…on the other, though, the indoor air conditioning feels pretty damn good, especially when coupled with a frozen, no whip mocha frappacino. Ordered in plain ol’ English.

Honestly, though, if I could do anything (after visiting with friends and family, of course), I would travel again. This summer vacation has been one of the most incredible experiences of my life. Ever. And while I’m mortgageless/childless and generally responsibility free, I am blessed with the ability to take to the road again. So, while this entry may be the last installment on South America for the time being, it will hopefully not be the last on my travels.

Anywhoo, as promised, here’s a bit about my final weeks in Argentina:

After about a week in BA, during which I conquered the tourism trifecta of tango, futbol, and a big bife de chorizo, I was ready to hit the road again. Namely, to Iguazu Falls. Having sufficiently recovered from a 20 hour bus ride from Santiago, and being a veritable bus veteran at this point, I was prepared to tackle the mother of all bus voyages: a 38 hour roundtripper to Iguazu Falls.

Yes, I know that sounds crazy. But when you’re A) running out of money and B) not too far away from what can truthfully be called one of the continent’s biggest attractions, you sometimes take the crazy route.

I boarded my bus around 3 pm on a Wednesday afternoon, in the semi-cama section, which consists of seats slightly more comfortable than those you’d find in coach on an airplane. Fortunately, being low season and midweek, most of the section was empty, meaning one can easily appropriate two seats. Which, of course, I did.

A few things about South American buses:

1) Whether the voyage is sold to you as “sin servicio” or “con servicio” doesn’t really matter. On every trip, you will be fed some form of a meal, whether it be a white bread jamon y queso sandwich or a full dinner spread, complete with a salad, hot entree and dessert, usually consisting of something gelatinous.

2) On every overnight trip, you will be subject to a combination of super cheesy comedies and incredibly gory action flicks. I have, over the past two months, watched the following: High School Musical, Meet the Fockers (twice), Little Fockers (apparently, Argentines are big De Niro fans), Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto (try watching beheading scenes during your bus dinner), and Bruce Willis’ Tears of the Sun (basically, 3 hours of African villages getting massacred).

On this particular trip, we watched The Tourist, which, as most reviews correctly stated, was “eh,” despite starring two of Hollywood’s hottest- Jonny Depp and Angelina Jolie. I began to drift off after it ended, when Meet the Fockers, dubbed in Spanish, was switched on. This particular film was selected from a bootleg compilation of other De Niro flicks, which displayed on the movie welcome screen, along with a blaring reggaeton number that, as far as I could tell, had nothing to do with the actor, and would loop every 20 seconds or so until a movie was turned on. It wasn’t so bothersome.

Except for the fact that it came on at midnight. After I’d fallen asleep. And wasn’t turned off for a good 10 minutes, when the bus steward finally appeared and put us out of our misery with a solid push of the “eject” button.

We arrived in Puerto Iguazu, a town basically built around falls tourism, around 9 the next morning. Exiting the bus, I was followed by a blond haired English guy, who was rather chipper given the lovely night ride. After we exchanged names (his, Cameron) and recent travel destinations, he asked where I was staying. “Timbo Posada,” I answered, “right up the road.” “Think they have room?” he asked.

They did, it turns out. Just a block from the bus station, Timbo Posada was a lovely little hostel, with a pool, patio, open air kitchen, and hammocks to boot. After checking in, Cameron and I bought some provisions from the local grocery store, and then hopped aboard a bus to the falls.

And, how were they? Well, I could wax poetic on how epic, majestic, abundant, otherworldly, and powerful they were to behold. Or, you can take a look for yourself…

oooohhhh....

...ahhhh....

I can only imagine how the first person (well, Westerner, I should say) felt when they stumbled upon these natural masterpieces. While I’ve never been to Niagara Falls, several folks I’d spoken to before arriving at Iguazu said that Argentina’s made New York’s cataratas look like a trickling spigot. So, it’s easy to see the name “Iguazu,” which comes from the language of the indigenous Guarani people, means “big.”

In any case, the Falls were breathtaking. Best of all, as a park visitor, you could take them in from several angles, based on which lookout and path you chose. Cameron and I opted first for the lower path, which allowed you to behold the falls crashing down from below…and also to get up close and personal with them, which, of course, is what we did. Sans panchos, which smarter people would have packed.

The little teal spot in the background? Yea, that would be me, drenched under the falls.

all smiles post falls

Fortunately, the weather at Iguazu was gorgeous (the best of the trip, in fact), and the sun quickly dried our clothes.

After snapping a few views from the top path….

Photoshop, eat your heart out

not quite double rainbow, but not bad

…we called it a day and headed back to the hostel, to return early the next morning. (Two days at Iguazu, from the Argentina side, will set you back $150 pesos. A day trip is $100).

We met some other folks at the hostel while preparing dinner, which I was only too happy to cook, seeing as I hadn’t made a meal for myself in ages. Cameron and I split the pasta and wine with Ali, from Scotland, who regaled us with tales from his Argentina travels. We drank well into the night, along with Yann and Rebequinha, a couple from the UK, and agreed to meet up the next morning to go to the park.

clearly excited about a homemade dinner

Cameron and I were only too happy to repeat the previous day’s section, which, even the second time around, were just as extraordinary to witness. One of my favorite sections was called “Dos Hermanas,” or Two Sisters, for obvious reasons:

Cameron, being a bit more adventurous than I, decided to give the lower falls another go, sans poncho. This was the result.

Sock wringing after another foray into the falls

After a few hours of meandering around, oohing and ahhing, we decided to break for lunch. And decided against doing it where the main picnic area was, for one main reason. Or rather, several main reasons.

A coati, browsing for some lunch leftovers

Several big, furry, obnoxious reasons, which would attack anything within range that even resembled a sandwich.

These coatis, otherwise known as Brazilian aardvarks, Mexican tejón, hog-nosed coons (or, as some unlucky tourists probably call them, “Hey! Get away! Sandwich stealing assholes!”), were everywhere. Based on this fact, their novelty wears off after a minute or two, when even the most enthusiastic of Japanese tourists are likely to refrain taking their photos. Which is a good thing, because one’s hands, instead of holding a camera, are needed to shield the critters’ preying paws from one’s lunch sack. One our first day in the park, Cameron and I witnessed an unfortunate casualty of the coatis’ insatiable appetites: a Brazilian couples’ paninis, wolfed down in 10 seconds flat.

That’s why it was fun, albeit a tad sadistic, to watch the park’s janitors swat the critters off of tables and benches, and see them fly through the air with a pathetic “squeak!”

The group of us opted instead to eat lunch near an Upper Path lookout, which provided beautiful views of the falls. We were interrupted by a field trip of Argentinian students, who, in characteristic kid fashion, were more interested in the vendor hawking plates with the Falls painted on them, than in the Falls themselves.

We wrapped up lunch and made our way over to the Park’s train, which, in 20 minutes, deposited us at the trailhead to the Garganta del Diablo, which divides the Brazilian from the Argentinian side of the Falls. It is in this section that the river’s falls flow into a huge chasm, giving the appearance of a giant suction cup of water. In other words, it’s incredible to behold.

We were stoked, clearly.

Yann, Rebequinha, Ali and I at the entrance to the Devil's Throat

Unfortunately, the chunk of path leading to the Garganta was closed, due to extremely high water levels.

Of course, nothing makes up for a bummer like a beer. We bought a few Quilmes bottles and some empanadas once back in town, and had a quick bite before I headed off to the bus station (and back to Buenos).

I arrived, exhausted, around noon the next day. Traveling, despite the lack of actual work it involves, leaves one feeling drained: the constant schlepping from place to place, getting up early for excursions, staying up late into the night with fellow travelers, booking hostels and bus tickets for future destinations, blogging, doing laundry daily in the hostel sink so as to maintain a consistent supply of clean underwear…whew.

So, I decided to stay. One week of pure vacation in Buenos Aires, obliged to do nothing but chill out, eat, meander and do whatever I damn well pleased. That involved:

-Shopping in Palermo

-Comparing the difference between a bife de chorizo (the fattier, filet mignonish cut, known as the “man’s cut”) and bife de lomo (the leaner, “women’s” cut)

- Getting a portena haircut. Not quite the fringe that many Argentine women sport across their foreheads, but a decent change for who my hairstylist used to call “She who fears the scissors.”

yea bangs!

-Visiting La Boca and the Teatro Colon

-Visiting Tigre, north of Buenos Aires, which is located on the Parana delta and is a big weekend tourist attraction.

-Sleeping. A lot.

-Taking one last tango class.

Of course, that week ended all too soon, and I found myself in Lima by the week’s end, awaiting a flight back to Jacksonville. Where I currently find myself, in a Starbucks, dreaming of future travels…

Thanks for keeping up with me on this trip, and for all your comments and support It has meant the world to me, as I’ve traveled the world, to know I have amazing friends and family like you.

Un abrazo,

Katie

I have been shhing my way through BA, which is a splendid ending point for an incredible trip. This city, with its fashionable porteños, differentiating themselves at first greeting from the rest of Argentina with their ‘me shamo….’ (vs. me llamo), has earned itself a top billing among places I’ve been. Who, after all, wouldn’t be charmed by its sidewalk cafes, bustling streets, striking chapels and museums, whimsical graffiti, beautiful boutiques, and equally beautiful people? It’s truly la vida dolce. (And not just because there is a mouthwatering display of dulce de leche filled confections on every block. Which, to my thighs’ chagrin, there is).

San Telmo street market, every Sunday.

Casa Rosada, or 'Pink House,' where Madame Kirchner does her work

Street vendor in Plaza de Mayo, BA

However, Buenos Aires, despite (or perhaps because of) what it has to offer, can overwhelm first timers. Arriving after a 20 hour bus sojourn from Santiago certainly doesn’t help matters, as the first thing one wants to do is pass out in one’s hostel bed…which, I’ve learned, is practically impossible to do anywhere near downtown BA. Unlike other Argentine cities, BA doesn’t subscribe to the ‘siesta’ schedule, which, on top of its sumptuous architecture and wide, highly trafficked boulevards, gives it a bustling feel akin to NYC’s.

San Telmo, where I’m staying, bears a remarkable resemblance to Greenwich Village, with its skinny, cobblestone lined streets, numerous antique shops, and quaint cafes that rely on ‘character’ to  charge double for coffee. It’s certainly the 20somethings hangout in BA, as well, as I later learned, the birthplace of tango.

It’s hard to walk through San Telmo without glimpsing tango in some shape or form. I first saw it at night, on the signs bearing TANGO SHOW AND CENA in front of a fancy corner parilla, its shrouded windows meant to block the view of passerby like me while simultaneously attracting them. Being no aficionado of dance, at least the kind where house music and alcoholic beverages aren’t involved, I wasn’t truly tempted until I saw the dance in action.

