Let me begin by saying I’ve avoided this blog posting the past few days that I have actually have a) time and b) an internet connection and c) a charged laptop since so much has happened in the several weeks since I have posted that I cannot possibly begin to imagine catching everyone up on the adventures that have occurred.
Quick rundown that is going to leave out 99.9% of all details: to begin, La Paz, Bolivia was crazy in itself. I was meeting a friend from Germany there, she wound up getting taxi kidnapped at the bus terminal and had her credit card stolen and was forced to give up her PIN number then dumped in the middle of the street at night. Long story short, we dealt with the police reports, partied at the bar to celebrate her final arrival, then peaced out of La Paz and headed south to to Uyuni, Bolivia, for a four day jeep excursion of the world’s largest salt flat. I do not need to mention that Bolivia does not actually have roads, so that all-night bus ride was the bumpiest, most freezing cold (I was in my mummy bag on the bus) ride I have ever taken.
So, in Uyuni, Bolivia we packed six of us and a driver/cook (cook is relative, three of us later had the worst food poisoning of our lives) into a jeep and started out on what looks like a glacier but is actually a salt flat. People are startled by the photos and have made comments about me wearing sweaters and down jackets...day one of the tour was bearable, night two was so far below zero that I was contemplating what I would do when I got gangrene on my toes from frost bite in my bed/sleeping bag. In itself, although quite third world and untouched by much other than tourists, Bolivia has an amazingly beautiful and diverse landscape. We went up into the mountains, saw the salt flats, deserts, mountains, active volcanoes, geysers, lagoons of all neon colors (due to chemicals like sulfur, borax, etc.) that were all full of flamingos...nothing like wearing your down coat on your way to the highest point in Bolivia and watching hundreds of flamingos chill out in a sulfur lagoon. Day three: worst food poisoning of my life, and let me tell you, being stuck in a bumpy off-road jeep with six other people and no bathrooms in sight for hours and hours, I may have prayed for a quick death for a minute or two. My companions probably wanted to roll me out of the jeep and leave me for dead, so a special high-five to them for dealing with smelly me.
Julia (German friend, also a physiotherapist, met in Cusco) and I literally rolled out of the jeep and hopped a two hour bus ride at the border of Bolivia to cross into San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, for a three day weekend celebration of Chile’s Independence Day. Situated in one of the driest deserts in the world, dust flew everywhere, but the small city is absolutely beautiful, friendly, and won bonus points from me for having draught beer for the first time that I’ve seen in over a month, as well as the amazing food I had every single meal. Julia and I rigged ourselves some Chilean flag t-shirts and had the opportunity to watch traditional Chilean dancing as well as other cultural activities. Besides the fact that the three ATM’s and banks in town happened to be completely empty of cash (we had to go bribe a gas station attendant to charge us for gas and give us the cash), I loved Chile and can’t wait to go back.
Three days after arriving in Chile, we hit the bus again for an eight hour...oh wait, this is South America...I mean, eventually a fifteen hour bus ride to head to Salta, Argentina. Luckily for the most part I have been on decent buses, so I can pop my ipod in and attempt a one-eyed sleep. Salta, Argentina was a relaxing place to be- I met some more amazing people at the hostel, laughed until I cried, convinced a fire station to let me put on a fire hat and sit in their 50 year old fire truck, ate the best empanadas I have ever had, rode a gondola up a mountain (then walked down in flip flops- what was I thinking?), then hitched an eighteen hour bus ride to South America’s promised land of wine: Mendoza.
Since I am currently in Mendoza, I will write part II tomorrow and give Mendoza and my time here the time it deserves...
Meanwhile, I have figured out how to convert in my head currency in four different countries, lost weight in Bolivia due to a parasite then gained it all back and more in wine and steak in Argentina, have met some of the most amazing people from around the world, learned slang in Australian and Irish, have had people throw music from their countries onto my laptop, got told that I am “fairly cultured” for an American, got spit at more than once for being an America, got to buy a five year visa to Bolivia because I am an American (you see where this is going), learned a whole slew of Spanish only to get to Argentina and realize I don’t understand a word of their dialect, worn the same pants seventeen times before washing them, have read two books, lost a camera charger (and a pair of pajama pants, amongst other things), ran into a friend full speed on a bicycle (shamefully before I had even had any wine!), learned or watched traditional dancing in four countries, ate everything I could get my hands on as far as street food or local cuisine, stayed up so late playing guitar and talking molecular biology with a friend that my only cue to go to bed was that the hostel starting serving breakfast, explained the gait cycle to a group of people that didn’t really care but I insisted that I was “studying,” screamed in my sleep on a bus, took about 200 photos (that I would upload but the internet is epic here), haven’t watched a single minute of tv....I could go on and on, but all you really need to know is that I am HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE.
