I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Eleven: It was technically a new day by the time our flight from Salta landed at the Aeroparque in Buenos Aires. There was a light, misty rain falling as we exited the plane out onto the tarmac and then into a bus. The bus took us literally a hundred feet to baggage claim. While there, BT began the sad saga of communiques that would characterize the first part of our Buenos Aires experience. His grandmother was dying, and his family wanted him to come seven thousand miles back home.
We found ourselves a taxi outside of the airport and I directed the driver to our destination of the Old Friends hostel in the Palermo district. The ride, much like every cab ride thus far, was a near death experience that Chris and BT thoroughly enjoyed. We had booked the hostel on the recommendation of another volunteer friend of mine, Sarah, who I hadn't seen since orientation as she was placed in Patagonia. When we arrived, I had to pound on the door to get someone to open it for us, and then deal with the owner's friend who was clearly not expecting us. The owner was not present, and apparently there was no record of our reservation. However, three beds were found for us and sometime around two in the morning the three of us found ourselves passing out with the intention of moving hostels in the morning. Long story sort, we stayed at Old Friends all three nights.
Buenos Aires was a prime destination for many of the volunteers in the South of Chile, and as such I had a few friends to try and see while we were there. In the morning, (well, later in the morning) I got in touch with Vanessa and arranged to try and meet her and her friend Lauren in the Plaza de Mayo. As we were preparing to leave, the owner of the hostel arrived and apologized for forgetting our reservation. He then proceeded to make us breakfast (cornflakes and coffee) and assure us that "this is your home." He was a decent fellow, and although the stay itself was underwhelming, he did do his best to be friendly and accommodating. He was excited to find out that I was a rugby fan at least. After our quick breakfast, on the way out the door, Sarah appeared. We greeted each other accordingly and planned to meet up again later that evening.
As cabs are cheap in Buenos Aires, and it was a cold, rainy day, we decided to catch a ride to the Plaza. Traffic was bad, and this turned out to be a lame decision, as by the time we arrived we were quite late and I couldn't find Vanessa anywhere. Shrugging off the meeting, the three of us walked down to the water front known as Puerto Madero where many of the more impressive cityscapes in BA exist. The abundant European influences, many of which are heavily Italian, are visible everywhere from the architecture to the names of restaurants. BA is called the Paris of South America, and deservedly so, though it more resembles a cross between Gay Paris and the Big Apple. The rain and cold wind kept up, eventually driving us into a most spectacular restaurant on one of the docks. I do not recall the name, but the place was a buffet style parrillada where you could eat fresh grilled meat to your heart's content along with seafood, and all sorts of tradition Argentine comestibles. I had some lamb off the parrilla that was by far the greatest I've ever tasted, but to go into too much further detail on the eating experience would be tortuous. Suffice to say, it was amazing and insanely cheap.
Since the weather was atrocious, we decided to pass some time in a movie theatre, with our only English language, non-dubbed option being the new Tom Cruise film. Quick review: meh. After the film, we returned to Palermo via the super cheap, super speedy, super efficient metro system. I was kicking myself for having us take a cab earlier, because the metro cost only a few cents and was ten times faster. When we arrived back at the hostel, Brandon got the sad news that his grandmother had passed. It was a bitter sweet moment, as death is never easy, but the woman was very ill. The family was convinced that she was with Jesus then, so Brandon wasn't too terribly broken up. There was simply some lingering disappointment that he wouldn't make the funeral. A short time later, Sarah reappeared along with my other volunteers friends Jeff, Marie, and Greg. We joined their party and went to dinner at an Indian restaurant (I know, right?) which, of course, didn't even come close to the meal we had eaten for lunch. However, it was a very interesting experience nevertheless, and it was good for me to catch up with my Southern compatriots (in two senses, as Sarah is from North Carolina and Marie is from Alabama.) We went out after eating, to the area known as Palermo Soho (their is also a Palermo Hollywood, though I have no idea what that entails.) We ended up at a club called "Sugar"where Chris, Jeff, and I got to talking with the owner after noticing that his Spanish lacked an accent. He turned out to be an American from Miami, and was a business student who had come to BA to invest in some restaurants. Apparently things had worked out for him. I made sure to point out how stupid it was to name his place Sugar, and he just shrugged and said any English word would have worked to draw people in. He then indicated our group as his case in point. I tipped my invisible hat to him and offered a humbled "touche".
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Salta pt. 2
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Ten: BT, Chris, and I had to check out of the hostel the morning after the asado to free up our beds, even though we wouldn't be leaving until that night. Such is the usual drill, with us getting up around ten, paying, and then storing our bags for the afternoon. That morning Ryan, having gone out on the town with some of the others from the hostel, came wandering in around seven o'clock. As we were packing up a few hours later, he woke (sort of) and began to babble craziness in mixed Spanish and English, also faking a Southern accent half of the time.
"No te mueves! Don't you move! I'm gonna pay the bills." And so on. We had a good laugh as he kept telling us he was going to sleep, but then continued to rant. Later that day I found him in the kitchen with one of the Fins (a culinary student) who was in our room. The Fin had heard all of his shenanigans and was recounting it to Ryan, who had absolutely no recollection of the event.
We ate the free breakfast at the hostel of bread and jam, coffee and tea, and then headed out to explore some more. We found a small restaurant offering locro, a traditional and hearty corn-based stew that is perfect for cold weather, which we fueled up on before heading towards the giant hill that looms over the city. The main attraction in Salta is the cerro San Bernard and the cable cars that carry you up to the summit. Thus we made it our mission that day to ride up and take many, many photos. Waiting in line we were met by the Swede from the hostel, who joined our sightseeing party for the afternoon. She had the most incredible clear, blue eyes. Eyes that looked like glacier water and that were exactly the same color as the Argentinian flag. Because of this, she was more then once stopped by strangers to have her picture taken with them (ojos claros in South America are a big deal in general.)
We met up with Ryan again after the trip up the hill and the four of us went to eat Argentina's version of empanadas in a cafe off the plaza. Chile apparently got the idea of empanadas from Argentina in the first place, though it isn't hard to figure out how to roll stuff in dough pockets and bake or fry them. I met a Brit one time in San Pedro who claimed that the concept came originally to South America from Wales.
That night, we parted ways with Ryan with plans to meet up again in Mendoza a few days later. Though, in reality, he remained the entire time of the break in Salta. BT, Chris, and I cabbed it to the tiny Salta "international" airport where our flight was delayed almost two hours. When we finally got to leave, the plane itself was half empty and we three each had ample room to stretch out and enjoy the snack boxes provided by the airline. We landed less then two hours later in the light misty drizzle that covered Buenos Aires.
Day Ten: BT, Chris, and I had to check out of the hostel the morning after the asado to free up our beds, even though we wouldn't be leaving until that night. Such is the usual drill, with us getting up around ten, paying, and then storing our bags for the afternoon. That morning Ryan, having gone out on the town with some of the others from the hostel, came wandering in around seven o'clock. As we were packing up a few hours later, he woke (sort of) and began to babble craziness in mixed Spanish and English, also faking a Southern accent half of the time.
"No te mueves! Don't you move! I'm gonna pay the bills." And so on. We had a good laugh as he kept telling us he was going to sleep, but then continued to rant. Later that day I found him in the kitchen with one of the Fins (a culinary student) who was in our room. The Fin had heard all of his shenanigans and was recounting it to Ryan, who had absolutely no recollection of the event.
We ate the free breakfast at the hostel of bread and jam, coffee and tea, and then headed out to explore some more. We found a small restaurant offering locro, a traditional and hearty corn-based stew that is perfect for cold weather, which we fueled up on before heading towards the giant hill that looms over the city. The main attraction in Salta is the cerro San Bernard and the cable cars that carry you up to the summit. Thus we made it our mission that day to ride up and take many, many photos. Waiting in line we were met by the Swede from the hostel, who joined our sightseeing party for the afternoon. She had the most incredible clear, blue eyes. Eyes that looked like glacier water and that were exactly the same color as the Argentinian flag. Because of this, she was more then once stopped by strangers to have her picture taken with them (ojos claros in South America are a big deal in general.)
We met up with Ryan again after the trip up the hill and the four of us went to eat Argentina's version of empanadas in a cafe off the plaza. Chile apparently got the idea of empanadas from Argentina in the first place, though it isn't hard to figure out how to roll stuff in dough pockets and bake or fry them. I met a Brit one time in San Pedro who claimed that the concept came originally to South America from Wales.
