut (peanut) and fish/chicken soup with a piece of dough either made of mashed up cassava, maize or plantains. That's what my co-workers have for lunch and there are no utensils involved. Just stick the dough in the soup (and make sure you get your whole hand in there!), then they take the bony fish out (of course, with your hands), spit the skeleton out, and back to the dough it is. Although I tend to bring my own food, they always get a good kick out of me eating Ghanian grub. I'm actually attending my first Ghanian seder this week in celebration of Passover. It's being hosted by my American friend Lisa, but since she's invited Ghanians and they wont eat anything other than their local cuisine, fufu, banku, and keliweli will make up the so-not-kosher menu. Of course, I'll be doing my best to stick with it :)

That's about all for now, but I want to end with my top sights/encounters of my first 10 days in Ghana:

Top Sights:

Sign advertising circumcision services with the drawing of a baby holding a pair of scissors and a bloody you-know-where...except that there is nothing there, as it appears as though he has been castrated rather than circumcised.
Old woman using a cane carrying a suitcase on her head.
I Will Make it in Jesus' Name Chicken and Rice

Favorite Exchanges:

Man on street: “Hey Obruni (light skinned person), give me money!” Me: “Hey Obibini (black man), give ME money!” Everyone around smiled.
Me: “Can I buy chicken at the Koala Supermarket?” Program Director: “Chicken that's already dead? Yes, you can buy it there.”
Man in my building who goes by Grandpa: “You are from the United States? That has 54 countries.” Me: “Yes, it has 50 states.” Grandpa: “Ahh, 52 countries in America?” Me: “50 states” (another man also yells “States! States”) Grandpa: “Okay, 54 states.” Me: (sigh) “Yes grandpa, 54 states.”

Ghana: Impressions

forgettable_blue — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 05:12:00 GMT

My first encounter with a Ghanian happened at passport control at the Accra airport around midnight on the evening of my arrival. After the usual what are you doing and for how long questions, the young officer asked if I was married. No, I replied. He then asked if I had a boyfriend. I found this funny. Whereas I’d gotten the boyfriend question dozens of times by Colombian taxi drivers and Thai tour guides, an immigration official was a first.

I’ve only been here a few days, but I’ve already learned that these are the two most common questions Ghanain men like to ask me. Depending on my response, the third is often “I love you. Will you marry me?”

Less than 72 hours in country and I’ve already been proposed to twice.

If you say that you have a boyfriend or husband, the next question is always, “Is he black or obruni (light skinned)?” So far I’ve had Mexican and Jordanian husbands and Argentine and Indian boyfriends. I’m really not a fan of the black or white question so I like to choose brown. I think my next husband will be Samoan.

In any case, Ghanians are verrrrrrry friendly and talkative. The men especially like to chat. Just today I was given four phone numbers from people off the street. It was take theirs or give them mine so I chose the former. The problem is that I’m already having to number names, because although many Ghanains have western names, a lot also go by the day of the week they were born on. For example, Kofi, the first name of the former Secretary General of the UN, means Friday because he was born on a Friday. When I was asked what day of the week I was born on, the guy I was talking to found it incredible that I wasn’t sure. I told him I couldn’t remember back that far which seemed to be an acceptable excuse, but he made me promise to ask my mother to find out. He gave me his number so I could call and tell him.

But yes, although the official language is English the most common native language spoken is Twi, which is really what you hear on the street. I’m already working on trying to learn some basic phrases, and lucked out when a gentleman outside of a museum approached me and started teaching me greetings this afternoon. Other people of note include Bungu, a guy who washes cars down the road from my house who always wants to talk or help me with my groceries. Every time I pass he asks me how my day is and I ask if business today is better than yesterday, and every time I leave he asks if he will see me again and if maybe we can go to the beach next week. Today he gave me a necklace he bought for me. In the stall next to him is Jennifer who sells general items. Yesterday, I went into her shop to see if she had butter and soap and told her I’d return to buy them later. I only ended up buying the butter, so today when she saw me, she stopped me and asked why I didn’t come back. “Yes sister, I came back but you were not here,” I told her. She said that she knew but wanted to know why I didn’t buy the soap. I promised I would buy my soap from her next time.

Anyhow, the area I live in is called Osu which has the most access to western food than any other area in Accra, Ghana’s capital and home to two million people. Osu is not to far from where I work either, a local non-profit organization that focuses on socio-economic and environmental development. The belief of the organization is that if they can empower people with education and tools to help themselves economically, as well as take steps to improve environmental sustainability, they can improve the prospects of peace and human security in Ghana and Western Africa as a whole. This philosophy is based on the idea that people who are economically secure are less likely to take up arms, and because Ghana is still largely an agrarian society, improving the way they treat the environment and natural resources has a direct relationship the livelihood of millions of its inhabitants. So far I’ve been told that I will be helping with everything from policy and advocacy, to fundraising, leading workshops, and general office management, but I guess I’ll learn what that means with time. Today I went and met the half dozen or so people who work there, and when they were all introducing themselves and their job titles, one guy, Sammy, said that he does a lot of things. No one seemed to contest when he left it at that so maybe that will be my job description too, Sara Wasserteil, Associate of A Lot of Things.

To get to work I’ll be taking a tro-tro, the same as a chicken bus or mini-bus crammed with 10-20 people at all times, picking up and dropping off whenever someone needs to get on/get off. Traffic in Accra is terrible so I am lucky to live near work. My co-worker was telling me that it usually takes him between 1-2 hours to get to work depending on traffic, but yesterday left at 6pm and got home just past 10. Did I mention how glad I am that I live nearby?

Otherwise, Accra is incredibly safe - one of the safest capital cities in all of Africa. People are also known to look after one another, so unlike Cape Town, for example, theft on mini-buses is quite rare because other riders will often make a fuss if somebody is being bothered.

Overall, I think I will like it here very much. I don’t know how much there is to do, as it is very different and decentralized from any other big city I have been to, but the beach is just a 5 minute drive down the road and there is always Twi to be practiced.

Lastly, while I do not have internet at home I do at work so have access most days (hint: write!). I also have a cell phone, so if you’re in a mood to make me especially happy you can call me at 011 233 279 096 433.

All for now, but next time I'll write about the funeral I spent the day at today. What an experience...

The one where Sara joins a gang and gets accused of voodoo.

forgettable_blue — Sat, 7 Mar 2009 17:11:00 GMT

So I arrived in Melbourne, Australia four days ago, where it came to my immediate attention that I had left somewhere where I was warm and rich to a country where I was cold and poor. Not the best introduction to the land down under. Luckily, after a few days of adjustment back to the western world, my sentiment for the city has warmed up a bit (as has the weather), although unfortunately prices have not dropped. Bummer, but what did I expect? But before I get ahead of myself, let me go back a month where the sun was shining and worthless Asian money was flowing. My adventures were a lot more interesting then anyway.

Last I wrote I had just arrived in Chiang Mai, a lovely town in Northern Thailand known for cheap cooking classes and trekking. That said, I spent my time taking cheap cooking classes and trekking.

Skipping over the cooking to the trek, I had two options: I could go for one night or two, and having heard better things about the one-nighter, opted for the former. Well did until I met the people I would be spending my time with. How it worked was that the one-night and two-nighters started off together and split the second day. Aside from myself, the one-nighters consisted of three French couples. The two-nighters were made up of a lovely Swiss couple and a duo of British chicks. Although I knew the language barrier may be a slight issue, I was still pretty excited about my group, until we stopped to pick up some more people and a member of the French contingent asked, "Are we picking up more French people or foreigners?" Realizing I had apparently intruded on a purely French party, I promptly asked to extend a night and join the other group. For $6 they let me stay the extra day.

Albeit a bit touristy, the trek was beautiful. I got to ride a baby elephant and go bamboo rafting down the Mekong, and my English speaking group had loads of fun. My only complaint was the "instrument" my guide made out of an empty beer box, smashed can and a stick. Nothing like ruining a beautiful starry night with the noise he made out of the contraption. My only refuge from that was when I had to walk down the path to the bathroom, which was essentially a wooden outhouse and fairly typical for that kind of village. Anyhow, in one instance the faucet came off of the hose-type thing, and so holding my flashlight with my mouth, I had to search for the faucet in an overflowing bucket of water while my other hand was trying to plug the gushing water coming out of the tap. That was interesting.

Moving on.. .

Anxious to get to Laos, I left Chiang Mai the day after returning from my trek and headed east. Now, to get to Luang Prabang, my first stop, I had two options: I could either take the one day fast boat which was supposed to be wildly uncomfortable and fairly dangerous, or the two day slow boat which was also supposed to be uncomfortable, but known as a good way to meet people heading in the same direction. Per usual, I opted for the cheaper and more social option and hopped on the slow boat.

Now, they were not kidding when they said the slow boat was uncomfortable. It's not just that it's these terrible wooden benches that you're supposed to sit on for 10 hour stretches, but they filled the boat about 25% beyond capacity which meant you got to rotate between the uncomfortable bench and floor under the bench for the two days. Luckily, the rumors were also true in that it was a great way to meet other travelers. For me, that consisted of an Indian-American, Korean-Canadian, a Kashmirian, another Korean, a Bosnian-Swede, and a Dutch girl. By the time I got off the slow boat my posse was more international than the United Nations.

