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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 disinclination 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.
Yesterday afternoon, when there were still a few hours of sun left in the day, I decided to go for a walk/run. In New York, I would’ve just gone for a three or five miler, but here in Bolivia, in the mountains, I’m reduced to a pitiful combination of walking and barely running. I suffer from sorache, altitude sickness.
As I was taking a leisurely pace around Coroico, a lovely respite about three hours from La Paz, I started wondering what I had learned about myself and in general since embarking on this trip two months ago. The thoughts came slowly at first, and then started tumbling out, filling my head and later paper.
For starters, I’ve learned how to be super-resourceful. With a demitasse spoon (somewhat regrettably taken from Hostel Charcas in Sucre) and a pair of scissors, I can create a meal out of an avocado and bread. (Bringing a Swiss Army Knife along with me slipped my mind.)
Because I didn’t want to bring my large 2-1 shampoo and conditioner with me to Coroico for two days, I squeezed some liquid into an empty precription bottle. The perfect travel size.
When two of my fingers became infected and pus-filled, I did what a doctor’s daughter had been taught to do. I needed to get that pus out, so I wiped my nail clippers clean with antiseptic gauze, cleaned the fingers, and clipped just a bit of skin until the pus started oozing. I quickly applied a topical antibiotic cream and band-aided up. Resourceful, indeed!
I’ve learned that I can find my way, my direction when I need to, and I’ve also learned that doing it on my own is usually twice as hard as when I have someone helping me.
I’ve learned that ordering cafe con leche sin pan at the various Bolivian markets is met with confusion and uncomprehension.
I’ve learned that the advertised party hostels I once sought out in my more youthful days are now (often) the last place I want to stay.
I’ve learned that advice from others can be great and grand, and although I still seek it regularly, I know that the best way is doing it yourself and seeing it for yourself.
I’ve learned how nurturing and warming it feels to be generous when you have room to be generous. For three days, I fed Hugo (and his pet rat). He had no money aside from that which he used for the bus ticket to Tupiza. Had we met in La Paz as we’d discussed, I had visions of buying him a new pair of pants, socks, a couple of t-shirts. He never asked for anything and only ate when I wanted to eat; he lived modestly and without shame, and it made me want to do for him. After all, I wouldn’t have felt the loss of $40 in the end, anyway.
I’ve learned that, strong as I am, I’m not as strong as everyone thinks I am.
I’ve learned that sometimes it’s ok to drink the water.
I’ve learned that Bolivian bathrooms are never free (and neither are the bus terminals, for that matter. Would someone please explain to me what service I am paying for to “use the terminal”?)
I’ve learned that saying goodbye, even after knowing someone for mere hours, produces a feeling of loss and regret.
I’ve learned that speaking (or at least attempting to speak) the language is always worth it. A friendly smile and a greeting in Spanish (appropriate to the time of day, of course) is usually met with friendliness on the receiving end. I extended my length of stay in Bolivia this way and fought (politely: Disculpa, pero hay un error en la cuenta…) my way out of a restaurant bill I knew was incorrect.
I’ve learned that it’s ok to stay in, pop my earplugs in, read a book, and turn the lights out at 8:30.
I’ve learned that it’s ok to desperately miss things from home, like cold cereal and milk or mantequilla=butter=BUTTER, not margarine and even consider returning for these pleasantries.
I’ve learned that some people are better than others at staying in touch, and that it’s ok, and it doesn’t mean that the ones that don’t write often don’t care as much. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I’ve learned how to pick my seat on the bus and how to prepare for long rides: layers, snacks, a visit to the bano immediately before departure, and more layers.
I’ve learned that sharing horror travel stories with other travelers is like medicine.
I’ve learned that I cannot count on my body to behave the way it did back home. I struggle with accepting this daily.
I’ve learned that shopping can be the perfect therapy and at $35 for premium denim that wasn’t falling off of my body, I’m happy to join the group of shoppers seeking therapy.
I’ve learned that I might not be cut out for this. Nine to twelve months is a long time, and I’m probably not going to make it that long, and that’s ok. It’s ok.
Oh, and I’ve learned that I don’t care for parades. No matter the country, costume, or custom, I’ll pass.
I’ve been a pretty big advocate of couchsurfing ever since my first flawless experience surfing in San Francisco in October 2008. Although I wasn’t an active member in NYC (only attending a bar gathering here and there and hosting just twice), I was looking forward to surfing throughout South America as nothing beats getting to know a place with a local, who knows the ins and outs (and speaks the language), or so I thought.