It is incredibly elegant, yet sexy. Passionate, but refined. In short, it is what every women wants to be.

Tango on a Monday afternoon, San Telmo.

The couple above were merely two performers, using a lunchtime crowd on a Monday afternoon to make a few pesos. But what they didn’t know is that they’d begun to hook me.

By that night, I was a full fledged tango addict. It started this way: A fellow American girl, Andrea, and a pair of Austrian sisters suggested that we attend the last night of Buenos Aires Tango Festival, which had run from mid to late August. The last night of festival competition, or what we later discovered was the Tango World Championships, took place at a big theatre called Luna Park. Admission was apparently free, so that was reason enough to go. We bundled up and hopped on the metro, and in about half an hour, we were among 6,000 other attendees witnessing what was, at the moment, the world’s biggest dance competition.

Competitors in a final round of the Tango World Championships

After being introduced by name and country of origin (which included Italy, Japan, South Korea, Colombia, Venezuela, and, of course, Argentina), the competitors began to dance in a perfect circle around the stage. I was completely mesmerised just watching them throughout the three pieces of music, and have no idea how the judges selected finalists from among the fantastic group. Somehow, they did, whittling out a top 5. Among them were a couple from San Francisco (Andrea, a native, hooted loud when their names were called), as well as a Japanese couple.

Couple from San Francisco that took third. Represent!

But second place? Was a tie. Meaning…yep…dance off! Between a pair of Colombians, and a pair of Venezuelans. The battle began shortly after the quartet finished embracing, and ended with even what I could discern 10 minutes of competition was a Colombian victory. In perfect rhythmic sync, the pair spun around the floor, not too showy but not too stiff. Perfectly, elegantly, controlled. I was nearly on my feet when the judges announced them as the victors, and winners of $30,000 pesos.

I left that night determined to try tango myself. Fortunately, at the recommendation of a couple I’d met in Cafayete, I had a place to go: Millonga Parakultural in Palermo.

Milongas, for the uninitiated, are essentially places where people go to dance tango. And boy, are there ever an abundance of them in BA. (Just google ‘Buenos Aires milongas’ and you’ll see what I mean). Before milonging, though, it is advised that you at least have some tango experience under your belt. Which is why, fortunately for me, Parakultural offered tango classes for beginners at 7 pm on Tuesday evenings.

I showed up right at 7 and walked into what was basically an empty ballroom, complete with a wood paneled bar, several tables marked ‘reserved’, and a dance floor over which swung a classically tacky disco ball. Of course, things didn’t get going til 7:30 or so, but by then the class had swelled to about 15 people, including a few more tourists. One pair, Paul and Becky, were honeymooning for 7 weeks from Australia. Like me, this was their first tango foray. Paul ordered a beer before we got started, to take the edge off.

The class, though all in Spanish, was straightforward enough. We started off just doing the basic tango pace around the room, which basically consists of elegantly placing one’s leg in front of the other leg and slightly bending the knee. After successfully making it through that exercise and a few others, we were paired up to do the paso basico, or basic tango step. I managed to make it through a full step with all my partners (which included everyone from a 20something Argentine to a guy pushing 80), I can proudly say. The hard part, though, was mastering a funky foot cross on one of the steps, my attempts at which left more than a few partners with a smashed toe or two.

All too soon, the class ended, to make way for the more advanced crew. I decided to stick around to witness the action. Two hours and one glass of Malbec later, I was still enthralled watching up close what were clearly people who had tangoed a time or two. Before long, the advanced class was over, and more Argentines and foreigners alike began to enter, filling the seats with their furs, handbags, and elegantly draped bodies. The milonga had begun.

Milonga at Salon Canning

Before long, I was being asked to dance, by a 60something lawyer named Alberto (whose ‘mujer’ was conveniently home, sleeping). I warned him that we wouldn’t make it much beyond the paso basico, but he told me ‘no me importas,’ and we did a few spins around the floor. I managed not to completely embarrass myself, and was proud, though was quickly traded for a much more experienced and classily dressed attendee.

Frankly, I was happy to retake my seat, and witness more tango action. Especially with this couple, who cleared the floor when they came on.

Becky and Paul rejoined me around 1 am, having just finished their dinner at another restaurant nearby. They shared a bottle of wine with me, and we watched as the band, Amores Tangos, warmed up and started playing. Not until 2 am did I call it a night and wish them adieu, grabbing a cab back to San Telmo, seven hours of tango (and copious glasses of wine) later.

Of course, not all my time in BA has been spent with tango on the brain. I did spend one evening engaged in another porteño obsession: soccer, or futbol. Specifically, Boca Juniors futbol.

Boca stadium, La Boca, BA

Futbol is a religion down here, to the point where Diego Maradona has a church dedicated to him, complete with a Christmaslike celebration on his birthday.

If futbol is religion, Boca futbol is the equivalent of Evangelism, its adherents more fervent than any I’ve ever seen in church or stadium. I was fortunate enough to witness a futbol equivalent of the Crusades last Sunday, at the San Lorenzo vs. Boca match. San Lorenzo is another team based in BA, and is a loathed rival of Boca, especially because they’ve beaten the hometown favorites in the last few games. This, needless to say, was a big match.

Boca fans came prepared.

The cheering section across from ours had more banners and streamers that I think I’ve ever seen at any other sporting event, and were probably not cheering for a total of 2.3 minutes during the 90 minute match. Our side was almost as rowdy and simultaneously started all kinds of chants, which must have been familiar given the speed at which they were picked up by the crowd. They also tended to contain the word ‘puta,’ so I can imagine they weren’t the most friendly or sportmanslike of chants. San Lorenzo fans, from their small section above ours, would occasionally respond by dumping unknown liquids over the rail ledges.

The energy was palpable throughout the match, as fans (including yours truly) changed the basic Boca chant and waved an inflated Boca balloon in the air (which had been dispersed to the crowd). The real action, however, didn’t start until Boca finally scored in the second half, at which point San Lorenzo was already up one goal.

Confetti in the crowd, post Boca goal

Another attempt by Boca, in which the ball slid ever so slowly toward the goal until the San Lorenzo keeper grabbed it, prompted an equally fervent crowd reaction. Candles, which had been handed out to the crowd prior to the second half (apparently to ‘grieve’ Riva, Boca’s main BA rival, which just got bumped down to the 2nd division), were summarily lit…and then chucked for 5 minutes straight at the San Lorenzo goalie.

The moral of Boca Juniors games is this: If something can be used as a projectile, it will be.

The game ended in a draw, and the anticlimactic ending was only drawn out for another half hour while we waited for the San Lorenzo fans to clear the stands (for safety reasons, obviously). I then joined the other tourists in our group for the endless pizza and beer included in our game excursion cost, which, while not actually endless, was sufficiently filling.

Street Art, BA(the middle section has been 'stolen,' or scraped away, placed on canvas, and sold)

Other BA adventures have included a free street art tour, hosted by an expat from England, Matt Fox Tucker, who recently published a book on Buenos Aires graffiti. Matt advertised the tour via Couchsurfing (my holy grail these days), as a way to get some practice for himself before launching the real deal. You can check out the tour company here:

http://www.buenosairesstreetart.com/

I met up with him and a crew of about 12 others near a metro station way up in Northeast BA. We then jumped on the local train and headed out to a part of BA that isn’t even on the tourist map, in order to see what was apparently some of the best of the city’s street art. Matt proceeded to tell us about some of the artists and their best works, including Blu, a famous Italian street artist who also made an incredible video featuring his creations (see the film, Moto, by clicking here).

Matt also explained the difference between graffiti and its ‘tagging’ and purer street art, which can mimic works in galleries. He also told us that female street artists are on the rise, including Pum Pum, whose whimsical characters you can see below.

Pum Pum, a female street artist in BA

So, I did manage to get a cool tour for gratis. But, of course, it wouldn’t be proper to leave BA without doing a little wallet damage in the form of shopping. San Telmo’s Sunday market is a perfect venue for that. As well as for people watching…

People watching...or not? The invisible man in San Telmo's Sunday market.

So, needless to say, there’s no shortage of things to do in bueno Buenos Aires. More to come soon, after an amazing trip to Iguazu Falls.

Til then, abrazos!

K

Santiago's streets are a burnin'

Well, no trip to South America would be complete without some street protesting now, would it?

I got my chance to get in on some of the anti-government action last week while in Santiago, thanks to my host and self appointed tour guide, Gerardo.

A native Santiagan, Gerardo is one of those people who makes you feel immediately comfortable, despite the fact that you’ve spent the last 14 hours on a bus and feel/probably look like hell. He greeted me with a big smile as my cab pulled up to his apartment building last Monday, and immediately offered to lug my backpack (which puts on about 3 pounds in every city I visit) up to his place. He’d offered to host me when I messaged him about a month ago on Couchsurfing, which we’ve used to communicate ever since.

Preparing to leave for Holland to start a graduate program, Gerardo’s final days in Santiago coincided with my first, as did a number of other events: the last performance of his band, consisting of Gerardo, his cousin Pame, and a friend of theirs, Jommy, as well as a major strike and protests throughout the country. Scheduled for August 24th and 25th, and organized by students and labor unionists, this Chile-wide strike was meant to draw attention to a slew of issues: unequal income distribution and rising costs of education, to name a few.

Chile has one of the most expensive secondary education systems worldwide, as well as one of the most unequal. The cost of a year’s tuition rivals that of some American universities, despite the comparatively low quality of Chilean higher ed. Couple that price tag with Chile’s massive income inequality, and you’ve got trouble a brewin’.

University of Chile, Santiago,

The resulting trouble is this: Chile’s universities have effectively been closed for the last few months. Students and professors alike have stopped attending class, and have instead taken to the streets to protest the increasing costs. The government has tried to placate the students with a few offers, but the student union has effectively refused them. Thus, the fight continues.

I witnessed evidence of this battle my first night in town, as we passed by some public schools on our way to Gerardo’s band practice. The twisted limbs of desks and chairs stuck through schools’ front gates, a message of defiance from students to Sebastian Piñera, the country’s (increasingly unpopular) president. But the streets were generally quiet that night, with the only major sounds coming from Gerardo and Pame’s guitars, as they jammed in preparation for the next night’s show.

Music seems to be a big part of life in Santiago, which has solid rock, alternative and heavy metal scenes. Clubs and other music venues abound in the city, especially in Bella Vista, a university neighborhood that’s quite popular with tourists.

Gerardo’s band was set to play in Bella Vista on Tuesday night. He generously offered to give me a motorcycle ride during the day so we could check out the lively area, as well as the rest of Santiago proper. I instantly agreed and grabbed my camera, and off we went.

