The Wyoming chapter has closed, for now.
A brief interlude now in the southwestern Sierra Nevadas, and then on to the Arizona borderlands, to experience desert wildflowers.
Wyoming Fall was magnificent but I left being romanced by the beginning of winter.
Good-bye to the snow-covered buttes, duotone shading of wintering sagebrush and sepia grasses, farewell to frozen ponds, frozen time, and sub-zero temperatures. Imprinted in my memory are the golden eagles swooping low by the roadsides, competing with flocks of ravens and outnumbered by myriads of magpie as they dive in for their share of the pronghorn roadkill on its back on the road's shoulder. When I close my eyes I can see the sunrise: a bright, huge ball, magnified in intensity and size by the frozen cold of the atmosphere, light consuming half of the sky, the rest of it clouds glowing pink and blue and green and everything in between, while the soft cotton sides of the buttes end in of slivers of rose or gold.
Lo extrañará (I will miss) the openness, the ability to see for miles and miles: long dirt roads now hidden in snow, two-tracks serve as snowshoe or ski paths for hours of solitary contemplation as I stare into shades of whiteness. Venturing off-path, even in a snowstorm, is possible with caution because everything is so visible: here, landmarks have taken on different relevancies.
The roads are a constant grey or white. A new element is added to driving. Years of being told what to do when a car slides becomes reality and you learn to guide your vehicle to dance with differing substrates underneath its wheels. My little 2wd Tercel is getting a workout. I begin to realize its limitations when it briefly gets stuck in a snowdrift. I further realize its near its capacity when it cannot take on the hill to a friends house, and begins to slips backwards and into a curb.
I walk in the snow: each day it changes, and becomes its own snow: slushy or fluffy, powdery or crunchy, dry or moist. When it falls it arrives differently; I am becoming acquainted with snow here like I began to know rain in western Washington, or the fog in California's Central Valley. Even the cold temperatures can be appreciated: on particularly cold mornings a person can feel their nosehairs freezing as they breathe in.
Southwest Wyoming will always hold a place in my heart.
It embodies the wild that I love.
It is free and independent and true to itself.
It has not fallen victim to the modernities that have so completely consumed much of our country.
People say that some have come to Kemmerer, for a job, and just turned their car around and left, calling in to say that there is no way in hell they can live there. I say, thank god they do. Because a place like this wouldn't exist if they'd stayed.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Falling in Love with the Middle of Nowhere
The sun goes down with a perfect halo of golds and ambers, brilliance lighting up the hillside, illuminating the dried grasses that sway in the hillside on Oyster Ridge. I walk up to a view of the city, a view of the trains that make their way through the city, several times daily, freighters only, carrying coal, or pipe, or other hidden industrial materials within hard-sided train cars, brown and rusted and dark.
I can walk for miles here and not see a soul; I see more animals than people when I walk alone. Today, a jack rabbit, pouncing away in a criss-crossety jig-jag through three different types of sagebrush and wheat grass, and hiding in the boughs of an old and twisted juniper tree; a golden eagle, soaring and diving; vultures circling, hawks darting. Daily, herds of antelope, growing in numbers as the night-time lows drop below freezing, their populations peaking just before hunting season starts, their white behinds bouncing bright flashes in the hillside shadows at sunset. Sometimes a handful of mule deer, their ears long and slender, freezing for a moment to assess your movements, the males’ heads so adorned with antlers that it seems unnatural for them to balance.
In any direction one can escape the two-lane highways and amble by car or foot or horseback on dirt or two-track roads, into utter desolation, marked with an occasional home or abandoned wood cabin from the pioneer days, the ghost towns of decrepit buildings marking a resource boom at some time in the past, a few grazing black cows or wandering sheep, perhaps a strip of green indicating a riparian zone, but be just as likely not to see another human as to see one. The hills are painted in minerals and erosion, and shaded with vegetation fading into fall. The sky’s deep high-altitude blue plays host to magnificent cloud formations that catch the sun’s fading light at dusk in a myriad of ways.
Being in a small town, one can take one’s time, move slowly, wade through the days and appreciate drawn-out time. This, I believe, is accentuated by the fact that the last time I had a schedule and worked, I was also working on my masters degree, so in that perspective, I feel like I have all the time in the world. My days at work consist mainly of driving onto open sagebrush steppe and identifying plant populations and collecting seeds; on those days I don’t even feel like I’m working. There are so many spectacular places to go on the weekends that offer a botanically- or ecologically- or photography-minded person (like me!) a wealth of recreation. The days are warm and beautiful, with a strong high desert sun; the nights dipped into freezing at the end of August, and we could see our first dusting of snow any day (my car has already been frosty some mornings).
I can’t say I don’t miss culture, and seeing music in the evenings, or having tasty restaurants or microbrews to sample, and feeling that I can wear something funky when I’m feeling that way without getting stared at. I miss my good friends who I can relate to, and the spark and fizz of a progressive city or alternatively-minded college town. But here is the opportunity to know myself, to know the land, to immerse myself in the big open sky and undulating landscape, to develop friendships with people that I wouldn’t otherwise have the chance to know, and to stare down the cows from the safety of my big work truck while blasting Billy Jean as they turn their head to follow me, bored, chewing their cuds.
I can walk for miles here and not see a soul; I see more animals than people when I walk alone. Today, a jack rabbit, pouncing away in a criss-crossety jig-jag through three different types of sagebrush and wheat grass, and hiding in the boughs of an old and twisted juniper tree; a golden eagle, soaring and diving; vultures circling, hawks darting. Daily, herds of antelope, growing in numbers as the night-time lows drop below freezing, their populations peaking just before hunting season starts, their white behinds bouncing bright flashes in the hillside shadows at sunset. Sometimes a handful of mule deer, their ears long and slender, freezing for a moment to assess your movements, the males’ heads so adorned with antlers that it seems unnatural for them to balance.
In any direction one can escape the two-lane highways and amble by car or foot or horseback on dirt or two-track roads, into utter desolation, marked with an occasional home or abandoned wood cabin from the pioneer days, the ghost towns of decrepit buildings marking a resource boom at some time in the past, a few grazing black cows or wandering sheep, perhaps a strip of green indicating a riparian zone, but be just as likely not to see another human as to see one. The hills are painted in minerals and erosion, and shaded with vegetation fading into fall. The sky’s deep high-altitude blue plays host to magnificent cloud formations that catch the sun’s fading light at dusk in a myriad of ways.
Being in a small town, one can take one’s time, move slowly, wade through the days and appreciate drawn-out time. This, I believe, is accentuated by the fact that the last time I had a schedule and worked, I was also working on my masters degree, so in that perspective, I feel like I have all the time in the world. My days at work consist mainly of driving onto open sagebrush steppe and identifying plant populations and collecting seeds; on those days I don’t even feel like I’m working. There are so many spectacular places to go on the weekends that offer a botanically- or ecologically- or photography-minded person (like me!) a wealth of recreation. The days are warm and beautiful, with a strong high desert sun; the nights dipped into freezing at the end of August, and we could see our first dusting of snow any day (my car has already been frosty some mornings).
I can’t say I don’t miss culture, and seeing music in the evenings, or having tasty restaurants or microbrews to sample, and feeling that I can wear something funky when I’m feeling that way without getting stared at. I miss my good friends who I can relate to, and the spark and fizz of a progressive city or alternatively-minded college town. But here is the opportunity to know myself, to know the land, to immerse myself in the big open sky and undulating landscape, to develop friendships with people that I wouldn’t otherwise have the chance to know, and to stare down the cows from the safety of my big work truck while blasting Billy Jean as they turn their head to follow me, bored, chewing their cuds.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wyyoooooming
In some ways Wyoming reminds me of the Bolivian altiplano: it is desolate and open. Though the inhabitants are not poverty-stricken peasants, they are a rural crowd with a different way of living than those in the big cities. The people who live here are rugged and strong and love their land. Hardly anything grows here due to the short growing season, and it brings me back to when we went to the Tuni Condoriri glacier, and saw the campesinos struggling to nurture even the hardiest crops, and relying instead on sheep, llamas and alpacas. Here, though I have seen a handful of llamas and alpacas, there are mainly sheep and cattle. There are mines in both places, albeit for different materials. The clouds are remniscent of both places: high elevation, puffy and white against a vibrant blue sky; and the sun is strong against my face even when the temperature is cool. The temperature varies 50 degrees in a day, with beautiful warm sunny afternoons and frigid, almost-frosty nights.
When I chose the name 'Diversidad de Vida' for our travels, it was because I knew it was a new beginning into exploring the diversity life has to offer: culturally, biologically, spiritually; experiencing this on a new continent with another language, getting to know the unknown.
Now that we are back, we have opportunities to continue exploring on our tierra nativa (native land). With the lack of attachment to place after such a dramatic uprooting, we find ourselves migrating to different parts of the North American continent. Jameson just accepted a job working as a research assistant in wetlands in southern Georgia, and I am working in the high desert in Wyoming, watching the thunderstorms roll through while drinking in the scent of sagebrush.
Wyoming is the land of the cowboy, and this tradition still lives on quite evidently. There are oil men and cowboy hats and cowboy boots, big trucks and western accents. Every day I see antelope; since being here I've tried antelope jerky and elk meat, both of which were offered to me by the people who hunted and killed the animal. I saw a moose in a town park, there are cottontails outside my window on lazy Sundays, and the magpies are a delightful replacement to the niche a crow fills in a city. The people here are incredibly kind and I am settling into being in a small town quite nicely. I could do away with the conservative talk radio, but see it as a chance to bite my lip and listen to the other side after I've lived in liberal Seattle and Olympia for 10 years.
It is possible to find true solitude here: one of my first days I headed up a lonely dirt road, guitar and camera in tow, found a place to park that overlooked a basin and some colorful sagebrush-dotted mesas in the distance, and made music as passionately as one can only do when entertaining a crowd of the wind, swaying golden grasses, and magnificent open sky. It is a place for soul-searching, to learn how to be lonely and then how to package that aloneness into something that makes one stronger; it is a place for self-reflection and growth; it is Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire in the 21st century.
When I chose the name 'Diversidad de Vida' for our travels, it was because I knew it was a new beginning into exploring the diversity life has to offer: culturally, biologically, spiritually; experiencing this on a new continent with another language, getting to know the unknown.
Now that we are back, we have opportunities to continue exploring on our tierra nativa (native land). With the lack of attachment to place after such a dramatic uprooting, we find ourselves migrating to different parts of the North American continent. Jameson just accepted a job working as a research assistant in wetlands in southern Georgia, and I am working in the high desert in Wyoming, watching the thunderstorms roll through while drinking in the scent of sagebrush.
Wyoming is the land of the cowboy, and this tradition still lives on quite evidently. There are oil men and cowboy hats and cowboy boots, big trucks and western accents. Every day I see antelope; since being here I've tried antelope jerky and elk meat, both of which were offered to me by the people who hunted and killed the animal. I saw a moose in a town park, there are cottontails outside my window on lazy Sundays, and the magpies are a delightful replacement to the niche a crow fills in a city. The people here are incredibly kind and I am settling into being in a small town quite nicely. I could do away with the conservative talk radio, but see it as a chance to bite my lip and listen to the other side after I've lived in liberal Seattle and Olympia for 10 years.
It is possible to find true solitude here: one of my first days I headed up a lonely dirt road, guitar and camera in tow, found a place to park that overlooked a basin and some colorful sagebrush-dotted mesas in the distance, and made music as passionately as one can only do when entertaining a crowd of the wind, swaying golden grasses, and magnificent open sky. It is a place for soul-searching, to learn how to be lonely and then how to package that aloneness into something that makes one stronger; it is a place for self-reflection and growth; it is Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire in the 21st century.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
How the time has passed...
After our 8 months abroad, we boarded a plane from Quito, Ecuador, touching down briefly in Atlanta (and getting to see Jameson's dad, granny and granddaddy, making the 5 hour layover pass all too quickly), and ending ultimately in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We're readjusting to having technology and modern conveniences at our fingertips, for better or worse. It's pretty nice having toilet seats on all the toilets. It was strange speaking only English the first couple of days, disappointing that one needs a car to get anywhere, and has been incredibly comfortable relaxing here (thanks, guys!).
The last two months volunteering provided us with insights into Ecuador: its people, its floristic diversity, its conservation practices; we made some good friends, learned about orchid morphology and pollination, and about tropical dry tropical forest ecosystems. We ate more verdes (green plantains) and arroz (rice) than you can imagine, lived in a little bamboo hut, and ventured into the jungle. We spoke only Spanish for a month and gained an appreciation for Ecuadorian pop music and musica liquida.
