Reflections in the Water – Our Adventures on the Amazon

“Buena onda”…There’s something about warm, watery places that just suit me. There’s a vibe that saturates these places and everyone in it – a welcoming and relaxed sense of fun. In these warm watery places, basic survival seems to come relatively easy and leaves people with so much more energy and time to devote to just enjoying life. Much less effort is needed to fend off the elements or to fill the tummy. Delicious, exotic fruits drop right out of the trees, and even obtaining your daily protein requirement consists of a relaxing activity many first world folks would choose to do in their leisure time – bobbing quietly in a boat, just waiting for a fish to bite. In these places, not only survival is easy, but so is entertaining one’s self, with the water offering limitless opportunities for play and respite from the heat.

I feel this buena onda here on the Pacific Ocean at Playa Mancora, just as I felt it last week a thousand kilometers inland near the border with Brasil on the banks of the Amazon River – both with warm breezes and cool water, and both filled with people with no worry and no hurry, and wearing practically nothing. Music floats lazily through the hot air and ice cold beers abound. Yet, one place is a dry coastal desert and the other an ultra humid tropical jungle, the latter with few inhabitants who will ever see the ocean.

One great thing about Iquitos was that despite it’s scarcity of roads, it was so easy to circumvent the packaged tours and venture all over the jungle, up and down all sorts of rivers, to all kinds of fascinating places, all on public collective boats.

We went up the Rio Nanay to the village of Padre Cocha, where we had the yummiest cheapest humitas (a rice-based tamale) and shave ice for lunch, then followed the town’s main “highway” (a concrete sidewalk just wide enough for 2 bicycles to ride abreast) 15 minutes to a butterfly farm.

We toured around the floating market town of Belen on the Rio Itaya in a non-motorized canoe–taxi. There, rickety planks extend out from the shore to serve as sidewalks between the first few floating (and sinking) houses. If you live beyond that, you swim (or hail a canoe) the rest of the way home.

We took our first dip into the famous Rio Amazon on Kristian’s birthday, when we hopped one of these putt-putt collectivo canoes, called a “peque peque” by the locals, for the village of Barrio Florido. But the man we were chatting to during the ride turned out to be governor’s teniente (right-hand-man) in the town just beyond Barrio Florido, and offerend to show us around. So we took him up on it and went to Santa Rosa de Ojeal instead. Jose Fernandez introduced us to practically everyone in town and then led us across the soccer field and through the woods to his own home/sugar mill. But this was not your “run of the mill” sugar mill (tee hee), but a contraption that resembled a converted lawn mower, sitting in the middle of his indoor-outdoor living room, which, upon a couple good yanks at the cord, would rev up and squish the juice out of each sweet stalk. Nor was this mill used for ordinary ends, but once Jose has a barrel full of sugar can juice he passes it through a home made distiller to make what they call “aguardiente”, which made my head spin after only one sip! After several toasts to Kristian’s birthday, Jose and his family loaded us up with strange fruits from their yard and sent us on our way to catch the next canoe back to Barrio Florido. There, we sipped on a local beer and watched the world float by from a lovely open-air bar whose foundations stood right in the legendary river. When we finally inquired about the next “bus” back to Iquitos, our amigo at the bar cringed, eyebrows high in a very “you are up shit creek, my friend” fashion and informed us that the colectivo canoes had stopped running for the day, as the ink of night was fast filling the veins of the Amazon and the boats have no lights. Oooops. In the end we had to resort to chartering a private ride for 20 soles instead of the collective price of three soles and slowly made our way against the current to Iquitos, while dodging a barrage of oncoming driftwood in the pitch black of the jungle night.

