Stay in the Campo: Part 1

Wednesday June 23, 2010

Today I am leaving to spend four days in the campo (countryside) with my new weaver friend Santusa and her family.

DAY 1

I got a late start (not sure if I have ever gotten an early start), but only have an hour and a half to travel, and all on good roads. Before leaving I went to the market to buy a frozen chicken, sausage, and various groceries as an offering to my hosts. I also brought my own stash of food and water to keep with me, as I don’t really know what to expect.

From the brief time I have spent with Santusa, I know her to be incredibly kind. In almost any other situation I would feel awkward showing up at a near stranger’s house with my bags asking to stay. Not only are we strangers on a personal level, but culturally, we could not be more different. Right? I was excited about the opportunity, but couldn’t stop thinking; what will we talk about - how would we talk? What will I do all day, and more importantly, how will I avoid being an complete and utter annoyance?

Her village is fourth on a string of five along a stone road. The village consists of about 25 small houses scattered along the foothills and dry riverbed. There are no shops or restaurants, only a school, small church and the remnants of the old hacienda that use to own and manage all the land in the area.

Upon arrival, Santusa came out to greet me. She insisted that I park my bike inside their walled courtyard. I had to take off the panniers to squeeze in through the courtyard door but made it. I unpacked the bike and moved into my upstairs room. I would be staying in Edgar’s room, the son that was going to University in Sucre. I gave her the chicken, along with the frozen sausage, some canned fruit and a box of Fruit Loops. She seemed pleased. We had a lunch of vegetable soup and Coca Cola together in the salon and she showed me a couple of artifacts that they had recently found nearby on their property. (Her husband Damian was working in the fields, and here mother was up in the higher pastures with the cows and sheep.) After lunch, I got out a book on the local weaving style that I had purchased at the textile museum in Sucre. Several of Santusa’s pieces were in the book, and she knew everybody else’s work by sight, so she wrote their names down in the book for me (it irritated me that the publisher did not give credit to any of the artists, but she had now remedied that). We then looked over a couple of her recent weavings; the large matrimonial piece that she was working on the last time I was here, and a smaller calendar that she had done. Both were beautifully detailed and full of color.

I decided to take a walk and stretch my legs, and let her get back to her chores. I knew that she must have a lot to do and I did not want to interfere. I picked up a cow path near her house and followed it. I passed an adobe brick production site, and soon came across three young boys collecting firewood from the dried shrubs scattered about the dry landscape. They did not know what to think of this gringo walking around in their “neighborhood”, and took their time quietly sizing me up. I broke the ice with a couple of basic questions, which provoked them to laugh at my Spanish, which was followed by goofing on me in their native Quechua language. I acted angry and chased them around with a stick- my interpretation of the village idiot I guess. They laughed, and taunted me even more. We had fun. Before heading I back I learned a couple new Quechua words, and that “Don Julio” was slang for penis. I guess boys are the same everywhere.

Meanwhile back at “la casa”, a neighbor was firing up the outdoor adobe oven. I had seen these stand alone igloo-looking ovens throughout the campo, and I took to calling them “pizza ovens”. Eventually, the neighbor’s wife and daughter started bringing over discs of dough on wooden planks. I wanted to help, but also tried to stay out of their way. We filled several large baskets of hot bread, enough for both families for weeks. After all the bread was finished, Santusa’s son Carlos made a pizza out of the bread dough, some canned tomato sauce, and the sausages I had brought. “So it is a pizza oven.” By now the whole family was together and we sat on the floor eating pizza. (The bread did not have much flavor, but was dense and filling.)

The evening air was comfortable with nothing more than long-sleeves and with a moon two-days shy of being full. It was also the eve of the catholic holiday, Day of San Juan.

After dinner, Damian opened a beer and then poured a clear alcohol out of a five-gallon plastic jerry can and into a small empty water bottle. Along with a nephew, who was about 22-years old and back visiting from working the vineyards in Mendoza, we gathered some dried reeds and walked a bit until we got to an adobe stable of sorts. There, us men, started a fire and past around plastic dentist cups of the beer and “hooch”. Damian passed out coca leaves to pack in our cheeks as well. Before drinking, Damian would mumble a couple of words and then pour a couple of drops of the beer or alcohol onto the ground. I gathered that it was for Pachamama, and not for his “fallen homies back in the hood”. Pachamama is the Quechua name for Mother Earth, and is the cornerstone for their pagan-like beliefs. Tonight was a good example of how the Catholic practices forced upon the Incans by the invading Spanish have remained interwoven with their traditional beliefs. But at the time, I was not thinking of any of this, my immediate concern was whether I was expected to also poor some hooch out onto the ground? It was obvious that I was an outsider, so would I be mocking their beliefs by doing the same, or disrespecting the occasion by not following along? I compromised and didn’t pour, but later started giving an offering –which made no sense at all. I eventually asked, “es esto para pachamama?, and he replied yes. He did correct me once when I happened to have both the Dixie cup of beer in one hand and the herb-infused alcohol in the other. “It is bad mojo to have drink in both hands. It is a sign of abundance and hence bad etiquette” (I am paraphrasing).