Now it's time to figure out the next steps in life. After an adventure like we shared, we return with more photographs than we can count, new ideas about the world and ways of living, and a clean slate for moving forward. Our minds our full but lucid as we begin to process the reality of our experiences. As we recount them to family and friends they at the same time become more real and more abstract, in some ways fantastical - did those things really happen? Did we really collect a rare plant in Bolivia? Did we really walk from Argentina to Chile? How did we travel so far using only public transportation through the wild and remote places that we now know? As we review and show our photos we see how the photos and the stories are not the same thing: the hallucinogenic landscapes of the Uyuni Salt Flats have a story, but it is not embedded in the photos; and we have few images of the places which were most extreme because we were living them.
We fell off the bandwagon of recounting stories towards the end of the trip, and have caught some slack from that. I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this - if you are and you want to read more let us know, there is lots more to tell; and as we begin to incorporate these experiences into our frame of knowledge back here, I think there will be new layers of meaning in the things that we were immersed in while traveling. But I don't want to write to an absent audience.
The last two months volunteering provided us with insights into Ecuador: its people, its floristic diversity, its conservation practices; we made some good friends, learned about orchid morphology and pollination, and about tropical dry tropical forest ecosystems. We ate more verdes (green plantains) and arroz (rice) than you can imagine, lived in a little bamboo hut, and ventured into the jungle. We spoke only Spanish for a month and gained an appreciation for Ecuadorian pop music and musica liquida.
Now it's time to figure out the next steps in life. After an adventure like we shared, we return with more photographs than we can count, new ideas about the world and ways of living, and a clean slate for moving forward. Our minds our full but lucid as we begin to process the reality of our experiences. As we recount them to family and friends they at the same time become more real and more abstract, in some ways fantastical - did those things really happen? Did we really collect a rare plant in Bolivia? Did we really walk from Argentina to Chile? How did we travel so far using only public transportation through the wild and remote places that we now know? As we review and show our photos we see how the photos and the stories are not the same thing: the hallucinogenic landscapes of the Uyuni Salt Flats have a story, but it is not embedded in the photos; and we have few images of the places which were most extreme because we were living them.
We fell off the bandwagon of recounting stories towards the end of the trip, and have caught some slack from that. I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this - if you are and you want to read more let us know, there is lots more to tell; and as we begin to incorporate these experiences into our frame of knowledge back here, I think there will be new layers of meaning in the things that we were immersed in while traveling. But I don't want to write to an absent audience.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
For the first time, literally, in months, I come to a place with decent computers, and with the ability to access them frequently enough that internet 'homework' can be taken care of, family can be spoken with, and, all that finished, blog can be written in. Maybe I can even catch up on some of the adventures that we've had earlier, adventures that were beautiful and that took us to places and introduced us to people who we will remember always. Maybe I can add pictures to some of the previous entries that I scribbled (e-scribbled?) while in Bolivia, with computers that only half-functioned. My internet 'cafe' is in a papeleria (place that sells paper and office products), my computer has a flat screen, and when there are not wailing children and ATVs in the street outside, it is a calm enough place to be. It is in Puyo, Ecuador, where for now, I'm working at an orchid garden, with a myriad of orchids flourishing in the midst of a total of some 1150 plant species on 7 hectares.
Orchid at the reserve
We left the beautiful city of Chachapoyas, in the northern highlands of Peru, heading north to enter Ecuador. I'd like to add a separate segment about Chachas, a wonderful place with gracious people, pre-Incan ruins, quaint villages, and lovely countryside.
We left Chachapoyas, heading north, having chosen the border crossing of La Balsa-Zumba, the most remote but real border crossing between the two countries. I enjoy the extremely out-of-the-way places one can experience with a few more painful hours of travel; they are vale la pena worth the pain) in rewards of solitude and authenticity, of scenery and opportunities to speak with people less accustomed to turistas.
Mototaxis: photo from San Ignacio, but rode on one in Jaen.
It was a day of quick transitions: a 3 hour bus to Bagua Grande, a one hour hop in a collectivo (shared taxi) to Jaen, and another 2.5 hour collectivo to San Ignacio, the largest town close to the border. Along the way, the scenery sank from dramatic drop-offs in the mountains near Chacas to rolling, carpeted, sunken hills near the low elevation San Ignacio. We saw flooded rice fields filled with the grain in about every stage of growth, we melted in the heat of the midday in cars with no aire acondicionado and strong, equatorial sun, we saw mototaxis (think 3-wheeled rickshaws of Asia) decorated with streamers, multicolored lights (headlights that changed colors -- really!), plastered with posters de modo, and blasting local music. We saw a papaya as big as a watermelon, and I don't mean one of those little trendy small watermelons, but a big, hunkin'15¨ long watermelon. We passed hundreds of coffee and cocoa plantations, saw coffee beans in various stages of secando (drying) on blankets, on cement pads, with people raking them, turning them, gathering them. We walked the streets in San Ignacio, and when we tried to buy a final bottle of pisco (traditional Peruvian hard liquor), we were instead talked into sampling, and then purchasing (of course) a few sips of the local liquers de cocoa y café. Delicious!
San Ignacio is the city of bosques y cafe, as their town welcome sign proclaims. Indeed there were gorgeous forests and mountains extending in every direction, in this very undeveloped area of the country. It is fascinating how far one can go on dirt roads...
In the morning, we had a 3 hour ride to the border, in another collectivo, on an entirely dirt road, this time in a station wagon with a full trunk, and four adults in the back seat, three in the front, quite uncomfortable on the bumpy ride. Here, we saw coffee, coffee, coffee, if only we could get a decent cup that was not NesCafé! The remoteness of the villages we passed astounded me, little groups of coffee growers, clustered together, like coffee beans at the end of a raeceme, in a wilderness of leaves.
La Balsa, on the border, was about 10 houses, a restaurant, and a casa de cambio (money-changing place). Ecuador is on the US dollar, so we didn't need to do that. Because we were advised to leave very early to make it to our destination, Vilcabamba, by a San Ignacian local, we woke at the crack of dawn and were at the border by shortly after 9am. Unfortunately, there was no transportation to the nearest town on the other end until 12:30, and though our guidebook indicates this town is 10 km, this did not seem to be the case. (Thanks, Lonely Planet, for forgetting this crucial info in your writeup.)
So we waited. In our hammocks.
The truck arrived. It was similar to a camion, or cargo truck style, but the back was opened up, had a roof to provide shade, and hard wooden benches. Luxury, I tell you! It creeped, it crawled, it slithered slowly, it sank into potholes and climbed up the other sides, it grumbled and griped ascending hills, it maneuvered hairpin turns skillfully, it moved like a snail but more slowly. We bumped and bounced about (no seatbelts here!), clinging to the bench in front of us, we breathed in the aire puro, felt the breeze, and the sun, felt the branches of the encroaching vegetation as we moved through this labyrinth of forest and mountain. I likened it to paying $30 to enter an amusement park, I think some people enjoy bodily self-torture in that way, as well. It took an hour and a half, and though our bums were a bit sore, it was one of my favorite rides.
Our truck.
A bus was about to pull out to Vilcabamba and we jumped off to board it. We stayed two days in this pueblo of longevity, as it is known, with its influx of ex-pats (where we did find real coffee), perfect climate, and moved on up to begin our volunteering positions.
Jameson and I parted in Loja. We booked buses to different places that departed at the same time. We embraced at the terminal, with wishes for our independent journeys. After 6 months of traveling together, of experiencing together, of growing together, we chose to learn about life on this continent solito for a little while. It was something we had dabbeled in with thoughts and conversations, but realizing separation was difficult, as we wanted to make sure we would be safe. Having a partner to travel with is not only enjoyable, but provides a thousand conveniences (most importantly, having someone watch your bag in the bus terminal when you have to pee). We have two volunteer opportunities in Ecuador in which we will alternate: one at the orchid garden (where I am now), and the other at a dry tropical forest on the coast (where he is now). We thought that this would provide us safety, companionship, purpose, and a place to lay a few roots, while growing and experiencing South America on our own.
Orchid at the reserveWe left the beautiful city of Chachapoyas, in the northern highlands of Peru, heading north to enter Ecuador. I'd like to add a separate segment about Chachas, a wonderful place with gracious people, pre-Incan ruins, quaint villages, and lovely countryside.
We left Chachapoyas, heading north, having chosen the border crossing of La Balsa-Zumba, the most remote but real border crossing between the two countries. I enjoy the extremely out-of-the-way places one can experience with a few more painful hours of travel; they are vale la pena worth the pain) in rewards of solitude and authenticity, of scenery and opportunities to speak with people less accustomed to turistas.
Mototaxis: photo from San Ignacio, but rode on one in Jaen.It was a day of quick transitions: a 3 hour bus to Bagua Grande, a one hour hop in a collectivo (shared taxi) to Jaen, and another 2.5 hour collectivo to San Ignacio, the largest town close to the border. Along the way, the scenery sank from dramatic drop-offs in the mountains near Chacas to rolling, carpeted, sunken hills near the low elevation San Ignacio. We saw flooded rice fields filled with the grain in about every stage of growth, we melted in the heat of the midday in cars with no aire acondicionado and strong, equatorial sun, we saw mototaxis (think 3-wheeled rickshaws of Asia) decorated with streamers, multicolored lights (headlights that changed colors -- really!), plastered with posters de modo, and blasting local music. We saw a papaya as big as a watermelon, and I don't mean one of those little trendy small watermelons, but a big, hunkin'15¨ long watermelon. We passed hundreds of coffee and cocoa plantations, saw coffee beans in various stages of secando (drying) on blankets, on cement pads, with people raking them, turning them, gathering them. We walked the streets in San Ignacio, and when we tried to buy a final bottle of pisco (traditional Peruvian hard liquor), we were instead talked into sampling, and then purchasing (of course) a few sips of the local liquers de cocoa y café. Delicious!
San Ignacio is the city of bosques y cafe, as their town welcome sign proclaims. Indeed there were gorgeous forests and mountains extending in every direction, in this very undeveloped area of the country. It is fascinating how far one can go on dirt roads...
In the morning, we had a 3 hour ride to the border, in another collectivo, on an entirely dirt road, this time in a station wagon with a full trunk, and four adults in the back seat, three in the front, quite uncomfortable on the bumpy ride. Here, we saw coffee, coffee, coffee, if only we could get a decent cup that was not NesCafé! The remoteness of the villages we passed astounded me, little groups of coffee growers, clustered together, like coffee beans at the end of a raeceme, in a wilderness of leaves.
La Balsa, on the border, was about 10 houses, a restaurant, and a casa de cambio (money-changing place). Ecuador is on the US dollar, so we didn't need to do that. Because we were advised to leave very early to make it to our destination, Vilcabamba, by a San Ignacian local, we woke at the crack of dawn and were at the border by shortly after 9am. Unfortunately, there was no transportation to the nearest town on the other end until 12:30, and though our guidebook indicates this town is 10 km, this did not seem to be the case. (Thanks, Lonely Planet, for forgetting this crucial info in your writeup.)
So we waited. In our hammocks.
The truck arrived. It was similar to a camion, or cargo truck style, but the back was opened up, had a roof to provide shade, and hard wooden benches. Luxury, I tell you! It creeped, it crawled, it slithered slowly, it sank into potholes and climbed up the other sides, it grumbled and griped ascending hills, it maneuvered hairpin turns skillfully, it moved like a snail but more slowly. We bumped and bounced about (no seatbelts here!), clinging to the bench in front of us, we breathed in the aire puro, felt the breeze, and the sun, felt the branches of the encroaching vegetation as we moved through this labyrinth of forest and mountain. I likened it to paying $30 to enter an amusement park, I think some people enjoy bodily self-torture in that way, as well. It took an hour and a half, and though our bums were a bit sore, it was one of my favorite rides.
Our truck.A bus was about to pull out to Vilcabamba and we jumped off to board it. We stayed two days in this pueblo of longevity, as it is known, with its influx of ex-pats (where we did find real coffee), perfect climate, and moved on up to begin our volunteering positions.
