Toothbrush from heaven. Purchased in La Paz, Bolivia for five and one half bolivianos (roughly 60-70 cents). I seriously love this city.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Scrubbin with an "Ñ"
Toothbrush from heaven. Purchased in La Paz, Bolivia for five and one half bolivianos (roughly 60-70 cents). I seriously love this city.
The Birth of Creation and the Rocks of Salvador Dali.
Bolivia. Charged me $100 to cross your borders while the Germans and English got through scots free, but alas, those two weeks were well worth it.
Incan myth has it that the skies impregnated Lake Titicaca and birthed what was the start of mankind. This body of an ocean extended out before us for two hours as we crossed the Peruvian border into Bolivia, stopping at Copacabana, a lakeside town with scattered restaurants and simple accommodations. Adjacent to the town is a pilgrimage destination point, a hilltop adorned with mausoleum, ceremonial ovens and the occasional graffiti, more recent addition than the former. Alicia, Lizz, Sven and I made the trek to view a dropping sun amidst steel gray waters, steel gray skies, and clouds laced in thin rainbows. The following day we visited the Isla del Sol. The walk across the island prompted memories of Southern California with its ocean like views, wide open meadows and eucalyptus groves. Some Chilean Cabernet and a meal of freshly caught fish sent us to bed, happy and in good company.
The Salar de Uyuni is Bryce Canyon, Yellowstone, the Badlands, and Capital Reef rolled into one huge, unregulated expanse of land. Throw in some wild flamingos, vicuñas, ostriches and 6000 meter peaks and you´ve got my favorite playground in South America. I think I´ll have to upload some pictures and words seem to fail me with this place.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Bused Peru.
Because such a large portion of my trip through Peru entailed being in transit, I feel the need to dedicate this section to the large wheels that turn. From here foreword I will refer to auto buses, collectivos, motos, taxis, milk and cargo trucks, bike taxis and shared rides as the subject: BUS. After getting through Ecuador on 3-4 hour trips I expected nothing but a similar pace for the remainder of the journey... however, it turns out that Peru is MUCH larger than Ecuador. I guess those map scales do mean something, i.e. 20 hour bus trips.
The buses are decorated. Adorned with fringe, Jesus, Mary and the saints, velvet, tiny hammocks that haul rolls of toilet paper swinging over the dash, Nike and Fox stickers, Bart Simpson figurines, and the floors and seats are littered with chip wrappers, empañadas grease, beer bottles and chicken feathers. Incense attempts to mask the lingering smell of fried food, BO, urine, animals, and moldy upholstery. The ride often starts out with a Frosty the Snowman jingle (yeah. what?!) followed by the same reggaton album that I heard on the bus before my last connection. Out the un- operable windows, the countryside skirts by and La Gente toil the fields and thumb a ride when needed.
We´ve been traversing the Andes, to the coast and back into these mountains. Every hairpin turn is marked by a cross where people have passed- often over the edge or into oncoming traffic. When asked what side of the road people drive on here, I´d say neither. With pot holes, landslides, poor visibility, flat tires, cows, drunk or impatient drivers: any terrain that is flat is fair game. Remember Mario Go Cart?
Often times rumors of high jacking, theft, accidents and other horrors pass between travelers like a conversation about the weather. Unfortunately, on the trip from the coastal party town of Mancora to Trujillo, Michelle´s camera was stolen from under her sleeping feet. Fortunately, she had her memory card on her and nothing else was lost. Crossing the border from Ecuador to Peru on an overnight bus was a trip. We stopped on various occasions for 15 minutes at a time and were unable to leave the bus. Arriving at the border we departed the bus and walked, flanked by clouds of swarming mosquitoes (started taking Malarone about now), hovering bats (Deb, Ive had two rabid bat dreams, thx) and the dark sky to the dingy police station and then onto the customs counter to get our passports stamped. The bus waited on the other side, past the 1950s style wooden rifles and camo uniforms that adorned the Peruvian border patrol.
I´ve seen the Will Smith film, I Am Legend three times now. It is dubbed with Spanish voice over and then, if we are lucky and Alicia and Michelle bat their eyelashes enough, we get English subtitles. If this isn´t entertainment enough, the landscape outside is like a one sentence fortune describing what life maybe like out there amidst the burning piles of trash, the scattered agricultural patches, and in the crumbling mud brick shelters, every third one abandoned and roofless. The sky changes the most, often booming with puffy white clouds and beaming with light. The herds of llamas, sheep, donkeys, mules and cows grace the horizon line with a traditionally dressed shepherd(ess) following not to far behind. I find myself asking where these people came from, or where they are going ... there are kilometers and kilometers of nothingness.