(And I still have the full intentions and desire to return home next year, so Mom and Dad, you can stop worrying!)
Thanks for keeping up with me and my journeys!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Going Up: Bolivia
As I have been a complete blogger-slacker the last week, here’s to cheers and a little catch-up...but really, can you blame me? I am in South America!
If you were to look up the definition of a type A personality, you would find a proper photo of myself right next to it. Planning, making sure everything is in line- the control aspect itself- drives my family crazy, as well as makes me a little loca. Dad used to joke that if he moved something on my entry table three inches that I would notice the next time I walked by and move it back.
That’s all changed. The biggest lesson I’ve learned in coming down here is that in South America you cannot have well-arranged plans. You just have to be safe and go with the flow. That’s exactly how I ended up in Bolivia...wait, Bolivia? Weren’t you just in Peru? you are asking. Here’s how this all happened:
Before the journey began, I had arranged to work for a bilingual school in Cusco, had a place to stay for free. Everything was well-laid out, I was budgeted...then I got to Cusco. Besides making it obvious he was trying to sleep with me, which creeped me out beyond belief, my jefe (boss) was a disorganized mess. Day 1: Samantha goes into the school to co-teach with said jefe for a 3 hour jaunt in a local school. Reality, jefe disappears, leaves Samantha to teach nine different classes of children ages three to six without any lesson plans, resources, books, nada...WHAT THE F? Day 7: the jefe has new plans to have Samantha teach an English-exposure art class, so lesson plans are submitted, the sixteen children ages three to six show up...and the only supplies Samantha is provided are some desks and tables. That’s right, an art class sans paper, crayons, music, games...have you ever tried to keep sixteen small children occupied for two hours? Sorry, but the $5 I was paid for that two hours was not worth pulling my hair out for that guy. See you later, Jefe!
Luckily for me, I’d made friends with enough locals that finding a job in a bar or picking up some English tutoring at night was not going to be a problem. (Notice that the Type A is not freaking out right now.) And just when I was printing out my resume and taking copies of my teaching certs to another language school, an Israeli friend from the hostel comes up to me and says, “We’re going to Bolivia, you should come.”
My reply? “Sure. When do we leave?”
Whhhhhhhaaaatttt? Can we please go back and read that last statement? I was being spontaneous? I didn’t have a detailed, intricate itinerary spelling out my exact moves? This is what I mean about South America changing you. You plan to be safe, travel cheaply and with friends you meet along the way. The experiences here are molding me, relaxing me, lifting me to higher ground.
Quite literally. This morning I woke up in La Paz, Bolivia, which is higher in altitude than Cusco. I packed my bags, left a duffel in Cusco, and took an overnight bus to Puno. Puno, on the edge of Lake Titicaca, is not much to write home about. The scenery of the lake itself is beautiful, but a consequence of the exploitation of the culture of the natives living on the floating reed islands is that Puno is extremely touristy. My Israeli friend, Shahar, and I took a morning boat tour after our all-night bus ride, out to the floating reed islands named Uros. Long story short, natives made these floating reed islands and live on them now, and much of their income is now due to tourism. It was interesting but having been off the beaten path for several days, it was odd to be a “tourist” again. One day was certainly enough in Puno, and we took the afternoon bus to La Paz, Bolivia.
Or so we thought. I knew things weren’t going well when my stomach started to buckle on me...as of yet, I haven’t had the slightest sign of any kind of traveller’s illness, which is pretty miraculous since I’ve been careless and slightly reckless...eating street food, putting things in my mouth, aka robins eggs off a street cart, that probably shouldn’t go there.
