Lake Titicaca: Between Water and Heaven

We took an 8 hour bus ride to Puno, the biggest city on the shore of Lake Titicaca. It has 200,000 inhabitants and thrives on tourism. People from all over the world come here to set sail on the famous lake. It is the highest lake in the world, second largest in South America (although it is the biggest if you go by volume), and shares its shore with Bolivia. The most important part about the lake is the islands.

The name “Titicaca” means mountain cat in Quechua, the indigenous language of the South American people. Some of the islands reach 6000 meters, or 20,000 feet. People standing on top of these islands could overlook the lake and see that the shape is basically that of a cat catching a rabbi, hence the name.

We took a tour of two different islands. The first is probably the most famous, called Uros, the floating islands. Our tour guide picked us up at 6:30, led us to an empty white van and left us alone while he went to pick up more guests. The majority of the people in our tour were Americans and French. Our tour guide spoke Spanish and English, although his native language was Quechua.

The boat ride to the Uros Islands was about 30 minutes. There are 60 islands in this community, each holding up to 10 families. If there are more than 10 families, they have to build a new island. Each island has a sort of chief, or person who is in charge of the families. The one we visited had 6 families living there, and we got to see their houses and how they lived.

When our boat approached the island, they were waiting for us, waving, in their bright colored skirts and long braids. When we each got off the boat, they helped us onto the island, made solely of reeds from the lake, and said one word in Quechua that meant, “good morning, welcome, how are you?” to which we replied “Waliki,” meaning “good, thank you, and good to see you.”

Standing on the island was an interesting feeling. It was sturdy enough, since all 20 people in our tour jumped at the same time and it didn’t sink. But it still moved with the waves of the lake, getting worse when other tourist boats passed. To build the island, they took 2 feet of the roots of the reeds, cut them into cubes, tied them together, and added several layers of criss-crossing reeds. Simple as that. It didn’t take very long to make an island, but they will last for 60 years.

Life on the islands is pretty simple. They have one main island where all of the kids go to school (they only have elementary school, and the teachers are from Puno), where they can buy some supplies (otherwise they have to go to the mainland of Puno and buy it there), and the dance club. They also have their churches here. Almost 80% of the community is Catholic, so the go to church on Sundays.

Their bathrooms are on a separate island, so you have to plan ahead if you need to use one, since it takes awhile to paddle there. They also have a cemetery island, which is closer to a mountain.

The people used to live in peace, but in the last 15 years, they have been exploited by tourism. I found it fascinating to see how these people live, but also very sad to see how we have completely taken over their lives. In some ways it helps them, because we pay a fee to get on the island, and then we can purchase their handy-crafts. So the money goes to pay for school, gas for boats, and supplies. But on the other hand, they have no privacy. They have no integrity in their way of life. They are preserving their customs and traditions just to sell it. I wonder if the floating islands would still exist today if tourists hadn’t invaded their lives.

I think they would be. They explain their lives as living between water and heaven. The people have a certain charm, a simple yet elegant life. The kids run around laughing and playing with each other, with no fear of falling and hurting themselves because the reeds make a soft landing. The kids learn to swim at 4 or before, so there is no fear of them falling into the water and drowning. They are always chewing on reeds or bananas of the lake, as they call them.

Then the people tried to sell us tapestries, jewelry, and hand-made toy boats. I wanted to help support them, but I didn’t bring enough money. They looked so disappoint, mad even, when I told them no thank you. This is when I realized their hospitality has been tainted by tourism. I don’t blame them, not in the slightest. But after years of rich Americans coming and practically handing them money, I would grow to expect that sort of treatment too. But then when they don’t get, they are bitter. I guess tourism in some cases is a necessary evil, and I am playing my part by fueling it. I wish there was a better way to see the world than falling into the tourist trap. I’m still working on that one.

When we left the island, the women sang us songs in Quechua, Spanish, and then “Row, row, row your boat” in English. We set sail in their hand-made boats to go visit the main island. (We also had to pay them an extra $5 before we got off). There wasn’t much to do there, except buy more souvenirs. Overall it was an interesting cultural experience, and I am very glad I got to see the people and their way of life, but I felt guilty for interrupting their lives.

We then took another 2.5 hours to go to the island of Tequile. It is one of the bigger islands in the lake, housing about 2500 people. It’s elevation is about 13,000 feet, so you can imagine how hard it was to climb up to their main village. It should have only taken about 15 minutes to get there, but with the altitude, we hiked for about 45.

The people here also speak Quechua and are farmers. They rotate the land, growing potatoes, corn, then potatoes. After that they would take a break for 3 years so the soil could regain nutrients. About half of the island was being farmed at one time, but everyone worked together without wages. They knew that if they helped their neighbor today, next year when they needed help, their neighbor would do the same for them. They live by the motto, “do not steal, do not lie, and do not be idle.” Because of this, there is no police and no jail. They seem to have life figured out.

The island is known for its good quality textiles. I found it interesting that knitting is down exclusively by the men. Women make the yarn and weave.

Women also cook. We had lunch on the island: quinoa soup, trout, rice, and mixed veggies. We drank hot coca tea to help with the altitude. It was all very good and very fresh. I usually don’t eat fish, and while I didn’t necessarily enjoy eating, I’m learning to like and appreciate different foods. No better place to eat trout than where it was caught that morning.

We had some time explore the island and look at the textiles. It was a very interesting community, with a church, hall council, and other gathering spaces. I wondered about the government, and if they even needed one.

They made some money from selling their crops. 90% went to the people and 10% went to the island. This percentage was for the boats to get to Puno when they needed extra supplies. They have a house in Puno where they can stay for free when they visit. The students who go to University in Puno also stay there for free.

There is no divorce in Tequile Island. They live together for 3-5 years before getting married. But if the woman becomes pregnant, they must get married. Some of the people choose to marry someone for another island, so as to avoid genetic problems. The kids here go to elementary, middle, and high school (unlike the Uros).

Although this community has also been influenced by tourism, I felt like it was more secluded still and parts were untouched by it. Since the island is bigger, there is more privacy for the people. Tourists were kept to a certain part of the island, and we were not invading their lives completely. I felt more like a guest here, welcome and wanted, instead of an intruder.

We finished our tour by walking around the island. It took about 45 minutes to go around, and it was cool to see all sides of the lake. Bolivia was in the distance, and there were several mountains and islands within sight.

We had another 3 hours in the boat back to Puno, and I talked with a lot of the other travelers. We got advice on Machu Picchu and where to go, what to eat, where to stay. We met this family from the US, a brother and sister and their dad. It was funny because they looked like they were married at first, and our tour guide just assumed they were a couple. But they were taking their dad on a vacation to starch off Machu Picchu from his bucket list. He had to have been in his late 60s, and I was very impressed that he could keep up with the altitude and other stresses of travel. Of course they were traveling in a lot more luxury than Dorothy and I, but it was cool to talk with them hear their stories.