My chariot and driver for the morning

We passed through Brazil, one of Santiago’s older neighborhoods, where children frolicked on brightly colored playground equipment in the area’s main plaza. Zipping by some spectacular street art, we soon made our way to a main thoroughfare, continuing downtown to Santiago’s civic district. There, sitting on a traffic circle, we caught a glimpse of La Moñeda, the seat of Chile’s executive branch, which was infamously bombed by Chile’s military forces in 1973. Salvador Allende, Chile’s president at the time, was found dead inside the building just hours after the first bomb dropped. His suicide led to decades of rule by a military junta.

La Moñeda Palace

Gerardo and I then headed up toward Bella Vista, where Pablo Neruda has yet another house, La Chascona. This one sports three bars instead of just one, and pays homage to Matilde, Neruda’s third wife, with various paintings, photographs and framed poems throughout its spacious rooms.

It also features some interesting outdoor art. Take a look.

eye seeeee you...

By early afternoon, Gerardo had to take off for band practice, so he left me with Yerko, his equally amiable cousin, to wander around Bella Vista a bit more. After that, we took Santiago’s metro (super clean, by the way. Take note, NYC) to the Museum of Memory and Human Rights. One of Santiago’s newest museums, this place pays tribute and remembrance to people the world over who have suffered human rights abuses. Its main focus, however, is on the thousands of Chileans who were killed and ‘dissapeared’ by the country’s military during the Pinochet dictatorship, which started just after the bombing of La Moñeda and lasted until 1989.

Images of the Dissapeared in front of Chile's Museum of Memory and Human Rights

Exploring the museum was a sobering yet very educational experience. With its handwritten letters from families of the dissapeared to their loved ones, toys of dissapeared children, and photos of youthful, beaming Chileans who were later found murdered over their political views, the place doesn’t leave you with dry eyes.

But it is likely to leave you with an understanding as to why Chileans are a spirited bunch, especially when it comes to anti-government protests. They have plenty of experience with it, as witnessed by the museum’s many videos of Chileans taking to the streets to challenge their government about the death and dissapearance of loved ones.

Witnessing this passion in real life was a pretty amazing experience. Around 10 on Wednesday night, I heard the sounds of banging pots echoing from around Gerardo’s block. (This practice, referred to as cacerolazo, began during the Allende administration in the 70′s to protest a shortage of goods.)

‘Do you feel like joining?’ Gerardo asked. Moments later, we were on the streets, pots  in hand, clanging along with the rest of the city.

It was somewhat strange to be out banging pots for a cause in a country where, well, I’m not a citizen. For a moment or two, though, it was exhilirating, and uplifting. Why don’t we join together more often in the U.S. to challenge what we believe our government is doing wrong? Chileans of all ages and backgrounds were joined together that night, overlooking their differences to unite for something they believe in: a free university education for all.  Drivers honk their horns in support every time they pass a group of university students protesting, no matter whether they’re behind the wheel of a taxi, a motorcycle, or a Rolls Royce. Couples young and old walked in the street that night, pots and instruments in hand, as groups of university students performed choreographed dances to rhythmic drumbeats coming from the crowd.

Of course, the fuzzy, happy feelings only last so long during a protest.

Before long, we began to spot fires in the streets, and Gerardo suggested we get back to his apartment, so as to avoid the general chaos that ensues during the late night protest hours. Though I wanted to stay out and capture more of the action, the sight of fires burning in the streets near Gerardo’s apartment, as well as the sound of gunshots later that night and lingering scent of tear gas the next morning, told me he was right to keep us indoors. The two-day strike and protest, I later learned, resulted in hundreds of arrests, damaged buildings, and even the death of a 14 year old boy, which authorities are still investigating. In other words, this isn’t just a spectacle- it’s serious stuff.

But this all paints a rather one sided portrait of Chile, a country where people certainly know how to have a good time (without, you know, lighting stuff on fire). I had a blast playing photographer at Gerardo’s last concert, which was a pretty amazing show.

'no me vaya a enamorar...'

Not only was their band fantastic, but the acts that followed were all equally musically talented, and diverse to boot. The next group consisted of two women, one on drums and the other on vocals and guitar, who sang a bunch of Pixies songs as well as some original tunes. The group after that was definitely more about heavy metal…and, well, I’d like to stay they were talented, but since lots of screaming doesn’t really jive with my musical tastes, I’ll refrain from judgement.

I will, though, say that Chile has done right in choosing its national drink: the Piscola. Pisco plus cola. Simple, but genius. I had my first one at the bar that night.

thumbs up for Piscola

Sadly, my time in Santiago was pretty short (I was just there from Monday to Thursday morning), but quality. A big thanks to the Pujado family for adopting me for the week, and for those of you reading, I promise more dispatches soon from yet another capital; Buenos Aires.

Hasta pronto!
Katie

In fact, cold has been the theme as of late, starting back in Mendoza last Wednesday. That day, Phillipe and I decided to take the touristic ¨Altas Montañas¨ tour, which normally includes a stop and brief trek in Aconcagua Park. Severe snowfall, however, had closed the park for a few days, meaning our full day trip was limited to just a few stops.

The first was at scenic Portrerillos, at artificial lake that draws plenty of tourists for camping, windsurfing, and kayaking in warmer months.

Potrerillos Lake

Although it wasn´t freezing at that point, the wind began to pick up, and only got stronger as we got closer to the Chilean border (and higher in altitude).

As we continued down Route 7, we passed through Uspallata, a town of about 4,000 people, for a quick bite. Continuing on, we soon saw snowflakes falling on the windshield of our van. The vehicle toted about 14 of us, including a poor Argentine niño who suffered a bout of carsickness the entire day.

The pobrecito felt better, though, once we arrived in Penitentes, a ski resort just outside of Uspallata. Consisting of 3 ski lifts, plus a couple of hotels that looked like they hadn´t seen much TLC since Nixon´s presidency, the place was no Aspen. The average wardrobe looked like it was out of the same time period too, with one-piece, mauve colored ski outfits the dominant choice of clothing. Still, it looked as if the few folks who braved the mountain that day were enjoying themselves.As were the kids in our group, who got to spend some time sledding.

I enjoyed myself too…in a nearby restaurant with a hot tea and jamon y queso in hand. After getting in one or two pics (see below).

Smiling through the cold

After an hour at Penitentes, our group piled back in the van and drove a few miles up the road to Puente del Inca, or Inca Bridge. The thing wasn´t actually made by Incas, but is instead a natural rock formation that forms a bridge over the Cuevas River.

Since it was covered in snow, and we were freezing, no one took much time for photo ops. So, cheers to Google and TravelPod UK for this photo.

What the Inca Bridge looks like in summer

Anywhooo, the van hauled our freezing bums back to Penitentes for some lunch. Since we had already eaten during our previous stop, Phillipe and I took the opportunity to get to know the other guests, which included a French-Polish couple working in Ireland and a jovial older couple from Rosario, a province in the north of Argentina. They plied us with wine throughout lunch despite our (weak) protests, which certainly made for good naptime on the drive back.

While the day´s tour had been somewhat disappointing, given the lack of sites we were able to see, it still proved the magic of travel. Drinking wine in an Argentine ski resort, swapping stories from the road with fellow travelers…there are worse ways to spend a day, I imagine.

The following day was rainy, so there was little to do, given that the region thrives on outdoor activities. I did manage to squeeze in a meeting at a wine bar with a contact named Colleen, who works for Masi, a wine producer in Italy (which also produces wine outside of Mendoza). She generously shared a bottle of Masi´s Corvina-. Malbec blend, a cross between Argentina´s most popular grape and an Italian varietal. Two words: De. Licious.

Colleen talked about how much less stress accompanies her life in Mendoza, a place where everything literally shuts down for siesta each day from 2 to 5 pm. She also assured me that the tour I had planned for the following day, which was to include several small bodegas, would be swell: each producer had a great reputation for both wine and hospitality.

She was right. The tour I took with Trout and Wine, a local operator founded by an Irishman, certainly fell outside of the limits of a backpacker´s budget…but was well worth the cost. I was picked up by the company van at 10 am and graciously welcomed by Victoria, our guide, who spoke perfect English and had a substantial working knowledge of the wine industry (both local and generally) to boot. The tour group consisted of myself and just two others, a nice couple from the UK, who were very familiar with French wine.

Our first stop was Mendel. Working primarily with Malbec and producing just 120,000 bottles a year, the winery is small and very focused on quality production. The place also knows hospitality, embodied in our case in the form of Mariela, a classically beautiful Argentine woman with a beaming smile. She led us on a tour of the grounds and bodega, which is the original structure built by the former Italian owners.

The winery is now owned by the Sieleckis, a couple from Poland, who emailed me back personally after I wrote to the winery about a month ago requesting a visit. (Unfortunately, they were out of town so I didn´t get a chance to meet them.)

Mendel grounds

After a brief tour, we were shown the beautifully rustic tasting room, which reminded me of something featured in Architectural Digest: the Tuscany Edition.

Pottery Barn, eat your heart out.

Mariela poured us samples of four different Mendel wines, all of which were superb, owing to the fine hand of renowned winemaker Roberto de la Mota. Mariela also gave us a sample of the 2010 Malbec (which isn´t even bottled yet) to compare to the 2009 Malbec. The development and maturity of the latter compared to the former was clear to us as we sipped, and to have the opportunity to do so was quite unique.

We got a unique tasting opportunity at Dante Robino, our next stop. Producer of both still and sparkling wines, Dante Robino makes Novecento, which I used to hawk in my Best Cellars days. Our group got the opportunity to sample one of their sparkling wines still in production, which hadn´t yet undergone its second fermentation (meaning, it didn´t yet have the bubbles that are the trademark of any sparkler, due to carbon dioxide´s presence). It tasted of apple juice mixed with a bit of booze.

In other words, not bad.

adolescent champagne, anyone?

Dante, like many other fine wineries in Mendoza, also had a showcase room that acted as a half shrine-to-wine, half art gallery.

beautiful barrel art at Dante Robino

Of course, as much fun as it was to look, it was much more fun to taste. Dante Robino makes some excellent Malbec, in addition to its classic sparklers. Cheers!

The rest of the day, which included a delicious lunch of escabeche, steak and a chocolate parfait at Club Tapiz (along with loads of wine, of course), was equally as exquisite, though it started to get a bit blurry by the day´s end. It was, in any case, a wonderful way to end the Mendoza leg of mis viajes.

Unfortunately, the transition to Chile, just a few hours away, wasn´t quite as smooth as that Mendozan Malbecs. Snow had yet AGAIN closed the border between countries, and once again threatened my travel plans. I didn´t know until Saturday morning at 7 am whether or not I´d be able to take the 9 am bus to Valparaiso. When I found out the border was in fact open (at least, until nightfall), I threw all my belongings in my bag and grabbed a taxi to the bus station. Of course, the bus to Valpo was late by an hour, and when it did arrive, I wasn´t even sure whether it was the right one. (Note: Bus company agencies in South America have the habit of selling you tickets for a bus from an altogether different line.)

