“Estamos real jodidos,” my new amiga from Barcelona says upon getting dumped in the middle of nowhere Bolivian Andes for a four day hike. Translation, “We are really f#$%ed” I lift my backpack filled with food and warm clothes, give a shrug, and laugh off the dramatic latin sense of humor that I am all too familiar with at this point. Once again it is time to embrace another Bolivian adventure.
The actual fun really begins with Bolivian modes of transportation. I have quickly grown accustomed to hitching a ride in the rear of camionetas (trucks) and cruising around the countryside while fighting for standing space with the cows and sheep that accompany me.
The train ride experience has not been a disappointment either. Presenting a ticket to travel with the peasant class, I shared a 15 hour ride with a group of Bolivian women sporting the typical fashion: braids down to the waist, long skirts, and multicolored sacks slung over their shoulders either containing goods to trade at the market, or small children. Nobody seemed perturbed when the train broke down for hours. Instead, they seized the opportunity to eat more choclo (corn dish).
Buses around the countryside mean throwing backpacks on the roof, praying with every twist turn and bump in the rocky mountain terrain, that it will still be there when the ride is finally over. It can be expected to honk at llamas to get off the road, and pick up various stragglers along the way.
Walking along the countryside of Potosi I even had the pleasure of being picked up by a bus. Bolivians leave no one behind. With my good fortune, it was a busload of elementary school children on their way home from a field trip. My new eight year old friend Michelle, gave me a rock as a present and wished me well on my trip when I hopped off.
In the bustling city of La Paz it would make no sense to have an orderly system of public transport. Instead, hundreds of vans jam the crowded streets while the person in the passenger seat sticks their head out the window and screams the destination of the vehicle. It is the perfect recipe for chaos. It can either be viewed as stress epicenter of the universe, or an exciting afternoon outing.
Camionetas, trains, buses, really it does not matter how you get there because each one is just as unpredictable as the next. Above all, wherever I land it seems to be the most precarious situation that I have ever experienced.
I have found myself setting off dynamite with local miners (first they lit it and chased me around with the explosive sticks… all in good fun), while relaxing by a lake I suddenly became a part of a local funeral where mourning means drinking more than the Irish at a wake, and they burn the clothes of the deceased. I have been dropped off in towns where electricity does not exist. In one instance the children came running out of the school house to say hello to the gringa and see how my digital camera worked (maybe the most surreal moment in South America).
Sleeping is on par with transport. One night in the Andes, my friends and I found shelter in a school house to escape the bitter cold. Other nights I have been welcomed in by Bolivian families in small villages.. The best family lived in a house that rivaled Swiss Family Robinson in the jungle territory of the mountains. I am really making none of this up.
Regardless of the situation, the outcome is always the same. Bolivians have proven to be some of the most inviting, hospitable people that I have encountered in this journey. Now it is time to pop some malaria pills because the Amazon Jungle is up next. Oh and, we lived to tell the tale of the hiking adventure…
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Crossing the line: The Bolivian Border
Crossing borders is one way to quickly learn about a new country before entering it. It never ceases to amaze me how one imaginary line can define essentially everything.
It was seemingly appropriate that I arrived at the Argentine border town called La Quiaca on a cold dark and stormy night. Alone and miserable after long arduous hours on an overcrowded and very delayed bus—the dreary setting seemed to match my mood. A series of unforeseen circumstances had gotten me to this lonely state, and it was time to turn it around.
Traveling instinct kicked in and I approached the first friendly foreign faces that I could find—2 Australian guys wandering down the street.
¨Excuse me, are you guys heading for a hostel?¨ even I could sense my weary and exasperated tone. The taller of the two replied,
¨Nope, we are killing time before a bus to Salta. Where are you heading?¨
He sincerely looked sorry for me, or maybe he realized as well as I suddenly had that I was in desperate need of a shower.
I explained that I was slowly making my way to Bolivia. The second backpacker chimed in with a laugh,
¨ That´s a seriously slow pace, you do realize that Bolivia is just right there. You can walk across right now if you like.¨
His lanky arm stretched out pointing towards a dark menacing main road. It is with no exaggeration that within visible view of the ¨other side¨ plump round forlorn faces were staring at me from a begging distance.
My instant loyalty to Argentina was prevalent. I was convinced that it wasn´t time to part ways with a country that had been so accommodating, and its people so welcoming. How could I possibly abandon it now? I graciously thanked the travelers, wished them well, and scurried out of the rain into the first inviting hostel to demise a Bolivian scheme.
