Backpackers Have Guilty Pleasures Too

It must have been the three overnight bus rides and the twelve hour all-day Bolivian bus ride that led me into the Puerto Iguazu spa requesting a massage.  Frankly, my body hurt so badly that I didn’t care how much it cost.

While I generally don’t do a great deal of walking with my big backpack, which now puts up a fight every time I go to zip it up and move on to the next destination, there are times when I’m weighed down by my things, all of which are bursting with demasiado cosas, for twenty of thirty minutes as I look for a hostel or choose to walk to the bus terminal instead of springing for a taxi.

The hour-long, seventy Argentinian peso massage was worth the break from the backpacker scene, despite the fact that the same amount of money could pay for two nights in a hostel with free Internet and desayuno included.

About a week later, I found myself in Cordoba with badly chipped toenail polish (my last pedicure was in Lima in mid-August) asking around at various peliquerias, “Cuanto sale por una pedicuria?”  When one woman quoted a price I deemed too high even for a backpacker in search of gratifying her guilty pleasures, I moved on, determined to find a place that matched the prices stated by the local girls of Argentina whom I’d asked.  Soon, I had myself an appointment for a pedicure and a decision to make about colors.

Last week, I cashed in on a very special gift from my friend Denise and her family.  On the day that I was scheduled to fly to Sao Paolo, Brazil and commence my 9-12 month journey around South America, I opened my email one last time before saying goodbye to my Brooklyn apartment to find a Travelocity virtual gift card to be used at any number of hotels around the world.

Somehow, I managed to wait a full five months before taking advantage of this extremely generous gift and checking into my fancy hotel room in Mendoza, Argentina.

I wonder what the hotel staff thought when I showed up looking not like their typical clientele to be sure with my dusty backpacks, wearing faded navy blue shorts and flip-flops, appearinging, no doubt, slightly dissheveled after the twenty minute walk in the intense sun of the morning, stating that I had a reservation.  Although I’d claimed that I wasn’t going to leave the solace and luxury of my very own hotel room complete with private bathroom containing fresh towels, tiny soaps and shampoos, I changed my mind once I saw the lounge chairs surrounding the pool outside and peeked into the spa and noticed the hot tub.

And, of course, how could I not desert the king-sized bed for a little while in the morning before my check-out to partake in the breakfast buffet included in my stay at Tower Suites.  After getting used to the typical Argentine breakfast of pan y marmelata y cafe con leche, I was like a heartbroken woman who’d recently decided that food would be her comfort in the dark days following a painful breakup.  Watching as other guests took meager portions of the bountiful spread offered, I began with medialunas and cafe con leche, returning for cereal with milk, another pastry, toast with dulce de leche, and then finally making a sandwich with the ham and cheese and butter on offer.  I stealthily pocketed a yoghurt for later and a couple of packets of butter to spread on the crackers I always have on hand.

I boarded my next overnight bus believing that the massages in Argentina rivaled those in China (where, at $10 USD, I’d indulged frequently last January during my stay), pleased with my red toenails and smooth feet, and refreshed following hours of alternating between channel-surfing and dozing from my post on the fluffy pillows, curious about the guilty pleasures of other frugal travelers.  I’m listening, er, reading…

 

 

 

Asado Does It

On the balcony of a loft apartment  overlooking Cordoba last Friday night, I tried grilled intestines for the first (but I hope not the last) time.

I was couchsurfing again and had just met Ugo, my host, and his friends when Ugo proposed an asado, or private bbq.  Would I like? he asked.  

If you’ve been reading my posts (particularly the ones pertaining to Argentina), you know the answer to this.

So after a quick trip to the local carniceria and corner store, we had enough carne for five, two bottles of red wine, eight onions, a bag of bread, several lemons, and beer for later.  

Franco was in charge of the asado, and none of the four other guys interfered or questioned as Franco and Franco alone guarded the flames, fixed the coals and watched the meat.  He tossed whole onions in a side fire and then let them sit close, the heat from the smoke roasting them to utter bliss.

It seemed to me that it was taking  an awfully long time; I wasn’t getting sober sitting there drinking the Malbec, and I was only growing hungrier as I sat feet away from the built in grill on the balcony.  But, what did I know about the traditional Argentine bbq?  Nada.  Only that I enjoyed it to crazy degrees.

It would be my third time partaking in an asado (and I’d yet to eat at a parrilla, which is a restaurant offering a parrillada, or assortment of meat at a fixed price–the formal take on the asado), but Franco seemed to take the responsibility of asadoro (I made that word up, but I don’t think cocinero would be quite fitting here) so seriously that I knew it was going to be the best asado yet.

I was not wrong.

It was some of the ridiculously best food I’ve ever eaten, and for those of you who know me well know that this is a bold statement that I wouldn’t make lightly or nonchalantly. 

We five ate cerdo that tasted like butter, artesenal chorizo sausage wrapped in bread with nothing else, blood sausage both cold and also hot off the grill (richer and rich), the aforementioned intestines drizzled with fresh lemon juice, crunchy, salty and , addictive, peeled onions tossed in oil, lemon, and salt and washed it all down with lots of vino tinto.

A few things were clear after this, my fourth incredible asado indulgence: one) we have a lot to learn back home  about the way bbq is done, and two) I’d have to run a marathon before I burned off half the carne I’d eaten in under an hour, and finally, three) this is why I travel.