After boarding what I discovered was the right bus, I settled in for what I thought was an 8 hour journey. It turned out to be 13. Thanks, Chilean border control. It seems ‘efficiency’ is a concept that got left out of your training manual.

Anywho, after finally arriving in Valparaiso, I grabbed a taxi to the house of Marta, a Chilean girl I’d been messaging with via Couchsurfing. (I have become somewhat addicted to the site, which provides the best opportunities for true cultural exchange in a new place. As well as a free place to crash.) When I arrived, I found out Marta was actually in Santiago at the moment from her American boyfriend Dustin. He offered to show me and another Couchsurfer, Katherine, from South Africa, around the town. Since it was Saturday night, the streets were hoppin’, and we some trouble squeezing ourselves into a bar. But it afforded the perfect opportunity to take in some of the scenery, which was even better in daylight.

Street art is to Valpo what ranch style houses are to Texas. Formerly a major port town before the opening of the Panama Canal, the city mimics San Francisco with its winding, hilly streets and colorful, tri-level houses. Several, strategically placed funiculars provide excellent views of the city and the surrounding sea, while nearly every sidewalk passes by some amazing graffiti (which, Dustin told us, is often replaced seasonally).

Katherine and I trekked around the historical cemetery (where non Catholics were buried in a separate section from the deceased Catholics), which offered some spectacular views. After a quick Chilean empañada (which are HUGE, and much greasier, than those made by their Argentine counterparts), we visited Pablo Neruda´s house, La Sebastiana.

Jamon y queso. Grease included.

In front of La Sebastiana

The house was named for a Spanish ship in honor of the origin of the architect who helped design the place. In addition to being a poet, it turns out ol’ Pablo was a big fan of architecture, and has two other, very unique houses in Chile that also stand as proof.

He was also an avid antiques collector, and his haul included goblets once used by Czar Nicolas, a mother of pearl encrusted table, and an old carousel horse from Paris. He also had a bar next to his dining room, where he entertained guests with his trademark cocktail (though he was a wine and whiskey man at heart). Sounds like the place was truly party central in Valpo.

The rest of my afternoon in the city was spent in a much more tranquil way . That is, watching The Da Vinci Code dubbed in Spanish on the couch, while Seba, Marta´s roommate, prepared some bread with his sister.

Seba told us he´d been practicing his cooking skills lately, to hone them for Peter, his American boyfriend. Stateside for the summer, Peter was apparently extremely talented in the kitchen, and was also fluent in Spanish. The two had met at a gay bar in Valpo, which, as far as I can tell, also has a San Francisco-esque attitude toward homosexuality. (This is the first city in all my travels where I´ve seen a lesbian couple holding hands).

Seba also clued us in on the recent strikes and protests going on in Chile. When the Da Vinci Code finally ended, we switched to CNN, where the handsome VP of the Chilean student union was presenting his argument against the increasing privatization (and costs) of university education in the country. Apparently this is creating a serious class struggle in Chile, and students have been launching major protests (iuncluding hunger strikes) for three months now. This kind of thing has happened in the past, but not for this long…

Talk of protests soon gave way to smells of delicious bread, which Seba shared with us. We also had some avocado and tomato and cheese salad.

The hospitality here never ceases to amaze me.

Onward and upward, though. Next stop, Santiago.

Ciao!

Delicious chicken in a beer based sauce with some joven Malbec at Familia de Tommaso bodega, Maipu.

mmmmargentinebeefmmmm at Club Tapiz

…or, the Mecca of Malbec…

Me and Malbec, together at last. Embracing a stainless steel tank full of the juice at Famillia Zuccardi bodega.

Tasting some of Mendel´s world class Malbec in Lujan de Cuyo.

…Or, one could scrap alliteration altogether and sum this place up in one word: Paradise.

Snow capped Andes and olive tree groves at Mendel. Does it get any better?

I´ve visited some amazing places on this trip: magnificent Macchu Picchu, the eerily beautiful salt flats of Uyuni, and Chile´s grand Atacama desert, to name a few. But if I compared this journey to Candyland, Mendoza would be the towering Candy Castle at the end (but with malbec-spewing fountains and rivers of freshly pressed olive oil instead of gum drops and lollipops, of course).

Obviously, this place would be mecca for someone in the wine industry like yours truly. But what I also found in Mendoza and its surroundings is a wide variety of outdoor pursuits, including skiing, biking, hiking, and rafting, most of which can be done year round against an incredibly scenic backdrop of the Andes (the highest peak of which, Aconcagua, is located just outside of the city).

I´ve spent the last week here doing the ¨Mendoza sampler,¨ which, while obviously including plenty of wine samples, has included several of the above activities. Day 1 in Mendoza, though, was devoted exclusively to my favorite juice. The night I arrived from Salta, after a lovely 20 hour bus journey, I booked a full day wine tour through my hostel (the wonderful Mendoza Backpackers), which, in addition to stops at three bodegas, also included a pit stop at an olive oil factory and chocalote factory.

If there is a more hedonistic tour on the planet, I have yet to hear of it.

Around 10 am the next morning, I was picked up in a tour van that already contained a crew of folks from various hostels and, per usual, of various nationalities. Our first stop was at San Huberto, a mid size winery in Lujan de Cuyo, one of the major wine producing regions just outside of Mendoza. The vineyard tour was pretty short, given that it isn´t harvest season at the moment and the vines are rather, well, brown and boring to observe.

But, as well all know, the tasting is the most important part…and taste we did. A malbec rose, a ¨joven¨ malbec (bottled just last year), and a higher end malbec from the Niña line comprised our tasting wines for the day, and made for a good start to it.

Tasting wines at San Huberto. Don´t worry, that bit of Malbec rose didn´t last long...

Next up was Pasrai, an olive oil factory a bit further down the road. On premise, the place makes only extra virgin olive oil, which is produced at first press of the olives at a cold temperature. The crushing and pressing machines, made of stone and wood, are pretty rudimentary; we were also told by the guide that the only ingredients in the olive oil are, well, the olives. Seeing and hearing this about the oils helped restore my faith in food production, which seems confined to gigantic factories and all kinds of unpronounceable additives these days. Tasting the oils definitely reinforced their tastiness too, and I ended up buying a bottle of unfined oil, which is a bit stronger than the stuff you find on store shelves…let´s place bets on whether that bottle will make it back Stateside…

Anywho, my faith in production was also shored up by the next visit to Cecchin, an organic winery, which makes just 150,000 bottles a year. That´s peanuts in wine production. The winery is still owned by the original owners, which is somewhat unusual these days in Mendoza, given the universal attention and presence of famous winemakers and conglomerates in the area (including the famed Michel Rolland). Being organic, the winery is also unusual in that it must follow set rules to maintain its organic certification, including not using pesticides on the developing grapes. Fortunately, grape destruction due to humidity, excessive rain, and pests are a rarity in Mendoza, which gets barely any rainfall per year (Of course, it managed to rain during my time here…the first time in 2 months). The only potential problem comes from frost and hail, which can wipe out an entire harvest in 5 minutes flat. Hail nets around harvest time are a common sight here, as, I´m sure, is prayer.

The last stop, Zuccardi, stood in serious contrast to Cecchin. The third largest winery in Argentina, the place makes several lines of wine, including Santa Julia (well known in the US) and Familia Zuccardi. It also produces millions of bottles per year.

Climbing the walls, err, barrels, at Zuccardi

Yet the winery is still owned by its namesake family, and the tour showcased how much quality and attention is given to the wines´ production, despite it being done on such an epic scale. We saw various workers running around, cleaning tanks and checking the temperature in the stainless steel vats, and just generally looking efficient, which isn´t always the case at other bodegas (or, heck, in Argentina generally).

We wrapped up the day with a tour at a chocalote factory, La Casona del Encuentro. Willy Wonka it was not, but the ginormous vat of chocolate looked and smelled pretty delicious.

Chocolate jacuzzi, anyone?

After the hedonism tour de force, I took Saturday easy, and trekked up to the city´s main park, San Martin. There is inevitably one such park in every city, named after the famous general who liberated Peru, Bolivia and Argentina, and this one is quite a showstopper. It has a regatta club, a manmade lake, some portico covered spots that look perfect for picnicing in summer, and, most notably, a big hill where, in addition to a giant statue of San Martin on horseback (of course), there is a view of the entire city. There were also several roundabouts complete with Italian style fountains, which I managed to circle several times in my attempt to find said hill.

In the parque

Sunday, in desperate need of real exercise, I joined a group from the Mendoza Couchsurfing community for a trek to Cero Commision, an Andean peak. Organized by David, a Canadian expat who has been here 4 years (after, of course, finding a Mendocino girlfriend), the trek took about 4 hours in total, and made for sufficient calf-burning to make me feel a tad less guilty for the ridiculous wine/steak quantities I´d consumed over the prior two days.

The company was enjoyable too, and much more eclectic than the tour groups I was used to on the excursions (which have tended to be mainly French and or British tourists). It consisted of a couple of guys, Dave and Will, studying in Santiago, an Australian named Jeremy who had also found a Mendocino girlfriend, a German traveler, and a couple of Argentines living in Mendoza. David, with the demeanor of a drill instructor, managed to get us up the mountain between conversations in about 2 and a half hours, at which point we had lunch…and then sprinted our way back down, to catch the bus at 4 pm back to Mendoza (fortunately, it only took one instance of trespassing on private property, though the gaucho who owned said property didn´t seem to mind and even waved at us as we squeezed through his barbed wire fence).

Chillin after a tough trek

Summit at Cero Commision

The next several days featured more of the best of Mendoza (well, Mendoza on a backpacker´s budget, at least). I biked in another wine region, Maipu, thanks to one Mr. Hugo, the Argentine proprietor of a bike rental place. A jovial Mendocino, Mr. Hugo greets you with a big smile and map of the wine region, rents you a bike sans helmet, and then plies you with free wine before you begin your day´s journey. Ah, Argentina.

Hydrating with Mr. Hugo´s malbec before hitting the wineries.

Me and Mr. Hugo

Two Cali girls, Alex and Laura, joined me and Phillipe, a French friend I met in Salta. We hit a chocalote, olive oil and liquor tasting spot just up the road, where I sampled an absinthe strong enough to burn the gums of your teeth. Moving on, we hit Famillia de Tommaso winery for some lunch and lovely vineyard views, before moving on.

Breaking for lunch after a hard afternoon of drinking...er, biking...

Unfortunately, most of the wineries were closed by that point, so our only other option was a local beergarten. Fortunately, they had a delicious negra brew still on tap, and Phillipe and I eagerly partook before heading back to Mr. Hugo´s.

