Ode to the Backpack

The Lost Photos: Part 1

2010-04-16T23:15:00.010-06:00

I find myself here.

2010-04-12T00:21:00.002-06:00

I find myself here, in Denver.

As I lay here typing away past the bewitching hour in the guest bedroom - it would be hard to tell I had ever left. If not for the issue of "El Grafica" at the corner of the bed, my River Plate and Atletico Nacional tops on the floor, my Spanish/English dictionary and the chessboard from Ecuador on the nightstand, and of course the millions of words and images in my mind.

We arrived safely back in Denver nearly a week ago. The first two days I was preoccupied with feeling out of sorts. Since then Kaitlin's home has stripped me of the pensive brooding which spawned so many entries and replaced it with fine food and drink, a comfy stable living quarter, and thoughts of moving on to California..

I almost feel ashamed to come back here and write about our last few days in Colombia when I am so quickly preoccupied by new events and decisions. I am seeing, yet again, just how easy it is to forget about the greater world out there. A crime. To think that I have been back here five days and how little I have "done" compared to that stretch of time during the trip - it is bizarre.

But there are new standards now and I can't forget that I have earned a little leniency. Our trip was incredible, profound, heroic, epic, as well as, mundane, frivolous, naive, and easy. But most importantly, it was living, and we did it well. And that is enough for me to feel comfortable "wrapping it up" because what more can I say beyond the body of work before this point..

Any postulation here after returning would be unfair. I am tainted again.

I will return here to post pictures as they come in. That aside, I am done with this blog. I hope it has provided some better-than-average or at least unorthodox insights into all that encompasses a five month journey through six nations. I have no lofty ending to suit my garish beginning. Just the body of work that I hope can stand on its own.

In the Coffee Triangle

2010-04-03T13:16:00.002-06:00

It's now April 3rd.

We arrived in Salento via a night bus from Medellin to Armenia and then a local commuter from Armenia into the misty hills of Salento.

It's hard to say what this place is like on an ordinary day. Our hostel owner says it is very tranquil, which it is possible to imagine in the early morning hours. However, the steady stream of families from the city on holiday for Semana Santa have clogged the modest, though freshly painted streets of Salento.

Despite the massive influx of tourists, it is a place where you feel you can sense its character. Kaitlin says it's something about mountain towns. Though I don't have enough experience to confirm or deny - I do know what the sound of old wooden floors makes me feel..and it is a possible connection between this place, Kaitlin's mountain towns, and the more than century old establishments that still survive in Camden, South Carolina. We have relished such spaces in the little time we have had. Allowing the musty smell to ferment conversations in our hostel with travellers from Cali and Manizales.

Those conversations morphing what we thought would be a lazy, uneventful end of the trip - into an exciting and emotional evening - and now an impromptu change of plans.

Our new friends from Manizales (a university town in the mountains closer to Medellin) Santiago and Irene have offered to be our transportation, from Salento to Manizales, from Manizales to Bogota, and from our hostel in Bogota to the airport.

I have been equally on the fence about changing our last few days in South America from a lazy three days to a whirlwind weekend. But after my overreaction in Viedma, I'm willing to calm my doubts for the potential of one last great experience.

So, in less than two hours we leave for Manizales. Tomorrow we'll spend the day (presumably) with Santiago and Irene - seeing what there is to see on Easter in Manizales. Monday Bogota. Tuesday early to the airport to begin the journey home.

With so much movement, I can't say when I will be able to post again. Hopefully before we leave the continent, but we shall see. To the whirlwind!

Atletico Nacional vs Atletico Huila

2010-04-03T11:48:00.003-06:00

As my last experience with soccer on this continent (not to mention the stories floating in my head from Marko's experiences in Medellin), it is safe to say there was quite a bit of anticipation surrounding this match.

That being so, I went above and beyond to prepare for this excursion. Triangulating time and place between the varying accounts listed on the club's website, the league website, and soccernet.com

Beyond that, I confirmed with locals that all of the soccer matches in Medellin took place at the Estadio Atanasio Girardot - a 50,000+ facility shared by Atletico Nacional and Independiente Medellin - conveniently located on the "Estadio" Metro stop, adjacent to the facilities for the Juegos Suramericanos.

Having already been to the area for the Juegos during daylight, I was unconcerned about the game being at night. I knew the area was well lit, well policed, and being familiar with the layout - I could walk the grounds with confidence.

The evening of the game arrived and though I had invited a group of Sconnies (U of Wisconsin grads) - they decided to accept my invitation but to go to the game separately?? Alas, I had so many factors in my favor, I told Kaitlin not to worry - that I would be fine by myself - it wouldn't be necessary for me to drag her along. After a surprisingly delightful Mexican dinner, I was on my way down Calle 10 for the Poblado Metro station.

I made my way to the Estadio stop, no problem, as we had made the trip multiple times in the previous five days. Arriving at the stop I could see stadium lights in the distance, with about twenty-thirty minutes to kickoff - I was sitting pretty. Yet, as I confidently strode closer and closer to the grounds I grew concerned by the lack of activity in the area. As I passed the last Olympic facility obstructing my view, my pregame adrenaline collapsed into despair as I could see clearly that the stadium lights were as dead as the area around the grounds.

. . .

After standing there dumbfounded for a minute or two, I found a concession stand (I'm not sure why it was open) tended by some friendly Caribbean guys. Over the next five-ten minutes (using every morsel of my intermediate Spanish skills) I was able to ascertain that there was indeed a game tonight - it was indeed in Medellin - it was indeed at 8:30 - but in some other part of the Metro line - a place called "Envigado."

So, I thanked the men and ran for the Metro station. Leaping three steps at a time I purchased my ticket and made my way to the platform. No train, so I looked at the station map. Sure enough, "Envigado" only three stops IN THE OTHER DIRECTION from my home base of Poblado.

As I made my way from the middle of the Orange line back to the transfer at San Antonio - I weighed my options.

I would surely be late - possibly missing the entire first half.
I would be in an unfamiliar area, at night, alone, in Medellin.

But..

This was my last chance for professional futbol on this continent of passion.
I'd spent four weeks with Marko talking about his days in Medellin and the genius that is Giovanni Moreno (Atletico Nacional's highest rated player).
I was battle tested by my solo efforts in Buenos Aires - I knew what to expect, I wasn't brash, I would play it safe.

By the time I resolved to go, my connection was pulling up and I hopped on, pacing as the southern stations trickled by..

With the station name and the direction that the stadium would be "on my left" - I was anxious about what exactly would happen once I reached the stop. Perhaps out of desperation I convinced myself that two drunk girls (one wearing a Nacional top), a young boy (wearing an Andres Escobar Nacional jacket), and an older man (in his mid-50s) were a family on there way to the game, since they were conversing as if they were familiar.

So with two stops to go before the stadium I asked the man in Spanish if they were going to the game. Of course they were! And I'm coming too! I was excited by such a positive reaction and the prospect of a local guide to walk me through the process.

We chatted as much as possible (which wasn't much) until I went to get off at the Envigado stop. "No, no! Una mas!" Okay, so maybe there was a better way to get to the stadium..and though I could see the glow of the stadium lights in the sky - I stayed with this group one more stop, to the end of the line Itagüí.

At Itagüí we rushed down the platform to street-level. We were surrounded by bars filled with people in green and white watching the game. There were buses, perhaps shuttles to the stadium, but we passed them on foot without a second glance (all but me).

For the next block the girls asked me if I wanted a beer, but I declined with a laugh and tried to keep up with the little boy and older man as we ran across two freeways..

On the other side of the freeways we were in desolate stretch of abandoned urban sprawl. At this point, the boy who I had assumed was part of our group all along, bolted ahead of us out of sight - no one else seemed to notice.

So now the four of us walked quickly through the nothing, seemingly forever if not for the stadium lights gradually growing in intensity.

About four blocks from the stadium grounds, we started to pass some less than savory characters headed in the opposite direction. I tried to stay as close to our group as possible, laughing at their nonexistent jokes, trying (perhaps too hard) to look natural. The occasional police presence and the beginnings of a stadium grounds in the distance were the only factors keeping me steady.

Eventually we reached what looked to be a gate to the grounds. There were just as many police on horseback with automatic weapons as derelict loiterers scattered between myself and the ticket booth. My group continued past the booth to have a conversation with a man, they told me there were no tickets left, that we had to get them from this guy on the street.

Warning.

I didn't even respond. I just turned around and went for the ticket booth. While the man behind the glass arranged his papers, my group continued to talk with the man. By the time I was speaking to the ticket vendor the older man was at my side taking over. Did I want "Norte, Sur, o Occidente" - it didn't matter to me - I knew nothing about the grounds. So I got a ticket for the North stands for 12,000 (six dollars). I was feeling better about the fact that I had purchased a ticket (and that it was quite cheap), but was still outside the grounds with no clue how to enter. I walked along the fence with my older friend in tow as they told us that we would have to walk around, though there was an entrance right infront of us.

So after the man told the girls to "Wait here" we began our walk around the grounds. At this point, I will admit that the events had been a gradual progression of feeling more and more like something bad was mere seconds away. I was sure that as I turned the corner with the older man that the ticket scalper would run up behind me and take what little cash I had on me at the very least.

But as we turned the corner and just after the man had finished joking about how the girls didn't have any money to get into the game, it was not a muggers feet that I heard behind me, but the girls, running to catch up with tickets in hand. I was completely confused about the relationship of everyone involved, but I could sense we were quite close to our entrance so I was trying to stay positive.

Of course, the last corner we turned brought us to the mouth of the entrance to the stadium. A block and a half of young men, drinking, smoking, and cooking, each equally (if not more so) unfriendly as the worst of my encounters in Buenos Aires - only compounded by the fact that it was night and I was the only gringo in sight.

But I relied on the now tried and true tactic of laughing at the nonexistent comments of my "companions" and keeping my eyes riveted to their faces or the security gate in front of me.

Finally through the first wave of security and inside the grounds - my anxiety switched from potential violence to the fact that I was incredibly late and that we would have to back-track the way we had come (only this time inside the wall) to make our way to the North stand.

Practically running through security and up the steps we finally arrived at the mouth of the entrance to the North stand..and all I could see was a wall of young men in green and white.

In retrospect, it was better to be in the North stand. Though I was the only gringo surrounded by a standing room only (including the walls around the steps) crowd of young, high and drunk, locals - at least these were not the completely mental fanactics of the South stand who were jumping incessantly and screaming lyrics to the beat of their drums and the melody of their horns.

I did my best to let my worries be eased by the flow of the game. For the next ten minutes I peered through the spaces between shoulders and necks and heads - perhaps overreacting when there were even a remote chance at goal.

With what I would find out was five minutes to go before half-time my older friend appeared four rows below - calling for me to come join him. I did so.

As I sat there and he questioned me about my visit to Medellin, which hostel I was staying at, in which part of town, I resolved that lying to this man was the lesser of two evils. At least with a seat I could blend in and attempt to enjoy the game - all I had to do was give this man false information.

The fifteen minutes before half time passed without major incident (aside from some mediocre chances from the away team*). At halftime I learned that the score was 1-1. I had missed two goals, the first scored by none other than Giovanni Moreno.

*The away team happened to be mostly "black." When they would take corners or miss a shot on goal - the Nacional fans would yell the usual insults: puto and maracon - vulgar as they were they were nothing I hadn't heard grown men yell infront of their sons in Buenos Aires - but I hadn't heard "Negra!" and "Negrita!" before. I tried not to assume anything, tried to sum it up to cultural differences..something lost in translation..

Though I would witness the winning goal for Nacional in the 85th minute (which would result in my first rush down the stands) and a few moments of brillance from Moreno - the evening took a different tone after my experience during halftime.

Towards the end of the half it began to drizzle a bit. Those better prepared dawned their ponchos. My older friend purchased one and was kind enough to share. It was a double blessing because while he wore his over his head, I was able to hide under the excess not only from the rain, but from his questions.

While pondering my exit strategy under the tarp, my thoughts were broken by commotion in the stands. A vendor was selling bags of water shouting, "Agua! Agua!" only to be mocked by groups throughout the crowd. I thought it at most immature and let it go. Then about five minutes later, there was more commotion, but this time people were standing up looking behind me away from the field. So I stood and turned.

Some men in the crowd had taken the vendor's (a black man) box of bagged water. They were ripping open the bags, squirting him with water, yelling "PUTO! NEGRA!" with more rage than they had directed at the players. As the vendor struggled to escape the crowd someone stole his hat and lifted it in the air to which everyone cheered and laughed. I attempted to mask my horror as I panned the faces around me for disapproval. At most there was disinterest. At worst they were joining in.

The rest of the match was a blur, despite the dramatic finish, I was in another world. The fans had overshadowed the match and I was stuck in my head contemplating how to rectify what I had seen and my instinct to remain culturally relative.

When the game winner was scored it was announced that there were five minutes left in the match. I knew I couldn't be caught in this crowd and that I couldn't accept any offers from the "friends" that had gotten me to the stadium.

So without waiting for a reply, I told them that I was going to the bathroom (a blatant lie with five minutes left to go in a close match) and bolted for the exit. Literally running out of the stadium I could see that the first entrance that was originally closed was now open and there were taxis!

Without a glance at the unsavories patrolling the area I walked down the street waving at every taxi. Eventually one stopped. I was inside a cab, giving my pathetic directions, happy to have this potentially disasterous dilemma in place of the previous. Happy to be dumb, but in friendly company I chatted with the man about the directions I had given him and despite some uncertainty and a lot of hand gestures - we made it back to Calle 10. I could breathe again..

I still haven't talked to Marko about the things I witnessed. Him having lived in Medellin for some time and having travelled for Nacional matches - I suspect he won't be totally surprised. I suspect I shouldn't be totally surprised myself. Medellin and the region as a whole (Antioquia) is commonly known as one of the "whitest" regions in Colombia (while most of the "blacks" are along the coast). Still, I'm struggling to come to any conclusions - maybe with something like racism it is impossible to rationalize - it can only be erased.

Medellin: Part 2

2010-04-01T16:50:00.003-06:00

Somehow six days have slipped by in Medellin. Kaitlin and I now find ourselves seven hours away in the coffee hills of Salento.

The ups and downs in Medellin continued throughout, but the overall impression was good. We managed some splendid weather, as well as finding the good places to eat. It couldn't be helped to feel that if Marko had been there with us from day one - things could have been totally different.

Still we soldiered on and explored. One particular high point (literally) was our trip to the end of the Metro which meant walking up a flight of stairs to the entrance for the "Metro Cable" - a series of elevated gondola lifts that took us over the destitute hills of the Medellin's suburbs to the Olympic Village built for the Juegoes Suramericanos 2010. The ride is an absolute must (and included in your Metro fare) as it offers a thorough view of the valley in which the city is situated.

Aside from a visit to the aquarium, the rest of our time in Medellin was spent with some quality Colombian cuisine, as well as pastries with coffee, and surprise surprise - a spectacular Mexican restaurant.

All told, we left Medellin with the sense that it is a quality International city. With just as much to offer locals and tourists - the key is patience and a little local insight.

There is one experience left to be told, Atletico Nacional vs Atletico Huila, that it requires its own space.

Medellin: Part 1

2010-03-29T07:22:00.002-06:00

Well, we are safely two days into Medellin.

Funny how there can be so much build-up, anticipation, anxiety about things like being caught in the middle of a terrorist attack, shark attack, alien invasion attack. And of course, nothing happens. Kaitlin has been calling me a "fatalist" quite frequently the last few days. I'm not sure if there has been a drastic increase in my "worrying" or if we are both just a bit more sensitive to these issues as we are so near to our "safe" return in the "safe" US of A.

The truth is though, I feel quite comfortable in Medellin. Most places in SA, even Chile (which is touted as one of the most "Western" countries in SA) I felt we were followed by more lingering stares than here.

Medellin is a busy city. There is so much going on in this city that has no bonafide "center" aside from the modern, clean, quiet, metro that runs North-South through the bottom of the valley. People just seem too preoccupied here to mess around with two frumpy gringo backpackers. Not to say that the people here are not friendly - quite the opposite. Every location, whether it be a bar, restaurant, sports facility, hostel, etc... people have done their best to be accomodating and thorough. ¡Que bueno!

Our two days, have been two full days. The "Tiger Paw Hostel" was fully booked, but they recommended us to Hostal Tamarindo - which I think is ultimately more our speed and the right place for us to be at this point in the trip. Clean, quiet, organized, and thorough with all the relevant information for getting where you want to go in the city.

From this base in Poblado we have gladly made the fifteen minute walk to the metro (though yesterday we discovered the bus that eliminates the walk) to seek out just a little of what Medellin has to offer:

A staggeringly thorough and active farmer's market (where we had a deliciously unhealthy concoction consisting of various fruits, yogurt, cheese, ice cream, and another mystery sauce.

Unidad Deportiva de Belen where I was able to join in on an eight-a-side soccer match in a quality synthetic turf complex with some nice and very talented Colombians who play a refreshingly thorough version of the game - PASSING AND DRIBBLING!

The Juegos Suramericano - the South American Olympics. The metro takes you literally to the door-step of the facilities that host the major indoor events. After waiting in line for a little under two hours we were able to view men's basketball Venezuela vs Brazil and Colombia vs Argentina.
Although the quality of play was a little below high school basketball in the States - the energy of the capacity crowd (particularly during Colombia vs Argentina) was quite electric and made what should have been a slaughter an entertaining match. Never-the-less, the superior size, speed, and depth of the Argentina squad allowed them to pull away at the end, but that didn't stop the home crowds chants of "Si, se puede!" and "Co-lom-bia! Co-lom-bia!" Great to see such and atmosphere for a sport other than soccer and it was free for all!

Palm Sunday processions with palm fronds, olive branches, replicas surrounded by young and old that can only make me think of my mother and how she would love South America.

And each night finishing with a ride through the valley surrounded by the twinkling yellow lights that make Medellin a beautiful glimmering bowl. ¡Que lindo!

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Today we should be off for another full day of activities..

Starting with my last camiseta search on the continent. Then we're off to the farmer's market to haul home sundry ingredients for a king's dinner, then hopefully we can catch women's rhythmic gymnastics, and finishing the day with a pint or two at the Tiger Paw microbrew!

Tuesday should be another packed day as we have heard that there is an exceptional aquarium here with a botanical garden next door.
Wednesday is my Atletico Nacional match..and I'm sure by that time Thursday will be packed full of activity as well.

It's busy, but good, we've found that the little down time we have had so far has allowed us to start thinking of home and how these five months are coming to an end. It's a mixed bag of emotions which has us a little nervy.
For so long we've been in this mindset that there is an unknown "next destination" and to now be looking forward to Denver-USA is good in that it is familiar and we are excited to be with Kaitlin's family again, but also a disruption in that it is familiar and we know what to expect - which breaks from our five month routine.

Alas, we are making the most of Medellin while we can. I am making up for my long drought in drip-coffee and last night I had a wonderful "mulata" beer from a local brewery. It's almost enough to make a smooth transition, but with Semana Santa and the Juegos Suramericanos and varios barrios there is still much of unique Medellin and Colombia to see..

Idols, Ides, or Idiosyncrasies

2010-03-25T15:08:00.006-06:00

It would be unfair to say that we have been "disappointed" with Cartagena. Far from it. However, I would feel more comfortable with a synonym for "disenchanted." Of course, this sense is a combination of factors - I don't mean to condemn Cartagena as a whole, but let me put down my jugo de zapote and back-up a little.

I should begin with our last day in Quito.

You would have to try very hard or have very little time to be unimpressed with Quito.

With less than twelve hours left in the city we managed to fill up yet another day and marvel at what a quality place Quito is (and Ecuador as a whole).

We started with an attempt to find various embassies scattered throughout the Mariscal (new town). This being largely a failure, we abandoned the search for a new search - coffee. Near Parque La Carolina we found a nice little international café with a good latte and a crazy-delicious donut-sandwich hybrid. From there we made our way through the park to the Jardín Botánico de Quito which boasted tons of orchids, carnivorous plants, and bonsai trees (not to mention tons of roses, cacti, and trees)! I don't ususally enjoy botanical gardens (WHERE ARE ALL THE ANIMALS!), but the collection was so diverse that each plant seemed to take on a character of its own allowing my imagination to thoroughly enjoy itself.

From the garden we headed up-town on one of Quito's clean and efficient buses (costing a quarter) to an outdoor market it in a plaza that I have forgotten - hurray! With most family members now covered in the souvenir department and Kaitlin making marginal progress in the haggling department - we could move on to other things.

Another bus ride took us into the old city center and after hoofing it a few blocks on foot through the Plaza Theatro we were on the steps of Quito's Mercado Central. Walking inside, I immediately had the sensation that I was in a 1920s-30s hospital. High-ceilings, lots of natural light, stalls randomly dispersed through the space, people shuffling in and out around corners and down the aisles, colors, and noises. As if it could be any better, we were joined by only one other pair of gringos which made us think that this meal had potential to be quite special/authentic.

And in good-ole Quito fashion, it did not disappoint. My dish consisted of rice, hard-boiled egg, a massive half of avocado, and stew topped rice with big chunks of potato and miscellaneous beef bits. DELICIOUS. Top it all off with a healthy pitcher of blackberry juice - all for under $6 - good times.

Content we were off to the nearby Monasterio de Santa Catalina de Siena. For three dollars our tour included a healthy showcase of tons of morbid-gory religious art and artifacts, topped off by a spiral staircase leading to a rather perilous view of the city from the monastery roof.

After the tour, we were closing in on four hours before it was time to leave for the airport, so we decided to head back to the hostel for some pre-flight rest and relaxation.

Around 8pm it was time to head to the airport. Twenty minutes later we're in the main lobby of Quito's Mariscal Sucre International Airport about to embark on an all-night-flight-othon that would take us from Quito to Cali, Colombia - Cali to Bogota - Bogota to Cartagena. No flight lasting more than an hour, but the entire ordeal lasting from 8pm in Quito to 10am in Cartagena. Built-up by myself as our most perilous journey of the trip - I was pleasantly surprised-amazed-in awe when we landed in Cartagena, safe with all of our luggage. Incredible.

Each airport was so small and easy and clean, it was hard to believe how smoothly everything was going. Compared to most airports in the US and especially to Buenos Aires - these guys really had their act together.

Cartagena

I will start off by saying, "We are not Anthony Bourdaine."

In Buenos Aires, the combination of cabin fever, Marko's enthusiasm for Colombia, and this episode of "No Reservations" put us on a crash course with reality.

The truth is, Cartagena is VERY touristy. This morning, I went to get a shot of espresso from one of the men in the Plaza del Reloj and had to wait to cross the street as a train of more than ten horse drawn carriages full of beige and white clad seniors turned left - for each tourist a camera waving in the air that could feed a family here for over a month. I don't mean to digress into the economics, politics, ethics of the situation - suffice it to say..I know enough after five months down here that "touristy" places aren't necessarily where you want to be.

Though we haven't encountered anything like the persistence we saw in Peru, street vendors are eager and it's impossible not to feel that local eyes are always watching. Tourists come and go - these people stay behind and have to make a living chasing down Nikon toting gringos.

It's also very hot here, which would be okay, if there were a proper beach nearby. The old city (where our hotel is located) is surrounded by walls (originally built by the Spanish to protect the vital port from pirate attacks). Once the aesthetic wears off - it can be a bit claustrophobic and oppressively hot and confusing just trying to get to and from the grocery store.

