Eu no falou Portuguese

Well, I haven't updated in a while, and for this I apologize. Since helping to run a little veggie garden for the street kids in Sucre through a great organization called Nyanta, since journeying to the muggy and indepented-minded city of Santa Cruz, since struggling to get the paperwork to get into Brazil legally, and since taking a 26 hour long train ride through the mosquito-infested jungle...I have finally left Bolivia.

Gone are the luxurious hostels for 3US dollars a night, gone are the four star meals for 2. Gone is the comfort that has become the Spanish language. I am in Brazil.

I crossed the border two days ago and entered the town of Corumba. I stayed there one night, waiting for migration to open, for a bus north, and for my body to recover from the train ride of death (yes, everyone really calls it that). Then I took an airconditioned coach bus in style through the lush Pantanal to the city of Campo Grande. The view of the wetlands of every shade of green imaginable dotted with long-necked birds and framed by billowing grey clouds, was stunning.

Since arriving in Brazil, I have been humbled constantly; when one does not speak the language, one recieves a variety of responses. I am greatful for the people who have been so kind. English speaking Brazilians, Spanish speaking Brazilians, Brazilians who are willing to try to interpret my sign language, have all popped out of the woodwork frequently, and often just at the right moment.

Tonight, I will go to Brasilia, the capital city, where my birth family lives. My plan is to stay there for a few days before I meet them, in order to improve my language skills. I have a long way to go, but I have confidence that when the time is right, what will be will be. By that time my mom and Charles will be there too, and their support will be much appreciated.

Dino Tracks

A long long time ago (over 65.5 million years ago), Sucre was underwater. It was a huge lake, said to be quite pretty (according to the journals of some literate dinosaurs, including this famous author -editor´s note-).
Several species of dinosaurs were there to enjoy it, including sauropods, hadrosaurs, and theropods. They created paths to their favorite watering hole, which were fossilised, thanks to the magama that spewed out of a near-by volcano. Sometime after the extinction of said dinos, the earth transformed considerably (the plates moved, a sea poured into what is now the Andes, and then dried up) and the tracks were buried in a mountainside. When in the 1960s, the mountain was mined for concrete, the tracks were discovered...in a vertical wall of rock!

Being only a few kilometers away from this marvel (one of the longest dino track paths in the world) we just had to check it out. We bought our tickets for the dino-truck (a tourist flatbet truck adorned with plastic dino claws), and rode up the hills of Sucre, waving at pedestrians all the way to the dino park. We had a great guide, were impressed by the giant turquoise wall of criss crossing dino tracks, and took many photos of ourselves with the dino replicas. It was an afternoon well spent.

This trip rocks! (heh.)

After riding away from the flats on top of the land rover, we were brought to some amazing rock structures...

(Condor Rock)

The Salar

Nicole, Lillian and I arrived in the town of Uyuni in anticipation of one of the greatest tours of our lives. We were not dissapointed. The three of us California girls, two Canadian cousins, and one cheeky Brit set off in a Land Rover with our guide, Omar and the cook, Anna for an amazing visual adventure in the surreal south west part of Bolivia.

Day one: The Train Graveyard. The railway of Bolivia should be used more, in my opinion, but alas, the hey day is over, leaving relics of the past for gringos to climb all over.




Next, we rode to the main event, the highest, biggest salt flat in the world, the Salar de Uyuni! It was under about a foot of water (the rainy season just ended), which did not detract from its awesomeness, just changed it a bit.



In the middle of the salar, there is a hotel, made entirely of salt! We ate lunch outside on a little island and tried to look around the hotel, but the owners were rude, so we left.


Please see the next post for more of the adventure...

The Breaking Backbone of the Spanish Empire

Potosi, Bolivia...
Adam, Nicole, Lillian, and I left Sucre for a weekend excursion to the mining city of Potosi. This quiet high altitude city (over 4,000 m) has a tragic history, and, inspite of the city´s growing economy due to the tourist industry, it has a difficult present as well. In many ways it embodies Bolivia in all of its potential and strife.