We were supposed to have a “semi-cama” bus, which means that it is a double decker bus with seats that recline half-way, and a bathroom. Nope, we got a 1980’s bus with no bathroom. Anyone who knows me knows that I drink liters of water a day...bad news bears when there’s no bathroom for over three hours. When we finally got to the Bolivian border, besides nearly exploding from lack of facilities for hours, chaos ensued. There was some kind of festival going on with hundreds of people about, and being a border, pick-pocketing, thievery and mugging are very common. So we were ushered off of the bus while being told we had to abandon it altogether, had to grab all of our belongings and were swept through the noisy crowd, through three different immigration processes, and holding onto our pockets. AS I pushed my way through the crowd, Shahar kept looking back at me to make sure I was safe- I felt like we were in a scene from a movie. Finally we made it to the other side, people shouting at us to get in another van which would take us to our new bus...or so we thought. Instead we were crammed into this little kombi of a van, mochilas (backpacks) thrown onto the roof rack. When I say tight squeeze, that would be a vast underestimation. There is no torture like not being able to move, being car sick on windy Bolivian mountain roads in the middle of the night while the driver has a preacher on the radio blasting at us in Spanish. At one point in the night the driver stopped, starting yelling at us to get out of the van immediately. Next thing we knew, our driver, van and luggage are getting onto what I assume is a ferry (aka floating cardboard box, I am shocked the van made it across), and we are paying a boater to take us across the lake. Apparently this happens all the time, but not being aware of it, the fact that we were puttering across a lake in Bolivia in the pitch black of the night was a little beyond ridiculous. As miserable as the night was in times, we were all laughing about it the whole way...
...and this is what I mean about South America changing me. I may never be the most spontaneous, relaxed person, but this feels right at the moment.
xx from Bolivia. Where to next? Flying by the seat of my pants!
If you were to look up the definition of a type A personality, you would find a proper photo of myself right next to it. Planning, making sure everything is in line- the control aspect itself- drives my family crazy, as well as makes me a little loca. Dad used to joke that if he moved something on my entry table three inches that I would notice the next time I walked by and move it back.
That’s all changed. The biggest lesson I’ve learned in coming down here is that in South America you cannot have well-arranged plans. You just have to be safe and go with the flow. That’s exactly how I ended up in Bolivia...wait, Bolivia? Weren’t you just in Peru? you are asking. Here’s how this all happened:
Before the journey began, I had arranged to work for a bilingual school in Cusco, had a place to stay for free. Everything was well-laid out, I was budgeted...then I got to Cusco. Besides making it obvious he was trying to sleep with me, which creeped me out beyond belief, my jefe (boss) was a disorganized mess. Day 1: Samantha goes into the school to co-teach with said jefe for a 3 hour jaunt in a local school. Reality, jefe disappears, leaves Samantha to teach nine different classes of children ages three to six without any lesson plans, resources, books, nada...WHAT THE F? Day 7: the jefe has new plans to have Samantha teach an English-exposure art class, so lesson plans are submitted, the sixteen children ages three to six show up...and the only supplies Samantha is provided are some desks and tables. That’s right, an art class sans paper, crayons, music, games...have you ever tried to keep sixteen small children occupied for two hours? Sorry, but the $5 I was paid for that two hours was not worth pulling my hair out for that guy. See you later, Jefe!
Luckily for me, I’d made friends with enough locals that finding a job in a bar or picking up some English tutoring at night was not going to be a problem. (Notice that the Type A is not freaking out right now.) And just when I was printing out my resume and taking copies of my teaching certs to another language school, an Israeli friend from the hostel comes up to me and says, “We’re going to Bolivia, you should come.”
My reply? “Sure. When do we leave?”
Whhhhhhhaaaatttt? Can we please go back and read that last statement? I was being spontaneous? I didn’t have a detailed, intricate itinerary spelling out my exact moves? This is what I mean about South America changing you. You plan to be safe, travel cheaply and with friends you meet along the way. The experiences here are molding me, relaxing me, lifting me to higher ground.
Quite literally. This morning I woke up in La Paz, Bolivia, which is higher in altitude than Cusco. I packed my bags, left a duffel in Cusco, and took an overnight bus to Puno. Puno, on the edge of Lake Titicaca, is not much to write home about. The scenery of the lake itself is beautiful, but a consequence of the exploitation of the culture of the natives living on the floating reed islands is that Puno is extremely touristy. My Israeli friend, Shahar, and I took a morning boat tour after our all-night bus ride, out to the floating reed islands named Uros. Long story short, natives made these floating reed islands and live on them now, and much of their income is now due to tourism. It was interesting but having been off the beaten path for several days, it was odd to be a “tourist” again. One day was certainly enough in Puno, and we took the afternoon bus to La Paz, Bolivia.