A new day is a new beginning, and reason enough to enter another country. The sun was shining, and I reunited with amigas from Uruguay. Armed with courage and a passport that craved another stamp, I walked down the main road toward the border crossing, and didn’t look back.
The first lesson learned at the border—there are no rules amidst the chaos of third world security, but money talks. The guard would not acknowledge me until I displayed the wad of green American dollars in my hand that are required for a Bolivian visa.
The second lesson learned—excessive amounts of consuming Coca Cola really will rot your teeth. Bolivians should be the official sponsor of this beverage as their obsession with coca runs deep. Nearly every Bolivian flashes a toothless grin, or it is adorned with golden crowns. Ironically I have spotted more dentist offices in this country and each one sends a shiver down my spine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to this issue as the proud daughter of a Dentist.
It has been four days since the border crossing event. Painfully slow and pungent trains have carried me deeper and higher into the altiplano. I am currently writing from an Army Barracks converted into a traveler refugee camp (seriously) in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert. It has been a three day journey in a Land Rover (which has a New Jersey inspection sticker-- questionable?) with an international assortment of adventure seekers. Among the superlatives swimming in my mind, this is possibly the most interesting thing that I have ever done. My mind is about to explode with endless amounts of details on Bolivia that I wish to divulge… stay tuned for more on that and why Bolivia is quickly becoming my new favorite country.
It was seemingly appropriate that I arrived at the Argentine border town called La Quiaca on a cold dark and stormy night. Alone and miserable after long arduous hours on an overcrowded and very delayed bus—the dreary setting seemed to match my mood. A series of unforeseen circumstances had gotten me to this lonely state, and it was time to turn it around.
Traveling instinct kicked in and I approached the first friendly foreign faces that I could find—2 Australian guys wandering down the street.
¨Excuse me, are you guys heading for a hostel?¨ even I could sense my weary and exasperated tone. The taller of the two replied,
¨Nope, we are killing time before a bus to Salta. Where are you heading?¨
He sincerely looked sorry for me, or maybe he realized as well as I suddenly had that I was in desperate need of a shower.
I explained that I was slowly making my way to Bolivia. The second backpacker chimed in with a laugh,
¨ That´s a seriously slow pace, you do realize that Bolivia is just right there. You can walk across right now if you like.¨
His lanky arm stretched out pointing towards a dark menacing main road. It is with no exaggeration that within visible view of the ¨other side¨ plump round forlorn faces were staring at me from a begging distance.
My instant loyalty to Argentina was prevalent. I was convinced that it wasn´t time to part ways with a country that had been so accommodating, and its people so welcoming. How could I possibly abandon it now? I graciously thanked the travelers, wished them well, and scurried out of the rain into the first inviting hostel to demise a Bolivian scheme.
A new day is a new beginning, and reason enough to enter another country. The sun was shining, and I reunited with amigas from Uruguay. Armed with courage and a passport that craved another stamp, I walked down the main road toward the border crossing, and didn’t look back.
The first lesson learned at the border—there are no rules amidst the chaos of third world security, but money talks. The guard would not acknowledge me until I displayed the wad of green American dollars in my hand that are required for a Bolivian visa.
The second lesson learned—excessive amounts of consuming Coca Cola really will rot your teeth. Bolivians should be the official sponsor of this beverage as their obsession with coca runs deep. Nearly every Bolivian flashes a toothless grin, or it is adorned with golden crowns. Ironically I have spotted more dentist offices in this country and each one sends a shiver down my spine. Perhaps I am more sensitive to this issue as the proud daughter of a Dentist.
It has been four days since the border crossing event. Painfully slow and pungent trains have carried me deeper and higher into the altiplano. I am currently writing from an Army Barracks converted into a traveler refugee camp (seriously) in the middle of the Bolivian salt desert. It has been a three day journey in a Land Rover (which has a New Jersey inspection sticker-- questionable?) with an international assortment of adventure seekers. Among the superlatives swimming in my mind, this is possibly the most interesting thing that I have ever done. My mind is about to explode with endless amounts of details on Bolivia that I wish to divulge… stay tuned for more on that and why Bolivia is quickly becoming my new favorite country.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
and Holy Week begins!