That night, we parted ways with Ryan with plans to meet up again in Mendoza a few days later. Though, in reality, he remained the entire time of the break in Salta. BT, Chris, and I cabbed it to the tiny Salta "international" airport where our flight was delayed almost two hours. When we finally got to leave, the plane itself was half empty and we three each had ample room to stretch out and enjoy the snack boxes provided by the airline. We landed less then two hours later in the light misty drizzle that covered Buenos Aires.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Salta pt. 1
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Eight: It is worth noting at this point that Brandon is in possession of the thousands of photos taken during the trip, and as such, I am not able to pretty up these posts in the manner to which I am accustomed. However, rest assured, they will be made evident as soon as possible. Now, moving on...
Our overnight bus from Arica to Calama was the most uncomfortable ride I have yet experienced, partly due to the spoiling we had just received the days before on the excellent Peruvian bus lines. I cannot say much in favor of Pullman Bus in Chile other than it got us where we needed to be. Granted, we left half an hour late and arrived more than an hour late which meant that we three couldn't take a short trip to my house to freshen up. This meant that we were stuck waiting in the Calama terminal, surrounded by dogs (of course) for about forty five minutes in anticipation of our bus, which was again Pullman, to Salta, Argentina.
The bus arrived on time, and we boarded it along with a group of traveling nuns from Mexico. Since I had not slept at all on the previous bus, I promptly passed out. I was awoken an hour and a half later in San Pedro where we debused to pass through a very cursory Chilean immigration checkpoint. They simply stamped our forms and passports, and then put us back on the bus as a dust storm began to kick up around us. Side note: that weekend Calama saw up to 102kmhr winds. The bus continued, and about another hour later we stopped at a Argentinian immigration checkpoint that was literally in the middle of nowhere at the base of the Andes where we were about to attempt the pass. This time, the bus attendant took five people at a time into the little building where it was once again a simple matter of stamp-stamp-go. We never once passed through customs. I then fell back asleep.
I awoke much later once we were already up in the mountains and preparing to head back down on the Argentina side. We had driven right into a snow storm that stayed with us all the way to the first town of Jujuy, and even into Salta itself. The going was slow in the mountains, and as we came down we saw hundreds of people playing, building snow men, having snowball fights, etc. People were even driving around with miniature snowmen on the roofs of their cars. I would come to learn later that it was the first time that the towns of Jujuy and Salta had seen snow in ten years. Everything looked spectacular decked out in white (palm trees covered in snow is an interesting spectacle. As are cati.) I had at times the distinct feeling of having strayed into Christmas.
We made it into Salta shortly after night fall and were able to walk to the hostel from the terminal as snowflakes continued to gently drift in the air. Walking in the front office I immediately spotted Ryan, sitting alone and enjoying a novel. We were shown to the room he was staying in, dropped our gear and, after introductions, Ryan led us back out into the snow to a small sandwich stand serving made to order, delicious, and cheap milanesa (a breaded cut of beef). We got our sandwiches to go and headed back to the hostel to enjoy them and meet our new hostel mates. Later, we ended up going out into the city to experience the Argentine culture which is, among other things, a fantastic mix of European influences and New World sensibility. The highlight of an evening filled with live music was a place called La Casona del Molina, which was a large house in which each room was filled with tables of people eating, drinking, and playing traditional music on guitar and singing. The place had a fantastic atmosphere, but unfortunately for us there was nowhere to sit and we couldn't stay long.
Day Nine: The next morning, BT and Chris were freezing. They lacked the proper attire for the snowy, wet cold. Ryan too wanted some warm socks, gloves, etc. and joking claimed he was going to find an entire suit made out of llama wool, complete with ears. Thankfully, there was a feria nearby selling all sorts of wool garments and such and before long everyone was bundled up properly at the expense of a few pesos (at the time it was approximately four Argentine pesos to one US dollar.) Ryan then led us to the plaza in the city center where we dined at a fine restaurant and BT and I got our first taste of Argentine beef (and pork, and chicken, and blood sausage, and chorizo) in the form of the world famous parrilla style (aka asado, also aka barbeque.) We were to have an asado that night at the hostel, so Ryan and Chris decided to wait on meat. BT and I said bollocks to that, because as we all know, there is no such thing as too much grilled meat.
Salta itself is a beautiful city, retaining much of its colonial architecture, and is populated by incredibly friendly people that speak a beautiful, much easier to understand version of Spanish in comparison to Chile. Everything is, like in Perú, fantastically cheap and the food is delicious and offered up in quantities that would make even the greediest American blush. Even though it was uncharacteristically cold and snowy when we were there, Salta still presented us with its irresistible charms and I was immediately struck by how Calama could be so close, and yet so absolutely opposite.
That night was one of the crowing experiences of our trip. The hostel hosted an asado in which the owner and his friends used their age and parrilla experience to prepare the most fantastic meal of grilled beef that I have ever eaten. We feasted on the finest of meat prepared by hands that had the art of grilling in their blood. Almost every guest in the hostel was there including Fins, Frenchies, Spanairds, a Swede, and plenty of Argentinians from other regions. The drinks of choice were the peculiar liquor fernet combined with coke, and the local beer simply named Salta itself. Fernet must be mentioned as it is a pungent, dark liquor that is part of the massive amount of Italian influence on Argentina. It is extremely popular, and only one brand, Branca, is accepted (though cheaper alternatives can be found, you are socially shunned if caught drinking them. Cheap fernet is also considered bad for your health.) BT, Chris, and I all agreed that it was more or less like drinking diesel fuel spiced with potpourri. The Argentinians must realize this as well, though they don't acknowledge it, because they drown the liquor in at least half a liter of coke per jigger. Once the meal was thoroughly inhaled, and not a morsel left behind to testify to its existence, some Argentinians that Ryan and I had become friendly with broke out a big bag of coca leaves and started in chewing them like cattle on cud (or crackers with fat chews in their cheeks.) They showed us how you are supposed to bite the stem of the leave off, chew it up, and stuff it into your cheek like a hamster. After you have a significant lump of chewed leaves in your mouth, you take a pinch of baking soda and rub it in your cheek. The only discernible effect this has is to turn the inside of your face numb, but supposedly it is supposed to act as a stimulant like nicotine or caffeine, though I slept like a baby that night nevertheless.
Day Eight: It is worth noting at this point that Brandon is in possession of the thousands of photos taken during the trip, and as such, I am not able to pretty up these posts in the manner to which I am accustomed. However, rest assured, they will be made evident as soon as possible. Now, moving on...
Our overnight bus from Arica to Calama was the most uncomfortable ride I have yet experienced, partly due to the spoiling we had just received the days before on the excellent Peruvian bus lines. I cannot say much in favor of Pullman Bus in Chile other than it got us where we needed to be. Granted, we left half an hour late and arrived more than an hour late which meant that we three couldn't take a short trip to my house to freshen up. This meant that we were stuck waiting in the Calama terminal, surrounded by dogs (of course) for about forty five minutes in anticipation of our bus, which was again Pullman, to Salta, Argentina.
The bus arrived on time, and we boarded it along with a group of traveling nuns from Mexico. Since I had not slept at all on the previous bus, I promptly passed out. I was awoken an hour and a half later in San Pedro where we debused to pass through a very cursory Chilean immigration checkpoint. They simply stamped our forms and passports, and then put us back on the bus as a dust storm began to kick up around us. Side note: that weekend Calama saw up to 102kmhr winds. The bus continued, and about another hour later we stopped at a Argentinian immigration checkpoint that was literally in the middle of nowhere at the base of the Andes where we were about to attempt the pass. This time, the bus attendant took five people at a time into the little building where it was once again a simple matter of stamp-stamp-go. We never once passed through customs. I then fell back asleep.
I awoke much later once we were already up in the mountains and preparing to head back down on the Argentina side. We had driven right into a snow storm that stayed with us all the way to the first town of Jujuy, and even into Salta itself. The going was slow in the mountains, and as we came down we saw hundreds of people playing, building snow men, having snowball fights, etc. People were even driving around with miniature snowmen on the roofs of their cars. I would come to learn later that it was the first time that the towns of Jujuy and Salta had seen snow in ten years. Everything looked spectacular decked out in white (palm trees covered in snow is an interesting spectacle. As are cati.) I had at times the distinct feeling of having strayed into Christmas.
