TravelStream™ news feed for member dinojay2 on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/dinojay2 en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 22 Nov 2009 12:58:47 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1258912482/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1258912482/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1258912482/tpod.html Sun, 22 Nov 2009 12:58:47 -0500 100 Days of Turpitude

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Torres del Paine, Patagonia, Chile

Currently we sit in Colonia de Sacramento in Uruguay, north across the river from Buenos Aires. Since our last entry we have traveled all the way from Puerto Iguazu (further north on the Brazilian border) way down south to the (very nearly) bottom of Argentina, west across into Chile, then back north and east halfway up the coast to Puerto Madryn, then all the way north to Buenos Aires, and then finally here. We flew down, but then took bus after bus, after bus, plus several days of trekking in Torres del Paine National Park, moving on basically every day. Which is my excuse for, once again, being way behind in what I like to refer to as the Semi-Formal Unofficial Historical Rendering of our Trip for Posterity. Laynni, on the other hand, just calls it "the blog", as in “get your hands out of there, quit being lazy and go write your blog”. Obediently, here I am. However, you'll note that I did not promise to use proper sentences, cohesive paragraphs, or body wash, hence I present to you:<i>Patagonia in Point Form <i>(Now grammar free!!)The “Questioning Our Decisions” Travel MomentSitting in the cafeteria at the Rio Gallegos bus station after getting only four hours sleep just in case the only bus left early, which it didn’t, so now we’re watching the Pink Panther cartoon I grew up with (no talking – translates remarkably well) and playing an Israeli card game with four hours to kill as it snows outside in the dreary parking lot in a place we’ve never been to and never wanted to visit waiting for a bus to someplace we had never heard of until this morning where we will then catch a different bus that will take us to yet another place we’ve never been to in a country we’ve never entered. If all goes well.The “Welcome to Patagonia” MomentIn the industrial mining town of Rio Turbio, which may or may not be in the business of renting rooms to strangers, we are told that the bus to Puerto Natales (just 50km away but across the border in Chile) will not be going tonight because the Chilean immigration officials have closed the border, possibly temporarily, possibly not. They are either on strike, or politically motivated, or maybe just tired, depending on which of my confusing translations can be believed. The bus might go tomorrow….but it might not. Definitely Wednesday….well, unless it’s still closed then. Is there an ATM in town? Oh, sure, &lt;long complicated directions follow&gt;. But it’s not working right now. Oh. Hotels? Mmmm, ye-, no, mmmmm….. Never mind. Are there any other buses going anywhere tonight? Oh sure, there is one going to El Ca– We’ll take it.Worst Travel Book“In Patagonia” by Bruce Chatwin. Hailed as a classic, a riveting journey, a must-read if you’re visiting Patagonia. Read it before we came – complete shit. Irrelevant, incoherent and drier than athlete’s foot at the senior Olympics. All despite what you’d think would be a winning formula – traveling through an exotic foreign country and describing Europeans that have moved there. Also, found out later that much of it has since been discredited as fiction meaning that, on top of everything else, he couldn’t even make up a good story.Surprising DiscoveryAll jokes become exponentially funnier when whispered from the shade behind a window-screen as though you’re a cutout villain in a B-rate thriller. Try it some time. I guarantee you’ll pee yourself at least a little.The “Not Sure If I Like It Or Not” TownEl Calafate, Argentina. Nice restaurants and picturesque lodges often compared to Switzerland or Banff, but kind of dusty and full of stray dogs. Stayed in one of the nicest hostels we’ve seen, but Laynni got ambushed by some kind of weird bed bug. Every place offers several different types of tour to the Perito Moreno Glacier, but I doubt that Dr. Phil with a pair of pliers could have convinced our hotel guy to tell us anything about the ones they sell. Great breakfasts, but had our worst lunch yet (rotten ham, plastic in my sandwich). Absolutely incredible glacier, but we ran out of toothpaste. You take the good, you take the bad, put them all together….Interesting Travel TrendA notable decline in the amount of dreadlocks. Oh, I’m sure they’re still considered a prestigious symbol of rebellion and unemployability on the beaches of Thailand, where 1999 has ensconced itself to while away its old age, but we are definitely seeing fewer and fewer these nasty mops in other parts of the world. Which has to be considered a positive since, despite the touch of sadness that comes with the end of any era, it is clearly a disgusting way to live. Honestly, sometimes I lay awake at night wondering if they’ve ever touched the headrest of my bus seat.The “What’s the Catch?” MomentTorres del Paine National Park, Chile. Renowned for its terrific hiking, world-class scenery, cozy refugios&nbsp; and water cleaner than Michael Phelps’ urine that can be drunk straight from the streams. Yet also notorious for its unpredictable weather, terrible storms, winds strong enough to dry my soccer gotch and a remarkable number of Dutch people. However, the rain stopped soon after we got off the bus and the following day was apparently the first of unblemished sun since June. Then we were treated to just enough of a snowstorm on day 3 to feel like we’d “had the TDP experience”, and just enough wind on day 4 to rattle the most troublesome mountain fairies out of my armpit hair. Our luck runneth over.Profound Example of Global AssimilationThe variety of different ways to experience Torres del Paine (camp or lodge, independent or tour, enjoy nipple pinching or find it mostly uncomfortable) led to an astonishing variety of hikers. Seniors on rigid tours, gringo gauchos on horseback, skinny Europeans in hiking tights, not to mention smokers, vegetarians, people hiking in jeans (some even tighter than my relationship with cheese), small backpacks, rolling luggage, packs big enough to conceal a medium-sized Bolivian, cowboy hats, hiking poles, casts, and more of those hiking pants with the annoying black patches than STDs in the cast of Cats. Yet one way or another we all ended up at exactly the same place at exactly the same time. It’s the epiphany that I like.Gratuitous Personal Hygiene UpdateAfter two long months of shampooing my face and tugging pensively at my facial hair in order to look both tough and wise, the high 30’s temperatures and oppressive humidity in Iguazu finally convinced me to shave. Don’t be alarmed, however, since with the help of plenty of salt-free butter and just a pinch of over the counter horse steroid I am once again well on my way toward a softer - yet more imposing - jaw line. Meanwhile, just a few days ago my hair finally reached that elusive position where it became a virtual Hair Helmet - not quite short enough to stand up, not quite long enough to lie down, but solid and tangible, as though poised to accomplish great things. But in the same way the full moon suddenly shrinks to a sliver, or the Jays lose 8 straight right after the trade deadline, abruptly it succumbed to gravity, settling down into comfortable anonymity along with payroll clerks and CFL offensive linemen.Communal Living by NorthfaceIn lieu of staying in a tent and taking your chances with the rain, snow, sleet and gale-force winds (can you sense the need to justify our choice anywhere in that?) hiking the “W” of Torres del Paine meant partaking in the strangely luxurious dormitory accommodations of the refugios. The food was almost good enough to be from the Granada House and a bed with full board cost as much as a Swift Current hooker yet the walls fell several feet short of the roof allowing for unlimited communal farting and the cleaning crew nearly pulled off a daring heist of a pair of my $2 Walmart socks. Overall, it seemed as though it would be very similar to living at the Y except that our roommates wore full Northface and Patagonia (how fitting!) ensembles and included an elderly Dutchman who always peed at exactly the same time as me in the middle of the night, rather than indigent homeless men smelling of urine and socialist democracy.The “Not Sure How Much to Read into This” MomentWatching the first leg of the France-Ireland World Cup qualifier in a bar full of people, none of whom were Irish, and realizing that not a single person was cheering for France.Coming soon: Our wacky adventures in Puerto Madryn, a town with a long history of Welsh and whales, strangely enough, where we visited majestic right whales, comical penguins and some elephant seals which may or may not have been recently deceased.<i>In the News:Ancient Glacier Given “The Creeps” By Roving Tour BoatEminent Perito Moreno Glacier, one of the only ones in the world’s still advancing, reported extreme discomfort Tuesday when a boat loaded with foreigners allegedly approached it in a lewd and unusual manner. According to police reports, despite having no prior relationship and receiving no signs of encouragement, the boat allegedly sidled up uncomfortably close to the glacier’s exposed southern flank where it proceeded to spend nearly 45 minutes lurking quietly.“The people were all lined up along the railings, just staring at me like I was a piece of meat or something, and taking picture after picture. I tried to ignore them but everywhere I turned they were right there. One guy kept muttering 'so pretty, so pretty’ over and over again. Others were leering and waving their huge zoom lenses at me, laughing and talking about how I was the one who wanted it…”When asked to comment the group leader explained,“Yeah, that was one of impressive slab of ice, right there. You shoulda seen it, we got up real nice and close where we could see right into all the cracks and crevices. Hmmm. What I wouldn’t give to get up on that honey, even for a minute or two, just to see what it feels like.”
