More than the wheels go round and round

Twenty one hours by bus turns out to be not all that bad. Especially when the bus is a smooth riding, air conditioned, seat reclining beauty like we experienced through most of Brazil. The stops were regular, sleeping was not too difficult and traveling by bus was a terrific way to experience the less traveled paths and mingle with locals from all across the country. After logging our first 45 hours by bus, Tyler and I were very pleased with our decision to travel this way overland. And then came the bus to Corumba. No need for all the details, but let's just say eight hours of the same cheesy Brazilian folk-pop album was not good for our heads. Our next trip was projected to be fourteen hours from Corumba, Brazil to Santa Cruz, Bolivia. We tried to purchase tickets in advance, but not trusting the overly pushy salesman, decided to buy tickets at the last minute. Turns out we probably should have trusted the overly pushy salesman. Tickets were sold out for the ride we'd planned on and our only remaining option was in an old, un-airconditioned, non-bathroomed beast of a bus. We were assured by our new pushy-but-trying-to-play-it-cool saleswoman that the road wasn't too bad, after all, it's not the rainy season, and it should only be about a fourteen to sixteen hour trip. Get on the bus, go to sleep, wake up and you're nearly there. Without another option, we bought the tickets and took the ride.

Actually, we bought the tickets, sight unseen, and they found us a little later wandering the streets of Corumba in the hands of a strange man on a motorcycle. No joke, we were literally walking down the street when a man rode up to us and passed us off our tickets without ever turning off his bike. When we arrived at the bus station, after being ripped off by the Bolivian custom officials (we could only argue for so long with the heavily armed men), we stumbled into some friends we'd made in our hostel who also had tickets for the same bus trip. However, it turned out they payed almost half the amount for their tickets. Guess we payed extra for that special moto-delivery service. Tensions were a bit high at this point and we still had the ever-important decision to make of who gets the window seat.

One look at our bus and our nerves were far from settled. She had to be pushing 30 years and smoke hurtled from her tailpipe in chunky blows. The inside of the bus was no better; the seats were thinly padded, reclined to an 85 degree angle and were lined with metal bars preventing any kind of comfortable shifting. But at least we were lucky enough to have seats; many passengers bought tickets to stand in the isles for the entire trip. As bad as our beastly bus looked, smelled and felt, she sounded even worse. Any shifting past second gear caused her to scream a cringe inducing plea for help but our driver was unsympathetic to her pain. After the first mile, Tyler was convinced this would not be the bus that would bring us into Santa Cruz.

I think it was an hour before the beast came to a halt. The driver veered her to the side of the road and with a handful of tools, spent about 15 minutes tinkering under her hood. Our crowded bus was not happy with this stop and seemed to blame the Bolivian president, Evo Morales for the problem. EvoEvo! Evo! the men yelled, shaking their fists in the air. The driver remained calm and climbed back on board, starting the beast up with a sense of pride. We clamored on, the bus still screaming with its' riders bouncing along happy for the changing scenery. Night came and Tyler and I fell into a strange half awake-half asleep state. Eyes shut, mind and body uncomfortably awake. The road grew increasingly rough and I heard the mother and her two young daughters shift in their seat next to us. About 45 seconds later, our bus hit a big bump and a body came flying through the air and into our laps. One of the little girls sitting next to us had caught wind with the bump and flipped out of her shared seat and across the isle. We were full awake at this point but confused with the body flopped on our laps. Of course the little girl was even more confused and we quickly passed her back to her concerned mother. However our midnight encounter emboldened her and her sister and from that point on, operation entertain the gringos was in full effect. Faviola the night flier and her toothless younger sister Alejandra were fascinated by us. At first they just wanted to touch my arm, which was glowingly white in the moonlight compared to their golden brown skin. Then came the interest in my hair, face and of course Tyler. We played every kind of patty-cake game possible, then rock-paper-scissors, and of course, the quick-punch game we should have never started. Alejandra was small but she packed a decent punch. We talked about our families, pets, homes and lives. Us through broken Spanish, Alejandra in a toothless slurry, seven year old voice. As the fourteenth hour turned to twenty and twenty to twenty five, Faviola and Alejandra became our new best friends. The rest of the bus grew increasingly interested in our relationship and often joined in, telling us about their country and wanting to know about ours. Throughout it all, our bus struggled to maintain a 25 miles per hour pace. By the time we finally made it to Santa Cruz thirty hours later we were dirty, tired, hungry and stiff. But amazingly, not unhappy. This we can only credit to those two sweet Bolivian girls who overpowered the screams of a beastly bus with little punches, sloppy kisses and giant monkey hugs.