We made it into Salta shortly after night fall and were able to walk to the hostel from the terminal as snowflakes continued to gently drift in the air. Walking in the front office I immediately spotted Ryan, sitting alone and enjoying a novel. We were shown to the room he was staying in, dropped our gear and, after introductions, Ryan led us back out into the snow to a small sandwich stand serving made to order, delicious, and cheap milanesa (a breaded cut of beef). We got our sandwiches to go and headed back to the hostel to enjoy them and meet our new hostel mates. Later, we ended up going out into the city to experience the Argentine culture which is, among other things, a fantastic mix of European influences and New World sensibility. The highlight of an evening filled with live music was a place called La Casona del Molina, which was a large house in which each room was filled with tables of people eating, drinking, and playing traditional music on guitar and singing. The place had a fantastic atmosphere, but unfortunately for us there was nowhere to sit and we couldn't stay long.
Day Nine: The next morning, BT and Chris were freezing. They lacked the proper attire for the snowy, wet cold. Ryan too wanted some warm socks, gloves, etc. and joking claimed he was going to find an entire suit made out of llama wool, complete with ears. Thankfully, there was a feria nearby selling all sorts of wool garments and such and before long everyone was bundled up properly at the expense of a few pesos (at the time it was approximately four Argentine pesos to one US dollar.) Ryan then led us to the plaza in the city center where we dined at a fine restaurant and BT and I got our first taste of Argentine beef (and pork, and chicken, and blood sausage, and chorizo) in the form of the world famous parrilla style (aka asado, also aka barbeque.) We were to have an asado that night at the hostel, so Ryan and Chris decided to wait on meat. BT and I said bollocks to that, because as we all know, there is no such thing as too much grilled meat.
Salta itself is a beautiful city, retaining much of its colonial architecture, and is populated by incredibly friendly people that speak a beautiful, much easier to understand version of Spanish in comparison to Chile. Everything is, like in Perú, fantastically cheap and the food is delicious and offered up in quantities that would make even the greediest American blush. Even though it was uncharacteristically cold and snowy when we were there, Salta still presented us with its irresistible charms and I was immediately struck by how Calama could be so close, and yet so absolutely opposite.
That night was one of the crowing experiences of our trip. The hostel hosted an asado in which the owner and his friends used their age and parrilla experience to prepare the most fantastic meal of grilled beef that I have ever eaten. We feasted on the finest of meat prepared by hands that had the art of grilling in their blood. Almost every guest in the hostel was there including Fins, Frenchies, Spanairds, a Swede, and plenty of Argentinians from other regions. The drinks of choice were the peculiar liquor fernet combined with coke, and the local beer simply named Salta itself. Fernet must be mentioned as it is a pungent, dark liquor that is part of the massive amount of Italian influence on Argentina. It is extremely popular, and only one brand, Branca, is accepted (though cheaper alternatives can be found, you are socially shunned if caught drinking them. Cheap fernet is also considered bad for your health.) BT, Chris, and I all agreed that it was more or less like drinking diesel fuel spiced with potpourri. The Argentinians must realize this as well, though they don't acknowledge it, because they drown the liquor in at least half a liter of coke per jigger. Once the meal was thoroughly inhaled, and not a morsel left behind to testify to its existence, some Argentinians that Ryan and I had become friendly with broke out a big bag of coca leaves and started in chewing them like cattle on cud (or crackers with fat chews in their cheeks.) They showed us how you are supposed to bite the stem of the leave off, chew it up, and stuff it into your cheek like a hamster. After you have a significant lump of chewed leaves in your mouth, you take a pinch of baking soda and rub it in your cheek. The only discernible effect this has is to turn the inside of your face numb, but supposedly it is supposed to act as a stimulant like nicotine or caffeine, though I slept like a baby that night nevertheless.
Yanquis in Latin America: Chile- A Brief Encounter
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Seven: It was around 7:45 in the morning in Arequipa and we were boarding a Cruz del Sur bus to head south to Tacna. We had the full cama seats like our trip down from Lima, but we couldn't get them all in a row. Thus I volunteered to sit next to a stranger. The passenger next to me was a young woman, who I could tell immediately was not Peruvian. As I climbed over her into my seat, I told her buenos dias, and got a hear of her accent. Convinced, I ventured further,
"I'm supposing you speak English, so, good morning."
She smiled broadly and replied,
"You are absolutely right, and good morning to you!"
This English speaking woman turned out to be Catherine, a Spanish teacher from New York who had been visiting friends in Arequipa and was, like us, on her way to Salta, Argentina. We chatted for most of the ride to Tacna, which included an onboard game of bus bingo (where the prize is a free return ticket) and by the time we arrived at our destination, she had more or less integrated herself into our travel unit.
To cross the border back into Chile, at Arica, we opted to use a colectivo (taxi with set prices). The train had simply taken too much time before on my way up, and further didn't leave until six Peruvian time (seven in Chilean.) The colectivo driver took our passports and handled all of the paperwork, and the crossing was accomplished very smoothly and rather quickly as well. By around two o'clock, the four of us had stashed our bags at the Arica bus terminal and set out on foot to explore the center and score some grub. As I had just been to Arica a week before, I showed the others around and found us a typical Chilean eatery so that BT and Chris could experience the underwhelming Chilean staples of the completo hotdog (topped with avocado, tomatoes, and mayonnaise) and the french fries piled with meat and fried eggs known as chorillana. Needless to say, coming off a week of delicious, flavorful, spicy Peruvian food and returning to hotdogs and bland empanandas was a little depressing. Thankfully we wouldn't be in Chile long.
While we were eating, I gave Mike the surfer a call because I had heard he was in town. He was indeed in Arica, staying at the same hostel I had been in, and he promptly joined us for lunch. Our party now numbering five, I decided that we should climb the Morro to give everyone the full Arica experience. Thus I trekked up the cliff again, with friends in tow, for more spectacular Pacific views and another disappointingly obscured sunset. Afterward, we climbed back down and waltzed through the palm tree-lined center, grabbing Mcflurries along the way (in Spanish, Señor Flurries) topped with the delicious Chilean chocolate treat known as Sahne Nuss--which is just a Nestlé chocolate bar with almonds in it. We eventually made it back to the hostel where Mike was staying to do some interneting and get ready to leave.
That night, we bid Mike farewell, he having decided to leave Arica the next day and go north into Perú, and BT, Chris, Catherine, and I caught a colectivo back to the bus station. Then the three of us men bid fond farewells to Catherine, who was on a direct bus to Salta. We had a bus overnight to Calama, and then a connection that next morning. It was going to be a long haul.
Day Seven: It was around 7:45 in the morning in Arequipa and we were boarding a Cruz del Sur bus to head south to Tacna. We had the full cama seats like our trip down from Lima, but we couldn't get them all in a row. Thus I volunteered to sit next to a stranger. The passenger next to me was a young woman, who I could tell immediately was not Peruvian. As I climbed over her into my seat, I told her buenos dias, and got a hear of her accent. Convinced, I ventured further,
"I'm supposing you speak English, so, good morning."
She smiled broadly and replied,
"You are absolutely right, and good morning to you!"
This English speaking woman turned out to be Catherine, a Spanish teacher from New York who had been visiting friends in Arequipa and was, like us, on her way to Salta, Argentina. We chatted for most of the ride to Tacna, which included an onboard game of bus bingo (where the prize is a free return ticket) and by the time we arrived at our destination, she had more or less integrated herself into our travel unit.
To cross the border back into Chile, at Arica, we opted to use a colectivo (taxi with set prices). The train had simply taken too much time before on my way up, and further didn't leave until six Peruvian time (seven in Chilean.) The colectivo driver took our passports and handled all of the paperwork, and the crossing was accomplished very smoothly and rather quickly as well. By around two o'clock, the four of us had stashed our bags at the Arica bus terminal and set out on foot to explore the center and score some grub. As I had just been to Arica a week before, I showed the others around and found us a typical Chilean eatery so that BT and Chris could experience the underwhelming Chilean staples of the completo hotdog (topped with avocado, tomatoes, and mayonnaise) and the french fries piled with meat and fried eggs known as chorillana. Needless to say, coming off a week of delicious, flavorful, spicy Peruvian food and returning to hotdogs and bland empanandas was a little depressing. Thankfully we wouldn't be in Chile long.
