Memoirs of a Lemming

During the beginning of this trip, I couldn’t be kept from joining an organized group, led by a guide to learn about the locale history and custom, and information that you can not find in guidebooks or even the internet. To this day, I still rave and recommend the six-hour yellow umbrella tour, back in Prague. But, some where along the way, you get tired of jumping in with the band of gringos, those equipped and packed with telephoto lens, fanny packs, and those notorious loud and obnoxious tourists. Even more so, you get tired of being duped by the travel agents, charging you gringo prices, but giving you little or no service and information, and barely giving you enough time to enjoy the scenery that you drove hours to get to. It’s actually a constant battle of trying to sieve out the worth while excursions, trips, tours, and admission prices to pay, versus the ones to skip. Sure a few pesos, baht, rupee or sol is nothing, but day after day, it does add up, and after being duped a few times into paying for an entrance fee for something that they should pay you to visit, you are done.

By, the time I arrived at San Pedro de Atacama (SPA), in the high desert in Northern Chile, it had been awhile since I did anything informative/educational, other than self guided tours through museums or excursions. And SPA was known as the backpacking excursion capital of northern Chile. I arrived in SPA, with my new partner in crime, substituting (but never replacing) Orlaand Lorraine with another Irish Sister, Linda O. I first met Linda at the hostel, as the group was on our way for a big night out. Unlike many of the other backpackers from outside the States, she actually spent some time in the States and enjoyed it, as she attended part of her undergrad at UC Santa Barbara, but than again, who wouldn’t love Santa Barbara. Linda was also another one of those people, who spoke amazingly good Spanish, with little more lessons/classes than the ones she took while traveling and just by practicing with the locales.

Originally, she was suppose to be a couple days ahead of me, to San Pedro, but somebody over-slept and missed her 6:45 am bus, so instead she got stuck, taking the same bus, as I was on. Little, did I know, Linda was soon going to be my coincidental traveling partner for the next couple weeks. I say coincidental, as we never made plans to travel together, instead it was: well we are both headed that way, so we might as well stay at the same hostel and split a cab.

We arrived at SPA in the afternoon, with a bus load of backpackers, and nobody seemed to have any reservations. Unlike, every other South American cities, there were no taxi drivers waiting to suggest and/or take us anywhere, as the town is seriously only a few blocks wide and deep. Other friends had suggested a hostel that they previously stayed at, so I was on my way, and luckily I got there just in time, to take one of the last available dorm bed for the night. Linda was not immediately sold on my choice, so she elected to walk through the town and inspect the other hopefully cheaper options. In the end, she ended up back at my same hostel, where there were no more dorm beds, and she had to settle for a single room for the night, which was of course more expensive, and of course I gave her plenty of crap for trying to find cheaper, but than in the end, spending more.

With the hostal situation all worked out, a group of us, decided to wander through town, to figure out the next move: the road trip into Bolivia. Much like my trip from Tibet to Nepal, the San Pedro de Atacama (Chile) to Uyuni (Bolivia) 4×4 trip is an institution, with the highlight being a trip through the Salar de Uyuni (Salt Flats of Uyuni). As the group ventured from agency to agency, for quotes and information, I suddenly started to wear down, first feeling tired, not sure if it was hunger related, but than a massive headache set in, feeling as if my head was in a vise-grip and as the minutes went by, the vise got tighter. San Pedro de Atacama is located at only an approximate elevation of 2500m, but it turned out that the pass through the Andes from Saltato San Pedro was up around 4700m, so I was in for a long night of altitude sickness. As, we walked around, I couldn’t take it anymore and told the group that I had to get some food and quick, as soon as we sat down, I was done, out for the count. So bad, in fact, that the waitress, saw me, and immediately offered me the locale secret remedy to everything, co co leaves, this time in form of a tea. Not knowing when the leaves would eventually kick in, I excused myself without eating my dinner, and returned to the hostal, while I could still walk the two blocks. Amazingly by the morning, after more than twelve hours of sleep, and maybe with the assistance of the leaves, I woke up refreshed and ready to go.

