I Am Homesick

A little on Lima...

The last post ended with an optimistic muse about the fact that we would probably be winding our way through the Andes, taking our time in colonial towns while sipping on coca tea and petting llamas. All this would be en route to Lima, our last destination that really only existed on our itinerary as a means of getting the heck back home. Lima has a reputation for several things: fog, muggings, and dirtiness. In this light, almost all of the plans that we made for our time in Peru gave us little time in the capital. Josh was especially ruthless, insisting at some points that we really only needed to spend one night here. I was hardly a champion of the city, especially in comparison with Jewels of the Andes like Lake Titicaca orHuancavelica.

The problem, of course, is that these "jewels" are filled with irrate bus employees who leave boulders on the roads for a song. The other problem is that while coastal roads such as the Panamerican Highway are relatively modern, the mountain and jungle roads of the interior are sorely underequiped (for a 60 page paper on the reasons for lack of foreign investment in Andean region infrastructure, please email). Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Josh and I are homesick beyond all get out. We are sick of bus rides (although our last one was pretttty sweet), sick of andean panpipes, and sick of unidentifiable meat. We miss English. With all this in mind, we are in Lima, and having bypassed the mountains by taking the coastal roads.

All the things to talk about! We saw the bones of Francisco Pizzaro and an exhibit on the Shining Path. Josh took pictures of urns with their genitalia sticking out so that he can tag friends on facebook with them (very mature). We rode everywhere in tiny buses where guys hang out the door and scream at you where the bus goes (this has been my favorite thing we've done in Lima). We've made local internet cafes' quarterly profits soar. Last night I won $70 gambling.

Yup, Lima is boring, but it's comfortable. There are tons of things around that are allowing us to pretend like we're home already. On our first day, we went to Burger King and KFC. The next day, we went to Pizza Hut and Burger King. Today, we went to KFC and got chocolate chip cookies. We saw Harry Potter in English, and today we're seeing Transformers. We've been in a mall for much of the day.

To say that we're approaching this city with the same energy that we've had in others would be a bit of a lie.

... and a little self reflection.

I have to admit something. I have always had two somewhat conflicting "dreams," if you will, for my life. The first dream was that of the builder, thinker, and doer, somebody with ambition and passion who finds a path and makes goals for himself. This provided the impetus behind a fairly successful educational experience, a driven career search, and the pursuit of meaningful post-graduate experience. The second dream was that of the adventurer, living by spontaneity and pursuing experience and broad knowledge of the world. This has provided the motivation for my love of travel and the outdoors.

In many respects, the first pursuit has been stronger than the second for a long time. It's what drove me from the comfort of a Pacific coast dream lifestyle to a more focused life among more focused people in the marsh called Washington, DC. It's what has pushed me toward pursuing economics and business over less concrete pretensions toward writing.

Going on this trip was a decision to embrace the second dream for a few months. It's been an unequivocally terrific experience, and I've seen and done things that I will not only remember, but cherish for the rest of my life. It's funny though. Even in the midst of the greatest adventures, I still find myself restless. I'm dying to get back to DC and go back to work, reimmerse myself in issues and start forming a career in which I can have a major voice. Josh has had to deal with an unexpected onslought of heated political conversation over the last month (although he's quite equipped to handle that).

People who advised me against this trip insisted that I make a seamless transition to full-time work right after graduation. They were wrong. If I am going to be successful in my pursuits, I don't want to be bogged down with regrets. That said, the life of the backpacker, moving through the channels of the world without purpose, watching and living without ambition, is not for me. Does that mean I no longer want to see the world, or will never need a vacation again? Not at all. It simply means that I am ready to continue with a purpose-filled life.

In the short term

When I go back to Washington (state, that is) for two weeks, I am going to take some time to sit on the grass in my backyard with a bowl of cherries and a tall glass of lemonade.

I will also eat Cheerios.

This will hopefully not be the last post, as I want to do some kind of recap. I promise the last one will be less sappy!

A Sad Story

The following post is a bit of a ramble, and I apologize.

As many of you who have followed our blogs know, Josh and I had plans to go to the jungle. Admitedly, this had been a slightly poorly planned excursion, and while our tickets fit perfectly into our logistical plans (a trip from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado to Lima), it turned out that the cost of staying in any of the rainforest lodges was prohibitively expensive. We had therefore resigned ourselves to several days listing on the side of the Amazon tributary, trying to find ways to get into the deep jungle without paying an arm and a leg. It was doable, but neither of us were particularly pumped within a few days of the actual time of departure.

That said, the real value added to these tickets was the flight to Lima, which would eliminate any additional overland travel, which can be fairly expensive if you include the cost of bus fare, food costs, the opportunity cost of time spent, and lodging. We were therefore determined to make our flight in Cusco. As I mentioned in our last post, this required overcoming a major strike of the stone throwing/fire blockading variety. No bus was leaving the city of Puno for Cusco that night, only for Arequipa (probably because the police in Arequipa, a town that has started basically every military coup in Peruvian history, cracked some skulls).

Luckily, an employee from a hotel that we had stayed at several nights ago made it his personal mission to make sure that we made our Cusco flight. He found us an agent (who, if in a cartoon, would certainly have dollar signs in his eyes) who was organizing a car full of people that was going to take local roads out of the city and make it to Cusco. The cost? A paltry $300 ($50 per person), a price which rose with each person who was part of the package. To give you a comparison, a bus ticket to the same destination would regularly cost $8. This deal was shady and a big rip off, but we both placed trust in our hotel operator and the family of Peruvian-born Swiss who were also trying to get to Cusco. The $50 was worth it to us, but not to the family apparently, and after much waffling, it became clear that enthusiasm for the car idea was faltering across the board.

Meanwhile, another option began to surface. Apparently we could take a bus into the jungle, and while it would take 12 hours, it would get us to Puerto Maldonado in time to spend three days there and still catch our flight to Lima. This plan gained traction for both of us, and while we felt bad for leaving the family in the lurch, their inaction on the car and the later time of their flight made us a little less sympathetic. Around 9 pm, we cast our chips with the jungle bus plan.

Our hotel operator told us that while we couldn't get a room at his place due to a huge presence of Argentines wanting to escape in the opposite direction, we could stay at another, nicer hotel nearby for the price of a room at the original. This apparently was part of an informal IOU network that is prevalent throughout Peru, a terrific system that has regularly allowed us receive small change, catch boats, and procure other extra services that we would not ordinarily be afforded in another incomplete economy (I'm looking at you, Argentina).

Both of us were exhausted, especially me, who had just undergone perhaps one of the most rigorous tests of Spanish in my life. With one final effort, however, I forced myself to complete one final errand while Josh got a bite to eat (and a much needed drink). A small doubt in the back of my head had began to materialize. What if LAN Airlines, our carrier to the jungle and back to Lima, gave up our tickets if we didn't make the first flight? The risk of that, while minute, was worth the effort of a call to inform them of our new plans.

If you hadn't caught the heavy premonition of failure early on, by now I expect that you know where this is going. LAN, while a terrific company in terms of service and overseas travel, apparently sold us our promotional fare under the condition that we make both flights. Lack of attendance at our first flight would result in a cancellation of the entire reservation. "But what if we were in fact at the Puerto Maldonado airport in time to catch our return flight?" "Sorry Sir, the policy is strict." "What if the company knew this to be the case and we owned those seats to Lima, damnit?" "Sorry, it is not my policy." "What if there is a nation-wide strike which prohibits movement by any other means throughout the country?" "Sorry, there's nothing I can do for you. There is no supervisor here tonight."

