every day is a journey

Nicknames for Tamara

2010-03-01T14:09:00.000-08:00

Colombians are very friendly and love to call each other, and us, little nicknames - like cutie or honey. The old lady selling bananas, the gruff man on the street, the dangerously talkative minibus driver, 16-year old military men, street cleaners... all had a pet name for Tamara (although Paul got a few too.) Our favorites:

Mi Amor (my love)
Mi Vida (my life)
Mi Reina (my queen)
Mi Corazon (my heart)
Princessa
Dona (as in respected, not donut)
Mami, mamita, mamisita
Muneca (doll)

Paul only got the occasional amigo, maybe an amiguito, and once a jeffe.

Palomino -- love at the dove

2010-03-01T13:26:00.000-08:00

Palomino, meaning dove, was indeed peaceful. Relaxing and nurturing each other for a week as we prepare to leave the coast was perfect. The beach stretched kilometers in both directions, broken only by surreal shorebreaks of gigantic tires. 20 minutes up the beach the River Palomino pours in to the Caribbean down a valley bordered by a steep and lush mountain ridge. On clear mornings we could even see the snow-capped peak of the Sierra Nevada!

Palomino doesn't see a lot of tourists. Besides two places with camping and hammocks, all of the beachfront was occupied by private fincas growing coconut palms. Of course, we spoke with the caretaker of one palm farm and arranged to stay in the owner's deluxe cabin. Built of thatched roof but with all the luxuries like indoor plumbing, electricity, fan, mosquito net, toilet seat, and... satellite tv. We slept exorbitantly in our huge bed. We lounged in hammocks watching the changing moods of the ocean and the fisherman arrive in ancient-looking canoes of thick wood with their haul of giant manta rays, which they cleaned gruesomely on the beach with machetes. We swam and did handstands on the beach. And we walked.

Fruit!

2010-02-21T11:59:00.001-08:00

Fruit! It´s everywhere and one of the joys of being in the tropics. From the top:
tamara´s friend the fruit lady in Cartagena;
a crazy purple fruit (dragon fruit?) that was like a giant creamy purple grape;
Tamara and her treasured watermelons - at 25 cents a portion, she went through these at a rate of sometimes 5 a day!;
sliced fruit in a cup, a great breakfast or snack;
hmmmm, that´s not fruit!;
Paul and our favorite fruit, the níspero - sooo good! best eaten at medium ripeness, it is aromatic and slightly gritty and tastes of cinnamon and root beer!;
granadilla, passion fruit (not to be confused with its cousin, the more sour maracuya) - crack open it´s egglike shell, peel away the soft white padding, and slurp the crispy seeds and their supersweet meat - close second place to the nispero!;
we can´t forget about the old standbys - oranges, mandarinas (sweet and juicy under the deceptive green rind), and pineapple, which we ate just hours after it came off the plant!

almost... perfect!

2010-02-21T11:36:00.000-08:00

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Tayrona National Park is the gem of natural tourism in Colombia. It stretches a hundred kilometers along the Caribean coast, 4 hours northeast of Cartagena. The park´s bays and coves are shielded by the wild, open sea and provide plenty of opportunity for exploration - by boat. As you head east the coast gets greener and wetter. We started in the backpacker-saturated fishing village of Taganga, where the bay is backed by dry, brown cliffs. We decided to wait on entering the busy part of the park (accessible by road and a walk) and take a boat to Playa Cristál, set in a huge bay about midway into the park. We packed all our water, snacks, and some food onto a rough boat ride, arriving to the calm, crystaline waters with a smile and a sigh.

The beach was clean, the snorkeling was great, and the setting was spectacular! We woke up each morning to an empty beach and went for invigorating morning swims. The water was full of brightly colorful, large, curious fish. We navigated around the shallow corals and dove down to swim in the midst of the bright blue schools of angel fish. In the late mornings, the boatloads of tourists descended onto the beach to enjoy the Colombian-style snorkeling -- huge families holding onto a small raft in knee-deep water for the group snorkeling experience. During the mid-day heat and crowd, we found respite in the shade and read our books. By mid-afternoon, the boatloads of people were leaving and we once again had the beach all to ourselves. Paradise.

It was perfect... almost. Though the bay sheltered us from the worst of the weather on the ocean, the wind picked up at night - pushing around our tent and flinging sand in our faces. I constructed some windblocks, but the weather was truly wild (and uncommon this time of year.) The sand came in from all directions! After 4 days, we decided to leave the next afternoon. That evening was beautiful. A calm afternoon and beautiful sunset. It was a joy rather than a chore to make dinner! Without the wind it was warm and we barely had to change out of our swimsuits. We settled in to sleep feeling content and like we might decide to stay longer. (A restaurant served food to day trippers, where we bought lunch. So, the only thing limiting us was drinking water.) Well, that night the wind was back! Clear that it was time to go have a shower and a bed, we hiked out the next day, hitching a ride back to down with a tour bus.

ABO worldwide!

2010-02-21T11:23:00.001-08:00

Valentine´s Day in Cartagena

2010-02-16T10:24:00.000-08:00

El balcón nuestro en Cartagena

Tolú

2010-02-15T07:19:00.001-08:00

We arrived into the watermelon-filled town of Tolu and found a lovely place to stay in the upstairs of a family´s home. We took in the sea breeze and the local culture... This town takes its bikes very seriously. There were bicycles filling the streets - with a twist, of course. These bikes were meant for communal enjoyment. First, they were pedaled by all on board. Yes, ALL. Some were built for two, but most for four, or even six and eight -like a paddleboat, or the Flinstones (Los Picapiedras). Each was decorated uniquely, and each (of course) had a name, along with a blessing from God. And each had its own car battery-powered sound system - which we all couldn´t help but enjoy, even at 8 am on Sunday morning as we departed for a stay on Mucura Island...

