Psychedelic South America Psychosis

Thank you

2005-01-09T19:17:00.000-08:00

Thank you to everyone that made this possible: My family, my friends, my work, and me. Thank you to everyone that kept me company when I was lonely. Thank you to everyone that kept me sane when I was crazy. Thank you Patrick Christmas for being my best friend. Thank you all.

Thank you, reader, for following along. The final pictures are up. Patrick resorted them and made the interface prettier.
South America - Root of it all
Bariloche - Final Pictures
Mendoza - Wine Country
Buenos Aires - End of Days
Igazu Falls - Beware of the coatis

Patrick also included shots of San Martin and Villa Gesell, both of which I did not visit, but the pictures are great.

If you would like to relive the adventure from a different point of view, please visit Patrick's blog.

Wrap up, Odds and Ends

2005-01-08T19:47:00.000-08:00

Final Gin Score (after the recount) : Drew 4786 Patrick 4758
Number of officially recorded games: Thirty-seven
Postcards sent to Hollie (my niece) : Thirty-two
Steaks eaten in Argentina: 30 lbs
Weight lost in Peru: 15lbs
Weight found in Argentia: 15lbs
Number of movies watched: Countless
Number of books read: One - Travels in a Thin Country
Amount of Spanish Learned: Enough
Memories made: Countless

How it feels to be back? Mixed feelings.

Travelling details:
Plane - D.C. to Dallas = 1,300 Miles
Plane - Dallas to Lima = 3,363 Miles
Plane - Lima to Cusco = 2,50 Miles
Plane - Cusco to Puerto Maldonado = 403 Miles
Plane - Puerto Maldonado to Cusco = 403 Miles
Plane - Buenos Aires Dallas = 5,280 Miles
Plane - Dallas to D.C. = 1,300 Miles
Total = 12,299 Frequent Flier Miles

Bus Estimated Milage - 6,000 Miles
Bus - Cusco to Inca Trail = 2 hrs
Bus - Bus Train drop-off to Cusco = 2 hrs
Bus - Cusco to Puno = 11 hrs
Bus - Puno to Arequipa = 6 hrs
Bus - Arequipa to Tacna = 7 hrs
Bus - Airca to Iquique = 4 hrs
Bus - Iquique to Calama = 7hrs
Bus - Calama to San Pedro de Atacama = 1.5 hrs
Bus - San Pedro de Atacama to Calama = 1.5 hrs
Bus - Calma to Santiago = 20 hours (ouch)
Bus - Santiago to Pucon = 11 hours
Bus - Pucon to Puerto Montt = 7 hrs
Bus - Puerto Montt to Puerto Natales = 36 hrs (oh, my back!)
Bus - Puerto Montt to Bariloche = 7hr
Bus - Barlioche to Mendoza = 19 hrs (I know kung-fu.)
Bus - Mendoza to Buenos Aires = 14 hrs
Bus - Buenos Aires to Igauzu = 18 hrs (It felt longer.)
Bus - Igauzu to Buenos Aires = 18 hrs (Insert JD comment here)
Bus - Buenos Aires to Mar del Plata = 5.5 hrs
Bus - Mar del Plata to Buenos Aires = 5.5 hrs
Total hourage = 203 hours (or 8.5 days if you prefer)

Train - Aguas Caliente to Cusco = 4 hours

Colectivo - Tacna to Arica = 1 hr

Boat - Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt = 500 miles

Horse - The Inca Ruins around Cusco = A sore ass's worth

Hitchhiking - Patrick's ride from the Falls in Pucon = 30 minutes

Treking - Inca Trail = 20 miles
Treking - Torres del Paine = 18 miles

Daily walking? Patrick and I estimate that we probably walked about four hours a day on average.
90 days 4 hours 60 minutes 1 mile
-------- x ------- x --------- x ----------- = 1,440 miles
1 trip 1 day 1 hour 15 minutes

What beds are books?

2004-12-26T14:18:00.000-08:00

Here is just a quick note on some of the mis-statements that I am aware of.

Patrick enters a room and says, "What beds are books?"

Drew is desparate for money and asks the lady, "Can you exchange travelers cards?"

Drew asks a bus driver, "Do you go to Whore Arenas?"

Situation - Drew sits alone in the cafe "reading" a Spanish newspaper. Old woman approaches with her friend and says to her friend, "I wonder where the counter person is." She turns to Drew and says, "Are you a customer, or do you work here?"

Drew flashes a big toothy grin and replies, "Oh, I work here." Drew goes back to reading the newspaper.

With typical old-woman demanding fashion, she proceeds to insist on some service, "Well, get up here and give me something to eat."

Drew looks up and says, "I am having a coffee and a waffle with some cheese and ham."

She gave me a new look. Most people, when I talk to them, give me a look of, "I have no idea what you are saying." My new conversation partner looked at me with mixed anger and confusion, looked at her friend, muttered, and left. Job well done I should say.
------- -------
Waitress: "Your total comes to $6.20"
Drew: "Here's $7"
Waitress brings Drew eighty cents in change.
Drew: "Hey Waitress, you shorted me $1"
Waitress: "No, $6.20 plus eighty cents is...$7"
Drew: "That's right, thank you."

Suggestions for Americas

2004-12-02T16:16:00.000-08:00

South America, you should:

Put TP in the bano
Put frickin lids on your toliets. I don't want my ass touching the bowl. Nasty!
Put some guard rails up on the side of roads that fall off into canyons.
Don't nickel and dime me.
Don't charge me for the bathroom
Don't charge me a "departure tax"
Don't let kids bother me while I am eating.

America, you should:

Slow down, relax.
Take a nap.
Give me a glass of water with my coffee so I can wash that nasty taste out.
Put plazas everywhere.
Dance more.
Get empanadas.
Enjoy your life

The End

2004-12-01T19:08:00.000-08:00

My final view of Patrick was way back in an Airport security line at the Dallas Forth Worth Airport. We had hugged and said our goodbyes earlier as I was trying to catch a plane I was destined to miss.

I missed my flight. I flew to an alternate airport in D.C. I rode the metro to a bus. I rode the bus (Spanish speaking) to my work suburb. I fixed a flat for a woman. I retrieved my car from work and snuck to the airport because all of the tags had expired and the insurance had lapsed. At the airport, I was informed that my bag had not arrived. I came home. I petted the cat. I slept. I set off a car alarm. I ate fast-food. I thought about things that were now important to me. I knew that my life had changed.

Where to go now.......with my life......

Final Time

2004-11-30T18:59:00.000-08:00

I found Patrick, alive, at his hostel. We sat on the street and ate empanadas while drinking a bottle of water. A man approached me and requested a drink. "Of course!" I said. He thanked us and continued on.

The airport was weird. A number of American tourists were there, fat, middle-aged, big sunglasses and frilly hats tourists. They looked rich. We looked poor. They looked clean. I had not bathed in three days. They were loud. We were not.

At an airport restaurant, I tallied up our Gin games. We played almost everyday we wer together. After a rough start, I managed to barely eek out a victory. Patrick owes me twenty-eight cents, which he did not have on him at the time. We scraped together our last few pesos and bought our final Argentina steaks. It was a solemn occassion.

End of Days

2004-11-29T18:22:00.000-08:00

Patrick and I reunited to in Buenos Aires to finish off the final items on the scavenger hunt list, eat a few last meals together, and prepare for the journey home. The items remaining were as follows:

1) Take a picture that looks just like a postcard.
2) Visit the tomb of a conquistador.
3) Drink copious amounts of chicha with a guy named Pablo.
4) Smoke five different cigars.
5) Find a new way to smoke.

The postcard one was easy. We got a picture of a corner in an famous old neighborhood of Boca. I had two postcards, one with a tango dancing pair, and one of the corner alone. As expected, there was a pair of people dancing the tango by the corner. Patrick gave me two pesos to ask the lady if she would pose with me. When she demanded five pesos, I nearly choked with laughter. Although I was a gringo, I had been here for a while and knew that five pesos was outrageous. Thus, we ended up with a picture of the corner all by its lonesome.

Visiting the tomb of a conquistador was an impossible task. We searched all over the net for such a tomb. We searched all over South America. We asked many people to which most of them gave us a suspicious look as though we wanted to collect a conquistador. After discussion with the author, Paul Winkeler, it was decided that visiting the tomb of Evita would suffice. We found the tomb among a small city of dead people. The small streets were lined with small houses labeled with the names of the dead and their accompanying family members. Evita's tomb was conservative and respectable. It was easy to find. We just followed the people. Check.

The final task was definitely botched from the beginning. Chicha is a corn-based nasty, god-awful liquor, found only in Peru and Bolivia. Seeing as how we were no longer in Peru, this task was brought before the high-council (Paul Winkeler) for discussion. Paul agreed to let us drink a nasty liquor with a Pablo. Fair enough. Check?

We were having trouble finding a Pablo. So, while in the small city of tombs, besides searching for Evita, we also kept an eye out for a dead Pablo. Upon finding Pablo, I removed the flash of scotch from my pocket. "To Pablo!" I proclaimed and threw back a spicy mouthful. Patrick took the flask, held it into the air and proclaimed, "To Pablo!" and drank. To seal the deal, we also gave some to Pablo. Here's to you buddy. Check?

From there, we proceeded to a nice park where we noticed some hippies drinking wine. That seemed like a good idea and we bought one as well. The hippies helped us open our bottle for a nominal fee of passing the bottle around. They, in turn, also paid tribute to our company by letting us drink some of their wine. We had smoked two cigars in Cusco (same labels). We had smoked two cigars at Machu Picchu (different labels). Out came the final two. After a good bit of chewing we fired them up. Check.

Somehow, I was in charge of finding a new way to smoke. I ended up with two cigars in my nose and some awful coughing and gagging fits. (See Pictures). Check.

Out came the scotch. I offered our closest hippie a swig. He threw back a huge gulp of it and commented on how strong it was. Then, I handed him the cigar. Based upon the huge lung-ful he dragged in, I am not sure if he was accustomed to smoking cigars. He asked, " Are you supposed to take it into mouth only?"

The drink with dead Pablo was only our backup plan if we could not find a live Pablo. However, this final night, we had arranged to meet a live Pablo at the Milhouse Hostel. To our amazement, he was there. Milhouse Hostel was having its four-year anniversary party. Pablo was an ex-employee but still a good friend of everyone there. We brought along a bottle of the local nasty liquor, the one that even the locals make nasty faces at when you mention it. The name of it currently escapes me so you'll have to ask Patrick about it. I want to say Franicello.

At first, Pablo was completely against the idea of drinking with us. We explained to him that this was possibly the only task that stood between us and a steak dinner. Pablo acquiesced by saying, "Ok, I'll just have one."

Pablo background: Studying medicine. He's from South Africa. He's Mom is Argentinean. Argentinean's get free college education.

Here are the events. Patrick's face is painted. Pablo's face is painted. My face is Painted. Everyone is dancing. I am speaking with an English accent. I am speaking with an Australian accent. This person does not have any idea where I am from. I am speaking with a Canadian accent. Patrick's gone. Pablo's gone. A fat chick is hitting on me. I am walking through the streets. Patrick is in his bed (alive). I am walking through the streets. I am sleeping dreaming of a Steak Dinner with my two good buddies Patrick and Paulie.

Sunrise of the Atlantic Ocean

2004-11-26T13:32:00.000-08:00

The gorgeous sunsets on the Pacific ocean needed to be complemented by a sunrise on the Atlantic Ocean. To fulfill this small order, I headed down to Mar del Plata, a nearby beach resort where middle-class Argentineans vacation.

Upon arrival in the city, the search for a hostel began. I exhausted every entry in my guide with no luck. In the end, I was forced to stay at a hotel for thirty pesos a night ($10US). However, I did have my own room, a TV, a bar of soap, and a towel. High-class livin' here I come!

My guide-book suggested a street southwest of the plaza for bars buzzing with action. After determining that I was not a drunkin' sailor, they buzzed me in and asked what I would like to drink - Vodka on ice. The bartender grabbed a big tall glass and filled it with ice. He grabbed a bottle of Absolute seeing as they were lacking Stoli. He proceeded to pour, and pour, and pour. You see, in South America, a single order of alcohol is the same as a double order in the States. He filled the glass with a friendly 8, 9, 10 count of Vodka.

I sat there sipping my Vodka and eyeing the stylish outfits of the French girls to my right. True to stereotype, these two girls were sporting the most hip, most fashion-forward, most outlandish outfits I had ever seen. Although the two of them were not terribly attractive, their clothing made up for any minor flaws.

I sipped some more vodka.

I watched the game and listened to the exchange of French.

I sipped some more vodka.

I watched the game and began to ponder the possibility that I too, might be able to speak French.

I sipped some more vodka.

Sip, sip, sip.

My glass was empty and I decided that I should go home if I was actually planning on seeing the sunrise in the morning. The good bartender approached me with the check. Any guesses? Four pesos. Let me say that again for those of you who are speed reading. FOUR PESOS. That is $1.33US. For the same drink in the States, in Austin, Texas, three years ago, I paid a pretty $15US. Wow. I love this country. I love my country. I love exchange rates.

Vodka for everybody!

Vodka bathes and vodka contact drops.

Just a second, I'm brushing my teeth with vodka.

Ooo, that's a nasty rash. You should rub some vodka on that.

Hey man, my car is overheating. Do you have any vodka I could put in the radiator?

Sir, we have run out of blood supply. For this transfusion, we are going to use vodka.

I did see the sunrise, though. At 5:00AM, I strolled down to the beach while the Argentineans were exiting the clubs and walking home. Ten miles from the bay, a thin fog rested up the water waiting to be shattered by the sun. A red spotlight cut through the fog and across the water. Poseidon pushed and heaved Apollo slowly into the sky. The vail of mist allowed me to look directly at the new sun and the new day. My time here would be ending soon.

Buenos Aires - Fútbol, Fútbol Americano, Fútbol Australiano

2004-11-24T19:57:00.000-08:00

When in Buenos Aires, do as the Buenos Aireans do: Go to a soccer game!

Our hostel invited every Gringo to buy their exorbitantly priced tickets and come to the game with them. Being a good Gringo, I partook in their generous offer, handed over my life savings and joined the crowd.

We boarded a beater of a bus. This thing was smokin' out the back, creakin' in the front, and shakin' all over. It was filled to the brim with Gringos anxiously a real life South American soccer game. The stadium loomed in the distance. Our bus now kept at a safe two miles-per-hour as traffic became thick. There was a crunch and an intense scraping noise as our bus passed several parked cars. In five different languages, I heard "What was that?" Everyone leapt across to the left side of the bus to investigate. The bus had just ripped the bumpers off the cars of three tailgaters. Our driver explained that he was very sorry and that he would be back. He then returned to the bus and we continued on.

Tonight, our matchup was Boca, the local college team, versus International, a Brazilian team. Boca had a large home advantage judging from the sea of blue around the stadium. Not to be outdone, International did manage to attract one section of followers dressed all in red. Screams, cheers, chants, and drum beats flowed from the stadium as the soccer teams exited from the Pepsi tubes and onto the field. To help with the excitement, the Boca cheerleaders pranced around in their thongs. "It's freedom baby, yeah!"

The first blood was drawn by International as they slipped a ball just under the nose of Boca's goalie. There was no crying, no booing, no hissing and no whistling. The little red section cheered while the rest of the crowd acted like it did not happen. Now, keep in mind that there is no visible time-clock, there are no scoreboards, and there are no instant replays. Therefore, the logic is that by acting like the goal did not happen, maybe it will be forgotten.

The first half ended with only the "imagined" International goal quickly fading from the memories of all Argentines. During the half-time, those thong wearing cheerleaders must have done something to pep our boys up. They came out on fire. Five minutes into the second half, they scored and the crowd turned into a waterfall. Everyone rushed forwarded to the plexiglass barrier, surrounding the field and banged on it while screaming. Argentinean flags vigorously danced in the air. Fireworks and flares shot out of the crowd and into the night sky.

International began to work the ball back down towards the Boca goal keeper. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flaming stick come arcing out of the audience and to the feet of the International Goal Keeper who was now standing all alone. The firework exploded and he fell down. Play stopped and the medical teams rushed the field. Boca's fans whistled; whistling is the equivalent of jeering. After enough drama passed, the goal keeper arose and played on. But, the firework must have rattled him as Boca slammed three more goals in.

With only two minutes left, International scored one more goal making the final score 4:2 Boca. According to the English bloke sitting next to me, this was the equivalent of a tie because, being on home terf, Boca should double their score.

Not too bad for a first soccer game. We won. Nobody died.

Tango me this...

2004-11-22T08:17:00.000-08:00

Upon returning to Buenos Aires, Patrick went to the beach and I enrolled in Tango class at La Escuela Argentina de Tango. Each day, I get up. I eat breakfast. I hit the Internet for a bit. Then, I walk the twenty blocks to my 12:30PM tango class. At 2:00PM, I find food and wine. By 4:00PM, I head back for my next class. After another hour-and-a-half of the tango, I walk the twenty blocks back to my hostel for a welcomed afternoon siesta.

The only shoes I brought for the trip are my hiking boots, weighing in at ten pounds a piece, and my sandals, which do not slide at all. Each person enters the class carrying a backpack filled with two items, water and dancing shoes. While the women are stepping into their high-heels, and the men are sliding on their swank sliders, I remove my sandals and replace them with a pair of soiled white socks. Each partner that I get looks down in horror as their pointy heels face of against my sock covered toes. "Be careful when yer kickin', woman!"

My favorite teacher is an old man with grey hair, an evil smile and permanently arched eyebrows that always make him look intensely angry. His method of teaching involves pulling a woman from the crowd, performing a fifty-step move, and commenting, "See, it's easy. Now you!" One day, two fifty-year-old women from Los Angeles came to try tango with their four left feet. "Sir, can you help them?" Mr. Mad Scientist then mimed a choking motion and a scruff-of-the-neck and loop-of-the-belt (hut-hut) toss out the window.

In class, there are people from all over the world except Canada and India; Chinese, Australians, South Africans, Russians, Scandinavians, Europeans, and Americans (this guy). Tachiana, a woman from Norway, came to Buenos Aires just for Tango. After class, we went and had a coffee and a chat. During our two-hour coffee, she kept ranting about Milongas. I had heard and seen that word. Back at the hostel, I had asked "What is a Milonga?" to which I was given the answer "It's a Tango thing." Tachiana had the English to explain it to me. A Milonga is a Tango party, almost a secret society type thing. Every night, all over the world, there are Milongas, places where people go to dance the tango. She had a secret list of Milongas in the area where you can dance Tango until 4AM all days of the week including Sunday.

Tango is a fire that is growing. In Buenos Aires, the Tango Capitol of the world, you can go to any number of restaurants and watch a tango show. In the streets, you can always find a tango show being performed. Tango is being taught in the schools here. In Australia, there are dance clubs that have the tango. The Milongas are everywhere. Go find a partner. Go tango. It is an amazing and beautiful and dramatic dance full of passion and lust. When I marry an Argentinean beauty, we can all tango at my wedding.

Thanksgiving in Spanish

2004-11-21T06:24:00.000-08:00

(Actual Date of Post: November 25th, 2004)

I may not know mucho Spanisho, but I do know this: Thanksgiving does not translate. There is no turkey here, there is no special stuffing, there is no apple pie, and there is not an Aggie football game playing on the tele. This year, I will be missing Thanksgiving emotionally and physically.

Consecutively, for twenty-five years, I have ritually celebrated this grand American tradition without missing a meal or a chance to talk with my family. However, this year, you will celebrate without me. Therefore, it is your duty, to eat more this year, love your family more this year, and cheer harder for the Aggies this year.

I love you guys. I am thankful for my friends and family. I am thankful for all of the love that has always been showered upon me. I am thankful for my freedom.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Love,
Drew Larson

PAUSE Buenos Aires, PLAY Iguazu Falls

2004-11-15T14:48:00.000-08:00

Bloggin' it to the next level! Let's kick it up a notch!

Where?
Iguazu Falls is on the border of Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay

What?
2.5 miles long, 275 individual cascades, maximum eighty meter plummet.

Who?
These guys! (Four thumbs, pointing at selves)

When?
South American Adventure Tour

Why?
Cause I like riding barrels over things.

PG movies, night bus, zombie walk, hostel, sleep oh sweet sleep.

...Riding a bus to the Brazilian side of the falls...

Because of our guides, we were under the impression that we would not be needing our passports to cross the border.

...Riding a bus back to our hostel...

..Getting passports...

...Riding a bus to the Brazilian side of the falls, again...

When we crossed into Brazil, I expected to see two things: crime and bikinis. To my disappointment, there I found neither. Everything looked the same except for one major difference. I could not read anything. I could not understand anyone. Portuguese was the new language of choice.

