before finally loading a bunch to the SmugMug site tomorrow!
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
I Am Viktor Navorski, from Krakhozia
Remember Steven Spielberg's strange-yet-sweet film The Terminal with Tom Hanks?
Well, I (sort of) fulfilled one of my life-long dreams this past weekend by living in an airport (well, airport hotel) for two days - and not just any airport hotel - but one directly connected to the airport by walkway!
After the passport debacle that Cordelia and I endured on Sunday morning and afternoon in Lima, I decided to change the original flight I had scheduled for that night back to Tacna...especially since Cordelia's flight was delayed three hours and she would have been looking at nearly 9 hours in the airport alone. Therefore, my only option to fly back to Tacna was at 6pm Monday evening, the following day.
No big deal, I thought. Since it was Fiestas Patrias weekend (combined with the biggest Cuzco tourist rush of the year) and I knew that hotels and hostels in Lima would be horrifically crammed, I just planned on getting a room at the airport Ramada "Costal del Sol" hotel after helping Cordelia check-in for her flight. Once we had waited out the eternal line and obtained her boarding pass, we headed across the walkway to get me a room for the night. I just plopped down my credit card on the counter - after all, I had already resigned myself to paying a decent sum for the night - and a LAN Airlines official had told me that the only hotel was no more than $40 or $50 a night, a fair Peruvian price for a Ramada at the decidedly-lackluster Lima airport. Yet, one glance at a posted list of tarifas and I nearly fainted: STARTING at $350 per night for a SINGLE!? WHAT!?
After my ghastly reaction, the señorita immediately began to lower the price. "Ahh, I see where this is going," I thought to myself, as bargaining is a realm very dear to me after having spent considerable time in Peru. I played every card I could possibly think of, primarily pushing the "lost passport" angle for nearly 15 minutes until I had successfully bargained her down to a reasonable sum. I won't disclose exactly what this reasonable sum was, but let it suffice to say that the agreed-upon figure was far more manageable than the one originally quoted. Thank god for Peruvian bargaining culture and my ability to look poor and disheveled while traveling, for these have saved the day more than just this once.
And then as posted previously, after Cordelia's departure I slept like a baby, waking up at 9am to enjoy a wonderfully-decadent buffet breakfast complete with hot chocolate and cocoa puffs. A short aside: Sometimes I really love what Peruvian establishments offer as "typical gringo food": usually consisting of a bland sort of cocoa puffs and some variation on pancakes, or woefully under-scrambled eggs for breakfast; and the inevitable personal-size pizza for dinner. Is this really how American food culture has been communicated throughout the past decades? I suppose we don't have much of a distinct food culture to communicate, actually, as all seem to meld into one. Thoughts?
After this satisfying breakfast, I began to ponder the opportunities available to me at that very moment. I was living in an airport. I could go run errands, in my pajamas, in an airport. Oh boy. For those of you who know me well, this was quite an exciting realization.
I proceeded to run out into the airport, in my pajamas of course, to survey all there was to offer an aerofile and homesick gringo such as myself. Airport starbucks: check. Internet cafe: check. Duty free complete with tacky Peru memorabilia: check. Food court: check, with DUNKIN' DONUTS. Score. Large observation window from which to excitedly view takeoffs and landings of large aircraft: NO. What the hell of kind of airport doesn't have this? I bought a few necessary toiletries and returned, dejected, to my hotel room. My fantasy, living out of the airport for an entire night and day, had vanished into thin air with this discovery. For those of you who have seen The Terminal: No airport store job applications, no storage room card games with maintenance guys, no translating for unruly American travelers unable to speak Spanish, and most unfortunately, no Peruvian Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike. Damn.
Still, I was able to post the most recent blog update from the internet cafe and send out postcards to our beloved Euro friends and family. Having returned to the hotel, I went for a badly-needed three mile jog on the treadmill and headed down to the spa. Ahhh, the spa. Just to note, this gray, rectangular monstrosity had turned out to be no Ramada, not even a Ramada on steroids, but more like a whited-out postmodern Montreal-style boutique hotel that had somehow obtained the gringo Ramada brand name probably to proffer some element of legitimacy, complete with a fully-stocked spa. I relished the eucalyptus steam sauna for a half-hour while alternating with five minute breaks in the Spanish rain shower, then took in all the glory that was the dry sauna. After that, a short stint in the jacuzzi and pool, and one of the best showers I've had in years. Wow, was I reluctant to return to Taltal at that point.
Yet with no pressing Viktor-Navorskian need to venture out of the airport to experience what the city offers, as I already knew what it had to offer (next to nothing), I was very content with waiting out the time before my flight to Tacna with a cold Cuzqueña in hand and a few gloriously-overpriced Dunkin' Donuts. Tack on a $10 GQ magazine and an entertaining collection of short stories, Brief Encounters with Che Guevara, and I was primed for departure by the time 5pm rolled around. Still, the homesickness, or at least that innate feeling of comfort that home offers, was burning stronger than ever, having been brought on by Cordelia's departure and my obsession with airport departure screens. Miami, AA flight 957: mmm, warmth, beach, sun, close to home. Houston, CO flight 1091: ooo, Texas, football, Sonic burger, cross-country trips, close to home. New York, LA Flight 518: we won't even go there, I couldn't even bring myself to think about just how quickly that 7.5 hour flight would take me home.
With a sense of reluctant yet faithful purpose and duty, I dragged myself over to gate 5 to await my flight to Tacna. Leaving the enchanting Peru, let alone this little portal to home and the rest of the world, was difficult, yet I boarded the plane content with the knowledge that I have so much English left to teach, so much Spanish left to learn, and so many people left to meet.
Vamos Amigos...onward and upward!
Well, I (sort of) fulfilled one of my life-long dreams this past weekend by living in an airport (well, airport hotel) for two days - and not just any airport hotel - but one directly connected to the airport by walkway!