We also ran into them later that night in the main square. Puno the actual town is not very big, most people come for tours of the islands. There was one cathedral and one main street that had all the shops and restaurants. Since they flew back to the States the next day, they gave us their coca leaves to help with the altitude. I felt connected to them, and to the world in general. It’s crazy how small the world is, and how you can always find a taste of home. I also met someone who went to college with a girl I went to high school with.

After that we went back to our hostel and made ramen. Money is going way too fast here, and eating out costs a lot in the tourists zones. Our hostel was not very good. The bathrooms were outside, and although they usually had hot water, the pressure was so low that I couldn’t get the shampoo out of my hair. The rooms were also very dirty and the beds uncomfortable. We had a pet spider, named Edmund, who we unfortunately had to sacrifice ceremoniously, involving a flip flop and slight scream.

I tried to keep a positive attitude about the sleeping arrangements. After all, I’m in Peru, a fairly poor country where hot water is a luxury for most. But I’ve been on the road for a long time. I’m tired, mentally exhausted and ready to be home. Home: where I can sit down on the toilet, throw the toilet paper in the toilet, and not worry about whether or not it’s going to flush when I take a dump.

But then I think of the people on the floating islands who have to paddle to another island just to pee, so I grit my teeth and deal with it.

Bus Rides, Ice Maidens, and Nuns

From Santiago, we took a 28 hour bus to the border town Arica. The ride started off pretty nice. We paid the extra $20 for the “first class” seats, so we had a bit more leg room and butt room. The highway followed the shore for a couple hours, and it was really cool to see the ocean for so long. Some of the waves were incredibly big too.

About 4 hours in, I realized I was sitting next to the vent for the engine. It was very unfortunate, and very hot for a long time. I had just been complaining to Dorothy that I was cold, and this is what I got. Go figure. There were points when I had to stand up and walk around so I didn’t throw up from the heat. Thankfully, that didn’t last the entire time—only when the AC was off.

We made periodic stops every 5 hours or so, which was nice because the bathroom on the bus was disgusting. Worse even that some of the Chinese ones I used. At the rest stops though, the toilets weren’t much better. Sometimes they had toilet seats, sometimes they had toilet paper, but you always had to pay.

The scenery got more boring as we crossed the Atacama Desert. About 200 miles to the East the desert is really pretty, and its charm almost enchanted us to go visit the Salt Flats in San Pedro and Bolivia. But we decided we weren’t prepared for spending the night in a freezing desert with a tour guide who may or may not speak English.

I spend most of my time listening to music. Sometimes I would try to understand the dubbed Spanish on the horrible American movies they played, but that got old fast. I didn’t sleep as much as I wanted because of the heat, but other than that, the ride was fine. Well, as fine as 28 hours in a bus can be.

When we got to Arica, we had to find our way to Peru, hopefully the town called Arequipa. I had read in guide books that you can get a shared taxi/bus to cross the border until the town of Tacna, and from there catch an overnight bus to Arequipa.

Once we stretched our legs a bit and got some fresh air, we looked into our options. We decided to go with a company that did the border transfer for us, so all we needed was on one ticket. That sounded trustworthy, right? Just get the ticket and they will take you where you need to be and tada.

Well. It was all fine and dandy until they took Dorothy and I to an unmarked car and asked for our passports. Since they were with the company, I handed it over. I did not want to let it out of my sight, and I was quite terrified when the driver said he would be right back.

Another 3 people joined our car, but they were either Chilean or Peruvian, so they didn’t have the same hassle with the passports. It took about 15 minutes for the driver to come back with our passports, the entire time Dorothy and I were laughing at the sketchy situation we had gotten ourselves into—laughing to avoid freaking out.

Turns out they had just filled out our customs forms for us so that we didn’t mess it up. But I’m not about to let my passport out of my sight again.

The taxi/private car lasted about an hour. We crossed the border without any problems. It was significantly easier to get into Peru than it was Chile. The guys operating the xray machine weren’t even looking at the screen.

When we got to Tacna, the driver told Dorothy and I to stay in the car while the other 3 people got out. Here we go again with the sketchy situation. At this point I was worried because the one ticket I had (the supposed ticket for everything) had been taken from me when I got in the car. So we didn’t have any proof that we had paid for the long bus to Arequipa. I was starting to get more freaked out.

The woman who was getting out of the car (who I didn’t think spoke English) asked Dorothy and I where we were going. She said that we have to be careful here, because we are foreigners. She said it is a dangerous place and people are not friendly. She told us to never ever take a taxi from the street, always call them. Then she told us to have a good trip and good luck. Thanks for the advice.

Thoroughly freaked out now, we waited another 15 minutes for our driver to get back. This time he had our bus tickets in hand, and I started to feel better. He drove us to the terminal, helped me get my suitcase out. Walked us inside where he pointed out where we board, and told us what to do. I felt much better.

Until it was time to board and he forgot to mention that we needed to buy checked luggage tickets (only for $1, but still hard to do when you don’t know what’s going on.) We figured it out with the help of my botched Spanish and finally made it on the bus. I tried to watch my suitcase get put underneath, but they have a weird system. I had to go on faith that all my stuff would make it there too.

The bus wasn’t as comfortable, and they only served us crackers and cookies for dinner, but I was happy to close my eyes and try to sleep. The people we bought our tickets from told us we would arrive at 8 or 10 in the morning, depending on traffic. So I was pretty surprised when we pulled into the terminal at 5am and they told us we were there. I did not like getting into a foreign city/country in the wee hours of the morning when it was still dark and scary.

Yes we made it to Arequipa, Peru from Santiago, Chile. But looking back, I would not have done it that way again. We hung out in the terminal for 4 hours, warding off beggers and vendors as we tried to find internet and book a hostel. Thankfully the internet café opened at 6 and we were able to plan the next part of our trip, as well as get bus tickets to Puno (this time we went with the highest recommended company in the guidebooks).

We decided that 9 am was an acceptable time to arrive at a hostel, even though check-in wasn’t until noon. I spend awhile trying to figure out how to call a taxi, since my Spanish is horrible and would not be effective at all over the phone, and I didn’t even know the name of the terminal I was in or where the taxi should find us. So we went against the advice of several and got a taxi on the street. Before you yell at me, know that I would not have (and will never) get in a car that I’m not comfortable in. We waited for about 10 minutes in the taxi area before picking the one that looked safest. It was a much newer car, had a reputable sign, and an American girl about our age was just getting out. This was the one.

After 15 minutes of crazy driving and horn honking in the taxi, it was clear our driver didn’t know where the hostel was, even though I told him clearly the closest intersection. He drove around in a big circle, trying to call the hostel and then his dispatch, before I pointed out the way. Even in a town where I’ve never been before, I seem to find my way just fine.