And now, a rant...
"Yeah, good choice on that one you guys. So, let me get this right - On the entire continent of South America, everyone speaks the Spanish but you guys. I speak the Spanish (sort of), Patrick speaks the Spanish, Pedro and Pablo speak the Spanish. But you guys, you Brazilians think you can get along just fine speaking the Portuguese. Well, I have something to tell you. The only other people in the ENTIRE world that speak Portuguese live in Portugal. And Portugal is on the other side of the ocean! Wake up cappy! Here's a Spanish book. Hop to it! Hut hut hut!"

And now, for another gotcha...
At the bus station, a police officer managed to inform us that the falls were closed. "What time do they close?" "5:00PM." My watch read 4PM. He smiled and informed us of the time change when you cross the border. Good job on that one Lonely Planet. So, instead of seeing the Brazilian side of Iguazu Falls, we got some cokes and enjoyed sitting in Brazil for the afternoon. Besides, I heard the Brazilian side is not nearly as impressive as the Argentinean side.

The next day, we went to the Iguazu National Park to see the Argentinean side of the falls. As we entered the park, a roar could be heard in the distance. A cute, little train conveyed us to our first destination, Garganta del Diablo (Throat of the Devil). Between the lookout point and the train station was a pathway built upon the water. To the right, the water continued for miles and miles. To the left, it seemed to disappear about a 1000ft out. We were on top of the falls and there were signs everywhere that indicated swimming was not a good idea.

With each step, the roar increased in intensity. In the distance, a spray was spewing up into the air. Louder and louder it grew and I began to wonder if the deafening roar could get any louder. And then, there it was; a semi-circular drop-off eating millions of gallons of water. The water flowed, separated, and exploded in a beautiful display natures beauty. Within the spray an entire rainbow withstood the water rushing through it. Looking down and seeing a rainbow is an unusual experience. Also, birds kept flying directly into the smaller waterfalls surround mammoth. Apparently, a safe place for a nest is beneath a waterfall. Walking back along the path, Patrick noted that, "Not many things are named after God."

Top View of Garganta Diablo
Our view of Garganta Diablo

From there, we did the lower and upper tours of the falls. Both walking paths contained extraordinary views of the miles of water falls. The lower path allowed tourist to experience the refreshingly cool waters of some falls. After those very "rough" walks, we ate at our first Tenedor Libre (Free Fork-Buffet), and slept under the jungle sun.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes another "rough" couple of days in South America.

P.S. And, I responded to all of your comments.

Buenos Aires - Creamfields!

2004-11-13T19:47:00.000-08:00

And, I dedicate this post to my good buddy Dolph.

The moment I stepped into the hostel, I could tell there was a buzz in the air. My guide said that this was a "modern" hostel with 100+ beds, but they were booked solid. "Everyone is here for Creamfields. Do you have your tickets for Creamfields? You have to go to Creamfields. Creamfields is amazing." "Creamfields? Is that a donut show? Or a cookie show?" Mel laughed and brought me up-to-date. Creamfields is an electronica festival they have once a year in Buenos Aires. Last year, 30,000 people attended. However this time, they would be prepared to handle 40,000+ people.

After exchanging emails, it became apparent that the Creamfields buzz had reached Patrick in Mendoza. He heard that Paul Oakenfold was going to be there along with Groove Armada. Paul Oakenfold is one of the best DJs in the entire world. With him in the limelight, this should prove to be an amazing show.

The venue of choice was on the river. All in total, there were eight stages manned by 100+ DJs. The show started at 3:00PM on Saturday and ended at 8:00AM Sunday. Patrick and I, not wanting to get techno'ed out, lazily passed the afternoon watching a soccer game, walking
around, and playing cards. We showed up at 10:00PM and entered a sea of chaos. There were people everywhere. There were lights everywhere. There was music everywhere.

At 11:00PM, the Groove Armada crew came out on stage. "This is the house that funk built. Groove Armada style. Coz I want you to hear me you wanna hear myself. I see you baby, shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass, shakin' that ass." The skies opened, the rain came, and the crowd erupted with the beat. Endless pulsing mayhem ensued. Lasers flashed across the crowd. A huge animated techno guy danced on the screen. The crowd screamed and raved.

Paul Oakenfold followed the Groove. He mixed the entire time. It must be amazing to be one man, alone, and control a crowd of 40,000+
people, making them dance, making them jump, making them scream.

What did all of it sound like? Well, that can be summed up by my good buddy Strong Bad.

For more information, visit the Creamfields website.

Escaping Mendoza - Entering the Tango Capitol

2004-11-12T08:43:00.000-08:00

An Argentinean man, on my bus, picked me out at a Gringo. He had been trying to catch my eye for the past hour. I could feel him staring at me, watching me, waiting patiently. Finally, he could not take it any more and he spouted out in perfect English, "Where are you from?" I turned my head, looked him straight in the eyes and said, "Los Estados Unidos." He paused and said, "Where?" I repeated my statement to which he responded, "So, let me get this right mate, I speak to you in English, and you respond in Spanish." "Si."

My new traveling buddy was an Argentine by birth, but Australian by choice. He moved away from this great country when he was nineteen and had been residing in Australia for the past thirty years. During that time, he had adopted a hearty Australian accent, a taste for Kangaroo, and a love for the Aussies themselves. Diego hopped on up and sat down with me. He would be my conversation and entertainment for the next nineteen hours.

The topics ranged from his ex-Italian wife, to Australian rules football, to soccer, and to Roo' Shootin'. But, things got interesting when I asked about Tango. His eyes lit up and his mouth smiled a big knowing grin. Diego began to tell me about the Tango. Here is what I learned:

The Tango starts with the man stepping back one step. It is the only dance where the man takes a step back first. At this point, he stops letting the woman push him around. He has had enough. From here, the woman will always be stepping back while the man steps forward. This is the essence of the Tango, the machismo, the drama, the allure.

The Uruguayans claim to have invented the Tango. Diego's voice growled with mixed angry and disgust at this thought. "They are nothing but Thieves and Copycats. Any notion of should be dismissed. Anyone who thinks that is an idiot and should be dismissed. Uruguay has nothing and will always have nothing." He only stopped his tirade when a sleepy woman, in the back of the bus, ssh'ed him

For years, the Tango was restricted to a few instruments: a flute, a guitar, a violin, a clarinet and a piano. As the story goes, a German Sailor came to Buenos Aires and exchanged his instrument for a few drinks. That instrument was the accordion-like bandoneon. But, this is not an accordion and should not be dismissed as such. It has the power to make men cry. It can sound like a choir of voices. From this bar, the bandoneon traveled throughout Buenos Aires and became the backbone, the heart, and the soul that gives modern Tango emotion.

Diego's eyes glowed a fiery red in the lights of passing cars. He took another deep breath and began again.

The Carlos Gardel did for Tango what Elvis Presley did for Rock and Roll. He brought Tango out of the dark alleys and underground bars and into the limelight. He is a hero for all of Argentina and a national symbol of pride and success. As a boy, he grew up backstage at an Opera house. That influenced him in his career. He thought that the best singers in the world were Opera singers. He could hold a note forever. He could sing loud enough to be heard in the Patagonia, or quite enough to leave a mouse sleeping.

Again, Diego noted that the Uruguayans claimed Carlos Gardel as their own. Again, Diego growled at the notion. Again, a sleeping old woman in the back of the bus ssh'ed him.

Diego's stop was nearing and it was time to wrap things up. He commanded me to listen to Carlos Gardel. He commanded me to spread my knowledge of the Tango and dispel Uruguayan rumors. He commanded me to come to Australia someday as it is a beautiful place. And, I left Diego knowing that I would be entering a new world in Buenos Aires.

Photos anyone?

2004-11-11T07:04:00.000-08:00

The pictures have been updated. Here are the new directories:

Pucón - Chillean lake region and volcano climb.
Punta Arenas & Puerto Natales - Patagonia cities.
Torres del Paine - Hiking in Patagonia, gorgeous National treasure.
Navimag - Boat ride back to Chillean lake region.
Bariloche - More to come.

Here is the main directory again:

South American Pictures

Here are the maps of where we are and where we've been:

...and time passed...in Mendoza

2004-11-05T13:36:00.000-08:00

"Goodbye Patrick. Hello wine district."

The wine capital of Argentina is Mendoza. My newest city was beautiful; nice wide streets, nice big green plaza, nice restaurants, nice people. An earthquake, years ago, leveled the city. That incident turned out to be a good thing. It allowed the people to construct the city the way they wanted to. Therefore, in essence, this is a planned community. I could stay here for a weeks, months, years, the rest of my life.

Recently, their wine has been achieving world recognition. Here, I began to learn why everyone was so happy. At lunch, I would order a glass of wine, with my steak. Inevitably, the waiter would say, "I'm sorry sir, but we only have bottles."

How much is a bottle? $3US? Wine for everybody! Wine in my cereal. Wine at the club. Wine in the movie theatre. Wine to wash my mouth out after brushing my teeth. This recipe asks for 2 cups of water? Oh, just use some wine.

I spent days going to the plaza, eating an amazing steak, drinking a nice bottle of wine, eating ice cream and tanning in the plaza. One variation was the forth day. In the plaza, a woman was giving away puppies and kittens. She had them all in big laundry baskets. I sat with her and enjoyed the company of these precious animals for hours. People would come up and pass the puppies and kittens around while ooh'ing and ¡Que lindo!'ing and ¡Que bonito!'ing. A group of American girls approach and I kept my mouth shut while I watched them struggle with worse Spanish then mine. "To touch? To Touch?" one asked me. I just giggled and handed her a puppy. "Cost? Cost?" she asked me. I pointed to the woman in charge of the operation. Although the puppies and kittens were free, our girls moved on without choosing one, as did I.

Sundays in Mendoza are pleasant. At night, after church, everyone comes to the plaza. There are street performs, artisans, and clowns. The best show was two clowns, a loony one and a gruff one. Even with the language barrier, I laughed and guffawed with the rest of the crowd. I want to be a clown now.

My bastard friend finally showed up and ruined my endless downward spirally cycle of wining and dining. Patrick was disappointed that I had not made it out to the vineyards. The weather had been great until he arrived. Today, it was nasty. Instead of going to the vineyards, Patrick had the genius idea of bringing them to us. We went to the market and purchased seven bottles of wine, a box of crackers, and some cheese - Total: $7US. The cheapest wine in the group was fifty-six cents US. (Hey Dad, how's that for a cheap wine?)

Back at the hostel, we invited everyone to join us in the wine tasting. As those bottles became empty, others appeared. People brought salami, more crackers, more cheese, and more wine. We drank wine for the entire afternoon, and on into the evening.

The next morning, I knew that Patrick was not going to help me escape from here. If anything, he would only hinder my progress. These people, my new "friends", were not helping. The hostel staff was not helping. Only one person could save me - "This guy." I purchased a bus ticket, for the next day, to ensure my grand exit. I spent a day sobering up. For lunch, I only had a steak. For dinner, I only had a steak. In the evening, I only drank water. Tomorrow, I would be escaping the wine district.

...and...time passed...in Bariloche

2004-11-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

Directly after exiting the boat, Patrick and I hopped a bus in Argentina. The bus stopped at the border of Chile and everyone got off to be shuffled through border patrol. Thirty miles later, the bus stopped again to be shuffled through the Argentinean border patrol. If you lose your passport between Argentina and Chile, where are you? What happens to you? Are you suddenly trapped like Tom Hanks in "Terminal?"

Argentina and Chile are kissing cousins. However, Chile is the richer snobbier cousin. Chile will charge you more to stay at his house, eat his food, and buy his clothes. He eats things from the sea and does not understand how to cook a good cow. Argentina is that poor country cousin. He gets the ladies because he is better looking than Chile. Argentina is a macho man that dances the Tango. He'll grab your wife's ass and stick his tongue in her mouth. He likes his music, he likes his soccer, he likes his steaks, and he loves his country.

Our first stop was Bariloche, a beautiful town that serves as a jumping point for skiing, hiking, rafting, and relaxing. The ski season was over. The rafting was just getting started. I was hiked out and the four days on the boat was "very" rough. We opted for the relaxing side of Bariloche.

How much is your steak? $3US?!?!? Steaks for everybody! Steaks for breakfast. Steaks for lunch. Steaks for dinner. Steak hats, steak shirts, steak shoes. Wow Joe, nice steak suit! Steaks to mail back home attached to postcards. Steak pillows in my steak bed. Hey, hold on just a minute, I'm eating a steak here in the bathroom.

(and now, for something completely different)

From the time we landed in Peru, until now, everyone we met had one question on their mind, "Who are you voting for?" Chileans in back alleys, street jugglers, people from England to Australia, from Scandinavia to South Africa, all had their eyes focused on the United States. I stayed up, with the rest of America, and watched the elections until 4AM at which point the democrats, on CNN, decided that Bush "had it in the bag." That was good enough for me.

The next morning, there was a new question on everyone's lips, "Who did you vote for?" How much do you, you personally, know about the elections of other countries. Do you know when they are? Do you know who is running? Do you care? Even my friends, who are in the know, who are pundits, who are interested and watching this stuff, even they do not follow other elections this closely. Everyone had watched and everyone continues to watch.

What time is it? It's half past steak according to my steak.

Goodbye Chile aboard the Ferrry Magallanes

2004-10-31T06:02:00.000-08:00

Necessary supplies for our boat trip: Four boxes on wine, and sea sickness pills (for Patrick, of course).

Thursday afternoon, our boat arrived into the port of Puerto Natales. Patrick and I checked in at the ticket counter and talked the universal language with the agent there. He asked us where we wanted to be placed in the dorms. With a dumbfounded look from both of us, he volunteered to place us next to two women. I asked if they were cute to which he responded, "They are two-pisco women, that is, drink two piscos and they'll be pretty."

I've seen commercials and pictures of cruise ships; people are playing shuffle board, people are eating amazing foods from endless buffets, there is gambling, there are Disney characters dancing around, there are people hanging off the front of the boat and screaming, "I'm king of the world!" Our boat was (almost) none of the above. The Ferry Magallanes is a combination ferry and passenger boat. It is not clear if it was ever meant for the purpose of carrying people further than across lakes. Regardless, its current orders were to navigate the channels of Chile carrying Gringos, cows, and truckers. The passengers are limited to the top three floors. From the bottom and upwards are the following: dorms, a cafeteria and the first-class rooms, and a finally a bar complete with a helicopter pad. On each floor, you can exit the protective shelter of the cabins and venture out around the railing (no running please). The front of the boat would be bringing us spectacular views while the back of the boat, on a platform lower than the dorms, contained several semi-trucks, some of them carrying cows (moo).

Navimag (Navigate the Magallanes) is obviously a company that caters to a large portion of the gringo Population. They have a website in English (proudly displayed on the side of the boat). Their people all speak English (prior to the boat). Our host for the trip spoke fluent English. The movies are in English. The signs, around the boat, are in English: bar upstairs, exit, water-closet, no swimming, no running. Check it out: Gringo Trap The web site does an excellent job of showing our trip (North Bound from Puerto Natales to Puerto Montt), the boat, and the sites.

Thursday night, I crawled into a rather nice cubby-hole style bed. In the morning, Puerto Natales was gone. It is a weird feeling to go to sleep in a place that feels like a hotel, and awake in the morning to discover that you are on a moving platform. I made my way to the front of the boat and, with the wind in my face, I jumped up on the railing, spread my arms wide, and screamed, "I'm king of the world!"

Every morning, our host laid out the activities for the day. The activities included sites along the way, documentaries, information sessions, Chilean slang, eating, bingo, and American movies. When not enjoying an activity, you were encouraged to sit in the bar, drink, play chess, talk loudly with your Chilean friends during the movies, or watch the passing islands.

Our first point of interest was a very narrow channel. The boat is twenty-one meters across. The channel we would be passing through was a mere eighty meters, narrow and dangerous according to the captain. "Full steam ahead!" The boat was definitely cruising at top speed as the captain and crew demonstrated their skill for our entertainment.

"We are now at the glacier," came the announcement over the intercom. There was a rumor that we would be seeing glaciers on this trip. A massive wall of ice, cupped nicely between two hills, and meeting up with the water sat smiling in front of the boat. Our boat kept its distance from the ominous beast. The large chunks of ice in the water and the creaking and moaning were obvious signs that the glacier was not asleep, but rather slow moving like all giants. In the greyish sunlight of the Patagonia, this menacing and beautiful creature shimmered a cool bluish white. Here is a picture of the glacier and the boat.

One fine morning, we arrived in Puerto Eden, a quaint town with no roads. A recent census pegged Puerto Eden at 164 Chileans, four of which were on our boat. For those geeks who have played Myst, it reminds me of the islands in that game. The only means for getting around the island is a wooden plank walkway that goes all along the shore. Three plankways diverge and meet at the top point of the island which provides a nice lookout. Thousands of other small islands could have been a choice for a colony, but this one was chosen because it is surrounded by large mountains on all sides that create a pleasing panorama of snow capped peaks, islands, and calm waters. One of the main sources of income for Puerto Eden must be the Ferry Magallanes. We were deployed to the island and encouraged to purchase trinkets.

The highlight of the third day would be to finally exit from the calm waters of the channels and enter the open water of the gulf. Our host came over the intercom, "This afternoon, we will be going into open water. You should take sea sickness pills now. You should not drink alcohol." And Drew sayeth to the intercom, "Sea sickness is a bunch of crap. It's all in your head. I yain't takin' no sea sickness pills. Pass me the wine." Patrick happily took his medicine and waited for me to get sick.

Three hours later, the boat began to sway to and fro. The only annoying thing was being forced to hold onto my drink to keep it from tipping over. One by one, the old people, and the weak, scurried off to their beds even though it was only 4PM. At dinner, our steady population of eighty-five attendees had been cut in half. Most people were too sick to eat. "More for me!" sayeth the Drew as he downed another porkchop. I never did get sick. So, that proves it eh? Sea sickness is just in your head. Don't believe what anyone else tells you.

Halloween was fantastic and unique. It is likely that I will never experience Halloween on a boat again. The last night, after dinner, I snuck downstairs, put on the mask, changed my clothes, got out the candy, and put on the sunglasses. A new beast was born. Its first agenda item - Scare a poor Chilean woman. It found her digging in a purse for some mints. RRARARRRRUOGOAUGOAUGOUOUOOUOUOUAOUG!!! She was last seen swimming for shore.

The ghouls and goblins did what all good scary things do: played bingo and danced salsa. The costume that took the prize was a pair of Chilean women dressed as a Peruvian couple; one had the classic Peruvian dress and the other one had a sly mustache. My personal favorite was the Chilean couple dressed like Gringos: he had a map and a suitcase, she had a big hat, huge purse, high heels, lots of lipstick, and a sexy saunter.

In the morning, I discovered our boat was not moving. We had reached Puerto Montt. The cows were gone. The trucks were gone. The truckers were gone. It was our turn. The overcast sky and drizzly rain added to the moment. We were leaving the Torres. We were leaving the Patagonia. We were leaving the volcano. We were leaving Lalo Bravo. We were leaving the lake district. We were leaving the Atacama Desert. We were leaving the beaches of the Pacific Ocean. We were leaving Chile. Goodbye Chile. Thank you for spending this time with me.

Torres del Paine: Day 3 - No more trekking

2004-10-27T19:28:00.000-07:00

When confronted with the stairs this morning, in the refugio, it became apparent that jogging with our backpacks had ruined me knees. With each descending step, the pain would start at the knee cap, and flare violently outward in a circular pattern. It was as though someone was striking my knee with a ball pein hammer. Patrick was hob-legged, I was stiff legged, it had snowed the night before, it was now raining, and I had grown weary of eating tuna for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We had made it to the bottom left-hand side of the W; I was satisfied. It was time to go home.

Just as promised, a boat came humming across the lake at noon. We would be going home in style upon this small catamaran for a the measly price of $10,000. They served hot cocoa to Patrick and coffee to me. The nostalgia came creeping upon me as I watched the Cuernos del Paine disappear - I knew that this could possibly be our last trek for our time here in the South America.

Torres del Paine: Day 2: Patrick loses a leg

2004-10-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

In grand anticipation of arising early to see the sunrise over the glacier lake, I set my alarm for 6:00AM. At 10:00AM, Patrick asked me if I was going to get up while Amsterdam shook my bunk and shouted, "Get out of bed you lazy American bum!"

It was another beautiful day. The lake shimmered and glistened with the full power of the sun beating down upon it. With the lake to the left and the start of the Cuernos del Paine to our left, a series of mountains that looks like horns, Patrick and I set off at our usual galloping pace. Something was different today. I found myself alone several times with Patrick lagging behind.