Tired out from all that, um, biking, I headed to the nearby thermal baths to soak my aching muscles the next day. Just an hour bus ride from the city, Termas Cachuetas features several natural pools of searing hot water nestled in the moutains near the Rio Mendoza.Just 30 pesos (7 or 8 bucks) gets you a full day of relaxation in the baths, and many families take advantage, toting along thermoses of hot water for regular mate fixes and even meat for the outdoor parilla.

I could definitely get used to a weekly soak…especially with this kind of scenery.

Ahhh....

And thus concluded one of many wonderful days in Mendoza. More to come, when I have more internet time…

Katie

Quebrada de Cachi

Vasija Secreta (`Secret Vessel`), Cafayete´s oldest bodega

At Domingo Hermanos, making myself at home with glass of Torrontes

My first asado, at the finca of Cabalgatas Gauchos

So, remind me why I don´t live here yet?

All kidding (kind of..) aside, northern Argentina is incredible. And, true to the country´s Italian roots, it doesn´t skimp in any area: the food, the wine, and the scenery (including the people) are all mesmerizing and memorable, sure to leave an impression on anyone who visits for years to come. (Including myself, so apologies in advance to anyone who has a conversation with me relating to food, wine or quality of life, which will inevitably invite the wistful ¨When I was in Argentina…¨)

Nestled among the Andes in the country´s northwest, Argentina´s Salta Province is home to Salta city, where I arrived last Thursday. Expecting what Lonely Planet referred to as ¨colonial style charm,¨  I was a bit dissapointed when the bus pulled up into a city of squat, somewhat rundown buildings and dime-a-dozen corner tiendas. After grabbing a taxi (metered!) to my hostel, I decided to stroll to Plaza 9th de Julio, the main square. This little oasis immediately raised Salta´s standing in my eyes. Corner cafes, young couples making out on benches, motorbikes buzzing across your path…It may as well have been Italy.

Afternoon mate in Salta´s main square. Check out the pink Basilica Cathedral in the background

Home to half a million people, though many live outside the center, Salta is not an overwhelming city. I began to appreciate its quaint shops and friendly passerby as I strolled about in the comfortably cool evening. Yet after having spent a pretty hectic 72 hours trying to get to Salta, I was ready for a relaxing few days in the countryside, in the area that was the province´s real attraction: Cafayete. Aka, Northern Argentine Wine Country.

I booked a touristic bus to Cafayete which, while staggeringly more expensive than a simple public combi, afforded two perks: photo stops, and a guide. Mine turned out to be an aspiring sommelier and former Californian named Christian, who was originally from Salta. In addition to recommending several wineries for me to visit during the following day, Christian also gave us tons of great insight on the province, so beautiful that it had attracted the property-owning (and marrying) likes of Matt Damon and Robert Duvall, both of whom have Salteñan wives. We passed tobacco and alfalfa fields on our way to the Cafayete (which Christian told us are the main crops of the region) which soon gave way to the incredible quebradas, or rocky gulleys created by the movement of tectonic plates. The stratification of colors in the rocks of the quebradas were incredible: all kinds of blues, reds, browns, and even some purplish hues. The tones were a bit more muted at some of the rocks where we stopped to take photos, but the formations were pretty incredible, including the so called Devil´s Throat (below).

The best part, though, was yet to come.

Cafayete, our final stop, was a quaint town, with a characteristically South American main square. (That is, it came complete with cathedral and some stray dogs). The town also had plenty of artisanal shops, touristic restaurants, and, oh yea, wineries.

At San Pedro de Yacochuya, just outside of Cafayete

My first winery stop was with the group, at Domingo Hermanos. In characteristic Tuna fashion, I came prepared with tons of questions, my camera around my neck, and, most importantly, a ready and eager palate. First came our tour of the bodega gronds, which, complete with whitewashed stone and beautiful gardens, were immaculate yet inviting. Though the tour was all in Spanish, I did manage to take away some salient points, including that just 10% of the bodega´s yearly production is for export. Most of what is produced is for consumption in Salta Province as well as Buenos Aires, including a large batch of ¨joven¨ or young wines. These wines are bottled and sold within the same year their grapes are harvested, and consist of both a red (Cabernet Sauv, I believe) and a white wine (Torrontes).

Torrontes, as I quickly learned, is Cafayete´s moneymaker in a bottle. An aromatic white wine, its perfumy, citrusy scent is coupled with honey notes and a lively, crisp acidity, owing to the fact that the grape comes from the world´s highest vineyards. Some of the vineyards surrounding Cafayete, in fact, are planted at over 2,000 meters (nearly 7,000 feet).

I learned this fun fact and much more during the next day´s tour at Cafayete´s ¨Museum de la Vid y El Vino.¨ The brandspanking new facility and exhibits apparently cost the region several million pesos, and it looks it: freshly painted, cabernet-colored walls, brilliant steel guardrails and pristine bathrooms spoke to that, as did the very professional young woman at the boleteria, or ticket counter (who I managed to convince I was a student for a 20 peso discount. Hey, at 4 pesos to a dollar, this ain´t Bolivia).

Walking through the first part of the museum, I couldn´t help but laugh a little. This section was distinctly Argentine, in that it consisted of poetic declarations and devotions to the curated subject, with a handful of facts thrown in. Take a sample line from one wall etching: ¨The wine which through the transparency of the bottle seduces us, and invites us to drink…¨

I meandered through a planetarium-like ceiling in one section, created to illustrate the clear night sky in Cafayete, which then gave way to a floor with clear tiles and running water underneath (to signify the importance of water runoff from the mountains to vineyard health, I imagine?). While impressed with the theatrics, I didn´t get very excited til the Museum´s second section, which told of the history of the valley and wine production. Vineyards first appeared in the area in the 18th century, once indigenous revolts against the Spanish stopped. As time went on, bodegas made of thick, adobe walls began to appear, which were typically attached to the owners´ homes. By the beginning of the 20th century, over 10 bodegas existed. Now, there are over 30 in the valley. (Really, I couldn´t get enough of this stuff. I was in wine nerd heaven).

Of course, as much fun as it was to meander through the museum, it was way more fun to sample. I hit a few bodegas that first day, including Vasija Secreta, the region´s oldest winery, which let me taste a few of their young wines. (Most of the wines for sale, by the way, were no more than 35 or 40 pesos, or $8 to $10 a bottle, illustrating how great a value Argentine wines are even in Argentina).

The next day, I got up bright and early and rented a bicycle, intending to hit up as many wineries as possible before the 4:30 pm bus ride back to Salta. So, how many did I actually visit?

The spread at Domingo Molinas. Can life get any better?

If you guessed 2, you´re a winner.

When I set out, I fancied myself riding at a slow leisurely pace, barely perspiring and taking in the gorgeous views. Unfortunately, as the path was rather gravelley and uphill, I felt and looked a lot more like a panting, sweaty tired mess when I showed up at the first bodega. Fortunately, however, Monica was more than happy to show me around San Pedro de Yacochuca, though she had no wine for me to taste (big sad face there). After the tour, I quickly pedaled off to Domingo Molinas, the sister winery of Domingo Hermanos.

When I arrived, there was just one other couple on the premise, so we were treated to what was essentially a private tour. The winery itself, just 2 years old, offered some of the most gorgeous views of the Cafayete area I´d seen thus far, as well as some of the best wine I´d tasted. I quickly made friends with my fellow tour groupies, Luis and Natalia, a young couple from Salta, and we took a seat outside to take in the view and warm sunlight. Oh, and the wine, of course, complete with a spread of dried fruit, nut and goat cheese (made locally) provided by our lovely host at the winery. Two hours later, we were still there, Malbec in hand, talking in Spanish about politics, the U.S. and how unbelievably perfect the afternoon had been. Sigh.

Of course, all good things had to end, and I bid them goodbye. As far as the return trip, lets just say that ¨biking¨ and ¨winery visits¨ sound like a better combination than they actually make…

Fortunately, I made it back to town, and to Salta, where I relocated to a new, livelier hostel, Correcaminos (Roadrunner, roughly). There, I met a motley, fun crew who became my companions for the next few days. Germany, Holland, Austria, Texas, Bulgaria and the UK were all represented; also present, fortunately, was a good command of the English language, meaning we had many great stories to swap about our travels, homelands, and impressions of Argentina.

After a couple of days in Salta, which I spent visiting a local artisanal market (best I´ve come across yet in South America, by far), hanging out with the hostel crew, and catching up on sleep, I was ready for another venture outside the city. Enter Cabalgatas Gauchos.

The outfit specializes in horseback riding tours and is based at a finca just outside of Salta. I showed up just as the afternoon asado was getting started (scroll up to see the first few photos).

An asado, for the uninitiated, is basically when you cook tons of red meat on an open fire grill, or parilla. It´s practically religion in Argentina. Like bigscreen TVs in America, homes in Argentina come complete with asados. In other words, this country is serious about meat.

After stuffing ourselves with chorizo, bife de chorizo, vegetables, potatoes, and, of course, local wine, our crew (comprised of me, an Australian girl, and 4 Spanish guys) sat around for a bit of digestion while our guide prepped the horses. As a rider with experience, I got paired with Pampa. The girl didn´t dissapoint. She was sweet, friendly, and faaaaast.

We spent a few hours riding around, and then returned for some mate (another very sacred Argentine tradition). Before it was ready, though, we took a few minutes for lasso lessons from our guide.

Yours truly managed to rope the cow skull attached to a nearby tree, thereby avoiding the fate of those in the group who missed, i.e. to run and try to avoid being lassoed by our guide.

Mate, anyone?

Then came mate time. Consisting of an infusion of herbs, mate is basically what Diet Coke and coffee are to Americans. It is consumed daily, even hourly, by people here. And it´s fuerte (strong).

That afternoon of an authentically Argentine asado had been great, if somewhat touristy. However, I was soon to be priviliged with yet another asado, the same night, and this one at the house of a local Salteno.

One of my hostelmates, Phillipe, invited me to come with him to the asado, which was being hosted by a friend of a friend. When we showed up, empty handed, we learned one cardinal rule of asado: BYOBeef.

Mattias, our host, was totally cool about it though. He merely grabbed us all a taxi and we made our way to the supermarket, where we picked up another half kilo of raw meat (plus, at my insisting, some local wine and Salta brand beer). When we returned, his brother, Sebastian, was already at the asado helm, while their mother cut up onions, tomatoes and potatoes for fixins.

Once the 9 of us took our seats at the table, it was well past 11 pm. Which, according to Mattias and Sebastian´s mother, was totally normal for dinnertime. We chatted and ate well into the evening, with Sebastian presenting at least 4 different rounds of meats. It was heaven. The best, though, was yet to come.

Mattias had mentioned earlier that he played music, but I hardly expected to be treated to the show we had that evening. He plays guitar, keyboard, and has written his own music and lyrics, and is in the process of making his first CD, if that gives you any idea of the guy´s talent.

