Christmas in Bolivia

Christmas in Bolivia is celebrated on the 24th of December and, after a vote among the volunteers here at Parque Machia, we decided to follow suite. We planned a big dinner with all of the volunteers (both Bolivian and foreign), a secret santa, and decorated the cafe and casa in Christmas cheer. Even though it was Christmas, however, the animals needed to be fed and walked and everyone worked a full day as usual before rushing off to prepare their part of the meal. The food was not standard Bolivian Christmas fare but rather an eclectic mix of various Christmas traditions mashed together into one meal. It was a fun night and there were many nice people there but I couldn´t help feeling a little homesick on my first Christmas away from my family.
Christmas day dawned far too early for most of us. I had beach day with Gato and had to begin at 8 instead of the usual 9 am. I was at the Cafe at 7 45 but my partner, a 3rd year Bolivian veternary student who had started with Gato while I had been sick a few days before, did not show up until 9 30. I was more than a little angry and became more so when after explicit instructions to keep up on the way down to the beach, he failed to do so and was found 20 minutes later laying in the hammock at Gato´s rest spot. I told him to go home and spent a beautiful Christmas day wandering the beach alone with my Puma. The last few days had been sunny and the water was the lowest I had seen it in months. It was one of the best days I have had here. Still, I did glance at my watch and shed a tear as I followed my family´s Christmas festivities in my mind. In the evening, my 9 housemates and I made a dinner, opened stockings, and played games together.

Two days after Christmas, after many hours of thought and a few tears, I decided that I would no longer be able to work with Gato. The old tendonitis in my knees had flared up painfully and I realised that I might jeopardize many things in the rest of my trip if I continued to walk the Puma trails. I was reassigned to Spider Monkey park for my last week here at Inti Wara Yassi.

I like the Spider Monkies a lot but it is a very different day than that of a cat person. The day starts at 7 30 in the morning and lasts until 7 in the evening. In between, we feed the monkies (3 times), clean their night cage, and try and keep them happy by grooming them and playing with them. I even got up at 4 30 one morning to guard the male spider monkey, who does not sleep in a cage, from two wild Spider monkies trying to steal his females. It was pretty cool to watch the sunrise with a Spider monkey snuggled up under my shirt.

I leave Villa Tunari on the 2nd of January to meet up with my parents in Argentina. I love it here but, now that I know I am leaving, I am excited to go. I may come back but I am ready for a change.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to all my friends and family. I will be celebrating christmas here in the steamy hot jungle. We have put up a christmas tree and have hung up some stockings but boy it feels much too hot for christmas! I hope everyone is well and has a merry day



Love

Meghan

The Rainy Season

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The rainy season has finally set in here in the jungle...and while the river may be swollen and the rain plentiful there is a distinct drought of volunteers. Everyday it becomes harder to juggle people so that all of the animals get taken care of properly. In the shuffle, I have taken on the job of walking Gato...alone. Under normal circumstances Pumas are always walked by a pair of volunteers. In times of shortage, it is possible for one experienced volunteer to walk Gato by him or herself. I am both thrilled to have the opportunity and a bit disapointed that I did not perservere with Maggie. Still, I think things worked out the best in the end.

I have two weeks left here at Inti Wara Yassi and everyone is gearing up for Christmas. I find the concept of Christmas in the jungle hard to grasp but I think it will be a day to remember.
I only have two more weeks here before I head down to Mendoza to meet up with my parents.

Never Turn Your Back on a Puma

I have been here in Villa Tunari at Inti Wara Yassi going on 2 months now. There have been many changes during my time here but the biggest change came last week when after 6 wonderful weeks working with Gato, I switched pumas. I am now working with Maggie, Gato´s polar opposite in the park. Gato is 13, calm, and motivated to walk. Maggie (the only female puma in the park) is a kitten (11 months old), full of energy at times and frusteratingly lazy at others. Maggie is a cat that operates in 3 dimensions, she is just as likely to be in a tree above you, as the path ahead of you or the jungle below you and will jump on you from anywhere. I knew when I started with Maggie that working with her would be a different experience than working with Gato but I wasn´t quite prepared for how much I felt like I was starting from the very beginning again. The most difficult lessons that I had to learn were to never turn your back on a puma and never step away from a jump, step into it. These things are not instinctual and I have the bruises and scratches to show from my inability to look a puma in the eyes and stand my ground as she charged me. Maggie has never attacked hard enough to do serious damage but she is tenacious and she is testing me. For the first several days every time that I would touch the rope she would begin an attacking fit that would often leave me in tears of frusteration and pain. I began to seriously doubt my ability to continue working with her because I was quite convinced that she hated me. It also wasn´t helpful that my partner, Cyril, has the same command of English as I do of his native French...not much. We communicate in Spanish, which is great practice but causes big problems when Maggie has her teeth in my love handles and I can´t remember the words for ¨don´t pull her off it´ll only make the scratches worse¨. One day I really believed that I would have to quit but I realised that I had much more to gain by staying and gaining Maggie´s respect than I did by walking away. Things have become marginally better in the subsequent days but I must admit that I am much more relieved to walk away from Maggie´s cage at the end of the day than I ever was with Gato.

The other big change here has been the coming of rainy season. It has been raining more often than not and since both my pink rain jacket and the yellow plastic rain ponchos they sell in town are extremely reminiscent of the plush toys that Maggie takes delight in mauling I have opted to just get wet. I know that it sounds like I am not enjoying my time as much any more but that is not the truth. I love the people (especially my longtime housemates) and animals of Inti Wara Yassi and it is where I want to be the most of anywhere right now.

The Passport Police and I are not Best Friends

After 5 weeks without a day off and two days lying sick in bed, I headed to Cochabamba to renew my visa. I dropped my passport off without a hitch and spent the evening pampering myself in my hotel room. In the morning, I went to go buy all of the things people had asked for from the big city but to my disgruntlement most of the shops were closed for no apparent reason. It was 11 am on a Wednesday and the streets were deserted and all of the shops shut. I did manage to find some of the things I was looking for but others, like peanut butter, eluded me even though I must have asked at 50 different tiendas. I needed to go to the supermarket but that was closed as well. I learned that there was a protest in town but no matter how many people I asked nobody could give me a straight answer as to what people were protesting. At 4 30 I went to the passport office as I had been told to do only to find it closed. The lady at the hotel said that the protests would likely close down the city until friday which means that I won´t get my passport back until Monday at the earliest. So I am going back to Villa Tunari. I am not waiting in an empty, closed city for that long. I haven´t seen Gato in 3 days and I miss him terribly and I miss the people who have become like my second family. I will just have to come back to Cochabamba to pick up my passport next week. This may be the stupidest thing I´ve ever done but that will just be loads of fun to blog about.

Meghan is a Bad Blogger

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I know it has been awhile since I blogged but I hadn´t realised until now just how long...I am sorry to those of you who have been waiting for new posts. After spending the day working with a Puma and completing my cat coordinator duties I am much more interesting in relaxing or foraging for food than in fighting the crowds and slow connections at the Villa Tunari internet cafe. Updates might be scarce until I leave.

I have been at Parque Machia in Villa Tunari for almost six weeks now. In that time, I have gone from being a newbie to being one of the most senior volunteers in the park (there is a fast turn over here. Out of the 45 odd non-permanent volunteers in the park only 5 were there when I arrived).
I am still working with Gato. I thought I would get bored walking the same trails every day but everyday there is some small drama to keep it interesting. After Callie left I worked with a Swedish girl named Daniella for two weeks. We had a very good time together but unfortunately an old knee injury was aggravated by a stumble she took and she had to make the decision to leave. From the day that Daniella left to this moment I have not had a volunteer that has come with me for more than 3 days. Sometimes this was because they were only temps and others because they could not do the job physically. The monkies have done a good job scaring off my new volunteers. One in particular, who always likes to cuddle me, decided it would be fun to bite any new person I brought with me! I now have a guy named Colin lined up for the job but I have been sick and in Cochabamba renewing my visa so I haven´t worked with him yet.