Perhaps our best adventure boat-hopping down the Amazon came a couple days later when we took off in search of a remote village called Urco Miraño, where we were told the people were indigenous Yagua, friendly and real. First we zoomed down the Amazon for 45 minutes in a collective speedboat to a small port town called Mazan. There, we got a mototaxi from the bank of the Amazon over to the other side of town on the bank of the Rio Napo, which you could take all the way up to northern Ecuador if you had two weeks to kill. We got so absorbed in our delicious lunch of paiche, a giant, ancient (and endangered – oops) river fish, that we missed the direct boat to Urco Miraño. The boat that we did catch dropped us off after three hours in the middle of nowhere with vague instructions for walking the rest of the way. But luck was on our side and some little kids emerged from the bushes and hailed us a lift with another lone boater. Once at Urco Miraño we stepped off the boat into a world where cash means practically nothing and people welcome you into their homes and their lives for free. Where beer and whisky are unknown but masato, a fermented yucca soup, is slugged down by men, women and children with gusto at all hours. Where everyone in town is related to everyone else and everyone pitches in when there’s work to be done. Even we got to join in as they happened to hold a “minga” during our stay. The whole town was invited to B.Y.O.M. (bring your own machete) to weed one person’s yucca plot then convene at the host’s home for a masato party afterwards. So with a couple of borrowed machetes, Kristian and I hacked away in the jungle heat all afternoon, drowning our blisters in many, many bowls of masato (ick!) both during the minga and afterward at the party. Upon our departure from Urco Miraño, our host, Corina, presented me a beautiful reed bag she wove herself and to Kristian a keychain to thank us for our help and remind us of our visit to their little pocket of the jungle – as if I could ever forget that incredible place!

Into the Amazon – Iquitos, Peru

I don’t know what it is about the jungle but I like it. As soon as the warm wet air hit my skin, I felt on one hand a renewed sense of adventure and on the other, at home. Could it be the heat and humidity, the relaxed, scantily–clad people, the jungle rhythms, the Brasilianesque happy-go-lucky attitude, the water everywhere, or the tropical food that enamors me so? Heck – the AMAZON RIVER is right here in front of me! I suppose it could be any or all of those things or perhaps something deeper.

Perhaps its the excitement that comes from the fear of doing something way off the beaten track, as we plan to return to Lima via the cargo boat, little-used by tourists, involving slinging a hammock over your bags, with one eye on the bags and the other on the tiny riverside villages slowly melting into the water as we float for three days downstream.

Not only that, but tonight we are going to participate in an ayahuasca ceremony, entering extremely unfamiliar territory for us, entrusting our lives to a stranger, a jungle shaman, of whom our only reassurance is that he is endorsed by the local tourism authority. Here they call it ‘medicine’, used to awaken your spirit to the curative entities of the universe, although in the United States it would surely be called by another name, as it involves drinking a bitter potion, entering altered states of consciousness and puking your guts out all amid the eerie drone of chanting and drumming. I must say I’m more than a little nervous, but I really think the cleansing will at the very least alleviate our lingering tummy troubles and at best reveal glimpses of our destinies and connect our spirits more strongly to one another.

 

 

The Epic Journey to Machu Picchu

On April 15th, we finally pulled ourselves away from the vortex and headed into the Sacred Valley, starting with Pisac for their famous Sunday market. This market is so good that even we couldn’t resist buying a couple things – including a giant decorative plate that we ended up carting around for a week, over 60km of which trekking on foot! We looked like a walking pizza delivery service.

Pisac has an amazing Inca citadel on the cliff overlooking town, with several watch towers and an entire military base hidden behind, up to which we hiked during a spectacular sunset. We spent a couple more days ambling through the valley, stopping in little visited but tranquil Calca, then the living Inca city of Ollantaytambo, where the modern city is still using the roads, plazas and structures built mostly by the Incas.

From here, instead of paying the outrageous tourist price of $47 US dollars for the 1.5-hour “bargain” red-eye train to Machu Picchu, we got on a bus to begin our long and adventurous alternative way around the mountains to get to the famous site. The first leg included seven hours on an extremely crowded bus, sitting up front on the floor next to the driver as we zigzagged along precarious cliffs, stopping several times for traffic jams caused by huge landslides. When the bus dropped us off into the darkness, we found ourselves in a much different environment. Instead of the cool, dry eucalyptus-scented breezes of the Sacred Valley, here we were surrounded by huge leafy palms and were instantly sweaty in the wet, hot, still air.