Once our fire was out, we headed back to the house. On our way we found 86-year old grandma sitting by her adobe sheep shack with her own fire going. She is adorable, and takes on a Jabba the Hutt type appearance when she squats down to sit. Her black amilla dress takes on a shapeless form, her body somewhere beneath and her black leather montera, or Spanish helmet influenced hat completes the effect. As she sat in the glow her wrinkled face was always smiling, and she had Damian and the nephew cracking up with the stories she was telling in Quechua. Eventually some other neighbors ventured over, and I bowed out. I loved being witness to it all, but also felt like I was intruding a bit. I had several more days and didn’t want to wear out the welcome on the first night.

DAY 2

I had just gotten up and was writing in my journal when Santusa appeared with a bowl of baked squash for me. The squash was mildly sweet, like a spaghetti squash and cooked just right, not overdone and mushy. Soon after, she brought in an electric kettle, a bucket of water and some bread. My coffee dilemma had been answered, and I unpacked my jar of Nescafe. I ate in my room, but later came down the stairs to find all the adults huddled around Grandma’s wood burning “kitchen”: two adobe walls and a corrugated metal roof. Although, there is more modern kitchen, they prefer to be outside on the ground huddled around the fire. I also noticed a few dried out gourds in the pizza oven. Apparently, the night before a couple young neighbor girls brought over some of the vegetables and placed them whole in the oven to slowly bake over night. The firing of the stove had proved to be a very communal event and every bit of heat was used from the precious firewood.

After breakfast I decided to go for another walk through the village and explore in another direction. The morning was brisk and it felt good to get moving in rising sun. It wasn’t long before I was spotted by two older women in traditional dress. I blended in like a …., well, I didn’t blend in. If it would have been a lone woman by herself, she would have looked down and avoided all eye contact, but as a pair they were a bit more bold. As I approached, I gave a “buen dia” and smiled. Just as I had passed one called out to me. She wanted to know if I wanted to see her weavings. (I have experienced this in other villages, walking through the main street word gets around, and by the time of your second pass women or children invite you into their homes to see their textiles, hoping you will buy. It is a great opportunity to visit different homes, but also puts you in the position of rejecting their offer, although I have purchased several things this way.) As we sat on her concrete floor, she brought out only a few things, some of which were items of clothing obviously in use. I graciously declined.

From there I walked by the old Hacienda. It was the house and compound of the primary landowner of the area, where all the locals worked his fields and filled his coffers, before agrarian reform. The wife of the original owner was still living in the house, though the land has since been divided up.

Lunch was ready when I got back and Santusa had made a delicious picante de pollo, baked chicken in a red chile sauce over a bed of noodles. She is always busy, spending most days alone managing the household. We ate together and talked some. Afterwards, I went up the street to an area where she told I should look for fossils. Sitting in the dirt amongst a scattering of rocks I realized how much I was enjoying myself. I was a world away from my conventional life, and absolutely loving it. Not knowing it then, but this was what I use to sit in my office and daydream about; different cultures, new experiences, and a slow peaceful pace. I found a couple of rocks with some shell imprints, but mostly just sat in the sun. Content.

The Road Home

I decided to try a different route for the trip home. I would try the more eastern, and quieter border crossing of Bermejo, and then stay the night in the Bolivian city of Tarija. I would be making the trip back in two days, rather than the more relaxed three days I took to get down.

The border crossing was in fact much easier and faster and I was able to roll into Tarija at dusk. The next morning was bitter cold. I did not have the luxury of waiting around while it warmed it up, and there were no guarantee that was going to happen anyway.

What I did not know was just how cold it was going to get. Within an hour outside of Tarija I was climbing over a dirt road mountain pass with thick fog, snow and freezing rain. I couldn’t see more than 15-feet in front of me, or the cliff’s edge to my right. I was limited to about 25-mph. Trucks, however, had no problem going much faster around the hairpin switchbacks. I was losing valuable time and body heat. Finally, I crested the clouds while topping out at 12,500-ft. Once above the storm below, the sun was warm and revitalizing. I turned up the iPod and the throttle. I would be home by dark!

While loading up the bike earlier in the morning, I had talked to one of the hotel owners. He mentioned that there was now a road blockade in Potosi and that I would not be able to get through. Road blockades are popular here, and it is the chosen way to get the desired attention from the federal government when things are not to their liking. In this case, the miners and other workers were protesting the lack of work projects in the area and a border dispute with the neighboring district of Oruo over mining rights. Blockades stop all traffic coming in and out of the targeted city, cutting off food and gasoline supplies – cutting off everything until their demands are met. The good news is that the blockades are usually peaceful and everybody has learned to live with them.

No worries for me though, I had found a small road on the map that would by-pass the city of Potosi and connect with the asphalt road to Sucre. I would avoid the strike and save time by cutting off a significant chunk of unnecessary road.

The dirt road north was filled with zigzagging detours due to road construction, a real time killer. The only town along the route with a gas station was completely out. There was no way I would have enough fuel to get all the way to Sucre. I bought a warm Coke and a pack of knock-off Oreos and took a break. It’s all I would have to eat for the day, and I didn’t finish either.

I made it to Puna, where I would catch the small dirt road – again, no gas. The shadows on the ground were getting longer. It would be dark in a couple of hours and I need to get to the paved road before that happened.