Jameson and I parted in Loja. We booked buses to different places that departed at the same time. We embraced at the terminal, with wishes for our independent journeys. After 6 months of traveling together, of experiencing together, of growing together, we chose to learn about life on this continent solito for a little while. It was something we had dabbeled in with thoughts and conversations, but realizing separation was difficult, as we wanted to make sure we would be safe. Having a partner to travel with is not only enjoyable, but provides a thousand conveniences (most importantly, having someone watch your bag in the bus terminal when you have to pee). We have two volunteer opportunities in Ecuador in which we will alternate: one at the orchid garden (where I am now), and the other at a dry tropical forest on the coast (where he is now). We thought that this would provide us safety, companionship, purpose, and a place to lay a few roots, while growing and experiencing South America on our own.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Twenty-five men, all with brown faces, in twenty-five hats, sun protection. All of them sitting on the side of a dirt road, surrounded by maize, brown, slain, baking in the sun from the morning's work. All of them grinning, and calling out, 'Hola, chica, chicha? Como estan, amigos? Fueran a Choquequirao? Quieran chicha, un vaso?'
The two of us, tired, sweating, hungry, arriving back to the pueblito of Cachora around lunchtime after 4 days of trekking in the steep, mountainous terrain of the eastern Andes in Peru to a complex of ruins that is said to match the importance of Macchu Pichu, but was only (relatively) recently discovered, and is still being excavated. We encountered the group of campesinos in a corn field that had been high as an elephant's eye when we departed for the trip.
We accepted a glass of chicha, which is a fermented corn drink. Jameson had not tried it before, and it would be almost rude not to take it. It was being poured from an old gas can container.
They were all in good spirits. 'Where are you from?' 'Estados Unidos.' 'Do you have a muleta?' 'No, we probably should have gotten one, we have our heavy packs...' 'Next time find me, I will take your goods with my mule. When are you coming back to Cachora? Tell your friends to come!'
The banter continued, and we enjoyed the respite of the company and the beverage, and the knowledge that the town was so close. Then, things got better: they invited us to take part in almuerzo (lunch) with them. It was a delicious and wholesome meal of fava beans, a squash soup, salad, a piece of pork, cancha (a usually toasted, but on this occassion boiled, corn kernel snack). These were being served up by a group of 4 women, in traditional clothing, from huge buckets. Despite the bulk nature of the food, it was delicious. We sat on the side of the road with them, next to huge bags of corn, beautiful corn, deep reds, flecked kernels of orange, maroon, and blue, small and large. This was a bad corn year due to the rain, they are usually larger. They would consume much of it but also sell a good portion to Lima. We continued talking with them until it was apparent that it was time for them to get back to work.
It is hard to describe just how welcoming, authentic, and treasured this experience was, and how it will remain in our memories for a very long time.
Choquequirao was an intense and rewarding journey. From the offset, we met a French guy who suggested we get a mule to carry our bags. Though he seemed in shape (equivalent to us, anyhow), we didn't pursue this. The first day was fairly easy. We had camp in a perfect place to hang hammocks, under huge trees that bear a fruit quite similar to chiramoya (though I can't remember the name right now). We slept wonderfully, and the second day were quite ambitious. We descended another 600 meters, and then ascended 1700 meters to reach the archaeological site, and then back down another 900 meters to reach our camp, hiking a total of about 26 km in this day. The switchbacks were grueling, cruel, never-ending, the mountainside steep, descending into the river canyon of the Rio Apurimac and back up to cloud forest, where the civilization was centered. Que pena!
However, it was worth the difficulty. Though probably not as magnificent as the world-renowned MP, it is an extensive archaeological site, with excavations stretching over the hillside: the main plaza, a lookout area, a housing collection, and farming terraces on hillsides so steep one could only imagine. And between some areas lay unbroken tracts of forest, so that one could only imagine what other surprises are hidden underneath the dense vegetation. The site was relatively quiet, and we saw only a few other people while we wandered the ancient rocks. We could only marvel at the civilization that lived here, close our eyes and try to imagine what life was, and also how it evolved from that into the tiny villages we passed along the way (inhabited by about 10-20 people each, in these rugged, remote lands without cars or any real type of modern convenience, however, complete with coca-cola!)
Cachora, the main pueblo which is the access point, was in almost every way the complete opposite of Cuzco. Not much English spoken here (where there were signs, guides, etc in English everywhere in Cuzco), little tourist infrastrucutre but a brand new tourist office (open about 7 months) that was happy to give us a little map and enough information to DIY (whereas in Cuzco there were plenty of places advertising tourist information but it was hard to get info on how to just DO something without a guide or tour), about 4 restaurants in the entire town all serving a 'menu del dia' but not much else (no sweet specialties like the amazing diversity one can find in Cuzco). It was a welcome change after we had soaked up enough of being spoiled in the big city.
From there we headed straight to Lima on a 16 hour bus, stayed a day in the city enjoying ceviche, pisco sours, and the city sights in the centre, and caught a 22 hour bus to Chachapoyas, in the northern highlands of Peru. What a long stretch of travel, but I don't think we'll have to do that again, thank goodness!
Now we are enjoying Chachas, which hosts pre-Incan ruins, most notably in Kuelap, in hazy cloud forest, remnants of a group of people who were not conquered by the Incas until about the 1400s. We'll be heading to the main site tomorrow.
The two of us, tired, sweating, hungry, arriving back to the pueblito of Cachora around lunchtime after 4 days of trekking in the steep, mountainous terrain of the eastern Andes in Peru to a complex of ruins that is said to match the importance of Macchu Pichu, but was only (relatively) recently discovered, and is still being excavated. We encountered the group of campesinos in a corn field that had been high as an elephant's eye when we departed for the trip.
We accepted a glass of chicha, which is a fermented corn drink. Jameson had not tried it before, and it would be almost rude not to take it. It was being poured from an old gas can container.
They were all in good spirits. 'Where are you from?' 'Estados Unidos.' 'Do you have a muleta?' 'No, we probably should have gotten one, we have our heavy packs...' 'Next time find me, I will take your goods with my mule. When are you coming back to Cachora? Tell your friends to come!'
The banter continued, and we enjoyed the respite of the company and the beverage, and the knowledge that the town was so close. Then, things got better: they invited us to take part in almuerzo (lunch) with them. It was a delicious and wholesome meal of fava beans, a squash soup, salad, a piece of pork, cancha (a usually toasted, but on this occassion boiled, corn kernel snack). These were being served up by a group of 4 women, in traditional clothing, from huge buckets. Despite the bulk nature of the food, it was delicious. We sat on the side of the road with them, next to huge bags of corn, beautiful corn, deep reds, flecked kernels of orange, maroon, and blue, small and large. This was a bad corn year due to the rain, they are usually larger. They would consume much of it but also sell a good portion to Lima. We continued talking with them until it was apparent that it was time for them to get back to work.
It is hard to describe just how welcoming, authentic, and treasured this experience was, and how it will remain in our memories for a very long time.
Choquequirao was an intense and rewarding journey. From the offset, we met a French guy who suggested we get a mule to carry our bags. Though he seemed in shape (equivalent to us, anyhow), we didn't pursue this. The first day was fairly easy. We had camp in a perfect place to hang hammocks, under huge trees that bear a fruit quite similar to chiramoya (though I can't remember the name right now). We slept wonderfully, and the second day were quite ambitious. We descended another 600 meters, and then ascended 1700 meters to reach the archaeological site, and then back down another 900 meters to reach our camp, hiking a total of about 26 km in this day. The switchbacks were grueling, cruel, never-ending, the mountainside steep, descending into the river canyon of the Rio Apurimac and back up to cloud forest, where the civilization was centered. Que pena!
However, it was worth the difficulty. Though probably not as magnificent as the world-renowned MP, it is an extensive archaeological site, with excavations stretching over the hillside: the main plaza, a lookout area, a housing collection, and farming terraces on hillsides so steep one could only imagine. And between some areas lay unbroken tracts of forest, so that one could only imagine what other surprises are hidden underneath the dense vegetation. The site was relatively quiet, and we saw only a few other people while we wandered the ancient rocks. We could only marvel at the civilization that lived here, close our eyes and try to imagine what life was, and also how it evolved from that into the tiny villages we passed along the way (inhabited by about 10-20 people each, in these rugged, remote lands without cars or any real type of modern convenience, however, complete with coca-cola!)
Cachora, the main pueblo which is the access point, was in almost every way the complete opposite of Cuzco. Not much English spoken here (where there were signs, guides, etc in English everywhere in Cuzco), little tourist infrastrucutre but a brand new tourist office (open about 7 months) that was happy to give us a little map and enough information to DIY (whereas in Cuzco there were plenty of places advertising tourist information but it was hard to get info on how to just DO something without a guide or tour), about 4 restaurants in the entire town all serving a 'menu del dia' but not much else (no sweet specialties like the amazing diversity one can find in Cuzco). It was a welcome change after we had soaked up enough of being spoiled in the big city.
From there we headed straight to Lima on a 16 hour bus, stayed a day in the city enjoying ceviche, pisco sours, and the city sights in the centre, and caught a 22 hour bus to Chachapoyas, in the northern highlands of Peru. What a long stretch of travel, but I don't think we'll have to do that again, thank goodness!
Now we are enjoying Chachas, which hosts pre-Incan ruins, most notably in Kuelap, in hazy cloud forest, remnants of a group of people who were not conquered by the Incas until about the 1400s. We'll be heading to the main site tomorrow.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Nos reunimos en Cuzco
In a rickety old bus, we entered Peru, with what felt like a thousand other tourists from Copacabana, Bolivia. We'd spent a few days on the spectacular salt flats (sorry, never got a chance to write about those, probably will post pics on FB), in the spectacular Sur Yungas where coca grows climbing on steep terraces and fills warehouses in bags all the way to the ceiling, the smell drifting out and encircling you as you walk by. After resting in a cush hostel in La Paz, cuddling up with a DVD player in our room and the nicest kitchen we've used since the farm, we headed to the border town of Copacabana, which straddles Lake Titicaca, famous for being 'the highest navigable lake in the world', though evidently this is disputed.
From Copacabana, we visited Isla del Sol, a spectacular island on the lake, and in Aymara culture, it is considered to be the birth of all life. You deserve to see photos of this too, the high open altiplano, the crops in pre-Incan terraces, the deep blue of the water. You'll have to wait as I've had a few hard drive issues (got a virus, lost a whole bunch of data, and am only giving supreme thanks that my photos from the trip were not in the mega-file that got erased), and it was hard to take care of them in Bolivia; just finally catching up on photo/memory card transfers.
Now we are in the capital of Inca territory, in the spectacular city of Cuzco, where many buildings rest upon ancient stone walls, where there are as many gringos as Peruanos, and the architecture is spectacular. Street vendors are more aggressive, approaching everyone with their artesanal goods. A woman sat next to me as I was journaling, trying to sell me a belt, weaving a new one to convince me. With the floods in Macchu Picchu and Aguas Calientes, residents here have suffered from the lack of tourism and therefore greater difficulty in attaining income. From what I heard much of the international media focused upon the plight of the tourists here, but the people have been much affected: some bridges have been rebuilt only recently, the competition in restaurants and accomodations was fierce, and the Peruvian government evidently did not handle the situation very well.
We've had the good fortune to reunite with friends and family here. Jameson's padre y hermano are here for a few days, and we've been having a great time catching up and sharing about our lives, over a few Pisco Sours, cuy (guinea pig), and alpaca. However, we passed on trying the goat's head (available in the market, as a whole head, or they will cut it in half for you). To give the Honeycutt clan a bit of bonding time during the days, Natalie enrolled in language school for a week and is enjoying improving her Spanish, thrilled at the increase in overall comprehension. Friends from Evergreen are also here, and we've been enjoying our time with them as well.
We watched a film called 'Mi Chacra' last night. It was about a campesino man, who also works as a porter on the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu. He had worked on the farm all his life; he tried to go to school but had to leave when he was 16 when his father got quite ill, and soon passed away. At this point he stayed with his family and assumed the work on the land. This is hard work: all by hand, without machinery, at high altitude. Upon raising his own son, he went in search for work so that he could try to provide more so that his son could obtain an education. Since he could not read or speak well, his options were limited. His work on the Inca Trail as a porter showed some pretty powerful differences between the native people and the tourists. The tourists carried light, half-full day packs and cameras while the porters' backpacks extended a couple of feet above their heads; he wore campesino sandals over the rough landscape; they served coffee and tea 'in tents'... at one point in the narrative he said something to the effect of, 'I am not like these people, they are educated, I have only my strength...' It was pretty powerful, especially as the end scenes depicting the harvest showed the donkeys with heavy loads, contrasting these animals as load-bearers with the workers on the trail. It was in Quechua, with Spanish subtitles, and produced by an American. The peruanos had some interesting comments afterwards, too.
We're not sure how long we'll be here, or where we are going next. Maybe Chachapoyas. If I get my photo thing figured out maybe I'll catch y'all up on some Bolivian adventures.