Salty Anticipation

Five chicas.  A jeep.  A guide/driver.  A cook.  Several promises from Tupiza Tours: a jeep in good working condition, three squares a day plus snacks and sufficient bottled or boiled water.  Simple accommodations.  Information in Spanish on the sites we were to visit along the tour.

Four days touring Bolivia’s Southwest–active volcanoes, lakes of colors painters fantasize about, picturesque mountains bordering Chile, piedras that represent trees, vast landscapes–empty except for our group of seven (we saw other tour groups only at resting stops for meals generally), pink flamingoes, llamas and vacunas running free, a visit to natural thermal baths, the final day spent on the world’s largest salt flat.

It all sounded OK to me.  It had been impossible to escape the chatter about the Salar de Uyuni tour when I was traveling in Bolivia and Peru, and when I found myself in Northern Argentina and began hearing about the must-do tour again, I made my way further north, hooked up with Becca, a solo female traveler from England, in a hostel in Cafayate, Argentina and decided to hop on the tourist train again and return to Bolivia.

And so Becca and I arrived in Tupiza, Bolivia after a full day of travel and brutal border crossing and barely minutes later were offering a deposit to begin a three-night, four-day Salar de Uyuni tour the following morning with a company that had come to us highly recommended but which I cannot recommend (more on that later).

We joined two French women and a girl from Italy and learned that–surprise–the common language was Spanish and not English.  Becca’s language skills exceeded mine, though I was pleased to accept the compliment from the Tupiza hostel worker, who remembered me from the last time I was there with Hugo and told me that in two and a half months, my Spanish was “mucho mejor.”

Yet, the language wasn’t a barrier, and though I couldn’t understand everything that our guide, David, said,  I didn’t need to for my eyes to appreciate all that they were taking in.

Our group got on fine–most of the time.  Rising at 4:15 AM the first day, we five packed our bags, rolled up our sleeping bags (though we had been placed in a concrete-walled habitacion, there was no heat in the entire pueblo, and nights in Bolivia are insufferably cold), and met for a breakfast of cafe, pan, y dulce de leche several minutes later before heading out in the jeep for a twelve-hour day.

Much of the second full day, like the first, was spent inside of the jeep.  David would stop the car every time we reached a site of interest and tell us we had fifteen minutes to walk around and take photos.  As this was the typically standard tour, I didn’t complain about the long hours in the jeep, though the French girls were less than thrilled and drove me, more than once, to reach for my Ipod.

The sites were truly fascinating, and I don’t consider and have never considered myself a nature-loving person.  I like the outdoors and I appreciate awesome scenery, spectacular landscapes, and unfamiliar, natural places, but I don’t often feel moved by these types of things.  Thus, I didn’t mind the brief stops–there was so much to see, and the only possible way to see it all was by taking one of these tours–and I looked forward to our almuerzos each day, a pleasant break in the long days.  Julia, our cook and David’s fiance, whipped up some pretty impressive meals, often by the side of the road, out of the back of the jeep: milanesa, ensaladas de papas y tomatoes, pastas, meatballs.

When she sensed a growing crankiness among the group in the jeep–I don’t know, could it have been the daily, consistent jeep’s breaking down that unnerved us all?–she offered lollipops, Oreo’s, and jamon-flavored crackers.

Neither David nor Julia communicated with us much about the status of the jeep, but by the end of the third day, it was clear that we needed a replacement.  While their lack of communication bothered me, I reminded myself, with Becca’s help, that this was Bolivia, South America.  I had to change my expectations.

After she served us dinner in the salt hotel (everything made of salt save for the toilet), Julia left us to eat and drink the wine we’d purchased in the pueblo.  This tour differed far greatly from my trekking tour to Machu Pichu, for there was no talk of our group’s being a “family”, and David and Julia never ate dinner with us or took tea and biscuits with us when we arrived in the pueblo where we were to spend the night.

The last night, none of us minded, for we were deep in discussion about what to do about the problematic, dysfunctional jeep (when it said right there on our contract that the company would send a new one if necessary, and it was clearly necessary at this point) and whether or not we thought we should pay the full tour cost, which was to be settled once we arrived in Uyuni on the following day (so much responsibility for 22 year-old David).

Although none of us wanted to pay the total balance–how many hours had the crappy jeep cost us, we wondered?–when David told us, not in an angry or aggressive manner, that he and Julia would be docked an entire day’s pay if we didn’t pay what we owed, we reconsidered.  (In the same conversation, he also said that there would be no new jeep.)  I have neither the time nor the energy to express how abominable I find the company’s practices, if David’s words were true; in fact, I don’t know if I have the inclination or energy to write to Tupiza Tours (something I’d surely do if back in the States and dissatisfied with a customer service practice), for I don’t want to get the young couple fired, but mostly my disclination to take any action is simply because after our final day on the salt flat, negative feelings ceased to exist.

We rose at 4 AM the last day, allowing enough time to reach the salt flat for sunrise.  Armed with 3/4 of a bottle of vino tinto leftover from the previous night, we waltzed around the salty ground, passing the bottle back and forth as we watched the sun take its place.  David and Julia stayed in the car, keeping themselves from the bitter cold of that early morning, and I wondered if they ever got used to watching people’s outrageous expressions as they found themselves in the middle of twelve kilometers of whiteness that resembled snow but was– to be sure, for I tasted it– salt.

We were given hours on the salt flat (no complaints from any of us, most definitely not the French girls), taking breakfast on the flat and countless photos.  When the wine was gone, we started in on the mate, and I skipped around like a happy little kid.

“Siento volada,” I said to Sara, the Italian girl, and she smiled and nodded in agreement.

