Caving... and some civil engineering on the side

This past weekend, I went for an adventure in Torotoro with seven other volunteers. Adventure is what we got. Torotoro is a town, and a National Park by the same name,  about 100 miles (as the crow flies) from Cochabamba. The park is known for its caves, canyons, and dinosaur footprints.  Tourists are delivered there on a bright yellow bus painted with dinosaurs. The one way ticket costs 20Bs (just under $3) Locals ride this bus too, and there must be some price differential, because we all got seats, but many of the Bolivians sit in the aisles, on the steps, or even on the dashboard of the bus. To cover the distance between Cochabamba and Torotoro, the big yellow dinosaur bus takes about 6 hours, on a good day. So I'm told.

Our bus there had two runners (small boys that stand the whole ride by the door and jump out to move the biggest landslides that block the road, then jump back on while the bus is still moving), we only got one flat tire from side-swiping a landslide, and we made the trip in just under 7 hours.



We arrived in the pouring rain and awoke the next morning at a trashy hostel in the pouring rain and generally had an overall negative attitude about the prospects of the weekend.  Then we tracked down our guide, Mario, at his house. Mario is the short, silent type and has been guiding in the region since either 1969 or 1979 (I'm still having trouble with numbers in Spanish).  He took us past dinosaur tracks and into the caves. Because of the rain, the water thundering through the caverns was deafening, and all the surfaces were slippery. Mario worked with only one climbing rope and a propane fueled flame on the front of his helmet. We climbed and descended and squeezed through tiny tunnels. I am certain that insurance companies in the United States wouldn't even let you look at the cave entrance, but, for a nominal fee, Mario adeptly guided us underground for hours. It was incredible. The most impressive thing about Mario, short of keeping us alive, was that while we slithered and squeezed through water and mud and dirt, Mario never got a speck of dirt on the dress pants and white shirt that he guides in.

















On the second day, Mario showed us the canyons and waterfalls that decorate Torotoro park. We hiked 1000 steps (or so) to the base of the canyon, drank in the views and climbed on boulders. Again, the water-carved landscape was marvelous.

When it was time to go home, we paid another 20Bs for the dinosaur bus and boarded at 3pm. We stopped for a bunch of Sunday market traffic in the nearby villages. After 2 hours of driving, we got stuck in the first river we came to. (Oh, of course I forgot to mention that the road just goes through rivers.) The drop from the road into the current was decent sized, and the rear end of the bus got hung up. The people in the truck behind us got out and started to dig. They got annoyed at me for taking pictures, so I got out to help them. I waded through the river to the back of the bus, and with the shovel, crowbar, and pick ax (apparently standard issue gear for Bolivian buses), we tried to work the back end free. A mini traffic jam formed behind us including 2 trucks and a herd of goats. Our bus driver did not want to get wet, so he went back and forth through the aisle of the bus and climbed in and out of the back window, using his runner's back as a step ladder.

Meanwhile, someone decided that the water was the problem and convinced the rest of my gringo group to build a dam to reroute the river. I don't know what is funnier: that someone thought we could change the course of a raging current and that it would somehow help the situation; or, that they actually convinced us to try. So, I moved up river to join my group of friends in hauling big rocks into the middle of the stream. A couple small boys from the bus came to help, and asked us to pay them for their services. We didn't. Meanwhile, the number of other passengers seemed to somehow be slowly diminishing. It got dark.

After about four hours of futile attempts to move the bus or the river, another bus arrived and pulled us free. We climbed on board and rounded the first bend in the road to discover where the other passengers had gone: to the bar in the town a mere 200 yards up the road. We had been too busy altering the landscape to look for the nearest place to buy a beer.

We drove for another hour in the dark, all drifting to sleep after our backbreaking dam building work. At about 10pm, we came to another river. Our bus stopped. The engine was shut off. Not a good sign. In the middle of the river (which was, in this case, the road) was a large truck, buried up to its axles in mud and rock, effectively blocking all traffic. Our busdriver decided to just go to sleep until morning and laid down in the bus' baggage compartment.

Another bus, from Cochabamba, arrived on the other side of the river. Yucca and Sheylynn, my only companions that were awake, tried to convince the drivers to trade passengers and go back from whence they came. Everyone wins, and we all get home tonight, right? Our driver said 'no.'

Not accepting of the 'sleep it off' solution to river crossing, us three girls, along with two other passengers from our bus decided to build a ramp down the one meter river bank, bypassing the truck. It was a big project to attempt, let alone with simple tools (remember: shovel, pick ax, & crowbar), limited workers, and pitch darkness, but at least it wasn't raining.

We started carrying rocks, shoveling, and breaking shale off a nearby cliff face. The rest of the men from the buses, along with our drivers, stood laughing at us. But after about a half hour, you could see the machismo kick in from watching girls do manual labor. One at a time, we got the manpower we needed.

At around 1am, the bus on the other side managed to reposition itself to pull the truck out of the river. They managed to free it, but only to wedge it again, this time right in front of our ramp. But, after a few more attempts, the truck was pulled to the opposite bank just as we completed our engineering feat.

The bus from the other side crossed via the old road, but our driver didn't want to attempt it, for fear of getting stuck like the truck. He went for the ramp. It was bumpy, but operational. (ramp under the back wheels of the bus in this photo) A few men stayed outside and helped shove us through the river.

At 2am, we were across the river, just after 4am, we reached Cochabamba. I couldn't find my ticket to produce for collection upon de-boarding. I didn't feel bad about that. At 5am, I reached my bed. Today, my arms are sore. It's either from caving, or dam building, or road engineering... but, enough about 'vacationing', it's time to go back to school building.

AU! RO! RA!

They are serious about strikes around here. Well, kind of serious. The transport strike lasted 4 days last week. Then all the drivers worked for the weekend, because, come on, people have stuff to do. Then they worked Monday too. But by Tuesday, they seemed to remember that they had a really important cause to fight for and better get back to it.

So, here I am in Cochabamba: Transport Strike Week 2. I haven't been able to get out to the job site to work on the school, except for Monday (a.k.a. The Day the Strike Forgot), and then it was raining too hard to pour cement. I couldn't leave the city last weekend to go hiking because of blockades set up by the strikers. While this is all an interesting insight into the political and economic functions of Bolivia, it's pretty boring if you can't go anywhere, most stuff is closed, and you don't really like TV.

