Dia numero cuatro...

If I had to write a review of what's best about the accommodations in the Espiritu Sanu Monestary in the pueblo of Carrión de Cones, I´d be hard pressed to choose between the affordable 7€/night rate, and the smiley, scrappy 4'6" nun who greeted us at the entrance with a navy blue shiner adorning her left eye (accompanied by a gnarly three inch scar across her left temple) that perfectly matched the shade of her snug habit. Perhaps she recently took up boxing. The order of nuns at our third stop along the Camino de Santiago indeed seemed to be a sporty bunch.

"This is where we play," another sister explained to Meredith and me in Spanish as she led us across the basketball courts in the back of the monastery."And you, do you like the basketball? We have almost enough pilgrims here today for a team!" The tour continued through the spacious upstairs dormitory room crammed full with thirteen tidily made twin beds. Next, she took us to the common area at the end of the hall. "This one is the free internet to God," she said, gesturing to a gargantuan bible sitting open on a small desk. "And this, one, well, that internet is one Euro per hour," she said, pointing to the nearby computer.

Today is the fourth day for us along the Camino de Santiago, and already we are starting to settle comfortably into the rhythm of the pilgrims. 5:00 now feels like morning, and by 5:45 we are comfortably on the road, plodding steadily along in the crisp darkness of the early morning until the lazy Spanish dawn greets and warms us. We are happy to get some of our daily 18 mile regiment under way before the intense Castillian sun starts to beat its rays on our heavily laden shoulders. Our days have passed relatively quickly, however, as we wind our way westward along the brilliant green wheat fields that slither in the mid-day wind like snakes. The hillsides are splattered with swaths of wild red poppies, and to the distant north, we can see the dark blue Cordillera Mountain Range separating us from the sea. The Camino is well marked by yellow arrows which point weary pilgrims in the direction of Santiago de Compostella. When we stepped out of our first hostel in Burgos and onto the trail, we were greeted with our virgin yellow arrow sighting. I filled us with a child-like morning-of-Christmas glee.

The path is also marked by "conchas"--scallop shell decorations which represent the Camino. The legend of the shell has many origins, but the most prevalent is that when the raft carrying St. James' remains to Spain washed ashore, it interrupted a pagan wedding. The horse carrying the bride and groom, was understandably spooked by the arrival of a mysterious raft of holy remains, and ran into the sea, drowning the happy couple. Luckily, St. James was there to work his first miracle, and the horse later returned to land, bride and groom in tact, followed by a train of seaweed and scallop shells. Today, every pilgrim on the trail affixes a palm-sized concha to their backpack providing a comforting metronomic clink as he or she treads along.

Generally, we arrive to our alburge destinations for the night by mid-afternoon. There, the owner greets us, and check our credentials--a small Camino passport of sorts that is stamped in each town. The lazy afternoons pass quickly. Pilgrims who have been traveling for weeks reunite, comparing horror stories of blisters and injuries, and swap remedy theories with the intensity and frequency of a Wall Street day trader. Many pilgrims started in St. Jean Pier de Port--a small village in France just north of the France/Spain border. Due to time constraints, Meredith and I began our trip in Burgos--a small town just west of Pamplona--thus cutting the trip essentially in half, and reducing our trail to a mere 300-some miles. Luckily we have not encountered much scorn or resentment for our weakness. Not even from Christina, the gracious German who began her trek in Geneva.

Burgos, our starting point, was a wonderful hamlet, and our brief afternoon there before provided much entertainment. Stumbling into the wedding proceedings of a local well-to-do couple in the central cathedral, we were impressed to see the elegant finery of the Burgos elite. They seemed somewhat less impressed with our hiking boots. The crowd waited in the plaza outside the cathedral, crowded around a shiny black Mercedes which awaited the couple. The car was festooned in neon colored post-it notes sending them messages of well-wishes, and an inflated condom affixed to the hood ornament sending them well wishes of another breed.

Later, as we wandered through the town center in search of dinner, we were confronted with a troop of African dancers dressed in uniform baggy pants and tunics of bright orange and green. The five men were beating drums and gesticulating enthusiastically, as a small crowd began to follow them through the streets. Never ones to poo poo a good Pied Piper opportunity, we followed behind, until the impromptu parade ended at the town cultural center--an advertisement for an upcoming show. Glancing up, I noticed a discrete plaque which noted this was the site of the old cathedral in which the Spanish kings received Christopher Columbus upon his second return from the new World on April 23, 1497. Now, about 500 years later, in the same spot, a pair of American girls are admiring the hip thrusting bongo beats of South Africans. Coincidence?...