At the base of the Valley of Frances, the middle portion of the W, we ate lunch underneath a bridge beside a gushing river. George, Patrick's travel companion monkey, took a very risky picture next to the water; that monkey always gets the action shots.

During our meal, I could hear thunder off in the distance. Although the sky was clear, I assumed that a thunder storm was brewing on the other side of the Cuernos (Horns). That misconception would change shortly.

Finally, it was time to start the ascent up the middle of the W. Again, Patrick was lagging behind quite a bit. At the top of a boulder scramble, he motioned for me to wait for him. When he got to me, he told me that his leg was killing him. He cited an old Frisbee injury from college and turned back leaving me with the camera. It appeared that Boots had finally triumphed over Sandals.

A bit further up the Valley del Frances, I came to my first floe, Glacier Frances. It sat at the bottom of a steep horn covered with snow. The river, which we had enjoyed during lunch, was coming from the front of the glacier.

Thunder clapped and I looked up the horn in its general direction. Nothing, no clouds, nothing. More thunder. Suddenly, with horror, I realized the truth about glaciers. They are not formed because of excessive snow fall or continuous cold. They are formed because of avalanches; here comes one now!

At the top of the mountain, I watched as a snow cloud expanded and grew to where it engulfed a nice section of the horn. It moved with frightening rapidness. The river of snow gathered strength as it was joined by more of the surrounding unstable ice. It crashed and fell for five minutes, from the top of the horn, to the glacier below. Nature is powerfully frightening, roughly wicked, and astoundingly beautiful.

Somewhere along the way, I lost the path; it was time to tan. The horns made this area unusually peaceful, sheltering it from the crisp and strong Patagonia winds.

Back at the base of the Valley of Frances, I rested next to the river again. Patrick was a good three hours ahead of me on a, according to the map, four hour trek to the next refugio. While eating a snack, Amsterdam appeared. He had left the refugio before us, hiked to the top of the Valley del Frances, up into the snow, and to the highest point he could find. That is the spirit of most people out here, freedom to do whatever, whenever, wherever.

Amsterdam and I started trucking it to the next refugio. Two hours in, I saw a crippled man hobbling along with a makeshift walking stick. He looked back, and seeing us, hobbled faster. It was Patrick. Amsterdam, "Well, he looks fine. I'm not carrying him."

We passed Patrick and made it to, by far, the nicest refugio in the entire world. Patrick hobbled up, sometime later, in good spirits and ready for food. We ate, showered, played cards, and drank wine by the fire. I scored a backrub from a female guide we called Chile. Heaven? Damn right!

The Big 1K!

2004-10-25T23:59:00.000-07:00

Congratulations everyone! Thanks to you guys, this blog has now reached 1000+ views.

¡Felicitaciones! ¡Felicitaciones! ¡Felicitaciones!

More to come...

Torres del Paine: Day 1 - Drinking Glaciers

2004-10-25T23:55:00.000-07:00

Obvious Observer: Why all of the cash Drew?
Drew: Admission into the park is $10,000. A night in the refugio is $18,850.
Obvious Observer: What is a refugio?
Drew: Hold on there haus, I'll get to that.

It is Monday. Patrick and I are looking at a map of the Torres del Paine, a national park in the Patagonia of Chile. Personally, I think Torres del Paine translates to "Tour of PAIN!!!!!", however, Patrick insists that it is, "Towers of Paine." Most trekkers do "W", a grueling four-day hike through the park in the shape of a large "W". Although our boat tickets for Puerto Montt indicates a boarding time of Friday at 6:00AM, we found out, from some other trekkers, that in reality, the last time that you can actually get on the boat is 9:00PM Thursday. Moreover, the boat out of the park leaves daily at noon. Therefore, we had to finish on the third day, sleep, and ride the boat out in the morning in order to make our Thursday night boarding time. That left us with three VERY hard days. According to the map, our times would be as follows:
Day 1: 10 hours (starting at noon)
Day 2: 14 hours
Day 3: 14 hours

At the end of each day, we had refugios awaiting our arrival. Refugios are nice hostels in the middle of nowhere. Therefore, we only needed to carry food, water, and a sleeping bag. We're young, we're studs, let's go. We started at the base of the right-hand side of the "W". Do you want to come with us? Here's the pace:

Inclined - Fast walk
Flat - Jog
Downhill - Run

But, the catch is, you have to carry that twenty-five pound (monkey) pack on your back. "Twenty-five pounds?" you ask. Just try it. Let me know how it goes.

Our map indicated that the first leg, up the righthand side of the W, would require four-and-a-half hours to go up. We estimated that if the map was correct, we could get up and back in six hours.

As we climbed up the trail, I looked back over the valley we were in. In the distance, I could see my first glimpse of a glacier lake. It was unlike any lake I had ever seen. It was a glorious aqua-marine. The wind was creating waves on the surface. Stunning.

One hour in, we rounded a bend and could see straight up the canyon. The wind coming from the canyon nearly blew me off the trail. The trail changed from horse path, to woods, to stream crossing, to a thirty-minute boulder scramble.

Snow began to fall. At the top of the boulder scramble was another small glacier lake. We sat and rested. Soon, the snow eased and the clouds drifted on. Directly in front of us were the Torres; unusual vertical granite rock towers, jutting out of the ground and piercing the sky. Their majestic impact was only complimented by this beautiful aqua-marine glacier lake at their base.

I was out of water, a common theme by now according to Patrick. Sam, the owner of the hostel, gave us great advice, "Drink any water that is moving." Just below the glacier lake, Patrick and I filled our water bottles from a crystal-clear stream. Volcano water does not compare. I am going to bottle this stream and sell it to Gringos.

Total round trip time for first leg of W - Three-and-a-half hours. Onward. The W we are doing is not like the W shown here. Our W looks like this:
l l l
l__l__l

The next leg of the journey, from the righthand leg of the W to the middle is four hours (according to the map). After a quick bite to eat, we got going at 4:30PM. It's Sandals in the lead. Wait, here comes Boots. Yes, Boots is definitely gaining. Boots has overtaken Sandals. Boots has stopped. Here comes Sandals again. Sandals is stopping to rest. Boots, Sandals, Boots, Sandals. Sandals is slowing for the water and boots overtakes. We raced across the valleys, around the lake, up and down hills, and across streams.

Just when I thought I was going to die, there it was, home; a nice little cabin nestled at the bottom of a hill next to the shoreline of this beautiful glacier lake. Stepping into the refugio gives you the feeling of ecstasy. It has a warm fire, hard wood floors, gringos, water, bathrooms, hot showers, and bunkbeds to the roof. After a long day of trekking, this is a warm hug from a big mamma.

The sun had just gone down when we arrived. Actually, it had not gone done, but rather drifted behind a mountain. We are so far south that there is an obvious difference in the path of the sun. Each day, it rises at around 6:00AM. It never passes directly overhead. It arcs. At night, if you are on the planes, it does not set until 11:00PM.

We showered, separately of course, ate, and met up with Amsterdam, a twenty-nine-year-old haus with a free spirit and free food. He shared some of his meal with Patrick and some of his coffee with me, both valuable commodities here in the woods.

That night, I slept like a bear, or at least sounded like one, according to Patrick. Insomniacs, I have a cure for you: go to Chile, do a ten hour trek in seven hours, stay in a refugio on a glacier lake. You will sleep the sleep of puppies after warm milk.

Patagonia: It's the end of the world as we know it...

2004-10-25T17:24:00.000-07:00

And now, some background.

The bus stopped and the conductor said, "End of the world bitches! Get off!" (in Spanish of course)

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, whiners, diners, mommies and poppies, bitches, bastards, pimps, prostitutes, pickpockets, and ho's - Everyone and Everybody - Welcome tooooooo
(drum roll)

The Patagonia

Which Patagonia?

This one - Pat·a·go·ni·a (P) (pt-gn-, -gny) A tableland region of South America in southern Argentina and Chile extending from the Río Colorado to the Straits of Magellan and from the Andes to the Atlantic Ocean. The study of its original inhabitants, the Tehuelche ("the Patagonian giants"), and its unusual wildlife have attracted many scientific expeditions, including that of Charles Darwin (1831-1836).

Not this one - Patagonia, AZ (town, FIPS 53490) Location: 31.54328 N, 110.74895 W Population (1990): 888 (464 housing units) Area: 3.1 sq km (land), 0.0 sq km (water) Zip code(s): 85624

Now that that issue is cleared up, let's continue. Pull out a map. See South America? I know you know where South America is. Now, follow it down, down, down. See where it makes a nice pointy tip at the bottom? Look real close. That's where I am. "Hi!" If I stand on my tippy toes, I think I can see Antartica. "Hi Penguins!"

The Patagonia is a desert with penguins, wind, and mountains. Flat, flat, flat, penguin, flat, flat, flat, mountain, flat, flat, glacier. That's it! Easy. Got it? Good. Now, add some wind. That's right. That's the ticket. Congratulations. You now have your own personal Patagonia.

Darwin arrived here and said, "Wow, look at deez animals." Now he's famous.

Drew arrived and said, "Does this wind ever stop?" Now he's blogging it online for your benefit. Enjoy.

The wind blows 100MPG (er) MPH down here. It is incessant. It sucks the moisture from your mouth, lips, eyes, nose and skin. It blows fat people up hills and shakes lanky ones to and fro. I am beginning to understand the mind of the tourist; it thinks:

Hey, it's nasty in this part of the world. Let's go climb mountains there.
Hey, this volcano is smokin'. Let's go get a picture of the lava.
Hey, I've got sunglasses, that should be enough to protect me from the sun.
Hey, 100MPG (er) MPH wind, perfect kite weather.
Hey, that girl doesn't speak English. I'm going to try to flirt with her using charades.
Hey, this water looks potable. Why not?
Hey, I'm hungry and this street vendor has some tasty looking food. Sure!

Stupid tourist. Oh wait, that's me. Damnit! Backspace key doesn't work....On to the Torres!

Puerto Natales: The Setup

2004-10-24T16:12:00.000-07:00

Both of us looked haggard. Patrick's lips were falling off while I was missing skin from the inside of my ear. Despite constant reapplication of sunscreen, the snow on the volcano had reflected enough sun to melt our faces off. Our reunion was brief as we had to get down to business. Patrick would be departing in the morning for a four day adventure in the National Park Torres del Paine. He, being there a day before me, was prepared; I was not.

It was 9:00PM on a Sunday night in a little South American town. Nothing was open. The stores that Patrick had patronized for this adventure were dark and had big CERRADO signs in the windows. In the end, I managed to scrounge up tangibles for four menus. Here they are:
-Day 1-
Breakfast
-Tuna
-Crackers
-Nuts
-Cookies
-Water

Lunch
-See Breakfast

Dinner
-See Breakfast

-Day 2-
See Day 1

-Day 3-
See Day 1

-Day 4-
See Day 1

Who loves tuna? This guy!

Then, in typical Drew fashion, I went out for dinner and drinks with two Canadian lasses I had been traveling with from Puerto Montt. At 6:00AM, I leapt out of bed, dressed, packed, ate breakfast, and raced to the ATM to refuel my dangerously low personal money supply. The twenty-four hour ATM was closed at two banks. At the final bank, I inserted the card, and began to blankly stare at the screen for the next ten minutes in an attempt to recall my secret number. Tick, tick, tick. The bus departure time was at 7:15AM. It was now 7:07AM. Tick, tick, tick. I guessed. Wrong. Tick, tick, tick. A bead of sweat formed on my brow and slid into my eye. Tick, tick, tick. I guessed again. Wrong. 7:10AM. The pressure of the situation was preventing my mind from coughing up the pin number. One more wrong guess and the ATM would eat my card and hold it hostage in South America forever. I conceded defeat to the ATM and cancelled the transaction.

While running down the street back to the hostel where I was to meet the bus, I saw one, a bus that is, go by. I could feel the familiar eyes of Patrick deviously laughing from one of the windows. At the hostel, Patrick was gone. I could not breathe, it was early morning, I was out of money, I was sleepy, my friend was gone, and I was in trouble.

Hey kids! Do you know what time it is? It is time for some more Drrrrreeewwwww Spaannniiiisssshhhhhhh! Sam, the hostel owner, convinced me, "Do not worry, Cappy, the bus will be back for you." He then held out his hand and demanded payment for the bus ticket on the bus which had just left, and for a night's stay in his hostel. Using props, a wide-open empty wallet, and my empty pulled-out pockets, Sam began to understand that I had no money. "Pero, mi amigo, Patricio, tiene dinero." Sam shook his head and thought, "These damn Gringos. Sheeze. How do they survive?"

We decided that Sam would hold some of my stuff hostage, until my return from the woods at which point payment would be remitted. The bus did show up. Patrick did see me running and he did laugh (bastard). As I squeezed into the seat next to him, I mentioned, "Hey buddy, I do not have any money. You got us covered?" Patrick had enough money for himself. My only hope was to find an ATM in the woods (and remember the PIN this time), or exchange a traveler's check (fat chance).

The bus had one stop at a little shack in the middle of nowhere. "Hey Patrick? Do you think they exchange traveler's checks?" Today, luck was on my side. The woman inside recognized an immediate opportunity to rip-me off to which she whole-heartedly agreed. It was a win-win situation. As be both left the transaction, each us thought to ourselves, "I'm rich!"

Oops, wrong town.

2004-10-23T06:45:00.000-07:00

Patrick: I'm going to town blah blah blah. Want to meet up there?
Drew: I'm there like Cher.

Drew goes to the bus station and purchases a bus ticket.

Thirty-one, yes, that's right, Thirty-one hours later, he exits a bus and stumbles to an Internet cafe. Although he lacks the ability to speak, his vision is blurry, and his back is a new shape, he logs into his email account. To his dismay, he is in the wrong town; all of these town names sound the same. Patrick is in Puerto Natales. Drew is in Punta Arenas (be careful how you say that). However, Puerto Natales is only another three hour bus ride.

Total time on bus: Thirty four hours (new world record)
Number of movies: Five (new world record)
Amount of sleep: Two hours
Sunsets: Two
Sunrises: One
Chiropractors needed: Don't bring that voodoo magic up in here.

Pictures up. Out of office, returning Monday

2004-10-23T01:33:00.000-07:00

Thanks for the comments everyone. I have responded to all of the comments on their respective pages.

As promised, the pictures are up. However, I must warn you, the rumors are true, they are not G-Rated. If you do not wish to see a picture of the Patrick-ass or Drew-ass, do not, I repeat, do not go into the directory labled "Lake Titicaca."

DANGER - South American Adventure Photos

Furthermore, in the main directory are maps of our trip thus far.

I just put up three new posts - Enjoy and comment up a storm. Now, I am headin' to the boat. I'll be back Monday (November 1st). See you then.

-Ciao,
Andrés

Day 3: Puerto Montt - Matt Matoushek?

2004-10-22T13:25:00.000-07:00

My sweater escaped. After the volcano, I think it had enough torture. The note said:

Gone to look for sweet smelling female. I enjoyed our travels.

Love,

The Sweater

Many of my days are spent focusing on a single task. Today's mission was to find a new sweater hearty enough to brave the cold weather of the Patagonia. The FallaBella, our favorite chain mall, had just what I was seeking - an XL Columbia sweatshirt in red - Perfect!

It was movie time again. Patrick and I had agreed to watch King Arthur together. Therefore, I was left with Chachimba, a Chilean comedy. Although there were humorous parts, as usual, my knowledge of the culture is worse than my knowledge of Spanish.

Back at the house, I ran across Frank again. Tonight, his friends were going out, three French guys, two local girls, and two local guys. I pushed Big Mamma for a 2:00AM curfew...and "cut the head off...put it in the window...yes, I know Big Mamma. Love you. See you at 2:00AM". Cutting noise, finger across neck. Shower, shave, least-bad smelling shirt, and we are off.

Frank's friends were sitting around the dinner table when we arrived at 11:00AM. Although we all had bus rides in the morning, theirs at 8:00AM and mine at 11:00AM, we all shared and "Salud!" many Piscos con SPRITE. Somewhere in the jumble of French and Spanish, I thought I heard something about returning at 5:00AM. In the cab, on the way to the club, the ladies reconfirmed that, yes, we would not be returning until 5:00AM. Big Mamma's going to kill me!

The waterfront venue pounded bass beats across the harbor, into the Pacific, and over to China. Again, I felt fortunate to be one of the few gringos in an obviously local setting. Some of the American music made me yearn for home whereas the local favorites helped me to appreciate my surroundings and better understand the culture. In the techno-clubs, in America, people go out and dance on the dance floor. The go in groups: groups of girls, groups of guys and girls, and the rarer guy and girl. In Latin America, there is rarely a girl on the dance floor without a directly opposing partner. In similar fashion to country-western, ballroom, and salsa style, people go to the dance floor as a couple, and they leave as a couple.

Matt Matoushek! What are you doing here? Your beard looks different though; the moustache is shaved a bit from the top to make it look thinner. Why did you do that? What? I can't quite understand you. Why are you speaking in French? Wait a second! Wait just a minute! You are not my friend Matt Matoushek! You are a French guy named Benido. That's fine Benido. You can be Matt Matoushek for the rest of the evening. Would you like a Scotch?

I miss you guys. -Sniff-

5:42AM - *Tap* *Tap* *Tap* Frank had mentioned, earlier, that when I returned, I should tap on his Mother's window instead of ringing the doorbell; I suppose Frank was a joven, himself, many years earlier. Big Mamma shuffled to the door in her slippers. She was not carrying a knife with which to decapitate me. I sighed in relief and retired upstairs.

Day 2: Puerto Montt - Go back to your Mom!

2004-10-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

Most of my day was spent determining where I wanted to go and how to get there. In typical male fashion, Patrick and I exchange the minimal amount of communication through email. It seems as though our next meeting place may be in the Patagonia, Argentina, or Texas. The boat between Puerto Montt and Puerto Natales was full; cars were to expensive; planes were outrages. Another South American bus trip seemed to be inevitable.

The skies opened up and the rain poured. From the comfort of my new favorite restaurant, I peopled watched for two hours. No one has umbrellas in South America. No one is bothered by the rain.

Night fell on the city and the craving for action, alcohol, and accompaniment grew strong. I decided it was best to approach my new mother head-on, "Big Momma? What time should I be back?" Big Momma looked up, careening her neck, leaning back, trying to find where my body ended and my eyes began. After some negotiating, we arrived at a 1:00AM curfew. Again, she reiterated that, if I did not come back at the agreed upon time, she would cut off my head and hang it in the window. Again, she drug her finger across her throat and made a cutting noise.

The movie ended at midnight; I watched Hombre en Llamas (Man on Fire). It was time to find a bar, order a Stoli, and wait. The nearest dive was thumping out some easy trance beats. The bar reminded me of pubs in D.C. Often, they are just converted townhouses. Our bar had swanky couches, cozy rooms, and local clientele. Gringos were neither here, nor there.

The good-tender poured me a rather large Stoli. I positioned myself next to two empty tables. Shortly, a group of college guys sat down at the table next to me. One attempted to try out his English with me, "What's up, bitch?" to which I responded, "Nada mucho, cabron!" They laughed and invited me to sit with them. With collective amount of limited English, and my terrible (tear-ee-blay) español, we talked about women, movies, town, music, politics, alcohol, economics, glaciers, war, school, work, nasty hostels, and dangerous bus stations. Of course, my hostel was one of the nasty hostels near the dangerous bus station - Que bueno!

The clock struck 1:00AM and it was time to go. My new friends suggested that I be careful on my way home. Three blocks from home, I crossed paths with a rather shady looking individual. He asked for money. I told him no. He asked if spoke English. I said I spoke German. He cursed at me in English. I demonstrated my knowledge of Spanish insults, my favorite of which is the title of this blog.

Day 1: Puerto Montt - Goodbye Patrick, Hola Spañish

2004-10-20T08:15:00.000-07:00

The day after the Volcano, I gave the finger to Lalo - love-hate relationship - jumped on a bus, and headed out to Puerto Montt, alone. Patrick decided to stay in Pucón a while longer and wait out the rain. Perhaps he wanted to see the parks; perhaps he wanted to pet Lalo's cat; perhaps he wanted to flirt with the Welsh broads. Whichever. Hasta luego Patriso!

Strict economies result in efficient practices. My bus ride was on the Jak Bus, a subsidiary of the illustrious TurBus. Once everyone had boarded, the school children hopped on for a ride home. Just like in grade school, the Jak bus stopped at each bus stop and deployed small groups of children to their respective houses. Patrick's experienced the same on the following day, however it brought him the phone numbers and email addresses of numerous Chilean chicas.

Puerto Montt, my new destination, is not a standard stop on the gringo trail. Therefore, the amount of English spoken there is less than many of the places we had visited. Puerto Montt would be an excellent exercise for my Spanish skills, or lack thereof.