There has been quite a bit of drama in the park. There have been several attempts during the night to steal some of the animals (one morning our spectacled bear wandered down to the cafe to join us for breakfast after his cage door had been kicked in). There have also been quite a few landslides, one of which completely crushed the cage of one of the ocelots. We spent several depressing afternoons digging the debris out from her cage trying to determine if she was alive or dead but she was found alive wandering in the jungle by another ocelot volunteer.

I would like to write more but I have a serious mission of procurring personal stashes of peanut butter and other such goodies not available in our small town.

New Volunteers

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Yesterday was a sad day. 6 people left Inti Wara Yassi. Today, 3 more left and tomorrow there will be a few more. The community here is always shifting and changing as people leave and new people come. By today, the people that I had spent the most time with were were all gone and in their places were strange new faces. I will learn these new peoples´ names and when they leave I will probably mourn their departures as well.

The Halloween party was amazing. The children who live at our house helped us carve jack o lanterns out of watermelons and papaya. They were very excited to participate in a holiday that they had never celebrated. People were extremely creative with their costumes given the limited resources and experience (for many people it was their first halloween party).

I have a new partner with Gato, Daniella. Daniella is Swedish but has lived in London for the past several years. She is a very sweet girl and is highly amused by my knowledge of Swedish culture. The day´s here have adopted a constant rhythm of work and I feel as if I have been here a very long time. Time here is not controlled by a watch but by the whims of a puma. There are no weekends and the days of the week have morphed into egg day, straw day, beach day... I love it.

Even though the routine of every day is the same, there are so many dramas with the animals and people of Inti Wara Yassi that things never get dull. Today, for example, Daniella went flying off of the path as we tried to sprint as fast as Gato and both Gato and I submerged in the river trying to recross an arm that had risen substantially since we had crossed it a few hours before. It is always an adventure and even after hard and frusterating days I sit in the cafe and feel satisfied that I have done something to make the world a little bit better for something other than myself.

The Changing of the Guard

Changes are happening at Inti Wara Yassi. Cally and I are planning a halloween party for Wednesday which will also serve as the goodbye party for the approximately 10 volunteers (several of them long timers) who are leaving the next day. This exodus of volunteers (about a quarter of the people in the park) is causing much shifting and changing among the volunteers remaining. My Gato partner, Cally, is among the departing, which means that I will have a new volunteer to train and work with starting on Wednesday. It is a bit strange to go from being a trainee myself to the boss in just over a week but I do feel very confident that I know Gato´s trails and can predict his behaviour. Today, Cally gave me the keys to Gato´s cage and I realised that I am now the person in charge of the well-being of a puma. I will also be taking over Callie´s job as new volunteer tour guide. People move into positions very quickly here at Inti Wara Yassi because the volunteer turn over is quite large. If I stay until Christmas (which is my plan) I will be one of the most senior volunteers.

I am going to miss many of the people who are going away. Many of them are the best friends that I have made here and so many are going all at once.

Beach Day

On Tuesdays and Fridays we take Gato to the beach instead of on his usual trail in the jungle. For Gato, these are the best days of the week. As soon as he smells our sunscreen and realises that it is beach day he perks up and sprints down the trail to the beach dragging us behind. We spend the day swimming in the river and exploring all of the small islands. Every now and then we find some quicksand and sink up to our knees or a plantation full of avocados to walk through. This Tuesday was very sunny and despite our hats and repeated applications of sunscreen both Cally and I got sunburns. My sun burn is especially impressive because it is on my legs between the bottom of my shorts and the top of my gum boots.
The afternoons on the beach aren´t quite as fun as the mornings. We have to have Gato off the beach by 3 30 or he will come face to face with Balu, our Bear cub. Gato does not want to leave the beach and takes his time making his way towards the trail home. Once he is on the trail he will sit and refuse to move. On Tuesday, he sat in the middle of the trail and moved no more than 30 m in 2.5 hours. We tried to coerce him to move with every technique we could think of: We sang, made loud noises, asked nicely, hid from him, pulled on the rope, threw water on him. Gato would simply growl and make a big show of lying down even more. He reminds me of me as a child when my parents would try and get me to go hiking! Eventually, we got him to move by keeping constant pressure on the rope and making it uncomfortable for him to sit. This is the worst part of my job and it hurts me deep inside to force him to move when he obviously does not want to. We have to be down at the cafe by 6 pm in the evening or it starts getting dark and they will send a search party to find us. On Tuesday, we finally managed to get Gato in his cage at 6pm but the person we had asked to bring up his supper had forgotten so we had to wait and didn´t get down to the cafe until nearly 6 30. Getting Gato his supper is one of the major dramas of our days. We normally carry the meat up with us when we go to his cage in the morning but we have been having problems with monkey robberies. This morning, Booty, the infamous monkey of the park, stole 3 big steaks of meat from us and we had to have an escort to Gato´s cage. I have to say, I am much more afraid of the capuchin monkeys than I am of the Pumas. The capuchin monkeys are small, fast, vicious and intellegent. They also tend not to respect females. There is a section of the park where they keep the most difficult monkeys (the one´s that are becoming wild for release) and only men are allowed there!

Walking Gato

After two days of following Cally while she walked Gato, it was my turn to take the rope. It had poured torrentially the night before (and was continuing to do so) so our trail had turned into a small watercourse. Gato is attached to his volunteer by two caribiners and about 2m of climbing rope. One end is loop around the handler´s waist and the other is attached to Gato´s collar. If Gato runs, you run. If Gato goes under a tree, you go under a tree (or you undo the rope around your waist and hang on for dear life). The trail is around 10kms and will take Gato (with a rest in the creek and at his lookout) 4-6 hours to complete. It is quite a fun workout filled with climbing, crawling, and jumping and has a tendency to be spectacularly dirty.
Because I was new, Gato tested me by trying to head down all the trails that he knows are forbidden. Unfortunately, he has to stick to certain trails or he will encounter the other Cats or walk into a village. I love my days in the jumgle with Gato and Cally eventhough Gato gets a bit grumpy about returning to his cage. Gato is a very tranquil cat. He will grumble and pull the rope but I have never felt like he was about to attack me.

Inti Wara Yassi Day 1 (Villa Tunari)

Villa Tunari is a beautiful three and a half hour bus ride from Cochabamba. The bus wove its way through steep jungle-covered hills shrouded and mist and my clothes (which had been comfortable in the Cochabamban morning) began to cling in the increasing heat and humidity. Despite my repeated instructions to the bus driver to drop me off on the far side of the Espiritu Sanctu bridge at the end of town, I was unceremoniously disembarked in the centre of town. I received directions from a friendly security guard and walked along the narrow muddy shoulder to the end of town. The Espiritu Sanctu bridge is nicknamed the death bridge by some at Inti Warra Yassi. The bridge is not particularly high or unstable looking but there has been no allowance for pedestrian usage. If two vehicles are passing on the bridge, a pedestrian has about 30 cms of leeway in which to cling to the railing. Unfortunately, everyone at the park has to walk across this bridge anytime they want to go to town and the people staying in the economy accomodation (this would be me) have to use it even more.

The instructions on the website said that there would be a cafe after the bridge where I could check in but I never saw it. Carrying my backpack, I walked right up some steps and into the park where I was confronted by a bear up a tree. For a minute I was totally confused. I certainly didn´t expect that the first animal I would encounter in a South American animal park would be one that I encounter in my home city on a regular basis. The bear´s minder, a mud covered Australian, pointed me in the right direction.

