8 Weeks Later

Enough with the lists, eh? We're just about out of here.

What a time we've had in Lima. Over a month after Santiago, it's been a while since we've been in a real city. I'm partly ashamed to admit that we've been treating Lima as a warm up for the U.S. Two malls, two summer blockbuster movies in English, four times eating KFC, Pizza Hut, and/or Burger King, two games of bowling, one of pool, beer, and steak. Was I in Peru, or was I in Edison, NJ? And really, who cares?

We saw the main plaza, the big museum in town, and we've walked around the trendy Miraflores section as much as I ever care to. We shopped in San Isidro, drank in Miraflores, dined in Barranco, fully explored Lima Centro, and gazed at the Pacific Ocean. I'm putting a checkmark next to Lima in my book.

There's a definite lack of ceremony to the end of this trip, an absence I've justified by saying that the places we've been have been so different from each other, there's no way to celebrate in Lima what happened in Valparaiso or Buenos Aires. The greatness of this trip is very much the sum of several distinct parts, so I don't feel the same need for closure that I usually feel at the end of a vacation. Indeed, as Dylan and I discussed over our epically-long final lunch today, this was much more than a vacation; using my now-patented "haircut rule", we can definitively say that this was more living in South America than simply vacationing, since I required at least one (and, in fact, two) haircuts while here.

If you threatened me with force to tell you what my favorite place was, I would reluctantly say Buenos Aires. But that would really be unfair to all the other cities and places we've been. Like, say, Machu Picchu, which is home to what was probably the single most breathtaking moment of the trip. Or Valparaiso, which was probably the single coolest city to just be in. Or the stars outside Vicuña. Or the beautiful old streets and ocean views and food in Colonia. Or the wine in Mendoza. Or the sunset over Lake Titicaca. Or the drive into the countryside from Salta. Too many choices, really.

I have to take a moment to thank Dylan. I definitely would have still taken this trip by myself, but I know it's been a million times better because I've been able to share it all with a great friend. I'm not going to say I'm going to miss him all that much for the three weeks between the end of this trip and the DC move-in, but neither will I say that I won't be really glad to have him as a roommate.

I also have to thank everyone for reading (and commenting on!) this blog. Having an audience has been a terrific motivator for me to write down my thoughts and observations on all the places we've seen and things we've done. The body of work that has resulted is something I will cherish for a much longer time than the two months for which I've hopefully been able to provide you all with enjoyable, occasional, quick distractions. For now having preserved those wonderful memories for myself, I am extremely grateful to all of you.

In my inaugural post, I said that this trip was meant as a chance to clear my head before starting law school on August 19, and that I would do so by embarking on a search for "lost cities, pretty girls, and the meaning of life". My success, if measured by the completion of those objectives, has been mixed at best. But this has truly been the trip of a lifetime, and I'm glad to report that my head is clear and ready to move on to the coming challenges. I am genuinely excited about law school, and I am even armed with a lengthy personal improvement to-do list that we created on one of the particularly excruciating bus trips.

Anyway. We leave for the airport in 15 minutes. It's been real, South America. Hasta la vista, baby.

Lists - Meals

1. The steak in Colonia, Uruguay. Our first few days in Buenos Aires had been kind of disappointing in the food department, and for a moment we thought we might have set our expectations a little too high. You may remember that our very first dinner on the continent was officially disavowed. But then we found El Portòn in Colonia, where I got a juicy, rare, flavorful tenderloin covered in a rich, creamy mushroom sauce (previously and erroneously labeled a "champagne-based sauce" due to yours truly's prior ignorance of the proper translation of champignon) that permanently restored our hope in the continent's culinary caliber.

2. The fried fish in Valparaiso, Chile. Simple and simply as good as fried fish can be. And super-cheap to boot. The fish was reineta, which I still haven't been able to translate (it's not hake, as previously reported); it was a white fish fried to a perfect golden crisp by the seasoned hands at a small, very fishy restaurant down by the docks that had oars and buckets and boats hanging on the walls for decor. Just terrific.

3. The clam soup in Santiago, Chile. As bad as the first two items were good. Cold, slimy, bitter, sour, goopy, smelly, and served to me as I sat on an uncomfortable chair in a tiny, dirty little hole in the wall. All after we had been assaulted on all sides by the incredibly obnoxious touts in the rest of the market. That meal put me in a bad mood for hours.

4. The mercado central lunches in Cusco, Peru. While the food here wasn't necessarily that remarkable or even good - aside from my first attempt being quite confusing - this was definitely our most bona fide meal.

5. The meal in the mountains in Valparaiso, Chile. You may remember this meal from the impossibly ridiculous way that Dylan chose to describe it in his blog. I'll be honest; I don't even remember what I got. Dylan thinks it was another steak. It was delicious, whatever it was. The best part of that meal wasn't the food, though - it was the atmosphere, which managed to perfectly fit our moods of the day. It was mellow, detail-oriented, rich and interesting without pretension, featuring a cute waitress, thoughtful hostess, and a bizarrely interesting Iranian documentary filmmaker. Certainly the most memorable meal experience.

6. The corner café in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Also known as the birthplace of Dylan and my banana milkshake obsession. Equipped with everything you need for a good breakfast except bacon and french toast and maple syrup. Alright, so they didn't have what you need for a good breakfast, and yet, we loved going there in the mornings for coffee and in the afternoons for snacks. Surrounded by local porteños drinking their espressos while reading about the coming elections and served by a friendly wait staff that had come to know our names, Dylan, Alex and I were regular joes at this place. Even Gerald couldn't ruin it for us. There wasn't any one particularly noteworthy food experience at this place, but in a way it helped to set the tone for the rest of the trip. A definite favorite.

7. The ribs in Salta, Argentina. This was when we went to a place called Viejo Jack a few blocks off the beaten trail in Salta thanks to a spot-on recommendation from the guy who ran the hostel we stayed at our first night in town. Unwittingly ordering double-size entreés, Dylan and I scarfed down four enormous racks of delicious, no-frills ribs apiece. Nothing makes you feel like a big, strong manly man than downing 32 ribs in one sitting.

8. The weekly pasta with red sauce. Every once in a while, Dylan and I have panicked that we've been spending too much money, so we scrap plans for dinner and go to the nearest supermarket to pick up a pound of pasta, some tomato sauce, grated parmesan cheese, bread, and something to drink, all for about $2 each. We've probably done it 7-10 times the whole trip, and I'll be honest - it's been a nice, if slightly pathetic, little link to home.

9. The Caesar salad in Buenos Aires, Argentina. At some point in B.A., we decided to try this place down the street that Alex had thought looked pretty good. You all know how much I love getting Ceasar salads in the U.S., and this was the first one I had seen on a menu. It was the worst salad I've ever had, and there was an unreal amount of it. "How bad could a salad possibly be?" is a question I will never ask again. It took me five weeks to muster up the courage to order another salad on this continent, and it was only at the very end, at a real Italian place in Lima, that I had a decent one. Dylan actually went the entire trip without getting a regular salad because of my B.A. monstrosity.

10. Lunch today. We haven't had it yet, but we're going out to a nice restaurant in the Barranco section of Lima for a celebratory last meal. I'm just going to expect that the ceremony of it alone will be sufficient for inclusion on this list.

Lists - Changes

Today's list is one of the most notable changed circumstances. These include things I'll miss from this trip, things I won't, and things that I miss from home. When I planned and even when I started this trip, two months didn't really seem like that much, but with just two days left, it sure feels like we've been gone a long time. When you're gone for that long, it becomes more than just a vacation; to an extent, we've been living abroad, taking care of the mundane everyday things in life as much as sightseeing. Hopefully, this short list provides a brief snapshot of how these 56 days have been noticeably different in more specific terms than simply being away from home.

1. Language. The daily use of Spanish for nearly all interactions outside of those with Dylan has been an exhausting challenge, as I've been mostly learning as I go along. At times, I have found this challenge very rewarding. Being able to fend for myself in a foreign country speaking a language I only started to learn in March - whether it's been ordering food or buying bus tickets or defending myself against corrupt tourist police - has been a great part of this entire experience. It allows you to interact with locals in some small way on their terms. It both demonstrates a willingness to engage in cultural exhange and enhances that exchange. I can't help feeling that the many backpackers - mostly Europeans - we've encountered who have been unable to say anything more than "buenos dias" have undoubtedly missed out on what I consider a critical part of such a trip as ours. At the same time, it isn't easy constantly translating your thoughts into another language for eight weeks, nor is desperately trying to understand rapid-fire speech when any small misunderstanding can mean anything from being served the wrong dish to winding up 200 miles in the wrong direction after five hours on a smelly bus. I'm very much so looking forward to returning to constant English, though I do plan to continue learning Spanish on a somewhat less breakneck pace.