In Puerto Montt, Frank, a guy at the bus station, led me to his Mom's hostel. One block from a row of strip-clubs, we came to Mommy's house. As I checked in, Frank assured me, in broken English and incoherent Spanish, "No worry, my Mom's place. Would I lie to you?" Frank then introduced his mom and laughingly pointed out "She no speak English. Ha ha. She crazy."

It was getting late - 10:00PM - and I still had not eaten anything. I crept downstairs where a hoard of people were crowded around the dinner table, presumably the rest of the family, with big mamma sitting at the head. Big Momma turned and asked me, "Hey, are you going out?" I explained that I was hungry and needed food. Big Momma suggested that I come back soon because otherwise, she would cut my head off and put it in the window. She then made a cutting noise and drug her finger across her throat. Seeing as how I liked my head, I was back before midnight.

While brushing my teeth, the downstairs door opened and a couple came in. He was dressed in plain clothes. She had a hot little number of a dress on. Neither of them had luggage. In the morning, they left without breakfast. Wait, I feel a song comin' on, "HO!...Who's a ho...HO!....Who's a ho...HO!..I said dat yuz a ho...." It seems as though I had checked into Big Mamma's pay-by-the-hour-vibrating-bed-and-breakfast.

Drew vs. the Volcano

2004-10-19T08:13:00.000-07:00

Terminal illness? Come with me.

Death wish? Right this way.

Adrenaline junkie? I got your fix.

My parents always told me, "Drew, you are smart and can do anything." What if that intelligence is not coupled with a good dose of common sense. Read on.

Last night, at 2:30AM, I left a note to Lalo (me Dueño);

Lalo,
Volcano. Hoy. Drew. (5)

Despite the use of alcohol and the late bedtime, I awoke at 6:30AM before Lalo could breach my doorway. Patrick and I stumbled through the morning routine, eating breakfast, getting dressed, insulting Lalo, and petting the cat. At 7:30AM, a van honked outside.

The tour companies in this region maintain an ample arsenal of volcano fighting equipment. Outside each office stands a creepy mannequin modeling this season's latest fashion:

Cramp-ons - I see what you are thinking and you are wrong, these are used to cling to an icy mountain.
Rubber-soled boots - For your protection.
Gators - To keep the snow out.
Snow pants - More anti-snow equipo
Rubber ass - More to come on this.
Coat - Wait, you came to this region and didn't bring one? Gringo.
Mittens - Cutttteeee.
Gas mask - Sometimes, the volcano has indigestion from eating touristas.
Welding goggles - Prevents snow blindness.
Hat - Again, pleading gringo on this one?
Ice Pick - For killing...er...saving yerself.
Backpack - Sandwiches not included.

The final result, of dressing up in all of this stuff, is a scene straight out of "A Christmas Story." With all of this stuff on, it would take the volcano at least five minutes to fully consume you. Let's go!

Here is something you did not know. The locals do not understand when you ask "Hey guy, how many runs does the volcano ski resort have?" Unlike Colorado, the volcano has no trees, or vegetation; nothing grows here. It is barren wasteland of grey, ugly, death. The only redeeming qualities are its majestic profile, the snow, and a nice plume of smoke rising out of the top. "So, basically, you are telling me it is one big ski run? Awesome!"

Looking for a bit of exercise, Patrick and I opted to hike from the base to the top of the final chair-lift. The combination of three rainy days, a bit of sunshine, and a night of cold made the mountain crispy, icy, and slick - It was time for the crampons. Before beginning the major portion of the hike, our guide instructed us in ice-pick safety. Pay attention Mau!

Two Goals:

Don't lose ice-pick.
Don't put ice-pick in face.

Two Rules:

Hold ice-pick with two hands, one on shaft, one in top.
Lift feet up. If crampons grab snow, you flip and ice pick face.

Easy-sleazy (like comments). Patrick decided to try, and demonstrate, sliding for the rest of the crew. At this time, the rubber ass comes into play. When you fall, the ass helps to accelerate you down the mountain. I watched, in horror, as Patrick dropped to his ass and instantaneously achieved a velocity of 200 MPH. However, with his new knowledge of ice-pick operation, he dug the pointy end into the snow and began to decelerate. Finally, his decent was stopped. Two fat people turned back. Onward.

First point of interest is an eerie arch shapes structure. Here, the guide explained to us the process of a volcano eruption. In 1984, the eruption caused avalanches. The avalanches tore down the ski-lift. Lava scorched and melted the structures. After that eruption, the only thing that survived, and I use that term loosely, was this portion of the chair lift.

Around noon, we stopped for lunch and re-application of sun screen. Patrick had been smart enough to buy lunch meat for us. In the morning, at the house, the sandwich I prepared looked sloppy and unappetizing - no condiments, no onion, no tomatoe, no hoagie, not toasting, no pretzels on the side, nada. My backpack and I squashed the sandwich to a nice wafer form. When I brought it out, on the side of that volcano in southern Chile, it had become the best looking gourmet meal I had ever seen. The taste was exquisiste. It is funny how those things work.

Note to self: Bring more water next time.

I ran out of water during the first hour of the hike. The dehydration, from consuming Escudo (beer) with Welsh chicks, was unbearable. Patrick rationed water out to me along with an ample supply of complaints. Every few feet, a guide would stop and scoop up some snow into his canteen. I followed in suit and shortly had fresh volcano water; it was a taste better than wine.

As usual, Patrick and I were ahead of the group. Our guide, before letting us run up the mountain, told us to wait for him at the base of the rim. He cautioned us that it was "very dangerous." Just before the base of the rim, a mountain ranger came over to us. He ensured that we were stopping because it was "very dangerous."

The snow had gradually changed from virgin white to nasty and soot-filled. It was no longer potable. The breathing of a dragon had tainted everything.

Coming over the rim of a volcano is a weird event. You spend all of this time going up, up, up, and then, there is a massive hole in front of you with smoke billowing out of it. The abundant snow-base barely breaches the rim before it is melted and evaporated. It breathes. It is unsettling and unnatural. There is nothing beautiful about this passage into the earth's core.

Drew quote, "Yeah, this is dum-b".

Although we could not see lava from our vantage point, I am sure it was down there. Along with the other males in the group, we threw snowballs into the mouth of the beast while the women admonished our activities citing that it might "cause an eruption." Each snow ball disappeared without making the expected "hiss".

It was 3:00PM and time for the descent. Rubber ass to the rescue! For controlled sliding and a fun time, the ice-pick is held overhead with two hands. When the speed is unbearable, the ice-axe is shifted to the side and dug in. One after another, each of us plopped to our asses and sped down the mountain. Total time to get up the volcano: 6 hours. Total time to get down: 45 minutes.

Lesson learned: Taking your shirt off with snow around is a request for snowballs to be thrown at your bare skin.

Pictures in eXchange for comments

2004-10-18T23:16:00.000-07:00

I have the pictures up. However, I am holding them hostage until I see some comments up in here.

Posting a comment is easy-sleazy. Just click the comment link below a post. You don't have to login or create a profile. You can post anonymously. However, if you do post anonymously, please sign your name that I know who to mark off my black list.

If you like a post, if you don't like a post, or if you just want to get your five minutes of fame, any way, show me that you read it.

Who should comment? Anyone and everybody that has read (a) post(s) from this site. Consider it giving back. Here's a list:

My family - Do you guys not love me or what?
My friends - Yeah slacks! Get after it! Mau, thanks for the feedback.
Friends of Friends - Hey, let's be friends eh?
My co-workers - Charge it to overhead #40001.44688.165588. If that number doesn't work, ask Rob for one.
The wives of my co-workers - Yeah, I heard about you ladies.
Random Internet people - So get this, there are people, on the net, who just surf these blogs all day.
Famous People - Don't you have some important function to attend?
Important People - Get off my blog, go do something important.
Luscious Ladies - Please email me at drewjob@yahoo.com

Day 3 in Pucon - Raindrops keep falling on my head...

2004-10-18T08:45:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong. I like rain. I like snow. I like sun. I like fog. But, the key here is that I like change. The weather has been constantly raining since I got here. This morning, I awoke to the grizzly weather I have been becoming accustommed here in the Lake District.

This afternoon, it cleared just as the sun was setting. With only the twilight left, I saw it for the first time; the volcano was right there, right outside the house, piercing a cloud and reaching up to snow-filled heaven. A single plume of smoke curled from its mouth. Tomorrow, the excursion is definitely a go.

Mom, don't worry. The last time the volcano erupted was 1984. I'll be fine.

Day 2 in Pucón: Rain Rain, go away..

2004-10-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

Be wary of area with an abundant supply of green, leafy vegetation. Some regions of the Lake District have two-hundred days of rain each year:

Would you like to hike a live volcano? Sorry, it's raining again today.
Would you like to go snow boarding? Sorry, it's raining again today.
Would you like to ride a horse? Sorry, it's raining again today.
Would you like to tour a vineyard? Sorry, it's raining again today.
Would you like to go river-rafting? Sorry, it's raining again today.
Would you like to go to the hot springs because it's raining? No thank you.

Day 1 in Pucón: Mix wine with Rain

2004-10-16T13:20:00.000-07:00

A finger prodded my blanket and brought me from a steak dinner to the rainy reality. It was 8:00AM, and people were exiting the bus. I asked a local cabbie if he knew where the BravoPucón hostel was. "Hospital?" he asked. I asked again and he directed me three blocks down, and one block over to the nearest hospital. At the hospital, I found a cabbie that directed me three blocks up and one block back the correct location.

Inside, an excited man jumped out from the kitchen and began to tell me about how "Patrick and the girls had just left on a bus" and "what a bastard he was for leaving me" and how I should "kill that Gringo Fucker!" Grumble! Patrick turned out to be upstairs, listening and laughing at Mr. Bravo's and my conversation. Jokesters, all of them. Bravo provided breakfast and entertainment. Patrick had been teaching him fun new phrases such as "What's crackin' homey g funk?"

In town, I purchased a bottle of the local wine along with some cheese and crackers. While the house-made, Pablo, helped me open the bottle, he decided to note that "¿Es mas temprano por vino, no?" Although it was 12:04PM, I decided that it was rather optimal timing. Patrick left to go enjoy the rain while I curled up with a good book, a nice fire, and a bottle of a tasty local red.

The afternoon passed with gentle ease.

Day 3 in Santiago: Pablo vs. Paula

2004-10-15T13:23:00.000-07:00

Pablo postponed our date until 3:45, but the tour of his house was well worth it. The controversial poet of the 70's with exquisite taste built three houses, one for each of his wives. The house, itself, contains two bars, two gorgeous living rooms, and a kitchen shaped like the galley of a boat. Sprinkled throughout are remnants of the 70's; the walls are a muted yellow, the paintings are psychedelic. However, it is unusually timeless - I would not mind resided their today. It is an obvious center of creativity and comfort and lacks the ostentatious feel that accompanies many people's new money.

Once again, Paula was too busy for a meeting. Patrick soothed? me with an analogy to border crossing in the U.S. "Imagine if you worked the border in South, Texas and everyone coming across asked you for a date." Yeah, I feel a lot better now.

At 9:45PM, I boarded a bus heading for Pucón to look for Patrick. His email clued me into his new residence at BravoPucón, a hostel run by a "guy who is a riot" that contained two hot American chicks that would be leaving in the morning.

Day 2 in Santiago: Goodbye Patrick

2004-10-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

With a hard slap on the back, and a big, hearty, bear-like man hug, Patrick and I parted ways. He jumped on a bus heading for Pucón, the first destination in the Lake District. Santiago was easy to pass up as it is simply a large city; the smog makes one's throat sore and eyes water. I, however was not finished with Santiago; A date with Paula and Pablo Neruda (the poet) was still in order.

That night, I felt the walls of my hotel crushing me; I felt the eyes of the thieves on the street eyeing me; I felt the loneliness. I have never spent so much time with one person. Other than our usual private times in Cusco, Patrick and I have been side-by-side for a month and a half. Sniff. I hope I can survive without him.

Day 1 in Santiago: Gringos are funny

2004-10-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

In the plaza, a large crowd of people was surrounding a man with long hair. The laughing from the crowd brought me over to investigate. Our long-haired friend spotted me immediately hovering about the crowd and began to include me in his jokes. Immediately noticing that I did not speak Spanish made it all the more entertaining for him, the crowd, and myself. However, I will forever be haunted by not knowing what he said that was so funny.

Calama -> Santiago - Five Star, Super Class, Ejecutivo, Semi-Cama Pullman Bus

2004-10-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

We had to stay in Calama overnight on our way out of the desert. The next morning, at 10:00 a Five Star, Super Class, Ejecutivo, Semi-Cama Pullman Bus would be pulling out of the station with two Gringos looking for action in the big city of Santiago.

Let me tell you a bit about this Five Star, Super Class, Ejecutivo, Semi-Cama Pullman Bus; this is no ordinary yellow school bus, this is a pimped out rolling with twenty-five cats from your posse to the club or to the next gig. The seats had enough leg room for this guy. The air-conditioning was blowing full blast. All chairs reclined to a comfortable angle. All chairs had foot rests that were adjustable. The bathroom had a seat (unheard of in Peru, rare in Chile). Above the bathroom was a coffee station. Meals were to be served. Tea and crackers time was to happen. Nice ride is an understatement.

Patrick and I boarded our home and began to pace ourselves with activities. I watched the passing landscape. I read my dictionary. I used my well-honed harassment skills to irritate Patrick (thanks Sis). I munched on cookies. I performed card tricks for the boy in front of me. I played cards with Patrick. I read my Travels in a Thin Country book (thanks Nevra). I watched four movies - Hart's war (couldn't hear it), Frequency (saw it already), Payback (saw it already), and Hannibal (The kids loved it, but...again, already saw it). At each stop, we exited, stretched the legs, admired the sun, and ate hot dogs while other people sucked down cigarettes; no smoking on the Five Star, Super Class, Ejecutivo, Semi-Cama Pullman Bus.

Total time on the Five Star, Super Class, Ejecutivo, Semi-Cama Pullman Bus: One entire day (twenty-two hours).

Bastardized Scavenger Hunt Item Accomplished

2004-10-11T21:38:00.000-07:00

Card Reads:
Get stranded somewhere: Donkey breaks down, tires fall of cab, hurricane blows bus off road.

Results:
From the start, we told our tour guide, for the Valley of the Luna, that we needed to be back for an 8:30PM bus. He brought us directly to the terminal at 8:05PM; we had enough time for a hot dog (completo) and a street pee before boarding the bus.

San Pedro de Atacama has two bus stations, shacks actually. One is for the TurBus, a company that has a web site, pimp rides, and proud prices. The other shack housed the local bus. Traveling on a thin budget, we opted for the local bus.

At 8:30, on the money, the TurBus bus rolled away from the shack and into the desert. At 8:30, our bus approached the station. At 8:45, people continued to pile on despite the fact that no seats were left. At 9:00PM, our bus began to roll.

9:45PM - Something bad must have shown up on the dashboard as our driver pulled over to the side of the desert. He turned off the bus. Everything went dark. With a turn of the key, the huge diesel engine turned over a few times and then sputtered. Three more times, three more failures. The driver exited the bus and looked at the engine for a while. Three more cranks, three more failures.

I started the timer on my watch. Patrick had declared that stranded meant more than five minutes of inactivity. As the driver made continued inane attempts at starting the bus, I quietly wished that bus would never start again. Every time the engine sputtered and died, the crowd would sign disappointedly whereas Patrick and I secretly cheered "Ole!"

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. People used their cell phones for the games and the light. Otherwise, the bus was completely dark. After thirty minutes, the driver declared that another bus was on its way.

Total time stranded: One hour, twenty-two minutes, fifteen seconds.

Atacama Desert: Valley of the Moon

2004-10-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

The following is a conversation between two scientist deep in the Atacama Desert.

Underling: Sir, our sensors are picking up something in region 24.
Head Hancho: Holy crap underling, some spring just popped up out of nowhere. There's never been water there. Call the Capitol, get the press out here, something amazing is happening out.

It's official, Patrick and I have both pissed on the driest desert in the world. Now, it lags behind the Sahara in dryness.

The final afternoon of the Atacama Desert was to be spent on a Valley of the Moon tour. The tour started off with a visit to the Valley of the Dead. The Valley of the Dead has a big sand dune where we caught our first glimpse of Sand Boarding.

We all know there are stupid sports out there: Curling, Disc Golf, Handball, et al. But, we found a new one to add to the list. Gringos travel across the world, to the Atacama Desert, rent essentially a snow board, and climb up a sand dune with it. Then, they strap is on and proceed to fall in the sand, repeatedly, down the sand dune. Gringos Locos is a condition which spurs people to waste their money and eat sand. Take your vaccines kiddies and stay in school.

The Valley of the Moon is actually several regions viewable from the top of a massive sand dune. Each region is atypical: One has craters, one has spikes and peaks, one has unusual color patterns. We watched as the sun set and transported us from the Atacama Desert to the moon.

Atacama Desert: Eat my dust Lance Armstrong

2004-10-11T14:35:00.000-07:00

I, hereby, dedicate this post to my biking buddies Mau-en and Doug. Thank you for breaking me in.

Goal for the day: Don't lose any skin.

Situation: Rent a mountain bike from 6:00AM to 2:00PM for $5000 (pesos).

Drew: Hey Patty, what time do you think we should get up?
Patrick: I dunno. I was thinking about 8:00AM.
Drew: How bout 7:00AM? You know, it gets hot out there real fast.
Patrick: 7:45AM it is.

No later than 9:00AM, we strolled up to the rental place; they were just opening. Relinquishing control of our passports granted us access to a map and two of the meanest looking Trek 4100 series mountain bikes. The owner indicated that the bikes were automatic - Oh, they were alright - These things definitely shifted whenever and wherever.

From the local convenient store, we conveniently bought the following power foods: Yogurt, Banana, Bread, and Coke. The cashier sneered knowingly at us for only Gringos would venture into the desert with mountain bikes. After eating the yogurt, bread, and coke, I decided to keep the banana in my left pocket; if we got lost, I could eat it before being forced to kill and eat Patrick.

With the bikes pointed into the most arid region of the world, we began to crank away vigorously. Farm animals coughed when we passed as a trail of dust was spinning up from our tires. ZZ Top music faded in and out of the radio in my head. Twenty minutes into the desert, we stopped for a drink and think session. Patrick asked a local donkey where Devil's Gorge was. The donkey brayed, in Spanish of course, and pointed its tail along our current trail.

Sure as shit, the donkey was right. A short ten minutes more lead us to a river - For correctness, this river has no water, it has never had water, and it will never have water - As for the pictures of us crossing it, holding our bikes up in the air, the water is just a mirage. We followed the mirage to the right. The sand dunes became sand walls and a gorge arose around us.

The wide open space of the desert had now become a narrow passageway. It was astounding and unique. In Virginia, mountain biking is often done through forest, dodging logs, tree, and rivers; In the desert the obstacles were low hanging rocky faces, sand traps, and horse droppings. We weaved, turned, cranked, and drank our way through the gorge. At noon, the sun began to accompany us. The temperature of the air raced from a nice 70F to a toasty 100F. Sweat poured from my body as fast as I consumed the water from my thermos. Today's forecast - Hot enough to cook a Gringo.

Around 1:00PM, our path ended and we turned back. Racing against time, we hurried back through the gorge, back across the river, beyond the donkey, up the road, and into town. The shop owner asked us if we had a good time. "Hells yeah!" I exclaimed, but he didn't speak English.

Results: Net skin loss - 2% from sun, 1% from rubbing against a overhang.

He Lancy Boy, yeah you. Hey! I'm talking to you Lance. I know you read this. I challenge you cappy! You, me, desert. No water. First one to faint loses. Name the time and the desert....unless you are chicken.

Atacama Desert: I thought deserts were hot?

2004-10-10T10:59:00.000-07:00

An unfortunate time change, and youthful hard-headedness, left us devoid of a decent night's sleep. After a three-hour nap, a two-hour bumpy bus ride, and one-hour of milling around in the dark, the sun began to rise over the Atacama Geysers.

Compared with the Geysers of Yellowstone National Park, these steam engines were more common and very active. In alignment with typical South American style, the only safety precaution administered was a single sign, in Spanish, warning Gringos of thin land, boiling water, and death.

Deserts are scorching during the day; Deserts are freezing at night. As water trickled among the rocks away from the heat of the geysers, it turned to ice. My clothing included boots, smart wool socks, underwear, long underwear top & bottom, jeans, coat, hat (from the Inca Trail), and gloves (from the Inca Trail). Prior to the sun coming up, the only way to prevent frostbite was to warm the booty over escaping steam.