The next morning we hired a guide and began our 24km hike to the town of Santa Teresa using an old Inca route along the Rio Urubamba. We started out on a dirt track, passing by several villages. It was the rainy season in these parts and landslides often blocked our path, forcing us to cross the river using a “bridge” that consisted of a basket hung under a wire pulley several stories above the rushing water. Then our path took a turn, taking us straight up the mountainside on a series of foot paths through a maze of crops and campesino huts. When we reached the stonework of an ancient Inca road, we began the final leg of the day’s trek, traversing along the hillside almost a thousand feet above the wrinkled pinstripe of river below.

Our guide, Johan, was only 15-years-old yet he instantly impressed us with his wealth of information on the human and natural history of the area, as well as his expertise navigating us safely and enjoyably through this treacherous terrain. He seemed so mature and easy to talk to for being smack dab in the middle of puberty, when most teenagers recoil from adult conversations. Apparently, his dad is also a guide and has been taking Johan along on adventures all his life, and Johan has been leading his own tours since he was only 10-years-old! Johan leads trips all week long and goes to high school on the weekends. He taught himself to speak English (and does a damn good job at it!) and is now learning Portuguese and working with an elder to learn a fading local tribal language as well. As you may have noticed, I was really impressed with little Johan. And we got an amazing deal too, less than ten bucks each – but with his professionalism, top quality information, friendly personality, and recent listing in the Lonely Planet, the demand (and price) for this little entrepreneur is sure to go up in no time.

It was a strenuous eight hours trudging through deep mud, at times along super steep terrain, all the while toting our huge “pizza plate”. The scenery, however, was so exquisite throughout the entire trek that it wasn’t until we sank into the hot springs at the end of the trail when I realized just how exhausted I was. The Santa Teresa Hot Springs was the most beautifully developed hot springs I have ever been to and the perfect finalé to the day’s awesome adventure.

The following day Johan said “adios” and we were left to our own devices to find our way from Santa Teresa to Hidroelectrica (a supposed two-hour walk) and then from there following the train tracks another two hours into Aguas Calientes. The first leg of this day’s trek took us far longer than we expected due to two hiccups in the plan. First, we wandered off the trail into a time-wasting argument; bickering over whose fault it was that we lost the trail. Then, a much bigger hiccup presented itself when we cam e to a road block and were informed that there was a giant landslide up ahead and we would have to cross the river and continue scrambling along the steep bank on the other side in order to get around it. We dutifully followed instructions and loaded ourselves onto the sketchiest basket pulley we had encountered thus far. Once on the other side I became very suspicious of this route; 1) because there WAS NO ROUTE, only large boulders precariously piled along the cliffy bank, and 2) because they very people that told us to do that did not take their own advice but in fact reloaded their entire bus and continued along the same road. Hmmm. After much quibbling over what to do, we finally got back in the sketchy basket, crossing dangerously high over the river AGAIN and resumed our walk along the road. After about 10 minutes we did indeed encounter a huge landslide, which had completely buried the road in huge chunks of earth and rock. There was a major effort underway to clear it, involving a few tractors and many road workers. There, we had to wait another half hour until the workers paused just long enough to let the growing horde of people waiting on each side of the landslide scramble quickly across the debris to the opposite side, all the while shouting as us to “apúrase apúrase!” (hurry hurry!) It was pretty exciting, I must say.

The final leg of our “alternative route” to Machu Picchu went by quickly, easily following the tracks for two hours under the leafy tunnel of trees, with the cool breeze coming down from the steep green mountains above us, and the spray of the gushing river Urubamba beside us. Coming into Aguas Calientes, I felt like a pilgrim, traveling on foot to Mecca and arriving with a dizzying mixture of exhaustion and awe. It was hard to believe we finally made it to this legendary place after such a long journey. “We had arrived.” Just before the town came into view, we rounded a bend in the river and caught our first glimpse of the Incan masterpiece that we had traveled so far to see. Looking almost straight up to the top of the green cliff face in front of us, we spotted some of Machu Picchu’s lower walls silhouetted in the setting sun.

Aguas Calientes, the town below the ruins, is one giant tourist trap full of promises for deals and freebees that never materialize. I guess that’s to be expected in a town that was born purely out of the need to serve tourists coming to see the great Inca city above.

