from where we started

Working on the Final Post

2008-07-22T13:25:00.001-07:00

It's now been over a month since I've arrived back in the continental United States--and I'm still not sure how to wrap this one up (probably because I don't really want to...). Rest assured, I'm trying to find the words to describe my last couple of weeks on the road, and the adjustment process that is coming home.

I Am Somewhere...

2008-06-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

On a beach in Thailand. Last week. I'll be thinking long and hard about what has gone on for the last 8 months while I soak up some sun, read some books, and contemplate a life after travel. I'll hopefully put up some pictures when I get a chance, but probably won't blog again until I get home.

Dawg and Pony Show

2008-05-29T00:12:00.000-07:00

Flights from Calcutta to Bangkok to Hong Kong. Trips to the airport, over and over again. You'd think this stuff would get tiring, but after seven or so months of doing it at least once a month, it has become the norm. And not once have I failed to become excited in the moments leading up to a change in landscape, climate, or culture.

I spent my final days in Calcutta at the Chandak residence, sans my buddy Ankit. His parents offered to host me, and upon finding out that most of the guesthouses wanted a ridiculous amount of money for me to stay there, I accepted (No matter how nice anybody ever is to me, I still find it hard to accept hospitality). After my sweet train ride from Darjeeling in First Class (It's a cultural experience, right? It was also the only seat that I could possibly get... Luxury out of necessity, you know?), I accompanied Ankit's Dad to Calcutta's version of Green Lake for a walk in the park. I'm pretty sure that nobody there had ever seen a white guy exercising in the morning before, which earned me a look or two. They helped me pass the day by feeding me excessively, making sure that there was no Indian style food that I had not tried. Finally, on the last day, Ankit's mom helped me gain access to a block printing 'factory,' upon learning of my obsession with fabric and art really...

I finished out my time in Calcutta by running last minute errands and doing my best to soak in the last bit of Indian culture I could before landing in Bangkok.

An aside: There is no better picture of a city than the one shown on the ride from the center of town to an airport out in the suburbs. India's is probably the most fascinating of any place in the world. The poverty, the smells, the colors, the construction, the living conditions, the massive amount of people, the old and the new--everything--just provides such stark contrast. One moment you're gawking at a brand new billion dollar high rise, and the next you realize that some kid is cupping his testicles in order to not crap on himself RIGHT NEXT TO THE SIDEWALK! How would you like to dodge traffic while you do your business in the morning? Anyway, sorry to be so graphic, but it's there, and it's something you should know about...

Anyway, I landed in Bangkok then made my way downtown to meet up with my girlfriend's other friend Katie, who lived in the most ridiculously sweet apartment 26 stories above downtown. Upon arrival we stormed out into the city and just soaked up everything possible--I had to, I only had about 24 hours before another flight to Hong Kong. Fried roaches were eaten, Durian fruit was tested (It is AWFUL, a combination of yogurt texture with a smell of piss and cardboard, plus a taste too terrifying to describe), and lady boys were turned down (I suggest you Google it...). The next day consisted of eating myself silly at the market, and neatly placing all unnecessary things in a corner of Katie's apartment before I flew to Hong Kong to meet my good buddy Jon Lee.

About three or four weeks ago, I found out that Jon would be in Hong Kong. I considered it a sign, and almost immediately made plans to fly round trip from Bangkok in order to make it to HK before he left. You see, I worked with Jon for a year doing student government stuff at UW, and he quickly became one of my best friends--I think we share the same pursuasive, sheister-like, characteristics at time. Regardless, it was on in Hong Kong.

As soon as I landed we stepped right off into the city and to its Beer Festival, which happened to conveniently be going on downtown. I was immediately shocked by how immaculately kept the city was, at how many incredibly tall buildings it has, and just how many people I saw at 8pm in the evening. It was like being in Bangkok with how clean it was, and like being in India with how many people there were... I guess you could say it made for a smooth transition.

Here you can see one of the many Hong Kong food stalls, conveniently placed in eateries known as food court. The orange stuff in the bottom of the picture is pig intestine on a stick. I had it, and it tastes exactly like a pig farm smells. Think about it...

After some reminiscing, conversing with some expats and other business folk in the area, and a little bit of eating, we went back to the Hong Kong projects (it's Jon's term) to sleep. When we woke up, we ate again--twice. The first time it was Dim Sum, the traditional Chinese brunch--an assortment of freshly made finger foods similar to the Spanish tapas in style, but incredibly dissimilar in taste, texture, and well, everything else. We felt it appropriate that I look at the menu and choose since I was the visitor. Being unable to read Cantonese, aside from thinking the symbols look like things, I picked at random. As a result, I was able to try about four things I would NEVER eat in the states... Below is myself eating the ultra savory chicken feet.

The eating continued: more chicken's feet, spare ribs, suckling pig, goose, duck, wonton noodle, tea, more tea, tripe, squid, coagulated pigs blood (below, it looks like ice cubes!), and so so so much more. Fortunately for me, Jon knew the city like the back of his hand--when the museums were free, where you could have the 10th best roasted goose in the world, how to know if the shrimp you were eating in the wontons was fresh... pretty much everything I cared about.

I think that I secretly realized I was growing up on my second night in Hong Kong, as cheesy music blared over the loud speakers in Kowloon Peninsula--one of three major parts of HK--as the light show went off across on the island of Hong Kong (All of the big business buildings have lights that go nuts during this thirty minute music show; think discotech). Maybe it's that the end of my trip is looming in the distance, or the fact that my friends are starting to get married, get jobs, and basically just settle down. For some reason, I think it's harder for me to accept because I've been gone while everything else moves forward for everyone else. Even though I'm constantly doing something, learning, changing, etc. it's kind of like time has stopped for me, while all of these things happen to my friends. Of course, inevitably, I'll go back, and like riding a bike, it will feel like I haven't missed a step.

The thought provoking light show of Hong Kong...

Over the final days we continued to explore the city--art museums, boat rides, trams, trollies, malls, more food courts, wwwwwwwaaaaayyyy more food, hard rain, markets, and the horse races. I wish I could explain more about it, but a kid's got to keep some things in store for once he returns home...

It was only appropriate that I talked Jon into trying to take an artsy photo while we were at the art museum. In his defense, the lighting was horrible...

The pig's blood tastes like iron... It's bottom right, on the same plate as the liver. This is a basic Chinese meal--the hot pot--where you cook everything in boiling water.

The incomparable Mr. Jonathan Lee and myself taking in the horse races...

From left to right: (L) Everyone in Asia, (R) Me... I only kid... sort of.

Finally, I've kind of wondered if people are nicer to strangers because of the opportunity to make a good first impression, and why comfort can be measured by the ability to make fun of someone to their face, or open up a refrigerator that isn't yours. What do you think?

Calcutta, Kolkata... Who Gives a...

2008-05-21T06:06:00.000-07:00

An example of the perfectionist qualities that haunt me... in my constant attempt to explain it all.

So after many (maybe two, or one and a half) attempts at trying to write about my time in Kolkata, I find myself unable to patter away at the keyboard and put my experiences into words. It's definitely not due to a lack of inspiration, or things to write about. Instead, it's almost too much to put into words. I think it's a common trait amongst each and every one of the moments or complete experiences that I could deem my favorite times, or unforgettable. If anything, I think that I resist writing about such things, because I know exactly how frustrated I'll get typing a single line, erasing it, writing a single line, striking a line through it, rewording, rephrasing, and adjusting, in order to explain why something so simple was so meaningful, or to catch all of the details in a overly extravagant evening of Kati rolls and Cricket. But here I go...

So before I came to India, my girlfriend put me in touch with one of her friends--Mr. Ankit Chandak. For four years, Ankit and I roamed over the same red bricks, through the same hollowed halls, and choked down the same (well almost, he's a vegetarian...) cafeteria food at the Husky Union Building at UW. And in those four years, we never once met. He did, however, get along with Jess well enough, to be kind enough, to invite me to stay with him and his family in Kolkata while I was vagabonding around his country. Not even thinking about the possibility that we wouldn't get along, I started exchanging messages with him through facebook, accepted his invitation, and booked a flight from Jaipur to the Big K. I don't know if I was starved for friendship, in need of someone who can understand my Husky Spirit, or excited to see a city through the eyes of someone who knows it like the back of their hand. Truth be told, it was probably a little of everything. Either way, I embarked upon this portion of my journey full steam ahead, just figuring that the best would happen--and it did.

I woke up way too early on the morning of the 11th to catch the from Jaipur to Kolkata. Of course, being the American that I am, I realized that I probably didn't have to get to the airport two hours early, as all I really needed to do was shove my way to the front of the security line at the last minute like everyone else. After weaving my way through some pretty auspicious security checks, I made my way to the boarding gate where I'd reside until the next bum rush. As I sat comfortably in my chair, I looked forward to seeing a familiar face (we never met, but I had seen his photo on facebook, haha...) and pondered why in the hell Indians don't listen to the airplane attendants when they say, "Please keep your seat in the upright position..." (Was it because she was a female? Culturally, do people not like listening to instructions? Does the standard 'upright' not mean the same thing here? I probably, and way too pensively, thought about the matter for a while longer than I should have, then went back to wondering what it would be like seeing things from a different perspective.

An Aside: There are few things more awkward than sitting in an airport in the morning, being attacked by mosquitoes, and doing your best to kill each and every one of them until you realize that you're sitting in between Buddhist monks (who don't believe in killing things--I think).

The plane landed smoothly about thirty minutes ahead of time, and the Spanish pilot received a standing ovation from the rawkus crowd. We departed the plane, and promptly proceeded to wait for our luggage for around an hour. I was cool with it, as I didn't really see a Husky t-shirt in the mob surrounding the arrival gate (think pink carnation), and it would give me some more time. After snatching my bag, I snuck to the internet cafe to try to find Ankit's phone number. Of course, after I paid way too much to check my email, I bumped into Ankit. We promptly said our hellos, shook hands, and were off to the car--being followed the entire way by a woman who noticed I was white at the very last second. I'm pretty sure she banged on the hood too... But alas, it was a lovely Mother's Day afternoon and we sped off into the steamy afternoon in search of Orchids--Ankit's Mom's favorite flower. Of course, like all good kids, we forgot to get the flowers and then arrived at the Chandak residence empty handed... I met the immediate family and was made to feel at home almost immediately (a trend that has continued to this very moment). Ankit and I went back out for the day, grabbed the most amazing tandoori kebabs I've ever had in my life, had my first beer in a month, and finally remembered to get his mom the flowers. Life in Kolkata was good--almost perfect. Now, we just needed to figure out what to do for the rest of my days there...

Fortunately, my newfound friend Ankit prepared a list. After some banter, we got off topic and like all Sagittariuses (we have the same birthday!), we promptly dispatched the list in favor of playing it by ear. It was eventually decided that we would head to his family's under-construction rice mill and then to the flour mill in the morning. It was here that I found out just how big of a deal Ankit really is (proof directly below):

At only the young age of 22, Ankit already has a company named after him... His brother is pissed too... I only kid... I think.

After a severe sneezing fit, I was ushered out of the flour mill and into an air-conditioned car where we'd travel right back to the Big K. I'm pretty sure that Ankit wondered if I was bored--or overly heated--from our visit to the mills, and I did my best to let him know how much I truly appreciate seeing things that are otherwise impossible to see. You know, at least for a simple backpacker such as myself in a foreign land where people typically want bribes to show you anything of interest. Plus, when in the hell am I ever going to be able to visit a flour mill or learn about all the thought and planning that goes into a construction project in India? It was intense, and I never realized how much thought really has to go into the taxes, tax breaks, the environment, the workers, the heat, watering the cement of a newly constructed foundation--everything. I was also amazed at what kind of thought has to go into the humanitarian side of things (if that's the appropriate word for it) when running a business in India. A lot of the workers sleep on site, men and women work side by side, and little kids wander around without guidance. It was interesting to see what Ankit take on a lot of these things were--especially having seen things from the American point of view for four years. All in all, it was a wonderful and thought provoking opportunity to learn something I wouldn't have pursued otherwise.

We then spent the afternoon in a hookah bar gorging ourselves on nachos. That is, after all, the Indian thing to do, right?

The day was concluded with a romantic cruise consisting of three dudes on a boat in the river, gazing at the Howrah bridge from afar. The sunset was an incredible signal to the end of my first full fledged, non-jet lagged day in Kolkata, and I was eating every second of it up...

There is nothing like a romantic cruise on the river, with three dudes, and a pocket full of fatafat (I don't know how to describe the taste of this Indian candy aside from slightly putrid and satisfying)

We then played video games, and I relished the opportunity to be a real boy again. An honest, breathing, bleeding (it was an intense game), real boy. It's funny how quickly you forget about the little things that comforted you, almost every day, until they're put right back in front of your face.

Sometime before floating down the river, we decided to get tickets for the following evening's cricket match between the Kolkata Knight Riders and the Delhi Dare Devils of the newly formed Indian Premier League. Cricket, as I have seen and have been told, is the stuff of legends here in India. There is not a child that doesn't play it, or an adult that can't rattle off every single rule of the game to a confused American in the entire country--or so it seems. The match itself would also take place in the fabled Eden Gardens, which is perhaps the most famous of all Cricket stadiums in the world (I'm just repeating what people have told me. I don't know a damn thing about cricket.).

Upon slowly rolling out of bed, we jetted out into the steaming hot Kolkata morning to see the sights and catch a Bollywood movie--Tashan. The sights were interesting, but it was too damned hot to really appreciate much, except for some of the artwork inside of Victoria Memorial. Plus, it was yet another opportunity to be looked at by many of the Indian tourists who found me more interesting than the paintings. Which, might I add, is starting to become pretty flattering, really (I mean, how else should you take it? I'm pretty sure that there is absolutely no malice involved; you can tell by the huge shit eating grins on peoples' faces when you say hello!). The movie was classic over the top Bollywood, with unreal song and dance sequences of bikini clad women in the rain on Greek islands. From what Ankit translated for me, I gathered that the story was supposed to be somewhat of a Quentin Tarantino style action flick where all of the characters' lives were intertwined somehow and the story was told through subplots. Either way, despite the fact that it was in Hindi, I got the point and came away thoroughly entertained. It was awful and cheesy. We snagged some Kati Rolls (street food) that would later be the death of me, and mentally prepared ourselves for the game.

Another Aside: I think that one of the highlights of my time in India has been being able to hang out with Ankit and his friends--which include his cousins. It's be pretty refreshing to see a family so tightly knit, and it was just a positive experience in general for me to hang out with these American-educated young Indians and get their perspectives on the differences between our cultures, education, working abroad or at home, etc.

The fabled Eden Gardens Cricket Stadium: Home of the Kolkata Knight Riders. This woman would not sit down, and yet nobody tried to fight her...

At Eden Gardens...

You don't truly know India until you've gone to a cricket match. It's not the first step, and it's not the last, but it's certainly essential in understanding the culture. At least, that was my take after spending a good three and a half hours watching the Kolkata Knight Riders overcome a deficit by providing one of the greater bowling (=pitching) performances that has ever been known to man (as I was emphatically told at least 15 times by Ankit and his friends... haha). It was there in Eden Gardens that I saw the other side of India--the testosterone fueled, hormonally charged, star-crazed, overly impassioned, and sexually frustrated side. It was probably one of the only times I've ever seen multiple--around five--fights amongst fans of the same team. It wasn't a result of the match situation either, but rather because people wouldn't sit down. The most ridiculous moment came when a policeman came up the aisle to stop the fight and chastise a man for standing in the way of an elderly man, only to then stand in front of the very same elderly man. This my friends is a representation of all that puzzles me about this lovely curry flavored country. Anyway, the match was a thriller, though I spent the majority of my time trying to understand what in the hell was happening--how scoring worked--and sucking down water in order to avoid the inevitable dehydration. I was unsuccessful at either, and proceeded to feel nauseous 10 minutes before the end of the game. I was later told that I didn't end up missing anything too thrilling, though I'm sure there were more than a few small riots that could have entertained for hours...

My final day consisted of recovering from the dehydration by going to a hot and steamy marketplace to search for hand printed cloth and some ungodly colored linen in hopes of making sweet pajama pants. Ankit's mom helped me accomplish both before I passed out, and we ventured back to the Chandak home where I would crash and prepare for a train ride to the north and Darjeeling.

A torrential downpour in the streets of Kolkata...

Ankit's family sent one of their drivers with me to the train station to help make sure that I got on the train. No, it wasn't because they knew I was totally inept at handling such situations as simply getting on a train, but rather I was waitlist 20 on the Darjeeling Mail. I basically had no shot to get on the train that I HAD to get on in order to get to Darjeeling by the next afternoon. After about thirty minutes of frantically running up and down the line trying to find out who we should bribe, we found nobody. So what did I do? I just got on the train and hoped for the best. As lucky as I am, I found a berth on the second class sleeper and asked around to see if anyone was sitting there. When the car manager came by I started fabricating a story only to find out that he didn't speak English. Luckily a man sitting across from me was willing to translate the story that I was making up and even more luckily the manager bought the whole thing. There I was, in the middle of a country known for it's clever swindlers, swindling my way out of paying baksheesh (the word for bribery). I had paid too much already to be on the waitlist, and figured that I shouldn't pay anymore... When in Rome, right? Anyway, I made it to Darjeeling alright and lived happily ever after--until the power went out.

I'm back in Kolkata now, and fly off to Bangkok tomorrow, where I'll turn around and fly to Hong Kong a couple days later. I'm really really sad to see my time in India come to an end, as it's a place that I've seriously come to love in such a short period of time. A lot of this has to do with the Chandak family and the amazing hospitality that they have shown me while visiting. I don't think that there has ever been a point in my life where strangers (not complete ones thanks to facebook) have made me feel so comfortable in their homes. They've helped me accomplish my goal of drinking chai, eating every possible type of Indian food there is, and basically gorging myself in all things Indian. In a country known for making people lose weight, I am pretty sure I've gained it--which goes to show the dedication that they had in ensuring my good time. I seriously cannot thank them enough, and it's not even because of the fact that they were good to me, but rather that they're just good, kind people in general--and that goes for the whole family. However, I know that I would feel the same way had I not seen the side of India that I've seen while in Kolkata and also in the north. The people, places, trains, etc. have all played a tremendous role in overwhelming my senses and actually inspiring me--creatively, mostly. I don't know, it's just different here. It's a place that you have to see, and should try to see from all angles and sides; through first class trains, second class trains, rickshaws, air conditioned buildings, buildings with no fans, from tall buildings, from the streets, from the rivers, etc. The place is just pretty damn sweet.

But yeah, that's what I've got. Now, I'm off to pack and read about traveling in India, oddly enough.

I strongly recommend Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar if you ever get a chance to read it.

Kolkata, Calcutta... Who Gives A...

2008-05-18T06:29:00.000-07:00

I've kinda left out a five day span in Kolkata from my blogging, as a result of a power outage that wiped out my attempted posting. Also, internet isn't very good up here in the hills of Darjeeling, so pictures will be coming later--I promise.

Just a Month

2008-05-18T04:37:00.000-07:00

As the thunder clang outside, and the rain fell hard against the aluminium--I spelled it right in the Indian-English sense--roof of my guesthouse, I finished reading my book in the hillside city of Darjeeling, slightly stupefied by the fog, and aloof as a result of too much sleep. My bed, a three inch thick mattress (if you could ever call it that), was just comfortable enough of a place for me to sleep a little too long today, and I couldn't think of anything better to do than read. In fact, it's all I wanted to do after the whirlwind that has been my time in India... From Delhi to Jodhpur, from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer, Jaisalmer to Jaipur, and off to Kolkata via a plane from Jaipur, just before the bicycle bombings that rocked the city. All the movement (not just my own) can, after all, make a guy pretty sleepy.

I arrived in the city (I'm always inclined to say town when somewhere is located in the middle of nowhere with nothing around it. However, aside from some of the villages that dot the countryside of India, there is seemingly nothing else but a city. A giant ant farm of individuals weaving in and out, ducking and dodging, gliding and maneuvering, moving their respective grains of sand as they carve out the paths of their every day lives... Absolute insanity, inside of a neatly kept box. I swear.) of Siliguri, at the New Jalpaiguri train station, where I was set to meet my friend Ankit's cousin Ayush, who would take me to their family home where I could shower and eat breakfast. This was before, of course, I would be taken by a private driver to the Orange Valley Tea Garden on the outskirts of Darjeeling. Posh living, I know. It's a very different side of India than what I had really come to know in my initial days, and something that I struggled to get used to, mostly as a result of the way I've lived for the last seven months. The struggle, as all great ones are, was internal, which meant that I could pretty much just roll with it on the outside while the battle was waged within. Besides, it did offer me an opportunity for a type of comparative analysis otherwise unavailable to me without the generosity and overwhelming hospitality of the Chandak family. But I digress...

I don't know if there is a more beautiful way to experience the trip from Siliguri--situated at the base of the rolling Shiwalik hills that are home to the many tea plantations--to Darjeeling than by car. One can take a ride on the Toy Train, but six hours of slow, methodical movement pales in comparison to the swiftness and privacy of a car after a good ten hour train ride. Plus, you can stop for chai (who cares about the environment right? I kid... though, the train is probably worse...). After a swift hour and a half, I descended upon the glorious Orange Valley Tea Garden, where approximately 600 Nepalese immigrants were gearing up to pick tea leaves and the views--my gawd--are absolutely breathtaking.

The town of Darjeeling...

The hill that I slid down...

My time at the OVTG, however, was short lived. Aside from a couple of lunches, and a couple of walks down the strikingly steep slopes, I was only able to spend a few hours gawking at the hillside. I made the mistake of agreeing to go with these two young financial auditors to Mirik--another hillside town--for an hour that turned into four. On the bright side, I was regaled with stories of murder threats from businesses who had fudged numbers and risked being turned in (think, cut in two and thrown in a river). All in all, it was interesting and a wonderful opportunity to do something that I had really wanted to do for a long time. There really isn't any way to describe waking up at 4am and walking through the hillside while being stared at by some Nepalese tea leaf pickers who burst out in laughter every time you slip down the steep, wet hills...

Now, I'm done with my book, and am looking for another to help me slowly and peacefully live out my final days in India--a decision made after numerous struggles to obtain a visa to Bangladesh, which is another story in itself--before an adventure to Hong Kong via Bangkok. I have one month left before I come home. It should be a good one.

And the sun sets on my time in India... A place I will surely visit again...

The Stare Express

2008-05-09T20:24:00.000-07:00

I laid in bed, in Jaisalmer, after one of the wildest sandstorms I have ever been a part of (only the second one I've ever been apart of (this week)), staring at my ceiling fan. Despite the fact that it seemed to be working just fine, and that my window was open, it seemed to be making my room warmer. I eventually gave up wondering, and just gave in to the fact that the heat was winning, and I should probably just begin my day...

You can't get away from the heat... Unless you seek the shelter of a sandstorm.

The fan and the hot room serve as a perfect analogy for India. Constantly, things appear to be working, only to end up providing a less than perfect result. And vice versa. Nothing here is consistent with what I know, and ultimately I find myself perplexed over such simple things as the various stares and smiles I encounter during an average day. I don't really get it, I don't really understand it, and it's those two facts that help me maintain a certain level of patience with the absolute chaos and disorder--combined of course with the multiple, incredibly good, people that you have the opportunity to meet.

I took the audio tour of the Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur. It was simple, educational, thought provoking, and fun. I didn't care that my 20 minute walk had left me drenched in sweat, or that I had been followed by two different Rickshaw drivers who were trying to lure me into their rides for a swifter movement uphill. I got there early, and just enjoyed it: the views of the city and camel racing track, the absolutely stunning intricacy and craftsmanship of the buildings, and so much more. Shortly thereafter, I found myself lost in the twisting and turning alleyways of the Blue City , but was eventually set on the right path by a kind tailor who seemed pretty set on trying to sell me some Ali Baba pants. I told him I didn't have time, as I actually did have to meet up with a friend of the hostel owner to be 'shown around.'

A picture of a guard in the Mehrangarh Fort. I think that his name was Tariq. Either way, he was a pretty jovial fellow...

I was pretty sure of what this would entail. I told the guy that I wanted to find some block print cloth, because I could sew, and was interested in taking some home. I told him that I wanted nice quality stuff, but that I was a student, didn't have a lot of money, etc. Despite this, I knew that my words had fallen on deaf ears, and that I would be led around like the Westerner that I appeared to be. Of course, I was right, and off we headed into the humid afternoon. First stop: A suit shop. Where he got the idea that I wanted to buy a suit, I don't know. I tried, with increasing persistence, to explain that I only wanted block print fabric, or at least some electric blue linen. He agreed, but told me that we needed to stop at his friends convenience store, where we would enjoy some chai and a casual conversation. He slowly, but surely, introduced his companions to me, one by one, so that I could make sure to remember everybody's name. It didn't really even matter, as after the moment introductions were done, they all started to chatter rapidly in Hindi, ultimately leaving me out of the conversation--one of the more rude things that people can do. I kind of just laughed it off, and enjoyed the fact that I was inside an air conditioned building for the first time since I had arrived in India. The chai arrived, and I declined, as I was kind of sketched out and put off by my hosts complete lack of consideration. He eventually paused every now and then to talk with me about random things like American girls and drugs, sketching me out even more. Eventually, his cousin started passing around little black beads for each of the men to put in their tea. After scouring my brain for what it could be, it dawned on me: Opium. At that point, I tried to do what I could to overtly express the fact that I wanted to get the hell out of there, and eventually just walked out and hopped in a Rickshaw. When I got back to the hostel, I packed up my stuff and got ready to get out of Dodge and head west to Jaisalmer.

I didn't end up leaving until the early morning of the next day, because the train was full the night before. Either way, I was kind of glad to relieve myself of the awkward experience that was Jodhpur and get on with the trip. I boarded the train, after being unable to figure out which car was S4 (posted absolutely nowhere), sat down and sighed. I offered some crackers to the members of the Indian Armed Forces sitting next to me--they appreciatively accepted--and I had made some new friends. Unfortunately, they weren't in my compartment, which was shared with two starers, who either were so incredibly fascinated by my wild hair and height that they could do nothing but keep a straight face, or else they wanted me off of their train. For the next seven hours in the dust and heat, I sat there, while they stared at me. I offered a biscuit, they stared (after accepting of course). Nothing could crack the intentness of their new (or old) habit.

After finally arriving in Jaisalmer, I was greeted by Saruk, the manager of the Artist Hotel--a cooperative developed some odd years ago through the teamwork of an artist colony and an Austrian expat--and was led away on a motorcycle, down the beaten path, to a little peace and quiet. I was the only person staying at the hotel, which allowed me an opportunity to be alone, something I've finally started to truly enjoy.

The town of Jaisalmer is on the edge of the Thar Desert, and close to the border of Pakistan. It's widely known as the Golden City, because of the way it's buildings and Fort blend into the sand from a distance. It's also got a reputation for some badass camel treks into the proximate desert, and it's Bhang Lassis (think marijuana shake). It's quiet this time of the year, there's no pollution, and life just seems to roll by at an easy pace. It was just what I needed after navigating my way through three cities easily described as human ant-colonies.

The main entrance to the fort of the Golden City of Jaisalmer

The Fort in Jaisalmer is supposedly the only 'living' fort in the entire world...

In Jaisalmer, I didn't do a camel trek, nor did I drink the mythical Bhang Lassi. I rested, strolled, and picked the brains of any person willing to chat--particularly the Austrian expat that helped start the Artist Hotel. I was keyed in on multiple issues surrounding the artist community, given a brief lesson in the caste system, and discussed the intricacies of Indian spices--something I know absolutely nothing about. It was an easygoing and relaxing experience, that is, until a storm came through.