First stop, watch your step

I may have neglected to mention this in past blogs, but I've had a bit of trouble exiting Chile on previous trips. The trick is you must keep a very small, carbon copied slip of paper and present this to the custom officials at the borders, and je je, I seem to very inconveniently fail to have this paper when it counts. On our last trip to Argentina, I was warned that this would be the last time they would let me slide through without my visa. So the night before we left for Brazil, I double checked that I had all my paperwork in line and ready for our departure. Good God, I was so organized, Tyler was feeling uncomfortable. So when we made it to the airport, passed through the ticket counter line, checked our bags and headed for immigration, my only thought was on what we would have for breakfast on the other side. And so, when we were next up to present our passports and visas for that ever important exit visa stamp, Tyler didn't quite know how to interpret my barely audible "oh s***". I have no idea how, but somehow once again, I didn't have my visa, I had some other small carbon copied piece of paper. At this point it was way too late for a trip back to our apartment so our only option was to see what would happen. I played the ol' sleepy sweet card and slipped the immigration clerk my passport with a smile and a yawn. He popped my passport up on the scanner, caught my yawn and returned it, and passed me back my document with a freshly inked exit stamp. Ah ya, this would not be our last chaotic situation at an airport, but at least Tyler will now help me keep better track of my visa.
We made it into Brazil and after a brief layover in Sao Paulo, flew into Salvador de Bahia with a plane-full of cheering, dancing and singing 15 year olds on their way home from Disneyland. Seriously, every comment by our pilot triggered a different song that even the flight attendants chimed in on, and the kids were dancing in the isles with their overstuffed Mickey Mouse dolls. After unloading the plane and strapping on our packs, we exchanged pesos for reals (of course, only in large bills) and hopped on a bus for our hostel. The bus ride was about an hour and then our directions instructed us to travel by foot for about 15 minutes. First left, then right, through a few public squares, down a hill, up a hill, and bada bing, you're there. Ah yea, no problem, except that it was dark when we climbed off the bus, we stood out pretty obviously with our packs and guide book plus we were both way overdressed for this much warmer climate. Lucky for us, a friendly local noticed us right away and offered to lead us to our hostel. Oh no, we're fine, we insisted. But our new friend proved persistent so we reluctantly accepted his help. Okay, this man was fast. He booked it around the corner, down the rough cobblestone road and even faster up the hill. Tyler was hot on his tails attempting some pretty impressive Portu-Spanglesh and I was just trying to not lose sight while taking in the amazing glowing town around us. Pretty soon speedy gonzalez stopped in front of our hostel, I caught up, and our welcome wagon guide asked us for a little something for his effort. I decided to let Tyler handle this one and rang the bell for the hostel. As I climbed the steps to the front door, the door swung open and our hostel host greeted us with a sideways grin. However the door swinging open caught me off guard and I felt myself falling backwards with the weight of my pack. Our hostel host, obviously confused by the strange scene in front of her, said something sounding like a warning and grabbed me by my pack straps as I groped for any kind of support. I nearly took out the much smaller woman while simultaneously flopping all over a freshly painted blue metal door. Hence the warning. Meanwhile Tyler, trying to give our guide a tip, somehow managed to rather than pull out one small bill, flip out his entire billfold sending all our cash floating into the street. Ah ya, we were quite a team that night. Our local guide ended up with the best tip of his life and we ended up with a lecture from our hostel host on local norms ranging from appropriate tip amounts, clothing suggestions, safety precautions and you get the idea. Day one was under our belts, our confidence was brought down to a realistic level and what else can I say?