This lasted for several minutes. I hung up, told Josh the bad news, and returned and tried again. I was so livid that I was sick. The next conversation lasted for twenty minutes. Finally, I apologized to the poor woman on the other end. This, after all, was not her fault. It was the fault of a company determined to follow a strict, legalistic, and frigid capitalistic model in the midst of a country which follows Latin time and willingly shuts down the rest of the economy on a whim. In other words, we had been stabbed from behind. We had gamed the Random, had "embraced the chaos" as a friend of mine puts it, but had been totally screwed by the rigidity of modern enterprise. For anybody who knows Bob Shepherd, professor of Cultural Anthropology at GW, they know that he would be saying "I told you so."

All that aside, three days ago we were having a terrific time on the shore of Lake Titicaca. In two days, we will likely be exploring a beautiful, colonial town in the midst of the Andes on our slow road up to Lima. Travelling is a blast, except when it's painful, and it's a rush, except when it drags on late into the night in a Peruvian bus station. Even at the worst part of this trip, I have been taken aback by the pure decency of every single Peruvian I have met in the last few days. It's not just hospitality, but a desire to see things through, even if it means helping a couple of foreigners get to the next destination, however possible. I'm a major skeptic, and I've tried to be aware of all ways that we were being milked or scammed or whatever, but I simply cannot see our interactions with the people of Puno as anything other than kindness and purity.

Excursions

We've been using Cusco as a base for excursions around the south of Peru. Here are a few snippets from recent days:

The Sacred Valley

Our trip into the Sacred Valley began with a few hour stop in Ollantaytambo, which is about an hour and a half by collectivo (shared taxi) outside of Cusco. Ollantaytambo is a town that is in the midst of the Sacred Valley, with massive, dry mountains on each side. It's famous for a fort made up of the perfect Inca masonry, with massive stone terraces and impossibly steep staircases. Apparently it was the sight of a battle in which the Inca actually repelled the Spanish successfully at one point (although they lost the second time). Frankly, it's amazing that the Spanish were able to take any of these forts at all. Looking at the sheer impressiveness of the defensive architecture, I can't help but feel that the Inca, while terrific builders, were miserable tacticians.

That night we made it into Aguas Calientes, which is a weird tourist town that serves only one function: extract money from tourists that want to be the first ones into Machu Picchu. I have nothing really to say about this town, other than that I took the coldest shower of the trip in our fleebag hostel. We went to sleep at 8:30 pm, and got up at 3:30 am hoping to be amongst the first in line for entrance to the city.

How wrong we were! Arriving around 4:15, we saw that 100 people or so had beaten us to the bus terminal. Through some logistical masterwork, however, we managed to get ourselves on the third bus up (leaving at 5:30). The bus was itself a surreal experience, as we ascended through the dark, cloud covered shapes of rainforrested mountains. Arriving at the entrance to Machu Picchu, we waited in another line before finally being let in.

Our first experience with Machu Picchu was not one of breathlessness or contemplation, but one of almost comical haste. Among the midst and darkness of the early morning, we ended up in a mad dash for the end of the ruins where the first 400 people were able to get tickets to climb the Wayna Picchu (the big, iconic peak in the back of all the post cards). We didn't know if it was worth it, but sheep mentality drove us there. Getting our tickets (we were numbers 232 and 233), we made our way slowly back to a location where we had heard was a great place to watch the sun rise.

I have to admit, at this point, that Machu Picchu has never really held the appeal for me that other great sights, such as the Roman Forum or the Forbidden City, have had. The reason for this is because I have a natural distrust of the NGO types who go to South America and rave in pluralistic fashion about the achievements of the ancient natives. People who tell me that the pyramids in Mexico rival the pyramids in Egypt are, in my opinion, anti-Western do-gooders who ought to find a shack to live in somewhere. In this spirit, I refuse to gush about Machu Picchu (just in case there are readers out there who share my "imperialistic" worldview). That said, I can simply say that Machu Picchu may be the most beautiful, amazing, terrific man-made thing that I have ever seen. Do yourself a favor and go there.

Lake Titicaca

After a few more days in Cusco, we made a dash to the town of Puno where we ate, checked our internet briefly (we wanted to post at this point, but everybody closed down on account of a parade), and went back to our hotel (yes, a hotel) where we watched Gladiator on Direct TV. That was a great night.

The next morning we got on a boat that had been arranged for us and six or seven other Americans, as we were all going to a "lodge" on an island in the middle of Lake Titicaca. This was a terrific day. We stopped at man- and woman-made (and I have to stress the role of women, because they really work their asses in this country. They are both bigger than the men here, and they do more work. They also wear bigger hats (bowler hats that they inherited from the English (who ran the Peruvian economy for a large part of the early 20th century in exchange for $50 million dollars)) and carry huge bags on their backs. Once, while on a bus from Cusco to Puno, we saw a lady come onto the bus with one of these bags, only to pull out a huge chunk of unidentifiable meat. She immediately began hacking at this meat with a huge butcher's knife, handing out chunks to people who apparently understood the system better than we did) islands, made out edible reeds. Sorry about that parenthetical.

The highlight, however, was the island Amantani itself. Our first afternoon, we walked to the top of the island, our highest elevation yet at around 4200 meters (close to 13000 feet). On one side of the island we saw beautiful Bolivian Andes with their white peaks just coming out of the water, proof of our high place in the world. On the other side the island sloped downward, and as the sun set it really did appear that the terraced earth was being covered in pure gold. Josh and I got some weak coffee and some fried dough and just enjoyed the view. The island had very little in the way of electricity, and although it made for a dark walk home, the stars were second to none. Best of all, we actually used the Southern Cross to guide us home, something we've been wanting to do for a while.

The next day was quite different. I woke up feeling sick to my stomach and slightly feverish, and I still don't know what it was that hit me. The sky outside was cloudy, and although this made for a dramatic view of the lake, the mixture of hail, freezing cold, my infirmity, and general laziness made us both into great sloths. I think I spent about 7 hours that day in my bed reading, sleeping, or moaning, and Josh was hardly more productive, playing solitaire or doing Blackjack "research" for hours on end.

While the day can only be described as blank, the evening brought bad tidings. Apparently the transportation workers of Peru would be on strike only for the next day, which was the day we needed to get back to Cusco in order to catch our flight into the jungle. A strike, like the kind where teamsters sit on the curb under umbrellas and drink beer out of coolers? Nope. We're talking blockades with boulders and fire on the freeway and rock throwing and bus boarding.

While we were able to catch a local boat back into Puno this morning, getting us into the city much earlier than other tourists in Amantani, we have had a difficult time trying to find transportation out of the city. Hitchhiking, private cars, trains, and other means of transportation are out of the question, at least until the blockades let up. There is no airport in Puno, only in the town of Juliaca which is a good 30 miles away. There are rumors that the strike will let up tonight, but the best we hear from anybody is "maybe."

We'd both like to get to the jungle, and we're quite hopeful about being able to get to Cusco by the time our plane leaves tomorrow. That said, we're both quite cranky at the moment. A union skeptic at the best of times, I have never been so angry at organized labor in my entire life. The streets in Puno are full of people languishing, and it's almost as if I can see economic decline before my eyes. All of that aside, I have to say that this is a perfect example of The Random that I mentioned in my Salta post. Every path in this continent has its unexpected obstacles. Wish us luck!

On the Market

Peru is cheap, and yet...I have to admit that I feel a little bit like Mr. Potter from It's a Wonderful Life here. Yesterday, while trying to sit in a little sun on the steps of the Cathedral, we were approached by about 16 people trying to sell everything from finger puppets to cigarettes to shoe shines. I tried to be polite at first ("No, Gracias" or "No lo necesito, pero gracias"), but this eventually evolved into me growling "No!" to miniscule little girls trying to sell tiny paintings of llamas. At one point a do-gooding couple of white NGOers came up to me to ask if I wanted to participate in a charity benefit for poor Peruvian children that night. Upon hearing my obvious answer, they bleated "Don't you care about the children?" I was pretty fed up by this point, so I told them that actually we had just been talking about this, and that I couldn't care less. "But he does," I said, pointing to Josh, who had to dispense with them using more conventional means.