From Copacabana, we visited Isla del Sol, a spectacular island on the lake, and in Aymara culture, it is considered to be the birth of all life. You deserve to see photos of this too, the high open altiplano, the crops in pre-Incan terraces, the deep blue of the water. You'll have to wait as I've had a few hard drive issues (got a virus, lost a whole bunch of data, and am only giving supreme thanks that my photos from the trip were not in the mega-file that got erased), and it was hard to take care of them in Bolivia; just finally catching up on photo/memory card transfers.
Now we are in the capital of Inca territory, in the spectacular city of Cuzco, where many buildings rest upon ancient stone walls, where there are as many gringos as Peruanos, and the architecture is spectacular. Street vendors are more aggressive, approaching everyone with their artesanal goods. A woman sat next to me as I was journaling, trying to sell me a belt, weaving a new one to convince me. With the floods in Macchu Picchu and Aguas Calientes, residents here have suffered from the lack of tourism and therefore greater difficulty in attaining income. From what I heard much of the international media focused upon the plight of the tourists here, but the people have been much affected: some bridges have been rebuilt only recently, the competition in restaurants and accomodations was fierce, and the Peruvian government evidently did not handle the situation very well.
We've had the good fortune to reunite with friends and family here. Jameson's padre y hermano are here for a few days, and we've been having a great time catching up and sharing about our lives, over a few Pisco Sours, cuy (guinea pig), and alpaca. However, we passed on trying the goat's head (available in the market, as a whole head, or they will cut it in half for you). To give the Honeycutt clan a bit of bonding time during the days, Natalie enrolled in language school for a week and is enjoying improving her Spanish, thrilled at the increase in overall comprehension. Friends from Evergreen are also here, and we've been enjoying our time with them as well.
We watched a film called 'Mi Chacra' last night. It was about a campesino man, who also works as a porter on the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu. He had worked on the farm all his life; he tried to go to school but had to leave when he was 16 when his father got quite ill, and soon passed away. At this point he stayed with his family and assumed the work on the land. This is hard work: all by hand, without machinery, at high altitude. Upon raising his own son, he went in search for work so that he could try to provide more so that his son could obtain an education. Since he could not read or speak well, his options were limited. His work on the Inca Trail as a porter showed some pretty powerful differences between the native people and the tourists. The tourists carried light, half-full day packs and cameras while the porters' backpacks extended a couple of feet above their heads; he wore campesino sandals over the rough landscape; they served coffee and tea 'in tents'... at one point in the narrative he said something to the effect of, 'I am not like these people, they are educated, I have only my strength...' It was pretty powerful, especially as the end scenes depicting the harvest showed the donkeys with heavy loads, contrasting these animals as load-bearers with the workers on the trail. It was in Quechua, with Spanish subtitles, and produced by an American. The peruanos had some interesting comments afterwards, too.
We're not sure how long we'll be here, or where we are going next. Maybe Chachapoyas. If I get my photo thing figured out maybe I'll catch y'all up on some Bolivian adventures.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Bofedales in Bolivia
After weeks of waiting and uncertainty, we set out on a trip with a group from the University in La Paz to collect data in the bofadeles (peat bogs) of the sierras, north of the city, in the Cordilleria Real. The glacier on Tuni Condoriri is retreating, which is of great concern, particularly as it provides much of the water to the capitol city. The University is conducting several studies on it, and this one is examining the unique bofedal ecosystems. We accompanied 6 students and the project lead, Teresa, as they took measurements of vegetation, tested water pH and chemistry in the pozas (ponds, which they also called 'ojas de agua': eyes of water), collected macroinvertebrates and soil samples, and recorded the influence of the stream on the surrounding landscape.
We arose before 6 am, and climbed into a jeep: 10 of us in total, with all of our bags, food, and science equipment piled up on top. The jeep snaked through the streets of La Paz, and then El Alto, until we were on the carretera (highway), surrounded by altiplano. The mountaints in the distance grew closer, and Heber (one of the students) started pointing them out: Huayna Potosi, Tuni Condoriri, Illampu. Eventually the jeep turned off onto a small dirt road, and we passed by small adobe brick huts, punctuating the open grasses of the vast landscape; we saw occassional campesinos in traditional dress: women with a baby on their backs wrapped in colorful blankets, men on bicycles traversing the long stretch of road.
Eventually we arrived at a building which would be our shelter for the duration of the stay. We were thankful as the weather was colder than we were prepared for, and the clouds were ominous. Before this, we'd been told we would be camping, and we don't have the right equipment or clothing to brave the weather at 4300 meters. The accomodations were basic: two small rooms, no heat, no water, no electricity; simple shelter.
After unloading and organizing, we headed out for the first site. It was not far, but as we approached, it began to snow. In true scientific passion, this did not stop anyone from heading out and collecting data. Patricia lent me some mittens, thankfully, and I protected Monika's camera from the precipitation as best I could. Jameson set up a seco/humedo thermometer reading, and we braved the weather as best we could. When it finally cleared up, we walked up the side of the mountain a ways, searching for plants, finding interesting species in rocks, and came to a beautiful lake. It was magnificent, and the climb got our heart rates up a bit.
Still, we never got warm, and returning to the cabaña, even with all of our clothing on, we were huddled, first in one room all together as we cooked on the portable gas stove. Then, the seven girls retreated to one room, arranging ourselves to take advantage of our collective body heat. The three guys remained in the kitchen, sleeping in three separate corners. Pobrecita Jameson didn't even have a sleeping pad the first night. It was wicked cold and the wind blew outside.
The next day was a relative heaven: the sun was out, the landscape as beautiful as any I knew, and after walking for about 15 minutes Teresa pointed out a few plants and let me loose to collect and photograph. She is working on a field guide and said that many of the plants included they do not have pictures of. It was lovely work, just me and the rocky alpine plants, miniature, but quite diverse, varied, hiding. Jameson found me for lunch, having helped the girls with miscellaneous things throughout the morning.
Throughout the entire time, very little English was spoken, and we communicated in Spanish. It was a rewarding, though at times difficult, experience. It was comfortable to be with a group of students who share our same interests but hail from a completely different culture. When they spoke with each other, we listened and tried to understand as much as possible; this differed depending on context and complication. The Spanish immersion in this manner helps us to improve by leaps and bounds, as the 'travel Spanish' that we do otherwise has actually become relatively simple, and we use too much English when it is only us together. In any case, the group was very accepting and welcoming, and we had a lot of laughs as we braved the sun and the snow and collected data. In many ways it was similar to our field experiences in classes and seasonal jobs in Oly.
The next day Jameson was sick... a very unpleasant experience. He did his best to do his work in the field but we ended up retreating early. A couple of girls did reiki for him back at the cabaña, and they allowed him to sleep next to me, huddled in our room, warmer due to the body heat. Despite this, I found myself with bone-chilling shudders waking me throughout the night, and odd recurring dreams.
On el dia final, we hiked further to an absolutely gorgeous mountain lake, situated at the base of the Condoriri glaciar formation. We were told how the glaciers at one time reached much further down towards the lake. It was warm and everyone soaked in the sun, and they invited us to a dinner back in La Paz. Field work commenced late, and our 2 p.m. arrival time back in the city was pushed back to about 7. Ahh, Bolivian time. I continued with the photography and plant collection, Jameson recorded temperature and took it easy in the sun. We enjoyed our last moments in this fragile, phenomenal, difficult-to-access ecosystem.
We arose before 6 am, and climbed into a jeep: 10 of us in total, with all of our bags, food, and science equipment piled up on top. The jeep snaked through the streets of La Paz, and then El Alto, until we were on the carretera (highway), surrounded by altiplano. The mountaints in the distance grew closer, and Heber (one of the students) started pointing them out: Huayna Potosi, Tuni Condoriri, Illampu. Eventually the jeep turned off onto a small dirt road, and we passed by small adobe brick huts, punctuating the open grasses of the vast landscape; we saw occassional campesinos in traditional dress: women with a baby on their backs wrapped in colorful blankets, men on bicycles traversing the long stretch of road.
Eventually we arrived at a building which would be our shelter for the duration of the stay. We were thankful as the weather was colder than we were prepared for, and the clouds were ominous. Before this, we'd been told we would be camping, and we don't have the right equipment or clothing to brave the weather at 4300 meters. The accomodations were basic: two small rooms, no heat, no water, no electricity; simple shelter.
After unloading and organizing, we headed out for the first site. It was not far, but as we approached, it began to snow. In true scientific passion, this did not stop anyone from heading out and collecting data. Patricia lent me some mittens, thankfully, and I protected Monika's camera from the precipitation as best I could. Jameson set up a seco/humedo thermometer reading, and we braved the weather as best we could. When it finally cleared up, we walked up the side of the mountain a ways, searching for plants, finding interesting species in rocks, and came to a beautiful lake. It was magnificent, and the climb got our heart rates up a bit.
Still, we never got warm, and returning to the cabaña, even with all of our clothing on, we were huddled, first in one room all together as we cooked on the portable gas stove. Then, the seven girls retreated to one room, arranging ourselves to take advantage of our collective body heat. The three guys remained in the kitchen, sleeping in three separate corners. Pobrecita Jameson didn't even have a sleeping pad the first night. It was wicked cold and the wind blew outside.
The next day was a relative heaven: the sun was out, the landscape as beautiful as any I knew, and after walking for about 15 minutes Teresa pointed out a few plants and let me loose to collect and photograph. She is working on a field guide and said that many of the plants included they do not have pictures of. It was lovely work, just me and the rocky alpine plants, miniature, but quite diverse, varied, hiding. Jameson found me for lunch, having helped the girls with miscellaneous things throughout the morning.
Throughout the entire time, very little English was spoken, and we communicated in Spanish. It was a rewarding, though at times difficult, experience. It was comfortable to be with a group of students who share our same interests but hail from a completely different culture. When they spoke with each other, we listened and tried to understand as much as possible; this differed depending on context and complication. The Spanish immersion in this manner helps us to improve by leaps and bounds, as the 'travel Spanish' that we do otherwise has actually become relatively simple, and we use too much English when it is only us together. In any case, the group was very accepting and welcoming, and we had a lot of laughs as we braved the sun and the snow and collected data. In many ways it was similar to our field experiences in classes and seasonal jobs in Oly.
The next day Jameson was sick... a very unpleasant experience. He did his best to do his work in the field but we ended up retreating early. A couple of girls did reiki for him back at the cabaña, and they allowed him to sleep next to me, huddled in our room, warmer due to the body heat. Despite this, I found myself with bone-chilling shudders waking me throughout the night, and odd recurring dreams.
On el dia final, we hiked further to an absolutely gorgeous mountain lake, situated at the base of the Condoriri glaciar formation. We were told how the glaciers at one time reached much further down towards the lake. It was warm and everyone soaked in the sun, and they invited us to a dinner back in La Paz. Field work commenced late, and our 2 p.m. arrival time back in the city was pushed back to about 7. Ahh, Bolivian time. I continued with the photography and plant collection, Jameson recorded temperature and took it easy in the sun. We enjoyed our last moments in this fragile, phenomenal, difficult-to-access ecosystem.
Monday, March 15, 2010
In our departure of the desert town of Arica, CH, we set out on an old beat up bus that would take us on a 12hr ride through the high, dry Andes into the verid hills of Bolivia. At first the landscape was desolate with hardly a hint of life in the vast, clear desert terrian. As the old bus creeped up the mountains, you began to see an occasional cactus the resembled a tree with an umbrella like top. Once nearing the top of the mountain, small streems began to flow and soft open beds of meadow opened up with llamas and alpacas feasting. When passing the isolated ponds, one could get a brief glimpse of flamingos in the distance. We soon reached the Bolivian border and antcipated a bit of struggle considering the copious amounts of preparation we had geting all of our documents in line. To our surprise it was a breeze, and within a few short moments we were in and on our way. The countryside turned into rolling hills with the occasional thatched-roof dwelling and fields of potatos and grains. The clouds were piling up and growing darker, letting us know that the rainy season had not fully passed.
We dozed off for a few only to awake to piling congestion of cars and people. We had reached El Alto, the neighboring city of La Paz just to the east. Traffic was at a stand-still, and it seemed to take ages just to go a few meters. Finally we began to move on and almost instantlly, the magnificent city of La Paz opened up beath us. Never have I witnessed such a city with so many contrasts resting within such a dramatic landscape. The city itself resembeles a shattered terracota pot against sharp, jagged Andean hills. When reaching the center, the air was thick with exhaust and people flooded the streets, selling whatever handful of random goods that made up their livlihood. Most of the center is essentailly one big open steeet market, with each block concentrated with like items ( Calle de Cocinar, Camino de Comer, and other randoms like light-bulbs or shoes). All the women dress in a very traditional manner with big, round skirts on the lower, and layered blouses and shaws above. Each wears a small, round top hat that never seems to fall. On their backs, they all carry whaterver precious goods they might have in a colorful cloth resembling a large blanket that is wrapped and tied around their shoulders and back.