Off the road...

A delusional pair of travelers made their way back to their teeny dark apartment at about the same time they eagerly skipped out if it over a month ago, 4 o'clock in the morning. The travelers knew they had experienced something real, something beautiful, something they would never forget. Something that might even cause them to rethink the world around them and their feeble place in it. And these travelers have now made their way on to explore the wonders of Europe, while Tyler and I have returned to our cozy little existence working and living in Santiago.
As fantastic as our time on the road was, I don't want to pretend that that it was the end all, mind blowing, heavy on the drama experience that has changed our lives and personalities forever. We had a FANTASTIC trip and I look forward to sharing a few stories. But I don't want to imply that at any point enlightenment was reached. In all honesty, we met some amazing people and some very average joes. We saw some of the most beautiful scenes and some scenes very similar to Anytown, USA. We experienced a few scary moments and more than a few boring and annoying moments. We just have stories, our take on what we saw, which of course was only a drop in the bucket to the full monty. If I haven't scared you off yet by my over- analytical attempt to under-dramatize our trip, hold on for a few tales from the road.

On the road...

Tomorrow morning we fly out of the smoggy skies of Santiago and head for sunny Salvador de Bahia Brazil- right now we feel like 5 year olds on Christmas Eve... I don't think we'll get much sleep tonight but that's okay, we need to be up by 4am to catch our 7 o'clock flight. Here's our rough plan for the next month- we hope to find a little time in between buses to share our stories so more to come soon.

July 8th- Fly from Santiago to Salvador, Brazil
July 11th-13th ish- traveling by bus to Brasilia, Brazil
July 14th is- traveling by bus to west toward the Brazil/ Bolivia border
July 18th- stay the night in (AI!) Carumba, Brazil
July 19th- pass through customs in Bolivia, take the train to Santa Cruz
July 21st- Travel by bus west to Cochabamba, Bolivia
July 23rd- More bus travel west to La Paz, Bolivia
July 27th- Head up to Lake Titicaca, explore the islands
July 31st- Bus or train into Peru, stay the night in Cuzco, Peru
August 1st- bus or taxi to Ollantayambo, Peru, train to Aguas Callientes (Machu Picchu)
August 2nd- Up before sunrise to catch the first rays over Machu Picchu
August 3rd- Train, bus and taxi back to Cuzco, Peru
August 4th, 5th ish- Travel by bus up to Lima, Peru
August 7th- Fly back from Lima to Santiago, Chile

We've got a crisp Portuguese handbook ready action, an optimism that can't be quelled by our still unpacked bags, and enough TP to get us through at least the first country, so all that's left to say is.... keep the home fires burning!

XOXO,
Lindsey and Tyler

The Virgin Run

I've been having difficulty in recent weeks keeping up with any kind of regular exercise routine. Smog, rain, a lack of clean socks or just plain laziness have made it to my list of excuses for "running tomorrow", but I finally decided I needed to get back on the ol' exercise train. Our upstairs neighbor Debbi had been telling me about a great 5k run up to the top of the Cerro San Cristobal. At the top of the hill the Virgin Mary gracefully invites her visitors to take in the views and embrace a peaceful moment, and hence, we've coined it The Virgin Run. I'd been to the top of the hill several times before but never on foot, only via the funicular. However after a couple of short jogs earlier in the week, I felt motivated to attempt the run pre-described as "a decent incline, multiple switchbacks with beautiful views". Having run the hills of Seattle, I decided it couldn't be too bad and if nothing else, I could always turn back when my lungs had reached their limit.

