Apr 2006

Dan, Andrew, and I arrived in La Paz at 4:30 AM on Monday morning. We looked out the bus window warily. I expected to see men in dark hoods walking menacingly around with machetes in hand, but alas, it was just a boring old bus station. Well darn it! We hopped off the bus and walked to the information desk, which was closed, and began sneaking around looking for some hostel brochures, at which point, two men in dark green uniforms that loudly proclaimed “Policia Turistica” approached us and asked us what we needed. I eyed them suspiciously. Were they real cops?? Good cops, bad cops?? Did one of them just wink at the other?? I briefly entertained the thought of kicking them in the groin and fleeing into the dark La Paz night but then I realized that half the taxistas would be in on the scam so I thought better of it. We reluctantly explained that we were looking for a hostel. They explained that they were the Policia Turistica and were here for OUR protection, given La Paz’ reputation, and they promptly put us in a safe cab, wrote down his license plate number, and sent us off to Solaris Hostel. The hostel was booked and thus began our one hour night ride quest for a bed through the dark and menacing La Paz streets, jumping in and out of the cab, ringing doorbells in vain. At 5:30, we ended up at Hotel Torino, where we were met at the door by a grunt and then led to a beautiful private room with hardwood floors and glorious, glorious hot water. This little slice of heaven was quickly cut short when I realized that I had forgotten my purse in the cab. Being that I am the luckiest person in the world, I had used my money wallet for the first time on this trip that morning, putting my passports and credit cards in it, but still….MY PURSE. After a 5 minute panic attack, the 101 Dalmations bed sheets got the better of me and sleep took over.

The next morning, while British Princesses Dan and Andrew got their beauty sleep, I set out to single-handedly prove wrong all those stories about La Paz that speak of corruption, theft, and generally bad people. That’s right. I, Silvana Joseph, was going to valiantly and dramatically get my purse back. I marched down to the bus station and walked up to the group of Policia Turistica, who were indeed living and working, every day, solely for MY protection. I explained the situation and described the police personnel who had placed me in the cab the previous night. After much internal struggle, the Policia Turistica came to the conclusion that Officers Miranda and Jerez were on duty on the fated night. UNFORTUNATELY, they weren’t working right now. Would you please, Senorita Joseph, come back tomorrow during their working hours. And please, Senorita Joseph, have faith in us Policia Turistica. You do have faith in us, do you not? Claro que si! I spent the rest of the day walking around the commercial center of La Paz, chaotic streets of juice and pastry vendors, CD vendors, crappy-junk-that-noone-wants vendors, and loud colectivos (mini busses) threatening to run over all of the above. Our hostel was actually placed in the thick of it all so that was exciting. That morning, I had run into Jazz (UK) who we had hung out with in Sucre along with Kiwi Charlie, two of the most fun people around, as well as two of the most hard-to-keep-up-with people around. I’m trying hard to not be so lame, but as you all know, it's a daily struggle. We all had lunch at a Thai restaurant and then I headed off to the general hospital to get my two-week cough checked out (I keep insisting it’s a miner’s cough but I get called a drama queen). I ended up at the military hospital by mistake and it took an hour to get sorted out that I have no affiliation with the Bolivian National Military. After that, it was off to the general hospital, whose visiting hours were over, so I got sent to the emergency room, where I felt like the biggest jerk ever saying “ahhhhhh” as the poor souls next to me were getting their stomachs pumped. At the end of the day, my very serious condition was prescribed some very serious medication: ibuprofen. That evening, we dined with Jazz, Charlie, Ryan, Kate and some lively others at a nice restaurant with sushi and pasta and other non Bolivian things (shhh…noone has to know…being “cultural” gets tiring).

The next day, I woke up in high spirits, resolved to see Bolivian justice served. I took a colectivo to the bus terminal and went in search of my Policia Turistica heroes. I found Officer Miranda eating soup down the street. I explained the situation to him. He seemed very interested in my case and told me that Officer Jerez, his partner "on the beat", had indeed written down the taxista’s information. UNFORTUNATELY, Officer Jerez was in bed with a terrible cold. I considered offering him some of my ibuprofen but then realized this might be considered bribery so I scraped the idea. Should have gone with that one. Officer Miranda took down my information and told me that he would contact me if there was any "break in the case". Before he sent me on my way, he looked at me in a very serious way and asked me if I have faith in him. Do I have faith that the water in my shower will suddenly turn cold halfway through? Do I have faith that I will fall over every time I put on my backpack? Claro que si! That day, I walked around the tourist market in La Paz, which has beautiful arrays of brightly colored blankets, llama sweaters, Andean jewelry, really gorgeous stuff. And the people who live here are great too, so very friendly, you wouldn’t expect it from a big city. I guess it’s the Bolivian way. I ran into Olivier, my good friend from Ushuaia, on the street and we visited the Coca Museum together. There, we learned that coca, as in the leaves chewed by Andean communities, has a great many health benefits especially at the high altitudes found here, while cocaine, the synthetic mixture that was first used by US and French pharmaceutical companies (like Merck), is obviously the deadly stuff. I won’t go into the politics of the US-South American coca drug trade. My blogs are boring enough.