I felt high.  So high that later, once we’d returned to reality and were no longer free to run the blank space of the flat, I felt rather low, melancholy and a bit empty.  In all of my life, I’d never felt anything like how I felt when I was on the Salar.    Maybe that’s a lame statement and not full of anything valuable, but I don’t know what else to say.

It was that fucking amazing.

“Que increible!” is all that most of us could muster when we’d come in contact with what we’d been anticipating for three days or far more, given that it seems many people travel to Bolivia solely for the purpose of visiting the Salar de Uyuni.

I’d listened and nodded when other travelers told me about their experiences on the flat.  Sure, I thought, a lake’s a lake is a lake.  But somehow, when you’re the only person staring into that lake, when your jeep of seven is the only jeep as far as you can see way out in the middle of the salt flat at 6 in the morning, and the whiteness is so sharp that it’s dangerous to be without sunglasses, it’s not just a lake, and it’s not just the world’s largest salt flat.

Whatever it was that produced those incredibly rich and emotional feelings within me also had me handing over my remaining Bolivianos to David and Julia.  We were expected to tip the guide and cook based on our satisfaction and had agreed as a group a fair amount (for we were happy with all but the jeep), but in the end, I thought to hell with group decisions and offered David and Julia, who were to be married at the end of the year, a sum my dad would have approved of.

Authentic Argentina

Blue Bell ice-cream: Cintia's favorite in Tucuman Argentina

Cerro and mate at tea time in Tucuman

Sunday Asado at Cintia's house

XII Fiesta Provincial del Caballo, Municipalidad de Trancas

Comida de Hugo

Not in My Guidebook

I watched with a mixture of disbelief, disgust, and awe as he took a large swig of lighter fluid and walked into the intersection, two identical balls of fire hanging by his side, his hands fiercely gripping the chains that led to the spitting fire. The traffic light was red and Hugo, the performer, conducted his dance with the fire until the light changed. Swinging the enflamed balls of fire up over his head and around, again and again, exhaling at last and letting out a breath of fire, the finale of his performance, he nonchalantly bowed and walked between the cars, graciously accepting applause but looking for monetary handouts.

Trying to appear inconspicuous, I stood half behind a tree and looked on with anticipation as car windows opened and admiring observers dropped change into his palm. When no one was generous, when no one stopped him, I averted my gaze, glanced across at the other intersection, where another young Argentine was doing a performance of sorts. His attempts at earning, however, were not magical, I noticed as he wiped down the windshields on vehicles of obliging drivers.

“No saca fotos,” Hugo said, passing me as he returned to the corner to drink more of the viscous, dangerous fluid and relight the balls, and, ashamed, I dropped my camera in my bag, inwardly berating myself for acting so foolishly. They were the only harsh words he’d ever spoken to me, and even now, I wish he’d never had to utter them.

I continued to watch him perform for the people of San Juan until the lighter fluid was gone and his coughing grew more persistent. After the first few times seeing him drink the same thing he used to keep the balls on fire, I had to stop looking. My stomach was turning for him.

Later, when he wanted to know what I thought of his performance–although we’d been traveling together for about a week and had, despite the language barrier, gotten to know each other well, I’d heard of his street work but never witnessed it firsthand–I was at a loss for words. I asked about the taste of the fluid, for despite his shower, the smell lingered heavily. “No es muy rico,” he said as though it was no big deal at all. And, for him, it probably wasn’t. How long, I wondered had he been performing, hoping to make just enough money for food and drink as he made his way around parts of Peru and all of Bolivia?

Once we’d parted, the performance barely providing Hugo with enough money to travel to Valle Fertil, near San Juan in Mendoza, let alone Tucuman, my next destination, I wondered about practical matters: the ingestion of the lighter fluid, the inhalation of so much smoke, the blisters on his hands from such tight gripping– all for a few pesos.

I’d never seen anything like it before, I admitted to myself, and tried to conjure up memories of all the crazy stuff I’d seen people do for money in New York City. Nothing came close.

This was the kind of thing my guidebook didn’t mention.

About a week earlier, I’d tried to express my delight at not traveling like a tourist to Hugo and his friend, Nelson, as they set up a fire by the river (sans coals), pulled out a huge plastic bag full of carne, salted it, and created an asado (bbq) for the three of us, and I watched the tourists giddily white-water raft past us.

They had only laughed and said that what we were doing was “normal” for them, but I don’t know that they understood how grateful I was for their “tipica” experience. If only they knew how far off the beaten backpacker path they’d taken me, maybe they’d have been pleased with themselves.

Later, when I found myself couchsurfing in Tucuman with Cintia–una buena persona– and her family, and having some much-needed girl time, I explained that I felt lucky to be experiencing life as she experienced it: drinking mate in the park, sharing an enormous Saturday almuerzo with her family, going to a regional fiesta with live music, getting in the siesta groove mid-afternoon each day, enjoying tea time with cookies and cafe con leche following siesta, and eating dinner at 11 PM at night during the week. I was “fortunada” in so many ways that it was becoming increasingly difficult to feel–and express– sufficient gratitude.

I learned months ago to trust my guidebook for tips on bus travel, weather patterns, and border crossing information, but mostly, its advice is useless. Why consult it for the best place to find pastel de choclo (a Chilean specialty) when I can ask Pam and Aaron, the truly cool couple I stayed with in Santiago? Why bother reading about the best place to watch tango in Tucuman when I can accompany Cintia and her girlfriends? Why try the listed heladerias when I can ask a local–and a friend– where he or she goes when the ice-cream craving hits? Why go on every tour the book suggests is “not worth missing” when I can live as though I belong among the people who do belong and not as though I am merely passing through until I arrive at the next destination, where another over-priced, only halfway decent tour awaits me?