While we were eating, I gave Mike the surfer a call because I had heard he was in town. He was indeed in Arica, staying at the same hostel I had been in, and he promptly joined us for lunch. Our party now numbering five, I decided that we should climb the Morro to give everyone the full Arica experience. Thus I trekked up the cliff again, with friends in tow, for more spectacular Pacific views and another disappointingly obscured sunset. Afterward, we climbed back down and waltzed through the palm tree-lined center, grabbing Mcflurries along the way (in Spanish, Señor Flurries) topped with the delicious Chilean chocolate treat known as Sahne Nuss--which is just a Nestlé chocolate bar with almonds in it. We eventually made it back to the hostel where Mike was staying to do some interneting and get ready to leave.
That night, we bid Mike farewell, he having decided to leave Arica the next day and go north into Perú, and BT, Chris, Catherine, and I caught a colectivo back to the bus station. Then the three of us men bid fond farewells to Catherine, who was on a direct bus to Salta. We had a bus overnight to Calama, and then a connection that next morning. It was going to be a long haul.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Arequipa
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Five: Traveling overnight is ideal for many reasons, not least of which being that it saves on lodging costs and frees up more time to see new places. Thus, I engineered our trip in South America to have as many overnight travels as possible. Such was the case getting into Arequipa, known as the white city, in southern Perú. Arequipa is one of the largest cities in Perú and is, like Lima, surrounded by desert (the same Andean desert I live in, only with a touch more greenery.) It is known as the white city because it has retained a majority of its colonial structures which are built of white lava rock quarried from the nearby volcanoes.
We arrived early in the morning and were greeted by the owner of the hostel we had booked. He was even holding a little cardboard sign with my name on it. He was Italian, and when I asked him why he was in Perú he simply replied in Spanish, "because I am working at a hostel." He escorted us to the hostel in a taxi, free of charge, and then got us settled in. He was extremely accommodating our entire stay, and the hostel itself was very nice as well. We expressed interest in doing a day tour to Colca Canyon (which is one of the earth's deepest canyons) the next day, and he immediately set us up with a tour guide who took us into the town center and got us booked with his agency. The tour was to start at 3:30 the next morning and conclude that night around six and would eventually turn into the "tour that never ends." However, more on that later.
After booking the tour we found a pollo joint and enjoyed some excellent pollo y papas fritas along with salad and some kind of Peruvian soup. Everything in Perú was so much cheaper than in Chile, it boggled my mind. The US dollar really goes a long way down there. On the way back to the hostel, as we were walking down the street, I suddenly heard my name called out. I looked around in confusion until I spotted Alex waving frantically at me from a cab. We showed him to the hostel and our party became four. Later that evening we went back into the town center so that he could book the tour as well, and then we found a killer little kebab joint for supper, along with a Swedish bar that had nothing to do with Sweden and a fast food place called Johnny Coyote. We passed a coffee shop on the way back to the hostel where I spotted three fellow volunteers form Región Cinco: Corie, Alison, and Lauren. I hadn't seen them since orientation so we spent some time chatting and catching up. They told me that they were waiting on Heather to get there so they could all go together to Cuzco. After a while, we said our goodbyes since we all had to be up before the crack of dawn, and bid Arequipa an early buenos noches. We then retired for our four or so hours of quality rest.
Day Six: It seemed like I had barely closed my eyes before my phone began talking to me (my alarm is a woman speaking in Spanish that tells me its time to get up and then what time it is.) I roused the troops and we threw together our day packs, bundled up against the high altitude cold, and went down to meet the tour bus. The ride to the canyon was simply dreadful. The bus was packed and Chris, Alex, and I had no room to move or stretch out. To top things off, the three hour ride was over the windiest, bumpiest roads known to man. I had an extreme case of motion sickness nearly the entire day, and it is a minor miracle that I didn't vomit. We finally made it to the tiny town in the canyon known as Chivay just as the sun was rising. There we were fed a buffet breakfast of typical Peruvian food, to include plenty of coca leaves to make tea or chew to alleviate altitude sickness, as we were over 4000 meters most of the day. BT and Chris had some pills to take as well, but I was unaffected having been living at around 3000 meters the past few months.
JFM approves of this canyon.The bus finally arrived to pick us up, and we were off again on the way out of the Colca Valley and back to Arequipa. We stopped a few more times to look at llamas or some such, but I slept through that part. I've seen plenty of camelids in my time down here. I did make it a point to get out when we stopped at the highest altitude in the area, at round 4800 meters, because I needed to pee. I was quite breathless by the time I made it back to the van.
When we returned to the hostel we found Peter, the Slovakian, waiting for us. He had arrived that morning from Lima. The five us headed into town where we ran into a mess of other volunteers (Corie, Alison, and Lauren again, as well as Heather, Stacey, and Lisa.) Four of the girls were off to catch a bus to Cuzco, on their way to hike up to Macchu Pichu. Stacey and Lisa had no plans, and so we all went to eat together, ending up at the same kebab place as the night before (it was that good.) Lisa was on her way to Lima to fly home, having finished her four month stint. We all had early mornings again, so we kept the evening short and said our farewells to Lisa and Stacey. Peter was going to go hike in the canyon the next morning, and BT, Chris, and I had a 7:30 bus to Tacna to catch.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Leaving Lima
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
At this point in the story, now that Chris and Brandon have joined me, I am putting the posts under a new subheading entitled Yanquis in Latin America, which is in keeping with the spirit of Chris and I's two past journeys together: A Couple of Yanks in Oz and Yanks Across the Pond.
Day Four: We woke early on Monday, the day after Chris and Brandon had joined me in Lima. We had a fantastic breakfast with eggs, fruit, bread, and real coffee all courtesy of the Inka Frog. Afterward, we checked out and stored our bags before setting forth to explore Miraflores and the nearby pre-Incan ruins known as Huaca Pullaca. The ruins are right smack in the middle of a upscale residential neighborhood, just kind of hanging out. There are many such places in the vast capital city. The Peruvians apparently just ignored them for hundreds of years as Lima grew and only in recent times have they taken to historical preservation. We witnessed this "preservation" process which basically involved little Indian people mucking about with gardening spades and their bare hands. It was all very scientific. Also worth noting is the coke machine that took my fake 5 soles coin and a fake 2 soles coin Chris had picked up as well.
After an informative tour of the old rock pile where they used to sacrifice women to the moon (as you do), I took BT and Chris to the coast and we trekked down a set of treacherous steps to the beach which is made of smooth pebbles. People were surfing, as they had been the day before, but the waves weren't as impressive. The place was covered in sea urchins as well, which you can crack open and eat raw if you feel so inclined (I didn't.) We also visited the Larcomar, which is the giant cliff side, open air mall that overlooks the Pacific. There we had an amazing meal of traditional Peruvian cuisine that was set out in a buffet style, with all sort of delicious, often spicy, things that I cannot remember the names of. They also served us each a Peruvian Pisco Sour (which, if you'll recall, is the national drink of Chile as well). I almost couldn't drink it out of some odd sense of adoptive national pride. I did, though, and didn't taste much of a difference; same ole too sweet, too limey taste.We eventually made it back to the Inka Frog to retrieve our bags and get a cab to the bus station for our overnight journey south to Arequipa. Side note: there is no central bus terminal in Lima. Instead, each company has their own mini-station. The bus we took to Arequipa was with a company called Oltursa, and the ride was by far the best I've yet experienced. For less then forty USD, we got giant cama seats, hot meals, an HD TV, and a very helpful young attendant that BT fell in love with. Suffice to say, leaving Lima was sublime.
Day Three: Lima
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
After passing the night on a bus as it traversed the dry, desert terrain of southern Perú, I arrived in Lima and took a cab to the hotel Chris and I had booked (the Inka Frog). The winter weather in Lima was cool and damp, with perpetually gray, cloud-filled skies. It was still early, around 10 in the morning, and I was concerned that they wouldn't let me check in yet. However, the young man working the desk was very accommodating saying the room would be ready by noon and I could wait if I liked. He was one of the first Peruvians I dealt directly with, and I found that I could understand him infinitely better in Spanish than anyone in Chile. I would come to learn that nearly everyone was easier to understand in Perú versus in Chile.
While the room was being made ready, I set out into the city to get the lay of the land. We were staying in the district of Miraflores, which is the clean, upscale part of Lima. I was blown away to find spectacular seaside shopping plazas, meticulously manicured parks, and no dogs wandering the streets. I even found Dunkin Donuts, with real DD coffee. I bought a cup and tried to pay with some of the change the cab driver had given me. The girl took my 5 soles coin and immediately shook her head, telling me it was fake. I exclaimed surprise and she went on to educate me as to how to tell the difference between the counterfeit and the genuine soles.