When I got back to the hostel, I had an exciting telephone message from the Policia Turistica waiting for me. It said:

“Senorita Joseph is asked to come down to the station immediately. Over.” (Ok, I added that last part).

I took the first colectivo that didn’t try to run me over and rushed to the office. I explained the message I had received. Everyone looked confused. Someone went out to find Officer Miranda, who was having ice cream down the street. He looked a bit confused and then, after some internal struggle, he realized that he had indeed sent me a message. Well, what was the news? Apparently, the news was that Officer Jerez would be back in tomorrow. What a break! I think I smell a promotion…

The next day, I headed to the bus station early in the hopes that Officer Miranda wouldn’t be hungry yet and be eating something down the street. When I arrived, neither partner was there, but the girls at the office had an amazing piece of information for me…two possible license plate numbers! Someone had obviously worked through the night on the Joseph Lost Purse case. The girls then told me that I should call the cab companies and ask them for my purse. I explained that I, Senorita Turista, had no power over a cab company and the only answer I would get would be a ‘no’. I told them that only the powerful Policia Turistica wields power over the lowly taxistas. They seemed taken aback with my brilliant argument (do you blame them?) and, after much internal struggle, the girls decided what must be done. We marched over to the office of the Bolivian National Police. We entered the office and saluted the Head Chief, Captain Ruez (Dan pointed out that I didn’t actually salute but did more of an awkward nod but he can bite me.) He listened to my case intently and, as I eloquently told my story in perfect, perfect Spanish, he seemed to get angry. How dare this happen?? Not under my watch, god damn it!! He grabbed the piece of paper with the cab company information and decisively picked up the phone. My heart jumped. There is justicia in Bolivia! He spoke sharply to the cab operator and ordered the cabbie to appear before the National Police the next morning at 8:30 AM. The Bolivian National Police, damn straight people! He then slammed the phone down and nodded gravely at me. Tomorrow, Senorita Joseph, we will close this case. Will you be there? I nodded gravely at him, saluted (=waved awkwardly) and walked out in victory. And then walked back in because I forgot my scarf. And walked back out in victory.

That day, we rented a car and drove an hour and a half to Tiwanaku, a pre-Incan ruins site. Charlie drove and did a fine job of outmaneuvering the locals, swerving buses and vendors and random people carrying doors across highways (what the…) with the greatest of ease. It was really great to see the beautifully green countryside, women in long braids and huge poofy skirts working in the fields, against the snowy mountainous backdrop. We toured the Tiwanaku site for an hour. The Tiwanakus were a highly advanced pre-Incan civilization (400-1000 AD) who built a huge pyramid and various temples, set up a remarkable water sewer system for their network of villages (so large, considered a country) and who prayed to great monuments of their sun and moon gods. When the Spanish came, they put Christian crosses on the Tiwanakus’ statue deities and used the rocks from their sacred temples to build Christian churches. The Tiwanakus buried the big pyramid under great amounts of dirt to hide it from the Spanish and so these days, the locals are just starting to excavate the site. The prospect of what they will find is very exciting. It was getting dark so we drove back and stopped right before the city to look down at the beautiful lights of La Paz. It actually is a very pretty city, it’s a shame it has such a bad reputation. For pics of Tiwanaku, go here http://www.geocities.com/Yosemite/Gorge/3147

That night, we went out for Jazz’ birthday. We ate a fine dinner at Mango’s, blew up balloons for Jazz, and tried our best to hold our ground (and table) amidst the crowd of well over 200 people in a very small place. We had drinks until the wee hours of the morning and met Niki and Joto, two fun La Pazians who fed me too many Cuba Libres. I found out that many drinks can make many Brits dance.

