northampton, ma

Most expensive hostel/hotel: $7 (per night)
Least expensive: $1.50
Average lodging expense: $3

Nationalities encountered:  Israeli, Dane, Italian, Swiss, English, Australian, New Zealand, German, Brazilian, Mexican, Canadian, and a few Americans (we really are in the minority here in terms of travellers).

Average intercity bus price, per hour: $1
Price of a pint of beer, La Paz: $1.20
Internet cost per hour: $0.40 (compared with up to $3/hour in Europe)

Hikes done: 3
Cities and towns seen: 18
Most time spent in one place: 5 nights and counting, La Paz
Highest elevation: 15,420 feet at La Cumbre, outside of La Paz, in bus
Days spent over 9,000 feet: 35

Continuing yesterdays story, day 4 in the Yunga Cruz trek was nothing short of really horribly difficult. Whereas the first days of the trek were only 4-5 hours of hiking per day, this day was an eight hour slog, downhill most of the way losing over 5000 feet in elevation (oh what pain on the knees), and worst of all, having to fight through a seriously overgrown trail. To explain further, day 1 to 3 were spent up in the Andes, whereas day 4 and 5 were spent hiking downhill into the hot, jungly valleys below. The contrast between the areas was quite striking and probably the best part of the trek. In sum, we started at about 12,000 feet, went as high as 13,500, and then descended over the last two days all the way down to a mere 5,500. It was only 18 miles in total, a small trek in terms of distance, but a difficult one in terms of trail conditions and elevation changes.

Jungly areas, like the one we hiked through on the last two days, are not exactly known for having well behaved plant life. And since this is a rarely used trail, very few people had tramped through, and not enough to make a difference in clearing out the trail. So, in short, I spent about 6 of the 8 hours ducking under trees, tripping on slippery moss covered rocks (these are really bad on a downhill hike), and swiping at all sorts of branches that covered the trail. In some areas you would look at the scenery in front of you and wonder how anyone could consider it a trail at all. It really was more bushwacking than hiking. A giant machete would have come in handy. The main issue was that you had things all around you trying to trip you up or knock you down or make you fall. The eye can only look in so many directions in so little time, and often you are looking up to avoid branches bent on decapitation and fail to notice that slippery rock you are about to step on. Or vice versa.

Some things of note did happen on these two days. First, and most interesting, was when I was hiking along a narrow pass, with a 15 inch wide path seperating me from the vertical rock wall to my right and the cliff edge to my left. Suddenly the dirt gave away from my left foot, sending my left leg plunging down the side. Luckily I was on balance and managed to catch myself with my right leg and foot, so as to keep myself from tumbling over the edge. My right arm smacked hard into the ground and went numb for a few minutes, but other than that I was alright. Safe to say, the trail was not the safest one in Bolivia. The other things were actually more painful, one being a thorn which caught me in the neck as I was hiking down a slope, which of course dug in nice and deep due to that delayed reaction between penetration and the brain registering that you have something painful stuck in you. The other event was an unfriendly branch which I didn't see that caught me dead in the eye. That didn't feel so good either.

But, somehow and someway, and feeling a bit like Teddy Roosevelt, we escaped from the jungle and made camp in the valley below. It was quite an experience, taxing your mind to the maximum (the hike was far more mentally than physically exhausting, especially the jungle day when having to deal with the frustrations of a trail that just won't let you be in peace), and arriving successfully on day 5 (yesterday) into our destination, the lovely little town of Chulumani. In about a half hour I return back to La Paz, a land of civilization (meaning pizza, falafel, bagels, beer on tap, and a real bed), and with but a few blisters and sore joints to complain about. After five days of camp food and hard ground, it will be a pleasure.

Last Friday, the 24th, I fell off the face of the earth... and landed right into a big pile of it. I of course mean I fell off the civilized earth of internet and restaurants, and ended up in a mess of nature and a really long, tiring trail. Two other gringo travellers, a guide, a porter, and myself set off on Friday for a 5 day hike called the "Yunga Cruz" trail, a maddening journey of bliss and exhilaration and cursing and frustration. It was worth the pain, but oh what pain it was.