The truth is, I do care about children. It sucks that their parents or elders or whoever is pushing them out on the streets. After we were done sitting, I mumbled something or other to Josh about how I cannot support an inefficient economy where people throw themselves at tourists with funny hats in the hope of extracting a few measly soles. Why don't they get jobs, for heaven's sake. I think my rant eventually started trailing into the Ebenezer Scrooge School of Economics ("are there no prisons? are there no workhouses?"), which is I think the moment where Josh changed the subject. Since then, I've taken a deep breath and have realized that, like it or not, my money is a big part of people's livlihoods, and people want my business. Economically speaking, this country simply doesn't have a big enough domestic consumption market yet to fully provide for its population, which explains why its people like tourists and free trade agreements. There's nothing personal about it, and like other unwanted business, the best I can do is try to be polite and move on my merry way.

That said, Josh and I made our way into the belly of the beast today. Fed up by a recent glance at one of my bank statements, I demanded that we go in search of cheap food, and so we made our way to the Cusco Mercado Central. A glance inside the dark interior revealed very little except a few panchos hanging and a guy eating a bowl of chicken. Unfamiliar smells and muffled sounds made their way onto the street, and I think we both secretly considered ditching the idea in favor of a windowed cafe with a Menu del Dia. In the end, however, our empty stomachs and curiosity got the better of us, and we dodged our way inside.

We found ourselves on a small path, weaving through tapestries, scarves, and wooly hats within an uncertain amount of internal, musty space. It wasn't until 50 meters or more that we reached a point where we could see beyond what was right in front of us, and we realized that we were in just a small corner of a massive grid of walkways and indoor streets. This was not a laissez faire free-for-all, but a loosely organized city of vendors selling every kind of Andean good imaginable. From the midst of the woven goods section, we looked out onto aisles of fruit, counters of red meat and cheeses, small villages of every kind of spice.

Based on a previous bad experience in a fish market in Santiago, we made an unspoken pact to not stop until we had reached our destination, for fear of provoking an impromptu swarm of solicitations. The fact that our destination (food, preferably prepared) remained nebulous was a side thought as we moved with momentum through the stalls. Luckilly for us, the vendors seemed to be largely indifferent to (or perhaps taken unawares by) our presence, as we had invaded local territory and were therefore shopping amongst Cusquenos looking for a bargain.

Making our way through canyons of local goods (not an exaggeration, as everything reached almost to the ceiling), we passed towers of stacked, unwrapped chocolate sold by happy, round-faced women and medicine shops where traditional remedies were being prescribed to women in business suits. My personal favorites were the tiny old ladies who conducted business from within small mountains of seasonings and spices, so deeply insulated within their bags of product that you could only see them from the arms up. I wanted to ask them how they got in there, and how they got out, and how did people reach them in order to give them money? These questions remain unanswered, as shortly thereafter we discovered what we had been searching for: cheap food that smelled good.

Of course, our problems were not immediately solved. The magnitude and variety that characterized the rest of the market did not end at the food court. To call it a "food court" might be misleading, as there was no courtyard but aisle upon aisle of food, with only narrow passageways between them. In many ways, the place reminded me of a (delicious) battlefield, where armies of food preparers fought a war amidst steam and knives and high gas flames. An officer corps of old crones held court amidst this chaos, simultaneously yelling their famous dish to passers-by and directing an underclass of obedient husbands and younger crones-in-training. To navigate this selling yard, you had to scoot by locals shoveling mounds of mouthwatering chicken, fish, eggs, and vegetables (often all together) into their faces at indecent speeds. Needless to say, Josh and I kept up our nervous walk.

All journeys come to an end, however, and we eventually came to a spot where Josh could sit on one bench within the domain of the hen cooking army, while I could sit right beside him across an invisible frontier within the Ceviche maker's territory. Despite our proximity, our experiences could not have differed any more. I asked for the Ceviche Mixto, and was presented by my lady in green with a plate of delicious, tangy fish and fresh vegetables on a pile of rice and corn-nuts. I made short work of this masterpiece, stopping only to ask for a Coke from the old hubby cutting peppers in front of me. With a clean plate, I declared to this couple that my first Ceviche in Peru was in fact muy rico, a comment that was met with broad smiles. For the first time since the plate had hit the counter, I leaned over to Josh, partly to share my joy with him and partly to get some money.

It was at this point that I realized that he had been trying to get my attention for some time, as he was undergoing a small panic. I had vaguely been aware of his lady pointing frustratedly at pieces of chicken earlier, but I had ignored it in favor of my fish. What I saw was the aftermath of what can only be described as epic (yes, this word is overused in both of our blogs, but this applies) miscommunication. Josh had apparently been given a half-full bowl of broth with a few noodles in it along with a bigger bowl filled with vegetables that hid from view the leg of a hen. The coversation with the hostess had degenerated from a pleasant, confident ordering experience into mass confusion into sour looks exchanged by both parties. By the time my attention had shifted to the matter, Josh had put his bird in the soup and taken it out again, leaving a soggy piece of poultry that had been picked at pitifully. Floating at the top of his soup were a handful of sad looking vegetables that really hadn't deserved the fate handed to them. I looked at him helplessly, and we both agreed that the best thing to do was to pay and skulk away in shame.

There was no question about it: Josh had not had a sufficient lunch. In this spirit, he had a second lunch where the oldest crone we had seen demanded that we not buy the most expensive meal (that one being $2) but instead go for the menu. I sat down with him, and although I did not say a word I was given everything that Josh was given, which ended up being soup, rice, potatoes, a small salad, and a pork chop (all for a dollar).

Two lunches is a lot even for our standards, but if this wasn't enough, Josh also thought we might go for one of these banana milk shake things we've been enjoying. We made our way back to the land of fruit, and I made a fatal error: I stopped to see if I could read the price. Almost immediately, five or six women from different identical stands began screaming at us. From their elevated positions amidst every kind of fruit, and based on the tenor of their voice, I actually felt like we were in some kind of tropical bird sanctuary. We swiftly sat down at the first booth, and were proudly handed heaven in a glass, a combination of fresh fruit and milk that the woman assured would make us strong. With full stomachs we prepared to pay, but she shook her head and refilled our glasses from the pitchers (twice).

We left the market, our heads dazed by the sunlight and our stomachs full to the point of near discomfort. For two lunches and essentially three milkshakes, I had paid a total of 12 soles, or $4. With this lesson in Peruvian capitalism, I have been in a fantastic mood for the rest of the day.

Two Days in the White City

Arequipa - Cusco

We arrived this morning in Cusco around 530 am, and our hostel insisted on picking us up from the bus terminal. Initially, I thought this was a nice, if unusual, service used to edge the hostel ahead of fierce local competition. Halfway through the drive, however, I realized that it was a necessity. Cusco is a maze of impossibly miniscule streets moving through the hills, and without a local to carry us to our hostel, we would have been two lost gringos, angrily looking through our maps to get a clue of where this place is.

I can already tell that this is going to be a place I like a lot, although Josh sleepily made it clear to me that I wasn't allowed to like it too much, as our experience in Valparaiso was slightly obnoxious for him (see his post on the matter). I say sleepily because our bus ride was uncomfortable and accompanied by outrageously amplified speakers that blasted the dubbed movie Taken into our ears. We each received about 3 hours of sleep, and while this will not be enough to last me through the day, we are currently without a room and are therefore making do with a few spare blankets in the common room. Josh is desperately trying to grasp some sleep despite the dawn and the breakfast sounds below. I'm too hungry to get good sleep at the moment.