The hostel was really nice. Dorothy and I got a private room and we shared a queen bed. It was really comfortable and the showers were nice and hot (as long as you used them between 10 and 4 because it’s powered by the sun…). We rested a bit in the hostel and then ventured out.

We got pizza from a place recommended by the hostel, and it was really good. I was afraid that eating cheese in Peru would be bad (since the water and milk should be avoided), but I felt fine. We then found the Plaza de Armas and saw the nice cathedral.  We also stopped at the grocery store and picked up some supplies for the next few days. The boiled eggs turned out to be a life saver a couple of times.

The next day, after freezing the night before (they don’t believe in heating the rooms, and it got really cold), we went to the archeological museum to see Juanita, the Ice Maiden. She was and Incan girl, around 12-15, and was chosen to be sacrificed for her people and live forever with the gods. She was pure, beautiful, and young—exactly what they wanted their gods to think of her people.

550 years ago, she went on a voyage to the top of a mountain (we could see it from town). She wore expensive clothes and fine jewelry. Through snow and ice, she hiked almost 20,000 feet, to meet her death and live with the gods. The people believed that sacrificing her would make the gods happy, so that the people would have good crops, healthy lives, and beautiful children.

Juanita was given an intoxicating drink before she died, as part of the tradition. Recent studies show that she was killed by a blow to the head, whereas before they thought she had frozen to death. Indeed, she froze just minutes after her death, which is why all of her internal organs are still intact and her body is in surprisingly good shape.

About 10 years ago, a nearby volcano was erupting and melting the snow and ice on the top of the mountain where Juanita was. She had fallen from her original place at the summit, and someone found her a few feet down on accident. So then a team of scientists went to discover what other secrets the mountain held. Turns out there were 4 children sacrificed on this mountain, but Juanita was (and is) the most important of them. She was the highest, and therefore closets to the gods, and frozen the fastest.

It was really interesting to see her. I had been to the museum in Salta where they found another group of kids on a mountain in Argentina, so I was kind of prepared to see a body in a state of such decay, yet such preservation. This time, however, I kept thinking, what right do we have to see her? What right to we have to take her down from her mountain, where she is supposed to be living forever with the gods, and set her in a dark room so thousands of noses can press against the glass trying to get a better look. On one hand, we know more about the Incans because we discovered her. And more people know her cause and her martyrdom. But on the other hand, we took her away from that cause, sacrificed her sacrifice in the name of science. It doesn’t matter if we don’t believe in the same things that the Incans did. They believed it enough to kill their own children. That’s a powerful belief; and if it were up to me, I wouldn’t be messing with that…

After the ice mummy we went to a monastery. Stark contrast, right? This place was built in the 1600s with the volcanic rock sillar. This would be a horrible place to play hide and seek, unless you never wanted it to end. There were several different streets and countless “cells” as they call them, or rooms where the nuns lived. At first it was really peaceful to be there and feel the calm way of life they live. But then it got oppressive. I can’t imagine living there for a few days, much less my whole life. The nuns would get up and five and start their prayers, and the day devoted to God would continue from there. I admire that lifestyle, and their devotion, but I could never do it myself.

It was also interesting for me to see a monastery after seeing so many temples in Asia. The Buddhist way of life is similar, but with a completely different purpose. Or is it that different after all? I don’t really want to get into the religious discussion here, but I was thinking about it. I will say that I was surprised at how bloody and violent all of the depictions of Christ were.  I know it’s not a great history, and the whole point of Christianity is to live without that fear and violence, but I was still surprised how depressing it was.

For lunch, Dorothy tried Alpaca steak for dinner, and I had a safe chicken sandwich. You can also eat guinea pig here, it’s called cuy. Neither of us has been able to stomach the idea, considering we saw where they kept them alive, only for slaughter. They serve you the whole animal, head and all… Shudder.

To end on a better note, there was an awesome old library in another monastery. I love the smell of books, and being surrounded by so much old literature calmed my soul. It was good to just take in the pages (although none of them were in English). Being there made me appreciate the evolution of language, stories, ideas, and truth.

Peru is an interesting place. Crazy, calm, old, new, historic, touristy… I like it.

Chilean Experiences

Our first stop in Chile is called Valparaiso. We took an 8 hour bus from Mendoza to there, but the sights we gorgeous. We drove through the Andes, so there were pretty mountains, valleys, lakes, cliffs, and colorful rocks. The border between Argentina and Chile is at the top of the mountain at the end of a long tunnel. Crossing the border took a lot of time, but once we declared we had no food, we were clear to enter the country. The first thing we saw on the Chile side was about 50 switchback turns to descend the mountain. Curve after curve, buses and trucks made their way slowly down the mountain, somehow managing to stay on the road.

Valparaiso is a port town, so its people are called portenos, just like in Buenos Aires. It also had a similar feel to La Boca because of the brightly colored houses made from scraps from the shipyard. It was settled by sailors making their way from Europe to California during the gold rush. Since it is a natural port, it was a good place to stop for food, drinks, and of course, women. There were quite a few US Navy men over the years, who stayed with a woman for only a night or two. These women became pregnant without ever knowing the name of its father, so on the birth certificate, some of the babies were called Usa Navvey (imagine it with a Spanish accent)…

 The town is made up of 45 different hills, each one making up a little community with their own soccer team. I really liked the place; it had a certain charm that can only be found in tight nit communities with unique history. There were a LOT of stairs and hills, I was glad it was at sea level! They also had some old funiculars, or elevator type things—but they cost money to go up, and some were no longer working. It reminded me of Venice without the canals. Even though only a few of the hills are protected by UNESCO so they retain their colonial feel, the whole place is quaint and lovely. The bright colors remain a tradition, and often times teenagers will offer to paint your house for you with some artistic touch. These are the houses that don’t have graffiti, so most people accept.

There were a few cultural changes that I made me feel like I was in another country. After spending so much time in Argentina, it was weird to feel cultural shock again. The money is very different. It’s bright colors, plastic material, and different sizes. And it has way too many zeros. 1000 pesos is worth about 2USD. You can imagine when we went to pay for our hostel and she asked for 20,000 pesos!

The food was also very different. Hot dogs were very popular, usually served with avocado, ketchup, and mayo (these were called Italianos, because of the Italian flag). They also had a lot more spicy food, which I enjoyed after 4 months in a country that doesn’t believe in spice. Chorillana is another typical dish, with French fries, sautéed onions, beef, sausage, and scrambled eggs. I had a mix of pinto beans, pumpkin, and red pepper: quite delicious actually. One night we got churros for dessert. They were also amazing, better than a funnel cake. Did I mention people in Chile are pretty big? I definitely noticed an increase in size crossing the border.

