northampton, ma

I mentioned something in the last posting about how the business sense in Argentina much closer resembles ours at home than that of the Bolivians or Peruvians. But today provided me with a clear and precise example of just how skewed and unprofitable their sense of business can be, even here in Buenos Aires.

I was in the Levi's store at the mall, trying to find some jeans (stupid me thought I could go 3.5 months without a pair of jeans, bad idea considering how messed up your clothes get on such a long trip, jeans are durable thus jeans are good - remember that next time Matt!). So I am about 6 feet tall, or 180ish centimeters. Your average Argentinian is about 5 foot 7 inches. So in theory I should go into this Levi's store and generally find jeans that are too small and short for me, right? Au contraire, my logically thinking friend. I tend to wear size 32 length jeans and expected to find mostly size 30's. Instead every single pair of jeans in this store, and we are talking about 50 or more pairs of jeans, were size 34 and up. Literally every style, every color, size 34 and up. Nothing at all to fit me, and I am pratically Gulliver in the land of Lilliputians.

Sometimes you just want to wring people's necks in the hope that your hands might squeeze some sense into the people here. Argentinian's are short, and yet you only have jeans that fit your average Viking? What fucking sense does that make? I asked the guy at the counter about it and he just shrugged and looked at me like I was asking a dumb question. Maybe I was. Maybe the people here just accept that nothing works the way it in theory ought to. Maybe I should open up a jeans store right next door to the Levi's store, offer size 28 and 30 and 32 jeans, and laugh my way to the bank.

I was reading in the guidebook yesterday that Argentina is only made up of 2% indigenous peoples (as compared to around 60% in Bolivia) and 15% mestizos (mixed indigenous and European descent). That means the other 83% of this country are full European - and it shows. As an ex-resident of Italy the Italian influence here is readily apparent. Here you see Fiat cars all over the roads, Ferrero chocolates in stores, gnocchi on every single menu (although they call it ñoqui), and bidets in every bathroom. Argentinians generally do not go out to a restaurant before 10pm and some slip Italian words in with their Spanish. Helado, or ice cream, is huge here, whereas in Peru and Bolivia and Chile there was hardly a heladeria to be seen. To top it off, the most popular alcoholic drink in Argentina is the one and only Fernet Branca of Milan.

As an Italophile I find all these occurrences and discoveries rather fun - and I am only in the far north of the country yet, where the majority of the mestizos live. In Buenos Aires (where I depart for tomorrow) the Italian population is huge, promising all sorts of good Italian cooking to go with my steaks and empanadas.

Coming from Bolivia (and Peru) this country is a modern marvel. Some say that many Argentines consider themselves still Europeans and not South Americans - and you can see why when you compare their daily lives to that of their northern neighbors. In Argentina you find hot water in your showers (hostel workers react in surprise if you ask of the availability of hot water, whereas in Peru and Bolivia it is the norm to ask, and the norm to be told "lo siento, no"), toilets that can have toilet paper flushed down them (in the other countries the pipes are too narrow and paper clogs them up, so you toss your paper in a bin), a "business sense" similar to ours in America (in the sense that transactions which logically make sense to us also make sense to the Argentines - you'd be amazed at how often stores/stands in Peru and Bolivia would not let you buy things from them), ATMs in every town (even the small out-of-the-way ones - something that you will never find in Bolivia), and police at road checkpoints who aren't carrying machine guns.

Not to down on Peru or Bolivia - I thoroughly enjoyed experiencing each of these countries. Obviously for different reasons. Argentina being much more modern is both good and bad: good in that I just spent two months in really poor countries, rendering very pleasant the amenities here; and bad in the sense that in Argentina you do not find a rich cultural tradition that is unique to this world. Meaning you find no ruins, new languages (i.e. Quechua or Aymara), or a sense of visiting a time outside of your own. Argentina is a simply great change of pace, keeping my vacation interesting at this late date, and letting me wind down and relax after my months of moving all about.

The idea is a week or more in Buenos Aires, followed by two weeks of snowboarding, then a week of wine and relaxation in Mendoza. That boils down to only three places visited in one month, which at this moment sounds quite all right.

I really have so much to write about, and think about, that it's hard to organize the stories into one cohesive thought here.  But I'll give it a try anyway, and recount my last week. 