Two interesting things happened on the first day days: a soccer match, and arsonry.

The first day we arrived in the town of Chunawi, where the locals, upon finding that I spoke Spanish, asked if me and my two fellow trekkers wanted to engage in a game of soccer. I suck royal at soccer, haven't played it since I was about 8 years old. But the British fellow, Richard, of course plays twice a week and jumped at the chance, meaning I had to play. Let me just say that playing 3 on 3 soccer at 12,000 feet is enough to make your lungs jump out of your throat in anguish. Thin air is bad enough while hiking, but while running around a plaza trying to chase down three Bolivian guys who were well suited to the mountains - ouch. This all being said, it was incredible being in a tiny town that never sees tourists, playing soccer with three locals in their tiny plaza (no paved anything here, all dirt paths and the plaza was essentially a nice green grass field).

The second day we set off with a friend of the guide, who lived in Chunawi. His name was Don Angel (who we later found out was 63 years old), and this man loved fire. Probably a pyromaniac according to psychological definition. Upon camping on the second night, our friend Don Angel decided he would start setting fires for fun. So up above our campsite on the hill went our friend, lighting the brush on fire and standing there with a big smile on his wizened old face as the grass crackled and burned a bright orange. Keeping in mind that this week was the week of San Juan (Saint John), and to the Latin and Spanish world San Juan week means fireworks and bonfires and pyres (basically San Juan equals fire), it does make a bit of sense that Mr. Angel was so interested in lighting the landscape ablaze. Our porter, Juan, decided to join in with Don Angel, and after awhile of bemusement on my part I just had to join in.

Being from California, the last thing I would consider doing is going into wild brush and grass and go lighting fires. In my state, that's a great way to start something catastrophic and have your picture end up on the local news. In short, it was a trippy experience as I grabbed some dry brush, lit it up, and proceeded to set afire several tufts of brush around us. Liberating almost. Honestly it was safe enough, as far as arson goes, given the moistness in the air. Down below us, below the mountain range we were hiking through, was the yungas, or the cloud forest. During the day the humid air from the steamy jungle-ish valleys would meet the cool air up in the mountains and produce a hell of a lot of mist around us. Thus we weren't likely to start any sort of dangerous fire, but it was great in that primeval, primitive way to stand back and watch your fires light up the hillside above you.

During the second night as I laid in my sleeping bag my stomach turned from a normal stomach to one of acid and fire. Or, I got a bad stomach ache, one which lasted into the third day. Hiking four hours the next day in a very weakened position (couldn't eat) was not the most pleasurable of experiences, especially with a 25 pound backpack on my back. The scenery, however, was great as we hiked through the Andes to the southeast of La Paz. My stomach rounded into shape by that night, and I finally got some sleep.

For the rest of the story, man versus jungle, tune in tomorrow.

Solo travellers are generally not always the most sane of people to begin with, so I suppose it is somewhat understandable my mindstate yesterday. From September until mid May my brain was being constantly occupied with tasks and things that requires creative thought and output. Things such as my coursework and papers, books, music, my guitar, political conversation. Then I go on vacation. No school. No music. No guitar. Essentially I hit a creative void, where my life is reduced to very enjoyable and tranquil state as I travel, but a state that has more to do with observation of surroundings rather creatively interacting with them.

So my mind yesterday revolted against me, and finally I realized my constant daydreams and the persistent jukebox in my head (everytime a thought that reminds me of a line in a song, well that song just has to be mentally played and maybe hummed aloud and maybe if no one is around I might sing) were telling me something: my head was getting bored. Don't misundertand all of this, the trip so far has been stimulating and interesting and all sorts of good things. But the stimulation of travel differs from the stimulation of using one's imagination to create or interact with something, whether it's making up music on a guitar or writing in this blog (this blog has certainly helped, but I can't and do not want to be in a netcafe everyday).