After the passport debacle that Cordelia and I endured on Sunday morning and afternoon in Lima, I decided to change the original flight I had scheduled for that night back to Tacna...especially since Cordelia's flight was delayed three hours and she would have been looking at nearly 9 hours in the airport alone. Therefore, my only option to fly back to Tacna was at 6pm Monday evening, the following day.
No big deal, I thought. Since it was Fiestas Patrias weekend (combined with the biggest Cuzco tourist rush of the year) and I knew that hotels and hostels in Lima would be horrifically crammed, I just planned on getting a room at the airport Ramada "Costal del Sol" hotel after helping Cordelia check-in for her flight. Once we had waited out the eternal line and obtained her boarding pass, we headed across the walkway to get me a room for the night. I just plopped down my credit card on the counter - after all, I had already resigned myself to paying a decent sum for the night - and a LAN Airlines official had told me that the only hotel was no more than $40 or $50 a night, a fair Peruvian price for a Ramada at the decidedly-lackluster Lima airport. Yet, one glance at a posted list of tarifas and I nearly fainted: STARTING at $350 per night for a SINGLE!? WHAT!?
After my ghastly reaction, the señorita immediately began to lower the price. "Ahh, I see where this is going," I thought to myself, as bargaining is a realm very dear to me after having spent considerable time in Peru. I played every card I could possibly think of, primarily pushing the "lost passport" angle for nearly 15 minutes until I had successfully bargained her down to a reasonable sum. I won't disclose exactly what this reasonable sum was, but let it suffice to say that the agreed-upon figure was far more manageable than the one originally quoted. Thank god for Peruvian bargaining culture and my ability to look poor and disheveled while traveling, for these have saved the day more than just this once.
And then as posted previously, after Cordelia's departure I slept like a baby, waking up at 9am to enjoy a wonderfully-decadent buffet breakfast complete with hot chocolate and cocoa puffs. A short aside: Sometimes I really love what Peruvian establishments offer as "typical gringo food": usually consisting of a bland sort of cocoa puffs and some variation on pancakes, or woefully under-scrambled eggs for breakfast; and the inevitable personal-size pizza for dinner. Is this really how American food culture has been communicated throughout the past decades? I suppose we don't have much of a distinct food culture to communicate, actually, as all seem to meld into one. Thoughts?
After this satisfying breakfast, I began to ponder the opportunities available to me at that very moment. I was living in an airport. I could go run errands, in my pajamas, in an airport. Oh boy. For those of you who know me well, this was quite an exciting realization.
I proceeded to run out into the airport, in my pajamas of course, to survey all there was to offer an aerofile and homesick gringo such as myself. Airport starbucks: check. Internet cafe: check. Duty free complete with tacky Peru memorabilia: check. Food court: check, with DUNKIN' DONUTS. Score. Large observation window from which to excitedly view takeoffs and landings of large aircraft: NO. What the hell of kind of airport doesn't have this? I bought a few necessary toiletries and returned, dejected, to my hotel room. My fantasy, living out of the airport for an entire night and day, had vanished into thin air with this discovery. For those of you who have seen The Terminal: No airport store job applications, no storage room card games with maintenance guys, no translating for unruly American travelers unable to speak Spanish, and most unfortunately, no Peruvian Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike. Damn.
Still, I was able to post the most recent blog update from the internet cafe and send out postcards to our beloved Euro friends and family. Having returned to the hotel, I went for a badly-needed three mile jog on the treadmill and headed down to the spa. Ahhh, the spa. Just to note, this gray, rectangular monstrosity had turned out to be no Ramada, not even a Ramada on steroids, but more like a whited-out postmodern Montreal-style boutique hotel that had somehow obtained the gringo Ramada brand name probably to proffer some element of legitimacy, complete with a fully-stocked spa. I relished the eucalyptus steam sauna for a half-hour while alternating with five minute breaks in the Spanish rain shower, then took in all the glory that was the dry sauna. After that, a short stint in the jacuzzi and pool, and one of the best showers I've had in years. Wow, was I reluctant to return to Taltal at that point.
Yet with no pressing Viktor-Navorskian need to venture out of the airport to experience what the city offers, as I already knew what it had to offer (next to nothing), I was very content with waiting out the time before my flight to Tacna with a cold Cuzqueña in hand and a few gloriously-overpriced Dunkin' Donuts. Tack on a $10 GQ magazine and an entertaining collection of short stories, Brief Encounters with Che Guevara, and I was primed for departure by the time 5pm rolled around. Still, the homesickness, or at least that innate feeling of comfort that home offers, was burning stronger than ever, having been brought on by Cordelia's departure and my obsession with airport departure screens. Miami, AA flight 957: mmm, warmth, beach, sun, close to home. Houston, CO flight 1091: ooo, Texas, football, Sonic burger, cross-country trips, close to home. New York, LA Flight 518: we won't even go there, I couldn't even bring myself to think about just how quickly that 7.5 hour flight would take me home.
With a sense of reluctant yet faithful purpose and duty, I dragged myself over to gate 5 to await my flight to Tacna. Leaving the enchanting Peru, let alone this little portal to home and the rest of the world, was difficult, yet I boarded the plane content with the knowledge that I have so much English left to teach, so much Spanish left to learn, and so many people left to meet.
Vamos Amigos...onward and upward!
Monday, July 28, 2008
Feliz Fiestas Patrias!
Yes, I`m still alive (how: I`m not so sure).
Hello from Lima, Peru, where it is currently Fiestas Patrias, or independence day. I have spent the last day and night pretty much entirely in Jorge Chavez international airport here in Lima, despite an ill-fated excursion with Cordelia into the Miraflores district.
Ill-fated is only somewhat misleading, as we actually went on two separate excursions into the city; one having been extremely unsuccessful, the other fairly enjoyable.