Drinks are also interesting. Pisco is a grape brandy, and very popular in most of South America. They would mix Pisco with lime, sugar, and eggs whites and call it a Piscosour. It tastes like a margarita, but better. They also add pisco to coke, and call it a piscola. And I know why, it tasted like piss in your coke. Another drink they have is called the terremoto, or earthquake (by the way, they get 2 earthquakes a month in Chile, there was one in the north while I was there). This is half white wine, halt pisco, and some fernets on top. And then a big scoop of pineapple ice cream. They call it an earthquake because after drinking one, the world with be shaking. Dorothy and I tried to find one to share, but ended up at a bar that didn’t make them. Instead we got to listen to this guy playing guitar and singing American 80s songs. It was very entertaining to watch.

We took a day trip to Vina del Mar, about 10 minutes away on a bus. This is a “nicer” or at least newer area, with better beaches. We spent awhile playing in the sand and letting the waves reach our toes. Since it is fall here, or the beginning of winter, it’s a bit cold for a beach, but it was nice. I’ve now been to East and West coast of South America.

We had lunch in a nice restaurant and I ordered (after some confusion with the language barrier) a plate of veggies. It was huge and delicious, and cheap.

After that we were on a mission to find the castle. We saw it in the distance, at the top of a hill, so we decided to try and find it. After a while of wandering and trying to catch our breath, we came upon the castle on the hill. It was a good feeling to accomplish a simple goal in a foreign country. Not to mention cool. Castles are cool.

When we got back to Valparaiso, we went to a giant grocery store. Talk about culture shock. It was like a Walmart; in fact, they had some Great Value items, like Mac and Cheese! I’m usually not a big supporter of Walmart, but after 4 months of having lame grocery stores where I can’t find anything I want, I was in heaven. We also bought chips and salsa. Nom Nom.

I didn’t want to leave Valparaiso. It was cozy and I liked our hostel. But Santiago was calling. We took a 2 hour bus to Santiago and made our way to our new hostel on the subway. Carting around all my stuff has been a hassle, but not as bad as I thought it would be.

Our first night we just walked around the city. We saw the Plaza de Armas, the Central Market, and a few other random part of town. Dorothy wasn’t feeling very well so we went back to the hostel for a free dinner and went to bed early.

The next day I went on a walking tour while Dorothy rested up in bed. Santiago is a cool city. It’s pretty safe and easy to get around. We started off talking about the history of Chile, which is kind of confusing. All I really got from the talk was some guy was killed by being hung upside down and skinned alive, while the killer ate his heart. Apparently they are really important people in Chilean history.

We say the Presidental Palace, which was bombed during the 80s. They president at the time wasn’t killed in the bombing, but committed suicide instead. This was the start of the dictatorship that was a bad time for Chile (the same time as the Dirty Wars in Argentina). For several years, people lived in fear of the government and under strict regulations such as food and work. In the 90’s, they voted on a new president and things have been much better since then.

Except education. Public education is really not good. Our tour guide said it was better to not go to school than to go to a public school. So parents pay a lot for their kids to go to a private school There were protests going on when we were there It was a national protest for better public education. College is expensive and costs about the same as the US, but wages are lower. There are usually a lot of protests in Chile, and they are allowed to do it as long as they have a permit from the government. Although sometimes they still get out of hand and end in tear gas.

There are a lot of stray dogs in Chile. Most countries are usually a dog or cat country. While Chile has a few stray cats, dogs are far more common. And the people love their dogs. They have a good relationship with the people, even though they live on the streets, the people give them food and medicine when they need it. So the dogs are friendly and don’t bite. There was one who followed us on the tour who used to be a really good pigeon chaser; but he’s older now so he can’t catch them. There is also a dog during the summer who steals empty bottles. When all of the tourist have water bottles, he will come up and steal it from your hand and just follow you around for a bit. But the dogs do get hit by cars fairly often (Dorothy and I actually saw one get his tail trapped under a tire). Our tour guide said that’s why they chase cars and bark at them, because they don’t like them. Or they just see their reflection and think it’s another dog.

In the Plaza de Armas (pretty much every big city has one of these), there is a lot of night life. On one end of the square there is a championship chess tournament, with lots of old men wearing their berets, and the comedians on the other. There are also tarot readers and usually the religious men preaching how sinful we all are. All in all, a very cultural place.

On our tour, the guide warned us about the noon cannon. Everyday some guy at the top of Santa Lucia hill (a man made hill constructed by prisoners to make the city prettier) sets off the cannon. Sometime tourists will freak out and thing the city is under attack, because it really is quite loud. I like cities with some sort of noon bell/siren. It reminded me of Gunnison, only a bit more violent.

Our last night in Chile, Dorothy and I went up to the tallest point in the city, on top of a hill. It was really pretty to see the sunset and then the city lights. It did get really cold, but definitely worth it.

Overall I really liked Chile. It is a good country with nice people and delicious food. I could see myself coming back here. 

Mendoza: Where the Glass is Always Full

After leaving Buenos Aires, I went to Mendoza, land of wine and mountains, to meet Dorothy. I had a day alone before picking her up from the airport, and I used the time to unwind and recharge.

On the bus to Mendoza, I met a girl from New York. We were sitting in the 2 front seats and while we were playing bingo, we got to talking. She wants to be an actress and spend a semester studying theater in Moscow. We talked a bit about our time in BA, and what we want to do next, and then we slept. I didn’t really want the bus ride to end, but Mendoza looked pretty, so I got off and walked the 5 blocks to the hostel. I was worried about travelling with my suitcase alone, but it was fine.

The first night I was alone in the hostel. I wasn’t very cheery, but the people were nice. I took a “mate class” where I learned more specifically the rules of mate drinking and making. I had learned a few of these tips over my time in BA, but it was nice to have a rundown of everything. The gourd is also called a mate, and they can be made of actual gourds, wood, or metal. There are 2 types of mate: pure mate and one with herbs, like mint and others. When you pour the mate into the gourd, you only fill it ¾ the way full. Then you take your palm and cup it over the opening and shake it a few times. A green dust will appear on your hand and that is supposed to get rid of the extra “earth” and “palvo” that was in it.

Only one person is allowed to touch the mate, and they are the ones who pour the hot water every hit and make sure everything is set for his/her friends. The “caber,” or the one who makes the mate, takes the first hit because it is always the worst, so they spare their friends the bad experience. They always pass the mate in a counter-clockwise direction. No one is allowed to touch the straw, or bombillo, because it might disrupt the flow. When pouring water, always pour it as close to the bombillo as possible.

Never say thank you, or “gracias,” unless you don’t want anymore. It’s always polite to offer tour guides or other people of service mate, but if they accept, they have to take it at least twice, since only doing one hit of mate is considered rude. You can make mate with sugar, lemonade, or tea—all which add a unique flavor. My favorite was with a tiny bit of ground coffee added to the dry mate. It was refreshing and energizing.

Social cues are also passed through mate. For example, when a guy serves a girl mate with sugar, it means he has serious intention. Of course the girl can respond accordingly, but the mate is the first move. Mate is a big part of Argentine culture, as well as parts of Uruguay and Paraguay, and it is meant for sharing.