I arrived in Villa Tunari around 11 am and since the people in charge would not return until late in the afternoon I was let loose in the park to explore. Not 30 m into the park I encountered my first monkey. It batted its little eyes at me and climbed up on my shoulder. I thought it was extremely cute and tried to take a picture. The monkey reached for my camera and I managed to stash it safely away.

Inti Warra Yassi is not a zoo. It is a place where they rehabilitate animals that have been abused and try and release them back into the wild. If this is not possible (as is the case with the cats) they try and make life as comfortable as possible for the animal. As a result, tourists can only visit the birds (mostly huge parrots) and the capachin monkeys. The capuchin monkeys can be quite aggressive and when I arrived the big topic of discussion was Boody,a monkey that had been raised as a professional thief and had a tendency to be overly aggressive. While I was at the monkey park chatting with some of the volunteers, one of the Bolivian volunteers ran past with a split ear streaming down with blood. Boody had climbed up on him and taken a big bite. I decided that it was time to head back down to the cafe and spent the afternoon listening to the conversations of the various groups that came down for their lunch breaks. The monkey people liked to discuss the relationship dramas of their monkeys, the small animals people griped about cleaning cages all day, and the cat people (when they finally arrived at the end of the day...they don´t get a lunch break but tend to finish earlier) about who´s cat was the most attractive and if their cat jumped them that day. These people definately wear their scratches and their bruises as badges of honour and I liked everybody instantly.

I was assigned to work with the Puma (read Cougar)Gato and an Australian girl name Callie. Gato was the first cat that was brought to Inti Warra Yassi. He was rescued from a circus that was passing through town. He was badly malnourished and his back legs had been broken so that he could sit up on his hind legs like a bear. He was unable to walk but he has been rehabilitated and now walks without much difficulty.

The accomodations are pretty basic but with an evening of repair work I think my room can be made very liveable.

Everybody who worked at the park went out for dinner to the same restaurant because some longtime volunteers were leaving and someone was having a birthday. The restaurant ran out of bread and ran all over town trying to find more before giving up and serving their hamburgers sin pan (without bread)

The different animals of the park have different scheduals. Cat people start work at 9 in the morning (but congregate long before that at the cafe where they scarfe down as much food as possible and order sandwiches for lunch time).

Callie and I collected Gato´s food (1.4 kg of chicken) water and straw for Gato´s bed and headed off through the park. Gato´s cage is accessed by a 20 minute walk up a steep, muddy jungle trail from the spider monkey park. On the way up the hill we were a bit unnerved to notice that the Alpha Male Capuchin Monkey (Heffa) was following us and we were relieved when he disappeared. Already muddy and sweating, we crested a hill and saw Heffa sitting on a branch near the trail ahead of us but he wasn´t alone. There were about 10 monkeys (including the infamous Boody) surrounding us. The monkeys had organised an ambush. The whole thing reminded me of a mob hit. The henchmen monkeys bared their teeth at us aggressively while the Don Corleone monkey sat calmly in the background and supervised. Callie told me to take off my backpack and stick it in the sack with the chicken while she put her back pack in the other sack. The monkeys continued to inch closer and closer and it became quite apparent that we were going to be attacked if we didn´t give up the bounty. She told me to drop the sack. Instantly the monkeys were in the bag opening the chicken and all the zippers of my backpack, there was no chance of retrieval. We decided to get out of there while Callie still had her bag and some food for the day and come back in ten minutes to see if we could salvage anything. We continued on to Gato´s cage and the volunteers in the monkey park saw the monkeys walking around with chicken in their mouths. I wasn´t too bummed about the back pack. In fact Callie was much more disgrunted about the whole affair than I was. I realised when I came to South America that I had to accept the fact that anything I owned might get stolen and I was too excited about meeting Gato for the first time to dwell on it to long. Once we reached the cage I returned to the scene of the crime but there was nothing there to suggest that there had even been a struggle. I returned to the cage empty handed.

Gato is a lovely Puma. He is getting on in his years and doesn´t really have the energy to jump his handlers very much. He has been a bit stressed recently because in the last few weeks he has had many volunteers come to work with him that didn´t work out for one reason or another. The inconsistancy isn´t good for him and he has begun to pull out some of the hair on his tail. Our job as handlers is to feed him, clean his cage, and take him for a long walk through the jungle. Each cat has different trails that they run. The trails are not flat, dry, gravelled paths but spectacular forest trails which wind up hills, through streams and jungle deadfall. I am not ready to hold the leash yet so I mostly walked behind and chatted with Callie or made sure that the path was clear of other cats or humans. It was very hot today and Gato had a difficult time adjusting to the heat. He plopped down panting in any puddle he could come across. Later in the day when he was resting at his viewpoint, I ran down to the cafe and procurred some more chicken while I regaled the other volunteers with the biggest drama story of the day ( slightly outclassing the story that Boody the bad bittingmonkey had finally been captured).

I headed back up the hill to Gato´s cage with the Vet but we got lost and took almost 45 minutes to find Gato´s cage. It was quite entertaining. Once Gato had recieved his food, Callie, Luis and I headed down the hill. Halfway down we found my back pack. It was unscathed but completely empty. The remains of my first aid kit were scattered all over the trail but the only other thing we found was my hat. Gone were the keys to my room, my leatherman, my fourth pair of sunglasses on this trip and a sweater. I was a bit disappointedabout the knife (although it may still show up at some point) and the keys but I was glad that in your first week on the job cameras are forbidden and that I didn´t have any of my money or documentation with me. I was amused by the fact that the first robbery of my trip was conducted by monkeys.

At theend of the day it began to pour with rain. I think that drying things here will be a real problem. I cut the padlock off of my door and bought a new one in town, along with a plastic rain slicker and rubber boots. We are headed into the rainy season and there is no point destroying my nice raincoat.

Despite all of the drama of the day I already really love this place. The people all seem lovely and genuine and the forest is filled with beautiful plants and butterflies. I finished the day scratched,covered in mud, and drenched to the bone...it sounds an awful lot like the way I finish most orienteering races!

Off to Rescue Some Animals (Cochabamba)

My classes in Cochabamba finished today and I will leave the city at 7 30 am tomorrow morning. I am headed to Parque Machia in Villa Tunari to volunteer at an animal refuge. I am not really known as an animal person and this choice may seem rather odd but every traveller I have encountered who has been there says that it was the highlight of their trip.
The animals at the park are all animals that have been rescued from abusive situations and are being recuperated to be re-released into the wild or to be given a more pleasant life. The volunteers are responsible for taking care of a specific animal. One just might find oneself lucky enough to be incharge of a Puma or a Jaguar!
More information about the park can be found at their website: http://www.intiwarayassi.org/home.shtml

The Passport Office (Cochabamba)

I was going to write a series of episodes recounting my experiences in the B0livian migrations office but in reality the whole process was more tedious and inefficient than amusing. On Monday morning after a weekend of niggling doubt I arrived at the migrations office at 8am.I was relieved to see the officer who had relieved me of my passport sitting behind a dinosaur of a computer in a crumpled, poorly tailored suit. At least it had n0t been a scam. The procedure one was supposed to follow was very unclear and neither the people milling about in the various offices nor the employees themselves seemed to know the correct procedures. This was not stand in a neat line, take a number, and be served in turn. It more resembled total chaos where one part of the task would be completed and then a completely different task for a different person would be begun. I ran up and down stairs, got photocopies, waited in various rooms and after 4 hours (causing me to completely miss my Spanish class) I was told to come back tomorrow to get my passport.