Isla Mucura

2010-02-14T15:34:00.000-08:00

As with most things in Colombia, it is easiest to get to Isla Mucura on a tour. And we actually enjoyed the calm boat ride through the Parque Nacional Natural Los Corales, departing the murky waters of the coast and cruising through the shimmering blue, green, and aquamarine waters around the islands. We passed totally private islands, mangrove-thick islands, an island with an áquarium´(which included sad creatures and, bizarrely, an ostrich,) tiny floting islotes of sand and a couple palm trees, and even the island they bill as the most densely populated island in the world - 1000 people on a tiny chunk of land. Nothing but concrete to be seen, like a floating shanty town.

We finally arrived at Mucura Island and camped on a breezy point of land in a palm tree farm. We snorkeled first thing every morning while the fisherman brought in their catch, then lounged and did yoga while our host, doña Lina, prepared the tastiest and freshest food of the entire trip! Yum!

VOLCAN de lodo

2010-02-14T15:18:00.000-08:00

After a horrific spleen-smashing 2 and a half hours on the boat back from Capurgana, we were actually looking forward to arriving into the industrial port of Turbo. But twenty minutes from arrival, the boats engines sputtered. Then stalled. Then there was silence. Broken only by the wild laughing and bright optimism of our piloto. Apparently we were out of gas, but he had a wide-ranging explanation about the motor - which did not hold up to the questions of the fisherman among us. But the piloto continued to laugh, trying to cheer up the passengers, who were now beginning to get sea sick, more than one vomiting over the side as our boat lurched in the waves. Women complained, men moaned, the german tourist took video with a wide smile... but the piloto would not be humbled. He cracked jokes and even sang out to the most argumentative woman ¨pacienciaaaaa¨ (patience.) Finally, after an hour, a boat happened to cruise by, depositing a barrel of gas without even a word. We cruised to shore, but only after our piloto announced with a wide grin ¨You are riding with the best captain in the world!¨

So, needless to say, we were relieved to get to Turbo... and we immediately left. Arriving in the quiet beach town of Arboletes, we settled into our strangely marine-themed hotel room. Early the next day we walked the beach to the Volcan de Lodo - the Mud Volcano! Warm slippery grey mud bubbled and flowed into a pool 150 feet across. We cautiously entered and... floated! It was a surreal and enjoyable start to the day...

Capurganá!

2010-02-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

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Capurgana sits on the edge of the Caribbean and right next to the Panamanian border. We lounged in our hammock, on the large balcony of our third floor room overlooking the sea, in an empty hotel. We hiked through the jungle, meeting a special man and visiting Sapzurro and crossing over into Panama to La Miel beach.

Salento

2010-02-02T13:34:00.000-08:00

Ahhh, Salento and the Valle de Cocora... your cool breezes and mountain cowboy culture, your cobbled streets full of horses, your sunsets coloring verdant mountains in all directions... how I miss thee from this hot and sweaty internet joint / beauty supply store.

It really was spectacular! Salento is a quiet and lovely town (except on the weekends when the main plaza fills with big city Colombians eating giant fried plantains, shopping, listening to distorted and deafening music, and of course drinking aguardiente.) Set at 6000 feet above sea level and surrounded by rolling green hills with the occasional glimpse of snowy mountain peaks, the climate was invigorating. We hiked into Cocora Valley, famous for its wax palms, the only palm tree that grows in the mountains - many over 100 feet in height! We decided against the main tourist trail and headed up the steep valley wall to the towering massif, the morro gaucho at 10,000 feet. It was a long slow walk, and we felt the altitude. But we took our time, stopping to ask the occasional farmer for directions, and sometimes losing the trail altogether. The sun was strong, but it quickly cooled as mist blew into the valley, swirling and eddying in designs that captured our attention far more than the horribly dubbed action flicks we suffer through on buses. We took a long and leisurely lunch with beautiful views down the valley and beyond to the peaks of the nearby National Park Los Nevados, some rising over 15,000 feet and perpetually snow covered.

We spent our remaining time here drinking their famously delicious coffee, wandering the hills outside of town, watching toddlers lead packs of horses, and chatting up the cowboys over beers. Salento is a beautiful and invigorating area. We loved it!

Zona Cafetera

2010-01-29T13:04:00.000-08:00

Known for it’s coffee farms, rolling lush hills, and sheer natural beauty, the zona cafetera welcomed us with open arms. We’re here at Bernardo and Luz Marina’s finca, just outside of Pereira, 5 hours south of Medellin. It’s a beautiful 30 acres of land where they grow several varieties of oranges, fields of pineapples, and colorful flowers. We have the guesthouse to ourselves, which boasts a lovely outdoor kitchen, swimming pool, and hammocks with a 360 degree view of the green hills and mountains in the distance. It’s so nice just to relax! We’re enjoying our long morning yoga practices, going on long walks, drinking fresh squeezed mandarin and orange juice in the morning, and eating the most deliciously sweet pineapples right out of the earth. It’s also a wonderful respite from the loud, traffic-filled cities; the rumble of diesel engines, honking horns, and street vendors have been replaced by the songs of the colorful birds that fill the yard (and even our room sometimes!) -- you name the color and the bird is here. Our time here has been a wonderful gift of rejuvenation, luxury, and sweetness.

Medellin - familia paisa

2010-01-29T13:03:00.000-08:00

Once known as the murder capital of Latin America and the home of Pablo Escobar (head of the most infamous and ruthless drug cartel of the 80s, politician, and public works philanthropist), Medellin has come a long way. Set at 5000 feet above sea level, Medellin is now known as the City of Eternal Spring. With temperatures that just sneak into the 80s and downright cool nights, it is a welcome change from the hot coast. The city’s Metro light rail is clean, practical, and provides a beautiful tour of the city, especially the raised sections through the center of town. (Jealous, Seattle?) Traveling along the north-south line, we gaze down at massive churches, ornate palaces, sleek modern buildings, and the jagged peaks that frame either side of the valley.