Now before I continue, a few notes about Laos (pronounced Lao):

First. The people are incredibly warm and friendly. They're also very laid back, but lazy and really only interested in doing what they want to do and when. The perks to this is that they cant be bothered to hassle you - if you don't want to buy from them, fine, they'll move onto the next. But on the flipside, if you want to hire a boat from two men playing cards, you can come back in two hours when they're done. Any Laotian will tell you that the people there don't like to work much, and that's why the status quo if it being in the top dozen poorest countries on Earth probably won't change much.

Although that said, the people seemed very happy.

Second. There is a country-wide 11:30-12ish curfew and somehow the only exception to that rule is bowling alleys. Hence, if you're looking for a good time around 2am, the bowling alley's the place to be.

Third. I don't know why Thailand has such a big reputation for drugs when they're so much more readily available in Laos. Not only could you order a shroom pizza or milkshake, but I saw restaurant menus with opium joints, hangover breakfasts (Valium included), and more hashcake bakeries than I could count. It's not that there aren't laws, I just don't think the police are interested in enforcing them.

But now onto my experience...

Luang Prabang was a mellow town in Northern Laos, popular with tourists as a place to hang out and recover from their sore slowboat bums. As an entry point to Laos it was a great start, as I spent the next two days playing in waterfalls by day and working on my bowling game by night. In addition, I got a little bit of culture by visiting some of LP's many temples and waking up at 6am to give alms to the monks, a daily ritual in which monks walk down the street every morning to collect food from the townspeople. Whatever they get in their pot is their food for the day. That was pretty cool.

After a few days in LP, I was getting a bit bored and our group had gotten so big it was difficult to do anything. Itching to move south as it was, I snuck out one morning without telling anyone and boarded a bus to Vang Vieng. Known for its bars only accessible by floating down a river in an intertube and Friends episodes playing in bars 24/7, I knew I wouldn't like it, but a stop in Vang Vieng was a good way to break up my trip south so figured I would see what all the fuss was about.

I could hear Chandler's voice before I could hear where it was coming from. People weren't kidding when they said Friends was playing everywhere, although most neglected to mention that you often got your choice of Friends, Family Guy or the Simpsons. I had clearly entered anti-reality, and although the town was just about as disgusting and full of drunk tourists as I had expected, the scenery was mindblowing. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

I checked into my room where I immediately noticed the rules hanging on the door. Among not being able to smoke, cook or have pets in my room, they made it clear that opium and sexual intercourse were strictly prohibited. Some weapons were prohibited. Only some, eh? Hmm.

Well, as fate would have it, Vang Vieng did not turn out to be the terrible place full of idiots I imagined it to be. I actually met a great group of people and managed to get stuck there for five days, spending a few on the river and the others on a rented motorbike just bombing through the hills to the sound of my iPod. I hate to admit it, but it was a pretty fantastic few days, with the only hiccup being a little disagreement between me and the guest house staff about my bill. I had paid for the first night online, but when I tried to checkout they wanted me to pay for it again. They didn't understand that I'd paid online and kept asking me how they would get the money from the internet. I promised them they would get it, signed my name on a piece of scrap paper, and left.

After a brief one day stop in the nation's capital, Vientiane, I boarded a night bus to head to the 4,000 Islands. I was going to be taking a sleeper bus which I heard had beds on them so was pretty excited about my night's ride. When I saw the bus I was pleasantly surprised as well - it looked to be two layers of beds on each side, like a top and bottom bunk, just about the size of a twin bed at home. After spending five nights on what felt like a piece of wood covered by a sheet, this bed bus looked like a promising night's sleep.

Needless to say, I was quite surprised when the driver showed me to my bed and there was a person already in it. This was not an error, and I think the Belgian grandmother who turned out to be my bedmate for the night was even more shocked than I was. Let's just say I was thankful she was a) female, b) petite, and c) didn't kick in her sleep. There was a monk sleeping next to a large man in the bed across the way. I felt bad for him, but got the best sleep I'd gotten in well over a week spooning the Belgian granny.

My next stop was the 4,000 Islands in Southern Laos, although I only counted three islands so where that name came from is beyond me. Anyhow, my island choice was Dondet, where I'd been warned was pretty basic with only three hours of electricity per day and not a whole lot else. This I found was true, and on top of that, it was nearly 100 degrees which I found was quite warm when there aren't even fans to cool you down. That's actually not entirely true - there were fans during the three hours of electricity, but they almost always happened to be situated by fluorescent lights that attracted these itty-bitty bugs. Now these bugs did not bite which was fantastic news, unfortunately they were so small and light that if you weren't careful the fans would blow hundreds of them all over you. So again, that was interesting. Anywho, despite thinking I'd never last more than a day or two in this nothing-to-do bug-inhaling sweaty island, I found my refuge again in an intertube, which I rented for three days straight in order to sit in the river and read my book.

With only a few days left, I decided my last stop in Laos would be Pakse, where I would set out either for a trek or some kind of tour through the Bolevan Plateau. So I left Dondet on what I thought was a VIP bus - just a dollar more than the local transport and it would guarantee me a seat for the three hour ride back to Pakse. Now, when something is "guaranteed" in SE Asia, one thing I learned is that you always have to take it with a grain of salt. I say this because I arrived at my bus with five other tourists and was surprised to find that the bus I'd paid for was full. We talked to the guy who sold us our ticket and were under the impression they would be chartering a minibus to take the rest of us. After about five minutes it was clear this was not going to be the case, as we watched him board five plastic chairs onto the bus aisle and pointed us on. Having sat on more uncomfortable seats I didn't have as big a problem with this as some of the other passengers did, however, found that the sleep I so desperately wanted was not going to be an option as the plastic chair legs danced like jelly on the bumpy Laotian roads. A handful of times I nearly ended up in the passenger to my right's lap, but luckily gripping the seats for my dear life worked and it got me to Pakse in one piece.

Now Pakse. There is absolutely nothing to do there aside from organize something to get yourself out, so that's precisely what I did. I was actually hoping to meet up with a friend from Vang Vieng, but when he organized something else I was lucky to meet Ben, a guy who'd been on my bus from Dondet who'd spent the bus ride on a little wooden stool. I had overheard that he planned to do a few nights on the back of a rented moto to explore the Bolevan Plateau, an area in Southern Laos known for its waterfalls, coffee and tea plantations, and little villages, and wanting to do that as well, told him my plan. And with that, before I even knew his name (I think), we'd decided to set off the following morning.

Needing to get to Bangkok to meet up with Rachelle Vagy before my flight to Australia, I planned on only spending one night out on the bikes whereas Ben planned to stay away for three or four. Plans of course changed once we made it to our overnight stop and Ben ran into a group of people he'd met in Cambodia. We ate, Ben's plastic chair broke from beneath him (which subsequently resulted in him blaming me and my voodoo (what??) and the waiter throwing the chair into a plastic chair graveyard of sorts, (where other chairs were thrown after they'd broken, obviously) and then giving Ben two chairs to sit on - ha! Laotians have a great sense of humor.) I apologize for the longest sentence in history, and apologize again for one more tangent. Laotian people - not only funny but incredibly friendly and hospitable. The one time I actually met a local I thought was the first unfriendly Laotian I'd met, I found out he was Vietnamese. But back to the story. Having a great time with this new group consisting of two Canadians, two Americans and two Brits, I was just not ready to leave yet, so decided to test my luck and stay one extra night. If I left by 8:30am a few days later, I could race the 250 kilometers back to Pakse in time to get a bus to Bangkok, assuming not more than one thing went wrong.

So the next day Ben and I set out with the other four on our motorbikes and the Falang Gang was established. (Falang meaning white person in Laotian). I cannot count how many naked children came running from their huts to yell "Sabadee!" (hello!), and there were a shocking number of old women walking around with skirts and bras. We even came upon a vacant waterfall where we made like kids and played around in the water pool until the sun started to set. The joining of the Falang Gang was one of the best decisions I had made in my trip - it was fantastic.

Unfortunately, once we left the said waterfall, Ben noticed that he'd been riding with his pack open and his glasses had fallen out. We knew that the village we were planning on staying in was up a dirt path, and so one guy, the only other girl, and I set off to make it up the dirt path before dark while the guys were supposed to meet us there.

Well, as luck would have it, splitting up in the middle of Southern Laos without cell phones when you're supposed to meet up some nameless dirt road is not the best of ideas, because while one of the guys who'd stopped for gas found us, the other two did not. It was getting dark and this was clearly going to be an interesting night. Seeing no other option, we made it back to the main road to wait and hope they would come back in our direction. Meanwhile, we were entertained by children playing what was soon dubbed panty-ball - throwing some seemingly dirty tighty-whities from stick to stick (think lacrosse), although one poor boy kept getting it in the face. Not having anything better to do, I picked up a stick myself, but the undies got stuck in a tree before I could get my go. Bummer.

Anyhow, about a half hour later the guys found us and we were off, but not before Ben accused me of voodoo for a second time, as in his haste, he had taken a spill and the bamboo flute he'd purchased in a village the day before (which he'd used to torture me) snapped in half. Although I was not upset about the broken flute, I cannot say I was too excited about hitting the road again since it had turned dark before the group had reunited. I'd never driven in the dark before and the fact that livestock had a habit of crossing the unlit roads was not very settling. I really didn't want to hit a cow. Now of course this didn't stop the guys from zooming down the road at top speeds, so when my backpack fell off the back of the bike I knew I had a bit of a problem. I followed them honking in hopes that they would pull over, but when they couldn't hear me, I was forced to turn back on my own to gather my stuff. It was less that I was even concerned about my stuff, but I knew my bag had fallen off in the middle of the road, and being black, I knew it was a bit of a hazard for other moto traffic coming down the road. With that, I turned around to pick it back up, hoping I could find the rest of the group in the next town we had decided to stay in - I really had no other option. Unfortunately, one of the shoulder straps had been ripping so the bag was secured to the bike with one of the support straps that goes across the chest. Now naturally this broke too, which meant that I not only had to wear the bag, but ran a bigger risk of the one shoulder strap coming off altogether now that some of the weight wasn't relieved by the now-broken chest strap.