2. Showers. I promise never to take hot, clean, showerhead-equipped, pressurized, enclosed showers for granted ever again. Enough said.

3. Dinner company. Dylan was a great friend when we started and he is now possibly an even better friend, but I swear to God we've had only three meals apart out of a total of something like 150 since the beginning of June. Time to switch it up a little.

4. Cool stuff. A catchall category to represent the fact that no matter how tired of traveling I've been on any given morning, any negative thought has soon replaced by the knowledge that - if I can just get myself out of bed - I'm probably going to see something remarkable, even unforgettable within the next few hours. Some days have been quiet, for sure, but others have been stuffed full of enough experiences to last for weeks under normal circumstances. Nothing against law school textbooks, but I will definitely miss the excitement that accompanies the expectation of a new experience that I've felt nearly every morning here.

5. The climate and the terrain. I know from many of you that the weather at home has been rather marginal so far this summer, but that hasn't stopped me from often wishing I were at the beach instead of some town nestled deep inside the Andes in the middle of the winter. Summer has meant the Jersey shore pretty much forever and it's been a noticeable absence. Especially given that we've been to so many other types of terrain on this trip. Desert, ocean coast, cold and snowy mountains, hot and arid mountains, rainforest, several lakes, all manner of cities and towns, and we almost even made it to the jungle. The daytime temperature has ranged from 30 to 80. Not that I particularly enjoy the high 80s when they come with overwhelming humidity, but I'm a guy that likes the beach and the summer, so I've had about enough of the pick-a-random-climate game.

6. The "gringo" effect. We've been called gringos - never to our face - on many an occasion here, almost always by very young children staring at us in amazed wonder. In spite of this, we haven't felt nearly as out of place here as I imagine Western visitors to more depressed areas of the world do. That being said, we've certainly been pretty easy to pick out, especially in some of the smaller communities we've visited like Isla Amantaní on Lake Titicaca. Even though our hosts have been unfailingly generous, kind, and helpful, there's a comfort to fitting in and, to a larger extent, not always being served; it's a comfort that we've been clearly lacking for a while. Dylan has told me several times already this trip about how much he dislikes "service" in general, and that if it were up to him, things like GPS navigators would be illegal because they render people impotent. Despite his extreme position, and the fact that we've done plenty for ourselves this trip, it will be nice to get back to the usual anonymity.

Lists - People

We have just a few days left, and I thought it might be interesting - for you, the loyal readers, and for me - to provide something in the way of a recap. There are lots of little things that neither Dylan or I have mentioned in our posts, and some things that we have mentioned are worth repeating for emphasis. I've decided that the best way to accomplish this recap is to compile lists for several different subjects. These aren't necessarily favorites, per se, just standouts in one way or another. List subject requests are encouraged but may well be ignored.

We'll start with our top five people. One of the most interesting things about traveling is who you meet along the way. Locals, fellow backpackers, hostel employees, waiters and waitresses, etc. Some of these people are fantastic. Some are forgettable. Others are memorably unpleasant. I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to some of the most notable people we've met along the way. For lack of a better way of doing it and for fear of messing up the formatting again, they will be presented in no order whatsoever.

1. Gerald (Buenos Aires, Argentina) - Oh, Gerald. We met Gerald (who's named Gerald, anyway?) courtesy of Alex. During our second stint in B.A., we went down to our favorite café down the block from Hostel Estoril. Alex was convinced that he knew the guy sitting at the table next to ours. I didn't really care to explore the subject, as the guy was sitting by himself, looking incredibly socially awkward with as many pimples as he had strands of frumpy hair, and, basically, like his name might be Gerald or something. After about 20 minutes, Alex and Gerald finally met eyes and went through the awkward "How do I know you?" conversation for 30 seconds until they realized they had come down on the same United flight. Gerald invited himself over to our table, and proceeded to start talking about taxes. I spent the next 20 minutes looking out the window. Having apparently changed topics, he mentioned that he was staying with a family while in Argentina to learn Spanish. He said that the first night he got to B.A., he sat down for dinner and said "What... I come all the way to South America and there's no Mexican food?" Then he said, quite triumphantly, "And then the next night, there were TACOS!" I excused myself to the restroom for another 20 minutes. When I returned, he was talking about his vision for the future of American transportation infrastructure, namely that we should have computerized roads that allow cars to go through intersections at 80 miles per hour in both directions simultaneously. With Dylan and I having completely abandoned the conversation in favor of staring blankly at our banana shakes, Gerald finally ran out of things to bore Alex with and promptly left as awkwardly as he came. Gerald looked like this:

2. Kelsey (Buenos Aires, AR and Santiago, CH) - You've already been introduced to Kelsey on more than one occasion. Also, she reads this blog and so I have to be careful not to give her any undue ammunition. I'll be brief. Though we met dozens of people at the many hostels we've stayed at over the last two months, we really only made one friend, and that's Kelsey. Initially known only as the cute American girl who was camping out in the TV room at Hostel Estoril in B.A. with funny-looking socks, we got to know Kelsey better thanks to a classic pub crawl, a terribly tacky tango show, and a ridiculous bet over the quality and variety of Chilean cuisine which she ultimately lost. She's funny, smart, a good writer and altogether excellent company and we're already looking forward to her making good on her promise to come visit us in DC. Kelsey looks like this when she's in a desert:

3. Gaspar/Maria/Ignacio/Fidel (Mendoza, AR; La Serena, CH; Salta, AR; Puno, PE) - Of the many, many hostel owners and employees who we've met, these are our favorites.

• Gaspar, from Mendoza, was very nice and was the first local person we met who really spoke English fluently, which immediately endeared him to us, since we were already exhausted by the constant Spanish barely over two weeks into the trip. The defining moment for Gaspar, however, came when Dylan came out of our private bathroom which, like our bedroom, was upstairs from the rest of the hostel, to find Gaspar very purposefully standing halfway up the stairs to our room, peering up at him. Suddenly appearing startled, Gaspar then said, "Ah! Now that I've met you here by coincidence, would you like to come to a party tonight?" (emphasis in original).


• Maria, from La Serena, was easily the most adorable hostel owner. She is notable for becoming a very grandmotherly figure to us. She happily washed our dinner dishes, insisted on giving us fresh, delicious papaya juice after we initially politely refused, and came to understand my love for apples to the point that she would bring over a freshly-washed apple along with my morning coffee as soon as she saw I was awake.


• Ignacio, from Salta, is less remarkable than the others. He mainly earned his spot on this list for preparing, on demand and at the location of our choosing, a delicious breakfast for us every morning of our stay in Salta. Together with his wife, Pilar, he made our stay in Salta feel very much like a stay at home.


• Fidel, from Puno, easily tops the list in terms of hospitality. You'll remember him as the man who spent the better part of his entire night as our de facto travel agent and advisor without any obligation whatsoever. At the end of the night, when we thanked him again, he said, roughly translated, "If I came to your country, not knowing your language or your customs or how to do what I wanted to do, I know that someone would help me. Especially for those of us in the hospitality business, but also for Peruvians in general, we feel it is our job to help foreigners who have come to visit us." If any one person embodies the fundamental decency of nearly every South American we've met, it's Fidel. Incidentally, Fidel may not be his actual name.

4. The Amazing Snorer (Bus from San Pedro, Chile to Salta, Argentina) - I think I've pretty much said everything there is to say on this guy. The only thing I'll add is that he has come to represent every bus trip we've taken on this trip, and all of those bus trips have been as much a part of our experience as every cathedral, museum, and meal combined. From the original post:

Third, one of our fellow passengers snored for the entire ride, save for the 20 minutes he managed to keep himself awake in order to stuff more food into his fat, moustachioed face. This man's snoring was the stuff of legends. Have you ever heard someone snore for 15 hours straight? It wasn't even consistent. Sometimes it would be low-pitched and evenly paced. Other times, it was so chaotic, you thought he might actually be choking, not snoring. Still other times, it was just inconceivably fast. It varied not only in pace, but also in volume. I believe his max range was 12 rows. And then, of course, the occasional mini-finale, in which he would wake up momentarily in order to triumphantly dislodge all the phlegm and God-knows-what-else from his various facial orifices into his sleeve, or the seat ahead of him if he didn't have the time or energy to pull his arm up. I spent a fair amount of time making noises to mimic him, and asked Dylan if my noises were better or worse than the man's. He said better. The man looked like this:

5. Dogs (Everywhere) - Possibly the most unexpected part of the trip has been the sheer volume of stray dogs that have been everywhere we've been, including twice as adopted guests in our hostels. This omnipresence has created hazards, most notably the infamous dog attack in Maipù but also in the form of piles - often unbelievable mountains - of fresh dog poop on the sidewalks (from which I have saved Dylan no fewer than three times). It has also created entertainment, as when Dylan and I stood on a street corner in the freezing cold of Valparaiso with two British girls watching a growing gang of miscreant strays get their fill on chasing, biting, and just plain staring down cars in the middle of an insanely busy intersection; or any of the many times when the two of us have imagined that various passing dogs who look particularly purposeful are not just dogs, but are, in fact, mayors, security officers, and all manner of other administrative personnel.