Or so we thought. I knew things weren’t going well when my stomach started to buckle on me...as of yet, I haven’t had the slightest sign of any kind of traveller’s illness, which is pretty miraculous since I’ve been careless and slightly reckless...eating street food, putting things in my mouth, aka robins eggs off a street cart, that probably shouldn’t go there.
We were supposed to have a “semi-cama” bus, which means that it is a double decker bus with seats that recline half-way, and a bathroom. Nope, we got a 1980’s bus with no bathroom. Anyone who knows me knows that I drink liters of water a day...bad news bears when there’s no bathroom for over three hours. When we finally got to the Bolivian border, besides nearly exploding from lack of facilities for hours, chaos ensued. There was some kind of festival going on with hundreds of people about, and being a border, pick-pocketing, thievery and mugging are very common. So we were ushered off of the bus while being told we had to abandon it altogether, had to grab all of our belongings and were swept through the noisy crowd, through three different immigration processes, and holding onto our pockets. AS I pushed my way through the crowd, Shahar kept looking back at me to make sure I was safe- I felt like we were in a scene from a movie. Finally we made it to the other side, people shouting at us to get in another van which would take us to our new bus...or so we thought. Instead we were crammed into this little kombi of a van, mochilas (backpacks) thrown onto the roof rack. When I say tight squeeze, that would be a vast underestimation. There is no torture like not being able to move, being car sick on windy Bolivian mountain roads in the middle of the night while the driver has a preacher on the radio blasting at us in Spanish. At one point in the night the driver stopped, starting yelling at us to get out of the van immediately. Next thing we knew, our driver, van and luggage are getting onto what I assume is a ferry (aka floating cardboard box, I am shocked the van made it across), and we are paying a boater to take us across the lake. Apparently this happens all the time, but not being aware of it, the fact that we were puttering across a lake in Bolivia in the pitch black of the night was a little beyond ridiculous. As miserable as the night was in times, we were all laughing about it the whole way...
...and this is what I mean about South America changing me. I may never be the most spontaneous, relaxed person, but this feels right at the moment.
xx from Bolivia. Where to next? Flying by the seat of my pants!
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Getting High in Cusco
Runner’s high that is. Living in high altitude has it’s perks: feeling winded when you walk up a flight of stairs, flat hair, dry skin, and an incessantly dry mouth. Due to the lack in oxygen at this level of nearly 14,000 feet above sea level, your heart pumps faster and your lungs work harder to deliver the oxygen needed to your tissues. After a few days your body begins to compensate by producing more red blood cells to carry the oxygen needed- hence more issues with viscous (thicker) blood, and so forth. But eventually you are supposed to acclimatize and feel somewhat normal again.
Athletes around the world train in high altitudes in order to enhance their performance at lower altitudes, although the effects of more red blood cells (and greater capillary density in your tissues, therefore more oxygen and less fatigue when performing) usually dissipate within a few days. I, however, am no professional athlete, I certainly don’t have a coach, and I am not here to “train.”
So how do you begin running again in high altitude? I gave myself ten days to buff up on my RBC’s, trying to keep myself super-hydrated and building up my daily walks and hikes to a point where I felt maybe not quite as winded as my initial days here. So today was the big day: the goal was to venture out in running tights, Baltimore t-shirt and ipod loaded with “please don’t die going up the Cusco hills in front of hundreds of tourists” motivational songs and attempt a run.
It. Felt. Amazing.
Well, that’s not completely the truth. I nearly did die going up the Cusco hills, which I chose because they have much less foot and vehicle traffic- running through the streets here is constantly stop and go with people and cars. My lungs felt like they were going to explode. My heart was beating at about 200 bpm after only a few minutes of jogging. But once I got into the swing of things, I ran up to the entrance of the Sacsayhuaman ruins, looped around some back roads, then headed home through the Plaza de Armas.
