Galloping Through Time

It’s as if the Arizona Anasazi cliff dwellings had persisted into modern day. Espicaya is 24 km. along a little-travelled dirt road through a red rock river canyon from the biggest town in the area, Tupiza. But Tupiza itself requires rough 4×4-ing over the desert mountains for almost 10 hours from the nearest paved road. In Espicaya, the adobe houses seem to emerge as natural formations right out of the curtain of yellow-striped cliffs behind. Looking out across the river from the Iglesia, my eyes feast on the soft green of ripe corn fields, then further to a long, low stretch of jagged, ocre-red rock outcroppings flanking the river in front of a row of copper-green-gray rocks, and finally yellow hills rolling high along behind them both. Suddenly I hear loud grunts and growls bellowing from among the cliffs behind town and I jump with alarm. What the heck…? It sounds like a monster, but later we find out that it was no more than a few donkeys corralled near the cliffs and their barking is amplified and distorted as it echoes off the rock walls.

The town across the river, Monte, has the most antiguo church in the valley and is equally rustic in construction with its melting adobe walls and caved in thatched roofs, yet the people there seemed in-congruently modern. After riding horses all day through the beautiful river valley, we arrived in Monte to find the whole town out and about to celebrate the last day of the last weekend of the month-long Carnaval festivities. The teenagers were all dressed in sexy, hip clothes, their hair done in the Argentine glamour style, and some were even shooting photos with their cell phones!!! Yet they live in mud huts, have running water only a couple of hours a day from one communal water spicket, and they are so far out in the boonies that they stare at us as if they’ve never seen a blonde before! Baffling.

This horseback trip was quite the thrill-ride. We spent so much time crossing the river and when we could resist the water no longer, we ditched our horses to float through the whitewater and cover ourselves in mud. In one of the river crossings Kristian’s horse sank up to his knees in the mud and fell over. Luckily Kristian jumped off before being squished underneath, and like some kind of superhero managed to get his horse out of the mud while he too got sucked further and further in. Kristian’s horse was a constant challenge as he was considered the wildest one of the bunch and was even named “Bronco.” More than once Bronco broke into a sprint with no warning, Kristian hanging on for dear life, while myself, and our 15-year-old guide were left in the dust to grab Kristian’s hat, water bottle and whatever else flew off during take-off. On the second day, my horse decided he felt like running also, and in the end we spent most of the way back galloping at top speed, eyes closed to protect ourselves from the barrage of mud and rocks spraying from the hooves, and thighs squeezing so tight, just to hang on. For the next three days, walking was a major challenge. We loved it!!!

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia

Behind me are 3 niños going wild over the hand-me-down metegol (Foosball) table in the middle of Puerto Chubica´s newest hospedaje. This town lies on the “coast” of the great salt flat. There are maybe about 15 houses here, but with its prime “salt front” location the tiny hospedajes are rapidly outgrowing the casas. From my spot here on the porch of this circular stone and thatch cabaña, I look out onto an endless expanse of white that blurs into the cloudy sky at some indeterminate distance, with only floating mountains and hills to tell me which patch of white is land and which is sky. The floor in our room is a sea of salt and the bed mattresses rest on crystalline blocks of the same stuff. They are the most comfortable beds we have slept on so far in Bolivia. And they say that the salt we will eat with tonight’s meal has also been scraped directly from this Great Salt Lake out front.

We are on a 4×4 tour with 3 girls from Switzerland and a Bolivian couple who are our driver/guide and cook. We have been travelling through the moonscape of Bolivia’s altiplano (literally “High Plains,” but here we are talking like 13,000 ft high) for that last three days and tomorrow will be the grand finale when we find ourselves standing in the middle of the vast salt plain surrounded by the same forever of white that we now gaze upon from the edge. Its as if we are standing on the edge of the “endless” universe, looking into what never ends…. from the outside.

Our first day began with canyons filled with red rock spires, reminiscent of Utah’s Bryce Canyon. This later transitioned into vast nothingness: no trees, no grass, not even rocks, just grayish sand, a few clumps of tumbleweed and a bitter cold oxygen-less wind. The only color was from the llamas, all domesticated and whose owner is indicated by fluffy magenta pompoms dangling from their ears, like the gaudy old lady next door whose always hitting on the mailman with her long fake eyelashes. The 2nd and 3rd day was one eye-popping freak of nature after another. We drove through a whole forest of rock formations called “Rocas de Salvador Dali” and then geysers with colorful boiling mud pots that I named “the paint palette of Dali”. Each was a perfect circle of about 2 meters across and filled with a bubbling goop of a variety of colors from white to yellow, pink, orange, brown and grayish-green.