We got home at 6 am, sadly bid Jazz and Charlie farewell, and two hours later, I woke up to see justice served for the first and only time in the Bus Terminal of La Paz. I arrived at the office of National Police to see Captain Ruez sadly shaking his head. The cabbie had not shown up. I too started shaking my head and suddenly the Captain had a sharp change of emotion, got very angry and hastily picked up the phone. He called the cab company and, amidst yells, threatened to confiscate the cabbie’s car. Damn. This was going too far…I really had only lost $30 and my $5 camera….I didn’t want to be responsible for someone losing their livelihood. I started arguing but Captain was resolved. I went home feeling like a jerk and two hours later, the taxista showed up with his wife and told me he didn’t have my purse. I thanked him for his time, called Captain Ruez on his cell phone to thank him for his efforts and went back to sleep. Over email, Niki pointed out that the reason I didn’t get my purse back was because I had never attempted to bribe anyone. Oops. Andrew and Dan pointed out that I had spent the majority of my time in La Paz at the bus station (even though they had spent their entire time buying futbol stickers and putting them into sticker books with our dear roommate Ryan…to each his own, people!). And anyway, now I have Captain Ruez’ cell phone number. Now that’s going to come in handy someday, you better believe it. Do you have the Bolivian National Police Chief’s cell phone number?? Thought so.

We left La Paz early in the morning, feeling woosy from the stomach pains Bolivian food mostly gives you, feeling special that we had seen llama fetuses in the local market (put over doorways for good luck!), and feeling proud that we had not been kidnapped. Andrew got it in his head to loudly yell “I’m an American, goddammit!” every five minutes for no particular reason so that entertained us for the 13 hour bus ride that headed straight for the lost city of the Incas, Cusco. Which is of course in Peru. But you already knew that, didn’t you…

We set out from Chile bright and early at 8 am and headed straight for the Bolivian border. There were six of us in the dusty jeep, all led by our trusty guide and driver Javier: an old Israeli couple, a young Swiss couple, a German girl, and me. All along the way, we munched on coca leaves to protect us from the high altitude, which reached nearly 5,000 meters at times. We drove through dirt paths until we finally reached the border: a one-room cabin made of rocks with a wooden plank serving for a gate crossing. We happily got our passports stamped and the one guy working the whole deal said "Bienvenidos a Bolivia" and that was it... Welcome to Bolivia! That day, we drove across various lagunas (lakes) where the water is so clear, it reflects the surrounding mountains and volcanos perfectly, making a double impression of everything around. We passed by the Dali rocks, a rock formation in the middle of the desert that looks strikingly like one of Dali's paintings, stopped at the Rock Tree, a rock that looks like a tree (my explanations are awesome, I know) and spent a few minutes climbing the other weird rock formations in the area. Then we arrived at Laguna Colorada. Picture this, an entire lake that is completely RED covered with 30,000 pink flamingos. Needless to say, we spent a few hours there. Then it was the end of the first day, and our crickety jeep rolled in to the refuge, a very simple (no running water, no heat) hostel run by an indigenous family. The people of this region were overrun by the conquistadores in the 1500’s and their language, quechua, almost died but in the last 10 years, they reclaimed their roots, including now teaching quechua in area public schools. It was hard communicating with the family because they didn't speak spanish but Javier taught me how to say good morning in quechua so I said that like a parrot about 50 times. I also became best friends with Emma, the 4 year old running the place, and we shared our lunch and dinner with her with pity until we realized that she mooched food off every single jeep group with those lovely puppy eyes. And boy could that girl eat: 3 servings of mashed potatoes, 3 sausages, the whole friggin tray of cookies. And then it was off to the next table of turistas...sigh...women.

The next day, we visited various other beautiful lagunas in the flamingo park of Bolivia, passed by herds of wild vicunas (like llamas), passed by herds of domesticated llamas with their pretty little head bows on, and fed bread to the elusive Andino fox who quite elusively waits every day for bread at the side of the road. We ate lunch in front of an active volcano and took a nap on the red rocks. We stopped in the pueblito (little town) of San Juan for a coke and then it was a 4 hour drive to the coolest hotel in the country: Hotel de Sal (Salt Hotel). Located in Altucha, an entire town made of loose rocks (houses, church, doors), the Hotel de Sal is made entirely of...cmon...you can do this. Tables of salt, chairs of salt, even all the walls were made of salt! It was very exciting. After we finished licking everything, we dined on chicken and rice (I had to ask for some salt). And then it was coca leaves and card games by candlelight for the rest of the evening. I suffered 4 humiliating losses in Backgammon (shesh-besh) to Shirga, my Israeli uncle, and one glorious victory in Yaniv, the Israeli card game, mostly because noone else had heard of it. We finally set off to sleep at 9 pm, in our salt beds of course.