I was in my hostel and was daydreaming again, lines of a story pulsing through my head as I envisioned a plot about a tortured artist who considered his success his failure. And before I knew it ... out I had to go! I remembered a store I had walked by earlier that had composition notebooks and pens and whatnot. I sped over (not in my usual ramble) and picked up a book and a pen, and went and wrote for an hour and a half in a cafe. Instant relief! Who knows (or cares) if the story goes anywhere, what interests me about the entire episode is the process of self-revelation that continually happens when on the road by oneself.

Despite civil unrest that only ended about 10 days ago, unrest which threatened to send the entire country into an armed conflict, La Paz today seems just like any other major metropolis. Walking about the La Paz now you would never know that tear gas and rubber bullets and dynamite were dominating the cityscape a mere two weeks ago. I arrived last night, and found musicians performing in the main plaza, people bustling all over the place, streets full of businessmen and young kids and food vendors. Since 2000, Bolivia has experienced civil unrest (in the form of strikes, blockades, marches, protests etc) so often that they seem to be experts at returning life back to normal. Unfazed they go back to business, although from the Bolivians I have talked to so far they seem to remain forever uneasy about the future. They would rather concentrate on the now - talking about what may happen transforms them to a weary face and tired eyes.

La Paz itself is an extremely interesting place for its contrasts. The first thing you notice are the juxapositions of the colonial houses nextdoor to modern glass cubes. Then you notice the contrast between all the businessmen walking around in their suits and ties with the indigenous women selling their wares on the streets. La Paz must be an alien place for the majority of Bolivians, given the money that exists here and the poverty that exists most elsewhere. From my perspective, I rather enjoy the irregularity of the city. The hills and windy streets and mismatched architecture make La Paz a very unique city, aside from the obvious points such as its elevation (the highest capital city in the world, at 11,000 feet, and the highest airport in the world at 13,000 feet), and all add up into a package that makes me fond of the place. Not to mention the sheer beauty of the surroundings, with the city sitting in a huge bowl and neighborhoods sprawling high up on the canyon walls (meaning at night, wherever you look you find lights rising hundreds of feet above you), with 21,000 foot Mount Illimani rising in the background

In today's newspaper three statistics caught my eye. First, the government just finished a study on child miners, and calculated there are 15,000 working in Bolivia's mines. Second, last night alone 5 people died in El Alto, the sprawling and poor city above La Paz. They froze to death on the streets, on a night that was not abnormally cold. Meaning this must be a regular occurrence, given the sheer number of people there who sleep on the streets or in ramshackle buildings. Third, from May 2004 to May 2005 there were over 3900 incidents of civil conflicts in Bolivia.

It's one thing to read about these things from the comfort of your home, and it's quite another to witness firsthand the poverty of El Alto as your bus goes through it, or to read accounts in the local paper of the poverty and difficulty so entrenched within the nation. The natural beauty and the sucking poverty (only Haiti is poorer in the Americas) make Bolivia an continually affecting experience.

The thing that makes a good hostel is atmosphere. Atmosphere is that initial feeling when you walk into a room or a house or a building. You know atmosphere when you feel it, but describing it can be thing of difficulty. But a good writer can always describe mental feelings and emotions, so here's an attempt to describe what goes into making the "backpacker atmosphere" in a hostel.

In is a feeling of commune-ality. Not that you are in a real commune, but that you are in a place that is relaxed and accepting. Out are overt security measures, which counteract the feeling of communality. In are rooms painted with different themes, or furnished as such. Out is the color white, beige, or any other neutral wall color. Out also is cleanliness, too much cleanliness ruins a place's character. In is a little dirt in the corners. Bathrooms can be the one exception. In are young people running the show, meaning the workers at the hostel are twenty-something travelers like yourself who are just working there for a month and then continuing on. Out are old proprietors and managers, no matter how lovely or helpful. In is word-of-mouth to find such a place. Out are guidebook recommendations. Definitely out is a curfew. In is someone working at the hostel who can cook real breakfasts, out is the ubiquitos continental breakfast that after a month of travelling you come to detest. In are room names, out are room numbers. In are the availability of movies and beer, right there in the hostel so that you don't really need to go anywhere for a good time. In is a backyard, stoop, or big patio and the opportunity to sleep outside if desired. In also are sprawling, maze-like old buildings. New buildings with interior symmetry are out. In hostel bars can be both in and out, depending on music and style. In are pool and ping pong tables, but out are pool and ping pong tables which are not free.