Medellin is Maryluz’s home town (Tamara’s step mother), and still the home of much of her family. Shortly after arriving into town, we were warmly greeted by aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. We were invited to the family’s restaurant for a dinner of fresh pasta and wonderful company. There were ten of us sitting around the table, speaking fast Spanish and laughing loudly. We sat between Tia Lucia and Tio Roberto, both of them full of life as they edge towards their 90th year, it was a very sweet evening. A few nights later, we met up with Tia Piedad, who took Tamara out to the nicest mall around - El Tesoro. They exchanged stories and laughed over café con leche and snacks. Having family around makes all the difference while traveling. The family here, who we met for the first time upon arriving into the city, treated us with the love, warmth, and generosity as if they’d known us our whole lives.

The beach life and the rich planet

2010-01-29T13:01:00.002-08:00

Heading the call of the Caribbean, we took a nauseatingly slow boat to nearby Playa Blanca. Knowing it is the end of the Colombian holiday season, we knew we would be there for only a few days - just long enough for our skin to turn brown. We walked a half mile down the long white beach to the quiet end where the day trippers did not go. (Strangely, the Colombian tourists that flocked to the beach on day tours would not venture far. Disembarking the boat, they would sit and eat and drink frantically, talking joyfully with wide gestures of the arms. Wading into the water in large groups, they would snap pictures and drink aguardiente - an anise-flavored liquor that seems to be the national past time and is quite tasty - from plastic shot glasses. They stayed packed together tightly, even strangers, out of what? - an evolutionary sense of survival like a school of fish?)

We set up our tent about 20 feet from the tide at a sweet little place run by a sweet round woman known as Mama. It was perfect - rolling out of bed with the sun rising over the hills, swimming in the morning’s calm sea, taking long walks on the beach, and escaping the scorching sun for most of the day under our palm-thatched roof, swinging in the hammock and just slowing down… We brought fruits and veggies and ate giant plates of fish with fried plaintains and coconut rice. Mmmmm, pez sierra… But after a few days we were ready to take a shower and head to cooler climes.

The bus ride from Cartagena to Medellin is 13 hours. Agreeing for Tamara’s sake to forgo overnight buses, we weren’t sure where to break up the trip. There are no tourist destinations on the way. (Internet research turned up an alligator farm 30 minutes from the highway, but not much else.) And so it was with an only somewhat pleasing uncertainty that we woke up one morning and decided to head to the bus station not knowing exactly where we were going. As the clock ticked to the next bus departure towards Medellin, we decided to stop in a town called Planeta Rica. The most likely reason - it’s name: rich planet.

And it was a nice place to spend the night. On Playa Blanca, the surge of tourism seemed to sour the attitude of all but the most patient and open-hearted locals. But here in this small town that surely saw tourists only rarely, the famous friendliness of Colombians was clear. Que amable! We spent the evening in the town park, snacking on street food while Paul drank a cold beer (aaah the glory of a cold beer in the warm evening!), Tamara slurped passion fruit and getting chatted up by everyone from the baker (pushing warm, doughy buñuelos into our palms) to the jolly chubby guy manning the fried food cart ’El Colesterol’.

Settling In

2010-01-29T13:01:00.001-08:00

We are starting to settle in to this life of traveling. It is at once new and strange and sometimes shocking, and also very familiar. The shock and joy of cold showers on hot days. The unparalleled pleasure of a cold yellow beer on a warm outdoor evening. The discovery, like some colonial desire, of exotic new fruits. Remembering once again the thrill and anxiety of not knowing - not knowing where we are going, or how we will get there; not knowing how long we will stay; not knowing who will we meet or where they are from. This, we remember, is the adventure and the challenge of travel.

CARTAGENA!

2010-01-29T12:59:00.000-08:00

Our luna de miel begins...

We arrived from Miami to Cartagena de Indias, The White City. It was the perfect place to start our trip - rich in history, beauty… and romance. The indigenous Carib settlement was conquered and the city established in 1533, making it the second oldest city in the country. Set on a deep bay, it quickly became the Spanish foothold and primary port in Colombia. As the most important outpost, almost all trade passed through its port, making the city rich - and a tempting target for pirates, including the infamous Sir Francis Drake. In response, a series of massive walls and forts were built around the city. Las Murallas, as it is called, took nearly two centuries to complete - battered by pirate attack and vicious storms it was finally finished in 1796, just 25 years before the Spanish were expelled.

Within these walls, the old city is a colonial treat. Packed full of hulking churches shading cool plazas, palaces and mansions with breezy balconies spilling bright bougainvillea out over the cobbled streets, we spent our days getting lost in El Centro, and our nights sipping drinks in open air restaurants and leafy plazas. We stayed in a lovely little room with a balcony, where we reclined watching horse drawn carts - the sound of their hooves on stone and the occasional serenade from the cart echoing through the quiet evening. (Thanks Dad and MaryLuz!)

Tamara’s 31st birthday was our third night in town and we celebrated in style! Under candlelight and red roses, we sipped chilled white wine and feasted on sea bass in a light tamarind sauce.

more adventures

2009-03-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

Wild ocean crashing against lava flow at the site worst hit by the tsunami of 1946.

me in tree

Lava breaking to the surface and sizzling into the sea!!!

steam from lava hitting the ocean...

adventures

2009-03-09T15:34:00.000-07:00

wai'pio valley pololu valley

5 years!

2009-03-09T15:24:00.000-07:00

We celebrated our 5-year anniversary with the Volcano! what better way to honor the beginning and journey of our relationship than in the rainforest witnessing the birth of earth!

Then, forgoing camping, I surprised Tamara with an amazing night at the rainforest retreat lodge - all the luxuries we could want, but with all the joy of sitting in the forest.

LOVE!

yurt sweet yurt

2009-03-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

much aloha from the big island!

yes! we are indeed in paradise.

lush beautiful land on the north side of the big island of hawaii. we are working on the land here belonging to friends joel and michelle. spectacular, lush permaculture sanctuary with lots of fruit and veggies, koi ponds with loud frogs, a yurt all to ourselves, a sweet dog, a view down to the ocean 2000 ft below, and the first time me and tamara have been together in nearly a month!

actually, it has been raining all but 2 days! heavy sheets blowing in on the trade winds, which hit us here directly after thousands of miles at sea accumulating speed, moisture, and ocean energy.

montana!