On the final day of the jeep tour through southern Bolivia, we entered the Salar of Bolivia, the biggest salt flat in the world. In the morning darkness, we drove the first few meters of the entrance to the Salar, a white path surrounded by vast water, and then Javier, in his quiet Bolivian way, turned off the lights of the jeep and drove right into the water. I gasped...you could not see a foot ahead of you and we were driving a car in god knows how many feet of water. But Javier just smiled and kept driving for the next hour and a half in utter darkness, no horizon in sight, and as I looked out the window, I could see the huge sky of thousands of stars and one big moon reflected perfectly in the water. So in reality, we were driving in an ocean of stars. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Javier dosed off at the wheel a few times during the next hour, but it didn't seem to matter because we were driving in nothingness anyway. As the horizon brightened, we finally saw what was around us. A vast plain of white, white salt covered by six inches of clear water. You could not see anything else for miles and miles except for one peak. This was Incahuiso Island, where we parked the jeep and climbed up a hill of huge cactuses to watch the sun rise slowly against the white salt plains of Bolivia. Captivating!! We stayed at the peak for an hour, then came down to eat a breakfast of tea, bread, and eggs, and took pictures with all the rest of the tourists that had shown up for the next two hours. Thirty people standing in the middle of a white nothingness. Then Javier made us get in the jeep and we drove another hour, stopped again to do cartwheels in the salt, and finally completed the last two hours of the journey through the Bolivian salar. A half hour later, we arrived in Uyuni, Bolivia, a small railroad ghost town, where all the Bolivian women, short and stocky, walk around in their long black braids, poofy skirts down to their knees, and the traditional curved hat. We had finally arrived in the real Bolivia. I bid farewell to my dysfunctional jeep tour group and set out to get some Bolivianos (currency) but the line for the bank was over 4 hours long. This meant trouble, because there was no ATM in town and I only had enough money for one bowl of llama soup at the local lunch place (tastes just like CHICKEN...but not at all). Luckily, Luis the lawyer helped me get into the bank 2 minutes before closing (read- "help" refers to pushing the gringita past a wave of 100 angry bolivianos...I'm sure I did a lot for humble tourism that day) and we met up for dinner that night, where I tried several Bolivian national dishes (steak with salad on top with egg on top with salsa on top) and the unofficial national drink, Hauri beer mixed with coca cola. Hmmm.