At dawn next morning we left all that angst behind, climbing an ancient Inca stairway all the way up the mountain towards the great Machu Picchu. We were so excited we sprinted most of the way up, hardly noticing the steepness of the climb. And when we finally arrived, the sight before us took our breath away. We emerged from the forest path onto the terraces surrounding the ancient watch tower with the entire Inca city laid out below us, perched on a narrow saddle between jagged green peaks. Within minutes of our arrival, the first rays of the sun pierced through the distant peaks, slowly and magically illuminating the entire fortress in a golden glow. I was awe-struck. The intense natural beauty and incredible human ingenuity of Machu Picchu came to life before my very eyes. Even after hearing about it and seeing so many photos from other travelers, the experience was so moving that I couldn’t speak, and in fact could barely even breathe.

Kristian and I then spent the ENTIRE day exploring every nook and cranny, tip-toeing through labyrinths of intricate stonework, discovering tombs and secret shrines, running up and down the thousands of steep stairways around the main complex and even climbing up to the citadel on the peak of Huayna Picchu (or “Young Mountain”, the pointy peak behind the ruins in the photo above), which juts out another 300 feet over Machu Picchu (or “Old Mountain). The whole day was just one “wow” after another. But eventually, after so many steep stairs and hills, our “wow”s turned into major “ow”s as our knees begged for flat ground.

After soaking those knees in the hot pools from which “Aguas Calientes” derives its name (literally “Hot Waters”) and collapsing into a deep sleep, the next morning we began another long journey back to Cusco. Continuing our boycott of the tourist train, but not wanting to retrace our steps all the way back around the mountain range, we decided to ignore all the warnings and walk along the tracks (of the despised tourist train) 30 km back to the Sacred Valley. We had been informed that the path along the tracks was the private property of Peru Rail and we could get into trouble with the law if caught, and worse, that there were many long tunnels with no way around them, leaving you no option but to sprint through the darkness and cross your fingers that you get out before a train comes along!

I must say, I was extremely uneasy about the whole idea. But, being that train routes are always fairly flat, it was the quickest and cheapest option. So we went for it, holding our breath when we came upon any rail workers or officials. And to our delight, rather than scoldings or even safety warnings, everyone was very supportive and helpful, wishing us “buen viaje” and telling us we were in for a beautiful walk. At one point we arrived at a major archeological site under excavation and guarded heavily by armed National Park officials, and I thought we were goners – to be locked up in a Peruvian jail for the rest of our lives. But instead they shook our hands and gave us directions other sites along the way that we could visit for free. Incredible.

And as far as getting “run over by a steam train” the tunnels weren’t nearly as long as the naysayers had warned and when the trains did approach we were able to hear the chugging and honking in plenty of time to get out of the way (not to mention we had a copy of the train schedule, providing a rough idea of when to expect them to reach the tunnels). This train is part of the famous Orient Express chain and is known for being a spectacular ride through beautiful scenery, which I suppose is why they charge so much for such a short ride. By walking the tracks, we not only got to witness the same famous scenery, but in the flesh rather than out a window and going much slower, allowing eight times more time to enjoy it, all the while getting a whole day’s worth of exercise – all for free! Granted, it was no cakewalk hopping along uneven railroad ties and loose gravel for nine hours straight, carrying all our gear plus a whole day’s supply of water and food – but still well worth it.

 

Cusco, the Great Inca City

 

We spent a whole 13 days meandering through the wonderland of Cusco and the famous Sacred Valley. Even though this was where the bullying of touts and price gouging was the worst, we were still wowed with every site.  Cusco itself is an incredible city, built from huge rocks cut long ago buy the Incas, many walls and buildings still in tact from those Pre-Columbian years.  There are cobbled alleyways and pedestrian streets zigzagging up and down every hill.  Elaborately carved balconies and window-shutters adorn many of the buildings. There are hundreds of manicured plazas surrounded by ornate stone churches.  We spent 5 days just wandering through this Inca city in awe.  And there are amazing and well maintained Inca structures in the hills overloooking the city including sacred fountains (of youth and cleansing),  moon temples, mummy preparation complexes as well as a giant temple/fort made of giant rocks, precisely cut and fit together without any kind of mortar to create layers of zig-zagging walls, designed both to represent the god of lightning and defend the city of Cusco from enemy armies. This last one, by the way, was called Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”!).