As the sun peeked across the mountain top, one geyser began to erupt; It shot water twenty-five feet in the air. Steam was everywhere. Like St. Helens, every tourist ran to the location to get good pictures and tempt death. I have a good picture for you some time.

The heat of the sun caused the steam to escape faster. Within no time, the individual geysers became indistinct.

We ate breakfast and headed for the natural Geyser hot springs. Patrick and I declined a morning swim. However, several other tourist shed the clothing and plopped right in. European standards for public decency should be adopted around the world. Where earlier I was sleepy and droopy-eyed, I was now wide-eyed and taking it all in.

At one of the stops, a pet llama bounded up to the bus. Unlike the llamas in Peru, this one was free for the picture taking. Besides being free, he was also very friendly. The tourist trap there was selling empanadas. Mr. llama knows this, and he knows that tourists leave their empanadas unguarded. Watch your food around this one - I saw many tourist reluctantly forced to purchase another snack because theirs disappeared down the gullet of a llama.

On girl in particular, a Chilean, caught my attention. Of all the tourists, she was by far the best looking. As we descended the pass, in the bus, the guide would stop and point out items of interest. Patrick, my translator, was sleeping. Our new Chilean friend decided she would translate for me. Her English is superb; they start studying English in first grade. After sufficient encouragement from her parents, I engaged her in regular conversation.

Paula is a dentist in Santiago, Chile. She has lived there all of her life whereas the wild sister moved to New York, New York. Like every Chilean we have encountered, she loves her country. However, the men here are sexists. Apparently, the USA is light years ahead of Chile on the women's equality issues.

Seeing as how she knows Santiago, she will be giving us, or just me, a tour of the Capitol.

Patrick, I'll see you in the lake district.

Atacama Desert: Even camels can't survive here.

2004-10-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

A new theme for the trip: Extremes - oldest ruins, deepest canyons, driest deserts.

The tranquil beaches of Iquique could not hold our attention - It had too much water and not enough women. We boarded the night bus and came, out here, to the Atacama Desert. Neither Death Valley or the Sahara desert compare to this arid region. Some areas of this desert, since we have been measuring, have never received any rainfall. In those areas, not even bacteria can survive.

Our central headquarters for accessing the Atacama is San Pedro de Atacama, a podunk tourist trap. The meals are expensive, the Internet is $1.40/hour, and the gringos are everywhere.

Straight from the bus, we organized a trip to the Atacama Salt flats, a national preserve for the flamingos. The Great Salt Lake, and a mine in Bolivia, are the only other salt deposits bigger than this one.

Due to the salinity of the Salt Flat, the flamingos taste very salty. Our chef prepared them with a lot of sugar to neutralize the saltiness.

Bribery

2004-10-07T07:43:00.000-07:00

Patrick is a chatty-cathy when it comes to Taxi cab drivers. In Lima, Peru, the Taxi cab driver told us about how the women were ruining everything. After some exchange, he clarified; women cops would not take payments where the men cops would.

Not to be left out of the conversation, I quickly referenced 'bribe' in Spanish-English dictionary. After several minutes of skimming and conjugating, I asked "So, how much is a typical bribe?" The driver looked at me blankly and conveyed that he did not know what I was talking about.

Patrick and I talked about it later. We decided that the system is just more efficient here. When a cop (male) pulls you over, you can just pay your fine directly to him. This is not a bribe, this is efficiency.

More recently, this issue arose again. When crossing the border into Chile, we were riding in a Colectivo (group taxi) with two Australian chaps. At the inspection post, the driver indicated we should not remove our baggage from the car. He pulled us into a closed huddle to ready our play. Patrick already knew what was coming and asked, "How much?"

The driver waved his hands in the air and looked around to see if God was listening. He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that each man should tithe what he thinks he's worth.

The Aussies were not thrilled about the whole situation. Personally, I was excited at the prospect of paying a bribe. Patrick, as usual, could care less.

Aussies: Well, we certainly have nothing to hide. Let 'em search through me under drawers!

All of the bags came off.

I was waved through.

Patrick's bag was sniffed.

And then came the Aussies. The border guards must have been able to tell that they were the trouble causing type as the bags were opened and searching commenced.

While the Aussies bags were being searched, numerous people passed through without a second glance. Out of fifty people, the Aussies were the only ones given the once over.

During this thorough search, the border guard took this opportunity to introduce Patrick to a single, female border guard. Although Patrick was open to a strip search, she seemed to think he was clean.

After a good thirty minutes of harassment, on the searching end for the Aussies, and on the flirting end for Patrick, our journey continued.

Anniversary Issue - Day One in Lima, Peru?

2004-10-06T08:15:00.000-07:00

Hope you have enjoyed this brief interruption. I sure have. It has been nice to absorb the sun instead of being a slave to this blog. But now, we must return to the story. Are you ready? Hold on. Here we go!

Everyone, it has been a month. However, this blog starts on September 8th and my trip started on September 5th.

Hey Drew! What happened during those first few days?

Patience. Allow me.

The following phone conversations you are about to read a real. The happened on September 5th, 2004, during the first day of Drew's trip.

Drew: Jon! I'm here and my phone works! (Distant latin band playing in the background)

Jon (the roommate): No way guy! That's amazing, that your phone works, and that you made it. How is it? What does it look like?

Drew: Well, the people here are great and everyone is so friendly. (Music getting louder) We are wandering around the street right now. (Music getting really loud) Man, here comes this crazy street band. Just a second.

(Loud music)

(Incoherent Spanish phases)

(Random yells, aye-yea-yea-yeas, and Vive la Peru! Vive la Peru!)

(Music fading)

Drew: Phew, that was wild. This place is nuts! It reminds me of Mardi Gras.

Jon: Well man, I am so glad you made it and -

(Loud Music)

Drew: Just a second, man. Here comes that band again.

...

Voice: Get the Gringo!

Drew: Get away from me man!

Voice: Give me the money bitch!

Drew: Patrick! Help!

[CLICK]

Drew: Hey Sis! I made it, my phone works! (Distant Music)

Lisa: Wow! We are so glad. Have you talked to Mom?

Drew: No, not yet. However -

(Music getting louder)

Drew: Just a second, here comes a street band.

(LOUD MUSIC)

Voice: Come with me bitch!

Drew: Leave me alone man!

Incoherent scuffling, noises, yells, Spanish.

[CLICK]

Patrick and I are suckers for money. When they raised the bribe from $500 to $800 for taking the next flight, we were the first at the counter. I got on the horn and rang up Larz, a college buddy. Two hours later, we were cruising around Peru (Dallas, TX), listening to Tejano Music, and making prank calls to my friends and family.

After seeing Napoleon Dynamite, having a few drinks, and playing some pool and darts, we retired to our comfortable and free Peruvian hostel, the Sheraton.

Vive del Perú! Vive del America!

Goodbye Peru, Hello Chile

2004-10-04T18:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday, I rode the bus.

Last night, we crossed the border, under the shroud of the moon, in the trunk of a cab.

Today, I sat on the beach.

Arika, Chile is a breath of fresh air.

Things that are different (than Peru):

No street urchins are vending shoe-shines, candies, post-cards, pity.
Beggars now come in the form of gypsies.
There are no teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy, sawed-off, honking at everything taxis.
Everything is more expensive. Our hostel costs $10 (US) for the both of us. Yikes!
The currency is now Pesos. It costs about $300 (sixty cents) to use the net. Tomorrow, I'll probably get up and purchase a $500 banana, eat a $2,000 Big Mac, and buy a $30,000 TV.
Our hostel has a TV. That TV has the American sitcom channel. Today, my study session consisted of reading subtitles while watching Home Improvement.
I can breathe because we are back at sea-level.
In my Spanish-English dictionary, I have reached the C's.
Time. Currently, Chile is one hour ahead of Peru. On October 15th, Chile will be two hours ahead of Peru.

Things that are the same (as Peru):

The language is Spanish. I cannot understand the language. However, I understand less now because of the accent.
Dogs with leprosy and cats meander through the streets.
A Christ is up on the hill watching my every move.
Patrick is my travel companion.

Arika is a small beach town in Region 1 of Chile. We are going to hang out here and get tan, for a couple of days, before moving to the colder southern regions of Chile. Maybe I'll learn to surf.

Arequipa: America?

2004-10-02T23:39:00.000-07:00

The last day in Arequipa was spent with Grace, the sweet nineteen-year-old girl we met the first day here. Patrick spotted her walking across the plaza and I yelled, "Grace!" She was elated to see us again and have the familiar American language flowing into her ears. Grace will be here for nine months, living with a family, and volunteering at the local orphanages. Definitely a sweetheart.

She hung out with us all day; lunch, cards, plaza, and Internet. In the evening, we all took a taxi to the local mall. Stepping from the cab, it was obvious that we were not in Peru anymore.

Close to my house, in D.C., is a mall. It has everything you would expect; food court, theatre, bookstores, Abercrombies, etc. In front off us, behind the fountain, across the paved walking paths, through the double-glass doors, I could see a Burger King - The angles sang - Al-le-lu-iah, Al-le-lu-iah, Alleluiah, Alleluiah, A-lle-lu-i-ah.

I gorged myself on the Whopper and chicken breast from the KFC next door. Patrick eyed the Pizza Hut and dug into a whopper. The mayonnaise tasted like mayonnaise, and the ketchup tasted like ketchup. Thank you franchising. Thank you America.

Afterwards, we watched Alien vs. Depredator in a decently expensive (3.00$ per person) theatre and ate a big box of popcorn.

It's the little things you begin to miss; hamburgers, Shiner Bock beers, the cat, Saturday Dunkin' Doughnuts with the roommates, talking with the family.

Arequipa: Rich Nuns

2004-10-02T16:29:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from the Santa Cataline Recruitment brochure read:

We are delighted in your recent interest in becoming a nun. Well, we realize that you have many options to choose from for your nun-ship. Let us tell you why you would want to choose Santa Catalina's Monastery over those other monasteries:

In Arequipa, the Spanish established the Santa Catalina Monastery. This huge structure became a city within the city. Behind the walls exists houses, churches, stores, and streets. The vegetation is lush, the walls are blue, and the decorations are rich.

The sister-hood here is strong and the alumni have provided ample dowries. Each nun is provided a servant and a house. The servant will free you up to devote your life to God.

Speaking of devotion, at Santa Catalina's, you will not need to waste your time with that volunteer stuff. After taking your habit, you will not ever have access to the public again - with the exception of the double-blind turnstiles for passing items and the barriers for talking to relatives.

To assist you with the final mental transition where you experience Christ's death, we provide starvation, sleep deprivation, and a local favorite, barb-wire undergarments.

Welcome to heaven ladies.

In 1850, the local Bishop declared that each nun was be limited to one servant only. More recently, in 1970, the Pope decided that the ladies of Santa Catalina were living-it-up just a bit much. The walls were done in gold leaf, the bed coverings were bejeweled, and the riches were abound. At his suggestion, reformation began.

An example of this reformation was the plastering over of the gold-leaf walls. A new, separate, convent was built and the old one was opened to the public. At its peak, the Monastery had 300 nuns; presently, that number has dwindled to a mere thirty-five.

Arequipa: Scavenger Hunt Card

2004-10-02T16:14:00.000-07:00

Card Reads: Make-out with someone that does not speak English.

I guess Patrick's and my Spanish are suficiente. Last night, we both managed to kiss the ladies at a local club.

I wrote my girl an email, using the google translate tool, and I got this response:
good ok.but i 'd want to be with you but i think that you noo .but i liked much yesterday .but i gees that you wanted to be with my firend ,noo.ummm i like you .i think are you a good person but .i wish that today you can enjoed much sii. you wanted to go to dolores avenue,maybe you can to find someone i can to go is a very nice place .you should enjoy ,are you on vacation..

i hope that you can write me sii .that would be very nice for me .take care much sii .and i go to be writing you .

we keep in touch .kisses for you.bye

Hey Paulie, does that count?

Colca Canyon - Falling off mountains made easy

2004-09-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

The constant shaking is like the back roads of Texas. A van, containing twelve people, one driver, one guide, and ten tourists, thunders down the curvy dirt path. Most people are on the edge of their seats; Patrick is trying to sleep.

My Grandmother always made me laugh with her preposterous thoughts - "I don't like Colorado," she would say, "because you can just fall right off of a mountain."

Today, that thought haunted the minds of nine tourists, I being one of the nine. Compared with Colorado, the difference lies in the actual safety measures in place to prevent such a fall - In Colorado, each exit off the mountain is marked by a nice, thick, steel barricade. In the Colca Canyon, those exits are marked by crosses where people have gone over. Perhaps the authorities, of the Colca Canyon, believe that enough Crosses may eventually act as a barrier.

Two of our beloved Grand Canyons could be stack on top of each other and placed inside of this beast. However, the Grand Canyon is more impressive. Now, I am not being biased here, so let me explain:

Hypothetical for Grand Canyon: You are driving across Texas, or some other desert for that matter. Up ahead, the road is gone. You slow down your vehicle and get out. Something has removed a huge swathe of land 6,000 feet deep. That's impressive!

Hypothetical for Colca Canyon: You are driving through the mountains. Looking out the window, you see a tiny river 12,000 feet below you. Though far away, the change is not drastic.

The main attraction of the Colca Canyon, besides the canyon itself, is the Lair of the Condor. From this viewing area, condors can be seen about every fifteen minutes. After seeing the condor in person, Patrick and I decided that, in Puno, the statue was actually a condor instead of a vulture. However, the condor eats dead animals - Big Vulture.

So, I'll be taking the kids to the Grand Canyon, on the way to Disney Land (or Las Vegas), instead of the Colca. Nice try though Peruvian government.

Ugly-headed-rearing-scavenger-hunt item: Reach the highest altitude you have ever been and take a picture.

Ugly-headed-rearing-scavenger-hunt result: 4,910 meters (16,109ft) in a car, heading up to the Colca canyon. Where's the snow?

Arequipa - Who Knew Cards were Sexy?

2004-09-28T16:33:00.000-07:00

Update:
Tequille Island (naked)
Boat on Lake Titicaca (nasty)
Puno (negligible)
Bus (noisome)
1st Arequipa Hotel (nonsensical)
2nd Arequipa Hotel (Not to expensive, not to nasty...Nice, actually)

Background: Arequipa is the 2nd largest city in Peru, next to Lima. They are proud of their city and the t-shirt says it all, "Peruvian? No, Arequipian." The city is surrounded by three large, often snow-capped, volcanoes reaching up to 20,000ft. In the distance, is the 2nd deepest erosion project in the world, the Colca Canyon (and no, Mr. Geography, the 1st prize is claimed by the Rio Cotahuasi Canyon, not the Grand Canyon.) White ash from the volcanoes has given Arequipa the nickname of the White City.

I am playing cards with Patrick in the Plaza. Now, I have not shaved in almost a month, so, I am looking dead sexy. Two girls walk up; one leans over to me, "Are you speaking Spanish?" I made my best insulted face and said, in a nice, strong Texas accent, "Por su puesto!"

She laughed and they sat down to engage Patrick and I in small talk - After a sufficient amount, they stayed around to have us teach them the card game we were playing (Gin). Half-an-hour later, it was time to go. They gave us phone numbers, email addresses, and cheek kisses. Man, I love this place.

Ten minutes after they were gone, an American girl came up and started hitting on the Patrick. We got her contact information too.

I'll keep you posted. We might go dancing with the duo this weekend. Until then, we're off to the Colca Canyon.

Lake Titicaca: Day 2 - Shrinkage factor

2004-09-27T16:31:00.000-07:00

Hey, how was your day at work?

Me? I didn't work today. Instead, I went over to Tequille island in lake Titicaca.

Remember the scavenger hunt? Well, it reared its head again today. That damn Paul Winkeler. The card says, "Skinny dip in Lake Titicaca. Show picture for proof. Oh wait, no picture necessary."

When we arrived, it became apparent that the only free time would be about an hour before lunch. Patrick and I snuck off down to the water.

Now, earlier, in Puno, after the whiskey, Patrick decided it was time to figure out who was going in. Patrick and I were walking home when he commented, "Hey guy, if you throw up, you go in." "Ha," I laughed, "Great! I'll hold the camera whilst you do the deed."

I'm taking my boots off.
I'm taking my socks off.
I'm taking my belt off.
I'm taking the pants off.
I'm taking the shirt off.
I'm removing the security pouch from my inner thigh.
I'm taking my watch off.

Ladies, close your eyes.

I looked back at Patrick to make sure he had the camera ready.

Off with the drawers and into the water.

One last piece of background information for you. On the morning walk, the Brits found a piece of snow, "Crawcky Willy! I dun't believe my bloody eyes. I've never seen the snow before."

Yow! That Titicaca water is cold cold cold. When I hit the water, I know my heart stopped for a second. After a nice, quick swim, I headed back for the shore.

Patrick, not to be left out, decided it was his turn. He jumped in, swam around until a sufficient chill was setting in (ten seconds), and got back up on the beach.

Being at 12,000ft, you are very close to the sun. Therefore, it was a perfect opportunity to turn these white boys in to brown boys. We set out there, like happy lizards, for a good fifteen minutes.

Paul Winkeler, I hope your happy. I am.

Thank You Mau-en: Guys only

2004-09-27T16:25:00.000-07:00

Dear Mau-En,

Thank you for the Webster's New World Pocket Spanish Dictionary. It has come in very handy and helped me several times. I have managed to purchase food, hit on chicks, and get transportation.

Lately, I have had a bit of a stomach-bug; these things are common in South America. Three hours into the three-and-a-half-hour boat ride back from Tequille Island, in Lake Titicaca, the bug reared its ugly head. I am sad to say, but our good friend Mr. Webster's New World Pocket Spanish Dictionary lost a few pages during the war. Please forgive me.

Regards,
Drew Larson

Tequille Island: Dating Rituals (Ladies, take note)

2004-09-27T16:10:00.000-07:00

When you move to Tequille Island, in the middle of lake Titicaca, here is the quick-start guide for dating:

Unmarried men wear a ski cap, with a long tail that is white.

If the tail is to the right-hand side, it means that the man is completely single.
If the tail is to the back, it means that the man is living with a girl he is courting.

Married men wear a ski cap, with a long tail that is fully-colored.
Unmarried women wear a plain, black shawl that partially covers their face. They talk slower, and quieter - demurely if you please.
Married woman show that whole face and talk fast and confidently.

A man and a woman live together for no less than six months, and no greater than two years. During that time, they may marry. If a baby is made during that time period, the marriage is implied.

Lake Titicaca: Day 1 - What? You built this Island?

2004-09-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

Oh man, so hung over. Last night, I became good friends with the bartender and DJ and the gringo club. We had a few drinks together whilst Patrick was dancing alone. Bartender's favorite drink - Whiskey. DJ's favorite drink - Whiskey.

7:30AM - Patrick: "Guy, get up. We have to be downstairs by 8:00AM."
7:45AM - Patrick: "Guy, I brought you a coke. It'll help you. Get up. We have to go."
7:50AM - WTF? Where are my covers. So cold.

Downstairs, I began the healing process by sipping a warm coke and eating a baby plantain. It wasn't helping.

The bus rolled up. It was full of gringos. Great. Patrick and I set on the extra fold out seats. He talked with people while I tried to hold down the baby plantain.

Our crew this time was disappointingly old, married, or in love. At the dock, we saw the boat we should have been on - Swingers Paradise. Damnit.

Our boat was two levels. The name painted on the side scared me - Our-Lady-Of-Puke-Your-Guts-Out. I opted for the indoor, covered, lower level.

The first stop was Urus island. Around 500AD, these people decided to separate from the Incans. They built boats from the local reeds and sunk them in the harbor. After many sinkings, they had floating islands suitable for living upon. To this day, they live on these islands. The only recent change is the advent of solar panels to run their toasters, TVs, and sewing machines.

Each island has a texture that is spongy and comfortable. The buildings are all made up of the reed material. They have a school and a post office.

After ample shopping time, we again boarded the Our-Lady-Of-Puke-Your-Guts-Out and headed for the main destination - Amatani Island. Total time in the boat: Four hours.

Jeopardy: It is the highest lake in the world sitting at 11,000 feet. The sun reflects of the water and cooks human in less than fifteen minutes. - What is lake Titicaca?

Amatani Island has 200+ inhabitants. Tonight, we would be staying with a local family. Our host met us at the lake - Lara. She showed us up the hill to her house and our sleeping quarters. Shortly, Salvador, the owner of the house, and father of Lara, peeked his head in to welcome us. We met Lara's children, and her mom.

The house rested upon a quaint plantation looking out over the lake. Salvador had a cow, and some chickens. A few vegetables were being grown in the garden. It all looked like just enough to sustain a single family. There was no electricity; we found out later that this family was too poor to afford a solar panel although they desired one.