All that being said, in all my travels I have only found such a place three times: Granada, Budapest, and Lima, Peru.

Imagine my pleasure as I arrive to Tacna's bus station, ready to hop on a bus to Arica, Chile, only to be told that the protests at the border, which were supposed to end yesterday, continued again today and that for the second straight day it is impossible to get into Chile. That is, unless I wanted to walk through the protestors and another 2 miles to the Chilean border. What a great option that sounds! So about 2 hours ago I was faced with a dilemma, stay another night in this quite boring border city Tacna, or catch a bus right back to Arequipa, and then tomorrow morning get a bus to Copacabana, Bolivia, on the shores of Lake Titicaca.

The backpacker's code is to never backtrack, but in this case the soothing blue waters of Titicaca sound a lot better than this nothing-to-do outpost in the Atacama desert. So I bought a ticket for Arequipa, arriving there at 4 am tomorrow morning, where I will get a 5 hour bus to Puno an another 2 hour bus to Copacabana, where I will be relaxing on magical shores by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Backtracking is a sin, but so is waiting here another day in the hope that the border will open up again. I would probably murder myself in frustration if I waited in this town another day, and the protestors decided that keeping people out of Chile again sounded like a fun idea.

So in a little bit I hop on a bus to go right back to where I came from. Running to stand still, as U2 would say? At the moment I am just happy to be going somewhere, after failing last night and this afternoon.

Initially I was to go straight from Cusco into Bolivia, but of course the near civil war they had cancelled that idea. So I went to Arequipa (from where I am still writing) with the intention of going into Chile instead. But two days ago the 7.9 earthquake in Chile caused a landslide which took out a part of the road that runs south of Arica, the Chilean border town. On top of that, the unrest in Bolivia has since ceased. So as of yesterday, it appeared I couldn't get into Chile due to the landslide, and I had to go to Bolivia instead. But today I read the Chilean road authority made quick work of the landslide and that the road (while sketchy) is open again to buses. So to Chile I go, again!

11,000 feet of elevation change in two days of hiking generally means you went somewhere pretty interesting. In my case it was the famous Colca Canyon, the second deepest canyon in the world (and over twice as deep as the Grand Canyon). Unlike the Grand Canyon, the Colca doesn't feature vertical walls and giant carved out spaces, but instead seems more like a river which is towered over by two giant mountain ridges. Incredibly, the entire canyon was forgotten by time until the early 1970s when the Peruvian road engineers explored the region for the first time as part of an effort to built a road through the region. To their shock, they found thousands of Andean condors (largest bird in the world), thousands of stone terraces burgeoning with agriculture, and a system of towns that had been incommunicado with the outside world for a long, long time. And, of course, the canyon. They did build a road into the region, which has led to the area being reconnected with Peruvian society and the world at large.

I had some very interesting experiences while I was there (on top of witnessing the above). Probably the most interesting was the taxation placed upon my body. On the first day we started in the town of Cabanaconde, at around 10,800 feet up on the canyon ridge. We then descended down to the river, which sits at a modest 6500 feet, and then climbed up to the village of Cosnihua is at 7800 feet. This first day wasn't so bad, although descending down over 4000 feet is really hard on the knees. Not to mention the danger aspect, given than most hiking accidents occur when going downhill. The trail was good for the most part, but there was a bit of slipping and sliding on loose rocks and steep trail. By the time I got to the canyon bottom my legs felt like jelly from the repeated stress put upon the knees. Downhill can be just as hard as uphill.