I woke up about five times in the middle of the night, as a result of dust, rain, hail, wind, broken glass, shear heat, anything--you name it. Somehow, I managed to slumber through the most of it. When I awoke the next morning, all of the straw roofs of each and every house that surrounded the building was blown off. Bricks and morter, reduced to piles on the still soft ground. Yet, despite this, everything seemed to be fine. People were smiling, playing music, and picking up the pieces. I was kind of in shock. If that happened in the US, everybody would stand around and talk about what to do, before not doing anything... Though it made sense to me, it seemed... illogical? I don't know how to explain it. Most things here have defied what I know about the 'proper' or rational way of doing things... Anyway, in less than a day, things were cleaned up, roofs were reattached, and life kept on going. The same girl was still sitting outside waiting for me to walk by so she could ask me for rupees and the sun was just as hot.

I left later that afternoon, on a 14 hour train ride for Jaipur--where I am right now. After my experience on the short jaunt from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer, I was dreading every second of it. I sat down in my seat, and was immediately greeted by a 13 year old boy named Deepa, and a family of four whose little baby couldn't stop staring at me. For once, I didn't mind the staring, and I felt a little less serious. The final ounces of tension fled my body after I was offered a piece of sweetcake, and I thanked the mother in Hindi. The entire train car erupted in laughter and glee that I was trying to learn the language. I answered the general questions, and the family offered me some of their dinner. Then, for the next four hours--until darkness fell--I received a lesson in Hindi from the 13 year old that I won't forget any time soon (though most of the Hindi words were lost on me).

Tomorrow, it's off to Kolkata... Should be a good time.

Somehow...

2008-05-05T19:52:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention in my last post that I was hit by a Rickshaw yesterday. Here, in Jodhpur, most of the Rickshaw's run on motors with a slightly higher power than a lawnmower--so it didn't knock me on my ass or anything. In fact, I would say I won the battle... Anyway, the point is that I'm a little bit less afraid to walk amidst the crazy Rickshaw drivers and their golf-cart-esque contraptions. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not...

Can You Feel the Heat?

2008-05-05T07:42:00.000-07:00

Upon arriving in Agra I was consumed by an illness of the 24 hour variety--probably a small case of the famed 'Delhi Belly,' though I wouldn't be surprised if it was my conscience. When I walked down the stairs with my hefty rucksack to check out of my guesthouse in Delhi, all of the hotel attendants were asleep on the hard marble floor in front of the reservation desk. It struck a chord with me in the early morning that would make my train ride--and stomach--a little more than uneasy. The walk to the train station wasn't any prettier either. Once there, I bought a book, Shantaram, about an Australian convict who escaped to Mumbai and created a life there and plopped onto the seat of my train... thinking, maybe too much, about what I had just seen.

After a rough two hours of train riding, I arrived in Agra only to not be met by someone from my guesthouse as I had been told I would. It's a precarious situation in Agra, as it's known for its touts, and also that the touts are known for hating this particular guesthouse. I eventually got things figured out after finding someone kind enough to let me use their phone, and made my way with Mr. Ali Mohommad. An interesting fellow he was, offering to take me around the city for a very good price and asking me questions about where I was from in his almost perfect and incredibly polite English. I told him I'd think about his offer after I was done projectile vomiting, and he agreed quite quickly.

Since things worked out quite well with the other Rickshaw driver in Delhi, I decided that it wouldn't be a bad idea to get hauled around the city by somebody who knows the ropes, especially since Taxi drivers of any and all sorts hold the keys to unlocking the better parts of a city, or at least to entertaining you for a while. I slept off the illness, drank about 15 liters of water, and watched Sleepless in Seattle on HBO.

I woke up to go to the Taj Mahal at about 5:30 in the morning, as everybody says sunrise is the best time to see it, as the combination of the early morning sun and the pollution around the city provide a dazzling glow to the dome and minarets of the mosque. I was then informed that Mr. Mohommad would not be my driver and I would instead be taken around by Sabir, who didn't really seem to want to talk with me... Anyway, I made it through the line, after two passes through security since they wouldn't let me take my book inside because it was 'too big'--nothing makes sense here. From the outside you can see the top of the dome, and the sky was as orange as it possibly could be, which made me quicken my steps in order to pass the gate and finally see the wonder that is the Taj. Seeing it for the first time is like magic. It absolutely lives up to every single bit of hype that has ever been heaped upon it. It's subtle, yet intricate; finely detailed, and yet simple. It's magnificent. I wandered around for two hours, dodging tourists--foreigners and Indian nationals alike--and finding my own peace and solitude under the hot and humid morning sun.

After 7 months of travel, I have still not mastered the self-taken self portrait... Frustrating

I went back to check out, choke down as much breakfast as I could, and shower before I headed back out to the town again to explore the fort in Agra. By the time I made it there, I was a bit too pacified by the heat, and therefore unable to fully appreciate the splendor of all the courtyards and magnificent architecture that provided me with so many places to sit down away from the heat.

The sprawling walls of the Fort in Agra...

A couple of hours later, I crossed the Yamuna river to see the Taj from the other side. You can walk down to this sand bank where cows, goats, and kids selling postcards like to play. Every once in a while you can find a pretty intense cricket game going on in the park nearby as well. The views were spectacular in the evening, though I left pretty quickly after I was stared at for about thirty minutes straight by these four teenage kids... It was, the first, and hopefully last time, that I ever received more attention than a wonder of the world. At least from people that I don't know... Feeling a little creeped out, as they wouldn't even try to converse with me, I sauntered back to the Rickshaw, grabbed my bags at the hotel, and swiftly headed towards my soon-to-depart train for Jodhpur.

In the train station, I believe I was the only non-Indian there. I once again received my fair share of attention as I sat down in what seemed to be the only open area in the place. It seems, so far, that young men seem to be the most curious--for better or for worse--when it comes to strangers in their country. More than a few times I was surrounded by guys asking me the same questions: "What is your good name sir? From what country have you arrived? How long will you be staying in India? How long [tall] are you (one of the creepier questions you get asked, at least initially... Indian men, tend to ask a lot of sexual questions, particularly with women travelers, or so I've heard)? Do you have a dollar? May I see it? Can you stand up? Although I'm typically good natured about such questioning, some things just don't seem right when people ask them. Plus, you're asked them so often that you just kind of develop this indifference to it all, and either learn to answer back and be inquisitive towards them, deal with the stairs, or simply end the conversation. Keep in mind that I've only been here 5 days now...

After about three different groups of Indian guys surrounded me and then left, I was left alone to my thoughts and the wait for a train delayed by two hours. Eventually, a group of Indian women traveling alone came by, sat down and took their turns trying to get some of the little girls to run up and touch me--another thing that happens quite a bit, despite the fact that my skin is actually quite dark for a Whitey. Through some gestures and a little Hindi I have learned, I tried my best to make conversation... After about ten minutes, I decided to pack it up and head over to the spot where my train car would be. Before I left, the matriarch of the family tried to offer her six year old daughters hand to me... I respectfully declined, fabricating a story of engagement back home. Then the train finally arrived.

I don't remember much of the ride to Jodhpur, except that there were a lot of fans, I got stared at for about two hours straight by the people sitting across from me, and it was really hard to sleep. After 13 hours, I finally made it to my destination--commonly known as the Blue City for it's indigo colored, cubic houses. It's not as hot here, which has been quite the blessing. I haven't done much, except for get really lost in the small alley ways around the base of the hilltop fort. I have seriously never seen so many different people, vehicles, sewage, and animals fit through such small spaces...

The blue-washed buildings of Jodhpur provide a striking contrast to its hilltop fort

Anyway, tomorrow, it's off to explore the fort via what is supposed to be a spectacular audio guided tour, and then perhaps to find where I can get myself a pair of Jodhpur Riding Breeches... haha... Google them--you have to. Actually, I'll probably explore some different tailors with the hopes of having some pyjamas made that will actually fit my 'long' body... I also hear that Jodhpur is a good place to find spices.

Finally, I leave you with this: As intimidating of a meal as I have ever seen, especially for something considered vegetarian.

The Masala Dosa... it's tasty, but this vegetarian thing is a lot harder than I thought...

Namaste, My Dear Friend

2008-05-03T23:29:00.000-07:00

Stoic, or confused?

It's just absolutely insane here in India. The poverty, the smells of urine versus the smells of freshly made chabadi (flat bread) or chai, the immensely ornate and beautiful mosques, temples, shrines, gates, ghats, street kids, rickshaws, and well, everything. It's beauty is untouchable and the people smile sooo much when you just say hello (I don't know if I've ever met better natured people, despite the fact that so many have so little). When you barter for things or ask directions, it's all smiles, even if they're out to get every last rupee from you. I seriously wish you were here, I wish you could see it, and I hope that someday you come--you have to. And I've only been here for three days. Only three days...

After I got in a couple of mornings ago, I napped a bit, watched some Bollywood on TV, then went up for breakfast, had some chai from the wala outside--the dude that yells 'chai, chai, chai'--and proceeded to wander around with this guy that I met named Elliot. He's a cool dude that's been traveling for about 4 months in India, plays guitar really well, and just seemed like an overall good bloke--some cool stories from him too. He went with me to sort out my train ticket stuffs, because it was ridiculously hot and there isn't really anything you can do in Delhi between 11:30am to 4pm, and I was hoping for some crazy story to come of it, but we didn't even get approached by any touts who tried to sell us something or trick us or anything. I was, at the least, quite disappointed. Anyway, I had my first Vegetable Thali with Paneer (an India cheese), and some other things, Chabadi, Papadom--the crisp flat bread... It was amazing, and only at the restaurant of my guesthouse...

The New Delhi Train Station

The guesthouse was pretty nice., as it's about 10 bucks a night throughout India for what would be a basic US hotel room. Every single second, somebody would ask me if I have any laundry to do. I say no, and then they ask me if I want some beer... because they charge big prices for it, since they legally can't serve it in the hotel. It's funny, as they definitely get disappointed when I tell them no... which brings me to another point... I've decided to stick to vegetarian only, and not drink while I'm here... until I get to Kolkata at least. It's just the proper [and legal] thing to do, and the likelihood of me getting sick off of veggies is probably pretty low compared to with, oh say, chicken.

I went to a place the other night, and watched this rat scurry across the back area by the sink--away from the food though. Welcome to India...

The food is good though. Definitely good.

After watching a little Nicholas Cage in The ROCK, it cooled down and I passed out. Woke up this morning, met some other guys and toko a private car tour around the city. It was insane. We stopped at shops to get the driver commission, refused to listen to almost anybody who tried to give me anything or tell me what I 'needed' to do--as most of the time people either want to take your shoes, or go through your bag when you 'have to' leave it when entering a building--and followed the rules when somebody either had a gun (army guy) or there was a huge sign in English that at least looked legit. Anyway, the driver Nhandlal took me all over the city, and I got to see the Raj Ghat where Ghandi was buried, the India Gate, the Akshardam temple (look it up online, because you can't take pictures), and the Lotus Temple.... I basically got hauled around the city all day for 200 Rupees, which is equivalent to 5 dollars... insane. I guess it's all relative though--or is it? Then I ate some more.

The Raj Ghat, where Ghandi is laid to rest...

Did I mention that the food is good?

My view from the train...

I arrived early this morning in Agra, in order to see the Taj Mahal. I'm pretty stoked. I find it very fitting that I'm going to see a temple that is pretty much the most absolute of all monuments to love when I am so happy and excited. Excited because of what I'm doing, what I could do, plus the fact that every day is an incredible adventure. Never in my life do I think I have been as happy as I am right now; I'm absolutely in love, I'm eating well (we'll see how that is in a few days), the people around me are happy, I think I know what I want to do in my life, and just feel good natured--something that I think has been missing, either in the last couple of months or for quite a while. I'm still not sure, and don't even know if I have to be...

Despite all of this excitement, the things that I see here continue to keep me grounded--hotel staff sleeping on the floor overnight, little kids with drug problems, and trash being set on fire next to thousand year old relics. It puts things in perspective... So, don't worry about me getting a bigger head than I've already got--I should be fine.

A fire on the sidewalk in front of the Red Fort... Delhi

Pictures from Turkey

2008-05-03T08:10:00.000-07:00

I've arrived in India, safe and sound, and will update fairly soon... Probably tomorrow. Anyway, here are some pictures from Turkey that I never posted...

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

I Lied...

2008-04-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

I didn't post pictures. I've instead chosen to use my rainy and cold final days in Istanbul to look forward to my trip to India. It's been interesting to think about the final leg of my journey--an ambitious attempt to explore SE Asia and meet up with friends of friends and friends. My excitement and anticipation for the month or so that lies ahead has pretty much overshadowed my time in Turkey, a country that I don't think I've given enough credit for it's beauty or the hospitality of its people. Still though, I flipped a coin a couple of months ago (seriously) and it decided that East was where I'd go. Since that moment, I've been thrilled for the sights, sounds, smells, and overall chaos of what lied ahead. After all, I get to explore Rajasthan by train, fly to Kolkata for chai and street food, cross the border into Bangladesh before heading up to the tea plantations of Darjeeling, then back to Kolkata for a flight to Bangkok that serves as a prelude to my short journey to Hong Kong--where I will eat like a king--and finally arrive back in Thailand for two weeks of Phad Thai and more welcomed chaos. If I'm able, I may sneak towards Cambodia to visit the temples of Angkor Wat. Though, that may be too ambitious (if there is such a thing). I've learned so far that you'll never be able to do a place justice by how long you stay there, who you meet, or what you see. Instead, you have to trust yourself--your gut--and go when you're called to go by whatever God, winds, waters, or chance that moves you in that direction.

I've been thinking a lot about what I've learned from travel so far--mostly because I've been asked quite a bit in the last few days. I'm not entirely sure--mostly because there is just so much to think about. Certainly, I've learned the above--to trust myself more. I want to say that most of the answers will show up when I'm back at home, perhaps working or going back to school. You know, that the difference and resulting changes are going to be evident in my future and the way I conduct myself throughout my upcoming years. But it's kind of a cop out, so that I don't really have to answer the question. When I do figure it out, I'll do my best to let you know, one way or another.

Anyway, I'm just wondering out loud... Wish me luck in India (mostly for having a strong stomach).

Soooo...

2008-04-26T22:22:00.000-07:00

Since the last time that I've blogged, my time has been filled with sleeping in caves and treehouses, wandering around Star Wars movie sets, avoiding falling fairy chimnies, eating bad Turkish vegetarian food, and last but not least, sitting next to overly macho Turkish men who smell like cheap gas station cologne and drink too much beer. Oh, and I've managed to sit on one of the most serene and tranquil beaches I have ever seen in my lifetime.

Before I came to Turkey, I could remember people telling me that the buses can compete with Argentina, or even Chile, in terms of service and comfort. Unfortunately, nobody ever told me that they stop every two hours, they smell like smoke and--as previously mentioned--really bad and repugnant gas station cologne (think black panther from Anchorman). My bus ride from Denizli to Goreme in Cappadocia was no different. I got on, ready to sleep, and shortly thereafter this boisterous and rather large man got onto the bus and sat down in the seat across the aisle from me, then proceeded to move over to sit next to me. I couldn't understand what he said to the two young bus attendants, but I'm pretty sure he was stressing his discomfort. At that point, one of them decided that they'd try to get the foreigner to move, since no Turkish man or woman--in their right mind--would do so. That foreigner was me. He asked for my ticket for the third time and wrote down 18, and hinted strongly that I needed to move from my super sweet seat 32 to 18. I could pretty much tell what was going on, and said no, refusing to get up from my seat. At this point some Turkish women behind me started to laugh, which kind of eased the tension. The large gentleman was pretty upset he didn't get his way though, but hey, that's life, right? Well, apparently these two kids were working for him or something, as they proceeded to try to make my life hell throughout the bus ride (trying to spill things on me, tell me that my seat needed to be up, just ridiculous juvenile stuff). I rolled with it though, through the 12 hours, and arrived in Goreme a little later, after trying to save this German couple from getting lured off the bus by these nasty little travel agents (another story in itself). Finally, I got to my cave in Goreme--the heart of Cappadocia--and crashed amongst the musty silence of my settings.

Cappadocia is dry, dusty, and windy. Not for a second could you ever claim that it's barren. The entirety of the area of Central Anatolia is shaped and formed from centuries old volcanic tuff, and the waters and winds that subsequently molded the rock. It, in less than a few words, is otherworldly. I'll do my best to post some pictures, which make it that much easier to explain. You'll have to wait though, if you can.

After three days of hiking throughout the region, and some really sore legs and still recovering lungs, I hopped another bus to Olympos where I've resided on a beach for the last four days, licking my wounds (not really, I'm not flexible enough), and telling myself to relax before I head off to New Delhi--the capitol of India.

More pictures and words will come as soon as I get back to Istanbul...

Cotton Castle

2008-04-20T04:09:00.000-07:00

I've been in Turkey for quite a while now, but despite the time that has passed or the fact that I've been to three different cities and seen some of the world's most fantastic building and ruins, I can't help but feel like I've done a better job of seeing the pillow case at each of the accomodations I've been in each of the cities I've gone. And well, it's because I have.

Being sick on the road is probably one of the most uncomfortable, trying and boring experiences that you can possibly have. You get homesick because of the lack of your normal comforts--like an ability to have good food (its never guaranteed... especially in Turkey), or the ability to do nothing but watch TV. Being sick, sitting in a dark room, unabel to sleep while I twiddle my thumbs has probably been one of the only moments when I've missed television. That sweet, mindless, senseless, horrible, awful television...

Anyway, I've never been able to handle boredom well, o despite my groggy sickly state, I've managed to move right along and see many of the things I've wanted to see since planning on coming to Turkey and at the same time slow down long enough to have some pretty colourful conversations with Turkish hotel owners...

I got to Istnabul early in the morning over a week ago, and instead of taking a bus-fairy-taxi combo across the Bosphorus, I caved in and snagged a posh shuttle to the Sultanahmet area of the city (which pretty much equates to Old Istanbul) where I would reside in my sickly stupor. Though, it was about a half hour into the ride until I realized I even had the cold... After a lengthy bout with start and stop traffic, we finally made it over the bridge and onto the European side of the city, which really just means on the other side of the straight. We then also inexplicably switched drivers, and homebody proceeded to almost hit 5 street signs, 4 animals, and 2 people. I counted. It was nuts, but I made it, then slept for 15 hours until the next day. And despite seeing Topkapi Palace, the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofya, and taking a cruise down the Bosphorus, that's pretty much all I did in Istanbul until leaving for Selcuk.

The Blue Mosque at night...

The inside of Aya Sofya. It's renowned for its ridiculously large and unsupported dome.

It probably wasn't the best thing for my illness, but I took an overnight bus to get to Selcuk. It was the usual, 10 hours on a bus, cross some water, pass out, wake up, cough, pass out, and you're there. Except of course, for the Frenchman who decided that he wanted to try to curl up like a cat in the seat next to me, making for a relatively awkward and uncomfortable ride. I made the most of it though, watching out the window and marveling at the incredibly flat landscape of Turkey. I couldn't believe that the country was that flat... I was thinking it was almost reminiscent of Kansas until the outlines of this giant hill appeared from nowhere as we came upon the coast. It's kind of interesting, because I think that I could remember nothing else about Turkey, but I'll always remember being slightly startled by the appearance of a hill... Trying to explain it is kind of hard...

Got to Selcuk, and well, slept. Aside from a brief stint searching for some grub and a little conversation, it's pretty much all I did. Fortunately, I had an opportunity to talk with this guy Jimmy--a pretty well-traveled former Turkish Military Officer--who revelled me with his story about how he once threatened an Australian Visa Officer by telling her he'd stick a bomb up her butt for treating Turkish people who wanted to visit Australia like second-class citizens. [You're always initially taken aback by stories like this, and are probably pretty apt to look at Jimmy like he's insane and criminal, but you've got to wonder how many Visa officers treat people like shit on a daily basis. It's pretty easy to abuse you're power despite the fact that people try incredibly hard to do everything right in order to just get a stamp on their passport... I'll bet that he did everything right, and just ended up flipping... It was an interesting conversation to be a part of though...] It was, well, interesting. I didn't really know how to respond aside from eating my food and nodding my head. He ended up getting his visa though, mostly because he was in the military, and police couldn't do anything to him, or so he told me...

I awoke the next morning and headed off towards the ruins of Ephesus. They're immaculately preserved, though there is a lot of plaster involved. It definitely gives you one of the better ideas as to how an ancient city looked. For me, that was kind of a donfall, as I've found if there aren't really colorful things to see, then I at least like to imagine how shattered relics 300m apart were actually connected... The facade of the library (below), however, was spectacular. It was built around 100 AD, and the detail is just incredible...

Since then, I've lodged up in Pamukkale about four hours down the road. The city itself is on the map as a result of its travertines--structures developed as the result of a stream rich in calcium bicarbonate.

Some of pools that develop...

It would be pretty easy to blame it on the illness, but I've found myself pretty bored in Turkey. I honestly don't know what I would be doing if it weren't for the fact that I've been so sleepy. Food is kind of bla, I'm starting to feel like everything looks the same, and history just doesn't seem to interest me. I guess you could call it a funk, or maybe things just move a little slower here. Either way, I'm definitely looking forward to getting to India--though there is still a lot more ahead in my trip through Turkey.

Istanbul

2008-04-15T03:08:00.001-07:00

I've been wanting to visit Turkey for a really long time. Ok, well, I've been wanting to come here ever since I wrote three term papers on the country during my last quarter at the UW. Although I've been relegated to a dorm bed in Istanbul, it hasn't taken too much to realize I'm in a place steeped with history. Almost everybody and their mother has played a part in the history of the country--the Byzantines, the Ionians, Christians, Muslims, the Ottomans, and the list goes on and on. Nowhere is it more evident than Istanbul either. In its buildings, its streets, its people, its religion, its precarious positioning in Europe AND Asia, as well as its carpet shops. Ok, well not the carpet shops. At least that I know of... Anyway, you get the point. Turkey is an incredibly unique place.

So I made it to Turkey in one piece, but I'm afraid that I'm sicker than I've been on this trip so far. No, it's not the normal stomach woes that come with eating twelve hour old street vendor food. It's the classic chest cold. The "I can't sleep for more than one hour without waking up in the middle of the night and coughing my ass off" chest cold. The cool part, if there is such a thing, of being sick while traveling is that you have a lot more time to hang out, relax, and reflect on what exactly it is you're doing, have done, or will do. It's something that I've probably been needing to do for a while, so really the illness has been pretty well timed. Plus, all pressures to visit Istanbul's famous sites have been alleviated by my hostel's proximity to EVERYTHING, which has made it easy to roll out of bed and stumble to a museum or two during a day.

Oh, and why is it that you always want to go home when you're sick?

The Second Time Around

2008-04-11T08:30:00.000-07:00

When I came to Barcelona the first time, I was 20 years old, my Dad had recently passed away, and I felt like there was an entire world out there ahead of me. I decided to do something different, and planned a trip across the pond with Barcelona being my first stop. I absolutely fell in love with the city--it's churches, it's narrow and dark streets, it's tapas, it's understated beaches, it's funky modern art (that is featured in almost more places than you'd like), and just about everything my eager self could experience. I continued to travel over the next few weeks, and nothing I experienced gave me the same feeling that Barcelona did.

If you can't catch a sunset, you can always opt for the sunrise... The beach in Barcelona.

I began my second venture into the city by catching a sunrise on the beach, which was made all the more easy by staying in Barceloneta--the sort of fishing district of the city full of old-timers. I then spent the next couple of days visiting the same sights and reminiscing a little bit (Is there an age or some kind of defining moment that permits somebody to reminisce? I don't really feel like I'm old enough...). I walked the city and road the subway to almost everything I had been to before: La Sagrada Familia, La Padrera, Parc Guell, the beaches, and of course, the absolutely ridiculous shrimp statue that resides along the waterfront between Barceloneta and La Rambla (Barcelona's main and unavoidable boulevard full of "gifted" performers).

From Left to Right: L-Antoni Gaudi's unfinished tribute to the Sacred Family, La Sagrada Familia. It's still the most impressive cathedral I have ever seen, and it almost makes me want to go to church. M-The chimey's of La Padrera, another of Gaudi's mystifying works. R-Parc Guell, yet another one of Gaudi's productions, initially a privately owned park that was eventually opened up to the public.

I took in some new things too, like the nighttime music/fountain show at Montjuic (It sounds really cheesy, but damn, if there is anything more romantic than watching the sun set from above the city with a huge museum in the background, a fountain in front of you, and Madonna blaring over the speakers then I want to know about it--whether you're alone or not), and continued my fascination with world futbol by taking in an FC Barcelona game (Thanks George!). I made friends with the guy that worked at the Burrito joint down the street, and found a comfortable watering hole [read: tapas joint] complete with surly AND nice servers. All in all, everything that I experienced didn't lack any of the emotions I've experienced in my prior 6 months of travel, and it wasn't all that different than the first time I came here, but at the same time was.

I was privelaged enough to almost perfectly capture the closest thing to a goal that I saw during the FC Barcelona v. Getafe football match.

So what did I learn from going back? I'm still trying to figure it out. The city has remained pretty much the same, but my experiences this time around were different. I knew how to speak Spanish (even though the population prefers to speak in their native Catalan tongue), I wasn't with my buddy Thomas, and I've grown up--though I still like to visit the occasional club, my daily routine was a lot different this time. Plus, you'd think that seeing so many things would skew my fondness for Barcelona, but I don't think it really did or has. It's always going to be the first place I ever traveled abroad, and even if it happens to suck each and every time I go back, I'm still going to have those memories. And I will constantly be reminded of what was probably the most important period of growth in my entire life every time I think of the city.

Now, it's off to Istanbul and Turkey...

Dear Uncle Gary, Finally, here is another picture of me. I have decided that I will not cut my hair until I get home. Mostly because I will probably never let it grow long again in my entire life, or at least until a supersweet midlife crisis. But also, because I am afraid of getting my haircut in all of the countries that I will visit. Love, Cullen

This Man's A Berber, He's Praying!!!

2008-04-04T03:34:00.000-07:00

I can remember my tour guide Serge (from the Galapagos) telling me that tourism is responsible for bringing the world together and teaching people about different cultures, languages, etc. However, being in Marrakech (as well as Fes, Essaouira, and Meknes) has seriously forced me to wonder to what degree tourism can harm the potential for a full-blown considerate relationship between a visiting culture and the at-home culture--more so on an individual level. I wonder how long it takes (in terms of time) for something to become almost-intrinsically commercialized as a result of tourism (probably long enough for somebody to make a profit), at least to the very point that it begins to close off everyone else in the world from the living culture, or in other words, that it puts up some static facade or front to the rest of the world. What has happened in the last week that has caused me to wonder all of these things, you ask? Well, allow me to explain a little bit more about my time in Morocco...

After my initial state of absolute disbelief, enchantment, and wonder, I woke up and arose for the next couple of days in Marrakech. I jaunted out into the medina--the Jma el Fanaa--and into the souqs (small shops) to explore Morocco’s market culture. The Medina is full of twisting curving thin alley ways full of donkeys, people--walking, riding motorcycles, carrying fruit, cement, bread, cloth, laundry, etc., cats, dogs, goats, and tons of other things that I can’t even begin to explain. There is also the main square, which is where the food stalls are set up at night, where the story tellers play, snake charmers charm, and shrouded henna artists try to hustle unknowing tourists out of an absurd amount of Dirhams (the Moroccan currency). I passed a day pretty easily doing the aforementioned, people watching and exploring a couple of the palaces that can be found in the city. I was pretty stoked (and hungry) by the time that dusk rolled around, because it would be the first time I could really partake in the food market.