Anyhow, as you may have guessed, I did find the group about 10 kilometers up the road, and my pack didn't even break.

Not having eaten in about 10 hours, all we wanted was a place to crash near a restaurant, and after being discriminated against at the first guest house we tried, had better luck at the second and were right next to the only restaurant to boot. Perfect. After watching piping hot food come out to other tables, we promptly helped ourselves to drinks from the cooler (did I mention that Laotians are lazy so you generally have to help yourself?), and checked out the menu. Now I thought that I couldn't be surprised by anything at this point, so when we tried to order and were told they were only serving soup, I was pretty surprised to be, well, surprised. I couldn't believe it though, we'd just seen meat, veggies, rice and fish come out, and they were just serving soup?!? Six people walk into a restaurant at 7:30pm and they were only willing to make soup?!? Oy. Well, if their disinterest in cooking for us was one knock against them, the fact that they had their primary school aged child take us 20 minutes down the road to another restaurant certainly earned them hospitality points. We ate, slept, and early the next morning I headed out, arriving to Pakse with about $.50 worth of money on me.

From there I got to Bangkok and had a great time spending the morning with Rachelle, who I hadn't seen for a good 6-7 years, and two days later I was in Melbourne. Here I'm staying with a couple I met in Peru, had dinner with a guy I traveled through Hong Kong with, and went to a birthday party with a friend from Hanoi. Later this week I'll be in Sydney, where I have a coffee date with somebody I trekked in Colombia with, will be seeing a girl I traveled Costa Rica with, and of course, will see Adam. My last stop in Oz will be Perth, where I'll stay with Erica who I traveled Vietnam with and meet up with Jenna, an Aussie backpacker I met in NYC through Miguel nearly four years ago. Then, by the last week in March I will finally be in Africa. I booked my ticket and will be spending three days in Ethiopia before I move to Accra, Ghana for the year to work for a small grassroots non-profit there.

And that concludes the longest blog posting in history.

Riding Bikes and Crashing Bikes

forgettable_blue — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 17:03:00 GMT

Alright, so I have ages to catch up on which means that what I write about Hong Kong is going to be brief. Both because a) this entry is going to be painfully long, and b) because HK can pretty much be described as 5th Avenue meets China Town plus the lights of Times Square...on steroids. Otherwise, all that you really need to know is that the city has everything from ancient Chinese temples, to more markets than I could count on both hands, enough high-end shopping to make NYC or London look pathetic in comparison, and of course, beaches. And that the metal bunk bed I was sleeping on at HK's version of a hostel was the same bunk I saw at an exhibit on Chinese tenament houses from the 1950s. (Oh, and the "hostel" itself? A room behind a shower curtain on the 13th floor of a 20 story building with six tenament style bunk beds and kids running in and out from 6am on and a paper sign over the door. Lovely.)

But moving on.

Deciding HK would be much too expensive to have a proper New Years Eve, I hopped a plane to Bangkok for the celebration and treated myself to a more backpacker friendly hostel, which instead of children, had free NYE beer and snacks. Meeting a wild group made up of Peace Corps volunteers and English teachers on a much needed holiday from China and Kazakhstan, we made our way to the Times Square of Thailand for live music, a miniaure ball drop, and parties late into the night, ending American style with some late night macaroni and cheese at Hard Rock Cafe before taking a traditional tuk tuk death ride back to the hostel.

Less than a day later, I arrived in Siem Reap, Cambodia, known for the largest religious site in the world, Angkor Wat, which was built by Hindu and Buddhist royalty nearly 1000 years ago. Now if I was stunned by Machu Picchu, I was just as impressed by the beauty of Angkor Wat, as it looked like it came straight out of an Indiana Jones movie. (One of the temples was actually a site for the movie Tomb Raider.) Unfortunately, the young girls pulling at the heart strings with the "Lady, lady I don't go to school, buy from me, buy from me!" was a sad twist to the experience, although my sympathy waned as one yelled at us to leave her country when we wouldn't buy a postcard from her even though we'd just paid her $6 for three drinks (an astronomical price when the average per capita yearly income is $260). Ready to get off of the tourist track, I found a lesser known quad-biking tour and spent the rest of my time in Siem Reap exploring the countryside that way, loving the houses on stilts, endless rice paddies, and dozens of children waving and yelling "Hello! Hello!"

My next stop was Battambang, the second largest city in Cambodia although seldom visited by tourists. Deciding the best way to get out of town was to rent a motorcycle and driver, I spent two days as a spectator to "real" Cambodian life, seeing everything from a fish paste making plant to a visit to an orphanage. Now I understand why people go to foreign countries and end up with a child. Talking to the kids and spending my morning playing a game of soccer with them was a phenomenal experience, and easily one of the highlights of my travels so far.

Sihanoukville was next and nothing more needs to be said aside from $2 for a room on the beach, $2 crab on the beach, $.25 happy hours, casinos, miniature golf, and $3 pedicures on the sand. Oh, and if you wanted it, you could also enhance the experience by making your pizza or milkshake "happy" or "very happy" for an extra buck. Seemingly a haven for bad decision making, I made one of my own and decided it would be a good place to rent a motorcycle and teach myself how to ride - a manual nonetheless. I crashed right in front of the guy who rented it to me, but after that was pretty good to go. Not one of my smartest ideas, but definitely one of the more exciting.

My last stop in Cambodia was Phnom Penh. If HK was organized chaos, Phnom Penh was entropic. I cannot tell you how many times a tuk tuk driver tried to sell me his services while I still had one foot in another one. Their favorite offer aside from offering drugs was to take you to the shooting range to shoot AK-47s and rocket launchers, and had the rocket launchers not been $200, there would have been some pretty respectable destruction curtosy of yours truly. Good thing it was $200, because instead, I spent my time touring the killing fields and war museum, documenting the bruatal reign of Pol Pot and genocide that took the lives of a quarter of the Cambodian population during the 1970s.

To get to my next destination, I decided to take a boat ride down the Mekong Delta. It seemed like a cool way to get to Vietnam, until it ended up being a 16 hour journey to cover a mere 220km (less than 150 miles). Not my best use of time, and I was punished sorely when the six hour bus ride from the dock had a barfing dog cuddled near my feet.

Luckily, the 16 hour ride from hell was not in vain, as that is how I met Erica, an American living in Perth and the girl who ended up being my saving grace in Vietnam for the next two weeks.

Knowing that we were already cutting Vietnam short by only giving it 14 days, we only spent one day in Saigon, which is where we met Joey. Now Joey was our local guide through the Cu Chi Tunnels, and didn't quite have the sensor that most organized tour guides have, for it only took minutes on the bus for him to start spouting out his response when men ask him for sex, how he doesn't mind homosexuals but minds the lady-boys (insert his impression of a lady-boy), what he felt about the Catholics who supposedly eat cat and dog (righht), the Taiwanese who eat monkey, and Barak Obama the chocolate baby. And did we know what a chocolate baby was? His absurdity was hilarious and I honestly didn't know if I should get him fired or give him a standing ovation.

Anyhow, although the amount of tourists at the Cu Chi Tunels made it feel like I was getting shuffled through Disneyland, it illuminated the booby trapping genius of the Vietcong and left me quite clear on why the US left defeated. Joey especially liked to highlight the fact that the Americans' marijuana habits gave them asses that couln't fit into the tunnels like their petite enemies.

Our next stop was Dalat, where Erica and I immediately hired two men on motorcycles to take us on a five day journey up the Ho Chi Minh Trail to Hoi An on the central east coast of Vietnam. The five days on the back of the bikes were brilliant, as we became one of very few tourists with the privilege of witnessing daily Vietnamese life outside the cities. Each day we stopped to interact with the people, and by the time the excursion was up, had learned how they make silk, curry, bricks, two kinds of noodles, rice paper, rice wine, pepper, coffee, and sugar. We were also invited to a Vietnamese wedding and learned useful phrases such as "Happy New Year," "Have good health" and "You are a banana (and you are a pomelo)."

Having heard great things about Hoi An, our arrival was quite a shock to the system as we went from the only white people for days to one of dozens. Uneasy with the touristy scene, Erica and I left immediately and found ourselves in Da Nang. There, we spent the day walking around with locals and making friends with our moto-taxi drivers who ended up taking us out to coffee and giving us free rides, contingent on us telling them "Em yu am," or "I love you" in Vietnamese. My vocabulary was improving vastly.

With our time in Vietnam nearing an end, we spent our last few days in Sa Pa, a mountainous town bordering China and easily my favorite place there. For three days we trekked around the hills, rice paddies, and traditional villages, escorted by village girls who would tell us about their families and lives - buying trinkets for their services and doing our best to politely shoo away all of their friends who would appear saying "Buy from me too! You promised you would buy from me!" (No I didn't!)