***

As Meredith and I have progressed along the Camino, we´ve been using a handy, and lengthy titled guide book called, A Pilgrim's Guide to the Camino de Santiago: the Way of St. James: The Ancient pilgrim path also known as Camino Frances: A Practical and Mystical Manual for the Modern Day Pilgrim. Author John Brierly's masterpiece indeed contains valuable maps, alburgue reviews, and other useful tips. His "mystical musings" however, at times fail to hit their intended target. Each stage of the journey is introduced with a quote that more often than not includes one of the following words: "discovery," "enlightenment" or "wings." At the end of each stage's information come two even more troubling entries: "The Mystical Path," and "Personal Reflections" sections. The latter are my favorite and consist of out-of-context excerpts from his personal diary. Entries are always bookmarked with ellipses and paint a dramatic daily picture of heart break and spiritual awakening. Shepherds are often involved. An author photo of Mr. Brierly´s face, frozen in a snarling attempt at a smile, adorns the inside jacket cover of the book. Picturing his wild tufting caterpillar salt and pepper eyebrows, and paisley patterned silk scarf, Meredith and I take turns reading these passages aloud to one another daily. A recent dramatic entry:

"...I met them in the Park. their welcome was ecstatic. Ramón was in much pain and was making arrangements to go home. The hospital had diagnosed a stress fracture. His disappointment and sense of failure was palpable. Above all, he didn´t want to leave the friends he had made along the way. We all have to leave the Camino at some stage, but our friendships don't have to end. He looked reassured as I took my leave. I can still see his tears and his hand waving as I passed out of sight--but not out of mind, Ramón; not out of mind..."

We are moved to tears on a daily basis.

Perhaps just as moving, is the dedication on the inside of the Patricia Cornwell mystery book, Point of Origin, which Meredith found for the long plane ride from New York. What Ms. Cornwell may lack in terms of high brow literary cred', she more than makes up for with her succinct introduction:

"With Love To Barbara Bush (for the difference you make)."

When feet are sore, or shoulders are tired along the Camino, Meredith and I have found surprising untapped sources of strength by pausing to look skyward, and think, what would Patricia Cornwell say? "This one's for you, Barbara. This one's for you..."

(pictures to come before too long)

Hasta pronto, España

The idea started as most inspired ones do—with a drunken Spanish art history teacher during the early years of the first W. Bush administration. It was nine o’clock at night—the halls of the Universidad de Oviedo all but abandoned save for an eleven member cohort of fellow foreign exchange student classmates. The cause for our dedication? A Tuesday evening session of Intermediate Level History of Iberian Peninsula Art. Profesora Laura (pronounced “Low-rah”) took a long drag off her cigarette before launching into her impromptu lecture on the changing styles of Crucifixion depictions throughout the ages. As I struggled to take notes in Spanish, (“the Jesus… his head with the looking up yesterday, then today neck to side. Skirt be shorter…”) the focus of Laura’s ramblings shifted slightly to examples of the different artistic renderings along a route through northern Spain called the Camino de Santiago—the Way of Saint James.

“Basically,” she explained in Spanish, “in 814, the remains of St. James the Moore Killer washed up on the shores of Spain above Portugal—in Santiago de Compostella—and this hermit guy found them. They came from Jerusalem on a raft. It was a pretty big deal. Word got out, and lots of people wanted to come see, ya’ know? So, right up there with Rome and Jerusalem, Santiago de Compostella became a major pilgrimage destination with roads leading in from all over Europe. One of the routes goes through our town here—you can almost see it out the window. Pilgrims flock there even today. You’ll see ‘em pretty regularly in summer—with their boots and sticks with shells on them. Now… who wants to cut class early and go get a drink?”

My interest was perked. Admittedly, this had more to do with: A.) confusion as to whether Laura was propositioning us all, and B.) my abysmal Spanish comprehension. The latter had lead to my confusing the Spanish word “peregrino” (pilgrim) with “pingüino” (penguin). Imagining flocks of penguins waddling across northern Spain in deference to St. James was intriguing to say the least. When I later reviewed my notes with the help of a dictionary and realized my translation error, I was at first a bit disappointed. Still though, I was curious. A Moore-killing saint’s bones on a raft, a thousand year old trail cutting through campus, a possible arctic bird convention and cryptic sea shells? Like a virulent strand of Taenia solium, the parasitic brain tapeworm, the idea of the Camino settled somewhere deep into the recesses of my brain and began to grow.

Since that evening class with Professora Laura, the Camino de Santiago has become something of a Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon for me. This incredibly useful German coined term is the word for when one learns about an obscure new topic or proper noun—say, the tragic death of Madeleine Sophie Blanchart, official aeronaut of the Napoleon Empire, or rapper Lil Wayne’s insatiable love for cough syrup—and then suddenly, that same nugget of information seems to pop up everywhere in day-to-day life.