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257605814/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257605814/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257605814/tpod.html Sun, 22 Nov 2009 12:54:31 -0500 100 Days of Turpitude

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Puerto Iguazu, Argentina

Our illustrious salt tour ended in rough and tumble town of Tupiza, just a few hours from the Argentine border and in the heart of rugged red rock country. Laynni was simply thrilled to be back in, as she put it, "two sheet territory", which I assume means it was warm enough to sleep with only two sheets on the bed, rather than 17.5kg worth of wool blankets, and not a rather disgusting reference to toilet paper. Tupiza was a welcome change from the cold high country along the Chilean border, much warmer and with an extremely “refreshing” pool to cool off in. In true Waskesiu alum fashion all water temps around the world are constantly compared to the infamously chill waters of the slough, as in “it was <i>almost as cold as Waskesiu”, “I mean, it wasn't <i>Waskesiu cold, but still” or, “if I hadn’t already froze my nuts off in Waskesiu they’d be up in my stomach right now”. Either way, it felt good as long as you scorched yourself in the sun long enough first, and were able to ignore the fact that after a couple days the murky water came to closely resemble Gene Hackman’s midsummer ball gravy. Hey-oh!And, consistent to form, Laynni and I teamed up to sunburn my back, and then I threw in a brand new wrinkle where I somehow managed to burn my belly button. For a couple days my stomach looked like a hairy dart board. But from there it was on to bigger, newer things, like horseback riding. As most of you know we are both avid riders, riding like pros dozens of times over the past 30 years, as long as you don’t count the last 25, which I don’t because, really, what have we accomplished in that time? Anyway, the area around Tupiza was clearly made for riding horse (advice: it is important to very clearly say “horse”, not “whores”, when discussing this with a non-native English speaker, although, really, what place isn’t made for that?) which is probably why Butch and Sundance chose it - for the scenery, and, of course, it’s abundance of gaming cafes filled with teenage punks (even outlaws need a Doom fix every now and then). We pictured ourselves galloping gracefully through the scenic canyons while tipping our hats to pretty maidens doing their wash in the river and casually shooting down pesky buffalo where they could be left rot proudly in the sun. Well, we weren’t too far off, except that with my pink t-shirt, inappropriate shoes and Great Gazoo helmet I probably looked more like an off-duty parking attendant celebrating the legalization of gay marriage with some low-impact go-karting. Our teenage guide, Sergio, sported a patented sneer that was strikingly similar to John Wayne, assuming, of course, that the Duke was only 5’4, struggled with adolescent acne and spent most of his days taunting friends on his bright red cell phone. Cool trip, though, up through some really impressive dry riverbeds and canyons, and two hours on horseback was more than enough for out of practice city slickers such as ourselves. Short enough that it wasn’t absolute torture to wipe our asses the next day, yet long enough for Laynni to develop a slightly bowlegged stride that I subtly hinted I was responsible for.Viva Argentina. The time had finally come for another new country and we were looking forward to testing its reputation for easy transport and modern women (or was it the other way around?). Paved roads, you say? Count me in! Steaks the size of - but in no way related to - dead cats? Mmmmm, tasty! ATMs as plentiful as K-Fed’s genital warts? Sign me up, amigo!After a deceptively easy border crossing (a couple stamps and a quick photo with the Ushuaia 5,121km sign) we soon discovered what really keeps the Argentine authorities awake at night – cheap Bolivian contraband. We boarded our bus (amid some minor turmoil, more on that later) and traveled all of about 3 blocks before being stopped at an army checkpoint where everyone was ordered off to collect their luggage and subject it to a thorough search. Unlike most of these exercises which are designed specifically to target sketchy foreign influences such as ourselves, particularly those with fuzzy, vaginal facial hair, this time we were waved through with only the briefest of glances. The real targets, apparently, were cross-border shoppers, not an unfamiliar concept to us Canadians, except instead of returning from Minot with a carton of $4 beer, several cheap casino t-shirts and yet another 14 decks of previously used playing cards, the smuggler’s haul here consisted mainly of cheap shoes, gaudy Tupperware and ill-fitting jeans. <i>Curiously disturbing aside: Bearing in mind that I have done no actual research and have no hard evidence to back up this claim, I nevertheless am going to proceed in saying that I believe Argentina is the world leader in….not soccer….not steaks….but in camel-toe, baby! Oh, pipe down, Mexico, you’re still a close second (start hiking them up just a little further and next year, who knows?). Anyway, it has made me wonder, during a few of my oh so many idle moments, if this strange phenomenon actually tells us something about Argentine women. Or perhaps Argentine men? Or, most likely, Argentine jean manufacturing. I am happy to report, however, that because the trend is most definitely not limited to women we can probably go with the most benign answer and can, as I always prefer to, blame the Bolivians. Doesn’t make it any easier to look at, though.It was only after the searches were over and we were re-boarding the bus that we discovered what may have been a much more serious customs infraction as we interrupted the Argentine couple from in front of us digging around in the curtains above Trick and Mel’s seat, two rows back, suddenly producing like magic, or Sham-Wow, a hefty bag of coca leaves as though they had just finally hit pay dirt in Pablo Escobar’s easter egg hunt (“Oh that Pablo, you just know it’s always going to be either the curtain or the rectum. And I always forget to check the curtains….”). Would have made for an interesting headline on the BBC: “Welsh-born Kiwi listens to iPod while being violated in Argentine prison. Also, why dogs lick each other – story at 11.”This, mind you, all happened after we came within minutes, maybe seconds, of actually missing the bus. Having forgotten that Argentina is an hour ahead of Bolivia we were meandering around town as casual and non-committal as Owen Wilson when we suddenly saw one of the bus guys running toward us down the street (to date the only person we’ve seen running in South America outside of a soccer pitch). He hustled us back to the station just in time to load our bags on and then be flatly refused an extra couple minutes to use el bano and grab some food. Sheesh, sue me for thinking the world revolves around white guys…..Meanwhile, as we wandered around obliviously Trick and Mel were forced to deal with all the stress: do we go or wait? Bring their bags on or leave them behind? Quickly use Dean’s loufa before he gets back? All difficult moral questions.Smooth sailing after that, spending a couple nights in the picturesque Quebrada de Humuhuaca enjoying the small town feel and rocky terrain, though maybe not as much as if we hadn’t just arrived from “the country that specializes in small towns and rocky terrain”. In Purmamarca the Trail of Seven Colours was pretty cool, at least until the tour buses rolled in like a horde of craft-obsessed locusts, but unfortunately the highlight attraction in Tilcara was a set of shambling ruins (with some admittedly decent views) capped, unbelievably, with a modern monument to the archaeologists that discovered the site. For some reason this felt very tacky, comparable to carving Harrison Ford’s scowling face into the wall at Petra, or paying a prostitute with change.Next stop, our long awaited return to what we considered a “real city”, Salta – a place with several hundred thousand people, all sorts of street lights and a McDonalds’ which, to our surprise, straightened out Laynni’s on and off stomach faster than a monkey on unicycle. It worked, I mean. The new food theme continued at La Monumental, a place we were told to go for really good, if rather expensive, steaks. But hey, when in Argentina…. We wandered in a little hesitantly, skeptical of this huge, brightly lit gymnasium with about 4 people in it. We needn’t have worried, though, as apparently that’s how they do steak here, not a bunch of pretention, just a lot of strong lighting and plenty of elbow room to get down to it. It turned out the steaks were fantastic, “expensive” meant around $6 and at about 9 pm the place started filling up faster than KFC on Mother’s Day.We expected warmer weather here, now that we are finally back down to an altitude more suitable for humans than llamas and female wrestlers, but seem to have arrived during a very unusual hot stretch with temperatures in Salta (and Iguazu for that matter) going as high as 40C. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that they seem to take the afternoon siesta much more seriously here than we’ve seen most places. The city literally shuts down from 2 to 5, getting as quiet and spooky as a Mad About You live studio audience.Speaking of wacky sitcoms, one night while having (several) drinks on the square I argued up and down for about an hour that the tall, old guy with the grampa fringe and extroverted manner a couple tables over was the dad from Everybody Loves Raymond. Laynni and Trick assured me I was crazier than Brad Garrett, yet several times nearly managed to goad me into asking him. Luckily, though, he was quite preoccupied talking to a group of girls young enough to be his dates for the Golden Globe, providing what I felt was a very compelling reason to let my innate cowardice run wild. I say luckily, because Mel later informed all three of us that the actor in question is, in fact, dead. End of argument. Really, it’s the lack of ambiguity that I like. On the bright side, though, we all agreed that the two random bald spots on the waiter’s head just had to be the result of a wacky, if unoriginal, jackass prank. I strongly suspected but didn’t know for sure until I applied an electric shock to his nuts….and he screamed, just like they always did on the show. Consider it confirmed.And time moves slowly on and on….meaning we took a 22 hour bus ride from Salta to Puerto Iguazu, set in a jungly little nook in Northeastern Argentina near the borders of Brazil and Paraguay. Here the big attraction is Iguazu Falls, considered by many to be the most beautiful falls in the world (larger than Victoria Falls, prettier than Niagara Falls, and fewer Woolworth’s than Idaho Falls). We spent two days exploring, and by exploring I mean following the carefully laid out walkways from whence you are physically unable to stray, with one quick boat ride into the heart of the falls thrown in for good measure. However, like only a select few other places we’ve been, I feel I must just shut up and let the photos do the talking. Not my style, exactly, but neither were parachute pants and I still stuck with those for a whole summer in the 80’s. Anyway, stunning. And we once again got lucky with weather, with torrential rains starting up the day after we finished with the falls, allowing us to hang out in relaxed little Puerto Canoas hotel reading and making use of the wi-fi without feeling guilty for not doing anything (just for the record – Laynni steadfastly disagrees that this is <i>ever a problem). All in all, a very successful stay, discounting of course the family of giant cockroaches that were living in the bathroom door of our first room whose nocturnal acquaintance has led to Laynni to now open all doors with a quick violent shove as she jumps back out of harm’s way as though she’s expecting a surprise bathroom party, or maybe just a really bad firefighter. You can never have enough phobias, that’s what I always say. Well, that and “do you think this rash is less red, or more red?”Tomorrow we’re taking to the friendly Argentine skies and hopefully making our way all the way down to (very nearly) the bottom of Patagonia where the tentative plan is to get a active again with some serious trekking, in all likelihood to be closely followed by some serious whining, complaining and dredging up tales of mountainous woe. Hmm, can anyone else picture a movie starring one of the Baldwin brothers nobody can remember?<i>In the news:Discarded Underwear Becomes Argentine Legal TenderSalta, Argentina – Argentine finance minister, Carlos, stunned the world recently by announcing a revolutionary new plan to turn old soiled undergarments into semi-valuable Argentine currency. In an innovative effort to lower the cost of printing money and stimulate the hand cleanser industry the populace are being encouraged to bring in their oldest, most disgustingly crotch-worn panties, boxers and banana hammocks so they can be processed into limp, soggy and rank new $2 and $5 notes. When asked if there any restrictions on the condition of the material Carlos responded enthusiastically,“Absolutely not. The raunchier the better. Holes – they make it aerodynamic. Stains – they represent national pride. Wrinkles and curious smells – pleasant reminders of your grandmother. Everybody wins.”He said it was too early to comment on the rumours that all coins would soon be replaced by kidney stones and dice.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257090144/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257090144/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1257090144/tpod.html Thu, 05 Nov 2009 08:47:44 -0500 100 Days of Turpitude