Most remarkable to me, though, is the extent to which the dogs have appeared to have become more like citizens than simple strays. With the exception of the dogs in Valpo, which might be thought of as canine hoodlums, they all obey traffic laws and only cross the street when the crosswalk light says to. They enter stores, have regular hangouts and friends, and are treated with arguably more respect by most locals than are the beggars, old and young, who line many streets and alleys. Dylan even thinks that the dogs have reflected the various traits peculiar to their respective countries, though I think his imagination may go too far (though he should feel free to explain himself in a comment).

Alright, so that wasn't quite limited to individuals (or humans, for that matter) the way I had initially intended. But I think you get the idea.

Taking the Express

We have put together several potential plans along the way for the end of our trip. First was a dramatic train ride through the Andes that would have included several mountain towns, but the train doesn't take passengers anymore. Then was the flight to the jungle. Then came the bus to the jungle. You know how those panned out. Then we thought we would take a bus to Cusco and several additional buses to stop at the various Andean mountain towns from the original train plan. That plan got scratched when we learned that it took 22 hours to go just one of the 150km legs due to excessively poor roads.

The plan that actually came to fruition is the simplest, by far. We're in Lima approximately four days ahead of schedule by way of a luxury bus featuring two meals and black leather seats that reclined to a full 180 degrees. I actually got about seven straight hours of sleep at one point. Best of all, I even got to have a small laugh attack when a woman came to the back, where we were sitting, to use the bathroom, except the door that she thought led to the bathroom could not possibly have been a door meant to be walked through by a human as it was only three feet tall and one foot wide and was obviously a small storage closet (story funnier if you picture it for yourself). Yes, it was a glorious 16-hour ride from Arequipa to Lima, all the better in comparison to the initial trip from Puno, where we had been stuck, to Arequipa.

Upon our arrival at the bus terminal in Puno by taxi, we were approached by a uniformed man who identified himself as being an officer of the tourist police. In a mix of broken English and rapid Spanish, he said that the police often conducted searches of travelers' luggage as such individuals were often carrying marijuana and/or other drugs. The man asked me if I had any drugs on me, and if I smoked marijuana. I said no. Regardless, we were informed that we would be the subjects of searches before being allowed to enter the terminal (or allowed to see the light of day again). Exchanging what in retrospect may have seemed like furtive glances, Dylan and I had no choice but to follow the man into the small tourist police office just a few feet away.

The man motioned for Dylan to proceed into a side room, where I could hear another man take Dylan's backpack from him and start to open it. The first officer stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on me and on the search of Dylan's bag. (Note: Although this is hopefully obvious to all readers, neither Dylan or I had anything at all to hide.) I heard the man in the room ask Dylan if he had any drugs, and then grunt in response to the obvious answer. After a few minutes which I spent pacing around the outside room, the man in the doorway indicated that it was my turn.

Everything seemed to be in order with Dylan, but I couldn't be sure if he was being quiet because he was fine or if he was being quiet because he was under duress. As the first man led Dylan out of the room, the second pulled my bag onto the table. Then the first came back into the room and went around me to stand next to the man handling my bag. The second man undid the clasps that secured the top of my bag and began feeling the contents from the outside, which seemed to me an utterly ineffective technique for finding anything at all that I might have wanted to hide. Meanwhile, the first man told me to empty the contents of my pockets onto the table. And so I placed everything of value that I have on this trip in front of him - my camera, my passport, my iPod, and finally my wallet.

He picked up my wallet and examined its contents. The second man had stopped all pretense of searching my bag and was now just observing the wallet inspection. They asked me to explain my vaccination card and took out my credit, debit, and insurance cards and put them on the table. Then the first man took out all my cash and thumbed through the bills very deliberately while the second man looked at me. They asked me how much I had. Having just visited the ATM in preparation for paying for bus tickets, I happened to know that I had exactly 450 soles, which is $150, and $2 in American singles. So I told him how much I had. He looked up, surprised by my precision, and then over to his partner, who gave a look and shrugged. He looked back at me, staring me right in the eyes and slowly asked again if I had any marijuana. I said no. He paused, then put the cash - which I had not taken my eyes off of - back into the wallet, threw the wallet on the table, and just said "OK. You can go.".

All things considered, I feel like they could have done a helluva better job at soliciting a bribe.

The ride from Puno to Arequipa takes between five and seven hours. I want you to imagine for a moment five of the worst odors you've ever smelled. OK. Now blend them all together. Not too much; you should still be able to distinguish the unique qualities of each. Good. Now put them on a bus. No, not that bus; that bus is too nice. There you go, yeah. That piece of shit bus over there. Perfect. Now sit in that bus for seven hours, and put on a three hour long '50s-era Western action flick - dubbed in very loud Spanish - for garnish. Serve at 85 degrees and humid and no air conditioning. Best experienced by sitting between a friend who is just nauseous and a little girl who actually vomits onto her neighbor's lap.

So, like I said, the ride from Arequipa to Lima was way better.

Lima itself has been terrific so far; we had Pizza Hut and KFC for lunch and watched the new Harry Potter movie - in English - at the local mall and went to the grocery store to get pasta and tomato sauce for dinner. Ready to leave? You bet.

Defeat

I am sorry to report that our efforts to get to the jungle have come to a bitter end at the hands of a few hundred thousand angry transportation workers along with some lawyer's handiwork.

Our efforts to get out of the city last night were strenuous but ultimately completely ineffective. We used the hotel we had previously stayed at in Puno as a base, storing our luggage there and happily accepting the staff's offer to provide us with continually updated information about the strike. One staff member escorted us to the bus terminal to try to find out some information, then wound up staying there for nearly three hours with us, helping us to negotiate a possible private van that would have taken the two of us and a family of five to Cusco for $50 a head. Dylan and I were reluctantly amenable to that price, but the family wanted to lower it and in any event, it never seemed like the deal was actually going to happen. The man from the hotel, who may or may not have been named Fidel, then found out that there would be a bus leaving from Juliaca in the morning straight to Puerto Maldonado, which would be much cheaper than the private van. We had started to befriend this family, and Dylan felt especially guilty about abandoning them to their own devices, but we ultimately realized that the difference in cost was enough to make our decision for us.

We headed back to the hotel with Fidel, who informed us that another staff member had arranged for a room for us in a different hotel as their own was completely booked with other captive tourists. At this point, I was just beside myself with amazement at the level of hospitality we were being offered. The small tip we gave them felt hollow in comparison.

It had been hours since we had eaten an unidentifiable-type-of-pork lunch, and I was starving, exhausted from our day, and in dire need of a drink. Bowing to my demand for a restaurant, Dylan waited until I picked a place on the main street and then went off to call LAN - our airline - to notify them that we would be unable to use our tickets to fly from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado and also to confirm that we would still be using our return tickets to Lima. I thought it was unnecessary, given that we already had our tickets for the return trip purchased, but Dylan was insistent and I didn't really care. So as he went off in search of a phone, I entered the restaurant alone and asked for a table for two. The man saw that I was alone, but I assured him that I had a friend with me. He nodded and sat me at a table with one menu. I asked for an additional menu, which he nervously brought over. Two old Peruvian women were staring at me; when I turned around, they smiled and turned back to their tea. With Dylan still gone, I ordered and told the waiter that I didn't know what my friend wanted, but that it wasn't important. So he took both menus away. I believe it was at this moment that the women decided I was completely delusional and got up quickly to run to the back of the restaurant and discuss my behavior with the staff.

Before they can call the men in white jackets, Dylan shows up, red in the face. He sits down loudly, which draws even more attention from the small crowd in the back. He looks at me and simply says, "We're not going to Puerto Maldonado". I stare at him blankly, and he explains - slowly, so as to suppress the bubbling rage - that some misguided LAN policy says we have to use the first leg of a round trip ticket in order to use the second. As I try to understand this, I start talking a random assortment of jibberish until I finally just start repeating "But we already PAID for the tickets!". I ask Dylan if he told them that we had already paid for the tickets, a question he answers by getting up and leaving again.

Fifteen minutes later, during which time I've alternated between avoiding the stares from the back and reading the food glossary in our Lonely Planet book, Dylan comes back. He cannot muster words so instead he just looks at me and shakes his head.