That first afternoon, after finally figuring out which tour agency to do the Salar trip with, we rented mountain bikes and sandboards, and hit the sand dunes. A group of us, biked the handful of kms outside of the city, into some amazing desert and out of the world like landscape to eventually stop at sand dunes, that made the sand boarding at Florinanpolis (Brazil) seem like a walk in the park. This time, the slopes were much higher, steeper, and maybe because of the size of the sand, faster and harder. One by one, we each attempted to board down the slopes, but ever cautious we used the modified falling leaf method, by going more side ways, than straight down. But, after a few runs, and the always testosterone, finally kicked in, I decided it was time to tackle the hill straight ahead. As most of the others, started to pack it away, to catch the sunset, I jumped on the board, with Linda video taping me, and flew down the slope. The problem is, that it doesn’t take a genius, and therefore I have mastered the art of flying down the hill at full speed, the real art and skill is the carving for the stop, and accounting for the change in texture and speed of the sand below. About two-thirds of the way down the hill, yours truly, ate-it/stacked it, almost as hard as Kate, when she had back in Floripa. That is, until my next run. Not happy to end the day, on that note, while everybody else was packing it in for the day, I just sat at the bottom, still out of  breathe from the recent crash, when I decided to huff and puff back to the top, to complete one more run. This time, there were no camera/video, as I was literally the last one on the hill for the day, and everybody was the process of heading back for the bikes. Than, they noticed that I was back on top, and waited to watch. Dang, I had an audience, that meant I couldn’t just go down cautiously with a safe run. Half way down the hill, I was going faster than any of the previous runs, and felt completely in control, as I approached roughly the crash site of the previous run, I craved to the left, in any attempt slow the board down, and think I even heard one of them yell out: wooo whooo. That is when… it was lights out, the crash, according to the spectators (since I wasn’t permanently hurt) worth the price of admission. So good, in fact, that two hikers, still a good distance from us, came up to see the fool, that almost broke his neck. After laying in pain on the sand for about a minute, maybe two, and inspecting my limbs and body part to make sure that they were still attached, I was able to get up dust myself off, and limp back to the bike, and have a good laugh. But, I must admit, my butt did hurt from that crash, for more than a week.

That night, I participated in one of the best and unique tours that I have done during this whole trip, known as the Estrella Tour (Star Tour). Led by a world renowned astronomer (originally from France, worked at Mount Wilson and Caltech for years, and now permanently with his wife in Chile), he brought the group to his home and his self made star gazing field on his property, where he had approximately eight world class top of the line telescopes pointed at various points in the sky, and literally the galaxy. That night, I felt like a kid again, talking about the sky, stars, suns, and literally galaxies far far away. He explained the milky way, the southern cross, versus the north star, brightness of stars (alpha, beta, gamma…), constellations, zodiacs, light years, and brightness of planets, even the history of astronomy and astronomers. Literally, he explained things in a way that made me look up into the night sky, with my mouth dropped open, feeling like a kid again, and dieing for more information and knowledge. The coolest thing of the night, was looking into a telescope the size of a Volkswagon, at a galaxy 25 million light years away, and the topper? Another telescope, focused, so that you stared at an unimaginable beautiful bright light, making you feel surreal, as you looked through the lens, and let your eyes focus, on the most recognizable planet of them all, Saturn. If you are ever in SPA, I will literally kick your butt, like the sand dunes kicked mine, if you don’t do the Estrella Tour.

The next day, battered and sore, I took the morning off, and signed up for a tour in the afternoon, to visit the Valley of the Moon. The tour also included a visit to the Valley of Mars/Muerte/Death, named such, because of it’s unique and obscure landscape, and probably also because the name it’s self generates interest from gringos, according to the guide. The day ended, with what else, but another sunset, where we hiked up another hill and sand dune. This sunset was unique to others in the fact that the beauty of the setting sun, was actually better when you had your back to the sun, and stared at the reflection of the lights set against the Andes to the east.

Next stop, Bolivia.

It was never the plan, if anything I was trying to avoid it: the whole process of checking off the list. But, I guess that is what happens with plans, as with life: things change. Not to be philosophical, but having just finished my list of Seven, I can’t help to reflect, think, and in some weird way, feel a bit unsettled and guilty. Maybe it has to do with the fact, that for the first time on this trip, I finally see the sign-post, identifying the date and final destination of this trip. Or maybe it is that feeling that you get, when you finally complete something, that has been a goal forever, and now that it is complete, you are a bit lost and numb.