No, my guidebook cannot lead me to a rich, authentic, typical experience; that, I need to find on my own.

Fortunately, I’ve got more than five months to continue seeking my “tipica” experiences.

Because They Said Vamos

I’ve just had the incredibly rich experience of celebrating the Chilean holiday dieciocho or El Dia de Independencia with a group of Santiago locals.

Previously, I’d written about my positive couchsurfing experiences in Chile, and this latest one with Horacio and what ended up being ten of his closest friends, afforded me an opportunity to truly do as the locals do.

When Horacio, who, like me, quit his job to travel last year, invited me to stay longer than I requested to take part in week-long festivities at the beach a couple of hours from Santiago, I agreed, figuring that if I didn’t get that good vibe feeling from him when we met in Santiago, I could bail out of the extended trip.

Fortunately, no bailing was necessary. I had a couple of days to get acquainted with Horacio and his roommate, Nicolas, before the real party began, and when it was clear that food, fun, and drink were some of their favorite things, I whipped up a batch of my favorite brownies and cooked a full meal for Horacio and Nicolas and felt right at home. Horacio and I traded couchsurfing stories–his round the world trip offered him plenty of CS experiences–and listened to all kinds of music and stocked up on some lemons and avocadoes for the trip.

Dieciocho cannot be compared to the United States 4th of JUly celebration, at least none that I am familiar with. This long weekend, spent at a house rented by Horacio’s friends, mere meters from the beach, reminded me a lot like the parties my friend James and his wife used to throw in Rhode Island before they became the proud parents of a little girl. A house full of people, food, wine, beer, hierba de natural, dancing, laughter, and anything goes, I might have been with my own friends, I felt so immediately at ease and comfortable.

Although Horacio speaks English fairly well, the conversations this weekend, with few exceptions, were all in Spanish. At first, in spite of feeling welcomed and accepted, I felt intensely intimidated, scared to open my mouth for fear of speaking poorly. But as I tried to listen and understand this early thirty-something group of Chileans (two fashion designers, a photographer, and an architect among them) as they spoke to each other (very, very fast and with much slang: cachay, for example, exclusive to Chile, means You get it, and is heard every fifth word), I learned it was better to try and join in even if it was just a small, short sentence or two. My attempts at uttering their language were met with encouragement, and even though I was clearly the odd one out, I didn’t feel strange. Paola, one of the women, even asked me why I spoke Spanish so well, and she was being genuine in spite of my skepticism.

Contributing to the food money fund, helping shop for groceries, offering mas vino when I noticed someone’s glass was empty and doing my fair share of dishes, I sat back during the weekend and relished in the where and what, realizing how fortunate I was to experiencing all that I was.

When asked how much I was understanding (for they were all curious), “Entiendiste, Stacey? (You understood?)”, I admitted that I was understanding some. What percentage, they wanted to know, and when I said thirty or forty percento, my reply was met with laughs around. Sometimes, in fact, I only understood because of an added gesture or the general context.

I was approved of, in part, (I am convinced) because I proved to be a champion drinker of the national drink, piscola. Pisco plus coca cola equals muy rico. Oh, that’s another thing I’ve learned during my travels. Food is not described in Latin America as being delicioso as I was taught in my years of studying Spanish; rather, it is rico, and in Chile, anything can be rico. A sunset? Que rico! Bringing a sleeping bag to the beach for a late afternoon bbq? Que rico! Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”? Muy rico! Deliciosa in Latin America is considered the stuffy, informal way of speaking. It’s used in Spain, I’m told, to describe tasty food.

Of course, aside from the language barrier, there were differences between this party and the RI bashes that I so fondly recall. For one, there’s nothing unusual about eating a huge meal at midnight, f before heading to dance until 6 AM or later. I’m told it’s like this in Buenos Aires, so I wasn’t too surprised to find the similarity in Chile, Argentina’s neighbor, but there was one night when I was wondering if I was going to eat before going to bed.

The food was incredible and plentiful, and there was always enough for late-night snacking once we’d returned from the parties. Midday, we’d gather for a big almuerzo–those who had surfed returning to shower and have an afternoon beverage of orange Fanta mixed with beer (surprisingly muy, muy rico!). On the menu for this kind of meal was homemade pate, cream cheese with marmelata, camembert-stuffed figs, olives, and a variety of kinds of empanadas sliced into finger-sized pieces and drizzled with spices and olive oil–the best empanadas I’ve had in Chile, made by one of the women’s mother. Typicallky, there was wine and champage too. Then, maybe afterwards, a siesta on the couch. We all contributed to the meals and the shopping and the cleaning, though I’m pleased to say that the actual renters of the house were amazingly laid-back and it didn’t matter so much if everything was in perfect shape all of the time. Like I said, it was anything goes.

I noticed that, except for in the morning, when people were rising at various times and grabbing cereal or yoghurt or pan, no one ever took anything for one’s self without first inquiring if others wanted some. The sincere and natural offer, “quieres (you want)?” I could understand without effort. Even out at the bars at night, drinks were always shared, cigarettes passed around for those who smoked.

The only thing I struggled with a small bit was not having any sense of the day or evening’s plans. Once or twice Horacio would let me know that I needed to bring a warm sweater or leave my big bag at the house, but mostly when we went out, I had no idea where we were going and was disappointed once that I missed an opportunity to bring my good camera to take photos of the sunset.