We were both pretty well furious and disappointed, mostly because we hadn't done anything wrong but had just gotten screwed by incredibly poor timing. Since cooling off, we've been able to see a silver lining, which is that the towns that we will now visit instead of the jungle will be full of interesting history and architecture and food and people, all of which will enrich our experience, albeit in a very different way than a trip to the jungle would have. Also, to be completely honest, I think we're both a little relieved. The jungle presented a big challenge in that doing it right was too expensive and doing it cheap was too boring. Further, we're both ready to come home, so heading toward Lima instead of farther away from it will feel pretty good.

Into the Lost City

As promised, the second part of the series on our visit to Machu Picchu.

We woke up in Aguas Calientes at 3:30 in the morning. Dylan set four alarms to make sure we didn't oversleep. Since we successfully woke up to the first, the fourth should have been pretty annoying, especially since Dylan made a habit of dancing in his boxers to the stupid cell phone jingle that went off every time. Fortunately, I was in the kind of mood that only comes when you know you're about to do something that will stay with you forever, so I didn't mind. I took what was easily the coldest shower of my life, possibly going into the beginning stages of shock before my adrenaline rescued me; my good mood also stopped me from being bothered by the freezing water, though it wasn't quite enough to stop me from later writing a bad review of the hostel.

In any event, we trudged outside at 4:15am to get to the line to buy our tickets for the bus that would take us to the ruins. Wouldn't you know it, we were first in line! Not that surprising considering the little booth wouldn't open until 5. We were very proud of ourselves, until we noticed the other line down the street. That was the line for the buses themselves, the first of which wouldn't leave until 5:30. After some deliberation, we decided to divide our forces and have Dylan stand in the line for the buses while I waited to buy the tickets using the $50 bill I'd been hiding in my shoe (the hostel recommended we use American currency since the ticket office gave a notoriously bad exchange rate to soles).

We made it onto the third bus, which left just after 5:30. The drive up to Machu Picchu before sunrise is one of two dozen sharp switchbacks made in the dark, although by the time we were about 75% of the way up, dawn had started to creep upon us and there was just enough light for us to see when we entered the clouds. At that point, it became sharp switchbacks made at a good clip where all that stood between us and solid cloud was a rather flimsy-looking guardrail. Of course, we made it just fine and got on the line to get into the site itself, although we had been beaten by everyone who had stayed at the swanky lodge right outside the entrance.

At this point, my adrenaline was on full tilt. I've wanted to go to Machu Picchu for a long, long time, and I was still concerned - irrationally - that something would go wrong. I checked and re-checked that I had my ticket and my passport about a million times in line. Finally, they started admitting people into the park and the line started to move quickly. We had previously decided that we would make an effort to get tickets to climb one of the two peaks that shadow Machu Picchu, a mountain known as Huayna Picchu. Only 400 visitors are allowed on Huayna each day, so every morning features a mad rush across the ruins to the back of the park where the ticket office for Huayna is located. As we got in, we made that rush, climbing over ropes that were obviously intended to keep us out of certain areas. It was bizarre, because the clouds surrounding us were so thick that we could barely see 20 feet ahead of us, and we certainly couldn't see any of the ruins that we didn't even realize we were passing.

As we waited on line, the clouds slowly began to part in the distance, showing hints of faded peaks. The sun rose while we were waiting on line for Huayna. With the sun casting its misty light on our surroundings, we began to appreciate exactly where we were in the world. Machu Picchu is a city surrounded on all sides by huge valleys, on the other side of which are peaks that rise hundreds of meters above the ruins. I've seen a fair amount of impressive sunrises, but this one has to take the cake. As if the breaking clouds and tall green mountains weren't enough, the sun coming out finally started to reveal the imposing ruins of the city. We secured our tickets for Huayna - numbers 231 and 232 out of 400 - and headed back to the other side of the site to visit the building known as the Guardhouse, which sits about 30m above the rest of the city outside the main gate. From here, we just sat and stared for a long while as the ruins finally came into full view. The site is simply just as impressive as it seems to be in pictures, if not more so.

Walking around the ruins themselves was incredible, though I'll have to share pictures later to fairly convey what we saw.

Between the hours of 10am and 1pm, we conquered Huayna Picchu. I say "conquered" because between a lingering lack of adjustment to the altitude, my already well-documented state of physical fitness, and the nature of five-century-old Inca masonry, it was an unexpectedly grueling three hours. The ascent to the top of the mountain, while only about 250 meters, is achieved via a never-ending series of steep and slippery stone steps (alliteration unintentional) with only the occasional rope to provide any insurance from falling off the edge. The view from the top is entirely worth it, as you'll see later. After getting to the top, we went back down the mountain, except on the other side to a shallow cavern ("cave" is more accurate) that was apparently used as a temple. We then had to climb almost all the way back up to the Machu Picchu side, a hike that included a brief stint hanging off the side of the mountain while rappelling down the stairs rather than walking them as they were at completely impossible angles. Once we got back up, we had to walk all the way down again to Machu Picchu. I took a fair number of breaks. It was exhausting. Dylan later commented I should have done a better job at using my momentum to my advantage.

All told, we were at Machu Picchu for more than eight hours and it was as much an experience of a lifetime as people say it is. Less impressive was the loud, alpaca-themed fashion show that the train staff put on for our benefit on the ride back to Ollantaytambo.

Back to Civilization

The Machu Picchu entry will be completed next, but I wanted to provide a quick update as to our recent whereabouts first.

As you may be aware (some of you hysterically so), Dylan and I have been incommunicado for the past couple of days. We've been staying on the small island of Amantaní, which is in the middle of Lake Titicaca near the Bolivian border. It was beautiful, to be sure. We stopped briefly on the famous so-called "Floating Islands". These have been artificially constructed in the shallow part of the lake using nothing but reeds, each island measuring no more than 50 feet across in diameter. Between six and ten families live on each island, which form a series of tiny communities in the middle of the lake. The local story says that these people, who speak a near-extinct language called Aymara, were too lazy to work normal jobs so they built islands in the middle of the lake and now survive on tourism income.

After arriving at our small, family-run lodge on the island, we walked up to the site of some interesting Inca ruins, taking in coffee, fried dough, and one of the most incredible sunsets ever (I took no fewer than four dozen pictures from the same position). That night, we walked down to the beach to enjoy a sky with an endless supply of stars (including more than a few shooting stars) thanks to a near-complete nighttime electrical blackout.

Then we spent an entire extra day there, which was easily the most boring day of the trip. There was just nothing to do at the small family-run lodge we stayed at. Dylan slept for about 23 hours in a 36 hour span while trying to ward off a sudden yet passing illness, and I played cards - by myself - for the better part of four hours before reading a little and, ultimately, just sitting still. If you should ever find yourself on Lake Titicaca, please be advised that one day on the islands is wholly sufficient.

We are now back in Puno, which is a city on the coast of the lake. We would like to continue to Cusco, where we have both a hostel reservation for tonight and plane tickets for tomorrow morning to the jungle. Unfortunately, there is a nationwide transit strike going on today that is preventing us from leaving town by either bus or train. Hire a taxi or private car, you say? The disaffected proletariat has apparently constructed roadblocks on all the major highways out of rocks and fires. And in the event that any wayward union-busting fascist (or, for that matter, innocent tourist) should attempt to make the journey anyway, they can expect a shower of rocks and bottles to be thrown at the car/bus/truck windows. All that to say that we are stuck here until at least early evening, and possibly until tomorrow.

A quick note to Peruvians: throwing stones and glass bottles at tourists discourages them from spending money in your country.

Through the Sacred Valley

The last two days have been of the whirlwind variety. They've also been of the unforgettable variety. This is going to be another two-part series.

We needed to make our way from Cusco to Aguas Calientes, which is the town that hosts Machu Picchu. This trip took us into what is known as the Sacred Valley, a stretch of land that features dozens of ruins of Inca temples, cities, and fortresses aside from those at Machu Picchu. Our actual time at Machu Picchu has earned its own entry, but the journey there was most definitely worth sharing.

It started with a taxi ride that took us from downtown Cusco through a series of small towns until we reached another small town called Ollantaytambo, or Ollanta for short. This town, inside the Sacred Valley, seems to exist for three reasons. First, they grow a small amount of crops here that provides an obviously necessary supplement to their tourism income. Which leads to reasons numbers two and three.

Reason Number Two is that it is home to the ruins of an Inca town and fortress. While there are many prominent sites, the one closest to the modern city center is a remarkable set of well-preserved terraces. These were used for agricultural purposes, though nearby terraces were also constructed as defensive structures. The story of Ollanta is an interesting one. Originally constructed by the Inca Emperor Pachacuti as an estate of sorts, it later had a much more dramatic role. During the Spanish Conquest, a rebel Inca leader named Manco Inca Yupanqui withdrew to Ollanta and fortified the town. When attacked by a Spanish cavalry force, his army successfully defended the position courtesy of showers of boulders, arrows, and likely whatever else was at hand, combined with a pre-orchestrated plan to flood the plain from which the Spanish had attacked, nearly causing an all-out rout. Unfortunately for Manco Inca, the Spanish returned shortly thereafter with four times the cavalry and infantry, which necessitated the beginning of the final Inca retreat into the jungle.