Needing to get back to Hanoi to catch our flights, Erica and I went local and took the hard seats on the train since that was all that was available. Not quite the comfortable sleeper cars we took there, the hard seat section (see: wooden benches) was full of women selling hardboiled eggs into the wee hours, people sleeping on the floor on newspaper, children sitting on my bag, and grates on the windows to give the appearance that we were caged in. Good night sleep? I think not, but a worthwhile experience nonetheless.

Having gotten close in our two weeks together, saying goodbye to Erica was tough, but she had to get going to Laos and I had plans to visit my friend Anish in Singapore to ring in the Chinese New Year.

Now, if I mentioned shock to the system before, Singapore was that - ten fold. Asia-light, as Anish calls it, Singapore is very modern and hosts a large expat community, so with the Starbucks every few blocks and shopping malls with the Gap, it felt like I'd been transported home. I sure as hell wasn't in Vietnam anymore. In any case, much was closed down for the New Year, so aside from a traditional dinner at a friend's place and an open house a the Prime Minister's house, we had a pretty low-key week of exploring and catching up on movies.

Thailand was next and I now understand why it's such the tourist destination that it is: while I've seen some beautiful beaches in my life, I've never seen any that look quite like this. I spent one week between two islands, one known as the location for the film, "The Beach," and the other notorious for its Full Moon Parties and $5 buckets of vodka-redbull. Expecting a wild time after a pretty mellow few weeks, everyone I met was a moron so I ended up spending most of the time reading and ultimately passing on the big party for a $6 massage and movie in a bar. (It's really common for bars in Thailand and Cambodia to play new movies or Friends reruns to sucker you in, which toally works.)

That was last week, and I have since spent another few days in Bangkok with some friends I met in Cambodia and arrived in Chiang Mai in Northern Thailand this morning. Here, I plan on getting some trekking in before heading off to another town or two in Thailand, and then off to Laos and Australia. Australia's a recent addition to the trip, but for $400 r/t from Malaysia I just couldn't resist. Otherwise, it looks like Africa's set for the last week of March or first week of April, but of course, I'm ever waiting for more details.

All my love, and I'll do my best to write more frequently :)

Do they serve orange chicken on Air China?

forgettable_blue — Thu, 25 Dec 2008 18:34:00 GMT

Well Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. It's Christmas in Hong Kong...I think. In the last four days I've been in Costa Rica (80 degrees), Minneapolis (-15 degrees), Los Angeles (raining), and now Hong Kong. My body hates me and if you think I have any idea what day it is, you've gotta be nuts. That said, I'll try to make this entry coherent because I'm absolutely beat.

I think the last time I wrote I had just gotten out of the jungle in Colombia. I was sore, bitten, dirty - sound familiar? Anywho, from there I bused it out to Cartagena, a large city along Colombia's Caribbbean coast known for its stunning old architecture and prostitutes. Sadly, I wasn't there long enough to witness too much of either, as on a whim, I hopped on a sailboat 14 hours after I arrived bound for the Bocas Islands near the Panamanian / Costa Rican border. That meant that I'd essentially be missing the whole of Panama aside from the islands, but that I'd get the chance to spend 6 days on a sailboat along the Caribbean Sea eating fresh fish while Luna, the ship's dog, laid on my feet rubbing her 10 nipples on my toes. Weird.

The boat was comprised of five of us: me, Samantha from Boston, a Swiss girl and her Colombian boyfriend, Cap'n Dan of Peru, and of course, Luna. Cap'n Dan liked to get stoned, which of course I found out once we were already out at sea. Luckily for me, this ended up being a rather entertaining habit of his as the judgement impairment made for some pretty good laughs...

Like when he jumped ship in the middle of the ocean because he saw a floating plastic barrel he just had to have...and how the boat kept going as he was floundering about in the middle of the ocean. (BECAUSE WHO THINKS THAT JUMPING INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN IS A GOOD IDEA?!?)

Another good one was when we got to his cabiny-shack on one of the islands and after a couple of glasses of wine, he decided to take us searching for crocodiles. Yes, the ones that will drag you to the bottom of a swamp and kill you. Did I mention that our sealegs already made us feel drunk before the three glasses of wine. And that it was dark and we were literally sliding down the mud? When Dan fell into a swamp I would normally had thought it the funniest thing I'd ever seen had I not been nervous that I was about to meet my death falling in myself.

So that was my sailboat ride and Cap'n Dan.

Anywho, after some beautiful beaches and two wild nights in Bocas with Samantha, I was left with only a week to go so reluctantly made my way north to Costa Rica.

Then began the worst 24 hours of my trip to date.

It all started with making an itinerary for the week ahead, something that I never do. Not feeling quite at ease about it, I ended up bagging my whole plan once I crossed the border and headed to a totally different city instead. Doing so, however, meant I hadn't done my research, not to mention had no place to stay. Usually this was no big deal, but this night it did as the first thing that happened was that this usually very on-the-ball girl got scammed. Welcome to San Jose.

Arriving to my hostel pissed as I realized what had conspired, it didn't take long before I discovered that the hostel was overcharging me. Esentially, the woman told me she was giving me the cheapest room but within an hour of checking in I heard her give two others rooms for less. Lovely, wasn't that just icing on the cake. In no mood for shenanigans, I decided to call her out on it and maybe try to get a few bucks back.

This is what the conversation sounded like:

Me: Excuse me, but you told me you were giving me the cheapest room at $x, but you just gave the woman a room for half the price.

Hostel Worker: You have a bigger bed.

Me: I didn't ask for a big bed, I asked for the cheapest room.

Hostel Woker: I already have your money. (Shrugs and turns away).

Had my Spanish been better, I would have argued but really couldn't. Did I mention I had to sit sideways on my toilet because the shower was so close my itty-bitty legs wouldn't even fit?!?

Fuming, I started doing some work online. I wasn't tired and had much to do to plan for Asia, and seven hours later was still working. I figured that if I stayed up all night getting work done, I could just sleep on my five hour bus ride to Monteverde the following day.

Wrong.

As I boarded my 7am bus, I was surprised to see that the bus was already full. Five hour bus ride, no sleep, and it was standing room only. The kicker about it too was that I would have had a seat had I not listened to someone who told me I couldn't catch the bus in the city center and had to get it in this very out-of-the-way location which ended me up at the hell-hostel to begin with. Sometimes, a girl just cant get a break. Luckily I did manage to get a seat about three hours into it, just before we stopped for lunch. Quickly grabbing this dish of shredded chicken in a red sauce with eggs, I hopped back onto the bus just to have the sauce spill all over me. Now, ask me what sauce with shredded chicken looks like on your clothes, because I'm going to answer that it looks like vomit. Within 18 hours, I'd been scammed, hadn't slept, looked like I'd been ralphed on, and to top it all off, my apples rolled away. Now it takes a lot to make me unhappy, but this was seriously testing me.

The good news is, nothing could've possibly have gone more wrong so it only went up from there.

Arriving in Monteverde, I ended up befriending two Aussies, four Americans on holiday from work, and a Brit I ended up spending the next week with. An incredible group, so despite really not liking Costa Rica much at all (it was all Papa Johns, TCBY, Office Depot, Dennys, gringos, gringos, gringos, and people trying to entertain the gringos), we had a pretty fantastic time canopy swinging in between the trees, hitting up the beach, and causing as much trouble as only a group of eight internationals can.

On Sunday, Dec. 21st I left to spend a day with my parents and brother in Minneapolis, and after another day in LA with my grandmother, I am finally in Hong Kong for the next five days. No they did not serve orange chicken on the plane (although I did get dim sum on the plane for breakfast), and its western shopping here EVERYWHERE. I did, however accidentally reply with a "si" to the immigration official in the airport and definitely miss Latin America already. Luckily, I've made a friend from Spain so am still screwing up my Spanish talking with him, but am rather enjoying that.

Now it's time for bed though, or a nap anyway. So take care, Happy New Year, and write :)

Much love.

A Jungle Book Thanksgiving

forgettable_blue — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 16:22:00 GMT

Well, after spending two very laid back weeks poolside by the sand dunes in Huacachina and at the Women´s Pro Surf World Tour at Mancora Beach with my friends Evan and Shane, I finally made it into Ecuador. To be honest, I didn´t expect much. I´d heard more than once that it had what other countries had, but not as good. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised when it ended up being one of my favorite countries.

My first stop was Vilcabamba, also known as the Valley of Longevity because the inhabitants are known to live long past the age of 100. Wikipedia says that "the reasons for this claimed longevity are not very clear. French studies have shown that the diet and lifestyle of the inhabitants may be a factor. Some claim that the inhabitants have a tendency to exaggerate their age, and this is difficult to verify because of the lack of a proper birth certificates". But I think we may be able to attribute it to the strange rituals they´re known for. For example, in Vilcabamba you can:

...have coffee water pumped through your insides--purging you of impurities.
...sweat out the fear within, while banging a drum.
...let the vibrations of a didgerido run all over you-- healing the body entire.
...visit a shaman (or sha-person, I´m told) who can guide you through the dark places of your mind using only mild hallucinogenic drugs. The shamans encourage you to use plant medicines like, peyote, san pedro and ayuhasca to explore your sorted past or current state of fear. "You can't spend forever running from your shadow" they say.

Another interesting thing about Vilcabambans is their fascination with UFO's.

Although I borrowed the last narrative from another traveler´s blog because she articulated it way better than I ever could have, that really is Vilcabamba in a nutshell. Kind of, well, nuts. For example, while I didn´t witness all of the aforementioned activities personally, I did see someone drinking some kind of alcohol with a dead snake in it to make them five years younger, however. Go figure that´s the place where I met the 82 year old woman from Portland who grew up about three blocks from the house I grew up in in Portland.