This whole explanation was in Spanish, and I was proud of myself for keeping up. There were other American there speaking in Spanish, but they majored in it. Considering I majored in English and could understand something, I was happy.

The next morning I went to get Dorothy from the Airport. I took a cab and got there early. It was fun to wait for her, but hard too. Every time I saw a family or couple or friends reunite, my heart ached for the day I would see my family and friends again. But when Dorothy walked through that “international arrivals” door, I had my own friend to greet. It was surreal, really. Finally having someone who knows me here.

We took a cab back to the hostel, and we talked the whole time about people from back home and our own experiences. She gave me a graduation card signed from all of my friends back home, which I couldn’t read without tearing up (thanks guys).

The first day we spend walking around Mendoza and catching up. I tried to fill her in on travel tips and Argentine customs, but I felt like I was lecturing her, so I shut up. We saw a lot of the town and plazas, plenty of parks and water fountains, and we got traditional Argentine pizza for lunch (mozzarella, green olives, and oregano.)

That night in the hostel we had a wine tasting class. A woman came in and brought a red wind and a white wine. She told us that Mendoza is known for their red wine, but they white isn’t anything amazing. For good white wine, she told us to go to Cafayate in the North of Argentina, where I had been just a month before with Jessica (PS, I miss you Jess! I hope you’re having a good time at home). I was proud of my travels, but then put to shame when she asked what I could smell in the wine. I don’t know a lot about wine, and, quite frankly, I don’t really care for it. But I do want to broaden my horizons and develop an appreciation for it. So when she asked what I smelled, instead of saying blueberries and pears, or cinnamon and campfire, all I could think of was, wine. It smells like wine. Yeah, ok. I’m working on it.

She taught us to look for the colors of a healthy wine. Take a piece of paper and hold the glass the light at an angle so the shadow falls on the paper. White wine is supposed to be gold and yellow, not brown or orange. Red is supposed to be burgundy or red, depending on the wine. But you can’t base everyone on looks either. Sometimes a really good wine will look bad on paper but taste and smell amazing.

The aroma is important in 2 ways—at first, and after being exposed to oxygen. You’re supposed to smell the glass with your entire nose in it. The initial smell gives you a peek into what the wine will hold in store. Then, after swirling it for a minute or so, allowing the oxygen to interact with the chemicals in the wine, the aroma will be stronger, and smelling it should be clearer. Not for me. It still just smelled like wine.

She also told us that it takes time to develop the pallet, so don’t give up hope, and drink as much as you can. When it was time to takes the wine, she told us to swish the wine in our mouths for a few seconds, to equilibrate the  PH level in your mouth to the wine. She said the first sip is always the worst, but it’s worth it, because after that, you can taste it better. The second sip is supposed to be held in 2 parts of your mouth, up front and in your cheeks, where you’re supposed to breath in through the mouth, making a slurping noise, and breathing out through the nose. She didn’t tell us in advance that the alcohol will make us cough.

I really tried to taste the difference, and I think I made some progress, but at the end of the day, wine is wine.

The next day, Dorothy and I met up with Jennifer, the girl I met on the bus, and we rented bikes and rode around wine country and visited wineries, or bodegas. The first bodega we went to specialized in olive oil. It was interesting, but I was more interested in the sampling than the tour. We got to try olive oil, olive paste, sun dried tomatoes, some spicy jelly, and straight up green olives.  It was all very good, and I did like the olive oil from Mendoza the best. The next stage was the sweet jellies and dulce de leches. The one with the chocolate was my favorite. The pumpkin jam was interesting, but I really liked the membrillo jelly. Finally, we got to sample the different liquors. From dulce de leche and Irish cream to port wine and absinthe, we sipped about 10 different kinds. Since this was our first stop, I took it easy, knowing a lot of wine was in my future.

The next winery had a wine museum that showcased the process of wine making from hundreds of years ago. It was interesting, but would have been better with an explanation in English. So instead of trying to translate the Spanish tour, we just sampled the wine, walked around and took pictures.

The last bodega is called Trapiche. It’s the most famous and best in Argentina. We knew they would treat us well when we got free (with the purchase of a tour) fancy coffee. The machine reminded me of a time machine, because it made so many loud noises while fixing my Cortada and Jennifer’s cappuccino.

Trapiche is an old company, but a new facility. Wineries took a fall in the 70s because the emergence of beer and Coke products.  Trapiche got back on its feel in the 2000’s and has since produced some of the best wine in the world. We got to see the old fashion methods of making wine as well as the new technology.

I was surprised when the guide told us how expensive the barrels are (1000 Euros), and can only be used for 5 years, because after that there is no chemical interaction. The older the barrel, the cheaper the wine. When barrels are retired, they usually go to make furniture in houses or wineries.

We got to sample 3 “high end” wines. I could tell they were good quality, but I still though wine was wine. The official tour was over but we were invited to stay for a while. They told we had to move because a party of 30 was coming in. As a consolation prize they gave us the rest of the bottle of wine we had sampled and told us to go out to the deck. We had amazing views of the mountains and vineyards. The only problem was we had to bike back into town.

Since I don’t like biking that much to begin with, the wine had an interesting effect on me. It was good because I was less afraid, but following the bike lane in a straight line was a bit more challenging. Thankfully we made it back to the bike rental place without crashing, only to be greeted by more free wine. Goodness. Overall it was a great day shared with 2 friends. Estaba contenta.

The next day Dorothy and I took a bus to the mountains. I felt like I was getting sick, so we took it pretty easy, but it was a gorgeous place to walk around and have a picnic. The mountains seemed bigger in than in Colorado, but I think it’s only because Mendoza has a lower starting altitude. We ate sandwiches and talked about life. We walked around an enchanted forest and watched paragliders. While we were waiting for the bus to take us back, we were offered a ride in a white van, it looked like a tour company, but it was empty except the driver. If I would have known the bus was going to be late, in which time the sun set and it got really cold, I would have accepted the offer. But because I usually don’t accept rides from strangers, especially ones in big white vans, I said no. Finally the bus came and we made it back without further ado.

That night in the hostel we met Hector, giver of much food and wine. There was a BBQ at our hostel that you had to pay for, but since we had left over rice and beans, we opted out. But there were only 3 people at the BBQ and Hector, the chief, had enough food (and wine) for a lot more people. So we got scraps passed quietly under the table. Dorothy got to try the Argentine asado, while I got salad and dessert. The dessert was amazing: apples soaked in wine and sugar. All the while, when Dorothy and I were trying to plan our trip and book hostels, Hector kept filling our glasses with wine.

He was very interested in our trip to the wineries the day before. So I showed him pictures and tried to tell in, in my butchered but slightly better Spanish (lower inhibitions from the wine) what we did and our plans for the next few weeks. He was such a sweetheart. He reminded me a lot of Ralph, the pizza guy at Rare Air. Even after we had washed out dishes and put away our wine glasses, he tried to pour us more. Gracefully excusing ourselves to bed, I gave him 2 kisses on the cheek and said, “Gracias por todo.”