Lastly, possibly our last meal in the market in Quito has afflicted Kaitlin with a stomach illness that has rendered her more or less bedridden. Thus, it is likely our plans to snorkel are scuttled and with one day remaining in the city - I'm not sure there is much opportunity left for our impressions to change.

No doubt there is much to see, do, and eat here in Cartagena. But without a local guide or a private vehicle - even under the best conditions it would be difficult for us to have had the time of our lives.

Alas, all is not negative! How could it be when we are so fortunate to continue our travels to yet another beautiful country!

Easily the highpoint of our time in Cartagena has been our ability to reunite with Rob and Blanche - the Australian couple we met in Puerto Natales and hiked Torres del Paine with. It was again, the refreshing couples dynamic that has been so nice after months of one on one interaction. We sat for hours in different parts of the city, eating, drinking - discussing our travels, pending reintegration into our respective societies, and if that were even fully possible considering all that we had experienced and where our priorities now lie.

As with Antti and Laura in Finland, it has been a reaffirming and inspirational gift to know that there are other couples/people out there with similar priorities, "fighting the good fight" all over the world.

Of course, the other side of the coin is that with these near-chance encounters across the continent, there is the bitter-sweet farewell. With only an afternoon together, Rob and Blanche were now off to Santiago where they would stay for three days before flying back to Melbourne.

Just the two of us, again.

Today has been a rather lackluster day, which is quite alright by me. Kaitlin has been hydrating and resting. I have been reading articles, making brief excursions into the city for breakfast, coffee, or lunch, but mostly attempting to plan our exit from Cartagena.

With the anti-climax of the flights from Quito to Cartagena past, our bus journey from Cartagena to Medellin is our last great logistical hurtle. Consensus is that with rebel groups and paramilitaries beaten back into the jungle/hinterlands, the route is safe to travel. Still, there are no guarantees in Colombia and when it comes to my personal safety and especially the safety of others, that isn't good enough.

Suffice it to say, with Kaitlin unable to assist with speaking to locals, I am a little uneasy about our journey on Saturday. Everyone has said that there are no problems, that there will be plenty of buses, that it's okay to go through the night. Still, I'm waiting for advice from a (strangely enough) Clemson native who runs a hostel in Medellin before I sit back and relax.

Of course, like nearly every scenario where I have played the paranoid-cynic, I'm expecting, I'm hoping, to be proven wrong. But, sadly for Colombia, I think it will take the lift-off from Aeropuerto El Dorado in Bogota on April 6th for me to breathe that final sigh of relief and tell people, "Yeah, Colombia is not what it was. I traveled there for two weeks and had no problems at all."

In the meantime, I'll try to muffle my paranoia as much as possible. I'll slough off the breaking news bulletins that the US has been inundated with since my childhood. I'll minimize. I'll drink lots of fruit juice and coffee. I'll eat lots of beans and egg and avocado. I'll watch lots of soccer. And read. And talk to Kaitlin. And maybe that will be enough to wake-up on April 7th in Miami International Airport bound for Denver and a completely different journey.

Equinox on the Equator in Ecuador

2010-03-22T05:39:00.002-06:00

I think I've really been caught off-guard by how much I have enjoyed Quito (and Ecuador as a whole). It's been so easy to enjoy and though we're off to Colombia (arguably a very similar country) - I'm identifying with this place, seeing myself on the streets, waking up to these bizarre sunrises day after day.

After four months of traveling, Kaitlin and I were both feeling a bit worn down. Our motto for Quito was to stay in the historic part of the city with less bars, less hostels, less chaos. I think it has really paid off in that we are so close to all of the historical sites that are the backbone of Quito's substance.

There are views of Quito everywhere. A block or two up the hill from our hostel and we're on the balcony of a greek café eating banana nut pancakes with café while the murmur of a Friday in Quito trickles up our way.

The next day we're in the top of the steeples of the Basilica del Voto Nacional. My feet sweating profusely as Kaitlin is practically running up the ladders. Another angle of the city with it's orderly traffic (never thought I would say that while on this continent!) and humble pedestrians.

We've spent an evening strolling Calle de la Ronda - a place for people seeking a little more culture with their nightlife. The Andean folk music pulsing out of every other establishment, much like the Mapuche tunes a few thousand kilometers down the range, but with its own Ecuadorian twist - adding fiddles and a more staccato vocal style. It made us dance, drink with ease, and attack our quimbolitos, empanadas, and corn tortillas. Warm red wine with sugar and hot cider that reeked of its potency, but tasted like middle winter relief.

I had my first straight razor shave by a beautiful old man in the Plaza del Teatro.

We braved the high noon sun, on the equinox, on the equator, for possibly the worst professional football match I have seen yet. El Nacional (13 titles and home club of Christian Benítez and Antonio Valencia) and Independiente del Valle/José Terán. As we hid inside of our shirts we watched a less than enthused crowd mumble as their team went up a goal and (but for the no more than twenty locos jumping and singing [although they were all Boca Juniors songs]) sit on their hands until the teams were reduced to 10v10, the game was tied, and the final minutes lurking. With true class, the El Nacional fans turned on their squad - hissing and booing every failed attempt at goal for the last ten minutes of the match. And to top it all off, the lethargic dispersed group, saved their one moment of unity for the end of the game when they all rushed to the point nearest the player's tunnel in order to shower their boys with expletives. What a club!

Everything else has been a mixture of markets, restaurants, wandering, and quality people back at the hostel.

Though we leave today, there is another full day in Quito. Plenty to do, too much to do, before we make our way to the airport around 8pm. But we'll try, botanical gardens filled with orchids, convents where nuns sell lotions through revolving doors, and more markets, more food, as much as we can stuff our stomachs, packs, and hearts with before we leave this hemisphere.

Tomorrow we'll be in Cartagena, back in the northern hemisphere, swapping also the Pacific for the Caribbean. But we know that Quito, and Ecuador as a whole, is a place we must return to.

Guayaquil - Ayampe - Manta - Quito

2010-03-19T08:16:00.003-06:00

Although there are countless exceptions - it's safe to say that Peru (overall) did not thoroughly enchant us.. I was really thankful for our time with Antti and Laura, but Máncora was more or less a complete bust and the horror stories that were floating in about the border were making me all the more anxious to leave, but also anxious about getting to Guayaquil.

Essentially, the border at Tumbes has a pretty poor reputation, considered "the worst in SA" by some..which is saying a lot considering all of the shady, unstable places you can go on this continent.
Of course, these were all just ramblings on the internet - gringos strolling into places where they should be better prepared. Assuming that their passport will magically get them anywhere and everywhere they want - no hassle.
Then we heard from Antti and Laura that they had been conned out of $75 during their crossing three days prior.

Shit.

So we tramped it up and down the hill from our hostel to the travel agency (posed as our bus company) and changed our border crossing to "direct" from Máncora to Guayaquil (meaning it would only stop for border procedure) - rather than the commuter we were originally signed up for (which would involve us changing buses somewhere in Tumbes).

Long story short, though we had to wait around for the bus in the middle of the night..border procedures went off without a hitch (though there were men outside of the migrations office asking us for our passports [HA!]) - after checking into Ecuador it was deep sleep and leaving Peru behind.

Ecuador

Ecuador began in the early morning hours as green. Nothing but green. Stark contrast to the endless dunes, rock, and chaparral-like "vegetation" we had experienced along the Peruvian coast. No, Ecuador has been banana trees and jungle junk from start to finish.

We arrived around 10am in Guayaquil at what is easily the most impressive bus terminal I have witnessed. Nicer than most malls and as nice as any airport in the US, it was such a welcome change from the usual chaos that is stepping off the bus with your pack.

From the terminal we called our couchsurfing host, Geovanny. About thirty minutes later we were packed into his two door Rav4 and heading out into the suburbs of Guayaquil.

After a shower and some lunch we let Geovanny take the reigns and show us his city. We started at Parque Bolivar, also known as, The Iguana Park. Literally, iguanas everywhere. We spent a good while with these creatures dangling banana peels hoping they wouldn't take a little bit of our fingers as they scrambled over one another for a morsel. It's hard to say when to leave a place like that (especially since there was a very interesting church in the square), but Kaitlin being urinated on by an iguana in the tree above was as good a sign as any!

So from the Iguana Park we made our way to the Malecon 2000. The Malecon is a boardwalk with an impressive garden, IMAX, restaurants, monuments, and tons of other attractions. From the Malecon, Geovanny led us into a compound (maybe a school?) where there were Galapagos turtles foraging in a square - again, more photos. From that square it was not far to a refurbished part of town with over 400 steps leading up a hill to the lighthouse at the top. Reminded me a lot of a place in San Fran, just toss in about a hundred places to grab a beer, all of them blaring cumbia. Muy bien.

From the top of the hill there was a great view of more or less all of Guayaquil. Ecuador's largest city seems to have it right. Not too big, fairly modern, definitely felt secure, modest but with lots to boast. Only a few hours in and Ecuador was feeling pretty good.

From the hill we made our way back to Geovanny's car. Then it was time for something I didn't even realize how much I missed...

"Feminine" iced coffee drinks.

Geovanny took us to Juan Valdez Cafe (Starbucks) where I had a Nevado con Amaretto, actual liqueur. I'd like to say I sipped it in pleasure, but I slurped and gulped and licked the inside of the cup. While I was still hyperventilating, Kaitlin and Geovanny discussed dinner and it was decided that we would meet up with some of Geovanny's mountain biking friends at a Colombian place.

Our party turned out to be over fifteen people, a mix of locals and US ex-pats in country teaching English. One guy was from Atlanta (UGA) and was pretty happy to see me and talk about Aiken and hoop and holler in a genuine southern accent that you could tell he had been repressing for some months..

With quite a full day (and full bellies) under our belts it was time for a good nights sleep and another day in Guayaquil.

The next day Geovanny was off to a mountain biking trip with his friends. Leaving Kaitlin and I to our own devices we did some laundry, got caught up on internet necessities, and eventually made our way via bus to the city center.

We bumbled around a bit - picking up an Emelec jersey for myself and having ice cream and having another go at the Malecon and government buildings. Well into the afternoon we met up with Geovanny and made our way to a grocery store to pick up supplies for what was supposed to be "Meditteranean Night."

Dinner was good, but not quite as Mediterranean as I had hoped. However, we did well considering the difficulty in finding certain spices and such down here.

The next day Geovanny was nice enough to put us in a cab before work and have us on our way back to the terminal. From there we would catch a four hour bus west, to the coast!

Ayampe

The bus ride to Ayampe was a mixture of drifting in and out of sleep, sweating, and refusing the hordes of people swarming our bus at every turn attempting to sell anything.

Eventually, we arrived in Jipijapa (Hipi-Hapa) which I for once enjoyed the redundant yelling of the destination by the driver's assistant. From there we changed buses to our local commuter bus which made it's way to the water and eventually dropped us off in the middle-of-nowhere, aka Ayampe.

Ayampe came as a recommendation from a friend in SC, Karly, who had spent some time at Finca Punta Ayampe. We asked the way and were pointed down a dirt road. The heat was getting to me a bit with the pack weighing more than ever..and the ocean so close - torture.
But we did indeed arrive and from there it was heaven.

We were welcomed by an incredibly friendly and relaxed staff that made us feel instantly comfortable. The next three days we did little exploring (aside from a trip up the road to Puerto Lopez for some money and grub) - most of our time was spent happily in hammocks or on the deserted beach. The deserted, warm, incredible beach. It's the kind of place that even if we had pictures, it wouldn't do it justice. So much of the experience was in the way that we were served breakfast (more than just smiles) or in the breezes that kept reminding us of our fortune.

Guayaquil had been fun, but this was a different level of satisfaction. And somehow we only had three days...

With our flights out of Quito purchased and our curiosity of that great city and still our need to head north to Manta - we could only wish we had cut out a few days somewhere earlier in the trip. Ayampe had more for us..

But we left, yesterday morning we hopped on a commuter, through Puerto Lopez, to Jipijapa, from there switched to probably the worst/loudest bus we have experienced so far, but only had about an hour to go before arriving in Manta.

In Manta we purchased our overnight bus to Quito (making sure to procure the nicest coach in town [only $8 per person]) and then we killed some time in the area doing covert gift shopping.

The bus ride last night was less than amazing. However, knowing that we have only three bus rides left before we return (and only one really long ride: Cartagena to Medellin) we bore it.

Quito

I have been in Quito for about four hours now (arriving around 6am). Though I have seen little of the city so far, I am excited to do some exploring. Our immaculately clean and comfy hostel (Hostel Revolution) is situated more or less in the center of the historic district. The weather is cooler here (due to the altitude) which should make for some comfortable strolls around the museums and churches.

My last adventure should be a football match on Sunday, but before it is set in stone I need to find a companion (preferably a local) to keep me out of trouble. We fly out for Cartagena on the 22nd (Monday?) - so until then it is museums, churches, and markets!

Let's go there, to see better

2010-03-10T12:34:00.003-07:00

Around 5pm on the 3rd of March we arrived in the insanity that is Lima. Any anxiety I had previously had in an urban setting was immediately dwarfed by the spastic hive that is Lima. People everywhere. Cars everywhere. Everything making noise.

Through Kaitlin's grace we made contact with our couchsurfing host - Camillo - met him outside his work - received the key and instructions as to how to find his flat - took a succession of buses:

·Without a subway, the place is totally dependent upon automobiles and there aren't enough combis (mini-buses) or collectivos to quench the demand of the more than seven million residents of Lima. With so much traffic, so much exhaust, and only a marginal attempt at order by the traffic police - what should have been a twenty minute ride in a subte or city bus, became over an hour standing and shifting as we waited our turn to move a block or two·

- and scurried into his flat in his dodgey side of town (which can be any side of town at night in an unfamiliar city when you have a backpack strapped on).

We entered and ran into some Brazilians that said there were some Germans staying, and a french guy, and some quiet people. Immediately I thought of Antti and Laura and sure enough - ten minutes later they were walking through the door. Everything was okay again...

The next day we took a combi to Miraflores. Walked, ate, and made our way to the more "artsy" district Barranco. Our quest was a cafe con leche for Laura and sure enough we found what was presented as cafe con leche. Antti, Kaitlin, and I enjoyed our juices and Laura sipped her milky concoction.

From there we made our way to the Plaza de Armas which is where the Franciscan Monestery held tours of their catacombs. Something like 25,000 people buried under the space. Quite creepy. I much prefered the part of the tour that explained the paintings and the multiple layers of friezes from times long past.

By the time our tour had ended, night had fallen on the Plaza de Armas and though up until this point I had been less than enchanted with the rather lackluster gridlocked capital - the plaza was magical. It felt immediately like I was thousands of miles from anywhere I have ever been - unlike any space I had seen in Argentina, Uruguay, or Chile.

But we had to go.. we planned to leave early the next morning - to head north to Trujillo for sun, surf, and ruins.

The eight hour bus ride north was easily forgettable. Standards for buses in Peru are perhaps on par for SA (and certainly better than the horror stories Antti and Laura told about Bolivia) - but I was much happier being spoiled by Argentine and Chilean buses - is it too much to ask for air conditioning, or a window that will open?

As always, we arrived, and immediately looked for a cab from Trujillo - 12km north to Huanchaco.

Huanchaco

Instant highlight for me. The moment I saw the surf - I knew this would be a great part of the trip for me. After scoping out the area: a few test runs bodysurfing and seeing the range of surf shops in town - it was time to grab a board.

It had been at least two years since the last time I had surfed - and still I had no experience beyond the pee-wee waves of Lake Myrtle. Suffice it to say, the rust showed in my salty stomach as I gulped a few mouthfulls of seawater before I even came close to standing.

But eventually the timing and the technic came back and though I wasn't shredding like the big boys - I rode a few all the way home.

Easily another highlight for me was the evening Antti and I stepped into a pick-up game on a concrete court just off the beach. It was a familiar scene, the two gringos asking to play and a few snickers ripple through the group. Then the game starts and it's not long before genuine surprise is dabbled over the locals - and at the end everyone shakes your hand and tells you when they're are playing tomorrow.

Last, but certainly not least, was our excursion to the Chimu ruins of Chan Chan, Huaca Arco Iris (Rainbow Temple), Huaca Dragón (Dragon Temple), and the Moche Huaca de la Luna (Temple of the Moon) and Huaca del Sol (Temple of the Sun).

The sheer size of Chan Chan is impressive enough (the largest adobe structure in the world). You can see the ruins of Chan Chan scattered for kilometers between Trujillo and Huanchaco. The wall carvings are quite interesting, but my favorite aspect was the ritual pool that is still intact - after wandering through a labrynth of mud suddenly we found ourselves in a space with clear water, swaying green reeds, and waterfowls skimming to and fro.

Still, easily my favorite ruin was the Temple of the Moon. Because the Moche completely covered their old temples every hundred years, archeologist have been able to remove layers at the Temple of the Moon and reveal wall paintings that are strikingly intact:

With so much packed into only three days, it was no surprise that our time in Huanchaco flew by. With the Antti and Laura needing to make their way to Quito (from which they will fly home soon) - we resolved to leave. Kaitlin and I to what was explained as the best surf north of Trujillo - Mancora.. and Antti and Laura continuing on to Guayquil/Quito.

Máncora

Around six in the morning our bus arrived in Máncora. Hugs were exchanged and then our friends were gone for a third time...

Our four days in Máncora have been okay. Our hostel is more like a B&B which has left us feeling awkward at times (it's strange to have someone changing your sheets and emptying your trash bin after months of party hostels, flats, etc..). The location (on a hill above the town) has been ideal for relaxed book reading, but also made trips to the water a bit of an ordeal.

Throw in the fact that I have been suffering the ill-effects of three straight days in the sun..and our Antti and Laura withdrawls - it has been a melancholy ending to Peru.

That being said, we are excited to move on to Ecuador. We have arranged couchsurfing in Guayquil (finally someone came through!) and will move on to more beach in Ayampe - where the water is only getting warmer.

Last thought: Kaitlin and I had the startling realization today that we have just over three weeks left down here. Taking into account that we will be blazing through Ecuador (spending no more than three days in one place) - next thing we know we'll be in Cartagena on the tale end of this journey. In a moment it is shocking, but I know that it feels right. Up to this point, we have done well. Yes, we could have stayed some places longer and left some places earlier, but overall - everything feels right and good.

More from Ecuador..

Out, again

2010-03-10T12:07:00.002-07:00

Our last week in Buenos Aires was a melancholy one.

With our three day bus journey from BA to Lima set - there was little left to do but drink beers in Las Heras during the day and cook meals for three in the evenings while we waited for the 28th.

The 28th did eventually come and though Marko and I were amazed that the American pub "Shoeless Joe's" would have a thirty peso cover on a weeknight - without the Super Bowl - we managed our own preparation for an Old Firm to forget, for Marko.

The match was on around nine that morning and fizzy with hops we watched a rather droll encounter that had a few moments, but unfortunately for Marko - the "best" was saved for last when American midfielder Maurice Edu squibbed in the game winner in stoppage time. Those industrious Americans, always stirring up trouble..

After a nap, a bite to eat, and three or five checks to make sure everything was packed - it was time to make our way out of Buenos Aires. You say, "Suerte!" and "Safe travels!" a lot when you're on the road for this long, but rarely do you get the opportunity to mean it. And though no one believes in "Goodbyes" it's the silent truth between us all that friends a continent apart are few and far between.

But we soldiered on. Took our cab to Retiro. Waited with angst for our bus as families and television cameras greeted refugees from crumbled Santiago. Almost exactly on time our CATA International semi-cama arrived, our bags stowed, our panoramic seats seated, and off into the evening retracing our way to Mendoza.

The days on the bus were rather forgettable aside from some fallen pedestrian paths on the outskirts of Santiago (Los Andes) to La Serena and the Atacama - what everyone says looks like the surface of the moon, but to me looked more like the surface of a brownie pan... to finally Arica and the Peruvian border to Tacna. We were less than twenty-four hours from Lima and coasting.

In fact, too much coast.

The last day of the bus journey was a nightmare. The endless Peruvian desert-coast while intriguing at first (with sand dunes reclaiming the highway by the sea in some spots) became an oscillating torture of boredom and fear that the constant switchbacks and anxious bus drivers (though our's was very modest) would result in some sort of gruesome incident.

Surely, we were never that close to danger, but the imagination runs wild when the kilometers are passing one by one with no hint of Lima in sight.

However, we did eventually reach Lima, at least six hours late, around five in the evening of the 3rd of March. From the window it was clear that Lima was a different beast all together from Buenos Aires and with our first mission to find our couchsurfing host in a city of nearly eight million - we were out on our own again.

Now, my Buenos Aires..

2010-02-23T11:18:00.002-07:00

Now, the present, after three weeks in Buenos Aires - we have our path home. We have been able to settle here, to sleep easy, to waste a day if we wish, and to plan the rest of our trip.

We have explored tango. Sweated through the steps. Chased the city for lessons and let Catedral squeeze us. I have experienced Copa Libertadores football, the clasico of the south between Banfield and Lanus, and bathed with thousands of Argentines as the rain sunk our match in General Mitre and sent us home floating in a city bus.

I have forgotten my backpack, in the closet, no longer musty - more like moth balls. I have been looking at this flat as if it were my own. Looking at the Peruvian fruit stall below as if I might one day be their friend or considered a "regular."

I know the subte and the plazas and where to get what and when. Holed up in this barrio, I venture out at night for a Quilmes or Brahma with Marko and Kaitlin - only getting angry at the neighbors and their cat that never stops moaning or the trash collection that rumbles through the concrete canyon - even the same man on the same squeeky bike the same time every night. No more Nueve de Julio, no more protests from Plaza de Mayo to Congreso.

For Mass at Parroquia Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe. For helado at Munchies. For the nights indoors when we just sit and laugh at the Argentine commentary for the winter olympics - marveling at the strange snowy sports.

But we will leave - for Lima, then Trujillo, then Guayquil, then somewhere along the Ecuadorian coast, then Otovalo, then Cartagena, and Medellin, and Solento - until we leave this continent from Bogota.

It is a mixed sense.. I am excited to travel again and to see Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia. We plan to meet up with our Finnish friends Antti and Laura in Lima. We plan to drink coffee and sit in hammocks by the beach all day.
But we're leaving a comfortable place. We're leaving a good friend, that has taken care of us in innumerable ways. We're closing the door not only on Buenos Aires, but eventually South America.

Though there is so much left for us to do yet.. so many other things to look forward to. It can't be helped, I am looking towards California and all the struggles that will entail.

And since that is not the topic here..and that there is so much left to make of the present, I won't bother pontificating. But it still acts as an intensifier. It still factors in when I decided, "Should I take this train by myself to an unknown part of the city?" - Yes, because it will be a long time before I get back here and how can I expect to succeed in my new city, if I can't take a chance here.

So, to more chances! Thorough and committed. Throw in a little help and luck.. and I think I'll be just fine.

Mendoza

2010-02-23T10:07:00.005-07:00

We pulled into the bus station in Mendoza around 5:30am. By six we were at the hostel, but since check-out was not until ten, we had to crash on the couch until the morning. However, this was no problem at all, it was so warm and dry that we were immediately asleep with the oscillating fan keeping us alive.