From Vilcabamba I moved northbound to Cuenca, a charming town reminiscent of a Swiss village plopped smack dab in the center of South America. Easily one of my favorite cities, and although I only had two days there, had some good fun with a few Peace Corps volunteers on a much needed vacation.

On a bit of a time crunch, I moved north to Baños, (and for all of you Spanish speakers, yes, that is the name of the town). I`d planned on taking the 10pm bus from Cuenca to arrive in Ambato at 5am, where I`d be just in time to catch the first 1 hour bus to Baños. Unfortunatley, I`d managed to pick the quickest bus driver on the whole continent and arrived to town at 3:30am. Figuring I could just take a little nap at the terminal until it was time to catch my next bus, I was not pleased to find that the terminal was closed and there was not an open hostel in sight. Looking somewhat lost in the middle of the Ambato street, a friendly taxista finally pulled up and asked where I was headed. Telling him where, he said he`d take me to a safe place where I could wait for the bus. Well, unfortunately for me, this ``safe place`` happened to be the sidewalk outside of a gas station. Sitting outside of a bus station on a deserted street at 4am for two hours? I didn´t think so. Luckily, the taxista understood my concerns and found the bus that would be going to Baños a few hours later with a sleeping driver inside. Deciding it was safer to be in the bus with the driver than out on the street with my bags, I hopped on and caught a few extra hours of Z`s before heading to my next destination.

Now, a word on Ecuadorian scenery. It is absolutly stunning - just green rolling hills everywhere you look. Probably the first place I`d been where I actually wanted to take day buses to see the view.

In any case, I arrived in Baños bright and early to find the town known for its famous hot springs nestled in a valley and surrounded by breathtaking green hills. A perfect place to relax for a few days.

After taking a stunning bike ride through the grooves and curves of the hills, I decided the hot springs would be a nice way to wind down, and there I met William, an Ecuadorian who was not about to let me leave town that night as I`d planned. Although I stuck to my guns for a good hour of back-and-forth, he finally convinced me with the prospect of spending a few hours riding through the hills on the back of a motorcycle before going out for salsa and merenge. Having spent most of my time with gringos until this point, I decided it didn´t make sense for me to be in Latin America if I was going to be suspect of every native I saw, and since he seemed to be a genuine guy that was friends with everyone in town, I decided to throw caution to the wind and spend an extra evening with my new Ecuadorian friend. It was a great time.

My final stop in Ecuador was Quito, the capital and UN World Heritage Site, and for good reason. Although the new part of town is nothing special and known to be quite dangerous, the old part was absolutely gorgeous, with a gothic looking church peaking up through the clouds to complete the scenery. I hadn´t sat down for more than five minutes at my hostel, when I mentioned my plans to go to Colombia and a girl whose name I didn´t even know invited me to join her and the guy she was traveling with. Having spent the last 10 days traveling solo, I decided it`d be fun to be on the road with people again, so after checking out the Equator the following day, hopped on a bus with this girl from Atlanta (actually the second person from Atlanata I`d traveled with), and her Danish beau who I knew had to be a good guy since he sported a worn Red Sox hat.

To our disappointment, Colombia did not give us the warm welcome we were hoping for. Actually, it was rather rainy and remained that way for my first 10 days.

After hitting up the white college town of Popayán and heading to St. Agustin for a visit with the local Shaman, the three of us soon moved north to Bogotá - the huge very modern metropolitan capital - and then to Medellin, the one time home of the infamous Escobar and hub of the Colombian drug trade. Although Medellin seemed to be quite a cool town with a very happening nightlife (most notably Mangos, where the waitstaff is made up of dancing midgits), the rain pushed me on to the Caribbean coast, so northbound I went.

Naturally I arrived and the normally sunny fishing village of Taganga was getting flooded by downpours, so after spending a few days learning how to scuba dive I decided that if I was going to be wet, I may as well be muddy too and headed off on a six day trek to the Ciudad Perdida (Lost City). Our group was 12 - nine guys and three girls and led by Edwin Rey, a hilarious Colombian who was tied to a bed in 2003 while eight tourists were kidnapped by guerrillas on the same route I was taking. It was a crazy story and wildly entertaining, but luckily the guerrillas had since vacated due to the new government and large military presence, so I was safe. Sadly I was not safe from the mosquitoes which I swear wrote the book on natural selection, because just as soon as I´d sweat my bug spray off they´d head straight to my calves. (I wonder how long it took them to realize they´d live longer if they bit where we couldn´t see them...???)

In any case, despite the dozens of bites, we had a great however tough trek, making the trip five days instead of six. Lots of mud and even more rain, and after crossing our first river in a ¨flying car,¨as Edwin told us, we proceeded to cross the rest by wading sometimes chest deep in water. Of course this felt great, as we were all covered in mud up to our knees.

All in all it was good fun, but I think we were all thankful we´d finished a day early. Being in South America, however, the adventure did not end there. Not only was it pouring once we got to our school bus looking vehicle without windows (translation: I spent the two hour ride back getting soaked), Edwin must have felt like he did an awfully good job because he kept having the driver stop so he could yell at the store owners to bring beer to the bus. He was sufficiently pissed by the time we got back to town.

And that brings me to now. After finally washing my nearly moldy clothes from the jungle, I get my scuba certification tomorrow and spend my last few days in Colombia before booking it through Panama and Costa Rica for my December 21st flight out.

Until then, I´ll do my best to write more frequently. Ciao ciao :)

Getting Hassled

forgettable_blue — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 09:07:00 GMT

After a week in La Paz, it was finally time to move on south through Bolivia before turning right back around and going north through Peru.

My first stop was Potosi, the centuries old mining town - also, consequently the highest city in the world at 4000m above sea level.

Needless to say, watching me try to run was pretty comical, a pretty comical 10 minutes anyway.

Although the altitude may not seem relevant for the most part, it has actually done much to shape the culture in Potosi as chewing coca is highly popular. (One thing I learned at the Museo de Coca in La Paz was that coca used to be worth more than silver in the mines. The miners were given it to chew while working so they could work longer hours without food.) In any case, I decided it worth it to check out the mines the city was so famous for.

Tip: when touring mines, DO NOT go with the cheapest company.

Let´s just say I learned the hard way and was glad I got out alive. Tight corridors, dynamite, esbestos, trolleys bombing down the railroad tracks with no brakes. Need I say more?

(At the end of the day I learned a lot and was very glad to have experienced it. Very thankful for my life, however.)

In any case, after a few days of hanging out in Potosi it was on to a three day trip through the Salar de Uyuni (Salt Flats). I think the pictures speak for themselves so I won´t elaborate, but it was pretty fantastic. Just an endless expanse of salt... the trick photos people were doing were hilarious as well, we weren´t nearly as creative.

From there I went on what I think is the worst bus ride I´ve been on to date. Per usual, I went and bought my bus ticket. It was very clearly marked to where I was going, mind you. In any case, I boarded the bus and was immediately displeased with the fact that my seat didn´t recline. When you´re taking a 10 hour bus through the night you pray to God that you have a nice seat. No nice seat, no sleep. Anywho, after accepting the fact that I was going to have to try to sleep at a 90 degree angle, the gentleman occupying the seat next to me sat down. Old man, drunk. Fantastic. This was getting better and better. After slurring a few indistinguishable words in Spanish (or Quechua perhaps?), I was pleasantly surprised when the man shared his blanket with me. We were driving through the desert so the prospect of not freezing my ass off all night was nice. Maybe I would sleep. For a few hours I did some reading, and finally decided it was at least time to attempt a short slumber; however, the second I closed my eyes I felt a hand run down my arm. I glared up at the old man and he turned straight ahead playing dumb. Right asshole, as if anyone else touched me. Anyway, this must have happened a half a dozen more times - I´d close my eyes, and he´d caress my arm. I´d ask him to stop and give him a glare of death, and then wouldn´t be able to fall asleep in anticipation of the next grope. It wasn´t threatening or anything, rather a nervous drunk twitch I suspect, but regardless, I didn´t sleep nonetheless.

At 330am, cold and pissed off that I´d been awake all night, we made a stop. Typical of the cheap buses I tend to take. An hour later we were still stopped - not typical of the buses I tended to take. We were in Potosi and my ticket was for Sucre. Although I knew Potosi was enroute to Sucre, the fact that we´d been stopped for an hour and everyone had gotten off of the bus albeit three people sleeping was not comforting. Finally I asked the bus driver when the bus was going to Sucre. He mumbled something and handed me a $20 Bolivianos (about 40% of my fare). It was 4am so I had nothing better to do than go back to sleep until morning.

At 6:30 I finally woke up after three hours of sleep to find the bus terminal open. I went to the company to ask why I wasn´t in Sucre, and they answered by saying the bus just ended up stopping in Potosi and staying there. No reason, it just was.

After making a fuss in broken Spanish, they finally put me in a cab I had to pay for, and by noon I was in Sucre.

A miserable experience, but pretty entertaining in retrospect.

From Sucre I took two days of buses back to Peru, paying a tad more for a bit more comfort and security that I´d actually make it to my destination. Lucky for me, the Danish couple from my Salar de Uyuni trip was on my bus to Peru. Not only did this give me people to talk to, but came in very handy as we made it to the Peruvian border...