The next day I returned to the office 3 times (a 20 minute walk each way from my hotel but seriously I have nothing better to do) before I found it open. After much waiting they told me that I would have to come back tomorrow but then relented and told me to wait 15 more minutes. Finally, almost 100 hours after it had been confiscated, my passport was returned to me with a nice pretty visa saying I can stay here until December...I asked for January but I think I need to spend some quality time with my passport before I surrender it again.

Because I missed my class on Monday I have to make it up on Thursday. I really don´t want to do this as it will delay my departure for Villa Tunari until Friday and I am already feeling that it is time to move on from Cochabamba. Cochabamba is a nice city but I have not met anybody here (except for two Aussies in the migrations office who are headed to Villa Tunari tomorrow) and I don´t feel very stimulated. I am looking forward to moving on.

The Politics of Having your Passport Seized (Cochabamba)

Last night, I was watching a movie in my hotel room when I began to hear knocks on the doors at both ends of the hall, short conversations, and then more knocks on different doors. I couldn´t quite make out what the conversations were about over the movie and the Shakira someone was blasting a few rooms down but I figured that it was Friday night, maybe somebody was trying to get people to have a party. I wasn´t really interested in partying (my stomach was a bit unsettled from some strawberries I had bought at the market) and I prayed that whoever it was would miraculously pass my door by. For a moment it seemed that my prayers would be answered, then there were footsteps on the walkway outside my room and a voice hailed me through the curtained window. ¨Hola¨. Both my TV and my lights were on. I couldn´t exactly pretend I wasn´t home. ¨Hola¨I replied. The man began to speak but a plane flew overhead and I could not hear what he was saying ¨...por favor¨. My stomach churned distractingly. I didn´t want to deal with this. I pulled the card I always do when I don´t want to interact with people. ¨No entiendo Español¨ (I don´t understand Spanish) there was silence for a minute and I turned my attention back to the television. The man said something again that I didn´t understand. ¨No hablo español. Hablo ingles.¨(I don´t speak Spanish. I speak English) I repeated. Then I heard the word crisp, and clear through all the clanging and clashing noise of the city. ¨Passeporte¨. I got up from my bed and pulled back the curtain of my window. Outside, there was a crowd of about six Bolivian police officers fully uniformed and sporting ID tags and guns. Everywhere you go in Bolivia, there are signs warning tourists not to talk to strangers, not to put small backpacks on the floor, and not, under any circumstances, to show one´s passport or money to anyone claiming to be a police officer. These warnings are omnipresent in hostels, on tourist maps, and in guide books and I wondered how anybody could ever fall for such a scheme. Confronted with a landing full of uniforms, I realised that whether or not they were legitimate cops I really did not have a choice. Either I produced my passport or they were going to break into my room and search for it. I closed the curtains, retrieved my passport from its hiding spot and unlocked the door. The passport was passed from hand to hand and my stamps and picture were examined thoroughly while a man interrogated me in Spanish. ¨When did you arrive in Bolivia? Why are you here? How long are you planning on staying here? Are you travelling alone? How long have you been in Cochabamba? Why are you travelling alone? Which city did you come from? Are you sure that there are no other Canadians with you? Are you working here? Why are you here? Why are you alone? What is your job? What do you study? Are you studying literature here in Cochabamba? Why are you here? Where is your language school? After 3 or 4 minutes (or an eternal age) the questions stopped and the man extended his arm to return my passport to me when he noticed a glaring error. In my passport, right next to my Bolivia entry stamp, was a stamp that said ¨tourist visa 90 days¨. He examined it for a long instant, checked the country on the front of my passport and looked at the stamp again. ¨This stamp is not correct¨he said slowly, enuciating every syllable so that I would understand. ¨Canadians only have a 30 day tourist visa.¨ I knew this was true. I remember being delighted at the Villazon border when I realised that I had been granted 3 months in Bolivia, instead of the 1 I had expected, without even asking. I protested. ¨Yes I know but it is not my fault. The man at the border in Villazon...¨the man cut me off. ¨You will have to take this to immigration control in Sucre on Monday¨. My eyes grew wide. Sucre is a 1000 kms away. ¨Sucre!?¨I said disbelievingly. A female officer relieved me by saying ¨Sucre Calle. It is a street.¨ The man told me in no uncertain terms that I had to go get my stamp changed as soon as the office opened Monday morning. I promised that I would, took my passport back and closed the door and settled back down on to my bed. The movie was almost over and the credits began to roll before the knock came at my door. It was my police officer friend again. He asked for my passport and pulled out an official looking pad of paper with the word ¨citacion¨in bold letters at the top. He filled it out, stamped it and then handed it to me. ¨You are not allowed to leave the city or change residences.¨he told me and stuffed my passport into the inside pocket of his jacket. ¨You can pick your passport up at 8am Monday morning. Have a nice evening.¨ and with that, he walked off down the hall with my passport leaving me clutching the flimsy citation in my hand. I am fairly convinced that they were police. They were admitted into the hostel, had lots of official paper, and there was a legitmate error in my passport. Still, I am a bit peeved to have my passport confiscated on a Friday night with no possibility of retrieval until Monday morning and I half feel that I will never see my passport and all its pretty stamps again...at least I have photocopies. I hope that I can get an extension on my visa or I won´t have the time to do most of the things I want to do in Bolivia. I am a bit uncomfortable being separated from my passport (the item I own that it would be the worst to lose) but what´s done is done and there is no use fretting about it until Monday.

Despite my plans to travel from Potosi to Sucre, I have somehow found myself far away in the city of Cochabamba. A bus strike the day I left Potosi meant that no buses were leaving town until late in the evening and Cochabamba was the only destination that wouldn´t deposit me in a strange city at 4am (6 30 is slightly better). Cochabamba is considerably lower than Potosi and is closer to rainforest than to the high altiplano. There are palm trees and beautiful purple flowers lining the squares and a huge statue of Jesus guards the town from up on the hill. The city is fairly clean but the amount of noise here is amazing. Cochabambans seem to complete every task (whether it be driving a car, unloading a truck, or sweeping the walkway and talking on a cellphone outside your room at 6am) as loudly as possible. I have been here for 4 days so far and have seen the same amount of white people. I am quite the novelty here.
I am staying in Cochabamba for a week and taking some Spanish lessons. I like it here but it is a slightly lonely place in my trip because the single rooms at the hostel make it difficult to meet other people. I have made good friends with my television. I have asked the language school to find a conversation partner for me but so far nothing has come of it. The only people who I talk to are my Spanish teacher, the hostel staff and the people who wander into the restaurant during diner and try and sell me nailpolish. I went out for dinner the other night and in the 45 minutes that I was there, 15 people (and this is not one of those Meghan is exagerating for effect numbers, I actually counted) came into the restaurant and tried to sell me everything from a cheese grater to chocolate bars. I can understand that there might be a market for napkins, flowers, cigarettes, and breath mints in a restaurant but I cannot fathom a circumstance in which I would want to purchase a burned dvd of Barry Manilow in concert while I am eating dinner!

The Coca (Potosi)

Buses in Bolivia are not like buses in Argentina. They are bus monster-truck hybrids with fat tires and loads of suspension to counteract the unpaved roads of Bolivia (I have yet to encounter any pavement here outside of a major city). The buses also have a tendency to lack toilets and space of any kind.
I put my backpack under the bus as usual and was a bit discomfitted by the lack of baggage ticket. I was half convinced that my bag would not be there when I arrived in Potosi.
The seats on the bus were tiny. My 5ft2 frame was strapped for leg room so I have no idea how the giant German man who sat next to me managed.

The drive to Potosi was beautiful. The landscape varied from sand dunes to craggy rock features to green valleys. It was Sunday and several families had driven out to a small creek near the road to do their washing. The rocks were festooned with brightly coloured garments laid flat in the sun to dry. Half way through the drive it began to precipitate a combination of rapidly melting hail and snow. Dry water channels filled with torrents of muddy water, the neatly plowed fields with their rows of green sprouts were blanketed in snow and the road became a slippery mess. The progress of the bus became a bit nervewracking and I decided it was best not to look out the window to the valley floor a hundred metres below.