I woke up between nine and ten as I tend to do and was amazed at the hostel we had ended up with. Having had some pretty poor reviews online, it was clear that the standards were a little different in Mendoza. With a pool, grape vine covered patio:

an exceptional free breakfast of various pastries - fruit - coffee - yogurt - cereal - etc.. as well as multiple computers with internet..AND tons of comfortable places to lounge. It was so good to be back in Argentina.

We decided that we might take it easy the first day (after the night bus) and try to do the bike tour the next day. That was until we met Fabricio..

Fabricio is a young Brazilian from Porto Alegre who introduced himself to us by convincing us that we should do the bike tour through wine country that day with him and his girlfriend Helena. So there it was, charmed by Fabricio we were then finding out which bus would take us to wine country in Maipu (the next town over after a forty-five minute bus journey).

After getting off the bus we were immediately greeted by three young boys on bikes, from Mr. Hugo's - the company we were looking for. We followed them a few blocks to the shop, paid about thirty pesos per bike (around $10 US total), and were on our way down Urquiza towards our first bodega on Perito Moreno: Vina el Cerno

There we took a rather uninformative tour of the vineyard that practices more "traditional" methods, but I'm still not too sure what that means.. However, there was a wonderful bottle of white at the end of the tour that was a fraction of what it would cost in stores and quite refreshing on what was an incredibly hot day.

From there we had only a short journey back up the road to get to Tempus Alba. Quite the opposite of El Cerno, this bodega was sterile modernistic wine factory. With only so many hours in the day, we opted to skip the tour and head straight for the patio for a drink and something to munch on.

Conversation somehow turned to Chinese food and MSGs - which proved to be a hot topic for the guy sitting alone, sweating over his merlot - John from Rhode Island. John started telling us about the history of MSGs from a book he had read and next thing we knew he had become the fifth wheel in our trip through wine country.

With most of the bodegas closing soon, we decided to bike all the way to the end, see the Laur olive press, and maybe catch another bodega on the way back.

We didn't really pay attention to the tour. As interesting as it must have been, by this point we were a collective one-track mind. Jokes and wine and olives..no room for information.

Eventually we made it back to Mr. Hugo's where chilled red was waiting for us. Around dusk it was time to get back to Mendoza. In the course of conversation, under the fog of perhaps a bit too much wine, my camera was left on the 152 - never to be seen again.

It's hard to be bummed about anything for too long when you're traveling for months. Despite losing some possessions or having a rough day here and there - you always have to keep in mind that you are doing something extraordinary and to ruin it by being negative is far worse than losing an old camera or external harddrive..or even half a day in the bathroom.

So the next day, we walked around the city of Mendoza - taking in some of the wonderful plazas and parks throughout the city. We ended with a bottle of wine before the all-you-can-eat barbeque at the hostel.

The next day we got on our bus to Buenos Aires with full bellies, new friends, and a peace-of-mind we had been missing. We were on our way to our home away from home..

Osorno and Valparaiso

2010-02-20T10:26:00.005-07:00

Osorno

There are a lot of places to visit in Chile between Isle Chiloé and Santiago. Puerto Montt, Pucon, and Concepcion to name a few.. but Osorno - who knows? Possibly the first time I told Kaitlin I wanted to go to South America, I put my finger on Osorno. Before arriving, I knew just as much about the place as I did in that moment back in Columbia, South Carolina.

Osorno is not the place for everyone. It was the place for us in that moment, the perfect place. We arrived in the mid-afternoon and after dropping our bags at our hospedaje, decided to walk around a bit.

Bolstered by street food every where, we continued wandering until we found a suspension bridge over a thick copper-tinted river. We crossed and headed up a dusty hill. I wanted to head back to the town center, but Kaitlin lobbied to continue down what looked to me to be just another dirt path in the woods.

After a minute down this path it was clear there was some sort of park in the area. Couples cuddling, families out together, all walking in the same direction. We followed them forward and soon heard music in the distance. Not five minutes later we found ourselves in the heart of a massive folk festival. Mapuche folk music blasting from a stage, all sorts of grilled meat on sticks and in buns, beverages I had never imagined and still can't quite describe, and loads of artisan wares..including some truly unique wood carvings.

We circled the fair before settling at a table with a good view of the stage - ordered a pitcher of beer and were informed that the concert would start any moment. I made a point to do so then, and I will do so again now..

Traveling with Kaitlin has not always been easy. Surely and pair will at times feel hindered by the other, it is human nature. But those times when you relent, when you let someone else follow their intuition and it bares fruit - that is an incredible thing.

We wore smiles for the remainder of the evening as we finished our pitcher entertained by the Mapuche band and a curious toddler that kept flirting with us.

The next day we revisited the country festival, ate more, drank more, and then left to explore other parts of the city. We walked from one side of Osorno to the other- stopping at the Catholic cemetery, the German bakery, Club Provincial Osorno's stadium (which I walked right into unmolested), and all through the suburbs in between.

Valparaiso

Another instance where I have thought and thought about how to explain what happened to us... Over our three and a half days in Valparaiso we ran the gauntlet of possible experiences in South America, the high and the low.

Our overnight bus from Osorno arrived in Santiago around ten in the morning with another hour and a half left to go before our final destination in Valparaiso. We dropped our bags in the Yo-Yo Hostel on Ecuador, it was immediately apparent that we were back in the "party hostel" scene, but after a few weeks of hospedajes - it was a welcome change to be around people our age again.

The night bus strategy* left us no choice but to go out and explore after checking in and dropping our bags.

*"sleeping" on a bus combines the need to move location and lodging, essentially a free nights lodging - which for two people traveling for an extended period of time in Chile can keep a few hundred dollars in the coffer*

Our bravado swept us out the door, without consulting the receptionist or a map - as was our usual custom, down the hill aimlessly. We squeezed through narrow streets with steady traffic - a mixture of work-a-day pedestrians and tourists. With the Pacific as our only compass we eventually found ourselves in Sotomayor Square with naval uniforms striding in and out of offices and bermuda shorted tourists snapping away at the hills with their gaudy Nikons. We sat on the steps of the wharf as too many families were loaded onto too small skiffs.

From there we decided we'd head up a hill and try to find a local place to grab a bite to eat. In the absence of any prior directions..or even a map.. we continued west along Serrano until turning south up what appeared to us to be the first "decent" hill - Ave. San Francisco.

After a block or so, it was becoming evident this hill was different than others. Less business, less pedestrians, but we had a mission at the moment. Another block more and we found a nice little dive for pizza. It was a cute little family place where the grandparents did the cooking and the grandchild moaned in fits after being scolded for locking the cat in a cabinet.

We chewed happily while we discussed our next move. Ultimately, we decided to continue up the hill to see if it would eventually connect with our hill. We were bolstered and pleasantly surprised to find the bill was LESS than we expected - quite the anomaly from our experience, and so we chugged up a few blocks with smiles.

It had been some time since we'd seen much in the way of business or foot traffic. I was feeling a big unnerved as locals peered at us from their balconies. Another block and we could see an intersecting road with buses, so we continued on.

At that intersection it seemed unlikely the road would connect with our hill and as the overall dodgey nature of the area set in - we finally decided to make our way back down the hill. Not two blocks later, two gentlemen started talking to us from a half-block away, "Hey! You Chileno?! No? German? English? French?" We walked faster and ignored them as they crossed our path and continued down somewhere unknown.

In Castro we had been called "GRINGOS!" by a group of young adults from across the street, but their tone was juvenile, these men were aggressive.

So we began to briskly retrace our steps. But the sporadic maze and our hightened state led us down a wrong turn. We came back out only to see that there were two men following us - two men I had seen when we first left the restaurant. We continued down the path we had taken, opting (wrongly) to take the desolate alley from the walk up, rather than the busier street only two blocks over. Less than halfway down that alley we heard running behind us. Before we could turn to see what it was, the two men (though they couldn't have been older than us) were infront of us - one holding a small knife.

Between the shouts of "Money! Money!", the knife infront of me, and the hands fumbling through my pockets - I didn't really feel that scared..only when I looked over at the other guy searching Kaitlin did I realize it was real, but by that time they were running up the hill with twenty mil (about $40 US).

We had maintained the habit of carrying little cash and no important documents, but we had failed in the biggest areas. I have hesitated to write about this incident, because I think it is what many people expect and it only perpetuates the perception by mentioning it. But the truth is, aside from the systemic problems in the area itself, it is gallant tourists who are to blame for incidents such as these. The same crime takes place in the richest nation in the world, because people think that their passport or their money or their past experience will exempt them from considering their surroundings.

We walked back to the hostel in silence. Kaitlin napped. I zoned out watching television and drinking water, just trying to forget how stupid we had been.

That evening we met an English couple while making dinner and ended up staying up with them for quite a while talking about soccer, music, and on and on..

The next morning I woke up early in a feverish state. In a daze I became violently ill, able to leave bed only for the bathroom. After about two hours, there was nothing left in me and I slipped in and out of sleep. I eventually awoke, but was still too weak to leave the bed. While Kaitlin nursed me with water, ginger ale, and crackers - I deduced that the water must have been the culprit. Though I have had the tap water everywhere we have been thus far, I hadn't gulped it down like I did the day before. Clearly, I overloaded.

Later that day I was able to make it out of bed and up our hill to see the brighter side of Valparaiso...

We stopped for a vista of the port city and then sat for a while having a cafe, but that was about all I could handle. The next day, with my legs stronger, we could explore a bit..

Valparaiso is alive. With graffiti everywhere there are countless characters sprawled over every wall in any color and style. Neruda's city seems to have embraced these murals as guardians and have designated public spaces for artists to develop their craft.

One such place is Ex-Carcel, an old prison that has been reclaimed as a public space for people to practice whatever art they wish. Kaitlin and I spent a few hours exploring the space, marveling at the contrast of prison cells with faded pin-ups still pasted to the ceiling and fifteen foot murals depicting scenes of struggle, freedom, joy, etc...

The next day we rode one of Valpariso's famous ascensors, rode it back down the hill, and continued on with the things we normally enjoy. Walking around the local markets, smelling and tasting.

On the streets of the outside market in the Old Town we found street vendors eating what looked to be a delicious concoction of corn meal and meat. We stopped to ask a woman who was helping attend a fish stall, what exactly it was..

While explaining to Kaitlin she scooped a forkful and lifted it to Kaitlin's mouth. Have some. I was next. It was a mixture of cornmeal and various meats, still mysterious, but delicious. We thanked her as she directed us to her family friend that was selling them.

While we scooped our own mouthfuls in the nearby plaza... I couldn't help but marvel at that woman. Her eagerness to share. So content. Oblivious to our accent or gringo attire. Beautiful woman - I won't forget you.

We passed the rest of the day with a trip up to Pablo Neruda's house on the hill. The tour was certainly interesting, but I think we both left with more questions than answers about the man who is so important to Valparaiso, Chile, and South America as a whole. Ultimately, the author lives in his words, not in the stuff he keeps and how people interpret those possessions.

Our last stop in Valparaiso was a beautiful orange bed and breakfast on a hill overlooking the entire city. With a local porter and a pisco sour we waxed philosophical as we tend to do every so often.. patting ourselves on the back a bit, but also preparing for more difficult decisions ahead.

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But what lay ahead at this time, we hoped, was a return to calm. Easier times. We had weathered the worst of Valparaiso and were now a night bus away from familiar and tranquil Argentina..

The Mystical Island of Chiloe, debunked

2010-02-19T12:36:00.005-07:00

After landing in Quellon, Kaitlin and I faced the decision that had become quite familiar by this point. Since we had more or less thrown the guidebook out the window and taken the vast range of input from fellow travelers with a grain of salt - we had to make an immediate judgement of a place - whether we stay or go.

In Aysen, we arrived at the hospedaje and immediately signed on for four days. In Quellon, we wandered up and down the two main roads.. poked our heads in a few restaurants, checked out a few artisan stalls, and decided - maybe it would be best to push on another hour north to the capital of the island: Castro

It is a strange thing to make such decisions, but we did, and in the grand scheme of things - I think it has paid off. We arrived in Castro sometime around midafternoon. Shopped around the hostels and hospedajes until we found a cozy family run place at a fair price.

Castro

I can't quite recall the cronology of the next three or four days in Castro..

I know though that Castro made quite an impression on me. The market, though filled mostly with tourist junk, was certainly a highlight. The amount of quality wool on display was staggering and had Kaitlin and I considering rearranging our entire wardrobe to incorporate every possible item - made in wool. Ultimately, it was a stall selling simple woven cotten garments that caught our eye and our wallet. Little color, but the designs were so extraordinary - we chipped in for a shall for Kaitlin and a top for me.

Despite this find - I think the highlight for us both was this place:

Offering ceviche of all sorts (salmon, clam, mussel, congrio) with the simplest freshest ingredients - we were in heaven.

We made it a daily (sometimes twice daily) ritual to pick up a few pieces of bread from the convenience store then savor their dish (sopping up everything last bit with the bread) while people milled around the market.

Parque Nacional Chiloé

In the middle of our time in Castro, we popped over for a few days to Parque Nacional Chiloé. The park is divided into two sections: Chepu in the north near Ancud and Anay near Castro

After braving the rural bus station (if you are anything less than completely attentive - you'll never catch your bus...) we caught a ride from Castro west to Chonchi, the main entrance to the park.

In general, it was a very interesting park. Quite nice, but horribly disorganized. It started as a frustration, but became a joke after running into so many people looking for the trailheads. Still, the persisent drizzle that would completely envelope the area for twelve hours of every day broke our resolve to stay until heading to the farm..

We made our way back to Castro, for more ceviche and warmth, in order to be in our best spirits upon arrival in Ancud/the farm.

Ancud - Caulin Lodge - Escape

I had written quite a bit about this experience. Climbed back into my mind at the time to revisit and document how these people took advantage of a program that is intended to be an exchange..and I have now deleted it.

I can't even remember all the names.. and I can't be bothered to think so much about the events that left us feeling so discouraged. I feel no malice towards them - I feel little at all towards them. I have encountered enough single-minded people in my life to know that you can try to work with them, you can try to get to know them, and find out what, if anything, is beneath the protective/superficial layer - but not at the expense of your own sanity/integrity.

On the evening of the fifth day, we had a "discussion" with Ines and by mutual consent it was determined that it would be best if we left in the morning..

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We had planned to stay a month - to learn farming practices, speak spanish, and plan the remainder of our trip. We had done none of these things and were reeling..

I risk redundancy, but it can't be stated enough how strange and beautiful and simple the world can be. After such a disappointment and disruption, what is the outcome? An open door in Buenos Aires: You're welcome whenever..

With the comfort of a fail-proof destination we could continue north and enjoy ourselves knowing that we were ultimately heading for a safe, familiar place where we really could unpack our bags and breathe deep.

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The next morning we caught the first bus from Caulin to Ancud - purchased a ticket for Osorno and were on our way north before noon.

My Dream: Chile - Coyhaique, Aysen, and the ferry to Chiloe

2010-02-17T10:08:00.010-07:00

How is it that the country that first captured my imagination - the origin of my desire to make this journey - has largely gone neglected?

I remarked to Kaitlin, and I'm sure in this blog as well, that after completing the circuit in Torres del Paine I felt "fulfilled" and that everything else this trip had to offer would be "bonus." I think this mentality is partly to blame for my absence the past month - though I still don't think I was wrong to feel this way.

More so, this mentality breed a more severe consequence - naivety. Having not only survived, but thrived, in one of the largest urban centers in the world..and then repeating the feat in the most severe trekking experience of my life - I started to let my head inflate and carry me north - ignoring my analytical impulses both internally and externally.

But after a few pitfalls, I am back down to earth and giving my experiences their deserved consideration.

Coyhaique

After a twenty-four hour bus journey that took us first south to Punta Arenas and then north into Argentina, again through the Patagonia almost 1,000km, crossing the Andes back into Chile, through the idlyic country-side, down into the valley - we arrived in Coyhaique - "Koy-Yiy-K."

We romanticized about making our way to nearby rustic hot springs - only to learn that one had been closed due to landslides and the other situated on private land only open for cruiseships...

So we drank cafe cortado at Cafe Konken, talking to the owner about Coyhaique and fly-fishing. So we visited the wool market and picked up various items to keep our limbs warm. So we planned our travel north to Chiloe (a thirty-six hour ferry from Puerto Chacabuco to Quellon on Isle Chiloe). So we decided to to camp in Parque Nacional Coyhaique to pass the time until heading to Puerto Aysen (and then Chacabuco).

Parque Nacional Coyhaique was a modest park. Situated mainly for day-trippers from the town with persistent views of the valley:

We spent about three days in the park, lounging in the dry - windless - paradise. Every now and then venturing out of the tent to take a walk and speak spanish.

Approaching the summit we strolled through what seemed to be an illustrated forest of contorted trees and old man's beard..

Eventually making it to the snowy top with little to see in addition to the ever present Coyhaique valley - still, good exercise and a decent vista.

After making the peak, we decided to make our way an hour west to Puerto Aysen. So we thumbed a commuter who barreled through the winding valley highway - passing minibuses on blind curves as he told us about the massive roadside shrine to all the people who died making the commute during the icy winter. GREAT! If not for the lush green mountains riddled with massive waterfalls - I would have been terrified the entire time..

A rather poor example, but still..

Puerto Aysen

There are two ways to spell Aysen: A-y-s-e-n and A-i-s-e-n

I still have no idea which is correct..if there is a correct spelling. It was spelled both ways on signs in the town and I have gone with aYsen, solely because it was the first way I saw it spelled. Seemingly insignificant bit of information, but I think quite significant after interacting with the people.

There is a regional rivalry, though "perception" is probably a better word, since people from Aysen don't seem to participate in the fray. Suffice it to say, people from Coyhaique see Puerto Aysen as a bit of a wasteland. The "people over there" are lazy, incompetent in business, etc...

It is true that shops keep even shorter/stranger hours than any place we have been in South America.. there was a sign in the window of a pescaderia: "No fish this week." ..and so on..

..but from our experience the cause of this effect is hardly deplorable - in fact, the opposite.

Hospedaje San-ly

We settled in Aysen at one of only a handful of hospedajes: San-ly

I have debated with myself how to describe this four day experience since we left and a month later - I'm still not quite sure how to put it properly.

The truth is, it was hard to leave them. Nearly all four days in Aysen where covered in rain, but as we stayed in doors with Marlin, her husband Francisco, and her grandson (also Francisco) - we were warm and dry through their hospitality.

We were constantly fed, without a single word about money - taken to their farm in the country side for mate with herbs from their garden - shared an evening of music and guitar lessons.. Given the space to relax, but the attention of genuine interest.

By Aysen standards (and most other standards), Francisco and Marlin are quite well to do. Yet, they have only one vehicle (a little Suzuki mini-truck) for the farm. They could both have their own, but they only need one. They have hundreds of hectares of farmland, but a very modest house with only the basic amenities.

They were a functioning..no, thriving example of the principles Kaitlin and I hold - without trying to make a political statement, just being "normal" good people.

Of course, we did venture out of hospedaje San-ly:

For one month in every twelve, the people of Aysen organize concerts and other sorts of entertainment/music in celebration of their founding. We happened to be in Aysen during this month and were able to take in a regional group playing folk music.

Another day, we spent a few hours wandering along the highway trying to find the trailhead for a trek that would take us seven kilometers into the hills to a petrified forest. After being completely soaked through by the persistent drizzle we finally found the trailhead. Though it was immediately evident that we would not be able to continue. The combination of nearly constant rain in the region, plus horse traffic on the trail made it a sloppy mucky mess that would have been absolute torture there and back.

So we turned back towards town, but since we weren't quite ready to call it a day - we stopped by the Sanctuario that we had been told of earlier.

Sanctuario San Sebastian:

Quite an eerie thing to come up to a place with candles burning, but no one present. Made even more unnerving by the personalized sentiments/prayers/monuments left by relatives of the deceased. White wax hanging over soggy table clothes. All quite but for the pitter-patter of the drizzle making it's way through the canopy and the sporadic honking of commuters paying their respects. A bewildering space.

The Ferry to Chiloe

I have only just realized that in the chaos of the last month - somehow the pictures from the ferry have not survived. Hard for me to accept, since I had been so adamant about finding a way to make a portion of this trip aquatic.

But what can be done?

Puerto Chacabuco is an even smaller settlement than Aysen, existing solely as a port for goods and the occasional cruiseship that fills up the regions only bonafide hotel. A fifteen minute minibus took us straight from the main road in Aysen to our boat.

I can say about the ferry that it was more or less what I expected it to be. Thirty-six hours on a boat weaving through hundreds of kilometers of archipelagos. Rain, clouds, glaciers, fog, water, constant chugging of the engine, trapped children entertaining themselves at the expense of my sanity...and so on. We pulled into several forgotten fishing villages where people hop in a boat to visit their neighbors where there are no roads..

In one of these small ports we entered there was commotion outside. So everyone went outside to see what was going on. And there coming across the side of the ferry were four orcas. I have no education in marine animal behavior, but it seemed to me these whales were indifferent to our presence, just as the locals in their boats gave hardly a glance in their direction. Just a jolly group out for a stroll in the bay, breaching here and there, allowing the humans to struggle with their zooms and curse the fact that we were moving in opposite directions. I just smiled.

That was my dream. The frozen forgotten island kingdoms. Where weather reigns and humans are rarely more than visitors.

But we did eventually approach Isle Chiloe..and other feelings over took me. More so the fact of clear skies and a decidedly warmer breeze. What I took as a good omen for our trip north through the mystical island and ultimately - our month farming with locals.

But that is something totally separate..

Exit Strategy

2010-02-04T23:50:00.002-07:00

Disclaimer: I will one day write about Chile. About Coyhaique, Puerto Aysen, the ferry from Chacabuco to Quellon, Castro, Ancud, the "farm" in Caulin, Osorno, Valparaiso, and Mendoza - I swear.

But for now, I'm too content with the present in Buenos Aires.

Discerning earnest is difficult while traveling. To your disadvantage you have the myriad of scams and traps designed by locals whose sole intention is to extract as much of your currency as possible. Arguably more damning are the throngs of fellow backpackers that speak english and use your experience as a barometer of their guidebooks accuracy.

The greatest disadvantage is that because I have only so much time here - that if someone is "on the bubble" regarding my trust - the decision must be made immediately - whether I am ready or not.

Only in a handful of faces have I found what I would call, "earnest." One such place is with our landlord and friend here in Buenos Aires - Marko. Though it is understood that he has taken the "next step" by becoming a full blown expat and that we are still merely backpackers - this apartment is a place where I can do as I please.

Where I can joke constantly about nationality and simultaneously forget about it completely. Where I can plan two months of travel, as if I were back in Denver. Where the pressure of a hostel or hospedaje are null. Where I have a door. Where I can sit and share mate or beer or a football match without worry of "wasting resources" - it's always worth it with friends.

I'm trying to say that I am so glad we are here. We are enjoying the sort of travel we always had in mind. To sit around and ponder what we would like to do or see and then do or see it when we want. We can lounge the day drinking mate and reading before heading for tango lessons or a football match or a humid milonga.