The city itself does not offer alot as far as tourist attractions, but is perpetually entertaining with its street vendors. On the second day, all the bus drivers had gone on a two-day strike because they were upset over a new law prohibiting drinking and driving. Este es Bolivia. By the end of the week the buses were running again, and we were able to get to one of our main destinations, the UMSA Herbario and the Jardin Botanico. We talked to the director of the herbario and were able set up future dates for vegetation sampling using a novel method (GLORIA) that asses the impacts of climate change on alpine peaks. Delighted with the prospect, we wrapped up our time in La Paz and headed for the deep tropical jungle.
We dozed off for a few only to awake to piling congestion of cars and people. We had reached El Alto, the neighboring city of La Paz just to the east. Traffic was at a stand-still, and it seemed to take ages just to go a few meters. Finally we began to move on and almost instantlly, the magnificent city of La Paz opened up beath us. Never have I witnessed such a city with so many contrasts resting within such a dramatic landscape. The city itself resembeles a shattered terracota pot against sharp, jagged Andean hills. When reaching the center, the air was thick with exhaust and people flooded the streets, selling whatever handful of random goods that made up their livlihood. Most of the center is essentailly one big open steeet market, with each block concentrated with like items ( Calle de Cocinar, Camino de Comer, and other randoms like light-bulbs or shoes). All the women dress in a very traditional manner with big, round skirts on the lower, and layered blouses and shaws above. Each wears a small, round top hat that never seems to fall. On their backs, they all carry whaterver precious goods they might have in a colorful cloth resembling a large blanket that is wrapped and tied around their shoulders and back.
The city itself does not offer alot as far as tourist attractions, but is perpetually entertaining with its street vendors. On the second day, all the bus drivers had gone on a two-day strike because they were upset over a new law prohibiting drinking and driving. Este es Bolivia. By the end of the week the buses were running again, and we were able to get to one of our main destinations, the UMSA Herbario and the Jardin Botanico. We talked to the director of the herbario and were able set up future dates for vegetation sampling using a novel method (GLORIA) that asses the impacts of climate change on alpine peaks. Delighted with the prospect, we wrapped up our time in La Paz and headed for the deep tropical jungle.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Un Gran Terremoto!
After a few days of kicking back and partying Chilean-style with a group from Santiago, we prepared to leave Viña del Mar/Valparaiso on Friday, February 26. Unfortunately, all tickets to the north were completely booked up until the next day at 2:30 pm. Until this point, we had been able to pretty much get tickets same day, but this time, we were stuck.
Sebastian made a quick phone call and arranged a place to stay for us in Viña del Mar with his friend Ricardo, who we had met a couple of nights before that. We were thankful to not have to pay another night in a hostel, as things in Chile have been seeming increasingly expensive to our modest budget. We took our things up to the apartment (on the 17th floor), and then went out to explore the town of Valparaiso a bit more, finding some good music, a tasty pisco sour, and returning to the place around 2:30.
We were alone, as Ricardo was working the night shift, and sleeping lightly, to await his knock on the door when he was to arrive home. Instead of a knock, we were woken with the shaking of the tiny twin bed we were sharing. It was so intense that we were afraid we were going to fall off. Out of a dream world, it took a few moments to realize why the bed was shaking (terremoto), and then remember that we were on the 17th floor of a building whose infrastracture I didn´t know whether I could trust or not. It seemed to go on forever and I just wanted the swaying and shaking to stop. We began to hear crashing and shattering of who knows what, both inside the apartment and elsewhere.
When it finally ceased, car alarms, emergency vehicle alarms, and ruidos of all sorts began. I've never heard as many sirens at one time as I did in the succeeding hours of the early morning. In the dark of the night (it was about 3:30) the haunting glimmers of flashlights and the red lights of police and fire tricks flitted through the windows, and we confirmed the power was out. What to do? There we were, stranded, alone, in the apartment, not knowing if it would be better to stay or to go. Jameson assessed the damage with a headlamp: the computer desk had fallen over, toppling over the computer and everything associated with it, a few empty bottles had fallen in the kitchen, but other than that, everything seemed intact.
Then the aftershocks began. This is the third large earthquake I have experienced in my life (also San Francisco 1989 and Seattle 2001), but I have never been so close to the epicenter, nor have I known so many replicas (aftershocks). They shook right up all twenty-something stories of that building and right through my bones. At some points they were almost constant tremors, low and rumbling, and occassionally, sharp and threatening to turn into a large quake again.
About an hour later, the phone began to ring. It was loud and jarring. Ricardo still was not home. At first we ignored it, but then we thought it might be him and answered it. A series of close friends and family members were calling to see if he was okay. In Spanish, we explained that he was not home and we were amigos de un amigo sleeping at his house for a night. Makes for a great story, on both our parts. Unfortunately I could not give them any good news about his safety, only that the building was intact and that a few things had fallen.
We tried again to get some rest, through the replicas, the alarms, the eerie flashlights, and knotted feelings in our stomachs. I was most worried that a strong aftershock might damage the already potentially compromised building, and it was hard to sleep. Ricardo came home; he had to climb 17 flights of stairs in the dark, as the emergency lights in the stairwell had expired, and of course the elevators didn't work. He gave us his account of working in his restaurant, with broken plates and glasses and beer bottles, and chaos in the streets. After sharing stories for a while, we slept a few hours.
Upon arising the next morning, we didn't even know if our bus would go out. The power was still out, and now the water, too. We still heard the sounds of sirens in the background. Anyways, we packed up our bags and walked downtown, seeing the evidence of destruction along the ways. In the stairwell, tiles and small pieces of wall littered the floor. There were cracks in some of the walls. We were glad to leave. In other buildings, windows were blown out, pieces of wall were collapsed, roofs and ceilings had fallen in.
Good news: our bus would still leave today. It would likely have been a different story heading south, but since we were heading away from the destruction, we were in luck. We had no food for our 20 hour bus journey. Upon searching for some, we found that all supermarkets and almost all other little markets were closed. The only things that were open were a couple of fruit and vegetable markets, carnicerias (meat vendors), and a pet food store (strange - there was even a line out of this). There were long lines everywhere. Unfortunately meat would do us no good so we filled up on fruit and veggies. There was only one place we found where we could buy water for the trip. Some of the small market stores had their doors open but with a cardboard sign saying Cerrado (closed), and you could see the entire place littered with the contents which once adorned the shelves.
Apon arriving in Antofagasta, we tried as quickly as possible to find a ticket out of here. The first place we checked had not availability until tomorrow, and the second, with a good price, didn't accept credit cards. Here we found out that the Bank of Chile, based in Santiago, was down, and all ATMs no funciona. With sad faces and bad Spanish begging, we convinced the ticket vendor to accept American dollars (we tried Argentine pesos, too, but he wasn't into that) for one of our tickets. And then we sat in the bus terminal for 4 hours, without even enough cash to go to the bathroom, until we convinced a Chilean/Australian couple sitting next to us to change 10 bucks for some Chilean pesos, to get us through the day.
Probably the strangest thing of all is being right in the center of chaos but not really knowing anything about what was happening. It is not until we reached Antofagasta that we were able to see a TV and internet, and learn about where the quake was centered, and that it was of such a strong magnitude. We didn´t see the damage and destruction except for the blown up windows and falling facades in Viña del Mar. It was evident that this was a huge event, but in the center of it we were surrounded with such immediate chaos and curiosity and uncertainty, and with communications cut off there was no way to find out what was really going on. Upon watching a TV in the bus station here, my heart really goes out to the families who are in some of the other coastal towns that are truly devastated. While we are thankful to make it out of here, and thankful for our health and safety, many of these places are going to require months and years to heal the wounds that were inflicted over the past couple of days. Currently in Concepcion and other towns there is looting caused by hunger and lack of access to water and electricity. Just like with Haiti and in New Orleans, the true devastation and lasting impacts are not necessarily what happen in the moment of the catastrophe, but what happens in the days and months ahead, while people work to solve their lasting problems and rebuild their cities and their lives.
Sebastian made a quick phone call and arranged a place to stay for us in Viña del Mar with his friend Ricardo, who we had met a couple of nights before that. We were thankful to not have to pay another night in a hostel, as things in Chile have been seeming increasingly expensive to our modest budget. We took our things up to the apartment (on the 17th floor), and then went out to explore the town of Valparaiso a bit more, finding some good music, a tasty pisco sour, and returning to the place around 2:30.
We were alone, as Ricardo was working the night shift, and sleeping lightly, to await his knock on the door when he was to arrive home. Instead of a knock, we were woken with the shaking of the tiny twin bed we were sharing. It was so intense that we were afraid we were going to fall off. Out of a dream world, it took a few moments to realize why the bed was shaking (terremoto), and then remember that we were on the 17th floor of a building whose infrastracture I didn´t know whether I could trust or not. It seemed to go on forever and I just wanted the swaying and shaking to stop. We began to hear crashing and shattering of who knows what, both inside the apartment and elsewhere.
When it finally ceased, car alarms, emergency vehicle alarms, and ruidos of all sorts began. I've never heard as many sirens at one time as I did in the succeeding hours of the early morning. In the dark of the night (it was about 3:30) the haunting glimmers of flashlights and the red lights of police and fire tricks flitted through the windows, and we confirmed the power was out. What to do? There we were, stranded, alone, in the apartment, not knowing if it would be better to stay or to go. Jameson assessed the damage with a headlamp: the computer desk had fallen over, toppling over the computer and everything associated with it, a few empty bottles had fallen in the kitchen, but other than that, everything seemed intact.
Then the aftershocks began. This is the third large earthquake I have experienced in my life (also San Francisco 1989 and Seattle 2001), but I have never been so close to the epicenter, nor have I known so many replicas (aftershocks). They shook right up all twenty-something stories of that building and right through my bones. At some points they were almost constant tremors, low and rumbling, and occassionally, sharp and threatening to turn into a large quake again.
About an hour later, the phone began to ring. It was loud and jarring. Ricardo still was not home. At first we ignored it, but then we thought it might be him and answered it. A series of close friends and family members were calling to see if he was okay. In Spanish, we explained that he was not home and we were amigos de un amigo sleeping at his house for a night. Makes for a great story, on both our parts. Unfortunately I could not give them any good news about his safety, only that the building was intact and that a few things had fallen.
We tried again to get some rest, through the replicas, the alarms, the eerie flashlights, and knotted feelings in our stomachs. I was most worried that a strong aftershock might damage the already potentially compromised building, and it was hard to sleep. Ricardo came home; he had to climb 17 flights of stairs in the dark, as the emergency lights in the stairwell had expired, and of course the elevators didn't work. He gave us his account of working in his restaurant, with broken plates and glasses and beer bottles, and chaos in the streets. After sharing stories for a while, we slept a few hours.
Upon arising the next morning, we didn't even know if our bus would go out. The power was still out, and now the water, too. We still heard the sounds of sirens in the background. Anyways, we packed up our bags and walked downtown, seeing the evidence of destruction along the ways. In the stairwell, tiles and small pieces of wall littered the floor. There were cracks in some of the walls. We were glad to leave. In other buildings, windows were blown out, pieces of wall were collapsed, roofs and ceilings had fallen in.
Good news: our bus would still leave today. It would likely have been a different story heading south, but since we were heading away from the destruction, we were in luck. We had no food for our 20 hour bus journey. Upon searching for some, we found that all supermarkets and almost all other little markets were closed. The only things that were open were a couple of fruit and vegetable markets, carnicerias (meat vendors), and a pet food store (strange - there was even a line out of this). There were long lines everywhere. Unfortunately meat would do us no good so we filled up on fruit and veggies. There was only one place we found where we could buy water for the trip. Some of the small market stores had their doors open but with a cardboard sign saying Cerrado (closed), and you could see the entire place littered with the contents which once adorned the shelves.