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Uyuni, Potosí, Bolivia

Feeling it was finally time to get active again, assuming, of course, that active means spending 8-12 hours per day in a bus or jeep coaxing along an ever-growing set of hemorrhoids, we hit the road south from La Paz, taking a night bus down to Uyuni. This dusty little railroad town has a nice quiet feel and one kick-ass restaurant (Minuteman Pizza – best pizzas we've had yet, and we’ve had quite a few). Most people just stick around one night (if that) before heading out on a tour of the Uyuni Salt Flats, probably Bolivia’s most popular and well-known attraction. Our personal adventure was to be 4 days and 3 nights with a company called Tupiza Tours&nbsp;starting in Uyuni and ending in Tupiza, a rough little country town near the Argentine border. We had heard many horror stories about these trips so were lucky to coordinate it so we could share our old Toyota Land Cruiser with Tricky and Mel, a couple we’ve been traveling on and off with since our river trip down to Rurrenabaque. With four days of rubbing knees in 4x4 country, jostling with each other for photos and sharing night farts in cold dorm rooms it makes a big difference to spend it with someone you know and like, as well as occasionally fear and resent.First stop was the Train Cemetery where, you might have guessed, trains go to die, rust and finally go to heaven in the form of being covered in anti-Bush graffiti and having lewd tourists treat them as giant phalli for photos (she knows who she is). Not overly spectacular, but a decent warm-up act and a handy place to take a quick pee. After an obligatory artisan shop stop where we saw how salt was processed and took photos as if they were large stacks of cocaine (I’ll be Crockett, you be Tubbs!) we soon came to the first salt hotel (built out of the very salt it sits on – coooool..…and very white) where they had kind of a neat landmark indicating the official start of the protected area with bright flags from dozens of countries standing out majestically against the pure white background. Conspicuously absent, however, was the good old red &amp; white, the Canadian version I mean, because there were at least three red and white Japanese flags and even, against all odds, the shredded remains of half a Welsh flag. Of course, we were only taking Tricky’s Welshman word for it since the sprightly red dragon arse (the rest had succumbed to the seething winds) seemed less suited for a national flag than the science team’s standard at a medieval jousting competition. Either way, we’re still not exactly sure how the most polite syrup-producing nation in the upper west hemisphere, and proud home of actor Joe Flaherty, gets bumped by yet another obscure suburb of London.Highlight Number One: Isla Incahuasi, or Isla Pescado, depending on who you talk to. Either way it is a stunning island in the middle of the salt desert (which of course used to be a salt ocean many millennia ago, long before global warming and just after the invention of prostitution in downtown Winnipeg) covered from end to end in rocky viewpoints, towering cacti and puffing tourists in multi-coloured Andean toques. The unique views of the vast white emptiness backed by distant volcanoes were amazing despite the hordes that descend upon it as The Official Lunch Stop of the Uyuni Salt Flats, turning it into a veritable Brownie’s Outing*. The combination was harshly reminiscent of a visit to the moon, if the moon had recently been leased by Toyota. It also gave Laynni the opportunity to get her creative juices flowing as she choreographed us into a number of awkward poses designed to create photos that completely realign our generally accepted concepts of size, distance and matter, much like an episode of Different Strokes.We eventually spent that night in real, live salt hotel of our own where the minor annoyance of listening to footsteps crunching through mounds of salt down the hall to the bathroom in the middle of the night was more than offset by the comfort of knowing there wasn’t a leech within a hundred miles and the convenience of always having a handy spot to dip your fries. Not that I was thinking of any of that after my brief soccer foray with some locals where we all quickly confirmed that two on two at 4,400 metres without so much as a testicle-sized rock to stop the ball from rolling off into the sunset every thirty seconds will stretch your lungs to bursting faster than an old man’s prostate in the bathroom stall at the Cock 'n Tackle. The crack two man team responsible for getting us from place to place and telling us where to point our cameras consisted of young Jhony, who did the cooking and handled the mechanical side of things (only when I was too busy of course) and our main man, guide/driver Abel, a stout jovial man with gold capped teeth who, when he wasn’t maneuvering us through the rough terrain, enjoyed pissing by the side of the road, patting his belly and chuckling. Which was why it was such a surprise to see him become suddenly irritable and gruff with the young army officer who stopped us at a checkpoint to see IDs and ask questions. Abel quietly simmered through a few of the basics, muttering one word answers through gritted teeth, until asked what country we (the studiously innocent looking tourists in the back, I mean) were from, to which he responded by saying "None of your business" (in Spanish, which of course made it sound like he was asking for tequila while he enjoyed a cheesy soap opera), slamming the door in his face and driving off. I half expected him to go back and start shooting at his feet, telling him to “Dance, monkey, dance!” like Pesci in Goodfellas. Two minutes later he was grinning and pointing out another random animal for us to capture digitally for posterity. We had a group discussion and decided that either the checkpoint was normally a disregarded formality, or the guy had recently taught Abel’s sixteen year old daughter how to properly administer a sno-cone to a man in uniform. It’s the borderline pedophiliac reference that I like.Along the way we were treated to remarkably diverse terrain - from barren salt flats to beautiful flamingo-filled lakes to eerily smoking geysers to rugged red rock country to stinking, lukewarm hot springs teeming with bacteria and the Dutch. The flamingoes were around every corner, three different species I might add, although they are still harder to tell apart than two Jonas brothers wearing capes in the dark. And if nothing else was gained from this trip, day after day of personally witnessing pink flamingoes living, even thriving, in shallow salty lakes clearly thousands of kilometers from the nearest shrimp, finally convinced Laynni to admit that it is at least remotely possible that flamingoes are not pink because they eat pink shrimp all day. A breakthrough on par with the return of the word retard.In addition to flamingoes we saw loads of other wildlife such as llamas, donkeys, rabbit-like viscachas, foxes, prairie chickens and, of course, endangered vicunas, whose elegant gait and long graceful neck made them Laynni’s favourite, leading her to attempt to express her delight to Abel in Spanish by telling him she “took pleasure in their pretty throats”, which was strangely not unlike a line I used rather unsuccessfully in Waskesiu in the late 80’s.After back to back bitterly cold nights (below zero, I think) our arrival at the, as usual, imaginatively named hot springs (Aguas Calientes, or Hot Water) was more than welcome, even though it wasn’t yet 7 am and we were all still dressed in parkas and toques. Not that we Canadians aren’t used to hot-tubbing it outside in much colder temperatures in the winter, surrounded by snow with frozen hair as we carefully sip beer from a can that keeps trying to freeze to our lips. Either way, this was a bit different as all the groups showed up at the same time to share the tiny pool, turning it into an overcrowded version of Hedonism Bolivia – a tepid pool of sulfurous, vaguely unpleasant smelling water surrounded by gawkers dressed for a ski resort and hesitantly shuffling around as they mentally weighed the chance to get marginally cleaner against the distasteful thought of having to dry off and get dressed in freezing temperatures surrounded by about a hundred leering strangers. Many of them German.After that we were on a different route to Tupiza instead of the more common route which returned to Uyuni so faster than you could utter a racial slur we were away from the crowds and almost completely alone on rough desolate roads. Over the course of the last two days we must have passed hundreds of llama herds (? Packs? Flocks? Committees?), usually about half of which had brightly coloured ribbons tied incongruously to their ears, making them look kind of like the ugly girl in high school who tries to distract her prom date by using far too much makeup and conveniently forgetting her bra at home.We briefly inquired about a side trip to San Vicente, the small mining town where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid reportedly met their controversial demise. We were eventually dissuaded however, when we learned that it would add 3 hours of driving, the tomb that supposedly held the bodies of the famous outlaws had in fact turned out to be the final resting place of some anonymous German miner, and the big photo op, the sign that says This is Where Butch and Sundance Were Killed, was apparently stolen a couple years back and has yet to be replaced. Other than that it would have been a riveting adventure.And then…..drum roll……….Tupiza! Pool! TV! Toilet paper! Read All About It!&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Next time.<i>In the news:France Offers Bolivia Its LeftoversLaguna Hedionda, Bolivia – A roving pack of French tourists was spotted Thursday selflessly attempting to save Bolivian Wildlife one chicken bone at a time. Determined to reach out to the underprivileged Andean wildlife they spread a wide trail of partially chewed meat, chunks of bread and half-eaten apples. They soldiered on, despite mixed responses from the variety of foxes, seagulls, llamas and viscachas, their unwavering commitment and blind focus reminiscent of colonial missionaries steadfastly persevering in their attempts to convince savages to fear a vengeful god and wear cotton t-shirts.When asked to comment, their female spokesperson replied cryptically:“Bonjour! Merci! Fromage! Fromage!” and returned to smoking in a vaguely arrogant manner.*Brownie’s Outing (R.D. Evans, 2009) Refers to an activity deteriorating into chaos and/or mayhem, with similarities to a major league baseball game in the abundant use of knee-high socks and chewing tobacco. Synonyms – gong show, shit show, Locke family holiday.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255969669/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255969669/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255969669/tpod.html Tue, 20 Oct 2009 16:28:02 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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La Paz, La Paz, Bolivia