Upon arriving yesterday to Lima airport at 9am, Cordelia and I stored our luggage and headed in to Miraflores to revisit my beloved ceviche paradise, Punto Azul, and see an English film (we were gunning for Batman). Our first stop was the Scotiabank ATM in order to sacar the appropriate funds to enjoy our little day trip. However, upon checking my backpack for the all-purpose passport/Chilean ID/ATM card and credit card holder, a wave of horror began to flood over me. IT WASN`T THERE.
People, to say that I was scared would be a complete understatement. It wasn`t just my ability to access money that was lacking; in addition, I had absolutely no way to return to Chile as my passport, Chilean ID, and visa were in that pouch. I was really not looking forward to a two-week prison term in the gray, misty depression hole that is Lima.
Yet after searching through all my possessions and receiving negative responses from every possible number at the airport, including the taxi driver`s cell phone, my options were not looking all that promising. Realizing that we had no choice but to return to the airport to search for ourselves, Cordelia and I hopped back in a taxi to start investigating. Still, by 1pm, we had no leads after speaking to every security agency, lost-and-found office, and LAN airlines official...and we were seriously considering facing our fate and starting the whole process of reclaiming our identity.
And then Cordelia, in all her infinite 17 year-old miraculous god bless her wisdom, suggested that she go check at the call center that we had briefly stopped in to make a call earlier that morning. Upon returning, she managed the most misleading and heart-breaking look of resignation before switching to a massive smile...SHE HAD FOUND IT. It was still in the phone booth we had used. Unbelievable.
And with that discovery, she could return to New Jersey, and I to my beloved mini-village on the sea, Taltal. We then headed back in to Miraflores to enjoy a wonderful fresh seafood lunch at Punto Azul and hang out at LarcoMar, a gringofied shopping mall built into the cliffs of Lima. Although we were too late in arriving at the theater in order to enjoy Batman, we just hung out: Cordelia ordered a coffee at gringobucks, we got a few drinks at my favorite sports bar from last summer, and we finally returned to the airport completely satisfied and she ready to get home to New Jersey. Almost as a small concession to my fragile emotional state (as I was definitely not looking forward to parting ways with Cordelia until Christmas), her flight was delayed three hours, and we spent the last bit of time together in an airport hotel I reserved for myself for the night (more on this later).
Finally, she being eager to return to her friends, our parents, cats, and her unbelievably comfortable bed, I walked her over to the depature area and saw her off at 12am, despite having a very strong urge to just destroy her passport and ticket and bring her back with me to Chile. Fighting back tears and relishing that all-too rare choking feeling, I reluctantly returned back to my airport hotel room to have what was probably the best sleep of the last two weeks, undoubtedly aided by the zero feet of altitude!
Now, as I await my flight back to the border of Peru and Chile, I cannot believe that the next time I will see Cordelia will be Christmas Eve. We had an incredible yet taxing trip together (many details to come), and I am already scheming up our next brother-sister expedition!
Any suggestions?
Hello from Lima, Peru, where it is currently Fiestas Patrias, or independence day. I have spent the last day and night pretty much entirely in Jorge Chavez international airport here in Lima, despite an ill-fated excursion with Cordelia into the Miraflores district.
Ill-fated is only somewhat misleading, as we actually went on two separate excursions into the city; one having been extremely unsuccessful, the other fairly enjoyable.
Upon arriving yesterday to Lima airport at 9am, Cordelia and I stored our luggage and headed in to Miraflores to revisit my beloved ceviche paradise, Punto Azul, and see an English film (we were gunning for Batman). Our first stop was the Scotiabank ATM in order to sacar the appropriate funds to enjoy our little day trip. However, upon checking my backpack for the all-purpose passport/Chilean ID/ATM card and credit card holder, a wave of horror began to flood over me. IT WASN`T THERE.
People, to say that I was scared would be a complete understatement. It wasn`t just my ability to access money that was lacking; in addition, I had absolutely no way to return to Chile as my passport, Chilean ID, and visa were in that pouch. I was really not looking forward to a two-week prison term in the gray, misty depression hole that is Lima.
Yet after searching through all my possessions and receiving negative responses from every possible number at the airport, including the taxi driver`s cell phone, my options were not looking all that promising. Realizing that we had no choice but to return to the airport to search for ourselves, Cordelia and I hopped back in a taxi to start investigating. Still, by 1pm, we had no leads after speaking to every security agency, lost-and-found office, and LAN airlines official...and we were seriously considering facing our fate and starting the whole process of reclaiming our identity.
And then Cordelia, in all her infinite 17 year-old miraculous god bless her wisdom, suggested that she go check at the call center that we had briefly stopped in to make a call earlier that morning. Upon returning, she managed the most misleading and heart-breaking look of resignation before switching to a massive smile...SHE HAD FOUND IT. It was still in the phone booth we had used. Unbelievable.
And with that discovery, she could return to New Jersey, and I to my beloved mini-village on the sea, Taltal. We then headed back in to Miraflores to enjoy a wonderful fresh seafood lunch at Punto Azul and hang out at LarcoMar, a gringofied shopping mall built into the cliffs of Lima. Although we were too late in arriving at the theater in order to enjoy Batman, we just hung out: Cordelia ordered a coffee at gringobucks, we got a few drinks at my favorite sports bar from last summer, and we finally returned to the airport completely satisfied and she ready to get home to New Jersey. Almost as a small concession to my fragile emotional state (as I was definitely not looking forward to parting ways with Cordelia until Christmas), her flight was delayed three hours, and we spent the last bit of time together in an airport hotel I reserved for myself for the night (more on this later).
Finally, she being eager to return to her friends, our parents, cats, and her unbelievably comfortable bed, I walked her over to the depature area and saw her off at 12am, despite having a very strong urge to just destroy her passport and ticket and bring her back with me to Chile. Fighting back tears and relishing that all-too rare choking feeling, I reluctantly returned back to my airport hotel room to have what was probably the best sleep of the last two weeks, undoubtedly aided by the zero feet of altitude!