If you’ve been following my journey thus far, you know that I had an excellent beginning to the trip in Sao Paolo, where I was fortunate to be surfing in the city’s nicest and safest neighborhood. The experience in Rio was also pleasant–for the most part. There was the briefest awkward exchange between my host and me, wherein he asked me if he should have kissed me the night before. I explained that it was best that we just stay friends, and although he seemed to accept my statement, if I’m being completely honest, the vibe between us was irrevocably changed from that point forward.
When no one in Salvador was able to host me, I looked forward to hooking up with some fellow travelers and staying in a hostel. Meeting and discovering a city with other backpackers can be just as rewarding as getting to know a place with a resident, albeit in a different way. Additionally, oftentimes, hostel owners are keen on getting to know their guests and will go out of their way to offer travel advice, tips, restaurant suggestions.
Owner Russ of Barra Guest House in Salvador, Brazil was one of those owners. (The free breakfast–pancakes and eggs on order, plus a spread of fresh fruit, cheeses and ham, coffee and tea–wasn’t half-bad either!) While the hostel could have used some sprucing up (the bed linens were so worn that it was impossible to make it through an hour’s sleep without the fitted sheet coming undone on all four corners), I had a fine time exploring the city and just chilling on the beach with the other travelers I met. Iquazu Falls entered my radar, and I gained advice on the best places to see in Chile.
Because it is easier to couchsurf in large cities where there are more members, Bolivia meant staying in hostels until La Paz. That is until I found myself poking around on the site one day and randomly decided to contact one of the four available hosts in Tarija, Bolivia. Overall, the good reaped from my stay in Tarija far outweighed the bad, but I will think again before I even so much as contact a member of the opposite sex with a request to surf.
After speaking with a friend and couchsurfer, I know that my story is common. Common but unfortunate given the wonderful possibilities that a community like couchsurfing promises.
Arriving by overnight bus at 3:30 in the morning, I was quite grateful that my host Jose, who’d given me his address, answered my desperate buzz and showed me inside to a mattress in the middle of the dining room floor. After the vacant house in Salvador, Brazil where I stayed when I had the mumps, the heavily blanketed mattress in front of me looked welcoming and appealing. Before allowing me to nod off, Jose demonstrated how to make (real) coffee in the morning–a pretty big deal for a coffee-lover like myself as most of the good beans in SA are exported–and we talked about having lunch near a winery the next day.
Over our lunch, Jose and I got to talking about couchsurfing, and he told me that most people that he knows do it for sex. Um, excuse me? We were drinking wine and I didn’t want to make an issue of it, but I assume he meant the hope–as opposed to the expectation, a much stronger word–of sexual contact, which I still found appalling.
Our lunch was delicious and varied from the standard almuerzos I’d been eating. Speaking of expectations, Jose expected me to pay for the majority of our meal, and while I was happy to offer him some form of gratitude for allowing me to stay with him (and his mother, a former cocaine addict, who woke up screaming each night), I didn’t appreciate the implication that I owed him. That’s not what couchsurfing is about. Aside from “Is it safe?” the second most popular question I’m asked regarding couchsurfing is if it is free. My reply is always that, yes, it’s free, but it’s common to reciprocate in some way: a beer, a home-cooked meal, baked goods purchased on your morning stroll through the market. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jose expected plenty from me, monetarily at least, and while I value generosity and the ability to be generous, I resent the way Jose expected me to pay for our not inexpensive meal that day, a spare set of keys for his apartment later that afternoon, and a bottle of wine in the evening.
Still, he wasn’t hitting on me, and he seemed decent, if a bit insecure , so what was another few dollars? It wasn’t until late Monday night, on our walk home after hanging in the plaza, drinking and partying with some awesome guys from Argentina that Jose made his first move. The casual arm slung over the shoulder, the attempt to pull me close and then the comment that “we could do so much together,” and I started to grow uncomfortable. I walked on ahead, letting his arm drop and making it clear that his tentative advances were unwanted.
The following day, Jose’s bright and cheery attitude toward me had darkened somewhat, and suddenly, he went from being my personal tour guide to being completely swamped with work. In truth, I was grateful and went on with my business, which included meeting up with the Argentina crew later that afternoon.
“Watch yourself around those guys,” Jose said. “Maybe don’t bring your camera out,” he went on. “You can’t trust them.”
My instincts are strong and my ability to read a situation is powerful. My sense of when to trust and when not to trust is one of my greatest strengths, and I wasn’t worried about my safety with my new friends. Jose stayed in (after instructing me not to come home too late and not to be loud when I returned), and I hung out for hours, practicing my Spanish in a social, relaxed setting, and comprehending as much as I could with a group that spoke only their native language.
Sitting around Plaza Sucre, we passed a jug of cheap red wine around and took turns consulting my phrasebook when the language barrier became problematic. Even though I was understanding about a fifth of what was spoken, I felt like I was learning in the best way possible, and it made me excited to think about hunkering down somewhere to take some classes.