You will not be finding any of these featured on your cous cous, unless you ask of course...

If you happen to walk past, there are about two young guys per food stall who try to get tourists to eat at their stand. They do anything that they possibly can to try to lure bodies to sit down and eat some cous cous. To their credit, they are probably having the most fun doing what they do, and they’re also (sometimes) incredibly witty. Anyway, I went to number 117 because the kid had a wittier rhyme than the other guy, and feasted on just about everything I could--cous cous, brochettes, calamari, shrimp, aubergine, etc. Afterwards, I ended up talking with a few different guys separately, and I came away incredibly impressed. They know that the food at all of the stalls is pretty much the same, but it’s their job and they do what they can to make it fun. They also know up to four different languages, know what’s going on in all of the major US sitcoms, and aren’t out to get you to give them money... just to eat (so their employers will give them money).

The next morning, I stood in the square watching people get hustled. It’s something of interest to me, because I always like to think of how my Dad would try to scheister somebody in return for trying to mess with him. One of the better stories: A young woman gets yanked over underneath a parasol to a stool where a shrouded woman begins to apply henna to her hand. Only it looks like frosting, and is done in about 5 seconds. The girl is appalled, tells the woman that she didn’t want it and wants to wipe it off. The “henna-artist” plays distraught and says she won’t make any money, and that she’ll give the girl a special price to leave it on. What was the special price that the woman wanted? I am pretty sure she said 300 Dirhams, or approximately 45 US Dollars. It was hard to not laugh when the girl wiped the henna off on the ground...

In this picture, you can see a guy pulling out a 100 Dirham note and giving it to the guy for a picture of the snakes...

Afterwards, I wanted to check out the snake charmers, so I went to the square on my final day. There are typically about 8 different guys sitting around a bunch of snakes that are either defanged or impostors of poisonous snakes (cobras, etc.), and I figured I would have to pay something. Anyway, I snapped a couple of pictures, and tried to have a conversation with one of the guys in my broken taught-myself-in-5-minutes French and his broken English. He ended up demanding 300 Dirhams because I took a couple of pictures. I said no, and handed him something like 20 Dirhams (a couple of bucks). He told me to give him 300, because they needed to feed all of the guys sitting around the snakes. I said no, and he said that I should do it for Allah and then pointed to the sky. I then just walked away.

[So, does one person on any given day give somebody the 300 that they ask for, and then the story gets around about the idiot tourist that gave somebody 300 Dirham, thereby forcing every “salesperson” to request the same from every given tourist? I despise that guy. It is completely irresponsible to not try to find out what is or is not appropriate within a given culture.]

I walked through the souqs one last time and noticed that there wasn’t a single person in their shop making anything. I also noticed that the shop owners had collaborated to set the prices--as could be seen by the actually signs with prices on them (which I actually think is really smart from a business standpoint, and would probably do myself if I was a stall owner). Most of the prices were incredibly high for what they were trying to sell, which is an obvious result of what seems like an extraordinary amount of tourism in Marrakech. People can still barter for things in order to get the price down, but most Westerners don’t because they see a price on a sign. Anyway, the point of this is that I came away sort of disappointed with the souqs in Marrakech, because it didn’t fit my prior conceptions of what I thought markets should be like, or have been like (fair, to some degree). It’s still unique, fun, and you can still learn a lot. It’s just that you get the feeling that (almost) every single person inside wants to make sure you leave without a single penny. I, however, did leave with all of mine... I also left pondering a lot.

"Castles made of sand melt into the sea, eventually..."

I took a bus to Essaouira, a coastal city known for its seaside medina, a certain color of blue that adorns the window trim of almost every building (and the taxis), and the site of the Gnaoua Music Festival. It’s your stereotypical beach town, where everything seems to take on a slower pace of life. After two days of walking up and down the beach, watching the sun set, writing postcards, eating shwarma, visiting Jimi Hendrix’s castle in the sand, and learning how to say “Sorry, I don’t want to ride your camel today” in Arabic AND French. It was a pretty good time and something needed after Marrakech.

Easily one of the most beautiful moments I've had during my travels...

For some reason, I decided it was logical to go from Essaouira, on the coast, all the way to Fes, which is more inland and ultimately closer to Spain. I’m pretty sure that it was the only way I could get (almost) directly to Barcelona from Morocco (I say almost, because you can’t EVER get directly somewhere with Ryanair... Or so it seems). I woke up at sunrise, and groggily waited in the parking lot for my 12 hour bus-train combo.

A three hour bus ride from Essaouira back to Marrakech? Sleep. Nine hour train from Marrakech to Fes? It was a religious holiday, and apparently everyone was going to Fes. Actually, it was pretty cool to sit on a jam-packed train in a car with only some older Moroccan women. The countryside of Morocco is an absolute wonder too, because you get to see so many changes in landscape. One moment it’s absolute desert, the next it’s lush and green. All in all, it was a pretty sweet train ride once again... Until we got to Casablanca.

So I’m sitting there, minding my own business, looking the least bit caucasian that I could when I noticed a couple of guys pacing back and forth looking in some of the different compartments. Finally one guy stopped by my compartment, and I was pretty sure that he was waiting until the woman next to me got up so that he could take her place. Obvious, right? Well the dude wanted her place so that he could give me a business proposal and tell me about the stops. After a few days of dealing with touts, I think you just start assuming that anybody who is going to talk to you wants money. Fortunately, he didn’t and ended up being a pretty nice guy. However, when it looked like he was ready to get up, there was another man in the wings ready to replace him. Homeboy got off of the train, and here came DanDan. The guy introduced himself as, you guessed it, DanDan, and started to tell me he was in the tourist industry. He rattled off all of these overly obvious facts (i.e. that the Muslim religion was the main religion of Morocco) at an incredibly obnoxious volume [you know those moments where it doesn’t matter what language you speak, but you make eye contact with somebody and you know exactly what they were saying? I think that every single man, woman, and child in that train looked at me and said something like, “Please, don’t judge our country by this man.”]. I wanted to jump off of the train, only because I was sure it was the only way to get rid of him since there wasn’t going to be another stop until I reached Fes. He continued to talk for an hour, and I finally caved in and obliged... Then, about 5 minutes before we arrived in Fes, an elderly Berber man began to pray on the train. DanDan proceeded to yell at the top of his lungs, “THIS MAN’S A BERBER. HE IS VERY RELIGIOUS. HE IS PRAYING! RIGHT NOW WOULD BE THE CALL TO PRAYER.” I was shocked. To me, it seemed like one of the most disrespectful things he could have possibly done. The entire compartment just scowled at the guy... He kept talking, but we were there. Of course, I couldn’t get away without him offering his services to me while I was in Fes--for a very special price. Despite the barrage that occurred in the last thirty minutes of this particular train ride, I would strongly encourage anybody who visits Morocco to travel across the entire country in a day. It’s pretty relaxing, it’s absolutely spectacular in terms of scenery, and it does offer opportunities for you to interact with others--hustlers or not.

So, some quick things about Fes... It was, what I thought to be, the most beautiful city out of the four that I visited. The medina is huge, and actually the largest living medieval city in the world. It has something like over 9,000 streets, and following any given one will get you lost. I did, in fact, get lost about five times, but found my way out quick enough. I would have loved to continue to go back for days on end in Fes, because people are actually making the products that they sell in their shops, and there just appears to be more variance after every turn. On the way out of the Medina, I had these two kids come up and ask me what my name was. I told them Cullen, they introduced themselves and I explained that I couldn’t speak French. After that, they asked me for 10 Dirhams... Maybe its needless to say, but I was pretty disheartened.

All in all, I was pretty easy on the touts, hustlers, and tour guides throughout my story telling. There are a lot of them though, and they constantly and consistently try to pursue and persuade you at just about any cost. And there were a lot of times where you just come away feeling like crap because of the way, and the extent to which, they try to screw you over. My short experience in Morocco was frustrating on multiple levels. Mostly, because of how I have always allowed people to affect me. Thought, I’m also pretty sure that it was further heightened as a result of the fact that I couldn’t speak either language--French or Arabic. It meant that I couldn’t really get past the preconceived notion of what a tourist is, which meant I couldn’t really learn as much as I wanted. On the other hand, my experience wasn’t necessarily a result of me not being able to communicate that well. People--particularly Europeans and Americans--have been coming to Morocco for a long time and treating Moroccans and their culture as an attraction. As a result, at least in my opinion, a static periphery (a penetrable front if you will) has been put up, which makes it harder for people who are honestly interested in the history, culture, way of life, etc. to break through. Seriously though, as I kind of hinted at initially, does the at-home culture become static (that is, does the culture eventually stop evolving and changing) as a result of tourism, or is it that the at-home cultures’ opinion or conception of any visitors becomes static, thus forcing them to treat any given visitor the same way and probably assuming that nobody really gives a crap about the honest-to-God (whichever yours may be) cultural values, technical skills, foods, spices, trades, thoughts, opinions, politics, etc.--you know, the everyday life--of the at home culture?

Maybe if I would have just stayed longer in the country, in one city, I would have been able to develop a better understanding of it all. On the flip side, maybe people are really just intrinsically greedy and tourism provides the perfect atmosphere for that part of people to come out. Lots of thoughts, and not too many answers. At least for now.

Marrakech Express

2008-03-31T11:00:00.000-07:00

It’s 6:15PM and a man is thoroughly--but calmly--beating his carpet on a rooftop, while below, chaos ensues. Snakes dance to the sweet hums of various wind instruments and the gentle beating of drums. An old man, dressed to the nines, clutches his finest red hat while deeply carved wrinkles exaggerate an already animated face. He tells stories to enthused crowds of children, adults, and tourists--complete with cameras slung low off of their necks (the only time they aren’t firmly in their hands). All the while, smells and aromas of spice, roasted animal flesh, and oranges waft throughout the marketplace as people sit down for dinner.

I took a bus, boat, and train in order to get here. I think it’s the only time I’ve used those three forms of transportation during a single day in my entire life. Though a tiring day full of constant waiting, changes, and no food, it was a relief to find myself in Morocco, and ultimately in something completely different than anything I have ever experienced in my life--aside from a short stint in Northern Ghana. I chose to head to Meknes first, the religious capital of Morocco, in order to be somewhere further from my comfort zone. That’s not to say that I thought I would even be uncomfortable. It’s just that in a town like Meknes you’ll find less opportunities to run into a tourist, and therefore less touts (hustlers), less Westernized restaurants, and a population more firm in their Islamic beliefs. And honestly, I know very little about the Islamic religion, and the culture surrounding it in Morocco. Plus, I can’t speak any French at all, nor do I know any Arabic. Anyway, after a couple of days I feel right at home--aside from being unable to communicate without intensely exaggerated hand movements.

There is nothing like sitting in the back of a train, feeling the wind fly through your sandals, while you hope they don't fall off...

Yesterday, I took the Marrakech Express (it was actually just a train to Marrakech, but it makes me feel cooler to call it the Marrakech Express) to, you guessed it, Marrakech. I think that one would find it incredibly hard to not be enchanted with this city. After all, it has all of my favorite things: parks, markets, hustlers, bad drivers, beautiful mosaic tile work, fantastic buildings, cheap food, yard-by-yard of cloth, cheap sunglasses, and the list goes on... After only a couple of hours, I completely understood why so many hippies would migrate here in droves during the late 60s and early 70s. It just has that vibe.

Sidebar: I’ve noticed that a lot of the older people that speak English here in Morocco speak with an interesting English accent, using a lot of “hey man’s,” “it’s cool’s,” and an airy, lightheaded tone. I wonder why...

So the first paragraph pretty much described my first night and day here. I was consumed by the market and everything it had to offer. It’s so easy to get lost and to find everything you could possibly dream of in the same turn. Cheesy, I know. However, definitely honest.

There Were No Rabbits

2008-03-30T10:51:00.000-07:00

As I write this my fingers stick from lemon juice and wreak of seafood. It’s probably because I just finished up a little tapas session in Sevilla, though it could be a result of saving three elderly women who were coming out of Easter Mass from being hit by a produce truck that happened to also be carrying shrimp. Really, it’s a result of whichever cause you prefer. Anyway, I’ve been here for just a couple of days now, but it already feels too long. I’m not sure exactly why--the sky has few clouds, it’s about 70 degrees, and everybody around me seems to be in a pretty good mood. On the other hand, my short stint here didn’t really start on the right foot...

I hopped aboard another night bus in Porto headed for Sevilla in hopes of catching a glimpse of the world-renown Semana Santa Processions held throughout the week, before Easter Sunday. I can’t claim to have ever been religious, but the devotion of others--and their beliefs--have always and will always be something that interests me, particularly the way they express it. I kind of figured that the buses in Europe wouldn’t be as swank as the ones in Argentina, or even Brazil, or even Bolivia, but oh well; it was a more affordable and straightforward option than anything else I had. The first part of the trip was going alright until we stopped somewhere in Portugal--I believe Lisbon--and were told that we had to change buses in order to go to Sevilla. I’m kind of used to things like this happening despite the fact that you ask in advance if you have to do such a thing, but this time ended up being a little different. I grabbed my bag and tossed it into the compartment under the bus, and headed for a seat in the bus. Only the bus driver was standing in front of the door arguing with a girl over not allowing her to bring her backpack on board. From what I could decipher (thankfully they were speaking in Spanish), he wasn’t giving her any kind of reason as to why she couldn’t bring it on board, except that she couldn’t. All the while, everybody and their mother was hustling on board with their bags--the bus driver paying no attention. I kind of felt like the guy was just being a jerk to the girl, so I figured I’d ask him if I could bring my bag on. I know I pretty much asked for it, but the guy decided to turn his power trip on me, cussing me out in Spanish and telling me that if I didn’t put my backpack under the bus I couldn’t get on. I asked him to give me a reason as to why, and he kept yelling “NO SE PUEDE!!! [You can’t]” I, being the pretty persistent kid that I am, continued on by asking him where in the regulations of his bus company did it say that I was not allowed to bring a bag on board. He kept yelling, but I noticed that the girl he was yelling at earlier had gotten on with her bag. It was at this point where I gave up my argument and put my other bag under the bus and told him that if anything happened to my stuff, he would be paying for it. Oddly enough, he seemed to calm down as a result--though I still had to put my bag under. It was ridiculous, and I was so riled up that I didn’t sleep much for the rest of the night. That, in a nutshell, is how I arrived to Sevilla.

Thankfully, I was able to check in early when I got here, and slept off a little bit of my frustration. The situation has made me continually think a bit about some of the other things I need to work on, like not letting people get to me so much. At the same time, is it a bad thing to let it bother you that people are power tripping on others that seem to be ‘smaller’ than them? If you have the answer, or at least an idea, I’d love to know.

As I said before, the city itself is beautiful. There are tons of parks, water fountains, an unbelievable cathedral--a true architectural marvel, and the Alcazar--a spectacular palace occupied by both Spanish and Islamic royalty for centuries. In short, there are tons of things to keep you busy and entertained. Plus, Sevilla is supposed to be the Tapas capital of the free world.

Unfortunately, sometimes it’s the little things that make the difference between feeling at ease, or feeling uneasy. It was hard for me to get into the Easter Processions, because of this:

I have a lot of respect for religion, and the beliefs of others, but I shivered when I saw these guys come out with pointy hoods and robes. Though I tried, I couldn't really shake my prior associations between pointy hoods, robes, and the KKK...

Plus, the tapas would have tasted better if most of the bars hadn’t limited their restaurant menus to raciones--portions larger than tapas--as a result of all the tourists in town (This means you have to order more of one item, which means you get less variety, which therefore means that you ultimately don’t enjoy the point of tapas). And more importantly, I was limited from one of the things that I enjoy most: eating.

Oh well, so my time in Sevilla wasn’t as sweet as I had hoped. Sometimes [read: Most of the times] you just have to roll with the punches and keep on moving. That’s the benefit of seeing so many things in such a short period of time. There is always something to look forward to, and some new adventure right around the corner. Though, I suppose that can be applied to almost any place in life... If you choose.

Oh-Porto (They've Got Me Speaking Portuguese, pt. 2)

2008-03-23T00:59:00.000-07:00

After jet-setting from Dublin on everyone's favorite low cost airline Ryanair, I felt relieved and a little more relaxed. Maybe it was because I wouldn't have to look right then left anymore, or maybe it was because I was back to doing what I was used to: the daily struggles and adventures of a vagabond, nomadic, world traveler.

When you start to break through the clouds upon descent to Porto, you immediately see a country divided. Only it has nothing to do with politics for once, but rather a simple river. The Duoro gashes right through Portugal and more or less separates the North from the South, and therefore, in some ways, separates Porto from the more cosmopolitan south of Portugal. Fortunately, this seems to give the city a very unique character. A sort of unpolished, more crass, chip-on-the-shoulder-esque character that actually ends up being quite charming--at least to me. In addition, Porto is just an incredibly picturesque town: handpainted tiles adorn the facades of buildings, clay tile roofs dot the landscape, well dressed elders wander with purpose, old wooden boats bob lazily on the river, and lots of Port Cellars dominate the landscapes--probably the main attraction for most that visit Porto. Me, I don't really even like port...

I do like food though, and that's a TREMENDOUS reason to visit Porto...

So what did I do? What I've been learning to do this entire time: wander aimlessly. It was sweet to just wander around the cobblestone streets, chat with locals in my broken Portuguese/Spanish, and watch the world turn a day older. I've developed this routine with just about any place that I visit. The first day is always spent wandering and getting some kind of orientation, while the afternoon is reserved for running any necessary errands (they do pop up every now and then). It's just more relaxing than forcing yourself to do something that you aren't sure you want to do. You buy more time, and figure out what your options are for the rest of the time in the area. The town itself was pretty easy to get around in though, and pretty small, which made it easy to snag a tour of a port cellar--Taylor's to be precise. I got to sample some port, take a photo op with a peacock and learn why all the port cellars have English sounding names despite their location. The day was polished off with some of the best food--the major reason why I added Porto to my itinerary--I've had since my trip commenced--wine, bacalhau, fresh olives, veal, calamari and much much more. I decided to splurge on a cruise of the Duoro on the next day, figuring I might not ever come back to Porto again, and that I'd be crazy if I didn't take in what arguably might be the most beautiful attraction in Portugal.

The cruise was spectacular, allowing you to see all of the quintas, or port vineyards, that are strewn along the river. Spring seemed to be the best time to come, as all of the orange and cherry trees that dot the landscape were in full bloom. As I expected when I singed up for it, it was full of retiros too, or retirees for you English speakers. Most of them were Spanish though, which helped me prep my linguistic skills before going back to Spain, and as I've come to find out, I enjoy speaking with my elders a little bit more than people my age. So in short, it worked out pretty well. We got back to the city around dusk, which allowed me to wander around and snap some photos of the oh-so-close-to-full moon and the monastery that sits atop the town on the south side of the Duoro.

After a couple of days, I was content with where I was and pretty set on returning some day. And to think, I put this place on my itinerary only after watching a really old episode of Anthony Bourdain: Cook's Tour from the nineties (It's a food/culture show, sort of). Oh, where would we be without television?

Off to Sevilla and the ultra-serious processions of Semana Santa and Easter Sunday.

The Trip Continues...

2008-03-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

Ok, so this isn't a fully qualified blog installment, but rather an opportunity to show you a picture. Porto is absolutely wonderful, and here is the picture:

I will update again as soon as I can... Hopefully before I get to Morocco.

Reunions and Robots

2008-03-21T03:10:00.001-07:00

The sweetest float in the parade, complete with crazy scientists and a rock band...

Spending a fair amount of time in English speaking and ‘westernized’ countries after my time in South America has definitely helped me to realize quite a few things: 1. Despite an economy that happens to be on a steady downstroke, we, as United States citizens (we aren’t the only ‘Americans’ you know), actually have it pretty good in terms of the costs of living 2. People who speak English are rude and rarely cheerful, and 3. How civilized are we really if we always expect people to know exactly how to do things, or to know exactly what they want? Anyway, I know that I always talk about money related issues, but I did study economics in school, and I also know that the last item was a question as opposed to something tangible. I figure that the answer can be inferred.

But I digress... When I got into Dublin I was tired and nervous. I was meeting up with my girlfriend, after five months of not seeing one another. Why in the hell would I, a 23 year old kid, stay in a relationship while going abroad for however long? It’s a good question, and to be honest, I’ve wondered it a lot myself. I think the answer is: I like her, ya know?

My flight was scheduled to arrive a couple hours before hers, and I was pretty content with waiting around the airport for those couple of hours considering the time. I got there, and sat in customs for about an hour and a half, and figured I’d probably see her in the line the way things were going. The trip through customs took that much longer when the agent claimed that he couldn’t find an open page in my passport for the Visa stamp--the empty one was stuck to my visa sticker for India... I’m glad the event happened though, as it reminded me to stop at the embassy in Dublin to snag some extra pages. But I finally get out of customs, snag my backpack, and proceed to go stake out a spot and wait for Jess. After two intense hours of thinking that I’m watching intently, I get up to use the bathroom, come back, and then ‘BAM!’ This 5’3” brick hits me, and she proceeds to tell me that she’s been waiting for an hour and a half about 10 feet away!!! Anyway, to make a long story short, we wasted two hours before making way to our accommodation on the outside of Dublin.

We spent the next couple of days exploring the city and taking a train ride out to the Blarney Stone after missing the first train, then missing the bus to Blarney, only to miss the return bus to Cork, and finally deciding to go back to the train station instead of eating where we found that the last train was in 15 minutes... I can’t say I’m not used to occurrences of that nature, but being with Jessica has definitely helped me realize I’ve let go of perfection with regards to travel (This theory has not yet been tested with anything else). Oh, and of course, we took in the St. Patrick’s Day parade on Monday. I honestly have to say too, that the countryside was easily the most beautiful part of the country. Though, as I found in traveling with my mum, the nature and the history of English speaking countries are the absolute best part. Especially when you juxtapose the people of a country like Peru with those of England or the U.S.--there is no doubt in my mind as to who I have more to learn from and who is just plain friendlier (it’s the Peruvians by the way).

On Tuesday morning, before I left the country, I stopped into the high security embassy of the good ol’ US of A in order to get more of the aforementioned Passport pages. It was about 8:30, and I figured I would be able to get things going pretty quickly since I had arrived so early. Only they had to have my cell phone (I use it to keep time), my camera and pens. Then they needed me to walk through the security scan, then scan me again even though I didn’t beep when I walked through the scan, and then gave me a badge, so I could walk to the door to be let into the actual building, to be scanned again after taking out my wallet and everything else. After finally making it through, I found out that there were about 30 other people already waiting... It made me wonder if we really needed that much security. Why is it necessary? Why isn’t it? I have my own thoughts about it, and of course my own questions--though I won’t put them down here... Just some things for you to think about.

Now, it's onward to Portugal and the city of Porto--one of the world's wine capitals, if I'm not mistaken.

The City of York

2008-03-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a town called York... Things have changed a lot since then...

While my mom and I made our way North to Edinburgh it started to snow. She asked me if I wanted to take a break and pull over somewhere, which prompted a "why?" from my at-the-time contemplative self. She then proceeded to explain to me that it was snowing, and I was driving on the left side of the road--which was the right thing to do. I didn't really think much of it until then, because I was finally becoming used to driving on the opposite side of the road. Yet the simple explanation kind of spun me for a loop, causing me to actually think about what I was doing. And it had nothing to do with driving. Here I was in the UK, leaving a town called York. The last time I left a town called York with my Mom I was headed towards Issaquah, Washington, in a life-changing move that is probably responsible for just about every tremendous experience that I have ever had. This time, however, things were a little easier as I wasn't leaving anything behind, such as friends and a dog, but rather just a few toiletries--maybe. Despite its low-risk, the experience helped me recall the strides I've taken and be that much more thankful for where I'm at today, or any tomorrow.

The snow melted away, the sun faded into oblivion, and despite the weather, we made it to Edinburgh in one piece. We ate and prepared ourselves to part ways--my Mom back to London and then to Seattle; I to Dublin. I'm glad I got to see my Mom during this experience. I don't think that it would have felt right and I probably wouldn't have had as many things to think about going into the latter half of my trip--like why my theories on travel aren't always applicable to everything, or simply why I'm able to do this. Plus, it was probably really good for my back that I wasn't sleeping in sagging dorm beds for a week straight.

Thanks Mom, I hope the flight home went alright.

The International Airport (Hot and Cold)

2008-03-09T15:27:00.000-07:00

You don't even want to know how I got that plane to stay still...

I sat in the way-past-its-heyday Rio de Janeiro airport for about three hours before my flight to Madrid, where I'd twiddle my thumbs for 7 hours until another flight to London. I was sad to leave South America. Absolutely bummed. I hiked more over the last 5 months than I have in my entire man-it-feels-so-old 23 years of age, saw one beautiful awe-inspiring thing after another, risked life and limb by stepping into any taxi, and wore holes in my shoes... My shoes. I just sat there and looked at them. They were probably what made me think the most about what I've done, where I've been, and what I've learned. You could just see the miles on them. They were the only thing that hadn't been washed, and therefore the only things outside of my person that carried a little bit from every place I had been.

A voice boomed over the intercom, and I gathered my cognizance. I walked on wearing shorts, a tank top, and thong sandals. 11 hours and the most uncomfortable flight of my life later, I walked off wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Madrid was cold, and London would be colder.

Have you ever had those moments when you are stuck somewhere, anywhere, just waiting it out? You've got no books, no music, no pens, no companions... I probably ate lunch about six times waiting for my first easyJet flight. After the final lunch, I swung around the corner to find about 65 people waiting in no particular order to try to bumrush the gate in an attempt to snag their preferred seat... I didn't understand it, and didn't really care; I was about two hours away from seeing my mom. Out of anything and everything that could let me know how far I've come, in any terms, since my departure from Seattle for my Bonderman experience, nothing could be a better barometer for change than my mom. She's been there for all of my ups and downs, and she certainly did more than her share of helping me grow into who I am--for better or worse. And I know that I wouldn't have ever received the Bonderman if it wasn't for the examples she laid out for me. Mostly because, without her, I wouldn't have ever thought it possible to go, nor would I have ever learned it was ok to never stop going.

It was just as cold as I expected, and just as great to see my mom as I figured it would be. My hole laden Adidas shoes are gone, and I've already experienced something more traumatizing than any South American taxi ride: Driving in England on the opposite side of the road at night in the rain. However, being here is an incredibly drastic change from anything I have done for the last five months. Though, I think it has made me think more about my life, and my future, than any other place I have been so far.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure my mom is having a good time too.

This is the Life

2008-03-08T15:10:00.000-08:00

Despite what everybody else says, I find that the Brazilian side of Iguazu Falls is actually the more beautiful one...

So after the falls--the Brazilian side--I hopped a bus to Campo Grande, a city that serves as a major access point for the Pantanal--the world's largest wetlands area. The Pantanal is dotted by Fazendas, sort of like a Brazilian version of a ranch, which focus mostly on raising cattle. Though, as I came to find out, sometimes its more about simply keeping them alive versus making sure they're fat.

Within minutes of arriving in Campo Grande, I hopped on yet another bus to drive 2 more hours to get to the tradeoff point where you get into yet another vehicle--a 4x4--that tries to take you over the drenched dirt roads to the Fazenda. On a dry day, it would have probably only taken an hour to reach the final destinatio. But its the wet season--I hit it perfecly, but more on that later--and the ranches have been bringing in large cattle trucks which have severely damaged if not destroyed the roads, leaving them almost impassable to anyone without a tractor or 18 wheeler. Even then, nothing is for certain. Though, the fazendas that focus more on tourismare tring to make it so the cattle have to be taken out of the area before they are picked up by the trucks closer to pavement. Heavy lobbying efforts have occured in order to get the government to address the issue, but it has so far only resulted in a helicopter flyover by the regions Representative in Government... Now, I ask you, what can you tell about a dirt road from a helicopter? Enough ranting though...