So, as predicted lat time, we spent a whole lotta time taking advantage of the hammocks at our hotel in Rurrenabaque, watching smugly as group after group came and went after just one night. The general pattern went a bit like this:Arrive around 5 pm and step tentatively into the lobbyAsk about vacancies in halting SpanishFollow someone from the hotel back to see a roomExhausted and covered in more dried sweat than a daytime hooker heading home in rush hour they would spot us sprawled in hammock-ville, blissfully half-awake, and their eyes would remain glued in our direction even as their bodies hastened toward the room. At this point you knew they were going to accept faster than you when offered a handful of wet wipes after a weekend with Paris Hilton.Then you could set your clock to one minute and thirty seconds, just enough time to peel off muddy hikers and pry out damp, creeping underwear, or "junglewear", before hearing the shower kick into action. And the next day they would disappear into the heat like a mirage, or my willpower when faced with beer number 7.&lt;Professional Segue&gt;Speaking of drinking, on one or our rare Rurrenabaque days when something actually happened worth talking about (based on my definition only, of course) a seemingly harmless lunch at a cute little cafe with Tricky (as in Dick) and Mel(anie) - resident New Zealanders transplanted from Wales and Toronto respectively - somehow degenerated into a 7 hour drunken fiasco for at least two of the aforementioned group.&nbsp;The friendly lady who runs the café, and whose name not surprisingly eludes me at the moment, had her siesta irreversibly altered in ways she could have never imagined when she got up that morning. Then, as&nbsp;lunch&nbsp;sneakily morphed&nbsp;into dusk, our fair ladies finally returned to whisk us off to find some more food and, optimistically I thought, to slow us down a little. By meal´s end, however, Tricky was regaling the busy restaurant with his own unique&nbsp;take on some&nbsp;classic rock songs while Mel did her best to distract him and&nbsp;Laynni worried that people were going to think we were Americans. I, of course,&nbsp;simply giggled away inanely and&nbsp;uncontrollably, considering it to&nbsp;be the funniest thing I had ever heard, at least&nbsp;since the time my fork fell on my lap&nbsp;several&nbsp;hours earlier.On a possibly related note, I seemed to come down with something about a day later, which if it had held off another 12 hours until we were back in La Paz I probably would have simply blamed on returning to altitude after a two week hiatus (something which had clearly messed with our tolerance in much the same way the toilet in Coroico "would not tolerate toilet paper"). But it was obviously something different in this case, and it caught Laynni a bit as well, leading to us spending the next few days doing nothing but laying around, moaning and occasionally taking a noncommittal dump.As our health gradually returned we slowly rejoined our usual city routine of movies and fast food, albeit a Bolivian version, Dumbo´s, where they seem to specialize in making balloon animals for the kids. We eventually figured out that they were trying to make swords but, believe me, when the hand guard doesn´t work out properly the long, tubular blade and bulbous little handle tend to end up looking like something much different. Especially when an audacious little girl is poking it at your face. It´s the incongruity I like.On Sunday we finally worked up the gumption to take in a very Bolivian experience – Las Cholitas Wrestling. I think it´s actually called Titanes de la Ring, since most of the wrestlers are actually men, but clearly the stars of the show were the traditionally dressed Cholitas who put on a great show while kicking the guys´ asses and appealing to the underdog in us all. What a crazy show – like North American professional wrestling except even more ludicrous and over the top, kind of like an According to Jim holiday episode. For starters, the combatants, while all loudly outfitted to resemble a bafflingly diverse set of characters, were far from Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime, or even while running for re-election. I would probably qualify as a light heavy weight in the Bolivian wrestling league. Needless to say, steroids are not nearly as much of a problem as illegal shoe lifts and pastry. Nonetheless, the show was addictive. We groaned as the referee displayed dubious objectivity by repeatedly attacking the combatants from behind, often both wrestlers during the same match, which was confusing to say the least. We cheered as the short stocky woman with the imposing cleavage frequently rushed to the ring to come to a friend´s aid against one nefarious cheater or another. We whistled and jeered as “El Cobarde” (The Coward) begged for mercy before jumping the valiant Yolanda from behind with an empty 2 litre Coke bottle. We rushed from our seats in panic as “El Hombre de Lobo” (The Wolfman) charged the crowd in a blood frenzy (we assumed, it was difficult to read his plasticky features).All in all, a cool experience, which was alternately exciting, amusing and passionate but, in the end, we both agreed that, much like being donkey punched by Paul Giamatti, once was probably enough.Finally, what would a blog entry be without a frank discussion about transportation? In La Paz we boarded a Todo Turismo bus, reputedly the best Bolivia has to offer, for the apparently nasty 10 hour overnight trip to the salt flats of Uyuni in the Southern Altiplano. Definitely not a bad bus, although everything seemed just a touch off: the seats reclined, but mine was broken so wouldn´t stay that way, and there was a real bathroom, but the door wouldn´t stay closed (which Mel found out the hard way as we rounded a corner, flying into the aisle with her pants around her knees) and an included breakfast, although it turned out to be only chocolate Oreos and peach juice. The last 3 or 4 hours of the trip were on some of the roughest “road” we´ve ever experienced, at least at that kind of speed. It was maybe just a hint smoother than some of the roads in southern Utah, and admittedly with less than half as many Mormons to boot. Hammering across the wash-boarded desert path we alternated between feeling like we were sitting in a slightly evil version of a La-Z-Boy massage chair or as had a thousand enthusiastic smurfs beating us with bags of batteries and toenail clippings. Throw in a semi-hourly wave of curiously warm air that smelled of stale beets and inconsistent digestion and you´ve got yourself one wild and woolly Bolivian bus ride.Regardless, we now find ourselves in Uyuni, a dusty little town with a frontier feel where we´ll be spending just one night before embarking on a 4 day 3 night 4x4 tour of the Southwestern Bolivian Salt Flats – which are, apparently, chock full of salt. We´ll keep you posted.<i>In the news:Hammock&nbsp;Alleges Sexual HarrassmentRurrenabaque, Bolivia - Union officials confirmed today that Hammock #1 at Hotel Oriental has officially filed a Sexual Harrassment suit. The plaintiff&nbsp;is rumoured to be Canadian traveler "Laynni" Locke, although common sense would suggest this is an alias. The report&nbsp;describes several days of&nbsp;excessive hammock use, sporadic and suggestive moans,&nbsp;The breaking point, apparently,&nbsp;was the result of her&nbsp;many suggestive and&nbsp;unconventional positions.&nbsp;"Most people understand that there is a right way to lay in a hammock, and all kinds of wrong ways. She didn´t care. She would twist sideways, sit straight up, or even roll over, and she never took no for an answer. Then, every once in a while,&nbsp;she would let out this contented moan that just made me feel so small, and so...so...dirty."Asked for her reaction to these allegations&nbsp;"Laynni" replied simply:"Yeeeaaah, I enjoyed the hammock"
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255283449/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255283449/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1255283449/tpod.html Mon, 12 Oct 2009 13:49:20 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Rurrenabaque, Bolivia

"Ooh yeeaaaaahhh! My god! That feels sooo gooood! Yes! Yes! Ye-““All right", she rudely interrupted, “that's enough, Dean, it’s my turn for the shower”Mmmmmm, nontoxic water…<i>Three days earlier:We rolled out of bed, spry and perky, excited to embark on our next adventure - a three day bus and river jaunt that would take us from the quiet, laid back mountain town of Coroico (that of the mysterious wireless internet fame) to the quiet, laid back jungle town of Rurrenabaque. Drifting quietly down a mighty river past thickly jungled banks broken only by the peaceful image of local villagers going about their daily lives. Well, that did turn out to be the case…..occasionally. More often, however, we shifted and fidgeted, unsuccessfully attempting to find a position that would relieve our aching ass/back/legs as we sat cramped in the long, narrow motorized canoe. There were times when one, or sometimes even two, of the aforementioned body parts were comfortable enough to ignore, but never all. Never…all (accompanied by rueful shake of the head).Meanwhile, the river we were on (which shall remain nameless as to avoid inspiring lustful greed, and because I actually have no idea what it was called) had been the site of a massive gold rush back about thirty years ago and still spits out enough tantalizing nuggets to entice a small contingent of optimistic men to risk it all for a Swede’s chance in Hollywood of hitting it rich. And based on this slim glimmer of hope they spend long, thankless days up to their thighs in the murky, swirling water as it serves it main purpose in life – disposing of the cumulative waste of the dozens of isolated jungle communities located along its slimy banks. On the bright side, their skin only crawls with parasites from the waist down. Just like Madonna.After a much longer than anticipated bus trip to the start of the river we only spent about an hour on the water before making our first stop where we visited a nice, clear little pond a couple hundred metres off the river. Unfortunately, we still weren’t fully down into the jungle climate yet, and it also happened to be very windy, and raining on and off, so peeling off all our layers to go for a swim was about as welcome to us at that point as rectal massage from Edward Scissorhands. Of course, several of our group still went in, some because it was “on the itinerary”, and some simply because they weren’t weak-ass pussies like us. We almost reconsidered when Juan, one of our guides, stripped down to his skivvies and dove in, only to surface seconds later sporting a mischievous grin and what appeared to be a fake plastic armadillo. It struck me as an episode of Crocodile Hunter produced by a Third World country, or maybe CBC. As it turns out, though, it wasn’t plastic at all, and apparently that’s just what recently deceased armadillos look like when they are fished out of ponds. Which anyone who has ever gotten to know Juan would understand.Ironically, from then on the weather turned hot and we soon began longing for another chance to swim like Saskatchewan farmers yearning for a national agriculture subsidy. From the next morning forward we spent every moment – whether awake, asleep or crouching in the bushes hoping that tickle on our nether regions was only a plant, and hopefully not the kind of plant that would cause genital rot - overheated and sweating like Russell Crowe trying to put on his Gladiator costume to impress the waitress from Denny’s. At any time in those two days we would have happily dove into that pool with all the gusto of a game show host, regardless of whether we were joined by just one dead armadillo, or a whole herd of leprous Republicans.I realize, however, that I’m sounding quite negative when, overall, the trip was very enjoyable. Most of the time was spent watching the terrific scenery, taking fascinating jungle hikes and eating, considering the circumstances, some pretty amazing food. Never mind that we often had to eat it while perched precariously on the side of the steep riverbank with the hot sun beating down on us and surely laughing at my dismal attempts to eat spaghetti&nbsp; with a spoon. Then, of course, there was the knowledgeable park ranger who invited us into his shack to give us an informative talk about the river, all the different protected areas and the many innovative programs designed to help the local communities both survive and thrive in harmony with the national park system. All this was explained to us as we were crowded around his table which just happened to be covered with&nbsp; naked playing cards splayed out in various naughty poses for their game of jungle solitaire. Personally, I thought the lady on the 7 of Diamonds was an excellent example of sustainable growth and a carefully manicured crop. It’s the symbolism I like.The ultimate destination of one of our extremely hot jungle hikes was a stagnant, scum-covered pond that smelled a bit like Ed Begley Jr. belching after a night of furiously licking compost. Apparently this was prime piranha fishing territory, though, so they outfitted us with some fishing line, a small hunk of beef (not unlike Sean Astin), and encouraged us to search and destroy. The next half an hour resulted in an extremely lucrative haul…..for the piranha. Juan actually caught one, but I’m pretty sure the rest are all laying back on their couches, half asleep and groaning, as they loosen their belts and talk themselves into “just a small piece” of pie for dessert, “well, not that small”. Speaking of which, Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Not exactly celebrated around here, unless you count Laynni’s obscene hammock-worship. She is certainly thankful. And slothful. And happy. And motionless.The whole adventure was eventually capped off by the somewhat incongruous addition of zip lining. Very cool – 8 platforms set high up in the jungle canopy where we flew, or “zipped” if you will, from tree to tree at warp speed, set up the way Tarzan probably would have if he had hung around long enough to come into some big treaty money.All in all, a successful journey. Not as completely alone and isolated as, say, someone surfing www.oklahomatourism.com, but still pretty quiet. More like being part of a small crowd watching a female standup and trying to get drunk enough to laugh. And now we are in the, you guessed it, laid-back jungle town of Rurrenabaque where, for the first time in over a month, we are back down at an altitude actually suitable for humans instead of just mules and women in jaunty hats. Incidentally, that also means the temperature is once more in line with our relative latitude, with yesterday closing in on 35C, around 40C when you factor in the humidity. Nice to be warm, but tough to get motivated. Which is partially why we have once again opted for leisure over living, forgoing a further foray into the nearby Pampas on a standard 3 day tour where you get to see loads of different wildlife, spend multiple hours unprotected from the vengeful sun and share a room with a number of complete strangers. Although, if we were to be truly honest, our decision was probably made the moment we walked into our hotel and caught sight of the spacious, plant-filled courtyard tastefully focused around 5 large, luxurious hammocks lined up in the shade, swaying invitingly from side to side in the breeze. Laynni’s knees nearly buckled with pleasure like she was a cowboy discovering Wranglers that don’t creep up into your ass. I knew at that moment it was going to almost as hard to pry her out of here as it was that time we visited the All-You-Can-Eat International Butter Festival.Either way, the only part of the tour I was really looking forward to was swimming in the river with the pink dolphins. Apparently they are friendly enough to swim with yet bad-ass enough to scare off the piranha and alligators (unless you have bleeding sores, according to the brochure). I always thought we’d get along pretty good, you know, like they might actually want to hang out with me and shit. As long as I didn’t start talking football.So, a few days of nuttin’, then back up to chilly La Paz. Talk to you then.