After exploring the majestic cliffs that overlook Lima's pebbly beaches and watching the surfers for a while, I went to grab a quick bite to eat and return to the hostel. The final of the world cup was on at 1:30, and I wanted to get showered up and watch it in the hotel room. On the way back, I passed through a park named in honor of JFK and witnessed crowds of people massed in front of a giant screen set to show the final. Groups of Spaniards were going around hugging everyone and singing. By the time I made it back to the Inka Frog, my room was ready and the game was about to start. I showered the bus stink off of me and hunkered down to watch what was an extremely long, and not very impressive match, which Spain won. I was then obligated to go buy bus tickets for the next night and thus headed back out wearing a Spanish T-shirt (it is red and reads España with the bull logo on it.) People were driving around honking and waving Spanish flags, blowing horns, and celebrating all over the city. I got a few shout outs because of my shirt as well.
That night, I was on the laptop when the door opened and in walked Brandon and Chris, fresh from the Lima airport. The trio was together at last, and I welcomed them to the third world with cans of awful Brazilian beer (the only thing on hand). We toasted to our future journey, drank a swig while cringing. We were all hungry, and I took BT and Chris out into the city but the only thing we could find open was a McDonalds. It was disappointing that the first meal we shared together in South America was from an American fast food joint, but it was at least distinctly Peruvian with many tasty, and very spicy pepper sauces to choose from. I tried to pay with my fake coin, and once again the girl caught it immediately. We then returned to the Inka Frog and passed out.
After passing the night on a bus as it traversed the dry, desert terrain of southern Perú, I arrived in Lima and took a cab to the hotel Chris and I had booked (the Inka Frog). The winter weather in Lima was cool and damp, with perpetually gray, cloud-filled skies. It was still early, around 10 in the morning, and I was concerned that they wouldn't let me check in yet. However, the young man working the desk was very accommodating saying the room would be ready by noon and I could wait if I liked. He was one of the first Peruvians I dealt directly with, and I found that I could understand him infinitely better in Spanish than anyone in Chile. I would come to learn that nearly everyone was easier to understand in Perú versus in Chile.
While the room was being made ready, I set out into the city to get the lay of the land. We were staying in the district of Miraflores, which is the clean, upscale part of Lima. I was blown away to find spectacular seaside shopping plazas, meticulously manicured parks, and no dogs wandering the streets. I even found Dunkin Donuts, with real DD coffee. I bought a cup and tried to pay with some of the change the cab driver had given me. The girl took my 5 soles coin and immediately shook her head, telling me it was fake. I exclaimed surprise and she went on to educate me as to how to tell the difference between the counterfeit and the genuine soles.
After exploring the majestic cliffs that overlook Lima's pebbly beaches and watching the surfers for a while, I went to grab a quick bite to eat and return to the hostel. The final of the world cup was on at 1:30, and I wanted to get showered up and watch it in the hotel room. On the way back, I passed through a park named in honor of JFK and witnessed crowds of people massed in front of a giant screen set to show the final. Groups of Spaniards were going around hugging everyone and singing. By the time I made it back to the Inka Frog, my room was ready and the game was about to start. I showered the bus stink off of me and hunkered down to watch what was an extremely long, and not very impressive match, which Spain won. I was then obligated to go buy bus tickets for the next night and thus headed back out wearing a Spanish T-shirt (it is red and reads España with the bull logo on it.) People were driving around honking and waving Spanish flags, blowing horns, and celebrating all over the city. I got a few shout outs because of my shirt as well.
That night, I was on the laptop when the door opened and in walked Brandon and Chris, fresh from the Lima airport. The trio was together at last, and I welcomed them to the third world with cans of awful Brazilian beer (the only thing on hand). We toasted to our future journey, drank a swig while cringing. We were all hungry, and I took BT and Chris out into the city but the only thing we could find open was a McDonalds. It was disappointing that the first meal we shared together in South America was from an American fast food joint, but it was at least distinctly Peruvian with many tasty, and very spicy pepper sauces to choose from. I tried to pay with my fake coin, and once again the girl caught it immediately. We then returned to the Inka Frog and passed out.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Day Two: Tacna to Lima
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Thus, on Day Two: the early morning sun had yet to break through the clouds that hugged the North Chilean coast when I set out to cross into Perú. The Ferrocarril Tacna-Arica was a short walk away from the hostel and after passing through the rather cursory customs/immigration checkpoint in the station, I was packed into the tiny two car train alongside a Chilean family out for a day trip. The ride followed the coast before cutting up and into the desert. We passed corn and cactus farms and rows upon rows of unfinished cement block buildings that I assume were early stages of squatter housing. Then we pulled into the dirty border town of Tacna, Perú.
Thus, on Day Two: the early morning sun had yet to break through the clouds that hugged the North Chilean coast when I set out to cross into Perú. The Ferrocarril Tacna-Arica was a short walk away from the hostel and after passing through the rather cursory customs/immigration checkpoint in the station, I was packed into the tiny two car train alongside a Chilean family out for a day trip. The ride followed the coast before cutting up and into the desert. We passed corn and cactus farms and rows upon rows of unfinished cement block buildings that I assume were early stages of squatter housing. Then we pulled into the dirty border town of Tacna, Perú.
My bus to Lima didn't leave until 1400, and with the hour time difference between Chile and Peru, I was looking at five or so hours to kill. I was able to store my bag for two Peruvian Nuevo Soles (a few cents) at the terminal and then set out on foot into the city. Tacna resembles the Peruvian version of Calama, but with better food and worse traffic. There I was introduced to the incessant honking and insane vehicular antics that would come to mark my time in Perú. At one point, an armored car pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of me and I stopped as two guards brandishing huge revolvers posted up while money was loaded from some business. I decided to let them finish before walking past as they looked ready to blow my head off at the drop of a hat.
In the center, I found cheap book stores, a gorgeous colonial church in the square, and a market with food stalls where I bellied up and ate my first Peruvian meal. I pointed to some sort of ceviche made of chicken, onions, and potatoes and asked for a potion. The woman working the stall asked if I wanted rice with it. I did. She then asked,
"Blanco or verde?"
I thought to myself, green rice? Why not. Everything was delicious, and spicy unlike anything I'd eaten in the last for months of bland Chilean cuisine. I finished up with a Kola Real to cool my palate and then headed out into the plaza to read for a while. Eventually I made it back to the bus terminal where I had to check my bags onto the bus like in an airport (many things about bus travel are quite silly in Perú.) After we boarded the bus, an attendant went down the isle with a small video camera filming every passenger's face. The ride itself was marked by constant stops for drug searches and the like, including one time when they checked only the IDs of only the men onboard. Over all though, I found the bus to be more comfortable then Chilean buses, partly due to the hot meal they served.
In the center, I found cheap book stores, a gorgeous colonial church in the square, and a market with food stalls where I bellied up and ate my first Peruvian meal. I pointed to some sort of ceviche made of chicken, onions, and potatoes and asked for a potion. The woman working the stall asked if I wanted rice with it. I did. She then asked,
"Blanco or verde?"
I thought to myself, green rice? Why not. Everything was delicious, and spicy unlike anything I'd eaten in the last for months of bland Chilean cuisine. I finished up with a Kola Real to cool my palate and then headed out into the plaza to read for a while. Eventually I made it back to the bus terminal where I had to check my bags onto the bus like in an airport (many things about bus travel are quite silly in Perú.) After we boarded the bus, an attendant went down the isle with a small video camera filming every passenger's face. The ride itself was marked by constant stops for drug searches and the like, including one time when they checked only the IDs of only the men onboard. Over all though, I found the bus to be more comfortable then Chilean buses, partly due to the hot meal they served.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Day I - Arica
The bus was not particularly comfortable, because even though it has a fold-down rest for legs and a reclining seat, it is designed for Chileans--in other words, small people (these are called semi-cama, or "half bed" seats. There are cama, or full bed seats that recline all the way back but still lack sufficient leg room.) I have contended with buses since arriving and their distinctly non-gringo design, but it had been months since I'd taken a trip over five hours and I'd forgotten the inherent issues therein. I did manage to sleep though, awaking for a few minutes at every stop, which in my half sleep state seemed to be every ten minutes.