Which happened at about the 1k mark. Sad I know, but the run started out steep, at least for my out of shape lungs. I pushed on and by the 2k mark my breathing had settled down and I decided to see how far I could actually go. At 3k the views of the sun setting over the Andes were so beautiful that the 4k mark came without me realizing it and I knew Mary was just up and around that one last, long corner. And she was. I had a glorious finish to the top; I even managed to give directions to some tourists in Spanish as I reached the vista. However, I was so distracted by the striking views and focused on making it to Mary that I neglected to consider the sun which at this point had dropped completely behind the mountains. After patting myself on the back for about 5 minutes, I realized that I now had to make it back down the winding road in the dark and I had my first "Oh ****" moment since arriving in South America. I was all by myself, the road was winding, steep at parts, and consisted of more than an occasional ankle busting pothole. But when you're faced with no options, you just gotta do what you gotta do. So I started the run down the hill.

My mind started playing tricks on me. Long shadows turned into hidden bad guys and small noises became pumas. My heart was beating just about as fast as when I chugged up the hill and I knew I was learning a valuable lesson; always bring some money for the funicular ride down. It was also at this point that I knew the noises in my head were not imagined and that something was actually chasing me. Not wanting to look back, because of course what you don't see can't hurt you, I picked up my pace. It was as I neared a full sprint that I finally caught a glimpse of my pursuer; a big, yellow, tail wagging labrador. I was so relieved that I offered the perro my arm for a sniff. And he took it in his mouth and chomped down. So much for my "all stray dogs in Chile are friendly" theory. It didn't take much of an "HASTA!" from me for the dog to ease up and we quickly sorted out our differences. The big guy turned friendly again and stayed with me as I regained my pace. Actually, old yeller ended up leading me down the mountain, trotting around all the hidden potholes and I'm pretty sure scaring the pumas back into the shadows. As we neared the last bend, I had visions of treating the dog to a fresh loaf of bread and a nice scratch on the head to thank him for his help. I think I must of actually closed my eyes for a second because the next thing I knew I saw the glowing lights of the Cerro San Cristobal entrance, and no sign of the dog. I know, this seems fabricated, but no joke, the dog was all of sudden nowhere to be found. Add to this the fact that here in Santiago, when a dog thinks he's found a friend, particularly a gringo friend, he sticks close for as long as he can knowing that a payout is sure to come, and his disappearance is even more unlikely. But my yellow guide had disappeared into the night, no thank you necessary.

Time for a poignant conclusion. Truth is, I probably would have made it down the hill one way or another without my little yellow guardian perro. But the coincidences are worth noting. I complete my first 10k run that I am completely unprepared for, cresting at the sacred Virgin Mary. Then I make it down the hill nearly in complete darkness with the help of a yellow dog strikingly similar to my first doggy love who passed away not long ago. Add to that the disappearing act and you be the judge. Maybe all that is is truly meant to be. Or, maybe I'm over the top. Either way, I'll be looking for my buddy next week on the hill, only this time under the bright light of the mid afternoon sun.

Well worth it

A few weeks back, some friends invited us to join them on a long weekend trip to Pucon, Chile.  Pucon is about an 8 hour trip to the south and the way to travel in this situation is by overnight bus.  The buses here are lovely, smooth and generally right on the money as far as timing goes, so for about $30 a person round trip, we were off.  Well, almost off.  It had been a bit of a strange week for us starting with a sudden windstorm ripping through the city and causing small pockets of damage.  Our storm shutter smashed through our window creating a noisy, breezy week for us.  The student protest at our University had picked up a notch and we got our first salty taste of a gas bomb.  A weekend out of the smog and crowds was just what we needed and we had purchased the last 2 bus tickets available a couple days in advance.  But when we arrived at the bus terminal, the gentleman greeting riders on the steps of the Tur-bus refused to let us board.  Something was said about our tickets and this bus not going to Pucon.   About an hour and a half later we were finally granted admission on a bus, luggage was loaded, and the grumpy mass of travelers settled in for the long ride.  Turns out the window had broken in our originally scheduled bus, hmm....

We awoke to the sights and sounds of 80's pop rock videos cutting in and out of the on board entertainment system.  The young kids behind us were among the mass of youth in this country who love anything 80's so our peaceful bus turned quickly in to an early morning karaoke bar. I don't think I can fully explain the joy one experiences hearing half a dozen 17 year olds belt out Madonna's best hits and only hit about a third of the words correctly.  At 7 in the morning.    With no way of escape.  The only thing that got us through was Tyler's calm and patient demeanor for this kind of disturbance.  Je je je, as they say in Chile.