Luckily, the city soccer game fell on one of the days when the strike was on break. With a friend and her dad, I went to the stadium to root for Cochabamba's Aurora when they played Santa Cruz on Sunday.  I love going to sporting events in other countries. I enjoy sporting events in the US, and I love seeing the differences. There are always many.

For example: There is a big pet market outside the football stadium here in the morning before the game. People buy puppies out of crates stuffed full of puppies. While you are waiting to meet your friends for the game, men walk up to you, shove a cute puppy in your face, and offer to sell it to you for 100Bs. What do people do with the dogs they buy out on the pavement? They bring them into the game, of course! The stands are full of not only cheering fans, but also very small dogs, sleeping, chasing up and down the stairs, or just looking confused (I think, if I were a market dog, I would be in the latter group).

Another marked difference to American sporting events is that there is no alcohol allowed in the stadium. They don't sell any, and you can't bring it with you. The only drink available is pop, and it is sold out of two-liter bottles from which the vendors pour you a cup. The gap left by the prohibition on alcohol is filled with a free-for-all on fireworks. I was building a pretty strong argument for banning alcohol on the grounds of safety until I saw the fireworks. They should give you a free fire extinguisher with your pre-game puppy purchase. 

One of the fans near us had a bull horn. I'm not sure if this is not-allowed in the States, or you just couldn't get away with it. The guy screamed profanities at the refs, advice to the coaches, or just chanted "AU-RO-RA!" louder than anyone else. The people in the seats directly in front of him probably had a very entertaining game, but still can't hear anything.

I've heard how excited some countries get about soccer, but I was still surprised to see that the refs had to be escorted on and off the field by police outfitted in full riot gear.

There was one similarity to American sports that I picked out. You know those guys that bring their radios to baseball games so they can listen to the game while they are watching it and make sure they don't miss anything? Well, they are at Bolivian football games too. We were surrounded by guys listening to the game on the radio, though I'm not sure they could hear anything over the bull horn.

I'm sure there's a great "bread and circuses" lesson in the fact that the city was cheering a Cochabamba win at a soccer game in the middle of an economy-crippling protest, but in the midst of the shouting, firecrackers, and puppies, who can be sure?

Could someone call me a death cab?

Right now the chauffers (taxi and bus drivers) of Cochabamba are on strike. I haven't been to work in two days because I have no way to get there. They raised the price of intra-city rides from 1.50Bs to 2Bs, which is quite a price hike. The people refused to pay or ride and now the drivers are refusing to drive.  Economic unrest aside, this gives me a minute to reflect on how long it has taken me to figure out the little bit I know about the transport system in this town.

The spiderweb maps of London and New York subway systems have nothing on Cochabamba. First of all, there is no map; no secret decoder ring; no signs. Public transport is an “insider” thing. Rumor is that there is a book that lists the routes, but I have never seen one, and you can bet that I have looked. You basically have 4 options in public transport here:

:

Micro: Ironically named, the Micro is the largest vehicle offered in the city. They are all painted obnoxious colors, as pictured. The inside is usually decorated similarly, and it is nearly enough to induce a seizure.Due to the seizure risk¨, and to the fact that I have no idea where any micros go, I never ride one unaccompanied by a local.  

 

Trufi: A trufi is basically a minivan that can pack in more people than you would ever imagine. I think I counted 18 once. Yes, in one of these. They drive a route indicated vaguely by the construction paper sign in their window. To get any of these bus-type things to stop, you have to step into ther street and hail them like you would a cab. If you want to disembark, you just shout "Next corner!" or "right here!" to the driver. The people paying good money for public transport will not walk an extra 50 feet, so there is a decent chance that a trufi will stop 4 or 5 times in one block.

  Taxi-Trufi: This "hybred" runs on similar priciples to the trufi, but is in car form. They also indicate their routes in construction paper on the dashboard. I take a taxi-trufi to work each morning. Early on, I reasoned that it would be great to get the front seat. I based this reasoning on lessons ingrained from childhood games of "Shotgun." When I waved a taxi-trufi to a stop, the front seat was open and I hopped in. In a half block, another passenger waved the trufi down and they shoved in next to me. I was pressed up against the driver and needed to self-levitate to stay off the car´s gearshift. Everytime we slammed on the breaks (which is constantly in Bolivia), my left thigh shoved the car into neutral. The driver would then have to put the car back in drive before proceeding. I sit in the back now.

Taxi: We're left with what seems like a normal form of transport the world over. However, what separates taxis from regular old cars in Cochabamba is just stickers. These stickers are the keys to the kingdom. Everyone, it seems, has a friend of a friend that has been mugged, raped or murdered in a "fake taxi."  What counts as a "real taxi" is widely debated. Taxis will have one or more of the following stickers: a "taxi" sticker in the windshield, a sticker of the license plate number on the fender, and/or a sticker on the back door of anything, from a company name/phone number to Spiderman. Most people agree that any car with two or more stickers is a "legitimate" taxi. These stickers are commonly sold in local hardware stores for reasonable prices.

Once you´ve flagged down a cab and gotten in without being stabbed or rufi-ed, you have to negotiate price. It does´t matter if you called a "radio taxi" company and they sent a cab to you, or if you flagged one down in the street, you will have to negotiate. There are no meters and no set fairs. The distance, the weather, your accent, and the drivers mood greatly affect what you will pay, but, that said, the final number really is anyone´s guess, and, surprisingly, stickers are not accepted for payment. 

I lived in DC when the cabs were un-metered and operated on a "Zone System." You needed a Phd and at least 6 months in the city to figure out how to use and manipulate the fares of said system, but it could be done. The taxi drivers of Cochabamba prefer to stay cloaked in mystery. And, right now, these mystery men can charge whatever they like, as the rest of the city goes into Day 3 of a transport strike.

How is my Spanish coming?

Well, I'm glad you asked.