Apon arriving in Antofagasta, we tried as quickly as possible to find a ticket out of here. The first place we checked had not availability until tomorrow, and the second, with a good price, didn't accept credit cards. Here we found out that the Bank of Chile, based in Santiago, was down, and all ATMs no funciona. With sad faces and bad Spanish begging, we convinced the ticket vendor to accept American dollars (we tried Argentine pesos, too, but he wasn't into that) for one of our tickets. And then we sat in the bus terminal for 4 hours, without even enough cash to go to the bathroom, until we convinced a Chilean/Australian couple sitting next to us to change 10 bucks for some Chilean pesos, to get us through the day.
Probably the strangest thing of all is being right in the center of chaos but not really knowing anything about what was happening. It is not until we reached Antofagasta that we were able to see a TV and internet, and learn about where the quake was centered, and that it was of such a strong magnitude. We didn´t see the damage and destruction except for the blown up windows and falling facades in Viña del Mar. It was evident that this was a huge event, but in the center of it we were surrounded with such immediate chaos and curiosity and uncertainty, and with communications cut off there was no way to find out what was really going on. Upon watching a TV in the bus station here, my heart really goes out to the families who are in some of the other coastal towns that are truly devastated. While we are thankful to make it out of here, and thankful for our health and safety, many of these places are going to require months and years to heal the wounds that were inflicted over the past couple of days. Currently in Concepcion and other towns there is looting caused by hunger and lack of access to water and electricity. Just like with Haiti and in New Orleans, the true devastation and lasting impacts are not necessarily what happen in the moment of the catastrophe, but what happens in the days and months ahead, while people work to solve their lasting problems and rebuild their cities and their lives.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Terremotos and Completos
The last few weeks have made us a bit road weary, every night or two we've been in different places, every day experiencing new things. While the excitement has been fairly unsurpassed, we've become a bit tired. We headed to Santiago, to meet up with Sebastian, who we met along with his friends in the backwoods near Segundo Corral when we were drenched and crossing the border from Argentina.
It was a welcome relief to be picked up from the bus station after a cramped 10 hour ride. We got a last minute discount when we purchased the tickets but forgot to ask if they were cama, and our legs were hurting a great deal from the lack of movement. At his home they welcomed us with breakfast, and just a couple hours later, a huge and delicious Sunday lunch. We talked for a while with his parents (most youth live with their padres until they are either married or finished with college), and got an interesting insight into Chilean culture and their views on the change in the country under various administrations. There seems to be quite the controversy in views on the Pinochet administration: evidently he advanced the country to be the first which is pretty much considered 'First World' in Latin America, in many ways by mimicking the United States, but this came at the expense of the disappearances of approximately 20,000 people. It is interesting because many people don't seem to talk about things as openly or overtly, whereas in Argentina everyone had a strong opinion about their tumultous history. It seems as though people want to forget about the disappearances in order to maintain their path towards abundance, but there are still the families of those that disappeared, maintaining reminders of how the Pinochet administration achieved its goals. People from the administration are still under trial for their actions during that time. Indeed, in Santiago, it feels quite a bit like being in the US as far as the luxuries that are abundantly available and flaunted. Whereas I felt like we could begin to grasp the complexities of the influences of Argentina's recent history, Chile's still seems masked and difficult to understand.
Santiago is not the huge crazy conglomeration of busyness and thrill that Buenos Aires presents; instead, it is clean and relatively mellow, considering its 5 million inhabitants. Here, you are not constantly bumping up against someone else, and fighting for space on the sidewalk, and can breathe the air with a bit more ease (though the water is terrible after leaving the glacial melt of patagonia that we have been spoiled with for the past two months).
Its been so nice to just relax and be shown around, and take care of homework (like getting our Bolivian visas, which we accomplished today). We drank terremotos (a drink consisting of cheap white wine, ice cream, and a splash of Fernet, translating to earthquakes, because 'it makes you feel like the ground is shaking when you get finished'), ate sushi, and ate Italiano completos (a hot dog smothered with tomatoes, avocado, and mayo). We visited the General Cemetery, remniscent of Recoleta in Buenos Aires with its mansionesque mausoleums, though this included contrasting apartment-style high rises of slots containing people and families and histories of Santiago.
It was a welcome relief to be picked up from the bus station after a cramped 10 hour ride. We got a last minute discount when we purchased the tickets but forgot to ask if they were cama, and our legs were hurting a great deal from the lack of movement. At his home they welcomed us with breakfast, and just a couple hours later, a huge and delicious Sunday lunch. We talked for a while with his parents (most youth live with their padres until they are either married or finished with college), and got an interesting insight into Chilean culture and their views on the change in the country under various administrations. There seems to be quite the controversy in views on the Pinochet administration: evidently he advanced the country to be the first which is pretty much considered 'First World' in Latin America, in many ways by mimicking the United States, but this came at the expense of the disappearances of approximately 20,000 people. It is interesting because many people don't seem to talk about things as openly or overtly, whereas in Argentina everyone had a strong opinion about their tumultous history. It seems as though people want to forget about the disappearances in order to maintain their path towards abundance, but there are still the families of those that disappeared, maintaining reminders of how the Pinochet administration achieved its goals. People from the administration are still under trial for their actions during that time. Indeed, in Santiago, it feels quite a bit like being in the US as far as the luxuries that are abundantly available and flaunted. Whereas I felt like we could begin to grasp the complexities of the influences of Argentina's recent history, Chile's still seems masked and difficult to understand.
Santiago is not the huge crazy conglomeration of busyness and thrill that Buenos Aires presents; instead, it is clean and relatively mellow, considering its 5 million inhabitants. Here, you are not constantly bumping up against someone else, and fighting for space on the sidewalk, and can breathe the air with a bit more ease (though the water is terrible after leaving the glacial melt of patagonia that we have been spoiled with for the past two months).
Its been so nice to just relax and be shown around, and take care of homework (like getting our Bolivian visas, which we accomplished today). We drank terremotos (a drink consisting of cheap white wine, ice cream, and a splash of Fernet, translating to earthquakes, because 'it makes you feel like the ground is shaking when you get finished'), ate sushi, and ate Italiano completos (a hot dog smothered with tomatoes, avocado, and mayo). We visited the General Cemetery, remniscent of Recoleta in Buenos Aires with its mansionesque mausoleums, though this included contrasting apartment-style high rises of slots containing people and families and histories of Santiago.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Adventura Araucaria
La adventura in Chile continues...
Upon recommendations from some Chilenos we met camping, and my utmost desire to see a forest of wild Araucaria trees (monkey puzzle), we ventured to the Parque Nacional Conguillio, east of the city of Temuco. Pulling into Temuco, we were not greeted with the sweet hospedaje ladies who populated the smaller bus terminals of the Lakes District, and in this larger city, were somewhat unsure of what to do-where to go-etc. We ended up getting ripped off by a cabbie (spending the equivalent of almost $14 on what should have been a $4 trip) to be dropped off in front of the address listed in our guidebook where there should have been a nice little hostel, which didn't exist. Tired, we checked into a dumpy place across the street.
The next morning we took a bus to Curcautín, where the guidebook said there would be a shuttle to the park. It didn't exist. Not this year. At la officina tourisma, she informed us that tourism was low and that they were not running the shuttle this year. How do we get to the park, 42 km south of the city? ¨Taxi, or al dedo.¨ Al dedo, literally, 'the finger', means to hitchhike. The lady at the tourism office, straight faced, was telling us we'd have to hitchhike to our destination.
We walked out of town... getting discouraged after 45 minutes of waiting. Finally, a man in a truck picked us up, and then proceeded to pick up a half dozen other hitchhikers in the back. He pointed to a hillside and said, 'This is my work, silvicultura (forestry)'. I told him we were students in botany and ecology, and he began to tell us of different medicinal plants, and about the recent eruption by Volcan Llaima (the centerpiece of the park), and how it had affected the plant communities around. Evidently an eruption in January 2008 had caused the river to jump course, and had laid black fields of sediment clearing entire swaths of landscapes. He showed us how you can differentiate between the different eruptions in the types of rock, and about how the different heats and cooling times, as well as the chemical composition of the lava, affected the outomes of the resulting rock formations.
Us with Madre Araucaria, reputedly 1800 years old.
As we approached the parque, we began to see the Araucaria-Nothofagus forests. Though we got another ride all the way in, we still arrived much later than anticipated, and at first had difficulty finding a campsite. We wandered around Laguna Captren, taking in the sights, and the sounds of a half dozen species of ducks. Later in the evening, the clouds cleared, and for the first time we got a glimpse of the impressive and looming, very active, volcano, at which we were camped at the base of.
Old growth monkey puzzle trees rising above the coigue.
In the cool of the next morning, we packed up and wandered through the old growth. The trees here are so huge and majestic. To see the Araucarias in their natural habitat was stunning and so rewarding and hard to describe. They are the most important species to the Mapuche Indians of this area, particularly for their pine nuts, and I think are regarded with as much care and sacredness as the Western Red Cedar of the Pacific Northwest to the native tribes of that area. I'd like to put some into the forest garden I worked on at Evergreen, as I saw a bunch of sweet little cute ones growing in full shade cover.
To leave the park ended up being a bit more of a challenge than arriving. We watched car after car pass us by, and we were concerned about catching the bus back to Temuco so we could catch a night bus to Santiago, as we had planned. Such a long and desolate 42 km, in the midst of open sky and lava fields... it took us three rides to go that short distance, the last in a small car already full with three kids, their parents, and a dog. As soon as we pulled up to the bus station we saw an express bus back to Temuco, which paused for us, and we relaxed, amazed at what the last 36 hours had brought.
Al dedo, with Volcon Llaima in the background.
Upon recommendations from some Chilenos we met camping, and my utmost desire to see a forest of wild Araucaria trees (monkey puzzle), we ventured to the Parque Nacional Conguillio, east of the city of Temuco. Pulling into Temuco, we were not greeted with the sweet hospedaje ladies who populated the smaller bus terminals of the Lakes District, and in this larger city, were somewhat unsure of what to do-where to go-etc. We ended up getting ripped off by a cabbie (spending the equivalent of almost $14 on what should have been a $4 trip) to be dropped off in front of the address listed in our guidebook where there should have been a nice little hostel, which didn't exist. Tired, we checked into a dumpy place across the street.
The next morning we took a bus to Curcautín, where the guidebook said there would be a shuttle to the park. It didn't exist. Not this year. At la officina tourisma, she informed us that tourism was low and that they were not running the shuttle this year. How do we get to the park, 42 km south of the city? ¨Taxi, or al dedo.¨ Al dedo, literally, 'the finger', means to hitchhike. The lady at the tourism office, straight faced, was telling us we'd have to hitchhike to our destination.
We walked out of town... getting discouraged after 45 minutes of waiting. Finally, a man in a truck picked us up, and then proceeded to pick up a half dozen other hitchhikers in the back. He pointed to a hillside and said, 'This is my work, silvicultura (forestry)'. I told him we were students in botany and ecology, and he began to tell us of different medicinal plants, and about the recent eruption by Volcan Llaima (the centerpiece of the park), and how it had affected the plant communities around. Evidently an eruption in January 2008 had caused the river to jump course, and had laid black fields of sediment clearing entire swaths of landscapes. He showed us how you can differentiate between the different eruptions in the types of rock, and about how the different heats and cooling times, as well as the chemical composition of the lava, affected the outomes of the resulting rock formations.
Us with Madre Araucaria, reputedly 1800 years old.As we approached the parque, we began to see the Araucaria-Nothofagus forests. Though we got another ride all the way in, we still arrived much later than anticipated, and at first had difficulty finding a campsite. We wandered around Laguna Captren, taking in the sights, and the sounds of a half dozen species of ducks. Later in the evening, the clouds cleared, and for the first time we got a glimpse of the impressive and looming, very active, volcano, at which we were camped at the base of.
Old growth monkey puzzle trees rising above the coigue.In the cool of the next morning, we packed up and wandered through the old growth. The trees here are so huge and majestic. To see the Araucarias in their natural habitat was stunning and so rewarding and hard to describe. They are the most important species to the Mapuche Indians of this area, particularly for their pine nuts, and I think are regarded with as much care and sacredness as the Western Red Cedar of the Pacific Northwest to the native tribes of that area. I'd like to put some into the forest garden I worked on at Evergreen, as I saw a bunch of sweet little cute ones growing in full shade cover.
To leave the park ended up being a bit more of a challenge than arriving. We watched car after car pass us by, and we were concerned about catching the bus back to Temuco so we could catch a night bus to Santiago, as we had planned. Such a long and desolate 42 km, in the midst of open sky and lava fields... it took us three rides to go that short distance, the last in a small car already full with three kids, their parents, and a dog. As soon as we pulled up to the bus station we saw an express bus back to Temuco, which paused for us, and we relaxed, amazed at what the last 36 hours had brought.