He played a few of his original songs for us, and, while I couldn´t quite understand all the lyrics, his obvious passion for music and his incredible voice were more than enough to make me appreciate it. Also musically talented, Sebastian soon picked up the guitar, and within minutes we were all singing along to a slew of Beatles and Eagles songs. At 4 am, we were still going, revived by some Fernet Branca and Coke (another Argentine tradition). We didn´t say goodbye until around 4:30 or so, after a cultural exchange of funniest YouTube videos from one another´s countries.

It was a wonderful night, and it´s been a wonderful introduction to Argentina. On to Mendoza tomorrow. Ciao!

We left off at the end of a rather trying 2nd day of a three day trip to Uyuni, which had us, by nightfall, driving around in a destined-for-the-junkyard 4Runner looking desperately for housing. Fortunately, we found accomodations, and managed to get a full night’s sleep.

The next morning, we were more than ready to get the hell out of Uyuni and onto our final destinations. Which, for Helenie and I, was San Pedro de Atacama, Chile.

The crew, looking chipper on our 3rd morning in bumblefuck (from left to right, the French, Sergio and Belen, Helenie and moi)

The previous day, Emilio, our guide, dropped another piece of news: due to the closure of the primary nothern border between Bolivia and Chile, we´d need to cross at a less popular place, which was a full 6 hours away from San Pedro de Atacama and basically as in the middle of nowhere as we could get.

Naturally, as this border probably didn´t even have bathroom facilities, let alone a money changing office, Helenie and I swapped some bolivianos for euros from Sergio and Belen. We pulled up around noon to the border stop, after making a few pitstops along the way for more photos.

Getting some air in front of one of the Salar's volcanoes

The ¨border¨area on the Bolivia side was essentially a dusty, unpaved parking lot, where our vehicle waited for the bus to carry us to Chile. Several other tour groups began to pull up in the hour that followed, which made me a bit nervous, seeing as there was only one bus that would supposedly take those who wanted to cross the border into Chile.

Emilio told me not to worry. Which, of course, only made me more nervous.

The shit hit the fan, as they say, when the bus finally pulled into the lot. A glorified minivan, this vehicle appeared as if it had the capacity to seat about 15 people: far fewer, of course, than were waiting to cross. When all of us travelers who had been waiting around began realizing this, things got ugly. Like, Black Friday at a WalMart ugly. The stampede began.

Helenie and I crammed the last of our pasta and pollo milanese in our mouths, grabbed our bags, and sprinted for the bus door. Emilio, at that point, was in the middle of arguing with the vehicle`s driver, who apparently had an issue with the transfer point listed on our tickets. I started to panic.

As more and more travelers boarded, my heart sank. There was no way we’d be able to fit on the bus now, which was already far over capacity. A person filled every single jump seat. Now, all that was left was one seat beside the driver.

Yet if there is anything I’ve learned in South America, it is this: Nothing is certain, but everything is possible. Including adding more than 10 people over the recommended seating capacity.

Proof that anything, including a complete disregard for safety, is possible in South America.

So, I managed to squeeze myself into the space between Helenie and the driver, who I’m sure was as uncomfortable as I was, seeing that I had my shoulder and back pressed against half his seat the entire journey. But we didn’t have the worst of it: some Chilean girls, all of 18 or 19 years old, managed to cram themselves in the space between the sliding door and the first row of seats, using my backpack as a chair.

As we departed, Helenie and I looked around, looked at each other, and then burst out laughing.

I spent the next six hours listening to my iPod, trying in vain to get comfortable, and staring, in awe, out of the window. I can express the magnitude of difference between Chile and Bolivia in two words: road conditions. Chile had stoplights, stop signs, road signs, and (get this), actual pavement. Looking around, I almost felt like I could be back in the US, or at least in Europe, based on the organization and cleanliness of it all.

The nice surprises continued in San Pedro, which is basically Chile’s hippie-hipster desert town. Locals and tourists alike dress in gaucho hats and baggy, rainbow striped cotton pants, carrying around string instruments, riding bikes, and trying to hawk every type of handmade jewelry you can imagine. The city itself is small with a laid back vibe: everything is seemingly made of adobe and is low to the ground.

Helenie and I were dropped off at a brand-spanking new hostel recommended by our driver, which was super clean, had hot water, provided us towels, and served breakfast. After Uyuni, it may as well have been the Ritz.

We went out to dinner that night and splurged on a three course menu, which was probably the best meal I’ve had thus far, save for in Arequipa at Lucy’s house. Salmon with vegetables, a delicious Caesar salad, and tiramisu, all for about $14. It was a hit to the wallet after Bolivian prices, but well worth it.

The next day, Helenie and I took an afternoon trip to the Valle de la Luna and some surrounding environs, which had some spectacular, eery desert scenery. We, of course, took tons of photos:

Mimicking the three Marias at Valle de la Luna

On the bus to the first sights, I noticed that the guy sitting behind me, who had a shock of curly, reddish brown hair, was reading a book in English. Not having encountered many Americans, or even Brits and Aussies over the last few days, I was hungry for some conversation in ingles. About hamburgers, baseball, anything, it didn’t matter what. ¨De donde eres?¨I asked. He didn’t look up. Undettered, I turned around and pointed to his book, which now rested in his lap. He looked up, smiled at me, and gestured with his hands toward the book, shrugging his shoulders about its contents. I blinked hard when I finally realized what was going on, and why he hadn´t answered my question.

He was deaf.

I was completely shocked. After a month of traveling through South America, with some spoken Spanish (if at a second grade level, but still…) under my belt, I still had more than my share of problems getting around. And here was a guy who not only didn’t speak Spanish, but didn’t speak or hear, navigating the continent on his own. Talk about putting things into perspective.

He whipped out a Blackberry and typed ¨Hola, I´m Mark.¨ Thus began our conversation via typed text, during which I discovered he attended Galludet University in Washington, DC, a famous school for the deaf. He was originally from San Francisco and had a love of microbrewed beer, to the point where he dreamed of owning his own brewery one day. I typed back some notes on my trip and also passed along information that the guide had told us (guides in Chile, by the way, were far better than any I encountered in Bolivia). This included notes on the salt mines we entered at our second stop, the contents of which used to be chemically processed to make copper 70 years ago (today, more advanced processes are used to make what is Chile’s most lucrative export).

By the trip’s end, Mark, Helenie, a nice Austrian girl named Deborah and I had all agreed to meet for dinner. Unfortunately, I couldn´t attend, due to a series of events that illustrate precisely while traveling, while incredible, is no walk in the park.

730 pm. Visit office of Andesmar bus line for the 4th time to ask whether any buses are departing for Salta in the next few days. Am told to return in one hour to learn whether or not the border between Argentina and Chile, which has been closed for a month with intermittent openings, will be open the following day.

8 pm. Visit lavandaria, or laundromat, where I dropped clothes off for pickup the following afternoon. Ask to get clothes back in case I need to leave at o dark thirty for Salta. Am told to come back in one hour for clean clothes.

830 pm. Return to office of Andesmar. Learn that the border will be open tomorrow at 5 am. Am told to return in 20 minutes to learn whether or not Andesmar bus, which is currently in the parking lot next door, will be repaired in time for the voyage. Go to bar next door and have the best 2 dollar glass of house wine in my life, plus an entire basket of crackers.

9 pm. Return to office to learn that bus is working. Purchase ticket.

930 pm. Walk with 9 other tourists and driver to bus, board, and drive 4 minutes to aduana, or Chilean customs, to get our exit stamp.

945 pm. Wait in line for customs agents to show. Get nervous while in line about laundry being closed. Am helped by the kindest person I´ve met thus far, a Chilean Spanish geologist who drives me back to town and to the laundry facilities. See that laundry is closed, and have characteristic freak out.

10 pm. Am taken by Chilean Spanish geologist to nearby laundry, where worker connects us with owner of the place that did my laundry. She returns so I can pick up sack of freshly washed and dried clothes. Am grateful.

1030 pm. Return to line at customs, where everyone is still waiting to get exit stamp.

11 pm. Finally get stamp and return to main part of town, buy two sandwiches for bus trip, and return to room to shower.

245 am. Wake up, dress, hug Helenie goodbye, and walk to bus terminal.

4 am. Leave for Salta, with a front row seat on the second floor of the double decker.

More to come from Salta soon. Till then,

K

Welcome to the Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia! This is where Part 1 of the border crossing saga begins (not to be a spoiler, but, as you can tell from the title, it ends in Part 2 in my current location: Salta, Argentina).

My three day trip last week to the famed Salt Flats, arguably Bolivia´s biggest tourist attraction, was a fantastic representation of the country itself: a hot mess of a situation that somehow manages to right itself in the end.

The trip started off auspiciously enough. I arrived after a ten hour bus ride from La Paz, which, even in the comfortable ¨cama¨ seats (which cost twice as much as the regular seats), was a potholed nightmare. I managed a good half hour of sleep the entire night, and was promptly dropped off in the center of Uyuni at 7 am.

With no hostel or hotel to speak of, I wandered around til I encountered a nice enough hotel, which was easy enough to do in the tiny town (Uyuni survives on two things: salt, and tours of the Salt Flats). After checking a few places out, and dodging several tour agents in the process, all of whom had the same line (Salar, amiga?), I settled on Hotel Julia.

Of course, the electricity in the hotel went out around 9 pm, which apparently happens quite frequently in the town. This should have been a forewarning of things to come. There was also no hot water for a shower, which should have forecasted the same point.

Earlier that very day, I´d booked a three day instead of a one day tour of the Salt Flats, since I was told by an agency representative that the Parque Nacional, with its geysers and thermal baths and lagoons, was really worth seeing on the second day. But what really sold me was his promise that ´oh, no problem, we´ll get you a transfer to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile on the third day.´ Meaning I’d save money, since I wouldn´t have to come all the way back to Uyuni to get a bus.

What he failed to tell me, and other people in my three day tour group, was that the primary border between Bolivia and Chile was closed due to snow. As was the Parque Nacional. Oops.

The five others in my group, thankfully, ended up being cool, even when we realized the above during our trip. Sergio and Belen, a cheerful, funny couple in their thirties from Cordoba, Spain, set the upbeat mood for the rest of us, which included a young French couple, me, and Helenie from Brazil.

Both solo female travelers with a budding photography habit, Helenie and I hit it off quickly. She´s a lawyer in Sao Paolo, but is by far more laid back than any lawyer I’ve ever encountered (which certainly was a helpful trait in the various circumstances we faced during our time together). She also experienced the sites and sounds of our trip with more enthusiasm and childlike wonderment that someone half her age, another trait I admire tremendously. I even jokingly called her a Japanese tourist because of how many photos she took, including one of a sign for the Valle de La Luna in the Atacama Desert, where we ended up going after Bolivia. (Of which, ironically, there are no photos to post at the moment. My hostel computer is apparently immune to uploading anything from a foreign device, so I will try again tomorrow).