The final time I awoke it was because the bus attendant was moving through the cabin pulling back the curtains, which is the Chilean signal for "we're almost there." I peered out of the window a bit confused because it was pre-dawn dark without. I checked my clock and saw that it was not even seven thirty yet, where I had estimated our arrival at nine. I began to get an uneasy feeling because I had told the hostel I would be arriving between nine and ten, and I know seemingly had two hours to kill in a new city with all of my gear on my person. Side note, in preparation for my journey I made a rather off-hand comment about my back pack size and its inadequacy to my host mom. The next day she magically pulled the perfect sized pack out of the black hole that is the shed out back of the house. I travel now with this pack and my Israeli paratrooper satchel that I use as a day bag. Back to the matter at hand...
I considered a few possibilities, including just sitting in the bus station and waiting, but decided in the end that I would kill time by walking to the hostel from the station instead of taking a taxi, and just see what happened from there. The walk proved to be quite short, which saved me money and gave me a good idea of the layout of the city center. Still, it was only about quarter to eight as I caught sight of the hostel and made my way up, in complete uncertainty. Here is the first of many instances where the Lord chose to demonstrate his faithfulness. Just as I walked up on the hostel, an employee was finishing unlocking the gates that guard the front doors (this is South America after all.) I asked him in Spanish if the place was open and he returned with a question of his own: did I have a reservation? Why, yes, I did. Very good, follow me (I'm paraphrasing). To get to the point of it, the doors to the hostel were literally opened at the very moment I needed them to be.
The employee who had opened the doors fetched the girl who was in charge of the front desk. She had obviously just awakened and, in very excellent Spanish (not at all like the typical mumbly and generally incomprehensible Chilean I'm used too), checked me in and gave me a quick tour of everything before showing me my bed. At one point she asked,
"De donde eres, Chile?"
I chuckled and said, no, the United States. I didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned, for at that point being confused for Chilean was likely due to me being half adorned in hand-me-down clothes belonging to my host-brother and speaking mumbly, incomprehensible Spanish. Later that night, I was sitting in the common area when I heard an Australian accent. I turned around and saw it was the girl, named Andrea. Apparently she was not Chilean, but in fact a Colombian who had grown up in Brisbane, Australia. Further surprising me was the fact that she and her fiance would be starting in my program (Inglés Abre Puertas) later the next month.
It was still early that day, and the sun was not yet out. Thus I decided to shower the bus stink off of me and take a few hours nap. Upon waking, I strolled out into the city to take pictures, eat the always satisfying pollo y papas combo that I almost live off of in travel situations (well, along with some yogurt) and sit on the beach for a while reading. I also managed to buy a ticket for the little two car train that would carry me over the border into Tacna, Perú. That evening for the sunset, I climbed the giant cliff that sits on the edge of the city. El Morro, as it is known, is crowned with an enormous Chilean flag and a statue of Jesus that faces the ocean with outspread arms. The view, needless to say, was spectacular. I retired to bed that evening after chatting with Andrea about what teaching in Chile is like, being sure to make everything sound quite worse than it really is so that she ought to be pleasantly surprised when she does begin her tour down in snowy Patagonia.
The final time I awoke it was because the bus attendant was moving through the cabin pulling back the curtains, which is the Chilean signal for "we're almost there." I peered out of the window a bit confused because it was pre-dawn dark without. I checked my clock and saw that it was not even seven thirty yet, where I had estimated our arrival at nine. I began to get an uneasy feeling because I had told the hostel I would be arriving between nine and ten, and I know seemingly had two hours to kill in a new city with all of my gear on my person. Side note, in preparation for my journey I made a rather off-hand comment about my back pack size and its inadequacy to my host mom. The next day she magically pulled the perfect sized pack out of the black hole that is the shed out back of the house. I travel now with this pack and my Israeli paratrooper satchel that I use as a day bag. Back to the matter at hand...
I considered a few possibilities, including just sitting in the bus station and waiting, but decided in the end that I would kill time by walking to the hostel from the station instead of taking a taxi, and just see what happened from there. The walk proved to be quite short, which saved me money and gave me a good idea of the layout of the city center. Still, it was only about quarter to eight as I caught sight of the hostel and made my way up, in complete uncertainty. Here is the first of many instances where the Lord chose to demonstrate his faithfulness. Just as I walked up on the hostel, an employee was finishing unlocking the gates that guard the front doors (this is South America after all.) I asked him in Spanish if the place was open and he returned with a question of his own: did I have a reservation? Why, yes, I did. Very good, follow me (I'm paraphrasing). To get to the point of it, the doors to the hostel were literally opened at the very moment I needed them to be.
The employee who had opened the doors fetched the girl who was in charge of the front desk. She had obviously just awakened and, in very excellent Spanish (not at all like the typical mumbly and generally incomprehensible Chilean I'm used too), checked me in and gave me a quick tour of everything before showing me my bed. At one point she asked,
"De donde eres, Chile?"
I chuckled and said, no, the United States. I didn't know whether to be flattered or concerned, for at that point being confused for Chilean was likely due to me being half adorned in hand-me-down clothes belonging to my host-brother and speaking mumbly, incomprehensible Spanish. Later that night, I was sitting in the common area when I heard an Australian accent. I turned around and saw it was the girl, named Andrea. Apparently she was not Chilean, but in fact a Colombian who had grown up in Brisbane, Australia. Further surprising me was the fact that she and her fiance would be starting in my program (Inglés Abre Puertas) later the next month.
It was still early that day, and the sun was not yet out. Thus I decided to shower the bus stink off of me and take a few hours nap. Upon waking, I strolled out into the city to take pictures, eat the always satisfying pollo y papas combo that I almost live off of in travel situations (well, along with some yogurt) and sit on the beach for a while reading. I also managed to buy a ticket for the little two car train that would carry me over the border into Tacna, Perú. That evening for the sunset, I climbed the giant cliff that sits on the edge of the city. El Morro, as it is known, is crowned with an enormous Chilean flag and a statue of Jesus that faces the ocean with outspread arms. The view, needless to say, was spectacular. I retired to bed that evening after chatting with Andrea about what teaching in Chile is like, being sure to make everything sound quite worse than it really is so that she ought to be pleasantly surprised when she does begin her tour down in snowy Patagonia.
In Case of Kill or Capture: Vacation Begins
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door. You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."
--Bilbo Baggins
The teaching schedule in Chile is such that I get two weeks off in July for winter vacations, and as such I proclaimed to my best friends and travel companions, Chris Craft and Brandon Thompson, that it was high time they traveled south, and south still for a visit. Along the proposed route would be the countries of Peru, Argentina, and of course, Chile. The situation was thus: both Brandon and Chris would fly into Lima, Peru and I would journey up to meet them. Once united, we would head back south through Peru and into Chile, but only for a moment. Once in Chile, we would cross my backyard and into northern Argentina, and from their head south to Buenos Aires, Mendoza, back into Chile at Santiago, and from there disperse to our respective homes. I did not doubt that there would be many other, smaller reunions with fellow volunteers as we traveled along, since a great many would be in Peru and Argentina over the break as well.
Thus, come Thursday night the 8th of July, I set the plan in motion by boarding an overnight bus to the northern border town of Arica. As I packed to leave, and waited the agonizing hours until my 11:00pm departure, I found that I was uncharacteristically nervous. My stomach was in knots in ways that were reminiscent of my last day before flying to Santiago over three months ago. I paused to consider this and realized that as I headed out that night, it would be my first time traveling solo. Since making international travel a habit some years ago, I have always made it a point to be in company; whether a group or simply tandem, as Chris and I have been doing for going on three years now (you can read about those adventures by clicking the links in the sidebar *wink*). It occurred to me that there was no reason why I should be apprehensive. The Lord would certainly take care of me as he always had, and if all else failed I would simply end up dead which is, first of all, inevitable, and second of all the opportunity to finally meet Jesus in person. That last thought became a little unsettling, as I was sure not ready at the moment to be meeting the creator of the universe, and as such I spent a good deal of time in prayer getting things sorted. Soon enough, it was time to leave and I felt at peace, and was able to smile a bit thinking that most people probably don't start their vacations with a spiritual crisis. Then again, most people don't live in Calama, where such instances are nearly a daily occurrence.
The tales that will follow are best told chronologically and in the form of a day to day journal, and as such I will begin with my arrival in Arica in the next post, and proceed hence, day by day accordingly.
--Bilbo Baggins
The teaching schedule in Chile is such that I get two weeks off in July for winter vacations, and as such I proclaimed to my best friends and travel companions, Chris Craft and Brandon Thompson, that it was high time they traveled south, and south still for a visit. Along the proposed route would be the countries of Peru, Argentina, and of course, Chile. The situation was thus: both Brandon and Chris would fly into Lima, Peru and I would journey up to meet them. Once united, we would head back south through Peru and into Chile, but only for a moment. Once in Chile, we would cross my backyard and into northern Argentina, and from their head south to Buenos Aires, Mendoza, back into Chile at Santiago, and from there disperse to our respective homes. I did not doubt that there would be many other, smaller reunions with fellow volunteers as we traveled along, since a great many would be in Peru and Argentina over the break as well.