Hugo, one of the Argentinian backpackers, walked me back to Jose’s at the end of the night, offering me his jacket and protection. We agreed to meet the following day to go on to Tupiza together, and while I knew communication would be difficult, I was psyched for the challenge the journey posed.
I fell asleep fast and slept deeply but awoke with a start at around 3:30 in the morning when I heard mumbling. My couchsurfing host, Jose, was standin by my bed–naked– asking me if he could lie down with me because he couldn’t sleep.
I was frightened and backed away from his advancing form. “No, No! Jose, No!” is all I remember saying, and then he was gone, back to bed. Perhaps he’d been sleepwalking. I’ll never know. He acted normal the following morning, and because my bus for Tupiza didn’t leave until 8 PM, I chose not to call him out on his inappropriate actions. Instead I locked my small backpack and went out for the day.
Still, I was undoubtedly shaken up, somewhat traumatized, exhausted and frustrated. My distrust in Jose made me wonder for a brief moment if traveling with Hugo was a sound idea after all, but I turned back to my gut and knew it would be fine.
As it turns out, the three days in Tupiza with Hugo were some of my best days thus far. Instead of paying $100 or more Bolivianos for a trekking tour, we found our own way up into the mountains. Rather than getting sucked into one of the many tourist haunts during the three hour siesta where every authentic Bolivian restaurant shuts down, we purchased pan (bread), and queso (cheese) and made sandwiches in the plaza. Unlike Jose, who showed little patience for my fumbling language skills, Hugo listened and waited for me to get to a place where he could understand me. He repeated himself again and again, changing his way of speaking, and offered me an impromptu lesson on the presente, pasado, and futuro uses of some common verbs when I expressed interest.
I told him I was going to take a class in La Paz and promised that my Spanish would be greatly improved when we met in his hometown of Mendoza in October.
Moving on, preparing for the next destination means saying goodbye. I feel like I am always leaving someone or someplace. I’m just getting to know a town or a city, finding my favorite breakfast stall in the market, and the fastest Internet cafe, and then it’s time to go.
While I am leaving by my own accord (and skipping much-vaunted tours like the Salar de Uyuni), I still struggle with embracing the new, though I almost always do.
If I trusted my gut before this trip (in deciding to do this trip, no less!), I am learning to value it more and more each day. My negative couchsurfing experience still led me to experience Tupiza apart from the other backpackers, and for that, I am grateful. Of course, I will continue to proceed with caution in all that I do, and I will guard my safety, but I will rely on myself. Because I have to. Because I said go.
I arrived in Potosi on Saturday afternoon. Continuing to get the hang of this life-as-a-backpacker thing, I got off the bus and immediately purchased a bus ticket for Tarija, my next destination. I also met an Irish fellow, Brian, who asked if I wanted to share a cab into town. The hostel that I had booked the previous day–using my most worn Spanish phrase: Tiene un habitacion?–had no record of my reservation, so Brian and I continued on to find another place to stay.
The walk uphill was killing me, no doubt due to the extreme altitude paired with my heavy backpack, but I struggled to keep up, both with walking and with conversation. My lungs felt like they were going to explode by the time we found a place that had availability.
Since I was leaving the following day for Tarija, I booked a tour of the working mine cooperative for the following morning, even though I’d been told that visiting the mines on a Sunday wasn’t the best time as few–if any–miners would be working. However, my couchsurfing arrangements in Tarija precluded me from staying another night in Potosi, and besides, I was all too anxious to arrive in a place where the altitude was a bit more forgiving, so Sunday it would have to be.
I had read that the mines were “nightmarish” and unpleasant, and I had just watched The Devil’s Miner, a 2005 US-made film about a fourteen-year-old boy working in the mines but hoping for a better life, so I thought I was sufficiently prepared to enter.
I was wrong.
Six of us who had signed up for the tour arrived at the agency at 9 AM and were carted to a village house, where we donned the proper clothing and a helmet with a head lamp. Stopping in the miner’s market, we had the opportunity to buy gifts for the miner’s–dynamite, liquor, Coca-Cola, and coca leaves. Coca leaves are the supposed to help with hunger, cold temperatures, and sleepiness, but I’ve tried chewing them, and all I noticed was a tingly sensation in my lips and cheeks. Perhaps I also felt a bit more alert and less hungry, but it’s not a drug that produces an actual high.
Wearing our protective gear and armed with gifts, we followed our English-speaking guide to a refinery (I’d insert pictures here if the USB drive on this unreliable computer were functioning) and then finally arrived at the mine.
The first few minutes proved to be fine–plenty of ventilation and space to walk nearly upright. The air was cool, though I’d stripped down to just one thin layer underneath the provided jacket, for I’d been warned of feeling extreme heat once inside the mine.