2008-07-27T17:16:00.000-07:00

fotos

2008-07-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

our private rest stop off the 101

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reptilian bay

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smoky sunset where the russian river meets the pacific

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the view from our kitchen. so long blue house...

still lovin'

2008-07-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

Yes!

Back to the blog world. Some fotos to share with you beautiful people...

ok, we'll start with the sonoma county coast. We spent 10 days down there - seeing family in friends in the bay area, a road trip through sonoma and mendocino, and the love-soaked wedding of our family shereef and jolana!

ahhh yes, the return of the landscape-inspired yoga series...

look out for the 2010 calendar!

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extaterrestrial tidal

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when the smoke wasn't too thick, it was quite a view

more pics to come...

still shinin´

2007-04-21T13:59:00.000-07:00

well, friends. you know life has been full and exciting when the blog doesnt get updated for two months!

these pictures can be a quick catch-up. From the top:

Two weeks on the beach of northwest ecuador really treated us right. You know, we just slipped right into the pace and the people and the daily pleasures.

Land of mangroves and long empty beaches, rico seafood in coconut milk, shrimp farms, and poor, smiling people. Hot, steamy afro-ecuadorian culture - frenetic music, slow days, late nites, and easy laughs over cold beer. Its a bit dangerous, they say, but all that means is that we never leave home with more than 10 bucks and the camera hasnt seen the amazing scenery. Our week there turned to two when we started connecting in with a nice group of folks. A colombian woman and her swiss husband, an injured, harley-riding vietnam vet slash sculptor named oso, and the german-venezuelan couple who owns the bar. We woke to stretching then tea with fresh baked goods. Then spend our morning in yoga and beach walks with the neighbors dog before the sun breaks thru the overcast or drizzle. A 20 minute walk to town for cheaptasty almuerzo. Our afternoons are spent relaxing and reading, strolling, doing art projects with the ladies, and tamara even started to try to ride the german´s horse, who is very stubborn and has never been ridden by anyone else. So, we stayed, deciding to spend our beach time right there before heading pretty directly to the jungle of peru!

Down the hot coast to Guayaquil and directly on up to Cuenca in the highlands, where we had left a bag. From there we travelled the lush mountain passes for two long days across the border into Peru.

From Vilcabamba (where we visited with an american building the fattest cob house i have ever seen), to Zumba, walking across the border, then on to San Ignacio, Jaen, and finally up to Chachapoyas, where we visited the remote (and soggy) ruins of Kuelap, at 12000 ft. (Yes, those are human bones!)

From there we continued down to the high jungle. Spent some time in Tarapoto, met a couple shamans and some 13 mooners. The rivers and waterfalls were tempting, and the bouncing blue morpho butterflies began to entice us to stay, but the reality of our time frame kicked in and we headed on to Yurimaguas, bought a couple of hammocks, and boarded the three day boat down river.

In the middle of the Amazon jungle, thousands of miles and days of river travel from any road connections, you can get Texas BBQ and ice-cold beer 24 hours a day (yeee haw!) Half a million people live here in Iquitos. There are few cars, but the streets buzz with the incessant moto-taxi traffic. Aggressive, under-employed tour guides tout jungle trips like pimps and attractive young ladies line the streets luridly waving packets of cell phone cards. Shamans have websites and visionary quests are optional activities of package tours. Monkeys perform in the plaza and caiman is grilled up on the street. This is the Iquitos hustle.

Ecuador´s Central Highlands: Chocolate, Cheese, and Sheepshit

2007-03-02T12:03:00.000-08:00

Leaving behind the bustling town of Riobamba, the bus wound up and above 10,000 feet, the view of the hulking Volcán Chimborazo swinging from the right to the left of the dusty bus. The dirt road twisted up and out of valleys, through hills both rugged and lush. Patchwork farms stitched onto the precipitously steep slopes. (It´s hard to believe the soil wouldnt just wash away, let alone people could actually tend thes plots.) Then higher into the clouds, the only views of shacks perched precariously on hilltops, colorful clothes flapping in the mist. Then down again, finally revealing the pueblo of Salinas.

Salinas is a beautiful mountain town, renowned for its salt mines and artesanal flavor. The gusty winds and rolling clouds give the town a magical quality. Amazingly, there are 22 micro-empresas (small businesses/factories), which make this one road town very unique and surprisingly progressive: a model for sustainable, post-agricultural development and stemming the exodus of young adults to cities that threatens many ecuadorian villages. Our first stop was the Quesaria - cheese factory. We wandered into the two-inch deep water and curdled milk bits covering the floor, the 4 workers barely acknowledging us. They were in the zone in their white and green uniforms and knee-high white rubber boots, focused on mixing curds and pouring them into round, cheese shaped strainers. The scene looked somewhat chaotic with the sloshing buckets of curds being stirred, dumped, drained, and pressed. Following the strong smell of raw cultures fermenting in the air, we went into the adjacent room which was full of shelves of hundreds of round cheeses. Then we went into the following room after room of different sized cheeses in varying stages of maturation. Our stomachs grumbled and it was time to hit the store where we sampled cheeses and bought our delectable Tlinit cheese and a large bottle of fresh yogurt.

Then onto the chocolateria (which was disappointingly much less interactive than the cheese factory) where we peered through the glass window to see the chocolate being created. Stocking up on this important commodity for our trip, we invested in some really good quality chocolate amargo : bitter chocolate. Then onward...

The dried mushroom factory gave off that woody, earthy, ancient smell, but wasn´t much to explore.

In the soccer ball factory there was one man working. He was surrounded by octagonal stencil shapes, red & black ink, rubber, and of course soccer balls hanging all over the ceiling. He handed Paul a ball to try out and bounce around, and we noticed the ¨Made in China¨ stamp on the side.