Thus, come Thursday night the 8th of July, I set the plan in motion by boarding an overnight bus to the northern border town of Arica. As I packed to leave, and waited the agonizing hours until my 11:00pm departure, I found that I was uncharacteristically nervous. My stomach was in knots in ways that were reminiscent of my last day before flying to Santiago over three months ago. I paused to consider this and realized that as I headed out that night, it would be my first time traveling solo. Since making international travel a habit some years ago, I have always made it a point to be in company; whether a group or simply tandem, as Chris and I have been doing for going on three years now (you can read about those adventures by clicking the links in the sidebar *wink*). It occurred to me that there was no reason why I should be apprehensive. The Lord would certainly take care of me as he always had, and if all else failed I would simply end up dead which is, first of all, inevitable, and second of all the opportunity to finally meet Jesus in person. That last thought became a little unsettling, as I was sure not ready at the moment to be meeting the creator of the universe, and as such I spent a good deal of time in prayer getting things sorted. Soon enough, it was time to leave and I felt at peace, and was able to smile a bit thinking that most people probably don't start their vacations with a spiritual crisis. Then again, most people don't live in Calama, where such instances are nearly a daily occurrence.
The tales that will follow are best told chronologically and in the form of a day to day journal, and as such I will begin with my arrival in Arica in the next post, and proceed hence, day by day accordingly.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Independence Day Abroad
"A man's country is not a certain area of land, of mountains, rivers, and woods, but it is a principle; and patriotism is loyalty to that principle."
--George William Curtis
It had only been a few days since our epic journey to San Pedro, and I had barely gotten back into the flow of waking up, going to class, and dropping English bombs on my captive Chilean audiences when I learned that on Thursday I would be leaving again. The program office in Antofagasta had ordered all of the Región Dos volunteers to a "workshop"on "classroom management." They were reimbursing bus fare and putting us up for the night, since the meeting was at nine in the morning on Friday. I had known about the meeting, but had not heard about getting there until one of the other Calama volunteers, Mary, sent me a message saying she had my bus ticket and that we were heading out at three o'clock. I shrugged, threw some clothes into my backpack (forgetting a towel, once again), and met her at the station. Ryan was meant to be on the bus with us, but he showed up late and ended up taking the next ride. Somehow we still only arrived within ten minutes of each other, then the three of us took a micro to the hostel.
We stayed Thursday night at the Casa de Coldeco, where we had first slept upon our initial arrival in the Norte Grande. We walked in and first thing were offered supper. As we sat eating, Mike and Vanessa arrived from Taltal. We embraced and went back and forth with the obligatory "long time no see" banter, having of course spent the previous weekend together. After we ate, we gave Matt a call. He answered the phone and I jokingly (doing my best Atlanta)
asked,
"Where da party at?"
"You guys want to go to a party?"
"Hah, I'm kidding. It's just a thing they say where I come from."
"Oh, because there is a party."
"Oh...uh, maybe?"
Matt met us at the hostel and, for some reason I'm not certain of, we spent almost an hour watching some horrible MTV reality program where parents choose dates for their children. It was weird. Then we got a call from Camilu (mentioned mentioned in the Taltal post) who was outside to take us somewhere to meet with Monjuith and her friend. She had a colectivo waiting, and even though they are only allowed to take five passengers, agreed to carry all seven of us crammed inside like a clown car. This was also weird.
It was super awkward because Matt is a lanky giant.
We arrived at some bar/club sort of place where Monjuith wasn't actually located, but she showed up later. There we discussed the finer points of Chilean Spanish, as Monjuith is Mexican and, despite being a native Spanish speaker, has had exactly the same problems understanding Chileans most of us have also had. We were more or less set to leave when a man set up shop with a computer and a guitar and started playing American rock classics mixed in with the occasional Spanish pop hit. This prolonged our stay. When we finally left, Matt suggested we walk back because it "wasn't that far." Three miles later, we were in bed with a wake up time four hours ahead of us.
The workshop wasn't as bad as I would have thought, though it wasn't nearly what one could call a useful expenditure of time. I did get to meet many of the new volunteers who had only been in country three weeks. I did my best not to cut up too much, but every time I get into these classroom situations where I'm the student again, I find the urge to clown about almost irresistible. At one point, after a particularly hilarious joke on my part, the girl running the workshop (who is Chilena) came over and put a hand on my shoulder and commented to the group that I was "a very messy boy."
During the meeting there was a huge tsunami drill where the majority of Antofagasta responded to weak sirens by lolly gagging in the roads for half an hour (I'm sure the event was considered a success.)
Afterward, we returned to Casa de Coldelco where we were fed lunch. We then bid farewell to the new girls from Antofa who had come to lunch with us, promising to meet them again the next day for a planned Gringo barbecue to celebrate the 4th of July. Ryan and I spent the afternoon moving our gear to Matt's house, buying return tickets, and then in turn getting those tickets reimbursed at the program office. Then we met back up with Matt, Mike, Mary and Vanessa to go to Monjuith's apartment. She had prepared us a traditional Mexican dish of rice, chicken, and mole. Mole is, for those of you unacquainted, a delicious spicy chocolate sauce. The meal, including Mexican guacamole, chili sauce, and homemade chips, was possibly the most flavorful meal I have eaten in Chile. As the night progressed, Monjuith played a most amazing host by constantly bringing out more and more food to include sauteed mussels with melted cheese on top. I'm convinced that by the time late that night she brought out the tuna, we had nearly eaten everything in the house.
We all stayed at the apartment that night and a most unfortunate incident transpired (pun intended.) As many of you may know, my feet have the ability to smell worse then the devil's own. Well, I fell asleep with my shoes on, knowing their potential lethality. Monjuith, being the good host, must have noticed and removed them. The results were catostrophic. My own stench managed to awake me, and I replaced my shoes but not before forcing nearly everyone in the room to seek lodging in other parts of the apartment--which was all hardwood. At some point, Camilu (who had joined us after dinner) came in spraying perfume, which only made things worse. Mike, who was asleep in the room awoke coughing and crying out,
"What are you doing? Basta! Basta!"
In the morning, Mike and Vanessa left us for Taltal and Ryan, Mary, and I reconvened at Matt's apartment (where I managed to shower) to go to the 4th of July BBQ. I had Matt double check the directions with the girl (Kyle) who was hosting the party, and then we boarded a bus and headed to the south end of the city, which is considerably nicer. Trusting Matt "It isn't that far" Wilson to navigate meant of course we got off at the wrong place and had to wander another half mile up hill with Kyle's directions like,
"Walk until you can't go right anymore, then there are some steps, pass the store and you'll see flags."
The barbecue was great, with real handmade burgers, broccoli salad, ranch dressing to dip fresh vegetables in, brownies, etc. Kyle had really outdone herself. Someone even managed to bring a pack of Budweiser, which no doubt cost the value of a Chilean child. The house was adorned in American flags, with American music playing. Most of the year long volunteers in Antofagasta were there, along with the new six-monthers we had met the day before. Our regional coordinator, who is a former volunteer herself, even came to join in.
Now, Antofagasta, like Calama, possess a giant, gaudy casino in which is located a pricey dance club and at some point it was decided that the entire Gringo procession should relocate to said club. I loathe dance clubs, or discotechs are they are known here, and my only experiences in one were in Taltal, and those were none too positive. However, I had yet to secure lodging for that night and all my perspective hosts were leaving. Thus, I tagged along.
When we got to the casino I went straight to the toilet. When I came out, I found that almost everyone had gone inside the club and paid the hefty seven mil peso entrance fee (roughly 14 USD). Even if I had been willing to pay, I didn't have the funds. Thankfully, I wasn't the only sane (or simply broke) one. One of the six-monthers and my new friend, Lorna, a Brit from Oxfordshire, said she had a friend from the British Consulate (or something like that) who was having a going away party somewhere else that we could go check out. I agreed, and off we went. Her friend didn't have a phone and we might have already missed the party, but either way I was welcome to stay at her place that night. Mission accomplished.