The most incredible thing, however, is that no matter how deep into this void we go, there is always yet another clump of huts with a gaggle of people who have been eeking out their existence from these rocks for generations and probably have no idea that there is another way of life. The people of the salar outskirts depend wholly on the cultivation of the famous mega-nutritious Quinoa grain and the criancia (raising) of llamas for their livelihood. On their cheeks are red circles, cracking and peeling from their proximity to the sun and the cold, dry wind that seems to be in an endless race across these plains. They don’t even have outhouses, let alone in-house toilets, and they are accustomed to relieving themselves wherever they happen to be when the need arises. Recently a foreign non-profit has taken it upon themselves to install one public bathroom in every village, but I get the feeling these people are not as excited to pee in a toilet as the NGO had expected, as there are signs up everywhere with the slogan “no seas mal educado, use el baño público”.

On our 4th day we finally infiltrated the salar, and just as I had imagined, it was indeed a spectacular experience. A desert of cracked salt leading to what seemed like giant melting ice-skating rink where the cracked desert had liquidized and was under up to a foot of glistening saltwater. From the middle of the salar, the surrounding mountains melted into the horizon and salt was all we could see in every direction merging in the distance with the hazy summer sky.

Carnaval in Oruro, Bolivia

We had a most deluxe train-ride through stunning red canyons and shockingly empty altiplano from Villazón. But when we arrived in Oruro, it was as if we stepped through the looking glass from a world of peace and calm into the absolute chaos of Carnaval. Already at 7am the city was abuzz with activity. The first band was already playing at the far end of the parade route, getting louder with every minute, men were already drunk, stumbling through the streets and peeing on the walls, and the sidewalk vendors were already touting their wares, “Amiga, compráme” to every tourist that walked by. Little did we know that outside these 2 days of Carnaval, this city remains quiet and civilized since the Oruro we were introduced to was a zoo, complete with bears, llamas, and a variety of devils dancing through the parade.

And even the spectators themselves (including us) were wild, drinking cheap beer from the break of dawn, dancing in the bleachers and engaging in huge water balloon and foam wars with absolutely anyone roaming the streets. Us tourists were especially prized targets in this Guerra de Espuma and we were so pelted with foam that we too eventually got caught up in the frenzy, spending ridiculous sums of money on foam and even stealing cans of it off of unsuspecting children whenever they had the audacity to spray us right in the face. Elizabeth and Kristian became our main line of offense, while Jason and I made up the defensive line, myself specializing in surprise retaliation attacks.

We carried on like this all day and after sunset retired the weapons and retreated to the upper row of bleachers where we made friends with a bunch of baracho Bolivians and Chileans, dancing and drinking way too much pre-mixed rum&coke crap with our amigos until one by one each of us made our way to the hotel room and passed out in bed. And that was just the 1st day…..

The Ubiquitous Kiosko

You can always count on finding a kiosko to buy a beer, cookies or even agua caliente for your mate tea, just about anywhere you go in Argentina. You could be deep into a hike in the woods in Patagonia and out of nowhere you come upon a farm house with a kiosko in the front yard. You could be lost in the far reaches of the deserted altiplano where all you see are barren plains and fluffy llamas, but just when you feel a hint of cotton mouth there is a kiosko amongst a handful of camouflaged adobe huts. You could be camping in a seedy municipal campground on the edge of a grimy, hopeless town and at midnight realize that you don´t have enough food for your next 3 days of cloud-forest camping but never fear because there is a maxi-kiosko across the street which is technically closed but again no worries because the owners, without anything better to do, are still hanging around and happy to sell you more pasta and powdered soups than you know what to do with. In Bolivia as well we realize, you could be backpacking in the rain for days on an ancient and little used Inca trail from high tundra to thick rain-forest and still manage to squeeze in a pau hana cerveza at the end of each day, thanks to the ubiquitous kiosko. And you could also be back in Gualeguaychú, pedalling up the river under a sweaty sun and spot a kiosko past the bushes on the left bank… and then of course be obligated to pedal your bicibarco up to the bank, leap off with a few pesos in hand, run barefoot across the grass and buy a bien fría Quilmes from the owner even though he is in the middle of his lunch with his wife around back, then jump back in the boat for one final vuelta in the Huck Finn river before returning the empty bottle and catching the current back to the dock. You gotta love the kiosko.

Carnaval in Gualeguaychú

I see bikini-clad bathers all around me, lathering themselves with tanning oil, standing ankle deep in the river water under the hot sun, drinking steaming hot mate, plucking in vain at the ubiquitous women´s semi-thong (or v-string) and grooving on the competing boom-boxes from around this riverside beach. Carnaval Fun is in the air and everyone feels it. Today is a day to groove and party and be merry all day and all night long. Carnaval, synonymous with Mardi Gras, (or Fat Tuesday) is when the whole world indulges in a multitude of “carnal” pleasures in anticipation of the following 40 days of self-deprivation for Lent. Of course Carnaval in Gualeguaychú happens every Saturday in February, soooo its doubtful that anyone actually fulfills the 2nd half of the tradition.