The next day I caught a bus 6 hours north to Potosi, the highest city in the world, with Dan and Andrew, two hilarious English boys, and Steve-O, an Aussie who prefers to be called Steve. We settled into the Koala Den, a really great hostel with hot water, lots of books, AND Cat in the Hat bed sheets. Yessss. Alberto at the front desk bounced on the beds to show us how they bounce. We dined that night on filet mignon and llama and some wine, pondered the hamburger stand boy who could put ALL the condiments on in under 2.5 seconds, and went to sleep early in preparation for the next day, one of the most memorable days of this trip for me. We awoke at 8 am to take a beat-up bus to the Potosi silver mines. Potosi has huge mountains with large deposits of silver, which have proven to be more of a curse than a blessing. The indigenous people who lived here knew about the silver but refused to touch it to pay homage to the land but.. you can guess this...when the Spanish came, they immediately put them, along with captive African slaves from the Lima slave trade to mine the mountains, most working underground in the darkness for 6 months at a time. An estimated 8 MILLION people have died in the mines since they opened. We got equipped with plastic jackets, boots and helmets but these did nothing to prepare us for what was to come. We stopped at the miners´ market to buy the miners (they are an independent cooperative, they work for themselves) dynamite, fuses, soda, and coca leaves. We drank a bit of the 96% alcohol the miners drink every Friday to soothe the Diablo (Devil) they believe lives down in the mines. We then visited the silver refinery, one of dozens owned by Canadian companies who reap 99% of the profit from this mining. Then we finally arrived at the mine. We trudged through the mud at the tunnel entrance and then it was complete darkness. The air gets stale and dusty, you can hardly breathe but you have to keep on going. Don’t touch the exposed pipes 2 inches from your head, they hold a strong electrical current. Don’t slip into the 15 meter deep shaft next to your foot. Every once in a while, a silver cart comes flying by pushed by tired and dirty miners and you have to cling on to the dusty walls to not get hurt, praying that those walls do not cave in on you. We went in 20 meters, then DOWN 25 meters, where you have to crawl through a tiny, tiny shaft for 15 minutes, stale dust burning your throat, then another 6 meters down and another 6 meters down. Every few minutes, we would stop to gasp for air that wasn't there while Juanito, an ex-miner turned university linguistics student (how is that for a success story) described the hard lives of these poor miners, 12,000 in total. They work 6 days a week, take their breaks underground, and most die by age 28, if not before then from the biweekly cave-ins that claim so many lives. Because the Potosi mining is a cooperative, they do not have enough money to concentrate on safety (there are 30 different groups mining in the same mtn, and they have no idea where the other groups are blasting holes, making cave-ins very likely). The refining companies of course do nothing and are not pressured to do anything. Juanito quit mining after he had an accident and realized that he would die very soon if he didn't stop. Unfortunately, most of the miners do not have that choice...they need to feed their families. After being in that clausterphobic and oppressive hell for 2 hours, we were finally allowed to crawl back up. On the way up, a mining cart passed us by and the roof began to collapse. We all started screaming and running down the tunnel, finally making it out to the fresh air. The sky never looked so blue. A reckless trip overall, I completely know, but really important to get a glimpse of how other people in this world have to live. So you don’t get utterly depressed (you should be some though), we also got to blast some dynamite outside of the mine. Juanito made me hold the fuse and started to light it, at which point I freaked out and threw the dynamite at Paul who seemed to forgive me long enough to pose for some pictures (boys, boys, boys) before handing it to the miners to blast far far away from us. Two seconds before the dynamite exploded, Juanito threw a lit fuse at my feet. It didn’t have dynamite attached but I wasn’t going to stick around long enough to find that out so I ended up jumping about 20 feet and bravely cowering behind him. Crazy bolivianos (I’m hoping to have a chance to call every nationality crazy before this trip is over). That night, we went out for some drinks at a graffiti covered bar to soothe our nerves.

The next day, we visited the Casa de Moneda (House of Money) along with Paul (previously mentioned) and Karin (both UK). We unfortunately got a racist guide who insisted on describing in detail why Spanish, American, Peruvian, and Israeli people are awful and lowly people. He did very well, he managed to insult my two nationalities and Paul made him apologize publicly at the end of the tour. Que puedes hacer? What can you do, really, people… the funny thing is, 99% of the locals I have met on this trip are such warm and open people so it doesn’t even matter.

Dan, Andrew, Steve-O and I left Potosi shortly after and took a cab 2 hours north to Sucre, one of the capitals of Bolivia. I tried to enjoy the scenery but our cabbie was determined on flooring it at 80 kmh around mountain curves, school buses, and cute dogs sitting right in the middle of the road. So Andrew, seated in the passenger seat, put on his best poker face as we faced death, I buried my head behind Dan while he said “Look at that overturned truck! Oh wait, you don’t want to look at that. Don’t look, Don’t look..”. And Steve-O? Steve-O slept. Lucky bloke. (I’m picking up the Queen’s English instead of the Bolivian Spanish).

We arrived at Sucre, settled into Hostel Characas, a motel-like hostel, where Esperanza at the front desk insisted that we come home that night by 11 pm lest we be considered sinners on the eve of Good Thursday (is there such a thing…Good Friday? Something Easterish). We argued but came home by 10 pm anyway. That night was the first night of the 4 day Tournament of Cards 2006, Sucre, Bolivia. Being that it was Easter Weekend, there was not much else to do, so we played at least 4 hours and 5 games of cards every day, most of which I was great at until I actually understood the rules. Every night we would go to the local pub, meet at least 10 people we already knew (all Brits!), and play cards until the wee hours. I tried to follow along on futbol talk, nodding sympathetically, as well as Andrew and Dan’s comedic chatter but my most popular comeback was “I have no idea what you people are saying to me”. In good news, I learned that my pronunciation of tomatoes and potatoes is no-question-about-it wrong. Well, bullocks.

Before leaving rainy Sucre, we did manage to visit the huge open-air market of Tarabuco as well as the largest site for Dinosaur tracks in the world. I don’t know why I need to capitalize Dinosaur but it just needs to be done. In case you didn’t know, 65,000 years ago, Dinosaurs roamed the Earth. In Sucre, the cute little critters walked across a lake, and then there was a volcanic blast which preserved their footprints. Then some plates collided, pushing the flat lake surface vertically. So basically you can see all these Dinosaur footprints on the face of this vertical cliff…really great. And of course it’s Bolivia so you can get up real close and put your little wrinkly hand in a very big footprint. I’ve put my little wrinkly hand in a Dino footprint, have you? Thought so, sucker.