Today, I returned to Cusco/Cuzco/Qusqo from the previous lost civilization of the Inca’s known as Machu Picchu, my seventh and last Wonder of the World. The road back to Cusco has been long, exciting, exhilarating, tiring, frustrating, and a ton of other adjectives that words can not correctly express, but in sum, truly an adventure. Since, I left you last in Potosi:

Along with my dorm mates, we decided to risk it, and make our way north for Sucre. What should have been a two hour bus ride, covering just over 120 km, became an adventure that I will probably never forget, as we crossed road blockades, one after another, to only travel 20 km, about half of which on foot, over the course of three and half hours. Eventually, we arrived at the last blockade, just as dusk arrived, and hired a taxi to take us the rest of the way. After that bonding experience, our group of four, stuck together for a few days in Sucre, the constitutional capital of Bolivia (versus La Paz, the administrative capital), where we witnessed a street race through the city, that only a developing country can host, and the World’s Largest set of Dinosaur tracks. Feeling the urge to keep moving, I left the group, and my buddy Linda, and headed north to Cochabamba, home of Cristo de la Concordia, a Jesus statue taller than the Redeemer in Rio (by less than a meter). There, I stayed at the home of the Leano’s, a relative of a friend from home, where they showed me Bolivian hospitality and helped explain some of the culture differences of a developing country. Next, I visited the “other” capital city, where words can not express the craziness that is La Paz. Where, I entered a prison; raced down the World’s Most Dangerous Road, where people die every year, with a mountain bike; but still had enough time to take in a little culture by celebrating the Winter Solstice/New Years at the ancient city (ruins) of Tiahanaco home of the Sun Gate, and ancestors of the Inca civilization. Next, as I was literally on my way out of La Paz, I was finally convinced to visit the wild and jungles/pampas of Bolivia, at Rurrenbaque, where after a crazy dust infested 17 hour bus ride down a portion of the aforementioned World’s Most Dangerous Road, we boated on the River Beni (an upstream tributary of the Amazon), swam in caymeninfested waters with the pink dolphins, hunted/searched for anacondas and cobras, and fished for piranhas. Having spent more time in Bolivia, than I originally planned, I headed north for the border, and spent a few days on the Bolivian side of Lake Titikaka, at Copacabana and Isle del Sol. After, entering Peru, where I again got ripped off by another travel agent, I arrived in Arrequipa, and spent a couple of days, starring at arguably the world’s most perfectly shaped volcano: El Misti. Which now, brings me back to the present, where I signed up for a four day trek to Machu Picchu, and ended up with a seven day adventure, which included a farmer’s strike, road blockades, protests, biking 10kms up a mountain, to avoid sleeping in the middle of no where, hitch-hiking, a waterfall, 40 km hike, Machu Picchu, and a couple confrontations with travel agents/guides.

The last month has truly been an adventure, and I am definitely sad to know that it is soon coming to an end. But having just completed the list, a large part of me is ready to come home, to start the next adventure. With six weeks left before my flight, strangely enough I feel pressured on time, funny how your perspective changes, in my previous life six weeks off was unimaginable. So, the plan? Well, tonight I leave Cusco, and head west and to lower altitude, where I hope to ditch some of the winter clothing for good. I will spend another week to two in Peru, with stops in: Nazca, Ica, Pisco, and Lima. Than, it’s off to Ecuador to visit the equator, and cities to be determined for a week or so. Finally, I will finish this leg in Colombia, which was once a country that was only visited by the daring, but now has become one of the most popular destinations in all of South America. The goal is to spend at least three full weeks, between Bogota, Cartagena and Medellin. If you have any suggestions for other stops, or for a new list, please let me know, but I am short on time

Hope all is well.

Traveling South America is much different than Europe and Asia. In Europe, you have so many options, from north to south, west to east, and with EuroRail and the discount airlines, you are literally all over the place, not knowing if you will ever run into a familiar face at the next destination. While in Asia, hostals can at times be as much a distant memory as the last time you took a nice long warm bath, instead of that quick cold shower, so you often return to your private room in the guesthouse, reading until you fall asleep. As for South America, there are generally three options: one, you are from the States and doing a quick two to three week trip, and never to be seen again, as you blaze through the sightseeing at the speed of sound; or two and three, following the lemming trail, traveling north to south, or in the reverse direction. The result, intentionally or not, you continue to see the same faces time after time.

Unfortunately for me, Salta would be the last time I would meet up with my Irish Sisters (Orla and Lorraine) on this trip, as we were now headed in opposite directions. With less than a month left on the South American leg of their trip, the girls were headed south to hit the slopes, before hopping on their flight, taking them from Santiago to New Zealand, and eventually Oz, where they will rejoin the third musketeer (Zoe) and spend the year working, living and hopefully traveling the land down under. Entonces, we decided to meet up in Salta for one last dance, not knowing if we would ever see each other again.