The breeze kicks up and reminds me how comfortable I feel, sitting here in the shade, drinking a Brahma beer, next to my honey. I see 5 bicibarcos (pedal-boats) strolling up and down the river. A couple hours ago that was us, as we spent an hour and 10 pesos peddling the river around a little island. Everywhere we went we saw people relaxing and enjoying life, whether it be rowing a boat, sitting on the riverside playing scrabble, lolling in a hammock, or preparing the parilla for an asado. We even crossed wakes with a row boat complete with its own strolling (or floating) minstrel plucking at a guitar and singing while perched on the bow. We even managed to score a cerveza bien fría for the ride from a kiosko we found conveniently located on the bank of the river. Ahh, the ubiquitous kiosko…

After a totally relaxing day, we geared up for the party, watching the sunset while drinking strong Fernet & cokes (the Argentine specialty of mixed drinks) at a bar over the river, dawned our wildest outfits, and even bought agaudy feather tiara on the way into the Sambadromo. And it was a wild night, dancing on the bleachers along with the sexy can-canners parading by below us and bumping hips with all the other baracho party-goers around us. The festivities lasted until almost 4 in the morning when we finally stumbled amongst the herds across town and collapsed in the tent.

Esteros de Iberá, NE Argentina

So we traded the far south’s cold and icy sea, filled with whales, seals and penguins, for the far north’s hot and muggy swamps with caymans, monkeys, and giant amphibious rodents, when we abandoned Tierra del Fuego and our Antarctica plan, spun 180º and made a b-line for the Esteros de Iberá. This place, like Antarctica, is also very remote and rather difficult to get to, but unlike Antarctica, we actually succeeded in reaching it, as it was only isolated from the nearest major bus route by a 200 overland kilometros, instead of 1000 over sea.

And what a place!!! After a long, hot and extremely bumpy ride across an expanse so green & flat it could have been a golf course for giants, we finally arrived at the sparsely populated Colonia Pelegrini. The village lies on what was technically a peninsula jutting into the huge Iberá lagoon, but the connecting isthmus was so skinny that one lane of traffic could barely squeeze onto it, making it feel more like we were camping on just one of the many floating islands on the lake. Although we got thoroughly munched by mosquitoes and were sweating bullets in the hot, humid, treeless terrain, it was a most satisfying visit. In one day, we saw the largest rodent in the world (carpincho) who spends most of his time in the water, over 20 yacuré negro (black cayman) lurking among the floating islands, a gaggle of yellow monkeys nibbling at the nuts in a palm tree, a rare miniature deer (pudu), and a ton of colorful and bizarre birds. During a 2-hour pole-boat tour among the floating islands we saw one bird so big it looked as if it could fall through the floating grass at any moment, martín pescadors (king fishers), cormorants, another bird who yapped like a chihuahua and flew like a mosquito, with its spindly legs hanging limply below, and even a giant, slow flying bird of prey, called the caracole. All this with a backdrop of water reeds silhouetted in front of a blazing red ball as the sun sank behind the islands and disappeared into the dark pink of the lagoon.

Talk about instant satisfaction and constant stimulation! If it weren’t for the excrutiatingly slow, hot, boring, uncomfortable bus ride you gotta suffer through to get there, Esteros de Iberá would be the All-American traveller’s dream come true.

Good Times Are Here Again

Arriving at the butt crack of dawn in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in South America, we had it in our heads that we would find a dance club or some such nonsense to bring in the day. After Wendy got changed and prettied up and we got our backpacks stashed at the airport luggage storage, our window of opportunity for these grand plans had closed and we were stuck with sharing a Budweiser at some weird bar named Satan or something and watching the drunk party-goers stumble their ways into cabs, towards home, or to their newly found friend’s home. Without wasting any more time than necessary in Buenos Aires, we walked around and checked out the Museo de Arte Popular de Jose Hernandez. We made a few unnecessary loops, as is my custom in Buenos Aries. For some reason, I always, always get turned around in that city. We took naps in the botanical garden to catch up on our sleep. The one drawback to airplanes as opposed to buses is that they are nowhere near as comfortable, and therefore, much harder to get some decent sleep in. We found a good pizzeria ¨Roma¨ on the pedestrian mall after buying our bus ticket. We picked up our backpacks at the airport, went back to the bus terminal, made a quick trip to the store and a pottie break, and we were in our cama (bed) seats on a brand, spanking, new Nuevo Expresso bus on our way north to Mercedes. We slept like little angels and were actually disappointed to arrive right on time at 0600 the next morning. Mercedes was a lovely little town filled to the brim with real, live gauchos. It is also home to the primary shrine to Gauchito Antonio Gil. If you have ever traveled the roads and highways of Argentina, then you have seen sub-shrines to the Robin Hood-like popular saint marked by red flags and little red houses. We paid a visit to the tree where he was supposedly hanged from and left him a note on the back of a picture of us taken in Vista Flores. As you may read later, this did not bring us the amazing luck that our visit to Difunta Correa did. Around 1300 (1pm) we boarded a much different class of bus to arrive in Carlos Pellegrini in four and a half or five hours. Welcome to the wonderful world of wildlife. I think Wendy is going to speak to you now about the beautiful Esteros de Iberá.