After all this Dinosaur excitement and gambling excitement (Aalap, I only talk about gambling for you), it was time to leave Sucre. We sadly bid Paul and Karin farewell and took a quinua bus (I call it that because all the Boliviano women effortlessly carry huge sacks of quinua (of the rice family) onto the bus, leaving no room for anyone to move their body parts) east to La Paz. It was a hard 14 hour journey and poor Dan and Andrew had no room for their long legs but we managed to entertain ourselves by finding the one constellation we knew and guessing what the staticky movie on the screen was about. Oh, Steve-O disappeared. Did I mention that? Around the second day in Sucre, he just up and left. Maybe he really, really didn’t want to be called Steve-O. I guess we’ll never know. So at 5 AM, we arrived in La Paz, one of the most dangerous cities in South America, where you can’t take a cab lest you be robbed and killed by fake policemen. Are you proud, mom?? No, in reality, it is safe, you just have to be careful, like in every other city in the world. So no worries, very safe here. I am actually overly paranoid most of the time, you will be happy to know. So I will report on La Paz as soon as I get out of this car trunk. Besos!

Yet another high tech image for your enjoyment....

I left the hubbub of the fish markets of Valparaiso and took a 2 hour colectivo to the town of Horcon, an isolated fishing village on the coast of Northern Chile. When we arrived, I was the only person left on the bus. I said "Horcon?", the bus driver nodded, and for the first time in two months, I had taken the right bus. I walked down the one hill, got settled into Juan Pancho Cabanas, where I had a whole beach cabana to myself, and walked around “town”. Horcon is a 3 street gig. There is one paved hill leading down to the beach and two dirt roads parallel to the beach. That’s it, Juan! I had a tasty fried fish lunch at Victoria Restaurant, four wooden planks on a dusty floor, as the spanish telenovelas playing on the old tv sucked me in. There was a Chilean version of The Nanny playing where the main actress was amazingly more annoying than Fran Drescher. Then I sat on the warm beach, watching the sun set on the fishermen pulling their small boats in after a hard day’s work. Whenever a boat would come in, the stray dogs would start barking as warning, and everyone, including the clams vendor and the girl selling seashell jewelry, would run down and help pull it in. After my evening nap, I went in search for hot soup. I was battling a cold and a recent bout of 100 FLEA BITES (gotta love those hostel beds) so I needed something homey. I finally ended at Rey pub where there was no soup, so owner Alejandro went HOME to get me some of his mom’s chicken and rice soup. I love small towns! He then made me promise to come back tomorrow. The next day, I ended up at the beach again. I mean, really, what else are you supposed to do...it’s a tough schedule, you have no idea! This time around, I got to see what Horcon is famous for. When the afternoon fishing boats come in at noon, 2 horses pull them onto shore in one big swoop. This is how they’ve done it for over 100 years I believe. I watched this process for about 2 hours while napping under the early afternoon sun and then went to Rey’s for some sopa de mariscos (seafood soup), where for the first time in my life, I ate a lot of things, squirmy and squishy things, that I could not identify. It was delicious.

Then it was time to leave little cute Horcon. Except I didn’t know how to leave, or where to go, because I had no guide book or a map. I have been mooching off people up to this point. So what to do, what to do. I resorted to asking some town people about what is in “the north of your beautiful country” which of course left me with 15 opinions, 5 different exit strategies and 1 big headache. I finally picked one version, which ordered to wait me in an unmarked empty field for a bus headed for Carola that never came. Two hours later, grandma Eli took pity on me and escorted to the other station (read: another unmarked empty field) where the bus came pronto. Eli got off in some bright green farm before Carola and I got off in Carola. I immediately walked into the bus station and attacked the poor 14 year old bus boy...”Chico, digame, donde estoy?” (tell me kiddo, where am I?). Don’t I sound so tough and demanding! I eventually got put on another bus, a 4 hour voyage, that dropped me off in La Serena, which happens to be a tourist hot spot. Not that I would know it, I guess. It’s hard being me.