Everyone was so laid-back that I too learned to just go with it, taking notice of others’ dress and movements to gain a small idea of where we were going and for how long, but it never really became easy.

One night, for example, after we’d stuffed ourselves with a variety of meats, pasta salad, papas fritas, and fried eggs (traditionally known as a chirollana), someone would say, “Vamos (Let’s go)?” and then a chorus of “Vamos,” “Si, vamos,” would be heard around.

“Vamos, Stacey?” I’d inevitably be asked by one of the group.

“Si, vamos,” I’d reply and sometimes, if I cared enough, I’d ask “Donde vamos?” inquiring as to where we were headed. However, sometimes when I asked, I was unable to understand the answer. Other times, one afternoon, specifically, when I asked Kenita, one of the lovely Chilean woman, she answered that she didn’t know, but since she was going along for the ride, I went too. I still have no idea what the purpose of that ride was as we seemed to sort of drive in circles, looking for something or somewhere but never really finding it. And I couldn’t figure out a way of asking without possibly sounding rude.

Of course, drinking a bit loosened the foreign tongue, and I found this to be true among the group as well. One on one, they each seemed to want to try out the little bit of English they knew, and then when one spoke a full sentence out loud amongst everyone, it was somehow quite comical.

The last night at the beach house, before we headed out dancing, I found myself talking with a few of the group and being asked what I thought of the weekend and of them. In my head, for the past day or so, I’d been trying to figure out how to tell them in Spanish that even though I didn’t talk a lot and wasn’t able to understand everything, I felt like I’d gotten to know all of them individually and felt very comfortable and fortunate, like I was with my own friends; thus, I was glad they wanted to know but not sure I could produce the exact meaning in their language. Tell us in English, Paolo and her boyfriend, Francisco, encouraged me.

So, speaking slowly, I told them what I’d been thinking in my own language, and then being pleased, they wanted to know more and asked me to describe my feelings for each of them individually. I hesitated, telling them in Spanish that I did not know many adjectives. Fearing that they would mistake my poor vocabulary as far as descriptions went (verbs I’m confident with), I begged off answering at first away at first and then found myself taking on the challenge and remembering palabras (words) to relay my message.

Even though the language barrier was still a very real thing even during those moments, I recognized that the important thing was that we were on the same page. I had gotten to know them despite not comprehending entire conversations, and they’d gotten to know me beyond the language trap. There were ways to get to know a person that didn’t include actual words–many ways. Maybe that seems obvious, I don’t know, but I’d never really thought about it before. I suppose because I’d never had to.

It’s hard to say specifically what kinds of experience you’re looking for when you set out for any kind of journey or trip, but that I know now that this type of experience is why I travel.

Chilean Couches

Now that I’ve been in Chile for two weeks, I feel at liberty to note some observations.

1) They don’t really speak Spanish here.

It sounds to my ears like another language at times. My first stop in Chile was Arica, pretty close to the Peruvian border, and because I’d been doing so well with the whole language acquirement thing, I was shocked and frustrated when I crossed the border and felt like I hadn’t learned a darn thing!

When I signed up for a tour of the national park near Arica, I hadn’t realized it would be led by a Spanish speaker. If I’d been in Peru or even Bolivia, I’m sure I would have something to tell you about Lauca Park, but to be conservative, I think I caught about every twelfth word out of the guide’s mouth. There was one other American besides myself in the tour group; the five others were Chilean. Neither Jessie, who’d been living with a Spanish family in Cuzco for the past three months, nor I could participate in the group’s conversation. I felt intimidated and didn’t even feel comfortable asking the obvious questions like “what part of Chile are you from?” or “for how long are you traveling?” I remained silent for most of that day, taking in the scenery of the Lauca National Park without absorbing the guide’s explanations, and only speaking my native language when Jessie and I chatted.

In La Serena, Chile, I went out for lunch after untangling myself following an overnight bus, and when pressed by the waitress as to my choice of entrees, I listened, looked blankly at her, felt confused and disoriented and then repeated the only word I could: pollo. Thus my decision was made.

What’s interesting to me is that the Chileans I’ve spoken with about their language (and my difficulty comprehendinging) know that they don’t speak their language particularly well. Quick to point out that the Spanish spoken in Peru is the best, they admit that they speak fast and drop their s’s. Fortunately, through my couchsurfing experiences, I have met many lovely Chileans who slow down when speaking to me and encourage me in my attempts. This brings me to my next point.

2) Chilean couchsurfing is fabulous.

In Iquique, I stayed with Roberto, a freelance photographer with numerous other worthy and admirable ambitions, and his family. Through Roberto, I met Amor, another sweet Chilean, who’d spent some time living and working in the States. It was through Amor that I set out to go paragliding, as the instructor was a friend of hers. I practiced my Spanish a bit with Roberto and Amor but had a greater opportunity to speak it when I arrived in La Serena, where I was invited to stay at an apartment on the beach.