My “small dirt road” bypass turned out to be a bombed out disaster of a trail filled with craters, large rocks, and pockets my favorite talcum powder-like Bull Dust! The only thing worse, would be trying to do this in the dark. I was now exhausted, my shoulders felt like cement, and I was completely fatigued. The cold, altitude changes, and the already 8-hours on the dirt had taken it's toll.

I had no choice but to push hard and race the setting sun. I was standing up on the pegs and going as fast as I possibly could go. On my GPS I could see the thick red line going west to east across my screen and me, the arrow atop a perpendicular thin blue line heading north. I was so close. Once I reached that red line, it would be 80-mph to my front door, an ibuprofen with a scotch chaser, hot shower, and straight to bed. It was all I could think about. Meanwhile, there was no avoiding the potholes and rocks. On several occasions, after a bone-jarring impact I made a mental note to check for bent rims when I got home. Then BLAMO, another deep hole – “also check for cracks in the frame”.

Coming to a fork in the road in the middle of a small village. I stopped to ask a man for directions. He pointed out my direction, but mentioned that I would not be able to get through. “Por que?” “Bloqueos”, he replied. That’s not right, I thought, and headed out again. I asked someone else, and they said the same, and suggested I use a walking trail. No thanks. I kept going, but the news started to sink in. I was so tired. Then it happened. I entered a long patch of bull dust going too fast. I fought it for as long as I could, but eventually with the front wheel “swimming” in one direction, and the rear wheel seemingly in another, the road won and I went down (thanks to Adam for adding “drama” to the above photo). I will never admit to wanting to cry, but I was completely and utterly frustrated. I was so close, but the carrot dangling in front of my face was now fading from view. I somehow managed to pick the bike up without unpacking it.

Eventually, I hit a patch of paved road that connected to the main highway but I also started coming across people walking in the opposite direction. I started asking every other person about the situation. ARGH!, the blockades where not just in the city of Potosi, but the whole department (or State) or Potosi. Again, I had no choice to continue.

It was now dark and I was the only vehicle on the road. It was a creepy feeling. Finally, I reached the first roadblock, a line of rocks across the road. In the photo above I had turned from the crowd of people mingling in the road behind me to snap the photo. I got off the bike and tried to talk to a couple of guys about getting through. I could see a gas station down the road and ask if I could go there. Nobody was in charge, and these guys were just standing around, so of course they said “yes, it was okay”. What did they care? I crept by, but could feel the glares. I made no eye contact with anybody. At the gas station, naturally, I was told that they were all out. I asked if I could just stay there and sleep next to the bike in the parking lot, it seemed like the safest option, and I was down to only one bar on my gas gauge. He told me that I could get through to the town of Betanzos where there were a couple of hotels.

The road was strewn with boulders and people milling about, from either being stranded or because of the “excitement” of the event. Once in town I was pointed to a hotel. They had a room for $3 and I could bring my bike in through the front door to park in the back. Oh, and the owner of the hotel had a few liters of gas that he would sell me in the morning. That was the good news. The bad news was that my bike was not going to fit through the door, and up the salmon ladder-like flight of stairs. I would have to unload the bike and take off one pannier. I loosened my mirrors and fished my handlebars through the doorframe and powered up the stairs, while both bar-ends scraped each wall. I looked to the hotelier see if he minded the scratches, but he just nodded.

The hotel was full of stranded workers already in bed at 9:00. I locked all the gear to the bike and pulled the cover over it. I took only my remaining cookies and water up the two flights of stairs to my room. I had two more cookies, stripped down to my Capilenes (long underwear), relieved my bladder into an empty water bottle, and fell into bed. Usually, after a hard day of riding, there is always a sense of accomplishment, but on this day I had none. I couldn’t remember being this tired.

At the crack of dawn, the Mrs. of the house said that I would be able to get through the blockades. I loaded up the bike and bought 10-liters of gas out of a jerry can. I followed in the direction of the crowd of people. Again, I was the only vehicle moving, I thought there would have been a line of cars and trucks wanting to get out. As I passed the people walking I started to hear disparaging remarks being shouted at me, it was a tense scene. Then I approached a line of men, four deep, standing across the road. It sure didn’t look like the blockade was over, but I was not going to stop to ask. With my feet, I paddled the bike up to the crowd in first gear, the choke still on. I couldn’t let the bike stall, or to get pushed over, I just needed to move through the crowd slowly, never allowing the bike to come to a stop. Men instantly gathered around the bike. It was obvious that many of them had been up all night drinking. Many started grabbing at the gear on the bike acting as though they were taking something, shouting who knows what at me. Thankfully, the crowd continued to part and once there was no one in front of me, I hit the throttle, half hoping that I was dragging someone behind me.

Since being home the blockades lasted another 16-days, with tourist being trapped the whole time. The town was seriously close to running out of all food and drinkable water. I was lucky, my inconvenience was minor compared to what others had to endure.

Currently, there are blockades throughout the department of Ouro.