In the last week I have been in three different countries.  I have felt winds of over 50 mph, cold near 0 degrees Fahrenheit, been 1 kilometer deep into a mountain in a 400 year old silver mine, crossed a prehistoric salt lake that is now bone dry and blindingly white, been at over 17,000 feet in elevation, been in a horrible sandstorm in the driest desert on Earth, and hitchiked a 12 hour journey with three friends in an 18 wheeler truck.

I meant it when I said I had a lot to write about.  There really are three stories here to tell, so I'll start with Potosi, then tell Uyuni and San Pedro, and then the story of our hitchhiking adventure into Argentina.  Here we go:

After leaving Sucre the gang of us went south to Potosi, home of the richest silver mine in the history of the world, and one of the oldest mines period at around 400 years. In the 1800s Potosi was actually the biggest city in the Americas (including N.A.) due to the thousands of people coming in to either strike it rich or work for the miners. The mine is actually an entire mountain, in which there are over 100 seperate mines. We only visited one, which was plenty. 3 hours underground inside a stinking hellhole of a mountain was plenty. Temperatures around 90 degrees, asbestos and arsenic clinging to the walls, dynamite explosions echoing through the tunnels and spewing dust everywhere, poison gases and very thin air at over 15,000 ft, and an average tunnel height of about four and a half feet.

It was difficult. At some points I was forced to crawl on my hands and knees through tunnels barely three feet high. A claustrophobe would not handle this. Of the seven people who started out in my group, three couldn't make it past the first level and had to go out. The rest of us pressed on for two more hours, going down three floors into the mountain. For me it was never that scary of an experience, eventually you get used to the idea of being inside the earth and you stop thinking about it. The hard part was the heat and the height of the tunnels - physically exhausting work.

The real thing of interest in the mines are the miners themselves. These people work sometimes 24 hours at a time, with an average life expectancy of about 50 years old. Generally they die early due to a pulmioary disease, like silicosis or black lung. They spend all day chewing coca leaves to keep their body stimulated, drinking little and eating nothing (the dust clings to your hands and food, making you very sick if you eat inside the mine). The silver in the mine is long gone, yet thousands of people from Potosi work the mine in the hope of finding a new vein and being set for life. Most work in cooperatives (there is no mining company here) so they are in a sense independent contractors, able to set their own work schedule.

While that in a sense is a nice perk, the people work completely manually, with no machinery whatsoever. Going into the mine is like stepping back in time, seeing them work with dynamite and pick axes and trolley carts. The latter of which you witness them pushing manually down the tracks, two men pulling with ropes and two men pushing the cart from behind. It's heartbreaking to see their faces as they go about this incredibly difficult task, the strain of pushing tons of rocks in such conditions has almost erased their humanity and their faces are mainly expressionless.

By far the mines were one of the most interesting things done so far on the trip. Normally I oppose doing something of this sort, being the priveledged Westerner I am not one who enjoys touring the pain of the less advantaged. For example, I really dislike the people who travel to places like these and take those hideously cliched photographs of the down and out locals (you know what I am talking about, the guy who goes to Africa and takes pictures of hungry kids with flies on their faces, or the old weathered man sitting under the sun with death on his face). The miners however are benefitted by the visiting tourists in a large way: each guide takes his group to the miner's market before entering the mine, where we buy dynamite and coca and drinks for the miners and take these supplies and give them to the men working inside. So, in a way, the tourists provide something for a few miners and help them get through their day.

My second story is really a string of stories over a four day period, but they fit together so it's here in one.

After leaving Potosi (which is quite a nice town, not as pretty as the spic'n'span clean Sucre but has a lot more character and vibe) we headed to Uyuni. From here we got a tour through the famous Salar de Uyuni and parts south to San Pedro de Atacama in Chile.

It was four days of extremely difficult weather. Unbeknownst to us, once per year a three-day giant windstorm kicks into the region of southern Bolivia and northern Chile. Our merry gang of swashbuckling adventurers just happened to be touring the region at the same time this lovely tempest decided to make it's 2005 appearance. So while visiting some of the most magical and surreal places on earth, we also had to deal with extreme cold and extreme winds and just all around misearableness outdoors. It made for a hard experience but I suppose in a way made the remoteness and difficulty of the terrain even more real.

Imagine being on a perfectly flat plain, only instead of praire grass and scrubby trees all you see is a white crust that goes as far as the horizon. The crust is blinding in the sun, crunches under your feet, and is only interrupted by small islands of rock and red dirt, and on the horizon by far off mountains. The Salar de Uyuni (Uyuni Salt Plain) once upon a time was a gigantic salt lake, which as the climate changed over the millenia dried up and left us a thick salt crust. The salt plain covers a large area, it took us about 4 hours to drive across it. It's four hours of surreal pleasure as you look through your sunglasses and see the glaringly white ground contrast with the dark blue sky, with a whole lot of nothingness and silence around you.