The storm had passed when we arrived in Potosi but the streets were filled with puddles and water rained down on the already too narrow sidewalks from the gutters above. My backpack was under the bus but it was covered in a thick coat of road dust. I shouldered my bag hopped a puddle and headed, uphill, into Potosi.

Potosi is a fascinating city. Not only is it the highest city in the world (over 4000m) but in 1650 it was also the biggest. For over 450 years the city has relied on the silver mined from the Cerro Rico mines which overshadow the city. There is a saying in Potosi that enough silver has been taken from the mountain to build a bridge to Madrid and still have silver to carry across. That same bridge could probably be made from the bodies of the men who died mining it. The Spanish colonialism has left a distinct mark on the architecture of the city. The streets are narrow and cobbled and there are several impressive buildings, especially the former mint which has walls over a metre thick. These streets are filled with indigenous Bolivians speaking a mixture of Quechua and Spanish selling coca leaves and steaming empanadas.
In the evening, I went to see a movie (which cost me 60 cents) in the theatre called ¨Cocalero¨about the rise to power of Evo Morales the current, and first indigenous, president of Bolivia. It was a fascinating look at the conflict between the traditions of indigenous culture and the powerful moralising of western countries (specifically the USA). The coca plant is vital part of Bolivian culture. It is not viewed as a drug here but as an essential part of life. In the mines of Potosi, the miners chew massive amounts of coca leaves to fend off hunger, fatigue, and silicosis during their long shifts underground.
On Monday, I went on a tour of the working Cerro Rico mines and it was the most interesting and eye-opening experience that I have had on my trip so far. Our first stop was the Miner´s market, where the miners stock up on coca leaves, unfiltered cigarettes, 96% proof alcohol, and dynamite before heading into the mountain. The most experienced miners can make up to 200$ a month but the majority make barely enough to keep their families in bread. Each member of the tour bought some of the miner´s essentials to give as gifts to the miners that we encountered. We were outfitted in rubber boots, hard hats, headlamps, miner scrubs and a mouthful of coca before heading into the mountain. Coca is chewed one leaf at a time and stored as a mass in the cheeks. The coca tasted bitter, almost like tea, and made my cheeks numb and my head spin.

The conditions in the mine have not changed very much from the colonial slave days. The tunnels are dark, small and wet. They were often too small for me to stand upright and I could always touch both copper sulphite covered walls with outstretched arms. There are no electric lights (we encountered one miner, who´s headlamp had died, working by the light of a single candle) , no carbon monoxide detection (not even the traditional canary), no elevators (the wooden ladders are a luxury. The miners´usually use a thin knotted rope to get between levels), no health or life insurance, and no emergency exits. The main method of mineral extraction is dynamite and pickaxe and the ore is moved by manual winch and wheelbarrow. The workers work 12 hour shifts in the mine from as soon as they are strong enough until God says enough. My tour guide, Willy, began working in the mines when he was 12 years old. He worked there until he was 18 when his mother begged him to quit after both his father and grandfather died of Silicosis. We met the two oldest miners in the mine (as we stood in an archway and listened to the dynamite charges they had set go off) they had been working there every day for 35 years. At the entrance to the mine the miners´s offer coca and alcohol to a statue of the devil (the owner of the mine because the mine is hell) and ask for protection and riches. Further in the mine is small chapel where the miners pray to god for health and happiness. This is the only insurance that these workers have in a job that is fraught with danger. The Bolivian government doesn´t keep official statistics but it is generally accepted that on average more than 1 miner dies in an accident every week.

Journal Entries from the Salar de Uyuni

Day 1 - (October 3) Tupiza to San Antonio de Lipez

The first day of the tour to the Salar de Uyuni is completed. It is 7:15 and the 5 of us (Sibylle and Jan from Germany and Zohar and Doran from Israel) are sitting on our beds waiting for dinner. The generator is humming loudly to provide electricity for the solitary light bulb that hangs from the tarped ceiling. The town, San Antonio de Lipez, has 200 residents and is constructed from straw and mud bricks. There is a bathroom with running water but most of the water is retrieved from a tap in the dirt courtyard. The children of the town view foreigners as playmates and initiate various games.

The 4 day tour of the southwestern altiplano of Bolivia began this morning at 9 30 am in Tupiza, a bastion of relative civilization in this rural landscape. As we left the hostel, we were handed cups of steaming coca tea to fortify us against the altitude. Our car, an elderly silver Toyota 4x4, holds we 5 tourists plus our driver Adellio and our cook Eliana. Neither Adellio or Eliana speak any English but they speak slowly in Spanish so that we can understand them. The 4x4 is a bit worn but appears to run well, apart from the unnerving tendency of my door to come partially unlatched no matter how hard I slam or lock it. I have dubbed it the death door though I doubt it is really dangerous.

We drove from town on a gravel road that followed a dry river bed then climbed precariously up into the altiplano. The terrain beside the road dropped precipitously into deep valleys and the Israelis were especially nervous about the speed at which our driver took the sharp curves. We asked him to slow down a bit. The vistas were beautiful. Especially, a rock formation called the sillars which are columns which have been eroded by the heavy summer rains. We stopped for a lunch of sandwiches and tamales in a small cluster of buildings that could not even be classified as a village. Once we reached the altiplano the road became flatter and less hair-raising. There are very few people here. In the whole day we encountered maybe 4 hamlets and about the same number of other vehicles. We did see many animals: thousands of llamas, sheep, and even some ñandus. The whole while our driver played bad pop cassettes in his tape deck and jabbered away good naturedly to the cook who would occasionally get a second to mumble a brief reply.

I have only been in Bolivia for 2 days and already it has captured a piece of my heart.

Day 2 (October 4) San Antonio de Lipez to Huallajara

Today started early. 5 am to be precise. We all groaned in protest when the knock came on our door but proceeded to roll out of our beds and pack out sleeping bags in the dark (the sun had not yet risen and the generator had not been turned on). The air was fresh and crisp and there were still a few stars in the sky when we scampered across the yard to breakfast. Breakfast was a bleary eyed, silent affair over dry buns and tea. By 6 am we were all packed back into the car and on the road.
The first stop of the day was Pueblo Fantasma, a Spanish mining town that was abandoned due to sickness and reports of the devil. The ruined town was still in the shadow of the mountain when we arrived and we did not stay long. The morning rolled by rather uneventfully apart from a quick stop for a tire change. Our driver could work on a pit crew on the indy 500 circuit. Between the time that he turned around and said ¨bueno amigos. Cinco minutos¨and rushed outside pulling on his mechanic´s outfit to the time we were moving again we barely had time to use the natural bathroom.
The death door seemed to have been repaired overnight and people dozed or watched the landscape morph from sedimentary outcroppings filled with llamas to a barren volcanic environment of lava flows and heavily eroded cones.

We entered the Eduardo Avaroa Andean Fauna National Reserve in the southwest corner of Bolivia. Here we encounter several more vehicles like ours, especially at the termos, a warm spring in which we bathed while lunch was being prepared. The highlight of the day was the beautiful Laguna Verde, a stunning aquamarine lake overshadowed by the Volcano Licanbur marking the border between Bolivia, Chile, and Argentina.
Later in the day we ascended (almost imperceptably) to 5000m above sea level and saw some geysers (which were really mudpots and steam vents). I felt very good at that elevation. I walked around without difficulty and did not suffer any of the symptoms of altitude sickness. I have been gaining altitude so gradually over the last weeks that I actually had more problems at lower elevation.