The Garcia family, having no room at their main home, set me up at the apartment, and I enjoyed several relaxing days on the coast. When the weekend arrived, Antonieta, her husband, Julio–my Pisco Sour drinking companion, who also introduced me to some of the best wine in Chile, and their daughter took me to the Elqui Valley, a beautiful spot about an hour from La Serena. There we indulged in some of the best food I’ve eaten in three months, tasted various flavors of manjar, drank fresh Papaya juice, and visited the Gabriela Mistral museum. Gabriela Mistral, if I’m not mistaken, is one of two Chilean Pulitzer Prize winners. When I’d written to Antonieta requesting a couch, I’d offered some information about my past experiences couchsurfing and was thrilled to receive a thoughtful, reassuring reply in return, promising me a safe and comfortable stay with them. Aside from the missing hot water in the apartment (which wasn’t an issue so long as I worked up a sweat running by the beach before bracing myself for the cold shower), it was an excellent experience, and I enjoyed getting to spend time with such a sincere, kind-hearted family. Their generosity is the kind that goes above and beyond.

My first night in Santiago, I stayed in a hostel because I arrived a day early and did not wish to impose on my first set of couchsurfing hosts. While I enjoyed my night at the hostel and was grateful to have met a cool group of people, I was pleased to arrive at Pamela and Aaron’s in Providencia, an upmarket neighborhood in Santiago, the following evening. Not only is the space very cool–Aaron’s an architect and the young couple is very into modern art–but I feel a little spoiled to have my own room filled with bookshelves and DVDs.

I’m not speaking much Spanish with Pamela and Aaron, but mostly I’ve been on my own as they’ve been working fairly long days. It’s refreshing to be in a big city again. Although there is a good metro system here, I usually choose to walk to where I want to go, and I surprised both Pamela and Aaron when I told them that I walked from Providencia to another cool neighborhood, Barrio Brasil, sort of a bohemian enclave a few hours walk from where I am staying. I appreciate walking cities though and also like to stay longer than a few days to get properly acquainted.

Pamela and Aaron stressed that I can stay with them as long as I like, but I’ve made arrangements with Horacio, a Santiago native who last year quit his job to travel the world. I figure we have plenty in common right away based on that, and thus I’m willing to take the chance of surfing with a single guy and hope that he remains clothed while in my presence. If it goes well the first couple of days, I will travel with Horacio and his friends for El Dia de Indepencia on the 18th of September. Supposedly, it’s a really big celebration in Chile, and I’m excited to be a part of it, especially since I missed the 4th of July festivities in the States this year.

3) The Chilean bus system is overrated and overpriced.

Lonely Planet’s South America on a Shoestring describes the bus system as being practically luxurious, citing it as punctual, comfortable, and reliable.

Reliable it is not, and as for comfort, well, I’ve taken more comfortable buses in Bolivia (minus that issue about there being no bathroom!). Twice now, I’ve had tickets for buses that just didn’t show up. The first time, when I inquired about the whereabouts of my bus for an 18 hour ride from Iquique to La Serena, I was told there was no bus that left at the time that my purchased ticket stated. First, they tried to tell me that the bus was going north first, so basically, I should never have been sold that ticket, but then when they saw that I was unhappy with what amounts to my getting schemed the previous day by the sneaky Pullman Bus employee, they said that there were mechanical issues.

Fortunately, I was able to get placed on a later bus, a bus that in the dead of night stopped at a control point, forced all of its passengers off for a bag check and then reloaded its weary and annoyed (me) passengers for the remainder of the journey. Why wouldn’t they check our bags before departing? There must be a more efficient way to do things, and if I had felt just a little bit more confident about my Spanish in Chile, I would have asked the kind gentleman sitting beside me why it was necessary to carry on the check in such an inefficient manner.

The second bus that failed to show up for my journey from La Serena to Santiago had broken down, or so I was told. I was able to get the Pullman Bus employee to understand that I wanted my money back, and once I had the fistful of bills, I promptly found another company to take me to Santiago but not without being forced to take the last available seat on the bus by the bathroom.

4) Chile is expensive.

I’ve said before that the point of couchsurfing is not to save money, and of course, I still maintain that this is true, but the truth is, I wouldn’t be able to afford Chile beyond a couple of days on the budget I’ve given myself if not for couchsurfing and the splendid (often unbelievable generosity) of people I’ve met from the couchsurfing community.

I paid $3 for a cafe the other day, for example. That’s how much a decent cup costs in New York, right?

Fortunately, Chile is known for its abundance of raw materials, and couchsurfing allows me to stock up on groceries and cook. I could almost live on pan con palta, but this morning, after asking Pamela if I could use some baking ingredients to make pancakes, I proceeded to whip up a fluffy batch of American pancakes that I spread with manjar, which is similar to dulce de leche but better, in my humble opinion.

4) Chile is expensive, except for the vino (and my $9. haircut).

Last night I purchased a bottle of Carmenere from Cocha y Toro, the biggest and most commercial winery in Chile, for less than $3.25, and it was outstanding. I think I could buy boxed wine here and find it pleasant.

I’m looking into visiting some vineyards around here, but those tours, like everything but the wine in Chile, are rather pricey. Argentina’s Mendoza and Cordoba regions produce excellent wine, so I may just wait until I cross the border in a week or so.

5) You can drink the tap water in Chile, but why would you want to when the wine is practically free ?

A word from the author on her writing

Because I wake up some nights stressing about grammatical errors in my latest post, I feel compelled to explain a few things about writing in developing countries.  As many of you know, I often complain of crappy keyboards.  Sometimes I cannot find the apostrophe button; other times, I am typing on a keyboard covered with plastic or a keyboard where the keys are identifiably by tiny squares of taped-on paper.  And the keyboard I am typing on right now, for example, requires extremely hard key pressing.  After I finish writing this, I will go back and add spaces where necessary as the spacebar key seems to demand the most pressure of them all.  It’s a tiresome job at times.