We then walked into the Hilanderia, not sure what we´d find by the name. Upon first entering the dark and wet factory we were overwhelmed by the strong gamey odor of wet beast. As our eyes adjusted we could see raw wool being cleaned in a huge vat of grey chunky water. It appeared to be an open wool washing machine being churned and scooped by the man behind it. We walked further into the chambers where there was wool hanging from the ceiling, stuck to the light bulbs and the chain link walls. Deeper, where there was drying wool spinning and pieces floating in the air. As we slowly walked further, the sheepy smell faded and we saw bundles of soft wool piled high on the ground. Then onto the weaving room. And finally we entered the clean, crisp, and colorful room of huge bundles of yarn. Vwallah! If only the sheep knew what their warm fur would become...

We passed by the sausage factory, which we declined to enter to the disappointment of the young girl whacking chunks of meat with a machete and the little ladies (with particles of meat parts all over their clothes). But we did later buy and fry up some of the tasty salchichas.

And then onto the fabrica de aceites escenciales (essential oil factory). The delicious woody smell captivating us as we entered into the distillation room. A young guy with a bright smile was manning the distillers and he explained the oil extraction process to us. Pine, eucalyptus, cypress, and mint are all collected locally and were being distilled that afternoon in giant distillers, which are also made locally. The oils were primary distillation and amazing quality. They also make salves, shampoos, massage oils, and herbal honey blends. We left there feeling high and happy.

Tuesday is market day in Salinas. The central square is filled with squat indigenous women in bright, layered skirts and shalls selling bananas, leeks, corn... the ubiquitous 3 on 3 volleyball game occupies the rest of the plaza while ont he periphery men wheel carts of knick-knacks for sale. Just behind this scene, a crowd was forming. Waiting for the bus to Simiatug, I bellied up to the circle with the rest. At 5´9¨ I could peer over the crowd, realizing this was a cock fight. Actually, it was the pre-fight ritual. Men and boys in dusty blazers over wholey sweaters gathered around the guys clutching their roosters under arm. Everyone voiced their opinion about the best match-ups while the cock-owners stroked their birds with oil, and smirking men sharpened implements which could be attached to the talons. After much discussion, 2 pollos colorados were brought to the scale. Excited cheers announced their matching weights: 3 pounds, 1 oz. Everyone quickly pushed up to the circle, their rubber boots toeing the wooden barrier. The two owners whispered words of prayer or attack to their cocks then held them up to eachother. Clucking and struggling and sufficiently wired on avian testosterone, they were carried into the ring. The crowd shouted bets which were fielded by a greasy, bloated man who tore off mouthfulls of pork skin from his handfull of the delicacy which is eaten raw and salted, short pig hairs still visible. Just as the action was about to commence, a horn sounded and the bus rounded the hill. I found Tamara and, with a regret laced with relief, boarded the weekly bus to Simiatúg.

Standing room only on the tortuosly twisted and rutted road to Simiatúg. The locals wrapped themselves in shawls and blankets, sealing the windows, while Tamara and I swooned in the stagnant, high-altitude air. Finally, descending into one of the many valleys the horrible road had followed, we glimpsed Simiatug sitting on a rare shelf of land. We found the only hostel in town, run by and warmly decorated by the women´s collective, then strolled the town. The locals were drawn to us with a mix of extreme friendliness and fascination. Little boys scurried behind us, giggling ecstatically. Teenage girls approached wide-eyed to touch tamara´s arm, smiling in passing. An old woman with an ancient face both calm and wrinkled in lifetoil took tamara´s hand, gazing up at her and making sure we knew where we were going. Entire giant pigs hung from hooks, thier hair singed off, leaving the skin an artificial yellow and accentuating the facial wrinkles. They hung all over town like surrealistic porcine mannequins.

In the morning, everyone prepared for the weekly market. Folks from 45 indigenous communities flooded into town. The school yard became donkey-parking. Trucks overflowed with families hanging on, riding on top of goats, sheep, llamas. Bigger trucks hauled in bulls and fine horses. On the network of footpaths descending from the hills, small red and blue dots made their way into Simiatug. The market spread throughout town. Fruits, vegetables, clothes, rubber boots, ropes, wire, a variety of things made from old tires, dried goods, prepared food, buckets of animal flesh and organs, shimmering, fragrant piles of fish (at 12000 feet!) and of course the animal market. Sheeps and goats lay passively in the dirt, their legs tied together. Massive, grotesque sows complained as their babies relentlessly suckled. A mule for 50$. An intelligent looking llama for 30. A beautiful horse for 300. A lame donkey for 20. Prospective customers poked and prodded the product, bartering over the price in poor spanish.

But the seasonal wind had picked up, so we boarded the bus to Ambato - the big city on the Pan-American Highway. We got seats, and I climbed to the roof to secure our bags, finding space among the potatos and 4 sheep. After a swirling journey, we arrived nauseously at the pavement and soon into town. The boy lowered the animals down by the ropes around their necks, and I retrieved our backpacks, only slightly shit-upon.

sow

Carnaval en Cuenca

2007-02-20T13:58:00.000-08:00

We arrived in Gualaceo from Cuenca redy for a lively sunday market scene. Right off the bus it was clear this small town is the center for Carnaval celebrations. The main street was lined with people awaiting the parade. At 10am, the crowd was festive and giddy. Kids ran around with squirt guns, teenagers with aerosol cans of foam, and men drank beer. Balcones and rooftops were filled to capacity. Street vendors sold snacks, beer, foam spray... Friendly store owners drank bottled beer thru gapped teeth. A mechanics workshop was converted into a festive BBQ scene (check the foto). Liter bottles of beer floated in cool water while 3 generations of little ladies tended the coals, rotating by hand the chickens and ´cuy´ : guinea pig. The cuy were impaled on a thick, tapered pipe and roasted with the choicest organs preserved.