A Hasty Exit from Ushuaia

We made a hasty exit from Ushuaia after five disappointing days of searching in vain for a last minute berth to Antarctica that we could afford. It was time to move on. Carnaval was calling. After hurrying ourselves up to get there, we waited and searched and did not do much else. We stayed in a pretty nice hostel that was slightly expensive for our budget. We ate there almost every meal, making use of the free breakfast and the kitchen and with fridge, thus helping our budget. We walked all around the town of Ushuaia and considering the frustrating time we had, it is a testament to how good a place it is that we still liked it up until the day we finally left. We checked out the great prison museum one day and made it out to a new brewery bar two km. out of town that had a lovely view of the Beagle Channel.

We considered our options for getting out of there and we were not at all excited about the prospect of getting back up north by means of 60 plus hours on a handful of different buses. We spent 38 hours over two days on the way down here and that was less than half the distance we needed to cover to get back up north. The day we decided we had enough, we walked out to the airport to find out about last minute flights. We were told there would be a number of flights and that we might have a chance. We walked the hour walk back to the hostel, packed up, paid up, ate, and caught a cab back out to the airport with our packs and all our gear. We got booked right away on a midnight flight to Buenos Aires for about US$120. That was great! Not even considering the huge amount of time we would save, this cost less than taking buses. Not surprisingly, the flight was slightly delayed, but we still touched down in Buenos Aires around 0400 the next morning.

Backpacking Boredom

Most of the time when you hear about someone’s travels, you only hear about the best parts and it sounds like one exciting adventure leading right into the next. By the same token, as the traveler you don’t waste your breath re-counting the endless hours waiting around for buses, hopelessly hunting around for a decent place to stay while the pack just gets heavier and heavier on your back, or sitting in cafés with medieval computer equipment, reading your neighbor’s emails while waiting for your next page to load. In fact, your brain doesn’t want to waste memory space either and thus after a while you hardly even remember that those moments ever existed. But the truth is that travelling – and especially this long term, low budget, little planned type that Kristian & I are undertaking here in South America – is almost equal parts “eye-popping” and “nose-picking”, with not a lot in between. A few of these moments come to mind right off the bat:

Our first day in Koobah . We arrived at 12am (New Years Eve/Day) with a plan to leave our bags at the airport party in the streets all night until we could check into our B&B the next day. But…there WAS NO party in the streets (at least from what we could find) and the club we ended up at was not that happening, really expensive (especially after the U$D exchange rate and fees) and closed up around 4am AND THEN the sun didn’t come up until after 8am the next morning, which meant tired, hungry, nervous sitting around in the dark for 4 excruciating hours!

Another moment was in Bolivia when we wanted to take a bus to Villazon from Tarija during the day so we could see the famed “Sama” mountain reserve on the way, but all the buses went at night. So instead we caught a short-distance bus during the day to the in between town of Iscayacha, supposedly within the Sama, with the idea that we could hang out there for the afternoon until the night bus came along. BUT this place was so devoid of anything that if it weren’t for the fact that it did in fact have a central plaza, it could hardly be considered a town. The landscape was barren, rolling hills as far as the eye could see, the 3 tiny restaurants were disgusting and food horrible, and the wind was too fierce for hanging out anywhere outside, which left of really nothing to do and nowhere even to sit around and wait. Se we began begging passing truckers to give us a ride and once we got a lift, it wasn´t for another 3 HOURS before we left the barren hills to find the beautiful part of the Sama. Woops.

Even our first day in our new Argentinian “home” (Mendoza) lacked excitement, as we not only arrived on a Sunday, but decided to venture out into downtown just during their sacred siesta period. It was like a ghost town – NOTHING open and NOTHING to do. Plus, our hostel was quite a ways from the center in what we would later find out was their seediest red light district!

Recently, in Ushuaia, however, we experienced a rather unusual type of backpacker’s boredom, which I suppose could be classified as being stuck someplace where you can’t afford to have fun. It takes 3 long, boring and expensive days of busing through the empty pampas in order to get from the lake district to Ushuaia, at the southern tip of the continent. Once you arrive it is indeed filled with incredible things to do and see but everything is so expensive that we spent most of our time gazing at the unattainable scenery as we cooked our own meals in our hostel on the hill.