Isla del Sol, Lago Titicaca

 

I feel like Brook Sheilds in the movie “Blue Lagoon”. We are alone on a quiet beach under the ruins of an acient temple used by people whose entire race disappeared long ago. We have set up camp and stripped naked to lie on the pebble shore and bask in this rare warmth. Here in the rainy season at 3,800 meters (approx 11,000 ft) above sea level the air over and around this lake is usually a freezing, wet wind. But now, the heat of the afternoon sun has burned off all the clouds and for a brief time its a tasty warm on our white, spongy skin. We have to be carefull, however, bucause at this altitude there is not much atmosphere between us and the sun to protect us from its burning rays. After baking a while, the idea of swimming gets planted in our brains and we finally brave the icy water. The lake is so cold that its as if the surface has frozen over into a thin layer of ice that I can´t mentally or physically get through. But when I finally do take the plunge, this mental barrier shatters and the underwater world of Lake Titicaca is mine. My whole body buzzs iwth aliveness and then goes numb. But for a second this body buzz merges with my mind in an alertness more whole and intense than ever before…

Or perhaps, rather than the stars from the Blue Lagoon, we are Adam and Eve…. We are, in fact, on the very island where the Incas believe that Virachocha, the God who dcreated their people, was born. In fact, the sacred rock from which Viracocha rose from the earth is perched on the hill directly above our little beach. It is also said that during the “great flood” the sun and the moon took refuge in this same rock and for this the island was named….

The evening brings a spectactular storm of thunder and lightning of all forms, appearing without warning from every corner of the heavy sky. For hours we watched in awe as it advanced slowly towards us from across the lake. When it finally hit, our languid lake became alive wilth wind-driven waves. In the air, fat raindrops flew from every direction, pelting our tent like bullets adn giving birth to a hundred little streams, cascading down the steep hill, flowing under and around our tent towards the lake. The storm was so intense that it not only came through the floor of our tent, but infiltrated my dreams as well… nightmares that our tent was being carried way in the rising tide…

By sunrise the storm had gone and the sky was clear just long enough for us to pack up our sopping stuff and start our trek across the island before raining anew. We hike across the spine of this lake lizard, along the island´s center ridgeline over rolling hills for 2 and a half hours before reaching the other end. About midway we came across yet another most isolated and random kiosko, selling a variety of hot drinks and beer…but we resisted our temptation to be patrons of this crazy café and continued on our merry way. It was mostly sunny, offering splendid views of all the little inlets and their spackling of villages below. Once we arrived at the end of the road, at the port town of Yumani, we congratulated ourselves with a cerveza at a hilltop café. Then a young entrepreneur and future marketing executive named Alexandra (9 years old) reeled us into her mom´s dockside eatery, dramatically describing every dish in detail, while she pulled us along by the hand, shaving off the price more and more with every step down the hill. In the end we had a fabulous lunch for 10 bolivianos ($1.15) each, including french fries, rice, and the best trout dish I´ve tasted yet – “Trucha ala Diabla” – while we sat just a few meters above the port, spying on all the activity of locals and tourists coming and going from the mainland.

 

River Rythms

the creeeek craaaack of hammocks swaying…. the plop plop of fruits escaping from parrot beaks and landing in the river below…. the lapping of ripples against the long wooden skiffs moored to the dock….  the nasal hum of an outboard motor, along with cheerful singing from the boat drivers, fading in and out as they go by…. the threatening roar from a howler monkey…. the emphysemic hacking of the prehistoric, blue-faced, mohawk bird…. the hollow fssssss of a pink dolphin coming up for air…. the silence of the suspiciously still sunbathing gators dangerously nearby on the bank …. the sudden oowahoo-wa-oooo of one bird…. then eeeh! ow! ow! ow! of another…. more intermittent twittering, clucking, clicking, wailing, yapping and screaming from a myriad of other river birds…. and all the while in the background is the seismic drone of mosquitoes far and near…. and the fax machine beeping and buzzing of the countless other insects…. each creature adding its own unique tune to the rhythm of the Rio Yacumo, in the jungle pampas of Bolivia.

Happy Anniversary to Us (Again)!!!

Now over 2 weeks ago, Kristian and I celebrated our 2nd wedding anniversary in Sucre, out for lunch at a fancy restaurant. My parents had deposited $25USD into our bank account along with an e-card to use to celebrate the big day, but the e-card never arrived so we had no idea until just last week, when I talked to them via Skype from La Paz.

But now as I sit in the hammock gazing over a lush garden towards snow-capped peaks looming eerily over the green river valley we just spent a gruelling 4 days hiking through, I think to myself that their anniversary gift could not have come at a better time. We spent a whopping $220 bolivianos (which is just over $25USD) for 2 nights at the Hotel Sol y Luna, in our very own cabaña, secluded in this garden at the top of the hill looking over town and across the valley toward the mountains. It is a thatched-roof, bamboo A-frame and completely open-air towards this stunning view. The designer must have had relaxation in mind, as it has been furnished with lawn chairs, a hammock, and the bed is not only extremely comfortable but includes an elegantly laced mosquito net to keep the bed bugs out and its perch upstairs in the loft provides a perfect view of the sliver moon as we drift off to sleep. Mahalo nui loa Padres!!!