So the Peruvian border. We arrived and easily went through Bolivian migration. It was probably about 150 feet to the Peruvian migration; however, as the group of gringos walked down the street, we were stopped by Peruvian authorities. They wanted to check our bags. Ana, my Danish friend quickly told me that if I had any money to hide it. Quickly, I found a bathroom and strapped on my money belt with appx. $75 US dollars in it. They took us in one by one, and thinking they were searching our bags for stuff like fruit and weapons (like other times at customs), they immediately went for my purse and into my wallet. They asked where my money was, I said it was all on my card. They had me empty my pockets. Nothing aside for a padlock. Finally, I was released with all of my belongings and money in hand. Not a scary experience, but hardly a comforting one.

Unfortunately, that´s just how it is in other parts of the world.

As for now, I am currently in Nazca, Peru. After arriving at 5am with nowhere to stay - per usual - a guy saw me walking aimlessly down the street and convinced me to stay at his hostel, where for $7/night I get my own room, bathroom, and cable TV.

I watched Law and Order SVU until 6am.

In any case, meeting up with some new friends and heading north through the rest of Peru, and then onto Ecuador and Colombia.

Will write more soon.

xoxo

Sara

Gallery: Bolivia

forgettable_blue — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 08:18:00 GMT

Gallery: Bolivia and Peru

forgettable_blue — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 09:26:00 GMT

Riding Down the World´s Most Dangerous Road

forgettable_blue — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 00:46:00 GMT

…also known as ¨Death Road,¨ but I´ll get to that a bit later.

First off, let me just mention that I´m not going to write where I´m going next because this is the second time that would be inaccurate. Last I wrote, the plan was to head into the Peruvian Amazon... well, it was until Jen and I found out it was a 24-48 hour bus ride because the 350 miles of road was that bad. Screw it, we figured, rather risk our lives in Bolivia than sit on a bus for two days, so south to Bolivia we went.

First, however, we made a stop at Lake Titicaca on the border of Peru and Bolivia. Man if I only knew there was a lake named Titicaca in fifth grade...

Anywho, in order to get the best of the lake we decided to take an overnight trip to check out three of the islands and do a homestay. Although we got sun for the first time in a week and had a lovely host family, naturally I got sick just as we left shore. And I´m talking the kind of sick you don´t want to be when you´re at a homestay and don´t have indoor plumbing. Go friggin figure. A nice trip in theory, but a very uncomfortable Sara. Especially since I was already donning a cold and the 4100m altitude was kicking my ass.

Luckiy, lots of Cipro later we were still able to take off the next day and cross the border into Bolivia. Gotta love the $135 border fee. God Bless America.

In any case, Bolivia´s where I´ve been for the last two weeks, despite the continued travel advisory from the United States. Honestly, I´ve felt just as safe here as anywhere. It´s interesting, the second I heard the States were advising people not to travel here, I tried to get some media from somewhere else. I just don´t trust the US´ motives for its foreign policy and wanted check out other sources just to be fair. (If you want an interesting read, check out this letter home from a Peace Corps volunteer who was evacuated out of Bolivia due to the ¨danger.¨ A really fascinating firsthand account of the situation http://ain-bolivia.org/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=137&Itemid=32.)

Because it´s really difficult to find unbiased English media, my information came through the owner of my hostel in Bolivia: a Mohawk sporting Irishman who´s lived in Bolivia for a year and a half.

This is what he said: When Evo Morales won the presidency, he beat out a US backed guy as the first indigenous president ever to be elected. In the last two years, he has almost eradicated illiteracy in Bolivia. Moreover, he received nearly a 70% approval rating in the recent referendum. Of course, all of this stuff doesn´t make him the beacon of good and hope for all democracies, but it´s intriguing to say the least – especially when you´re government plays him out to be the evil sidekick of Hugo Chavez. For example, I know one of the reasons the US / people are suspect of him is because he wants to nationalize the land. On one hand many people are very much against it, but on another, a vast majority of the land here is owned by a small, small minority of families (mostly descendents from ex-Nazis who fled to Bolvia after WWII) who don´t even use it. As the poorest country in Latin America, the people need this land. That´s where it gets tricky. There are great ideas in the new constitution he is proposing, but also difficult things like the nationalization of land. Muy interesante.

Like I said though, I feel very safe here so no worries. (Apparently a big reason Morales kicked out the US Ambassador is because he met with a prisoner in San Pedro Prison thought to be a part of a deadly attack the day before it happened. But I´m guessing you didn´t hear that in the States...)

But anywho, about Bolivia. Jen and I arrived to La Paz a week before she had to take off. The city is enormous and looks like an inverted San Francisco with all the hills going down. Ironically, it´s the highest capital in the world at 3500 feet. It´s incredible, you walk up three stairs and are winded. And I thought I was at least kind of in shape.

Anywho, with very little time, we almost immediately jumped on a really uncomfortable 20 hour bus ride up to Rurrenabaque (flat tires, windy and bumpy roads included), where we sought to find a jungle tour from there. Although we booked our tour, even after the company tried to go back on their quote and say it cost something else (very typical and really annoying), the timing of it couldn´t have been any less spectacular. Although the pampas are known for their cobras, anacondas, and all sorts of other wildlife, we unfortunately made it during a time where there was tons of rain, so while the animals hid the monkeys at our camp site stole our food. (Who knew monkeys fancied mayonnaise?) Three days of tramping in the Bolivian bush and fishing for piranhas later, we made it back to Rurrenabaque in just enough time to find out that our flight back was cancelled since the dirt runway had turned to mud, and Jen and I had to book it back to La Paz for her flight on another 20 hour awful bus ride.

Needless to say, this was not the best last week for Jen.

After arriving at the airport immediately after hopping off the bus, I returned to the hostel alone. Deciding that it´d be in my best interest to improve my Spanish since my official translator was gone, I signed up for private lessons, and figured I´d stay in La Paz awhile since there was a ton of things to do and a great night life (something Jen and I had not partaken in anywhere else because it was too expensive).

For the next few days, I studied Spanish for three hours a day and learned the city of La Paz, hitting up Witches (overpriced) Market and the Coca Museum. Coca, the leaf that cocaine is made out of is very important in Bolivian society and you can see people selling it and chewing in on the streets daily. Not providing the same effects as the concentrated powder, the leaf not only helps allow more oxygen into the lungs - very helpful when up so high - but also relieves things like headaches and gives people the energy to work longer. In Potosi, the city I´m in now, the mining industry thrived for hundreds of years because the miners were more productive by chewing coca.

Making my mouth numb when I tried it, I decided it was best kept for others as continual use of it will rot out your teeth. Delish.

Although I had high hopes of checking out various museums in Bolivia´s capital, including the aforementioned San Pedro Prison, a prison that is still in use and where it is common to get tours provided by inmates, sadly I did not get that far. While I was pretty intent on hitting it up, another American brought to my attention that a) it was illegal, which actually didn´t bother me but b) tourists often go to buy cocaine, and c) I am American and there is no longer a US Embassy. Okay, so maybe not the best of ideas. I guess that if I want to check out a prison I´m going to have to get arrested first, so maybe I´ll just leave that experience to the chicken thieves.

Lastly, I spent the weekend biking down The World´s Most Dangerous Road, given the name because of the 300 fatalities/year going off of the 600m drop. The road´s not paved, is characterized by hairpin turns and is about 3.5m wide in some parts to give you some idea. Not exactly the best road for two-way traffic. In any case, they opened a new road last year for cars so the danger factor has reduced dramatically for bikers, but after learning that I went for the most dangerous company that operates I was still pretty unsettled riding the bumpy road down. (There´s nothing like getting ready for a bike ride down what´s called ¨Death Road¨when the owner of the hostel tells you that everyday he waits to hear about a fatality because of the dodgy bikes my company uses. Fabulous.)

I rode the brakes the whole way down.

So that brings me to today, where I just arrived in Potosi to go tour the mines that made the one-time town as large as London or Paris famous. From here, I´ll spend three days at the Uyuni Salt Flats freezing my ass off, and then back into Peru to head towards the sun. Well, I say that now but I´m pretty sure I vowed at the beginning of this post that I wouldn´t announce any future plans so I suppose we´ll see what really happens.

Anywho, hope all is well and life moves on without me in the US. Take care and write soon.

Gallery: Chile and Peru

forgettable_blue — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 19:01:00 GMT

To Peru in The Black Tattoo

forgettable_blue — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 14:13:00 GMT

So there we were, in the Chilean border town of Arica, purchasing our bus tickets to cross into Peru. We'd done it a dozen times already - even in Spanish, buying a bus ticket isn't rocket science. Anywho, after a few minutes of debating which Peruvian town we should hit up first, we finally decided to check out the town of Arequipa, and that was where our bus ticket was to. Well, theoretically anyway. For the first time, the guy at the ticket counter didn't actually give us a ticket. For the first time, someone also picked up our bags to take to the bus. A little strange, but we went with it. We learned weeks ago that things work differently in different places, or oftentimes don't work, for that matter, and its just easier to go with the flow unless something looks especially dodgy. I actually remember even telling Jen that I'd laugh if the guy with our packs just threw them in the trunk of his car.

Fifty yards later the joke was on me, as I watched our bags get thrown in the back of a Chevrolet Caprice Classic.

Did I mention the name of the car was The Black Tattoo??

Not quite sure what to do with this situation, as our buses never took the form of an 80s Chevy, we took comfort in the fact that there were two other Americans camped out in the cushy backseat of the car - lets call them Bill and Ted, just because that's what they called themselves. A crazy drive through the border later, we arrived at the bus station on the other side of the Peruvian border. There safe, but definitely ripped off a bit. Maybe you cant complain when you've ridden the Black Tattoo with Bill and Ted.