Arequipa

As you can expect, there will be a lengthy Cusco post, perhaps two, to follow. After all, this is the Inca's "Navel of the World," the center of their empire, the historical center of Peru, the gateway to Machu Picchu, and a beautiful mountain town besides. For now, I think a few things should be said about Arequipa, which is where we spent the last few days.

Arequipa is known as the White City, a result of its use of a stone material called sillar that comes from neighboring quarries. This is more or less true, although to be honest the whiteness was not really a defining feature. Far more notable are the massive volcanoes that provide backdrops to the beautiful colonial architecture. I know this can sound repetitive, but the cathedral was magnificent, the Plaza de Armas (main town square) lively and extremely pleasant, and the X historical sight (in this case the Monasterio de Santa Catalina) was really cool. Our dining experiences ranged from marginal to terrific, our hostel had nice staff, and taxis were cheap.

OK, so in many cases it fit the trip's standards pretty well, providing a nice, comfortable, enjoyable place to be for a few days. Unlike other places, however, it seemed to lack a certain life of its own. It fit the bill, but did not provide a unique life of its own. I think a big part of this had to do with a certain social stratification that is strong throughout South America, but seems to be exagerated here. Arequipa is famous for being a center of right wing power, and most of the major coup attempts have begun in the living rooms of affluent citizens. Certainly there is a lot of wealth, especially in the town center, which is where we were staying. Any trip outside the center, however, revealed a city that has a severely marginalized underclass. In other words, by spending most of our time in the center, we (as relatively wealthy Americans) were at the epicenter of an upper-class atmosphere, fake citizens that represented dollar signs to the locals and not much else. This is unavoidable anywhere, of course, but I really felt it most strongly in Arequipa.

That said, I was happy throughout my stay. Here are a few things that stand out:

1. Churros: Delicious, on the way, about 66 cents, and when the vendor realized we were repeat customers, they became more plentiful (and warmer).
2. Taxis: So cheap (a dollar for about ten minutes driving) and so, so insane. I thought I was a big man for driving in Argentina. No longer.
3. The color blue: Painted over white Greek island style. Beautiful.
4. Andean folk music: I've always secretly loved the sound of Andean pipes and that tiny little guitar they play, but I always feel like it's so fake (in the county fair, outside DC metros, in a mall). We went to a bar and had a great time watching some legit Peruvian folk music.
5. The Star Spangled Banner: Nothing to do with Arequipa. Josh woke up one morning and told me that he had dreamed that he had jumped in front of a bullet for the French President. They threw him a parade in Paris and played the Star Spangled Banner in the streets. France and the U.S. began a period of unparalled brotherhood and partnership. Later, when I was brushing my teeth, I heard him happilly humming the national anthem quietly to himself.

A few things that were not so good:

1. Prawn stew: Appearance? Amazing. Aroma? Enticing. Eatability? It was a twenty napkin meal at a nice restaurant.
2. Inca Kola: Ever wanted to know what would happen if Coca Cola made a Crest toothpaste flavored soft drink? Go to Peru.
3. Walking into a major cathedral in the middle of mass with a t-shirt and a camera and a funny hat: Just embarassing. I swear some old lady gave me the finger.
   

Dust

Salta - San Pedro de Atacama - Tocanao - Socaire - Arica - Tacna - Arequipa

Last I left you, we were in Salta, Argentina. In many respects, our comfort level has changed dramatically since then. Our shoes are covered in a thick layer of dust and sand. We own hats now, partly to keep out the cold of the night and partly to keep out the tropical rays of sunshine during the day. We take garlic pills every morning to help us with ward off altitude sickness. I haven't showered in about 48 hours, not for lack of necessity. Josh is in bed at 7 pm with a stomach ache. Hopefully it's just road, sun, or altitude sickness, but it might be food poisoning.

(Note to his family: I think he's more uncomfortable than truly ill. It's not an unfamiliar kind of pain, and I think it will go away soon if it hasn't already. Still, we'll get it checked out tomorrow if it doesn't get better).

After Salta, we went to San Pedro de Atacama, a tiny town in the middle of the Atacama desert which has been an oasis/trade post for thousands of years. Now it is mobbed by tourists, and in this respect it is quite a goofy place. Imagine a town where Australians, Brits, Belgians, and Canadians walk around with wooly Andean hats that cover your ears and are covered in Alpacas. Everybody thinks they're an outdoorsman because they're covered in dust, but the infrastructure of the town basically ensures that tourists are essentially sheep that eat in the same places, sleep in the same places, and take tours to the same places at the same times. None of the locals walk away without taking a slice from the big fat pie that is voyeuristic, fully-catered adventurism.

Despite the trap, the things to be seen are fascinating. Massive sand dunes, salt flats, and incredible rock formations have been formed by two major mountain ranges smashing them together. The desert itself is a dry expanse (some parts have never seen rainfall...ever) that rests between about 20 volcanoes, a few of which are active on an annual basis. Despite this inhospitality, amazing fauna flourishes in the area. Vicuñas, the endangered alpaca-like creature that is famous in Chile, eats the rugged pajabrava ("brave dry grass") that adds color to the high plane terrain. We saw several surrounding alpine lagoons, and while we were restricted from getting too close by tribal rangers, the sight of their long necks dipping into the impossibly blue water was truly fantastic to see. We also saw flamengos flying and feeding in a lake that had formed amidst the salt flats. These birds are, as Josh put it, "bizzare" to say the least, but are pretty spellbinding to watch in the wild.

So, even though there was a bit of the "would you like to pet this llama?" or "would you like to go inside this cave with a bunch of Germans?" kind of tourism, there was also something very beautiful (if not exactly charming) about the desert. Of course, some of the most interesting experiences came from parts that were not "on the tour." For example, all the lights went out one night while Josh and I were cooking our usual italian delight. We stepped outside to see some of the most terrific stars of the journey.

Despite its high points, I can't say that either of us was sad to leave San Pedro. We caught a night bus north to Arica, where we bought tickets to Arequipa, Peru at 6 am the next morning. Instead of buying bus tickets like we had thought, we instead were placed in a taxi cab in the dark for half an hour until the driver came to bring us to the Peruvian border...which was closed. Josh enjoyed talking to some Brits outside. I sat in the car fuming, partly at being slightly ripped off, and partly at being hungry and cold and miserable. Eventually, the borders opened and we made it to the bus station to catch an early bus (the Brits, on the other hand, were not so lucky. Their "morning bus" actually ended up being at 4 pm and 6pm, and they were forced to spend the rest of the day doing God knows what in the town of Tacna).

Our earlier ticket included fare on a pretty nice bus, and we were happy to have seats on the second floor that directly faced the window. It was like a roller coaster ride for a while as the bus plowed through the southern Peruvian desert along roads that stretched to the horizon. As the heat of the day intensified and the road began to wind through mountain passes, however, we both began to feel feverishly hot. This was not helped by the fatigue of 20 hours of travel nor the fact that we had small seats and therefore were way too close for two smelly people to be.

A few hours ago, we finally reached Arequipa. It's an old colonial town surrounded by volcanoes and desert. We grabbed a quick bite, and I think it's safe to say that we've retired for the evening. Tomorrow I'm going to wake up and see what this place has up its sleeve, but for now, I think I'll take a shower, check on Josh again, get the smell of dust out of my nose, and finish my book.

Lonely Planet: Salta

Salta - Alemania - Cafayate - Salta

Salta
pop 500,000


Sunshine in Salta. Excelente!