Don’t even get me started on the mouse situation.

When I was in Bolivia, there were numerous occurrences of all of the computers in the Internet cafe shutting down simultaneously, leaving me frustrated that I had to pay for lost emails and unfinished blog posts.

I feel fortunate if the USB drive is functioning, more excited still if I can upload photos onto Facebook.  In spite of having paid for exra Flickr storage, the  time involved in that uploading process makes me want to get on the Death Train again.  The moral of this paragraph is this: if you’re not on FB, it’s time you followed the masses and joined.

Most times when I finish a post, I feel fulfilled, relaxed, and somewhat accomplished, and in my hasty excitement to click the “Publish” button, I generally don’t proofread my entries.  A shocking confession from someone who used to work in the editorial department of a book publishing site, I know.

At night when I fret over possible errors, for I know I have  language-savvy friends and family reading regularly, I soothe myself back to sleep with promises that one day on this trip when I “have time” I will go back and edit all the entries.   Although I can fall back asleep usually, the minor anxiety returns the next day.  Just a couple of days ago, for example, I was g-chatting with a friend while editing my latest post.

“Do you think people who know me know that I know the difference between to and too?” I asked her.  She failed to respond immediately; but then again, to be fair, g-chat ceased to function temporarily, and when we resumed our conversation, the question was lost.

“Take care, have fun in Chile,” she wrote, leaving me no choice but to tell you directly and unabashedly that I do indeed know the difference between to and too.

In spite of the fact that I am reading some classics down here that I could never absorb on my thirty minute commute involving a train transfer in NY (muchas gracias, Jane, for Lolita and The Brothers Karamazov!), I fear that in my eagerness to learn and speak Spanish, I am losing my vocabularly.  Thank goodness for Nina G’s emails that stimulate me intellectually in spite of making me wonder what I am missing in my weekly New Yorker readings.  (It may not be long, however, until I have the opportunity to indulge in my own paper copy of the New Yorker as I await a care package from my dear old friend Alison, who has been asking me since I left for an address for which to send me something.)

An ex-boyfriend left me feeling slightly reassured when he wrote recently, “Is it wierd that I correct gramatical and spelling errors only when I’m writing you? Your english prowess still casts a shadow on me [sic].”

In spite of having changed since the start of my journey–I put  sugar in my coffee and am considering eating a whole banana–I haven’t shaken my desire to produce beautiful, correct, fluid, and engaging writing, and even if it doesn’t always contain these characteristics precisely as I wish, I’m working on it.

Oh, and one final word before I publish, er, proofread, this entry, having my laptop break down at the Newark airport was most definitely a very good thing.  Sending it back to the States has allowed me to pack my daypack with only the most important things: sweaters, toilet paper, avocados, cookies, and whiskey!

So Help Me God…

if I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I said to Jane before we buried ourselves in our rented sleeping bags on night 2 of our three and a half day trek to Machu Pichu.

It was bitter cold out, probably several degrees below freezing, and the night before, when we were camping at a much lower altitude (3800 m), we’d been cautioned by our Lares trek (an alternate trek to the excessively popular and overpriced Inca Trail trek) guide, Puma to cover our faces and our heads if we needed to exit the tents in the dead of night.  In comparison, it had been so much warmer the night before.  I was worried about the cold.  Very worried.  Plus, to make matters worse, I’d lost my head lamp (as I’ve lost so many things in 2.5 months!) and would be relying on Jane’s reading lamp to assist me in the pitch black, freezing cold night.

As I added layers of clothing to my body, I thought how grateful I was that this was our final night of camping.  I thought warm thoughts of the hot shower I was going to take when we arrived at the hotel in Aquas Caliente the next night, and I envisioned the hot springs I’d be soaking in after spending hours climbing the many steps inside of Machu Pichu. 

I’d read excellent things about Peru Treks, the company leading our trek, and from our 6 AM pick-up the first day, I hadn’t been disappointed.  The trek, some 38 km total wasn’t easy, and in fact, my sister suffered from such severe altitude sickness that she had to forfeit a majority of the trek and meet us a couple of days later in Ollantantambo, a town not far from Aquas Caliente. 

If I hadn’t experience the amazing heights of Bolivia, I might not have made it either.  Fortunately, there were a couple of other women in the family (so-called by our gregarious guide) who opted to go slow up the steep passages and take in the scenery.  I often stuck with them and even had the pleasure of riding a horse up one incline for about five minutes.  As I passed the family on horseback, Phil, a quirky Australian, wondered if I couldn’t at least pretend to breathe heavy.

Because we got a late start on the first day, part of the trekkking was done in the dark.  Most of the family had head lamps or flashlights, we we managed to make it the camp without anyone getting injured.  I had some fun practicing my Spanish with Puma, our guide, but I find it better to practice the language with people who don’t speak English than with those that do.  It forces me to find the words, whereas with Puma, it was all to easy to fall back on Spanglish when I gew tired of searching for the right palabras.

I haven’t done much camping in my life, but after the first night roughing it, I was ready to sign up for a trek a week!  South America is made for this kind of experience, and I slept like I had jet lag that first night–better than I had in days.  I imagine the warm alcohol concoction they offered us after dinner helped lull me into a deep sleep. 

Although the family maintained a pretty steady pace all together throughout the trek and stopped together in the villages (ours was a culturally rich trek filled with extras like visiting Andean families in their homes and stopping to meet children along the way), the group bonding time occurred over the amazing meals prepared by the cook, Willy.  It was on this journey that I ate better than I’ve eaten all my time thus far in South America.