We climbed the terraces and walked along the mountain path to some additional structures, and were fairly impressed to say the least. Pictures will suffice for further explanation (no pictures yet, obviously, since posting pictures on here takes a lot of work and I'm tired).

Reason Number Three, and in all honesty this is probably the most important reason, is that Ollanta is a gateway to Machu Picchu. It is a stop on the railroad between Cusco and Aguas Calientes, though in fact many travelers begin their train journey to Aguas Calientes from Ollanta itself, as we did. Perhaps most significantly, Ollanta is the nearest town to the beginning of the world-famous Inca Trail, which begins along the train tracks a few kilometers outside of town. Having scheduled limited time in Peru, we long ago decided not to try to do the Inca Trail, but instead take the train to Aguas Calientes.

This is no ordinary train. There are actually three levels of train service: the Backpacker, which is barebones; the VistaDome, which features large windows on the sides and top of the cars so as to permit riders a chance to see the incredible scenery that goes by; and the Hiram Bingham, named after the "discoverer" of Machu Picchu, and offering premium service at premium prices. We went with the VistaDome. The single track follows the curves of the Rio Urubamba as it snakes through the increasingly lush valley. It takes sharp corners, plays soft "Incan" music, and offers some of the best views you can get from a train. Plus, at the end you get to Machu Picchu! In short, well worth the $50 fare.

The train makes its way to Aguas Calientes in about an hour, depositing you in a town that has an oddly Epcot-esque feel to it. Or perhaps Humphrey Bogart's Casablanca. Getting out of the train station takes some work, as the town has conveniently placed a three-block long handicraft market with narrow aisles and dim lighting and no signage whatsoever in between the station and the street. The only establishments in the entire town are places to sleep and places to eat. Nobody is ever in Aguas Calientes for any other reason than to get to Machu Picchu, so most visitors are either just there passing through from Cusco or are one-nighters, and there's a corresponding transient ambience to the place. The prices are higher and people are all business, peddling everything under the sun, including alpaca kebobs (pretty tasty, actually) and crappy CDs in restaurants. Seeing someone loitering in the streets is not a cause for alarm, because it's just understood that everyone's either on their way to or from Machu Picchu and there are lots of things to get done going in either direction, many of which involve loitering in the streets.

It was so over-the-top tacky that Dylan and I both kind of liked it. We got in at around 5pm, got to our hostel (which was kind of dirty, so I slept in my sleeping bag and showered in sandals), and picked up our Machu Picchu entry tickets at the municipal office. We picked up some bread and juice for the next morning's breakfast, grabbed a quick bite for dinner, and were in bed by 9.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Under the Sun God

We've reached Cusco, Peru, historic capital of the great Inca Empire. Although 450 years of Christian dominance following the Spanish conquest have made it a very Catholic city, the traditional rainbow flag of the Incas flies from many a window.

The majestic cathedral in the main plaza is cavernous, rivaling the great basilicas of Europe, and full of incredibly elaborate altars made of 18 carat gold and pure silver. There are also triptychs, intricately carved out of native cedar wood, with Renaissance-era paintings of holy scenes infused with local flavor (my personal favorite was a large painting of the Last Supper in which Jesus was shown to be eating fried cuy, or guinea pig). There are also dozens of additional churches, monestaries, and convents around the city, all of which are in the shadow of both an enormous cross and equally-impressive figure of Christ protecting Cusco's red-tiled rooftops from atop two of the many mountaintops between which this city is settled.

This city is over 3300 meters above sea level, which is over 1000 meters higher than our last city, Arequipa. This has resulted in some noticeable effects for both of us, mainly a temporary, yet very heavy fatigue that sets in whenever we exert ourselves. That has made climbing the many stairs and steep inclines of the impossibly narrow stone roads a bit more difficult than it should be. Even though our muscles don't feel tired, our lungs can't quite handle anything more than just walking around on flat ground without requiring heavy breathing. Our hostel is at the very top of one of the aforementioned hills, which affords us pretty stellar views of the city as we eat our breakfast (best coffee ever, incidentally), though it also means that we feel like we've just finished a marathon every time we come back.

We've had some pretty great meals along this trip, but none quite like the lunch we had today at the central market. The market is essentially a huge warehouse, for lack of a better word, full of artesian goods, apparel, fresh produce, meats, breads, sweets, and rows upon rows of stalls serving a range of food. These stalls range from tourist-oriented restaurants with signs and tables and comparatively extensive menus to tiny little nooks with little more than a 6-foot counter and bench serving three or four traditional dishes. As we walked through the market, we stood out. I saw only three other gringos in the whole place. We were hawked at constantly in a fashion reminiscent of Santiago, which was the site of our last central market exploration. The difference between Cusco and Santiago is that in Santiago the people are loud and the goods expensive while in Cusco, many people are rather quiet, demure even, and the prices are low low low. Although wandering around the food stalls, the old women cooking behind the counters would point at us, shout their menu to us, and point down to open spots at the counter, almost commanding us to sit.

Dylan decided he wanted ceviche, the so-called national dish of Peru (though it's not really as prevalent as you might think with that description), while I decided I wanted what all the locals seemed to be eating, which was some chicken and rice concoction that looked good. So naturally, instead of just picking one, we found two adjacent stalls - one selling ceviche and one that seemed to be selling what I wanted. Dylan loved his ceviche, and loved the fact that it cost only five soles, or $1.67, even more. I was not so lucky. I was served a half-full bowl of broth and noodles, and then another bowl overflowing thanks to a mountain of vegetables, at the heart of which was a big chicken leg. I assumed I was supposed to mix them together (though I didn't understand why it wouldn't have come pre-mixed). But when I tried to confirm my suspicion, I was informed by the chef, who looked at me as though I had suggested dumping the whole lot on the floor, that mixing them would be considered, in a word, a faux pas. So I struggled. I grew very frustrated, as the food wasn't really good enough to justify the enormous effort I was exerting, every minute of which Dylan seemed to relish. After I paid my tab of eight soles, I waited until the lady turned her back for a minute, then ran away having barely eaten a quarter of my meal.

Still hungry, I asked that we try again somewhere else. Dylan, speaking more out of joy at spending less than two dollars on a full meal, readily agreed. So we had a second lunch, this time saddling up on a wooden bench in the midst of a series of hardscrabble locals. Luckily, this was a wholly straightforward combination of thick vegetable soup and a fried pork chop on top of a bed of lettuce and rice and french fries, prepared for us by an elderly woman who split her time between cooking the food, calling out to passersby, and shouting instructions to her diminutive husband, who was permanently on dish-washing duty. All told, we spent a combined total of around eight dollars on four lunches, including drinks.

Completely stuffed, we started wandering around the other stalls, looking for a small bag to replace the cheap backpack we picked up in Tigre, Argentina to carry our books and things while out during the day. We found one easily enough for five bucks, which Dylan covered all of in exchange for me agreeing to let him use it exclusively upon our return to the States (not a hard sell). It was then that I saw an entire row of stalls manned by women armed with hordes of fruit and blenders. Faithful readers know how much we've both come to love banana shakes. How could we not try one at such incredible prices? We entered the row cautiously, and the woman at the end of the aisle wasted no time in trying to get our attention. I kept strolling through, looking at the prices, only to turn around to see Dylan frozen in place, too overwhelmed by the cacophany of voices, now numbering at least six, to move. Finally going to the first woman that had talked to us, we got the best shakes yet - mine banana and Dylan's papaya. And when we thought we had finished, it turned out that the woman had prepared a full pitcher for each of us! What a treat.

Four meals and two pitchers of fruit milkshake is honestly too much lunch for two people, so it's been a quiet late afternoon. I'm pretty ecstatic about going to Machu Picchu on Thursday, and we should see some pretty awesome ruins along the way tomorrow as well. We also booked our flight to the jungle yesterday, meaning that the rest of the trip is pretty much set at this point. It definitely feels like we've been here a while and we're both a little bit homesick, but it's still hard to believe that in just two weeks, I'll be eating dinner in New Jersey again.

38 Days

Buses. I hate buses. I've never been a huge fan of them, but this trip has really sealed the deal. At some point, I'll have to figure out exactly how much time we've spent on buses. I suspect it will be around two weeks.