Salta was not exactly easy to get to (see my last post), and it was also rather expensive crossing the Andes twice. However, if you asked me to describe this side trip, I would call it exactly what the doctor ordered. If I were Christopher Walken, I would say, "I gotta fever! And the only prescription is more Salta!"


History
Salta is the home of many different kinds of people, including Argentina's usual band of motley Europeans, Syrian and Lebanese immigrants (so says wikipedia), and several Americans. Interestingly, it's also the home of part of Argentina's tiny indigenous population. I say interestingly because they have this museum that details how tribes used to send their best looking kids to Cusco as part of a diplomatic relationship with the Inca power center. Despite a highly advanced road network, these kids and their entourages would travel to the party directly. That's "directly" as in over mountains and through lakes and jungles and whatnot. After the party, the kids would come home the same way (it often took months), and, after another, smaller party, would be gotten drunk of corn beer and be left to die in a pit underground. Don't believe it? They have the kids on display to prove it! Sadly, no flash photographs were allowed.

Another crucial bit of history is that Josh's grandfather once came here and insisted to his grandchild that he too should come, as the women are apparently supposed to be gorgeous. Reason enough to come? I think so.


Orientation
Salta is a relatively small town with a nice plaza, big hills with cable cars, and colonial churches. It's sunny and warm outside, and even if there are malarial mosquitos outside, they ain't hurtin' nobody.

Information
Don't try to send international packages from Argentina. You have to go into the post office, then out, then through another door, then up some stairs. Then you have to be told by a lady on the stairs that you're in the wrong place, but she doesn' know where the right place is. Then, since you're lost, you walk into a random government office and squawk some broken phrases about postage in Spanish. They look at you blankly for a while, then one of them motions for you to follow him. He brings you into a rickety elevator, then you go down it, and then you go back outside. Then you follow him into another building, past an armed guard, and up another flight of stairs. Finally, you are in front of a window where an old lady informs you that you can't send electronics to Peru. Why? Because you can't bring in air conditioner units that violate greenhouse gas protocols.

Sights
Um, the usual. Pretty churches and a hill that you can take a cable car up to and get coffee at the top. A few nice fountains and a big shopping street. In this respect, the town itself is nothing special, but the heat and the sun and the palm trees add a nice twist to it.


You have your teleferico rides...

...your beautiful colonial churches...



...and you got your gauchos.

Festivals and Events
The Fourth of July should be celebrated with your family around a grill and fireworks. Unfortunately, all we had was our roommate from Milwaukee who doesn't normally celebrate the Fourth. Needless to say, he made no friends and spent most of his time on a laptop. We did find a PhD student from Cornell, and had a decent night out featuring a bowling alley (second time!) and a club that closed at the indecently early hour of 5am.

Sleeping
Las Rejas Hostel was among the best we've stayed at. Hostel details are usually boring, and this is no exception really, but let's just say that mi cabeza was on the north side of comfy for three straight days.

This was the first place, and probably the last, that offered little soaps on our pillow every morning.

Eating
I ate steak almost every day. I wanted to eat it the fourth day too, but some guy forcefully insisted that I get goat. Do me a favor. Imagine what goat tastes like. That's about how it tastes. I also ate ice cream, despite my better judgment, at a place famous for making wine ice cream. I asked the old man who ran the place to let me try some: it tastes like wine cream. I asked him to let me try cream of dulce de leche: he informed me that he would kill me if I didn't like it. Great thing that I liked it!

Back to the beef. Josh and I made a committment to eat beef every day, starting from our first meal following our bus trip. In my heart of hearts, I assumed that this would be a noble but unsustainable task. Fortunately, I have stronger fortitude and arteries than I had previously thought! Our second major meal was at a place where the entrees were designed for two people. We each ordered one, and were only informed about our mistake minutes before they arrived. But this was the fourth of July! and our attitude was basically just "bring it." I'm proud to say that I ate the whole thing, even if I couldn't really eat a dinner later.


The next night, I ate a sausage that changed my life.


Getting Around
Ever since Uruguay and the buggy experience, Josh and I had been wanting to rent a car. After all, Argentina is the kind of country where wide open space is the name of the game, and we wanted to tear it up a little. For a variety of reasons (price, logistics, ect.) we kept putting it off, but the real reason it took us so long is that it was clear that Argentine traffic was a bit intimidating. Salta, however, needed to be driven. As I've mentioned, the city itself was little more than a sleepy colonial town, but the countryside was clearly magnificent, with rolling hills turning into mountains and idyllic farmland. We sucked it up and went to a Hertz, picking up a little manual Chevy.
The Chevy Corsa, the ultimate driving machine for the outdoor enthusiast.


Since Josh didn't drive stick shift, it was up to me to get us out of the city. Argentine driving is rife with hazzards. There seems to be an ongoing battle between pedestrians and vehicles, with each jostling for right of way. We were told that Argentine drivers simply do not care if they hit pedestrians, and while that sounded like an exageration when we first heard it, we began seeing news stories of careless Australians getting creamed by buses while we were in Buenos Aires. Beyond this, there are very few street signs, faded to non-existent stop lines on the street, lanes delineated by grooves and potholes in the road, and stop lights with bulbs that probably have not been changed since before the Falkland War. As a result, drivers make their own rules. While the standard right of way rules are obviously thrown out the window, the real challenge is dealing with an Argentine custom that I call "lane hedging", which essentially means that on a two lane street, cars weave back and forth over where the lane line should be without ever fully surrendering their place in either lane. Of all the challenges associated with Argentine driving, however, the most dangerous is something I like to call "The Random."


The Random is basically anything that comes out of nowhere without any warning whatsoever. Cars should be on roads, and pedestrians will obviously test the limits of how little you want to hit them. The Random, however, defies reason. It can be something simple, like a stop sign after a major curve on an international highway (after which Josh would say something like "Dear President Kirchner: Do not put stop signs on international highways. Signed, Josh"). Kids can run out of alleys on bikes, trucks can billow unreasonable amount of smoke into your eyes and lungs, and parts of the road can be taken over by a stream that has created a groove which can ruin suspension if taken too fast. At one point we were driving along the highway when out of nowhere a man comes running out waving at us frantically to stop. Before I could even imagine what his issue was, three giant bulls came charging out into the street, taking a turn to head straight at us. Fast on their heals were two men on horseback and a dog, none of which were at all mindful of the vehicle in front of them, as they were all about the business of chasing down the massive animals charging down the road. All I could do was turn on the breaks and hope that the dinosaurs charging me down would turn, and thank god they did, as our car would have lost in that battle of steel vs. beast.


Of course, the trip was definitely worth it. We went through the Quebrada de Cafayate, a 100 km stretch of red, yellow, and pink rock formations and picturesque valleys. I can't do justice to the journey through either pictures or words, but our day was characterized by roads that winded throught some of the most beautiful canyonlands I have ever seen. By the end of the day, Josh and I were both in a state of complete shock. This day alone made the entire trip worth it.



Alemania, a tiny town before the Quebrada de Cafayate
Population: Josh

I love canyonlands.

The road to Cafayate.

The ride back home to Salta.

A little bit of godliness.

Josh learned stick shift, but I have a feeling that his blog will do that experience more justice than mine will. Needless to say, we made it out of that lesson alive, and actually he was quite competent for a first-timer.



Josh, looking quite pleased with himself.

If I do say so myself, our trial by fire with Argentine driving was an unparalleled success.