The next day we got up and caught a bus to Valparaiso, which will be the next post. Leaving Argentina was a bit sad, and a bit exhilarating. It means I’m one step closer to home, and there are plenty of adventures between now and then. My study abroad experience already seems like a long time ago, and I think I’ve transfer to life on the road pretty well. Well, minus the big suitcase. 

(Sorry there are no pictures. The wifi is way too slow)

The Beginning of the End

It’s a surreal feeling, actually doing something that you’ve dreamt about for so long. Today, I’m leaving Buenos Aires, the place that I’ve grown to love and hate. For the past 4 months, not a day has passed that I didn’t think about leaving this place. But now that it’s here, I don’t know how to feel.

What am I going to do when I look back and realize my study abroad experience wasn’t everything I had hoped for? When I’m sitting at home, with all of the romance of it gone, faced with paying off student loans and finding a job, and I realize… that was it. It’s over.

I look back on my 4 months here with a mixture of amazement and wonder, confusion and disillusion, solitude and independence—but not regret. I don’t think I would have chosen this program, or this city, or my living situation, if I had known what it would be like. But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened, and I’m better because of it. There’s a line in a poem that always gets to me: “Forgiveness is the release of all hope of a better past.” While I don’t need to forgive Argentina for treating me poorly, I do need to forgive myself. There were times I could have made my experience here better, or at least different. I could have gone out more, seen more of the city, made more Argentine friends, talked to my host family more. But there are always those, coulda shoulda woulda’s. Right now I may be wishing for a different experience to look back upon and tell stories about how amazing Argentina was; but I’m also learning that my time here has been unique to me and I need to stop thinking, it should have been better. Just by being here, by spending 4 months with an Argentine family, learning the language and customs, often at the expense of my own discomfort and embarrassment, just by being here was enough.

Today I leave what I’ve called home for 4 months. A private taxi will come and pick me up, take me to the bus station, and I will get on the bus for Mendoza. I will watch the city lights disappear into the night as another day ends in another city of the world. And what do I have to show for it? A lot.

I have Spanish competency. Not fluency, but I can get around. That’s pretty crazy considering 4 months ago I couldn’t even ask how much something costs.

I have an elephant. My mom host collected elephant figurines, for good luck, health and strength. To send me on my way, she gave me one of her collection. This token was the sweetest gesture she has shown me, and I felt very blessed to be carrying a piece of her with me.

I have pictures. Oh do I have pictures. But the ones that are more important than what I posted on Facebook are in my head. Mental pictures. The little moments that went able to be captured on film. The way my host mom would put her thumb to her nose and wiggle her fingers every time the president came on the news. The little kid holding hands with mom and dad as they cross a busy street. The sun setting over the tall buildings in the city. These are the pictures I will savor.

I have friends from all over the world. The ones in my program I grew close to, and ones I met briefly at hostels, only briefly crossing paths. The ones who have offered me places to stay whenever I come their way. The ones I may never see again, but that doesn’t matter. Knowing them is enough.

I have had an amazing experience. And the best part? There’s still more to come. I’m on my way to Mendoza, land of wine and mountains, where I meet Dorothy. From there we go to Santiago, Chile and maybe a beach town. And then we will make our way north to Peru, going to the Nazca lines, Lake Titicac, Machu Pichu, and Lima. I am excited for the journey ahead, especially because I will be with a good friend. And traveling in good company is always the best.

Catch up Post

Sorry I haven’t posted for awhile, I’ve been busy. So while I was out living, here’s what’s happened:

Dia del campo: We went to a ranch for a day and got to see what Gaucho life is like. It was obviously very touristy, but in the way Americans go to the Flying W Ranch for a taste of the Old West. I enjoyed myself more than I thought I would. The dancers were fun to watch, and I got to try it myself. There were horses you could ride, but I chose not to. There was a long line and I’ve been on a horse plenty before—although I didn’t say no to the carriage ride around the farm. Then we were served an asado (BBQ). When the servers came with the meat, there was special music to mark its entrance. They take their beef seriously here. Fortunately for me, I got pasta and fried veggies. I could not have eaten the blood sausage and other hunks of meat barely cooked. There was more dancing after lunch and then we went to watch a horse game. The object was to get a lance through a tiny ring hanging at eye level. This traditional game was more exciting than it sounds, and it was cool to route on the players. Of course, the winner would be rewarded with a kiss from the girl in the crowd. We went back inside for a traditional dessert, which I don’t remember the name of, and mate coticita. More dancing and picture taking later, we were on our way back to the city.

La Bomba: A group of 12 drummers play every Monday night at Konex. They are really good and very talented musicians. I finally went with Kelsey one night (or morning, they didn’t start until 1). Besides all of the other people smoking pot, drinking alcohol, and shoving into me, it was a very enjoyable experience. Something about “the drum beat carries on” made it easier to connect with people and feel like a part of something bigger.

Mothers of the Disappeared: I skipped class one day and went to Plaza de Mayo to see this demonstration. Every Thursday at 3:30, these Madres de los Desaparecidos come to the Plaza and hold pictures of their sons and daughters who disappeared during the Dirty Wars, 35 years before. During that time, some 30,000 people were kidnapped, tortured, or killed by the government for unknown or unjust reasons. Many people of the dictatorship are still unpunished today, which is why the mothers still protest every week. The event itself is fairly small now: ten or so mothers, with white scarves covering their heads, lead a group circling around the plaza, carrying a banner and holding pictures of the disappeared. I was confused why the banner said “Malvinas siempre Argentina” instead of something about the disappeared. I’m pretty sure the demonstration has morphed recently when the Falkland Island topic got hot. I’ve heard from people that in the past they read the names of those who disappeared. They didn’t do that this time. Instead, there was chanting and singing, but no name calling. I didn’t understand enough of the Spanish to figure out what was going on, but it was still a neat experience.

Puerto Madero: the swanky place in town. Kelsey and I went to a museum on a boat, called Sarmiento Ship Museum. It was cool to see all of the old time nautical stuff. It made me feel like I was on the titanic. We also walked on the impressive, “Puente de Mujeres” or Women’s Bridge. It’s meant to signify how strong the women of Buenos Aires are. It’s fitting since the president, Cristina Kirchner, lives in Puerto Madero. The neighborhood is fancy and expensive, and you have to be careful not to be run over by teenagers on roller skates. It seems to be the transportation of choice around there. We even saw a few mothers pushing strollers with skates on. Seems a little dangerous to me.