Plodding along on the dusty back roads, the euphoric runner high that I am so addicted to re-emerged after lying dormant for almost three weeks. Every time I go out for a run, I remember why I love it so much. Time to think, time to process what is going on in my life, even time to just tune out the noise in my head and focus on pushing my body to it’s physical limits. I can’t explain it; it just feels damn good.
There is also no better way to take in the scenery that is the ancient Andean town, the “navel of the mountains,” so called by the Incas, than by foot. It’s quiet and peaceful on the outskirts of town, locals scurrying about their daily chores. I appreciate more and more the beauty that is the Andes each day I am here.
The most difficult part of this morning’s run was getting past the idea that I look completely out of place. Imagine being in a town full of tourists and locals, perusing store fronts, selling el menu del dia...then this loca gringa comes running by. I am sure it was a sight to see...locals yelling at me, “Run gringa run!”
I came back dusty, sweaty, lungs exploding, but...
...la gringa está corriendo!
Athletes around the world train in high altitudes in order to enhance their performance at lower altitudes, although the effects of more red blood cells (and greater capillary density in your tissues, therefore more oxygen and less fatigue when performing) usually dissipate within a few days. I, however, am no professional athlete, I certainly don’t have a coach, and I am not here to “train.”
So how do you begin running again in high altitude? I gave myself ten days to buff up on my RBC’s, trying to keep myself super-hydrated and building up my daily walks and hikes to a point where I felt maybe not quite as winded as my initial days here. So today was the big day: the goal was to venture out in running tights, Baltimore t-shirt and ipod loaded with “please don’t die going up the Cusco hills in front of hundreds of tourists” motivational songs and attempt a run.
It. Felt. Amazing.
Well, that’s not completely the truth. I nearly did die going up the Cusco hills, which I chose because they have much less foot and vehicle traffic- running through the streets here is constantly stop and go with people and cars. My lungs felt like they were going to explode. My heart was beating at about 200 bpm after only a few minutes of jogging. But once I got into the swing of things, I ran up to the entrance of the Sacsayhuaman ruins, looped around some back roads, then headed home through the Plaza de Armas.
Plodding along on the dusty back roads, the euphoric runner high that I am so addicted to re-emerged after lying dormant for almost three weeks. Every time I go out for a run, I remember why I love it so much. Time to think, time to process what is going on in my life, even time to just tune out the noise in my head and focus on pushing my body to it’s physical limits. I can’t explain it; it just feels damn good.
There is also no better way to take in the scenery that is the ancient Andean town, the “navel of the mountains,” so called by the Incas, than by foot. It’s quiet and peaceful on the outskirts of town, locals scurrying about their daily chores. I appreciate more and more the beauty that is the Andes each day I am here.
The most difficult part of this morning’s run was getting past the idea that I look completely out of place. Imagine being in a town full of tourists and locals, perusing store fronts, selling el menu del dia...then this loca gringa comes running by. I am sure it was a sight to see...locals yelling at me, “Run gringa run!”
I came back dusty, sweaty, lungs exploding, but...
...la gringa está corriendo!
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Week 1: Cusqeñas & Life in a Hostel
I won't deny: I am a blogger slacker. So much has happened in the last week that I've had trouble narrowing down what it was that I wanted to write about, so pardon in advance the train of thought dribble that is the result of my late narrations.
Living in Cusco, I can imagine, must be like living in a place like San Francisco in the Free Love/Hippie days. Backpackers, Rasta guys in dreads, gypsies, upscale tourists and locals blend to make Cusco the mecca of Peru's nightlife scene on the route to Machu Picchu. It is more uncommon than not to be heading out to the bar at eleven at night, and many of the hostel guests are just wandering home after the breakfast hour. Live music is everywhere, from Pearl Jam tribute bands to salsa music, small bars to discotechs, you can envelop yourself in a Cusqueña (local beer) and whatever your sounds of choice are any night of the week. This, of course, suits me well, and I've spent many of my nights here out Gringa dancing...aka trying to salsa dance, but let's not kid ourselves, I have zero rhythm. Although the salsa music here is likely unmatched by what one might find in Colombia, I continue to find my hips involuntarily moving to the beats of the jovial music.