Indeed, several weeks after learning about the existence of the Camino de Santiago, the program director of my study abroad program in Oviedo announced we would be taking a weekend group excursion to Santiago de Compostella—the final destination of the pilgrimage route. Back in the States, a friend informed me that she and her grandparents had plans to hike the trail the following summer. Later, one of my favorite non-fiction authors, Jack Hitt, came out with a brilliant book—a combination historical treatise of Midevil Spain/Chaucerian travel log of his trip down the Camino called: Off the Road: A Modern-Day Walk Down the Pilgrim’s Route into Spain. All these factors combined eventually thrust “walk the Camino” right up there along side: own a motorcycle with a sidecar; win a backgammon tournament; join a Klezmer Jazz band, and get Andy Griffith’s autograph on my top five “to do” list in life.

Thus, engaged in a discussion last summer with my dear friend Meredith about how to properly celebrate her impending graduation from an arduous PhD program, I suggested the Camino de Santiago. After a brief pause of mental deliberation, Meredith concurred. “Um, yes,” she said simply, with a solid nod of her head. The deal, tentatively, was sealed.

Fast forward nine months… it’s a girl! (No no.. sorry, I was contractually obligated to follow-up with that following the cliche phrase “fast forward nine months”). No, instead I’m in New York, hours away from take off after a blissful week of long over-due reunions with old friends. If variety is the spice of life, the past seven days have been a liberally seasoned Masala cuisine. I went hobnobbing with a crew of champagne sipping gynecologists in Manhattan (one of whom is a dear friend from high school), tried on capes at the Brooklyn Super Hero Supply Store, feigned Finish heritage in Riverside Heights, and bonded in Long Island with a friend I’ve had so long, we used to regularly soil ourselves in one another’s company. Being as how we were in diapers at the time, there was considerably less judgment passed then compared to when it happens now.

Back in Brooklyn, it’s time to tie up the last minute loose ends, and then set about a soggy walk to the subway/JFK. In an attempt to summarize my ambitions and dreams for the upcoming trip to a friend recently, I turned to a page from the aforementioned Jack Hitt book:

"The road had an Old World sense of discipline that I liked. A pilgrimage is a form of travel alien to the American temperament. We colonists like to think of ourselves as explorers, path blazers, frontiersmen always on the lam and living off the cuff. Our history is an uncharted odyssey, a haphazard trip down the Mississippi, of unscheduled stops along the blue highways. When Americans are on the road, we don't really want to know just where we are going. We're lighting out for the territories. But a pilgrimage doesn't put up with that kind of breezy liberty. It is a marked route with a known destination. The pilgrim must find his surprises elsewhere. I hadn't the slightest idea what this would eventually mean, but liked the idea of searching out adventure in the unlikely place of a well-trod road.

I don't hold myself out as much of a pilgrim, what with my cloudy motives and facile past. But even as I sat reading at my desk in New York, my failings became encouragement. Among the ancient documents that survive are reports that during the Middle Ages many "others" walked the road, including Moors, then the very stamp of libidinal mustachioed infidel. A twelfth-century document form the pilgrims' shelter in Roncesvalles declares: "Its doors are open to all, well and ill, not only to Catholics, but to pagans, Jews and heretics, the idler and the vagabond, and, to put it shortly, the good and the wicked." I believe I can find myself in that list somewhere."


Well said, Señor Hitt. Hasta pronto, España.

Un beso, Bolivia...

It is the dinosaur footprints and affectionate monkeys, and not the torturous three day bus journey from La Paz back to Cuenca, that I will try to keep in my heart when I look back at the end of my days in Bolivia. Glass half full, as they say.

Indeed, my final two destinations in Bolivia, offered many entertaining sites and adventures, and were well worth the continued travels. The quaint white washed town of Sucre, for example, was also home to the world’s most extensive exhibit of natural fossilized dinosaur footprints, which appealed to the child-like fascination of the multi-national cast of eager visitors, regardless of age.

Cochabamba too, my last stop in Bolivia, was a beautiful town east of the imposing Andes Mountain range. Its lower elevation made for welcoming bone-thawing temperatures, and its perennially sunny skies have earned it the nickname “city of eternal spring.” Just three hours further east of the city proper was the rugged dramatic jungle—home to the growingly famous Inti Wara Yassi Nature reserve. The views on the drive to the park alone, though at times death-defying on the curving, dubiously constructed roads, were worth the pilgrimage. Exiting the arid sunny environs of Cochabamba, the landscape turned abruptly verdantly green—with flourishing ferns and blossoming begonias bordering the snaky low-lying misty rivers below the mountain perched highway.