If you had been alive in the late 1600s, you would have known about Potosi. It was one of the richest and most populated cities in the world. In fact, the word ¨potosi¨ was used as a synonym for weath. In the mid 1500s silver was found in the hill, now called Cerro Rico (rich hill) that towers 800 meters over the city. The Spanish found out about the silver and immediately claimed the hill in the name of King Carlos V. The Spanish enslaved the indigenous people to mine the hill, (later using African slaves when the natives died) set up refineries, and sent the finished silver to Spain. Thousands of natives and Africans perished in the harsh working conditions, while the mercury used in the refining process contaminated the river. Meanwhile, the Spanish monarchy became more and more wealthy. By the late 1600s, Potosi had grown from a mining village into a city of 200,000 inhabitants, with over 80 churches and a mint.


In the 19th century the city took several blows, including the decrease of silver within the hill and a period of looting during the struggle for independence from Spain. During that time, all of the city´s wealth was taken to Europe. Its economy improved when tin replaced silver, but fell again in the 1980s with the crash in tin prices.

Today, miners still work the hill. Machines have replaced the hand picks of the past, and miners work on their own free will, but conditions are still very unhealthy. Miners usually only live until about 40 years old because of prolonged exposure to the dust, toxins (such as asbestos), and extreme temperatures within the mines. Until about four years ago, children still worked in the mines.

We went on a tour of a mine, into the depths of Cerro Rico. No one was working, because it was a Sunday, but we got an idea of the working conditions. It was a bit scary crawling through the dark and dusty tunnels, watching out for holes and trying not to breathe too deeply. It was also fascinating to see the veins of silver and zinc glinting in the light of our headlamps.



Nicole and I visited a museum in which silver is still smithed. We saw the tools the artisans used in the 1600s through the 1800s to turn the unrefined silver into a work of art. The process of separating the silver from the impurities was especially hazardous. For example, the silver had to be heated with mercury, which of course releases noxious gases. In the early days, the heat was supplied by an oven fueled by a fire that women had to keep burning by constantly blowing into tubes. (Later billows were used). The process of molding the silver and creating the designs on it was painstaking, but much nicer. Our guide let us try our hands at tapping tiny designs in some silver.
We also saw some replicas of some of the luxurious items that were sent to Spain, such as crowns, soup bowls, silverware, and dowery boxes.

Carnaval, Ururo, Bolivia

¡Ponchillos, ponchillos! On every street corner, someone was selling plastic rain ponchos. Yes, technically it is still the rainy season, but it did not rain a drop the entire week of Carnaval. Yet the ponchos were essential. Why? Carnaval in Bolivia not only means ornate costumes worn by dancers from a variety of Bolivian traditions, it means war.

This is a photo of Nicole dressed to leave the hostel.
Notice her poncho, sunglasses, and super-soaker 500. She is prepared to be hit with water balloons, sprayed with water pistols, and foamed in the face, by children and adults alike. Even if one dressed defensively like this, there was no guarantee of dryness. People were ruthless in their attacks, and were not above breaking waterballoons down the backs of other people’s shirts, or spraying foam in the mouth of someone trying to eat a bite of food. The only real way to survive was to join in.

Other than constantly being on the defensive for three days, and having my money stolen after being foamed in the face, Carnival in Ururu was great. First of all, we met some really interesting travelers to watch the parade with. Secondly, the parade itself was a neat cultural experience. The dancing and costumes told a lot about the history and current culture of Bolivia.

Its the little things in life

Every 24th of January in La Paz, Bolivia, the people flood the streets in the name of hope and little things. It is known as the holiday of miniatures, or more formally, the festival of Alasita. Paceños (people of La Paz), partake in a city-wide ritual of buying and selling miniature representations of aspects of their lives, with the hope that fortune will smile on these things in the upcoming year. The story goes that on this day, the god of abundance, Ekeko, (who comes from the pre-Incan Tiwanaku culture)arrives in La Paz to grant the wishes of the citizens. At the vast Alasita market, which stretches literally all over the city, one can buy a plethora of small things, including miniature cars, houses, dollar bills, animals, babies, food, passports, wedding certificates, diplomas, or job contracts. Then people line up for hours outside of any church to have the items blessed.