So on the way in, you see capibara, caimans, hear stories of giant piranha, watch an 18 wheeler get stuck in the mud, then another, then your car gets stuck, then you spot an ostrich, or maybe the Blue Macaw. You get excited, that 20 or so hours of straight bus riding feels like maybe it is worth it. Then the rain comes. Of course, any time you go to the Pantanal during Summer you risk not seeing much as a result of torrential downpours and flooding. To make a long story short, I spent the next three days getting bit by mosquitos, trudging through armpit high water, riding down the river on a boat (pretty sweet), riding horses through the water, and pretty only saw a few birds. Despite the flooding and mosquitoes, it was a good opportunity to find some silence after a long time in Buenos Aires and really just continue my constant state of reflection without all the normal distractions. Plus, I saved some money too (because Rio is incredibly expensive).

On the last day, I rode out from the fazenda, and saw everything--including the elusive Anaconda--that I didn't see doing the walks, horse-rides, or boat rides...

Floooooooooooooooooooding...

After a night in Campo Grande, a 24 hour bus ride to Rio de Janeiro followed. I've become pretty accustomed to the long bus rides though, and passed out for the majority of the time. And, I have to admit, I was pretty stoked to get back to an urban center too, mostly because I HATE mosquitoes.

Not everything in Rio is Jesus's and sunshine...

Upon arriving in Rio, I hailed a cab to catch a ride to Copacabana. Immediately, the cab driver asks me, in English, where I'm from--I tell im Washington, he asks D.C., I explain north of California and next to Canada, he doesn't know what I'm talking about... you know, the standard exchange. But then he goes, "Holy shit man, did you just see that?" I told him no, and he says, "that was an army truck, I wonder if they were armed." I ask why, and he replies, "because they are headed to the favela we have to go through to get to your hostel." And goes on with, "Don't take one of those favela tours man, if the army comes in, or a shootout goes down, you're gonna die." I can't say I was planning on taking a favela tour anyway... but I can explain more of that in a second...

During the duration of my stay, everything was safe and secure. I do know, without actually knowing, that Rio is an incredibly dangerous for its citizens, particularly in the, at least many of the, favelas. Some drug lords work hard at keeping everyone as safe as possible, help improve schools, improve healthcare, and many other things. There are something like 485 favelas in the sprawling metropolis that is RDJ, which probably means that the odds aren't that great in terms of finding an oh-so-kind drug lord. Then again, I don't really know...

Anyway, I didn't take a tour, and instead visited the regular sites--Sugarloaf, Christo Redentor, Ipanema, Copacabana, Maracana Stadium, etc. I have heard from people that the favela tours are a great way to see into the lifestyle of the favelas, and that it can be a rewarding experience. I recognize that I'm different from others, but I kind of question how much you can actually see from just a day. Plus, I couldn't really get with any tour companies whose slogan is "Be a Local," nor do I ever feel it appropriate to run in somewhere, snap pictures of people in their home and then go off showing it around to my middle class family in the U.S. who hasn't ever had to deal with even the slightest reality of Brazilians living in favelas. I didn't go though, and therefore, I really can't say anything, and you don't have to take pictures either... It's still something to think about though.

I ran around the city on foot, in buses, and the occasional cab in order to see and experience all I wanted and could in the pricey city that is Rio--on par with London... Then, I spent my final days in South America on a beach watching time unfold and my skin darken. I thought a lot about what it will be like to go home, back to a reality of impending job searches and grad exams. Fortunately, I still have quite a while before I head back home.

And the sun sets on my time in South America...

And She Danced Upon the Sand...

2008-03-03T11:22:00.000-08:00

I will update after I leave South America. I'm not feeling too energetic with regards to anything on the internet. A couple of quick words of advice though:

1) If you ever become a taxi driver in Rio, don't tell your passengers how likely they are to get shot walking by a favela.

2) If you are thinking about going to the Pantanal during the wet season, don't. It's pretty beautiful, but you won't see too much wildlife and nobody should have to endure a 24 hour bus ride to get to Rio de Janeiro--nobody.

They've Got Me Speaking Portuguese, I Really Think So

2008-02-23T19:59:00.000-08:00

Un-fricking-believeable

Today is my first day in Brazil. Its not as though traveling about 10 minutes by bus has ever, or really should ever cause any dramatic difference in life. Yet, crossing the border from Argentina into Brazil provides some pretty stark contrasts. Aside from the obvious language barrier I've already tried to overcome (I am really going to miss speaking Spanish. I like to think I was starting to get good...), the weather feels hotter, the people more relaxed, and there is a whole lot less smoking going on. Plus, they have Pizza Hut.

So what is it that I did with my last days in Argentina you ask? I went to Iguazu Falls, what is probably the most incredible set--almost an unimaginable number--of waterfalls in the world. It did a spectacular job of making me feel like a little kid the entire time.

Tomorrow, I'll go back. Only this time, it will be from the from-what-I've-heard-its-less-impressive-than-the-Argentinean-side Brazilian side of Iguazu Falls.

I don't know if I will have time to post again on the entire adventure before I head off to Campo Grande and the Brazilian Pantanal, but I'll try. Oh, and check out the butterfly pictures on my Flickr account--just insane.

I'll See Your Good Airs and Raise You an Iguazu Falls

2008-02-20T09:14:00.000-08:00

The Obilisco--Buenos Aires' signature landmark

The last couple of days have been absolutely insane. Despite not having done anything in the prior three weeks of being here, I was determined to cram as much as I could into my final four or so days: a tango show, drinking mate (a tea beverage...), drinking wine, eating more steak, watching the Boca Juniors play a soccer game at Bonbonera, checking out the horse races, going to a concert (again), wandering around Palermo (its like the equivalent of Belltown in Seattle) one last time, visiting Recoleta cemetery, and so much more. Just as is the case with any major metropolis, there is too much to do here. Did I get all of the above accomplished? No, not by a longshot, but here is what I did do...

On Saturday morning I woke up a little earlier than usual to meet my buddy Ryan at the airport. I told him I'd be there a little after his scheduled arrival, and thanks to South American efficiency, I was about an hour and a half early (it takes sooooo long to get your luggage in Buenos Aires--I can't even imagine what customs would be like). After a few interesting events we finally got out into the open airs, snagged a cab and headed downtown to grab some empanadas and do a whole lot of nothing. Rest, of course, was necessary, as we had a huge steak dinner ahead of us. I would say that the normal consists of salad, a huge steak weighing something like a pound, a piece of chorizo sausage, some mashed potatoes, beer or maybe wine, and of course water. After dinner, you snag some ice cream with the other porteños and then you call it a night... after a couple of drinks at any fine and busy establishment.

A Steak Meal at Desnivel

Sunday is always much more mild here--with the exception of a few things. Sundays always start with one of the cities markets, usually San Telmo. I've been about three times now, and you can always find something absolutely amazing there. Though, I never buy anything. The market itself really only takes about 45 minutes to stroll through, but there are always street performers, tango shows, old gramophones (I want one so bad. There is this one in Husky colors that is calling my name), old school Barbie polaroid cameras, and even older school antique cameras from the 1890s. Ryan and I wandered around, ran into my buddy Ben from New Zealand, took pictures and pondered what to do for the afternoon.

Feria Artesenal de San Telmo

Sundays also typically feature all of the futbol games you could ever desire. I was lucky enough to wait it out and go to see a Boca Juniors game at La Bonbonera, or the Chocolate Box--their stadium in La Boca. The Boca Juniors team is widely regarded at the most historic not only in Argentina but also in all of South America. The neighborhood of La Boca turns completely blue and yellow on weekends. I was able to snag some tickets and see the Boca Juniors take on and destroy the Argentino Juniors... We went to the stadium on a standard school bus, because I booked through a tour company--which also happened to be one of the cheaper ones. They were pretty bad. The bus ride took forever, because the driver tried to drive through, instead of around, the San Telmo Street Fair, which left only 10 minutes to eat the worse pizza of my life. I then got to game and found out that the whole group of us had to smash into the bleacher seating like cattle, as opposed to having assigned seats like we were told we would have. After the awful pizza and probably not enough water, I felt a little woosy and thought I was going to hurl. I got out of the crowd, obtained some much needed fresh air and thought about why in the hell I didn't just buy my own ticket and get my own transport to the game instead of paying some ridiculous price for it. The game started though, and all was quickly forgotten... The stadium was unbelieveable. I can safely say that I have never ever experienced something so electrifying as La Bonbonera on gameday. And, as was expected, the Boca Juniors put on a show scoring four goals in a route of their opponents...

I was pretty worried that I wouldn't be able to get ahold of my friends Maria and Agustín again before I left Buenos Aires. Fortunately, they emailed me back and told me to come find them at the Konex. No big deal, except that I really wanted to go check out the horse races in Argentina... I let it go, adjusted the ol plans, and set out towards Recoleta Cemetery.

The cemetery is almost set out in a gridlike fashion, with almost--or maybe more than--a thousand graves of Argentina's elite. You can walk around for hours scoping the incredibly gaudí statues and artwork that adorn each of the graves...

Eva Peron's grave at Cementario Recoleta

Later on, we busted a move back to the hostel and got ready to go right back out again for yet another drum and bass concert... I met up with Agustín and Maria, their friends, and a couple of other people I have met through my adventures and felt really great about being able to introduce one of my friends from home to somebody who doesn't speak with a British accent. The concert ended after about a percussion filled hour, and we fought through the crowd to find somewhere to eat. Only, we didn't and ended up at some party instead. That pretty much sums up life in Buenos Aires...

Back at the Konex again...

On Tuesday, well, I collapsed. I got rid of all grand designs for things to do and went to see American Gangster instead, before going to an Asado--traditional Argentine BBQ--at Agustín's house. We drank wine, ate Cow Gland, blood sausage, more chorizo, and philosophised over the differences in classic rock during the 60s and 70s. It was a great final night in Buenos Aires, and a great reminder of the fact that we do really have friends from all over the world, even if we don't know it yet. All you have to do is find them, which can happen in the most random of places.

As a side note: It has been awesome to see someone from home. I think it has helped me think about the ways that I have changed and the ways in which I will never change... Moreso, it's just been great to see one of my close friends adjust to all of these new things. Maybe its because it provides me with perspective on how I adjusted at the beginning. Then again, maybe not.

I didn't get to see the slow trot horse races featured on Anthony Bourdain, or even go to a commercialized big-time tango show production. Still, my time here has been amazing, and I've never been one to be about checklists (actually that isn't true, but people will and should always come first). As far as vacations go, I think I'm ready to take off for the next destination: Puerto Iguazu.

The Rising Sun

2008-02-15T13:20:00.000-08:00

I can't claim to have seen it since I have been here in Buenos Aires. Maybe its the large steak dinners that I eat almost every night that are causing me to sleep so late, or maybe its the fact that I just don't eat until 9 or 10PM every day. Though, conventional wisdom would probably suggest its the fact that I stay up four to six hours after both.

Over the last two and a half weeks, the city has seriously grown on me. It is gorgeous (So gorgeous that you forgive the place for having dog droppings everywhere--I do mean everywhere too), full of history, and a vibrance unknown to any of the cities I have visited so far. I can't figure out if it is the overconsumption of bad-but-freshly brewed coffee, the constant consumption of dulce de leche, or unbelieveable amount of chain smoking (Does that even keep people up?). No matter, as the city is always hopping--day or night. But... I will tell you more when I have a chance to post some pictures...

The Flip of a Coin

2008-02-06T13:37:00.000-08:00

So tonight is cooler than most have been since my arrival in Buenos Aires--now about 10 days removed. The clouds are sparse and the breeze is flickering through whatever vegetation that happens to be available. Its nice, especially in comparison to the blistering heat and humidity of the day time, and my shared habitation. Speaking of which, it has now been two months since I have seen a private room... I'm not really sure what that means with regards to my character, or patience, but I do think that its wearing slightly thin on me.

For the last 10 days, I have done nothing, with the exception of trying to lead a normal life. I've worked out, gone to the same coffee shop everyday, I've read books (I'm trying to understand why in the hell any high school student would be forced to read "The Grapes of Wrath," as only now do I begin to understand the story), I've window shopped, and I've gone out on the town with my hodge podge motley crew of English and Argentinian friends. I've planned and planned for the impending months ahead--actually only researched, trying my damndest to soul search and figure out what's next...

THE COIN FLIP

I met up with my buddy Matt at his swank abode and sat by the pool BSing about travel, what to do, and where to go. For the last few months this intense battle has been waged between going to Africa, or going to Asia... I was descriptively mulling my options over aloud to Matt, talking about both possibilities, and even thinking about whether I should come back through the North of South America and into Central America--thereby continuing to learn Spanish. Inevitably, I did what all born-to-be-Politicians do--the diplomatic thing--and flipped a coin. I had Matt call it. He did, and we eventually figured out that there is no heads on an Argentinian 25 centavo piece. After a brief clarification of what was what, I flipped again, and Africa had won the toss. This, was exactly how I figured out that I didn't really want to go to Africa anymore...

As soon as the coin landed on the numbers side (numbers and buildings), I kind of felt my stomach sink. I'm not entirely sure why, but I just knew that I didn't want to go. I had been in contact with an NGO in Africa about stopping by and trying to learn something for a month or so, but after having a long discussion with one of their reps, I was able to see that I wouldn't be of help in the long run, and I'm not sure how much I would take away from it myself... It reminded me of this discussion that I had with Ty--a guy on my Inca Trail trek--about how 10 weeks isn't going to be too incredibly powerful for any of the parties involved, unless of course, everything works out perfectly. Plus, though the resolution of conflict in Kenya seems to be impending... knock on wood... you just never know. It's a place that I really wanted to go too, which probably contributed to my desire to head elsewhere.

So where do I go next? I'm pretty sure its East.

SAN TELMO

I've been spending the last few days hustling back and forth between San Telmo--the Tango area of Buenos Aires--and Palermo--the rich and affluent area of BA. Most of this has been the result of having friends in different places, etc, but also because I'm restless. In the last week I've gone to the same steakhouse about 30 times (no joke). Its super cheap, the food is unbelieveable, and there is this guy who serves you there that looks like a distant relative of Andre the Giant. I jetted over to the Antiques market in Plaza Dorrego on Sunday--another thing that San Telmo is known for--and checked out all of the antique record players, as pictured below.

An old-school record player at the San Telmo Antique Market...

Sometime between then and now, I got drug out to one of the coolest concerts I've been to--a drum and bass night at Konex, an industrial ampitheatre featuring tons of weird sculptures. Mostly everybody was Porteño and a hippy. I dug it.

The Konex, site of a bass and drum concert...

A NOTE TO YOU...

A couple of days ago I found out that an aquaintance of mine, and a best friend of many of my friends, passed away. The guy was bright, ambitious, and a hell of a lot of fun--it only took me about 5 minutes to find out when I met him. I hate that its happened, and I hate that I can't be there for my friends--in a proximity sense. Maybe I couldn't have been anyway, but either way, it has helped in showing me how important this life really is. We all have things that we want to do in life, and we all have things that we think we have to do in life. Fact is, most of the people reading this don't even like there jobs, or aren't happy with their current state. Life really can end at any single moment, so change what you don't like and start turning over rocks to find what you do. Don't wait for time to pass. Instead, anticipate the moments to come, and take advantage of the opportunities you have. There are some people that don't ever get them, for one reason or another.

I can't be there, but I am here. You aren't here, but you are there. We are lucky to know that much.

Rest in Peace Fred.

The Silent Penguin

2008-01-28T05:18:00.000-08:00

This guy LOVED the camera. Seriously...

Since I decided to go on the four day long 'W' trek in Torres del Paine, it left me scrambling for time in order to get from Puerto Natales to Punta Arenas to Ushuaia in the last three or so days. I hopped on the early bus to get to Punta Arenas, Chile in the morning so that I could take a penguin tour in the afternoon. I'm not going to lie, I was pretty stoked for it. This is the first time that I would see penguins in the wild, as they were about the only animal that I didn't get to see in the Galapagos. I checked into the hostel, threw my bags down, grabbed some lunch, and hopped on a bus to the Penguinería... The guy at the gate told me I had an hour, so I headed straight to the beach, where hundreds of penguins awaited me, waddling around, feeding their children, and pretty much being the smelly birds that they are. It was great. The big event of the day, however, occurred after I abandoned the Penguinos... As the van was leaving the park, a black truck passed us on the country road at a speed too fast for just about everything. They took a corner wide, at the same speed, and we all proceeded to watch the truck duck into the ditch and flip about five times. Fortunately, the guy and girl in the truck escaped with only a few scrapes and bruises. The guy got out of the truck, helped her out, we pulled up and fortunately a doctor in the van combined with my super sweet first-aid kit meant that they got bandaged up pretty quickly. The truck was totaled and their stuff was scattered everywhere... I'm pretty sure that they were boyfriend and girlfriend, and for some reason it made me think about what the long term implications would be for their relationship... Needless to say, it made me feel pretty good that our van had seatbelts.

I woke up the next morning, and snagged another early bus for the thirteen hour ride to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. Though there are endless things to do here, I couldn't force myself to do any of them. However, I do recommend that if you ever happen to come this far south, you should probably take the train into Tierra del Fuego National Park. I can't really say why, I guess I just like things like that... It probably has to do with some romanticized conception of trains that I got from my mom, but oh well, I guess I will never know.
Anyway, today, its off to Buenos Aires...

Under the Stars

2008-01-27T04:02:00.001-08:00

I took this picture about 50,000 times in an attempt to get my camera to capture the roundness of the moon...

I got to Puerto Natales on a windy Saturday afternoon, after yet another long bus ride, and even longer border crossing. I met this Australian guy Marty when we were checking into Erratic Rock -- this ultra cool hostel with about 250 of the greatest movies ever on VHS and some pretty rad people running the joint. We then met this English guy Matt the next day, complete with accent and stylish feauxhawk. I made the mistake of going to lunch with them that afternoon, and they then proceeded to talk me into going ton the 'W' with them ... Thankfully I might add.

The W is a 70 something Kilometer trek normally taken over a four day period of time, with most of the hiking within three days of the four total...

The only problem with deciding that you're going to go on a four day hike on a Sunday at 3PM in South America is this: It's a Sunday, its 3pm, and everything is closed. We actually ended up lucking out, and everything opened up for about two hours, which gave us just enough time to split up and buy the necessities. Of course, not only did we buy the necessities, but we were able to snag some Salmon, wine, about 3 kilos of trail mix, and the most important thing of all: Nescafe (Its a long story). We got all packed up, tossed the salmon in the freezer, and celebrated the fact that we had to carry no water the entire journey (It's all potable down here).

We got up early the next morning and took off, all packed up with wine and salmon, ready to face the wilderness. One dusty bus ride later, and we were at the park taking a boat ride to the first campsite, set up camp, and began our 22 km trek to Glacier Grey. The entire time wind was blowing in our faces at about 100 mph as we wound up and down to our final destination. We got back to our tents at about 9PM, busted out the salmon -- which made the other campers incredibly jealous -- used some of the wine to make a reduction sauce for it, whipped up some rice, and the manager of the camp proceeded to tell us that the building was shutting down and we had to eat outside. Cool, right? No, wind was still 100 mph, or however many kilometers an hour... We ate our cold but delicious salmon, and awaited our turns at a shower. After getting ready to hit the sack, we noticed the evening was ultra bright. A full moon jumped out over the spires, and we sat, staring at it, taking a hundred different pictures, and wondering what we were really doing here. The night was clear, and we just hung out, chatting the night away. Oh, and these kids from Missouri almost had their tent blow away. It was a Coleman, just in case you are ever coming to Patagonia and don't want to suffer through losing your tent...

The second day wasn'¿t all that eventful--just a lot of hiking into Valle de Frances... We pitched a tent at the junction and tossed our stuff in, went into the valley, and stood awestruck at all of the mountains around us. It was beautiful and the weather was perfect for us, as it would continue to be for the whole next couple of days, and really the entire trip. We got back to the junction and could have just camped there for the night, like everybody else, but no, instead we packed everythign up again and headed on down the trail. Of course, it was really hot, and when we got to a lake--a glacial one--Marty had to strip down and jump in. Actually, we all did. Why? Because you have to, at least once. We sat and soaked up the sun until we dried off, headed to camp, made some hot cocoa and pasta, chowed down, and proceeded to make the first of many ads for Nescafe (You can look for them on YouTube in the near future... Maybe...).

I wish I wasn't so lazy so I could post a movie of Valle de Frances, which gives you a 360 degree view of everything...

Proof of the dip.

We had shaved about 2.5 hours off of hour hike by going further the day before. We weren't really tired through, nd we let ourselves get a late start. AFter some more Nescafe and commercials we packed up, and started wandering. Really, we hiked for 5 hours straight with our packs until we settled down for dinner, where we played Sudoku and had a beer. We actually had dinner in the Refugio-- paid camp site with bunk beds--and it really wasn't as good as anything we had made up in the previous nights. In fact, I wish we had tried to make something out of whatever we had left... I know we would have made MacGuyver proud. After din, we busted a move and rushed through a 2 hour hike in 30 minutes. The sky was red and we knew that the night was going to be clear. We pitched a tent and left all unnecessary things, and began trudging up--bouldering over--the hill to get to the top before sundown. After some spills and bruises we made it up what was probbaly the hardest trek of my life, only to find a perfect rock to sleep on. We slept like babies, and I laid there, looking at the stars, dreaming, and giggling like a little kid. I woke up once in the middle of the night, and right in front of my eyes flashed a shooting star.

The alarm went off at 5AM, just in time to catch the first hikers getting up to the top. Fortunately, they were our buddies Miguel and Ben. We started the Nescafe and pouridge--which I will never eat again after all of it I ate on this trip--and sat patiently awaiting the sunrise. When it did, we were in awe. Just speechless, and the end came to a trip that is probably one of the most spectacular things that I've ever done. Not just because of the scenery, but the people I was fortunate enough to meet and the timing of everything--the weather, the night, the moon, the absolutely delicious dried melon we got in Puerto Natales, and the great people at Erratic Rock.

Marty, I, and Matt after the sunrise...

A Screensaver for those of you at work... Do yourself a favor, and instead of facebooking, plan a trip.

I'll post something about my odd experience in Punta Arenas de Chile, and then I'm off to Buenos Aires...

Ch-Ch-Changes

2008-01-21T03:56:00.000-08:00

As I sat and admired the Perito Moreno Glacier, I started to feel tired and worn out, as I secretly have been for the last few weeks. It doesn't seem to matter where I am or what magnificent thing I am seeing for the first time -- my mind wanders to the webbing of my fingers and the brown freckles that now occupy the once vacant spaces, the scar in the middle of my right hand left by a fence that needed hopping on a day I was late for 8th grade choir practice (I had a solo, what can I say?), or the multitude of friends that time has forced in a different direction than my own. I no longer feel homesick, but instead nostalgia accompanies my instinct to do something more substantive--or at least feels substantive.

In front of this giant ice cube, I sit and feel time pass over me as I wonder where in the hell it has gone. Its not even that you take time for granted, its just that it doesn't stop--at least for long, as it can at times when you are alone. I think that my urge to finally write something about it was brought about while I slid my feed over the wooden planks that make up the trails to the park, and my shoulders brushed along the trees. The combination of the planks and pine trees reminded me of one of the last times that I saw my Dad in reasonably good health. On the flipside, it could have been the girls from Missouri with their Nalgene bottles that had sorority logos placed in neon puffy paint on them... Both seem to have significance. Of course, in very very different ways.

I've wondered if I should be spending more of my silence--these moments--reflecting on the present, but I can't help but look at the past. I do honestly believe that I am better for thinking about all of the moments that have defined my character: tragedies, triumphs, loves, heartbreaks, moments, phases, transitions, and adjustments. Already in 3 months, I can map out my life chronilogically by all of the aforementioned -- the moments of impact where I walked away having learned something that I didn't know before. I can only wonder where I will be in another six...

If nothing else, I will return from this trip with a heightened appreciation for my life, my friends, and my family. Though I've always known it, I think for the time being I've stopped taking how fortunate I already have been for granted. Even through the toughest times of my life, I've been lucky. In fact, through some amalgamation of influences, I've escaped them all not only unscathed, but wiser. I can only hope that my mom will agree.

Alright, Who Broke the Fitz Roy?

2008-01-18T05:44:00.000-08:00

The Adventurous Route 40

I suppose the route from Bariloche to El Chaltén is supposed to be adventurous because a young Che Gueverra travelled it a long time ago in hopes of curing leprosy, but today is a much different story. Its dry, desolate, and to be quite honest, boring as hell. Though I suppose it depends on your company (a best friend) and mode of transportation (a motorcycle)... I wasn't with either, have not (yet) developed a passion for curing leprosy (is it cured?), nor am I riding a sweet third-hand motorcycle. In fact, I took an overpriced bus instead of hitchhiking, got lumped in with a bunch of other tourists, and am struggling (the good kind of struggle) to find out what I have a passion for.

Other tourists are really starting to wear on my nerves. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I know that my tourist brethren are probably the people who refuse to speak Spanish and maybe make Argentinians so bitter. I, despite what I hope for, am still a tourist. The more that I think of it, the more that I realize that I too am really annoyed whenever a bunch of tourists come to my neck of the woods... Anyway, the point is that I need to change something for the next part of my trip, or I will go insane.

Anyway, the trip lasts forever--about 2 days total--and there is nothing to see until the final hour when you begin to approach the Fitz Roy Range--where the picture from my last entry was taken. I guess that I shouldn't sell it too short either, since you do get to see hurds of Vacuña, imagine a llama with the grace and size of a deer, as well as flocks of ostriches running alongside the road. Its quite amazing, especially since you only see it once withing about 30 hours of driving...

I finally arrived in El Chaltén, which is soret of like heaven on earth, but with more expensive meals and less to do--unless you really like to hike. It was late at night, and I was really tired from sitting so long, if you can empathize. After I got off of the bus I found out athat the stupid tourist agency booked me in a hostel different from the wone that they had promised (I'm not really so lame that i have to book through an agency... none of the hostels in Chaltén will take resrevations over the phone too far in advance, nor will they take them online--I suppose because it costs four dollars an hour for them too... HA!. This hostel was alright, but its the principal of the thing. The constant lying down down here in the tourism business is killing me, and has led me to the conclusion that tourism is a slimey, gross industry. This, as it probably should, has caused me to ponder why we don't have a Minister of Tourism in the good ol US of A. It was a place to sleep though, and I made it through the night, waking up ready to explore all 5 blocks of the town and do a little hiking amongst the breathtaking Fitz Roy Range.

El Chaltén from afar...

The beautiful thing about constant daylight is that you can waste almost a whole day, then realize you still have about 10 hours left. At somewhere around 2PM, I took off for the Laguna Torre and the spires--which I think are what make the range spectacular. When I got to the lagoon, I just sat there in awe. The sky was perfectly clear, the water crystal blue, and a glacier seemed to connect the two with the jagged spires. Life was pretty good then. I just sat there, contemplating things, until boredom and curiosity took hold.

Seriously though, who broke it?

I got up, and unbeknowngst to me, extended my hike... In other words, I zigged when I should have zagged, and headed towards Cerro Fitz Roy. About six hours after I departed, I arrived at Laguna de Los Tres. The skies were cloudy, the wind was chilling, and the sun falling. Still, it was incredible. Though, despite its unquestionable beauty, the Fitz Roy will never be able to compare to the solitary charm of Mount Rainier.