The second day, after a great night spent with a local family (more on this below) we set off and descended again to the river bottom, this time to the oasis town of Sangalle. There we rested for a few hours and then did the monster hike back up the canyon wall to Cabanconde. I am unsure which hike was more difficult, doing the 4000 feet going down to the canyon bottom, or hiking 4000 vertical feet back up to the top. We set off at 3 pm for the hike to the top and got there at around 7 pm, the last hour of hiking was done in the dark with flashlights. Sketchy, but beautiful to watch the sky and canyon steadily darken as we made our way up the mountainside. The canyon is so deep that sundown for the towns at the bottom is 3:30 in the afternoon.

The canyon is remarkable for its depth of course, but I think the most beautiful part of the experience was walking through the towns that sit on the canyon walls. Snow falls upon the mountain ridges there in the summer, and snowmelt creates rivers that race down the canyon walls to the Colca river below. The people who live in the canyon have engineered an impressive system of aqueducts for transporting this snowmelt all across the canyon walls, feeding giant terraces where they grow their crops. The terraces and water system dates back hundreds of years, to before even the Incas had arrived in the area. Seeing the giant terraces from the top of the canyon is mesmerizing, as they snake along the lower canyon wall in a seemingly endless belt. And hiking through these towns is equally cool, as you go down dirt paths lined with rocks and look upon terraces and fields planted with lime and avocado and cactus. Some of the areas made me feel like I was in the Shire from Lord of the Rings, in how verdant and sleepy and tranquil was the combination of fields and trees and little houses.

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The second night of the canyon trip, me and my fellow hikers Allison and Mario stayed at Hostal Don Anillo, in Cosnihua. It was more like staying at someone's house than a hostel. Magical. The entire canyon has no electricity, so we spent the night outdoors around candles and a bonfire, enjoying great food and the company of Don Anillo's family. He served up cuy (guinea pig) and alpaca (cousin to the llama) steaks, which made for a incredibly tasty dinner (funny what five hours of hiking does to the taste buds). Eating fresh (in that the animals they serve up for dinner are kept in the back yard) barbecue under a million stars in an impossibly gigantic natural setting - unforgettable.

Ahhh the joys of an impending civil war to offset one's travel plans. Bolivia, if you have not kept up with the news lately, is basically one inch from having a military crackdown on the protesting indigenous population. The Quechua and Aymara people in Bolivia have kept La Paz, and most of the country, on lockdown for the last month via road blockades and demonstrations. Essentially all road transportation in Bolivia has been halted, getting into the country from Peru is impossible.

Part of me wishes I could be in La Paz to witness the goings on, as a student of international politics. The demonstrators are fueled by a deep anti-globalization sentiment, and the situation in Bolivia is something I have studied thoroughly. So what is going on right now is of great interest to me. Tear gas and rubber bullets, however, are not, and there are plenty of pictures and reports of much of downtown La Paz being covered in both. I have read stories of travellers stuck in La Paz for two weeks now, daily dealing with tear gas leaking into their hostels. Not to mention a near complete lack of food since grocerers have no way to restock their shelves. Not really a pleasant situation, but an extremely interesting one from my political perspective.

One thing is a shame though. Many travellers are blaming the "damn Indians" for affecting their travel plans and keeping them out of Bolivia. That's horseshit ignorance at its finest. The "damn Indians" are protesting for very valid reasons: namely two decades of being continually screwed over by their government and Western corporations. It's sad to see ignorant Westerners comment on how big of an inconvenience the situation is causing them, not realizing their position of priviledge compared to that of the protestors, who are among the poorest and most taken advantage of people on earth.

So what this means for me is a bit of a reversal in travel planning. Instead of going to Bolivia from Cusco, I am now in Arequipa and am on my way to Chile and then Argentina. Hopefully in three weeks or so the Bolivia situation will have settled down enough for me to get into the country. It's an incredible place and missing out on seeing it would be disappointing.

For a geographic reference, here you can find the map with my original itinerary on it.