Salta

On July 19^th, I somewhat reluctantly left Sucre during a window of good weather to head down to Argentina with the sole purpose of initiating Bolivia’s arduous visa extension process. Bad weather had been passing through on a weekly basis, and there had been a road blockade a week prior in the southern Bolivian district of Tarija.

However, once I was on the bike I was fine. The day warmed up and I was reminded how good it felt to be “going somewhere”. I would also be traveling on familiar roads and stopping in familiar towns with familiar hotels, which offered a since of ease about the trip. Once in Argentina, I would be meeting up with some past acquaintances that I never thought I would see again.

The road to Potosi was paved and clear, the weather perfect, south of there it would be dirt roads and construction all the way to the border. I would stay the night in Tupiza in the same hotel as I did back in October. It had ample parking and was poplar with overland travelers and jeep tour operators so it would be a good place to get information on road and weather conditions from the northbound travelers.

Do to recent rains, many of the riverbeds had some "flow" to them. In Bolivia, the usually dry riverbeds are incorporated into the road system. Nothing was too deep, but I did get stuck while crossing one riverbed. I just so happened to be wearing my GoPro helmet camera when it happened and was able to film it (video). It was not the most dramatic video ever shot, but what it does show, is how fast and friendly people come to your aid, even without asking. I always ride alone, but in many respects, I am never really alone.

The next day I crossed the crowded border of Argentina a La Quiaca. From there I had two hours of driving in the open plains battling some pretty strong crosswinds. Once in the mountains, I crossed the Tropic of Capricorn for the 5^th, 6^th, or 10^th time (?) and entered the town of seven colors, Purmamarca, for a repeat visit. The next day would be an easy three-hour ride into my destination of Salta.

I had passed by the city of Salta on two previous occasions, writing it off as a congested larger city (Argentina’s 8^th largest) that I thought best to avoid. I was wrong. Salta is one of the better-preserved colonial cities of Argentina, and has loads of charm. It was founded in 1582, and was a major hub between Lima, Peru and Buenos Aires, when the Spanish would transport their gold and silver laden loot from Peru and Bolivia (Potosi) in caravans to the Atlantic coast. The city is said to be the most Spanish of all Argentine cities. I thought it very reminiscent of Seville, with it’s main-square encompassed with orange trees, colonial buildings, and outside cafes. I liked it!

Friday, I got my passport stamped without incident.

Rubber Stamping Conquistador

Tomorrow, July 19^th, I leave Sucre for a 2-3 day journey to Salta, Argentina. My original plan was to leave today, but due to a cold front that came up from Patagonia, the weather here and in Argentina has been terrible - with road closures because of ice and snow. According to weather reports I have a one-week window of good weather before the next front hits.

I must be out of Bolivia by July 25^th, the end of my initial 90-day period. Based on Bolivian logic (a contradictory term in it’s truest sense), I must leave the country in order to apply for an extended visa, before being allowed re-entry. My suggestion of, “Why don’t I pretend to leave Bolivia and fill out the paper work here?” did not go over so well - with the immigration officer looking at me like I was the idiot. So, I am traveling two days for a rubber stamp. Of course, I am screwed if I am denied re-entry (anything is possible here) because I am leaving a lot of important belongings in my Sucre apartment.

Once I have the sacred stamp in my passport, I will have 30-days to complete the visa application process. This will include a city tour the medical and bureaucratic establishments of Sucre. I will need; blood tests, chest x-rays, fingerprints on file, bank account reports, police background checks, two different letters from an attorney, a letter by an notary, a letter from where I am volunteering, and tax and utility records from my landlord (who, like most people here, does not claim the income and is unable to furnish the tax information. I will have to worry about this later.) On my best day in the States, I would not wish to tackle this mission, but here it’s going to be a completely different “sport”. Once I have the visa, I am good to stay in Bolivia for up to one year, and will be able to leave the country and return as I wish – enabling me to go home for a visit.

Within two-hours of leaving Sucre, I will be passing through Potosi to pick up the dirt road heading south. At 14,000-ft Potosi is one of the highest cities in the world. I have traveled on this particular road twice before, and in exactly the same spot both times I have encountered a hailstorm. Bizarre, but I have heard the same from other travelers. I could be wrong, but I am convinced that the spirits of the over eight million men killed in the nearby Cerro Rico mines are sending an unwelcoming message to gringos that get to close, and who can blame them. (Yesterday, this portion of road was closed due to snow.)

The longer I am off the bike, the more anxious I am about getting back on it. I don’t know where this comes from, because once on the bike I am always reminded how “kick ass” the experience is and how much I have missed it. I have always felt safe and confident on the bike, and have enjoyed every mile (well, enjoyed some more than others), but for some reason I get a little apprehensive. To overcome this sensation, I go through a process of psyching myself up, so by the time I need to go I am “jones-ing” for the road. Usually, just the process of packing the bike with some old Stones on the iPod will do the trick, other times it takes a little more.

This trip is going to be damn cold, so I have needed a bit more motivation getting back into the saddle. After watching the movie “1492” yesterday while keeping warm under the covers, I have decided to go with the visualization of a Spanish conquistador preparing for battle. This should do the trick, and because I always cheer for the home team, I have vowed not to slaughter or pillage during this particular trip. My Gore-Tex “armor” has been reinstalled inside my riding suit, heated electric vest has been dusted off, and winter gloves are laid out and ready to go. My stallion has fresh oil and the seam in right pannier has been welded shut again. Ready for battle!