The salt plain still has some of the lake's old islands to tramp across, which even adds to the Dali like nature of the place. One in particular features gigantic cactuses and prehistoic coral rock (yes, actual coral as if you were off of Florida or Australia).

From the salt plain, we continued the second day down into the very southern region of Bolivia. The entire area is one big mountainous desert, with basically no water to speak of, extreme temperature changes (from around 60-70 degrees during the day to under 0 degrees at night), and when we were their, a big gale of a wind. The area is famous for its salt lakes, each a different color or smell due to volcanic activity and various types of algae. White, red, and green lakes can be found here, along with fumaroles and geysers and all sorts of really fun stuff to see. Not to mention the flamingoes (yes, flamingoes living in South America, which sounds just as weird as finding coral hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean, but I witnessed both with mine own eyes).

The windstorm kicked in on this day and made the experience outside our Jeep a rather miserable one. The day basically passed with us running out of the Jeep, snapping some pictures, and then running straight back in out of the shearing, bitterly cold wind. Remember that I mentioned this area is a desert, thus the wind also brought waves of sand and pebbles (yes, flying rocks) through the air, which aren't nice to your face, eyes, mouth or camera. On occasion I would have to walk backwards into the wind to keep myself from getting pelted by small rocks.

At this point we were really looking forward to getting into San Pedro in Chile, which our guidebook represented as being a nice town. We had dreams of good food, beer, and warm weather since San Pedro sits in the Atacama desert. I think I have learned that having great expectations in these countries is a great way to end up really frustrated. Plus, I should have expected the difficulties to come based off my previous attempts to get into Chile. You might remember about a month ago when I was denied entry to Chile by an earthquake, landslide, and border protests in the span of three days. Fate apparently wants me to spend as little time in that country as possible. Anyway, the story continues...

The third day we got up very early and went out on the Jeep again, visited some more lakes, and ended up at the Chilean border (which represented the end of our tour). From here we happily set out in a bus down into San Pedro, each of us having enjoyed our tour through the south of Bolivia, but really excited to get away from the outback and into civilization again. Especially since, on this third day, the windstorm returned as the sun rose, and made us miserable once again. Like I said at the top, we weren't aware of the annual appearance of the windstorm, so we figured it was just regular weather for the regionk, and that once we got out of this high moutain desert and down into the lowland Atacama desert in Chile that we would be leaving the altitude and the windstorm behind.

Oh so wrong. We hopped off the bus at the immigration point in Chile, at a low altitude of about 7,000 feet (compared to on average 13,000 feet in Bolivia), and were greeted with walls of blowing sand. Whereas on the tour we had a Jeep to jump in and escape the wind, here we had to wait outside the immigration office in a long line and basically eat sand. Then, after the customs were finished, we had to walk through San Pedro searching for a hostel, again eating sand as we walked down dusty dirt streets (no pavement here) in a sandstorm. Absolutely freaking miserable experience.

So we had expected an afternoon and night of relaxation, and instead found the same miserable storm that we had been trying to escape from. Everyone had plans of staying a few nights in San Pedro, but after an hour of dealing with the storm (not to mention the lack of electricity, the winds had blown over some power lines), everyone in our group of seven had decided to get the hell out of town. Desert towns like San Pedro only exist because something nearby of interest also exists (in this case some geysers and interesting rock formations), but in such weather no tours or buses were going out of town to these places, so there was zero reason to stay in town.

The decision was made: four of our group bought bus tickets and left that evening for Santiago, the countries capital, 24 hours away by bus. Chile is an incredibly long country. The other three, myself, Sam, and Tanya, were all about going to Argentina, which was only 11 hours away by bus. Which leads me into my next story.

This story is probably one of the best of my trip so far, and one of the best experiences too. Which is very nice to say since the day before it, the day described in the last story of San Pedro, was so effing miserable.

That day in San Pedro (the day we decided to get the hell out of town and into Argentina) we went to the bus office and tried to book a ticket to the lovely Argentinian city of Salta (from where I am writing currently). The day was this last Saturday, two days ago. We go to the counter, hope in our eyes and Argentina in our hearts, and get told that not only is the Sunday bus to Salta full, but so is the Tuesday bus. In fact, the next bus with avaiable seats to Salta, Argentina is on Friday. 6 days away. Only three buses go on the route per week, and the next two were full. We were basically being denied exit from this hell, and were piiiiiisssssssed. Our one way out was blocked, and none of us wanted to go on a 24 hour bus to Santiago. It was Argentina or bust.