I don't think I could or would ever pretend to be a porteno. I don't think I could or would ever assume to fully understand this culture and this people. But, it feel so good to walk out of an apartment building and give a nod to the lady selling fruit and to know where I'm going - which street - which building - etc... I'm still a tourist, still a gringo, but no one has to know..and maybe even I can forget for a little while.

I felt this for the few days we stayed with Marko before we left Buenos Aires the first time...and I think it's why we had to come back. It is a power I now wield over myself - in that I no longer divert my eyes - I can sing and jump at the football match - I can laugh at my poor Spanish, because I know I'm not just using the culture to last a few days in the city - there is a part of me here that I cannot and never will be able to ignore.

But of course, the purpose of this trip is to discover many such places. It has now been decided (though no tickets are purchased) that the first week of April will be our deadline to make our discoveries.

Thanks to Marko's insight into cheap airfare it looks as though the flight home will take us all the way north to Medellin - Colombia (saving us about $300 each).

The details of the area between Buenos Aires and Medellin are yet to be determined, but it's safe to say that the Atacama, Peru, and Ecuador are on the table as well.

Surely, with this time to sit and breathe..and stay up until 4:30am, if I please, writing entries and searching flights and travel information - we will have a solid strategy for the remainder of the trip. Both firm in our determination to reach certain destinations, yet maintaining what has been a largely improvised modus operandi.

It is best this way..

2010-02-03T10:45:00.002-07:00

Perhaps it has not been a full month, but it feels like it has been longer - since I have been able to sit down and write a proper entry about our exploits here in South America.

Currently, I am back in Buenos Aires. Though my frame of mind is much better now that I am surrounded by familiar and friendly faces, the last three/four weeks are still a bit of a haze. I think I will need a few more days to settle into the stable life here in Palermo before I go back and recite the choas that led us here.

For now, I am just grateful to have space and time to breathe. We have been on the run since leaving Chiloe and it (I think) has resulted in some pretty harrowing experiences. Of course, the challenges have only strengthened our resolve and I remain the optimist about the remainder of our trip, as well as our move to California.

We are currently looking at our budget for the rest of the trip, but I think another two months here would be reasonable. We will certainly make it to Peru, but whether we go through Paraguay and Bolivia or Argentina's Salta and the Chilean Atacama to get there is still up in the air. Depending on that decision, we will decide whether we try to make our way up to Ecuador and Colombia. It may turn out that Colombia is the most economical option for a flight home - not a bad excuse to go there (assuming you needed one).

Until these decisions are made - we will continue to keep a low profile here in BA. Since arriving we have been hanging around the flat, walking a little, catching up with friends, etc.. But we won't just sit on our hands. Last night we all went out to an underground tango hall in an old cathedral. We stayed until three in the morning watching couples of varied skill level test their partners. I believe Kaitlin and I will go for our first lesson tonight - maybe in three weeks we'll have the courage (and skill) to take the floor.

Sober

2010-01-21T12:42:00.002-07:00

Well, we learned how you say, "Coyhaique"...

I have pictures and stories that cover the bottom third of this country, but they must wait.

We arrived at our WWOOF farm in Caulin - Chiloé four days ago. It has been a sobering experience to say the least. WWOOFing at this farm was our first move in planning this trip and (for me) the last thing I expected to fail us. But, with our bus tickets purchased for Osorno on Monday - it is safe to say that it has failed us.

There are various reasons which maybe I will have time to detail in Osorno (right now I have to finish this update before catching our minibus back to the farm). Suffice it to say, the farm (or lack thereof) has not lived up to what we understand to be the spirit that drives WWOOF. We arrived volunteers eager to learn farming practices and Chilote culture and now we are free labor for a cabaña hotel.

Our immediate plan is to spend another week in Chile (between Osorno and Valparaiso) - assuming we cannot find any lodging via CouchSurfing. Then to retreat to Buenos Aires (via Mendoza) to lay low for some weeks in Palermo with Marko, our savior.

During that time we will regroup, possibly attempt WWOOFing again in Chile. Odds are we will just bus it to the Atacama - then make our way to Peru where the economy is a little more friendly to people with time.

This is all far in the future..and with much still to say about the past - I will say no more for now. It is of course important to maintain perspective. We have been very frustrated by our last week in Chile, but we are fortunate to have this problem and we are fortunate that if we persevere we still have much to see and do in this continent.

Till then..

How do you say, "Coyhaique"

2010-01-03T21:43:00.003-07:00

It is nearly two in the morning. I will have to wake-up in less than six hours to grab my last breakfast here at Kaweskar in Puerto Natales. Then Kaitlin and I are off to the bus station for our twenty-four hour ride north along Ruta 40 to Coyhaique, Chile.

We know very little about Coyhaique and the surrounding towns, Puerto Aisen and Puerto Chacabuco - but they all sound good in our heads and they are bordered by national parks and have affordable bed and breakfast type establishments that will be a welcome break from the busy hostel crowd..and it isn't Calafate or Bolson or Chalten or Bariloche.

We are determined to get back to speaking Spanish and figuring out what exactly it is that people in South America do - not what people traveling to South America should do.

I feel, to a certain extent, that my needs for this trip as a whole are fulfilled. We have proven ourselves worthy by three weeks in one of SA's biggest urban settings - without any major calamity and we have ventured into the volatile Patagonia and emerged trim and hardy.

From this point, everything is bonus. I still have my preferences, but I won't fret now about having to "accomplish" anything. I have a frame of reference now. I have caught a glimpse of the different ends of the spectrum and it is something I am malleable enough to endure - hell, even thrive in. That feeling is a comfort no matter what continent or country you roam, but for me in this time it is invaluable.

So we set off for Coyhaique. We have two weeks to see what there is to be seen in this Andean enclave before we intend to take the ferry from Puerto Chacabuco to Quellon on Isle Chiloe. Opening yet another path..

But first Coyhaique, Aisen, and Chacabuco - and sleep.

Torres del Paine - Day Nine

2010-01-02T14:34:00.003-07:00

A strange day. Our alarms broke our slumber at 5:15am, but still somewhere close to brain-dead, we were startled by what must have been monkeys cackling outside our tent. We still can't be sure exactly what it was. We sat and listened for five-ten minutes as it grew ever distant. We chalked it up to the Guanaco - crazy animal, but we still can't be sure of what it was we heard.

With our bellies full of cold oatmeal, we skimmed down the path from Guardas to Refugio Grey. I think I only stopped for this picture to prove that we were not solely focused on the path. But maybe we were. We could taste the return to Pehoe - which meant the catamaran to the buses - which mean the buses to Puerto Natales - which meant hot seasoned food prepared by someone in a kitchen..and beds.

We made a five hour hike into a three hour hike. We originally meant to catch the 12:30pm catamaran, we made the 9:30am. I revealed the last of my salami that I had been saving for this victory ride out of the park. Though I chewed with vigor and triumph and anticipation of the comfort soon to come - I simultaneously sensed myself longing for the primal playground receding from my sight.

Once to the buses, the driver told us we would, "stop at Administration before continuing on to Puerto Natales" - which seemed logical enough. We thought we'd pick-up and backpackers that had hiked out of the park to that point, turn around and make our way to town.

We were made to get off and told that he would be back at one o'clock. I was at first angry, but then remembered this tends to be the way of things down here. Giving up on anger, I started playing with everything that wasn't nailed down in the Ranger's Station. Thus...

The bus picked us up again at 1pm and hurdled through the park, around blind curves, to the stop where everyone was exiting the midday catamaran. I tried to stomach the futility of it all, the contempt, the lack of control. I was boiling again. Having been a commando with my own affinity for eight days.. I was once again at the mercy of the inefficiency and inconsideration of others. I was becoming civilized again.

And Kaitlin slept..

We made it back to Puerto Natales with time enough to shower and head out the door to La Mesita Grande (The Little Big Table) where we feasted on splendid pizza and beer. Then we went back to the hostel where a New Year's celebration was planned. We made salad and with a couple from Switzerland and the hostel staff (Omar, Mauricio, and Omar's girlfriend) we rang in the new year with mounds of asado, pasta salad, brownies, Austral beer, box wine, and champagne!

It was a feast, but I was still hungry! We filed outside and danced to our own countdown sponsored by Manu Chao. We ran out of numbers, the champagne flowed, and everyone got a strong hug and a kiss on the cheek..or some variation thereof. There were too many signs of affection to keep track of - everyone fumbled to show in their own way that they were happy.

And so we had returned.

Torres del Paine - Day Eight

2010-01-02T14:29:00.005-07:00

The most crucial day for weather of our trip, was our best day of weather. What more can you say?

Here we have our make shift gaiters. Reports from those that had been over the pass were that the first third of our hike would be nothing but mud. Finally, the mythical mud!

So we wrapped our socks in plastic bags and then duct-taped the bags to our pants and left with Waheed from Oregon. Warriors all.

And they worked! The mud was more fun than foreboding. Truly, it was knee deep at times, but with the weather clear and our spirits high, we tromped and laughed our way through the forest.

Doesn't quite do it justice..

..nor do the rest of these pictures.

We made the Pass with, I suppose, relative ease. By this time our lungs, legs, and bones were powerful, in-tune. The snow added a certain level of difficulty, but our determination to traverse was too great - we could taste the glacier.

And we made it. Again, to another world. The surface of some other planet. Paine Pass leveled off to become a tarmac of fist sized shards - one side the deep muck forest - the other a deceptively massive glacier. We stayed there for a while as the wind took off down the slope and out over the ice field, eating chocolate and being proud.

A glacier, especially of this size, is something one truly must see for oneself. No picture can manage the scope. Even though I trekked nearly half its length and spent an evening watching it - I don't quite think I understand what it was I was seeing. The magnitude.

Energized by the crossing of Paine Pass, we convinced ourselves that we had enough in the tank to soldier on past Campamento Paso to Campamento Guardas. Making it to Guardas would make the last day a simple five hour stroll out of the park - I'm still not sure which would have been best.

The path from the summit to Guardas was a literal obstacle course at times. The trail had been so deteriorated by snow and sludge that we slid down portions of the descent as if we were taking for granted the once-every-four-years snow on Kite Hill in Clemson. It was fun and disconcerting. Climbing up a massive ladder was random and fun, climbing down as gusts of wind toyed with your pack was not. We hopped down the trail until our knees revolted. We were forced to ascend stair after stair. It was haphazard and infuriating, but just like the weather - it was temporal.

We arrived in Guardas a little after midday and with the understanding that this would be our last night in a tent we happily set-up our digs. That evening we talked for some time with the couple from Seattle. They had been kind enough to let us use their stove and they were forthcoming with exciting parallels in interest: Seattle, education, humor, and of course travel and nature...

We exchanged contact info. Bethany knows some principals and other potentially important figures in the Bay Area and might be able to save me some trouble in figuring out who I need to speak to. They also offered their guest bedroom next time we come up to Seattle.

Offers that can be made anywhere, but when you're huddled in a three wall shelter eating mystery soup and dehydrated mac and cheese - you don't feign interest or sincerity. I will keep Jerry's business card and we will write to them if/when we make our next trip to Seattle. So many good people...

Torres del Paine - Day Seven

2010-01-02T14:25:00.003-07:00

The original plan was to cover the 19 kilometer stretch from Seron to Refugio Dickson. But we were now warriors and presumed that a 19 kilometer stretch rated as six hours had to be almost entirely flat. We'd play it by ear, if we made good time, we'd stop at Dickson for lunch and then get to Los Perros so we could have an extra day incase weather turned poor on the Pass.

The weather was incredible and the vistas a more subtle shade of stunning. With the sun bouncing off of everything it was impossible not to gawk at the shadows racing over the valley or the wind whipping across the ponds and daises below.

We can't be quite sure where, because our map was so poor, but about two hours from Refugio Dickson, we paused along the path. We both had heard a bizarre noise, but didn't speak. I thought a puma had gotten ahold of a boar. I didn't even know if there were wild boar in the park, but to me that is the sound I heard and so I became defensive. My senses hightened, I scanned the thicket. Nothing. We waited in silence, exchanging bemused glances.

Then more sound, something rustling through the brush, coming towards us. It was impossible to tell whether the movement was erratic fumbling or blind rage. I raised my trekking polls towards what I thought to be the origin of the sound. Moments later, no more than twenty yards directly infront of me, what appeared to be a llama appeared tromping through the grass, bleating aimlessly, the most unusual sound.

I would later find out it was a guanaco, but at the time I only knew it resembled a llama and that llamas were generally ill-tempered, they spit. Who knew what a wild llama, bellowing in this unnatural way, would do..

But it was not concerned with us at all. We stood there frozen as it lept, bleated, lept and strode, paused and bleated, then galloped across our path and down the valley.

Kaitlin and I laughed, wide-eyed and flush.

We destroyed the trail. We were champs. We covered the 19 kilometers in around four hours, but we weren't counting. We took off our shoes at Refugio Dickson and watched as two gauchos drove a train of horses carrying empty supply contains back to their stable.

We had seen these men leading day hikers on horseback up to see the Torres. I had scoffed at them then - they really played the part! And now I was feeling a bit ashamed. On the backside of the park there was no one to perform for. These guys were bounding through the forest leading ten beasts down loose and mucky slopes. They controlled them with calculated yells and cracks of the whip.

I felt like we were back in San Telmo on Museum Night, when the local youth poured in from the streets to dance to folk music. It felt real.

We had rested at Dickson for quite some time as more circuit goers began to arrive. Waheed from Portland, Jerry and Bethany from Seattle. They marveled at our pace and heads inflated. We strutted into the forest, self-assured.

Over the next four hours we would be humbled greatly. Weakened by our dependence on the map and our unfamiliarity with the terrain - weakened further by a weather system that moved in. We should have made it to camp by now. The sky was grey, we were rising in elevation, it was colder and starting to turn wet. We passed the bridge on the map, we should have been there already.

There were two bridges on the map and we crossed five. There was no way to tell just how far we were from Campamento Los Perros. We hadn't seen a single soul. The terrain turned to rock. Sleet was now coming at us sideways. We had every layer on and were starting to soak through with cold.

We kept pushing though and after two more mounds of rubble, I saw two figures in the distance. These lunatics were leaving Los Perros on their way to Dickson in the middle of what, for me, was armageddon. But I was grateful for their lunacy. They told us we were indeed on the right course, that camp wasn't much further, don't worry.

We stumbled into camp, what could have been an outpost on Mars or Tibet or post-apocalyptic anywhere. Everything was wet. People scuttled from their tents to this green smoking hut.

We set up everything, settled with the park ranger, bought two chocolate bars, and made our way to the hut. We were in the bar scene in Star Wars, minus the funky space music. The room was full of all sorts of people - none of them clean. We made our way to the wood stove and choked ourselves with chocolate. Nearly every other cooking shelter in the park had been a cramped three walled structure - this was luxury!

We stayed there till our bones smelled like smoke - chatting with those that would tackle the Pass the next day and those who had already made it. Sharing information and hopeful expressions about the weather. Grateful to sit and be warm, but exhausted from the hardest day of the trip - we collapsed in our bags with the promise of an early morning and hope for good weather.

Torres del Paine - Day Six

2010-01-02T14:23:00.004-07:00

I was having apprehensions about continuing. Everyone was leaving. Rob and Blanche had left the day before. Antti and Laura were leaving today. All with the promise of hot food and warm beds.

The forcast for us was the same as the five days prior. Uncertainty. We had heard from some climbers at Campamento Torres that the weather report for the next four days was stellar, that three days out the weather reports tended to be accurate. I played the skeptic though, falling into the horror stories we had heard about the tempermental nature of the Paine Pass.

Not to mention, Kaitlin's cough had flared up and I didn't want to turn our backs on the quickest exit incase things really got bad. We made a deal. If she slept through the night, we'd continue on..

I stirred in the daylight. Could have been six or nine in the morning. I stirred - Kaitlin stirred. I sat up and she coughed a liquid loose cough, but she had made it through the night..and that was the deal.

So we ate our last meal with Antti and Laura and accompanied them from Chileno to Hosteria Torres. We marveled at the truly clean toilets inside and twiddled our thumbs a bit before exchanging hugs and leaving them with the promise that if we didn't meet up with them in Peru - we'd see them in either Berkeley or Tampere.

Once we got away from the park entrance at Hosteria Torres - everything changed.

The people were gone and even the mountains were gone. For the first time since we had arrived we couldn't see the mountains for more than an hour. The land turned from Jurassic Park to Montana and we enjoyed the easy introduction into the backside of the park.

It was still a six hour trek and nearly all flat on the last half. Though our packs were lighter, shear distance wears at your bones. Muscles rebuild, bones just get sore. But we had left camp early and so we arrived at the immaculate Campamento Seron early. The sun was out and the wind was finally dead. We could take off our shoes and lay in the sun!

Bliss, just like pain, is only temporary in Torres del Paine. We would have soaked in the sun till midnight if we could, but the clouds rolled in and the wind picked up and we hid in our tent for most of the evening rubbing eachothers sore spots.

Around 9pm we emerged from our shell to prepare dinner - just one problem...

I had left the stove pump at Chileno. For five minutes we stood there staring at each other - trying to read what the other was thinking. We couldn't go back for it. It would waste a day, it wouldn't even be there, we'd lose two days of food and forfeit the backside of the park. No Glacier Grey.

Screw it.

We had been so fortunate thus far, we were hot, the odds of someone having our same stove were quite good - but we couldn't be sure because everyone had gone to bed. The attendent was nice enough to provide us with some hot water that made our soup warm enough to put our minds at ease and sleep away our worries.

A problem for tomorrow!

Torres del Paine - Day Five

2010-01-02T14:19:00.003-07:00

This night, Kaitlin had another poor night with the coughing. With her now medicated, we blamed it on the cold air - never-the-less it would keep her from making the march to sunrise at the Torres.

So the five of us shivered our way out of camp as snow dribbled infront of our faces in the singular beam of light that was our headlamps. Once it gets dark down here - it gets dark.

The hike up to the base of the Torres was not exceedingly difficult despite being nearly straight vertical in some areas and the white blanket that made the path a wash at times. Still, I felt as if we were in some kind of danger. A combination of having no inkling as to what lay before us, having very little water, carrying what might be access weight in a scramble, and the impending sunrise.

..silly.

Here, I have made it to the base viewing area and the sunrise has just begun to show through the valley. We were early, perhaps the second or third group of people there.

After ten or fifteen minutes, the Torres themselves were looking fairly bleak. We had no idea when things should happen - how fast they would happen - or what exactly was even supposed...

However, as the minutes passed, we became aware of one concrete fact. We were too early. We could have left nearly an hour later than we did, forgone the standing in the snow and darkness, and not have missed a thing. Blanche and Laura turned back - convinced what, if anything, happened - was not worth losing their toes. I was enthralled...

More sun began to show in the sky, the snow ended, and the shroud of stagnant cloud began to burn away from the face of the Torres. The rock face to the right of the towers visibily changed as the sun crept over its surface - this gave us some ideas and kept us confident in the necessity of our presence.

Now more than two hours had passed since we first arrived. The sun was obscured from the Torres by a ridge of rock. We told ourselves it just needed to eclipse the ridge and that if the clouds held off we would be amazed by this natural phenomenon.

But the clouds didn't hold off. A smattering of rogue clouds just thick enough to disperse the suns rays kept bolting over the towers and into the path of the sun's light. As we began to debate the legitimacy of staying and waiting, we overheard a group of locals discussing the morning.

The girl became conscious that people were listening in and turned our way:

"You really need to be here in February. The sun lines up with that valley and hits the Torres dead on.."

OH! ..how silly of us! We hadn't come too early. Our nearly (but not quite) perfect weather conditions were not the problem either.. We were an entire month too early!

We tucked tale and sprinted down the trail, skidding here and there on the slushy snow as day hikers began to make their way towards the Torres. Antti and I got in our tents to catch a few hours of sleep before we moved camp away from the cold of elevation down to Refugio Chileno. For Rob and Blanche it was time to pack up camp and begin the four-five hour trek out of the park.

We woke up later that day and Rob had left his green curry paste for us, beautiful man! Knowing that our soup and polenta for the rest of the trip would have at least some flavor and relieve our sinuses, we strolled casually down to Chileno, set up camp, and hunkered down in the Refugio with a book, some food, and no intention of stepping outside unless absolutely necessary.

We succeeded in this. Between the two couples left, we held our table all day. Reading some, but mostly planning future trips: Antti and Laura coming to the States to crash in our tiny fictional apartment in Berkeley - Kaitlin and I coming to Finland to ride bikes along the hills of Tampere and maybe the guys would take a few weeks to wander around the soccer shrines of Europe and maybe we'd go to Bosnia and Poland and certainly Sweden and Norway and probably Latvia, Estonia, Lithuania - one or all.

We shared fake Pringles and talked about the Holidays away from home. We talked about our families and I wished that I could speak Finnish so I could pry a little less awkwardly. I wasn't sure if we were just poor at asking questions or if we answered their's too thoroughly. The only solution could be that we exchange lives for some time. They come to our country and see how and why we live. We come to theirs and do the same - meet the parents.

It's a thought that keeps me smiling. When the hostel is flooding with new people and you keep asking the same questions and answering the same questions - it helps me, of course to think of my family and friends in the States, but also to think of the friends I have made while traveling - the ones that could be my neighbor anywhere.

Torres del Paine - Day Four

2010-01-02T14:17:00.004-07:00

Day four was easily the hardest day thus far - perhaps why only one picture exists.

Every time we set out, we knew next to nothing about what we would encounter. Our map only gave elevation lines every 250meters. We left camp knowing we had over six hours on our plate - that it would be a rough one. But weather had been nearly perfect up to this point, so spirits were still high.

On the trail, I became a machine. After getting over the fatigue of the first two days - I was more or less fit. A hill meant nothing - just the left foot and then the right. Only processing where the best footing would be. Designate. Act.

So I was leaving everyone behind. Pushing the pace. After about an hour of steady incline, the angle growing increasingly intense - I was getting angry. I crept further into my head, pounding my trekking poles into the soil. The steady drizzle only served as a further annoyance. After beating one hill, I would make the mistake of looking up and curse the next hill. They kept coming and I kept cursing and kept pounding my poles.

Finally, from somewhere below, "Jack! A break! Please!" - Antti had rescued us from me.

From this point, I hopped in the back of the train. The trail was more or less a slugfest till we reached Refugio Chileno. We rested for a while here and I observed the day hikers and platinum hikers with disdain. This was our hardest day of trekking, so I could now afford to be jaded.

We finished off our weary bodies with another hour and a half to Campamento Torres. We knew as we climbed up and up and drizzle turned into snow, it would be a cold night. We arrived and everyone set up camp, ate, and got into their sacks as soon as possible. In a few hours we would attempt to make the forty-five minute hike to hopefully see the Torres made into three bright red pillars by the sunrise.

Torres del Paine - Day Three

2010-01-02T14:10:00.004-07:00

Kaitlin was naturally torn between the desire to continue on, not wanting to abandon the trek so soon and not wanting to jeopardize her health in a fairly isolated place.

We struck a deal. She would ask the park ranger if he had antibiotics. If he didn't, perhaps we could just skip Valley Frances and head toward Refugio Los Cuernos if there were a doctor there.

The park ranger didn't have any medicine and there wasn't a doctor in the entire park. We were completely on our own.

By this time Antti and Laura were up and while Kaitlin started breakfast, I explained the situation. We didn't want to risk it getting worse. She had taken the cold medicine we had brought and it didn't work - it could only be bacterial.