<i>In the news:Woman Irate Over New Travel RankingsRurrenabaque, Bolivia – A Canadian woman is up in arms over the latest edition of the Dean Johnston Essential Travel Gear Rankings, where she fell behind earplugs to drop to #3 on her husband’s renowned list of travel necessities.“I don’t know why she’s surprised, to be honest. I mean, at least 2 out of every 3 nights the only things standing between me and a sleepless night of listening to tinny Latin music, honking buses and pre-pubescent roosters are my earplugs. On the other hand, while I value her company and appreciate the way her rudimentary card-playing skills bolster my ego, I could probably fill a sleeping bag with of rice and used tissues, put it in a hammock, give it a little push, and my daily routine wouldn’t actually change all that much.”Both her and the earplugs continued to rank well behind the incumbent leader - Backup Toilet Paper – but only barely managed to hold off a late push by Pubic Scissors.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254863717/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254863717/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254863717/tpod.html Tue, 06 Oct 2009 17:19:19 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Coroico, La Paz, Bolivia

Although the tranquil little mountain town of Sorata wasn't technically very far from Copacabana, getting there did involve some typical Bolivian complications. Starting with the fact that the road, the main road to La Paz I might add, actually cuts across a corner of Lake Titicaca. Now when I say "cuts across", I don’t mean in the traditional sense, which would of course mean on a bridge, but rather in a more rustic manner, which in this case took the form of a big, rickety wooden raft. Of course, the raft was only for the bus and any other smaller vehicles that could fit, they wouldn’t want a bunch of people getting in Tom and Huck’s way while they poled 'er across the pond. Instead all the passengers were directed over to a smaller boat where we were taken across, anxiously watching as our beat up old bus crawled across the water unsteadily like the poor people’s ride across the Styx. Eventually we were all across, though, and shortly after we were unceremoniously dumped by the side of the road, the bus heading on to La Paz while we were left hoping to find some type of transport heading in the direction of Sorata, and more importantly, convince them to stop for us. We’d heard all kinds of stories, but in the end we barely had time to ask a passerby where to stand before a minibus with a Sorata sign in the window came rushing up like tequila from a teenage girl. Judging by the stories I think 45 seconds must be a new Sorata connection record.Sorata was described as very laid back, a description that barely does it justice. Set in a beautiful hillside location, deep in a valley and surrounded by magnificent peaks, the place barely even had a pulse. We stayed at a great little rural type resort just out of town called Altai Oasis and spent most of our few days there. However, during those brief spells when we did venture into town all of the stores, restaurants and internet “cafes” (small closets with one working computer and some desks full of spare parts) were either vehemently closed (as the guy at Pete’s Place hollered at us) or something close to – meaning the door was open, but you may or may not find someone inside, and food could only be procured with great determination.I don’t mean to sound negative, however, as we definitely enjoyed our stay in Sorata, despite the fact it rained for at least half the time. We were at a much lower altitude for a change, making it possible to get up for the can in the middle of the night without stopping at the end of the bed to catch my breath, and Altai was a truly tranquil hideaway to relax and think about possible reasons I hadn’t taken a solid shit since about 8 bus rides ago. They had a real barnyard theme going on – cows, llamas, ducks, chickens, parrots, dogs (and new puppies) and, of course, my best buddy, “Ballsack” the cat, who seemed quite proud to be named after his most prominent feature. At least it seemed that way as he repeatedly went out of his way to touch me with it. Nonetheless, in between reading in the hammock and working at memorizing the seemingly never ending list of Spanish words that mean “whore”, we did find time to get a little exercise, visiting the impressive San Pedro Cave and hiking 12 hot and dusty kilometres back. The cave was a pleasant surprise, as caves often tend to be quite similar, but this one opened up from a tiny claustrophobic entrance into a huge and haunting cavern half filled with dead calm, perfectly clear pools of water. The couple tacky little paddle boats waiting toward the end destroyed a bit of the mystique, but even they couldn’t keep us from feeling like we had just made our way into John Malkovich’s head, just without all the anger and lesbian sex.Despite all that, we eventually decided to move on. We like to leave while we are still enjoying a place, the perfect amount of time being when it seems just a little bit too short, kind of like a Bolivian bed, or a wedding engagement.<i>Note: In the interest of full disclosure, last night I got really drunk with an English girl and yet another boisterous Irishman and played Uno and some exceptionally bad pool which, as some of you know, is really saying something for me, so the rest of this entry is being written while still a little bit morning drunk. And reviewed while tired and hung over.Along the way we have been learning more about Bolivia as a whole. For example, one of the most popular foods here, eaten for breakfast, lunch or dinner (they don’t seem to fall for that “brunch” crap) are something called saltenas. These are kind of like a deep fried pizza pop filled with any combination of vegetables, chicken and cheese, and designed in a provocative way where as soon as you bit down they spray their contents like a teenage boy discovering Baywatch. It’s the imagery that I like.Also, for those members of his fan club that have been distraught over his mysterious disappearance, we’ve come across a number of large gaudy photos that seem to suggest that the Bolivian president, purportedly a vehement coca farming activist, is actually none other than Erik Estrada (or possibly Gordie Dupre, although where he’d find the time…?). So there you go. You can take his picture off those milk cartons now (and maybe move it to plastic bags of coke).Anyway, after that it was off to La Paz, apparently one of the highest cities in the world (not the highest, as I mistakenly wrote on Facebook, that goes to Potosi, someplace we should make it to in a couple weeks) where we got our lives sorted out with ridiculously cheap internet (about $0.60 per hour), the requisite movie(s) (District 9 – awesome, and Duplicity – not bad) and a visa extension. For once, a country that understands that they want you to continue spending your money and can’t wait to have you stay longer. It took all of a minute and a half to get another 30 day stamp, only seconds longer than it takes Samuel L Jackson to say yes to a screenplay (as long as he can wear a Kangol hat and give a predictably ominous speech).Maybe the highlight of La Paz was the soccer game we went to. That’s right, I dragged Laynni to a loud, crowded organized sporting event, her casual agreement as surprising as receiving an unplanned prostate exam from Chris O’Donnell on your way out the door to a 3OH3! concert. Yet just as vital. We bought Styrofoam pads to sit on, somehow lucked into rush seats underneath the canopy out of the rain, and even learned a few things, such as 23 new ways to use the word “puta” (not surprisingly it means whore). It was a big semifinal game too, making our polite golf claps seem even more out of place amid the rabid chants, ubiquitous fireworks and scornful whistling. Not unlike Friday sex night at the Johnston household. The polite clapping I mean.From La Paz to Coroico it is nearly 3,000 metres downhill so we decided, hey, why bother with a motor when you can do it on a bike? Making us around the 3rd or 4th millionth people to tackle the “World’s Most Dangerous Road” (cue dark and ominous music). First of all, we’re already done and safely typing, so no need to worry, regardless of how unlikely that outcome was after sending Laynni down a mountain on two wheels. Luckily they take safety very seriously, providing full face helmets and rash-proof pants and knee pads (which I’m hoping to convince her to keep for later). &nbsp;And, in fairness, this road earned its dubious title back before they finished the new paved road which has diverted traffic and means you are far less likely to come barreling around a blind corner to find your options the grill of an oncoming Bluebird or a 2 km drop. On the bright side, you’d be hard pressed to find a prettier place to tumble to a painful death. The downside, though, would be not being around to watch the Giants win their 4th Super Bowl in February. We enjoyed the spectacular 60km descent in a very manageable group of 5 - us, yet another friendly Irishmen (they seem to be as common as unwanted shoulder hair around here) and a well-meaning German couple, although she did manage to tip over at a near standstill and he seemed to be indulging some kind of awkward death wish, constantly riding on the wrong side of the road to challenge traffic as though his carefully groomed hair and intimidating military history would be enough to win the day.Now we are relaxing in laid back Coroico, another small Bolivian town wonderfully situated halfway down the side of a valley with beautiful views from our deck and a shocking wireless internet connection. I’m now fully caught up on all the NFL recaps (so far I’m wrong about the Silver Fox, Jimmy, but it’s not January yet…) and soon hope to upload a new profile picture on Facebook. A man has to dream big.Tomorrow we start a 3 day boat trip down into the Amazon basin – they promise plenty of mosquitoes and hijinks. Hopefully we’ll be in touch from Rurrenabaque – malaria and penile parasites notwithstanding.<i>In the News:President Estrada Names Stale Bread National Food of BoliviaComing on the heels of a surprising decision to universally under-fry eggs, Bolivia once again shocked the international traveling community by promoting old crumbling bread to top of its already mediocre food chain. While informally in place for some time now this controversial resolution now formally adds disgusted grimaces and uncomfortable dry mouth to Bolivian mornings. Breakfast chef Raul Montez explains:“For years we Bolivians have been well-known for our runny eggs and old bread but, unfortunately, there was always a small, naïve percentage of the population that got up every morning thinking today would be different, that this time they’d be able to bite into a piece of toast without it exploding in a cascade of inedible crumbs. For these people every morning meant a fresh disappointment. But by making Stale Bread the National Food of Bolivia we hope to dissuade these unrealistic expectations and encourage a new standard of resignation and low expectations for all.”