I arrived to Salta, via what else, but another overnight bus, with the girls due in, later that night. The first day, was spent with the previously mentioned due diligence trip to the Bolivian Embassy, followed by a jog around town to break in the Supernovas. Just as the party was starting at the rooftop bar of the hostel, Orla and Lorraine made their appearance, and the band was now back together again. About twenty of us from the hostal ended up, on the north side of town, at Club XXI, in disco row, where we ran the place. Seriously, since our group probably represented over 25 percent of all the people in the club. It’s funny, but in Argentina, it is very common to have the same type of stores on the same street, for example, one street/block will be lined with stationary stores, the next with hardware, the following with hair salons, and this is also true with bars/clubs/discos. I guess the theory is, if your not happy with one, you can just go next door.

The next day, Lorraine and I decided to jog up to Cerro San Bernardo, the hill over looking the city of Salta, and well beyond. The view was beautiful, but to be honest, after jogging the 1070 steps up the hill, the view could have been smog covered crap, and I would still swear that it was absolutely amazing. If you do make it to Salta, the other option to see the same “amazing” view of the city, if to take the funicular/gondola up the hill, or you can test your endurance by following the footsteps of this lemming. However, the most interesting thing about that afternoon, was not the view or the park on the top of the hill, but rather it was the conversations that I had with Lorriane as we jogged up and down the hill. Orla and Lorraine live in the same small town, country if you will, a place called Navan. This much I knew, but what I didn’t know was how much some of the old school culture still existed in their upbringing. Their community was still very much tight-knit where everybody pretty much knew everybody else, and what intrigued me most was the provincial sports competition that had within communities and the country as a whole. Zoe and Lorriane had joking told me, that they had played on Ireland National Women’s Lacross Team years ago, and won the European Lacross tournament, with little previous experience. But when we talked about the various sports that she played growing up, little did I know, I was jogging with a semi-sports-celebrity, who not only represented her community in locale competitions, but also competed overseas in various events, representing all of Ireland.

The main attraction of Salta, is not actually Salta itself, but rather it’s vicinity to some unique and beautiful landscape/scenery. Entonces, the next morning, bright and early, the girls and I hopped into our rented car, and headed north. Along the way, we stopped and visited: San Salvador de JuJuy, in my humble opinion, not much more than just another city; Purmamarca, home of the Cerro de Siete Colours (Hill of Seven Colors), the highlight of the self-guided trip; Tilacara, a small town and home of the hillside Cemetery of Maimara; Humahuaca, another small town… It’s actually sad, but on any other normal holiday, a visit to one of these small towns, could fill pages of memories, how the adobe brick buildings along with the dirt and cobbled roads, felt like you were stepping hundred of years back in time, and how the dress of the locales, and the barefoot kids playing in the dirt, made you think that it wasn’t really that long ago, when this was just another town, and not another checklist place for us westerners to pass through and take photos of. But, reality is always quick to bring you back, when you round the corner to find a modern looking cafe, with signs and the menu in English, and you find most of the stores and all the stalls around the main square/plaza, hocking the same souvenirs and supposed hand made wares/wears, reminding you that you are indeed fast on the lemming trail, and Christopher Columbus, Ferdinand Magellan, you are not.

After an eventful day, which also included stopping for an obligatory photo on the Tropic of Capricorn, we headed back to Salta. But, along the way, we unknowingly took an alternative challenging route, where the road was reminiscent of Ortega Highway back in Southern California: narrow and snaking through the hills, with steep drops on one side, and rock fall areas on the other. Lorriane took the wheels and the corners like a true champ, but I can assure you that none of us would ever choose to take that alternative road again, especially in the dark.

Eventually, the time had come, it was time to say goodbye to the girls. Orla and Lorriane, now held the record, of the most number times that I met up with someone during this trip, at four times, over a period of three plus months, across three countries. It was so, great to arrive at a new place, and know that you had friends there waiting to see you, in some ways, it felt like returning to friends from home. I only hope, that along with Zoe, that the record will be extended to at least five times (Ireland and The States) along with countless number of years. Miss you girls, thanks for the memories!

A year ago today, I was walking on the streets of Berlin, not knowing a year later, I would still be away from home. It’s almost impossible to remember each and every day, but in some strange way, I feel I can. From all the places I have visited, to all the people that I have met, this last year, I probably have more than enough memories to last me a lifetime. Even now, I can still close my eyes on the coldest night in Bolivia, and think back to that day in August, standing in the desert of Cairo in awe of the majesty and imagination of those ancient civilizations, while feeling the heat of the moisture-less air, and the strength of the beating sun. It truly has been an amazing ride.