Palm Sunday…Holy week is on the horizon. From my experience in Spain with Semana Santa, I have learned that when it comes to the Spanish Speaking World and Easter, a dramatic spectacle can be expected. It is no surprise that South America doesn’t mess around with Jesus either. Drums and explosions are currently awakening the small Andean village of Tilcara in the middle of nowhere Northwest Argentina where I am claiming my temporary residence for the next week or so. I am accompanied by my amigos, Natalia and Carla from Uruguay, and Fernando from Argentina.
The province of Jujuy is Argentina’s poorest region in the country, but it is rich in culture and scenic beauty. Artisan craft markets fill the village streets, folkloric music livens up the tranquilo scene, and the aroma of coca leaves that are ritually chewed can be detected just about everywhere. The surrounding landscape is painted with cactuses, canyons, and layered rocks of shades of red that only seem to exist here.
Walking through the streets I feel eyes on me. I am a gringo mixed in a world of poncho wearing, coca leaf chewing, folkloric flute playing, indigenous people. On a side note-- I was informed by my kind Uruguayan friends that due to contrary belief, the more widely used term for gringo in South America is actually Yankee. I am a lone Yankee in a sea of South Americans ready to embrace some Holy Week traditions.
The festivities commence tomorrow with a 7 hour long procession to some other neighboring village. At home, attending church on both Holy Thursday and Good Friday was once considered a major effort. While attempting to experience a new culture, I now eagerly accept taking 7 hour long pilgrimages… all in the name of religion. I have never been a more devout Catholic.
Amidst the fusion of Native American culture and Catholicism, this Easter will not include hunting for Easter eggs, jelly beans, and Easter bonnets, but I am certain that Semana Santa will not lack some lively traditions.
The province of Jujuy is Argentina’s poorest region in the country, but it is rich in culture and scenic beauty. Artisan craft markets fill the village streets, folkloric music livens up the tranquilo scene, and the aroma of coca leaves that are ritually chewed can be detected just about everywhere. The surrounding landscape is painted with cactuses, canyons, and layered rocks of shades of red that only seem to exist here.
Walking through the streets I feel eyes on me. I am a gringo mixed in a world of poncho wearing, coca leaf chewing, folkloric flute playing, indigenous people. On a side note-- I was informed by my kind Uruguayan friends that due to contrary belief, the more widely used term for gringo in South America is actually Yankee. I am a lone Yankee in a sea of South Americans ready to embrace some Holy Week traditions.
The festivities commence tomorrow with a 7 hour long procession to some other neighboring village. At home, attending church on both Holy Thursday and Good Friday was once considered a major effort. While attempting to experience a new culture, I now eagerly accept taking 7 hour long pilgrimages… all in the name of religion. I have never been a more devout Catholic.
Amidst the fusion of Native American culture and Catholicism, this Easter will not include hunting for Easter eggs, jelly beans, and Easter bonnets, but I am certain that Semana Santa will not lack some lively traditions.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Buena Onda
How did I end up here? It is an inevitable question that enters most traveler´s minds at some point. In South America I have had a few experiences that have sparked this thought: when I found myself sleeping in some random Chilean lady´s backyard, when the bus stopped driving because a (peaceful) protest blocked the route—in this instance I was fortunate enough to be sitting with an outgoing Bolivian woman who explained to me what was happening. Sometimes the journey leads to the most interesting places, and the best thing to do, especially when you have no idea what is going on, is to sit back and enjoy it.
I am currently traveling solo for a couple of weeks. It seems that every day is a new adventure, and I am hardly ever alone. About a week ago I wished my traveling counterpart, Chris, well as he went to pursue a short term career on a farm. My own future was much less defined; without any real plan I was heading north. After reviewing the map of Argentina I decided to purchase a ticket to Tucuman because the name sounded funny, and so began another leg of the journey.
Upon waiting for my bus to my mysterious destination I encountered a familiar face, a friendly guy from California that I had met over a month ago in Chile. We filled eachother in on a months worth of travel because meeting a familiar face on the road is like meeting an old friend from home. A young British guy who was enjoying a year of travel before starting University (known as gap year in Engand) joined the conversation. He happened to be meeting his friend who was traveling Argentina by horse. A few hours later while we waited for our respective buses, I had learned a new card game, shared some empanadas, and exchanged emails with my friends. I did not realize that getting on my bus meant leaving my happy gringo trail behind.