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254342795/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254342795/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1254342795/tpod.html Wed, 30 Sep 2009 16:35:14 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Copacabana, Bolivia

Well, when I left off last time we had recently arrived on famous Lake Titicaca and were staying in the lakeside town of Copacabana. Most of you are probably familiar with that name from the song (Copa......Copa-ca-baaana...they're the yada yada stone-age familyyyy! Or something like that). The song, however, is actually about a massive, gorgeous beach in Brazil which, although I haven't been there personally, seems as though it may bear little resemblance to the grubby little port we visited. Now don't get me wrong, we liked it there, it's just that the nature of the highlights were just a bit different than you may be imagining. So, in order to allay the confusion and provide you with a more accurate vision of Copacabana, Bolivia I've compiled a short list of comparisons and contrasts:Brazil – sea levelBolivia – 4000 metres above sea levelBrazil – long white sand beach covered in sunbathersBolivia – short muddy beach covered in birdshitBrazil – Speedboats, Sea-Doos and para-glidersBolivia – Rickety wooden lanchas, rusty tandem Swans and kids with slingsBrazil – supermodels in thongs with sun-bleached hair and non-existent tan linesBolivia – stocky women in eight layer skirt/shawl combos, bowler hats but, thankfully, no tan linesSpeaking of the bowler hats – they are an apparently old tradition and something you seem to see in every picture of Bolivia. However, it is a bit strange that, as far as we can tell, they don't actually serve any practical purpose. Women and their hats are a unique theme around the world but usually they are clearly functional, with a bit of fashion added in, but with practical usage coming first. These things, though, barely cover the very top of their head and defy all rules of gravity to stay there, obviously pinned, glued or sutured in place leading us to assume that they are intended strictly for decoration, kind of like the lines on Bolivian highways, or Laynni's shampoo.One practical purpose, though, is to add a few precious inches to their height, a feature not to be taken lightly in a place where the women range from about 4'6 to, oh, roughly as tall as a cat dancing on its hind legs. Of course, if you were to look at cumulative circumference, measuring from the left ear down the side, across the rock solid base and back up to the rounded top of the hat you'd end up with a number more comparable to, say, a late 80's Ford Escort. It's all in how you crunch the numbers.Speaking of crunching numbers, I should probably mention the altitude since it has such an effect on everything we do here. We've discussed the altitude on and off throughout this trip since we've been kind of up and down in the mountains this whole time, anywhere from about 2,500 metres to around 4,900 through the pass on the way to Cabanaconde. Here on Lake Titicaca we're at about 4,000 metres, the highest elevation we've spent any sustained time, and it is noticeably more difficult to breathe and the slightest exertion gets our hearts pounding like Mr. Clean in a Peruvian squat toilet. Now, since, like us, most of you are from Saskatchewan where I'm pretty sure no one actually knows where we sit in relation to sea level, only that "it's pretty dry so we must be above the ocean, I guess" I'll try to give that number a little bit of perspective. Even using the high end of the scale, roughly 54 inches, we are currently eating, sleeping and contracting diarrhea 2,890 Bolivian women above sea level. Which also explains why we are wearing toques, gloves and winter parkas in many of our photos even though we are the same distance from the equator as Hawaii.Anyway, the end result of all this is that Lake Titicaca is considered the “Highest Navigable Lake in the World!” - although we're not entirely certain what that means, since there are apparently a couple lakes in this general area that are actually higher. We can only assume that “navigable” refers to it being a certain size and/or depth allowing a particular size of boat to “navigate” on it, but the whole thing smells a little like a desperately concocted qualification to save them having to re-print a couple hundred thousand posters. And, let's face it, “Lake Titicaca – We're So High”, or “Lake Titicaca – We Have Less Oxygen Than Most People” just don't have quite the same pizzaz.So far the cost of living in Bolivia has been almost absurd – we paid roughly $9/night for a room with a bathroom and TV in Copacabana, and about $6/night for a room with a ludicrous view of the lake and mountains while on Isla del Sol. It's a good thing it's so cheap, though, since this is the first city we've seen in a really long time that actually doesn't have an international ATMs. Luckily we were alerted in advance by our guidebook but it still feels like we stepped back in time, maybe to when smoking was still allowed in hospitals, East Germans were cheating at the Olympics and Billy Cosby was still alive.Once again we've been constantly amazed by the sheer volume of festivities in Latin American countries. The day we arrived in Copacabana we saw, each at different points in the day, a parade, a dance, small children trick or treating, and a mob of teenagers running around covered in paint like a group of very uncoordinated graffiti artists. It's the randomness that I like.The big draw of this area is the Isla del Sol (Island of the Sun), a place Incan tradition holds was actually the birthplace of the sun. I've always understood that the sun was born in the back of a cab on the way to some fictional hospital on TV, but everyone has their own story I guess. Either way, it is a spectacular place – no roads or vehicles and steep Inca staircases leading up from the clear blue lake to traditional villages perched on the side of hills with stunning views across the water to the endless snow-covered peaks of the Cordillera Real. Donkeys and mules, llamas and alpacas, ducks and chickens, sheep and Welshmen all wander unchecked among the dusty terraces and narrow winding paths. Even the Incan ruins are old-fashioned, mostly in that they are actually ruins and nearly indistinguishable from even the most modern mud-brick structures. One day Laynni and I actually spent 2 hours hiking to some ruins we had seen when we were coming in on the boat only to discover that the small group of Bolivian men scurrying about the site weren't tourists but were really just building a house.We took full advantage of the beautiful hiking paths all over the island, passing through a variety of landscapes from lush valleys with villages and gardens to rocky coasts reminiscent of a Greek island to barren treeless hills boasting 360 degree views and enticingly reminiscent of large untanned buttocks.&nbsp; While having lunch in the small village of Challa'pampa curious pigs jostled our legs under the table as we watched local children entertain themselves with an impressive variety of otherwise useless items tied to the end of a string – empty bottles, bottle caps, bottle labels, “Bottle Rocket” dvds. I was hoping to introduce them to “Ball in Cup”, but we ran out of time, and the lady serving us lunch gave me a dirty look when I'd started trying to work one of mine into my water glass. Of course, we ended up doing a complete circuit of the island in one afternoon, as usual setting ourselves up for a lot more work than we expected, kind of like Brett Favre's retirement party planner. We then celebrated&nbsp; by eating grossly undercooked pizza and sleeping for 11 hours. Followed up with breakfast, then a two hour nap. Then a really short hike, then nothing. And that was that for Isla del Sol.From there, back to Copacabana before moving on to the laid back mountain town of Sorata, which you'll hear all about next time. Talk to you then.Bonus Feature - <i>In the news:Forbidden Love Story Captures Imagination of Bolivian PeopleCopacabana – A Canadian man vacationing on Lake Titicaca has become the centre of a media whirlwind as Bolivians and tourists alike flock to catch a glimpse of his rapidly developing “chest beard”. Displaying a phenomena some have described as a preliminary symptom of humandevolution it appears that his beard is slowly but surely making it's way down his neck where his chest hair is simultaneously striving up to greet it. Scientists are predicting the two could meet as earlier as next week but are hesitant to speculate on the consequences of such an unlikely union. “We are dealing with two entirely different strains of hair which were never intended to cross-pollinate making it impossible to determine how it will end. The results could be cataclysmic, although there is always a chance they will successfully combine to create a new race of super-humans who will always be able to leave their top button undone and never need to buy another scarf.”The host of this unlikely breeding experiment declined to comment, seemingly content tugging at his ever-growing facial hair.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253889991/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253889991/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253889991/tpod.html Fri, 25 Sep 2009 10:49:26 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Cabanaconde, Arequipa, Peru

Well, with our Inca Trail adventure finally in the rear view mirror we took the train back to Cuzco where we spent a couple days in hiking detox – namely sleeping, watching TV and spending countless hours trying to repair / recover / revive our numerous failing electronic devices. When everything is working they are travel godsends (netbook, dig readers, MP3, 8-track) but when they crash? Let's just say I'm just now coming off my very first digital stress cold sore. I'm not certain if this makes me one of the earliest Terminator models or not, but I strongly suspect it does.Anyhow, from Cuzco we traveled to Arequipa which, despite being the second largest city in Peru, is still quite manageable and picturesque (I just now realized I hadn't gotten around to using that word yet – my apologies). Not sure if it is "irresistibly sexy", as the Lonely Planet describes it, although a couple of those fruit vendors did look pretty hot in their huge woolen shawls. While there we visited the well-preserved remains of Juanita, an apparently beautiful young Incan virgin who was ritual sacrificed atop a nearby mountain over 500 years ago. She was only discovered in 1995 when an earthquake shook her loose from the ice and she is was recovered almost completely intact. A monumental archaeological discovery. However, from a strictly aesthetic point of view half a millennium buried under ice did nothing good for her skin. Speaking of not very pretty, we also spent a few hours at Arequipa's most modern movie theater watching “The Ugly Truth”. Overall I'd give the edge to the ravaged, desiccated body of the murdered virgin.After a day or two there we continued on to the Colca