Tonight, I will offer up some coca leaves and rum to those 8,000,000 spirits and see if I can get a little help deicing the roads.

Tarabuco and Beyond

It can take as little as 10-seconds to pass through many of the roadside villages in Peru and Bolivia. Many times, just a blur, but I have always wondered how people live in those places. The ground is dust, the road dirt, and the houses are of bricks of earth (adobe). Donkeys and cows meander through the streets at will, and dirty kids run around barefoot. No stores, gas stations, restaurants, only a small church or school if they are lucky, nothing more. I never had much reason to stay longer than my 10-second “fly-by”, but I was curious.

During my initial visit to Sucre back in October, I was introduced to the textiles of the area, and I wanted to learn more upon my return. Every once in awhile during my “10-second tours” through the dusty villages, an old woman would appear in a brightly colored shawl, or a man strained with a load of firewood on his back would be displaying a brilliantly designed poncho. These images would always stand out against the monochromatic dirt background. The people seem to have compensated for their rather drab environment with color, texture, and artistic expression.

So, since being back I have read as much as I can about the textiles of the area, visited the local museum several times, visited the textiles shops, and on Sundays, visited the market in Tarabuco.

Tarabuco is a small town about an hour southeast of Sucre, and is connected by a beautiful twisty road through the mountainous countryside (or campo) making “the getting there part” half the fun. Once there, you walk through stalls and stalls of goods sold by the indigenous people for the indigenous people. It is also where the local craftspeople take their wares to sell to visiting tourists. Of course, this is also the social event of the week where people from neighboring villages meet, and because of this, they don their best traditional clothing. I thoroughly enjoy the trip every time I go, always seeing something different, and return well fed from the traditional food stands, and with a cheek full of coca leaves.

During one of my Sunday visits, I came across a woman whose collection of weavings was just a little bit better than everybody else’s. An American woman, Alisa, was sitting there with her. She was here doing research for her masters program from the University of Florida on Bolivian women in the textile industry. We talked for a while, I bought a small weaving, and we made plans for me to visit the family she was staying with in a small village about two hours from Sucre.

Later that following week I ventured out to find their home. The town was not on any map, (GPS or paper), there would be no road signs, and due to some road construction, I would have to take a detour. My landlord was familiar with the area and drew me a small map, which included one dry river crossing. After my fourth dry river crossing, I knew that I was lost. An hour or two later, I finally found the rock-paved road that I was looking for (see video).

It was a great visit and I immediately hit it off with Santusa and her husband. I was able to watch her weave for a while and ended up buying a red wool shawl (or manton) in the traditional Tarabuqueño style. The 80-year old grandmother made some lunch, and then Alisa took me for a walk to visit some of the other weavers in the area.

It was a great introduction to village life and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. I asked Santusa and Damian if I could come back and stay for several days or a week once Alisa departed for the States, when her room was vacant. They seemed as excited as I was and we agreed to touch base later. It was a beautiful ride home at sunset, now knowing the way “out”. I was filled with a sense of wonder and satisfaction, and could not wait to come back.

Video: "Do You Ever Get Lost?"

Sucre, Bolivia

I have now been in Sucre for two months, and I am preparing for the process of obtaining a yearlong visa. So, I guess you could say the gamble paid off. I am not sure if I will stay for the entire year, or maybe even longer, but I am focused on life here and not thinking of moving anytime soon. I know what you are thinking, and no, the trip is not over, and no, nobody is pregnant.

So why here? Well, I could recite the list offered by the guidebooks:

· The city is an UNESCO World Cultural Heritage site, and political capital of Bolivia.

· Sucre is picturesque sitting in a bowl at 9,000-ft surrounded by mountains.

· At 9,000-ft the weather is comfortable with warm days in the upper 70’s and cool evenings in the 50’s.

· You are guaranteed a clear blue sky almost everyday.

· The city core is completely walk-able and there are several green spaces throughout the city, giving it convivial energy.

· The population of 250,000 is neither too big nor too small, and assures enough services to make certain you get want you need.

· There are two universities here, the oldest dating back to 1624.

· There is ample history in the region, with the signing of the country’s Declaration of Independence after Simon Bolivar kicked out the Spanish – starting in Venezuela and ending here. Che Guevara was captured and killed not far from here.

· Sucre is centered in an area rich with indigenous cultural tradition, offering a chance to travel back in time.

· And, it is damn cheap.

All of these things make Sucre an enjoyable and very livable place. However, there is something else here – there must be, because I have been to other livable places, and had no problem moving on, i.e., Medellin and Mendoza. I am not the only one either, many travelers that were originally passing through either stayed, or soon returned to live here permanently (whatever permanent means). So, there is a vibe or energy that attracts certain people and to ignore that attraction seems unnaturally to me at this point.

Of course, it could be me too, or the combination of Sucre and me? Once I reached the bottom in Ushuaia and began my journey back up, I vowed to have a different kind of trip. I stowed the travel guide and made up the trip as I went along – no longer a tourist. I had no expectations, and I wasn’t going to chase down any more “attractions”. No more “must see” sites. If the tour buses went right, I would fake right, and go left. It was liberating, and I could feel the trip changing.