La Serena is one of the greatest places in the world to go for astronomy. This is because it has a vast clear sky most nights of the year, where you can see thousands upon thousands of twinkling stars and some non-twinkling planets (I just learned that). I guess everyone in the world is suddenly interested in astronomy because I could not, for the life of me, find a place to stay. Taxista Luis drove me around for an hour until we could find a place I could afford, Residencia Central, where I got a small room with a TV (haven’t had one of those in 2 months!) and where they lock you in everytime you come in, so you have to ask permission every time you want to leave. That’s soooooo a fire hazard.

The next day, I walked around the impressive town center, with all its colonial style churches and museos still intact. La Serena was attacked by PIRATES in the 1700’s so that automatically makes it much, much cooler. That night, I took a trip out to Mamayuka (Mother Earth) Observatory where we fumbled around in the dark up the hill until we reached a small observatory with big telescopes. For the next three hours, we learned about nebulas and far off galaxies and how insignificant all of life is and how nothing we do really matters in the end in the big scheme of things. Oh, you didn’t know that?? I`m kidding, it was really interesting and so beautiful when you get to see the stars up close, some of them soft blues and reds, all twinkling in their twinkly little way. Luis fed us some hot tea and we drank it and munched on some chocolate chip cookies in the soft moonlight. Very tranquilo.

The next day, we headed off to Valle del Elqui. 50 year old prankster Jorge picked me up first, making me side passenger and partner-in-crime, and from then on, it was practical jokes the whole way through. He did a whole comedy routine all the way to our destination, would try to leave people from our group behind in random places along the country road, etc, etc. We drove through the gorgeous Valle del Elqui, where they grow grapes, olives, and various fruits, the rectangular green farms broken up by wavy blue streams from the mountains. All along, Jorge played Chilean folk music, which seems to be mostly communist, and every once a while, in between jokes to the rest of the van, his eyes would tear up as he would tell me about his life under the Pinochet era. Sad.

In the afternoon, Jorge took us to a pisco distillery, where I learned that pisco is actually 4 parts acetone, not 3. Sorry. At the end, we all had to take various shots of pisco-flavored pisco. I think this was done as a way of preparing us to buy more pisco at the end of the tour. I didn’t fall for it. After that, we went to another old pisco distillery that was owned by some guy who had 3 names that all started with the letter R (Roberto Rigonaldo Rivera?? Who knows...) so he named his distillery Triple R and put human bones all around the cellar to discourage stupid drunk people from breaking in. Jorge made us go down to the dark cellar and then started making scary ghost noises from a secret door. I fell for it and got the hell out of there, I don’t mess with alcoholic ghosts. After that, we had a lunch of roasted chicken and choclo (corn paste cooked in corn husk), headed to Montegrande, noble poet Gabriela Mistral’s hometown, and drove home as Jorge pretended to fall asleep at the wheel as we drove around dangerous mountain curves. Crazy Chilenos. To see the Valle, visit http://www.valledeelqui.cl/

The next day, I took the 12 hour bus to San Pedro de Atacama. I know I said Valparaiso was the most beautiful place, but now it has to be San Pedro. Picture this, you get off a bus, you’re in the middle of a brown plaza, brown adobe houses line the narrow dirt streets, all against the backdrop of 5 huge volcanoes, 2 bizarre looking valleys, 5 lagunas, and a vast plain made of pure white salt. Oh yeah, and you`re in the middle of the Atacama Desert, the dryest desert in the whole world. There are many areas of the desert that have never, ever seen a drop of rain. Wow is the only way to put it. I settled into Sanchek Hostel, a beautiful, beautiful rustic open air courtyard with wooden cabins with straw roofs and 2 shady hammocks in the back. I got a room all to myself. Me, me, me! That night, it was a homecooked meal at the hostel, spaghetti with fresh tomatoes and some white wine, while I chatted with Roxanna and played with her 5 year daughter Isidora. We broke her princess wand but finally (!) someone with my level of spanish. Maybe...