My greatest amusement and annoyance are the bus visitors. They come onto the bus at any arbitrary stop, often dressed in suits, jumpsuits of various colors, or aprons to sell food, drinks, herbs, creams, spectacles, omens or charity. These vendors are often prepared orators, promising revitalized youth, a better sex life, Heaven, and super organs for the rest of your promised infinite life. About one half to three fourths of the passengers buy. When I heard of a stomach cure (that happens to cure warts and moles as well), I almost bought two.
I have very awake dreams of writing a book, perhaps after this trip, of successful sleeping positions in the semi-cama (partial bed, reclines back to 45 degrees). I haven´t found a fool proof one, as there are many variables, however I have contrived a few that will offer a lucid dream or two, but not to be held for more than an hour and a half. My five stages of REM, I miss you.
The buses are decorated. Adorned with fringe, Jesus, Mary and the saints, velvet, tiny hammocks that haul rolls of toilet paper swinging over the dash, Nike and Fox stickers, Bart Simpson figurines, and the floors and seats are littered with chip wrappers, empañadas grease, beer bottles and chicken feathers. Incense attempts to mask the lingering smell of fried food, BO, urine, animals, and moldy upholstery. The ride often starts out with a Frosty the Snowman jingle (yeah. what?!) followed by the same reggaton album that I heard on the bus before my last connection. Out the un- operable windows, the countryside skirts by and La Gente toil the fields and thumb a ride when needed.
We´ve been traversing the Andes, to the coast and back into these mountains. Every hairpin turn is marked by a cross where people have passed- often over the edge or into oncoming traffic. When asked what side of the road people drive on here, I´d say neither. With pot holes, landslides, poor visibility, flat tires, cows, drunk or impatient drivers: any terrain that is flat is fair game. Remember Mario Go Cart?
Often times rumors of high jacking, theft, accidents and other horrors pass between travelers like a conversation about the weather. Unfortunately, on the trip from the coastal party town of Mancora to Trujillo, Michelle´s camera was stolen from under her sleeping feet. Fortunately, she had her memory card on her and nothing else was lost. Crossing the border from Ecuador to Peru on an overnight bus was a trip. We stopped on various occasions for 15 minutes at a time and were unable to leave the bus. Arriving at the border we departed the bus and walked, flanked by clouds of swarming mosquitoes (started taking Malarone about now), hovering bats (Deb, Ive had two rabid bat dreams, thx) and the dark sky to the dingy police station and then onto the customs counter to get our passports stamped. The bus waited on the other side, past the 1950s style wooden rifles and camo uniforms that adorned the Peruvian border patrol.
I´ve seen the Will Smith film, I Am Legend three times now. It is dubbed with Spanish voice over and then, if we are lucky and Alicia and Michelle bat their eyelashes enough, we get English subtitles. If this isn´t entertainment enough, the landscape outside is like a one sentence fortune describing what life maybe like out there amidst the burning piles of trash, the scattered agricultural patches, and in the crumbling mud brick shelters, every third one abandoned and roofless. The sky changes the most, often booming with puffy white clouds and beaming with light. The herds of llamas, sheep, donkeys, mules and cows grace the horizon line with a traditionally dressed shepherd(ess) following not to far behind. I find myself asking where these people came from, or where they are going ... there are kilometers and kilometers of nothingness.
My greatest amusement and annoyance are the bus visitors. They come onto the bus at any arbitrary stop, often dressed in suits, jumpsuits of various colors, or aprons to sell food, drinks, herbs, creams, spectacles, omens or charity. These vendors are often prepared orators, promising revitalized youth, a better sex life, Heaven, and super organs for the rest of your promised infinite life. About one half to three fourths of the passengers buy. When I heard of a stomach cure (that happens to cure warts and moles as well), I almost bought two.
I have very awake dreams of writing a book, perhaps after this trip, of successful sleeping positions in the semi-cama (partial bed, reclines back to 45 degrees). I haven´t found a fool proof one, as there are many variables, however I have contrived a few that will offer a lucid dream or two, but not to be held for more than an hour and a half. My five stages of REM, I miss you.
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