La Boca is one of the most touristy areas of the city. Literally meaning “the mouth,” it is a port to Rio de la Plata. It is also home to the Boca Juniors Futbal Stadium, a central part to the Argentine identity. I didn’t get the chance to go to a game, mostly because it’s rather dangerous. Fans dress up head to toe, sing chants on local buses to and from games (literally making the bus sway), drink too much beer, and are very passionate about their teams. They’ve been known to rush the field and turn violent. I was satisfied watching from afar on TV. Another part of La Boca that is famous is called the Caminito, known for its iconic bright colors and overpriced tango shows. The neighborhood was colonized by the people of Genoa Italy, and they painted houses with left over paint from the ship yard. Parts have not been altered, but others have been “refurbished” to keep the “traditional” feel alive. It has a certain charm to it, but it’s definitely made for tourists. If you’re looking for authentic Buenos Aires, here is not the place to find it.

Teatro Colon: The night before our last final, Jessica and I went to see the Buenos Aires Philharmonic at the Teatro Colon. I went on a tour of the building before, but I was still surprised at how good the acoustics were. We had seats way up (less than 20 bucks), and had very little leg room. We also couldn’t see all of the stage. Good thing hearing it was more important. I love music. It brings people together. It lets us just be one—instead of people from different countries who speak different languages and have different values. We all speak music. I also was thinking about the evolution of music (and of humanity in general). Violins and the string family were created in the 1500s. Since then, there have been slight modifications, but nothing drastic. Why haven’t we come up with a new instrument by now? I guess once you have some that works, that plays well, we don’t need anything new. I also was thinking how amazing it is that almost 50 people can be so in tune with each other and the music that they create such a unified and pure sound. It really is a miracle. And what is it about music that keeps us interested? If we have the same instruments, the same set of keys and scales, how is it that timeless? While I won’t pretend to have the answer to this, I do know that for me, music is what makes me feel human. It connects me to myself, nature, and other people. When a very talented pianist played a solo, it made me miss playing, miss sharing it with other people. The Argentines really appreciate music too. They would applaud, standing on their feet, until the director came back on stage time and time again. They applauded so much that the pianist played an encore. I really enjoyed that night.

Finals: It was very hard to make myself study for my last test of undergrad, but I managed to pull a B in the class. Usually, I would not be happy with this grade, but since I’ve been here, I’ve realized grades aren’t everything. When I got to Argentina, I knew no Spanish, and now I can communicate. That’s proof enough that I’ve grown and learned a lot.

Farewell lunch: ISA provide a last meal for the Spring 1 students. We could order an appetizer, main course, dessert, a drink, and coffee. I was not expecting such service, but the ISA staff is amazing. Saying goodbye was a weird feeling. We just finished our finals, most people were leaving the next day, and there was no time to debrief. I sat and looked around at all of the faces, wishing I had gotten to know  more of them better, and glad I stayed clear of others. I realized that my time with them had gone quickly, almost like a dream. But it isn’t the end for me.

The Week I Lost Count

I’ve been numbering my blog posts for every week I’ve been here. I got up to 12, and then I lost count. The week I spent in Salta was somewhere between 13 and 14. I think.

Jessica and I had to take our midterm before we could begin our 22 hour journey in a bus to the North of the country. Salta is in the Province of Jujuy, very close to Bolivia and not far from Paraguay. There are also a lot more “indigenous” people there, or at least they were here before the Europeans settled in. It is a very unique place, partly because of the people, but mostly because of the landscape. It’s nestled on the edge of the Andes, with a desert characteristics and dramatic rock formations.

The 22 hours in the bus passed without much excitement, although the mozo (waiter) brought us food occasionally and we did play bingo for a free bottle of wine. I had all but one number before someone else called it. Too bad, the wine would have made the 22 hours a lot more enjoyable. I sat next to an Argentine who did not speak to me and had no sense of personal space. They played a mix of movies in Spanish and English, although there were all from America. (I swear, people here know more movies and American celebrities than I do. A lot of times they’ll dub over the English with Castallano and put Spanish subtitles. Talk about confusing.)

When we finally stop, we get off at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, holding our backpacks and wondering why they would just leave us here. Turns out we had to switch buses for the last 30 minutes, but somewhere in translation that was lost. Jessica and I where just about to head off looking for a place that might have a map before I asked what was going on. Good thing too, we would not have found a map (or much else) anywhere close.

We find our hostel without much trouble and meet Diego, one of the workers at the hostel. He explained what there to do and recommended good places to eat and tours to go on. I was very proud of my Spanish because I could understand almost everything and was able to ask a few questions too. That night we spent devising a plan for our week and buying groceries.

The next day we booked a tour to Cachi, a place about 3 hours away that’s known for its beauty, cactus forest, and colonial style streets. The tour guide was supposed to pick us up at our hostel at 7:15, but they got there at 6:45 (yes, a la manana). It’s a miracle we had clothes on and were able to run out the door. We were the first ones in the bus, so we got first pick of seats. It was nice since we picked up 10 other people.

I like our tour guide a lot. He was patient with our lack of Spanish fluency and explained things multiple times if we wanted. Along the way, we stopped a lot to take pictures and were able to explore some.

Coca leaves (native to Bolivia and Peru) were very popular because they help with altitude sickness. Cachi is somewhere around 7500 feet (less than Gunnison, but it’s a lot coming from sea level). You could buy them pretty much anywhere and you just stick a few leaves in your cheek and keep them there. Coca leaves help suppress hunger, thirst, and pain, and they also give you energy. Seems pretty cool to me. The taste isn’t too bad, just like a really strong tea.

Cachi itself wasn’t very exciting, but the drive and the stops along the way were well worth it. We got there in time for lunch. Jessica and I had packed lunch (a cheese sandwich, apple, and almonds) so we didn’t eat at the restaurant the rest of the group did. That gave us more time to explore the markets, see the church, and visit the archeological museum. And 2 hours was more than enough time.

The ride back was fine, pretty but long. That night we discovered how cheap ice cream was in Salta. Less than half of the price it is in Buenos Aires, and definitely cheaper than the States. So we made spaghetti for dinner and indulged in mint and chocolate ice cream for dessert. Que buenisimo.

The next day we took another organized tour because it was a national holiday and a lot of stuff in town would have been closed. (Ok this is exciting, I just learned that tense in Spanish. It’s called el pluscaumperfecto de subjuntivo. Muchos de los negocios en la ciudad hubieran cerrado. Yay.) Overall I liked the first tour best, but this one had amazing scenery too. The destination was Cafayate (not to be confused with El Calafate, which is in Southern Patagonia).  But again, the best part was the view along the way. We drove through los Valles de los Conchas where there were a lot of amazing red rocks and unique formations. I thought it was a lot like Garden of the Gods: only bigger, better, and nestled in the Andes.

We stopped at the Garganta del Diablo (Devil’s Throat, also not to be confused with the Devil’s Throat at Iguazu Falls). This was a cave type area that was huge and gorgeous and had amazing acoustics. I really wanted my chamber choir from high school to sing there. We also passed the “Titanic,” a rock formation that literally looked like a sinking cruise ship. Our guide even played Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” as we passed it.