I arrived in Sucre on April 27^th tired. I knew I had spent too much time in Patagonia, and the cold winds and dirt roads had taken a lot out of me. My body, had held together long enough to get here, and then shut down. I knew it was coming, and should have paid more attention to the warning signs, but it was almost like it was inevitable – I needed a “shut down”. So, after a few days in a hostel popular with “overlanders”, I moved into an apartment and remained in bed for four days. It was the sickest I had been on the trip and was eventually forced to take a course of antibiotics, which did the trick.

With time, I seem to have found a groove here. A typical day for me is to wake and have coffee on my patio (I found a great apartment in the French Consulate building with a large patio and views of the nearby mountains for $250 /month), and on good days I do a little yoga on an old camping mat before showering and heading out - always walking. On my way to Ñanta I walk through the Mercado, which is always bustling with activity. There I pick up a salteña ($.25) from a street vendor (an empanada like food popular for breakfast here; filled with beef or chicken, kalamata olives, hard-boiled egg, raisins, peas, potatoes, spices (a bit sweet), and if I have time, I will stop at one of the many juice stalls and custom order fresh fruit smoothie (.75) and try to get through some of the local newspaper that is always on hand. I love the energy in the market and try and pass through at least twice a day.

Once at the center, I collect my two kids and walk back towards the market to the dentist’s office. The dentist is a good example of how the more fortunate here understand the strife of many of their countrymen and try to help out when they can. She has reduced her prices and allows special times to see only our kids. The office is nothing fancy and I may be asked to help out during a particular difficult extraction, manning the water and suction devices, or handing the doctor tools that I do not know the names of. This is all part of the Bolivian experience – expect anything!

Back at the center, we work on homework or art projects. The kids go to school in shifts so there is always children there working. I may stay and have lunch with the kids or start back towards town and stop for lunch at one of the local “tipico” cafeterias.

Lunch is my favorite meal here. Most places will have a small blackboard posted out on the sidewalk with the day’s two course offering. There is always a soup, usually of chicken stock, rich with potatoes and vegetables, with rice or pasta. Some places offer a choice of two main courses, but in most cases there is only one entrée offered, so you just sit down and the food comes – no wasting time looking over menus. The main course is usually chicken or beef over a bed of rice, and more potatoes. (The Incan’s were the first to cultivate potatoes, and it was their gift to the rest of the world). Sauces are usually a bit “picante” and have a little kick to them. The drink is usually a Kool-Aid type mix. I have only been surprised once, when two chicken feet surfaced in my soup bowl, but those were easy to work around. Lunch is always 10-Bolivianos, or $1.40.

After lunch, I have two hours of Spanish instruction with an attractive woman who is equipped with patience and a good sense of humor – both necessary if you are going to try and teach me anything. Every Friday we have class on my patio and end the session by cracking open a bottle of Bolivia’s finest, which isn’t always that bad (Bolivia’s wine and fruit region is about four hours south of here).

Evenings are cool enough to put on a sweater but not much more is necessary (July and August is at the height of the winter here), and walking through town has changed moods with all the white colonial buildings illuminated by up lights mounted in the sidewalks. The parks are filled with families strolling before a late dinner, and the vibe is sociable and always safe. (I have never felt threatened here.)

There is a large international contingent in Sucre, so dinner can be as interesting as you like it. German, Dutch, French, and others offer their culinary influence and a four-course dinner with wine and espresso- for two people can be had for around $30. It’s a good place to pretend you are a big spender.

There are plenty of bars and discos, and Bolivians cannot be far behind the Japanese in their love of karaoke, however, it is not for me.

Weekends, I often times take the bike out to one of the nearby villages, or I am involved with an outing with the kids from the center.

I am not sure when I will leave, and I realize that time here is exhausting resources that will ultimately take away from the total length of the trip, but I also know that I am not ready to leave South America. And for me, Bolivia offers what I like best about the continent, and at a value. I have seen much of South America, and to a degree, experienced it, but this is an opportunity to get off the bike and "live it". Experiencing it in a way that is impossible when only staying a week or two somewhere. I am making friends and relationships that I will carry with me when I leave, and memories that will last a lifetime, which has always been the whole point of the trip.

Desert Relief

After leaving San Pedro de Atacama, I continued north through the desert. Not as hot as you would think as long as you kept moving, but dry ... very very dry. The scenery was anything but interesting, after the first 30-minutes of riding, it was like someone kept pushing the replay button: sand, power lines, more sand, roadside trash, even more sand, trucks carry ridiculously large tires, followed by sand - repeat. The road was essentially a truck route for supplying the many different mines of the region. Thankfully, I had motivation to keep going. I knew that by the end of the day, I would be sitting on a beach dipping my toes into the cool Pacific.

Iquique, Chile is an odd juxtaposed place, sequestered from the rest of the world. It is one of the few places in northern Chile where the rugged terrain gently meets the ocean, rather than the inapproachable seaside cliffs. You would never suspect that there is an ocean nearby until you cross that last set of mountainous dunes. Then it’s a crazy set of switchbacks down to the water.