It turns out that Tucuman really isn´t that funny, or anything special for that matter, but it led me in the right direction. From Tucuman to Tafi de Valle, Tafi de Valle to Amaicha, Amaicha to Cafayate, I am now on a different trail. I am traveling with an Argentinean guy who could easily fall under the hippie classification, and three Uruguayan girls who turn heads when they walk down the street. Our time is spent drinking yerba mate, the conversations are in spanish, and I am now sleeping in a tent that a Argentinean has given me on loan. My vagabonding status has reached a new level. However I ended up here, es una buena onda…
I am currently traveling solo for a couple of weeks. It seems that every day is a new adventure, and I am hardly ever alone. About a week ago I wished my traveling counterpart, Chris, well as he went to pursue a short term career on a farm. My own future was much less defined; without any real plan I was heading north. After reviewing the map of Argentina I decided to purchase a ticket to Tucuman because the name sounded funny, and so began another leg of the journey.
Upon waiting for my bus to my mysterious destination I encountered a familiar face, a friendly guy from California that I had met over a month ago in Chile. We filled eachother in on a months worth of travel because meeting a familiar face on the road is like meeting an old friend from home. A young British guy who was enjoying a year of travel before starting University (known as gap year in Engand) joined the conversation. He happened to be meeting his friend who was traveling Argentina by horse. A few hours later while we waited for our respective buses, I had learned a new card game, shared some empanadas, and exchanged emails with my friends. I did not realize that getting on my bus meant leaving my happy gringo trail behind.
It turns out that Tucuman really isn´t that funny, or anything special for that matter, but it led me in the right direction. From Tucuman to Tafi de Valle, Tafi de Valle to Amaicha, Amaicha to Cafayate, I am now on a different trail. I am traveling with an Argentinean guy who could easily fall under the hippie classification, and three Uruguayan girls who turn heads when they walk down the street. Our time is spent drinking yerba mate, the conversations are in spanish, and I am now sleeping in a tent that a Argentinean has given me on loan. My vagabonding status has reached a new level. However I ended up here, es una buena onda…
Monday, March 16, 2009
long term travel
In a recent conversation with my new found friend on the road, Robbie, we discussed the nature of long term backpacking. He explained that “what we see in one week is often a person's trip of a lifetime, but we are fortunate to continue to have many trips of a lifetime during the journey.” Due to the fast paced nature of the past four weeks I have not paid much attention to the documentation of my experiences on the road, but I have definitely had a handful of trips of a lifetime.
If I am going to make any attempt to catch up I will have to take the lazy approach with bullet points. The past few weeks have included the following:
-Mapuche Farm: Camping at a Native American Mapuche farm with Chris and Robbie. In order to reach the farm we had to ring a bell on a tree for the Mapuche member to climb in a row boat and retrieve us from the shore of a lake. On the other side of the lake cows, sheep, roosters, chickens and horses roamed freely
-Camping in a Taxi Drivers yard: During a boisterous festival in the small town of Junin there was nowhere to sleep, not even vacancy in the campground. A kind man driving a cab allowed Chris, Robbie and me to set our tents up in his yard and spend the night.
-Fly Fishing: I grew an appreciation for fly fishing while spending a few weeks in the Lake District with avid fly fishers, Chris and Robbie.
-Iguazu Falls: In the northeast corner of Argentina the impressive waterfalls known as Iguazu draw in crowds of visitors from around the world. It is easy to spend a full day in the National Park which is what Chris, Simon (Chris’s friend from home) and I did. While viewing the “Devils Throat” the spray is so powerful that it is impossible to stay dry.
Carnaval: On a very big whim coming from Iguazu, we stopped over in a sleepy town called San Ignacio. The town came alive on Saturday evening with hundreds of beautiful women adorned in elaborate costumes, mostly lacking coverage in areas with curves. Chris and Simon died and gone to heaven as steams of women passed by prancing in their thongs. We were fully immersed in Carnaval without any warning.
Bikes and Wine: Arriving in Mendoza means entering wine country. No visit is complete without biking around the various vineyards. Mr. Hugo provided our small group of wine enthusiasts with bikes and copious amounts of wine. A beautiful sunny day riding along roads covered in tree canopies and surrounded by mountains: it was practically a perfect day.
Wine Festival: We conveniently planned to spend time in Mendoza during their annual wine festival. The streets were filled with Argentines while floats from the parade with people throwing grapes passed by.
Mount Aconcagua: It was essential to pay a visit to the worlds highest mountain in the western hemisphere. Chris, our new friend named Guy, and I camped a few days in a small Andean town to get a closer look at the massive mountain.