The next morning, I immediately rented a bike and rode my couch potato ass out 5 km to the Valle de la Muerte (Valley of Death). The valley was actually called Valle de la Marte (as in martyr) but the priest dude that named it had a really bad lisp so it got translated to death. There, I rode along la Cordillera del Sal, a path through bizarre looking rock formations (vertical with holes in them) and fields of cracked dirt covered with salt. So cool. San Pedro is the archeological center of Chile. Being that I am smart and know this fact, I then rode my couch potato ass another 10 km through the desert to Tulor, an archaelogical site that is 10,000 years old where the Atacamenos lived in small round huts before the Spanish conquistadores came and reduced the population by two thirds. Eduardo took me out to the site, explained everything, and talked about his Coyo community, which runs and preserves the place. San Pedro is one of the few places I’ve seen down here where the indigenous communities actually own the rights to exhibit and share their own history. On the way back through the village of Coyo, campesino (farmer) Pedro Adolfo Luis de los Reyes stopped me in front of his farm and made me promise to remember his name. I just made that name up, because it was very long and I don’t remember it, even though he made me say it 5 times before he let me speed off on my bike. I should have written it down. In the afternoon, I took the official tour of Valle de la Muerte with Paulo (Brazil) and Naomi (Japan) among others. We walked along the dramatically high slopes of sand, crawled around a cave made of salt, and finally climbed the Mirador of the Valle to watch the sun set against salt covered mountains and white sand dunes. It was absolutely beautiful...as the sunset turned everything around into red and yellows, the terrain looked like the surface of Mars. To see some pics, visit http://www.sanpedroatacama.com/galeria.htm. That night, I visited Chez Michel’s French restaurant that serves only Italian food while Chez Michel danced around and sang me songs about the USA and 19 year old waiter Eduardo, inspired by Michel’s performance, told me wide eyed that one day he “shall visit the great place of New Jersey”.

On Wednesday, I visited the museum which is probably the best museum I've ever seen. They have over 380,000 pieces of artifacts from the region and I learned a lot more about the Atacamenos that lived a quite advanced existence before being vanquished by the Incas (who treated them well) and then the Spanish (who did not). Roxanna from the hostel who is Coyo told me that they still find so many artifacts all around town, they don't know what to do with them. There were mummies, and beautiful pottery and spears, instructions on how to start a fire, everything you can imagine. In the afternoon, I decided to walk across the Atacama desert to Pozo 3, a natural pool by one of the great volcanoes. Walking across the desert... I don't know how that great idea came about...I think it was the heat. I got to the pool well enough but on the way back, I decided to take a shortcut and ended up getting lost in the middle of the desert with the sun setting, no water left, and no town in sight. After an initial panic attack, I petted some friendly cactus and finally decided to follow the stars (and also some trucks that were going toward town) and finally found my way back to San Pedro an hour later. One of my prouder moments, yes. That night, Paulo and I dined with a strange Aussie named Robert who wore a red plaid shirt with 3 bright yellow pockets: two in the front, and one big one that covered his whole back. Robert has been in South America for three months and refuses to learn Spanish so he resorts to yelling at the poor waiters in English and huffing loudly when they don't do what he wants. He also shot dirty looks toward the cute little kids running around. We made an effort to dodge Robert for the rest of the week.

On Thursday morning, we woke up at 3:30 AM and took a 2 hour jeep ride to the Tatio Geysers. As we climbed slowly up the mountains to 4500 meters (some people got sick), we could see dozens of funnels of smoke coming out of the ground, which were the geysers of course, formed from underground volcanic activity. The geysers are most active before 7 am. We spent some time staring in awe, jumped in the smoke some, tried to avoid the sporadic blowing up of two big geysers, and then had hot tea with some bread. Then we visited a pool of thermal water heated up by the 250 degree Francisco geyser where 4 people have died by simply falling in. Naomi and I crept into the pool with a little too much drama while Paulo disappeared rather conveniently because it was too damn cold to swim in thermal waters. The water was hot but once you got out...woowee.

On Thursday night, Paulo and I visited the local restaurant where we dined on mojitos (cuban drinks) and listened to the Atacameno band play their drums and flutes festively. We got offered some peyote (the hallucinogenic cactus drug that all the young hippie travellers come to try) and got invited to a cocaine party, both of which we refused. San Pedro is the main entry point for the coca drug trade from Bolivia. Mojitos are enough for me, thank you Jose! The next day, we rented bikes again and rode out to the desert to watch the sun set against the volcanos. Ahh...Atacama Desert. Because I could now follow the stars, I thought I could show off to Paulo that I could also start a fire, based upon the museum instructions, but after twenty minutes of cursing and kicking, with Paulo silently shaking his head, I gave up and we rode our bikes home to eat some chicken and french fries. Then Paulo headed off to Peru (he missed his bus and we had to throw him into a makeshift taxi that chased the runaway bus down for 10 km) and I ate the last remains of my homemade chicken and potato soup, hugged Roxanna goodbye, played with Isidora one last time, and went to sleep early on my last night in Chile. The next day? A 3 day jeep tour into the wonderous salt plains of Bolivia.