Yesterday, I was complaining that I could not think of words in Spanish because my 'onion' wasn't working right. The Spanish words for 'onion' and 'brain' both start with "CE." The similarities end abruptly there. I suppose it's a personal victory that I understood every word when my host sister laughingly told everyone at lunch today about my latest linguistic slip up.
I am holding my own at about 75% of the conversations around the lunch table. I even talk a bit. This is a great change from Weeks 1 & 2 when I just swung my head around the conversation like I was trying to follow a ping pong match.
It's a blessing that I am learning Spanish amongst people that love food, because this is a topic I can relate on. My host brother and I spend evenings cruising the streets for foods made from ridiculous parts of the cow and then slathered in spicy sauces. Meanwhile, he helps me practice directions between street stalls  in Spanish and I quiz him on Instrument Flight Rules, as he is studying to be a commercial pilot. (Aviation is a topic about which I can discourse almost as fluently as about food.)
My host mom helps me with vocab by explaining what is in everything she cooks and telling me which town in Bolivia each particular dish originated in. She's quite the gastronomic historian.
This learning style requires a certain amount of faith. I think one of the reasons these people who love food are so patient with me is that they actually respect the fact that I will eat almost anything I am told. Reheated intestines off a dirty griddle on a street corner? I'll try it, but bring on the peanut sauce. Crumble up cheese and stir it into my hot chocolate? Well, I like cheese, and I like chocolate... 
These 'feeders' have proved themselves trustworthy in the food and language departments. So an extra lesson has been learned: A person can get a decent language education for the price of a pack of Pepto Bismal and few extra pounds.

Hay Lluvia.

Nobody felt great, and it was pouring down rain as we all made our way to the bus station in Cochabamba on Friday morning. The city floods nearly instantaneously, and none of the taxis have defrost. This was how, after getting my jeans soaked flagging down a cab, when we drove through a large puddle, a wave of street-water came in through the cracked window straight at my face and open mouth. No better way to start a weekend in the country than contracting cholera.

 

On the four-hour bus ride to Oruro, multiple men got on the bus and yelled 30-45 minute sales pitches at the trapped passengers. One of them was selling an elixir that can make your hair grow, clean blood from carpet, earn at least 8% interest for investments, and cure AIDS. One tube was only 10 Bolivianos. Not one of us bought any. We were too busy watching Jackie Chan movies on the bus TV.

In Oruro, we connected to a 7-hour train to Uyuni. I got stuck in a car by myself, directly behind the engine, thus full of diesel fumes. I shared a seat with a woman  and her 7-year-old son—apparently trains don’t have the same “children over 2 must have their own seat” rule that planes do.

The hostel in Uyuni lost our reservation.  Such an event is a mild inconvenience for a group of 14 Sustainable Bolivia volunteers arriving at 11pm.

The next morning, three of us shopped out the various tour hawkers on the streets in the pouring rain. Dozens of companies sell virtually the same three-day tour of the salt flats and surrounding areas. Our main priority was that our whole group not be crammed into just two 4WD vehicles. We reached a deal with “Expediciones Lipez.”  Shortly after taking our money, Mr. Lipez directed the 14 of us to split into two groups of 7 and climb into 2 vehicles. The third vehicle parked out front would be full of other tourists and join our group on the tour. Three adults in the backseat of an SUV would be something we would have plenty of time analyze the discomforts of. 

“The Others” consisted of 2 Russians that pretended to speak no English or Spanish and strolled into everyone’s scenic photos (I maintain that they were spies); 2 Canadians in their 60s that talked a lot; and an American neuro-scientist/mountaineer.  This crew shared their vehicle with our guide.

We paid extra to have an “English-Speaking guide.”  Through a few teeth, using decent English, he introduced himself as “Roberto DiNero” or “Llama.” I called him ‘Fancy Pants’: for three days he wore orange camouflage.  On Day Two, he stopped speaking English. Each vehicle had a Spanish-speaking driver. These drivers formed a union and waged a little three-day war with the guide, refusing to drive to tour sites and refusing to wake up at the scheduled times.

 

The altitudes on the trip ranged between 4000 and 5000 meters (13,000-16,000feet).  It was fairly cold. Most of us were clad in locally purchased wool adorned with 2-dimensional llamas.

So appointed, we bumped and splashed through spectacular desert scenery. There were marvelous rock formations and multi-colored lagoons.  We saw thousands of flamingos and possibly more llamas. We ate llama. We did not eat flamingo.  On the second day, we visited stinky, belching, sulphuric geysers. It was here that Fancy Pants pulled down his pants and squatted over the geyser steam. When we asked what the hell he was doing, butt-naked in belching clay,  he said, “It’s good for osteoporosis.”  We soaked the image out of our mind in thermal springs nearby, before continuing on to more scenery.

On the final day, after a 4:30am wake up call, we drove to the salt flats. It had been raining for days, and a shallow layer of water covered the miles and miles of white salt. This created a perfect, seemingly infinite mirror, and thunderheads reflected back at the sky. It was one of the most spectacular places I have ever seen. Ever. When I look out my window at home, I see glaciers and mountains. I fly airplanes over some of the most remote wilderness in the world. And there I was, ankle deep in saltwater, staring at something I cannot believe I had never heard of before coming to Bolivia, because it could be used worldwide to define natural beauty.

The train for home was scheduled to leave at 1:22am. After midnight, the train car was parked in front of the station and we all climbed aboard. As we waited for departure, tired from a long day on the road, we drifted to sleep. At 6am, we awoke, one by one, to discover that we hadn’t moved. We all climbed off the train back onto the Uyuni platform. The only worker in sight told us, when asked why the train had not departed, “Hay Lluvia.”  ‘There is rain’ doesn’t really seem like a sufficient explanation for a 7-hour delay of a 7-hour ride, but apparently, in Uyuni, that’s how it goes.


Halfway through the ride to Oruro, one of the train conductors came through our car with a trash bag, politely collecting all the rubbish that people who are stuck in a train car for 14 hours produce. We all looked at eachother pleasantly surprised. This was the first time we had seen trash collection of any form in Bolivia. We also had the privilege of being in the caboose, and thus watched as the conductor carefully tied the full bag of trash after making his way through the full train, then walking to the back door, unlatched it, and chucked the bag out the door. It tumbled off the tracks and into the desert.

We finally arrived in Oruro and caught a connecting bus at 4:30pm.  Two hours later, in the middle of a Jackie Chan movie, the bus broke down. We were in the mountains, 2 hours from Cochabamba, and would have to wait for a rescue bus to arrive.   We had a bottle of rum, perfect for such an occasion.

I walked in the door to my house close to midnight. My host brother asked why I was so late. I was too tired to remember any useful Spanish to explain my awesome weekend, and the glories of transit in Bolivia. “Hay Lluvia.” I replied.  It’s only evidence of cultural mystery that he seemed to understand exactly what I meant. 