While Patrick was letting the kids play with Curious George, a monkey that travels attached to his hip, I changed clothes. Salvador knocked on the door. "Pase!" I said. Salvador came in and withdrew three crumpled papers from his vest pocket. We sat down and he began to talk to me.

Two of the letters were from his friend Carlos in New York city. Salvador kissed the letter to show the amount of affection he had for Carlos. He asked me, "Do you know Carlos?" I indicated that I was not aware of a Carlos in New York. The final piece of paper was an email address for Carlos. Salvador talked with me for a while. I understood a lot of what he was saying. However, my Spanish is just bad enough for me to always get the wrong idea. My guess was that Salvador wanted me to write a letter to Carlos. I told him that he should talk to Patrick.

He showed Patrick the letters and Patrick read them aloud to Salvador. After some conversation between the two of them, it was decided that Patrick would write the letter to Carlos in the evening.

At lunch, the entire family seemed excited about the Carlos situation. Each member asked, both Patrick, and I, if we knew Carlos de Nueva York en Los Estados Unidos.

Dinner, Plaza, Soccer, Hill, Ruin.

The top of the island was at 4,100M (13,451ft). This terrain was drastically different than the last time we were at this height (Inca Trail). It was sunny and the lake continued in every direction. Compared to the ocean, the view was the same, but the temperature was just colder. In the distance, the towering mountains of Bolivia were barely visible.

When the darkness came, Salvador, Lara, her sister with a baby, and one of the children, all crowded around a candle in our room as Patrick began to transcribe a letter for the family. The family argued and contemplated and thought as the letter must be perfect. One hour later, the deed was done. The final agreement was that, in the morning, Patrick would take the letter to America.

Dinner, cards, rest.

Music began to drift up from the shoreline. It came up the stairs. It went under the cow. It crept through the spice garden. It seeped under our door and filled our ears. The party was beginning and it was time to get dressed. Lara and Salvador brought us traditional wool drop-cloth robes and hats. Under the light of the moon, we tripped down to the shoreline.

With a reed fire going, everyone danced around. The children danced the most. They have unlimited energy. Two warring reed bands bounced tunes back-and-forth.

When the fire died, and the bands stopped, the cold returned. A storm was rolling in and it was time for bed.

Goodnight Cow. Goodnight Carlos. Goodnight Ruin on the hill. Goodbye hangover.

Puno: Just like is sounds

2004-09-25T16:20:00.000-07:00

Here is the traveler's tip for night buses, directly from the guidebook, "Take night buses, that way, you can sleep and save on hotel cost."

At 4:45AM, I stumbled into our next hostel and drifted off into a happy sleep. At 11:00AM, Patrick and I stirred.

There's the Plaza.

Here's a girl selling finger puppets.

Here's an old-man selling finger puppets. Guy, the girls have taken over that market. Seriously, get a banjo or something.

Lunch in Puno is barato. For eight soles (2.5$) total, we had soup, entree, and tea. Definitely moving here.

Puno has the Incan on the mountain instead of the White Christ. He keeps an eye on people. We hiked up to him.

Puno also has the Giant Vulture on the other mountain. It eats small children and baby llamas. We also hiked to it.

Back at the hostel, we planned our evening. Patrick's guidebook did not have any clubs listed for Puno. Mine had two. We went to them both, several times.

With a good drink going on, it was time to head over to the local hangout, Mega Disco! (Flash Flash)

Dolph, Patrick, and I went to Houston about two years ago. At the time, the word on the street was that the Asians had taken over Houston. "Das cool!" I said, "It'll be no problem." We did it the whole way too: Went shopping, got new outfits, ate a steak dinner, got perdied up, and hit the club scene. The first club we walked into, it was dark. We got some drinks and went over to the dance floor. There was a flash of a strobe light and I suddenly became aware of the new average height. We were the only white guys in the clubs. We were the only people in the club, over five foot tall (including Dolph). And, everyone was looking at us.

Here, it was pretty much the same deal. We walked in and the music stopped. Well, not really, but there were definitely a lot of eyes following us.

Salsa? Tango? Flamenco?

Ha! Spanish Rap and Hip-Hop.

It was great, with one very large exception. Every woman there was with a guy. Patrick and I danced solo.

(sniff) I know I gots the scruff, but I like the ladies too. So lonely.

Went home with Patrick, again.

Cusco: Welcome Back, See You Later

2004-09-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

Back to the bat-cave.

We decided to spend one day, after our hike, in Cusco, to recover.

Patrick complained about the stench emanating from my laundry. I complained about the stench emanating from him. It was obvious; time for showers, and laundry.

Whilst the clothes were being washed, Patrick and I both donned our leftovers: swimsuit, sweatshirt, flip-flops.

Tip: If you want to be offered drugs, dress funky or sloppy. Try to imagine yourself as a California surfer.

The nose-candy costs fifteen soles per gram. Weed? We weren't quoted a price, but I am sure it is negligible.

With fresh clothes and dirtless faces (with the exception of my scruff), we headed to the local discoteca for a South American salsa lesson. Patrick's partner was a full-bodied Cusqueian woman. Mine was a skinny girl from somewhere in Europe.

Shakity, shake, shake.

Apparently, the lesson wasn't enough for Patrick's woman. She wanted more. Although Patrick is usually eager to please, this was the exception to the rule.

Enter: Pepe le pew and the Cat, however, Patrick is the cat, and his woman is the skunk.

She chased him all over that club. There was a request, by her, for us all to go somewhere else (wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean, know what I mean). When he escaped her pursuit by dancing on stage, she decided to make him jealous by dancing with me. The request was repeated.

Her: This club is too crowded, let's go somewhere else (my Spanish is still awful, but it is improving).

Me: No babe, this club is great! I love all of these people.

Her: I have a friend. Here she is; don't you like her?

Me: I love all of these people.

Her: I have marijuana.

Me: Oh, that's nice.

I yoinked Patrick from the stage and we headed for the door. Man, those Cusquaian women are just like the kids on the street; they will not take 'no' for an answer.

We left, slept, watched movies the next day, and boarded our night bus heading for Puno. Patrick had requested top-level, front row seats. Wow, the view of the oncoming cars is great up there! It is real exciting; especially since you fly out of your seat and into the inside of the windshield (the opposite of a bug) when the driver brakes. Yeah! I HIGHLY recommend front-row, top-level seats on South American night buses. Ex-cite-ing!

Departure: 9:00PM

Arrival: 4:30AM, he was making good time.

Welcome to Puno, would you like a finger puppet? (huh?) a post-card? (what?) cigarette? (who?) ride a horse - oops, forgot, that's Cusco; no horses here.

Inca Trail: Day 4 - Picture This!

2004-09-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

(Alternative Title: Inca Trail: Day 4 - Manchu Picchu, I see you.)

At 4:00AM this morning, the porters shook our tent and shined flashlights inside whilst yelling, "Hola! Hola! Hola!" It had rained all night. I could not sleep on my right side because of the pain from the thigh. Mixed feelings stirred: No sleep, but see Manchu Picchu today.

From inside the tent, I was sure the moon was still up because it was so bright outside. I emerged to be greeted by a cloudless sky and an infinite number of glistening stars. The air was crisp. It was a good time for a hike.

Goal: Reach Sun Gate of Manchu Picchu before sunrise at 6:30.

We ate, loaded up, and got on the path.

At 4:45, we reached the control station. It was not open. Three groups were ahead of us.

5:10: The station opened and began to check people through.

5:30: We make it through the control gate.

Big Willy: Sun rises in one hour. The sun gate is about 1.5 hours away. Vamos!

We are running down the trail; even old man Frenchie is keeping up. We are passing people left and right. Willy steps out of the way to check on the rest of the group. He encourages me to keep up the pace.

I kick it into high gear. One group, two groups.

And then, I reached, the stick walkers. Every person in this group was a knee-shot, lung-collapsed, wheeze-bag. Each of them had, not one, but two walking sticks to aid their slow passage to Manchu Picchu.

At the back of the group, was the only odd person out, a black woman, 35, with glasses.

Now, here's a little trail etiquette: When a young, hardy, strong, stud comes running up behind you, step to the side and let him pass. Do not, and I repeat, do not give him the EYE and think, "Yeah, like you're going to pass me."

This bitch continued to block my path for a good ten minutes. This entire time, the anger inside of me was growing. I was not about to let her, or a bunch of stick walkers deprive me of a well-deserved sunrise over Manchu Picchu. I could feel the eyes of my group upon the back of my head, each pair thinking the same thing, "Pass that Bitch! Knock her off the trail if you have to!"

And then, there was a small opening. The trail expanded enough for me to run pass her and two stick walkers. My bag hit a tree and sent water splashing down on the bitch. "Thank you for that!" she seethed.

I was not about to let her ruin my experience and I pushed passed the rest of the stick people.

6:22: I reached the sun gate. There it was; the city I had heard and dreamt about. The city that was not destroyed by the Spanish.

The city sits on a saddle between two mountains; The sungate I was residing in was one of those.

The clouds parted and a ray of sunlight appeared. I cut between the mountains and made and a skinny V upon the ruins. I gasped. There is something majestic and spiritual in this place. It is perfect.

During the summer and winter solstices, the sun passes through the sun gate. From here, a ray passes to the Sun Temple in Manchu Picchu. The Sun Temple has a window aligned with the summer and winter solstices. This ray of light enters the Temple and shines upon an alter where sacrifices are made to the God the sun.

I felt blessed to be able to do this. How privileged I am to think, "Hey, I'll go do 'x'" and then actually go do it.

We descended the final thirty minutes of stairs. During the descent, clouds would climb off of the mountain, surround Manchu Picchu, and the drift into the valley. The sun heated the morning moisture and a fog blocked everything; it too faded. Magic, absolute Magic.

After a group picture, we entered Manchu Picchu and Willy showed us around.

He showed us sacred fountains.

He showed us the temple of the sun.

He showed us the temple of the Earth (Pachu Mamma). Here, Incan Royal Families were mummified and entombed.

He showed us the Incan Sun Dial. During a summer or winter solstice, the eyes of a llama statue would be lit.

He showed us the temple of the Condor. Here too, Incan Royal Families were buried.

After the tour, Willy said goodbye and left us to explore the ruins ourselves.

I produced two cigars, and a flask of Scotch to commemorate the occasion. Patrick and I found a nook with a nice view and sat down to reflect.

Just as the last bit of the cigar began to burn my mouth, the skies opened and the rains came. Tourist were sent scurrying while Patrick and I took cover in the comfort of a stone doorway.

We descended into the town of Aquas Caliente. After lunch came the train. I have never ridden a train before; then again, I have never hiked to Manchu Picchu.

We arrived in Cusco and slept the good sleep of weary travelers.

Thank you for this day.

Inca Trail: Day 3 - Catch This!

2004-09-21T10:45:00.000-07:00

The guide had hinted that, on day three, we would begin encountering major Incan Ruins.

After some initial morning hiking, we came upon Runkuracay. Runkuracay is also known as the watch tower ruins. From this ruin, we could see up and down the valley in both directions, an obviously good position for seeing oncoming enemies. The building itself is made of two concentric circles with a square box at the top. There is belief that this building may be representative of the two lakes further up the mountain.

Runkuracay, like many of the upcoming ruins, was abandoned before completion. Evidence to support this abandonment is that the canals from the above lakes were started, but never completed. Examination of mummies suggests that these buildings were left because of an outbreak of syphilis.

From Runkuracay, our guide pointed back up the valley to Dead Woman pass. From this vantage-point, the mountain formed that outline of a woman, on her back, with hair, face, breasts, and feet. Patrick and I both noted that the head was similar to that of statues on Easter Island; big forehead.

We climbed the rest of the pass, above Runkuracay, above the mountain lakes, and began to descend into another valley. Sayacmarca is on the side of the next hill. Inside this ruin, our guide pointed out sacrificial tables and sacred water fountains used for fertility cleansings. There was a water canal that flowed from the top, through a maze, out water fountains, and finally down into the gardens. It is estimated that as many as 1,000 people lived in the valley and Sayacmarca.

Sayacmarca was abandoned too. Fountains are not completed. Buildings are unfinished.

We descended to the base of the valley and up the other side. After lunch, Patrick and threw the Frisbee for a bit. The porters, the guides, and fellow Gringos all got involved.

We hiked up another mountain pass. I began to worry about the trail. Now, don't get me wrong; I love heights and all; I completely against safety regulations; I think people should be able to weed themselves out of society if they are given an ample length of rope. However, this trail is getting hairy!

Previously, if you fell of the path, you would probably suffer a broken arm, ankle, or something similarly fun. Your quick descent down the mountain would be broken by an ample supply of brushes. However, that friendly scene has changed. Now, the path, only two feet wide, is carved into the side of a mountain. On the right, you have a wall. On the left, you have a nice vertical drop-off. Stairs, rocks, and wet stones are trying to help you off the mountain. Welcome to our new game show "When Will Drew Fall?"

A rain, during lunch, has helped the trail to be a trial by fire. Through small caves, and up steep inclines, we continued to hike. At each checkpoint, there was a head-count, to ensure that we had not...um...lost someone.

We reached the third pass. Some hikers had camped up here. Our guide instructed everyone to drop their bags and follow him. He skipped and jumped his way to the tip of a causeway. An icy wind whipped around everyone. From here, he pointed out Phuyupatamarca. This ruin is also known as "Town in the Clouds" - And rightfully so; the sun was shining because the clouds were in the valley below.

Phuyupatamarca is an observatory. Tiered platforms lead up to a large flat area. From here, Incans studied the stars. They put water into shallow ponds and observed the constellations in the reflections.

"I've heard, but never counted, that the next descent is 3,000 steps. Enjoy!" - Big Willy

Step
----Step
------Step
-------Step <-- fall here

Those first few steps are easy. And then, that's when those Incans thought it would be funny to throw in a skinny step, one which could not possibly be used by a big, fat footed American. I fell.

My heel caught the edge of the steps. As I stumbled forward, my backpack decided it was time to let the law of gravity accelerate us. My body began to roll to the right and I veered toward the edge of the path.

I crashed into the stairs with my right thigh, closely followed by my right arm bent upwards to protect my face. The bag pulled and my body rolled over the edge of the path.

Fortunately, this portion of the path was boxed in by jungle. I fell three feet into some nice, soft, bushes. Jumping up, I climbed back on the path and did my best to look like nothing had happened. Someone yelled, in a thick English accent, "Hey, are alright?"

"I'm fine! But you should see the other guy!"

My arm was streaming with blood. The thigh was severely traumatized. I estimate that my arm hit the stairs at fourteen mph. I pushed forward. Camp would be another hour-and-a-half. As I passed people on the trail, I wiped the arm against my shirt, to rid it of the bright crimson it had become fond of.

About an hour later, I found Patrick on the trail. He was taking pictures of birds and flowers. We got a picture of the arm. I'll show it to you sometime.

The last camp site was luxurious. You could take a shower for five Soles! Patrick and I opted out of the showers and slugged down a few beers instead.

The clouds crawled across the mountains and valleys. The sun set. It got cold. We slept in grand anticipation of our well earned visit to Manchu Picchu in the morning.

Wake-up is 4:00 AM tomorrow. I'll see you then. Sleep well.

Busticated Drew

Inca Trail: Day 2 - Climb This!

2004-09-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

What did you do today?

I was awaken by a porters at 6:00 AM. They fed me tea. We packed up, ate a quick breakfast, and jumped on the trail at 7:00 AM.

As usual, Patrick zipped ahead with his sandals and light load.

However, before the first checkpoint, we lost someone - Fatass. He was having trouble with the altitude (read: Fatass). The porters also carry oxygen for these occasions. After a good gassing, he was taken back home with Orlando (a guide).

Guide Big Willy: "Today is the hardest day. But, it is not impossible, yes?"

For a while, the trail went up and down. Then, it started to go up, and up, and up. We were approaching Dead Woman Pass.

Up until this point, there had been places of dirt path, rock path, and a few stairs. Dead Woman Pass was strictly stairs, climbing into the clouds.

The top of Dead Woman Pass is 4,200m (14,000ft for you American readers). After half-way up the pass, my legs stopped working. The fatigue had finally taken its toll on them. Searing pain flared up in my thighs and I was forced to stop. For the remainder of the pass, I could only go for one minute, and I was forced to rest for a minute.

Eventually, the Belgians, without any packs (portered), passed me. Grrr. This would be the only time they would pass me on trail.

I reached the top of the pass and stared down the valley in all of its magnificence. I could see more miles on both sides of the pass. I can only imagine what the Incans felt as they reached this point of their journey.

On both sides of the pass, not more than another 200ft up, was the snow-level. Recognizing this, I become acutely aware of the temperature. The exertion of carrying the pack had kept me warm and sweaty all of the way up the mountain. However, now, in this resting state, I began to freeze as the temperature was near or below freezing. In addition to the temperature, an strong icy wind was whipping its way across this break in the mountain.

On with the coat, on with the llama hat, on with the cheap gloves.

I began to descend down...down....down. Our camp would be at the bottom of the other side of dead woman pass. To further strain our legs, this descent would only be stairs.

I noticed that running/controlled falling was the easiest, and by far, the fastest method of descent.

Patrick arrived at camp at 11:00. I arrived at camp at 12:40. The Belgians came in at 1:30. Betrand, the old French guy, finished dead last at 3:00.

The hike, for me, a young, spry, strong?, determined, man, took almost 6 hours. I watched as my travels caused the vegetation around me to change from leafy green forest, to shrubbery, to barren wasteland, to snow. The wildlife faded too: At first, there were mosquitoes, and birds, and llamas. Around the shrub-level, a few llamas picked at the bushes. At the top of dead woman pass, nothing was surviving (maybe at Yeti, maybe).

Camp was above the clouds too - 3,600m (12,000ft). I watched as clouds, below the camp, would slink along the mountains. At night, the view of the moon was spectacular; I felt like the cookie monster in that I could just reach out and take bite of it. In the city, stars hide. On the side of a mountain, the stars sing to one's soul and spark the imagination.

Tea, cookies, cards, dinner, sleep.

Inca Trail: Day 1 - Carry This!

2004-09-19T08:30:00.000-07:00

The bus picked us up at 7:30 AM. It was chaotic. Instead of directing everyone to meet at the plaza, this huge tour bus began loping through the one-car streets picking up whities. At one point, we had to turn around...Austin Powers style. The bus backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward.........Finally, we were perpendicular to the street. Thirty minutes later, we were back loping through the streets.

We got everyone. The porters came. The guide(s) got in. Let me introduce everyone.

Gringos:

Four Americans including Patrick and I. The other two will forever be known as Scruffy and Harvard (b/c of his t-shirt) or, as I prefer, Fatass, b/c of his...well..you get the picture.
The Belgian couple, our favorite guy and his hottie little Belgian girlfriend. BTW, for our next trip, definitely going to hunt down a wife in Belgium...Yummy. Each of them only reached my nipples though. Very short them Belgians are.
The Belgian couple´s two Canadian friends (flag not included)
The Old French guy - Betrand
The Italian Vegetarian couple - I HATE vegetarians.
The Italian buddies, Simpleton and Curiously American looking guy (wearing a NYC hat)
And lastly, the three Japanese. Two girls, one cute, and one ok. One guy (MJ), who is obviously a Michael Jackson imitator (creepy).
And the loner, the Argentinean.

The cliques formed based on languages. So, we had the Italians, the French speakers (Belgians, Canadians, and Betrand), the Americans, the Japanese, and the loner.

Porters:

Well, there was one porter who the guide called Pepé, although Patrick tells me that´s not his name. Fourteen porters. Did you get the name of your bellhop at the last hotel you stayed in? Yeah, I didn't either.

Guides:

Main guide: Willy is tall, dark, and crazy-eyed. He lives in the mountains; that is, he does the guide gig non-stop. He has been doing it for eight years. During that time, he learned Quechua from the porters and English from the Gringos.
Non-English Speaking Guide: Orlando. Nice stout guy.
Japanese Speaking Guide: Yeah, I don´t speak Japanese.

Willy jumped on the bus and let us know the setup using interesting English, "Hello, my name is Willy. Welcome. During this trip, you may get lost and need to find me. If you ask someone, you will need to use my nickname: Big Willy. This is because there are other Willys on the trail, tiny Willy, small Willy, etc. When someone asks you what group you are in, you will respond with, 'I am in the Big Willy group.'

The bus stopped in the next town to pickup tents. 14 of 16 of our group bought walking sticks - You can guess who didn't. This guy, and that guy.

After three hours, we arrived at the jumping off point. All of the porters jumped out and relieved themselves on the public restroom (a wall). Naturally, all of the men followed suit while the women each ponied up fifty centimos (fifteen cents) for the usage of a squatting hole.