By 11am, water was flying freely from squirt guns, bottles, buckets, hoses, passing cars, storefronts, and raining down from rooftops. Adolescent boys (and grown men, too) targeted strictly the young women, who took the splashing as the flirting it was. Surprising to me, they also reacted to the aerosol foam in the face with giggles and good-hearted complaints, wiping the rainbow soap from their eyes, ears, and hair. The parade hadnt yet started, but we needed a break and escaped to the market for food, passing a pet store on the way. Hanging in the window (was this some sick joke?), the sign read ¨se vende hamster¨ (hamster for sale.)

More cuy at the market and the first really fresh broccoli we had seen in a while. By the time we walked back to town, the parade was parading. Tractors pulled floats on which danced less-than-ecstatic girls in clinging clothes, trying to smile thru the foam inviading their orifices. I joined the onlookers on the sidewalk, glaring at any grinning punk with an aerosol canister. The parade passed and then the battle was taken to the next level. Even the police in riot gear took long-distance water balloons to the faceplate. Round women in the traditional garb giggled at the scene. Each dressed nearly identical: cheap black slip on shoes, bright pink / purple / red skirts and a buttoned up sweater. Of course, they all sported the typical bowlers hats, hair falling in braids to their backs. Some, for the occassion, covered their hats in plastic bags.

I limped towards the bus station (Tamara, not feeling well, had escaped earlier) feeling amazed that people could have so much fun doing something so stupid. Maybe I was just in a bad mood from twisting my ankle, but it seemed more like a junior high free for all than a collective celebration. Id fantasized about Carnaval as community coming together in joyous release. The only necessary ingredients being positivity, water, and alcohol. But the men wetting teenage girls seemed lecherous and wasted; the dancers in the parade hot, annoyed, and bored; and the gangs of boys accosting girls with handfulls of foam ground into the face and a smack on the ass seemed close to assault. The only joy seemed to come from making someone else uncomfortable.

The next 2 days in Cuenca continued the same. All the stores were closed, the streets empty but for drunks covered in foam and flour (the poor man´s weapon.) It felt like urban warfare; constantly looking over our shoulders and up at balconies to dodge the high-velocity ´bombas´. We walked across town to the only functioning street market. On a silent street, a woman walked with her 6 yr old son. As they approached she shared a smile with Tamara. When her boy aimed the aerosol foam, Tamara sweetly said no. But with mom´s encouragement and even help in aiming, he got T, leaving a blood-red stain across her back.

Arriving at the market, among the few veggies, chickens, and pork shanks, were 3 prostitutes dripping wet and extremely drunk. Angry at something, one woman stumbled out with a crate of eggs and went ballistic. Spitting, cursing, hurling eggs without aim. We ran for cover as the drunk hooker smashed eggs over the head of a co-worker, who just sat there, not even resisting; too wasted or too fat to be bothered. Then another overweight woman in a tight outfit came to the rescue. She and the egg-thrower struggled, wrestling and smashing eggs on each other full in the face. We left then, glancing over my shoulder at the blur of nappy, wet hair, egg yolk, and disturbingly liberated cleavage: a fitting image to sum up Carnaval in Cuenca.

gruesome

2007-02-10T12:30:00.000-08:00

Next to a rotisserie chicken joint, across a busy street from the diamond vision digital billboard, and next to a 5star hotel, I found the Church of San Francisco. Built from 1586 - 1628, it houses the first virgin mary in chile, the Virgen de Socorro (help). Brought by the Conquistador Pedro de Valdivia as protection against indian attack. But perhaps her true role was as protector against the three earthquakes the church has withstood, making it the oldest building in Santiago. A nondescript brick-red facade encloses the high, vaulted ceiling. Once inside, the smog and heavy heat recede into the silence of the chapel. Worshippers kneel, heads in hands, s they must have for centuries. On the walls people have scrawled prayers and pleas for protection and benediction on their families, their work, their houses and studies.

In the adjacent courtyard, I wandered thru the museum without much expectation. Ebtering the former convent, I was pleasingly shocked . In a manner that only colonial catholicism can muster, the halls were filled with gruesome depictions of the franciscan christian histories.

Adherents used to torture themselves in shared suffering with Jesus. The actual instruments of these self-imposed inflictions were presented in glass cases with titles like: ´shoulder whips,´ ´teaded scourge,´ and ´whips for the soles of the feet.´ Deeper into the dark, cool rooms were countless, spectacularly gruesome representations of Christ Crucified. I rounded a corner and upon the graphic scene of Christ on the cross, tortured. Beatific midget angels gaze smiling at their Lord. His body so fully flagellated that burgundy blood drips onto the women washing his feet and saturates his loincloth. But the angelitos still gaze admiringly at his suffering, exhausted face and collect his blood in goblets of gold.

The highlight of this impressively morose celebration of religious penance is definitely the 54 canvasses depicting the life of St. Francis of Assissi. Each about 11 by 7 feet, they once lined the walls of the church itself. They were given inspirational titles like: St. Francis Stoned by the Children of Assissi, These Shall Be Thy Weapons, St. Francis Chastises Disobedience, Temptation of the Flesh, St. Francis and the Leper, St. F receives the Stigmata, and St. Francis in Purgatory. Rosy-cheeked cherubs, usually pictured fluttering blissfully in the nude, here were in full armor wielding tiny swords and shields. A beheaded bishop, the raw stump of his neck staining the white satin bedsheets with dripping crimson as the still-squinting head sits on the floor. And finally, the Death of St. Francis portrays his grey emaciated body attended by a flock of monks. Their shaved heads bowed with a look of guilt, while a symphony of angels plays above. And of course St. F greeted at the pearly gates - his flowing hair, creamy complexion and rosy lips returned to their earthly brilliance once again.