Checking in on that ´helping out´goal...

 I´m helping to build a school. Well, actually, we´re adding on to an existing school. I´m working in tandem with the orgnizations Mano a Mano and Sustainable Bolivia. Mano a Mano builds schools and clinics all over Bolivia, the country that has the highest dropout rate in South America, especially among girls, because many kids have a  4 hour commute to school. Mano a Mano makes it their mission to build schools (and clinics) that are excessible to remote places. They built a school in the village of Apote, outside of Cochabamba, years ago, and attendance rates have gone up so much, they need to add on. We are at the foundation level of what will, in 4 months, be 12 new classrooms.
I have spent months staring at Mexican contruction sites wondering what they could possibly be building out of a bunch of randomly cobbled together wood. Now, I am randomly cobbling wood eveyday. The construction process is much slower when you don´t have proper lumber. You just use what´s there. That means finding old ladders and pulling the nails out of them one by one. Or carrying tree trunks to the work site. You make the size piece you need. You make the plumes. It looks like a mess. There is order, but it certainly doesn´t come together like a shopping list at Home Depot.
The other volunteer from Sustainable Bolivia that I am working with is French guy named Bruce. Our common langauge is Spanish. Our boss, a Bolivian named Renee, is about 5 feet tall, works in rubber sandals, and climbs around the worksite like a monkey. His boss is a fat guy, also in sandals, that chews coca constantly and has the final word on every leveling question.
Bruce and I spend a lot of time painfully constructing sentences the other one doesn´t understand. There is a lot of ´No Entiendo´and a lot of laughter. Laughter must be good for something, even on a building site.  Renee either thinks its funny or annoying that we don´t understand eachother and barely understand him. I´m leaning towards the latter.
We are raising and leveling rebar columns and the project is visibly coming along, which is rewarding. It is as safe as you would imagine a worksite where most of the workers wear rubber sandals and are climbing ten feet into the air on homemade cobbled structures over uneven gravel pits. But so far, the biggest injury is sunburn.

Coca "Chew-In"

On Wednesday, there were hundreds of people on the Plaza Principal in Cochabamba chewing coca leaf. This was part of a nation-wide movement to amend a UN drugs treaty that bans the chewing of coca leaf and treats it on par with heroine and cocaine. The largest "chew-in" was in front of the US Embassy in La Paz.
Chewing coca leaves is an ancient tradition in the Andes. The proposed amendment would still treat coca as a controlled substance, just relieve the ban.
Guess who is stopping Andean countries from amending the ban? The United States: world's largest consumer of cocaine!  The US position is that coca needs to be banned because it is the raw material used for making cocaine, and lifting the ban would weaken the oh-so-important, and oh-so-effective "War on Drugs."
I just have one question: when the US banned the consumption of alcohol, did they also ban eating corn and potatoes?
Watching the US meddle with impunity in the governing and culture of smaller, weaker countries reminds me painfully of their four-star work in Haiti over the past centuries.  This is one of those times that it is really handy socially that most people don't know Alaska is in the United States.

Things I take for Granted

This is a list of things that Latin America makes me miss. These notes are Bolivia-specific, but I have seen this stuff elsewhere, feel free to add your own comments.

*Even sidewalks. Seriously, you need All-Terrain shoes to get around here. In one block, the path with go from dirt, to concrete, to gravel, to cobblestones, and back to concrete.

*Trash Collection. I don't mean that a service needs to come to your house to collect trash, we don't have that in Homer. I just mean "collection", as in gather in a specific area, rather than just strewn around everywhere.

*Good Coffee. Oh, Nescafe, how I hate you.

*Bus Stops. Though hurtling yourself into the street and madly waving your arms when you see the bus you want is fun, I now really appreciate the advantages of scheduled stops.

*Ashtrays. Local motto: "Why use one when the floor's right there?"

*Change for $10 (or equivalent) at businesses.  If you run a store, or a restaurant and only do transactions in cash, it stands to reason that if I make a 18B purchase and only have a 50B bill ($1US=7B), you should be able to give me change. But, I am always wrong about this. And, I always get a look as if I, the customer, have just thrown raw eggs on the front door when I ask for change.

*Hair gel's place in the 80s. I can't say I exactly miss the facial hair of Homer, but I would like to see a guy without half a tub of LA Looks in his hair.

*No marketing via megaphone. The Blues Brothers proved this is effective, but it's really annoying when a guy pushes a cart down the street every morning screaming about fruit through a blown-out drive-thru speaker.

 Post ethno-centric rant, I will clear my conscience by saying that there is a little flower here that I don't know the name of, but the smell is heaven. I would trade the privilege of wearing flip flops everyday combined with that smell for a lot of comforts and conveniences.

They still have food and drink outside your comfort zone

I'm in Cochabamba, which besides being fun to say, is Bolivia's third largest city. I've been here less than a week, but things are coming together. I'm exploring the local markets, meeting lots of people, and, despite everyone's warnings, not getting killed.  I am involved with an organization called Sustainable Bolivia, which provides services for volunteers to multiple local organizations.
My goals here are simple: 1:learn some Spanish, 2: do some good, and, as always, 3:have some fun.
So far, goals 1& 3 are getting the most attention. I am taking Spanish classes every day for two hours. It feels like what I would imagine waterboarding to be. But that's not enough torture; to stretch even farther outside my comfort zone, I decided to live with a host family. I now have a Bolivian "mom," "brother," "sister," and 3-year-old "niece."  I may not learn Spanish, but no one can say I didn't try. I am improving bit by bit, but in the last week, I threatened to hit a busdriver (note to self: "pAgar"='to pay'; "pEgar"=to hit); and, when my 'brother' asked if I was married, I answered, "A little bit" (note to self: "casada"=married; "cansada"=tired).

The toughest thing about living with the host family is the food. Bolivians eat a lot-- five meals a day. And, it is marginally rude to not eat what they have given you. Well, my family feeds me as if I am in training as a sumo wrestler. When I slow down, the mom encourages me: "Comi! Comi!" I feel like Cool Hand Luke, just not as cool.
This week I am supposed to start work with Habitat for Humanity, which will fulfill goal number two and hopefully give me the chance to dodge out on a few meals.