I once again had a very limited night of sleep, which proved the last straw for my poor body, which had been staving off a cold since San Pedro. I awoke Sunday with an intense pain in my ear that lasted into the early afternoon. The following days would find me suffering from congestion and a head that felt as though someone had stuck a tire pump in my ear and gone to town. Sunday morning, the 4th itself, saw me awaking in the enemies camp. However, I was provided breakfast, during which Lorna and I discussed the peculiarities of American English vs. British ("jumper"as a single piece outfit for young girls as opposed to a "sweater.") Eventually, we parted ways as she left to attend lunch with her host mom's family and I went back to Matt's, where Ryan had spent the night. I learned that Mary had already made her return to Calama, and Ryan and I decided to follow suite that afternoon. Matt offered to get us on the right micro, and we foolishly allowed him.
"Here, take this one!" He called, as the 111 drew near. We shook hands and then hopped aboard. Within minutes I turned to Ryan and mused,
"I feel like we are heading in the wrong direction." Just then, Matt called and confirmed that he had indeed put us on the wrong bus. Thus Ryan and I spent a good hour riding in the back of the mirco as it ran it's entire southbound route, stopped for ten minutes for the driver to get out and have a snack, and then turn around and head back North towards the bus terminal.
*NOTE: Photos courtesy of Mary Scallion and Julia Bardach
--George William Curtis
It had only been a few days since our epic journey to San Pedro, and I had barely gotten back into the flow of waking up, going to class, and dropping English bombs on my captive Chilean audiences when I learned that on Thursday I would be leaving again. The program office in Antofagasta had ordered all of the Región Dos volunteers to a "workshop"on "classroom management." They were reimbursing bus fare and putting us up for the night, since the meeting was at nine in the morning on Friday. I had known about the meeting, but had not heard about getting there until one of the other Calama volunteers, Mary, sent me a message saying she had my bus ticket and that we were heading out at three o'clock. I shrugged, threw some clothes into my backpack (forgetting a towel, once again), and met her at the station. Ryan was meant to be on the bus with us, but he showed up late and ended up taking the next ride. Somehow we still only arrived within ten minutes of each other, then the three of us took a micro to the hostel.
We stayed Thursday night at the Casa de Coldeco, where we had first slept upon our initial arrival in the Norte Grande. We walked in and first thing were offered supper. As we sat eating, Mike and Vanessa arrived from Taltal. We embraced and went back and forth with the obligatory "long time no see" banter, having of course spent the previous weekend together. After we ate, we gave Matt a call. He answered the phone and I jokingly (doing my best Atlanta)
asked,
"Where da party at?"
"You guys want to go to a party?"
"Hah, I'm kidding. It's just a thing they say where I come from."
"Oh, because there is a party."
"Oh...uh, maybe?"
Matt met us at the hostel and, for some reason I'm not certain of, we spent almost an hour watching some horrible MTV reality program where parents choose dates for their children. It was weird. Then we got a call from Camilu (mentioned mentioned in the Taltal post) who was outside to take us somewhere to meet with Monjuith and her friend. She had a colectivo waiting, and even though they are only allowed to take five passengers, agreed to carry all seven of us crammed inside like a clown car. This was also weird.
It was super awkward because Matt is a lanky giant.The workshop wasn't as bad as I would have thought, though it wasn't nearly what one could call a useful expenditure of time. I did get to meet many of the new volunteers who had only been in country three weeks. I did my best not to cut up too much, but every time I get into these classroom situations where I'm the student again, I find the urge to clown about almost irresistible. At one point, after a particularly hilarious joke on my part, the girl running the workshop (who is Chilena) came over and put a hand on my shoulder and commented to the group that I was "a very messy boy."
During the meeting there was a huge tsunami drill where the majority of Antofagasta responded to weak sirens by lolly gagging in the roads for half an hour (I'm sure the event was considered a success.)
Afterward, we returned to Casa de Coldelco where we were fed lunch. We then bid farewell to the new girls from Antofa who had come to lunch with us, promising to meet them again the next day for a planned Gringo barbecue to celebrate the 4th of July. Ryan and I spent the afternoon moving our gear to Matt's house, buying return tickets, and then in turn getting those tickets reimbursed at the program office. Then we met back up with Matt, Mike, Mary and Vanessa to go to Monjuith's apartment. She had prepared us a traditional Mexican dish of rice, chicken, and mole. Mole is, for those of you unacquainted, a delicious spicy chocolate sauce. The meal, including Mexican guacamole, chili sauce, and homemade chips, was possibly the most flavorful meal I have eaten in Chile. As the night progressed, Monjuith played a most amazing host by constantly bringing out more and more food to include sauteed mussels with melted cheese on top. I'm convinced that by the time late that night she brought out the tuna, we had nearly eaten everything in the house.
We all stayed at the apartment that night and a most unfortunate incident transpired (pun intended.) As many of you may know, my feet have the ability to smell worse then the devil's own. Well, I fell asleep with my shoes on, knowing their potential lethality. Monjuith, being the good host, must have noticed and removed them. The results were catostrophic. My own stench managed to awake me, and I replaced my shoes but not before forcing nearly everyone in the room to seek lodging in other parts of the apartment--which was all hardwood. At some point, Camilu (who had joined us after dinner) came in spraying perfume, which only made things worse. Mike, who was asleep in the room awoke coughing and crying out,
"What are you doing? Basta! Basta!"
In the morning, Mike and Vanessa left us for Taltal and Ryan, Mary, and I reconvened at Matt's apartment (where I managed to shower) to go to the 4th of July BBQ. I had Matt double check the directions with the girl (Kyle) who was hosting the party, and then we boarded a bus and headed to the south end of the city, which is considerably nicer. Trusting Matt "It isn't that far" Wilson to navigate meant of course we got off at the wrong place and had to wander another half mile up hill with Kyle's directions like,
"Walk until you can't go right anymore, then there are some steps, pass the store and you'll see flags."
The barbecue was great, with real handmade burgers, broccoli salad, ranch dressing to dip fresh vegetables in, brownies, etc. Kyle had really outdone herself. Someone even managed to bring a pack of Budweiser, which no doubt cost the value of a Chilean child. The house was adorned in American flags, with American music playing. Most of the year long volunteers in Antofagasta were there, along with the new six-monthers we had met the day before. Our regional coordinator, who is a former volunteer herself, even came to join in.Now, Antofagasta, like Calama, possess a giant, gaudy casino in which is located a pricey dance club and at some point it was decided that the entire Gringo procession should relocate to said club. I loathe dance clubs, or discotechs are they are known here, and my only experiences in one were in Taltal, and those were none too positive. However, I had yet to secure lodging for that night and all my perspective hosts were leaving. Thus, I tagged along.
When we got to the casino I went straight to the toilet. When I came out, I found that almost everyone had gone inside the club and paid the hefty seven mil peso entrance fee (roughly 14 USD). Even if I had been willing to pay, I didn't have the funds. Thankfully, I wasn't the only sane (or simply broke) one. One of the six-monthers and my new friend, Lorna, a Brit from Oxfordshire, said she had a friend from the British Consulate (or something like that) who was having a going away party somewhere else that we could go check out. I agreed, and off we went. Her friend didn't have a phone and we might have already missed the party, but either way I was welcome to stay at her place that night. Mission accomplished.
I once again had a very limited night of sleep, which proved the last straw for my poor body, which had been staving off a cold since San Pedro. I awoke Sunday with an intense pain in my ear that lasted into the early afternoon. The following days would find me suffering from congestion and a head that felt as though someone had stuck a tire pump in my ear and gone to town. Sunday morning, the 4th itself, saw me awaking in the enemies camp. However, I was provided breakfast, during which Lorna and I discussed the peculiarities of American English vs. British ("jumper"as a single piece outfit for young girls as opposed to a "sweater.") Eventually, we parted ways as she left to attend lunch with her host mom's family and I went back to Matt's, where Ryan had spent the night. I learned that Mary had already made her return to Calama, and Ryan and I decided to follow suite that afternoon. Matt offered to get us on the right micro, and we foolishly allowed him."Here, take this one!" He called, as the 111 drew near. We shook hands and then hopped aboard. Within minutes I turned to Ryan and mused,
"I feel like we are heading in the wrong direction." Just then, Matt called and confirmed that he had indeed put us on the wrong bus. Thus Ryan and I spent a good hour riding in the back of the mirco as it ran it's entire southbound route, stopped for ten minutes for the driver to get out and have a snack, and then turn around and head back North towards the bus terminal.
*NOTE: Photos courtesy of Mary Scallion and Julia Bardach
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