I returned to the other hostel I had found that morning--the cheapest and nicest place in El Chaltén, Hostel Glacier Marconi--at about 10:30PM. The sun had reappeared, and was shining as bright as ever. I passed out, only to wake up the next day, sore, and wondering if embarking on such an extensive hike on the day after my two day bus ride was the best idea. I don't really know, nor do I care.

I left the next morning for El Calafate, and the Perito Moreno Glacier, which I will set sights on this afternoon...

A Remedy for Sour Grapes

2008-01-17T12:21:00.000-08:00

In southern Patagonia the sun does not sleep, which has meant, for the time being, that I do not either. Dealig with a sun up and a clock that reads midnight is probably the hardest adjust ment that I have had to make so far. Of course, it has been made no easier by the 6 foot long bunks that torment me while I sleep--or don't for that matter. However, despite my sleeping ailments I have just had more time to effectivbely explore Patagonia with the utmost fascination. My journey started a few days ago, in the town of San Carlos de Bariloche--the chocolate capital of South America, and the first snowy destination on my intinerary.

Before leaving Mendoza, I tried my best to remove the sour taste in my mouth of the low calue wine tour and attempted theft by treating myself to a sensory wine tasting at the Grapes of Mendoza--a classy establishment if I do say so myself. In three glasses of wine I think I learned more than I had in my prior years as a server. And, of course, after three glasses of wine and all of that information I was feeling a whole lot better about the place that had initially captured my admiration. Though, three glasses of wine will do that to anyone...

Twenty hours and a sunburn later, I left sunny and hot Mendoza in search of something cooler. 16 hours later, I found it in Bariloche--where it was snowing (a grand punctuation on the temperature change from 40 degrees C to 0 degrees C). I stood outside the bus awaiting my backpack, shivering in my shorts and thong sandals, all the while cursing the jackass that stole my other jacket in Mexico.

I was immediately, as is often the case, captivated by the quaint Swiss-log-cabin-like town set on the stunning Lago Nahuel Huapi. The architecture, roaming St. Bernards with tiny barrels around their necks, little old ladies offering you homemade chocolate, and much much more make you forget about the cold and wind. Plus, there was this awesome view from my hostel:

After some rest and a little kayaking in the freezing cold water the next morning, I decided that I would spend the next day on land, peddling the Chico Circuit--around the lakes in the area. I returned in the evening hopefull that I would be able to find the Seahawks game on TV somewhere, despite the time difference. Unfortuanately there would be no football in Bariloche on that day. Despite an abundance of satellite dishes in the town, nobody had the game. I was left to my solitude, ironically reading the book, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I eventually went out to scour the town for something quick to eat, but nothing 'affordable' seemed to exist. It was about then that I realized that half of the towns population consisted of tourists and it all made sense. About 15 minutes later I found myself eating a subpar fajita at a faux Mexican restaurant, paying what I probably would have in the states for the same thing. Still, it felt good. Yet, I did feel some remorse, and have since vowed to cook for myself the rest of the way through South America. After all, it would be easy, right? ... Defiitely not, especially when you can't even find olive oil anywhere and don't feel like either wasting a bag of rice or carrying it with you for the duration of your trip. In short, Argentina--despite its steak and wine--is seriously making me yearn for a balanced diet, a kitchen, and the ability to stay in one place for an extended period of time...

But I digress. I left Bariloche, at 5AM some five or so days ago, for the small town oasis of El Chaltén and Fitz Roy... I leave you with this to ponder...

I'm Still Alive...

2008-01-16T05:51:00.000-08:00

In case you were wondering... I will post some stuff as soon as internet doesn't cost $4 an hour.

Of Thieves and Wine

2008-01-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

This picture pretty much sums up life in Mendoza, Argentina...

After leaving Santiago a little too soon, it seemed like I had arrived at Mendoza a little too late. That's not to say I missed anything at all, but I easily could have. Mendoza is stunning--a tree lined city with wide avenues, wonderful for walking despite the overwhelming humidity and heat. My first impressions of Argentina, as a result of my few days in this city are mixed. The overall landscape is beautiful, the steak has lived up to every expectation, but every once in a while you definitely get the impression that you--a tourist--are not wanted here. It's something that I can understand, but the way that people come off when expressing it is somewhat blunt and without grace. On the other hand, I have encountered many many friendly Argentinians. Its just the few that make you wonder...

I arrived in Mendoza the about five nights ago, at an hour I thought was pretty late--9PM. The sun, however, seemed to disagree. Within four days, I had jumped two time zones and the sun was staying up at a much later hour. In short, my body was a mess from the altitude change, adjustment to time, and constant travel. It, of course, didn't stop me from wasting the night away with a German guy, an Italian guy, and a Dutch guy who spoke seven different languages. We went to dinner, where I would experience my first Parillada and bottle of Argentinian wine (I'll be honest... it wasn't my first, but rather my first here). Feeling a little too good about being in Argentina, I returned to my hostel and passed out in my overwhelmingly hot dorm room.

I woke up the next day as a result of my gungho Euro-buddies rustling around in the room. They told me to get ready, because they were going horseback riding and felt I should tag along. Being a little too weery to argue, I obliged, and off we went into the great outdoors. It was a good experience to ride above the city in the early morning and recall the one or two horseback riding lessons I took when I was a runt back in Nebraska. The day did, however, not come without consequences, as my horse got kicked in the face, bucked up, almost fell over, and almost sent me sailing. Luckily, I was able to ride it out and escape unharmed.

It's like a really bad remake of City Slickers...

I spent the next couple of days lounging about the hostel pool and getting acquainted with life in the city. While wandering about, I figured out that nobody seems to wake up before 8am, there is a midday break that lasts from 1pm to 5pm, and nobody eats until at least 9pm--though 11pm seems to be the preferred time. It reminds me of Barcelona, and much of Spain, but a little more dramatic. I also figured out what I would do with regards to wine--a bike tour of the vineyards in Maípu (the trendy and overwhelmingly touristy thing to do) and a sensory wine tasting in town. It sounds expensive, but seriously, in total, both have maybe cost me $40 total...

So yesterday I spent my day peddling throughout Maípu in order to check out the best of what Mendoza has to offer: grapes. The region is known for producing Malbec, but even better known for producing stellar blends of Cabernet Sauvignon with Malbec, Merlot with Malbec, Syrah with Malbec, and the list goes on and on. In case you're interested, or are going to QFC anytime soon, 2002 was the best year for blends from the Mendoza region. But enough about wines...

The day was hot, and felt like a pretty dumb idea at times. However, in the end, it was probably one of the most eventful and interesting days I have spent on my trip. The story goes like this...

There aren't a lot of options for wine tours that don't cost over a hundred dollars, so I decided to book through this unnamed company with what was probably too little or just plain false information given to me. Nobody would give me bus routes or help me out with getting to Maípu on my own, which may have just been my luck. I resigned myself to a fate, and got picked up yesterday morning. I grouped myself with a Dutch and Norwegian couple who were pretty impressed by my knowledge of Scandinavian political systems (Thanks Professor Ingebritsen)... We peddled and peddled around to different wineries, stopping at La Rural first in order to see South America's largest museum, full of antique wine making tools. It was quite the site, and full of the most informative guides I have encountered so far. They gave us a glass of wine, and we were feeling pretty good. The next couple of vineyards wouldn't end up being so sweet, as we found out that we had to pay for entrance fees that we were told we wouldn't have to pay... A little pissed, we still decided to pay, as we figured that we probably wouldn't have this opportunity for quite a while (even though I live about 10 minutes from some pretty damn fine wineries that I haven't ever been too... though I guess I don't actually live in Washington right now...). We then proceeded to eat an overpriced set lunch at the place recommended to us--I violated my rule and got what I deserved. Actually, lunch was alright. We finished up by visiting the last few wineres and peddling through this unbelievable road, where I took both of the above pictures. Despite having to pay a little extra, we found ourselves having a great time (the wine probably helped). Then, as we are peddling on the way back, I hear this huge crash behind me. Mikhal--the Dutch guy--had been knocked off of his bike by a couple of would-be theives on a moped scooter. They had tried to steal his camera, which he had wrapped around his wrist and was holding it in his hand. They pulled him completely off of his bike, not knowing that the camera was attached around his wrist. This sent them flying as well, and the scooter was almost dismantled after hitting the pavement. About 20 residents ran out of their houses, subdued the drivier of the scooter, and called the cops... The other guy stole one of the girls' bikes and started peddling away. However, about 15 minutes later, this couple pulls up in a truck with the bike, and proceeds to tell us that the older guy in the truck kicked the crap out of the kid who stole the bike... something that I guess isn't that rare in a testosterone driven culture full of machismo. It definitely put a stamp on a day that I wouldn't forget, and reminded me why I am always skeptical of people.

It was, to say the least, an interesting day. I got home safely, and didn't seem to mind that I had to pay a little extra any more. I was, after all, in one piece.

In other news, I missed the College Football National Championship for the first time in my life yesterday. It left me feeling hollow and alone, at least until I went to sleep, woke up, and finally got to a computer to check the score, only to find out that Bo Pelini--new coach of my beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers--led his LSU Tigers to a seemingly easy defeat of OSU.

I leave tomorrow night, and despite the fact that this place has honestly seemed like paradise at times, I'm pretty much ready for a change of scenery. So far, I can seriously say that nothing compares to Seattle. Not even for a second. Despite the fact that many of you will read this while you should probably be doing work, in an office building, in rainy Seattle, you are lucky because of where you are. Of course, that doesn't mean that I'm not as well, despite any percieved dangers.

The Great Chilean Escap(ad)e

2008-01-01T05:47:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Santiago de Chile only two days ago, and I leave tomorrow. I don't want to. This city--just like La Paz, though very much unlike La Paz--is probably a place I could live. Its just got that feel to it. Santiago is a beautiful city. The streets are clean, the metro runs quick and efficiently, mountains are scattered all around, palm trees sway as much as palm trees can, and of course, its summer here. The days start at 6AM and the sun doesn't go down until 9:30PM. I have to constantly remind myself that its not summer in Seattle, or else I would get home sick again--really fast. As you all know, there is something that the smell of sun screen does to a person... I think liberating might describe it. Then again, maybe its just the fact that I'm not in higher altitudes anymore.

The costs have changed dramatically as well, which has been the biggest shock to my constantly blown mind. Food here, costs more than it does on the Ave. Beer as well. Wine, definitely not as expensive as the US. In fact, a bottle of wine, costs about as much as a botter of water. Somehow, no Chileans have purple mouths--as far as I have seen.

My flight landed alright on what I think was Tuesday (I have no concept of time), or new year´s eve. Thanks to LAN Airlines, I was able to avoid a mandatory $100 reciprocity fee as a result of a quick stopover and run through customs in Iquique, which helped me relax a little with regards to finances. Feeling pretty good about dodging the hundred dollar bullet, I walked out in search of a cab to take me to the center...

So this kid is ultra persistent about trying to get me to take his compartido--a shared van. Of course, he isn't trying to get anybody else to join in (which would make the cost cheaper), but he tells me that the cost is 8 USD. I tell him to wait for me, as I need to do some things before I leave... On the way out, I ask him about a dozen questions to make sure he is legit, ask a security guard, he says the guy is legit, and we agree on the $8 price tag. While we are driving to the center of town, he proceeds to tell me it is 20,000 Chilenos which is equivalent to 8 USD--even though it freaking ISN'T!!! It is, in fact, 40 USD. Though, I never agreed to it... I knew what he was trying to do beforehand, but it was confirmed as a result of this lie. We got to the hostel and I told him that I'd pay inside. We got inside and I handed him $10, and told him to keep the change. He looked at me, and told me it was 20,000 Chileno Pesos. I then proceeded to tell him that I wasn't an idiot, that I knew he was lying, and that since he lied he was only going to get eight bucks. He, of course, wasn't too happy about it. The management of the ultra sweet Andes Hostel stepped in, told him he was an idiot for thinking that all tourists are morons and to take the $10 or they would call the cops. This kid--Paulo was his name in case you are in Santiago--was frustrated, but got what he deserved in the end for lying. Hopefully, the next time he tries to trick a tourist, he is either more clever, or even better, honest. I then proceeded to take a nap, and get ready for New Year's Eve.

I just chilled at the hostel, had a few beers, ate some guacamole (which is served with absolutely everything, even soup), and passed out shortly after the fireworks. I woke up the next morning to find that everything in the ENTIRE city was closed. I can't overstate this enough... EVERYTHING. There was not a single soul on the streets on January 1st. It was unbelievable. I took advantage of it, learned the tram system, and walked around for a good 10 hours.

I pretty much did the same today, except I had my shot at a completo--a footlong hot dog with kraut, mustard, relish, guacamole, mayonnaise, and probably more. It may have been the grossest thing I have ever eaten, but hey, when in Rome... Maybe I should have gone to a Chilean winery and gotten to know their exclusive Camanere--a varietal wiped out in the rest of the world by some fungus, I believe. I didn't though, and won't. It's ok, because tomorrow I go to the wine capital of Argentina--Mendoza--where I can learn all about Malbec...

Let it Snow

2008-01-01T05:31:00.001-08:00

I woke up in the overnight bus from La Paz, and slowly meandered to my fate for the next 3 days, and the tour company that controlled it. I rented a (more than slightly) used sleeping bag for what would be the hellaciously cold second night of the tour and then had to sit around for two hours until the guide and vehicle arrived. This, of course, left me with plenty of time to stroll around the small, dusty, tourist-agency plagued town of Uyuni and grab a little breakfast.

As time wound down, I got to meet my group--two Argentineans of my age and three members of a nine person Bolivian family from Sucre, the Bolivian capitol of tension. They all seemed nie enough, but I'll openly admit that after having spent so much time with English speakers over X-mas, I was feeling pretty intimidated by the demand for me to speak Spanish.

After overcoming little fears like this, you start to get a buzz, thrill, etc. from everything. After you realize that what you think you won't be able to do, you're doing or have done, you start to get a kick out of absolutely EVERYTHING. Even music from the 80s (which is actually my vice anyway...).

Anyway, maybe its needless to say, but I made friends with the Argentinians--Agostin and Maria--in no time, and now have some friends in Buenos Aires, which has heightened my excitement for my extended period of time in BA. In short, they got me really excited to drink Mate, watch the Tango, eat steak, drink wine, and really do nothing more... Though I may take more Spanish classes. In fact, they actually ended up knowing a lot of English, which helped me learn quite a bit more, and upped my feigning dedication to learn the language... But I digress (Remind me to tell you stories later...)

So, the tour actually did start once our guide--if you could ever actually call him that--tossed our belongings on the top of the 4x4, strapped em down, and took us to the Train Graveyard.

The Train Graveyard, no longer operable after a change in fuel systems...

We swung back through town, picked up our cook, and headed out towards the Salar de Uyuni--the worlds largest salt flat.

You drive and drive, feeling like you get nowhere because all you see is white, accompanied by the occasional volcano in the distance. Eventually the tour runs you smack dab into one of many islands that dot the Salar. Isla del Pescado was the site of a much needed lunch, and hundreds of giant cactus. We eventually got back on, well there is no road, but we started driving again. Aside from the sheer beauty of the flats, the highlight of the day whas when our driver started playing the Clash and my exciteable buddies started singing along with their Spanish accents. As the days continued, the music dove deeper into the 80s, and drove us closer to insanity. Yet another story that can be told at a later date.

We got to San Juan, ate, explored the city, chased some "Shamas," and passed out in order to wake up early for Laguna Colorada the next day.

The entirety of San Juan, and my shadow.

The second day wasn't much to rave about, with the exception of Laguna Colorada, the other 1500 colored lagoons and a whole lot of flamingos. Oh, and who could ever forget that absolutely coldest night of my 23 years of life. Thank God for that ratty, torn, used sleeping back--it saved me some toes, even if I was kicking myself for not just buying my own sweet Chilean made Doite brand sleeping back that keeps you warm up to negative five degrees Centigrade.

On the third day, you wake up at 4AM to travel to the guysers before the go off. Of course, our guide didn't tell us that, and we woke up at 6AM instead. It was alright, because the fields were still one of the most amazing things I have ever seen, especially once the sun started to come up. The guysers are spouting, and meanwhile the sun is slowing waking, causing eerie shadows to sprawl all over the landscape. And your toes are still freezing from the night, despite the wool socks your Mom bought you. It was cool though, as our next stop was the hot thermal pool, Termas de Polque.

Without prior though, I stripped down to my underwear and jumped into the warm pool, not realizing that my stocking cap was still on. It probably would have made a great photo, but you'll just have to picture it for yourself. I got out, dried off, ate breakfast, and with full bellies, the Argentinians, Bolivians and I drove to our final destination--yet another Lago Verde, or Green Lake. It was here (see below) where the Bolivian children heckled me until I threw a rock into the lake from the vista... Thanks to thin air, I was able to make their dreams come true.

The volcano in the background, as I have been told, is shared by Bolivia, Argentina, and Chile...

We then proceeded to drive and drive for about another eight hours until we finally arrived back at Uyuni. The tour was done, and my life was changed a little bit more--well, sort of. By the time we got back, I was more focused on sleep, and returning to my beloved La Paz.

Do you think that anybody in the US has ever thought about naming a city "the Peace." Think about it...

I said goodbye to my Argentinian friends, the Bolivian family, and some Aussies I had met before and got on that bus to Paradise. On the ride home, I thought about where I have been, where I will go, and all of the things I will never tell anybody about my trip... Only because there will never been enough time.

Oh, Bolivia...

2008-01-01T05:28:00.000-08:00

There are places in life that are great to visit, and then there are those that you could seemingly stay a lifetime. I don't know if my short three'ish weeks in Bolivia were enough to let me know, but it certainly heightened my curiousity.

I will post something on my trip to the Salar de Uyuni a little later.

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

And to All a Good Night

2007-12-27T04:58:00.000-08:00

Of all the times of the year that I thought I would be homesick, Christmas would be it. For the last four years, it has probably been the time that I have been most likely to put away my Blackberry or Black MacBook and enjoy my family the way that they should be enjoyed (That is a public admittance to the fact that I have taken much more important things for granted). Regardless of whether or not you think X-mas is overly commercialized, its a perfect opportunity for me to see my family, eat, cook, and give--in a lot of ways. It has also been Christmas, in combination with my ongoing thoughts on culture, to realize how many traditions my family actually has--those related to Navidad and those not.

This year, I spent my first Christmas away from home--the people, not the place--in the bustling metropolis of La Paz, Bolivia. La Paz is an unbelievable city filled with joyful citizens (maybe because they have a tradition called the 13th month of pay!!!), pretty safe streets, and really cheap accomodation. The accomodation is so cheap, in fact, that three of my new traveling buddies and I were able to rent an entire apartment for four days, so we could watch football (of the international sort), reruns of American shows with spanish subtitles, and cook a proper Christmas dinner.

I spent the first couple of days crammed into some party hostel that I didn't think was a party hostel. It reminded me of yet another question I was asked during my Bonderman interview--"How are we going to make sure that you aren't just going to spend all of your time partying with Australians, Brits, Americans, etc.?" I can't remember what I said, but the folks on the committee can be assured that I won't, because I hate it. There is nothing rewarding about going to a bar in your hostel, drinking until you puke, waking up everyone in your dorm, puking again, and then yelling at the people who wake up in the morning on a normal schedule because they woke your hungover-self up (as I have seen almost everytime I have ever stayed in a hostel like the awful one I stayed at in La Paz). The bright side of these experiences are, if for some reason I ever decide to start a party hostel, I will know the proper way to do it...

After the second night of Hostel X, a few of us busted a move out and away, into the sweet oasis that is Hotel Continental. After we got settled, we made a list, checked it twice, and headed to the market to find what we needed for Christmas dinner.

All it ever takes for me is about 5 minutes in a market place, and I am instantly reminded of why I enjoy traveling. A market is the heart of the city, and the quickest way to knowing a country. Identity spills out from the stalls--the vendors, the food, the clothes, and more. I highly recommend going to the market as soon as you get to a city... It will make you excited to be there.

After acquiring all of the necessary ingredients, we returned to our humble abode to relax... Though, it did take about two days to find everything...

Dinner was great. Four courses, plenty of swearing at baked goods, an oven that didn't heat up past 250º, a full bodied chicken resembling the goose from 'A Christmas Story,' chorizo sausage stuffing, and an opportunity to put all of those skills gained by watching the Food Network late at night to use. We even found a french press to make real coffee!!! Plus, even though I was four time zones from home, and who knows how many miles, I was still able to (sort of) surprise my mom and book her tickets to come visit me--all with the air miles I have accrued thus far.

It was a unique way to spend the holiday, though I don't think I would have traded it for being with my mom, brother, uncles, grandparents, and girlfriend, going to Pike Place, the movies, walking around Greenlake, getting coffee, baking cookies, eating guacamole, and all of the other traditions we have developed over time.

But some of the greatest things that you learn come as a result of being away from the things and people that you love the most. Like learning that maybe you should put away that Blackberry for a really long time...

I didn't get any snow in La Paz. So I found the second best thing in Bolivia--salt. I will explain more after I get back from the Salar.

Thoughts on Floating Islands

2007-12-24T15:57:00.000-08:00

So, as I mentioned earlier, Oscar got me to think a lot about the roles that children play in the places I have visited--and the long-term effects on their families culture--particularly with regards to making money (in some cases work). I think that I've started to develop some opinions on the subject, but really just wanted to sit down, type things out, and throw out some questions in hopes that anybody who reads this will either come back with some questions or thoughts of their own...

Before you go on, I warn you that none of this may make sense. It is really just for my own sake that I type this out.

Oscar wasn't the only thing that made me think about this topic... It actually all started a while ago when I read about the floating reed islands of the Uro people located on Lake Titicaca and accessible from Puno. I probably should have gone to see it for myself before I really start to formulate any thoughts on the matter, but after hearing things from a lot of travellers, guide books, etc. I couldn't have helped but develop some opinions... Most of the travellers that I have spoken with, and the differing guide books have suggested that thte islands have become overwhelmingly commercialized. One person told me it was, "a fully overblown tourist attraction with a taste of culture--however compromised." I know, what in the hell does this have to do with kids and making money? Well, its really about what the kids or families do in order to earn the money, and what kind of affect it has on not only the kids future, but also the future of the entire culture (Culture is also a common theme amongst all of the places that I have visited thus far, and since the education--of all sorts--of children affects the future of the culture, I thought it all to be relevant).

As I have traveled through Guanajuato, Mexico City, Quito, Otavalo, Guayaquil, Cusco, Huayllacocha, Puno, Copacabana, and now La Paz, I have seen a common thing with regards to the culture--an obvious one at that--kids working in some way, shape, or form. The how and why differ greatly amongst all of the places, and none of them--to my knowledge--are forcing the kids to do overly demanding labor... In Mexico, not a whole lot of kids seemed to work, unless it was in their family shops or bakeries. The same was the case for Otavalo and Quito. In Copacabana, Cusco, and La Paz, kids work--though the degree and method seems to vary greatly. In Cusco, and as I have heard with regard to the floating islands, kids are put on show in order to get photos taken for money, i.e. dressing in traditional garb and posing with Llamas. Here in La Paz, mothers are telling their children to walk up to white people, put on a cute face, and beg for change (I don't find anything wrong with asking for money, but having your kids ask for money--in my opinion--is teaching them something far less important than most other things that kids need to be taught... And I am aware that in a country such as Bolivia, where the economy isn't doing so great, people are going to be down, especially without a primary education in many instances) ... Conversely, in Copacabana kids are working in restaurants during break in order to help out the fam. Or, in Oscar's case, they are trying to guide around obviously confused tourists in order to make a dime. In all cases--I hope--kids are learning things and they are using information that they have either learned from their parents or school.

And here come the questions...

So which kids are going to have a more prosperous future? Which kids are also most likely to maintain cultural traditions and cultural integrity--whatever that may be? In Oscar's case, I wouldn't be surprised if he learns English, moves away from the island and still maintains traditions held on Isla del Sol--though with adjustments, or compromises. In converse, what will happen to the kid on the floating reed island whose culture may--or may not--be compromised by the thousands of white tourists that pay big bucks to come watch the same routine? The kid is learning that you can make a living by sharing your culture with people, right? Is that a bad thing? What will happen with that kid if Lake Titicaca ever dries up? Will he have the skills necessary to make a living then? What about his kids? How about Oscar's? If, in each scenario, the culture adjusts to accomodate survival, what is the big long-term difference? It is entirely possible that the mother on the streets of La Paz will use the money she gets to ensure that her kids get an education and never have to panhandle again...

And some bigger questions...

Will the respective cultures fade away regardless of what happens in the 'opposing' situations? Does the long-term adjustment of culture, via a blend with commercialization, mean that its not the same? Is culture ever the same from generation to generation? Can you ever deem which parts of a culture are the most important?

Kind of a long rambling post, but these are the things that I think about as I move from place to place. In many cases, they're also the things that we aren't always faced with in the states... I don't know. What do you think?

Copa, Copacabana

2007-12-22T12:14:00.000-08:00

Copacabana and Lake Titicaca from above

Copacabana is a small town situated on a big lake. The people are nice enough, and the town is perfect for relaxing, with just enough activity to keep you satisfied for a few days. And, unless you are willing to pull out a couple of hundred dollars in advance for your stay, you can only stay for exactly that--a few days. Copacabana, you see, has no ATM, which I believe allows it to maintain its integrity despite the thousands of tourists that visit it each year. All in all, it was a great place to relax for a couple of days after having been ot the Galapagos Islands and then almost immediately heading out on the Inca Trail in Cusco...

When I arrived the power in the entire city was out. It's apparently something that happens quite often--multiple times during a day, week, month, year, etc. I didn't even know if the power was on in my room until I woke up at four in the morning with all of the lights on--those damn left to right switches can be quite confusing. I couldn't get back to sleep, and I just lied there in bed, thinking about what in the hell was going on, what I was doing, and the like. I decided that I really wanted to go kayaking in the morning. Seriously, how unbelievable would that be? Kayaking on Lake Titicaca...

I arose shortly after sunset and took the first hot shower that I had had in quite a while, meandered off for breakfast, and decided that it would be this exact morning that I would go kayaking. I made my way down to the beach with my Bolivianos ready to pay the approximately $2.50 needed to go kayaking for an hour. They tossed me a life jacket and I was ready to go--I just needed a kayak. I tried the first one, but unfortunately couldn't fit. I tried a second, a third, a fourth, and finally a fifth. I was too big (I know what you're thinking and no, I am not getting fat). There wasn't a single kayak that worked. Not one. It sucked.

I trodded back to my room, slightly defeated, but still positive as there were plenty of other things I could do in Copacabana--like hike more.

Alone on the island after our guide Oscar left us for the day--his aunty told him not to go too far...

Aside from being what is maybe the first most visited village on Lake Titicaca, Copacabana is also home to the jumping off point for Isla del Sol--the birthplace of the sun in Incan belief systems. Despite the fact that I couldn't fit in a kayak, I could still take a boat out on the lake with a bunch of other Gringos to see this historic island. A couple of traveling buddies were on the boat too, which gave us ample time to complain about the traveling habits of other tourists, figure out how to say certain things in Spanish, and bemoan the cold. There is nothing like bemoaning the cold with good comraderie... There is a lot of cold in Copacabana too...

We jumped off the boat and hopped onto the island. While everybody else went with some overgrown tourist guide, we decided to venture off on our own. We had the Bolivia Lonely Planet Guide and figured we could read what was what just as easily as somebody could tell us. Listening to guides gets really old after a while too... After a while, we walked up the path and were met by this 10-year old entreprenuerial lad named Oscar. He was on break from school for Navidad, and figured he could earn a couple of Bolivianos (Bs) from us Gringos. We started to brush him off, but he would stop us and tell us a few things here and there... We started to fact check him, and everything he was saying was at least as true as the guide book. Finally, we gave in, and allowed him to give us the full-blown explanation to everything.