Brief summary of hostel living: mostly hot showers, people from nations that I have certainly never been to, and the threaded common bond of the love for wandering down the less travelled road. I teach my first pottery class (to children, in English) on Saturday morning, and in the meantime am bartending at Yamanya.
Thus far, I continue to be left breathless by the terrain of the Andes. Coming from previous travel in tropical and jungle areas, I was initially taken aback by the lack in greenery. But the more time I spend getting lost in the narrow streets of Cusco, I am finding the terra cotta and earth tones endlessly dimensional. I started by day today with a brisk morning hike up to the edge of Cusco, passing llamas and alpacas on my way, and finishing at the blanco Jesus Cristo that overlooks Cusco for it's continued protection.
Living in Cusco, I can imagine, must be like living in a place like San Francisco in the Free Love/Hippie days. Backpackers, Rasta guys in dreads, gypsies, upscale tourists and locals blend to make Cusco the mecca of Peru's nightlife scene on the route to Machu Picchu. It is more uncommon than not to be heading out to the bar at eleven at night, and many of the hostel guests are just wandering home after the breakfast hour. Live music is everywhere, from Pearl Jam tribute bands to salsa music, small bars to discotechs, you can envelop yourself in a Cusqueña (local beer) and whatever your sounds of choice are any night of the week. This, of course, suits me well, and I've spent many of my nights here out Gringa dancing...aka trying to salsa dance, but let's not kid ourselves, I have zero rhythm. Although the salsa music here is likely unmatched by what one might find in Colombia, I continue to find my hips involuntarily moving to the beats of the jovial music.
Brief summary of hostel living: mostly hot showers, people from nations that I have certainly never been to, and the threaded common bond of the love for wandering down the less travelled road. I teach my first pottery class (to children, in English) on Saturday morning, and in the meantime am bartending at Yamanya.
Thus far, I continue to be left breathless by the terrain of the Andes. Coming from previous travel in tropical and jungle areas, I was initially taken aback by the lack in greenery. But the more time I spend getting lost in the narrow streets of Cusco, I am finding the terra cotta and earth tones endlessly dimensional. I started by day today with a brisk morning hike up to the edge of Cusco, passing llamas and alpacas on my way, and finishing at the blanco Jesus Cristo that overlooks Cusco for it's continued protection.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
5 Necessities for Surviving Your First Days as a Loca Gringa in Cusco
1. Essie for JCrew nailpolish. It lasts, it doesn't chip, and it makes even a hiking-boot clad outfit hot.
2. 64 oz. Sigg bottle. Agua is your best friend, amigos, when you are adjusting to a high-altitude climate. With a significantly less amount of oxygen in the air, your heart must beat faster to deliver more oxygen to your tissues. So keep that blood volume up, stave away the headaches, nausea and bloodshot ojos that pair with altitude sickness, and drink at least a couple liters of water a day. Plus, it ain't bad for curing the other Cusco illness that typically befalls backpackers: the Pisco Sour aftermath.
3. Ear plugs. A whole, big pack of them. Hostel living has it's perks, but it also has people stumbling in at all hours, guests talking outside in the halls, that one guy (I'm not naming any names) that claims he doesn't snore, but every night it sounds like a ship coming into port. Do yourself a favor and get a good night's sleep here and there.
4. A journal. My favorite is a little leather-bound journal I picked up in Costa Rica that has natural paper leaves. I bring it nearly everywhere I go here so I can jot down notes of places I've been, reflections on my experiences, people's names and e-mails, songs I'm coveting and books I'd like to read. It's even worth having your bunk mates write something funny in it here and there so you can look back and really feel their personality come to life on paper once again.
5. A sturdy lock and photocopies of your passport & travel medical insurance card. Listen closely: check into your hostel or hotel, put your passport in your locker, lock it up and walk away. All you will ever need is a photocopy (even for a cell phone contract.) Not to go without mentioning, a lock that you can set yourself trumps a key lock any day...nothing is worse than losing your key and being locked out of your necessities in the middle of the noche.
2. 64 oz. Sigg bottle. Agua is your best friend, amigos, when you are adjusting to a high-altitude climate. With a significantly less amount of oxygen in the air, your heart must beat faster to deliver more oxygen to your tissues. So keep that blood volume up, stave away the headaches, nausea and bloodshot ojos that pair with altitude sickness, and drink at least a couple liters of water a day. Plus, it ain't bad for curing the other Cusco illness that typically befalls backpackers: the Pisco Sour aftermath.