The area is prime territory for the cultivation of coca plants, and each Bolivian family is legally allowed to grow a couple hectares. Outside of every humble home along the highway lay expansive sheets covered in delicate green leaves which were drying in the harsh mid-day sun. The coca leaves are used from everything from traditional medicine, to tea, to candies, to even garlic bread (the latter of which was a bit green and hard for my liking… two fine adjectives to describe evergreen trees, or leprechaun boots, but not, in my opinion, carbohydrate appetizers).

Popular T-shirts sold in La Paz proudly proclaim “¡La hoja no es una droga!” (“The leaf isn’t a drug!”) And indeed, Bolivian president Evo Morales, himself an ex-coca leaf farmer, agrees. The United States government, however, does not. And USAID development money has been contingent upon strict, controversial stipulations of total coca plant eradication. Thus, the coca farmers unions in the region have recently, respectfully, simply asked USAID to leave. “Villa Tunari--USAID free territory!" proclaimed a proud billboard outside the Inti Wara Yassi park entrance. Well done! Some one had spray painted below in congratulations to the farmers union’s efforts.

The Inti Wara Yassi Reserve itself was a kind of rehabilitation center of sorts for wild animals that had been captured from the jungle to serve as pets, or sideshow attractions until their owners lost interest and stopped caring for them. Earnest volunteers come from all over the world to stay at the park for month long stints, helping to tend to the monkeys, walk the pumas, and feed the bears, among other duties. The spider monkeys were especially affectionate with the care takers they’d grown to love, and would unexpectedly leap on their backs in unabashed pleas for affection and hugs.

Due to the apes’ gregarious, uninhibited temperament, coupled with their mischievous curiosity, however, tourists must guard their possessions carefully. Visitors are warned not to carry any extraneous objects, and to keep a close hold on their cameras. One girl learned this lesson the hard way when a thirsty monkey swung down from a nearby branch and snatched her loosely held water bottle from her hand. After a brief bout of frustration, he quickly mastered the pop-top drinking nozzle, and drained the bottle of its contents.

As an animal lover, and ex-militant vegetarian, the spirit of the park appealed to me. Attractions such as Sucre’s dino fossils and Inti Wara Yassi leave me feeling perplexed and conflicted about resource allocation in developing countries where the human need is so profound as well. Bolivia has the dubious distinction of being South America’s poorest country, and the increased levels of poverty and lack of infrastructure were startling apparent, even in comparison to nearby Peru and Ecuador.

To preserve the dinosaur footprints in Sucre for example, there is a proposed plan underway which would cost 190 million dollars, involving an elaborate re-fortification of the hillside to prevent erosion, and an eventual silicon covering of the fossilized imprints. The Bolivian government obviously lacks the funds to pay for such an undertaking out right. Luckily, there are many foreign parties interested in pitching into the effort. Apparently “preserving the world’s most extensive site of evidence of dinosaur life” has a sexier grant application title than “general alleviation of peasant hunger and destitution”—a Bolivian cause which could also use an extra 190 million.

Maintaining cultural and historical gems, unique in the world, has obvious value. By properly caring for these sites of interest, not only will future generations be able to enjoy and learn from them, but international visitors will continue to visit and thus stimulate the local economy. So long term, I understand. But as always, the allocation of limited funds, especially when need is so great, is a delicate and morally thorny process. It is hard to walk the streets of Bolivia’s many poverty stricken barrios, void of schools and hospitals, but full of starving children, and concretely decide which effort needs the most immediate attention.

Bus Stop, Baby

Having bid a fond farewell to my temporary travel companion of the last several weeks, I headed solo north to Sucre, Bolivia. Generally I traveled on night buses to minimize wasted days of travel, and such was the case leaving Tupiza.

Just two hours into the ten hour journey, however, the bus stopped unexpectedly somewhere on the side of the highway at a dimly lit shack for a snack break. I’d already taken my mandatory sleeping pills (a necessity on par with clothing, water, and other basic supplies if one is to survive the grueling evening journeys on highways not blessed with pavement). So I stumbled groggily from the bus along with the rest of my fellow passengers and stood idly around waiting for people to finish their rice and mystery meat dinner specials.

A pint sized four-year-old, who should have been in bed, was playing by himself on the floor of the restaurant. He was fidgety in his sullied denim shirt and tiny flip-flop shoes. He was using his oversized red sweatpants to slide around on the smooth concrete floor—spinning in circles like a puppy chasing his tail. Eventually bored with his twirling, he ran dizzily over to his grandmother who was seated solidly on a small green plastic stool outside the restaurant, selling fresh squeezed orange juice. He wrapped his arms around her in a sloppy hug—only partially encircling the brilliantly colored neon striped shall draped around her imposing build. He patted her face aimlessly and she shrugged him off, annoyed. She brandished the small serrated knife she’d been using to slice the oranges in his direction. “I’ll cut your feet off,” she said menacingly, glaring.