In interest of  goal three, I took off yesterday to explore one of the surrounding villages. The advantage of being a minority foreigner in a friendly country is that people include you in their parties like you are honored guests, rather than backpackers scarfing free alcohol. On the cobbled streets of Tarata, I heard loud music playing behind a closed door.  For some reason, I thought I had every right to open that door and stick my head in. Apparently, I did. The senior citizens in the courtyard beyond waved me in, shared the 'Chicha' (a fermented corn drink) they were drinking, handed me a handkerchief, and asked me to dance with them. It was someone's 50th anniversary and they were all too glad we joined the party. Luckily, they weren't serving any food.

Don't Cry for me Argentina... I'll see you somewhere soon

I've left Argentina, so I'd better tell you what I thought, as being in a new place takes you by the feet and shakes you upside down trying to get the old place out. At least that's how it seems sometimes. Someplaces are harder to shake out than others: Like that place you call 'home', or the places of 'firsts', or where you were when your brother threw a lit sparkler in your hair... but I digress.

I was only in Argentina for 3 weeks, so really I only know that it is HUGE and 3 weeks is not enough. My poor American geography is showing, but I just had no idea how big Argentina was. I went on multiple 20 hour bus rides and didn't cover a third of the country. Granted, I am counting some breakdown time in one of those buses just to give myself extra credit hours.

I'm impressed that a country in our continually globalized world can hold the hours that Argentina does. These people do not negotiate on their siestas. And, they eat dinner at 11 at night-- as a family-- kids and all. And, it seems to work. As long as you get used to the idea that everything will be closed between 1 and 5pm. It makes the days seem long, but also nice and slow.

Speaking of 'closed' that is the word I use to describe Mendoza. I spent two long weekends there, and many things also remain closed on the weekends. What would Americans do if they couldn't work or shop on the weekends? Argentinians go to the park and have picnics. Or play in the local creek or aqueduct ditch. We went horseback riding.

The closed-ness of Mendoza was probably accentuated for me, as I went there expecting a Napa Valley experience in the Malbec mecca.  Argentinian wineries just don't work that way. You call and make a reservation. Then you show up and go on an hour long tour. Then they give you a taste (maybe two) of their most basic wines. Then you spend an hour driving around looking for the next winery. Walking or biking from tasting table to tasting table being assaulted by a waterfall of wonderful vintages is logistically not an option. And, after you have had one hour-long winery tour conducted in your third language, you've had enough. The Malbecs and the Torrentes here are great, but wine bars or restaurants are the place to have them.

Roadtripping through the Central Andes and the desert was spectacular, as I've mentioned. Then I spent my last week in the country in Salta, far in the Northwest. Salta is a beautiful, european-esque city and home to a active and fun couchsurfing population. Couchsurfing has pretty much replaced hostelling for me: not only do you get to meet other travelers, but you get to meet locals as well, and you don't have to get bedbugs in the process.


 I wanted to see Patagonia, but haven't yet. From Mendoza, which is kind of in the middle, I had to choose: go North or South? I chose the North road. Another traveler I met asked, "well can't you go back and go 'South' after seeing Salta, and places 'North'? Technically, the answer is 'yes', but I have learned that "way leads on to way" and once we choose a direction, we may never find that particular fork in the road again.

Through the couchsurfers in Salta and the vineyards in Mendoza, I was taken on a triumphant parade of what this late-night meat-eating, early-morning drinking country has to offer. These people eat a lot of meat. Delicious Asados (BBQs). It is not uncommon for a dinner plate to just have a large slab of meat on it, and nothing else. Nothing else until you eat that slab of meat and they put another one down to replace it. And with that meat comes a fast running salt shaker. This is a salty place. Or sweet. Dulche de Leche (a caramel-like spread) steps into any meal where salt might not apply. I didn't ever have meat and dulche de leche together, but, like I said, I was only there 3 weeks.


P.S. I got that yellow fever shot. Out of a 85 degree box, in a run-down government building in Salta. The Bolivian immigration officials didn't even ask to see the stamp. I haven't died yet though.

Speaking of Scavenger Hunts and Charades...

In beautiful Salta, Argentina, where everything is decorated with llamas, and somehow, those llamas look really nice.

Argentina is nice and all, but pretty much everyone knows where it is. This is one of the reasons I recently bought a ticket to Bolivia.
Only after making the purchase, did I bother to look at visa requirements. Thanks to what, I am sure, is stupid US policy, I need one. I looked up the location of the Bolivian embassy in Salta. It is listed at Avenida San Martin 124. I found Ave. San Martin 128 and I found Ave. San Martin 122, but 124 must be located in the same place as the train platform for Hogwarts.
I also need proof of a yellow fever vaccination. During siesta, I contemplated faking the vaccination stamp in my documents. But then I logically recalled that Tarzan's Jane died of yellow fever. I think. So I got out of my bed to see what I could do.
Most people wouldn't get up from a nap in a country where they have a severe language handicap, and barely have a clue about the government, let alone the healthcare system, and decide to go get a yellow fever shot. 'Most people' are probably on to something.
It's a good thing I spent Christmas playing Cranium with my family, as I was a dead ringer for "I need a Yellow Fever vaccination" charades at multiple pharmacies and at a clinic.  I struggled with directions, because "derecho" is 'straight' and "derecha" is 'right,' and I think we can agree that those are cruelly similar words.
Eventually, I found my way to a hospital, avoided the "Emergencia" door (this is not that, Thank God), and re-performed my perfected charade at an "Informacia" desk. (Most people would have had the first pharmacist write it down, but then, we're back to 'most people.')  The information woman must have sensed my 'derecho/a' handicap, because she took my arm and led me down the hall.
This was the only hospital I've even been in that smelled overwhelmingly like diesel fuel. Once I was being led down the final hall to the needle, I started getting nervous about the shot. I blame this on Anna, who has been instilling a fear of sharp objects in me since the first high school blood drive. I regretted my siesta-time snack of crackers, because I suddenly wanted to throw them up.
Informacia Lady deposited me in front of a door that read "VACUNAR," knocked twice, and left me there.
I leaned against the wall next to the door and let my stomach twist itself around my nerves. I flexed my biceps to fend off needles. I know you are thinking: "Steph! You are an EMT!" I am. I have taught classes on inserting naso-pharangeal airways. But, here is my next confession: even typing the words "naso-pharangeal" kind of makes me want to throw up.
I waited for the Vacunar door to open. I shifted my weight and looked at the white tile wall I was leaning on.  It was smeared with dried blood. I moved to the middle of the hallway and tried not to touch anything. I paced nervously, but didn't want to stray to far from the door, so I pivoted and paced with just one foot. This spinning didn't help the nausea.
A girl who was really hurt, and clearly in a lot of pain limped down the hall. She looked at me sympathetically. I probably looked like I was about to cry. I realized that this spinning around maneuver was not very cool, so I stopped and looked at the door, which was in the same state of closed. Of the 89 words on the door (I counted while I was trying to stand still), I understood 5 of them, not counting the "and"s and the "the"s.  I tried opening the door. It didn't budge.
A line began forming behind me and the people asked me how long I had been waiting. Mercifully, I understood this question. However, I am still struggling with the difference between 'fourteen' and 'forty,' so I settled on replying 'a half hour,' which was in the neighborhood just shy of true.
After waiting an hour, and successfully not vomiting, I turned and walked out.
On the steps of the hospital, I put my head down and caught my breath. I straightened up and promised my inner child that no one was going to put a needle in her arm today. I also promised her ice cream. I walked down the steps and promptly got lost.
I eventually found a cafe and ordered "helado sabor americano," because I wanted to know what American-flavored ice cream would taste like. It's vanilla. My inner child was disappointed.