I found an aging mid-century hotel that had lost its original luster but sat on premium real estate at the edge of the natural harbor. My two days there turned into four, doing nothing but walking on the beach, eating fresh seafood, and having the lapping of the waves lull me to sleep.

It was all very relaxing, but Bolivia laid heavy on my mind. I was a half-day’s ride from the border and two days away from my goal of finally reaching Sucre. I was feeling tense. What if Sucre couldn’t live up to my initial impression made back in October? What if my memory of the place was being too generous? I had driven 1,000-miles out of my way to follow a hunch, not to mention another two weeks riding down through northern Argentina for a third time if it did not work out.

After four days of R&R, I loaded the bike up with two 4-liter jugs of extra gas. It would take me less than four hours to cross the entire width of Chile and enter Bolivia at the sleepy border crossing of Pisiga Bolivar. I say “sleepy” because at 3:00 in the afternoon the Bolivian border guard was still taking his nap, and answered my pounding on the door with annoyance, sleepy eyes, and “bed-head”. I met his annoyance with a double dose of my own. I am usually more patient, and do not expect anything that resembles competence at borders, but I was only halfway through my day’s ride, with only a quarter of a day’s sunlight left, which was not enough to get me to Ouro before dark. There was a lot of dirt road to cover and no place to stop before there. I sat down at his desk, with no less that 18-different rubber stamps on display – I kid you not.

By 4:00 I was back on the road, still wondering, “would I like Sucre?”

The Up and Over

April 21, 2010

Forgive me for my lack of blogging lately. I have had terrible luck getting quality internet access, plus have not had a lot of time to write. In the meantime, here is a quick update:

I now find myself in northern Chile in San Pedro de Atacama. I crossed over from Argentina at Paso de Jama two days ago and sent a new altitude record for the trip at 15,810-ft. I also set a new "descent record" on the other side, losing over 5,000-ft in less than 15-minutes- on a long straight road coming out of the sky. I thought I was landing a plane! It was a windy chilly up-and-down day, but the transition has introduced spectacular new landscapes. I did okay with the altitude, having taken the advice of a local before leaving and keeping a cheek full of coca leaves during the trip.

Since being in San Pedro, I have taken day trips on the bike to visit salt beds, lunar landscapes, and flamingo filled lakes. The air is dry and crisp and it is hard to stay hydrated, but nothing is unbearable, and the stars that pop out at night make it even that more special and worth it.

Today, I accomplished another proud first. I changed my front tire all by myself! (something Ewan never had to do.) The 100 degree heat probably helped soften the rubber, but it didn't do me any favors.

If the wheel stays on, I will be traveling north tomorrow continuing up on through the Atacama Desert, the driest desert on Earth, entering Bolivia in two days and apartment shopping in a week's time in Sucre. I am excited to stop for a while, and catch up on things. Life is good, not always easy, but good.

I hope you all are well.

Mike

Video: The Up and Over

Nancy's Cabin

Nancy’s cabin is not Nancy’s at all.

Nancy and I had met on the cruise to Antarctica and she invited me to come visit her at her home in the Cordoba province of Argentina while on my trip back up north. A month later I was knocking on her door.

She had lived much of her life in the United States born to an American mother and Argentine father, but her heart had always been in Argentina. So, when it was time to retire, she bought a house with some land in the foothills outside the small town of Villa de Los Rosas. It was a tranquil setting among olive trees and vineyards. Via email, I had accepted the generous offer of sharing Easter weekend with her and visiting family members. Because of her guests filling her house, I would be staying a small house owned by an out of town neighbor at the end of the secluded dirt road – a half-mile from her house.

I had thought that this time at her house would be a good time to get some work done. I wanted to schedule a conference call with the Write Around the World board members for a long overdue meeting, while also preparing plans for re-entering Bolivia. I had just changed the bike’s oil, swapped out a new rear tire, and had a crack in one of the aluminum panniers welded back in Mendoza, so the bike was ready to go. I was in TCB mode –takin’ care of business!

When I got to the cabin, I realized that there wasn’t going to be any conference call, or hot showers, or cooking. It was rustic. Prior to my arrival, Nancy had cleared the cobwebs, swept the floors, and hung a fresh towel. The place had been locked up for awhile, and needed some fresh air. The tall overgrown grass full surrounding the place was full of moths and other flying bugs. This was going to be quasi-camping – I would need to changed modes. I didn’t have any real food with me, so the plan was to have dinner at Nancy’s, and wake up and ride into town the following day to get some provisions.

The day ride from Mendoza to Cordoba had been hot…real hot. Four of my prior six days in Mendoza had broken 100F, and the ride here was seven hours on a mind-numbing stretch of linear asphalt. My body is no longer acclimated to that kind of heat. I was beat. After dinner at Nancy’s, I rode the bike back to the house and fell straight asleep on the made-up day bed, but woke hours later from a chill coming from the open window. I got up and closed the window and walked out onto the back porch to view the sky – clouds were coming in and lightening was flashing in the distance. The weather was changing.