A museum of sorts had been set up inside the mine, and this too was fine and interesting. Miners practice Catholicism for the most part, outside of the mines, but inside, they worship a God or a Devil really, named Tio. The film, which I highly recommend, showed miners offering gifts to Tio in exchange for protection and safety from accidents like explosions and fallen rocks. Most miners will live to be no more than 45 years as they will develop black lung disease or other fatal diseases.
In spite of the decidedly ok conditions near the entrance of the mine, I found myself checking my watch and counting down the two hours that we were to be inside of the mine. If I wanted out then, I desperately wanted out about five minutes later as we began crawling through narrow passageways, dust and dirt clogging the air, making it difficult to breathe. I was following the person in front of me, but I didn’t know when there’d be a release from the crawling and scrambling on all fours. The guide offered no help but allowed us to take a break once we reached a sort of clearing. For some reason that I still don’t understand, I was the only one in the group without a face mask. At one point when we were crawling, I feared for my lungs and pulled my tank top up over my mouth and nose, struggling to find some clean air, of which there was none.
We found two working minors that afternoon, and our guide proffered the gifts and allowed us to ask questions. As the others spoke and took pictures, I sat in silence. I could feel myself starting to tear up and tried to check my emotions. I wanted out. I didn’t want to take a picture, and I didn’t want to be a tourist in a mine.
Fortunately, we were soon our way out, but in order to get out of the mine, we had to climb up the same narrow, suffocating space we had crawled down. Behind the guide, I tried to keep pace, using my healthy body to lift me up over the crumbling rocks and soft ground. The heat was unbearable, and my breathing quickened. The altitude wasn’t helping. Once we reached the top of the crawl space, I sat down and began hyperventilating. I’ve never experienced an actual panic attack, but I was sure this is what it must feel like. I let the guide know I was not feeling well, and, finally, he understood the toll the tour was taking on me. Waving his handkerchief in front of me, he allowed me to cry and promised me we were almost out. “See? Can you imagine the work these guys do every day?” he asked me once I’d calmed down.
I could not.
As the others caught up to us, he said “Vamos, let’s go outside. Quickly. Come on.” I followed him, feeling the air thin and the coolness arrive as we grew closer to the exit.
Once outside, the panic was gone, of course, but my mental state was not in a good place. I watched as the group inserted a stick of dynamite–with the assistance of the guide–into a stuffed animal and took pictures. I couldn’t be cajoled into snapping a photo and sat in silence. I wondered briefly what the others thought of me, but I mostly didn’t give a damn.
I had witnessed abominable working conditions that dated back to colonial times and still existed today with little to no government intervention. I had listened to our guide, a former miner, tell us that Potosi would be a ghost town without the mines. I’d watched the workers’ faces light up as they received their bags of coca leaves, and I’d seen the sweat on their brow and heard their stories of mining accidents. Forty miners had died last year due to illness and accidents. I’d been taken far out of my comfort zone for the low low price of $14 USD.
What a fairy tale world I lived in.
I am currently in Bolivia (I realize I haven’t been on top of updating my next destination via my blog) and loving it. It’s only been a couple of days, and I don’t feel ready to describe it yet; in fact, I don’t think there are any words in the English language that could adequately describe the landscape and the people.
I’m eating well on about $3 USD a day, trying to speak Spanish (looking into taking a course), and bracing myself for the next place, Potosi, the world’s highest city.
Below is an incomplete list of some of my favorites in Brazil. I figure I’ll do a list for each South American country that I visit.
Rio’s version of botelloning (aka, drinking outside)
Running culture in Rio (nobody stares at you like they do in other cities in SA)
All-you-can-eat sushi in Liberdade neighborhood in Sao Paolo
Sao Paolo loyalty
Bodies in Rio–simply insane!
Tapioca= best street food in Brazil
Sweet, caramel corn with condensed milk
Quiejo coehlo= grilled cheese on a skewer with oregano and molasses (typical and highly addictive beach snack)
Vendors on Salvador’s beaches
craftsmen in Salvador
Mercado Municipal in Sao Paolo
Vik Muniz exhibit in MASP
dessert carts
drinking coconut water straight out of the coconut on the beach in Rio and Salvador
acaraje=shrimp fritters
late night beach, ahem, festivities in Rio
the Rio accent
befriending Nilda in Sao Paolo
boat trip in Arraial de Cabo
making it out of Lencois alive
clubbing till 6 AM in Rio
swimming in the rain in Salvador
lingering restaurants (table-turning doesn’t exist)
Azul airlines’ (Jetblue’s sister company) unlimited snacks (far cry from JetBlue practices)
the hospitable, warm, gregarious people
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