The next few weeks will be spent in the Northwest region of Argentina to begin a new chapter of the journey…
If I am going to make any attempt to catch up I will have to take the lazy approach with bullet points. The past few weeks have included the following:
-Mapuche Farm: Camping at a Native American Mapuche farm with Chris and Robbie. In order to reach the farm we had to ring a bell on a tree for the Mapuche member to climb in a row boat and retrieve us from the shore of a lake. On the other side of the lake cows, sheep, roosters, chickens and horses roamed freely
-Camping in a Taxi Drivers yard: During a boisterous festival in the small town of Junin there was nowhere to sleep, not even vacancy in the campground. A kind man driving a cab allowed Chris, Robbie and me to set our tents up in his yard and spend the night.
-Fly Fishing: I grew an appreciation for fly fishing while spending a few weeks in the Lake District with avid fly fishers, Chris and Robbie.
-Iguazu Falls: In the northeast corner of Argentina the impressive waterfalls known as Iguazu draw in crowds of visitors from around the world. It is easy to spend a full day in the National Park which is what Chris, Simon (Chris’s friend from home) and I did. While viewing the “Devils Throat” the spray is so powerful that it is impossible to stay dry.
Carnaval: On a very big whim coming from Iguazu, we stopped over in a sleepy town called San Ignacio. The town came alive on Saturday evening with hundreds of beautiful women adorned in elaborate costumes, mostly lacking coverage in areas with curves. Chris and Simon died and gone to heaven as steams of women passed by prancing in their thongs. We were fully immersed in Carnaval without any warning.
Bikes and Wine: Arriving in Mendoza means entering wine country. No visit is complete without biking around the various vineyards. Mr. Hugo provided our small group of wine enthusiasts with bikes and copious amounts of wine. A beautiful sunny day riding along roads covered in tree canopies and surrounded by mountains: it was practically a perfect day.
Wine Festival: We conveniently planned to spend time in Mendoza during their annual wine festival. The streets were filled with Argentines while floats from the parade with people throwing grapes passed by.
Mount Aconcagua: It was essential to pay a visit to the worlds highest mountain in the western hemisphere. Chris, our new friend named Guy, and I camped a few days in a small Andean town to get a closer look at the massive mountain.
The next few weeks will be spent in the Northwest region of Argentina to begin a new chapter of the journey…
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Choices
Choices must be made. This is a statement that holds true for everyone. The fate of our journey rests in every detailed decision. With such overwhelming responsibility, Chris and I take matters into our own hands by dictating where we will go and who we will meet with a swift game of Rock Paper Scissors.
In rare cases, direction comes naturally. The Argentine Lake District seems to have magnetic force that continues to draw us in for another visit. Without even needing Paper to cover Rock, we ended up in San Martin de Los Andes; another pristine town settled by a lake and picturesque mountains.
As a vagabond, the perpetual question remains the same: where is our temporary home in this foreign place? Often bus stations are flooded with hostel owners claiming to offer the best deal in town, but after a little unguided exploration in San Martin we selected a quiet hostel to grant us a place to sleep.
By day 2 in the boisterous resort town we made the bold move to forego camping one extra day and pay a few extra pesos for another restful evening with warm beds and an inviting kitchen. Similar to a real home, kitchens in hostels are a place to congregate, share stories, and develop new friendships. Sharing pots and pans suddenly means sharing life stories.
On this particular evening, one other guy had the same decision making process as us. After a few short minutes of sharing a cooking space we quickly learned that he was also from Boston. With this knowledge the conversation spawned into a series of questions that have not been asked in months.
¨I went to Holy Cross,¨ he replied to me as I stood at the kitchen sink. The response stopped me from meal preparation as I stood there in disbelief. My friend Jim had informed me that recent HC grad (and friend of his) had embarked on a similar Patagonian adventure. I paid no close attention to the information, but suddenly Robbie Cocuzzo, class of ´08 was standing with me in the kitchen of some random hostel in some small South American town and we were discussing the slums that we resided in off campus, and the mutual friends that we had in common. BIZARRE.
Also an avid fisher, and fishing guide in Nantucket, Robbie had many important points to discuss with Chris. Instant friendship formed over dinner and some Argentine wine and by the end of the evening we arrived at our next decision: the next day the three of us would head to Lago Lolog to camp and Chris and Robbie would find the best spot to catch Brown Trout.
Slightly over a week later, the setting has changed a few times (currently in Junin but about to hop on a bus to get to nearby National Park Lanin) the company and days of fishing remain the same. Discussions involve terms like wooleybuggers and dry flies. While I keep safe distance on rocks by the river, I could learn a few things from my fly fishing enthusiast friends.