Finding the duo rather entertaining, we caught a cab with them once we reached the town of Arequipa since per usual, we had nowhere to stay and no idea where to go. After getting dropped off at three overpriced hostels (possibly owned by friends/relatives of the cabby?), we finally settled on a hostel where we had a room for three for $3/night per person, sharing the room with a quiet Japanese-Brazilian who'd shared our cab ride.

Lesson #1: If a hostel costs $3/night, there's probably a reason... To be explained.

Anyways, after chatting w/ Bill and Ted for a while and learning that Ted's pack had recently been stolen out of a hostel while they were out, Jen and I decided it was in our best interest to lock up our bags, as we'd gotten rather lazy with our bag security. Starving, we stumbled into town to find ourselves in a Chinese style restaurant, chowing down on a fried rice type dish we subsequently started eating for breakfast and dinner for the next few days. Unfortunately, once we returned to our hostel, it was abundantly clear that someone had been in our room while we were out. Thankful that we'd locked everything up, nothing was taken, although I don't think any of us slept overly well that night.

Alive and well in the morning, we woke up to cold showers.

And now a word on Latin American showers: unless you're in a big, relatively westernized city, hot water does not exist. The solution? Attaching an electrical contraption to the showerhead to heat the water as it goes through the nozzle, which really only ends up heating the water about 50% of the time by my estimates.

Nothing like risking your life for a shower which uses water that if swallowed, will probably give you diarrhea.

You think I'm joking. I don't think you realize that I put a light saber looking gadget in my water everytime I fill up my water bottle to UV zap the viruses, bacteria, and protozoa out of it.

Seriously. Chewy, back me up here??

Anywho, despite our sketchy/scary hostel, Arequipa was a great city with bustling life, and more calculators for sale than you could ever imagine. The amount of crap sold was incredible, and everyone sold the same damn stuff. Calculators, watches, batteries, and more calculators, calculators, and calculators. Fascinating. Who knew Peruvians were so concerned with basic math??

After two days in Arequipa, where we walked the city and tried our first pisco sours (Peru's signature cocktail, although dont' tell that to a Chilean - they'll swear they invented it)and ceviche (Peru's signature dish, where they cook a medly of seafood not with heat, but with the acid from lemons and limes - delish), we headed north to Cusco, Peru's most famous city. Not only did Cusco have all of the fried rice, chicken and fries (all they seem to eat here), and ceviche a person could want, but apparently they also eat elpaca and guinea pig here. I guess when you consider that they eat dogs in parts of Asia, guinea pig doesn't seem too bad. But really, um PET!!

Anways, back to Cusco. I've gotta say, the city doesn't get its great reputation for no reason - it has gorgeous colonial archetecture and museums galore. (Did I mention they eat guinea pig here??) It's also quite the tourist attraction because it's the primary gateway to Machu Picchu. Unfortunately, since Machu Picchu is quite the tourist attraction, they've made it quite the money making business to get there. Treks along the Inca Trail - aka Gringo Trail - can run anywhere from $400-$600, and even taking the train there costs nearly $100, and that's before the $40 entrance fee. Luckily, Jen and I were pretty budget oriented at this point, and knowing that we couldn't eat for a good two weeks if we tried to finagle a $100 train ride, nevertheless a trek, we decided to take the lesser-known bus, which would drop us off in an obscure town, after which we'd need to walk to the hydroelectric plant and then follow the railroad tracks to Agua Caliente, the town at the foot of Machu Picchu. Bill and Ted had done it, and it seemed pretty straightforward, so onward we went.

I won't talk much about the bus ride there, other than the fact that we were stuck because of a landslide on the most frightening road I've ever driven on. I know the most dangerous road in the world is supposedly in Bolivia, but this has got to be the second most dangerous with hairpin turns, hugging a canyon with no railing and hundreds of feet between the road and the canyon floor. Let's just say that landslides aren't comforting. Nor is staying in the bus when almost everyone else gets out to walk, and then having a crowd stare at the bus as we slowly creep around a curve rather crookedly. (Me to Jen: "Jen, why is everyone staring at our bus, and why are they taking pictures? JEN WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE OUR BUS IS ONLY ON TWO WHEELS?!?")

As you've probably figured out, we made it off the bus alive, and into the obscure town of Santa Theresa. Our four hour walk turned into five and a half, and after getting ambushed on a bridge by mosquitoes where Jen and I counted 273 bites between the two of us, we finally made it to Agua Caliente. I will say, however, following train tracks in the dark is not recommended.

Sore from our walk, we took the next day to enjoy the magical scenery of Agua Caliente and have the first vacation-like day of our trip, sitting in the sun drinking 4 for 1 pisco sours and pina coladas, while munching on free nachos. The feeling of blissful thoughtless vacation was short, however, as we woke up at 3:45 the next morning to climb Machu Picchu. Supposedly we got up that early to catch the sunrise, but there was no sun rising when we got up there just before 6am. There were lines and we were sore. Nobody likes to climb stairs for an hour and a half at 4:30am.

While we didn't see the sunrise, our early arrival allowed us to climb Waynapicchu, that big mountain you always see in the pictures of Machu Picchu. Although that meant another hour of stair climbing, the people 3x our age gave us the motivation to trek to the top, and the view from the peak is - in my opinion - unrivaled by anything else I've ever seen. Pictures don't prepare you for that kind of beauty.

Anyhow, after a few days of recovery from more hiking than anyone should do in a lifetime, I'm back in Cusco for the night, skipping the pirate party at our hostel to watch the presidential debate and keep up with the depressing Red Sox / Yankees game (it was 15-5 Yankees last I checked - booo!!)

That's about all, but should have more stories after my next stop: The Peruvian Amazon.

Next stop: The Peruvian Amazon

To the Moon and Back

forgettable_blue — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 12:54:00 GMT

Buenos Dias from San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

Last I wrote, I was in Salta, Argentina, where although we only planned on staying for a short two days, ended up making the small colonial town our home for a solid five. Originally we elongated the stay to be able to take the trip to Cafayate (which I briefly mentioned in the previous post), but once Bolivia shut down, we got comfortable while we planned our next steps. Although our days were rather uneventful, we spent our evenings with Francisco, the always-smoking hostel worker who gave us tours of the town in the middle of the night (I´m talking like 2am after our midnight dinner but before going dancing at 3am), and the soccer team who adopted us as the in house Shankees and did their best to show us a Argentine good time.

(Note: To Argentines, all Americans are Yankees - or ¨Shankees¨ with their awful accent.)

Our last night in Salta was very bittersweet, as our soccer team threw us Shankees a farewell asada (bbq). (Although our time in Salta was a blast, and we felt especially privileged to get a glimpse of the culture and life of Argentines from our new friends, after five days our itch to hit the road was back in full effect.) Because the town was shut down for the festival celebrating the Virgin of Salta - because apparently there´s a virgin of Salta - we ended up driving around looking for meat for nearly two hours (see: Latin pride). By 8 o´clock the guys were finally willing to give in, and we settled for burgers and chicken... which Jen and I were somehow finagled into buying for the whole team. Dancing, ping pong, and two pheonomenal burgers later, our two favorite players took us out for ice cream. After coming back and trying to dance tango to U2, we decided it was finally off to bed before our 6am bus to Chile.

Now, before I go on any more, let me just tell you how spoiled we´ve been with buses. Don´t get me wrong, they haven´t been any great deal (muy caro!!), but we´ve taken five overnight buses at this point and they are all pretty spacious and recline about 120 degrees. Really haven´t been able to complain. Unfortunately, our - or should I say my - luck ran out on this one, as just after we crossed the Chilean border I lost my last ham sandwich in the bus bathroom. Call it a border allergy, but that is now the second time I´ve ralphed crossing a border. (Maybe I´m not meant to be a nomad after all??)

Anywho, it was not 20 minutes after we crossed into Chile before the bus pulled over and called our stop. Considering it was the middle of the desert, Jen and I assumed we were to transfer to the only other bus there. Apparently that was not the case, as San Pedro de Atacama is in the middle of the desert. Bags in hand with zero Chilean pesos we looked for someone soliciting a hostel since we had no place to stay. Finally a guy came up to us with a flier for his rather spendy hostel, but seeing no other options, Jen and decided it seemed like our best bet. Realizing I´d left my jacket on the bus, I ran back to grab it, however, by the time I´d returned to Jen we were the only ones standing there - the hostel man nowhere to be seen. Luckily he had pointed in the direction of town before taking off, so with no other options in sight we began walking. Noticing that the hostel flyer had a street map on it, we started looking for our turn once we saw what looked to be town; however, quickly noticed that although our map had street names, the streets themselves were not marked with any. A sweaty half hour of aimlessly walking around later, we finally found our dirty, barren, and expensive hostel and put our stuff down to go get some money and food.

Since we´d passed an ATM coming into town and had been told about one more, we didn´t think getting money would be an issue. Unfortunately, as we approached one of the ATMs, we were met by half a dozen Europeans who told us that both ATMs in town were out of cash. REALLY??!! (Most of Latin America works in cash economies so our plastic was fairly worthless. Did I mention we had no local currency?? Or that my watch randomly started beeping and frying itself??)