Each meal began with a soup, absolutely necessary for those bone-chilling evenings, followed by steaming plates of meat such as lomo saltado, a traditional Peruvian dish, delicious side dishes like papa de pastel, and a postre.  My favorite was a rich chocolate pudding served warm.  We finished the meal with hot water for tea or cafe.  I took to having my Nalegene bottle filled to the brim with the hot, hot water and used it as a source of warmth for the night.  I held onto that baby the second night, and I’m convinced the forty minutes of sleep I got was due to the proximity of the hot water bottle.

I don’t think I can call myself a trekker after this trek, especially noting the fact that the anti-social French couple in the family said it “wasn’t a trek,” but I felt a sense of accomplishment at the end of each pass and on the final day of the Lares trek, before we were to make our way to Machu Pichu at 5:30 AM to beat the crowds coming from Cuzco by train, I felt that I deserved every bit of the warm, happy feeling I had lounging on the grass as we waited for our cook to prepare our final family meal.  (I think the French couple was unaware that our expedition included multiple village stops, a favorite for many of us in the family but apparently not for them.)

Chewing coca leaves helped, although the catalyst I used with it per Puma’s instructions, briefly damaged my gums.  At one point, before a steep passage, we were each given a drop of some concentrated solution which we rubbed into our hands and put to our noses to breathe in deeply.  It was supposed to clear the internal passageways, but mostly it just smelled lovely, and after two days of not showering, I couldn’t be sure that I did!

My sister, who had been experiencing her own authentic Peruvian adventure with the help of the assistant guide while we remained on route, asked Jane and me what the best part of the trek was.  When she saw that we couldn’t answer right away, she pressed us for highlights.  There were many, and as we began filling her in and listening to her stories of returning to Cuzco and hanging out in the hot springs of Lares, we all recalled the first morning together.

Our first stop outside of Cuzco was a market in a small village.  Encouraged to buy coca leaves, oranges, and school supplies for the young children we’d meet along the way, Stephanie, Jane, and I, who had arisen at 4:50 AM traded looks and snuck off to the section of the market that serves cafe and te.

Ordering three cafe con leches, we were delighted to see the glass bottle of very rich coffee sitting before us.  As the woman behind the counter ladled steaming milk into our mugs, we grinned widely.  It was what we’d been waiting for all morning.  Breakfast was to be our next stop–with the group–so I suppose we could have waited for the cafe, though Stephanie and I are self-professed coffee addicts and were craving our morning beverage, but I’m sure glad we didn’t, for the cafe offered at the official breakfast spot was instant.

I couldn’t help feeling slightly smug that we’d been wise enough to wander away from the family in the market for all of three minutes to find the good stuff. 

As far as highlights go, that one is right up there.

I cannot end this post without saying a few words about Machu Pichu, and yet, I am processing the experience still and don’t know that I’ve found the best words to describe the magnificence of that historic place.  Was it worth waking at 3:45 AM (after five hours of sleep on top of the previous night’s almost zero hours) to be one of the 400 people allowed to climb Wayna Pichu?  Absolutely.  Was it worth sitting outside the bus station at 4:30 AM in an attempt to board one of the first buses to the site and find ourselves practically alone at the Inca Bridge?  Heck, yeah.

Our time at Machu Pichu went quickly, and my only dissatisfaction with the trekking tour was not having more of it at Machu Pichu. 

 

Perhaps after a couple more nights of solid sleep, I will have more to say about Machu Pichu, but then again, I am heading to Chile tomorrow and likely will have a new story soon.

Oh, and by the way, for all you curious folks, I would like to report that I did wake up to use the bathroom in the dead of night.  I felt the cold intensely, but worse than exposing myself in that brutal wind was attempting to calm down once I returned to the tent and my sleeping back.  At 4500 m, my breathing was short, and I felt exhausted from the energy used to put on my sneakers and unzip and rezip the tent’s flaps.  Once again, I burrowed my body and my head in the sleeping bag, and I tried to catch my breath and not wake Jane, though the next morning I would learn that she had not slept either.

Company in Peru

Hanging out in Lima's Plaza de Armas

Stephanie and Stacey meet in Peru

She eats arroz con leche

In Miraflores, Lima, an upmarket neighborhood where we were fortunate to be staying at my friend Alex’s family’s additional apt. (they have a house three hours north of Lima), we were hard-pressed to find street eats. Walking around central Lima and meandering past the city’s Chinatown, we came across some yummy street snacks, including arroz con leche and whatever Jane’s eating in the photo below. I’ll have to edit this post later with the correct name of the postre, but I’m staying at a free Internet hostel in Cuzco, Peru, and when you find an available computer, you park.

Purple concoction made from maiz, sugar, lemon, cinnamon and with fruit served warm (similar to the drink ubiquitous for breakfast in Bolivia, api)

Meeting Peruanas in Lima's trendy, upscale Miraflores district

Although I’ve taken only three hours of Spanish lessons (two in Arequipa and one in La Paz), I think practicing and communicating with local people, who generally don’t speak any English is the best way to learn a language. This night was no different. Only one of the guys spoke un poquito (they love their diminutives in Latin America as do I; one of my favorite phrases is un momentito, which always seems to draw grins from my LA companions) English, so we three had fun trying to engage in consistent conversation. I’d say we did quite well, and Stephanie and Jane ought to be proud that after their all-day travels, they eased right into communicating in a language they haven’t studied in years. Muy bien.

Miraflores