Our hostel tonight, in Huallajara, unlike last night, is a settlement produced solely to cater to tourists. The one giant building is full of dorms and kitchens and even has a little kiosk where tourists can buy oreos, toilet paper and batteries. There are a few local children clutching the lollipops recieved from the tourists but the tourists far outnumber the locals. Last night there were only 3 tours in our town and all originated in Tupiza. Tonight there are about 10 and they come from Uyuni, Tupiza, and even San Pedro de Atacama in Chile. Still, there are only about 50 tourists in the park tonight. The dorms here are quite nice but this is still a place without telephone and a generator that only comes on in the evening.

Day 3 (October 5) Huallajara to Puerto Chubica

Last night, I went for a walk at sunset. My breath caught a bit on the slight uphills but it felt good to be moving on my own two feet. I realised that one of the wonderful things about travelling is that you can take the time to watch the colour fade from the sky and the world slip into darkness. The days are quite warm here but the thin air does not hold much heat and the nights are cold. Dinner was chilly and we were grateful for the hot soup and the wood stove. After dinner, the girls of our group went out to sit under the stars. The sky was spectacular. With no light pollution and no clouds it was one of the clearest looks I have ever had of the night sky. A little orange came and joined us in our blankets. In the morning, that same cat was mysteriously sleeping on Sibylle´s bed even though it had not been in the room when we went to sleep.

Once we had piled back into the car and I managed to relinquish the death seat (yes the door was still opening) to Sybille in exchange for the middle seat, our first stop of the day was the Laguna Colorada. This lake is a stunning shade of red due to sediment deposits and algae growth and in the morning light it was truely beautiful. We continued on to an area where a lava flow had been eroded by wind and sand into distorted shapes and then into a region of lagunas filled with flamingos.
The road after the lagunas was extremely rocky and the car progressed at a snail´s pace jolting us the whole way. We decided that it would be much more pleasant, and faster, to walk. All of us, including Eliana, got out and walked cross country. We beat the 4x4 down to where the road improved by a good 5 minutes.
We stopped for lunch at the volcano Ollague, a smoking volcano across the border into Chile. The lava flows infront of the volcano were eroded into fantastic shapes which we climbed all over while we waited for lunch to appear on the tailgate. Then we ate basking on the rocks like lizards.

The afternoon was mostly driving and rather uneventful apart from a quick stop to help another tour change a tire. Sitting in the middle seat I began to notice that several of the instruments on the dashboard were not working. Important instruments like the odometer and the fuel gauge. Much to our driver´s dismay the tape deck had also stopped functioning. Our driver delights in playing his collection of bad 80´s mix tapes which include such classics as Big in Japan and a mix of cheesy German techno pop. He kept trying to fix the tape deck while we in the back no longer had to suppress our hilarity at the music selection.

In the late afternoon we arrived at the community of Puerto Chubica huddled at the edge of the Salar de Uyuni. The beds and floors of the hostel we constructed of halite (rock salt) which apart from being a nice gimmick for the tourists is a much more available resource than wood. I have not seen a single tree since we left Tupiza 3 days ago. We are significantly lower here and and attempts at agriculture replace desolate landscapes. After tea, I went for a walk in the cliffs behind the settlement and shared the sunset with strange rabbit-like creatures with tails. The rocks were biting on the hands because they were covered in a coral like deposit from when the area was submerged in a great continental lake that stretched from lake Titicaca to southern Argentina. After dinner I played dice with Sibylle and Jan and we had a very enjoyable conversation about the politics, history, and social situations of our two countries late into the night. And by late into the night I mean 10 pm. Everybody had gone to bed and we were brushing our teeth when the generator cut out leaving us in total darkness. I missed my headlamp (lost somewhere along the way) terribly.

Day 4 (October 6) Puerto Chubica to Uyuni

This morning the generator kicked in at 5 am turning on the lights that had cut out on us the night before. The hostel was bustling but the knock didn´t come on our door until 5:30. ¨Buenos Amigos. Vamos vamos. Diez minutos¨said our driver. I rolled out of bed, pulled on the same clothes I had been wearing for the past 4 days tried to put my unwashed hair into some semblance of order and was out at the car in record time. The sky was already beginning to lighten at the fringes and we raced the sun out into the Salar. When the sun peeked above the horizon we were standing on a flat plane of salt as white as snow. We watched the sun rise over the salt desert and the world was gold and blue and white. It was a very special moment.

The Salar de Uyuni is a huge salt desert that was formed by the evaporation of a great lake. The salt reaches over 9 m into the ground and stretches far into the distance where it is halted by tall mountains. We made our way to the isla de Pescada, a rocky island in a sea of salt, and had breakfast on tables made of salt and sat on rocks still holding the coolness of the night.

Later, we drove to the centre of the salt desert and took perspective pictures which were very entertaining.
The trip concluded with a visit to the salt hotel and then to Colchani, a place where the salt is processed. Colchani was filled with tourists taking pictures of a llama tied to a fence. We felt like veterans and scoffed at the behaviour of the Salar neophytes. After lunch we were dropped off in Uyuni. After a cup of coffee with me Sibylle and Jan returned to Tupiza and Zohar and Doran took a bus to La Paz. I found a hostel and spent the evening quietly.

The 4 day trip to the Salar de Uyuni was a wonderful adventure. We spent a lot of time in the car but we saw so many interesting things. I would recomend it to anybody travelling through Bolivia.

The Border to Bolivia (Tupiza)

Links to my pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=59779&l=0d310&id=802760462
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=56889&l=909a9&id=802760462
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=57682&l=57045&id=802760462



Crossing the border into Bolivia was a rather anti-climactic affair. For days, travellers heading south had regaled me with horror stories of bag searches and 12 hour waits and guide books that I borrowed advised me not to cross alone. I was a bit nervous. I was quickly running out of territory in Argentina and I had yet to find somebody (anybody) to enter Bolivia with. Then a miracle happened. Marie-Claude and I returned from our trip to the Salinas Grandes to find our new room mate, Susanne. Susanne was a delightfully forward German girl who had been studying for the last 6 months in Tucuman and was headed on one last adventure to Bolivia before heading home to Germany. We latched on to each other. The next morning we bid farewell to Marie-Claude and took the bus to La Quiaca. As we neared the border of Bolivia, llamas began to appear and people became scarce, except on the bus where the standees clutched children and jostled for room.

La Quiaca is a border town and we spent as little time in it as possible. We went directly from the bus to a cab (sort of thing) which took us the ten blocks to the border and requested significantly more than the agreed upon fare on arrival.
The border itself was practically deserted, apart from a few soldiers milling about in their green khakis. We had our Argentinian exit stamps within seconds and a few short steps across a bridge and were at Bolivian customs. The man there gave us a form to fill out and stamped our passports with barely a glance. Across to Bolivia in less than 5 minutes and with no hastles I was giddy with astonishment.

Stepping into Villazon (the Bolivian version of La Quiaca) was stepping into a completely different world. The street leading from the border was lined with women in the traditional skirts and bowler hats selling fresh squeezed juice, textiles, electronics, and coca leaves. We headed straight for the bus station and quickly established that despite internet reports there was neither a train nor a bus headed for Uyuni that day. We bought tickets to Tupiza (a place I had never heard of) instead. At the bus station we met two Germans, Jan and Sybille, who were in a similar situation. Susanne marshalled us all into a chicken diner and left the slightly stunned pair in charge of our bags while she and I went in search of Bolivian cash. There were plenty of cambios in the street but we were seeking the prize of an ATM machine. We found the only ATM in town no funcionar and guarded by a stern looking guard who casually pointed his gun at us when we inquired about his charge. We decided a cambio would be a safer option. I passed my Argentinian money through a little window and was handed a huge wad of Bolivian notes worth over 500 Bolivianos or 60 Canadian $. The money was sweaty and crumpled and I felt a bit like I was involved in some illicit drug deal. We returned to the restaurant to find Jan and Sibylle chewing on the carcass of a chicken and pushing dry rice around on their plates. We ordered the fries.