 

Cusco was an expensive place to sleep and eat, but to our delight (and destruction) it also had several great happy hours, which we more than tood advantage of! On our first night there, instead of eating dinner, we had our first Bloody Mary in over a year (and it was delicious).  For dessert we went to a different bar with a later happy hour for rum and cokes. The next night we followed suit at a few other bars switching to Caipairinhas, Pisco Sours, and Mojitos…a dangerous combination – ask Kristian for more details on that one, if he can remember!

Isla Amantaní, Lake Titicaca (Peru)

We entered Peru from Bolivia on April 5th, going from one side of Lake Titcaca to the other. On the recommendation of our French friend we met in the Bolvian Pampas, we took a few days to explore the islands on Peru´s half of the lake. After a day in dreary Puno, we hopped on a 4 hour ferry to Isla Amantaní where our friend told us is off the tourist track and those tourists that do make it there stay the night with a local family and can hike up to the island´s highest point to watch the sunset over the lake from an Inca Pachamama shrine. Although we enjoyed the island, we were still a bit disappointed as despite their isolation and primite living conditions, their way of life is still geared toward sucking as much loot as they can from the tourists rather than facilitating any sort of genuine cultural exchange with them. First of all, rather than being a part of our host family, or at least observing real family life, we were housed upstairs away from the rest of the family in a dorm room furnished specifically for tourists and instead of eating with our hosts, they brought our meals upstairs for us to eat alone in our room, then later the host mom, Vernatina, brought us all the garments she´d knitted or woven for sale – a very awkward situation indeed.
The walk along the Inca road to the shrine was beautiful, passing through a maze of terraced fields on the way over the hill and would have been peaceful too if it weren´t for the child musicians and mom wool vendors all along the way, harrassing us for money. the view from the shrine was indeed spectacular, with the pink sunset to one side and Bolivia´s snowcapped mountain range to the other. Later, on the way down, we detoured from the main path and had a wonderful peaceful walk around people´s backyards and a soccer game in a churchyard as well as a tiny cemetary.

On the way back, the next day the boat made two stops. The first was an hour on Isla Taquile, where Kristian and I had quite a hike, going the “long way around” from one port to the next. Before getting back to Puno, the boat toured us through the reeds and passed the floating islands of Uros. This was quite a sight, to see entire communities literally floating on man-made reed islands, constructed like giant rafts which had to be constantly reinforced with new layers as the bottom rotted away. If only the homestay could have been there!

We stayed an extra day in Puno, just to avoid arriving in Cusco amidst the chaos of Easter Sunday, and that’s when we stumbled into one of the most authentic human interaction we experienced in our whole Peru trip. Staight off the boat we jumped on a bus to Chubico to see a pre-Inca fertility temple (hopefully it doesn’t take effect on its visitors tooo soon), and when we got there we found the whole town dancing around its main plaza for their 2-day Easter festival. The dancers were mostly elderly. The men were dressed in very uncomfortable costumes, resembling a giant wooden sash. The women were in their best pollera skirts, showing off 6 or 7 colorful layers when they spun in circles. Every 1/2 hour or so they stopped for a beer break and during one of these an old man, retired from working in the church next door, invited us to share his bottle.

He was so excited at our level of Spanish that the conversation rambled on for 2 or 3 bottles more as he told us his whole life story. We then went to a local restaurant famous for its deep-fried guinea pig, served whole, buck teeth and all, where we gave a solemn toast to my childhood pets, Squeaker & Moe, then tucked into our tiny, but delicious cuy drumsticks.

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.

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.

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.

Swiss Colony

We visited a Swiss Colony where we witnessed the making of curanto, which is meat, sausage, potato, squash, and veggies buried in the ground under branches, leaves, and the Argentine flag. It was an interesting comparison to the Hawaiian Imu. Unfortunately, it was kind of expensive and we didn’t try it. We had delicious trout empandadas and mediocre fried bread with ham and cheese inside, and a pastry with vegetables inside. The highlight, though, was the artesenal beer. The dark one reminded me of Oregon Black Butte Porter. The lighter colored beer was also excellent.