Since I told you about how much fun we had in Salta, we've had less fun. We took a bus back across the border, a trip that was made anything better than marginal only by the fact that we were sitting next to two attractive girls who were very European, if you know what I mean. We arrived in San Pedro de Atacama, which is an amazingly horrible little outpost of civilization in the middle of the Atacama Desert in Chile, which is the driest in the world. While San Pedro used to be a critically important trading post for thousands of years, the last 20 years have seen it become a perverted tourist-money-sucking rotted-out shell of its former self, with two-bit shmoes standing outside of terrible restaurants and tour agencies hawking overpriced menus in your face. I really didn't like it. We took two excursions while we were there. To be completely honest, I feel like the whole thing was a big waste of money.

The first excursion was to Valle de la Luna and Valle de la Muerte (Moon and Death Valleys, respectively). Go see Dylan's post for pictures. It was fine. We saw a nice sunset, and we walked down an enormous sand dune by taking our shoes off and letting each step take us up to our knees in soft brown sand.

The second excursion was allegedly to the Atacama Desert's famous altiplano lakes, which are situated thousands of meters above sea level. While we did in fact go to the lakes, the entire lake visit part of the trip was only one hour of the ten hour excursion, for which we each paid the handy price of CLP$31,500, or US$60. We went to a forgettable town called Túcuman - twice - and also saw some flamingos at a different lake in the middle of the Atacama's enormous salt flat. This last part was really cool, I admit. The excursion basically needed to be six hours shorter and 40 dollars cheaper and only inclusive of the lakes.

All told, I felt dirty and abused coming out of San Pedro, and I am putting it on my list of places to not return to.

Then we took another bus, this time from San Pedro overnight to Arica, Chile. We were only in Arica in order to get to Tacna, Peru - the Tijuana to Arica's San Diego - which we needed to get to in order to get to our real destination, Arequipa, Peru. We got to Arica at six in the morning. Only the Pullman Bus office was open for business at that hour, so we booked (against Dylan's better judgment) tickets straight to Arequipa via Tacna. And by tickets I mean we handed them money and got nothing in return, except for customs forms that I had to fill out twice because they gave me a red pen to do it in the first time, then told me afterwards that I wasn't allowed to use a red pen. Blue-inked customs forms in hand, a large gentleman who I will call Big Juan escorted us out of the terminal, down the street, into a dark parking lot, and finally to our waiting chariot. Apparently, no buses make the Arica-Tacna border crossing, so it is necessary to take a taxi. By "taxi", I mean this man was using his personal car as a taxi. This thing was an old school boat-sized Chevrolet that had been dumped in Peru after someone in the US decided it was worthless. The speedometer did not work at all, which was fine since it was in miles per hour anyway. The car did not require a key - turning the ignition by hand was sufficient. The odometer had been frozen at 212,000+ miles for God-knows-how-long and every possible engine warning light was on. While the dashboard obviously indicated that the car was an automatic, the man was using a clutch to drive, pushing the automatic gearshift in random directions to make the car move. The driver's side door did not have a handle, and the passenger side door may or may not have been held together by duct tape. To make things even more comfortable, this piece of sh*tmobile was taking a full load that morning, with three Brits in the back and Dylan and I in front along with Big Juan. I was in the middle of the front seat, meaning I traveled the vast majority of the 60+ km journey with my knees at eye level and the left side of my face within Big Juan's breathing range.

We finally got to Tacna, which is like saying that we finally got to Camden, NJ. What a shithole. We boarded a bus that left at 9:30am, which is more than I can say for the friendly Brits we were with in the Chevy, who were apparently given the old bait-and-switch and had to wait all day until their buses left in the afternoon. We were assigned the two seats in the very front of the top level of the bus, meaning that we kind of felt like we were in a virtual reality simulator, looking out of windows in front of us and to either side. This seemed great, until I realized that we were driving through uninterrupted, cloudless, 90-degree desert. Dylan insisted on keeping the shades open so that he could see all the sand. Meanwhile, I slowly roasted in a pool of my own perspiration as the sun shone directly on me while Dylan slept like a babe in the shade.

We got to Arequipa at 5pm and made our way to our hostel. At some point, between the altitude changes, lack of normal food, utter fatigue, heat sickness, potential food poisoning from the "meat" empanada that someone sold us on the bus, and just general unhealthiness, I contracted an acute stomach pain accompanied by a brief bout of the shakes that prevented me from eating a full dinner and necessitated an uncomfortable 3-hour nap from 6-9pm.

Finally healthy, off buses, and back in a normal city today, I've had a nice time in Arequipa. The architecture is notable especially for its use of sillar, which is a ubiquitous white stone that has been used for construction here for hundreds of years. We explored the delightfully vibrant colors of the Convent of St. Catherine, which is one of the most important religious buildings in all of South America. Dylan will be posting pictures of this at some point soon - stay tuned. On a Rough Guide recommendation, we ventured off the beaten path via taxi to a restaurant a few kilometers outside of the city center. Solid recommendation. In a shady patio, accompanied by live music and pisco sours and surrounded by locals, we enjoyed some pretty tasty seafood, although Dylan would probably say that his meal required more effort than it justified. As soon as I finish typing, we're going to see Arequipa's beautiful cathedral all lit up at night. I'm glad to be in Peru, though I will definitely miss Argentina and Chile, San Pedro and vicious-dog-infested Maipú excluded.

We leave tomorrow night for Cusco. On a bus.

Driving

Note: This entry is unfinished. The pictures are missing. The pictures will come soon.

This is the final installment of my two-part series for Salta, Argentina. Read the previous post for part one.

Monday might have been my favorite day of the trip so far. Let me tell you why. It started, as so many great days do, by taking a car into the country.

We rented a tiny little Chevy Corsa from Hertz. After some deliberation the night before, we had settled on taking a drive to Cafayate, which is a small town (although, at 12,000, it's the second largest in the province of Salta) 183km south of Salta. Those 183km take you through the Quebrada de Cafayate, roughly translated as Cafayate Canyon, which is a vast canyon that surrounded the now-extinct Río las Conchas. This drive was, in a word, unforgettable.

First, we were driving in Argentina! Neither of us has really made much mention of the road situation here, but it is markedly less civilized than what Americans are used to. Lanes, when the government has bothered to identify them, are treated more as mere suggestions than as, well, lanes. Stop signs are disregarded almost entirely. Pedestrians are fully responsible for their own safety, as drivers do not look. Ever. Speed limits are even less meaningless than they are in the United States, and by that I mean that there is absolutely no enforcement of speed limits whatsoever. All this to say that simply surviving the day without an accident is worthy of significant praise.

Second, I learned how to drive stick shift! I've never been behind the wheel of a car with manual transmission before, but the car Dylan learned to drive with was a manual, so he's entirely comfortable with it. At the beginning of the trip, he suggested I learn how. I said no, because I figured if I was going to scratch the gears on a car by accident, it should be the gears of someone who wouldn't get that mad at me, unlike Hertz. And I figured my first attempt should be in the United States, in case I needed to explain to the authorities why I was stalled in the middle of an intersection. However, as we were going along one of the most beautiful roads I've ever been on, seeing unbelievable scenery, I really, really wanted to drive. And Dylan wanted to be able to take pictures without pulling over every other kilometer.

So, about a third of the way in, as we were walking back to the car following yet another stop for a photo, I said I wanted to try. Dylan happily said it was fine with him, and we switched seats. He gave me a three minute lesson, neglecting to mention certain things that would wind up being important (e.g., don't stop the car in fourth gear). Obviously, I stalled the first time trying to get into first. But not the second! I did switch to second too soon, though, and the car was, well, clunking along for a little while before she finally calmed down. But then I was off, learning to drive manual transmission via trial by fire, discovering how to properly downshift coming out of hairpin turns overlooking 100 meter cliffs. We did turn the radio off to lessen the distractions to me, but when the view out the windshield is what you see in the pictures below, there's only so much attention you can afford to pay to the road. I would say, all things considered, that I did a pretty darn good job for my first time. Dylan was a great teacher, I must say, and he exercised patience with me at several points where I might not have had the roles been reversed.

The main reason this trip was so incredible, however, was because of what we saw out the windows at every turn. Colors of the earth that I had previously only known through pictures in National Geographic. Rock formations so bizarre that Dylan and I were both at a loss for how to reasonably explain them. The road wound through lush, verdant hills, hugged jagged, red cliffs, and eventually opened up into long stretches of straightaway that provided sweeping panoramas of the entire valley.

I don't have the ability to fairly describe what we saw without the aid of pictures, so the rest of this entry will be a small sampling of the hundreds of pictures we took, along with some captions.

Singing Salta's Praises

This is the first installment of my two-part series on our time in Salta, Argentina. Please see the following post for part two.