Luck was with us: a fellow traveler in the office had a friend who organized a taxi for the journey into Argentina for a mere $40 per person. We followed the person's advice, went to the tour company the friend had used, and asked them if we could arrange such a car. To our dismay we were quoted a price, per person, of $400 for the journey. Fuck me man. No bus. No taxi. But wait! The man at the tour agency said there was a third way: go tomorrow morning at 7:30 am to the border station. There the truckers sleep for the night, and in the morning they go through the customs and border process, and then head straight out to Argentina. No problem hitching a ride with them! Cruise into Argentina in a 18 wheeler (aka bigrig, aka lorry, aka what a scary proposition). Easy as pie! No problem amigo!

And the three of us were game. We ended up adding a 60 year old Spaniard to our group, who had to be in Buenos Aires in five days for his flight back to Madrid, and thus was willing to do anything to get out of Chile. We all knew it was a pretty dodgy prospect (would we get a ride? would the Chilean border officials approve of such hitchhiking or kick us out of the trucks or arrest us? would the truckers turn into murderous theives and rob us of all our belongings?). Yet being in San Pedro was so freaking miserable that we would basically do anything to get out of this town and into Argentina.

So the next morning, yesterday, we all woke up, dragged ourselves out of bed, and caught a ride to the border station. Somehow our resolve of the previous day was still there, a night's sleep hadn't chickened ourselves out of doing what was necessary. We arrived, adn started asking the truckers there if they would take us with them. There were about 12 trucks, we approached about five or six different ones and got shot down each time. About two hours later our persistence had paid off, a group of Peruvian truckers were willing to take us with them. There were three trucks, and four of us, so two of us would go in one truck, and two of us would go seperately in the others.

We didn't like the idea of going alone, at least 75% of the reason for me that we were actually doing this crazy mission was the fact that there was four of us and so if we all got in one truck, or at least went in twos, we would have some measure of safety. Instead two of us had to go alone. To be honest, the truckers themselves all seemed on the level: they were middle aged, all worked for the same company, had shiny new trucks, and were travelling as a group. Nevertheless, I still had some fear at the prospect of entrusting my life to a total stranger (pretty logical, huh?).

The moment came that we had to decide how to split ourselves up into the trucks. The Spaniard, Julian, would go on his own. His Spanish was fluent, he was older, and we had just met him the day before, so basically it was an easy decision for the three of us friends to make. Then it was down to Sam, Tanya, and myself. We decided Sam would go solo since he had pepper spray. If shit hit the fan, at least he had something to fight back with. So Tanya and myself went together in the third truck.

And it was absolutely brilliant. My doubts about the hitchhiking idea were erased once we hopped up into the cab: our trucker immediately put on some CC&R (that's Creedence Clearwater for the uncivilized) and started telling us about how his daughter was learning English and how he had lived in Japan for a year. In short, the truckers turned out to be great people, the trip across the Andes was amazing, the views were great looking out the giant truck windows and sitting up so high. The trucks were carrying no loads (they were on their way to get filled with cargo) and so we zipped right through the mountains.

We really couldn't have asked for a better experience, I was all smiles for hours, sitting there listening to classic American rock (like being on a roadtrip at home!) and knowing that I was having one of those unique experiences that only come while travelling. Hitchhiking across countrise in a big ole truck, who the hell does something like that? Answer: we do and did! The truckers were so cool that they wouldn't even accept money in return for taking us with them, I guess they just wanted some conversation and company on the road. Free trip to Chile, $35 saved.

Things worked out beautifully, and happiness has returned again to our gang, now down to three, but three very happy individuals in the welcoming arms of Argentina.

It's funny how long trips evolve as time unfolds. Prior to your trip you develop a plan, an idea of where you want to go and in what order. You don't necessarily assign specific number of days to each place, it's a long trip afterall so you have some flexibility. So for me, the idea was a couple months in Peru, a month in Bolivia, and two weeks split between northern Argentina and Chile. So far I have spent a month in Peru and Bolivia, with 1.5 months left to go. The plan has changed.