Now, as I await my flight back to the border of Peru and Chile, I cannot believe that the next time I will see Cordelia will be Christmas Eve. We had an incredible yet taxing trip together (many details to come), and I am already scheming up our next brother-sister expedition!
Any suggestions?
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Viva el Peru
Hey everyone...
Just wanted to post a little notification of arrival in Cuzco! The 48-hour marathon was incredibly smooth and without a single hitch in plans. Cordelia and I arrived here at 7am after spending about four hours on the cold floor at Lima Airport - therefore, the ten hours of sleep we enjoyed today was badly needed!
We´ve just been walking around a bit and I showed the little one the plaza and surrounding areas. Had a nice little meal in a wood-fired pizza place for $15 as well. For now we´re still in acclimatization phase, but once we get out and about and partake in some serious activities I will post some good updates!
Sorry I wasn´t able to post more photos from my recent travels on my SmugMug site before leaving - I had a frantic few days. Everything is great so far here in Cuzco: Conor´s apartment is amazing, the city looks better than I remembered, and we´re booking our train tickets to Machu Picchu tomorrow!
Updates to follow...Buenas Noches!
Just wanted to post a little notification of arrival in Cuzco! The 48-hour marathon was incredibly smooth and without a single hitch in plans. Cordelia and I arrived here at 7am after spending about four hours on the cold floor at Lima Airport - therefore, the ten hours of sleep we enjoyed today was badly needed!
We´ve just been walking around a bit and I showed the little one the plaza and surrounding areas. Had a nice little meal in a wood-fired pizza place for $15 as well. For now we´re still in acclimatization phase, but once we get out and about and partake in some serious activities I will post some good updates!
Sorry I wasn´t able to post more photos from my recent travels on my SmugMug site before leaving - I had a frantic few days. Everything is great so far here in Cuzco: Conor´s apartment is amazing, the city looks better than I remembered, and we´re booking our train tickets to Machu Picchu tomorrow!
Updates to follow...Buenas Noches!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Flaco and Chato Do Peru: Part Two
Well, folks, here we go again!
In about 24 hours I will begin my second pilgrimage to the land of the Incas, only this time it's going to take me a hell of a lot longer to get there. Go figure - I'm a whole lot closer! While my first trip took a grand total of 9 hours, including layover in Miami, this trip promises to take (at least) 48 straight hours of travel, whereupon I will finally reach Cusco...with a special someone in tow!
Yes, little Cordelia, a.k.a. Hermana a.k.a Dilly a.k.a. Quadulous (believe me, the list of my nicknames for her can go on for ever) has decided to meet me in Lima for a two week trip up to Cusco and Machu Picchu! I couldn't be more excited...she's really in for the trip of a lifetime.
Also in accompaniment (well, already there) will be Conor, a.k.a. Chato Barrigon, mi amigo from my Peru volunteering experience last summer. He has an apartment in Cusco for two months, and is supervising new volunteers while ensuring the proper future development of the guinea pig farm that we raised start up funds for last year.
A perfect recipe for an incredible adventure, I should say! Cordelia and I don't really have any set plans so far, apart from staying with Conor and her seeing Machu Picchu, of course. We are going to do a trek - just not sure which one - it will completely depend on how physically capable she feels once adjusting to the altitude in Cusco. The first two days, of course, will be spent acclimatizing (it is about 11,500 feet!), meaning we will be doing absolutely nothing. I hope to post a couple of updates about our activities when in Cusco, though I can't promise anything, as I won't have my computer with me and therefore will be entirely dependent on sketchy internet cafe's.
I, Max Calvert, I have never encountered such difficult travel planning in my life. Yes, everyone, it's true. My route will be as follows:
July 12
8:00am: Taltal-Antofagasta in bus, 4 hrs. Must spend whole day here because of Ministry of Education error in payment system...can only pick up my money at one bank in Antofagasta that closes at 2pm!
July 13
2:00am: Antofagasta-Arica in bus, 10 hrs. in sleeper seat...YES.
3:00pm: Arica, Chile-Tacna, Peru in taxi, 1 hr. Let's hope Peru accepts me and that no one plants drugs on my person.
8:30pm: Tacna-Lima, Peru in plane, 2 hrs. Meeting Cordelia in airport when I land! Wait in airport 'til 5am...
July 14
5:30am: Lima-Cusco, Peru in plane, 1 hr. FINALLY arriving!
This itinerary, mind you, took me no less than 3 weeks of constant scheming and tireless research. Let's hope it proves to be as accurate and seamless as I've planned for! In proper Max fashion, I have registered my trip with the US Dept. of State online and will be analyzing each and every mode of transportation for emergency features and exits, of course.
p.s. I will be posting a bunch of pictures to my SmugMug site (linked top right hand corner) before I leave...including (Schuyler) mountain reflection.
In about 24 hours I will begin my second pilgrimage to the land of the Incas, only this time it's going to take me a hell of a lot longer to get there. Go figure - I'm a whole lot closer! While my first trip took a grand total of 9 hours, including layover in Miami, this trip promises to take (at least) 48 straight hours of travel, whereupon I will finally reach Cusco...with a special someone in tow!
Yes, little Cordelia, a.k.a. Hermana a.k.a Dilly a.k.a. Quadulous (believe me, the list of my nicknames for her can go on for ever) has decided to meet me in Lima for a two week trip up to Cusco and Machu Picchu! I couldn't be more excited...she's really in for the trip of a lifetime.
Also in accompaniment (well, already there) will be Conor, a.k.a. Chato Barrigon, mi amigo from my Peru volunteering experience last summer. He has an apartment in Cusco for two months, and is supervising new volunteers while ensuring the proper future development of the guinea pig farm that we raised start up funds for last year.