After unloading the bus, befriending a sweet stray dog we called Lucy and finding Hostel Monkey Puzzle, we met up with our friends Brook and Ryan and began our search for a guide to take us up the mountain.  Pucon is a small tourist town at the start of the Lakes District and surrounded by beautiful lakes and highly active volcanoes.  Brook had been wanting to climb Volcan Villarrica since well before arriving in this country and had done fantastic research on our options.  It didn't take long before we settled on a company that provided English speaking guides, breakfast, lunch and all our supplies.  All we had left to do was enjoy the afternoon over beers and sandwiches and psych ourselves up for the big day tomorrow.  Which came very early.  We had to show up for breakfast at 5 am to begin our hike by 6:30.  Climbing out of a twin sized bed pre-dawn in the very chilly air was way less than ideal by my standards, but as soon as we began our ascent, my hesitations about the day ceased to exist.  With no one on the mountain but our small group, a sliver of a moon and the sun just beginning to warm the horizon, I knew this day was going to be amazing.  Our group of 4 had grown to 12 and Ze Germans who joined us were an all around friendly, intelligent and fun loving bunch.  Oh, and tri or qua-lingual.  Yikes.  One of our favorite Germans took about 300 pictures of the day (maybe 100 of which were of himself in every imaginable pose) and provided us all with a cd compilation of his best shots.  Cool people, Ze Germans.

The climb took about 10 hours round trip and we were incredibly lucky with the weather.  We actually were among a limited number of climbers who were able to crest the mountain from the front; strong winds usually prevent this.  The vistas from the top were beyond words and even pictures couldn't do them justice- it was absolutely gorgeous.  When our guides felt we'd breathed in enough sulphuric gas for one day, they rounded us up and we began our descent.  After about 45 difficult minutes scrambling down awkward terrain, our trip down the hill turned into an alpine slide.  We strapped on "pampers" as they are referred to because of the application process and slid feet first down the slopes using our ice picks as brakes.  At certain points a train of bodies linked up and took out anyone in its path.  Our rico suave guides showed off by skiing slalom down the slide routes.  Overall, soooo much more fun than climbing up the hill.

On our third day in Pucon we decided to rent bikes and head out to a small village about 25 kilometers away.  Things were going great as began but soon the road steepened and we discovered our bikes were far from top of the line.  A major difference between mountain biking and road biking is that when you take on a hill, the option to stand up and push for the top is not available due to tires spinning out in the soft ground.  And our bikes seemed incapable of shifting while pedaling.  So we did a bit of walking up the hills and didn't exactly make it to our intended destination, but we took in some beautiful views of the countryside nonetheless.  After returning our bikes, grabbing a bite and a shower, it was time to return to the bus stop for our return trip.  Feeling a bit more casual than before due to the delay in our departure, we strolled up to the bus stop with 2 minutes to spare.  And we saw our bus pulling away from the curb.  Thankfully the driver took pity on us and we were allowed to board.  Flash forward 8 hours and we rolled into the dark busy streets of Santiago, back to our breezy apartment in the middle of the city.  The trip cost more than we'd planned, we were wiped out at work the next day, but it was no doubt well worth it.

What next....

I´m feeling good. I have just dotted the i´s and crossed the t´s on a very productive class. One of my students will certainly be a leader in the future, whether or not it is for the red army remains to be seen. Nevertheless, this class held a level of significance due to the fact that my hawkish/dovish/hawkish bosses were sitting in. The students were all at a level where they could be asked essentially any question worthy of a response. The theme quickly moved toward the Chilean worker. I asked my very astute pupil his thoughts on the inherent characteristics of the Chilean worker. The student briefly glanced at the ceiling, then at me and then over to the director of the program, the leader of the hawkish/dovish/hawkish coalition. He began, "Chileans don’t work to make more money. Chileans work because it is necessary." I asked what could be more important than survival and isn’t making money a way for people to survive. "Of course to make the money allows survival, but it is very complicated. The Spanish business owners don’t want to pay." I tried to summarize this cultural collage. So, your telling me that Chileans work out of a sense of duty rather than to make money. "Yes." I proceeded to ask more questions but was thinking about my original loaded question. Do Chileans want to achieve status and wealth in order to bring about the South American dream? Or - am I a child of privelge trying to learn the rules to a game that really doesn´t exist. It is very easy to see that Chilean’s know the score. All that can be done will be done and the rest is too deep and confusing to really think about.