Antti, "Ah, but Laura has antibiotics! So there is no problem."

The word "prodigious" flashed through my brain.

We were saved by the unforseen third option. And then I was a bit spooked. How fortunate could we be, meeting Rob and Blanche at Administration - Rob and Blanche meeting Antti and Laura at Pehoe - Antti and Laura having antibiotics...

But, things like this happen...

So, the plan was then that we would all leave our tents at Italiano. We would hike up with only our lunches to Campamento Britanico and then another twenty minutes to the outlook of Valley Frances.

The trek was rather easy on the way up. We bounced from boulder to boulder - led on by the ridiculous geology before us. Becoming, very simply, that quintessential experience that defies words, pictures, videos, etc...

We arrived in the hollow of what seemed like an advancing wall of stone, snow, and cloud. You couldn't stare at one spot too long for fear that you would be engulfed by the looming peaks in your periphery. I kept smiling and hated myself when I spoke. It was so quiet there and it should only be quiet.

It is a place that I would go back to at any time in my life and I would stay there. But we eventually left. We had to make our way down, pack up camp, and get to the next camp before sundown.

From Italiano we skimmed across Lago Nordenskjold again, but this time the trek took us down to the denim colored pebble beach and up into the hills where I could see just enough of everything to feel like I was stealing or special.

I didn't want to think the things we were seeing had anything to do with Christmas, but I couldn't help it. It was a gift to be here. It was a different contentment. I justified being happy without my family, by vowing that I would somehow share some substantial percentage of my feeling in that moment - with them.

That night we made dinner outside of the Refugio. The let us eat inside. We stayed till late. Sharing box wine and salami and sweets. We indulged as best we could. It felt good to be warm and in good company, though it was impossible to ignore the staff and structure of the room..and to know that our families were not in the next room.

My belly full of wine and pasta and deli meat and chocolate, I smirked at the intensity of my happiness and slept deep and hard.

Torres del Paine - Day Two

2010-01-02T14:05:00.003-07:00

The night before we (Kaitlin, Blanche, Rob, and I) had discussed our plans. Since we would ultimately make our way up to Glacier Grey, we would only tackle the trail to Campamento Italiano. Since Rob and Blanche only had time for the "W" (Glacier Grey to the French Valley to the Torres) they would hike to Glacier Grey and back early in the day, but make it to Italiano for camp.

We had told Rob and Blanche about Antti and Laura, about the peculiarity of Finns (in particular Finnish) that made them, in many ways, more interesting than any Scandinavians we had encountered. Before we parted ways in the morning, I jokingly (again) told Rob that if he saw a blonde couple speaking softly - if he "saw any Finns" to tell them Jack and Kaitlin would be waiting for them at Italiano...

So Kaitlin and I set out, to get in early and relax. Kaitlin had been coughing quiet heavily - so we were thinking hit it hard, then rest.

The path from Refugio Pehoe east was rather tame as we snaked through the foothills between Glacier Frances and Lago Skottsberg. My body felt good, the views were incredible, dynamic peaks and milky aquamarine below. Kaitlin was steady, but clearly nowhere near fit. We stopped periodically for her to clear her throat, to blow her nose, as her cough got deeper and deeper.

Just as fatigue began to creep into my calves we caught sight of a river, a bridge, and campers milling about on the other side.

Here Kaitlin captured one of my favorite moments of the nine days. With our tents up and stomaches full of peanuts and raisins we had nothing but time to kill. Scanning the rocks along the river, I found what I suspected and confirmed to be two rocks molded by time into the perfect lazy seat for watching snow pack slip down the south face of Glacier Frances.

I'm not sure how long I sat out there. Hours? Eventually, I went to get water upstream from camp and when I came back - who is strolling slowly into camp, but Rob and Blanche. I go to meet them and ask them how their trek went. Everything was great, but the trek was long, and... we found the Finns!

Apparently, after hiking up to Glacier Grey, Rob and Blanche had returned to Refugio Pehoe for a meal. Before they left, they saw a young, blonde couple walk into camp. Rob eavesdropped on the almost murmuring couple - now convinced. And in this moment, proved why I had a good feeling about him from the beginning. Rather than shrugging it off and psyching himself out. He approached the couple and asked if they were from Finland (..yes..), did they know Jack and Kaitlin (YES! We're worried about them!), and told them that we'd all meet up at Italiano.

Kaitlin and I were electric. It worked!

We waited impatiently for another two hours. We started to worry. The sun doesn't set until 10:30-11pm here, but it was getting colder and dimmer. We decided to set out just a little way down the trail to see if we could see Antti and Laura approaching.

We made it across the bridge and around the first bend..and who was there infront of me, but a flushed and smiling Laura with Antti just behind.

I'm horrible with candid photos. It's hit or miss as a general rule and you take what you can get. What mattered was that we had managed to coordinate a fairly complicated rendezvous with friends we had made over a thousand miles away - both pairs at the mercy of pay-as-you-go internet cafes and tens of hours on buses that are chronically late. And none of that mattered now, because we made it work.

I must have been smiling the rest of the evening, smiling in my sleep. That is until Kaitlin woke me up in the middle of the night. Her cough had weight, but was also violently staccato - like a dent popped out of a sheet of metal. She said she couldn't breathe.

Torres del Paine - Day One

2010-01-02T13:39:00.006-07:00

"Ode to the Backpack" - I had been ruing the title of this blog lately. It's cliche. It's ambiguous. I teetered on the brink of being perceived as a poser, a lemming, naive.. and now.. there is no intimidation, no pretention - the Paine took it from me.

I may still know comparatively little about the life of a backpacker, about mountaineering, about outdoor subsistence, but in the park - for myself - I became a warrior, an animal. Two days removed, I still feel it in my stride as I fight the sporadic winds that crash through the concrete lanes of Puerto Natales. I might as well be charging across the foothills north of Lago Nordenskjold. But I'm getting ahead of myself...

This is a rather poor facsimile of Parque Nacional Torres del Paine. It is surprisingly difficult to find a current and/or accurate trail map for the park online. Even the map you receive upon entering is filled with errors...

Day One

There are two roads to Torres del Paine. One is a relatively "new" dirt road reserved for buses. The other is an older and slightly more uncomfortable (but half the distance) dirt road reserved for cars.

Entry to Torres del Paine is like entrance to Peninsula Valdez or Glacier NP. The admission fee is incredibly inflated to be dispersed amongst the other national parks with less traffic. Between transportation and entrance into the park - you're already looking at over fifty US dollars.

Since we're feeling frisky and confident, we let the hostel staff plant the seed in our minds that there are "alternative" methods of travel. So we decided on hitchhiking. Since there are only two roads leading out of town..and one of them goes straight to the park..and there are two of us.. we figured the odds of catching a ride were better than average.. and the odds of that would-be ride being a psycho murderer were slim.

We were right on both fronts!

We left early in the morning and walked for over an hour as locals made various hand gestures (pointing left, pointing right, horizontal circular motions, finger wagging, the "wait a minute" frontal index finger, and so on...), that we can only assume meant, "Sorry friend, we're just going around the corner..." - but each one made a different signal..and we crossed the road multiple times, uncertain which side of the road was customary for hitching and unsure whether they hated us - if it even mattered at all.

After about an hour with no success, we thumbed a blue two-axel flatbed lorry charging over the hill we had just wound around while staring at the horses in the field - staring at us. The lorry slowed and settled about twenty yards infront of us. I'm not even sure what was said, I was so excited, skipping under my nearly fifty pound pack.

I did my best impression of an Italian footballer pleading for a penalty as I prayed to the man and the boy that smiled as we slung our packs onto the bed and jumped onto the wood planks. They were just going to Milodon Cave, where ever that was, but it was closer to the park and we didn't have to walk! Success!

The feeling as we sat with our backs to the cab and watched field after field come over our shoulder - was freedom. It was warm milk or coffee that you roll around your mouth, tasting, carelessly - then swallow.

Within fifteen minutes we felt the throttle kickin and the steady application of the brakes. We pulled over just as the road forked three ways - one way Milodon Cave, one way another 170 kilometers on the bus route to the park, and the car route only 66 kilometers to safety.

Everyone was beaming, none more so than the adolescent boy in the passenger seat of the cab, as we hoisted our packs and made our way across the empty highway to the grey gravel road that led into the vista of mountains.

We walked this road for no more than twenty minutes, surprised by the amount of traffic, but not so surprised that most vehicles were freshly washed vans shuttling people that pay - with no room for us. We kept our thumbs out though, until they fell upon a small white Fiat with two passengers. It slowed. It stopped. Everyone spoke a sentence of Spanish..and then we all realized we were tourists and reverted to English.

We found that the couple, from Rome, were on a delayed honeymoon. The husband works for Pfizer and the wife an Italian equivalent of Mary Kay. We chatted about the usual topics, studies, work, football, pulled over and took pictures for them. We eventually arrived at the park entrance and I still was uncertain if we had taken them out of their way or if we were even in the right place. Disoriented and still processing that our plan had worked.

After paying our entrance fee, we were dropped at "Administration" the first stop for cars coming into the park and the last stop for buses. From here we tried to pass the couple money for gas (more than a bus ticket would have cost), but they refused - only asking that we have a picture with them.

From this point, the day became a bit of a whirlwind. As the Italian couple pulled away, I looked over my shoulder and noticed people filing off of a bus.
The night before we had discussed our plans over dinner with a couple traveling south from Santiago - she originally from Melbourne and he from England. We wished each other well, I threw out an empty, "maybe we'll see you around the park."
And that is exactly who I saw. We had beat their bus by a matter of seconds. We stood in the parking lot and recognized that we would now have to walk together.

Our original goal for the day was to walk from Administration to Pehoe and then on to Refugio Grey, in order to meet up with Antti and Laura (our Finnish friends from Buenos Aires). We set out on the mostly flat, but long trail, and the foothills inched closer as we paired off and I rattled on and on to Rob (the very jovial and polite gentlemen from Sheffield) about things I hadn't talked about in a while.

At this time, I was concerned with conserving my camera's battery life and perhaps carrying some pretentions about my "mental camera" - needless to say, no pictures exist of our introductory hike into the heart of the park.

No matter, what need be known is that we had begun what would prove to be a very fortuitous partnership and though our hearts sank a little as we realized we were unfit to carry on another four hours to Refugio Grey - we were in good company, the weather was pristine, and our views invincible.

Arriving in Pehoe, we threw down our packs, set up our tent, and collapsed under its canopy. Bones aching, muscles burning, I contemplated what we had gotten ourselves into. The physical challenge being more than anything I had encountered in months, but the promise of commiseration, managed equilibrium and got me up - intent on feeding my face before sleep, sleep, sleep.

We ate and hobbled back to our respective tents. Tomorrow would be a short day for us. Only two hours to Campamento Italiano. I slept greedily, knowing the punishment had just begun and could resume at any moment.

Puerto Madryn and Peninsula Valdes

2009-12-22T05:21:00.003-07:00

Puerto Madryn

Patagonia is big!

This is more or less all we saw for the four hours before we arrived in Puerto Madryn which is nestled inside the Golfo Nuevo and about 90km from entrance into the nature reserve on Peninsula Valdes

Arriving at our hostel (a lovely, quiet place called Retorno) we look at eachother and say, "what do we do now" and a gentleman at reception says, "why don't you rent a car?" and we say, "Okay!"

And we do.

Though rather expensive (equivalent to $60 US for 24 hours and 400km) - we splurge for it since we only spent five dollars in two days in Viedma and would be on a bus for twenty-four hours in the morning. Plus, this wasn't some beat-up deathtrap, it was a 2007 VW.

And, since we arrived we have been talking about the fact that we, as true Americans I suppose, miss the autonomy of being able to get in our car and just - DRIVE! How this plays into larger economic and social systems is a topic for another day, what matters is that we were able to get away from the buses, away from the tourists, and get out into the open country to see things like this:

It took about an hour to get to the entrance for Peninsula Valdes. After paying the rather steap entrance fee, we zoomed off towards the nearest vantage point, Punta Piramides.

Here we found some of the bluest water I have seen in my entire life. Not to mention the sea lions rolling around in the water and waddling on land. Unfortunately, we didn't manage to see any whales, but sitting at the covered vantage point as a thunderstorm swept over the peninsula, alone, was worth the effort.

After 400km the company charges .80 pesos for every kilometer over. Thus, we were unable to venture further out onto the peninsula. However, this did not stop us from taking a little off-road tangent - that was both exciting because it was not my car that we were jostling and splattering with mud, and also a bit terrifying due to the possibility that if we were stuck, we could be spending the night in the car.

Of course, everything went off without a hitch. We made it back to Puerto Madryn in time to have a wonderful fresh meal and beer, accompanied by an extremely friendly receptionist named Sebastian.

The next morning we awoke before six to drive out to the end of the cove and watch the sunrise. Because we could.
Then we returned to the hostel, continued chatting with Sebastian as we munched on pan integral and the richest butter ever tasted - real butter. Then it was time to head off to the bus depot to catch our micro to Rio Gallegos and ultimately Puerto Natales...

..but first..

I SHAVED!

Merry Christmas Kaitlin, Mom, and Kim!

And serious again..

Though we anticipated a miserable twenty-four hours on the bus, we were pleasantly surprised to have really enjoyed ourselves. The combination of a clean, smooth running bus, genial fellow passengers, and some staggering scenery - made the trip feel more like a mellow slideshow than a thousand mile slog.

In particular, I made friends with a young girl who was traveling south with her sister and mother to Puerto San Julian to visit family for Christmas. At first she mostly smiled and laughed at my poor attempts to communicate in Spanish. Eventually she responded with a "Si" or a nod of the head. By the time everyone was going to bed, she would respond in full sentences, though still perplexed by the eager stranger.

Talking to her was a great relief at the time. Not only because I was able to use her language without any major errors, but because talking to her I felt as though I could have been talking to my own sister. That we were traveling together, to go home and spend the holidays in communion with our loved ones. It was nice for that moment, but her journey ended at Puerto San Julian..and I find myself another eight hours away in Puerto Natales.

Tomorrow we leave for the park. We plan to be there eight to ten days. Though we plan to trek with another couple..and though there are sure to be more backpackers in the campsites..I can't remember being this nostalgic for the holidays.

For the last few years, since our grandmothers became increasingly frail - the traditions we had held since I could remember, began to fade and fade. I thought then that it was okay, that the progression would lead to new traditions, that we would adjust and adapt and create a new family dynamic and tradition. I didn't think about being here. Surely, no one thought both Kristen and I would have moved out of the continent.

I don't mean to digress into the psychosis of my family dynamic, but it is quite relevant as to my musings about my experiences here. How I am coping with this absence - certainly intense during the holidays, but surely will continue to occupy my thoughts as we move on to the farm in Chiloe and are immersed in a completely alien family dynamic.

Alas, problems for another day!

There are tons of photos I was unable to upload (not enough hours in the day!), but this must suffice for now..as we have a full day of preparing for our trek. Not to mention, over a week to spend in the park. Till then..

Buenos Aires to Viedma

2009-12-21T09:45:00.004-07:00

If I don't write about last week now.. I may find myself another week behind and slipping ever further into a blogging-backlog-abyss..

I just need that one sentence to unlock the torrent of words that swarm inside my head all day, but I can't find it and another day goes by. Now, the pressure is truly on. Tomorrow we leave for an eight to ten day trek through Torres del Paine. No doubt our experiences there will warrant a similar feeling within - something must be done!

Here are the facts:

We have arrived in Puerto Natales, Chile - via a whirlwind bus tour:

Buenos Aires to Viedma: 12 hours
Viedma to Puerto Madryn: 8 hours (though it should have been four!)
Puerto Madryn to Rio Gallegos: 15 hours
Rio Gallegos to Puerto Natales: 6 hours
°approximate times°

VIEDMA

Not many people are familiar with Viedma. I am paraphrasing, but the guidebooks synopsis of Viedma was, "A nice place to grab a snack, but make sure the bus doesn't leave you behind." When we got off our bus and asked for our bags, the driver responded, "You're getting off here?!" On our way to the bus depot in Buenos Aires we told our taxi driver(a gentleman from Montevideo) that we were off to Viedma, he responded, "Great! It is the second largest city in Argentina, you will love it, etc..."

He was right, kind of. It is evident as soon as you clear the sandy soy bean farms and get your first look at Viedma that it is NOT the second largest city in Argentina. In fact, Viedma and Carmen de Patagones(the last stop in Buenos Aires province and Viedma's neighbor across the Rio Negro) combined might only rival Buenos Aires' Palermo barrio in total land mass, but surely no other category.

Of course, the best part about a misconception is setting the record straight or at least offering a second opinion - something I am quite familiar with, hailing from the Bible Belt. Our aid in this endeavor was a local journalist, named Maria Paula, who covered the city government. Paula is our first contact through CouchSurfing.com that has actually been able to host us and I fear that we have been spoiled.

We met Paula at her office where she promptly left work to walk us to her apartment. By the time we had showered, settled, and been thoroughly acquainted with Paula's insane feline, Moro, she was back from work and preparing a late lunch!

Tranquilo

Spawn of Satan

No better activity after a fulfilling meal than a lazy walk around town to see the buildings, monuments, and natural attractions.

Including the original government building of the province where this flag was on display:

The flag of the Rio Negro Province which had just been dedicated in October.

From there we stepped into Catedral Nuestra Señora de la Merced, where Paula explained the two local saints:
One was an indigenous boy, Ceferino Namuncurá, who was taken from his tribe by the Church, converted, and used as an example for missionaries. He later developed tuberculosis, was sent to Rome to see the Pope, and died.
The other was a local man, Artemide Zatti, a nurse who went around curing ailments in his spare time.
There are massive murals and relics of both men in the church.

From there we walked along the Rio Negro until just around sunset.

Carmen de Patagones and the Catedral by the same name.

After a quick photo-op we took the one peso ferry across to Carmen de Patagones - just in time for sunset.

Paula's knowledge of local history continued to flow as we walked past the walls of the old fort that were once the foundation of the settlement, the original dock that made the Rio Negro a potential port city before the discovery of a massive sandbar ruled out major cargo holders, and more Catedrals!

On the walk back from the tour, Paula tells us that she is leaving the key with us and is going to stay at a friends house. That she will stay there as long as we wish to stay in town, "This way everyone is more comfortable." We were taken aback by such a degree of hosptiality, but Paula shrugged it off as, "it's just what we do here."

The next day we attempted to get our travel beyond Viedma taken care of while Paula was at work. Eventually we all met up back at Paula's, piled into her Fiat, and left for the her friend Adrian's house fifteen minutes outside of town on the Rio Negro.

There we sat together on his porch facing the river and ate asado with bread, veggies, and beer. Again, with our bellies full, we continued on to El Condor, a small beach community founded after the "El Condor" ran aground there sometime in the 18th century.

The water was far too cold for swimming and the wind made lounging in the sun difficult, but conditions did make for quite an ideal little chat near the cliffs that hold back the sea and house the worlds largest parrot colony.

We drank mate and talked about everything under the sun as the parrots squawked, flocked, and perched. With our termo empty and the sun getting low on the horizon, and everyone with plenty of sand in their buttcracks, we went back to Paula's where we continued to chat about colloquialism and just really enjoyed ourselves.

Part of the difficulty of our trip is that we have so much time. With so many options, it is difficult to know when to stay and when to go. In retrospect, perhaps Viedma is a place we should have stayed longer. Though the sites were more or less exhausted after the first day, nowhere have we had someone so willing to help us, be able to give us firsthand insight into local life AND do it all in Spanish.

Yet decisions are made. Sometimes without thorough communication. And so, we left Viedma that night (4:15am in fact) and slept off our worries that we had made the wrong decision - arriving in Puerto Madryn later that day - fully immersed in the Patagonia.

One Month

2009-12-12T04:12:00.003-07:00

It has been over a month now since we arrived in Argentina. Thus far, it has been a trip unlike any other. I couldn´t be more pleased with the way we have gone about our travels. From the blitzkrieg that was the first week, to the tranquilo week in Punta del Diablo, to the last week back here in Buenos Aires.. I feel we have about as well balanced a scope of the Rio de la Plata region as we could in one months time.

But now it is time to say, "So long..for now"

To the demonstrations that have become less and less of a curiosity.

To gracious ex-pats that despite their ramblings about "backpackers" really understand how hard it is to be in a foreign city without any local roots.

To the excess and the diversity that is a major urban setting.

And again it is the two of us. Off again together to new places and people, but with so many more resources than before.

We have been so fortunate. Whether it was the staff at the hostel who were always willing to help, but never intrusive - our fellow hostelers who have shared experiences and offered assistance - ex-pats and locals that have allowed us an even more thorough perception of the place - lastly the people themselves, the nameless throngs that shuffle from block to block, the noisy traffic and crowded subte, have all become like a television or radio buzzing in the other room - like the giddy sounds lofting over your balcony from the playground across the street - and anything else that can be considered noise, but is also a comfort.

We are off to Viedma, capital of Río Negro province, and just over 12 hours/950km south of Buenos Aires. There we will be staying with a local who has offered her guidance around the city, a hot meal that night, and a couch to crash on.

From there we will decide whether we continue another day´s journey west to Bariloche for chocolate and picturesque mountain vistas or south to Puerto Madryn for whale watching. The decision is largely logistical and since we intend to visit both (on either side of our weeks of trekking in Puerto Natales and Calafate) - we can´t lose.

Yet it remains an element of uncertainty, one that is no longer intimidating, but more so a liberating challenge. Either way, doing it together, surely with some help along the way - we can´t go wrong.

I have added these photos here so that everyone can see we are still alive and well:

Here Kaitlin demonstrates some wonderful finger puppets we bought for Sean and Susan´s son Walter at a fair in Recoleta.

Here I demonstrate the "medal" we won in the soccer tournament last week. I am also demonstrating my bearded cheeks - which I know my mother and little sister are happy they don´t have to kiss!

More from Viedma..or Bariloche..or Puerto Madryn!

2009-12-05T05:43:00.007-07:00

Upon returning to our hostel in Buenos Aires, we have been pleasantly surprised to find that the brood of partying Aussies has been replaced with an equally as stimulating, though less insomnia inducing group of Scandinavians (Finns and Swedes). Thus, I have had little time to be as reclusive as I anticipated in order to update the blog with our week in Punta del Diablo. Fortunately, I am a special breed of being that transcends all nationalities. I sleep very little. I wake up early. No distractions when no one else is awake. Entonces..

Present: As I mentioned we have been assimilated into the Scandinavian horde. It began innocently enough, a fellow named Antti from Finland and I began talking soccer one day - which became all day. He invited me to play in a 5v5 tournament that takes place every Friday in Palermo. There were to be three Swedes coming down from Iguazu (over twelve hours away) just to meet up for the tournament. They arrived two nights ago and we all talked for some hours about various topics - mostly soccer.

Yesterday, before the match, I had some errands to attend to. Financial matters, letters to send, and registration for my spanish course. It was a very productive, though mellow day.

4pm rolled around and it was time to leave for the fields. The tournament was set up so that there were eight teams in two brackets. The the best record from each bracket playing in the final. I was a bit nervous about my level of play compared to the Scandinavians. We had talked the night before about the lack of opportunity in the States to train at a high level - compared to the thoroughly organized structure in Sweden and Finland.