He shuffled off, unfazed, and an older child, maybe six, gave him a plastic bag. The younger boy stretched it across his mouth like a face mask.

“Put it over your head,” the older child suggested. “Like a bonnet.”

The bus horn blared, signaling it was time to continue the night’s journey. A group of four foreigners—traveling with a local guide to a volunteer work site in Sucre—looked around panicked for a garbage can to deposit the peels of their recently consumed bananas.

People eating dinner hastily shoveled in the last of their rice laden plates, and we all slowly boarded as the bus engine roared reluctantly back to life. We were off.

Tupiza

There are some landscapes that just make you want to rob a stage coach. Such was the case with the wild imposing swaths of fiery desert, and mountainous crags of Tupiza, in southern Bolivia. Unfortunately for my inner outlaw, stage coaches are hard to come by in this day and age since the internal combustion engine reared its ugly head, and decrepit rusted out buses puttered into town taking over public transport. Nonetheless, the rebellious impulses the wild west scenery of Tupiza inspired gave me an increased level of sympathy for the illegal antics of America’s most famous turn-of-the-century outlaws, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, who met their demise in the town’s outskirts.

The two rebels originally fled the United States—where they were wanted for stealing over 25 million dollars—to Argentina in 1901. There, they tried to reinvent themselves as peaceful ranchers. I envision their new Brokeback Mountain-esk existence in their resettled South American residence—starting fresh in a little country homestead where Sundance would pick out the material for their new kitchen curtains, and Butch would rise early to milk the cows so the two could have fresh cream in their morning coffee. Alas, their peaceful existence was doomed when another warrant in 1905 was issued for their arrest in Argentina, and the pair fled north to Bolivia. It was outside of Tupiza, three years later, when the two finally died in a dramatic double suicide as authorities stood posed outside their hotel room about to launch a raid.

Much mythology thus centers around the outlaws’ legacy in the area, and tourists flock to the sites of their death and their grave in popular day long excursions. My friend Vina and I, however, opted for an alternative “triathlon” tour of Tupiza’s outskirts—a combination mountain biking, horse riding, and 4x4 method of exploration of the striking surroundings. Sadly, I confess my best event was Jeep. Still though, I particularly enjoyed the horse riding since it allowed Vina and I to venture off road (though the state of our gravely horse paths differed little in quality from the “highway” proper), meandering slowly through the canyons and jagged geological formations like true caballeras (cowgirls). Wild crests of blood red rock rose from the surrounding hillsides like Mohawks on a punk guitarist’s skull. And lone, sheer cliffs stood mysterious and solitary amidst otherwise flat cactus-dotted planes, christened with theatrical names such as “La Puerta del Diablo” (the Devil’s door).

Vina, an avid rock climber, was as much enamored with the possibilities for cliff scrambling as with the scenery as a whole. “Oooh baby! Did you check out that last one?” She asked me, ogling a passing hillside as if she were a sexist jock cruising for sorority girls. “Let’s come back tomorrow and do it!” I gently had to remind her that, with the entirety of my rock climbing experience consisting of one solitary adventure several weeks previous, I was perhaps not yet ready for rope/harness-less “free climbing” up imposingly vertical precipices. But yes, I conceded, it was “smokin.’”

Luckily Tupiza afforded many opportunities for stunning day hikes, and other adventures in the area. Thus, we had an excuse to stay several days in our wonderful Hotelera Mitru which offered free swimming facilities, complimentary breakfasts, and, most importantly, what were undoubtedly the best showers in all of South America. The latter may seem like a trifling attraction in comparison to Bolivia’s many majestic natural wonders. But honestly, we were both as, if not more, impressed with the consistently high water pressure and blissfully blistering hot temperature of the showers as we’d been by the mountains of La Paz, Uyuni’s Salt Flats, or Tupiza’s canyons.

“And you turn it on, and it’s hot right away, and it stays hot, and you have time to use soap and shampoo and everything!” Vina gushed eagerly to me when she returned from her welcomed cleansing rite down the hall. I listened, wide-eyed and eager, but not quite believing her—as if I was hearing an account of a wild adventure’s recent successful mission to the lost city of Atlantis.
“No!” I said, incredulously. “Impossible.”
“It’s true!” she protested, and lifted my hand to pet her still damply warm hair as evidence.

Thus, we stayed longer than anticipated in Tupiza—ostensibly to rest and enjoy the natural beauty around us, but truth be told, the unique bathing pleasures were what really kept us put. Normal travel days in foreign countries usually involve a fair amount of “ok, let’s see… what should we do today?” conversations, followed by extensive guide book perusal. In Tupiza, however, we never suffered such indecision. Spare time? Pause in the conversation? I know! Let’s go back to the hostel and take the day’s third shower!