He took us to the Titi Kahla--the sacred Incan rock with features of a Puma. He proceeded to tell us of Llama sacrifices, explained how the Incans knew all of the cardinal directions (displayed via stone organization), and helped us brush off people trying to sell 'fossils.' The kid had his act together, and actually reminded me of another young boy who used to sell golf balls to old codgers at the golf course across from his Grandparents' house. I was impressed.

We started walking back toward the southern side of the Island and Oscar stopped us... He could go no further. His Aunty had said so. We collectively ended up giving the kid an ample amount of Bs, and he happily scooted off. I think it was one of the first times that I really started to think about the different ways that children work in South America... the differences between what is good for the individual, the culture--long and short term--and how the future will unfold for all of the kids in the cities or countryside down here...

The only flower on the entire Isla del Sol... Not really, but the only one like this.

We meandered back across the island and eventually made our way back to the best hotel in Bolivia--La Cupula. The next day I set out to discover the Incan monolith, Horca del Inca, and captured the pictures featured at the beginning of this post. A couple of kids tried to guide me up there as well, but I think Oscar might have ruined it for them. The kid got me to really start thinking about child labor down here, and I'll probably post something on it here in a little bit...

For now, Happy Christmas Eve. I miss my family and friends... So much, that I might even make a list of things I would like to do today. Odd, huh?

Another Year

2007-12-20T15:28:00.000-08:00

These were not on my birthday cake, in case you were wondering...

Last week, as I was preparing to leave Cusco on board an overnight bus to Copacabana de Bolivia via Puno, the lights went out. All of the lights in the entire city of Cusco--gone--for about 30 minutes. That simple lapse in light made me too tired. I didn't care if the next day was my birthday, I couldn't force myself (literally in Peru) into the bus. I headed back to my hostel, snagged another bed for the night, and decided to take off in the morning--to Puno, not Copacabana. In hindsight, it was probably the better decision. I got a full nights rest and was able to get all of my paperwork for the newly required Bolivian visa for American citizens.

I went to the bus station in the morning with Alan and Stephanie, a couple that seems to end up in all of the same places I do (something that actually happens quite a lot). I handed the man my ticket, he proceeded to freak out, give me a hug, and yell "HOPPY BIRDAY!!!" I'm not gonna lie, that is probably the most excited that anybody has been for my birthday in a long time. We boarded the bus, and I tried to go back to sleep, until the guy then got on the intercom and started singing happy birthday. He was seriously very very excited.

Anyway, after a long and beautiful four hours on the bus, we found ourselves in muddy Puno, home of the tour that takes you to the home of the floating reed islands (the reed islands, or at least what I have heard, have become a recent fascination of mine, as well as a hot topic of discussion). After shaking off some hecklers, a cab was snagged and I found myself taking happy birthday shots of homemade Peruvian liquor with the hostel managers (it was pretty tame stuff though, Mom). I went to get some dinner shortly thereafter, and returned to find birthday cake waiting for me... All of the niceties were starting to make me feel sad that I was leaving Peru. Though, there has certainly been a trend between the Andes and absolutely unbelievable hospitality, only rivaled by that of Nebraskans. At least, that's what I've found so far, in my short 23 year old life.

I woke up the next morning to take the early bus to Copacabana--my planned refuge and place of relaxation.

The Bolivian Border is a Joke

Considering what Bolivians have to go through in order to get into America, I could easily understand the reciprocal thinking involved when the Bolivian Government implimented the new visa requirements and $100 fee for Americans (More info can be found here). In short, Americans are required to present the following information at a point of entry or Bolivian consulate:

1. The sworn statement for visa application form
2. A passport valid for six months
3. Hotel reservation or invitation letter
4. Photocopy of roundtrip ticket or travel itinerary
5. Economic solvency
6. Payment of $100 visa issuance fee
7. International yellow fever vaccination certificate

As we approached the border, the stuard on the bus proceeded to tell me that I was the only American citizen on board, and that I would be issued a $40 exit fee from Peru. I called his bluff, and asked for paperwork... He tried to explain to me that the $40 would normally be split between all of the American citizens on the bus, but I was the only one--poor me. Of course, I asked to see the passenger list, discovered that there were two more Americans on the front of the bus, which made me think he was even more full of it than I already did. I told them not to pay anything until we saw official documentation of such, and got focused for the border... Since, of course, being the socially conscious and upstanding American that I am, I needed to have all of my paperwork organized and neatly folded in an envelope.

After brushing off the $40 "exit fee," I was grouped with the other Americanos and headed to the office for visa issuance... It was there that I found out--to no surprise--that the other Americans didn't have any of the paperwork and didn't even know about the new requirements. I couldn't help but be embarassed for the 49% of my country that tries to stay on top of things like this. We got ushered through, the guy didn't look at half of my paperwork, was convinced to not bother with taking any paperwork for the other Americans (with exception of our money), got our visas, and that was that. I'm pretty sure that it was hardly what Bolivian President, Evo Morales, had intended. I thought that maybe it was just about the money. Though, I still refuse to believe so...

I eventually made it to Copacabana, and well, the power was out. I was kind of happy about it... I shrugged my shoulders and took a nap.

Se Llaman Portador

2007-12-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

No donkies were harmed in the taking of this photo

The porters that trek the Inca Trail, responsible for constantly carrying a grueling load of supplies up and down the rocky pathway, have historically been treated poorly with regards to working conditions, pay, and weight carried. The Peruvian government has, however, made strides in terms of securing limitations on weight carried by the porters hiking the trail--a mere 25 kilos, if I remember correctly (that's still a lot). Their pay has began to increase over the years, making the job much more lucrative than working in their respective villages. Despite the improvements, after spending four days trying to keep pace with them, I know it is a job that I could never do.

Many and most of the porters are campesinos, or farmers, that hail from small rural towns outside of Cusco, where they own and operate their own farms that produce substance not for markets, but for their families. In many instances, they are indigenous people--the last of a living breed in Peru, as the Quechua culture is slowly fading into oblivion. The porters that worked for our trek company were from the small town of Huayllaccocha, a lively and rustic place where all buildings are constructed with adobe brick.

Having the opportunity to spend the night in Huayllaccocha to begin the trek was indeed a little too staged at times, but I honestly think that it helped to spark my interest in everyday rural life. Had I not been there, I'm not so sure I would have ever thought as much about it as I did over the next four days.

I'm not sure why I developed an affinity towards our porter Angel--it might have been because he was the boss, but I think it had something to do with the man's eyes. You see, Angel happens to have the same stern, and at times steely blue eyes, that my grandfather had in his finest hour. He moved the same way as my grandpa too... You could see how years of hard work had hindered his step slightly, perhaps shortening each one a little bit, and yet his legs have remained defiant to the harshness of time. The guy was also pretty nice to me while I was hurling up everything I had inside of me on the longest day of the trail.

Over the four days of trekking, our group asked a lot of questions about porter welfare--How much do they get paid? How often do they work? Why would anybody prefer this to farming? How much weight do they carry? Usually, we received our answers in full from both José our guide, and the porters themselves... More than they could make anywhere else. Four times a month. They get to hang out with their buddies and don't have to farm. They carry 25 kilos, or roughly 50 pounds...

After a long talk with my new buddy Ty in a quiet area off away from our campsite, I learned about the efforts of he and his girlfriend Kelly to raise money for a local school in Urubamba. He told me that they realized you have to do a lot more than spend a little bit of time in a place in order to change the world... So despite the dismay they felt at learning the enormous costs of overhead they paid in order to participate in this program, they set out to use their ingenuity and leave a lasting impression on the school they had worked at. They ended up raising over $2,000 for the school--much needed funds for simple things such as clean water to wash hands.

Hearing their story stirred thoughts through my head, causing me to wonder how I could perhaps challenge myself... I only had a short time in most of the places that I have been or will be in. And though it may be selfish, I realized that maybe the best thing I can do is find ways to add to myself--to learn, to wander off of the beaten path, and to test my character.

Over the next day my thoughts began to gather, and as Angel and a few of the porters passed us by, I felt glad that I wasn't carrying the same weight. It was then I realized how I could challenge myself, if only for a day... I would ask Angel if I could spend a day working on his farm. As we eventually made our way down the hill, I began to feel myself getting sick and weary. Once at the lunchtime camp, I began to unleash my sickness on the Inca Trail. Of course, Angel was the first guy to check up on me. Though one might not think this to be the most opportune time for discussion, I asked him if I could spend a day working out on his farm... He looked at me like I was crazy and I went back to being sick, but we eventually exchanged information which started my journey to his farm.

Yesterday--three days later--I made my way out to Huayllaccocha. I was possibly, and probably, the first gringo to ever work in one of the village's fields. Men lined up to shake my hand--something I still can't understand. I spent the majority of the day howing an entire field by hand, getting worked over by a 70 year old man (Angel's father), who could only communicate with me in Quechua. They let me drink their homemade Chicha--a corn beer of sorts fancied by farmers all throughout Peru--and didn't mind when I stopped every now and then to realize what I was doing and where I was at.

Though it was only a day, it only took a couple of hours to understand why many campesinos prefer a day on the Inca Trail to working on their own farms.

I Wish You Were Here

2007-12-14T04:32:00.000-08:00

As you make your final ascent up to Intipunku (or the Sun Gate as white people like to call it) you find yourself gasping for air. Only--unlike the previous three days--altitude is not the cause. The sun creeps higher in the morning sky, the fog recedes, and you lay eyes on the glorious Incan citadel that is Machu Picchu. That there are about twenty or thirty other people situated somewhere next to you doesn't matter--it feels like they aren't. And in 10 minutes, just as if it were never there, steam rises off all things green and the city is covered in a shroud of fog once again. I must say, that it is quite the wonder.

The last two weeks have been absolutely unbelievable. I got lucky again, booked a trek on the Inca Trail, flew to Guayaquil, met up with the brother of an acquantaince of an acquantance for a night on the town, slept throughout the next day, hopped on a night flight to Lima (that got delayed four times), proceeded to sleep in the Lima airport until I hopped on my 5:30am flight to Cusco (which was delayed twice as well), finally landed in the tourist hub that is the city of the Puma (Cusco), went to the trek company to pay off the balance on my trek and decided to partake in something they called the "Wayki option" the very next day--so much for acclimitizing.

The Wayki option allowed our group of eight trekkers to spend a night in Huayllaccocha, the village where the porters who work for the company live. Though parts were a little too touristy, the evening allowed us to have a small glimpse into the lifestyle of a campesino--we ate traditional Cuscueño food, sampled some homemade alcohol, listened to music, and danced. It wasn't a representation of everyday life, but it was enough to perk my interests. This, of course, would ultimately lead me on the path to another adventure a few days down the road... We spent the first night in the backyard of our guide José's grandmother's abode, spent time getting to know one another in the group, and mentally prepared ourselves for the 33 kilometers of the Inca Trail.

Good ol' kilometer 82... Oh the memories...

The first day of the Inca Trail takes it easy on you as you glide over jagged stones with relative ease en route to Llaqtapata, the first ruin on the trail. It was here that we stopped for our history lesson, and also where I think we all began to realize the privelage we had being allowed to take this trek. From there we began our ascent uphill towards Wayllabamba, swerving around and over the Cusichaca Stream and carving our way through an incredibly fertile valley.

You would think that someone would get tired of taking pictures of the same mountain...

You wake up on the second morning, feeling like you can do just about anything. And you should, you have some of the most beautiful scenery in the world surrounding you at all times--peaks jutting up into the air, dramatic snowcapped mountain ranges, and lush green vegitation. Then after the first hour and a half of hiking, you realize you're body's about to take a beating as you climb up jagged Incan steps to over 4200 meters... You relax for a bit, feeling accomplished and you try to ignore the annoying group ahead of you who happens to be yelling at the one 60-plus year old woman to keep going despite the lack of oxygen, until you finally realize you have to descend back down hellish steps similar to the ones you just came up. This time, you're motivated by hunger and you head downhill like a champ to your campsite and the glorious meal that awaits you...

Fondly thinking of Guanajuato and a shot through the eyes of "The Liam"

Warmiwañuska: The highest point on the Inca Trail at 4215 meters

The second day is hard... but all you ever have to do is turn around, look up, or simply think about what you are doing in order to keep going. Oh, and you can chew coca leaves too, which quickly became a favorite pasttime of our group...

I'd like to tell you that everyday's camp wasn't like this... but I would be lying...

The third day starts off with a visit to Runkuraqay--its theorized to be a place to crash for Incan trail runners--and a short but sweet jaunt uphill past the Black Lake to another summit and place of rest where you learn about the apucheta--an Incan ritual involving a natural offering and small stone pyramids--while reflecting in the midst of clouds. Though hard, you pull yourself away from this tranquil setting and set off towards Sayacmarca, an Incan site considered to be both residential and a fortress. Its known predominantly for its ingenious canal system that directs water from the mountains into the small citadel. On the way, the landscape suddently begins to change to subtropical forest, colorful orchids appear, and a constant myst develops. Despite the overwhelming beauty, your legs have grown tired and you just want to make it to camp where your first warm shower in four days awaits you, along with the option of a cold beer.

Runkuraqay

Sayacmarca

On the final morning, you arise at 4am to prepare yourself for the final leg and your first sight of Machu Picchu from the Intipunku. You hope, during the rainy season, that you will catch a glimpse of the unbelievable Incan citadel before the fog rolls in. However, you first have to wait for about thirty minutes with the two hundred or so other tourists that have been walking the trail, and eventually realize that you haven't had the trail all to yourself after all. People burst through the gates in order to try to make Intipunku by sunrise--and most fail, either by rolling an ankle or forgetting that the sun rises at about 5:30 during the summer in South America... When you do catch your first glimpse, its just brilliant. Its everything you hoped for, and the sickness, fatigue, and lack of cleanliness no longer matter...

Below are a few pictures that I feel appropriately depict an average day at Machu Picchu.

10am at Machu Picchu... No, its not your computer...

The Temple of the Sun

View from Waynapicchu

I'm going to edit this post later in order to add more about my personal experience... Though its been a couple of days, I still need to think about it...

El Camino Inca

2007-12-13T07:38:00.000-08:00

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

After four days of hiking and one day of incredible illness, I made it to Machu Picchu.

Sir, There is Something Wrong with Your Language

2007-12-07T18:16:00.000-08:00

Looking back on the last few days, I can honestly say that if you ever have a chance, you have to go to the Galpagos Islands. The place is incredible. Puerto Ayora, the main city in Santa Cruz, itself is an incredibly charming, laid-back town, with some pretty patient people. The southern islands, as I can no say from experience, are beautiful. Each island seems to have its own distinct personality. Blue Footed Boobies, however, are still creepy and will forever haunt my dreams. I found out, by the way, that they get their name from diving into the water with their beaks open.

Being able to be in a place where animals take precidence is an experience in and of itself. It was refereshing, especially because they seemed to know it. Even crabs, as tasty as they can be, roam untouched in overwhelming abundance, despite colorfully patterned shells that seem to scream, "EAT ME!" Maybe though, I have just worked in a crabhouse for too many summers...

I honestly don't know if I would hav had as much fun if it weren't for the pople that I took my tour with. Serg was about three weeks deep into work with no holiday, but still seemed to have a passion for what he was doing. At the least, he did everything he could--within respectful limitation--to ensure that we were well informed and entertained. Neil, Coralie, Rob and Bev were great--I don't know what I would have done without people to make smartass remarks with. Its the one thing (smartass jokes) that you can't really understand, or get, when you are beginning to learn another language (at least when somebody else is telling a joke). They lose their charm when you have to break them down word for word, or they can go unnoticed altogether--at leat the little ones.

Language is, however, the gap that divides us from the rest of humanity. As my brother, and now also my ultrawise tour guide Sergio, say, we are part of a family and learning a language allows our family to grow. As I've already found, there are thousands of wonderful, amazing people out there just waiting to make our lives. We just have to learn their language. Although only speaking Spanish makes me as homesick as all hell sometimes (it limits what I think can be the greater parts of my personality... haha), learning the language is the only way that I know I can go somewhere in the future and not get homesick--its the one way I can crack a smartass joke anywhere in the world, and maybe, just maybe, get a rise out of somebody.

In some ways, it wasn't the cultural experience that I could have gotten (but it WAS amazing). It did, however, show me the importance of learning a language. Of course, it isn't only about cracking jokes... Though, that is a part of maintaining my sanity.

Anyway, after four delays of two hours a piece, a computer malfunction and subsequent delay, I made the two and a half journey through the air from Guayaquil to Cusco. My initial impressions are positive... though I could do without the thousands of offers for a massage. I'll explain more later though... I have to get ready for my trek.

Galapagos, part 2

2007-12-04T17:21:00.000-08:00

Day 2: Española

In the morning when we arrived at Española, I awoke to the anchor dropping. Outside of my window, the sky was great and it appeared as though we would have company on the island today--a National Geographic cruise ship was in the harbor. Over breakfast, we hypothesized who was actually in the ship: cameramen or retiros. Retiros are an interesting breed. They have large hats, big sunglasses, unevenly spread sunscreen, wear socks with their Tevas, and have cameras that they typically don't know how to use (at least three of them!). There isn't much wrong with any of the aforementioned, just that it usually means you will be stuck behind a logjam on the paths of the island... for what reasons, I am not entirely sure.

After breakfast, we hauled off to the shores with our snorkel gear in tow, ready for warmer waters. We calmly walked the beach, soaking in the morning sun, playing with baby sea lions and scoping more turtles from a far. We wandered up and down the beach searching for sea lions until it finally got too hot and we had to jump into the ocean.

We swam through the usual sea turtles, manta rays, tropical fish, and the like in search of the ever so elusive white tipped shark. This FLASH popped out of the corner of my eye and I turned to come face to face with the sea lions. One after another, they all took turns swimming around all of us. They spun, ducked, and dodged in order to not get too close to us. It was a brilliant site--I could have cared less if I saw a shark at all. Though we did, eventually make our way out to the cave--a place where Serg told us that we could see sharks. After our unsuccessful voyage, we swam back to shore and mocked the mocking birds... No, really... for about 15 minutes. It was probably the dumbest thing I have done since I left home, but you know, you have to find joy in the little things, right?

I think that despite all of the animals that I have seen since I've been here, sea lions have been and are my absolute favorite. They remind me of dogs, which is probably why. They are probably even more entertaining than boobies--the blue footed kind (I can't say much about the red footed ones).

It was a curious one...

In the afternoon, the skies turned to grey and we walked around a rocky path in search of marine iguanas. We stumbled across this baby Albatros, and watched the adults cruise through the sky, while Serg explained that they only live on a particular island because it has cliffs, which allows them to take off and catch the wind. Of course, my camera died at this point, leaving me with nothing but mental pictures.

They are easily one of the most graceful looking birds... at least when in the sky

We eventually walked back, with only the Galapagos Hawk on the agenda... I think we were lucky, because this was waiting by the boat when we got back:

Day 3: Santa Fe and Plazas

The final day was much like the first two, only better. At Santa Fe, we finally got to swim with the white tipped sharks who were resting in the bay. I was even fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of two Golden Rays masterfully gliding through the crystal blue waters. The water, however, was freezing, making me almost unable to truly appreciate such sights.

Later we walked onto Plazas Sur, which looks like a desolate waste land of red plants and cactus--very much out of a sci-fi movie. We were lucky to stumble across a flower falling from a tree, which caused chaos amongst the land iguanas who ferociously clawed over one another to get to it.

You can play fetch with them. I'm serious...

Knowing it was one of our final islands, we decided to get a little ridiculous, and just started taking pictures of ourselves and talking about which British Celebrities were big in the states and vice versa. Fortunately, for the pictures, I was wearing my Husky Tee... which is still available through the University of Washington Bookstore for the low low price of $15. It makes a wonderful Christmas present, by the way... All proceeds benefit student scholarships too.

The Husky Tee goes global, and only in its first year

We got back on the boat, feeling like it was over. I was sad to know that we had just one trek left, and even more sad to know it would be at 6:30AM. Little did I know what was in store for all of us...

As we sailed towards North Seymour--our final destination--the sun began to set slowly over the Island of Santa Cruz. As we patiently awaited dinner, we grabbed a beer and went to the deck of the ship to take in the sights. As I relaxed and gathered my thoughts, the Polish women started screaming with excitement... DOLPHINS WERE RACING THE BOAT! A huge pod of dolphins--probably six of them, which isn't really huge by Galapagos standards (or so I heard nonchalantly from Serg)--was gliding at the bow of the yacht, darting back and forth, flying every which way. I tried my best to capture the momentous occasion here:

There is nothing like being raced by a dolphin

Eventually the boat slowed down, and the dolphins were no longer entertained. We returned to our prior positions, this time feeling even more accomplished than before. We had now seen four types of lizards, three types of Rays, white tipped sharks, boobies, albatroses, pelicans, tortoises, frigate birds with their grand red pouches, dolphins, sea lions, sea turtles, crabs, and more. What more could we ask for?

The sky turned a bright pink, and the wind picked up. Chris--a Scottish fella--yelled, "What the hell was that?" We all rushed to the side of the boat to take in the sight of Manta Rays wildly flinging themselves out of the water (in order to clean themselves is what I have been told). It was easily, the strangest and most fascinating thing I have ever seen. Unfortunately, I have no way of sharing it with anybody else except for the people I was with...

We went inside, had the ceremonial farewell cocktail, and readied ourself for another ruckus game of peanuckle. Then we found out we were floating above Galapagos Sharks (the dangerous ones...). It was a serindipitous end to an amazing and unplanned journey. Though, we still had the hike in the morning.

Day 4: North Seymour

We took the last hike in the morning, and I stuffed my face with as much as I could in order to reap the benefits of an open semi-buffet breakfast. I am, after all, on a budget. We saw more boobies, with babies this time, and started to feel like this life was the norm--at least I did, for just a moment.

Like father, like son

The bus pulled up, and we got in. I stood there, thinking I was crazy for not planning such an adventure. For thinking it might not be worth it... Neil and I chatted a bit, until a woman interrupted me and said, "excuse me, but you look very familiar... are you from the University of Washington? I think I recognize you and your t-shirt..." I told her "Yeah," and then allowed myself to feel self important for the moment...

As the rest of the group got ready to board their plane, I sat back and waited for the bus to Puerto Ayora. I was really glad that I had gone. The Galapagos islands were easily one of the top 5 things that I have ever done in my life, and no words that I ever write will be able to do my experience justice. It made me feel really really lucky, as if I didn't have enough already. It made me change the way I am thinking about this trip... I'm not sure if I want to be gone for more than eight months, but I am sure that I want to live the time I do spend away to the utmost.

Once I got back to Puerto Ayora, I contacted a trekking agency in order to book a trip on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu. I'll let you know how it goes once I return. For now, I'm off to Peru.

Galapagos, part 1

2007-12-04T13:09:00.001-08:00

You know the pictures that you drew when you were a little kid? They had that huge golden sun, those pillowy grey clouds, the light sand freckled by red and black shells and rocks. The sea foam blue waves lapping up against the beach, manta rays (for the advanced drawer) fliding bakc and forth through the water, bright red crabs, gigantic pelicans, lizards and those stretched out upside down W's (or M's technically...) you intended to resemble birds gliding off into the distance. I don't know, maybe your pictures weren't much like this, maybe they were a slight variation, or an entirely different landscape altogether--it doesn't really matter. Chances are, the pictures that you drew could be found here, in the Galapagos Islands.

I didn't plan on coming here. I didn't even really want to. I dismissed how great everybody said it was, because the price was too high. But instead, I got lucky, getting restless at the right time. I gambled and ended up in the right place. I got to see my pictures come to life in front of me, all for what now seems like no cost at all. I now leave here with new thoughts and strategies for my travels, all because of some islands and the creatures that inhabit them--that includes the people.

I wandered the town frantically on Thursday afternoon trying to figure out what I wanted to do. It was either become a PADI certified diver, go on an overpriced tour, or stay in Puerto Ayora, doing a little bit of everything for what I thought would probably be less money. The day before, I met two guys on the bus over who have been and will continue to be traveling through South America. For the sake of getting a cheap room, we all decided to bunk together, which is really the beginning of the story. Julian and Dave had already booked a tour--three days through the islands--but they also wanted to go diving. I tagged along, of course, which allowed me to appropriately explore all of my options before making a decision. If it wasn't for those guys, I'm not so sure that I would have realized what kind of opportunities lie right before me...

After Julian and Dave departed, my options had dwindled. I could't decide what to do, so I did what most confused young men would--I called my mom. Of course, she wan't sure, but I did remember that she had told me earlier that I needed to live a little and not worry so much about money (odd words coming from my mother). I decided to run around and figure out if I could obtain PADI certification or not--I quickly found out I couldn't. All the dive instructors were gone for holiday, you know, as the Brits say. With options and time dwindling away, I had to move quick. I went back to the tour agency and checked out the three available tours. One filled up while I was there and it came down to two--a fancy smaller boat, or this rustic gem of a yacht named the Angelique. Me, being the romantic that I am, chose the old yacht and a four day tour, packed up my things, got the cash and decided to go. After all, I was in the Galapagos Islands, and you never know if you'll make it to all the places you want to, on this trip or the next. I booked it, and all I had to do was wait.

I sat on the dock for a couple of hours, wondering if I had made the right decision. The financial implications could mean I wouldn't be able to do some of the other things I had planned on doing. Maybe I would change my mind about a lot of things in the next few days. Maybe this would be one of the greatest things I have ever done (at least top 5, right?). And maybe I wasn't as cool as I thought I was...

Meet at dock, 6PM

15 people jumped in a dingy as the guide yelled out "Angelique." I had booked the tour so late that they didn't know I was coming. Turns out I had missed the first part of the tour too... an exploration of the highlands and the Charles Darwin Center. This was alright, as I snuck my way onto Julian and Dave's tour in the morning. I at least got to see the giant tortoises, including Lonesome George (the turtle equivalent of a 40 year old virgin). Anyway, on the dingy, this guy Neil threw a couple of quick questions my way to test the waters, and I could tell we'd get along pretty well. We eventually climbed onto the rocking Angelique for dinner. She was every bit of rustic that I had hoped for, but I was getting sea sick pretty fast.

Dinner was an opportunity to introduce myself to everyone and to find out that I would be rooming with who turned out to be an incredibly fascinating and interested middle-aged Polish woman. At first, I felt kind of bad for her as she had no idea this would happen. She had paid a premium price to come aboard and she was being foreced to bunk with some smelly 20-something post-undergrad. And then, I let her have the bottom bunk. The rest of the group was comprised of Polish toruists--a rowdy and lively bunch--a couple more guys and a two couples. The groups quickly divided into two tables (or factions really) for dinner--the English speakers at one table and the Polish at the other. We got to talking, and I quickly gained a fondness for my traveling companions, particularly Neil and Coralie (a younger couple), as well as Rob and Bev... They were sharp, what seemed like well-educated, and full of one liners. They were, for all extensive purposes, my kind of people (even if they don't know a lick about American Football). Dinner was good, but I had troubles overcoming the constant teetering of the boat. Serg(io), our guide, gave us the breakdown of the tour. We would be visiting the southern islands over the next four days: Floreana, Española, Santa Fe, Plazas, and North Seymour.

I felt sick, and despite the fun of dinner, thoughts of whether I had made the right decision lingered. I retired to my cabin and passed out.

Day 1: Floreana

Eventually, the sun rose and I awoke the next morning. The boat was still rocking and I felt like I had made all the wrong decisions. I felt sick and like I had paid too much to take this tour. Then, as I looked out I found a whiskered peeping tom playfully splashing my window. It was about then that I began to think of the overall monumental lifetime achievement status--and more importantly the experience of being here--of having been in the archipelago, and realized how little cost really does matter (Though, I still tried to eat as much as possible during the meals in order to obtain a greater value... hahaha).