However, I performed well. Scored all three goals in the first match and then had a handful of assists as we made our way to the final undefeated. The overall quality of play was very high - mostly Europeans and South Americans - all with a very high work rate. We played well in the final. We were up 3-1 only to see it even at 3-3 with three minutes to go. We scored the winner just before time ran out, in our minds we were done. Then the ref says, "We have four more minutes. We could stop now, but..why not play four more?!" Of course, we agreed, and ended up "losing" 4-5. We still got free beer at the end (though it was the last thing I wanted to drink after running longer and harder than I have in some time!), but we missed out on the "medals" which were basically yarn and a coin with a hole through it - simple, but still would have made a great momento for the trip.

Needless to say, we all really enjoyed playing together. After showering and making dinner, we all had wine on the roof terrace, talking and listening to Swedish hip hop until two in the morning.

Today we are all going to the Boca Juniors - Independiente derby. It is likely to be pretty crazy, considering Boca is a smaller venue and the teams are not far from each other in the league table.

More on this later..

Past: A week in Punta del Diablo - Uruguay

Welcome to Punta del Diablo! Here we have the village center (more or less). There is a trinket market on one side of the cove. Then you have restaurants, a surf shop, and the main grocery store just up the road. The beach of this cove is also where the locals come to play soccer in the evening.

Our first night in town we stumbled upon the game. Over twenty men of all ages (mostly young adult) playing between the surf and the boats with piles of sand as goals. As soon as I saw the game, I knew I would have to play. Of course, they said I could join.

For the most part our time in Punta del Diablo was spent in relative isolation. We went to the market every now and then to get supplies, but generally we stuck to ourselves. The game though, is a rare opportunity to communicate in a very profound way. Though little, if anything is said, and certainly the only words expressed revolve around the game. Yet, from group and individual mentality towards the game - you can gain such an insight into the community.

In Punta del Diablo, it is a simple game. It is brutal competition one moment and a farce the next. Laughing, then screaming. They dart between their skiffs and half exposed cinderblocks seemingly without a second thought that a slight miscalculation could jeopardize their livelihood. They wrestle in the tide - heels and shins in a heap - until someone gets thrown into the breaking wave - and the game continues..

As for our cabaña, it was perfect. It was able to accommodate as many as four, but for two people it was a very comfortable space (with a little extra room for scorpions and spiders).

The first floor featured the basic amenities and served as a cozy place to read and lounge - while the second floor had a large bed and spacious balcony for basking in the sun.

Of the seven days, two or three were rather overcast, but this made for comfortable walks around the village. To watch the surfers, the bizarre creatures scuttling from boulder to boulder, the horses, the steady stream of maté carrying scooter pilots - and the dogs that would chase tires without end.

However, there was plenty of sunshine as well! Most days consisted of waking up with the sun. Lounging with a book in the cabaña or on the beach. Though the water was quite cold, I managed to catch a few decent waves, but mostly just enjoyed being back with the ocean.

One rookie mistake, that was mostly due to my nonchalance was that we did not bring enough money with us to pay the cabaña owner for the entire week. The reason being that we didn´t want to carry a lot of cash on our person, figuring there would be an ATM in Punta del Diablo.

The closest ATM ended up being an hours bus ride towards the border with Brazil to a town called Choy. Choy exists mainly so people can purchase duty free items that they don´t really need..and we were stuck there for five hours waiting for the next bus back to Punta del Diablo.

However, this unfortunate time in Choy did allow me to snap a photo of the ever present horse drawn carriages that are particularly popular in Uruguay (even in Montevideo). I suppose it isn´t too strange, considering the economics of the country, but especially in Montevideo - one can´t help but stare as a city bus waits impatiently as a horse drawn carriage attempts to parallel park on a busy city street.

Lastly, a bit of soccer tennis played on our last evening in Punta del Diablo. Rather picturesque..

-----------------------------

Even more present:

Since beginning this entry - I have attended the Boca-Independiente derby - and survived! We were actually quite comfortable (more so than when watching River) - though if we had been seated anywhere near the Barra Bravas (essentially fans that are more like the mafia) - I might not be hear to write about it.

Never-the-less, the game was incredible. As a team, Boca are a bit frustrating - rather one dimensional, however - their fans are absolutely incredible. I´m not sure there is anything that rivals their passion in the world..and the more I talk to internationals that love soccer as I do - the more I am certain of this. If only the level of play (which can be quite good) were deserving of the fans energy. Then I might be able to comprehend seeing people climb thirty foot fences topped with barbed wire, just to have opposing fans shower them with questionable liquids from the terrace above. It is truly a different world..and though I love it - I am grateful for the distance I have from it. So I can stay alive and healthy to appreciate it.

Best.

Montevideo - Uruguay

2009-12-03T08:36:00.003-07:00

Unfortunately, the need to not look like a tourist in a big city means that it is difficult to capture the vibe you get from different urban settings. Luckily, there are still words!

My overall sense, having now made the circuit of BA to MVD to Punta del Diablo and back, is that Montevideo is a wonderful place. More or less like the mythical barrio we hope to find here in BA.

The streets seem wider (especially off the main thoroughfares..) - children play soccer in the side streets - meanwhile buses, cars, and horse drawn carts scuttle around with purpose (but not the incessant honking and impatience that is Buenos Aires).

The main drag in Montevideo is Avenida 18 de Julio. All the shops and monuments congregate around this major artery that connects the "Old City" with center city.

This is.. some "Palace" - I´m not sure if we knew the name, we certainly didn´t know its purpose. Though there are no signs are markers to explain it, there are postcards. Interesting none-the-less.

Plaza Independencia - Montevideo, Uruguay
Loudest ice cream vendors this side of the Rio del Plata!
On the far end of the plaze is the "Gateway to the Old City" - which basically means you are about to enter ten solid blocks of tourist trinkets..until you reach the still old city - which is where we ended up.

Not much to "do" in the Old City - so we sat down for a meal at what looked to be a cozy and affordable parrilla. Though pictures exist of the entre - it is best to only post the picture of the bread and beer - as not to give anyone a visual heart attack. Let´s just say, the service was much better than the food!

In fact, the gentleman that served us was very friendly. We talked for a good while about the then upcoming elections - as well as the upcoming superclasico (massive soccer derby) between Uruguayan giants Nacional and Peñarol.

The man explained in detail the flags we had seen around the city (Frente Amplio). That Frente was a coalition group and had a strong hold in MVD (they went on to win the election).
He also said that there is not much difference between Nacional and Peñarol. That perhaps Nacional is more of a posh club, but that they were more similar in being the largest clubs - unlike the social stigma that separates Boca and River in Argentina. Thus, he also debunked the notion that either club was affiliated with a political party. We could have talked much longer on this topic, but we were paying for the food rather than the conversation. I was gracious for the little insight into the soccer scene in Uruguay - food for thought!

We eventually made our way back to the hostel. Then later made an attempt to hit the beach that was just a few blocks from our place, but being the homebodies that we are - we did not last too long. We made our way back, again, and spent the rest of the evening engaged in conversation with a Pan-South American group of travelers at the hostel. This very interesting crowd included a journalist from Ecuador who was covering the elections as a foreign correspondent - he more or less hates soccer, but loves baseball and wishes to one day get a visa to visit the States so he can go to a Yankees game, a Chilean who is studying to become a doctor and speaks better German than I do Spanish - a Bolivian who had just moved to Uruguay and offered me a spot on his club soccer team - and so on...

That is enough to chew on for now.. There are maaaany pictures from Punta del Diablo..and much to say yet to come. But later.. now I have to go find someone to tutor me in Spanish so I can give Kaitlin a break!

2009-12-03T08:23:00.002-07:00

Here are some glimpses from our first few days in Buenos Aires that we didn´t have the time to get online earlier..

"La Bombonera" - Estadio Alberto J. Armando - Home of Club Atlético Boca Juniors
Considerably smaller than River Plate´s stadium, but word is because of this the atmosphere is much more intense/better. Might have to see for myself as Boca Juniors (sitting 11th in the table) plays Independiente (6th) this weekend.

No shortage of time pieces in the Plaza de Mayo. Quite the panoramic from the water fountain in the plaza center.

The "Casa Rosada" or "Pink House" which connects the east end of Avenida de Mayo with the west end and the Congreso de la Nación Argentina.

Congreso de la Nación Argentina

Some pretty stellar graffiti outside the art school on the corner of Maipú and Lavalle..

..a closer look.

Unfortunately, this facility (totalling about five courts, all underneath a freeway) is part of a local high school. No gringos allowed - actually the courts are open one day a week, but not the right day for me!

From Devil´s Point

2009-11-29T14:25:00.002-07:00

We have been here in Punta del Diablo for four days now.

The five hour bus ride east from Montevideo has provided a perspective that has been much needed since I began. Though it seems there is no such thing as a deserted sandy paradise in Uruguay (which in retrospect makes sense because of the countries location between travelers from the population centers of Buenos Aires in Argentina and Rio in Brazil) - we have stumbled upon this cabaña riddled little village in the off season - which might as well make it Mars.

Our cabaña is probably a half mile from the focal point of the village (a cove where the fishing boats dock), but less than a five minute walk from a mini-market that has a decent supply of produce and honey flavored snacks that we have become very fond of (best when combined with fig jam).

I am not quite disillusioned, on the contrary, my eyes have been opened. Punta del Diablo makes no excuses for what it is. The locals spend the day mysteriously buzzing back and forth across town on their scooters - sometimes with propane tanks, sometimes with a liter of Fanta in hand, most always with their maté gourd and a thermos. They are mostly a dishevled, but happy community. Despite all the pontificating and surmising - they have shown me who they are. Our first day here we happened upon a group of about twenty (mostly) young men playing soccer on the beach. I spotted who I correctly assumed was the best player and asked him, "Puedo jugar?" - "Can I play?" - the result was an almost esoteric experience that I will one day spend a good bit of time dictating. However, the spackled structure that functions as an internet cafe (but looks more like a post industrial garage) will be closing shortly and I have a pizza to make tonight.

For now, a list of developments.

My "cold" appears to have actually been allergies.
We have booked our return to Buenos Aires for this Wednesday.
We will stay there for a week so I can participate in some Spanish tutoring (for about $50 US).
Then we will finally head south.

Best.

2009-11-24T05:18:00.003-07:00

We have arrived in Uruguay!

It was a lot easier to leave the hostel in Buenos Aires than I was anticipating. I had begun to feel rather comfortable with the staff, as well as the city itself. However, with our bags packed - the mobile spirit returned.

We spent most of the morning in a café on de Mayo. Marvelling at the porteño obsession with media lunas (croissants) as well as the general activity of the city center on a Monday. We stayed for some time, reading and writing, relishing the custom that you pay when you are ready to leave.

Back at the hostel we scheduled a taxi ride to the ferry and then waited about thirty minutes. Getting into the cab I was hit with that exhilirating sense of the unknown that had more or less faded after our second day in Buenos Aires. Yet again, we were at the mercy of strangers..

The taxi ride was fairly uneventful - as was the check-in for the ferry (though I was more reluctant this time to hand over my backpack). We had our passports stamped while still in Buenos Aires with a thirty minute wait for the bags to be loaded and everyone to be boarded.

During that wait we encountered only our second and third Americans of the trip (the first being a sixty year old California man named Terry {whom we met only two nights ago} who has spent the last five months driving with his son from Sacramento - through Mexico and Central America - through Colombia, Ecuador, Chile, up through the Patagonia, and is now on the last leg of the journey in Buenos Aires - truly impressive!). These other Americans though, were disappointing. They talked boistrously about their unwillingness to partake in the custom of sharing a mate because they are "germophobes" and "it tastes like dirt anyway."

It was a bit of a reality check. Everyone we had encountered previously had been so open-minded and excited to learn about new things, that I think I had constructed this happy little "The World is One" bubble around myself.

Fortunately, once we made it to Colonia (a harrowing hour on a ferry that was driven more like a speedboat) - these young gentlemen made their way towards the tourist trap/destination town - while we boarded the bus for Montevideo.

It was as the bus was pulling away from the harbor that I remembered again what we were doing. I had not seen so much green vegetation since our taxi ride from the airport nearly two weeks prior. It was pretty amazing how the verdant landscape lifted me and though I was in need of a nap - I kept my eyes on the molehill farmland, the cows, the tiny little sheep, the tidy little modern bungalows that lined the highway, the locals out for an afternoon joyride on their scooters or motorcycles (sometimes a family of three on one modest Yamaha dirt bike), just to see people in the sun again was nice - rather than watching them scramble across busy intersections.

Eventually, we approached the outskirts of Montevideo. As we made our way through about a mile or two of thoroughly distressed shanty towns we began to see these flags everywhere:

My initial suspicion was that these flags were in support of one of Uruguay´s two biggest futbol clubs who have the same colors, Club Nacional de Football. However, some Google research has turned up "Frente Amplio" - a "left wing" party with ties to trade unions and a cooperative housing movement (according to Wiki). Of course, it is very possible that there is a correlation between the two as futbol and politics are never too far removed, especially in SA (the socialist/anarchist songs at River Plate come to mind). Perhaps conversation with locals will shed more light on any relationship..

Ultimately, we arrived at the bus depot, received some very good information from the tourism representative there (who even knew where South Carolina is and the capital of Colorado!). Before leaving the depot we purchased our 7am bus ticket for Punta del Diablo and took out about 2,000 Uruguayo pesos (about $100 US). Just when we were starting to feel comfortable with the exchange rate in Argentina..everything gets thrown out the window.

From there we caught the city bus which lucky us had three attendants to help make sure we did not miss our stop. One to drive the bus, one to doll out tickets and change (a machine did this in BA), and one gentleman who went around checking ticket stubs to make sure we all paid - a pretty impressive display of beaurocracy if you ask me.

That brought us to the streets of Montevideo´s Palermo barrio. A neighborhood that we wished to have found in Buenos Aires. Not as scary as La Boca, but still possessing that gritty flavor. There are two other reasons why I am already looking at this city with more fondness than Buenos Aires - people were playing futbol everywhere here, in private and public parks, and in the streets (that´s more like it!) and the ocean. Montevideo sticks out into the ocean (whereas BA is situated within the delta of the Rio de la Plata) - the water is visible from our hostel door..and from the incredibly comfortable terrace on the roof (complete with hammocks and a grill).

I am feeling well rested (despite still being rather congested) and am more than ready for a hard day of walking down the ocean front boulevard and then up through the old city.

We are able to access the USB port on the computers here, so it is likely that I will be able to upload some pictures from our excursion today.

We are considering spending a week or two somewhere (either here or Buenos Aires) before we head south so that I can get some tutoring in the language. Before we left BA I was pretty set on returning, but now I would be very interested to find a school here so I can enjoy the sea breeze while I toil. Hard life!

More later..and hopefully pictures!

2009-11-22T05:01:00.003-07:00

Today is our last day in Buenos Aires - for now.

Tomorrow we leave for Montevideo - Uruguay.

The plan is to rent a cabaña in Punta del Diablo, which is supposed to be a slow little surfer town. I´m hoping the reports are accurate. I came down with a bit of a head cold two days ago. Though I am feeling better, the crowded hostel is hampering my much needed rest and at half speed exploration of the city becomes a chore.

On a brighter note.. Kaitlin and I continue to find people to enjoy our time with. We are fortunate to maintain a steady supply of well balanced and earnest day trip companions. However, now it is our turn to leave..

Sergio to Mar del Plata.
Rik to Cordoba.
Mikk back to Vancouver.
James off to Mar del Plata.
Jessica to Montevideo.

..and now we too are off to Montevideo and ultimately the "end of the devil."

I am not sure what sort of internet access we will have in Uruguay. I am willing to bet the hostel in Montevideo will be equipt, but there is no telling how much contact we will have access to during our week at the beach.

Till then..

The "Special American"

2009-11-19T06:50:00.003-07:00

The last few days have been rather slow (compared to the ridiculous pace we set upon arrival).

Yesterday Kaitlin and I ventured out to the Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, but everyone just says, MALBA. Right now the MALBA is featuring an Andy Warhol collection entitled, "Mr. America" - which I find strange considering the sentiment out there that people from the USA should not refer to themselves as "Americans" due to the fact that there are many nations and two continents consisting of "Americans." Still, I have heard no plausible alternative - though when people ask where I am from, I just say, "The States" or "Estados Unidos."

Anyway, I much enjoyed the MALBA - in particular, I found Fabian Burgos to be quite accessible. Of course there were some other artists that stretched the boundaries a bit more - which I quite enjoyed {insert artists}. Of course, it being modern art, I felt there were also some rather repetitious pieces with little substance..but they did "look cool."

The evening consisted of what was supposed to be a "dub" show at this venue "La Cigale" on Ave. Cordoba. The first group "La Golden Acapulco" was pretty rad - bonafide dub. The next group (not even sure of their name) sounded more like a ska-punk band (and not a good one) rather than dub.

What I really wanted to take a moment to talk about is something that happened this morning..as a result of yesterday.

Yesterday was a big day for world football. The last five spots for the World Cup were being played for between France-Ireland, Portugal-Bosnia, Russia-Slovenia, Greece-Ukraine, and Uruguay-Costa Rica. Suffice it to say, much of yesterday was spent watching these matches with a crowd of fans from all over the world (Australia, Spain, Scotland, Morocco, England, Israel, etc...).
Over the course of the day, I had some opportunities to talk about football and ultimately the USA. The specifics of the conversations are not too important, but it is safe to say most were surprised that my knowledge of the modern game rivaled their own and that my political sentiments did not lie completely to the left or right.
This morning, I asked the Spainard and Israeli who have family in Uruguay for their advice about where to go and what to do once we get there. They gave me some pointers on Punta del Diablo and what to do in Montevideo and I shared with them what I knew of the cemetery in Recoleta and the markets of San Telmo. Eventually they left, never having exchanged names or much personal information, but as he was walking out the door the Israeli said, "Bye, special American."

It really struck me, for many reasons. Staying in the hostel, we have been surrounded by such incredible diversity. An Irish Scottsman with Italian heritage. A Jewish Spainard of Uruguayan decent. And so on..

I wonder why that guy chose to say "special" - because of my soccer knowledge, because I recognized they spoke Hebrew and could say good-bye in their language, was it something about me that is truly special compared to my fellow Americans (United Staters!) or was it something about him..
My experiences in football here have led me to believe that we(humans) are less and less and one thing in particular, aside from just that - human. Cultural constructions can be overcome..language, recreation, cuisine, they are easily maliable. The hardest thing to bend and change is our mind - but I feel it happening everyday - in myself and in those I meet.

I am less and less self-conscious about how I am being perceived and more and more excited to just be with people. If anything, I hope this is what my Israeli friend took from his experience with me. That he goes home and takes a second glance at someone he has a preconceived notion about. That he allows himself to be pleasantly surprised.

PHOTOS - FINALLY!

2009-11-17T13:38:00.004-07:00

..just a few highlights to hit so that you all know I´m not just making this stuff up.

Reading on the roof..
The roof of the Lime House hostel on 11 Lima in Buenos Aires served as a refuge in what could be a rather active hostel. After the first few days, construction began on expansion of the terrace to cover nearly half of the roof and add more green to a city/skyline that could really use it.

One of the numerous demonstrations..
Nearly half our time in Buenos Aires there was a demonstration of some sort. Only one that I would call "massive" - though there were two others that stopped traffic. On the whole, they are peaceful, well organized, and rather redundant.

View of the Paraiso and Avenue de Nueva Julio from the hostel lobby´s balcony..

You are now on Boca´s turf..

Which is not a problem, as long as there is respect..

The softer side of La Boca (with Rik from Holland)..

And so mom knows I´m eating well. This meal cost the equivalent of around $15 US for pasta, steak, and wine..

Cheers..

River Plate vs Tucuman

2009-11-16T17:44:00.002-07:00

I am becoming increasingly concerned that I may run out of goals for my time in South America. Already I feel as though I have accomplished so much.

Surely, the biggest goal (to speak Spanish comfortably) remains a daunting task, but I feel as though I am growing in the language (both in my oral skills and in my ability to differentiate the Argentine dialect).

Most importantly I have added, "¿Donde esta la cancha por aqui?"

Meaning: Where is the soccer field around here?

Not only does this sentence roll off the tongue without much work - it is an essential phrase for my intentions over the next five months.

In fact, it would have come in mighty handy when Mikk and I were trying desperately to find a pick-up soccer match. Speaking of which...

Yesterday, I accomplished two of my main goals for this trip.

1) To play with Argentines (I did this in La Boca the other day, but only for a few minutes and they were but teenagers)
2) To attend a professional soccer match

Early in the day Mikk and I left for Palermo to purchase tickets for the River Plate / Tucuman match. It took about an hour to ride the subte to the end of the line and then walk the 7-10 blocks to River´s stadium.

With tickets purchased (thirty pesos/about $8 for a killer seat) the goal now was for Mikk and I to find a pick-up match. It was surprisingly difficult as we found out that most people in Palermo belong to clubs which have private fields.

Though after an hour of frustrating attempts in broken spanish to find anywhere to play - we found a caged in astroturf field where teams were playing. Again, we attempted to ask to play and eventually found out that one team was short two players and that we could substitute for them.

I could write an entire entry about the experience of playing TWO competitive matches with those guys. Suffice it to say, we held our own (we both scored) and represented our respective countries well - perhaps improving the reputation of the US and Canada as memebers of the global football community. That is just my humble dream.

After playing two matches in a row - we realized it was time to get back to the hostel so we could disperse the tickets we had bought, take showers, and then get back on the subte so we could make it to the match in time.

Despite some lagging Aussies, we made it to the stadium with about twenty minutes to spare. Enough time to catch the fanaticos pre-game concert on the balcony outside the top tier. Blocks away from the stadium you can hear the deep thud of the drums, but that only hightens your senses...only to be blown away when you step through the gate and see the thousands of men jumping, swaying, singing in full voice, one arm pumping the air with the rhythm, bleary borrachos, all clad in white with red stripes.

It is hard to distinguish between the game on the field and the game in the stands. Each group of supporters takes turns attacking each other with their voices and drums..meanwhile each team takes turns creating a breathtaking run that gets the regular fans off their feet with arms in the air - meanwhile the fanaticos only intensify their rage.

As for the game itself, Tucuman scored in the third minute after the referee allowed play to continue - although there were legit cries for a penalty. The goal consisted of a precise cross just outside of the six yard box to find Emanuel Gigliotti´s head for a reaction flick into the far side. Despite the early goal, River had numerous clear cut chances and were unlucky to be ruled offsides on multiple occasions.

The second half was a completely different story. The River supporters somehow found the reserve energy to gradually increase their intensity - meanwhile the team on the field came ever closer to an equalizer - producing several efforts that were well saved by the Tucuman keeper.

Sure enough, in the 69th minute Marcelo Gallardo leveled the match sending the stands into absolute pandamonium. Never have I witnessed such a correlation between the efforts of the fans and the efforts of the players. The goal, of course, only incensed the fans even more and sent the atmosphere into levels of hysteria that made me feel - as a foreigner in a see of locals - that I too, could will the team to victory by the mere fact of my presence and enthusiasm.

And that is exactly what happened... five minutes later Diego Buonanotte slotted home the game winner - followed shortly by substitute Daniel Villalbe to put the match beyond doubt in the seventy-sixth minute.