28 Hours

La Serena - Antofagasta - Salta

I´ve really appreciated some of the comments that Josh and I have been receiving. This has been a terrific adventure for both of us, and I´m happy that many of you have enjoyed reading along with some of the harrowing, exciting, uplifting, and mindblowing things we´ve experienced. "Epic" is one of the words we´ve tossed around a lot this trip, whether it be epic amounts of pictures taken by my camera, epic amounts of steak, cheese, or stars, or epic nights that have not ended until 8 am. If you´ll allow me, let me share another epic experience that may be a bit different from the normal glitz and glamor.

La Serena, Chile - 4:30 pm - Hour 0
We are getting on bus 2 hours earlier than we thought. Josh is a little displeased, as he had to give up his "Clase Premium" seat which is actually a full bed on a bus. We´ve exchanged a few harsh words about the subject, but the change of plans will allow us to get in to Salta, Argentina in time to stay on schedule. Otherwise, there is a risk that I will be forced to spend about 5 days in a sunny, mountainside Argentine town eating nothing but steak as opposed to the planned 3. Alright, there could be worse fates, but still, I want to get to Peru eventually.

Josh, a little bit smarmy.

This trip should take about 30 hours.

Our seats are the "Coche Cama" class, which is a decent compromise really. Think lay-z-boys, except on a bus. We´re given a snack - cookie and peach juice - and after quickly consuming it, I fall asleep.

5:00 pm - Hour .5
Woken up by Josh so that I can see the coast. Pretty amazing. The movie Transporter is on, so I watch that. It sucks.

6:30 pm - Hour 2
A new movie comes on, something about an illegal immigrant and her son who is still in Mexico and...I unplug my headphones. I´d rather leave then deal with this sanctimonious, anti-U.S. crap. While taking out my book, Josh admonishes me for unplugging. "This is a good way to learn Spanish." I plug them back in begrudgingly and keep watching, munching on my "Toque de Oregano" Lay´s potato chips. They´re delicious.

8:30 pm - Hour 4
Under the Same Moon is over. Josh and I are both teary eyed. The teenage guy sitting next to us looks over and says, "That was a pretty good movie, huh?" It really was.

We get more snacks. This time I get a pineapple juice, fruit cocktail, an oatmeal cookie, and peanuts. The peanuts are too hard to open. The fruit cocktail syrup spills all over me. I trade Josh the pineapple for another peach. This ends up being an error.

9:00 pm - Hour 4.5
Another movie is put on, with the girl from Wedding Crashers and that guy who played Scarecrow in Batman Begins. It´s truly terrible. Josh and I guess it´s either about international terrorists or psycho serial murderers, but it turns out that it´s foolish of us to think these are mutually exclusive. I unplug my headphones. Josh admonishes me. "I would enjoy this movie much more if you would watch this with me." I give it five more minutes, then switch to reading Fareed Zakaria´s Post-American World. A good choice. Did you know that America´s Secret Weapon is its tradition of immigration? I already did, and I feel smug.

11:00 pm - Hour 6.5
Great! Wedding Crashers is on!

12:30 am - Hour 8
Damn! All the TVs just stopped for no reason, and during a movie I actually wanted to watch. Time for bed I suppose.

Hour 3:30 am - Hour 11
I am covered in a mountain of crap, including books, my shoes, a backpack, headphones, my Lay´s chips, and a clementine. No wonder I can´t get to sleep! I replace all of that with a blanket, and the change in comfort is instantaneous!

Antofagasta, Chile - Hour 4:30 am - Hour 12
We have arrived at our transfer point. We can tell that we´re near the ocean, and that´s about it. The bus terminal we arrive at is brand new, and while there are signs to restaurants and news stands, it is clear that these are still under construction. The scene is desolate, and while it may have a harmless sterility to it during the day, at night this place appears to be a creepy wasteland. The only sign of life (our fellows who are waiting cannot be considered lifelike) is a soundtrack of 1950s tunes coming from unseen speakers. We both agree that this is reminiscent of Fallout 3.

5:00 am - Hour 12.5
I floss and brush my teeth. Best decision I´ve made all night.

6:00 am - Hour 13.5
Our bus to Salta arrives. The seats we´ve booked are a significant downgrade. Only one of us can put our elbow on the armrest at once, and the seats only lean back half the distance of the last ones. Still, this is a big improvement from the Antofagasta bus station. I drink my third peach juice and pass out.

7:30 am - Hour 15
I wake up briefly. Out the window a vast desert is flying by. I can´t keep my eyes open.

9:30 am - Hour 17
Alright, now I´m up. Uh oh, I think I´ve accidentally wet myself! It turns out to be my imagination (thank god!) but it´s worth a trip to the bathroom anyway.

Holy cow, this guy to our left is snoring so loudly. He is basically expelling air out of his stomach or something that is reverberating through some seriously unhealthy sinuses and finally exiting past his moustache. Josh (who woke up because I had to crawl over him to get to the bathroom) comments that if he were to go to the bathroom in his seat while sleeping, we probably would not know the difference. I´m almost certain that is correct.

Some llamas I saw out the window.

10:30 am - Hour 18
We are in the middle of the desert, and apparently we have to go through Chilean customs to leave the country. It´s still freezing!

Not a hot desert.

Josh has spilled fruit cocktail syrup on his seat. All over the seat. We are both so tired that we look at it for a while. Finally, I mop it up with a blanket.

11:30 am - Hour 19
Behind Enemy Lines: Colombia comes on. I prefer to look outside at the ridiculous landscape we are in. It´s unclear to me whether we´re in Chile or Argentina right now, as we haven´t gone through Argentina customs yet. Anyway, we are flying by a high desert with occasional lagoons with birds and camelids. I look over at Josh, who is putting clementine peels into a bag with books in it! What the heck! I take my book at and look at him funny. He doesn´t say anything.

Three minutes later he explains that he just went through a brief, momentary period of severe sickness. He was eating and drinking as fast as he could because that´s all he could think to do. Apparently he has some kind of altitude sickness. I go through the Chile Lonely Planet book to see what it says. The only cure is to go back down again. We have been on a vast, Altiplano plane for a while and it doesn´t look like that will happen anytime soon. He closes his eyes and tries to feel better. Poor Josh.

I look outside again and see a Vicuña sipping in one of the lagoons. Josh is too sick to wake him up, but it´s really, really cool.


Some high altitude lagoons.


1:00 pm - Hour 20.5
The snoring is still going. It´s become part of our lives. I ask Josh if it makes him feel better or worse. He says worse.

1:30 pm - Hour 21
Finally we have reached Argentine customs. Apparently that last 3 hour stretch was no man´s land. More standing outside in the cold desert. Some llamas walk across the road while we´re waiting. What a place.




2:30 pm - Hour 22
Back on the bus, a movie called What Happens in Vegas is on with Ashton Kutcher. "I sentence you to 6 months hard marriage!" Man that sucks.


What was on.
Outside, on the other hand, there were salt flats.

3:30 pm - Hour 23
Finally. We have started our descent.

4:00 pm - Hour 23.5
Braveheart en español. Torture.

6:30 pm - Hour 26
Oh no, they wouldn´t dare..."Li-ber-tad!!!"

At least we get another snack. Peach juice number 4.

8:30 pm - Hour 28
We have arrived in Salta. My diet has been cookies, chips, clementines, and juice. I am sick to my stomach and hungry. I really need a shower, and my clothes are rotting off of me. My head aches from the altitude changes. The man to our left has snored (only stopping for customs) for the last 14 and a half hours. He is awake now, and is smacking his chops contentedly. Josh is basically incoherent with fatigue.

Epilogue:
After finally finding a hostel with a room, Josh and I both had a reasonable dinner of steak and fries and went to bed at 11 pm. Josh told me the next morning that the other people in our room came in around 11:30 pm and said "looks like we have a couple of grandmas."

Serenity Now!