I hope to maintain such eager appreciation for life’s simple pleasures when I soon migrate back north of the equator.

Solar de Uyuni

Perhaps it was a bad sign when our jeep pulled up with an empty glass rum bottle supporting the luggage rack. This was to be the chariot for the impending three day tour of the world’s largest salt flats—an expansive area covering south western Bolivia, and known for its spooky, desolate, other-worldly scenery.

Undeterred by the perhaps shabby nature of the vehicle, my friend Vina and I boarded the jeep and set off on the first day for our ride through the moon-like landscape of the Uyuni Salt Flats. The salt flats are over 6,500 square miles wide, and range from 9-65 feet thick. The vast, flat white landscape stretches endlessly before you, suggesting you’re the only remaining survivor after a recent apocalypse.

The area is also famous for the strange perspective-distorting photo opportunities it affords. Vina and I took full advantage of the scenery--posing our trip mascot, a mummified llama fetus, in various compromising and amorous positions while the proverbial camera flash bulbs burned. It was while in the midst of this serious paparazzi effort that we were introduced to the remaining four members of our group who had joined us from another car at the appointed lunch time rendezvous point. Henrique, Gustavo, Samuel, and Rafael, were all Brazilian art students, on a 6 week trip during “winter” vacation. They spoke little Spanish, and even littler English, but somehow, with my Spanish, Vina’s Spanglish, and the boys’ Spang-ese (Spanish-Portuguese), we managed to communicate.

Huddled together in the salt-block constructed hostel that night, we used our collective linguistic mush to conduct a lesson in Brazilian folklore. Vina and I learned about some of the many traditional characters of Brazilian popular legend, including Saci Perere—a one legged, pipe smoking midget who wears a red gnome-hat and hops through the jungle creating mischief, and Curlepira—a green naked jungle God with backwards facing feet.

“Are all your characters of folk in the Brazil... deformed?” I asked, less than subtly.

“Ha ha!” laughed Henrique who, using his considerable artistic talents, had just illustrated the two characters for Vina and I. “Not all... just most.”

Vina gave a reciprocal lesson to the group—this time a primer in her native Filipino tongue of Tagalog.

“Mabaho ang puet mo,” she said slowly, so we all could repeat. “Mahal kita,” she continued.

“¿Qué significa?” (What does that mean?) asked Gustavo.

“It means: ‘Your butt stinks’ and ‘I love you,’ Vina explained. “Those are both very important to know when you first visit.”

We spent the next two days cruising through some of the most dramatic mountain and canyon filled landscape I’ve ever seen—fuming volcanoes, steaming mud geysers, brilliant rose-colored flamingo studded lagoons—our ability to absorb visual beauty quickly became saturated nearly to capacity.

The evenings out on the salt flats—some of our accommodations were at 15,000 ft. or higher—were bone chillingly cold, so the last day’s stop over at a small complex of steaming thermal pools was a welcome respite. I had to summon all my willpower to change into a bathing suit at 16,00ft when already I couldn’t feel my toes or fingers due to cold. But the cozily warm hot springs were the perfect way to de-thaw. We sat there contentedly admiring the dramatic surrounding peaks whenever the steam momentarily cleared and allowed for a vista.

We had to be quick re-dressing when we left though. In the two minutes it took me to change back into my clothes, ice crystals had already formed in my hair. When I finished wrestling the tangles out of my hair, my brush looked as if I’d been either: grooming a snow man, or had developed a debilitating case of dandruff.

We had a five hour drive back to the town of Uyuni on the last day—a trip which afforded us plenty of time to mock the insidious all “reggaetone” soundtrack our guide Marco had selected for the day. This inspired an animated conversation about superior musical options (i.e.- soundtracks of cat’s being tortured etc.).

Rafael was an ardent fan of the Philly based hip hop group The Roots, so I wrote down some other groups of similar genres that I thought he might enjoy.

“But no solo the hippy-hop!” He clarified in asking for recommendations. “All kinds!”

The guys assembled a page long list of Brazilian musicians all worth investigating for Vina and I, and promises of international mix tapes were made.

The journey back to civilization took a bit longer than expected as our regularly scheduled hourly breakdowns began to increase in frequency. Every 20 minutes or so we were forced to pull to the side of the “road” such as it was, while Marco and his assistant Carlos fumbled with the tires and suspension—returning from each mechanical repair effort with a different piece of tubing or metal working, all of which looked suspiciously crucial.