What more can I say... it was incredible - the first of many if I have any say in it.

That is all for now... I feel as though I am inundating this blog with posts, but I am very much so taken by this city. I will perhaps become more concise as the weeks wear on, but for now I am revelling in each new experience.

2009-11-16T15:38:00.003-07:00

Finally, a slow day in Buenos Aires.

We have been hitting the city pretty hard the last few days. Sadly, though we have been running ourselves ragged - we can´t keep up with the pace here. We have been staying out till four in the morning..still, as we are heading back to the hostel, some are just beginning their night. Thursday through Sunday it is common for the hostel lobby to be full through the night (there is a bar here) ..and for people to stumble into the bunk room between seven and ten in the morning. Poor creatures.

Meanwhile, we are keeping ourselves occupied. Two nights ago all the museums in the city were free from 8pm to 2am. We went for dinner at Desnivel, the most holy of steakhouses. I have never really been into steak, but I am now convinced I had not had steak until Desnivel. All told a massive choice cut (and well cooked!), salad, and wine came out to the equivalent of twenty dollars US. Unreal, a meal of that quality would certainly be pushing the $100 mark back in the States. Such is life here...

Sorry, I got sidetracked, but that meal was a truly happy time.. followed by more.

After dinner we joined what seemed to be all of Buenos Aires as we walked the streets of San Telmo in search of a museum. Eventually we came to the Museo Penitenciario Argentino - a museum on the grounds of what was once a massive prison in San Telmo.

The exhibits were interesting enough, including period garb, weapons, documents, and medicine on display. However, the main attraction was taking place in the courtyard. There a full concert band was assembled to play everything from the theme song to The Godfather to Queen and various classic rock hits. Eventually the band made way for tango dancing and cover singers.

We soon realized how lucky we were to have stumbled upon this museum. As a smaller venue it attracted more locals. After the last tango (which was incredibly intricate and dynamic) a folk band took the floor.

After the first song, a group of more than twenty girls came from nowhere and began dancing to the folk music. They stayed and dance for over an hour, begging the old men to continue playing. I was smiling the entire time. It filled me with such a warmth..to see youth so exuberant for and appreciative of their tradition.

Perhaps I wanted it to end less than anyone, but the old men had played more than they bargained for and were unable to continue. We dispersed with the crowd and left to find a bar in the direction of the hostel.

We stayed at a cafe near the Plaza de Mayo until they closed, I think around three in the morning. By the time we were a block from our hostel it was nearly four. Exhausted, but content, we stumbled up the stairs, knowing most in Buenos Aires were just beginning their evening.

¿El gringo puedo jugar?

2009-11-14T07:51:00.003-07:00

If we continue our current pace, we just might learn something about this country before we leave. In two days of bonafide exploration, we have tackled the two main destination barrios Palermo and Recoleta (River Plate) and yesterday San Telmo and La Boca (Boca Juniors).

Yesterday began around noon with a stroll down Ave. de Mayo. On the western end of de Mayo is the Congreso Nacional - while the eastern portion (to the river) is the¨"Pink House" (the Argentine "White House") as well as the national bank, internal revenue, department of the interior, and various other administrative buildings all situated around the Plaza Mayo. Our aim was beyond this district, but I would very much like to go back next week and thoroughly investigate the monuments/history.

Eventually, we arrived in San Telmo, a barrio that is as tourist oriented as Palermo and Recoleta are commercial. However, I will take a slow evening in the plaza sipping cafe con leche while watching people tango over dozens of city blocks with nothing but shoe stores!

We stayed for a while in the plaza enjoying our coffee and empenadas (which our waiter rightfully thought bizarre). From there we wandered through some antique markets (much like indoor markets in the States) - then made our way through Parque Lezama towards La Boca.

The Boca Juniors firm is known to be heavily proletariat. This is evident in the blocks surrounding the stadium where trash and crumbling concrete are most prevalent. The Boca stadium itself is pretty impressive - though could not see the grounds without the tour.

A few blocks from the stadium is an¨outdoor museum where you could sit and watch tango. A tourist trap - no doubt. However, on the next block were over twenty boys and young men playing soccer on a fenced in concrete field about the size of a basketball court.

We stood there for a while watching them..and the longer I stared the more I knew I would not be able to leave without having played. So, I did. "¿El gringo puedo jugar?" - then they stared at me and talked to eachother and then looked back at me and motioned for me to come.
My first few touches were disappointing. One in particular was rather comical and the boys confirmed by laughing and pointing. Fortunately, my next touch was much better and I ended up Cruyffing one of the kids to complete a quality sequence - there were definitely smiles and some ribbing of the kid I had beat.
It didn´t take long for my lungs to start burning. The air here, is on the tolerable side of horrible. Fortunately, again, the soccer gods were smiling upon me this day. Just as I was contemplating calling it quits, a rebound fell just into my path, bounced and descended at what would be the perfect height for a volley - in an instance I had lined it up and let fly with my left, making perfect contact on the laces for an unstoppable shot a foot inside the pipe.
I promptly thanked everyone and left before I had a chance to ruin my moment of glory. Kaitlin took a pretty awesome picture, but access to a USB port to upload the photos has been a task we are yet to dispatch.

Shortly after my immaculate volley - the heavens opened up yet again, but this time instead of sending down the perfect ball - it sent buckets of rain. So, we grabbed a table at one of the tango cafes and watched the dance while sharing a beer and continuing our discourse on Dutch and American culture.

We then took the 64 bus back to Ave. de Nueva Julio where we showered and prepared for the remainder of the night. Last mention in this entry, before I get to the rest of our experiences, is that there is a buffet across the street that charges 19 pesos for a spread that far and away is the best all around buffet I have ever seen. Fresh veggies and choice cuts of beef and sausage...unbelievable value.

..must run for now. Mikk and I have to get up to Palermo to buy tickets for the River Plate match today. We have put it out there that we are going and ten people (five aussies, two swedes, and three brits) have given us thirty pesos each to get their tickets.

Might have time later today to get to our amazing experience with the acoustic show two nights ago and the tango/folkdance experience last night. For now...

Palermo y Recoleta

2009-11-13T04:28:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, I woke in the confused stupor that occurs when you realize (after a few seconds) that you have been hit in the face with a towel. Once I realized it was a towel that was covering my face and that someone must have thrown it at me, the confusion multiplied. Fighting the groggy morning, disoriented further by the sounds of snoring and traffic, I panned the room left to right. Sure enough in the right corner of the room a girl was propped up on her elbow staring at me.

"I thought you were snoring!"

"Was I?"

"No! Sorry! Will you throw it(the towel) back?"

Later in the day, I asked her if I actually was snoring. She said that she was "too fu%ked to know" - awesome - only she had thrown two towels at me.

So, I´m still very confused about the situation. Of course, because of the traffic and the snoring, I couldn´t get back to sleep. A fortuitous turn of events. Hostels...

Because I was up before eight, having my coffee in the lobby, I met a very talkative Mexican, Sergio - Rick, the Dutchman - and a very mellow Canadian, Mick. We are yet to run into anyone from the States, but I have no complaints with our North American compatriots.

In fact, after talking for a while, Mick and I realized we have the same goal - to attend an Apetura(Argentine Futbol League) fixture and to play against some of the natives.

Mick and Rick have been here for a few days more, so they gave us some advice as to which Subte line to take and/or buses. We all planned to go to Palermo, but didn´t meet up until the Subte station and from there we decided to tackle the barrios(burroughs) to the north/northwest of our hostel which is between San Nicolás and Monserrat.

We rode the muggy, but not too crowded Subte about seven stops north to Plaza Italia, got off and wandered aimlessly for an hour or so. This took us past the zoo, what we believed (but didn´t investigate) to be the River Plate stadium, through the Plaza Italia - which is a fairly massive podium with a statue centered in a traffic circle, then we made our way to the Parque Tres de Febrero (of which I do not know the significance), also known as the Rose Garden, but should be known as The Amazing Parakeet Garden. The trellises and groomed rows of roses bordered on the verge of overzealous, but ultimately, it was an incredibly serene place to stop and rest for a bit.

From there our goal was to find lunch. We were directed towards the commercial district, but my first hot meal, Asado, was a boney-fatty disappointment (although Kaitlin and Mick enjoyed their empanada & sandwich). From there we decided to make our way to the Cemeteriá de Recoleta. It was a long, but conversation filled walk through the countless blocks with shop windows full of shoes and clothing. Even from a short excursion on day one, it is plain to see that Recoleta and Palermo are on the posh end of things. If this were not understood from walking the streets - it was a blatant fact once we reached the cemeteriá.

The Cemeteriá de Recoleta puts New Orlean´s St. Louis Cemetery to shame. To understand the scope of the Cemeteriá de Recoleta - imagine if every tomb in the St. Louis Cemetery were at least as big (most bigger) than the Italian Society Tomb. More so, most tombs have doors with windows which allow visitors to view the actual coffins. Many tombs appear as mini-cathedrals fit with spires, gargoyles, and relics - some even have stairs to a lower crypt. Only the best for the generals and politicians of Buenos Aires!

From the cemeteriá, our missions was to find ice cream/heladeria. A gentlemen walking his dog saw us with our map and gave us directions to a quality, but reasonably priced heladeria (most near the cemetery were rather ritzy). This experience (in addition to the man that gave us directions to lunch) further debunks the myth that Argentines are rude or pretentious. So far, no one has scoffed at our broken Spanish or Kaitlin´s Iberian accent.

After ice cream we made our way back to the Subte, tired, but content. The Subte was absolutely packed. If you have ever seen the video of stewards cramming people onto the metro in Japan - the return trip on the Subte was not much different. We waited for the next train and were lucky to find the one car where it was not necessary to be touching strangers on all sides. Unfortunately, a friend from day one (Sebastian from the Netherlands), was returning from a day trip to Uruguay and had his passport, plus 300 pesos stolen from his front pocket.

We listened to his story over a dinner that Rick, Kaitlin, and I had thrown together and were reminded that it is dangerous to make assumptions. Only the night before, Sebastian had remarked that here, unlike Morocco, he felt he did not need his money-belt.

After finishing our dinner, we took our vino blanco to the roof and continued our discussions about the pros and cons and differences between life in the States and Holland..and then just general talk. It would be exhausting to talk so much about nationality and culture - I am glad that the people here have been eager to ask questions (as I have been), but have also been content to just enjoy eachother´s company and leave things on a tertiary level every now and then.

It is now nearly ten in the morning. Sergio has just joined me at the computers. Kaitlin, Mick, and Rick are still asleep. The goal today is to make our way to San Telmo and La Boca. We have heard that the area is more "touristy" but also that it is more cultural. Personally, after the abundance of commercial venues in Palermo and Recoleta - I am ready for a slower pace or at least the illusion of culture. Not to mention "La Bombonera" is there - the Boca Juniors stadium.

Still no pictures, we forgot the camera yesterday! Maybe today.

Admittedly, I am most looking forward to Sunday. Mick, James(the Brit from Northwest England), and I have decided we will brave the Apertura together. It is just a matter of which match to attend.

Lastly, Kaitlin and I have decided to stay in BA for at least another week. We may very well extend beyond that, but the prospect of the beaches in Mar del Plata are calling our names. But, who knows!

¡Bienvenidos!

2009-11-12T03:23:00.003-07:00

Having finally achieved a decent night´s sleep, I think I am now more able to share some cultural experiences and observations - rather than just moan about the difficulties of travel.

First lesson: Quisiera vino tinto, por favor.

The wine served on the plane with dinner was better than most $20+ bottles I have had in the states. The hostel only has two selections, but both are stellar and can be purchased for $25 pesos - the equivalent of about $7 US. At that price it is very managable to have a decent bottle of wine with your dinner, considering we bought all the fresh materials for veggie pasta w/ marinara for $5 (US).
So, the length of our money is one area in which we did not overestimate. Beyond food, we have heard that lengthy busrides in a cama-bus (sleeper with food service) are more than affordable. This will factor massively when we start looking towards Mendoza (to really taste some wine) and Bariloche when we start working south.

Wine aside.. the people, barring the taxi (who according to some fellow hostel residents is the exception rather than the rule), are generally friendly and willing to help - even if you struggle with their language. Kaitlin remarked yesterday that the service at the cafe in the Plaza de Congreso was very friendly - whereas in Spain the wait staff would just stare at her if she asked questions about the food. The staff at the hostel has also been very nice (especially to me, since it is obvious I am learning the language). People on the street seem very busy and purposeful, but it is a good balance of what you would expect in any major metropolitan area. Though I´m sure the next few weeks will bring some lasting impressions regarding the locals - I think our best experiences with the people will probably come outside of the urban setting.

A moment:
Kaitlin and I were soaking up some sun on the roof of the hostel after our midday meal (I guess it was a siesta) when we started hearing drums and a bullhorn in the distance. Sure enough, we look over the roof wall and there is a massive demonstration clogging the Ave. de 9 Julio (the widest street in Argentina, named after their independence day - mix Times Square and Chicago´s Michigan Ave). There is a massive transit strike going on here right now - our assumption (I haven´t seen today´s paper) is that this march is related to the recent breakdown in negotiations between the Gobierno and the socialist bloc of workers. There is grafitti everywhere here championing the socialist agenda or lamenting the Falklands War in 1982 (there was also a veterans demonstration next to the house of congress).
The march, while rather massive (easily thousands of people - taking nearly two hours to clear a block and a half) - was very pedestrian. We laughed that they were not over zealous - more like they were on their way to a football match than to the steps of Congress. Still, it made an impression on me, to see people actively participating in something. Whether it was the drumming and singing of the marchers or the honking and gesitculating of the stranded motorists - I took it as a good omen for eventful and safe travels.

Lastly, we have already met some charming characters here. In addition to the staff we shared the kitchen with a gentleman from northwest England - were bestowed with a helpfully modified city map and some bread by another Brit (he from the northeast) - but we had our best interaction with a couple from Holland whom we spoke with on the roof last night for some time - each couple with their own bottle of vino tinto. They have already come through Santiago and Mendoza, so they had some helpful tips for us, but mostly it was nice to share first impressions of Buenos Aires (as well as other destinations we had in common).
Today we plan to make our way north to the massive park (I forget the name). Friday, I´m not sure what we´re doing, but Saturday and Sunday are about futbol! Argentina is playing Spain on Saturday and word is every hotel lobby, bar, and cafe will have the game available. Sunday River Plate play Tucuman, but I´m not sure if we´ll be able to make it up there (River´s stadium is about an hour northwest).
I still haven´t decided who - if anyone - I will follow or at least attempt to see play. All accounts so far are that the terraces at a Boca or River match are filled with bonafide hooligans and extremists (and that´s coming from Brits!). From what I saw of the game on TV last night between Estudiantes and Rosario - the entire stadium is a hazard, but that´s the point, right?

Oh well, today is a new day. I feel fairly rested, though I could have slept much later (someone hit me with a towel this morning because they mistook me for one of the people snoring below and beside me. Needless to say, I couldn´t get back to sleep because of the snoring.

Alive, in Buenos Aires

2009-11-11T12:03:00.002-07:00

A day later and indeed, a few bucks short - we have arrived in Buenos Aires.

If the last forty-eight hours are any indication of the path that lay before us, God help us. Of course, nothing we can´t handle, but I am hoping for more subtlety and romance to divulge - rather than the abrupt drama that is the city.

But first...

I try not to believe in jinxs (and now I know of at least one we can avoid on the return trip), but after smooth passage via Delta from Denver to Atlanta to Miami - it was only a matter of time. Originally, we chose Aeorlineas Argentina because it was reasonably priced, but more so because it flew direct from Miami to Buenos Aires. All other airlines stopped in either Mexico or Panama City. I still think we made the best choice but it is difficult to ignore hindsight.

Upon arriving in Miami we were greeted first and foremost by that all too familiar wave of humidity. At that moment I found myself longing for the swelter of the Sandhills - bizarre.
Continuing up the ramp the sentimentality was overcome with the excitement of our pending final leg of the twenty-eight hour haul. But Miami International is a rather large airport and rather than wandering aimlessly we opted for the information kiosk.

When we told the clerk which airline we were seeking, his chin sucked into his neck - pursed his lips - rolled his eyes to the top of his head: Y´all are brave...DAMN y´all are brave!

Immediately, we shriveled. Why exactly should we be brave? Who wants to be brave? Not me.

The gentlemen proceeded to inform us that Aerolineas Argentina is the bane of MIA - the target of countless industry jokes - ´´That airline is held together with bubble gum and duct tape.¨ ¨Sometimes they try to take off with two..even one engine!¨

Thansk for the heads up!

Luckily, the flight was cancelled due to, ¨No aircraft.¨ So we had an entire day in Miami to ruminate on the possible flaws with this airline - to ponder and joke about the potential for crashing into the Gulf of Mexico or the Andes. Huzzah!

Of course, the flight itself went off without a hitch. The craft was not state of the art, but the meal was good and the ride smooth and I was lulled into the simpler, slower way.

That was until my pack arrived in baggage claim with the brain (top compartment) unclipped and hanging next to the body. It was a very strange kind of panic that came over me. My pack seemed smaller, but that could have been because it was buried under the weight of a pyramid of luggage - it didn´t necessarily mean that anything was missing.

Then I saw that two of my five carrabiners used to hold my zippers shut were missing. Long story short, because this is dramatically overhyped - my external hard-drive (which we intended to load with thousands of touristy photos) was gone. In retrospect, I´m not too surprised - more surprised that my first naive blunder would come so soon upon arriving.

The sick insecurity of knowing that a stranger has access to all of your photos, videos, writing, etc... left me pretty vulnerable - I was caving after being swept through customs, no questions asked - only to be blindsided.

We soldiered on though - in the grand scheme of things it was a minimal loss - all our files had been backed-up on Kaitlin´s harddrive before we left..and we brought mine because it didn´t even really work that well. Good riddance.

- I hope every day does not produce such long winded entries -

Our cab ride was another harrowing experience. Before we walked through the automatic doors - we were picked up by a taxi. We were told the rate would be $350 pesos..which seemed exorbitant compared to the exchange rates and the info we had seen online about fares from the airport to the city center, but hey.. we were on our way..

The since of injustice ebbed and flowed as I took in the drive. It was difficult to stay focused on the fare as we passed the training facility for the Argentine National Futbol team and the sporadic cars parked in the median and shoulder with people just sitting staring at the countryside. We asked the driver what they were doing, ¨Just passing the day,¨ he said.

We arrived after a while and the fare showed $460 pesos - I knew we were getting ripped off, but I just wanted to get into the hostel and collapse - so between Kaitlin and myself we shelled out $500 pesos. The driver attempted some poor slight of hand and produced four hundred peso bills and two ten peso bills. He then tried to convince us that we had given him $420 pesos.. it was pretty surreal for about five minutes as Kaitlin tried to grasp what the man was saying and I (limited by my lack of Spanish) was unable to tell the guy to go jump off a bridge. Once he realized we weren´t going to submit - he changed his story and said he was just giving us our change (still shorted $20 pesos from the already inflated fare). We shook hands and he drove away. Bizarre.

This entry has already swelled beyond acceptable proportion and we need to hit the grocery store before it gets dark. I´ll be back later with impressions from our exploratory walks around the area and perhaps a picture of the massive socialist protest that shut down the cities major thoroughfares for almost an hour. Till then...

Psuedo-South America

2009-11-10T06:00:00.002-07:00

It is currently 8:01AM EST on November 10th, Miami - USA. Yes, Miami.

I am living to rue my words to Matt the night before we left. I was ruminating on the poor mail service in Argentina/South America and I said, "We may just find that the world is a lot bigger than we think."

I didn't think we'd find out so soon!

Two of three flights yesterday went off without a hitch. Upon arriving in Miami we made our way to baggage claim, because our flight from Miami to Buenos Aires was on a different airline: Aerolineas Argentina

After we got our bags we went to the information desk to get directions to the Aerolineas check-in

We walk up to the desk and ask the gentleman, "We were just looking for the A-A check-in desk."
The man leans back in his chair, lowers is head, and purses his lips - "Y'all are brave, damn, y'all are brave..."

"Excuse me?"

The man proceeded to explain that A-A is the bane of the Miami airport. That there is an "industry joke" about the airline: That airline is held together with bubble gum and duct tape.
He was also kind enough to elaborate by explaining that they often try to take off with two..even one engine working - instead of four.

GREAT! AWESOME! THANKS FOR THE HEADS-UP! ..as we are about to get onto our flight..

But, we are hardy traveleres - we soldier on! After sitting infront of the Aerolineas Argentina check-in desk for a few hours (we didn't want to check-in too early - in order to reduce the likelihood that our bags would be misplaced so early before the flight) we slap our knees and say, "LETS DO THIS!"

We tie up all of the loose straps on our packs and stride galantly over to the check-in desk. We wait for the clerks to finish their conversation. We place our identification on the counter. We wait. The woman says, "No flight today." It doesn't sink in to either one of us. Kaitlin talks to the woman - I continue to imagine that the form she is filling out is our boarding pass, "Gee, that's odd that she is hand-writing our boarding pass."
"If you go out the door and take a left, that is where the shuttle will pick you up. We are giving you breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

...um...wait, what?

So, I jinxed us. And, the "big world" got bigger a lot faster than I expected.

Thus - here - in Miami - not Buenos Aires - but that's okay!

It has been a good while since I have been in Miami. I look at it as Miami is our "warm-up" to BA. The minute we stepped off the plane, we smiled at the humidity. As I felt my fingers get sticky for the first time since early September - sentimentality for the south crept in.
More so, everyone speaks Spanish here. We more or less feel immersed, although I'm sure my first day in BA will blow this feeling out of the water.

So, that is the first update from life after Denver. We are crossing our fingers for a flight today. The weather looks clearer today, I'm taking that as our good omen. More tomorrow from Buenos Aires - ojala!

..just get me to the hostel.

2009-11-03T19:19:00.000-07:00

Just over forty-eight hours until departure.

Yesterday, I tested out the pack. Everything fits!

Today, I will load up the car with everything that is not going to South America.

Tomorrow, we'll drive the car down to Colorado Springs and leave it there.

Sunday will be an early Thanksgiving with Kaitlin's family and time to make my last free phone calls for a long time.

Early Monday morning we'll head for the airport. Boarding Denver to Atlanta 6am Mountain Time. Atlanta to Miami. Miami to Buenos Aires.

We should arrive in Buenos Aires 8 or 10am Eastern Standard Time on Tuesday.

I have resigned myself to the fact that everything between now and Tuesday afternoon will be a blur. Last minute plans to visit with family and friends, phone calls, letters, everything that can be done simply now, that will be difficult to do for the next six months. That's okay.

I feel like we have taken every opportunity to say farewell, to settle our affairs, and to properly prepare ourselves for everything we wish to do in South America. Still, I know it will be hard to turn off my phone that last time, to close up my laptop that last time, to get to sleep that last night, to load the car, to walk away from this generous continent, and to enter a relative unknown. But it will be done.

We have reserved three nights in the Lime House youth hostel in Buenos Aires. I am focusing solely on getting from the airport to the hostel. Once I'm there, I don't know how long I'll sleep, but after I wake up - I will be a new animal.

What exactly that entails - I can't be sure, but I feel it in my gut.
..just get me there.