A perfect recipe for an incredible adventure, I should say! Cordelia and I don't really have any set plans so far, apart from staying with Conor and her seeing Machu Picchu, of course. We are going to do a trek - just not sure which one - it will completely depend on how physically capable she feels once adjusting to the altitude in Cusco. The first two days, of course, will be spent acclimatizing (it is about 11,500 feet!), meaning we will be doing absolutely nothing. I hope to post a couple of updates about our activities when in Cusco, though I can't promise anything, as I won't have my computer with me and therefore will be entirely dependent on sketchy internet cafe's.
I, Max Calvert, I have never encountered such difficult travel planning in my life. Yes, everyone, it's true. My route will be as follows:
July 12
8:00am: Taltal-Antofagasta in bus, 4 hrs. Must spend whole day here because of Ministry of Education error in payment system...can only pick up my money at one bank in Antofagasta that closes at 2pm!
July 13
2:00am: Antofagasta-Arica in bus, 10 hrs. in sleeper seat...YES.
3:00pm: Arica, Chile-Tacna, Peru in taxi, 1 hr. Let's hope Peru accepts me and that no one plants drugs on my person.
8:30pm: Tacna-Lima, Peru in plane, 2 hrs. Meeting Cordelia in airport when I land! Wait in airport 'til 5am...
July 14
5:30am: Lima-Cusco, Peru in plane, 1 hr. FINALLY arriving!
This itinerary, mind you, took me no less than 3 weeks of constant scheming and tireless research. Let's hope it proves to be as accurate and seamless as I've planned for! In proper Max fashion, I have registered my trip with the US Dept. of State online and will be analyzing each and every mode of transportation for emergency features and exits, of course.
Wish us safe travels - Next update will be from Cordelia and me in Cusco.
VIVA EL PERU!
VIVA EL PERU!
p.s. I will be posting a bunch of pictures to my SmugMug site (linked top right hand corner) before I leave...including (Schuyler) mountain reflection.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Finally, a Lucid Explanation
Que supresa! Today was another day of teacher's strike here in Taltal. From what I gather it's just a one-day deal, but then again one can never be too sure about anything here in Chile. Therefore, today was spent doing absolutely nothing, aside from battling a lingering cold and a minor hangover from last night's seafood dinner and wine consumption marathon at a fellow professor's house. It is truly amazing how late Chileans are able to stay up without a single yawn.
Also, I finally found a decent (although short) English news bulletin concerning student and teacher displeasure over the new law that was passed, so here you go.
Also, I finally found a decent (although short) English news bulletin concerning student and teacher displeasure over the new law that was passed, so here you go.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
San Pedro de Atacama
I recently returned from a weekend trip to San Pedro de Atacama, an oasis village in the middle of the driest desert in the world. Hands down, this place has the most impressive scenery I have ever witnessed. Lisa, Lauren (two of the other volunteers in Taltal), and I arrived in San Pedro last Friday. The bus ride, although 9 hours long, is muy impresionante - after exiting Calama, the mining city near which Chuquicamata is located, the road winds through a small mountain range and descends into jagged salt peaks and vast gorges, finally reaching a small cluster of trees and mountain streams...San Pedro de Atacama.
The town is somewhat overrun by tourists, and I had read in a number of guidebooks that this tends to dull its overall appeal. However, I didn't think so at all - muchos gringos, afterall, is a fairly natural consequence of a place having some of the most incredible landscape in the world. In addition, the saturation of gringos in San Pedro really tends to drive the price of various excursions down to very manageable levels, although everything added up quickly after three days!
Immediately upon arriving midday Friday we decided to look for an easy excursion to take that afternoon. Luckily for us, one of the most incredible sunsets in the world just so happens to take place in the Valle de la Luna, just outside San Pedro. For just $14 each we were guided on beautiful 2.5 hour hike through salt gorges, reaching the peak of a small cerro which served as our sunset venue. This was our view...
Later that night, after eating a very decent three-course meal in front of a warm fire for $10 US, we went to book some excursions for the following day. There are countless options for day and half-day trips in San Pedro, but we knew that we did not want to wake up at 4am in order to go on the full day geysers and high-alpine lakes tour, even though this is supposed to be incredible (for the next time!). Instead, we negotiated with a tour company to go sandboarding in the morning and see the Salar de Atacama in the afternoon. Fantastic decision.
At first, sandboarding seemed to be a bit counter-productive. The sand dune that we were boarding on was massive, and we had to trek back up through what seemed like a treadmill of sand at full speed after each run to the bottom. I also had no idea that turning is nearly impossible on a sandboard, making the whole activity a lot less interesting than I expected. However, after surviving a few horrific head-over-feet tumbles, I really began to enjoy the simplicity of bombing straight downhill as fast as possible. Before each run the board needs to be waxed, and we each were given a stick of wax with which we could cover the board as little or as much as preferred, translating into different levels of slickness and therefore speed. The highlight was definitely lubing up the board to the max. and bombing it from the high point of the dune, only to take a massive spill at the bottom! I suffered quite a bruise from that...
The trip to the Salar de Atacama (Atacama salt flat) that afternoon was unforgettable. A nearby town called Toconao, containing a large Atacameña population, has a wonderful symbiotic relationship with the surrounding salt flats: numerous knowledgeable guides are hired from the town and a certain percentage of proceeds from park entrance fees are recycled back into the community somehow. It really seems like a case of indigenous eco-tourism done the proper way.
After watching a short video about the ecosystem and formation of the salt flat, we were led out through the massive expanse by a local guide. I have never seen such beautiful contrast in a landscape: off-white salt shards permeate the horizon nearly as far as the eye can see until the yellow and green altiplano (high-alpine plain) rises up to meet the towering peaks of the Andes. Numerous volcanoes, many pushing 6,000 meters (19,260 ft), dominate the skyline just above the salt flats; in fact, one in particular (I no longer remember the name) has erupted quite frequently over the past few decades.