torres del paine, parte uno

2007-01-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

Through the fogged windows of the bus we stared flatly out at the grey porridge morning. Feeling that deep inside mix of excitement and unease as we took the early transfer to the Torres del Paine National Park. Excited and equipped to hike 120km over 9 days and a bit worried that not a single distinct shape could be made out thru the heavy fog and condensed breath. Without even discussing it we knew we wanted to hike the full circuit around this far southern chilean mountain range. It would be the longest hike either of us had ever taken. 9 days of food would weigh us down. Weather, we had heard so many times, was extremely unstable. Torrents of rain, crippling winds, even snowstorms were possible at any time of the year. All this sat in my mind as we exited the bus into the misty morning. After slipping into our rain gear, we feasted on the last fresh food for 9 long days. True to the talk, as we finished the last hard boiled egg and avocado, the skies lightened and the drizzle slowed. We hit the trail with a kiss and an energized excitement. After a few detours we came out of a dusty ascent into a sun-specked field of daisies waving whimsically in the breeze, and settled in for a rest. Over the next 3 days the trail climbed and descended into lush valleys, traversing muddy flats and high rocky ridges. We drank straight from the rivers rushing out of the Torre mountains, which stood always to our left as we circumnavigated them. The weather was fine; rain, then sun, then rain and sun again...
At the end of the third day we stayed at our first official campsite and took cold outdoor showers to the bemusement of the staff and other hikers. The next day we would cross the pass.

El paso John Garner rises to only a bit over 6000 feet, but at this latitude that is significant. We woke early to a cold windy drizzling morning and ate a hearty breakfast, hitting the trail at 8:30. As quick as we rose above the tree line, the wind swooped in. We bent against the gusts, heads down, hoods cinched up tight. Struggling up scree slopes or hopping boulders, the wind incessantly blew in our faces - slowing us, frustrating us, chilling the cheeks, and irritating the eyes. Higher we climbed over loose, naked rock, raising our eyes with difficulty to spot the small orange marker stones and cairns. The unending wind whipped over the pass, a low saddle surrounded by sharp peaks. As we neared it, the temperature dropped and the intermittent gusts became so strong that Tamara actually fell over a few times. It was difficult, but not impossible, and i revelled in the raw power: THIS is Patagonia! i yelled into the maw of the mountain.
Heads down, concentrating only on placing on foot in front of the other, we crossed a small snowfield to reach the pass - marked unceremoniously by a pile of rocks. No wonder. Even to raise the eyes a moment meant a blast of high velocity frozen rain that seemed to scour any exposed skin.
Still headlong into the wind, we let gravity pull us downhill as the wind held us upright: descending weightlessly until small scrubs curbed the wind and we could look up.

The sight occurred to us more than it hit us. Eyes stinging from the pass, legs wobbly, we sat and gazed out over an extraterrestrial landscape. Glacier Grey filled the balley below us. With no way to judge its scale, it appeared like a mirage or a window into another world. The glacier indeed is its own world. Flat smooth plains of ice bisected by slowly flowing rivers of ice carving their way downwards towards the front face of the glacier at Lago Grey. Farther out, crevasses break the open fields of white ice. Further still, cracks appear and mountains of ice bulge upwards. Deeper into this frozen world, sharp spires of dense-blue ice pierce the surface, commanding one´s attention and imaginings. I sat and pictured myself exploring this world on foot - how sublime and still and strange it must be close up.

Tamara writes in her journal:
To our left was Lago Grey, stretching out in the distance, to our Right the icefield moving-on seemingly infinitely. We were at a vantage point, close enough to the icefield to make out the texture and colorful magnificence. The dark blue pools of water/ice between the stark white ridges. The sheer beauty brought me to tears. So magnificent, it was the greatest work of art I had ever seen. The ancient ice moving with a quality of unfathomable slowness brought shivers down my spine. I felt as if I were looking out on a new world, or more accurately an ancient one. Lifeless, stark, and utterly stunning. This was not a human world.

torres del paine, parte dos

2007-01-22T12:03:00.000-08:00

We camped that nite in the rain, falling asleep gratefully grounded after a shared meal with new friends.

By the fifth day, we felt really in the groove. It was so easy to fall into a brisk hiking pace and the thrill of the pass seemed to fuel us. We had accumulated a sort of collected momentum; an internal locomotion fueled by this kinetic energy. The wind was figuratively at our backs. We rolled up hills effortlessly and steep inlcines burned the legs without extinguishing this well of power; the fruitof the struggle over the pass.

The weather was glorious - warm, clear days that brought us in and out of deep river valleys as we circled the mountains which now stood to the east of us. But with the good weather, we also hit the `W`: a 3 to 4 day hike that most choose over the complete circuit. Its accessible by boat, so we passed tour groups in never-used North Face, leaving them in our gloriously stinky wake.

We celebrated Tamara´s 28th birthday with a HOT shower (surreptitiously enjoyed at one of the fancy lodges.) Then, later, a tasty meal topped off with the surprise I´d been carrying for 6 days: a no bake birthday cake. Just dip your biscuits briefly in water to build a base, layer with dulce de leche, top with apricot jelly and coconut, and garnish with local wildflowers and a match in place of a candle. ¡Feliz Cumpleaños Tamara!

After three days of sun, we escaped just as a burly storm came whipping in. Good timing, right? Well, with all the sun the glaciers melted and then a nite of heavy rain (during which we barely slept, as the tent whipped and cracked and pulled out stakes), we woke to swollen streams and chilly crossings. Hiked the whole day in the chaco sandals and were feeling good til we got to the river. Normally an easy crossing with the wire strung across for a little guidance, today it was insane. We crested the hill to the sight of it, and it took even me a few minutes to convince myself it could actually be done. i mean, we werent going to walk BACK over 100 kilometers and a KaRazy pass just 10k from our destination. So, what did we do? We took off our clothes. Yup, stripped to the waist, transferred the sleeping bags into the top of the pack, hitched the pack up around the nipples, and stepped into the freezing rushing waters muddy with run off and glacial dust. It really was sketchy, a fall and we would be tumbling down stream with a heavy pack. Even if we could hold onto the wire, with our feet swept out, there´d be no way to hold on.
I stepped in, immediately feeling that sharp pain of frigid water, before the numb comes. Carefully placing my steps, trying to breathe and stay calm as the cold and the danger sucked out the breath. In the middle, the water was pounding insistently, waist-deep. But i took my time, made it to the higher rocks mid stream, and watched tamara move thru a moment of fear, revealed in her face, to join me. The second branch of the stream was relatively easier, and we flopped on the ground, shivering on the other side (but not before i snapped a pic of tamara nearly across.) great last day of a long hike!

it was amazing: in turn beautiful, quiet, sublime, raw, cold, windy, meditational, intense, exhausting, invigorating, super challenging, scary, even dangerous, and finally so rewarding.