We finally arrived to Uyuni three hours late, in the dark and freezing cold. Back at the tour agency, Vina and I were informed that the train tickets we’d previously purchased for that evening weren’t actually valid (“that just meant I’d try to find you a seat, but I couldn’t. So you can’t leave until tomorrow, OK?” explained the less than helpful desk worker) Thus, we were forced to wander the darkened ghost town in search of an overpriced hostel. Our gem of a dwelling did not feature running water (“The pipes are frozen! This happens every night!”) but compensated with mice, and one matrimonial bed for Vina and I to spoon in. The latter came in handy since there was no heat.

Thus, no love was lost when we left in the pre-dawn darkness of 5:30 AM to catch the next bus out of town. Seated freezing in my front row seat trying to recall the last time I’d had feeling in my extremities, as progressively more layers of dirty mattresses and corn feed were stacked upon me, my mind was flooded with bitter thoughts about the dubious wisdom of calling this “a vacation.” Just then, an elderly man boarded the bus, a stack of 10 skinned goats bound together with blue twine, in tow. These too he leaned against my leg as he settled down on the floor for the impending journey. I sighed, and turned to look out the window, upon which was a sticker which said in Spanish: “Be nice. Don’t have a nervous breakdown. Smile.” A sign, if ever I needed one.

Huayna Potosí

"I can't. I'm going to throw up." These were the less than encouraging words of my supposed fellow mountain climbing partner that greeted me the morning of our departure to the 19,970 ft. tall Huayna Potosi. The other tourist who’d signed up for the trip had fallen ill the night before, and delivered his regrets pale and woozy in the tourist office.

"Ok, then!" Said the agency owner, Aldolfo, turning to me with an optimistic smile,
"I guess it's just you going then!" Thus, I set off on my climbing adventure in just the company of my soft spoken guide, Andrés. The unexpectedly small size of the group turned out to be a blessing, however, because it afforded me plenty of individual instruction time on how exactly to use the variety of novel equipment before me.
(ex: Andrés: "No! the pointy side of the ice ax into the MOUNTAIN ! NOT into your head!")

At the refugio (base camp) where we stayed the first night, there was a fairly large contingent of folks also beginning their summit attempts, so dinner conversation was lively. There were two young Israeli guys, Omer and Yuval, an Australian couple, a Spanish couple from the Basque Country, and two more young Australian guys.

The latter had just come from Iraq where they had been working for a British military contracting company providing security to the US Army Corps of Engineers.

"Wow! That must have been so stressful!" Marveled the Australian, Jen.
"Ah, it wasn't so bad," Matt responded casually. "After a while, it's just a job, isn't it?" His only real complaint about the work was that his colleagues were almost all British, and thus "too uptight." Yeah, mate... it's just Iraq! Take a mellow out!

The second day, after breakfast we hiked up to High Camp (16,700ft.) where we all spent the day lounging in the sun and drinking copious amounts of coca leave tea (supposedly to alleviate the effects of the altitude). In the evening, we all made signs to photograph on the summit assuming, God willing, we reached it. Mine was a fairly mundane—a banal “Happy 4th of July” wish to my fellow countrymen.

Omer and Yuval, however, were a bit more creative. Their summit message was inspired by the movie “Beaufort” about the hellish conditions of life inside an Israeli outpost in the months leading up to the pullout from Lebanon. The daily threat of bombardment and attack there made for a maddening daily existence for the soldiers who knew their mission was futile and drawing to a close. And yet the camp’s physical location was apparently in one of the most beautiful geographical spots in the Middle East. Thus Omer and Yuval translated the famous quote from the film from Hebrew to English, (and then to Spanish): “If there’s a heaven, it looks like this. If there’s a hell, it feels like this.”

With the caveat that I always thought the latter might be a bit warmer, it seemed an apt sentiment.

We awoke at 12:30 AM the following day to start our summit—clumsily putting on enough layers to invoke apt comparisons to the heavily clothed younger brother Randy, in movie “The Christmas Story” (“I can’t put my arms down!”)

As I began the dark six hour uphill trudge, I felt like a work horse with thick blinders. Sporting a buttercup yellow fleece baklava and a tightly fastened hood from my ski jacket, only my eyes were exposed to the elements. This confined, peripheral visionless vista was perhaps a blessing however, because the neck craning views of the route ahead induced a starry, daunting sense of vertigo. The Australian couple had set out just before me, and I could just make out their faint glowing headlamps in the distance. The route was so steep, they appeared to be floating spookily directly above me.

To accommodate the unmerciful grade of the path, I often wound up walking grapevine style, my feet perpendicular to the slope, using my ice ax like a crutch. My steps were so deliberate and methodically slow, however, that no one single action seemed overly daunting. The climb thus became more of an exercise in Zen like mental endurance—channeling my thoughts into positive, motivating simplistic ideas (i.e.- “Breath in! Breath out!... no, wait! Don’t stop! Keep doing that!”). I also attempted to purge from my brain the less than motivating looping Tegan and Sarah song lyrics from their hit song “The Con” (chorus: “Encircle me/ I need to be/ taken down!”).