After strolling through a well-worn salt path, we were led to a viewing area situated between two lagoons populated by three of the five still-existing species of flamingo. Why there are even five species of flamingo I have no clue - it certainly seems like one would suffice, as they're all quite similar and similarly useless. Still, they're not too bad to look at, and I snapped tons of photos of the Chilean species grazing the lagoon for small pink organisms (which happen to give them their color). Once the sun set the colors of the surrounding landscape really exploded, and I took a few photos that should be frame-worthy once I return.
After spending that Saturday night eating another nice 3 course meal (this time including some wine) for $10 and having some drinks with a nice Belgian couple in front of a fuego fuerte, we rose early to take our rented mountain bikes ($6 for half-day!) on a promising 20km round trip tour of the Valle de Catarpe. After about 3km, we hit the Pukara ruins, an Atacameña village dating back to the 11th Century if I'm not mistaken. It was in surprisingly good shape considering its age.
After about 6km of pedaling through this amazing valley, we were stopped by a fairly substantial river. At that point it was nearly 11am, and we had a bus to catch at 2:15pm. While the girls immediately decided to turn back to town, I of course couldn't resist the challenge of trying to cross the damn thing. I scoped out different crossings up and down stream, but at its narrow sections the river was simply that much deeper. Still trying to avoid getting soaked in this freezing glacial torrent, I found a somewhat peaceful-looking section and just hit the water at full speed, thinking I might be able to get across. Not quite! I hit the other bank with one leg completely submerged, the girls laughing hysterically and probably thinking "thank God we decided against that".
Obviously having committed to the entire journey by now, I pressed on for another 2km, reaching a steep gorge that led to Tambo Catarpe, an Inca resting place.
After being rewarded with this incredible ruin set on a level hill above the valley, I pressed on to find a very unique church at the 10km mark.
Realizing that time was running very short at this point (I had a bus to catch, after all), I began to really pump the pedals to try to make it back. I found a great spot to cross the river a few hundred meters up stream from where I fell in, but still had to heave my bike across to the other bank and jump after it. Thinking that I was in the clear, I rode hard to meet the regular trail that leads back to San Pedro. Then, surprise! The bank I was on disappeared, and I was forced to cross to the other bank (the side opposite the one I needed!). This time, it didn't go as smoothly, as my bike throw was a few feet short and the damn thing started to drift down stream! I jumped in after it, submerged nearly to my waist. Finally emerging from the river with bike in tow (albeit with a bent handlebar), I needed to cross once more, this time making it but falling on my face after the long jump. At the time (like a complete fool) I wasn't even thinking about my new (and frighteningly expensive) camera stuffed in my backpack - thank God for gore tex, as everything was dry, except for the bottom half of my body. I proceeded to pedal the remaining 6km like a complete fiend, making it back just before checkout time!
Somehow after this entire ordeal I wasn't crippled in any way. In fact, I was pretty damn pumped full of adrenaline at that point, and took one of the most satisfying showers of my life! Before catching the bus, we went to witness a massive parade (probably containing the entire village), held every June 29 in honor of Pedro's (therefore, the town's) Saint's Day.
Having boarded the bus and finally feeling the soporific effects of my adventure, I slumped into my seat with the intention of having a nice nap to pass away the hours. Unfortunately my Dutch-Colombian-Chilean seat-neighbor had other plans for me on that bus ride, and proceeded to divulge the entire story of his conversion to the Rastafarian way of life and admiration for "his Emperor" Haile Selassie. Just when I thought I was in the clear and started to doze off, he dropped a bomb of a question on me:
"What do you think the world will be like in 10 years?"
"Well," I responded sleepily, "China and India will probably be very powerful and gas will be really damn expensive."
My clearly lame attempt to avoid predicting the fate of my country in 10 years did not satisfy him, and of course he pressed on.
"But, hey mannnn, what about your country, the United States of Jorge Bush?"
"In 10 years...hmmmm..."
I knew I was going to have to give him something that would mesh with his "philosophies" for me to be able sleep on that bus ride, so I quickly thew out...
"Well, the first black President in the history of the U.S. will just have left office..."
"Yeah, man, that's what I'm talking about!"
Then I slept a nice deep sleep, thoroughly satisfied by this latest of many personal victories and completely in awe of the desolate beauty of San Pedro and the vast Atacama Desert.
The town is somewhat overrun by tourists, and I had read in a number of guidebooks that this tends to dull its overall appeal. However, I didn't think so at all - muchos gringos, afterall, is a fairly natural consequence of a place having some of the most incredible landscape in the world. In addition, the saturation of gringos in San Pedro really tends to drive the price of various excursions down to very manageable levels, although everything added up quickly after three days!
Immediately upon arriving midday Friday we decided to look for an easy excursion to take that afternoon. Luckily for us, one of the most incredible sunsets in the world just so happens to take place in the Valle de la Luna, just outside San Pedro. For just $14 each we were guided on beautiful 2.5 hour hike through salt gorges, reaching the peak of a small cerro which served as our sunset venue. This was our view...
Later that night, after eating a very decent three-course meal in front of a warm fire for $10 US, we went to book some excursions for the following day. There are countless options for day and half-day trips in San Pedro, but we knew that we did not want to wake up at 4am in order to go on the full day geysers and high-alpine lakes tour, even though this is supposed to be incredible (for the next time!). Instead, we negotiated with a tour company to go sandboarding in the morning and see the Salar de Atacama in the afternoon. Fantastic decision.