After breakfast we hauled off to Post Office Bay, where Serg regailed us with the tail of a woman that lived on the island, her lovers, and how PO Bay got its name. There is a post box--about the only man made structure--on the island. The only catch is that the postcards you put in don't have stamps. They wait there until you either come pick them up some day, or some kind soul hand delivers them to the addressee. It was quite a refreshing idea really... However, despite the fascinating tale, we got bored pretty quick examining this wooden box and headed down to the lava tunnels.

So it turns out that we needed flashlights. There were about 4 for 12 of us, but we made do. We walked down the lava tunnels to find the water that had remained from thousands of years ago. We hiked up our shorts to a level appropriate for the 1980s and surged forward. Once we figured out that we would only be finding waist high water, we turned back. It wasn't that cool, to be honest, but the ways that the English speaking posse was able to joke around about everything eased my worries.

We spent the afternoon snorkeling throughout the Corona del Diablo--a cracked and sunken volcanic crater now filled with hundreds of species of life aquatic. On a sunny day, it is supposed to be the best place to snorkel in the Archipelago. I can't say that I have any complaints either. Eagle rays swam gracefully through the water while parrot fish nibbled at coral. Gigantic star fish inhabited every nook and cranny of the cold cold sea. On the way back, we saw two turtles copulating, until, the males head popped out of the water with a frustrated look--kind of like when you walk in on your roommate, if that's ever happened before. Needless to say, he ducked back under the cover of the water to never be seen again. It was ok though, because I would see plenty of turtles copulating on my four day voyage...

After a hearty lunch, we lazed around the boat getting to know one another better. My Polish roommate and I were the only spanish speakers on the boat, and we tried our best to keep our guide Serg entertained. I found out that Rob was a pediatrician, and all of his corny (but very charming and sharp) one liners all made sense. I say that, because I could understand why his personality would be well suited for a pediatrician... His wife Bev rolled her eyes at most things, while adding her own timely lines every once in a while. Neil and Coralie were traveling around South America too, on what I think is a year long holiday. Neil reminded me a lot of both of my brothers, which was pretty comforting after feeling so homesick. Talking to them all kind of got me in a rythym, and I started to feel a lot better about what I was doing.

We landed at Point Cormerant late in the afternoon. Serg guided us up the trail to the other side of the point, where we could see manta rays beaching themselves in search of sand crabs. We wandered at wandered, having only seen a few, until Neil almost stepped on one in a cloud of sand... We had found hundreds of them, almost doubled up on one another, floating in the sand. After accidentally stepping on one (they are soooo sneaky), I wandered off on my own... and eventually stumbled onto some tortoises copulating... again.

After the novelty wore off, we left the tortoises alone, and headed back towards the lagoon. Home to about 10 Galapagos Flamingos... Our attention spans were wearing thin, and our appetites growing. We slowly creeped to the dingy and found a bunch of sea lions ready to play... The sun was setting, the wind blowing, and the sea lions barking. It was definitely a picturesque ending to the first days activities.

I finished the day with a rousing game of peanuckle (forgive me if I spelled it wrong). After a tough, tough loss to Rob, I retired to my cabin and thought about the day... It was incredible, and only the beginning. There aren't enough words to describe what its really like, but I'll try to continue with the following days.

A little later of course... its time for dinner.

I Took a Boat to Somewhere

2007-11-29T14:36:00.000-08:00

After scouring Puerto Ayora for cheap accomodation--and not really finding any--I decided to go ahead and book a tour at the last minute (which actually gave me a significant discount). I tried to find a dive center that would allow me to take classes in order to become PADI certified, but apparently dive instructors love to take vacations during this part of the year... Oh well, c'est la vie. I'll let you know how it goes when I get back...

I Haven't Paid for a Bus Ride Yet

2007-11-27T15:47:00.000-08:00

The last week has been pretty rough for me, as I think I have actually become homesick. Either way, I know that I've definitely become restless in Ecuador--to the point that I have just started taking bus rides throughout the countryside for no real good reason (which actually has been one of the most peaceful and inspiring things that I've done yet). It has been nice, because I've been able to think about a lot of things... The sun set on my time in Puerto Lopez on Saturday, finding me on a bus ride to Guayaquil, only to take another bus ride to Baños the very next day. Despite all of the commotion, I have been constantly amazed by how beautiful Ecuador is, especially having now seen about every road in the country, at least three times.

Baños, for better or worse, is a tourist town--for International tourists and Ecuadorians alike--because of its well known hot springs, proximity to amazing hiking (and a live volcano), and a plethora of international restaurants. It is also probably one of the only places in the world where you will more often than not pay more for a meal that you will a hotel room. My brief stay there provided for an interesting experience or two...

I woke up yesterday morning at 6:30, tossed on my swim trunks, and headed to the thermal pools to soak up that sweet volcanic sulfer water. After about 10 minutes, I was feeling pretty good about myself, having been one of two non-Ecuadorians at the pools, AND having beat the masses there as well. Eventually--like is usually the case--the other non-Ec (an older woman from CO) engaged me in conversation and asked me how long I had been in Baños. At first, it seemed like she was friendly enough, but eventually she seemed like she just wanted to try to tout her traveling experience over my comparative youth... I tried my best to be cordial, as I wanted to stay in the pool, but with every question she asked and ever answer I gave she tried to tell me that I had the wrong opinion. Finally, I got up and left because she insulted Guanajuato, saying it was a poor excuse for a town, AND then insulted Mexicans in general, implying that they are all poor (another American that came to the pool shortly after told me that the woman was there yesterday and some Australian lady called her a racist--can't say I'm surprised...). Being incredibly bothered, and what turned out to be really dehydrated from having not drank enough water during my long bus ride because I didn't want to deal with the discomfort of holding it for nine hours, I sauntered back to my hostel still wet from the pools. Despite her ignorance, I had some pretty great thoughts develop as a result while I agonized in bed and drank water. An example, if you don't mind... Her justification for labeling GTO as a boring and bland city were that there were no good restaurants (Judy, if you are reading this I know it sounds familiar!), which really meant she didn't like spicy, or traditional, Mexican food. Later, after probably thinking about this way too intently, I came to the realization that there is a HUGE difference between a city that is great to live in and a city that is great to visit. I, too, prefer a variety of options when visiting somewhere, whereas when you live somewhere you just kind of make due with whatever you can find, because eating is probably not the most entertaining part of your day--you have friends and, well, a life. Think about it... seriously.

After some breakfast, and sufficient hydration, I wandered around town, deciding that I didn't want to take any pictures and that I needed a vacation of sorts, from my vacation... I stumbled across this place that rented out Quadrunners and spontaneously decided to jet up the side of a volcano in an attempt to beat the incoming clouds and capture a clear glimpse of this active giant... which recently erupted in 2006 (Its the vulcan Tunguruhua if you want to look it up). It was great for my restlessness, and I wish I would have had my camara after all. Jetsetting up the hill and catching this crystal clear view of the clouds colliding into the steam rising up from the volcano--the dark grey, ash filled, steam and the soft white swirling together--was probably one of the most memorable things I have ever seen in person. The rain came in, and I headed back down the hill happy, and slightly nauseous. I finished my day by being sick, watching City of God, packing my stuff up for the Galapagos Islands, and choking down some really good Phad Thai (?!?).

I felt better this morning, got on another seven hour bus, and arrived ready for the Galapagos Islands in the morning. I wonder what I will think of the Islands having not expected to go--I still haven't really thought about it, if you can believe that...

What is a Thanksgiving?

2007-11-23T14:54:00.000-08:00

I spent my day on Isla de la Plata, accidentally kicking fish while snorkeling, and being creeped out by blue footed boobies. It was the final straw in pushing me towards booking a flight to the Galapagos Islands...

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

A Dirt Road Way of Life

2007-11-21T14:19:00.000-08:00

At some point along my 12 hour bus ride yesterday, I decided that I was going to head for the Galapagos Islands. I don´t know why, or when it happened, I just know that when I woke up this morning it is what I wanted to do.

Now that I'm a few days removed from Quito, I still don´t know what to think about the place. I probably would have been in awe of it had I just not been in Guanajuato--a city that makes Quito's colonial architecture seem almost amateur (a broad and sweeping generalization that intends to leave out some buildings...). The people in Quito are much colder personality wise--which makes all of the difference with me--and Guanajuato just has that small town charm. Anyway, I spent my last day wandering all over the city, spending most of my time at the Parque Carolina and Fundación de Guayasamin. The Fundación houses the works of Oswaldo Guayasamín--an indegenous painter from Northern Ecuador who just recently passed away. His works were amazing, displaying the full range of human emotion (even his landscapes). As I strolled through the halls and examined his paintings I felt this odd familiarity with his works. And then I figured out that they kind of reminded me of some of my brother Andy's paintings--deep, dark yet colorful, and very very creative. It made me miss my brother quite a bit.

I woke up the morning after (yesterday morning) and knew I would be leaving Quito. However, I had no clue where... When I arrived at the bus stop, I had my options narrowed down, and decided to take the first bus that left. Three hours later, I found myself in a bus station, with the same dilemma. Of course, being the American that I am--full of impatience--I made a split decision and took the first bus to the coast. Later, I found out that it also happened to be the longest bus to the coast...

It was cool though. Driving through Ecuador is an opportunity to experience some of the finest parts of nature that the world has to offer. In one drive, from themountains to the coast, you descend from cloud forests to humid forests to dry forests to banana plantations as the sun slowly drops from its greatest heights off into the distance. Though the ride was long, it was absolutely beautiful. Traveling--the act of moving from one place to another--brings clarity to me and time to think about abstract things. It would have been an amazing experience, had it not been marred by a couple of ignorant Ecuadorians who kept throwing their trash out of the window of the bus. It took about all that I had to restrain myself from smacking this one guy in the back of the head as he tossed out a bottle and laughed... I'm a pretty forgiving guy too, for the most part... Anyway, the situation was made all the more awkward (and slightly confusing) when the guy leaned back in his chair, threw his arms up and tucked his hands behind his head only to reveal a class ring from none other than Washington State University... He couldn't speak English well at all, which made me doubt the ring was originally his, but really?!? I guess its just proof of globalization, or something... I don't know, I'm still really confused...

The bus ride itself also ended up being the personal caravan of our two bus drivers. They stopped to have lunch, say hello to their friends and families, drop off tractor keys to friends, and even pick up their laundry. Nobody on the bus said anything, and I just went with it... It was quite the experience to say the least.

10 hours after departure and I was in Puerto Lopez--a sleepy dirt road kind of town that sits on a hooking bay full of bobbing baby blue fishing boats. Of course, I arrived at 11pm at night, with no reservations, and it was much too dark to tell what kind of town it really was. Luckily, with the help of a local, I was able to find a wonderful hostal not found in any guide book, despite the fact that it has been there for a while. Unfortunately, I think its because the family that runs it--aside from one woman--is deaf. It certainly isn't due to a lack of hospitality. My first day in PL, although a lazy one, has provided for a pretty relaxing experience.

Quito in a Minute

2007-11-19T16:13:00.000-08:00

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

There is nothing more liberating than washing your socks in a sink, or for that matter, a river.

A Warm Pair of Socks

2007-11-18T18:58:00.000-08:00

My interview for the Bonderman Fellowship came on a day that I had to give an address to an audience who had come for the opening of the Visions of Valor Exhibit on the Univeristy of Washington campus. Normally, giving an address would not have been that big of a deal, but the VoV exhibit happened to run in conjunction with the fundraising efforts for a memorial dedicated to former students and Alumni of the University of Washington who had been awarded the Medal of Honor (If you're interested in the whole story, you can access background materials here, in chronological order: 1, 2, 3). Without going into the whole story, and in the spirit of getting to the point, I was a very nervous kid that day. I'm not sure if I was confident, although I do know that I had dressed really nice that day (at least by my standards). I don't remember my interview going very well, and, in fact, I can't even really remember any of the questions, let alone my answers--except one.

Last night, as I sat in my hotel room with a fire ablaze, I started to miss home about as bad as I have yet. I've now been gone for over a month--the longest that I have ever been away from some kind of stable environment with the majority of my belongings. Being the human that I am, I instinctively scoured the room for the things that would bring me the most comfort... There was this amazing apple pie from the Pie Shop in downtown Otavalo, coffee, water, blankets, fire, a dog outside my door, etc. and nothing quite did the trick. Aside from just going to sleep, I had no idea what I could do. Then, as I rustled through my backpack, it dawned on me--a pair of socks. A nice warm pair of ultra comfy wool socks. My mind immediately flashed back to that interview and I remember Brook--the BF advisor--asking me what essential things I would bring. I said socks, because you aren't always guaranteed a hot shower, nor can you feasibly pack a blanket. They warm your feet and eventually your heart (I'll openly admit I was certainly not this cheesy during the interview). I put on my socks--a pair that my mom had bought for me before I left on this grand venture--and apparently the answer to the question turned out to be the right one for me.

The Saturday Market

2007-11-17T19:38:00.000-08:00

Since having moved to Seattle, and having traveled to a country or two, I've developed a tremendous appreciation for open air markets. You have to admit, there is nothing better than getting up on a non-football Saturday, grabbing some coffee and heading down to Pike Place to snag some produce and maybe some flowers for your mom. Seriously though, what is more impressive than cramming thousands of different varieties of produce, livestock, clothing, crafstmanship and people all into one place at the same time? If you want an open air market in Ecuador, there are thousands. However there is one, that on any given Saturday, is supposed to be the best.

Otavalo, a town in Northern Ecuador (it's Winter there and Summer here--only two seasons), is home to what is perhaps Ecuador's largest, and definitely its most famous, open air market. It's also home to the indegenous Otavaleño people, whose ancestors have inhabited the area dating back to 13000 BC. Otavaleño's are known throughout Ecuador for their strong character, maintanence of tradition, and ever-evolving business savvy. Every Saturday morning, thousands of Otavaleños (and a whole lot of tourists) crowd the streets of Otavalo in order to showcase (and sell) handmade wool products, jewelry, clothing, yarn, panama hats (which are incorrectly named as they actually originate from Ecuador's town of Monticristi), food, livestock, produce, and the list goes on and on. The market engulfs the entire city, filling up every square inch of every single street. It was an amazing sight to say the least.

A bus ride from Quito to Otavalo takes about two hours on a good day. On a great day, it would take you a coupld of hours more. I arrived in O on Friday afternoon, and needed to find a place to stay. Luckily, I stumbled across a hotel slightly outside of the city, nestled in the rolling hills of Northern Ecuador, complete with a fireplace. The evening found me exploring the city in order to orient myself with the streets. Plus, I desperately wanted take in the amazing landscape and fresh mountain air that you just can't find in a big city. Oh, and I found this killer pie shop, which added to my conclusion that I'm actually traveling in order to eat all over the world. Food brings people together, right?

The market can start as early as 5am, at least when it comes to the animals. I woke up early, but eventually decided that I had seen enough cows in my life (having been from Nebraska and having worked on a farm) and I needed to sleep in. Eventually, my 6'5" frame lumbered downtown, and I immediately started seeing what kind of deals I could make. That damn competitive spirit. I don't know if I'm a consumer (which I would be pretty ashamed of... sort of...), if I just really enjoy bartering/getting a deal, or both. The fact that I never really get or barter for anything for myself helps me think that maybe I just have a bartering problem. But I digress... I love interacting with people, especially from small towns (in other countries). Despite the fact that there were hundreds of tourists on hand for the market, it still felt incredibly communal. Eventually, the busy scene tired me and I headed back up to my mountain abode.

I think that the other reason I decided to go to Otavalo so soon after having arrived in Ecuador was that I wanted to slow things down before I sped up again. Being able to have the opportunity to choose whether or not you wanted to enter the fast(er) placed life is something that I've already come to really cherish about living--for lack of a better word to describe what I'm doing--on the outside, or completely away from, the centers. My short time in Otavalo, along with my month in Guanajuato, have really hammered this concept into my head. Of course, it has its downsides too, but who wants to read about that? (If you do, just let me know and I can whip something up real quick... ha) Anyway, my time in Otavalo really just allowed me to relax and withdraw, even if just for a quick second. I went wandering out in the hills and ran into these:

Of course, I knew that they existed, but when I went out I had no intention of finding them. It just happened.

Anyway, its time for bed. After all, I'm going to need sleep if I'm going to get back in the fast lane.

Good Morning Ecuador

2007-11-15T19:40:00.000-08:00

Do I look lost? I'm supposed to be.

Last night, as my plane was flying high above Columbia, a voice came through the intercom and said , "Unfortunately ladies and gentlemen, the Quito airport has been closed as a result of weather conditions, we will be rerouting your flight to Guayaquil." Thirty minutes later, the pilot came back on and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, we can land in Quito, we are now turning around and will be arriving shortly. Of course, that is pilot humor, as the skies were incredibly clear and I was able to have my first fresh breath in about 5 days... well, a much fresher breath than those available in the City of Mexico.

The mystic haze that shrouds the buildings can be yours too, at the low cost of killing everything.

I spent my final day in Mexico City acclimating myself with the ways of the metro, riding all over the city. I went to Xochimilco--an oversized labrynth of waterways--then to Chapultepec, a grand park, if I do say so myself. As I wandered around on my final day, I couldn't allow myself to comprehend the brownish grey hue that lingers around all buildings in the city. It was everywhere. Eventually I found my way back to my dorm bed in the hostel and to my Lonely Planet South America Travel Guide, when I struck up a conversation with this English bloke Barney who had been traveling through South America for the last eight months. He gave me a ton of advice on Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands (if I choose to go there), and for traveling throughout South America. His friend Ed arrived and it turned out that they were going to watch the Luchadores--Mexican wrestlers. I, having been a wrestling fanatic when I was much much younger, could hardly resist the temptation of the high flying spectacle. We busted out to the streets, hailed a cab and were off. The next morning, I packed up my stuff, headed to Benito Juarez, and off I went to Ecuador.

After my first full day in Quito, I'm not too sure of what I think about it. It's a city--a big one at that--with less pollution than Mexico City. The Spanish is slower here, bus it seems as though its spoken with less clarity, a trade-off that I am dealing with to the best of my abilities. The sun is piercing whenever there happens to be no clouds. The coffee is good, and the people not as amiable as the Mexicanos, and their wonderful hospitality, that I have become so accustomed to. There are, however, quite a few brightspots after my first day. Safe to say, none of them have anything to do with tourists that refuse to speak Spanish and only increase the volume of their voice in order to try to get their point across.

One of the simplest, and coolest, things that I have been able to do is walk into a market place and have lunch with all of the poeple of insert city here. This afternoon, I walked into the kitchens of the Mercado Central in Quito, and found myself at Corvina don Jimmy's--a 50 year old Quiteño establishment known for serving the finest (and cheapest) sea bass around. For $2.50, I was able to find myself diving into a bowl of shrimp ceviche and a plate of sea bass with papas y arroz. It was easily one of the most amazing things I have eaten thus far. The best part of the experience though, was interacting with the cooks and servers. I'm not sure if they were laughing at me because I was the only Gringo in the entire Market, or if it was because I had no idea how to properly eat Corvina (sea bass). Either was, a good time was had by all, and I left with a full, happy, stomach. If you ever find your way to Quito, I would definitely suggest stopping by. Tell them the tall gringo sent you (El gringo alto me dijó que neccesitaría tratar la Corvina--I think that is right, given a few spelling errors...).

From L-R: Shrip Ceviche, Jugo de Mora, Corvina con arroz y papas, y palomitas

I spent the rest of my day exploring the Old Town of Quito, the cities historic center. I wasn't in a museum mode, and therefore only walked around to acclimate myself to the city. It certainly is beautiful, despite the fact that I am almost desensitized to colonial architecture. If you've seen an arch, you've seen an arch right? Making it more obvious to me that the focus of my trip, and possibly my life, is the people that I have and will come accross. I won't get too deep here though, as there are some thoughts I need to keep for myself.

Another thing of note is that Ecuadorians do not like Texans. They (of those I have spoken with) do, however, very much like Hugo Chavez. If you would like to understand more about this, I have heard that you can find such information in the books Armed Madhouse and Confessions of an Economic Hitman. Or, of course, you can ask an Ecuadorian.

I miss home, and am wondering why anybody would ever really want to travel alone. Though, in thinking about that, I think I've learned that independence is not just learning how to make your own decisions, its also learning how to not make decisions for others. As you ponder that, I will say goodnight to this now slumbering town. Think about it...

A different kind of haziness

A Change of Mind

2007-11-12T19:33:00.001-08:00

One minute, I was sitting alone a top the world's third largest pyramid, and thenext, I was touring the Palacio Federal with a guy named Jorge who happened to work with/for/as the secretary of state... and all because of a rapid change of mind. Pretty sweet, huh?

I wandered out on Friday morning, intent on going to class after dropping my laundry off at the lavandaria. I changed my mind about halfway there and decided that I should probably head to the centro, mail some letters, and run some other random errands that I wanted to do before I left GTO. I determined my fate for the weekend and read through all of the lesson plans so I wouldn't feel guilty for skipping class. I am hoping that the notes that I took from the book will be serviceable for continuing to teach myself spanish as I travel through South America for the next... um... 4 months? I think that's right. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that my decision had something to do with the fact that I would be spending part of my evening and the greater part of Saturday volunteering for Amigos de los Animales and eventually partying with my friends later in the night.

Later in the afternoon, I made my way over to Sandra Ward's beautiful bright pink (kind of an oxymoron, no?) abode to help load things up for the steriliazation campaign. After meeting with a plethora of vets and other volunteers, we moved onward towards the Escuela Pipila--quite the ramshackle school that was allowing us to use their facilities for the weekend (It's always really hard to see how some classrooms look, though, the classroom doesn't really ever determine how well kids learn...). Setting up was simple enough, and I had more than enough time to get ready (i.e. change into my finest black t-shirt) to go out for one last hurrah in the GTO.

An aside: The centro historico in GTO is chalkful of relatively pricey restaurants, all with menus in English. Normally, this would defy all of my rules with regards to dining in foreign countries (both indicate that the food will be pricey and bad... usually). However, there are exceptions. You either deal with it for a better atmosphere, or because it's what everybody else does... Nowhere else in the town--or anywhere else for that matter--can you see hundreds of teens circling around the plaza, arm in arm, chatting with their friends. It reminded me a lot of how teenagers in small town and suburbs get really bored and drive to the parking lot of the nearest QFC. It's also pretty much all there is to do on a Friday night for local Guanajuatenses, leading me to the one rule that overrides the rest--when in Rome.

I woke up the next morning feeling a little crudo (insert hungover), but good enough to catch a ride to the school for the campaign. After shaking the hands of about 17 different vets/vet techs/volunteers, I was directed to help with the yardsale... I hated it too. One of the women that was helping wanted to buy everything for herself, and the other didn't want part with the things she was selling for a reasonable amount of money. Me, on the other hand, I love to hustle. I was wheelin and dealin, selling clothing like it was going out of style. It was a great situation for learning how to speak spanish, and also to compliment. Anyway, the women eventually drove me nuts, and I wandered off to find something else to do...

I found my way to a space in between prep and surgery. I learned how to hold cats and dogs when they receive anesthetic, as well as how to appropriately tie a square not, when tying a suture to close up a dog and or cat. Impressive, huh? The day allowed us to see over 40 animals, and an assortment of problems for all of them, from STD's to bite marks. It was an eye opening experience, that I will not forget anytime soon.

Another aside: I am kind of starting to wonder if people who hear about the Bonderman Fellowship secretly despise me. In order to go undercover, I have started to tell people that I will be returning to the states shortly, going home, etc.

After speeding in the cab to make it to the lavandaria in time to pick up my laundry, I passed out in order to wake up at dawn the next morning, and head to San Juan Teotihuacan. After missing the bus stop--after the 6 hour bus ride--I ended up at the pyramids themselves, and had to walk about a mile to get to my hotel. I dropped off my bags and headed out into the town. It took about 5 minutes--after having lived in GTO--to become bored out of my mind. After a bite to eat, I retired to my hotel room, where I watched horrible professional wrestling and a new episode of Anthony Bourdain... which was oddly only in English without subtitles on a Spanish television station...

With 12 hours of sleep, I was ready to go to the Pyramids of Teotihuacan as the roosters began to crow in the morning. I got up and made the mistake of eating the crappy hotel breakfast--something that No Reservations and Anthony Bourdain had warned me about the night before. Something about the breakfast made me feel like staying in S.J.T. wasn't probably the best idea...

Mondays at the pyramids are very different, especially from the weekend days, when Mexican families come en mass and cover the pyramid with a plethora of shirt colors. Monday, this Monday, was a different story. Monday was mine. I was the first person to the Pyramid on Monday morning, and I had the top all to myself for the next thirty minutes. I don't know what it is about high places, and me having them all to myself, but I am really starting to enjoy it. Eventually, my peace was interrupted by a large, boisterous, group of Lithuanian tourists. It was then that I realized that I couldn't have the Pyramids--I couldn't have Teotihuacan--to myself forever. It was then that I had my first of what will most likely be many deviations from the plan (I'm still not sure what the plan is).

Though I had already paid for the second night, I went back to the hotel after my tour of the ancient pre-hispanic city, determined to get a change of scenery. I got my money, got my bags, went to the bus stop, hopped on the next bus--while it was still moving nonetheless--and left town for the Federal District. Once I arrived, I paid four times the cost of my bus ride for a taxi to the center, then copped some grub.

It was at this restaurant that I met this guy Jorge, who works for the Secretary of the State, in the Palacio Federal. After we finished our plates of salsa laden pork, he took it upon himself to give me a private tour of the Federal building. I'm still not sure if he did it because I told him I was a political sciences and econ major, or if he felt a bond as a result of the fact that we ate the same thing. Either way, I'm glad it happened...

I think I'm starting to get used to this traveling thing.

The 6th of November

2007-11-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

My classes at Academia Falcon are going well, and my ability to speak Spanish has already increased 10-fold. Yesterday morning, I also started taking Salsa lessons--which have proved to be quite the show for many of the people in the office, teachers, etc. since I am apparently the tallest student having ever taken the class. Nonetheless, I perservere despite my dancing impedement... (I only kid...)

Coming upon my last week in GTO, I start to wonder if I will miss it, like I miss my home--Seattle. Waking up, having breakfast with a family (a very foreign concept in the states), taking my time getting ready, leaving to about 6 really excited dogs vying for my attention has really left a mark on me. This little time here has already made me wonder why we are always in such a hurry in the U.S., and even how I want my life to be when I get back. Maybe more importantly, I have wondered why I have been in such a hurry the last four years, during my college career. Anybody have any bets?

Speaking of the dogs, I found out this past weekend that the family dog has cancer. Yodi--named after Yoda of Star Wars fame--is always the sweetest dog of all, too. I walked out today to find her bleeding from the mouth, making me wonder what is in store for her in the upcoming weeks.

Though it will make no sense to anyone except my family... How fitting is it that the Dog's namesake is from my brother's favorite childhood movie? How is that for a sign that maybe I'm in the right place right now? I don't know, maybe I'm just crazy...

Yodi's predicament aside, being around all of the dogs here have made it that much easier to take up an opportunity to volunteer for a pretty worthy cause this weekend. On Friday, I will volunteer for a group called Amigos de los Animales. Its a non-profit in GTO dedicated to educating the population about properly taking care of animals, ensuring that they are spayed and neutered, etc. They will be hosting a spay and neuter campaign and I will be handling some of the grunt work. After talking to a few people, I have decided that this is a very worth cause within the city, as there are many many many homeless dogs that scour the city for food every day. There are also, many ownders who don't know the first thing of what responsibilities having a dog entails...