Finally finding a place that exchanged Chilean Pesos for the weakening US Dollar, we looked around for a place to eat - not too difficult when you´re in a tourist town that´s made up of overpriced hostels, restaurants, excursion places, and gift shops. Of course once we decided on a place to eat, the lights went out - indicating to us that it was closed for the night. Silly assumption, for as we were walking away a server came out and ushered us back inside, assuring us it was open and the power would be back on in a minute. Silly Americans assuming power was always on, ha! (That´s like assuming places have hot water... also oftentimes not the case.) Anywho, for the next hour, we sat inside a restaurant with two cats roaming around the desert floor with the lights in and out, and a generator trying its hardest (we knew this because it would sound like a lawnmower everytime the lights were flickering back on). Food was fabulous though. Server was great too, and after we finished up he invited us to meet him and his friends to go to a party. With no other plans for the night, we decided to throw caution to the wind and join him. Although we stayed sober after our long day of travel, the fiesta was a great time and our new friend, Oswaldo offered to take us to Moon Valley via bicycle the next day.

After a good night´s sleep, we lathered up in sunscreen and rented our bikes to check out the surrounding desert. (The Atacama desert is the most arrid on Earth, with some places boasting no recorded rainfall - ever). Oswaldo had to work and therefore couldn´t come after all, but we decided to go try to checkout Moon Valley nonetheless. Moon Valley is supposed to resemble the surface of the moon - hence the name - and is renowned for incredible sunsets, so after a bite to eat we set off on the ride to see what it had to offer. Thinking it would be an easy half hour ride before catching the sun descend behind the red hills, Jen and I were in for an unpleasant surprise. An hour and a half of uphill riding later and some rather sore bums (maybe I should´ve learned the first time??) the sun was setting behind the ridges and it seemed as though we´d gone all that way for nothing. We´d missed it. Giving up and turning around; however, we were shocked to see that all we had to do was look behind us: our backs had been to Moon Valley that whole time and we caught it just as the sun´s final rays touched the Earth.

We raced back with my headlamp leading the way (see: bad idea), and dusty, sore and exhausted, inhaled some trail mix and fell asleep by 8pm.

So that´s where I am now. Still in San Pedro, but off tonight to head up into Peru. Unfortunately Chile´s just too expensive to spend any more time in. Internet cafe´s expensive too, so since I´ve written quite a novel anyway, should probably sign off.

Ciao!

Unwanted

forgettable_blue — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 18:06:00 GMT

So as I mentioned in my last post, I was really, really, REALLY looking forward to Bolivia. Apparently it wasn´t looking forward to us. Yeah we knew there were riots, the US Ambassador had been excused (ie kicked out), the president had suspended half of the country´s constitutional rights, and the US had put out a travel advisory to avoid it, BUT Jen and I were still game. I mean really, were the hunger protesters going to get the Pres in the gut by coming to the salt flats? Probably not, but nonetheless, just as we were planning to leave Salta we were told that the border with Bolivia was closed. Unfortunately, cant cross the border just by being game.

Still a bummer.

Anywho, after going back and forth about whether or not we should try to wait out the political upheaval and still try to continue with our original plan, we finally came to the conclusion that Bolivia would not fall back into peace by Wednesday (after asking the opinion of numerous experts, such as the guy who works at our hostel, the center left fielder of the soccer team, and the guy who sells bus tickets). So, our new plan is to head into Chile and check out the much more expensive salt flats there (lame), then head straight up to Peru which will actually give Jen the chance to check out Macchu Pichu, although with our luck Peru will spontaneously combust two days before we´re supposed to arrive (or at the very least be really cloudy and rainy).

That´s about all. Will upload photos in a few days (I swear) - got some pretty cool ones from a mini road trip Jen and I took in a rented Volkswagon to Cafayate, an itty-bitty desert town that´s home to some of the most beautiful desert-rock scenery I´ve ever seen. I realize it doesn´t sound cool here, but you´ll see when I get the pictures up.

Ciao!

I hope bugs hate Campsuds more than they like toothpaste...

forgettable_blue — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:21:00 GMT

So it took me a whole 8 hours of traveling to Miami for me to be glad I´d overpacked and brought lots of soap; I had an eight hour layover and my bag was covered in toothpaste because the pressure had magically unscrewed the cap. Orange, sticky, everywhere. I don´t know if I was more annoyed that the goo was all over the place and impossible to fully clean, or that half of my toothpaste was gone and lord only knew where I´d find some more Aquafresh, Crest, or Colgate - anything minty that seemed like it would do the trick, really. Oh well, my first test in patience.

Eighteen hours later I met up with Jen at the Buenos Aires airport, where I´d spent seven hours sitting next to two sportscasters from ESPN and Fox Sports both drenched in Aqua di Gio. Didn´t expect that. Made it into the city, and after frantically getting off of the public bus once we saw our street pass by, realized we´d gotten off at the 3800 block when our hostel was in the 900s. Our first long walk of the trip.

The next few days were spent checking out the various neighborhoods of the city. I´d heard many people liken B.A. to Paris - a very European South American city, and while each turn seemed to expose a building more extravagant than the last, the grafiti, garbage, and overall rundown look of the city seemed to steal away all of its archetectural glory. Although there were many cool areas and things to see, after catching a very Argentine soccer game when the weather was in the high 30sF - we decided it was time to go on our way to somewhere warmer. Besides, we did not go on this trip to catch a cold.

Next we headed north up to the magical Iguazu Falls on the border of Paraguay and Brasil where, after an 18 hour bus ride, dirty and grumpy, we hopped on the wrong bus and ended up at the Falls with all of our belongings. Although not ideal, seeing our first glimpse of sunshine since we´d arrived perked us right up and we spent the day hiking around the beautiful Iguazu. (Unfortunately, everytime I try to plug my camera into this computer it disables the mouse for an hour, so I cant get pictures up now but promise to later.)

Anywho, our sunshine ran out by the next day which suprisingly ended up being a blessing in disguise. Because of the rain, an Israeli we´d met decided not to go to the Brazilian side of the falls after his German friend left him early in the morning. (The German, Hubert(pronounced OOH-berrT), left in a huff the night before when he was unimpressed by our attempt to play poker with uncooked bowtie noodles.) Anyhow, with the rain and this Israeli at our disposal, we ended up spending the day running around the quaint town of Iguazu in search of a store that was open, and had our Israeli friend barbeque us the most phenomenal steak I´ve ever had. Unfortunately since Argentines in Iguazu apparently siesta from 1230-4pm, by the time we had our steak and Malbec ready we had 10 minutes to down in before running to catch our next bus. Although rushed, it was honestly the best meal I´ve ever had.

Still delirious from our steaks, we headed southwest to Mendoza, Argentina´s wine region. Five ham and cheese sandwiches later, we arrived in Mendoza, only to be greeted at the bus terminal by a teenage boy who conviced us to stay at his pop´s hostel instead of the one we´d booked. What can I say, he got us at the ¨free wine 24 hours a day.¨

Only in Mendoza do you get a hostel with a bed, breakfast, ping pong, a pool and wine 24/7 for $9/day.

(Oh, and a quick note about ham and cheese sandwiches in Argentina: its all they eat. Example, on our bus they handed out lunch - a plate with ham and cheese on wheat, a triple decker ham and cheese on white, and ham and cheese on a hamburger bun. That´s for one person. For dinner: two ham and cheese sandwiches. The best beef in the world and all they eat is ham and cheese. Really?!???)

I digress.

Although the hostel in Mendoza was really homey and laid back compared to the party-hostel we´d stayed at in Buenos Aires, unfortunately wine was not all it came with, as the next day when we took a bicycle wine tasting tour in Mendoza´s vineyards I realized I´d been attacked by something sleeping in my bed - apparently inclusive in the hostel price. While the wine tour was fabulous, sipping on Malbec, Cabernet, tasting chocolate and olive oil, by the end of it I was quite uncomfortable. Not only was the left side of my face swelling up from two dime-sized bites on my cheek, but my ear was double the size, and I had a bump on my collarbone imitating my shoulder - kind of matching the large bump near my ankle I´ve had since Boston. My bum was also rather sore because of the bicycles, and three days later it still is.. Now don´t get me wrong, I´m not complaining about drinking wine in Argentina, I guess I just find it funny that they think it´s a good idea to do it on bicycles on a busy road in a country with the second most automobile related deaths in the world. Oh well, apparently I thought it was a good idea too because I did it nonetheless.

Yesterday we arrived in Salta, a colonial town in the north central part of Argentina. The weather of course is crappy because I think clouds and rain follow us, but it allowed us to spend the day/evening with a Division II Argentine soccer team, which was interesting to say the least. (I guess there are six divisions, so I guess the second division is pretty good??) Undersexed and over zealous I think they paid the two of us a little too much attention, but it made for good laughs nonetheless. Today we´re kind of hanging out and I may check out the Chabad this evening before hittng up the apparently happening Salta night life. After that, we´re skipping most of the rest of Argentina´s bigger cities in order to get up to Bolivia quicker. Cities are just cities after all, and Bolivia´s weak currency and beautiful scenery is supposed to be pretty spectactular, wo we´re pretty stoked to get into the more rugged outdoors.

I itch like hell and I´m hoping my blood doesn´t taste as good in Bolivia, but overall we´re having a really good time. Sick of ham and cheese, but I´m guessing we´ll be missing them once we head up into Bolivia where they don´t even have safe drinking water.

But hey, I´m not complaining ;)

Gallery: Buenos Aires and Iguazu Falls

forgettable_blue — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 23:11:00 GMT