Why all this rambling and reflection? Yes, you guessed it, it is almost time to come home. Having already missed some important events back at home, and feeling that I could postpone a return date, for yet another year, I have finally purchased a flight ticket home, with a twist…

Light a firework (safe and sane, of course) and eat a nice juicy hamburger for me, tonight. Happy 4th of July.

Hope all is well.

Cordoba, located in the heart of Argentina, is the transportation (bus) hub of the country. You can literally take a bus headed for any part of the country. I arrived early Monday morning to empty streets and a sleepy hostal clerk, who told me that I was just in time to view the sunrise from their “amazing” rooftop deck. So, I dropped off my bags, and immediately headed up to the roof, to witness yet another “amazing” sunrise, in which the view was of course blocked by two much larger buildings a few blocks away.

After a long nap, to substitute for my lack of sleep due to a large smelly snoring seatmate, I walked around the town, and found myself living in the middle of cheap (in terms of attempts and cost) knock-off alley. From CDs to DVDs, sporty to trendy labels, watches, to various accessories like flashlights and radios, they had all your department store needs covered. The most popular purchases by the locales were winter wear and fake popular futbol team apparel. I was somewhat surprised to find that many of the knock-offs were possibly imported from China, and many of the items made very little attempt to even look authentic.

This actually got me thinking. With winter here and my wardrobe severelylacking in warmth, my kicks (shoes) tattered to the point that part of the sole flapped with the wind, everytime I took a step, it was finally time to do the dreaded, shopping. Entonces, I made several purchases throughout the city, from the trendy shopping mall to the pedestrian plaza to the knock-off street, when it was all said and done, I ended up adding at least another kilo or more to my bag. The toughest purchase, was when it was finally time to replace my Newbies (my kicks), who weren’t so new any more. A pair of New Balance 680s, they had been with me since I started the Asia/China leg of the trip, and accompanied me to witness, and in some case scale, three of the Wonders of the World. As hard as it was to say goodbye to Lefty and Rightie, this was saying goodbye to a solemate.

Now, I move forward into a new era with my new compadres, a pair of Adidas Supernova Trail 5s. With a name like that, I don’t need to give them names, at least not yet. (Ok, I am not going crazy, friends from home, know, how I am about my kicks.) The other purchases involved preparing for the cold front that was quickly approaching, as I headed for the highlands of Chile and Bolivia in the heart of winter.

As for the sightseeing, Cordoba is rich in culture with museums and churches, plentiful in nightlife with it’s abundant bars and clubs in the Nuevo Cordoba area, and surrounded by numerous colleges in the vicinity to supply the vibrant energy. But, as I was there during the weekdays, the nights were disappointingly quiet. Despite, all the activities the city has to offer, the pre-eminent activity, is a trip to Alta Garcia, a suburbian town about 45 minutes outside of Cordoba, home of the childhood home of Argentina’s most famous son, Che Guevara. Born in Rosario, Che was raised in Alta Garcia during his adolescent years, as his family relocated to the higher altitudede and the better climate, to help young Che deal with his asthma. The Guevara home is now a museum, displaying various mementos, including: Che’s homemade postcards to his aunt, his report cards, and various family photos, as well as other items, that chronicle his life, from: his famous motorcycle trip through South America, his developing friendship and eventual partnership with Fidel Castro, to his involvement in the Congo of Africa, and Bolivia, and even his final letters to his family and kids. One of the most interesting pictures I saw, was a picture of a young Che and Fidel, in a cell in Mexico, at the beginning of their budding friendship. As for the rest of Alta Garcia, there are more churches to visit, and supposedly a decent casino. But, along with my travel mates for the day: Leo, Rahil and Arun, we decided to pass on both,a nd headed back to our home for the night, Cordoba.

The rest of my time in Cordoba, was spent wandering through the streets and people watching at it’s main square, Plaza San Martin, where there seemed to be constant action and motion, between protests or celebrations, sometimes it was hard to tell the difference. Along the way, I visited the: Jesuit Crypt, where no one was actually buried, and was only recently re-discovered by a telecommunication company while installing cables; the Museum of Bella Artes; Iglesia de los Capuchinos, an ornately decorated church, which is completely symmetry on the outside, except for a missing spire on the leftside, to signify humanity’s imperfections; Ferreyra Palace, previously a private estate, which was donated to the government and is now home to a collection of contemporary art; and the Iglesia Catedralat San Martin, some what bland from the outside, but is amazingly beautiful on the inside, and unique in the way the outline of the church and the neighboring Cabildo is tiled into paving of square as to represent a shadow or reflection.