I'm writing this post from a small internet café in the desert. We're in San Pedro de Atacama, which is a 2000-strong town in roughly the middle of absolutely nowhere, Chile. We are surrounded by dust, salt flats, dirt, and shrubbery. However, as we just arrived tonight following a much shorter and altitude sickness-free (thanks to some offensively potent garlic pills that the pharmacist recommended) bus trip, a fuller description will have to wait until the next post.

Now, I want to tell you about Salta, Argentina. As Dylan briefly alluded to in his last post, there was some tense logistical maneuvering to get us to Salta in a satisfactory manner. The details are irrelevant, but let's just say that Dylan threatened to go to Bolivia instead of joining me. That's right. Needless to say, I was really hoping Salta would be a great time so that he would feel foolish for his threat.

Over the course of the past five weeks, we've made many petty, small, often embarrassing side bets to pass the time. Does Slovenia border Italy or not? It does, I was ashamed to confirm. Are Julia Roberts and Richard Gere more than five years apart in age? Of course they are, I was glad to point out. It pains me to admit that I'm losing that war by a tally of 5-3 right now. However, like a true champion, I came through in the clutch, and you'll be pleased to know that this particular wager was won decisively by yours truly.

There were many things we loved about Salta.

One of the first that we noticed was the weather. Understand that Dylan and I have both been constantly cold for about five weeks straight. Inside, outside, on a bus, awake, asleep... nothing has mattered. I've been able to see my breath in my bedroom several times, and long sleeves and jackets have been mandatory attire every day, with perhaps one exception in Mendoza. Salta, on the other hand, was 74 and sunny every day. It got cool at night, but the coldest Salta night was still warmer than most of the previous days. That was a very welcome change.

Our hostel in Salta was terrific. Warm showers, fresh breakfasts with great coffee prepared on demand by the delightful owner, Ignacio, and comfortable beds. All things I have come to appreciate on a daily basis. No longer do I take any of them for granted.

Salta's main plaza takes the honors for the best we've seen yet. Surrounded by cafés dotted with locals lazily sipping espressos, the plaza is home to Salta's magnificent pink cathedral and tasteful, subdued fountains and patios, accentuated by the occasional palm tree. Unfortunately, Salta's plaza did continue an unfortunate trend. Dylan and I have both come to love banana milkshakes (called licuados) on this trip, and we've been on a pace of two or three a week. Inexplicably, every time we try to get a licuado on a sidewalk café, what we get back is next to undrinkable. It makes us sad, because sidewalk cafés seem like the perfect place to enjoy a milkshake.

After having some relatively mediocre meals in Chile (Dylan would say I'm a bad orderer), I personally was elated to return to a country that prides itself on its beef. I've already related to you the story of our first good meal, the one meant for four people. Rest assured that the others followed suit. In fact, I was very glad to arrange for four straight days with steaks or ribs as the main meal. Best of all, I haven't heard the word "fish" come out of Dylan's mouth since we've been here.

We celebrated the fourth by going out with an American girl named Danielle and a British girl named Vicky who refused to drink anything and stood way too close while explaining British royalty to me. We hit up a few bars, including one with a live band, played a few games of pool, drank lots of Budweiser, and finally went to a club until it closed at 5. Incidentally, I hate clubs. In any event, I was a little sad to experience an Independence Day without fireworks or hamburgers or "Stars and Stripes". Although my sadness was tempered by witnessing Dylan propose a toast to Barack Obama. (On a side note, we haven't been asked about the president that often, although all such inquiries are always in the form of "Do you like Barack Obama?" and there is only one acceptable answer if we want to continue to be served.)

Sunday was a bit of a quiet day. We did see a parade of what seemed like an endless supply of gauchos, the very traditional residents of much of South Americas rural farmland - cowboys, if you will, on horseback. We must have seen a thousand of them, and there was no end in sight when we decided we had seen enough. Really, there's only so many you need to see before you get the idea. And we took a slow ski lift thingy to the top of the big hill that overlooks the city. It was underwhelming compared to Santiago, I would say, though we did have some good coffee as we watched the sun set over the mountains.

Monday, our final day in Salta, deserves it's own entry, and so it shall be.

The Wheels on the Bus

Happy Fourth! We are in Salta, Argentina. We have been in this city for about 24 hours, which is exactly six hours fewer than the amount we needed to get here. By bus. Well, two buses, to be precise. And to be completely fair, we were in the bus terminal of Antofagasta, Chile from 5-6am. However, let me underscore that we needed to be on a bus for a total of 29 hours in order to get to Salta from La Serena, Chile. One day and five hours on a bus. Forgive me, but I have to talk about the bus for a little bit.

The first 14 hours were spent in cama class, which features wide, soft leather seats that recline to about 165 degrees. This was comfortable, even if it was a long time to be on a bus.

Then, we were in the bus terminal of Antofagasta, Chile. It looked like this:




We spent the final 15 hours in semi-cama class, which, while perfectly fine for trips up to about 8 hours, rapidly deteriorates in quality after that mark. The seats are close together, recline less than in cama, and there is significantly less leg room. Essentially, it really isn't a nice place to be for the better part of a full day under any circumstances. However, there were several aggrevating circumstances of which I'd like to make you aware, in bullet point format.

• First, we had just spent the better part of a full day on a different bus in superior conditions, so this was a notable downgrade.


• Second, we were sitting right in front of the bathroom, which had doors that failed to stay closed and banged around noisily, which invariably caused the rest of the passengers to stare back at us (really just me, since I was on the aisle), silently holding me responsible for both the existence of the noise and the task of fixing the situation. Further, because the door had a handle on the outside, people assumed they needed to pull on the door to open it. Not so. Many would become agitated to the point of using the wall next to the door for leverage and heaving on the handle with great force, then cursing loudly. Sometimes, my leaning back and saying "empuje", or push, was sufficient to get these people on their way. Usually, however, they needed a full demonstration. This happened no fewer than eight times.


• Third, one of our fellow passengers snored for the entire ride, save for the 20 minutes he managed to keep himself awake in order to stuff more food into his fat, moustachioed face. This man's snoring was the stuff of legends. Have you ever heard someone snore for 15 hours straight? It wasn't even consistent. Sometimes it would be low-pitched and evenly paced. Other times, it was so chaotic, you thought he might actually be choking, not snoring. Still other times, it was just inconceivably fast. It varied not only in pace, but also in volume. I believe his max range was 12 rows. And then, of course, the occasional mini-finale, in which he would wake up momentarily in order to triumphantly dislodge all the phlegm and God-knows-what-else from his various facial orifices into his sleeve, or the seat ahead of him if he didn't have the time or energy to pull his arm up. I spent a fair amount of time making noises to mimic him, and asked Dylan if my noises were better or worse than the man's. He said better. The man looked like this:
  
  
  
• Fourth, somewhere about halfway through, when we were crossing the Andean border between Chile and Argentina, I suddenly got altitude sickness. For about three minutes, I was completely disoriented, had blurred vision, was sweating profusely, and couldn't even muster the awareness or strength to tell Dylan about it. I managed to get myself up, drink some water and furiously peel and eat a clementine, which calmed me down. But I had a headache for the rest of the trip, which was exacerbated by the lack of sleep and comfort.


• Fifth, we had to watch Braveheart in Spanish. You know Mel Gibson's famous, defiant scream of "FREEEEDOOOM!!!"? Let's just say that "LIIIBEERTAAAD!" doesn't get the blood moving quite the same way.


• Sixth, and possibly most importantly, we had no real food. We were kept alive over the 30 hours stretch by three clementines apiece, two bags of potato chips, two tiny containers of fruit salad in syrup, two oatmeal raisin cookies, and four boxes of peach juice. Oh, and ten saltines. I may never have been as sad as I was when we got to Jujuy, Argentina for a brief stop about 12 hours in. I stepped out of the bus and there was a man selling the most delicious ham and cheese sandwhiches I'd ever seen. They were only four pesos each! Tragically, I only had Chilean currency. Dylan nearly cried.

There were eight movies over the two trips, of which two were good. La Misma Luna was really terrific. Wedding Crashers goes without explanation, although they cut off the ending. Everything else was abysmal, including several contenders for "Worst Movie I've Ever Seen". Worse, everything was bootlegged, so the audio was often off and the video quality was, well, you know what bootlegged movies look like.

Anyway, I hope I have impressed upon you how bad that trip was.

The scenery was often beautiful, though it would quickly become monotonous. Nothing like our first trip across the Andes. Where we had then been in the middle of enormous, dramatic snow-capped peaks, now were were in the middle of deserts and salt flats. Where customs and immigration had there been in the middle of a mountain, here it was just sand and dust and dirt for as far as the eye could see. I will add some pictures later.

We came to Salta primarily, though not exclusively, because my grandfather told me to. He was here many, many years ago, doing publicity for a film called ________ (Abuelito, feel free to finish that sentence). He told me that this city had the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. I have to admit that I'm not sure if that's still the case, as Buenos Aires was pretty good in that department. However, we're going out tonight to the bars so we'll probably have a fuller report tomorrow.