I imagine I'll write again before we leave - though there is increasingly less to say. Words are nearly obsolete - time for action.

15 Days

2009-10-25T00:14:00.000-06:00

With fifteen days until departure - most pieces are in place.

We are yet to book a hostel in Buenos Aires. We are waiting to hear back from a staff member about the possibility of helping with upkeep in exchange for a free/discounted room. If we have not heard anything definite by the end of this next week, we'll probably book the Pax Hostel and figure out a more permanent situation in country.

The plan is to stay in the BA vicinity for about a month. Assuming our only obligation will be to help out around the hostel, there should be plenty of time to explore. All indications suggest that day trips to Montevideo, Uruguay are a very real possibility.
I have "committed" to a (tentative) three day rotation:

Day 1: Explore the city/surroundings.
Day 2: Pursue soccer related activities.
Day 3: Write.

I do not intend to establish a routine - this rotation is more so a matter of probability.

Sometime in December, we will start to make our way through the Patagonia.
We've booked a hostel in Punta Arenas, Chile - partly to placate the Argentine customs official that will be skeptical about our one-way ticket - partly to keep us moving.
Once we get down to Punta Arenas, we have the month of January to continue hiking and camping. I'm telling myself I will befriend a local near one of the hundreds of islands that make up a megalopolis of archipelagos along the southern portion of Chile, that will let us work on his isolated sheep farm.

Around February we will be making our way north to Isle Chiloe. Word is that this is a "mystical" region where "time passes differently" - enough said. We have contacted several WWOOF farms on the island and have had replies from most. Unfortunately, our number one choice (Thomas, "el holandes" part mad scientist - part Castaneda) in Puerto Raul Marin has not replied, yet. However, we have already had a lengthy correspondence with a family in Chacoa (just east of Ancud). They are more than happy to have us February through April if we are willing to stay that long.

Looking at the accommodations, I can see us staying a while!

Between the snail farm, the horses, and mollusk harvesting, should be plenty to learn.

It is safe to say, I am more than excited by the prospect.
Of course, we do still intend to make our way to Valparaiso, Santiago, and hopefully Antofagasta and/or Iquique. We are also leaving the door open for a trip into Peru, but nothing solid is planned beyond Chiloe.

So...that is the state of things. Meanwhile, I refuse to sleep. I am exhausting myself in hopes that I will be able to sleep on the plane come November. Until then, I'll force my eyelids open and settle for daydreams.

To Be Prolific

2009-10-18T20:48:00.000-06:00

The trip to Tucson/Phoenix served as the christening of a mini-renaissance within me. Not inspired, but invigorated and envious. To be a fly on the wall for a few days as Jeremy makes "The Guilt Complex" whatever it will be - I felt guilty.

For how long I have been coasting. For how little effort I have put towards the activities that have always brought fulfillment. For how arrogant and wasteful I have been with my days. For my indifference. For my lassitude. For allowing weakness.

In the nonchalant rage that was their touring through Arizona, I was lulled into a vulnerability that had only been alluded to when Jeremy played in Denver last week. The mundane and whorish aspects of their self-promotion. Hawking handbills in guitar shops and canvasing prepubescent shopping malls. A preemptive ejaculation in order to purge the weakest seed. In order to leave only the most viral representation of their art for whomever appears for the show.
This purity and intensity - I have only sniffed the last few months. Here and there I stumble upon something of which I am proud. Only every so often have I produced a work that reminded me why I bother.

Surely, the madness of two thousand miles to ponder Jeremy's mystery, not to mention the might of the sonorous Coronado, and the delirious rhythm of an overdue oil change - have transubstantiated my lower proclivity into a seething fecundity.

The read and written word is back. Participation and Intrigue, requiters of the active masses have brought me home. Ostensibly, the time honored postal mission is revisited. Letters are retracing the spent bends of the interstate highway system and the less trafficked troposphere - bringing bits of me back.
Pynchon and my peers fill my head with beer that steers me clear of trite and septic disaffection. Better than the best brewed bubbles have to offer.

The mere fact that I am so eager to write this nothing, is - for me - success. A fever I can only hope to continue carrying. No climate or harbor for relevance!

2009-10-05T17:34:00.000-06:00

Education continues..

Last week I spent about five days in a cabin with Kaitlin and family along the Gunnison River, over the Collegiate Mountains - in the sufficiently remote ranch land braced by Signal Peak and Gunnison National Forest.

Gunnison County is home to the Gunnison, East, and Taylor rivers which boast some of the best trout fishing in Colorado - in addition to an average temperature that is ten degrees lower than anywhere in the state. Though Colorado is experiencing an "early winter" (having just turned to autumn) the low of nine degrees our first morning in Gunnison was quite a shock.

The temperatures gradually rose throughout the stay, but falling in a mountain fed river and leaking waiters will certainly give your feet a different perspective.

Above there are pictures from a hike Kaitlin and I ventured on into the West Elk Wilderness - Mill Creek Trail. The week before the canyon had experienced 80mph winds, leaving giant aspen and ponderosa strewn across the valley and in many places blocking the trail.
It is difficult to glean from just photos, but the hike was quite eerie. The canyon was still but for the constant rustling of the aspen leaves. Only birds and small rodents appeared, though we found mountain lion tracks and scat. In fact, we were in prime mountain lion country (large boulders, high yellow grass, downed trees, high canyon walls), a realization that made the hike all the more tense - despite their reclusive nature.
Featured also are just two pictures from days of fly fishing activities. Kaitlin's father (The Gillie Man) tying leaders and flies. Then we have me on day five. After spending most of the day on our hike is West Elk, there was too little daylight left to rent boots, so I hit the Gunnison in my slippers. Not recommended.

Back in Denver now, it might be easy to forget the presence of the wild. My good friend Taylor posed the question to me the other day: How is the American Frontier? Does the American Dream reside in Colorado?

Well, I gave him more than he bargained for and more than I will burden anyone reading this with..

But the answer is of course, "yes" and "no"..

I have come to find, through Ed Abbey and driving in my own steel dinosaur through eastern Utah - that the rail fence that I once thought plagued the American West (lining miles and miles of uninhabited prairie) does not confine nature - it does not make the land our eunuch - it confines us, it protects us. From a force that, despite the industrial mechanization of our lives, can still reek absolute havoc. The fences protect us from facing all of the forces that we no longer have the instinctual capacity to maneuver. In this manner, the frontier is still a vibrant throng, a population unrivaled.
Yet, there are those who come to the frontier with no tolerance, no adventure in their heart. They will remain the urban mob, with no interest in equilibrium. If by chance they do venture into the hills - it is for a resort like cabin with tens of thousands of square footage and fenced in acreage. For these individuals and indeed for most of us in our daily lives, there is no frontier. However, in those rare moments when we dream of wild things and in the rarer moments when we let ourselves be hunted - when we reenter the chain - then we have reclaimed both frontiers (our mind and our surrounding).

Lastly, thirty days until our departure. Nearly every loose end is tied. Kaitlin's grandmother has offered to store my car in her garage in Colorado Springs. The scent of South America is so strong now that it is difficult to pursue any of the administrative details left. I just know that the days are going by and not too long from now we will be on a plane and everything will change. For now though, we will call the airlines, dry-run packing, and make our last excursions in the American West. I leave for Phoenix tomorrow, but will be back by Tuesday. Then later this month we will head five or six hours south to the sand dunes.

There is so much land.

2009-09-20T23:31:00.000-06:00

Work Boots - Glacier National Park - Montana

9K feet? - Glacier National Park - Montana

Shot by Kaitlin - North of Wilcox, Saskatchewan

Sunrise - Franz Jevne State Park - Birchdale, Minnesota

Homage for Young America

2009-09-20T22:23:00.000-06:00

Phase Three: Life on the Front Range

South Carolina is now a place I once lived. From September 3rd through the 16th I severed the geomantic umbilical chord via Atlanta, Chicago, Madison, Bemidji, Winnipeg, Regina, West Glacier, Provo, and now the golden days of Denver.
MSR backcountry stoves, water pumps, head lamps, packing and unpacking, laughing away exhaustion, vacant hostels and conversationalists have stepped in for falafel, bemoaning restaurants, South Main St. jazz, and the eerie calm of graduation in a college town.
Either the process of growing old or realizing my youth has left me with a deep respect for my peers. The further I plunge into the deluge that is my autonomy.. the more I appreciate the decisions and hospitality of others. Knowing what I have chosen for my time. Knowing that others have decided to welcome and encourage me. To shelter and feed me. To share their plans and aspirations. That we could all live vicariously through each other - at least for a little while - at least to pause from the magnanimity of our lives.
The foothills are a safe place to marvel. And it feels good to marvel again at the bravery of my friends and my imagination. The foothills are a safe place for leisure. All of the natives are gone, though we risk workaday intersections, we skate and skip to the converted coffee shop to read and the Frenchish bistro for pints and soccer - ambivalent. We have already thwarted so many typical disasters..

Whether we be the children of suburbia, the urban refuse, the advocates of journalistic and general integrity, the humble faithful that allow simple contact with the spirit and only wish to share that experience, the young teachers that live from sparkle to glimmer - that grow old with hope, the competent adventurers - parents, trekkers, advocates - even the purists and the elitists (if only such a thing truly existed)...we are earning our leisure.
The brethren that is future ...is here now. At least in me. And I, being one person, is enough to facilitate the virus.

I want to think that though this entry may sound much like previous entries... that my narrative is shifting. That what I am beginning to understand is not only profound in my own mind, but that it is empirically, emotionally, and spiritually - true. And not just true of young Americans, but true of the global youth. And not just the global youth, but that in all people there is an accessible, catholic commitment to truth - hope - love. The only choice we cannot deny if confronted.

Lastly, I want to take this opportunity, on this meager podium, to thank the peers that decorate my life. Most now, are beyond my reach, but I embrace you in every pensive tenor of the time. I champion you in every seeming insignificance...

2009-09-11T21:24:00.000-06:00

Trimming the Garden - Making Space to Grow

2009-08-26T17:37:00.000-06:00

I spent a good portion of my academic career mulling over the roles man insists on playing with the world. It was first codified sophomore year by Mrs. DeGroat as Transcendentalism... Thoreau and the gang. I was excited by the notion that there was a binding energy within all things. That everything was "connected."
I think it was a fruitful concept for a lonely and ambitious adolescent. I spent the next few years dancing around the implications of Transcendentalism, soon to become Pantheism.
My peers and most elders now call me a man.
I no longer question my will to express, much like I am doing here.
I have accepted the blank stares and stiff silence of those that do not understand.
Because I have been loved by both sexes for my thoughts and actions. I have a circle that has shown me that it expects me to continue to keep going.
That is how I know that what was once a comfort, is still a comfort, but for a different reason that does not diminish its validity.

What do I mean?

Kaitlin and I are closing in on our fourth week in Kershaw County. We left the brutal summer behind last week in finishing the sapling extractions and pine straw laying.
Last weekend we had a get together to celebrate changes. Kristen will leave for the University of Frankfurt at the end of September, Kaitlin and I will leave for Colorado September 2nd, and I turned twenty-three.

Friends and family that have known and loved us from all points in our life were present. I will one day think of a new cliche for the, "this is not good bye, merely 'until next time'" but it is a fitting sentiment. I am happy that we have handled this transition in this way. Heart open, arms wide, with smiles.

I remarked to Kaitlin the other night that these moments are the reward for living boldly. A year ago we hinted timidly at our wildest dreams for our lives after graduation. So far, we're on track. A week from now, we'll set out on the next phase of that vision. Each day is another vote of confidence. Each evening by the fire, reflecting on our decision, we are bolstered. As dearly as we love our friends and family, the sky is dark here - we are isolated and happy.

Between the two of us and roasting sassafras we are both bare under the night and full of our loved ones. I hope that is enough to get us through anything. I hope that is the minimum we require. We do love everything else, but if that is all we get - we'll be okay.

Less than a week from now, we'll hit the road for Colorado - where aspen and fly fishing await.

2009-08-11T11:45:00.000-06:00

It's just past two o'clock. The midday sun is on the decline and that means only about an hour before Kaitlin and I get back to the grind. No more hocking hummus and pita bread. No more refills, no more sidework, no more unreliable coworkers. It's just us.

We successfully made the "move" from Columbia to Lugoff. I say "move" because ten days later and we are still living out of our bags. We actually moved into my Sity's former home in Camden. Due to a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo my parents were not able to settle the estate before we arrived (two days after in fact) - so thus, they were unable to move out of the house in Lugoff.

It hasn't been all bad. We have long been accustomed to the absence of internet and television, and better for it! We spent the first week getting organized, reading, sitting in the breakfast nook watching the day evaporate the morning fog. This is the life!

Then the work began. The process has been less than organized. We have been frustrated by the parochial way of making appointments - which is not to keep them. The plumbers, the carpet guy, the cable guy, people offering to pick up linens as donations, all have reneged on previously agreed appointments - some on multiple occasions. The sum has been a haphazard smattering of odd jobs that "need" to be done, but are not the top priority.

As I speak the carpet in the den is being stretched, enabling furniture from the house in Lugoff to be moved here. The plumbers are digging a new line to the sewer. Things are happening, but in the ten days that it has taken to get people out here to do work - we have been forced to scrounge for productivity.

We've been outside mostly. I recall Kaitlin's defeat almost two months ago, "Jack, I'm...hot" - Welcome to the Southland. But even I, who have been acclimated to this place over the last twenty-one years am struggling with the last few days. Moving furniture and reclaiming a wild lawn through triple digit heat over consecutive days has left us both depleted. And we've only just begun..

There is enough yard work and painting yet to be done outside that could last us well through the month. We've only recently become organized enough to work in the morning and evening (as we originally intended) - hopefully this will allow us to retain our endurance.

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In the downtime we have signed up for WWOOF. We received our list of farms in Chile and have mapped them out using GoogleMaps - so now we will read the descriptions and decide where we'll try to end up.

The trip is still months away though. I am very anxious for the last week in South Carolina when I can spend some quality time with my family. And then September 2nd when we begin our two weeks on the road. It will be another step closer. Another destination.

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Meanwhile, it is still the beginning of August and it is still getting hotter. The next ten days will be the real test. How long can we hold out before we start falling apart, whether it be physically, or emotionally, or both? I think we can do it. I am happy to be exhausted, to suffer blood blisters, and punctures from tools and shrubs. To be drenched in sweat before eleven in the morning. To see such a change come over the places that have always been so familiar to me. It is valuable work. There is real progress. We must be sure to step back in our exhaustion, to put our hands on our hips, and look at what we have done. This will remind us that our efforts are put to use and that we have more to give, more to create.

I always want to be able to do this. Whether it is to help raise a barn in Chile or to nudge an adolescent out of the nest onto the passionate winds of literature and sport. To experience motion in things.

2009-07-25T08:27:00.000-06:00

View Trans-tectonics: Phase 1 in a larger map

Tentative drive to Denver. Seven to ten days - 4,500 miles - 14 states - 2 countries.

2009-07-25T07:58:00.000-06:00

A year on the run begins in less than a week.
The apartment is bigger after bags of clothes have made their way to Goodwill, stacks of books are stored with relatives, and wall decorations are stacked in not-so-neat piles.

Kaitlin has left me for a few days to visit family in Denver that will be moving to Australia before we make our way out there. She'll be back on Tuesday and then we'll only have a handful of days to get the last of our stuff to the way station in Lugoff. For the next few days, I'll be putting things away. Packing up the last five years into a mobile heap.

We're ready to go. Before last week I had been pretty anxious about letting go. It's focus now though. The money is in and settled. Our possessions are limited. We have taken advantage of our last opportunities to experience this city. It has given us more than we ever asked for and I know that our gratitude has not gone unnoticed.

I'm excited now to look towards our time in Lugoff with my family. Kristen has gotten into grad school in Frankfurt, so she'll be leaving a month after I do. Neither of us are sure when we'll be able to get back home in the next two or six years. So, I find myself still unable to fantasize about the beaches in Argentina... I'm thinking more of big meals on the patio in Sunny Hill with my family and driving the kudzu backroads all day. I'm thinking about taking Kim to the park for soccer tutorials and swim meets and reading/lounging sessions.

For now..we'll just keep tyding up.

Return of the Endless Summer

2009-06-25T09:53:00.000-06:00

Four years ago I spent a summer in Surfside Beach, South Carolina with a friend from school. I waited tables, slept, and surfed through the summer with an indulgent deliberateness. Each day I was committed fully to that day's task. Whatever whim struck me.

Some days we devoted ourselves to the sea. Leaving before the sun to catch the tide. Paddling naively into storms. Soaking in the lull. Whether the world brought us dolphins and rays or the perfect ride - we were in it with all that we could muster.

Still, some days we sat around the duplex past noon. Scheming.

And still more were spent in air conditioned chain restaurants accepting the masses' "travel money" to fund our loafing.

The double shifts both in the steakhouse and along the shore were consuming. With the rest of the world crowded out by longboarding trips, South American soccer matches, and general whimsy - the days shimmered under the heat, blurring from linear to indistinct.

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Four years later, I am able to entertain a return of the endless summer, a more endless summer. After four months of South Carolina's oppressive 100-110 heat indexes, Kaitlin and I will leave one hemisphere's summer in search of another.

I cannot say now what the South American summer will bring. But the prospect of a desolate punta with only my mind to fill it is carrying me off before we've even left the ground.

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As for the latest, we are nearing the "one month" countdown before we leave Columbia. Soon we must begin depossessing ourselves. Giving away clothes and other nonessentials we have acquired.
I am holding the line at two car loads of "stuff." Clothes, books, and kitchenware. Only what can fit inside the car and above in a rack for the drive out West.
After the next week it will be crunch time. The apartment will begin to disolve and then before we know it we'll begin the month-long renovation of my parent's home in Lugoff.
By the time we're comfortable in Lugoff we'll be in the car, headed for the Rockies.
By the time we're comfortable there, we'll be on a plane for Buenos Aires.
And so on... to where?

The Advent of the Pack

2009-06-02T09:48:00.000-06:00

I am by no means an amateur in the realm of travel. My wheels are well worn by the heat and texture of the United States and Canada. My senses have taken in a continent of homes. Floated, flown, on foot, and flying down the interstate, I have traveled.

Yet still, there are more disciplines of travel to embark upon. That journey being just as relevant as any destination in South America.

The Backpack: The portable macrocosm. A microcosm.

Here I will describe "learning":

This trip would hardly be possible in its organismic legitimacy without Kaitlin's experience and direction. The utility of the Backpack being a prime example. In order to brace my enthusiasm with composed pragmatism a test run was necessary. Thus: "The Advent of the Pack"

Last week Kaitlin and I organized a day hike to Paris Mountain in Greenville, South Carolina with my sister. Because I was immersed in a string of double shifts, Kaitlin manned the packing (though it is a necessary art for me to eventually master). After my Sunday morning shift at the cafe we loaded the car and set out for Greenville.
While waiting for Kristen in the parking lot we limbered up with handstands, stretching, and various gymnastics (which is undoubtedly a beneficial new activity for me). Kristen arrived and after a brief snack pack we moved the gear to Kristen's car and left for Paris Mountain State Park.
Being less than thirty minutes from metro-Greenville, the park's water access was bustling with families in bathing suits and towels. However, our destination "Sulphur Springs" required a five-ten minute drive up the meager 1,000+ ft mountain to the trailhead.
At the trailhead we joined a handful of vehicles carrying mountainbikers and a hispanic couple returning from a leisurely nature walk.
In the lot, we began my first lessons in carrying a pack:

Buckle the waiststrap, pull the strap to so the pack is snug to the hips, but not to the point of discomfort.
Tighten shoulder straps so the pack does not shift. Again, not too tight.
When climbing/extending, lock the knee so that the weight is dispersed evenly between the hips.

Five minutes up the trail, I'm feeling muscles being worked in ways I have never experienced. For a moment, I dread the three mile, "difficulty level 9" loop that awaits. However, the running dialogue between Kaitlin, Kristen, and myself helps to take my mind away from the physical.
The entrance to the trail is moderate enough for us to discuss a mesh of Ayn Rand, rational egoism, and general economic theory.

Body, Mind, ...

Eventually, the conversation pettered out and we entered into a new phase of the trek. From here, I say that I became very aware of myself. The muffled trod of our feet along the path and the occassional rustling in the trees and leaves were the only distractions from the rhythm we created.
For the next thirty minutes we spoke only in wonder at scuttling wildlife or warning of a perilous creek stone. Upon reaching the dam that secures Mountain Lake reservoir we marveled at our vitality. Sweaty, pulsing, and hardly fatigued.
Personally, the trail had offered a variety of obstacles in climbs and descents - trecherous and forgiving. A fairly thorough introduction to the disposition of the pack and its relation to my body.
The return (as always) proved to be the true test. I became conscious of the creeping fire in my lungs and thighs. Sweat leaked from my brow, sprung from my fingers, and pooled around my waiststrap. Still feeling power in me, I did not doubt my ability, but was dragged into feeling heavy.
Yet, the principles Katilin instilled held true and delivered me to the trailhead - soaked, but not sore.

I don't mean to sensationalize what was merely a jaunt in and out of the woods. However, the courtship of the pack is my purpose and a first date, no matter how tame, is worthy of examination.

Jack,

Finance and the "Estate"

2009-05-29T18:55:00.000-06:00

Leaving the country for an extended period of time has presented a wealth of categorical and hypothetical headaches. Of course, nothing that the brain trust "Kaitlin and Jack" cannot overcome. But in this moment of relaxation and reflection, I'm celebrating the little battles.

Gear is purchased.

One of the first things I learned in the conceptual stage of this venture is that you can find a reason to take anything with you. Deciding our dependence upon the backpack was the first necessity. After consulting contacts who have contacts in South America and doing our own research (WWOOF and hostel programs) we decided that a tent would not be necessary.

One less thing to buy.
One less thing to carry.

Not that we don't intend to sleep under the stars, but consensus is that civilization to civilization is the best method until we make reliable contacts in country. When the time comes, tents are something that can be rented for a nominal fee.

Deciding the necessity of a tent is a minor decision with major implications. This is proving to be an exhausting norm. Of course, there is always a bigger concern to replace any minor victory:

Reaching financial objectives.
What to do with essential non-traveling possessions (clothing, car, furniture, cookery)?

Each tree of problems sprouting a network of concerns and considerations with immediate ramifications. More work! Storage unit? No, too much money! ..but where else does it all go?

This is an abbreviated glance at the constant internal dialogue that is the passion for this trip. In that I mean, the exhaustion of conflict in a "good fight" is part of what makes infamous experiences. What we have put into making the trip of a lifetime a possibility, is what makes it the trip of a lifetime. Because it is difficult, it is great. Because it works, we are strong.

Jack,

2009-05-26T13:17:00.000-06:00

Fact: Kaitlin and I have purchased one way tickets to Buenos Aires.
Fact: We fly from Denver, Colorado to Miami, Florida, to Buenos Aires, Argentina on November 9th, 2009.

I have started this blog to simultaneously chronicle my preparation for the trip, the trip itself, and any feedback/advice/concerns posed by interested third parties.

Intent: To spend three to six months in Chile and Argentina. We anticipate utilizing World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) as a means to sustain an extended stay in the region, but will use the next five months to form a concrete itinerary. Another major point of interest is the Patagonia for backpacking.