Santiago - La Serena

La Serena, the town we are leaving today, actually means "Love Night Song" according to Babel Fish (yes, I still use Babel Fish). I´m going to call that a Serenade, which makes sense because the point of this town are the lovely stars which have attracted the best observatory teams from all over the world.

Four Things I love about La Serena

1. Maria
Imagine living amongst incredibly noisy Brazilians who leave the door open to your room while they turn the light on and yell into their phone and have conversations with people out of the window. A window remains constantly open to the sounds of the street, including reggaeton and people screaming in Spanish because it´s raining (like "BOM-be-Bom be BOM-be-Bom be WAAH-ha-hahHEE Hombre estoy MOJADO be-BOM." Now is that annoying to read? Imagine hearing it at 4 am).

Now imagine being placed in a house where there are no sounds at night, you pay 9 bucks for your own bedroom, and in the morning a lovely, matronly woman is there giving you fresh papaya juice and fruit and directions. The house that she keeps is more like a courtyard with fruit trees, and our room opens into the courtyard. Did I mention she insisted upon doing our dishes for us? Did I mention she loves Simon and Garfunkel? Did I mention that I can understand everything she says because she talks slowly? Man, what a break.

Ok, so yes, I was drinking wine in my nice cosy bed.

Fresh squeezed Papaya juice in the morning?!

2. Pastel de Jaiva

Crab stew with mayonaise? Delicious. I´ve had it at least twice and hope to have it two more times before I leave Chile.

Edit: Josh refuses to even take a bite. I am more angry at him for this than for anything else he has done this trip.

Yum Yum Yum!!

3. Valle de Elqui

Impossible to pronounce, the Elqui Valley is perhaps one of the most picturesque slivers of agricultural real estate that I have ever seen. Imagine the vineyards of Italy or France but in between huge, snowcapped peaks and surrounding clean blue lakes. We had two really terrific excursions here. The first was in the dark, and while we didn´t see the valley itself at this point, we did see the universe (see Josh´s post). The second was a trip taken on our own initiative, and while the town at the end of the trip was notable only for its...well, nothing, we did climb a small hill that gave us a terrific view of the valley and the many internationally famous observatories that ring the valley.

View of the mountains from Vicuña

4. Josh is happy

Despite a scare with his wallet (he left it in the bedroom while we were at the supermarket) and the fact that he broke the fridge (too much force), Josh has been having a pretty good time here. Really, so have I (how can I not be with the beach, perfect lodging, sunshine, sky observatories, crab stew, and Tuscany in the Alps?). Josh especially has been in high form, loving the fact that all good decisions made over the last four days have been his decisions. Anyway, I figure I have some vacation capital that I can use to get him to do a few extra big hikes or perhaps a misadventure or two.

Josh, doing one of the things that Josh does best.

One Thing I Hate About La Serena

1. Whether it´s a map of Chile or a Walkman (I lost my Ipod and am having it sent to me later down the line), I can´t find a darn thing I want in this town. Sheesh.

Mountain Kingdom

Santiago
Best Cathedral we´ve seen this trip, rivaling the best of Europe.

La Moneda, where Pinochet´s right-wing coup went down and where an agnostic single mother currently runs the country. Nuts, I tell you.

Josh and Kelsey, our native.

Top of the hill near our hostel, Cerro San Cristóbal

Valdivia´s creation

Chile is kind of nuts. Basically, this conquistador named Valdivia went south for a long ways down the western side of the Andes, battling through Inca tribes and other such ilk and finally reaching this huge valley between massive mountains on either side. Santiago is the result of a settlement started here. Sitting on the top of one of the city´s largest hills today at sunset, I was thinking about the ridiculous ego trip this man would get if he were to see the product of his labor. Santiago has about 5.5 million people, and the city sprawls out in every direction to distances way beyond what the eye can see. It is a massive, seething, polluted metropolis. It exudes power and growth.

The reason I say "nuts" is that it shares a huge border with Argentina but is totally different. If Argentina is Eurotrash for the third world, Chile is the land of teenagers in hoodies and sneakers and old men with caps and vests and young women with Patagonia jackets (and this basically is Patagonia, so eat my dust haters. Also, for those of you who sneer at people who wear North Face jackets, be aware that Josh has been freezing here in his humble light jacket while I have been totally comfortable and warm in my North Face, upper middle class "poser" jacket. Also, be aware that I now own a pair of socks with llamas on them). The Catholic Church is intense here, not just an afterthought, but a strong youth culture is breaking barriers and while we were here there was a significant gay rights demonstration.

I´d like to point out that as an International Economite, I love this country. They have FTAs with almost every major Pacific Rim player, and are part of my favorite FTA, the "Trans-Pacific Strategic Economic Partnership," which is a serious FTA for serious free traders like New Zealand, Brunei, Singapore, and Chile. They also have Foreign Direct Investment openness protected by their constitution. The result? An economic jugernaut in a continent of laggards.

We´ve been getting a lot done here. We got haircuts (unnecessary for Josh, obviously, but totally necessary for me) and our laundry done (totally necessary for both of us). I made a few calls home, and have finally updated my blog to have pictures on it from earlier (check earlier entries, at least until you see Alex riding a buggee. That shot is priceless). We also changed our plans a bit so that we´re coming home on July 27th, ditching an unnecessary, costly, and totally out of the way excursion to a mosquito infested beach in Northern Peru so that I can have a little time at home in Washington state and Josh can hang out in Jersey a little more before law school.

Another cool thing is that we´ve been hanging out with an actual friend here, a girl from Iowa who is a student here who we met in Buenos Aires. I was a little skeptical at first, after all, we only knew Kelsey three brief days and my desire to fast track the Santiago portion of the trip was being tempered by Josh´s insitence that we spend some time during the weekend here with somebody we actually knew. After all, why would I want to hang out in Santiago, the LA of the Southern Hemisphere, when there were serious mountains around that needed climbing? Unfortunately for my sense of righteousness, she has been a fantastic tour guide and a lot of fun to hang out with. She took us salsa dancing with her school friends last night, and while Josh and I are not made for that sort of thing (to say the least), we had a damn good time.

More than that, Santiago is so...great. Besides the pretty spectacular sunset we saw today (actually, the clouds portion was not in either of our top 300 sunsets of all time, but the lighting over the city and mountains made us feel like we were flying. For some reason there was a soundtrack of gregorian monks, which always adds to such moments. Also, there was a funicular, and I like that word/invention a lot), we also saw a big cathedral and an underground museum. Ok, so there isn´t that much to do here, it´s kind of like San Jose or something, but we really like it. It is comfortable and the food is great and we´re having a nice dose of civilization before we reverse Valdivia´s trek, back into the land of the Inca, the heart of the conquest, the most "open veins" of Latin America, and the mountain adventure.

Chilly?

A word of warning. I loved Valparaiso so much that this post may make you kind of sick.

Josh also really liked this city. Not quite as much as me.

Valparaiso - Santiago

It was only a matter of time before somebody made that joke. Chile is not a warm country in the winter. To make matters worse, our hostel in Valparaiso was unreasonably cold. At one point, Josh and I were watching Live and Let Die while desperately trying to find tools to get warm, including a non-functional electric heater, a black lab named Chico, red wine, and finally our sleeping bags. It was a pretty pathetic Tuesday night, if you can believe it.

El Yo Yo, our excellent hostel. That orange gas can heated our hot hot shower, a crucial part of our cold cold days.

Otherwise, I have been about as happy as I possibly can be over the last three days. I can´t contain it whatsoever. At first, Josh was happy for me, then annoyed, and finally pretty well furious to the point where sometimes I just say "man, you know..." and he just says "stop it." I must admit, I´ve been fairly obnoxious in Valparaiso. Now that we´ve arrived in Santiago, I can calm down enough to comment. We´ll do this one in highlight format because, really, there aren´t any lowlights.