Cafayate is known for the best white wine in Argentina. So of course we stopped and visited a vineyard and sampled wine. We had a little tour of the museum and got to see them making wine. I liked it better than I thought I would. My taste for wine hasn’t fully developed, but I could tell this was the good stuff. I was surprised at how liberally the vendors refilled sample glasses. It was only 11 in the morning. But I guess a tipsy purchase is a better purchase.

The town was about the same as Cachi, but with a few more people and more stores. Jessica bought some “love tea” for her boyfriend, but we found out later from Diego, the guy from the hostel, that Muna Muna tea is actually Incan Viagra. You can imagine our laughter.

The next day Jessica wanted to go bungee jumping (I would have gone too if I thought that I wouldn’t pass out, but the doctor warned me I might). So I went for moral support and was the official photographer. We could have paid 20 bucks more for them to pick us up and take us to the place, or we could take the bus for about $2 and find it ourselves. So we took the adventure and went on our own. But it took forever to find the bus stop. Different people told us different places and wrong information, so it was difficult. Once we got on the bus, it was about 2 hours , parts of which were very crowded and uncomfortable. And it turned out that the last stop didn’t even take us all the way there. We had to take a cab for the last 6 miles. It was kind of in the middle of nowhere, but the journey was a little ridiculous.

We met this guy named Carlos, who was very nice and from Cordoba (in the middle of Argentina). He was also there to bungee jump, so we formed a bond. We took his pictures and he bought our bus fare. We invited him to a museum, but when that was closed, he took us for drinks (by drinks I mean Jessica and I got smoothies and Carlos got a liter of beer). I was a little uncertain on the safety of meeting a random man in a country where they warn about mal-intentions, but he seemed harmless and Jessica and I were together, and we were smart. It was really good practice for our Spanish, and it was very interesting to hear about his life in another part of Argentina. Plus, I got a free smoothie and empanadas. We exchanged facebook information, but I was never able to find him. And I know there are way too many Angie Watts’s out there for him to find me.

After we excused ourselves from our friend, we went to the supermarket and bought fixins for dinner. We decided to be adventurous and try to make chicken and mashed potatoes with mixed veggies. If you’ve never been to hostels, then you should know that their kitchens are usually functional, but never very good. So while cooking is expected, it’s kinda like camping. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

So Jessica and I are the three stooges minus one trying to find utensils and spices in a foreign and unorganized kitchen. Diego pops his head in the window right as the washed chicken pops in the hot oil, and asks if we need help. We say we have it under control, but he stays and watches. Then, shaking his head, he asks what we’re going to do when we’re married. Gee thanks. From then on, we stuck to pasta.

The next day we packed a picnic (with delicious chicken sandwiches, however much Diego disapproved of our process, we were successful with the product) and headed out to La Quebrada de San Lorenzo. It was 30 minutes away and a nice forest area with a little stream and plenty of wild life. That’s where we met our butterfly friend. At first he landed a few feet away, but got closer the longer we stayed. Soon he flew all around us and landed on us. Having a butterfly on your nose is a very interesting feeling. Just imagine what it would feel like for a giant bug to pick your nose.

After running into too many spider webs, we head back to town and try again to go to the museum that was closed. It’s called the Museum of High Altitude Archeology and is really important because it hosts the Llullaillaco Children, who were discovered in the late 90’s and are believed to have lived more than 500 years ago at the height of the Incan Empire.

We saw the boy first. “El Nino” was about 7 when he died. His feet were crossed and his head pointed to the sun. He was buried alive, sacrificed and believed to have greeted the Incan ancestors with pride and royalty. There were a lot of children sacrifices. One ceremony in particular, the selected 2 children, a boy and a girl, for their beauty and skills, and they went on a tour of the empire. For some months, they would parade around, getting gifts bestowed upon them, eating elaborate meals, and dressed in ornate clothing. At the end, they were taken to the top of a volcano, given alcohol, and were buried. I don’t know about you, but I think I figured out where Suzanne Collins got her inspiration for the Hunger Games. Creepy.

Seeing the boy was an odd experience. It’s weird to think he lived over 500 years ago but there he was, sitting in front of me, locked in his air and temperature control chamber, on display for the world to see. Makes me question what’s the meaning of it all, what life is all about. I wonder if that’s what the Incans had in mind. 

After the museum we went and fed the birds in the park. I got brave and let them eat out of my hand. Birds and butterflies, quite the day for nature. While we were wandering around the market, Jessica and I decided to get hair wraps. It’s like a bracelet, only tied into your hair. The artisan offered to custom make them for us, so we got to pick out the colors. We stood there for almost an hour, talking with him and watching him make our hair wraps. It was a really unique experience, and he was very friendly and patient with our Spanish.

Our final day we took another tour. This time to Humahuaca, via los siete colores and Purmamarca. As far as the tours go, this was my least favorite. It was hard to understand our guide, and the other people on the tour seemed uninterested. However, the sites were still amazing. The rocks and mountains and valleys, all gorgeous.

Our bus ride back was the next day. We checked out of our hotel and got lunch at a pizza place. It was delicious, almost like pizza back home. We also got ice cream one last time before it doubled in price before heading to the bus station.

We get there about 20 minutes early and there only 10 or so platforms. There’s no screen that says which bus is at which platform (like in airports), but they do announce it on an intercom. In Spanish. We knew the company of our bus, Andesmar, and we knew it was headed for Buenos Aires, or Retiro, the name of the Station. I asked a worker which platform we should be at, but he just said they would announce it when it got there. All of the buses have a sign up front that says their destination. They only Andesmar bus that was there said Mendoza. Not thinking that this could be our bus, Jessica and I wait for 20 or so minutes and then get worried. It was after the departure time on the ticket, and we didn’t know where our bus was.

So Jessica went to ask what happened and we found out that the bus that said the wrong city was really our bus. In my mind, there was no way a bus for Mendoza could have been going to Buenos Aires—they’re on the complete opposite sides of the country. So we talk to the company. They tell us it said Buenos Aires, and the driver waited for us for 10 minutes before leaving. We explained that it said Mendoza and they refused it, probably because they would have gotten in trouble if it did. The company refused to give us our money back and would not even change the ticket to a different bus.

After a few tears and several “now what?”s, we found another company that went to BsAs and forked over the $150 for a new ticket. I was not happy. But I guess I learned to triple check where the bus goes, even if it says something completely different. It’s funny that the word they use in Spanish that means “to miss” a bus, is perder, or “to lose.” I lost my bus.

I was much happier with the second company. The seats were much nicer, bigger, and more comfortable. The food and service was better, and we didn’t stop very much to pick up other passengers. We met some guys who lived in Belgrano, one of who worked in Vail for a year at a ski resort.

Overall, it all worked out. It was a good trip, a nice get away from BsAs, and I had a lot of fun with Jessica.