At first, sandboarding seemed to be a bit counter-productive. The sand dune that we were boarding on was massive, and we had to trek back up through what seemed like a treadmill of sand at full speed after each run to the bottom. I also had no idea that turning is nearly impossible on a sandboard, making the whole activity a lot less interesting than I expected. However, after surviving a few horrific head-over-feet tumbles, I really began to enjoy the simplicity of bombing straight downhill as fast as possible. Before each run the board needs to be waxed, and we each were given a stick of wax with which we could cover the board as little or as much as preferred, translating into different levels of slickness and therefore speed. The highlight was definitely lubing up the board to the max. and bombing it from the high point of the dune, only to take a massive spill at the bottom! I suffered quite a bruise from that...
The trip to the Salar de Atacama (Atacama salt flat) that afternoon was unforgettable. A nearby town called Toconao, containing a large Atacameña population, has a wonderful symbiotic relationship with the surrounding salt flats: numerous knowledgeable guides are hired from the town and a certain percentage of proceeds from park entrance fees are recycled back into the community somehow. It really seems like a case of indigenous eco-tourism done the proper way.
After watching a short video about the ecosystem and formation of the salt flat, we were led out through the massive expanse by a local guide. I have never seen such beautiful contrast in a landscape: off-white salt shards permeate the horizon nearly as far as the eye can see until the yellow and green altiplano (high-alpine plain) rises up to meet the towering peaks of the Andes. Numerous volcanoes, many pushing 6,000 meters (19,260 ft), dominate the skyline just above the salt flats; in fact, one in particular (I no longer remember the name) has erupted quite frequently over the past few decades.
After strolling through a well-worn salt path, we were led to a viewing area situated between two lagoons populated by three of the five still-existing species of flamingo. Why there are even five species of flamingo I have no clue - it certainly seems like one would suffice, as they're all quite similar and similarly useless. Still, they're not too bad to look at, and I snapped tons of photos of the Chilean species grazing the lagoon for small pink organisms (which happen to give them their color). Once the sun set the colors of the surrounding landscape really exploded, and I took a few photos that should be frame-worthy once I return.
After spending that Saturday night eating another nice 3 course meal (this time including some wine) for $10 and having some drinks with a nice Belgian couple in front of a fuego fuerte, we rose early to take our rented mountain bikes ($6 for half-day!) on a promising 20km round trip tour of the Valle de Catarpe. After about 3km, we hit the Pukara ruins, an Atacameña village dating back to the 11th Century if I'm not mistaken. It was in surprisingly good shape considering its age.
After about 6km of pedaling through this amazing valley, we were stopped by a fairly substantial river. At that point it was nearly 11am, and we had a bus to catch at 2:15pm. While the girls immediately decided to turn back to town, I of course couldn't resist the challenge of trying to cross the damn thing. I scoped out different crossings up and down stream, but at its narrow sections the river was simply that much deeper. Still trying to avoid getting soaked in this freezing glacial torrent, I found a somewhat peaceful-looking section and just hit the water at full speed, thinking I might be able to get across. Not quite! I hit the other bank with one leg completely submerged, the girls laughing hysterically and probably thinking "thank God we decided against that".
Obviously having committed to the entire journey by now, I pressed on for another 2km, reaching a steep gorge that led to Tambo Catarpe, an Inca resting place.
After being rewarded with this incredible ruin set on a level hill above the valley, I pressed on to find a very unique church at the 10km mark.
Realizing that time was running very short at this point (I had a bus to catch, after all), I began to really pump the pedals to try to make it back. I found a great spot to cross the river a few hundred meters up stream from where I fell in, but still had to heave my bike across to the other bank and jump after it. Thinking that I was in the clear, I rode hard to meet the regular trail that leads back to San Pedro. Then, surprise! The bank I was on disappeared, and I was forced to cross to the other bank (the side opposite the one I needed!). This time, it didn't go as smoothly, as my bike throw was a few feet short and the damn thing started to drift down stream! I jumped in after it, submerged nearly to my waist. Finally emerging from the river with bike in tow (albeit with a bent handlebar), I needed to cross once more, this time making it but falling on my face after the long jump. At the time (like a complete fool) I wasn't even thinking about my new (and frighteningly expensive) camera stuffed in my backpack - thank God for gore tex, as everything was dry, except for the bottom half of my body. I proceeded to pedal the remaining 6km like a complete fiend, making it back just before checkout time!
Somehow after this entire ordeal I wasn't crippled in any way. In fact, I was pretty damn pumped full of adrenaline at that point, and took one of the most satisfying showers of my life! Before catching the bus, we went to witness a massive parade (probably containing the entire village), held every June 29 in honor of Pedro's (therefore, the town's) Saint's Day.
Having boarded the bus and finally feeling the soporific effects of my adventure, I slumped into my seat with the intention of having a nice nap to pass away the hours. Unfortunately my Dutch-Colombian-Chilean seat-neighbor had other plans for me on that bus ride, and proceeded to divulge the entire story of his conversion to the Rastafarian way of life and admiration for "his Emperor" Haile Selassie. Just when I thought I was in the clear and started to doze off, he dropped a bomb of a question on me:
"What do you think the world will be like in 10 years?"
"Well," I responded sleepily, "China and India will probably be very powerful and gas will be really damn expensive."
My clearly lame attempt to avoid predicting the fate of my country in 10 years did not satisfy him, and of course he pressed on.
"But, hey mannnn, what about your country, the United States of Jorge Bush?"
"In 10 years...hmmmm..."
I knew I was going to have to give him something that would mesh with his "philosophies" for me to be able sleep on that bus ride, so I quickly thew out...
"Well, the first black President in the history of the U.S. will just have left office..."
"Yeah, man, that's what I'm talking about!"