Canyon, famous for its rare condor population and being the second deepest canyon in the world (behind only Cotahuasi, also in Peru). It is more than twice as deep as the Grand Canyon, fairly remote, and the local women all wear these awesome patterned hats worn with the front brim down, to protect against the sun, and the back brim up, to let you know they don't take any shit and make killer quinua soup. The 200 km, 6 hr journey to Cabanaconde was our first real taste of “local-bus-ism” on this trip, which always share some broad similarities to go along with their local variations. For example, all around the world the luggage compartment is routinely packed with live animals – chickens in Indonesia, sheep in Morocco, pigs in Guatemala. So naturally in Peru – make room for the alpacas. It's the consistency that I like. Mind you, watching a young girl struggle to stuff a reluctant alpaca under the bus was rather pleasant compared to the guy who opted to forgo the numerous hills, derelict buildings and inviting nearby shrubberies in&nbsp; order to piss on the side of the very bus he had just emerged from, sighing in relief beneath our appalled gazes in the windows above.Cabanaconde is a dusty little end of the road town which serves as a good base for hiking down into the canyon. Its the kind of place where a wild night means hearing both a donkey and a dog after dark. Our first day we rented mountain bikes and took them by bus up to the Cruz del Condor, the most popular place&nbsp; to spot condors in the area. Magnificent views of the canyon, and there is a distinct possibility that we actually so a condor, or maybe a big hawk, well, we're pretty sure it was a bird of some sort. Either way we weren't too concerned since the point for us was the 15 km ride back to town, all gloriously downhill. The other 50 or 60 tourists, however, may have felt differently considering many of them had been since 3am to start their one day tour from Arequipa, driving 5 hours to gaze around longingly, hoping to will some condors into being with their mind and arming their cameras every time a branch shifted in the wind.The following morning we hopped on the bus again, but this time we just needed to get a few kilometres out of town in order to start our hike down into the canyon. Unfortunately, a slight miscalculation found us standing in the aisle at the very back of the bus with 40 to 50 bowling ball shaped women in curiously similar hats standing between us and the exit. Making our way back to the front turned out to be an extremely delicate maneuver, and there's a small possibility that I inadvertently had just a hint of sex along the way. Whoa, sorry lady, my bad.The hike was nothing short of spectacular, from the grand vistas on the way down to the quaint bridges and sleepy villages to “The Oasis”, a small collection of guesthouses nestled like a lush postcard at the very bottom of the canyon. We spent the night in a place that had a remarkably landscaped pool, a beautiful rock waterfall and grassy relaxation area. Yet our room had a dirt floor, bamboo bed and a spider the size of my thumb (my big thumb, no less). Nonetheless, we both still could have slept fairly well, if not for the curiously talented dog that spent roughly 3 to 4 hours howling along to Axel F. Plus, I was right in the middle of reading The Time Traveler's Wife so all my dreams involved me moving around in time and space, as if they weren't already strange enough what with the transsexual judge in a Yankees uniform sentencing me to 7 to 10 for “lookin' so good!” and the corral full of hairless sheep. Not to mention the way it messes with your head when you can't tell if you're farting in the past, present or sadly similar future.So it was that kind of night, just when we most needed to be spry and sprightly for our extreme hike back up out of the canyon. As usual, the biggest downside of any canyon hike – gotta come back up. Well, that, and a terrible lack of affordable discos. Anyway, we thought a good early start with fresh legs and boyish optimism was definitely the way to go. What we didn't count on was the morning sun blazing down on us throughout the the 1,200 metre climb. A long 3 ½ hours later, as we lay in our hotel room weeping and pale like recently plucked chickens, who, let's face it, know what comes next, we consoled ourselves by determining that we had just climbed the equivalent of 400 flights of stairs....in sand....sun....and altitude. Sometimes it's hard to tell, but we really do like hiking, honest.Roughly 12 to 18 hours later we dragged ourselves, twitching and staggering, onto an Arequipa-bound bus, ready for another dose of civilization. It was nice to be back in the city, far from the clopping of horse hooves, the wailing of disenchanted donkeys and the deafening silence of the country. Of course, there was no way to anticipate a family of vacationing roosters renting the room right behind ours. What are the chances, huh?Now we've moved on to Bolivia (congrats to Laynni on her 30th country) and are hanging out on Lake Titicaca in a town called Copacabana (no, not that Copacabana). Talk to you soon.p.s. It has come to my attention that in the last entry I wrongly insinuated that Kate plus 8's breasts were ravaged by the demands of breastfeeding all those kids. Apparently, she didn't breastfeed at all. Which means they just look like half-inflated volleyballs naturally. My apologies.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253405578/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253405578/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1253405578/tpod.html Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:55:27 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Machupicchu, Cusco, Peru

A four day epic that follows the trials and tribulations of a group of 16 English-speaking misfits as they make their way through the Andes in search of the iconic Inca city of Macchu Picchu.StarringDean "One Pair Of Pants" JohnstonandLaynni “My Hair Is Only Sort&nbsp;Of Greasy” LockeDirectorFrederico “Freddy” TorresKnown for his unstoppable enthusiasm and immaculately trimmed moustache, the indomitable Freddie did a masterful job of inspiring unity and teamwork among the group, eventually molding us into a true family. As in, “Ok Fahmeelee, gather round to hear some approximately accurate stories about Incan history”, or “Now, Fahmeelee, it is probably best if you&nbsp;pee in the dark, and don't use the bathrooms...”He was quick to point out the rare sections of the trail that were going to be “a piece of cookie”, and entertained us with his chilling - and confusing - tale of the ghosts of two dead tourists that appear in the dead of night, headless yet inexplicably with white faces and long tongues, like members of KISS in expensive fleece.Opening CreditsThe 16 person cast gets acquainted on the 3 hour bus ride to the trailhead. Around the horn it goes, names and nationalities presented to perfect strangers as validation like ID badges, or black light hand stamps at a strip club.“England”“Canada”“New Zealand”“Ireland”“Chicago”Sorry, what was that?“San Francisco”I think you're missing the point...“New York”Fine, just fuggedabbahdditResearchers have confirmed that over 80% of Americans believe having an NFL team qualifies you as a country. The same study goes on to show that:69% think McNally's U.S.A. Road Atlas is a geography textbook48% believe Australia can be found by taking your first right on the Univeral Studios lot37% are pretty sure “Mexico” is just something parents use to scare their children into eating vegetablesIn all fairness, we were all fully aware of the cities they mentioned, unlike if we were to blithely toss out names like “Saskatoon”, or “London”....Of course, depending on whether or not you enjoy Flight of the Conchords, and how sexually attractive you find mud-covered sheep, New Zealand could be considered a stretch as well. If you&nbsp;want proof just type in “Zealand” and see what your spell checker thinks about it.Supporting CastA crew of 21 porters was enlisted to haul the gear (tents, chairs, tables, food, cooking equipment, propane, prophylactics), set up the tents, cook the food, clean up and mainly to lurk outside tents looking shiftily at the ground. While carefully regulated these days, the loads these hardy mountaineers carry up steep inclines at high altitudes are still shocking to behold. They actually seemed faster than the Nepali porters (or Sherpas), possibly due to the abundance of coca leaves available for chewing, and the extra-sensory perception resulting from their freakishly dilated pupils.Costume DesignIn a tribute to the fierce Inca warriors of the past, Freddie seeks out a rare bug which he then crushes between his palms, creating a vibrant red paste. This is then rubbed on my face to create a brave and fearsome appearance. And trust me, no matter what you may think now, in the end you would definitely run if you came across a 150 pound Raggedy Andy with three day stubble.The ChallengeBesides hiking up and down 44km through the Andes at an average altitude of 3,500 metres, as&nbsp;our&nbsp;most imposing obstacle was Dead Woman's Pass. It's name comes from the fact that when looking back from further down the valley the pass looks like a pregnant woman lying down with her head on a pillow. Clearly the only possibility being that she is dead, since everyone knows that live pregnant women only do two things: crave weird food and crush the hand of their mate while in labour....with hilarious results.A 12 km hike, 1,200 metres of elevation gain, peak altitude of 4,200 metres, and the sad discovery that the wings Red Bull gives you are mostly metaphorical. Then at the top, we take some group photos, build a spiritual Jenga structure with rocks collected along the way, pound some shots of rum, then straight back down the other side, dropping 500 metres in less than an hour. My knees haven't shaken like that since the time I&nbsp;paid that guy who sleeps outside the mall $5 to help me trim my pubic hair.Feel Good MomentFreddie, Dean, Nick and Thomas graciously allow the porters to beat them at soccer despite a controversial disallowed goal and the loss of the first ball about 300 metres down the side of the cliff, forcing to finish the game using a half inflated volleyball that felt like kicking one of Kate plus 8´s overworked breasts.