After that, I will probably take off on Sunday for the City of Mexico, and the outlying pre-hispanic ruins of Teotihuacan. I'll decide when Sunday comes though. So, I guess we'll all have to wait for the future.

Anyway, I would like to remind you to do your part in controlling the pet population by spaying and neutering your pets... Until later...

Email Gadget

2007-11-05T18:17:00.001-08:00

Um, I added this gadget (in the left hand column) that allows you to enter your email address and have the blog sent to your email every day that I post anything new. It's pretty rad if you are interested...

Día de Muertos

2007-11-05T17:08:00.000-08:00

I woke up early Friday morning--before the sunrise--said goodbye to my warm bed, and headed out into the crisp morning, sights set on Patzcuaro. As I walked up the steps from the Saucedo house, I turned just in time to watch my first Guanajuato sunrise. It was, for lack of better words, a pretty good way to start the day and for that matter the weekend. I sauntered next door, caught a cab to the bus station, where I would meet with my friend Sebastian and catch the 7AM bus to Morelia--the capitol of the Michoacan state--in order to catch another bus to Patzcuaro.

The Michoacan state--from what I was able to gather--is a very fertile place, responsible for a great amount of the agricultural production, hosting vast amounts of maíz, wheat, and what looked like barley. The state is also very picturesque--many beautiful lakes nestled between conical mountains and even a volcano or two. In the fall and winter, it serves as a resting place for migrating butterflies, and on November 1st through 2nd, it serves as the home of what is supposedly Mexico's largest Day of the Dead celebration--held in Patzcuaro, home of the Purepecha people, originators of the festival.

Sebastian and I made it to Morelia in no time (a very short 4 hours). Of course, time flies when you've passed out for the entire bus ride. Upon arrival we ordered some enchiladas and he called his friends, whom we would be meeting up with for the rest of the voyage. A couple of hours passed and his friends arrived, setting the stage for one of my favorite things. Sebastian and his friends are French Canadian. Sebastian speaks English as a result of hitch hiking across Canada when he was 18, and eventually residing in Vancouver for over 5 years. His friends, however, only spoke French and Spanish, causing us to all communicate in Spanish. I loved it. I think there is nothing better than finding a common ground, despite the uncommon. I will say, though, that its pretty hard to understand Spanish with a French accent. Another difficulty was that I never figured out how to spell their names. I'm not even sure that I can spell them phonetically.

We arrived in Patzcuaro late in the afternoon. One of Sebastian's friends lost her camera, and had to file a police report.

The Downside of Traveling with Others, Part 1:
Not that its that big of a deal, but when you travel with other people, you always have to suffer with them. If they get their camera stolen, I wait. Not because I have to, but because its the right thing to do. Right? Maybe not...

We got coffee for everyone while we waited, and sort of took our time getting back to the police station. It ended up taking a couple of hours, knocking some time off of our ever so valuable daylight hours. Eventually, the report was filed, and we found our way to a restaurant off of the plaza. NEVER eat at a restaurant just off of a plaza, if their menus are in English, or if they use certain types of fonts. Experiment with the fonts, you will understand what I mean. I think its probably the same case for American restaurants as well. We took the opportunity, upon the suggestion of some ladies next to us, to partake in the city special--Pescado Blanco (small, very very small, white fish that have no flavor) and Sopa Tarasca (think Tortilla soup with a cream base)--and some tequila (which is not cheaper in Mexico, despite a popularly held belief).

After dinner, the four of us headed back to our damp, moldy, cheap hostel, abandoned what belongings we didn't need, and headed out into the dusk, towards the pier, and off to the Isla Janitzia--home of the biggest party of all. The dock was packed, full of food vendors, tourists, locals and plenty of alters. After fighting our way through the crowd, we bought tickets for the boat to Janitzia and jumped on board.

The ride to the island was very tranquil, sans the unmuffled boat motor, allowing me the peace it sometimes takes to become satisfied with oneself. I thought about what had gone on in the past 12 hours--I had left, whenever I wanted, went to another city and just like that, I was on a boat headed to an island in the middle of the night, because I could and decided I would. I then proceeded to stick my hand down above the water and take this picture:

Island, straight ahead

We arrived on the island, and to our dismay, there was almost no one there. Despite tails of days spent reveling in this time honored tradition, it appeared as though most people had left the party early. In other words, the revelers were done reveling. From the looks of those remaining, if they weren't done yet, they probably needed to be. A vacant island is never a problem though, as we were able to peacefully interact with the Isla's residents, taking every opportunity we had to indulge ourselves--including the most amazing flatbread of my life. After stuffing ourselves, we forged through a crowd of hippies, and up the steps towards the centerpiece of the island. The largest statue-of Independence figure Morelos--that I have ever seen of anything or anyone that is not the Statue of Liberty (I haven't really seen that many statues, I must admit).

On our descent, we came across the Isla's cemetery. Conveniently located on the side of a cliff, the cemetery housed some of the most breathtaking alters that I have scene so far in Mexico. The thirty or so minutes spent navigating the cemetery was well worth it, even causing me to ponder what I would want after I die... After fighting our way through the hippies once again, we hopped back on the boat, and headed towards the mainland. We all looked forward to our damp, dark, hotel room. Actually, I'm being fecetious.

We arose at the crack of dawn the next morning in order to catch the next bus back to Morelia, only to figure out that we didn´t need to. So instead, we wandered through the market, all the while gawking at whole pig heads, (bone) morrow cakes, thousands of different types of fruits and vegetables, bluejeans 10 sizes to small for me, and hundreds of deep fried snack foods (including deep fried pig skin--chicharron).

Eventually, we got to Morelia, they went to the beach and I went back to cold Guanajuato so I could take another week of spanish lessons at Academia Falcon. As my second class bus slowly (very very slowly) drifted into the sunset, I thought about what in the hell just happened, slighly smiling to myself like I often do.

Sopa Azteca and a side of Jesus

2007-10-30T17:05:00.000-07:00

I woke up on Saturday morning cold free and inspired to take on the day. As my friend Wilborn would say, I was "sober and ready." By the time I woke up, my family had left for their farm--a family business including motocross tracks--and I desperately needed a shower as despite the liveration that travel provides one always begins to smell. Always. I was delighted to find out that there was no hot water that morning, but bit the bullet anyway for the sake of those around me, and dove right in. I figured, "Hey, at least I'm awake." The interesting thing about cold showers too, is that the cold water slows your movements, ultimately making the shower longer. Anyway, poor me, right?

I threw on some clothes and ventured out into the mid-daylight towards the U of GTO. I popped some snapshots of the main building only to be earily reminded of my walk from hell, as seen below:

One-eighth of the walk from hell, and the Universidad de Guanajuato steps

Needless to say, despite the beauty of the University I was turned off from the steps. Plus, I still hadn´t had any coffee yet...

By the tiem that I got done wandering, it was time for me to catch the group tour to El Cerro de Cubilete. I decided to take the tour because it was actually cheaper than any other method of transportation, plus I figured it would be a good opportunity to practice my listening skills (in Spanish). Of course, in the typical fashion of Mexico and countless other countries and regions of countries around the world, it took about an hour and a half to round up everybody that was going on the tour. We did eventually leave, and there ended up being three other English speakers on the two, one of which was a native speaker. I´ve found that whenever there is someone else who speaks english on a tour like this (not that I´ve been on a lot), they seek you out in order to make wise ass comments to you-and in many cases with you-about what´s going on, what´s different, etc. My theory was reaffirmed when we stopped halfway at some pottery barn (a real pottery barn) and Hal--a dude from Colorado--came over to joke about all the ceramic statues of Jesus, as well as the demonstration of how ceramics are different from clay based pottery. However, despite the "Damn did we really have to stop here"-ness of the situation, I left kind of inspired to pursue pottery, and to create this list of things I want to learn how to do while I'm on this trip. In no particular order:

learn how to make clay pottery
learn how to cook in every country I visit
learn how to dance in multiple ways
learn how to ride horses
learn how to surf
learn how to sea kayak
and of course, learn how to speak spanish

Eventually, we made it to el Cerro. I was shocked to find thousands of people had made what I came to learn was a weekly religious pilgrimage to the center of Mexico and this gargantuan image of Christ. Despite the cold and wind that comes with being at Mexico's highest point, tents were set up all over and families huddled together for warmth. I have to say, although I am not religious, seeing this gigantic statue of Jesus--with arms spread--hovering over the country of Mexico, combined with all of these camping Mexicanos who had faith, hope, and trust bleeding from their ears, made me feel really small. Not in a bad way either. Finally, everyone from the tour group got cold, forcing the tour director to instruct us to hop in the van and head out. As we descended from the center of Mexico, the sun faded away into the distance, and the Ranchero music became a little louder, and I reflected upon what that was all really about...

On Sunday morning I woke up bewildered and confused as a result of the time change. Nevertheless, I was ready to hike La Bufa, until I started gasping for air and figured out that the remnants of my cold had moved deep into my lungs. I headed downtown intent on snagging some coffee and seeing some museums, with hopes that my lungs would get better in time for an afternoon hike. Instead, I ran into some students from Academia Falcon and was "talked into" helping my new friend Stephanie (another Seattle-ite around my mom's age) find a silver goods store. Then, like it was a bad habit, I felt the need to barter for something, ultimately resulting in the purchase of something for my girlfriend. I suppose it's my competitive side... not that it has ever been that strong or anything...

Anyway, after helping her find the silver store, it was easy to convince Stephanie to head to the Museo de Alhondiga with me. The Alhondiga de Granaditas is the site of a major battle for Mexican Independence, and should definitely be read about here. It's an incredibly fascinating story and was quite an amazing museum, full of artifacts from Guanajuato that detailed the history of the Independence movement in the state as well as a lot of modern art. It truly was a wonderful blend of history and today that you just don´t find in a lot of museums. Anyway, after scoping the museum, I decided--with the help of the gift shop--that 1)I am incredibly fascinated by artwork/paper mache of skulls and skeletons, and 2)I am going to buy a book in Spanish and read it even if it kills me. Oh, and if you get the chance, Google an artist by the name of Fernando Guevera... I think that´s how it's spelled...

Stephanie and I went to grab a beer and eat some sopa azteca--tortilla soup on steroids for those of you in the states... We chatted about Seattle and talked about our respective family lives. It was pretty sweet, but it made me wonder why I always get along so well with "adults." I think its becuase many of my favorite adults all have characteristics that I aspire to have... Oh, and have you ever noticed that the best conversations always happen over liquids (soup included)? I then departed and flew solo to the Museo de Casa Diego Rivera, saw that my mom wasn´t the only mom who kept all of her aspiring artist's childhood drawings, then subsequently rushed back for dinner. Sad to say, the family was at their farm, and I had to walk back down the steps (It's about ten thousand times worse than a walk of shame for those of you Greeks who may be reading this... haha jk... no really though...).

Then, on the next day, Monday, I would hike La Bufa...

You know how there are times in life when you reach some kind of unseen and unheard pinnacle--sometimes literally, figuratively, or both?

After hiking up La Bufa for an hour, I made it to the top, where I sat all alone for the next thirty minutes. My ponderings of faith evoked by Cubilete, my realizations of what I´ve got pulled forth by a conversation I had in the morning with Patricia (the mom of the family), and sitting on top of a mountain alone with a large white cross and the city of Guanajuato silenced by another 1,000 feet beneat me led to a pretty emotional time. I thought a lot about my dad, my family, how I got here (all 22 years), and all the people in this world who will never have an opportunity like I have right now. Picture a video mantage of your life going by as you listen to music from a John Cusack movie. Think about it. I seriously just sat there in the sun, alone, wondering why in the hell it was I who happened to be so fortunate. And what kind of responsibilities that gave me, or didn´t give me for that matter... I wondered what was in store for the future--immediate and far...

I´m taking spanish lessons at Academia Falcon and will be heading to Patzcuaro for Dia de los Muertos. Much love and Happy Halloween... Be safe too Grandma Cooper. I can imagine how rowdy all of the folks at your place can get... haha.

A Callejoneada

2007-10-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

I know what you think it is, and you're right. It is, in fact, an intricately detailed, handcrafted, well sculpted, Gafete. It is used, for exactly what you think it is supposed to be used for--drinking. Drinking orange juice, more specifically. I obtained this sweet memento when I went out Friday night on the Callejoneada--a musical interpretation of one of Guanajuatos most romantic and tragic stories--which ends in the Alley of the Kiss (Callejon del Beso). You can read more here.

As the weekend came and went I found myself with a lot more alone time, despite going out on the town perhaps more than I ever have. Many of the people that I have met while here have left, or were getting ready to leave by the end of the weekend, which has allowed me to revert to my upon-arrival state of solitude. However, I did do exactly what I wanted to do this weekend. On Friday I went out and (kind of) partied. On Saturday I rid myself of my cold and voyaged to the centermost and highest point in Mexico at El Cubilete, where I was able to see my first of two really large statues of Jesus. Sunday saw me going to the Museo del Alhondiga, as well as Museo de la casa Diego Rivera. When Monday came, I went to class at Academia Falcon, then scaled La Bufa.

After I arose and struggled to find a better state of consciousness on Friday, I went to Academia Falcon to meet up with some people, only to run into this girl Elizabeth who convinced me that I should go to the callejoneada with everybody, if for nothing other than the fact that I could pick her brain about Ecuador--my next destination and a place where she had just arrived from herself--and the benefits of buying over the counter amoxicilina in Mexico for really really cheap. Anyway, I left the school and headed back up the walk of death to the humble Saucedo abode to read, do laundry, and more importantly eat.

An Aside: I'm constantly impressed by everything that is put on the table here, regardless of how simple it is to make or how much time it spent on the stove (As I have found, it is ONLY on the stove. Ovens are conveniently used as storage units and NEVER for baking). The ingredients are always incredibly fresh and bread, dulce, etc. freshly made or purchased fresh from somebody who can do it even better. It's amazing. Nobody in the family that I'm living with has any problems with weight either, as they stock up on all the goods early in the day and finish up with a nice little snack of pan dulce (sweet bread) and chocolate milk ALWAYS before 9pm. As my grandfather, and subsequently brother, have said (and I paraphrase), ''you shouldn't eat after dark.''

After the big meal and a sweet siesta, I got dressed in my finest black t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, then headed down to the Jardin de Union where I met up with people for some Coronas and Enchiladas. In accordance with our earlier plan, we bought some tickets for the Callejoneada, snagged our Garafetes and embarked upon the sing-a-long adventure that is a one and a half hour walk through Guanajuato in the (not really) freezing cold until you get to the Callejon del Beso, all the while being led by the Estudiantinas, who are dressed in colonial regalia. I made friends, I sang along, I danced, I swayed, and I drank plenty of orange juice (it really was O.J. too). Luckily, the O.J. was free, as the extra vitamin C probably helped my damn cold. Unfortunately, I am not so sure that I understood any of it... But hey, it was an experience, right?

Anyway, I'm not really feeling inspired to type, since the sun is shining pretty bright right now. Alas, I'll post more later.

My Blog was deleted... (Oops!!)...

2007-10-27T13:26:00.001-07:00

But now, thanks to the help of my god-like friend Brian (cherish this Brian, it may be the only time I reference you like that... haha) I have been able to get my posts back up. Unfortunately, without pictures. It´s ok though, because you can look at pictures on my Flickr Account. Oh, and I have posted some new pictures from wandering around Guanajuato at dusk and whatnot...I've pretty much been focusing on trying to feel better for the last couple of days, though I did get a haircut AND went to the "Museo de las Momias," a museum in GTO dedicated to showcasing the cities very own mummies that have resulted from the mineral rich earth that the bodies have been buried in and exumed from. Sounds exciting, doesn't it? Actually, it was really creepy... Anyway, I'm alive, and will be hitting the town tonight, going to see El Cubilete tomorrow, and hopefully trekking La Bufa on Sunday. Will probably have something to say after the weekend.

El Mundo es Pequeño

2007-10-23T11:17:00.000-07:00

The Festival Internacional Cervantino ended on Sunday and the small world that is Guanajuato has slowed to a more tranquil state: the noise softer and the people less. My cold has worsened for the most part, though I feel like I´ll probably be turning the corner soon. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), it´s forced me to stay at the Saucedo home and rest. However, despite my ailments, I have made it out of bed and onto the callejons (small walking allies) a couple of times. Despite not having many, the experiences that I have had in the past couple of days, combined with the extra time to think, have combined to produce some pretty deep (at least by my standards) thoughts that will most likely resonate with me for the length of this trip and maybe for much longer.

Sunday was a day of rest, despite the closing ceremonies of the Festival. I think I slept til noon until I jetted over to my new favorite place--Cafe Tal, the Zoka of Guanajuato--for some coffee and to meet up with some people to go to some bar outside of the city that´s owned by expats. Unfortunately, due to a lack of consistent internet, a phone, Styrofoam cups and some taught string, we were unable to communicate effectively enough to make it happen. Of course, there is the possibility that I was the odd-person out, but hey I needed to rest anyway.

Did I rest though? No. Instead, I booked it up the hills of Guanajuato to my new buddy Judy´s place to see the renovations she is making to her newly acquired home in GTO. Judy´s been coming down to Guanajuato for the last 14 or so years to take part in the Cervantino Festival, and finally decided to get a house down here. She showed me around, had me help break down some boxes, and even let me use my creativity by creating different patterns with these intricately detailed and painted tiles for a table that will go on her roof. While Judy and I worked on the patterns for the better part of an hour, I started to feel pretty sentimental. Doing all of this reminded me of a lot of things from my childhood. Particularly, my dad and grandfather--both of whom have passed away relatively recently. My grandpa, if I´m not mistaken, was a carpenter by trade for a majority of his life, and my dad... Well my dad really liked to start projects around the house. Sometimes, he would finish them. Other times, not so much. I wondered what things could have been like if either of them had ever come to a place like Guanajuato. Especially with my dad, I wonder what would have happened if he would have known he could have lived in a place like this, arranging patterns of tile, instead of dispatching trucks at Kroy in York, Nebraska. Probably not too much, but maybe a whole lot more...

Anyway, as the sun started to go down, Judy and I found ourselves staring out off of her rooftop patio into a peaceful and seemingly smaller Guanajuato. We sat down and I listened to Judy conjure up memories of her own days at the University of Washington, good and bad. We exchanged thoughts on one of my favorite places (the UW) and eventually said our goodbyes as Judy was leaving for her true home--Portland--on Tuesday. As I exited her bright green abode, I thought it funny that sometimes it takes a trip around the world to make a friend from next door.

After that, I went and slept... a lot. The next day, I went to Academia Falcon and met almost everyone that worked there. When the women found out that I was Adrian´s brother, it was as if somebody shook a bird cage (I mean that in the most endearing of ways). I´ve always been proud of my brother because of his accomplishments: hard-nosed high school quarterback, college radio station DJ, Fulbright Grant Recipient. Yet it´s always the things like being a good, kind, and loving person that make me the proudest of him. Cheesy, I know. But I felt good. Good enough, in fact, to go back home and take another nap. It was then, on the rainy walk home that I got homesick for the first time... I wonder if it´s because I can´t stand being away from home, or the shear length of time that it will be until I am back, or both... Oh well, in the end, I probably won´t have been away long enough.

That´s all I´ve got for now though... I apologize if this entry doesn´t seem to be as spirited as the rest, as my cold seems to have gotten the best of me today, forcing me to rest up. Oh, and on top of that, it´s about 55 degrees here in Guanajuato. No pictures either...

The Place of Frogs

2007-10-21T11:41:00.000-07:00

The city of Guanajuato was initially settled in the mid-1500s as a result of silver and gold mining by Spanish colonialists. The city itself is situated within an improbable setting--a ravine surrounded by hills on all sides. These hills, I have found in the last couple of days, are very VERY steep. It has already made me wonder numerous times, why-despite silver and gold-would anybody build and continue to build a city here? Regardless, they have--and quite an extraordinary city it is too.

El Centro Historico

I´ve come to Guanajuato to live for a month. Here, I´ll brush up on and practice my spanish in a collegiate atmosphere, where the world never seems to stop turning. Perhaps more importantly, I hope to be able to understand why this city is so important to a person that means the most to me--my brother. My brother has been my rolemodel ever since I have had enough cognizance to look up to someone. He has always been there for me when I have needed him, and will most likely be until we are too old to be there for anyone. In growing up with him, I have grown adept (albeit with the help of my mom) at knowing when anything means something to my brother. Through his own travels, Guanajuato--and his friends here--have grown to mean something very special to him. So, I´m here in an attempt to better understand him--perhaps in order to better understand myself (Plus, really, it´s a lot easier to learn Spanish in Mexico).

I arrived in Guanajuato on Thursday--my brother´s birthday, oddly enough--after a quick bus ride from Queretaro, where I was able to save a nice German couple from getting off the bus at the half-way point. Once I got to the bus terminal, I headed to the home of the family that I will be staying with for the next three weeks. They´ve been great so far too. The mother and father have three childre, two teenage boys and one girl. Their humble abode is located at the top of the ravine that is Guanajuato, along Paseo de la Panoramica. The only downside is exactly that though... Each day, I have to walk up the most godforesaken hills in order to get back. It wouldn´t be too much of a problem if it weren´t for the fact that you simply can´t get to sleep after your blood starts pumping like that.

The view from La Casa Saucedo

Anyway, shortly after I got to Guanajuato, I started walking around and headed to Academia Falcon, the school that my brother´s friend Jorge runs. It seems like a great place, and everybody that works there is friendly (It´s also a good place to run into other english speakers, just in case I need a break from Spanish for a bit). Jorge is a great guy too, very amiable. He invited me to lunch the next day, and I accepted fairly quickly. Shortly thereafter, I headed back uphill, passed out, and ended my Thursday.

I´m not sure where I got it, but when I woke up on Friday, I had the worst cold and I´ve been pretty miserable ever since. It´s hard enough for people to understand me with my poor accent, but I can only imagine how difficult it is to understand an american speaking spanish while doped up on cold medicine. It´s pretty hard to hear, too.

I spent most of the day Friday getting oriented with the city, talking with the Saucedo family, and trying to find a barber. It doesn´t seem that hot here, but having thick--and longer--hair still sucks. I didn´t find a barber, still couldn´t understand the steep winding street system (complete with underground tunnels), and spoke all the basic spanish I think I know how. Though, I will say that my listening skills have already improved ten-fold (I bet my family and Jess are pretty happy about that...). I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that I don´t have a cell phone anymore... haha. But I digress... I made it to lunch with Jorge on time, and dined with him, as well as a few of his colleagues. We (they) talked about business, Mexico, coffee, etc. and I was able to meet a wonderful woman Judy who sold me a ticket to one of the main events at the Festival Internacional Cervantino. This was an incredible stroke of luck, as tickets to all events were sold out by the time I got here, and it´s undoubtedly quite a feat to find a scalper when you don´t speak spanish. Plus, the size of Guanajuato swells during the Festival. For more information, click here. After dinner, I headed to Bar Ocho to grab a beer and was introduced to the michelada: a concoction of salsa, lime juice, worchestershire sauce, salt and beer. It doesn´t sound good, but damn. I´m serious. I then walked home, in the cold wind, without a jacket thanks to either a) my absent-mindedness or b) somebody´s theivery. I guess just make up the best story possible.

The Centro, in front of Teatro Juarez

I woke up the next day, cold was worse, and I hadn´t had any good coffee for days. So, I set out for Cafe Tal, a place that numerous people have told me is the absolute best coffee in GTO. And it was... Perhaps the coolest part of my coffee house trip was that I bumped into this guy Hunter who went to TCU and knew my friend Bethany from High School. Small world, huh? Afterward, I went to El Mercado Hidalgo, Guanajuato´s biggest market and looked around. Unfortunately, it was too crowded to even move, though a good experience none-the-less.

I went with Judy to the Modern Dance performance of the Chinese dance troop last night at the Teatro Juarez--which reminds me a ton of 5th Ave Theatre in Seattle. It´s very intricately painted and has three or four different levels dedicated to distinct architectural periods. It made me kind of homesick for Seattle. The performance itself, well, was interesting. Definitely more than I had bargained for, and it kind of reminded me of why I don´t ever go to ballet, or dance performances. I´m glad that I got to experience the theatre, regardless.

El Teatro Juarez at dusk

Um... I´m tired of typing, so I think I´m going to go grab some lunch. A few new pictures are up on my Flickr account (which can be accessed by clicking any of the pictures on the right hand side of the screen my beloved, computer inept, family!).

Photos from Queretaro

2007-10-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Just the beginning...

2007-10-18T07:34:00.000-07:00

This morning marks my third away from home, if you count the plane ride at the crack of dawn on Tuesday. Though, I´m not even sure if counts as dawn... Mexico, so far, has lived up to the few expectations that I had prior to my arrival. During my first couple of days, I have seen the hustle and bustle of Mexico City (albeit from the inside of an air-conditioned bus), wandered the streets after dark, enjoyed some of Mexico´s finest coffee (so says the ex-pat), and explored the leading city of Mexican Independence. Today, I head to the town of Guanajuato, where I will stay with a family, meet up with my brother´s friend Jorge, and immerse myself into el Festival Internacional Cervantino.

My flight to Mexico City went pretty smoothly considering all things. I had a brief layover in Salt Lake where I had to run from one gate to the other. This may not seem like too big of a deal, except missing one flight could have had some drastic implications on my other flights... but that´s another story. Upon arrival, I snagged some pesos and deftly navigated the halls of Benito Juarez until I found the bus station, where I began my journey to Queretaro--Mexico´s self-proclaimed cleanest city.

An aside: I was incredibly impressed by the bus service of Primera Plus. I strongly recommend them to anybody traveling in Mexico, e.g. fellow Bondermans, my mom, etc.

Once in Queretaro, I hopped off of the bus and went to buy a taxi ticket. It´s a pretty efficient system and it certainly seems to cut down on fake taxis (and subsequently crime) in the City of Queretaro, which I guess isn´t the case in Mexico City. After 10 minutes of wandering around, I found where I needed to go to actually get into a taxi and explained to the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded to reassure me that he knew exactly where I wanted to go, but I had my suspicions. We made small-talk in Spanish (sort of...) and I´m pretty sure that he said he just spent the last six months in the same town that my girlfriend grew up in. Small world, huh? Anyway, we continued to drive and drive as the sun went down. Eventually, he dropped me off somewhere in the city center, because he couldn´t find where I wanted to go... Luckily, I inherited some pretty sweet skills which have enabled me to read a map and know which direction is north. I hiked about 10-12 blocks until I finally found the place I thought I would stay...

However, when I got there, I looked at the room, and it turned out that I couldn´t even stand straight up without hitting the ceiling AND I couldn´t stretch out on the bed. I probably would have been able to deal had it not been for the 12 straight hours of sitting... Plus, the place wreaked of smoke and I don´t think that my spoiled Seattle lunges could have taken it this early in the trip. So in my broken spanish, I tried to explain to the dude that I wasn´t going to stay there. He was kind of pissed, and I´m pretty sure that he didn´t want to understand me. I left, the sun was down, and I was dead tired. I was dead set on finding a bed irrespective of all things, so I went down the street to find that the rooms cost 500 pesos (approx. 50 bucks). Cognizent of my `budget,´ I kept going. Finally after the 4th try, I found a place with low rates due to remodeling. It was a pretty sweet deal until I was woken up at 7am yesterday morning to a bunch of little hijos screaming at some guy talking to them through a megafone...

Anyway, I´ll try to load some pictures from Queretaro, then it´s off to Guanajuato. Oh, and I apologize for the misspellings--the keyboard is pretty old and sticks...