Many decisions remain to be seen, such as what the future will bring. There is discussion of wine fesitivals, waterfalls and eventually possible volunteer work in Bolivia... but for now fishing and friends will fill the days of February.
In rare cases, direction comes naturally. The Argentine Lake District seems to have magnetic force that continues to draw us in for another visit. Without even needing Paper to cover Rock, we ended up in San Martin de Los Andes; another pristine town settled by a lake and picturesque mountains.
As a vagabond, the perpetual question remains the same: where is our temporary home in this foreign place? Often bus stations are flooded with hostel owners claiming to offer the best deal in town, but after a little unguided exploration in San Martin we selected a quiet hostel to grant us a place to sleep.
By day 2 in the boisterous resort town we made the bold move to forego camping one extra day and pay a few extra pesos for another restful evening with warm beds and an inviting kitchen. Similar to a real home, kitchens in hostels are a place to congregate, share stories, and develop new friendships. Sharing pots and pans suddenly means sharing life stories.
On this particular evening, one other guy had the same decision making process as us. After a few short minutes of sharing a cooking space we quickly learned that he was also from Boston. With this knowledge the conversation spawned into a series of questions that have not been asked in months.
¨I went to Holy Cross,¨ he replied to me as I stood at the kitchen sink. The response stopped me from meal preparation as I stood there in disbelief. My friend Jim had informed me that recent HC grad (and friend of his) had embarked on a similar Patagonian adventure. I paid no close attention to the information, but suddenly Robbie Cocuzzo, class of ´08 was standing with me in the kitchen of some random hostel in some small South American town and we were discussing the slums that we resided in off campus, and the mutual friends that we had in common. BIZARRE.
Also an avid fisher, and fishing guide in Nantucket, Robbie had many important points to discuss with Chris. Instant friendship formed over dinner and some Argentine wine and by the end of the evening we arrived at our next decision: the next day the three of us would head to Lago Lolog to camp and Chris and Robbie would find the best spot to catch Brown Trout.
Slightly over a week later, the setting has changed a few times (currently in Junin but about to hop on a bus to get to nearby National Park Lanin) the company and days of fishing remain the same. Discussions involve terms like wooleybuggers and dry flies. While I keep safe distance on rocks by the river, I could learn a few things from my fly fishing enthusiast friends.
Many decisions remain to be seen, such as what the future will bring. There is discussion of wine fesitivals, waterfalls and eventually possible volunteer work in Bolivia... but for now fishing and friends will fill the days of February.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
summer breeze
There is a distinct lazy afternoon breeze that floats in the air and it can only be associated with summer. The distant noises of motor boats humming and lawn mowers trimming grass create a seasonal soundtrack. The main street is filled with families returning from a sun filled day at the beach, and restaurants that lure in the wealthiest of summer dwelling visitors with their swanky décor. For one brief moment it is August and I am at the comforting Connecticut shore.
Suddenly without warning a woman calls out in Spanish selling Lumitas and I realize that I am in a new summer community in the southern hemisphere. The strongest indication does not come from the Spanish in the streets, but the looming presence of a snow capped volcano that is just as active as it’s neighboring town of Pucon, Chile that it seems to look down upon with ill will.
As smoke swirls from the giant geological wonder, the Chileans proceed with their daily routine. The light is green on the activity scale in the town center. Today will remain a day like many others: a day of only pending natural disaster.
Aside from escaping near death by mother nature, the Chilean Lake District provides ample amount of activities for adventure enthusiasts. White water rafting proved to be an educational Spanish lesson as directions were yelled at Chris and me over the roaring class five rapids. I can still hear “adelante izquierda” echoing in my ear.
A 50 Km bike ride seemed like another enjoyable way to spend a hot summer day. The uphill struggle by the 30th Km convinced me that I was probably dying from heat stroke. Like an oasis in the desert, waterfalls and lakes appeared and energy was restored after a quick plunge in the refreshing water.
Relaxation is always important too. Some new Argentinean friends invited Chris and me to the popular evening activity of visiting the local hot springs. In theory, this sounds enticing, but sharing a natural hot tub with overweight Chilean men is exactly why Chris named it “herpes soup.”
Chilean summer camp, as we have dubbed it, has been nothing short of entertaining, but January is quickly turning to February, and the fumes from the volcano serve as a reminder that it is awake and ready to go. Once again it is time to cross over to Argentina to savor the summer days a little while longer.
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