Upon arrival in town, we found a hostel, dropped off our bags, and went for the biggest steak we could find within two minutes walking distance. What we found was decent, not great, but those steaks more than filled the voids that the previous 30 hours had created.

Today, however, we followed a recommendation from the hostel and went to a place a little off the beaten trail. We both ordered items from the "meats" section, though neither of us knew exactly what we were ordering. After taking our order, the waiter returned within a few moments to inform - no, warn - us that the portions were muy grande. We laughed him away. Then I opened our Lonely Planet guide and discovered that the restaurant had been reviewed, favorably, partially because each entreé was actually meant for TWO people, and individual portions would be provided only upon request. While what we got was delicious, it was indeed meant for a total of four people. Dylan did his best to be a good American and he finished all of his, though I think he'd admit that he later paid for it.

Sunsets, Stars, and Sixty Bucks Lost to Roulette

So defines our time in La Serena, Chile, which is a delightful small town on the coast. Although truthfully, nothing referenced in the title of this post actually happened in La Serena.

We arrived from Santiago at nearly 4 in the morning on Monday. Leaving the bus terminal, we found ourselves walking through streets entirely deserted except for a couple of hungry dogs who opted to ignore us. Our hostel - if you can call this place a hostel - is down an extremely sketchy looking street (at least at night), which is made all the sketchier by the haphazard property numbering scheme they've established. Our hostel is number 18. After loitering outside between houses 17 and 20, a woman came out of her house (unarmed) and informed us unexpectedly politely that our hostel was just down the block. A man who wanted nothing to do with being awake answered our knock and showed us to the room that had been prepared for us, which is just big enough for the two twins and small table that reside in it.

Waking up at 11am (why rush?), we discovered just how cool this hostel is. It's called Maria's Casas, and it is run by a fantastic old grandmother type named, yes, Maria. The place is stocked with fresh fruit, which I have been devouring at a possibly unwelcome pace. There's a nice little courtyard in the back, where Dylan and I set up chairs two nights ago to watch the stars while finally smoking the two Cuban cigars he got for us in Argentina. After using the kitchen to make dinner earlier that night, we came into the kitchen to clean up after ourselves only to discover that Maria had already happily washed the dishes herself (we bought her flowers in the town market yesterday to say thanks). The best part is, we're each only paying CH$5,000 per night! Peter, do the math please.

That day, after walking around the town center a little bit, we took a colectivo taxi over to the beach (well, the taxi dropped us off on the side of the highway and we walked the last kilometer ourselves). It's a strange sight for me to have the Pacific Ocean in front of me and then mountains to the North, South, and East. We sat there on the beach, technically in a small town called Coquimbo, and read our pretentious books and wrote postcards to all of you. Then we strolled down the boardwalk for maybe a mile or two, stopping along the way to pick up a dozen churros, which are simpler cousins of funnel cake, until we reached the last building, which is a fancy hotel and, best of all, a casino! I dragged Dylan in, almost forcibly, and put up with his kvetching, which lasted exactly until the moment I stepped up to the roulette table, at which time he put down CH$10,000 and demanded chips. I regret to report that my recent streak of good fortune at Atlantic City has not followed me down here, folks. Forty bucks down, Dylan suggested we take a timeout to view the sunset over the ocean. It was nice. Maybe I should have stayed out there a little longer, because soon enough I was - rather unceremoniously - down sixty and I had to call it a night.

Yesterday was a good day for hardly doing anything during the day. Most importantly, I got a new camera! A relatively inexpensive Nikon that was on sale at a department store. While it's just nice in general to finally have a camera again on this once-in-a-lifetime trip, I was especially pleased with my purchase last night. We went to Observatorio Cerro Mamalluca, which is a tourist-oriented observatory on the top of a (relatively) small hill in the foothills of the Andes about 75km outside of La Serena. This may have been the best tour guide I've ever had. In English, he was incredibly knowledgeable about everything astronomy-related. He showed us how to use the Southern Cross to get your bearings by finding due South. He showed us clusters of stars ranging from 20 to 1000 to 1 million. We saw Saturn, rings and moons and all. With his incredibly powerful green laser pointer, which appeared to actually reach into space, he showed us constellation after constellation, explaining the mythology behind them and all manner of other interesting data points.

Then, we saw the moon. It looked a little something like this:





Bet you didn't think we were going into SPACE on this trip, eh?

Anyway, that was really really fun.

Today, we went to a tiny, sleepy town about 60km east of La Serena called Vicuña, which is primarily known for being home to Gabriela Mistral, who is one of two Chilean Nobel Prize winners, and the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Don't care at all? Neither did we. There isn't very much to do in Vicuña (other than the Gabriela Mistral museum). So we just walked around. A bunch. There's very little to say about Vicuña to be honest, so I will just post some of the pictures I took from Vicuña. I kind of like the name Vicuña.



The path up to the hill we climbed to get the pictures you will see below.



This is what streets look like in Chile. Completely normal, except for mountains behind the houses.



Seasoned traveler, indeed.



Fields and houses. And mountains.



More fields and bigger mountains.



Etc.



Wandering.



You get the idea.



The coloring and lighting on this one is obviously messed up, but we were working with imperfect conditions trying to use the timer. Also, Dylan forgot to smile.



Displeased only by the relative smallness of our hill.

Intermission

This post comes to you from a wholly nondescript internet cafe in the basement of the bus terminal in Santiago, Chile. We just booked our tickets for La Serena, which is a coastal town about seven hours north of here. The bus leaves in an hour and a half, which leaves us with a not-so-rare bit of free time.

Dylan has chosen to spend his time researching Brazilian soccer stars. As a matter of fact, he has recently declared his intent to become a full-fledged soccer fan. All he needs to do, according to him, is pick a team. I don't have the stomach to talk with him about it.

As the culmination of our long-standing bet with Kelsey regarding the availibility of good seafood in Santiago, we went to the Mercado Central for lunch today, which is essentially a giant produce and fish market that happens to house a few restaurants. Unfortunately, the lines of communication between the two of us and Kelsey broke down, so she wasn't able to join us.

The smell of fish overwhelms you upon entering, just before you are overwhelmed all over again by the army of waiters and hosts clamoring for your attention, explaining to you why their particular restaurant - with the same prices and menu as all the others - is vastly superior. To make things even more comfortable for the modern American traveler, all these salesmen have learned just enough English to cross the line from being interesting, if loud, elements of a foreign experience to being unreservedly obnoxious pests. Once we finally selected one of the cheaper-looking establishments, I proceeded to look at a menu I did not understand. Well, let me rephrase. I wanted steamers. You know, steamed littleneck clams - in their shells - with melted butter to dip them in. I basically tried to import that dish on the spot, and I thought I had gotten my point across to the waitress when she left the table with a smile. What I got in return was a bowl of cold clam soup complete with a pound of scallions and a liter of lemon juice. It was, in a word, terrible. After pretending I liked it for five minutes, including twice confirming to the waitress that "¡si, me gusta mucho!", I made a desperate confession to Dylan, who just looked at me and, even after tasting my dish and agreeing that it was terrible, had no suggestion as to what I should do. To sum up, I didn't eat lunch today. Dylan loved his meal, though, so we still win the bet.

Our food fare yesterday was not especially noteworthy, although, feeling incredibly lazy, we did have our quiet night punctuated by a dinner of two medium pizzas and a 2-liter bottle of Coke at the Chilean equivalent of Dominos (except way better than Dominos).

The most remarkable thing about yesterday was San Cristobal, which is a giant hill in the middle of Santiago and home to the famous statue of the Virgin Mary that overlooks the city. We took an acensore (think poor man's ski lift) to the top of the hill that I would charitably describe as "rickity". The view from the top, though, was really something to see. Urban sprawl for as far as the eye can see, all surrounded by a thick ring of pollution (which I noted was mostly concentrated at the exact altitude of the top of the hill we were on). Beyond the sprawl and the smog are mountains, mountains, and more mountains in every direction. Some are nothing but grey rock and white snow, others nothing but lush, verdant monuments to nature's dominance over even the most impressive of human cities. We sat on the top of the hill in the shadow of the statute for a good while, until the cold wind became too much to justify staying to watch a rather disappointing sunset.

Leaving Santiago, we note that this is the last real city we'll see until we reach Lima at the end of our journey. The rest of our trip will be made of mountain towns and, when those are unavailable, just the mountains themselves. I am essentially more of a city person than a mountain person, and so it won't surprise me if, in four weeks, I find that I enjoyed the first four more than the second. That being said, the next four weeks will be unlike any others in my life and I can hardly wait to get on with them.