Choro Trail, Bolivia

Day #2 of trekking on our own, and I feel great – and sore. Its been so long since we’ve used our tent that it seemed to resist being unfolded when we set it up last night. And its been so long since we’ve done any serious hiking that every muscle aches, including ones I had long forgotten about. But wow is it great to dive deep into the wilderness, felling like pioneers as we journey on without any guide leading the way.
We are hiking along an ancient Inca road, which in those days was the main route from the highlands of La Paz down to the midland rainforest, or Yungas, 3000 meters below. Our hike actually began high above the city at 4600m called La Cumbre (the Peak). When we stumbled out of the bus we were surrounded by thick cloud, so thick that we couldn’t find the Christ statue whose left hand we were supposed to follow in order to find the trail-head. But luckily I was looking in the right direction just when a gap in the cloud passed by the sculpture and I spotted it! From there we did as the Holy Son suggested and walked eastward until we picked up a dirt road, climbing even higher to a breathless 4800m before the trail officially began its long, steep 3-day descent to the Yungas.

Day #3
So our “3-day descent” turned out to be a 4-day roller-coaster of steep downs AND ups and a serious challenge for both body and mind. I thought that after the 2nd day my muscles and mental outlook would get into the groove of backpacking and the going would get easier. I also thought this trail would be almost entirely downhill since it started at a 4600m Andean “Peak” and ended in a valley barely 1500m above sea level. Our 3rd day proved all of these assumptions wrong as we spent almost 7 hours trudging through deep mud, balancing across rushing rivers and pounding cascades, winding our way around ridges and ravines heading ever more steeply UP with every turn. I was already exhausted from the previous 2 days of hiking when we started that morning and with each consecutive climb gravity’s pull seemed stronger and stronger, forcing me to concentrate harder and harder on nothing else but making the next step. I really felt like my will was being tested by some higher power (like they say, “the path of God” is never easy!). My only salvation was the sheer beauty that seemed to burst forth all around us, from the path overgrown with ferns and vines to the striking vistas rewarding every climb. Everywhere we looked there were long lacy waterfalls spilling out of the soft green cliffs adding to the ever-growing river far below. I can hardly explain my relief when we finally made it to our campsite in the garden of an ancient, hunchbacked Japanese man high on the cliff over the river.

The final day was comparatively easy with a 2-hour descent to the pueblo of Chairo, where we sat around feeding the mosquitoes for another 2 hours hoping for a car to show up and give us a ride. In the end we donned our packs one last time and walked a couple hours along a dirt road until we reached the highway. Just as we were realizing we had no idea where to go from there, a public bus came by, stopped for us in the middle of the road and took us to Coroico for 5 bolivianos. We couldn’t have timed it better if we had planned it. Plus, we just happened to sit next to the owner of a hotel on the hill above town and she offered to give us a lift there if we wanted to check it out…Perfect.

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.

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.

Villazón

Our ride, another Mario, drops us off and points us in the direction of cheap lodging. It is a bitter, biting cold. Another woman whom he picked up and who rode 4 hours in the back has no place to go so he offers to let her stay in the cab with him for the night. She declines but does stay the night in the trucks cargo bed. Our backpacks rode in the back with her and all is covered in dust. If you have an image in your head of a dusty Bolivia, you have an image that is accurate. We check into the hospidaje “20 de Mayo”, our cheapest stay yet at 30 bolivianos, which is under four bucks, for a double, and worth exactly that. At first, we didn’t have much of a plan for what we would do with ourselves in this town. That would become clear tomorrow. Tonight we wanted to eat and Wendy thought she remembered seeing a place not far back on the road in. After walking a long time in the dark of a dingy border town, it seemed to me she was mistaken. Alas, no. We arrived at a decent looking place that had Mel Gibson’s “The Patriot” playing on TV. There was no menu. We were asked if we wanted “the dinner”. Yes. Not long after came a hot bowl of soup. Then, in walked our ride and we offered for him a seat at our table. Then came our food; rice and meat. By no means extravagant, but it sure hit the spot. After some chit chat, we paid the bill and brikly walked home. The total for two two-course dinners came to 10 bolivianos which is a little over a buck. Not too shabby.

The next morning after happily leaving our much to be desired bed, we came to understand what we were meant to do that day. Shop. And we did. I got a nice alpaca jacket and hat and Wendy got a hat and sweater. After a chicken and a beer and before we knew it, it was time to cross the border back into good ol’ Argentina. We walked across the border/bridge, all our loot in hand, to La Quiaca where we booked our next bus south to Tilcara and waited with a beer and a coffee in the surprisingly nice terminal confiteria.