“Something About Mary” Gross Out SceneIn the bathroom at&nbsp;our first campsite someone who probably should avoid lentil soup nearly managed to defecate a complete circle around the hole in the squat toilet. Be on the lookout for “Feces Donut”, sure to become the next major masterpiece in organic art.The “Pulp Fiction” Inane ConversationFull group participation was achieved regarding the definition, merit, origin and humour of "The Dutch Oven". Although no consensus was reached, majority ruled it “unlikely” that Edmundo the Cook actually used a Dutch Oven to bake the cake he presented on&nbsp;our last night. Just to be sure, though, the girls from New Zealand experimented with it in their tent the following morning but found it did not result in any cake,&nbsp;merely watery eyes and indignation.Epic Battle SceneDay 3 -&nbsp;7 am -&nbsp;trail leading from camp. Hundreds of North Face clad foreigners swarm up the mountainside, shuffling and jockeying for position like lemmings with annual erections and a limited sexual window, gasping, panting and liberally applying sunscreen.The VillainA&nbsp;smug yet&nbsp;nonchalant young deviant in charge of taking tickets for the much sought after shower available on night three set up his position 30 metres diagonally away from the shower doors, seemingly highly inconvenient and illogical until later, when some of the girls toweling off inside suddenly caught his eye when the door opened. General repulsion, with just a small side of envy.The Suspenseful ClimaxDay 4, 4:30 am, final checkpoint before the last stretch to Macchu Picchu. Dozens of headlamps hover in the darkness like the holes in the ass of my black underwear. They cluster in loose groups awaiting their chance to attempt the final assault on one of the New 7 Wonders of the World, or to sneak off to piss in the bush, whichever comes first. Finally, the gate opens and the hordes burst through to rush down the path, not quite pushing and shoving, yet each adding to the frantic pace and helping to create a mile long line of puffy-eyed, camera-toting speed-walkers. An hour later we emerge through the famous Sun Gate to behold our first glimpse of the world famous Incan city. We take a few pictures and then sheepishly move on.The DenouementEnergized by having our ultimate goal in sight, our weary band of Flashpackers scramble down the final leg, at once in awe of the beauty of the spectacular panorama unfolding before us, and frickin pissed to see the hundreds of people who arrived on the early train wandering about, acting all smug in their clean clothes, with no strange combinations of sweat and asparagus seeping up through their jackets, no sir. These&nbsp;train folk, the ones&nbsp;Freddie dubbed “The Lazy People”, only glance briefly in our direction the way one might look at a dirty stray cat timidly sneaking out of the bush to rummage through the remains of their smashingly successful block party. They quickly look away, instantly forgetting as they scoop up the last of the available tickets to Huayna Picchu viewpoint. Sorry, should have got here earlier I guess. It's the irony I like.Next up: Arequipa and the Colca Canyon
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1251901183/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1251901183/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/dinojay2/15/1251901183/tpod.html Sat, 12 Sep 2009 16:22:57 -0400 100 Days of Turpitude

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Cusco, Peru

Well, it's that time again, we're backon the road, this time to South America, which is completely newterritory for us. Peru, Bolivia, Chile and Argentina are on theagenda, all Spanish speaking countries which should make things alittle easier. Can't wait to mangle that language in four newcountries. As for the title of this blog – our trip just happens towork out to exactly 100 days which I thought fit nicely with a fairlyfamous book by Marquez that takes place in South America, although Ihope this blog ends up including far fewer Aurelio's.Anyway, as usual, at least one of us isexcited to be moving again. Laynni typically takes a little while toget back into the swing of things, spending much of the first fewdays throwing me pouty, squinty looks and being grouchy about havingto plan her bathroom visits in advance. But that all wears off oncethe initial travel days end and we're comfortably ensconced in ahotel in some cool new city – Cuzco, Peru, for example. We just did the briefest of overnightsin Lima last week before flying to Cuzco first thing in the morning.This is the historic centre of the Incan empire and the jumping offpoint for Macchu Picchu, recently chosen as one of the new 7 Wondersof the World, and a place we've been talking about visiting for atleast 7 or 8 years now.We emerged triumphant from the Cuzcoairport before 8 am slicing our way through the throngs of hoteltouts and taxi drivers in search of a sign bearing something at leastvaguely resembling Laynni's name. A large group of taxi driverstoward the back appeared more and more thrilled as we spurned theothers along the way, pushing and jockeying for position beforefinally coming to a conclusion and shoving one lucky guy forward toclaim his prize like he just won a rock/paper/scissors contestoutside the Long Branch at 2:30 am for dibs on the really drunk girlwearing a cowboy hat and only one shoe. Alas, his beaming smileslipped from his face as he watched us veer off toward another driverwho suddenly appeared in the gap carrying a sign bearing Laynni'sname, which was, against all odds, spelled exactly right. I couldalmost feel the original prize-winner slumping behind us, bottom lipall the way out, petulantly kicking dirt around. A harsh world, thetaxi game.As for Cuzco, it is a very picturesquecity with narrow, cobble-stoned streets built up, over and around abevy of hills. It is lousy with beautiful old Spanish churches andsurrounded by numerous well-preserved Incan ruins and gorgeousviewpoints which we used to warm up our hiking chops. And despite therash of hotels and quirky little restaurants it still doesn't feeltoo overrun with tourists. The most unique feature for us is thealtitude as Cuzco sits at over 3,300 metres above sea level, which isnearly a mile higher than Jasper and only about 700 metres below thehighest point we reached on the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal last year.Bottom line: for the first couple days bending over to tie our shoemade us pant and gasp like a winter-weight Canadian in PuertoVallarta trudging through the shallow end of the pool en route to theswim-up bar. Gotta say, it is not exactly comforting when the twodozen steps up to our hotel made my heart pound like a teenage girlwatching Twilight, especially on the doorstep of our 44 km hikethrough the mountains. It did get a little better every day, though,and we ended up having no real trouble with the Inca Trail, althoughI'll get to that in more detail next time around.Quite cold here as well, mainly becauseof the altitude, dropping close to 0 C a lot of nights. We found itinteresting that almost everyone hear wears a toque (or “beanie”for you non-Canadians) which I find quite reasonable, but thinkingabout it made me realize how few people actually wear them at home.It can be -35C and the only people making an effort to cover theirhead are gas jockeys and bearded guys with lip rings hanging out atLydia's. The upside, of course, is a city full of wonderful hair,usually solidly frozen in place.Apparently altitude makes me pee.Side note: almost nobody smokes here,other than some backpackers and of course the odd-smelling girls withdreads who sit in the plaza on dirty blankets trying to sell cheesybracelets. A surprising health movement? Or simply that there aremore interesting options here in the heart of coca farming country?Judging by the men dressed as Inca warriors and women attempting toentice you into photos of her carrying a baby goat, I'm going to gowith the latter.Considering all the random encounterswe've had with fellow travelers over the years it seems noteworthywhen we come across a new first. While talking with a Frenchman overbreakfast the other day we were “tsk-ed” for the first time wecan remember. As in:Us: “No, we didn't cross Thorung Lapass on Annapurna because it sounded pretty nasty and cold and, let'sface it, we're pretty lazy.”Pompous Frenchman shaking head andwagging his finger at us: “Tsk, tsk, tsk”Us: Chewing in silenceSome big changes for us this timearound as this summer we embraced the new wave of travel technologylike a San Diego Charger showing his girlfriend some rough love. A 10inch netbook to type blogs, download pictures, watch movies and takeadvantage of the 1 or 2 wireless networks currently existing in SouthAmerica. Two digital readers which hold hundred of books andguidebooks eliminating 8-10 heavy space-eaters in my backpack(unfortunately quickly replaced by winter jackets and longunderwear).Day One: Pretty cool, I think we couldget used to thisDay Two: Wow, this is incredible, lifeis just so much easier, how did we ever live without this stuff? Day Three: I'm huddled over our hotel's1996 LG desktop desperately searching for secrets to restore Windowsto our netbook, hopefully without losing every file we've ever used,grinding my teeth to the Facts of Life theme songDay 4 – Laynni's digital reader,having apparently grown tired of skipping from page to page, hasfinally frozen solid on a wonderfully eclectic grayscalepattern....all the grays of the rainbow! No more books though.Day 5 – I actuallymanage to make up some new curse words.But fear not, it was nothing thatroughly 5 to 100 hours of internet searches, troubleshootingattempts, program downloads and firmware upgrades couldn't solve. Sowe are firmly back on the digital train, although still holding ourbreath with that nervous feeling in our groin every time we tryturning something on. It's the peace of mind that we like.Oh, and last but not least, our hotel,Hosteria Anita, has been a tremendous find – super friendly,spacious rooms, good breakfast, lots of hot water, and a TV in ourroom that has twice as many movie channels as we had at home(although around half end up dubbed into Spanish). But the realbonus, what I think really sets it apart, is the giant painting ofthe Virgin Mary hanging over the dining table, her somewhat pointyC-cup breast poking lewdly out of her intricate gown as hersausage-like fingers press down to force a heavy barrage of milkdrops wildly into baby Jesus' confused little face. How you likethat, huh!? You wanna cry!? I'll give you something to cry about!!Yeah! Who's hungry now, bitch!?After a couple days we switched sidesto enjoy our breakfast a little less antagonistically but, oh socleverly, they had placed a huge mirror on the opposite wall toensure no guest will ever be denied the beauty of motherhood as theyattempt enjoy the vaguely reminiscent cream on their fruit salad.Ok, I'm sure you'd agree that it mightbe time to take a short break, maybe compose my thoughts intosomething a little more relevant. Bright and early last Mondaymorning our 4 day Inca Trail trek launched and, as you can see, wemade it through with at the very least our typing fingers working.Should have something done on that in the next few days.Well, this whole thing feltreally odd and disjointed – I'm sure that we all hope that with abit of practice these entries will improve down the road. Or maybethis not working business is slowly atrophying my brain. In eithercase there should be some entertainment to be had.Onefinal note: it seems to me that Facebook now works just about as wellas Flickr does for viewing photos so I think we're just going to beposting there. Anyone reading this who is not one of my Facebookfriends but wants to see the pictures should look me up either undermy name or our email address (dinoj2@hotmail.com).Next up – theInca Trail.
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