The porters began to scramble and work their magic. Thirty minutes later, they had our first meal ready. Plantains, egg-drop soup, spaghetti, and tea.

The luggage situation

We were given a list of things to bring, the biggest of which was a sleeping bag. The list was small; Patrick and I agreed to pack solely into my pack and leave his pack at the hostel. The pack was not too bad until they sprung the mattresses on us. Each party member was given a rolled up mattress to carry. I attached mine to the bottom the pack while Patrick used a clip to attach his mattress to a camel back his was carrying.

Two sleeping bags, one mattress, full water supply, scotch, cigars = 20Kg (45lbs)

Load'em up, move'em out.

Raw HIDEEEEEE!!!

I guess they like to ease you into the Inca trail. Day one was by far the easiest. Now, no doubt, I breathed hard and sweated profusely. But, we only climbed about 300m (1,000ft). Along the trail, there was ample water and plenty of breaks.

Along the trail, we passed llamas, donkeys, cows.

Along the trail, porters passed Gringos.

Patrick, wearing sandals, and a water pack, hustled along. He was first to the camp. I was second.

5 o'clock = Tea time, cookies, popcorn. Roughing it. Definitely roughing it.

At tea time, the guide talked about how hard the next day would be. We would climb 3,000ft to a final altitude of 4,200Km (almost 14,000ft). Big Willy asked if anyone would be needing a porter the next day. Fat people, small people, and the women all took porters (Fatass, the Belgians, the Vegetarians, and the Japanese).

Patrick and I played our game of Gin beneath the fading light of my flashlight.

7:30 = Dinner. We had trout in the dark.

8:30, in bed. I went to sleep immediately and dreamt of the adventures ahead.

Smile, I´m alive, and I have an epic tale for you.

Hanging with British Ladies

2004-09-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

On the 3rd day of the jungle, we got up, ate, and took a two hour boat ride back to the airport. During the boat ride, we talked with two British ladies, one pretty but lacking personality (Vicki), and one less pretty that talks enough to make up for it (Shawna).

At the airport, a single event from the start of our trip to the jungle began to pose a problem. When we checked in at the airport, in Cusco, the lady took our tickets for the return trip home. We did not notice until we were on the boat heading to the lodge in the Jungle.

Let´s just say that South America is a big policy place. Without the ticket, there was no way we could board the plane. They had our names in the system, they had our seats reserved, however, no ticket means no board.

Security? Ha! They don´t even check your name against your passport. However holds that ticket can get on the plane. However, that ticket is admission, your passort is not.

After many calls and much anger, we were forced to purchase another ticket to return to Cusco. In Cusco, we talked to a manager. This guy spoke great English and was well-polished. He gave us a form for a refund. We predict there is a 50% chance of a refund. I´ll let you know.

However, our invested time on the boat and in the airport landed us a date with the two British ladies.

At 6:00+/-, we met in the plaza for drinks and dinner. They are the new winners of time travelling. New record for vacation time: Eleven months. They are travelling around the world with the same travel company Patrick and I are using. It is a sweet deal; 10 destinations, $1500. Patrick and I are being jipped. Next time,...Next time.....

After dinner and drinks, they went home. But, they did not leave without arranging the next encounter, this Friday, at a local rat-hole called Norton´s Rats. Patrick and I remained and watched our fill of the Soccor game. At each made by Cusco, the bar would erupt, "Goooooooaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!!!!"

We have had our fill of touristy things here in Cusco. Most of this week has been spent in the Plaza. South America is exactly as my Spanish teacher described, "If you have trouble doing nothing, and most Americans do, then you will not enjoy it here." People come and sit in the plaza after lunch for at least two hours. They watch other people, they watch the birds, they talk with their bench buddies, they breathe in life. It is refreshing.

Friday, we drank and played billards at Norton´s Rat. British girls have unusual pool rules. Apparently, when you scratch, the opposing team receives two shots.

Drink in belly and smile on face, we preceeded to an Irish bar. They girls felt uncomfortable there and we headed on over to a local dance club to shake it.

I shook it.

Patrick shook it.

Vicky shook it.

Shawna shook it.

Patrick shook it with Shawna.

I shook it with some local Cuscian women.

Vicky shook it with a guy who picked her up there.

C'est la Vie.

We made it home by 4:30 AM. No pushups or situps of course. Besides, we shook it for several hours.

British Slang

2004-09-17T15:32:00.000-07:00

We spent the last evening en la Jungla talking with the Brits, specifically the foursome (one couple, Guy and Lisa, and dos chicas, Sara and Faya). The conversation was enlightening on both ends; we learned some slang, they learned about America. Here are the results:

Language

Take a slash, or have a slash - Go pee
Hit the bog - Go to the bathroom
Pissing it down - Raining
Pissed - Drunk (From that Chumbawumba song)
Off-license - Liquor store (b/c you can carry the liquor off the premises)
Uni (pronounced U-knee) - Short for University
Lecturers - Teachers at College
Yous - Ya´ll (Much like those Yanks)
Knob head - Dick head, asshole
Dodgy - A little bit off center, wacky.

Faya - In spanish, this sounds like the adjective for ugly.

Racism

English jokes usually include three people: the English, the Irish, and the Scottish. Yup, the Irish drink all of the time, and the Scottish wear dresses.

The Accent

The English hate the Southern accent more than the rest of America. However, the American accent does not disqualify American guys from hooking up with English chicks. Besides, according to them, "English men are all a bunch of sissy poofs with bad teeth."

Lisa spoke the Queen´s English. This petite, twenty-eight year old woman would open her mouth and speak; the sounds that emminated from within did not match her profile. She sounds like a sweet seventy-year-old English woman preparing afternoon tea.

Tooth-ology

We did ask about their friend, snaggle-tooth, and his four pearlys smile. They all had nice teeth, although the stains of many afternoon teas was beginning to set it. Apparently, Americans are hung up on teeth and they are always whitening and straightening and cleaning and shining them.

Rumors

Did you know that, in America, when a cop pulls you over, you must get out of your car, and raise your hands in the air - One to many episodes of cops leaked out I presume.

Politics

We avoided the topic and remained friends. Besides, ladies get uncomfortable with such discussions.

La Jungla (Diá Dos)

2004-09-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

The first night, we were instructed that wakeup call would be at 5:00. "Are you kidding?" I asked the guide. He responded with the response I usually give when I don´t understand, "Yes, Yes." At 5:00, the guide banged on our door and we woke up to find that the jungle had moistened our clothes during the night.

Donning the damp duds, we ate breakfast and went to the boat. In addition to our normal group, the old stereotypical Brit had joined us. He had bad teeth and an loud annoying laugh; Chester was afraid of the boat and scooted, with both hands frozen at his sides, onto the craft. This action was to be repeated throughout the jungle.

Again, we were instructed to listen to the sound of La Jungla. We walked in silence. Every few hundred feet, the guide would stop and talk about a plant, or a tree. Most of the vegetation seemed to have healing properties. To heal a person´s ailments, the instructions were always of the form: Boil and drink, boil and inhale, rub on body, or simply cut and eat.

After one kilometer of trekking, we found a boat and the beginnings of a swamp. Everyone piled into the boat, and snaggle-tooth scooted on board.

Snaggle-tooth is a bird watcher. He had his binoculars, a huge-ass camera, a tripod, and of course, a big fat bird reference guide (before reaching the boat, the guide was already carrying the tripod in an attempt to speed the man up). Are you a bird watcher? I don´t get this whole bird watching thing? Who wants to watch birds? If you are going to have a hobby, why would you pick this one?

We rowed the boat for four kilometers through this narrow canal. Along the way, we saw birds of many a feather. Some of them parrots. Check this out: In South America, even the parrots speak Spanish.

Just as my arms became sufficiently tired, we reached the end of the boating and began trekking again. I noticed the guide use his machete to cut a long thin stick from a tree. 100ft late, we came upon a tree with three big holes, in the ground, around the base; a jungle-sized tarantula lived inside.

The guide poked and prodded all of the while instructing everyone to be quite. Here is a list of things the spider was thinking:

Oh man, here´s that stick guy again. This is the worst part of my day.
WTF? I´m under attack. Die thing die!
Holy crap! A huge stick bug. I won´t have to eat for a month after this.

Whatever the reaon, the spider began to emerge along the stick. It was the size of my fist. Everyone took pictures and we moved on.

The look-out point was another kilometer up the trail. The lodge had found the highest tree in the jungle and built a staircase into it. At the top of the tree was the neatest treehouse I had ever seen. Then only thing lacking was a bar. From the top, a swift shake would sway the entire tree to and fro. By far, this was the best piece of constuction I have encountered in South America. I felt semi-safe.

Atop the lookout, you could see for miles. It reminded me of a seen in the movie, "The Hobbit". Bilbo and the crew had been trekking through the jungle for many days. The density of the trees prevented sunlight from creeping in. After a hair-raising incident with some spiders, Bilbo was instructed to climb a tree and lookout. Up top, he found a paradise; butterflies were flapping, the sun was shining, and for a brief moment, he was content. That is the precise description I wish to convey to you.

The final stop on our jungle trek was Lost Lagoon. On the way to it, one of the American´s spotted a weird looking bug hiding on a tree trunk. He asked the guide about it; the guide went white and told everyone to stay away from it. This four inch bug looked like aspen bark. It had doppy wings and a head like a rhinoceros. Our guide explained that one sting would be "mortal." Another one of our scavenger hunt items is to come in contact with a deadly beast: Consider it done.

Lost lagoon was a swampy marsh. We boarded a new boat and snuck around in the swamp looking for creatures. There were many turtles; much like the caymen, the turtles had a circle of saftey that, once breached, would cause them to slip off a nice sunning spot and into the water.

The guide stopped the boat to look for a friend. He pointed the friend out to Patrick. Patrick, in turn, pointed out this friend to me. This was no friend. This was a six foot anaconda curled up and absorbing the sun.

Rounding a bend, the guide whispered, "Silecenio, there are caymen here." These were the same cuddly four inch caymen we had seen the night before. Then, the guide´s eyes got real big and he whispered something about "they are on her head." I looked into the grass and saw a record setting caymen. This thing was 7ft long. It had teeth as big as my fingers. She began snorting to detest our presence. After a good amount of snorting, she submerged and we continued on.

In the middle of a big pool of water, there was obviously a creature swimming below. The bubbles were everywhere. We followed the trail of bubbles for a while until a large head emerged. It was the head of a ten meter anaconda. It took a breath and went under again. That was the last beast we saw.

De-boating, we picked up our bags and began to trek back. The return trip was six meters. By 1:30PM, we arrived back at the lodge. We had been in the jungle since 6:30AM. You do the math; I´m on vacation.

Lunch.

Patrick and I grabbed the frisbee, dropped the shirts, donned the swimsuits, and preceeded to make the women drool with a serious bout of frisbee tossing. We both showered (separately) and lounged in the hammocks until 3:30. Back to the boat and upstream we went.

The final site of our trip was a local´s home. We docked and made our way up onto her land. The guide talked to us about the fruit trees she had. He showed the resourcefulness of the landowner by the many ways she utilitized the land to survive. Bananna leaves were used for writing and toilet paper. Turtle shells were used as pots. She had chickens and dogs and cats. Supper was being cooked while she awaited the return of the husband.

The land has enough resources to support the family. However, nothing can be sold from the crops it produces because of the cost for transporting the good to Puerto Maldondo.

We returned, ate dinner, and struck up a conversation with the Brits. I will blog on that tomorrow.

Until then, think happy trails,

Drew

La Jungla (Dia Uno)

2004-09-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

On Monday, we took a vacation (or for you Brits, a Holiday) to the jungle at Puerto Maldondo. From Cusco to P.M. is only a thirty minute flight. However, the elevation goes from 11,000ft (Cusco) to jungle level at 0ft? in P.M. After takeoff, you are immediately frightened by all of the mountain everywhere. Then, the quickly disappear into the clouds below you. Then, the plane begins to descend into the clouds. Underneath the clouds is the lush vegatation you would expect. Now, instead of mountains, it is trees that you fear the plane will hit. I told the captain a couple of times, "Hey, watch out for that tree." He was thankful as we Patrick.

As we deplaned, I was immediately reminded of my time in Nam by the thick air, the constant overcast, the eerie glow, the lack of people speaking English. Entering the terminal, we were greeted by the sound of drums and half-naked dancers. Mucho Gusto!!!. While they danced, we got our luggage and headed for the "Christmas" sign (You know Patrick´s last name is Christmas, right?).

The Brits were riding the bus with us to, the whole lot of them; six in all. Each talking in that fake English accent. I kept waiting for them to drop the facade and speaking normal. But, they were persistent. Those Brits, what jokesters.

Two of the Brits have us beat. A small man, about 28, and his wife, by far the hottest of the group, about 25, were on "Holiday" for six months. The other four Brits, a couple and two girls, were taking three weeks off of works.

We rode this bus for twenty minutes through Puerto Maldondo. We passed run down stores, children, dirt, and mangy dogs. At the edge of town, a long skinny boat awaited our arrivals. The boats fit approximately forty people before they sink (or twenty Americans.) Two fat Americans, leaning to one side, could probably tip the thing over. I, alone, could rock the entire thing left and right. The Brits were not amused and did not wish to partake in the tipping of the boat. A canopy was built to protect the white people´s supple skin from the harsh sun of the jungle on our 1.5 hour boat ride to the lodge.

Along the trip on Madre de Rios, the guide informed us, in broken English, and great Spanish, of the dangerous lurking within; caymen (crocs), pirannas, eels, currents, kids selling post cards, et al. All of them being indigenous species of course.

We passed other lodges and considered booing them, however, the guide did not seem interested in friendly harassment of the other habitations.

The thickness, that enveloped everything, continually revealed trees 200ft upriver, and consumed them 200ft down river. The jungle fog is exactly like the fog described by Stephen King in the "Skelton Crew." I knew that it was killing things everywhere it went.

Finally, we arrived at the lodge. Patrick wants this lodge when he becomes a drug lord. All of the rooms are built up on stilts to avoid the water during the rainy season. Connected everything are covered bridges lined with torches. To fit the role, we would need cigars and linens suits. Unfortunately, I left my linen suit back in America.

We were fed and given thirty minutes before going to see the monkeys.

Thirty minutes later, we again, boarded a long boat, this time lacking any protection from the sun. Monkey Island was directly across from our lodge. A guide accompanied us, Victor. The only thing between us and the rabid monkeys, of Monkey Island, was Victor, his machete, and a bag of baby plantains.

Leaving the boat, we were greeted by sand. The sand rose into grass. The grass turned into lush six foot tall grass. The jungle grass rose to meet the Jungle. At each area, a path was previously slashed and trampled.

As we entered the forest of lions and tigers and bears (oh my), Victor began to tell us about the five species of monkey he played with in the forest. As we walked, he began to call to them, "Platano, Platano, PLATANO!" The trees shook. Was it the wind? "Platano, PLATANO, PLLAAATAAANNOO!!!" The russling grew instense. A small black furry thing appeared, swinging, spinning, and flipping through the trees.

The monkey clumsly fell, and caught, and jumped, and dropped its way all of the way to us. It stopped about five feet from the group up in a tree. Victor produced a "platano" and pitched it to the monkey. The monkey dropped it. He pitched another one. The monkey dropped it too. As this continued, Victor explained that the monkey had only four fingers and therefore, should not play baseball.

Another black faced monkey appeared. This one was a baby. It stayed at a comfortable ten feet where Victor began the same excercise of tossing and dropping "Platanos."
After a few thousand pictures, the group continued. Victor continued to call. The two black monkeys followed us to the monkey amphitheatre. From here, they told jokes and at platains. Despite numerous calls by victor, no other monkeys showed up.

We left Monkey Island (it is a silly place) and we back to the Lodge. Patrick and I got tea and settled into our daily card game on an upstairs balcony. As night fell, the trees around the lodge began to russle. Sure enough, several small monkeys came hopping along to settle down for the ngiht. We asked, but not one was interested in tea or cards.

After dinner, we again returned to the boat (pattern). Each party member was instructed to bring a flashlight to search for Caymen (crocodiles). Victor showed up with a search light on a car battery. As the boat motored away from the dock, I joked with Patrick about the possibility of the engine failing. The engine stopped. Victor instructed us to be quite while we drifted down stream. "Listen to the sounds of the Jungle."

The river was misty and creepy. Slowly, the current carried us away from the saftey of the lodge and into the wilderness of the jungle. The jungle became alive as sounds became perceptable. I heard russling, flopping, cawwing, monkeying, and chomping.

Fifteen minutes later, Victor fired up his search light and began sweeping the water. A red spot flashed in the search light. The boat was directed to the location of the red spot. The red dot was the eyes of a Caymen. It was a small one, not more than a foot long. When the boat was too close for comfort, the caymen departed from its warm rock and slipped back into the river.

We saw many Caymens as we proceeded back upstream. When we reached the lodge, it was time for bed. Patrick and I did our routines and jumped in bed. The warm temperature was a nice change from the cold climate of Cusco. Or beds were clean and there were hammocks in our room. It was a good night.

Economics in South America

2004-09-12T13:29:00.000-07:00

Last night, around 7ish, I went upstairs to have some tea at our hostel. Home-girl (as Patrick has affectionately named her) was there; she was ironing. I asked her she wanted to share a tea with me.

Home-girl´s name is Yovanna. She is 19, speaks a bit of English, and works very hard. She´s up before we get up and she works until we go out at night. She does many of the random chores that are required to keep a hostel in order. She sweeps, and cleans, and irons. She tells the kids to keep quite and helps the Gringos with their Spanish. She´s a sweetie too, and quite funny.

She joined me for the tea and we talked for a bit. She speaks about as much English as I do Spanish. Therefore, you can imagine how long a short conversation can take. She continued to iron while I looked up words in the dictionary to splice together phrases for her to decipher.

Most of the things were job related. What do I do? How much vacation do I get? How much salary do I make. It put several things into perspective.

She receives a full month of vacation every year. I received about 3 weeks (more then a lot of Americans.)

Now, I don´t discuss my salary with anyone, however, who was home-girl going to tell. I told her. Her eyes got huge. Her mouth dropped open. She was visibly astounded. I tossed the question back her. Any guesses? Are you ready for this? Well, if I tell you, you can´t tell anyone. She is paid 400 soles a month. The current rate of Soles to Dollars is 3.3 to 1. Yeah, I can see you doing the math right now and your mouth is open and your eyes are wide. That´s right. About $100/month. Yes, that´s $1,200/year. Apparently, that´s the average here. Heck, the boots I bought for this trip cost more then the amount she makes per month. JD just told me that I got two parking tickets at $40 a pop. Man, I hope she doesn´t getting a parking ticket in America.

I tried to explain to her the discrepancy with the following, "Los Estadios Unidos es muy carro." I told her that I had a small house that I shared with two people. I further explained that the cost of the house was more than she makes in a year. Here is where I began to fully understand the discrepancy myself. She asked me how many bedrooms it had, how many bathrooms, living room?, kitchen?, formal dining?. I was embrassed.

Anyone want to hire a cheap maid? She´ll do everything for you. She´ll clean your house, she´ll cook you dinner, she´ll teach you Spanish. Only $200/month. Going once, going twice,...

Iglesia el domingo

2004-09-12T13:27:00.000-07:00

Another scavenger hunt item is: You must attend a Catholic mass. Over 90% of South America is Catholic.

Last night was our first night out on the town. We danced and drank and looked for trouble. The only thing I got was a headache this morning. The 11:30 mass came much faster than I expected.

Patrick drug me out of bed. Man, do my clothes reak? Oh wait, do I reak? Hrmm...Maybe Patrick reaks. Whichever the case may be, we definitely did not have our Sunday clothes handy. I put on some deodorant in a meek effort to cover the reak. Patrick sniffed, "Hey guy, do you reak? or is that me? or is that my clothes?"

We hauled off to church and arrived at exactly 11:30. Wait? Is this really Sunday? Is this really that deeply religous culture we have heard about in South America? Where is everyone?

Inside the church, there was one priest, one guitar guy, five singing senoritas, and fifteen members sitting in the congregation. Patrick and I got a seat five from the front in this huge empty cathedral.

So, you know about Catholic churches, right? There´s a rule book. Every Catholic church reads the same scripture on the same day. There are phrases which the priest exchanges with the congregation. After each scripture reading, the person presents it as, ¨The word of the Lord." People cross themselves. There´s the exchange of a sign of God´s love (my favorite part.)...etc...etc. So, there are certain things I have come to expect.

I present the above evidence as a case to show that I am not a complete idiot when I thought to myself, "Why is the priest speaking Spanish? Shouldn´t he be speaking the English?" Come on people, I know you hear me on this one.