I finally reached the summit with Andrés around 6:30 AM. It was still dark, but soon the horizon became illuminated in peachy glows as the sun began its slow, warming ascent. The Cordillera Blanca Mountain range stretched as far as the eye could see north and south of me, and the soft pastels of sunrise bathed their white snow capped peaks. I could see La Paz in the distance, cast in the infinite eastwards stretching triangular shadow of Huayna Potosi. Mercifully, the summit was windless, so although lack of circulation in my extremities nonetheless soon set in, it was not nearly as cold as it could have been. Everyone made it to the summit, and we all lingered there a bit longer than usual. My 20 minutes there were probably the most profoundly simultaneously humbling and empowering of my life.

On the one hand, the view of nature’s extreme majesty made me feel incredibly small—content to be insignificant in comparison to the grandeur before me. And yet, perched atop what seemed to be the top of the world, I felt like some Goddess of Gortex, surveying my crop of mountainous subjects before me. The view brought to mind a Mark Twain description of the Sierra Nevadas that I’d read a while back:

“Toward dawn we got under way again, enjoying our early morning smoke and contemplating the first splendor of the rising sun as it swept down the long array of mountain peaks, flushing and gilding crag after crag and summit after summit, as if the invisible creator reviewed his gray veterans and they saluted with a smile.”

“Wow. I can really see how people get addicted to this,” I sighed to my fellow climbers admiring the view.

“Bah! Not me!” grumbled Jen. “Let’s get the hell down and get this over with!” So much for serenity.

The descent took only about an hour and a half, and provided astounding views of the terrain which had been obscured to me in darkness to of the climb up. Towering bulbous snow fields, jagged glacial walls, and snaking precipitous ridges unfolded before me as I bounced along the steep descent. At times, I felt like a clumsy ballerina attempting to dance on point, my crampons were so vertically aimed downward.

We finally reached the base came, shed a half dozen layers of superfluous gear, changed into regular hiking boots, and continued with the hour long hike down to the first camp. There, our transportation back to La Paz, in the form of a dilapidated station wagon, was waiting. I shared the ride back to the city with another Israeli, Ziv, who’d also just summated, and was ambitiously was contemplating his plans for the rest of the day.

“I don’t know... maybe I’ll go see the Valle de Luna rock formations south of the city, we’ll see! There’s a whole afternoon before us!” he said.

I admired his stamina, but when I arrived back to my hostel, I decided to celebrate in my own manner—curling into a fetal position and wishing I was dead. My body had been extremely placating and cooperative with the previous 48 hours of strain. But now, my brain, stomach and intestines collectively rose up in protest—beating the war drums of discontent and demanding explanation and regress for the brutality to which I’d subjected them. I grabbed blindly in the dark for my rainbow colored array of “in case of emergency” pill stash, pulled the blankets up over my head, and didn’t get out of bed until 9:00 AM the next morning.

I was feeling refreshingly less suicidal the next day, and thus went along to breakfast with Omer and Yuval. They’d previously scoped out the town’s best deal—an all you can eat buffet for $2.50 in a nearby plush hotel restaurant. When we arrived, the staff looked at our ragged attire and correctly surmised we weren’t actual guests. “Nope!” we conceded happily, and proceeded to empty their ample stash of fresh fruits, yogurt, pancakes, and French toast.

I intended to spend the rest of the day tending to mundane tasks like preparing for the evening’s night bus journey to the Solar de Uyuni—the famous salt flats of Southern Bolivia. I was due to meet up with Vina there the following day to start a three day 4x4 Jeep tour of the area. Unfortunately, practicalities such as laundry and long overdue emails fell by the wayside when I got distracted and ended up spending the majority of the afternoon perusing the nearby Witches’ Market. The “Mercado de Hechicería” as it’s known, was conveniently located a mere two blocks away from my hostel, so it was an easy walk back with my heavily loaded shopping bag full of potions, amulets, and most importantly, mummified llama fetuses.

The latter are supposedly good luck to bury in your yard when you move houses. I have a lot of friends who have changed residences since I left the States last September, so I will have to stock up on those. I’m planning on making an indignant stink if questioned by U.S. customs officials when I return. (i.e.- “ Well let’s just see what constitutes an “illegal agricultural import” then, shall we? Show me where it explicitly says “no Bolivian mummified llama fetuses,” bucko! This is blatant anti-Scandinavian descent/ anti-alpaca discrimination, and I don’t have to take it! Where’s your supervisor?!?”)

Fingers crossed this tactic works....