Al dedo, with Volcon Llaima in the background.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Chiloe
Chiloe is an island, and because of that, is has preserved culture and tradition unlike in other places in Chile. The natives kept out colonialism fairly effectively and continued to live fairly traditionally, and even after the permanent arrival of Europeans, have retained a unique traditionalism that includes wooden churches (some with corrugated tin roofs, collectively a UNESCO world heritage site) and other strange devices used to squeeze water from potatoes to make glutenly delicious milcau, and apple cider.
We arrived in Ancud, and were a bit put off by the over the top tourism. It was so thick that I couldn't see this unique culture I'd been reading about between the lines. Also, Jameson and I were plagued with illness, presumably, from consuming raw seafood in Puerto Montt. Won't do that again - still experiencing stomach cramps a week later. We tried to go see the Humboldt penguinos, which are one of the main attractions, but the boat rides were sold out and we didn't have a reservation. It was an exploitation of nature, anyways, we told ourselves, as we saw hordes of rental cars drive right up the road we'd walked on for an hour after a long, bumpy bus ride... ahh, the reflections of being a poor traveler.
Castro had a bit of a more down to earth feel. Both towns were saturated with the most beautiful woolen goods in every form and fashion. Never more did I wish I could carry more with me (though after learning what it is to carry in our walk from Argentina, I knew I didn't want more) or that I had a greater capability to send things back home. The sweaters and ponchos were in gorgeous colors with unique and creative patterns, the women were busily knitting as we strolled through market after market. I could not help myself and bought several small bundles of yarn, many dyed with natural materials. I would return to Chiloe just for the wool.
The architecture in Chiloe is of wood and corrugated sheet metal, and the wooden shingles are of every pattern imaginable. They don't seem to believe in fresh coats of paint, for the most part, and the fading colors reveal past incarnations of the houses. The insides of the homes and businesses, though, appear kept up quite well. There is a wood stove inside each kitchen, complete with oven and water tank, warming the belly as well as the body. Castro boasted numerous palofitos, which are old wooden houses on stilts.
We attended a Festival Acosumbrado in Chonchi, and got to see these crazy wooden contraptions actually put to work: the pressing of potatoes, making of apple cider, shearing of sheep, preparation of grain, all with these machines attached to a belt and motor. It was insightful, as I'd read so much about the innovativeness of the native people of Chiloe but it was difficult to see how this was evident otherwise.
Yesterday, we made the long journey to Valdivia, en route to eventually reach Santiago, deepening our ties with true 'civilization' after so long in such rural and traditional areas. Ciao, por ahora.
A brief note on the climate
I am quite sure all of you believe that we are basking in the sun of the southern temperate summer.
That is what we escaped the PNW winter for, no? Well, unfortunately, El Niño has not only brought devastating storms to the northern hemisphere winter, (and too much rain for the Olympic games in Vancouver?) but has dramatically affected el verano here in Argentina and Chile, tambien. It has rained much, and there really hasn't been much of a true summer, particularly in terms of heat.
Devastating for us, tourists, Norte Americanos? A bit of a bother, yes, but we can deal with some cold nights camping and cloudy, moody days as we view new places. Of course, we wish it was like the summer last year, hot, dry...
The problem is what it is doing to the country people, and also, the price of food. At the farm where we worked, typically they have a dozen types of fruits to harvest in the summer. This year, it was only the raspberries. When we were out in Segundo Corral, passing the rainy day, we heard the same, only in voices expressing more concern: this year, there are very few apples, no cherries, no quince, peach, apricot, plums. There was a late freeze after an early spring, which included extreme winds, which eliminated the majority of pollinated flowers. Fruit trees which bore heavily last year are extremely sparse right now. In a place populated solely by people living off the land, there is great worry for the long term.
As a consequence, the city people have commented that fruit is very expensive this year.
Along with the devastating floods in Cuzco, floods in the Mendoza region, and droughts plaguing other regions, the compounded affect of changes in climate globally is something that we will be continually encountering with greater frequency, and greater urgency. I'm not sure that I have a conclusive point or thesis right now, just that as you experience your winter climate extremes right now, be aware that the rest of the world is being equally affected.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The days at the farm ended appropriately. I think I could have stayed there for much longer, but within the scope of our travels I was feeling ready to move on. We had spent many days and nights there, and exploring the wonderful area around Las Golondrinas and El Bolson.
A night photo from Lago Natacion, where we camped out one night.
Until this point, much of our plans have been pre-determined, but we did not have any idea of what would be next... una adventura! To further the feeling of putting ourselves into the unknown, we decided to complete a several-day hike across the Argentine border into Chile. The hike follows the north side of Lago Puelo, and then Lago Inferior.
Us with Claudio and Rosalind, of Chacra Temaukel.
We said our good-byes to Claudio and Rosalind, and took a taxi to La Paserela of Rio Azul. Normalmente, one would ford the river closer to the Lago, but there has been much rain this summer and the river is too high. This added about 6-8 km to our journey, through farmland and a trail that came and went like the wind. The night before had been incredibly windy, and the weather untamed, and as we walked we were not sure if we would encounter any sudden downpours. Our bags were incredibly heavy, since we have everything for our entire 8 month journey, making ascending and descending much more difficult than even with just a backpacking pack (which would carry only camping gear).
This first day we got only minimally wet, and set up camp near the lake. The next morning, we got our passports stamped out by the Argentinos, and walked the last 4 km to el limite con Chile. The forest is beautiful, wet, green, remniscent of the PNW but different. The rain was drizzly but incessent. For these first couple of hours we were in good spirits despite the cold and damp.
Jameson sitting by our first night camp.
Made it to Chile. It says Argentina on the other side.
After reaching the border, the last 7 km to the Chilean Carabineros seemed to last forever. The rain continued. We got wetter with each step, the brush encroaching on our legs and sides, the wind blowing big drops off the leaves of the trees to wet our packs and shoulders. No longer did we care about the scenery. Our feet were wet all the way through, and each step upward became more painful the further we went due to the weight of our loads. When we finally arrived, we were rewarded with a passport stamp that says something like ¨Reten de Paso El Bolson¨, and were given vague directions in choppy Chilean to the boat to Segundo Corral and to a campsite. The campsite was crappy, and we walked in a thousand wrong directions before finding the boat to cross the river, when we did it was too late to cross.
Instead, we encountered 7 Chilean kids from Santiago rogue camping, upon seeing our damp and disheveled selves they offered us tea or mate. We gladly accepted, and the evening ensued with a most lovely cultural exchange. We talked late into the night, drying off by a smoky fire of damp wood, playing a guitar and melodica (a plastic piano-type instrument which you blow into to make noise) and singing a mix of American and Chilean music. They knew a bit of English (one of them was really good) which facilitated communication, particularly as our Spanish diminished as the hours moved to the wee of the morning. Though we had been miserable during the last part of the hike, it was vale la pena to experience this sort of cultural encounter.
The next morning, sufficiently rested, we walked the 3 km to Segundo Corral. This began by calling across the Rio Puelo, for the boatwoman to take us over the river. Then we walked through unmarked gates through farmland and forest. The goal for today was just to rest after such a rough day beforehand, and this we did. We were pretty much out of food and followed a sign ¨Hospedaje¨ to find three men shoeing a horse, who showed us to the door where we asked for dinner, and received some bread for the meantime.
Segundo Corral is a small village of about 50 people. They do have a post office, and a supermarket, and there are about 6 houses in a line, the rest of the homes are on surrounding farms set back in the woods. No roads that can carry vehicles exist in this town. The sole means of transportation is by horseback or foot. Sheep, cows, and chickens roam free. There is a hydroelectric project in the works to bring electricity, and I saw one solar panel (although it seems they may have had electricity at some other point... not sure). Being there was like taking several steps back in time.
We had an opportunity to truly experience Segundo Corral the following day, as we woke up at around 5 am, with rain encroaching through our tarp and beginning to seep into our hammocks. It was terrible. We packed up, and eventually headed back to the hospedaje, where we had arranged for breakfast. The day was passed there, and the night. We huddled around the fire for warmth and to dry off, and observed the very traditional ways of life that we were submersed in.
... the woman of the house told me of a handful of Patagonian trees for making dyes
... the son told us of and showed us pictures of the wild boar hunts that he has participated in
... the key ring was made of a chicken foot
... a sheep carcass hung in the kitchen, insides cleaned out (I think our first nights dinner consisted of sheep intestines)
... the men wore woolen ponchos and classic hats when they went out into the rain
... the main form of communication was by some sort of CB radio, which everyone in the town had
... we listened to them play Chilean folk songs and sang them American songs in return
... the whole family came and went, old papa with a grey beard and smiling glints in his eyes
... cooking takes up the entire day, making bread and biscuits and sopapillas (fry bread), and hand made potato chips
Yesterday morning we walked from the catarata, to the first road. It is a road in the process of being extended, and is the ugliest thing I´ve seen in a while... a tear through the landscape. We continued up it until it seemed fit for a vehicle to manage. The family radioed to the driver that two people would be waiting, and so it extended its route and picked us up. And then... through more and more ´civilized´ type places... to Puerto Montt.
Puerto Montt is built of bending wood and sheet metal, with peeling paint of a thousand colors (if you count the hues infused with rust, grime, and sunbleaching), with lonely dogs sleeping in the streets and street vendors selling every sort of thing. It is a city growing rapidly due to the salmon industry, which has exploded with salmon farming off the coast. We will only be here for a couple of short days as we prepare to go to the island of Chiloe.
A night photo from Lago Natacion, where we camped out one night.
Until this point, much of our plans have been pre-determined, but we did not have any idea of what would be next... una adventura! To further the feeling of putting ourselves into the unknown, we decided to complete a several-day hike across the Argentine border into Chile. The hike follows the north side of Lago Puelo, and then Lago Inferior.
Us with Claudio and Rosalind, of Chacra Temaukel.We said our good-byes to Claudio and Rosalind, and took a taxi to La Paserela of Rio Azul. Normalmente, one would ford the river closer to the Lago, but there has been much rain this summer and the river is too high. This added about 6-8 km to our journey, through farmland and a trail that came and went like the wind. The night before had been incredibly windy, and the weather untamed, and as we walked we were not sure if we would encounter any sudden downpours. Our bags were incredibly heavy, since we have everything for our entire 8 month journey, making ascending and descending much more difficult than even with just a backpacking pack (which would carry only camping gear).
This first day we got only minimally wet, and set up camp near the lake. The next morning, we got our passports stamped out by the Argentinos, and walked the last 4 km to el limite con Chile. The forest is beautiful, wet, green, remniscent of the PNW but different. The rain was drizzly but incessent. For these first couple of hours we were in good spirits despite the cold and damp.
Jameson sitting by our first night camp.
Made it to Chile. It says Argentina on the other side.
After reaching the border, the last 7 km to the Chilean Carabineros seemed to last forever. The rain continued. We got wetter with each step, the brush encroaching on our legs and sides, the wind blowing big drops off the leaves of the trees to wet our packs and shoulders. No longer did we care about the scenery. Our feet were wet all the way through, and each step upward became more painful the further we went due to the weight of our loads. When we finally arrived, we were rewarded with a passport stamp that says something like ¨Reten de Paso El Bolson¨, and were given vague directions in choppy Chilean to the boat to Segundo Corral and to a campsite. The campsite was crappy, and we walked in a thousand wrong directions before finding the boat to cross the river, when we did it was too late to cross.
Instead, we encountered 7 Chilean kids from Santiago rogue camping, upon seeing our damp and disheveled selves they offered us tea or mate. We gladly accepted, and the evening ensued with a most lovely cultural exchange. We talked late into the night, drying off by a smoky fire of damp wood, playing a guitar and melodica (a plastic piano-type instrument which you blow into to make noise) and singing a mix of American and Chilean music. They knew a bit of English (one of them was really good) which facilitated communication, particularly as our Spanish diminished as the hours moved to the wee of the morning. Though we had been miserable during the last part of the hike, it was vale la pena to experience this sort of cultural encounter.
The next morning, sufficiently rested, we walked the 3 km to Segundo Corral. This began by calling across the Rio Puelo, for the boatwoman to take us over the river. Then we walked through unmarked gates through farmland and forest. The goal for today was just to rest after such a rough day beforehand, and this we did. We were pretty much out of food and followed a sign ¨Hospedaje¨ to find three men shoeing a horse, who showed us to the door where we asked for dinner, and received some bread for the meantime.