3. Ear plugs. A whole, big pack of them. Hostel living has it's perks, but it also has people stumbling in at all hours, guests talking outside in the halls, that one guy (I'm not naming any names) that claims he doesn't snore, but every night it sounds like a ship coming into port. Do yourself a favor and get a good night's sleep here and there.
4. A journal. My favorite is a little leather-bound journal I picked up in Costa Rica that has natural paper leaves. I bring it nearly everywhere I go here so I can jot down notes of places I've been, reflections on my experiences, people's names and e-mails, songs I'm coveting and books I'd like to read. It's even worth having your bunk mates write something funny in it here and there so you can look back and really feel their personality come to life on paper once again.
5. A sturdy lock and photocopies of your passport & travel medical insurance card. Listen closely: check into your hostel or hotel, put your passport in your locker, lock it up and walk away. All you will ever need is a photocopy (even for a cell phone contract.) Not to go without mentioning, a lock that you can set yourself trumps a key lock any day...nothing is worse than losing your key and being locked out of your necessities in the middle of the noche.
New Beginnings
As my plane was descending over los apus of Cusco, it was as if the fear and trepidation I had held the last two weeks melted away. The newfound sensation of calm was more likely a result of exhaustion- I had spent nearly two days en route to my future home- versus truly coming to terms with the end result of my decision to brave this new world. Whether due to the lack of sleep or the lack of oxygen, as Cusco is more than 14,000 ft above sea level, I disembarked the plane with confidence. I know this place, I know this language, I know that I am brave.
Well, maybe I am still trying to figure out the brave part.
Either way, this blonde gringa (with hair as unruly as ever after dos dias sans shower and plane-sleep) gathered my luggage, negotiated with the taxi driver, and made my way to Yamanya, my new home for the next month. My bartending/whatever-the-heck-they-want-me-to-do position at Yamanya was a result of some savvy blog-stalking of Cam's blog, where the ex-pat Aussie reveals the ups and downs of her journey infiltrating the social and economic life of Cusco and the opening of her own hostel, Yamanya. After some pretty lengthy e-mails (and having dear Cam call me una loca on a few occasions), she agreed to give me room and board here in exchange for work while I get my feet wet in Cusco.
Living in a hostel: best. decision. ever. To give those of you an idea of hostel living, it's not always a cardboard box situated next to a rooster farm (see: Paracas, June trip, not so fun). Hostels in Cusco can be anywhere from a twenty-four hour rave party to a dirty room with anti-social travelers. Yamanya falls in the middle, keeping quiet hours so the staff can get some shut-eye, but also a beautiful bar boasting happy hours, mojitos, and a healthy helping of laughing staff at any given moment. The hostel is a mosaic of colors and paintings, courtyards, even vessel sinks in the bathrooms. Yet, dirt cheap, it attracts the best of backpackers from all over the world.
Bunked in the staff room with my fellow Yamanya-ers, I hadn't been here more than an hour before I crawled into a top bunk and proceeded to pass. the. f. out...not two hours later I was awoken by my now friends laughing at how I must sleep all the time. Crawling out of my feather-nest, I felt as though I made friends for a lifetime in minutes. Re-reading that sentence, I take full responsibility for the lame-ness that I just exhibited, but it's the truth. Sara from Seattle, Niall from northern England, Nivas from Peru, Rielly, also from Seattle, and another man from Chile- with all of us combined we could write our own version of a South America Lonely Planet book.
So far I have gotten lost, spent my first night in Cusco dancing in a bar to salsa music until 3:30 in the morning, eaten as much street food as I can get my hands on (whilst avoiding traveller's diarrhea, thank you stomach of steel), wrote journal entries in the Plaza del Armas under the shadows of the looming basilicas that frame the square, nursed Cusequena hangovers with peach-filled croissants for s/.1, spent nights with my Peruano friends laughing at my gringa dancing, learned to play Sapo, purchased a cell phone that is worse than my 1999 Nokia (that I still haven't figured out how to use)...and throughout all of this, I have felt a greater sense of peace and happiness than I've felt in a long time.
Or maybe it's the lack of oxygen.
Well, maybe I am still trying to figure out the brave part.