Then I slept a nice deep sleep, thoroughly satisfied by this latest of many personal victories and completely in awe of the desolate beauty of San Pedro and the vast Atacama Desert.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Chilean Hospitality (not to be confused with kidnapping)
I've been intending to write a little something about Chilean hospitality for quite some time now. As the title suggests, and as you will soon discover, the Chilean concept of inviting others to reunions, whether it be to lunch (formal) or to tea (very informal) almost always involves a command and whole lot of deception. Therefore, Chilean invitations are in fact not really invitations at all, but instead premeditated 'requests' with only one right answer: YES. To say no to an initial invitation, folks, is like turning down a personal invitation from the Pope to take a private tour of the Vatican Gardens: you just don't do it. If, in fact, you do turn down someone's initial invitation - well, I won't even cross that line - like I said, you just don't do it.
I'll give a particularly demonstrative example.
The other day, as I was preparing to walk into town to meet with the other volunteers in order to discuss all-important plans for the upcoming winter vacation, my family randomly suggested that we go check out a popular sandy crescent-shaped beach called cifuncho. At the time, it was already 4pm, and I had planned on meeting them at 4:30. Also note that the family had been particularly keen on grilling me the entire day about my poor Spanish, and I was truly looking forward to speaking English with the others and having some time to rewind.
"But it's so close," they said.
"How close?"
"Only ten minutes, we swear!"
"OK, sure," I innocently responded.
How could I possibly turn down an offer to visit a beautiful sandy crescent-shaped beach? We hopped in their 1990 Nissan pickup (complete with massive windshield-length crack) and flew up the highway to meet the Panamerican South. After 10 minutes or so we met the Panamerican, as well as a glaring sign that reads "Cifuncho: 35km"
"35KM!!!" I screamed, while the entire family was laughing hysterically and chanting "estas secuestrado, estas secuestrado!" (You're kidnapped). Needless to say, I did not appreciate this.
We arrived at the beach at 4:30, exactly the time I had promised to meet the other volunteers in town. The beach was admittedly gorgeous - a huge crescent framed on both ends by jagged cliffs and dark volcanic rock, with calm waves - but after 30 seconds of attempting to assuage my frustration by staring out to sea the whole family decided it was time to hop back in the car.
"OK Max, tienes un reunion, vamos a regressar!"
"What? Leave already? We just got here, and I'm going to miss it anyway!"
Nonetheless, we hopped back in, speeding along the highway in the white deathtrap at 140km/hr with no seat belts. Clearly, for those of you who know me very well, I was not a happy camper at this point. My independence had been completely revoked, I had been crudely teased by a fleeting beach visit, and my vehicular safety was clearly compromised. However much I wanted to display these emotions and just engage them in a lengthy shouting match, I could not, as after all, they had just taken their time and spent decent gas money showing me their favorite beach on a gorgeous day. It clearly did not register with them that a gringo reunion (which I sorely needed at the time) could possibly trump a one hour car trip to see a beautiful beach for 30 seconds. And who was I to tell them otherwise?
We finally rolled into town 45 minutes late. Walter, my homestay father, lamented the fact that he was already at empty after having filled up the week prior. "Wow," I wanted to respond, "Big %@*&#* surprise! You were going 140km/hr in an old pickup truck after all!" Fuming with frustration over my violated autonomy and disrespected plans, I rushed to meet the others so I could vent. Fortunately however, I have yet to find a funk that 5 minutes of speaking English can't cure!
Disclaimer: this is an example of Chilean hospitality gone wrong. Many good examples to come!
I'll give a particularly demonstrative example.
The other day, as I was preparing to walk into town to meet with the other volunteers in order to discuss all-important plans for the upcoming winter vacation, my family randomly suggested that we go check out a popular sandy crescent-shaped beach called cifuncho. At the time, it was already 4pm, and I had planned on meeting them at 4:30. Also note that the family had been particularly keen on grilling me the entire day about my poor Spanish, and I was truly looking forward to speaking English with the others and having some time to rewind.
"But it's so close," they said.
"How close?"
"Only ten minutes, we swear!"
"OK, sure," I innocently responded.
How could I possibly turn down an offer to visit a beautiful sandy crescent-shaped beach? We hopped in their 1990 Nissan pickup (complete with massive windshield-length crack) and flew up the highway to meet the Panamerican South. After 10 minutes or so we met the Panamerican, as well as a glaring sign that reads "Cifuncho: 35km"
"35KM!!!" I screamed, while the entire family was laughing hysterically and chanting "estas secuestrado, estas secuestrado!" (You're kidnapped). Needless to say, I did not appreciate this.
We arrived at the beach at 4:30, exactly the time I had promised to meet the other volunteers in town. The beach was admittedly gorgeous - a huge crescent framed on both ends by jagged cliffs and dark volcanic rock, with calm waves - but after 30 seconds of attempting to assuage my frustration by staring out to sea the whole family decided it was time to hop back in the car.
"OK Max, tienes un reunion, vamos a regressar!"
"What? Leave already? We just got here, and I'm going to miss it anyway!"
Nonetheless, we hopped back in, speeding along the highway in the white deathtrap at 140km/hr with no seat belts. Clearly, for those of you who know me very well, I was not a happy camper at this point. My independence had been completely revoked, I had been crudely teased by a fleeting beach visit, and my vehicular safety was clearly compromised. However much I wanted to display these emotions and just engage them in a lengthy shouting match, I could not, as after all, they had just taken their time and spent decent gas money showing me their favorite beach on a gorgeous day. It clearly did not register with them that a gringo reunion (which I sorely needed at the time) could possibly trump a one hour car trip to see a beautiful beach for 30 seconds. And who was I to tell them otherwise?
We finally rolled into town 45 minutes late. Walter, my homestay father, lamented the fact that he was already at empty after having filled up the week prior. "Wow," I wanted to respond, "Big %@*&#* surprise! You were going 140km/hr in an old pickup truck after all!" Fuming with frustration over my violated autonomy and disrespected plans, I rushed to meet the others so I could vent. Fortunately however, I have yet to find a funk that 5 minutes of speaking English can't cure!
Disclaimer: this is an example of Chilean hospitality gone wrong. Many good examples to come!
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