Segundo Corral is a small village of about 50 people. They do have a post office, and a supermarket, and there are about 6 houses in a line, the rest of the homes are on surrounding farms set back in the woods. No roads that can carry vehicles exist in this town. The sole means of transportation is by horseback or foot. Sheep, cows, and chickens roam free. There is a hydroelectric project in the works to bring electricity, and I saw one solar panel (although it seems they may have had electricity at some other point... not sure). Being there was like taking several steps back in time.
We had an opportunity to truly experience Segundo Corral the following day, as we woke up at around 5 am, with rain encroaching through our tarp and beginning to seep into our hammocks. It was terrible. We packed up, and eventually headed back to the hospedaje, where we had arranged for breakfast. The day was passed there, and the night. We huddled around the fire for warmth and to dry off, and observed the very traditional ways of life that we were submersed in.
... the woman of the house told me of a handful of Patagonian trees for making dyes
... the son told us of and showed us pictures of the wild boar hunts that he has participated in
... the key ring was made of a chicken foot... a sheep carcass hung in the kitchen, insides cleaned out (I think our first nights dinner consisted of sheep intestines)
... the men wore woolen ponchos and classic hats when they went out into the rain
... the main form of communication was by some sort of CB radio, which everyone in the town had
... we listened to them play Chilean folk songs and sang them American songs in return
... the whole family came and went, old papa with a grey beard and smiling glints in his eyes
... cooking takes up the entire day, making bread and biscuits and sopapillas (fry bread), and hand made potato chips
Wild boar skulls displayed in the dining room.
It is a really difficult experience to put into words, but will live on in my memory forever.
The next day, we walked to where we would eventually catch the bus. We left an hour late and missed it, necessitating that we camp one more night. Following the instructions of the Alegrias (the family who ran the hospedaje), we called out at the the only house we saw about 20 minutes after we passed the bridge. Three kids came out: two boys, one with a bb gun, and a little girl with disheveled hair. They invited us in, and let us camp near the catarata (waterfall) on their land. They sold us some homemade bread, eggs, and from their garden, chard, carrots, and green beans.Yesterday morning we walked from the catarata, to the first road. It is a road in the process of being extended, and is the ugliest thing I´ve seen in a while... a tear through the landscape. We continued up it until it seemed fit for a vehicle to manage. The family radioed to the driver that two people would be waiting, and so it extended its route and picked us up. And then... through more and more ´civilized´ type places... to Puerto Montt.
Puerto Montt is built of bending wood and sheet metal, with peeling paint of a thousand colors (if you count the hues infused with rust, grime, and sunbleaching), with lonely dogs sleeping in the streets and street vendors selling every sort of thing. It is a city growing rapidly due to the salmon industry, which has exploded with salmon farming off the coast. We will only be here for a couple of short days as we prepare to go to the island of Chiloe.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Farm Life
I think I can say we have never been this relaxed in our lives.
Our days consist of getting up, and doing some work on the farm for a couple of hours. Gardening, raking grass, making pan (bread), and/or lunch, harvesting raspberries. Then, after almuerzo (lunch), we have siesta until about 4 (although with the heat of the last week, we don´t start working again until 5). We can spend our other time reading, writing, doing art, learning spanish. Its been pretty wonderful.
We also have the opportunity to learn about many things here. The way of working with the land is very close, and not a whole lot for profit. Claudio and Rosalind grow enough food to live upon, and buy very little. They sell raspberries, and last year, a crop of rhubarb. The raspberries just came on so we are spending quite a bit of time with them in the last week, eating, freezing, eating... The climate here permits frosts until very late in the year, and so the crops they can grow must be extremely hardy.
It is difficult to relate the sorts of things that we are experiencing here as I sit in a crowded internet cafe, my time displayed in front of me. The rhythm of this travel experience is not one of go-go-go, but one of sinking in, and allowing ourselves much in the sense of introspection and slowly understanding how people are here in this place.
We hiked an amazing mountain, Cerro Piltriquitron, last weekend. We probably walked 40 km in two days, ascending the peak twice as the first time it was shrouded in clouds. The second time we were rewarded with beautiful views, though the cold was biting. I would post a picture but the internet just screwed up my upload.
We plan to walk in to Chile in the next couple of weeks. There is a pedestrian only crossing that can be accessed from a village near here (Lago Puelo), and from there it is 9 km to the border, and another 9 to the next town. Sounds a bit like an adventure, and will put us in a remote part of Chile, where horses are still an acknowledged means of travel.
Our days consist of getting up, and doing some work on the farm for a couple of hours. Gardening, raking grass, making pan (bread), and/or lunch, harvesting raspberries. Then, after almuerzo (lunch), we have siesta until about 4 (although with the heat of the last week, we don´t start working again until 5). We can spend our other time reading, writing, doing art, learning spanish. Its been pretty wonderful.
We also have the opportunity to learn about many things here. The way of working with the land is very close, and not a whole lot for profit. Claudio and Rosalind grow enough food to live upon, and buy very little. They sell raspberries, and last year, a crop of rhubarb. The raspberries just came on so we are spending quite a bit of time with them in the last week, eating, freezing, eating... The climate here permits frosts until very late in the year, and so the crops they can grow must be extremely hardy.
It is difficult to relate the sorts of things that we are experiencing here as I sit in a crowded internet cafe, my time displayed in front of me. The rhythm of this travel experience is not one of go-go-go, but one of sinking in, and allowing ourselves much in the sense of introspection and slowly understanding how people are here in this place.
We hiked an amazing mountain, Cerro Piltriquitron, last weekend. We probably walked 40 km in two days, ascending the peak twice as the first time it was shrouded in clouds. The second time we were rewarded with beautiful views, though the cold was biting. I would post a picture but the internet just screwed up my upload.
We plan to walk in to Chile in the next couple of weeks. There is a pedestrian only crossing that can be accessed from a village near here (Lago Puelo), and from there it is 9 km to the border, and another 9 to the next town. Sounds a bit like an adventure, and will put us in a remote part of Chile, where horses are still an acknowledged means of travel.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Life on the Farm
After our first full week at Chacra Temaukel, in the paisaje of Las Golandrinas, a small village outside of El Bolson, we decided today to venture the hour and a half walk into town to access the internet. Fortunately we got a ride along the way with a couple of Argentines in a smoky old Ford.
The farm where we are volunteering is almost entirely self-sufficient. Each day consists of work, taking mate (the national drink of yerba tea drunk through bombilla straws), reading and working on spanish, and eating. All of our meals are made of whole foods produced on the land we are helping to work. The farm is not much of a commercial venture although they sell raspberries, preserves, and other goods. In additionto helping manage the land we'll be helping to preserve things. Their main crop is raspberries, and raspberry season is coming on in the next few days. The peas are also coming on, and every day we have fresh salads of greens and radishes.
Almost no waste exists on the farm. Just about everything is put to use. One of the biggest tasks this week was cutting the pasto (grass). The grass had grown to a foot or two high, and Claudio was cutting it with a weed whacker. (Jameson got to learn about this task and take over). After a couple of days of drying, we rake it up and collect it in a shed. Claudio will take all this grass to a friend's house who has animals and trade for manure to put on the vegetables. Everything is homemade: the delicious fruit desserts, the composting toilet, the living roof of our casita.
Our casita.
Another task we've had is cleaning the seeds. Claudio and Rosalind collect most (all?) of their own seeds for replanting in the next year. We started with celery, carrot, and cabbage. It was a tedious undertaking to collect the seeds out from the dried plants, but it is a part of gardening that I have not partaken before, and we had a good bit of time to reflect on what it means to carry on the genetic material of the plants that have grown upon that very land. The Chacra is at the base of Cerro (mountain) Piltriquitron, and higher up than the farms in the valley. They have 45 days less of a growing season than other farms in the area. When they continue to collect seeds from their land the plants begin to perform better, as they become more accustomed to the climate.
The Rio Azul.
Jameson crossing the most rickety bridge I have ever seen, over the Rio Azul.
The people here are experiencing climate change, and it is talked about in the local lore. For example, this year the summer has been very cold, and there have been many late frosts. This year the farm does not have many of the tree fruits that it normally has (apricots and peaches), and few fruits on others. There has also been less snow: two feet previously accumulated in the winter, whereas in recent years only 6-12 inches is common. At the same time, people are skeptical of climate change and some of the drastic changes being called for: who is paying the scientists for those studies and what are their interests.
Another thing of interest is the small-town reaction to the economic crisis. Where Buenos Aires was somewhat incapacitated with runaway inflation in the year 2000, these small towns developed a local economy, created fake bills (but that actually had value) and developed a barter system which enabled people to weather the storm in a much more capable manner than in the throes of the big city. I think that the 'fake' money also occurred all over the country, but the difference is that almost everyone in an area like this is producing, whereas people in BA, like in other big cities, may be working in offices or such and not have a direct produce to offer.
The whole area here consists of funky housing and old cars. Since wood is a big commodity here, there are many log planks, but when they mill them down they just cut in one direction, retaining the bark and the curvy, organic shape of the wood. It lends a soft edge and pleasant ambiance to the buildings.
The view of Refugio Cerro Lopez, and Lago Nauhel Huapi, in Bariloche.
We will be here for the next 3 weeks, and it may be hard to write in the blog during this time. Our bus ride from BA to Bariloche was mediocre: next time we may opt for the slightly cheaper bus as dinner and wine were not so splendid, but the seats were big. Bariloche was beautiful but too touristy and expensive for our tastes.
The farm where we are volunteering is almost entirely self-sufficient. Each day consists of work, taking mate (the national drink of yerba tea drunk through bombilla straws), reading and working on spanish, and eating. All of our meals are made of whole foods produced on the land we are helping to work. The farm is not much of a commercial venture although they sell raspberries, preserves, and other goods. In additionto helping manage the land we'll be helping to preserve things. Their main crop is raspberries, and raspberry season is coming on in the next few days. The peas are also coming on, and every day we have fresh salads of greens and radishes.
Almost no waste exists on the farm. Just about everything is put to use. One of the biggest tasks this week was cutting the pasto (grass). The grass had grown to a foot or two high, and Claudio was cutting it with a weed whacker. (Jameson got to learn about this task and take over). After a couple of days of drying, we rake it up and collect it in a shed. Claudio will take all this grass to a friend's house who has animals and trade for manure to put on the vegetables. Everything is homemade: the delicious fruit desserts, the composting toilet, the living roof of our casita.
Our casita.Another task we've had is cleaning the seeds. Claudio and Rosalind collect most (all?) of their own seeds for replanting in the next year. We started with celery, carrot, and cabbage. It was a tedious undertaking to collect the seeds out from the dried plants, but it is a part of gardening that I have not partaken before, and we had a good bit of time to reflect on what it means to carry on the genetic material of the plants that have grown upon that very land. The Chacra is at the base of Cerro (mountain) Piltriquitron, and higher up than the farms in the valley. They have 45 days less of a growing season than other farms in the area. When they continue to collect seeds from their land the plants begin to perform better, as they become more accustomed to the climate.
The Rio Azul.
Jameson crossing the most rickety bridge I have ever seen, over the Rio Azul.The people here are experiencing climate change, and it is talked about in the local lore. For example, this year the summer has been very cold, and there have been many late frosts. This year the farm does not have many of the tree fruits that it normally has (apricots and peaches), and few fruits on others. There has also been less snow: two feet previously accumulated in the winter, whereas in recent years only 6-12 inches is common. At the same time, people are skeptical of climate change and some of the drastic changes being called for: who is paying the scientists for those studies and what are their interests.
Another thing of interest is the small-town reaction to the economic crisis. Where Buenos Aires was somewhat incapacitated with runaway inflation in the year 2000, these small towns developed a local economy, created fake bills (but that actually had value) and developed a barter system which enabled people to weather the storm in a much more capable manner than in the throes of the big city. I think that the 'fake' money also occurred all over the country, but the difference is that almost everyone in an area like this is producing, whereas people in BA, like in other big cities, may be working in offices or such and not have a direct produce to offer.
The whole area here consists of funky housing and old cars. Since wood is a big commodity here, there are many log planks, but when they mill them down they just cut in one direction, retaining the bark and the curvy, organic shape of the wood. It lends a soft edge and pleasant ambiance to the buildings.
The view of Refugio Cerro Lopez, and Lago Nauhel Huapi, in Bariloche.We will be here for the next 3 weeks, and it may be hard to write in the blog during this time. Our bus ride from BA to Bariloche was mediocre: next time we may opt for the slightly cheaper bus as dinner and wine were not so splendid, but the seats were big. Bariloche was beautiful but too touristy and expensive for our tastes.
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