So, fortunately, our generally good spirits and characters carried the six of us through a rather trying three days in the Salt Flat region, which were complete with awful road conditions, a vehicle one step away from the scrap yard, freezing cold nights, wind that could peel the skin off a banana, and Emilio, our guide.

Sporting a frown from the moment he met us, Emilio classically exemplified someone who has lost any and all love for their job. I guess I understand, as he´s been carting tourists around the Salar for 11 years now, but it was really difficult to feel any compassion for the guy. For starters, he spoke in curt sentences of explanation whenever anyone asked a question about a sight or any other travel related topic. He preferred to spend his time chewing a wad of coca and loudly playing the same half hour long 80s mix mashup on loop. When he wasn´t doing the above, he was busy fixing our four runner, which broke down in hourly increments. Once, when the car stopped, he actually asked us to pick up stones to put behind the tires, lest it roll backwards when he tried for the umpteeth time to fix it.

Despite Emilio and the I´ll say this, though. The Salar region is one of the most striking I’ve ever seen. It’s desert meets salt plains meets congealed lagoons meets alien like rock formations. The closest comparison I have is Planet of the Apes

(this is the part where those photos of the scenery will go, of course…)

The comraderie among our group was another Salar high point. On our first night at the ´Salt Hotel´ (which is made entirely out of blocks of the stuff, just like its name suggests), I knew I was in good company when we all pitched in to buy a bottle of wine to go with dinner. Afterward, we played a hilarious round of charades, including some other hotel goers in the mix. (Which, by the way, is not the best choice of game among people from different countries who speak different languages. A, movie titles don¨t translate exactly the same, and B, neither does anything remotely idiomatic or cultural, such as the word ´homer´´for ´home run.´ Try realizing that after 10 minutes of faux batting in 20 degrees, in an attempt to express the character ´Homer Simpson,¨ and you´ll get me).

Those good spirits, however, were worn thin by the consistently cold weather and hours spent traversing the Uyuni region in a jeep. We finally snapped collectively, though, when we pulled up to the Parque Nacional on the second day…and learned it was closed. Belen and Sergio were the most irate, having taken an extra day out of their relatively short trip to see the place after being promised it by the agency. (Lipez Tours, for your reference. If you go to the Salar, don´t go with them). Emilio tried to explain his side of the situation, saying he was just a guide and hadn´t been told the situation with the closing, but it was hard to believe that he couldn´t at least have been a little more diligent and, ya know, checked ahead. When we at last conceded that the Park was out of our reach and we´d been screwed, dusk was falling, meaning we had to find another area hostel to stay in for the night (since our lodging for that night was, of course, inside the closed Parque). This we barely managed to do before 10 pm, and there were many a moment when I envisioned our car breaking down for good, forcing us to sleep in it, overnight in the freezing Salar. Frankly, I began to expect that as the outcome, given the car´s state and the state of our entire trip thus far. But fortunately, we managed to find a small hostel on our drive back, over rocky roads and through completely unlit, wild, deserted territory. Of course, the one room left? Had six beds. Meaning, well, its a good thing our group was on good and friendly terms at that point.

Emilio, feeling bad, I imagine, scrounged up a bottle of wine to go with our hastily prepared dinner that night. So, albeit cold and dissapointed, we were at least well fortified. Good thing, too, given the days ahead…

Katie

I´m happy to report that El Chorro, the famed Bolivian trail, treated this girl well. It´s amazing how many different types of terrain you can tackle in just 3 days and 50 kilometers in this area. We started off around 4,500 plus meters here…

Me, pre-trek, with our guide Victor and our porter

The beginning of the trek...at about 40 degrees Farenheit...

The sheer change in topography in the first 6 hours of walking was incredible, to the point that it almost made me forget I´d been walking for half a day with the equivalent of a 9 year old child on my back.

 

...the middle....

Camping in the palms

I wish I could post more photos of the specatucular scenery, but high speed internet is not Bolivia’s strong suit. So, in lieu of being in front of the computer for the next 2 hours, let me just say that the hike has been one of the most rewarding photographic (and physical) experiences of my trip so far.

It was also rewarding for the assortment of encounters our crew had along the way, on a trail fairly devoid of tourists. One was our meeting with Él Japonese. The elderly Japonese man, as Victor told us prior to meeting him, had been living in the Yungas since 1958, and now ran a small campsite and store that catered to travelers. When he emerged to greet us on the third day, after we finally reached his site, I could hardly believe he’d been surviving up in the jungle for so long. First of all, the guy had the worst case of osteoporosis I´d ever seen; he was maybe 4’9 on a good day. Secondly, he was missing the majority of his teeth, which made understanding his broken Spanish even more difficult. Yet his sheer exuberance at meeting yet more tourists, all of whom sign his guestbook upon arrival and draw an X on a map indicating their place of origin, showed how much his love for his lifestyle (however harsh), carries him through. He hadn´t had an easy start of it either. I learned later from Mario that El Japonese, like many other countrymen, had been sent by the Japonese government to found colonies in South America prior to WWII. El Japonese had apparently been abadoned by his colleagues and had decided to set up shop in the Yungas, whereas many other Japonese went to the much warmer Santa Cruz (where communities still exist today).

Along with El Japonese, another interesting character was Victor, our guide, who talked a little politics with our crew after dinner one night. As it was my first real political conversation of the trip with a Bolivian, I guess his lack of enthusiasm for Evo Morales, a fellow Aymara, surprised me. Victor claimed that nothing had gotten better since Evo took office in 2006; in fact, things were worse, and few of the ‘cocaleros’ or poorer countrymen Evo supposedly supported had actually benefitted from his policies. Victor also lamented the lack of children, especially girls, who finished school, much of which he attributed to teen pregnancy. He told us he didn´t hold out much hope for his country, politically speaking, which I thought a little grim. Even with the current mess my own country is in, I hope to never completely give up hope that things can get better.

Yet for a person, and a country, where politics has always revolved completely around money, privilige, and power, who can blame him? Over lunch the other day, Mario also discussed the general corruption within the military and police forces, where joining up is always about one´s financial security rather than the security of the people and nation. Those conversations also gave me appreciation for America´s owned armed forces and police, who, generally, have good intentions when doing their jobs.

After being in La Paz, I also have a new found appreciation for American customer service. Don´t get me wrong; many Bolivians I met were lovely, and were more than helpful with purchases, directions, and fulfilling other sundry requests of mine. Yet a few things baffle me, in terms of tourist treatment.

One is barganing. Take taxis, for instance. Meters aren’t fixed in Bolivia, so every fare is negotiable…yet many drivers, instead of barganing down a boliviano or two, will often take off and refuse you service. (And, subsequently, deny themselves a fare). Shop owners will often do the same, and fail to make a sale because they´re unwilling to go down one or two bolivianos. (I had this happen several times, even when I told the owner, truthfully, that I´d seen the same item four stores down for three fourths of the price). And then there was this indicent: the other night, after returning to La Costilla de Adan with Avery and a few other folks, I accidentally knocked over a glass and broke it. As we were preparing to leave, the bartender approached me and said, ´that will be 25 bolivianos.´ I stared at him, dumbfounded, assuming he was joking. He wasn´t. I paid for the glass and left, though not without Avery and her friends giving him an earful about how they wouldn´t return.

Part of me feels like I get why this happens. It could be a cultural norm, or part of a general disregard for American gringos (who, after all, have f´d with Bolivia in so many ways). Still, it adds to the feeling that Bolivia is a harder nut to crack from a foreigner´s standpoint. Even La Paz, albeit charming, doesn´t put on airs or accomodate you. It´s dirty, crumbling edifices, its windy streets, its stone faced shopkeepers and cholitas, even its high altitude, force you to adapt, to learn, to be patient, in order to appreciate the beauty of a place in all its rawness, with all its flaws.

For anyone who loves the grit and vibrance native to a true urban capital, the city is irresistible. In fact, it literally sucks you in, a vortex of red brick houses and tiendas cascading down into a crevice on the high altiplano.

Lovely La Paz

La Paz at sunset

San Francisco cathedral and plaza

I first glimpsed the city in daylight (per the first photo), after a 7 hour ride from Puno. By the way, I can happily report that I made it through the Peru-Bolivia border with no trouble, though, as an American, I was the only one on my bus required to fork over $135 to Bolivian officials for the privilige of entering their country (and spending my money in it).

Crossing Lake Titicaca was the much more interesting part of the voyage. And was a great introduction to Bolivia, a place where sometimes things, well, just don´t make a damn bit of sense.

When we arrived at the lakeshore, we were told to get off the bus. Which, moments later, was driven onto a large raft, the driver the only person left on board.

What, no bridge? Bienvenidos a Bolivia

The rest of us riders were left in awe, snapping photos and simultanesouly wondering how the hell we were supposed to get to the opposite side and find our bus (since about 5 others showed up at the same time). Some of us soon spotted the nearby queue of passengers, which led to a small dock surrounded by what were essentially large dingies. The dock workers crammed 10 or more people onto each one, handing us each a life jacket as we boarded. I think dramamine would have been more effective, frankly. Being on that boat for 5 minutes gave me a new appreciation for sailors who tackle trans-oceanic voyages. (For anyone thinking of tackling the Atltantic, try crossing Titicaca first. You may change your mind.)

The boat pitched, up and down, rocking sideways, and finally deposited us at the dock. I felt like I could stay for hours and give thanks for terra firma, but our bus was already honking from the gravel lot beside the dock, so we all boarded up again and headed off to La Paz.

To enter La Paz is to have the city revealed before you in sweeping panoramic vistas (red brick houses, tiendas, colorful choritos and dogs of all sizes), which take your breath away. And that´s literally speaking as well; at over 11,800 feet, the city is the highest capital in the world. Consequently, the air here is as thin as rice paper, and, trust me, your lungs can certainly tell. I wheezed my way to the door of my hotel, which, thankfully, had a porter to help me cart my stuff upstairs.

Hotel Provenzal may not be a 5 star resort, but it´s sure swankier than the backpackers´ hostels around here, with a private bathroom, breakfast, and even free internet. And, at 100 bolivianos a night, it´s also evidence of how much you can get in Bolivia for virtually nothing. One dollar is worth roughly 7 bolivianos, meaning that my hotel room and breakfast cost approximately $15 US per day. A street salteña, or doughy empanada-like pouch stuffed with meat or cheese, costs about 50 cents; an orange juice, squeezed fresh by a vendor in front of you, costs a quarter. (So, yes, I can understand if you hate me right now).