Cultural Decorum

At our final stop, in the Mendocino winery-laden village of Maipu, Susy and I somehow got our hands on an educational reference book: Argentinian Customs and Culture.
One piece of advice that someone bothered to type up and print in this book is: 'It is rude for a foreignor to criticize Argentinian government or politics. Let Argentinians talk about their own government problems, do not offer your opinion.'
We laughed. Duh. Of course that is rude. Everyone knows you shouldn't discuss politics or religion with strangers, but then I paused...
It seems that everywhere I have ever traveled, people have offered their opinion on American politics as soon as they hear my accent. For the past two years I have been fielding non-stop inquiries on Sarah Palin. Can someone please put in a book that this taboo also applies to Americans?
Currently, I am skating by on the fact that a lot of people don't know that Alaska is part of the USA, or whether Alaskans speak English or German (the only thing I have demonstrated with any competency is that Alaskans probably don't speak Spanish).

"Palm to Palm is Holy Palmer's Kiss" -Shakespeare

Central Andes/ Argentine Sierras:

Mendoza-Punta del Inca-Uspallata-Valle de Calingasta-San José de Jáchal-Rodeo-San Augustín de Valle Fértil-San Juan

I have hiked into the Grand Canyon, I have been wowed by Capitol Reef, Bryce, Arches and the dry spots in Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, and Arizona. I have stood on a precipice at Zion and might still swear it was the most spectacular vantage point in the world.  I have seen the so-called “Big Sky” that is immortalized by A.B. Guthrie. 

Australia’s Uluru and Olgas are amazing, as are the hundreds of miles of surrounding desert and rock formations through which I have fought flies and chased camels.

In the last week, I have driven thousands of kilometers through Central Argentina. The terrain changes every 50 kilometers. Every color of the rainbow paints the scenery. A Cineplex worth of popcorn clouds fill the sky as far as I can see; the carpet is red and white sand, as soft and fine as silk. And the rocks…  rocks, rocks, rocks… mountains of them, piles of them, weird balancing acts of them. So much vast landscape you know that only God has touched each and every piece.  This desert makes the American Southwest and the Australian Outback look like the places that God practiced on while he was getting ready to make Argentina.

 

I have a confession to make. Ever since reading Into Thin Air I have judged climbers fairly critically. I have mostly viewed the activity as self-serving and foolish. This week, I changed my mind. I found a desire to reach out and be a part of this beautiful landscape. I realized that every time you touch a far-flung stone, out-of-reach of anyone else, it is being palm to palm with the Creator. 

Language Problems

The Spanish speaking world needs to get together. I have recently discovered that in Argentina (and in Uruguay, for that matter) the "LL" that Spanish speakers love to sprinkle generously through their words does not make the same sound as it does in the rest of the Spanish-speaking world. I learned in Mexico that when you see 2 'L's, you make a 'y' sound. Why? I don't know. That's the way it is. But not here.
Here, you make a "j" sound, as in "'J'ust a minute, I have to relearn how to pronounce this word."

Let's say you make the "y" sound, like I do. Do people realize it's just a different dialect and give you the benefit of the doubt? NO. They look at you like you are a Martian.
I know this Martian look well, as I have been getting it a lot lately. Another situation I can't get comfortable with involves restaurants. It is popular here to not have menus. They don't even have a chalkboard with specials. The waitress just comes to your table and asks what you want.
You say, 'I don't know, what do you have?' and she says, 'whatever you want.'
Really? Mac & Cheese and a Peanut Butter sandwich? No. Now, if I had enough cultural experience to have any idea what would be on a normal Argentine menu, this wouldn't be so difficult. But, I can't even make the correct sounds when the letters arrive on my tongue, so I stare blankly at the waitress, shrug my shoulders, and point vaguely at another table. She brings whatever they serve Martians in this country.

Feliz Año Nuevo!

In Mendoza, Argentina with Susy:

The owner of the inn we are staying at invited us to join his big family party for New Years. We accepted. The rest of his family canceled. We had one of the best steaks I have ever eaten and all the Malbec we could drink with this guy and his parents (who live with him). We arrived at 10:30pm, which was way too early for dinner, so we were having a glass of wine and he says, 'it's kind of odd that both my parents live with me, because they are divorced.'  We rang in 2011 at a small table on a porch while a violent thunderstorm raged outside. The language barrier, for once, helped make things less awkward: since we couldn't talk much, it made the fact that two adults at the table were intentionally ignoring each other a little less obvious. A little.

After dashing in and out of the rain to watch over an hour of fireworks, we went to "Willy's Bar" at about 1:30am with Toto, our host. The bar was so far from being set up that it was basically closed.

Outside of Discovery Channel nature shows, I have never before realized the NEED for time-lapse photography. Nothing could have better captured our New Years Eve.  If only we had been appropriately equipped, you would get to watch something like this:

1:35am: Toto got us 'Fernet' & coke... the local drink, which smells and tastes like Coke mixed with Ricola cough drops. The bartender has a fauxhawk and a spiked belt barely holding his jeans above his thighs.

1:37am: A tumbleweed rolls through the echoing red and black painted room accompanied by complete silence.