I joined the masses and couldn´t resist getting myself a mini job contract in hopes of obtaining meaningful employment upon my return to the states. After some wandering and marveling at the mini world laid out on folding tables, I tried to capture some of the action on film. But a crowd yearning for prosperity is a ruthless one, and I was buffeted around to the point of feeling like a ping-pong ball. I was forced to retreat into my favorite cafe to read the paper.

Bolivia!!!

I´m in La Paz right now. It is the capital city of Bolivia, 3660 meters or 11,913feet above sea level, making it the highest capital city in the world. Gasp.

We traveled to La Paz from the funky bohemian town of Copacobana (near the Bolivia-Peru border) a few days ago.

(Copacobana. View from a hill where locals go every morning to pray.)

I loved Copacobana for a few reasons...

1. Nimbo´s. This is the best restaraunt ever. The owner is such a sweet guy. He let me borrow his awesome book about the Incas for three days. He makes the best burritos ever. Yes, ever. He lets people loiter in his restaraunt for hours, to read, play backgammon, or chat, long after the peach-tea has been consumed. Also, the decor is amazing. Its like a fairy grotto with real tree bows, tiny white lights, murals of unicorn-people, and wicker benches covered in soft alpaca fur. Finally, the music is great. Sometimes its Cuban hip-hop, sometimes its a real live Argentinian woman singing Argentinian folk songs with two real live Argentinian guitarists.


(Lil reading the dictionary at Nimbo´s)

2. The second reason to love Copacobana is for the row boats that one can rent. Lil and I were sitting in Nimbo´s one drizzly afternoon when two Argentinian guys invited us for a row boat ride. In spite of being fridgid out on Lake Titicaca, we had a splendid time.



Reason three...the Argentinians. They are all here in Bolivia on vacation, sipping their mate from their bombillas, making sshhing sounds when they say words with double L´s, and wearing funky clothing. I love them. All of them.


(Two rad Argentinians and a very strong Bolivian boy.)


4. The blessing of the cars. Yes, real Bolivians do live in Copacobana. Every few days, those with autos bring them to the front of the church and have them blessed for good fortune. This involves adorning them with flowers, streamers, and tiny replicas of houses, then spraying them down with champagne, and finally drinking beer. Why not?


(spraying champagne during the blessing of the cars)

Sooo, Copacobana is the place where tourists who want to visit the legendary birthplace of the Incan people (Isla del Sol) stay. Isla del Sol is a serene, sacred, and tourist-hungry island. It is rich in ruins, low-cost hostels, pizzerias, children who beg for candy, beautiful vistas, diverse geology, and cultivated herbs.



(View from Isla del Sol.) The first Incan king and queen were supposed to have been born of the Sun (their god) on this island. During the Incan empire, it was the site of many rituals. People still come here to worship.


Off shore is the Island of the Moon, where the king´s virgins lived in isolation in a convent-like setting, learning how to please the king until the day when they might be chosen to serve him.

Macchu Picchu!!!

The Epic Macchu Picchu Adventure Table of Contents:
I: Getting There
II: The Amazingly Wonderful Place
III: Leaving

I: Getting There
Getting to Macchu Picchu is an epic journey, no matter what route one takes. I would have liked to have treked along the Inca trail for four days, or have taken one of the alternate jungle routes, or taken the train from Cusco. However, not having much time nor money, we chose the following option...