Words for God:

Dios
Padre
Jesus
El Señor (my personal favorite)

The cathedrals here are beautiful, gold and silver encrusted, palaces. Patrick and I believe that you could auction off all of the relics, statues, gold, paintings, tapestries, and statues and make the entire town of Cusco millionaires. Why are there homeless beggers at the front of a church with so much money? Why do the beggers have to come through after the offering in order to survive? What is the purpose of so much gold and ornate work? Is it an offering to God? Does it please God? Does it attract followers to your religion? All I know is that all over the world, the exists this type of palace of worship. In China, there are buddist temples with gold buddas. In Russia, there are those domes, entirely encased in gold. Why?

Sore ass. ¿Que bebe el ayer por la noche?

2004-09-11T13:24:00.000-07:00

Patrick and I have been trying to contact Rudy (our original guide) for three days.

The first time, Patrick called his number and got some lady. He explained to her that we wanted to ride the horses. She asked Patrick which horse ride we wanted. At that point, the phone beeped and hung up. Patrick believes that our thirty cents had run out in thirty seconds.

The second time we tried, there was no answer.

The third time, Patrick got an answering machine and left a message.

By this point, we were resolved to just goto one of the tourist places. In the morning, we would get up at 7:00AM! and go figure it out. At 9:45AM, I couldn´t lay in bed any longer. I got up, got dressed, got the contacts in, got the sunscreen on, and got going.

All hotels have a central plaza just like all towns. As I crossed our plaza, I noticed someone get up and start following me. Now generally, they are pretty good about chasing the street vending little bastards out. I was surprised that this one had made in through.

As I reached the gate, he spoke to me. I turned. It was mi amigo, Rudy. He asked if we would like to ride the horses today. I said yes and went to wake Patrick´s ass? up. He bounded out of bed and came to meet Rudy.

Ten minutes later, we were on our way to the horses. As we exited the cab, the horse handlers approached with two animals. One was an ass; the other was a white stallion. "Patrick, of course, seeing as how big I am, it is only natural for me to take the stallion." About that time, they came up with Patrick´s horse. He seemed relieved.

Here´s how horse tours work in Cusco. You get a guide. He doesn´t speak English. He runs along side while you and your buddy ride old glue-factory-ready nags. The command for making the horse run is "Su! Su! Su! Su!" During the rants, you must also kick your nag with your big boots and spank it with a piece of floppy grass. At this point, your horse will put its ears back and snort. When your guide approches, he will slap the nags ass for you and yell "Su! Su! Su!" The horse knows that the guide is waiting to send it off to the glue factory. Therefore, it will try to obey and begin a trot. This is not a normal trot. This is a "Oh my god, my stuff hurts so much!!! Please stop trotting!!!" trot.

The other command that the horse will not obey is "¡Parada!" The horse will make you sore until you decide that this running thing is a bad idea and that you would like to have kids.

We rode the horses up to a few Incan Ruins. The first one was a labyrinth with a sacrificial table inside. The Incans would kill llamas on the table and the blood would run through the maze. This, of course, was pleasing to the Gods. I got a picture of Patrick on the sacrificial llama table. It was pleasing to me.

As you may have guessed, although we were miles from town, there were many vendors there. However, there was a new one. This woman was selling language skills. She would tell us about the ruin in English for $5. Patrick and I decided to just stick with the descriptions in our guide books.

From there, we preceeded to the Incan Baths. This astounding work of man is a maze of water. The river flows down a hill and is captured by the baths. From there, it is funnelled this way and that. It comes out of three spigots. We have pictures washing our hands in the waters. The waters are extremely cold. One of the scavenger hunt items is to skinny dip in lake Titticaca. Patrick and I briefly consider if getting naked here would be worth the trouble or even satisfy the requirement. Two nays later, Patrick ripped of his shirt and stuck his head under a spigot. It got some looks, but we figured, "Hey, these are baths right?"

Across from the baths is a watch tower. These baths were very valuable and required protection. From this watch tower, you can see another watch tower in the distance. That distant watch tower has a view of the entire valley. Furthermore, that distant watch tower is attached to a large area which housed various government officials and the king, when he came for his yearly bath.

We raced our horses back down. There was a surprising amount of competition left in those old nags. We ran it out of them. My horse fell once. I don´t recommend it. Her front feet collasped underneath her. I new I was destined for a Christopher Reeves ending. Thankfully, though, we were not running at the time buth rather just descending a rocky slope. My horse got up and we got on our way.

The finally ruin we viewed was a garrison; it was HUGE! We walked bowlegged to it after dropping off the horses. I cannot image the amount of manpower and engineering and hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades that must have gone into this structure. We took a panoramic photo. I´ll show it to you some day.

My ass hurts. My legs hurts. My back hurts. And yes, my nuts hurt. Who likes to ride horses anyhow? Crazy Incans. Maybe that´s why the guide runs alongside.

Hasta la manana,
El Conquistador de Los Estados Unidos

Selling Guide to South America (continued)

2004-09-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Cusco. I heard you are looking for work. Here´s the guide. Naturally, you will start will a crappy product in an aweful location. But, don´t worry, do good there and we´ll move you up to that premium airport market.

Ok, so we know the kids sell crap - And we know that the older you get, and the less cute you are, the more the crap you are vending has to be worth. Here is the continuation of the stuff you can vend:

13: At this turning point, you can start selling real stuff, cigarettes, candy, etc.
14: You have earned the new right to sign shoes. Get out there. Remember, even if a tourist is wearing sandles, he too needs a good shine.
15-16: You can drag people into restaurants. You will have to hound every passing tourist and thrust menus into the faces. There is much competition and you must be fierce and have heart.
17+: Ok, here´s where you can get into the real thing - Horse trips. Wherever there are tourists, there are people in need of a horse trip. If they have already had a horse ride, let them know that you have a better and cheaper one.
80: If you don´t have an alpaca, then you must beg. If you can´t afford the investment into this fine animal, steal on. Once you have an alpaca, ask the tourists if they want a picture with your alpaca. You can earn anywhere from thirty cents to $60 depending on the gulliblity of your gringo friend.

Apparently, there is a second dimesion to this pecking order. Besides types of craps and services you can vend, you must also work up the "location" chain.

The airport is where all of the money flows in. Here, you can peddle your goods at a premium because the tourist have no concept of the price things should cost. Plus, everything is more expensive at the airport.

Next, you can hang around in the plaza. Only the cute and the sniffly can hang out here. If you are not turning a good profit, then you will be moved to the alley.

Now, your in Gringo Alley. They tourist that find this small busy stretch may already be hardened to your type. Therefore, you will have to work extra hard. For instance, if a gringo is crossing the street to avoid an oncoming car, jump in front of him and thrust your goods in his face before letting him pass. This will ensure a good sell.

Well, if you are ugly, and don´t have the sniffles, and you suck at selling, we are going to put your ass at the top of some old ruins. From there, you will be able to spot the suckers as they flock to the tourist attractions. This is the last stop we have to offer you before you must turn to begging.

Good sells upon you sir,

The Big White Mafia

Los Ninos y Ninitos Vendadors en la Plaza

2004-09-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

They have the cutest, smallest, snot-nosed, will steal your billfold, brats in the plaza here. Last night, Patrick and I went and set in the plaza. We set apart in order to have separate experiences. I immediately found myself swimming in kids ranging from 5-12.

Each were selling the respective items for their age group. The five-year-olds were petteling pity. The seven-year-olds were running candy. The eight-year-olds hussle the finger puppet market. While the 10-12-year-olds manage the postcard and art market.

At one point, there were probably seven kids on me. If the initial sale did not take, the backup tactics followed. Here is the chart:

When a gringo denies you a sale do the following:

Look sad and ask again.
Look sad and ask again in English.
If you are selling postcards, ask the gringo if he has friends or family to send the postcards to.
Demonstrate your English skills and Knowledge of America. Ask again for the sale.
Talk to the gringo about his stay in Cusco. Here are some helper questions

Do you like Cusco?
How long have you been in Cusco?
How long are you staying?
Did you eat today, because I didn´t?

I felt that Patrick was not getting enough love. He was sitting there all alone. I said, "Hable a mi gringo amigo." Just like clockwork, half of the crew shifted attention to work on Patrick.

He looked up and smiled at me.

You are probably wondering at this point, "Hey Drew, where is your wallet?" I have many pockets. The least accessible of the group is in the front of my jeans. That´s where I keep it. If it goes missing, I´ll come looking for you.

Fast hands:
I showed the kids some card tricks. The seven-year-old demonstrated the ease of which he could pick my coat pocket. He continued to pull candy from there. I keep it to keep their hands busy.

I must run. My time is up.

El Gringo Grande

El Cristo grande en la montaña

2004-09-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

South America is deeply religious. The people, as they pass the Catholic churches, they cross themselves. I showed some card tricks to kids in the square. After viewing the magic, the kids would cross themselves. Therefore, it should not suprise you that a huge Christ watches over the town from the mountain.

Patrick and I decided to trek up to El Cristo. At the beginning of the trail, there were many vendors. "You want a horse ride? You want a post card? How bout a picture with my llama? Only five bucks for a picture with my llama. Don´t you want a picture with my llama?" My usual response faired well, "No gracias Señor."

As we ventured further from the town, there were no vendors.

The Inca people must have had long legs and short torsos. From what we know, they were short people. Judging from the size of the steps at all Incan sites, their legs must have been three-fourths of their entire body. These stairs are huge! After a bit of stair climbing, we got off the path and followed different dirt paths up the mountain.

Now, I´m a strong, healthy, young, American. I work out. I play the Frisbee. I´m in better shape then all of you. Yeah, that goes for you too JD, you big fat ass. But, hiking up to a huge Christ, in a town that sits at 11,000 ft? Yeah, I don´t do that every day. Each step was harder then the last. I could hear Patrick weezzing further up in front. Finally, Gracias a Dios, he stopped to rest. This was the first of many rests we would have on our way to see El Christo.

Despite the steep hill, the treacherous trail, and lack of oxygen, we heave-hoed and pulled ourselves up that last bit to the base of El Grande Cristo´s feet...where upon we were offered Horse Rides and pictures with llamas. I weezzed, cough, spat, and said, "No.....(eeeehhhee...aaaa...ack...)...gra-.....(eeeeeeeeeehhhhh)....cias....(ack)...Señ........(ack...eeeeee)...or."

Revenge of the Cuy - Potty humor (Beware Ladies)

2004-09-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

During my Spanish lessons, my professor (Profe) would rave about Cuy (Guinee Pig on a stick). It would make the girls cringe and the guys salivate. Seeing as how I am a guy, I salivated. My first meal in Cusco was Cuy. The waiter smiled knowingly as I order this South American specialty. He then ran into the alley to kill one for me. He then chopped off the head and tails, heated it up to a disease-free 170 degrees F and slapped it on a plate. I picked and gnawed at the little corpse until there was nothing left. My parents would be proud.

That night, there came a bubbling in my stomache. I had dreams of thousands of Guinee Pigs eating me (very small bites of course). They were laughing too.

The next morning, we hiked up to the Christ on the Hill. El Cristo Grande is very far from the town. That´s when the Cuy decided to takes its revenge.

Suddenly, I had a strong urge to go to the bathroom. I told Patrick that we must head back, and FAST. The cuy was angry and strong. We hurried back to the hotel where I grabbed the roll of TP and headed to the bathroom. I didn´t even take my book!

As fast as I arrived, I was finished.

Background Information: Our mutal friend, Paul Winkeler gave us a bunch of note-cards with various scavenger-hunt like tasks on it. One of them is to get Amoebic dysentery.

"Hey Patrick," I queried, "Does this count?"

Patrick was not impressed and, with blasé inflection, he responded, "Do that five times during one day, and we´ll mark that task as completed."

"Fair enough."

La Primera Día en Cusco

2004-09-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

We will be in Cusco for a while. This city is nice and the people are friendly.

When we arrived yesterday, as usual, we were accosted by everyone at the airport. It is amazing how money commands a certain amount of attention. I am trying to look poor. It is not working very well. Most people can tell by my clothes, my size, my dictionaries, and the lost look on my face, that I am an American. One of the first questions out of these peoples mouths is, "¿Eres un estudiante?" From a business perspective, this makes perfect sense as it allows them to assess the amount of money I have.

We talked with several of the travel agencies at the airport. Everyone seemed to agree on one thing; there was no possible way for us to go to Manchu Picu on the Inca Trail. The new government regulations put in place reduce the amount of tourism allowed on the trail. Therefore, those who wish to travel the trail would need reservations. People in Lima, Miraflores, and now Cusco informed us that the reservations list was a month long. Because our stay in Lima is only a month, this presents a problem.

With sinking morale, we preceeded outside of the airport terminal. In the parking lot, we continued to be accosted with offers for taxis and places to stay. We ignored all of them except the last one. A rotund, thirty-year-old with a mouthful of gold teeth had a good deal. The Hostel Grande would cost us only $5 a night. We followed him to a taxi. He jumped in the passenger seat, next to the driver, and we took off.

Trail advice: Ignore anyone that speaks to you in English. Ignore anyone that starts a conversation with "Mi Amigo!" I glare at these people and thing about how to say, in Spanish, "I don´t make friends that easily."

The rotund smiling guy volunteered his creditials as a certified tourist guy (he showed us his badge). At that point, he started into his spill. Just like everyone at the airport, he was trying to push us onto a trail that was not the Inca Trail. This other trail was a "new" trail that was guarenteed to be just as fun. Somehow, I doubted that this "new" trail would be as fun as the "old" trail. Rudy and Patrick talked for a while. I picked up a bit. Rudy has a deal for us. It turns out the the tour companies reserve slots and sell them to tourists. We are going on the Inca Trail! Hells ya!

We got to the hostel. The room is a hole. It has two beds, one with some box springs, one without. We share a communal bathroom. It will be our home for the next few days.

Here´s the schedule: This weekend, we are going to fly into the jungle. On Saturday, both of us will begin consumming our 10$/pill malaria medication. The jungle trip will last three days. Upon returning we will have another couple (mas or menos) dias before beginning our trek on the Inca Trail.

Hey Lisa (my sister), I at a Guinee Pig yesterday. It was on my list of things to do. Guinee Pig (cuy) is a South American specialty. Tastes like duck....gamey. Ha! This little guy, the cuy, was not enough to fill a big American boy like myself. I suppose he was not well-fed like the ones my sister had. Howeve, if my kids ever have Guinee Pigs, and they leave to the grand-parents for the summer, I´m sure they will understand that fluffy escaped and ran-off (into Papa´s stomache that is...har har har).

Cusco is a nice town. It reminds me of the many mountain towns in Colorado. The people here surrive mostly on the tourism. Just like every South American town, this one surrounds a central plaza. The cutest kid came over to Patrick while we were loitering in the plaza. This niño was to tiny that he couldn´t even speak. He just made noises and fumbled around. Patrick pulled out the camera to take a picture. That´s when his five-year-old brother (the pimp) ran over and demanded five dollars. Patrick laughed and replied, "How about 1/2 Sole." The main currency here is Soles. 1/2 Sole is worth about fifteen cents. They argued. Patrick turned to leave. The kid acquiesed. Patrick took the picture, paid the man/pimp/boy and we continued back to the hotel.

Patrick and I have been playing a lot of cards. The cards are good. It gives me the opportunity to use my Spanish commands and explicatives. Besides our regular game of cards, we are also setting into a regular schedule of studying the Spanish.

We found the unusual bar/resturante here. It is run by a South African woman. As one might expect, it is decorated with Nelson Mandela paintings, pictures, and phrases. If the night is not too cold, you can eat and drink on the roof. From here, the view of Cusco is exquisite. From here, you can see the Jesus in the Mountain.

Naturally, a good dinner deserves a good smoke and scotch. Patrick and I bought some old cigars at the local mercado. These cigars were more expensive then our meals and more expensive then our hotel. Economics is a weird thing. At the hostel, we drank the drink, smoked, the smoke, and talked the talk until midnight.

Retiring to our quarters, we performed our regular situps, pushups, and stretches. JD, watch out man, I´m going to be HUGE y fuente when I return.

Hasta luego mis amigos y mi familia,

Loco Carlos

La mañana viaje a la ciudad de Cuszo.

2004-09-08T13:00:00.000-07:00

1) Language IncidentLast night, after a rough game of cards (Patrick beat me again), he went upstairs. The second he stepped out the room, our house lady started talking to me. Now granite, I had three years of Spanish in highschool. Yes, that is right, three years! So what! So, I should be able to understand this woman? Ha! No chance. She´s talking a thousand wpm and with an accent and slurring the words left and right and using slang and collequialisms etc. ¨No comprende, repite por favor.¨ So, she repeats is at nine-hundred words for me. Ok, I got it that time. Right. Something about our taxi coming at 7:45 AM. Something about food. Something about me amigo. ¨Excellente. Hasta la manana senora."

I went upstairs to tell Patrick. As usual, his carefree face was on and he mentioned that it was probably something...but, oh well.

We had our alarms set for 7:15 AM. At 7:20, the house lady bangs on our door and announes the presence of our taxi.¨"Great," I thought, "and we haven´t even eaten or showered or packed."

2) Language IncidentThe taxi waited while we ate some breakfast. There is no such thing at bought juice here. All juice is fresh squeezed. This is great is some cases: orange juice, apple juice, pear juice, et al. However, I recommend avoid all forms of papaya. Papaya itself has a foul odor. Papaya juice is just that much more fragrant to make you want to spew the cui you just gulfed down. So, I´m a breakfast with Patrick and two other backpackers...french backpackers. They are not drinking the papaya juice. Patrick is not drinking the papaya juice. Me? Yeah, I tried it. It wasn´t to my liking. THe house lady comes over and points at my juice and says, "No te gusta la jugo de papaya?" Oh man, I couldn´t tell her that. I was frozen. The frenchies looked at me. Patrick looked at me. I looked at Patrick for assistance. He continued to stare at me blankly. I looked this poor, sweet, nice, tiny, old woman in the eye and said, "No me gusta."

3) Language IncidentWe went to the airport. As usual, el gringo Patrisimo is just chatting up a storm with the driver. They are talking about politics and women and the beach and money and George (Jorge) Bush. We got to the airport and checked the luggage. After paying the departure tax, we entered security. Here, I remembered that I still had my pocket knife on me. "Hey, this is a 3rd world country. Do they care about pocket knives here?" I emptied my pockets and took off my boots. I placed the knife under a lot of change as though the x-ray machine would not see it (sneaky, I know). Stepping into the line to enter the x-ray arch, I noticed my basket of stuff enter the x-ray machine. The operator scowled. He stood up and went to the exit of the x-ray machine. He was waiting for the owner of the basket, the basket of boots and coins and knives. He was waiting for me. A bead of sweat rolled down my head. What do they do to people in Peru when you try to sneak a knife on a plane? We were about to find out.

I stepped through the x-ray arch. The woman smiled because she did not want to wand my three day old socks. I approached the man standing in front of my stuff. He asked me, in Spanish, "Is this your´s?" Si. He motioned for me to follow him. My pits and palms got wet. "¿Que es una problema senor?" He made THE face. You know that one. The face that your parents give you when they are about to admonish, "Don´t play games with me senor." He moved the coins away from the instrument. The officer lifted the knife by the end with the lightest grasp. This grasp was to imply that THIS, this knife here, this weapon, is the problema.
This knife is an "Old Timer". I have had similar ones growing up. Like many pocket knives, this knife had two blades. To demonstrate that this was a knife, the officer opened up BOTH blades and touched to tip of both with the tip of his finger. I was sweating profusely at this point and begin to nervously look around. "¿Donde esta mi amigo Patrisimo?" I thought. The officer requested my documents. He requested my passport. He requested my plane ticket. He asked me to follow him.

At his desk, he pulled out a ticket book and began writting. I knew he was doing some early documenting so that when we arrived at the police station, he could book me real fast. Where is Patrick?¿??¿?¿ He wrote. I sweat. He spoke. I listened. He examined the knife. I watched. Finally, he handed me the ticket, my passport, and my plane ticket. The ticket explained that he had confiscated my knife to give to his son. If I wanted it back, I could pick it up in Lima when I returned.

The entire time, Patrick was watching from afar; probably giggling and snickering like he does.
These problems were caused by language problems. The taxi cab was early because I can´t tell time in Spanish. I insulted a lady´s papaya juice because I lacked the ability to say, "No tengo sed." Ahora, le chica no se gusto. The airport security guy scored a new knife and managed to scare three years off my life. Well, it´s a good thing we left Lima.
The more I am here, the more I practico la espanol con Patrisimo, the more I am having trouble thinking straight. I am having trouble spelling English words. In fact, I am having trouble coming up with English words for that matter. I can feel the Spanish language eating away at my hippocambus?

Hasta Luego Mi Amigos,
Loco Carlos