Our man, let’s call him Don Chile, runs the show in my neighbourhood. He can be seen and heard directing traffic throughout the day and well beyond the evening hours six days a week. The traffic cops let him run his car washing/mixed sales business without sanction, the pigeons bring him coffee and any gringo lucky enough to get home at 4am might look out a window down into the plaza square, where he lives under a palm tree to see Don Chile dancing a solo salsa – a perfect salsa. Don Chile seems to know who he is. The natural leadership isn’t what impresses me about the Don, it is the detail and effort the man displays as he washes the 162nd car of the day. The white rag is now black and the Don´s clothes aren´t nearly as crisp as when he started but he continues to wash each car as if it were his first – like Bruce Lee repeating a cadence for the nth time – flawless. It is the kind of effort a man of few possessions puts into his most prized asset – but for what end – more business tomorrow or next week, food at the centre of the square or is the end the car. A concept lost to my generation, possibly my people. It seems more apparent that children of privilege hold few things dear in life – even family at times. When adversity presents itself it is an opportunity for character development, what happens to those who lack defining moments… What next….

As my class came to an end the hawkish/dovish/hawkish coalition called me into a meeting. We were discussing a few students and going over some classes that were incorrectly scheduled and needed to be changed. As we were discussing the rhythms of the universe we heard a chorus of voices…. The students have been protesting for the last three weeks-they intend to have the rector/president of the university removed. It is believed that the rector is apathetic to his duties because the university is not accredited as a whole and there is an issue with a government subsidy that half of the students aren’t eligible for. There are certain schools within the University that have an accreditation but the university as a whole is still not rubber stamped. Watching the students run their own program is a little scary, who is the pseudo revolutionary pulling the strings of the organized chaos? This city has nearly six million people; needless to say there are several high traffic areas near our location. The students stretch large cloth protest banners across a wide thoroughfare and turn the vein into a four way stop – a sort of Chilean toll booth. Tensions run high between the motorists and the students – the rest of the onlookers are innocent….. As the voices build on the street Rene, Amelia and I get up from our table and walk over to a panoramic set of windows that provide a view of the city and a bird’s eye view of the street below. The students have railed in front of the rector's attractive building, a proud piece of Spanish architecture, and have brought along all the necessary ingredients for making a desayuno omelette. We have eggs, potatoes, tomatoes, flour and of course something to garnish this fusion. Approximately 65 students set up shop and begin breakfast, Chilean style… Like a cavalry the students are set in line, they begin to shell the rectors building with any and all methods at their disposal – faint trumpets are playing somewhere in the distance – the students begin to sing loudly with one voice- similar to a futbol match….I can only call it nationalism….. I look over at Rene and Amelia and they seem embarrassed and unsure about how to proceed. I, as I usually do in awkward situations, speak first – I tell them that I love the spirit of the students. They know a change is needed and they rally because they know there is no one else to rally for them. My American brothers’ don’t rally like this! – I continue speaking out of the deviant side of my mouth – The only thing that you hope is that this mob is made up of the best, brightest and most respected of students. Perhaps there are some potential PhDs in the crowd.. I hear glass break on the street. Rene looks at me, "There are no PhDs in that crowd; I’m going to call the police." The students have egged, potatoed, tomatoed, and floured the landscape, now the garnish – the most outstanding toilet paper job I have ever seen.. The students disappeared as quickly as they had set up shop and all that remained of the battle field were some very tired looking Peruvian janitors. Ah, ser un niño de la revolución.