We went to the Santiago bus terminal, located at the outskirts of Cusco, at 8 pm and borded the coach-style bus to Santa Maria. There was only one minor scary part in the middle of the night when we all had to jump off the bus into the driving rain so that the driver could navigate the bus through a pile of rubble that had fallen from the cliff above.
We arrived in Santa Maria at 2:30 in the morning and had to wait for the "combi" or small bus to Santa Teresa which would arrive at 4:00am. Lillian and I, along with the other travelers (a group of Argentinian guys, a Dutch couple, and some locals) hid from the rain under the only shelter available and tried to sleep on the wooden crates stored there.
Finally the combi arrived and we piled in. It was another three hours or so to Santa Teresa. I was asleep for the first half, but the second half was perhaps the most nerve-wracking ride of my life! The mountain pass very steep, very sinuous, not very wide, and very very high. I was ready to kiss the ground when we reached our destination!
When the combi dropped us off, we signed in with the park police and began the 5 hour walk to Aguas Calientes, the town just next to Macchu Picchu. From the registrar, one must cross a bridge to a train station. From there, one can board teh train or walk along the tracks. We chose to walk. However, it was still poring tropical rain, so we decided to join an Argentinian man for breakfast and wait out the deluge.
After great conversation about life with the man, the cook, and the cooks little daughter, we put on our ponchos and headed down the tracks in the rain. It was a great route, hopping from wooden track to track, stopping to rescue snails and to look at the plants! We were both well ready to find a shower and a bed to nap in when we got to Aguas Calientes!

Part II: The Stair Master of the 15th Century!We woke up at 4am in order to be the among first to arrive at Macchu Picchu and perhaps see the sun rise from there. (I actually woke at 3:30 because I was so excited!) We stumbled sleepily into the street and met up with a group of English folks also headed for the ruins. The group of us walked down the hill from Aguas Calientes, by the light of our flash lights, to the base of the mountain. From there, we walked about one hour straight up on stone stairs, the morning slowly growing brighter as we ascended. It was an exhausting climb and by the middle, Lil and I had left the rest of the group in our dust. At 5:45, quads burning, we reached the entrance of the ruins and had to wait until 6 for the gates to open.

We showed our tickets and walked through the gate into a land of deep green grass and grey stone shrouded in a dense fog. The famous ruins refered to as Macchu Picchu is hidden between two very large mountains, one called Macchu (old) Picchu (mountain), and the other Waynu (new) Picchu. On the top of Waynu Picchu, there is a sacred temple. Because only a limited number of people are allowed up there each day, we had been advised to make that our first stop. It took us about an hour to hike up the steep stone stairs to the top. We arrived thirsty and breathless (the elevation gain is 1000m from the gates to the top of WaynuPicchu), just in time to watch the fog peel away in thick sheets. Below us, the ruins were revealed as the clouds gave way to sunlight and blue sky.

With care, we decended Waynu Picchu, leaving the serenity of that mountain for the crowds and heat of the main part of the site. (Nothing could detract from the majesty of the ruins, however. The history and sacred energy transcends the tourist attraction it has become.) We walked through the stone buildings and hallways, across the green terraces, up to the stone temples, marveling and piecing together the story of the Incan empire that once was. I tried to feel what it might have been like to have been the princess that lived in the round tower, or a priest sacrificing a llama in the temple of the sun, or a servant planting crops for the rulers. We didn´t want to pay for a guide, so we walked the suggested route through the ruins backwards, in order to discretly eavesdrop on tour groups for bits of historical information. We learned about the structures that correspond with the equinoxes, the small pools of water that helped the astronomers track the stars, and about the temples dedicated to Pachimama, or Mother Earth. We learned about the symbology that is so everpresent in nearly every structure built by the Incas. We ended up staying until they kicked us out at closing time, pausing only to eat our picnic lunch and to buy a bottle of water that was ten times as expensive as it should have been.

III. Getting away...
After closing time, we had to walk down the billions of steps back to Aguas Calientes. We were passed by local boys, dressed in traditional garb, running down the slippery stairs without worry.
Back in town, we met up with our friend Tristan, who happened to be there too. We decided to go back to Cusco together.
The next morning we took a train to the hydro electric plant, then a combi to Santa Theresa. We had to switch combis...I was the last one out of the first combi, so did not have a seat, which meant I got to ride in the front seat with the driver and his mate. That meant I got to choose the music, from a limited number of tapes. The driver had a groupo cinco tape, so we listened to that.
After some hours, we arrived in Santa Maria, where we had to wait for another bus. We passed the time by forming a great group of internationals...some from Brazil, Holland, Belgium, etc.
On the final bus, I got to sit next to a woman who taught me some of the Quechua language. She was traveling with her children, who were fascinated by the gringos, and their pet monkey.