The next morning I walked to Nancy’s for coffee in the waterproof jacket that I bought out of necessity in Punta Arenas. The road tunneled through a blanket of heavy fog that obscured the treetops. It was a Nick Drake kind of day, and that’s what I was listening to when a car stopped to pick me up. I was really enjoying the walk - the smells brought out by the dampness, the old church peering out of the haze, the emptiness of the road - I didn’t want to accept the ride, but did not want to seem rude by refusing a ride in the rain.

Nancy made some strong coffee and served fresh fruit, which was a welcome reprieve from the typical Argentine breakfast of bread and dulce de leche (a sweet caramel type spread). She offered up her car so that I could go into town but I declined, favoring to take the bike once I got back to the cabin.

Once I got back to the cabin the skies opened up, and they opened wide. The day had started moist, but now was soaking wet. Within minutes, the uphill portion of the dirt road became impassable and unwise to attempt, let known a mess of a trip. The trip to town was out of the question. Nancy had commented on how it always, without fail, rains on Easter weekend, and I returned with, “Yeah, like our 4^th of July’s in Seattle”

(It’s not always easy to slow down, to smell the roses, to look up at the sky, to sit still. It takes a conscious effort, sometimes even a forced one. Since this trip began, the stopping has not always been the easiest part for me. Among other things, it requires you to contend with the loneliness. I avoid it when I can, but in situations like this I am forced to…uh, relax. (I am not expecting any sympathy here J)

I went through my bags and found a can of pressed “pork bits”, a can of tuna, and some tea bags. On the shelf in the open kitchen I found an unopened package of crackers. Going into town was no longer necessary. I set up my camp stove, made some tea out on the back porch, set up a lawn chair, and opened up my Kindle and started Malcom Gladwell’s Outliers. I can enjoy this I thought.

Later, in the afternoon, the rain slowed to a continuous drizzle. The hummingbirds resumed making their rounds, which prompted me to get out of the chair and move. I decided it was time to bury the dead fox that I had come across in the drained swimming pool while exploring the property the day before. I had also discovered some shovels and picks in the open shed attached to the house. Not a task that I was eager to tackle, but knowing that it was there, prodded me to get it over with. It turned into a proper ceremony, unknowingly at first, but the activity had taken on a special meaning for me. Earlier that week, I received news that Lisa had finally lost her battle with ovarian cancer. I would be burying a fox but saying good-bye to a friend.

The remaining five days at the cabin were more than enjoyable. The rain finally broke a couple days later, and I enjoyed more meals with Nancy, visited an olive oil production house, and attended the Saturday morning artisan market in the square. Nancy and I said goodbye and promised to stay in touch. I left feeling calm and rested.

Lisa Thompson

1966-2010

Chaiten

March 15, 2010

I could never get the straight scoop on Chaiten. “It’s a ghost town”. “No one is there, they all left”. “Chile is going to bulldoze it and be done with it all”… and “No, there is no longer a ferry running out from Chaiten to Chiloe Island”.

For the past week now I have been traveling up the Carretera Austral, a curvaceous dirt road that runs between the Pacific Ocean and The Andes Mountains. The road weaves between many glacier fed lakes, and the glaciers that feed them. It is an incredibly beautiful ride and very famous with overland travelers because of it.

Chaiten is small coastal town at the northern dead end of the road, or where Chile has yet to find a way to continue the road due to the many fjords, lakes, and the “squeeze” of the nearby Argentine border. With such a small population base it does not seem to make sense anyway. Therefore, the importance of Chaiten is that it has always been a hub for the ferry going to the island of Chiloe and the continuation of the road (the Pan-American Highway actually ends at the south end of the island), leading to the mainland at Puerto Montt. However, in 2008 the neighboring Michinmahuida volcano blew its lid and annihilated the town. Two days ago, in Coihaique, I bought I ferry ticket leaving from Chaiten, so here I sit.

Walking around the town could not be more eerie. It would all make sense if a film crew were to round the corner with Wes Craven or David Lynch directing from the arm of a crane, but the only activity on the streets are two police trucks constantly patrolling the grid. It appears that people left in a hurry with doors locked up, but that’s about it. A few people have come back, and there has been an effort to bulldoze the ash and sand from the streets, but it is far from welcoming. The hum of generators is omnipresent – there is no electricity here. There is a gas station and a couple of basic market stores, but only canned and packaged stuff – no refrigeration. I approached two different hotels thinking they were operational –they looked open complete with a hanging “Abierto” sign in the window, but approaching the door, the dust covered windows and faded posters of nearby attractions is the only indicator that their clocks stopped a long time ago. The fire station still has the ping-pong table set up with two dusty paddles atop, one with a ball wedge underneath it, ready to play. The produce market still has veggies on the shelves although a bit wilted. The travel information office still has its computer monitor atop the counter ready to book a sightseeing trip.

I did find a small cabana for rent (the only hotel in town) and the ferry dock is not far away. During another time my room with a view of the Gulf of Corcovado would have offered a pleasant sunset, but now it is a rather distressing view.

I don’t know the current politics of rebuilding or demolishing, but the town has an aura of being forgotten (not helped by the recent earthquake up north). However sad that may be, it may be the right thing to do, because the smoking gun that caused all of this is still smoking.

Videos:

Hanging Glacier

Carretera Austral