Once I unpacked, I took in the surroundings a bit. My hotel is conveniently situated in the central part of town, which means its surrounded by the typical touristy streets packed with travel agencies, alpaca scarf vendors, and gringos by the dozen. Yet despite all this, La Paz maintains an air of authenticity about it, even in the Zona Central. Local children dressed in uniforms run up the steep Calle Saganarga, sucking on lollipops bought from cholitas on the street corners; these same cholitas open up stalls of the most delicious looking fresh food each morning, including potatoes in every shape and color, fresh pineapple, papaya, oranges, apples, and, of course, the requisite sweets (toasted, caramalized peanuts, fried bananas, and chocolate covered raisins). Combis and minicabs honk at tourists and locals alike as they shudder their way over La Paz´s cobble-stoned roads, emitting huge puffs of diesel in other pedestrians´ faces in the process. The city is a ¨take it or leave it¨ kind of place, and I love it.

Another person who loves it is Mario. A friend of a dear friend of mine, Mario is a native of the city, and, as a freelance photographer, is also part of its rapidly growing artist movement. He and I had exchanged a few emails before my trip, and he gave me a quick phone call and ¨bienvenidos¨ when I arrived, suggesting that we meet at Loki, a backpackers´ hostel, for a drink. I thought the choice odd for a local until I saw the place. Situated in an old hotel, the hostel and its bar definity have a run down, glamorous charm to them. Huge chandeliers swing above the massive bar, upon which a few backpackers had already begun dancing their nights away when we arrived. ¨I know the owners here,¨ Mario said, before buying me a beer and cheersing to my arrival in his native town.

Sporting a black fedora and a huge smile when he greeted me, Mario may as well have been La Paz´s welcoming committee. Not only does he know Loki´s owners, but he knows the owner of another local, gringo owned bar called Olliver´s Travels, as well as ¨where to go and be seen¨ just about any night of the week. Between chatting with his Bolivian friends and the Italian crew I´d acquired on the bus ride from Puno, Mario and I filled each other in on our lives and histories. His was split between La Paz and the U.S.; he´d gone to American University to pursue writing, but ended up returning to La Paz after graduation and opened a business selling handmade wooden goods. He´d just sold this business and started out as a freelance photographer, making it onto the website Boing Boing with some of his shots. He loves the US and the opportunities that abound there, but realizes the deep potential that lies within his country and city, especially where art is concerned. I immediatly became more curious about the city and its history, which I hadn´t really researched much beforehand (having imagined stopping off 2 or 3 days here), and began peppering him with questions: what is the art scene like? (Answer: growing fast). Why are there only white-looking women in advertisements, when 90 percent of the people you seeh here have indigenous features? (Answer: beauty ideals are the same around the world, are they not?) And, of course, where are the city´s best food and drink spots? (Answer: Mario had a whole email for that).

Up until that point, the only thing I really knew about La Paz had to do its infamous prison, San Pedro. Halfway through Marching Powder when I crossed the Peru-Bolivian border, I was determined to see the place, if gringos were still allowed. The book was written by an Australian lawyer/backpacker, who became captivated by the story of his San Pedro ¨tour guide¨ and inmate Thomas McFadden when visiting the prison as a tourist, and ended up staying to transcribe the story of McFadden´s incarceration for another three months (even staying at the prison for weeks at a time). A Brit, McFadden had been caught at the El Alto airport in La Paz trying to smuggle severl kilos of cocaine out of the country, and had consequently been thrown into the prison. It is like no other on the planet. Virtually run by inmates, the prison is divided into sections based on the quality of housing and tenants, who are required to pay and even obtain a lease on their cell block. These cells often look more like studio apartments, with TVs, big beds, cooking appliances and even jacuzzis in some cases. The wives and children of inmates even live in the prison, with many running restaurants inside the massive walls to earn money. Another way inmates earned money was leading tours, which, for a few bolivianos (both for bribing police guards and paying tour guides), tourists could obtain.

I was determined to see the place, but it didn´t look good. Tourists were now regularly turned away, or so I read online, after several riots broke out in the prison (and, I´m sure, after all the bad press incurred by the ¨tours¨ and corrupt nature of the place itself). The next morning, though, I got up early, and packed a few folded US bills in my wallet just in case the old Thursday tours were still operating. I then made my way to San Pedro plaza.

Located in the city center, the prison itself takes up almost a city block; aside from high walls and a lookout tower, though, it hardly resembles a maximum security penitentiary, and had just a few officers outside. I skulked around the outside a bit, then approached one of them. ¨Puedo visitar a dentro?¨ I asked. He shook his head, and, to make matters worse, told me to put my camera away. There would be no taking pictures here, even of the outside prison walls.

I decided on a new approach. After waiting a few minutes, I approached another police officer (this one much younger and friendlier looking than the other), and said hello and made a bit of small talk. I then asked if tourists were still allowed to visit the prison. He gave me the once over, and then asked ¨Estas solo?¨ I nodded yes. ¨Quieres ver?¨ he asked. I unfolded a twenty dollar bill from my wallet. He looked at me, then at the bill, then back at me. ´Encontramos a nueve y media, a la officina a la esquina,¨ he finally said before walking away. I was psyched.

The ¨officina´ was guarded by a big, heavy metal door on the right side of the prison, which was only opened for those who knocked and had a permit. Most who knocked held official looking papers, or carried bags of food for the prisoners. None, I noted, were tourists.

Still, I waited. At about 10 til 10, another officer rounded the corner, and approached me. When I told him I was waiting for someone, he suspiciously asked where I was from…and, upon learning I was from ¨Los Estados Unidos,¨ told me I would need signed permission from the Ministerio del Gobierno to enter the prison. I smelled bullshit, but walked off and agreed to go get my slip. What I did instead was stop off at a local tourist information booth to ask if they could politely inquire, of their Ministry, whether a pass was needed or not. The call revealed that it wasn´t.

So, a glutton for punishment, I went back again to San Pedro and waited. And spied my officer! The friendly looking one, this time not looking so friendly, and toting a bag of salteñas toward the office. I waved at him and he immediately recognized me, but seemed hurried. ¨Esperas aqui,¨ he said tersely, before entering. That was the last I saw of him.

I finally gave up once another officer, this one a grandfatherly figure, kindly told me that I would, under no circumstances, be able to enter the prison as a tourist. And especially, as an American. I was tired of the run around by that point and so conceeded, but consoled myself with the fact that, hey, at least I´d tried.

I decided I´d have to satisfy the adrenaline rush elsewhere. On Death Road.

The world´s most dangerous road, so dubbed by the Inter-American Development Bank, has earned its name. Upwards of 300 people a year die on the 40 mile stretch, which has drop offs and precipices to rival Everest´s. Most of them, however, are in cars, and not on bikes, so doing ¨Death Road¨ is really more of a tourist attraction than a fatal wish. Yet the scenery is pretty incredible, and the thrill was just enough to satisfy me post-attempted prison break.The entire thing took only about 2.5 hours, and the scariest part was probably our van´s tire popping along the way. I did end up with dirt all over my clothes, though, so I could at least feel hardcore, even though most of the trip involved holding hard onto the breaks (since 90% was downhill cruising).

We went through what seemed like about 4 different climates in that time, ranging from snow capped mountains (see below) to Amazon-like jungle conditions to what I believe was a pine forest, at one point.

Our crew of seven was certainly deserving of the large beers and buffet lunch we threw back after tackling El Carretera del Muerte, and, all in all, it had been a rewarding day. Still, the real magic of La Paz is within the city, and within the people you meet, such as Mario.

A French style speakeasy in La Paz

Early in the evening, I stopped off at a place Mario recommended, La Costilla de Adan. A veritable speakeasy, the place has no sign and requires you to ring the doorbell to be let in. Once there, you´re treated to very French and Bolivian inspired decor, most of it vintage, and housed in what seemed to be the basement of a house (later, I learned from the bartender that the owners lived in the apartment above). It was nice to intermingle with Bolivians, expats and travelers alike, and I took in the scene, complete with old rotary dial phones and shag carpeted couches, with relish.

After an hour at La Costilla, I returned to Loki, this time to meet up with yet another La Paz ambassador, Avery. She and I connected on Couchsurfing, and, after finding out she was from Georgia, loved art, and loved traveling, knewwe´d hit it off. That was the case from the start, and we passed several hours nursing beers and talking about life, the US, and South America, which Avery knows quite well: she´s lived in Buenos Aires and Brazil, and now works at a film production company in La Paz. We also managed to chat up some Brazilians in the process, as well as a few Americans, who were the first I´d seen in Bolivia. (The anti Americanism hasn´t been palpable to me just yet, but Avery just had a major issue crossing back into the country that speaks to the general distate some Bolivians have for the US).

I also started chatting up another group late into the night. Funny enough, purely by chance, one of them turned out to be Mario´s cousin, Veronica.

Loki sees few Bolivians grace its doors, but Mario, Veronica, and their relatives and friends are among them, and they often use it as a jumping off point for other nightlight venues. This I¨ve learned over the course of the past two nights, in joining them at a couple of local clubs. We danced til 4 in the morning on Friday at Traffic (after which, the  Bolivians treated me to drinks and even post bar anticuchos, a Bolivian speciality of skewered beef heart roasted on a grill), and last night at Forum, which has been popular in La Paz for 25 years. Forum was huge and like a discotheque out of Miami, only shabbier given its age. We viewed the dancing mass of people below from the VIP section, where Veronica and many other Bolivian clubgoers greeted one another with huge smiles and hellos, kissing on the cheek. Many of them have grown up togetherand gone to school together, and their common acquaintence makes La Paz, albeit huge, seem like a smaller city.

La Paz´s club scene has been a culturally immersive experience for sure, but my favorite so far took place yesterday afternoon, at a breakdancing competition. Mario called to tell me he´d be shooting the event, which was happening at a plaza on the nice end of the central part of town, Sopacochi. The event, which brought breakdancers from all over South America, was part of a program intended to keep kids off the streets (much in the way such competitions have been promoted back home).

I pulled up in a cab to see a crowd of about 150 teen and twentysomethings crowded around a checkerboard platform next to a stage, in front of which Mario crouched with his camera. He waved me over and I joined him front and center, and snapped some great shots of the competitors.

An Argentine gettin´air

Ufft...headache...

The dancers were certainly the spotlight of the show (including a kid who must have been no older than 7, who danced and flipped like he had no joints to constrain him in the least). But the crowd itself was photo worthy too. Spiked hair, punky glasses, and studded belts were testament to La Paz´s burgeoning alternative scene, and quite a change from the cholitas and their traditional wear that you see in the touristy sections of town. And while breakdancing itself is nothing nuevo for me as an American, you could tell the event was something new of its kind in the city, and that all the specatators were completely enraptured with the competition.

The urban scene has been fun to explore, but tomorrow I´ll be deep in the Yungas for a three day trek, and can´t wait.

Hasta luego!

K