1:47am: We watched the DJ move all his equipment inside, which included moving, and breaking the feet off of, a pool table. 

1:53am: Two girls arrive. Short hair, parted asymmetrically.  Short, flowered dresses: eighties print.

2:13am: More hipsters trickle in. Average age is 22, but there are some older lecherous boyfriends. Girls are in short skirts and short boots and loads of perfume. Boys are in truckee hats and tight jeans.

2:24: We talk about how old we are.

2:28am: It stops raining. 
2:34am: The DJ moves all his equipment back to a tent outside.
2:46am: 8 hipsters, two with mullets and one with silver pants, fall asleep on a white leather couch, waiting for the party to start.
2:48am: Fauxhawk bartender opens up his laptop and plays Michael Jackson's extended version of "Thriller."  We dance... just like they do on the video.
2:53am: Toto asks if I'm on Facebook. I say, "What's 'Facebook'?" I have had enough Fernet to think this is the funniest joke of the night. 
3:01am: A guy walks in a red t-shirt and Dick Tracy hat. He's with two girls in striped shirts they stole from the set of "Growing Pains".
3:24am: The DJ finally starts playing in his outdoor tent. He starts with breakbeats (Susy is shocked) and works his way into "Indigenous techno".
3:38am: There are two pairs of silver pants on the mud dance floor. 
3:46am:The stars above the "danceyard" are bright. Toto points out a 'special Argentine' constellation of "a shopping cart". It's Orion's belt.
3:53am: There is a line at the gate to get in and the bouncers are charging admission. 
4:14am: the danceyard is full. We are among the best dancers there, a rank accomplished with minimal foot and arm movement.
4:18am: There is a deep crowd around the bar, clamoring for Fernet and Coke. 
4:35am: We tell Toto we want to leave. He is appalled. 'Things are just getting started!'
4:38am: The three of us leave the hipsters to their dance moves and climb into Toto's 1966 Ford pickup truck.
4:57am: We laugh ourselves to sleep, visions of mullets dancing in our heads.

Back Under the Southern Kite

I delayed a month and half, but have finally gotten back on the international travel circuit.
It seems I'm a bit rusty, as they nearly didn't let me board the plane in Charlotte due to visa issues. I was certain that I didn't need a visa and the gate agent disagreed. First, they argued that I couldn't land in Brazil without a visa, and then that I couldn't go to Argentina on a one way ticket. They eventually agreed to let me board, but not without looking me in the eye, giving a head shake, and saying, "This is BAD business."  Bad business? Like sub-prime mortgages or working for the mob? You'd think I was boarding the plane to Buenos Aires in Nuremberg, rather than North Carolina.
My language skills also need work. I learned most of my foreign language skills as an adult. Thus, rather than compartmentalizing each language and being able to switch back and forth fluidly, I just opened up a drawer in my brain and started shoveling foreign words in. So, when I am in a situation where I recognize the foreign language being spoken, I open up that drawer that is mashed full of German and Spanish. What comes out of my mouth is a mildly unintelligible thing I call 'Germ-ish'.  When I don't understand the language being spoken, what comes out of my mouth is just a high-pitched mumble/whine.  I mumbled/whined my way through 10 hours at the Potuguese-speaking Rio de Janeiro airport (can't leave the airport because I don't have a visa), but more than a day after I began, I arrived in Argentina.
My only plans are to meet up with Couchsurfing friends and see where the days take me. My credit card expires in March, so I guess I'll have to make my way back to Alaska by then.
A long day of travel is the small inconvenience we pay for the privilege of buying a one-way ticket, having limited language skills, being alone in a big city, watching strange buildings fly by, and picking out the tiny Southern Cross through the smog in the night sky. Feels so acutely like life.

Make it, or Die

I went into a strip mall coffee shop to have a cappucino while I waited for the liquor store to open. This says something about me, I guess... that I was at the liquor store so early on a Wednesday that it wasn't open. My shining moment was deciding to go into the coffee shop rather than just standing with my nose pressed against the glass staring at the bottles of vodka for 13 minutes... but who's counting?
Anyway, the barista was a good-looking, middle-aged guy, not on his best day. He cheerfully explained that he was hungover, over-worked, and still hadn't finished Christmas shopping for his teen-aged daughters.  Even though he was behind the counter at a coffee shop, he couldn't quite have enough cups to fully wake up. He was having a bad day at work.
I sat down with my coffee by the window where I could see the door of the liquor store. I looked at the twinkling Christmas lights and thought about bad days at work.
My worst days at my current job are burned into my memory. In the winter of 2007, I got caught in a fast-moving blizzard after picking up a skier. I had to ask my passenger to help me navigate safely home through the blinding snow and wind.  In the summer of 2008, I picked up a crew of fishermen in Bristol Bay, loaded to max with them, gear and fish. We were nearly forced to the ground by fog on the Alaska Peninsula and I had to scud over the tundra, navigating by valleys and the few weather reports of other pilots. Last summer, driving rain pushed the visibility and me down onto a remote lake in Katmai, where I taxied to shallow water, got out in my hip-waders and acted as a live mooring buoy for the plane, mostly so I wouldn't have to be in the cabin with barfing tourists.
Those days were my worst. I came very close to not making it. Just a little worse weather, or one wrong decision...  They were all Uncle Ole's imfamous: "Make it or die" days. But, halfway to fully caffieinated and mesmerized by the  blinking lights, I think I'd also count them as my best days. Because they weren't a little worse. And then the thought follows, how lucky am I, that I have a job where my worst days are also my best? Where just doing my job makes the lines a little clearer, and the sunset a little prettier, and the coffee taste a little better...  Or am I just a little crazy?
Not sure. But the liquor store's open.

Rejoining Forces

Steph and Anna linked back up in the Carolinas of all places. (Specifically, we were in both states, but it sounds more Northern to speak of them as if their differences are indiscernible.)

We ghost-toured in Charleston with a guide named Dan that wanted to be a golf pro. He gave us those sensors that the Ghostbusters carry. They are activated by electrical wires and by paranormal activity. They were going crazy on almost the whole walk.  We didn't see any ghosts, but we did see a cat, which Dan said was carrying either a witch or a demon. He has only been guiding these tours since July, so didn't have enough experience to ascertain the sex of the feline's passenger.