As quickly as it changed I am sure it can change back or change anew, but I have a particular weakness for the sport of snowboarding. And apparently, from what I have been hearing, Argentina has lots of nice mountains to fill my urge to ride. So it appears my new direction will be taking me further into Argentina than I had originally planned. Not such a bad thing: Argentina is basically a first world country with third world prices. Famous for its women and steaks, mountains and lakes, I don't see much problem subtracting a month off of Peru (hey, I already spent a month there, right?) and spending it down in Argentina instead.

So, Buenos Aires (rumored to be perfection in a city), Bariloche (the Aspen of Argentina), Cordoba (birthplace of Che Guevara), and Mendoza (capital of South America wine country) await.

Finally I am leaving La Paz. Arrived here on June 21, expecting to spend a few days, and instead spent two weeks. Last night was the perfect example of why I have stayed here so long: good people, Campari and soda, a first class sushi restaurant (with smoked trout fresh from Lake Titicaca), and a nice bar/club with good music. Well the good people I have been hangin out with since the bike ride (basically for the last four days) just happened to be heading in the same direction as me, so myself, Sam, Adrian, Emma, and another Matt are heading down to Sucre tonight. Really I am a bit sad to depart from here, it's one of those places that just appeals to me for reasons both known and unknown. It's like Bologna in a way, there's just a nice vibe about this place that I find very agreeable.

Anyways, after spending a good bit of time here just chilling out and enjoying the art of doing nothing, it's about time to get back on the trail and see what Bolivia has to offer.

I'm back again in La Paz, after spending a three days in Coroico, the town at the end of "the world's most dangerous road". The road from La Paz to Coroico was dubbed this by the Inter American Development Bank in the late 1990s after the bank approved funds to assist in the building of a newer, safer road to Coroico. The reason? The road has at least 20 miles of very narrow, single lane dirt track with a 3000 foot drop off the side into the valley below. Nearly every bend and corner has memorial crosses erected to those who have gone over the edge, and many victim's families do periodic traffic control at the corner where they lost their love ones. On my trip down the road I saw four such people, with flags green on one side and red on the other, to coordinate oncoming traffic.

Four people died on the road the day before.

As any traveller in search of adventure knows, whenever a place is called the "most dangerous" well you must go experience it for yourself. So I did, doing the 38 mile journey on a six hour bike ride. The trip was incredible and incredibly painful. The scenery along the way is beautiful, starting at over 15,000 feet up in the Andes and finishing around 5,000 feet down in the high jungle. The painful bit comes in at around three hours into the ride, when all the rocks and gaps and bumps in the road have rattled your hands into a clawlike stage where you can barely open and close them. Imagine how you would be holding on for dear life, attempting to avoid oncoming trucks and buses, falling off the cliff, or simply falling and bashing yourself into the ground. Out of the 28 or so who went only one person fell, which surprised me because fatigue really sets in after awhile and the road conditions are absolute crap.

But anyway, I obviously survived, and had a very nice time of it. To be honest, biking the road is entirely safer than going down it in a bus, and the company I used has been operating for 7 years without anyone dying. I did have to return to La Paz on a bus, but when going in this direction (uphill) you get the left "lane" and the traffic going to Coroico has to pass you on the right, or on the edge side. So it's a bit safer - although collisions happen all the time, and the downhill vehicle, having the momentum on its side, has been known to take both vehicles over the edge.

Ending here, off to get a pint at the pub.

Despite all my writing about the modern joys of La Paz, one thing in South America never changes: the electric showerhead. We at home are used to having hot water heaters, and a big ole tank of hot water ready to go when we want it. The South America traveller gets an entirely different experience.

Combining electricity and a water source seems to be a bad idea, and you definitely get the willies looking at the setups in some showers. Basically what I am describing is a big white plastic showerhead with wires running into it from the wall. The water enters through the pipe, and is sizzled by electric current inside the showerhead, and then falls down upon you as hot water. Some setups are better than others (electric tape covering the wires, etc) whereas others look like an electrocution waiting to happen.

And of course there is more! Since the water must be heated basically the second before it comes out of the showerhead, you have now enjoyed 7 weeks of low water pressure. Turn up the water pressure too high, and you get a lovely dose of cold water since the electricity doesn't have sufficient time to heat the water before it shoots out. Combine that with the fact that it's winter here, and most bathrooms are thus rather cold during the night and morning, and you are living an odd experience. About 5% of your body, or where the trickle of hot water from the shower lands on you, is nice and toasty. The other 95% is shivering. Good times!