That afternoon, the 4 of us took an overcrowded bus down a bumpy dirt road to the town of Tupiza, 2 hours away. The bus rocked and vibrated so that I feared my flesh would separate from my bones. At the bus terminal in Tupiza we were met by a throng of young women hocking tours and hostels. We decided to go to the Hostelling International hostel and the successful girls proudly accompanied us like prizes down the road. The hostel also offered excursions to the Salar de Uyuni and Jan, Sibylle and I elected to join two Israelis (Zohar and Doran) on the 4 day tour that left the next morning. Susanne did not have time to take the 4 day tour and decided to take a 4x4 to the town of Uyuni the next day instead. I could not get over how cheap the tour was. For four nights acommodation, 4 breakfasts, 4 lunches, 3 diners, admission to 2 parks and a total distance travelled of over 1000kms we paid 110$ each. Not included in the price: cigarettes, showers, toilet paper, and Pringles. You know you are in a different world when toilet paper becomes a luxury item like pototo chips! None of the bathrooms here have toilet paper (even in the hostels) you have to bring your own and then you have to remember to throw it in the garbage and not in the bowl.

That evening, Susanne and I walked around the town of Tupiza. It was a beautiful little place with many unexpected things. We saw some disabled children playing wheelchair basketball and we were invited to watch a highschool girls soccer tournament. The playing was terrible but I was extremely pleased to discover that there were sporting oportunities for all kinds of people not just strapping young boys. Everywhere we went, Susanne engaged people in conversation. I was jealous of her Spanish speaking ability and the encounters that it enabled. I resolved to work even harder to improve my fluency.

When we returned to the hostel, we managed to watch the only film that the hostel owned Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The shoot out death of the two famoud outlaws is alleged to have happened in a town just a few kilometres from Tupiza but I did not get a chance to visit because my tour left the next day.
The tour was an amazing experience but I think I will write about it tomorrow there is too much to say for one blog entry.

Buenos Suente (Humahuaca/ Purmamarca)

Sunday is a special day in Argentina. The schedules, which are confounding to any North American Monday through Saturday, become, if possible, more illogical on Sunday. On Sunday, the bank machines run out of cash, the restaurants run out of food, and even the stray dogs seem to have abandoned the street. We managed to accertain the opening time of a restaurant that sold empanadas and pizza and went there for dinner. The place was small and on top of the menu was written in ink ¨buenos suente¨or good luck. Did this mean good luck not getting food poisoning? Good luck picking the items on the menu that we actually have was closer to the truth. There were 10 kinds of empanadas on the menu but only 3 were available. 6 kinds of wine but only two available. After we ordered our pizza we were informed that there was no ham and would chicken be okay instead. At some point in the evening the waiter disappeared and we were left, sans bill, sitting at the table for almost half an hour. This is typical in Argentina. This morning when we tried to buy our bus ticket to Purmamarca the employee had abandoned the ticket window. Anybody who prays for patience in their daily lives should buy a plane ticket to Argentina.

Today, Marie-Claude and I went to Purmamarca and saw the seven coloured mountain (a rather small hump with some rather impressive striations. As we stepped off the collectivo into the dusty street of the the town we were accosted by offers of tours to the Salina Grandes. We were a bit dubious but reserved a place (for 5 pesos) in a car for that afternoon. We half believed that we would never see that 5 pesos again or that we would be taken to the middle of nowhere and robbed. We asked at the tourist office if it was a legitimate company and the woman there said yes, my brother works there... At 2 pm all our fears were allayed. The car was modern and clean and there were two other guys aboard. We drove a sinuous paved road up the mountainside to 4170m before the Salinas Grandes opened before us.
The Salinas Grandes are a salt desert. The mountains give way to a perfectly flat plain of salt, which is harvested in small pools. It was quite a spectacular sight.

I bought my bus ticket to Bolivia today. Tomorrow I will cross the border at La Quiaca and hopefully catch a bus to Uyuni.

Eating Llama in Humahuaca

Last night I ate a Llama. Despite the fact that I have yet to see a llama in South America (sheep, donkeys, horses, cows, dogs, and goats are numerous but not llamas) we were told that it was a local Humahuacan delicacy and that we had to try it. Marie-Claude and I, along with two guys from our hostel (Kevin from France and Andrew from Conneticut), went to a very nice restaurant where the booths were lined with fleece and the tables and lampshades constructed from cactus. The others were keen to try the Llama and each ordered a different variation. I was still feeling a bit queasy in my stomach and decided to try the quinoa and vegetable soup instead. I think I made the right decision. The soup was tasty and it was nice to eat a meal that contained more vegetables than meat. It has been difficult for me to eat enough vegetables here in South America because the majority of restaurant meals consist of meat and potatoes, white bread, cheese, and desserts. In the market one can find vegetables but they are very expensive (Argentina is experiencing problems with inflation and the price of vegetables has increased 17% in the last 8 months) and are often pockmarked and halfrotten.

The llama was well presented and looked appetizing but the meat was tough and stringy and left a strange after taste in one´s mouth. Marie Claude, who had been the most enthusiastic campaigner for llama was unable to finish hers. Everybody was glad to have tried llama but nobody was planning on ordering it again any time soon.

Marie-Claude and I arrived in Humahuaca last night after spending two very enjoyable evenings in Salta. As we near the Bolivian border there is a distinct shift in the local culture. The bus we took from San Salvador de Jujuy to Humahuaca was not a clean uncrowded bus from the south. There were more passengers than seats and the fabric of the chairs was worn from use. Humahuaca is not an urban town. The supermarkets of Salta have been replaced by small corner stores where all of the merchandise is behind the counter and children frolic with lambs in the street. This morning, we sat in the sun drinking fresh squeezed orange juice and coffee and listened to the hymns of the church choir drift across the town. It was a wonderful way to spend a Sunday morning. We had many plans for the day but they all melted away to a lazy day of handwashing and walking around the town. We tried to go horseback riding but the farm was deserted excepted for an old dog lounging in the sun. Tomorrow, we plan to visit Purmamarca (and the seven coloured mountain) and the Salina Grandes. Then, Marie Claude will return to Salta and start her journey south and I will finally head north and make the plunge into Bolivia.

Small Towns in the Back of Beyond (Salta to Iruya)

After being on vacation in South America for over a month and having travelled 2000km across Argentina and Uruguay...it seemed like a good time for a road trip. Our quiet, multicultural hostel had been invaded by a tour group of 32 Brits, Aussies, and Americans who, while nice people, had a different attitude towards travel and overwhelmed the facilities. All of a sudden the computer was always in use and the bathroom was always occupied by girls drying their hair and applying eyeliner. On Wednesday morning, Benjamin, Julie (Quebec), Daniel (Switzerland), and I fled...I mean... rented a car and headed north from Salta. Renting a car in Argentina is not like renting a car in Canada. You do not arrive at the office, pick up the keys and go. Before you leave, every scratch and flaw on the car is documented, transcribed, and discussed at length. Eventhough we had reserved the car the day before, it took us over an hour after arriving at the rental office before we were granted the keys to an elderly, dust coloured Volkswagon.
We drove about 300 kms north from Salta, through Jujuy and Humahuaca, to Iruya, a town nestled in a dry river valley overshadowed by vertical rock faces that rise hundreds of metres into the sky. The approximate population within a 7 km radius? 306. To reach Iruya, one must drive 2 hours from Humahuaca down a gravel track that slowly winds its way up to 4000m before descending into the valley. The mountains in the area shift from rounded grassy humps to multicoloured folded outcroppings to precipitous cliffs eroded into hoodoos. Every half an hour or so we would encounter a solitary adobe dwelling with meat drying on a line and the owner high on the mountainside tending the sheep. The land is beautiful but stark and we wondered aloud how the people could grow enough to sustain themselves in the rocky, grey soil.