Thus ends my loooong post.

Feliz Año Nuevo- Happy 2008!!!!

¨When was the last time it was OK to throw firecrackers into a crowded street?...Oh yeah...Never!!! I love this place!¨ - a chica from Alaska

New Years Eve, 2007-2008, Cusco, Peru:

I had heard that Cusqueñans believe that one must take a number of precautions in order to have the best luck in the new year. I am not one to take any chances on luck, so that morning I set out to the market in search for the proper lucky necessities.

The first thing to know is that yellow is the color of luck. For example, one must purchase yellow underwear and give them to another person. Yellow underthings were not hard to find. On every corner, people were selling all styles of bright yellow skimpies, some more appropriate than others. I picked out a pair, forked out three soles to pay, and was promptly reminded by the woman selling them that I really ought to buy some flowers for good luck. I gave her another sol for a red and yellow gladiola. (I had heard that girls here believe that red flowers bring good luck in love, and often put red petals in their underwear on New Years eve to help the process.)

As I walked away from that vendor, another quickly called me over, ¨mami, candles here, get your candles here, amiga!¨ Candles? She explained the array of colorful candles on her table. Blue is for health, green is for money, etc etc. I figured I would cover all my bases and buy a multicolored pyramid shaped candle.

I tried to appear focused but the vendors kept calling out to me. Wine? No, gracias. Firecrackers? Tempting, but no, gracias. Grapes? Someone had told me that the custom is to eat 12 grapes 12 seconds before midnight, one grape per second. The inside tip is to buy small grapes and practice your technique before hand. I decided to let the grapes find me when the time was right. Yellow confetti? Insense? Paneton (fruitcake)? No no no! There were too many luck-buying possibilities! I left the market.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lillian, Roos, Ana (our house-mates from Belgium) and I continued preparing for the evening by sleeping all afternoon. Around 9pm, we put on our yellow underwear, fixed our hair, and hailed a taxi to the center plaza. We assumd we were set for New Years eve, but really nothing could prepare us for the revelry that was about to ensue!

When we arrived in the center of town, the crowds were starting to form, but we were early enough to have a chance to relax and (wisely) to buy our tickets to the night club in advance. The music in the club was a fun mix of dance music, and I got wrapped up dancing until someone announced it was already 11:45. We hurried out the door to the main plaza.

Throngs and throngs of cerveza-toting, cumbia-dancing, firecracker-throwing revelers had gathered in the Plaza de armas. We pushed our way through the sea of people to a spot beneath balcony where we could see the clock on the church on the far side of the square.

At five to midnight, the firecracker-throwing grew even more intense and the crowd swelled with joyful shouting. There was no count down, but we divined that it was midnight when everyone started grabbing their friends and running into the street. The custom is to run three laps around the main square for good luck. Roos popped open her bottle of champagne and the four of us toasted...Feliz año nuevo! Craving that elusive luck, I cajoled my friends into the road for a jog. We all feared for our lives, due to the fire crackers going off from all sides, but I had yet to see an injury, (and actually would not see one all night, surprisingly.)

We were swept along by the merry crowd, till we got to the church, where there was an explosion which scattered the crowd. We ducked into the church. It was like a sanctuary within a war zone. The priest was saying mass, and the flock was praying. Meanwhile, refuge-seeking partiers wandered around,looking at the ornate paintings and carvings of saints, Jesus, and the apostles. Someone scolded Roos for bringing the champagne into the church.

When there finally was a break in the firecrackers, we ran back outside and completed one lap around the square. One third of a year with good luck was good enough for us! We ran straight back into the night club, and danced for hours in sweaty safety.


Feliz Año!!!