Either way, this blonde gringa (with hair as unruly as ever after dos dias sans shower and plane-sleep) gathered my luggage, negotiated with the taxi driver, and made my way to Yamanya, my new home for the next month. My bartending/whatever-the-heck-they-want-me-to-do position at Yamanya was a result of some savvy blog-stalking of Cam's blog, where the ex-pat Aussie reveals the ups and downs of her journey infiltrating the social and economic life of Cusco and the opening of her own hostel, Yamanya. After some pretty lengthy e-mails (and having dear Cam call me una loca on a few occasions), she agreed to give me room and board here in exchange for work while I get my feet wet in Cusco.
Living in a hostel: best. decision. ever. To give those of you an idea of hostel living, it's not always a cardboard box situated next to a rooster farm (see: Paracas, June trip, not so fun). Hostels in Cusco can be anywhere from a twenty-four hour rave party to a dirty room with anti-social travelers. Yamanya falls in the middle, keeping quiet hours so the staff can get some shut-eye, but also a beautiful bar boasting happy hours, mojitos, and a healthy helping of laughing staff at any given moment. The hostel is a mosaic of colors and paintings, courtyards, even vessel sinks in the bathrooms. Yet, dirt cheap, it attracts the best of backpackers from all over the world.
Bunked in the staff room with my fellow Yamanya-ers, I hadn't been here more than an hour before I crawled into a top bunk and proceeded to pass. the. f. out...not two hours later I was awoken by my now friends laughing at how I must sleep all the time. Crawling out of my feather-nest, I felt as though I made friends for a lifetime in minutes. Re-reading that sentence, I take full responsibility for the lame-ness that I just exhibited, but it's the truth. Sara from Seattle, Niall from northern England, Nivas from Peru, Rielly, also from Seattle, and another man from Chile- with all of us combined we could write our own version of a South America Lonely Planet book.
So far I have gotten lost, spent my first night in Cusco dancing in a bar to salsa music until 3:30 in the morning, eaten as much street food as I can get my hands on (whilst avoiding traveller's diarrhea, thank you stomach of steel), wrote journal entries in the Plaza del Armas under the shadows of the looming basilicas that frame the square, nursed Cusequena hangovers with peach-filled croissants for s/.1, spent nights with my Peruano friends laughing at my gringa dancing, learned to play Sapo, purchased a cell phone that is worse than my 1999 Nokia (that I still haven't figured out how to use)...and throughout all of this, I have felt a greater sense of peace and happiness than I've felt in a long time.
Or maybe it's the lack of oxygen.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Testing, testing 1-2-3...
(Tap, tap, tap on microphone...)
Right now, I can only truthfully admit 3 things to you:
1) I have had altogether way too much key lime pie. The "topping it off" last bites really sent me over the edge, and although my stomach was drunk with delight at first indulgences, now it's just left feeling stuffed like a Thanksgiving roast.
2) See #1. Further impairments/side effects from said pie include writers block and foggy brain.
3) When it comes to web editing and blogging, if I were to describe myself as clueless, it would be an understatement. So please bear with me as I try to figure out this new world of social media as I simultaneously trek and photograph/chronicle my travels across S.A.
Ok, I lied, there's a fourth. I can't imagine that if I come even close to fulfilling the aspirations of this trip that I will have enough time to get in touch with everyone back in the U.S. that I would like to: so thank you in advance for letting me be an e-mail slacker and contact virtually all of you at once via LG.
Right now, I can only truthfully admit 3 things to you:
1) I have had altogether way too much key lime pie. The "topping it off" last bites really sent me over the edge, and although my stomach was drunk with delight at first indulgences, now it's just left feeling stuffed like a Thanksgiving roast.
2) See #1. Further impairments/side effects from said pie include writers block and foggy brain.
3) When it comes to web editing and blogging, if I were to describe myself as clueless, it would be an understatement. So please bear with me as I try to figure out this new world of social media as I simultaneously trek and photograph/chronicle my travels across S.A.
Ok, I lied, there's a fourth. I can't imagine that if I come even close to fulfilling the aspirations of this trip that I will have enough time to get in touch with everyone back in the U.S. that I would like to: so thank you in advance for letting me be an e-mail slacker and contact virtually all of you at once via LG.
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