 Apparently a man from one of the many ghost tours photographed a ghost in the cemetery at St. Philip's church. Kodak, the FBI, and NASA could not explain it. St. Philips had to post a sign to clear things up. Anna, with 12 years of Catholic education under her belt, explained why the Church might be offended by the photographers claims: Ghosts do not officially exist. Unless they appear in the form of Mary, Jesus, or one of the Saints. Then they do. Why? Because an in-between place is not allotted for in Scripture--except in the above three forms, in which cases pilgrimage is called for.  The girl knows her spectral catechism.

The latest Wikileak

In the last week, I have spent 1300 miles on America's Interstate system which means that I know the words to every popular country song.  I also accidentally ran a half-marathon, and was spit up on twice.
I have visited with a diverse group of friends and family, and learned something that did not make it onto Wikileaks:  My dangerously single friends told me to watch out for "Trick Dates." Apparently, besides Internet dating, the great new way to ask someone out is to pretend you are not asking them out, but you are just arranging a meeting. Then when they show up at the appointed time and place, you go ahead with typical 'first date' behavior and see how it goes.  After witnessing one such event unfold at an adjacent table in Washington, DC, it seems that the warning should not go unheeded.
Also newly revealed in the Nation's capitol: another dimension. I refused to see a movie at a museum because it was advertised as "4-D." Does the Tea Party know about this? What's the fourth D anyway? A friend told me it was "time." Time? Isn't that inescapable? Wouldn't it be more interesting if they found a way to show a movie outside the time-space continuum?
There's lots to be learned schlepping around this seaboard, if you can handle repeat views of box stores and love multi-lane freeways. I have seen dozens of people who don't make it to Alaska often, and enjoyed spending time with them and meeting their new offspring.
In the in-between times, I rake. North Carolina has an infinite supply of leaves. Even though all the trees look bare, more appear on the ground every day. In my effort to corral them, I have broken two rakes. Replacing the first rake, a metal relic of a bygone era, I checked into everyone's favorite box store, Target. I was informed there that rakes are a seasonal item. Not this season. Not the season with the unending leaf deluge. No, no. It is snow shovel season at Target. I lived in North Carolina for four years and never saw a shovel-able piece of snow. Super secret documents have shown, the season of winter wonderland exists here, just only in the confines of your local Target store.
Because I have so much to learn from classified documents and classy friends, and because, right now, the leaves are winning,  I have made a decision. I am certain this decision was influenced by those country songs blaring out of my borrowed Volkswagen's radio as I barrel down I-85:
"You're gonna miss this! You're gonna want this back!"
I bought a ticket to South America, but I won't leave until December 27th. My grandmother is thrilled and the leaves are terrified that I am staying in the Southeast until Christmas.

Ages and Prices: Just Numbers

Grandmutti told me yesterday that she and my grandfather had been married for years before she found out his real birthday. Why? He lied. She was baking a cake for a birthday celebration and his sister commented, "I can't believe Ed is 40." He's not, Grandmutti replied, he's 37.  They argued, his sister was quite certain, and when grandpa came home from work, he had to fess up.
Laughing, I asked how long they had been married when she figured this out. Grandmutti replied she'd had two kids. But, she had a confession of her own. She stayed 21 for many years until her oldest son commented that he was 13 and it seemed unlikely that his mother only had 8 years on him. She then jumped to 39 and settled in there for a couple decades.
Great Aunt Myrt had to work 3 years past retirement age because she had lied about her age to seem young when applying for the job.
Age is just a number. I can't tell you what number, when it comes to my grandmother, as printing such a thing on the Internet would get me written out of the will, and I have had my eye on a set of Grandmutti's colored plastic plates since I was about 10. She said she would put them in my Hope Chest, but she might be losing hope, as she now says they're in her will.
In effort to stay in her good graces, I helped Grandmutti peel 10 pounds of potatoes. At Harris Teeter, a 4 lb bag of potatoes costs 99¢.  I think that is amazing. Potatoes are full of carbohydrates and have more vitamin C than oranges.... a virtual superfood. FOUR POUNDS of potatoes... for the change you could find under the seat of your car. I don't know whether to rejoice for how fortunate we are or weep for the fact the people anywhere are starving.
But the solution isn't buying the hungry world all the potatoes at Harris Teeter.  However, when the cash in your wallet could fill a kiddie pool with spuds, it's hard not to feel some conviction or take some responsibility. I don't know how that responsibility should manifest itself. For now, I think I'll just etch the price and availability of potatoes in my country into the side of my mind's storage compartment. Tomorrow, I'll hold hands with my family, give thanks, and help eat a pile of potatoes.

"Why waste your money looking up your family tree? Just go into politics and your opponents will do it for you." -- Mark Twain

I'm in North Carolina, at my grandmother's house. She's wonderful: smart and sweet... unless you tell her you might not come for Christmas, then she's just smart.
She's the oldest of eight and one of her younger sisters took decades compiling the family's genealogy. There are some famous people hanging on the branches, way back in the 1400s and 1700s, but, last night we were examining those closer to our part of the trunk. Great Great Grandpa Jesse spend quite a bit of time in jail for being a 'Tippler'... which was the 1800s Kentucky Foothills word for 'Drunk'. Great Grandpa Harvey was a school teacher, but in his spare time he charmed warts. What? Yes, he charmed warts off of people. What a handy skill.
I asked Grandmutti (a name resulting from the only word my dad learned in high school German) about the other side of the family tree: Her husband's. She said Grandpa Ed looked into it once, but stopped when he got to a horse thief.
As expected, I come from quality stock. Apparently, what the British didn't send to Australia, the rest of Europe packed off to America.
Right now, Grandmutti is cheating at TV. She's borrowing every phone in sight to stuff the "Dancing with the Stars" ballot box. Not for Bristol Palin..."because she's not that good of a dancer, it's just that all the Tea Partiers are voting for her."
You can't blame Grandmutti for cheating, it's probably in her blood. It is comforting to know that my family bears transgressions and oddities well. Let's just hope they keep this spirit in mind as I negotiate going abroad for Christmas.

Broomball Global Championships 2010

We went all the way to Minnesota to learn that there is a "Mercy Rule" in broomball... who knew?
Duggans Pub Traveling Broomball Team is now officially either the worst team on the Globe, or the 4th best co-ed team on the Globe... glass empty or full-- you decide... as long as it's Grainbelt Premium.