On the ground level, it appears that Valparaiso is like any other pretty post-Colonial town...

...but in the hills it´s a different story.

Highlights
Dogs
Unlike Argentina, the portside dogs at Valparaiso could not be classified as "laid back" (Josh´s assailants were notable exceptions). Many of them are clothed, and they chase everything, including cats, each other, pretty women, men carrying huge tanks of gas, us, motor bikes, and cars. Not exactly irregular behavior? Imagine 7 dogs at 11 pm hanging out in the middle of one of the city´s busiest intersections. Each car that approaches is stared down (and I mean a direct face off, like the Tianamen Square protester against the tanks), as if the driver is likely going to change his mind. When the driver cautiously begins to accelerate (not even aggressive drivers want to run over dogs), the pack goes totally wild, following the car in the middle of traffic until it outruns them. We were waiting to meet somebody and saw this repeat 10 times, with more and more dogs joining the party.

Like the Argentines, Valpo dogs wait at traffic lights, but they also clearly have things to do. Some dogs enter buildings, and everybody feeds the dogs including the shop keepers. Some dogs even ride the acensores, the cable cars which make the hilly commute far easier. As dog people, we love it. It´s like leave-a-penny take-a-penny but with dogs. Needless to say, the cats spend all of their lives on rooftops.

The guy with the fife
So here´s this city that hugs the Pacific Ocean. Every house is completely different, with beautiful shades that I didn´t even know existed. The streets are cobble stones, and famous artists have created murals on virtually every wall. Each turn requires a dropped jaw and a photo. The many hills create a ripple of colorful civilization that extends from the sea to the peaks. By all rights, this city should be a huge tourist trap, but it really isn´t. We were virtually alone as foreigners, with a few notable exceptions. Primarily, Valparaiso is a university town, an artist´s town, a Navy town, and a trade town, just as it always has been.

This is a port, first and foremost. The houses go deep into the hills.

Basically forever.

You can use a labrynth of stairs to climb.

You can also take many funiculars (acensores) up to the top of the hills.

Public art is everywhere.

You feel like you´re in a painting.

Some people take it to a whole new level. This is a Roberto Matta painting that Josh is defiling.

We were a little lost today, and we sat down in the shadow of this beautiful blue house. The afternoon was, in the words of Alex, "dead". Some guy, probably our age, came down the street playing (I kid you not) a fife, as if this was some seafaring town in the 18th century. There was no money involved, no vagrancy, just some guy enjoying a silent afternoon by playing music while walking down the street. What kind of place gets away with that sort of thing? Unreal.

The meal
Josh likes meals a lot, but I have a more complex relationship with them. To a large extent, I am a product of my parents in this regard. My mother and her family have instilled in me a natural distrust of overexcessive dining "experiences" (a tradition which my father´s family of well-fed men values highly). While several in my mom´s fam are decent chefs, the reality is that they are highly efficient with their food, extremely rapid in tucking it away, over-enthusiastic about health (who the hell wants whole wheat pasta?!), and in the case of my mother, extremely disdainful of TLC. I largely take after this tradition, but in recent years I´ve been sucked into a dining culture among my DC friends where a premium is placed on going out to eat and enjoying good food. So whether I like it conceptually or not, I can be a sucker for a great meal as well.

This was the case today, big time. Ok, excuse me for a second as I turn on the pretension nitro boost. We´ll put this in itallics for extra pizzaz:
Imagine that you are walking through the silent, cobbled streets of an old, portside city in Chile. The day is cloudy, but unlike most days the overcast holds in what little heat exists in the world so that the temperature remains nothing less than a slight cool. You´ve climbed several flights of stairs through bright, impossibly colored houses and are currently overlooking a street which curves downward so steeply that it disappears from view, yielding only the docks and the tankers and the still ocean, extending forever. A small market sells produce to a few old women in the shadow of a Catholic church, but beyond this the streets are empty. Your friend tells you it´s time to eat, and you easilly agree.

Lunch is the big meal of the day, so the decision is fairly important, but with little debate it´s decided to stop into a tiny hole in the wall place. After all, it´s right there, and Lonely Planet has been decidedly mixed in the accuracy of its reviews. You´re seated by a waitress who is so pretty and who has a smile and quiet laugh that is so perfect that all you can do is grin like a fool when she talks to you. As the only customers, you get percect, uninterupted service. Unfortunately, the cute waitress speaks so quickly that it is impossible to understand her. The hostess interjects, and explains for about five minutes all of the options on the menu. Everything sounds amazing, but you are feeling mellow and get the Menu del Dia, which has an appetizer, an entre, and dessert. Everything is fine.

The food comes, a cream of cauliflower soup, then a pork chop with corn pone and a subtle honey sauce, and finally a baked apple with a sorbet. Everything is presented beautifully, like a gourmet magazine. Everything tastes amazing. Old men connected with Buena Vista Social Club sing from the speakers. The walls are covered in paintings.

So it´s all basically perfect, but then this guy comes in. He is wearing one of those beanies that really are only appropriate while skiing or if your name is Jack Johnson. Then he starts talking to you, first about your food, then about your trip. Normally, this would be a real "oh, come on dude, I´m trying to enjoy my meal here, let´s save the chit chat." Remember though that today is a mellow day. Who doesn´t have time for their fellow man on a day like today?

We are presented this unreal food. (Ok, at this point I´m pretty well sick of writing in this crummy second person present tense, and really, it´s not appropriate for the rest of story). Anyway, this guy´s name was Shaahin. He was an Iranian who had left as a kid following the 1979 revolution, and he lived in LA doing documentary film and writing. He was currently traveling and writing while in the middle of a project on the paranormal. After he told us this last detail, he asked us what we thought. We told him. He proceeded to tell us who we were in great detail, including our spiritual beliefs, our relationship with technology, our intellectual approach to the world, our style of travel, and our status as friends. He was largely incorrect, but quite affable. Everything this man said was in complete earnest.

Here is a snippet of conversation.
Shaahin: "So what did you study?"
Me: "Economics, basically."
Shaahin: "Really? Like what."
Me: "International economics, like trade and foreign direct inv..."
Shaahin: "That´s great, like business."
Me: "Well, actually I work for the government."
Shaahin: "Oh like the CIA, FBI, kind of thing"
Me: "No, more like economic analysis"
Shaahin: "Oh, you work for the Justice Department?"
Josh: "Have you ever heard of the U.S. Trade Representative?"
Shaahin: "Yeah, yeah."
Josh: "He works for an agency that works directly underneath that."
Shaahin: "Oh, ok so like the Attorney General. Great."

And that´s just the small talk. We got into religion and nationalism. Every question of his was followed by a follow up. At one point he asked if I wanted a picture of my food. He got up and started framing and composing photographs as if my face and my dessert were part of a fashion photo op (yes, I have now had a documentary filmmaker take photographs of me eating). Josh and I were at first taken aback, but actually it was quite an acceptable experience.

There´s a lot more to say about this guy, but if you are interested in a taste of his worldview, I recommend going to his blog to read about his travels and his work with the paranormal. It´s not awful, although the post "Love in the time of swine flu" is a little off the deep end of normal.
http://www.thebigmyth.blogspot.com/
Josh and I did not reveal that we had a blog to this man. We enjoyed meeting him, but are not sure we would enjoy him in any more doses.

If you survived this far into this post, you´re a real sport. I must insist that you go to Valparaiso. You too will need to write this much, and you´ll probably feel as incomplete in your description as I do now.

In a fourth life (after my second life as a mountain store owner/husband of fat, happy wife and a third life as a sedentary, conversant food-eater in New York), I would stay here forever.