We spent the night in Humahuaca and watched a brilliant, fiery sunset over the mountains fade into a night bright with the full moon and hundreds of stars. Humahuaca is a town that follows many traditions from the past. The streets are cobbled and the buildings modest. It is a popular spot for tourists and there is a market where people sell traditional fabrics and knicknacks. The hostel we stayed at was a bit out of town but served fresh squeezed orange juice and fresh coffee for breakfast (instead of the usual hostel breakfast of reheated coffee and the Argentinian equivalent of Tang). We spent our second day trying to find a spectacular mountain that we had heard rumours of. We drove for hours down the wrong back road, continuously wincing as we scraped the bottom of the car on yet another pothole. The scenery was still spectacular and we encountered several local people dressed in the traditional, brightly coloured outfits driving their sheep and cattle (one woman was even walking with a calf strapped to her back like an infant).
I felt a bit weak from the combination of a slight stomach bug (brought on by eating uncooked vegetables) and the altitude and although the mountains were awesome (especially the one with folds of many different colours) I was glad to return home to Salta and crawl into my bed.

Returning to Salta was not as easy as expected. Several times on the road we were stopped for almost half an hour by protesters who (wielding Che Guevera as their mascot) had blocked the road to demonstrate against the lack of jobs available. The north of Argentina is visibly poorer than the south and we drove by huge communities of social housing being constructed with identical 2 room houses as far as the eye could see. By the time we returned to Salta, the car was in rough shape. It was making several unusual grinding and ticking sounds, the bumper was on its way to falling off and the car was filthy. We were fairly certain that we were going to be slapped with a huge fine for destroying the car but even after a careful inspection the rental company told us ¨todo bien¨(all´s well). We were quite relieved but decided that if we were to do another road trip we would rent from a different company because we certainly did not want to be the next people to rent that car!

In the hostel, I met up with my friend from Iguazu, Marie-Claude, and we will probably go to Jujuy together tomorrow.

A Girl Frozen in Time (Salta)

By the time I got around to organising myself today it was too late for any serious outings. Most of my time was spent organising my road trip for tomorrow. 4 of us (Benjamin and Julie from Quebec and Daniel from Switzerland) are renting a car tomorrow and heading north to Humahuaca and beyond. It should be a trip filled with interesting geology, anthropology, and scenery. We are also considering some forays into the national parks nearby but that will have to wait until Friday. Salta is a paradise for those wanting to make short trips to wine country, the mountains, and the plains. I could spend many weeks here.

In Salta, they have an interesting museum featuring the preserved body of a young girl who was found in the high mountains and is perfectly preserved. I saw her today and she looked so like life I half expected her to wake up and jump through the glass horror movie style. The rest of the day was spent in a cafe reading a newspaper (in Spanish) and watching the world go by.

Jungle Speed (Salta)

You can see more photos at
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=56871&l=5b96f&id=802760462
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=56869&l=dd778&id=802760462
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=56866&l=d6014&id=802760462



Way back when I was in Buenos Aires, I decided to purchase a Boca Junior's football jersey. It has been the best purchase of my trip. Not only is it a nice, functional t shirt but it is also the best conversation starter I have ever had. Every time I don the blue and gold, I inevitably get approached by Argentinians unable to contain their curiousity as to why a "blonde" foreigner is wearing the colours of the most popular team in Argentina. This afternoon, it was quite warm and I hiked up a big hill overlooking Salta. I had stripped down to my boca jersey and was sitting eating my lunch on top of the hill when I was approached by a man in his 70's and his wife. Do you like Boca? he asked me in Spanish. Having heard this question many times, I was prepared and replied that I enjoyed watching them play but that I was from Canada and did not follow the game closely. The man seemed very excited that people in Canada had heard of Boca Juniors. "Boca is very close to my heart" he continued in Spanish. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a gold chain hanging around his neck. On the chain were two pendants, the virgin mary and the boca juniors crest. Then he reached in his wallet and pulled out his Boca membership card. He told me that he had been a member of the Boca Juniors Club for 60 years. His wife pulled out the camera and I thought that they wanted me to take a picture of them with Salta in the background. Instead, she took a picture of me standing beside the man in my Boca Juniors jersey.
The jersey does not always provoke such a positive reaction. In Iguazu, the man at the hostel bar told me that as a River Plate fan he could not in good conscience serve someone wearing a Boca Jersey. Whether the reaction is positive or negative there is always a reaction and often a conversation.

The hostel here in Salta has a very different group of people than in Iguazu. There are people from many countries and instead of conversation in English, the conversation in the common room is a mix of English, French, Spanish, German, etc all mangled into one mess that nobody is excluded from but no one understands fully. Last night, the group of about 10 people shared national anthems, folksongs, and tonguetwisters from all of the countries represented before playing Jungle Speed (a game like uno and speed combined) late into the night.
This is what I came to South America for!

The Long Ride (Iguazu to Salta)

I saw the waterfalls on my first day in Iguazu and spent my next two days soaking in the warmth beside the resort sized pool, playing pick up sports, and meeting people from all over the world. English was definately the predominant language and to be honest it felt like my trip had changed from South American adventure to spring break in Mexico for a few days. I met lots of nice people including a girl from Montreal, Marie Claude, who will arrive at my hostel in Salta in a few days.

My trip to Salta was a long and rather illogical bus ride. My original bus ticket from Iguazu only took me as far as San Ignacio, about 4 hours south of Iguazu, but I didn't even get off of the bus. It was pelting down rain as my bus pulled off onto the dirt (dirt plus rain equals mud) shoulder. There wasn't a bus station and I didn't relish the idea of wandering around the ruins with my big pack on in the pouring rain for a few hours. So, I stayed on the bus to Posadas. It was still raining in Posadas so I asked around at the ticket booths for tickets to Salta *and possibly a bus to Chaco National Park*. No buses were going directly to Salta until the following day but a bus was leaving for Tucuman in 20 minutes. I got on it and rode Semi Cama for 17 hours to Tucuman. Even though it was semi cama and I did not get the front seat (which gives you bonus leg room) I slept better than on any of my previous bus rides. I think it was because I had so long on the bus I could get a full night's sleep without worrying about missing my stop. I quite enjoy the long bus rides and don't find them torturous at all (well except maybe for the choice of movies. In the last 2 days I have watched, or half watched, 7 of the stupidest movies I have ever encountered.) In the middle of the night we passed by some sort of festival. There were cars and buses full of people parked in the dark, in the mud on the side of the road for miles and miles. The crowd was young people, old people, men and women. It was very strange. I arrived in Tucuman at 9 am on Sunday morning. It was raining and cold. I had breakfast (a breakfast completo here consists of 2 croissants, a cup of coffee, a glass of mineral water, and a glass of orange juice) and spoke with some girls from England who had just come from Bolivia. I couldn't find any information in the station on what to do in Tucuman and since I hadn't planned to go there I was a bit at a loss. I ended up buying a bus ticket to Salta *another 5 hours*. By the time I reached the hostel in Salta I had been travelling for 31 hours straight (all semi cama) and felt strangely rested.

The nationalities of the hostel guests in Salta differ greatly from the guests in Iguazu. There are many Argentinians here, as well as, Swiss, Israelis, and Mexicans. I was told when I checked in that there were two people from Quebec staying at the hostel and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that they were friends of mine from the hostel in Cordoba. Marie Claude arrives on Wednesday so maybe I will take some more Spanish lessons in the mean time.