Carretera Austral

2007-01-08T21:52:00.000-08:00

everytime we leave argentina, we are pummeled by rain. A month and a half ago from uruguay, we were shaken from sleep at 5am and ushered off the bus into darkness and a torrent of heavy, driving rain; left at the side of the road, our only shelter the soon-arriving, over-priced taxi.this time, we were delivered to the frontier in the back of a pick up truckk, 10km past the destination of the amiable family in the cab. We walked in full rain gear, crossing the kilometer that is neither argentina nor chile, in a swirling mist. Since then, the rain hasnt ceased.We spent a few days on the unheated floor of some rafting guides, then headed south on the carretera austral: a would-be road connecting distant settlements in remote southern chile. for now, its a 2000km long mud pit. The road snakes thru glorious mtn scenery, lush forests, steep peaks, glaciers, and fjords. Or, at least weve been told.We did see the thick, dripping forests of verdant green. but raising our eyes, the trees faded into ghostly mists and sheets of rain. We decided to brave the elements at Queulat national park. We were told it always rains here, so why not camp now? We set up camp at 8am under a slanted tin roof for tents (a godsend!) and over the next two days it rained 97% of the time. But that first morning ws beautiful. The rain slowed, the mist lifted, and we set off on the muddy trail to the viewpoint.The trek thru dripping forests and ankle deep mud was rewarded two hours later. We emerged at a cliffside clearing to views across a steep valley to the ventisquero colgante: a massive hanging glacier glistening turquoise blue against the overcast sky. Me and T sat damply on a log, mesmerized by the spires of ice, shining blue as if illuminated from within. After a time, we were shaken by the awesome sight of a piece of the glacier cracking and toppling hundreds of feet to the rock face, shattering, and reigning down a thousand feet to the glacier-green lake below.With that, we headed down, arriving thoroughly wet (our waterproof jackets revealed their inadequacy after a few hrs in the rain.) We peeled of our heavy clothes, stepped out of soggy shoes, and climbed into the tent, not emerging for 17 hrs, sleeping through the shortest night of the year; bringing the summer solsitice in the southern hemisphere.

worldbridger

2007-01-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

¨Every time you two go to the mountains, the sun comes out,¨ Alicia, the senora said to Tamara as they hung laundry together. Weve been here at their house cum hostel (with no sign - to fly under the tax radar?) for 10 days as groups of boisterous israelis come and go. And now were buddies: she asks us to watch the house and answer the phone when she leaves and greats us by name when we come back from camping.

And she´s right: we´ve bee in no rush to quickly hike all the trails here and move on. We spend a few days in town - eating curried squash soup and drinking beer - while it rains and blows, then we decide to go for a hike and the weather turns. For a couple days, the sun shines and the grey lifts. Then we come back to our warm house - and so does the late afternoon gale-force winds and invisibly small raindrops.

We spent new years eve in bed after a hot shower and brought in 2007 with a kiss. The one ´rock´party in this dirt-road town was advertised to start at 1am, but by then we were falling asleep.

We woke early and, after tea and a few facturas (pastries) from the local bakery, we were on the trail. The slight disappointment at last nite´s lack of excitement disapated on the trail, despite the heavy grey skies. We lunched on sandwiches of hard boiled eggs, tomato, cheese, carrots, and crunchy bread as the winds swirled around us on the viewpoint which presented only hazy vistas.

By the time we arrived at poincenot camp, just 3 and a half hours later after a leisurely stroll, the famed FitzRoy Mtn had come into view. Fitz roy is often visible when Torre is obscured. We walked past the crowded camping area, and set up our ten with a spectacular view of the mtn. Of course, it was a bit windier down there but I built up a windscreen of fallen logs and we went for a late afternoon walk. it was cold and gusty up the valley and the trail petered out as we followed the rocky stream bed. We had to climb hand over hand up and over a hill to regain the trail. When the superwindy and frigid boulder field stopped tamara, I continued on to laguna sucia ¨the dirty lagoon.¨ Just as i arrived, a huge chunk of glaciated ice crashed down into the murky waters. The scene was spectacularly dismal; amazing, but too raw to stay long.

We came back to the tent and cooked dinner inside the tent to escape the wind. So much for Alicia´s analysis. By dusk, we were asleep.

I awoke with an excitement and unzipped the tent to reveal Fitz Roy clear and crisp in the dawn. When the sun´s rays first hit its peak, i layered on all my clothes and ventured out. Tamara lay curled up in her sleeping bag, watching the massive mountain glow from the warmth of bed.

Still riding the thrill of the clear morning, i hiked a steep rocky trail directly up and over a high saddle. Cresting the barren hill huffing heavily, I was greeted by the stunning sight of Fitz roy close up, looming overhead. Below, the lagun de los tres shone opal-turquiose while behind me the valley fell into the flat patagonian steppes and the sprawling, low-lying, glacial-fed lake viedma.

I scrambled down to and around the lakes shore. Crossing the swift outlet stream, i peered down dizzily into the abyss into which it fell 800 ft to laguna sucia. Over and up the loose rock on the other side i climbed, glancing down the cliff to my left until a condor soared into the crater holding the laguna and right up to the cliff, landing in its nest just 60 ft above me. I noticed it didnt have any of the white feathers on its inner wings, and figured it must be an adolescent. I climbed higher, sloping towards the nest until i decided it was too steep to climb on and risk the fall to laguna sucia, nearly 1000 feet below. As i sat studying the young bird, a full-grown condor glided silently up from the lagoon on wings spanning at least 7 feet. It turned its head, spotting me, and with a slight tilt to its massive wings swooped down upon me. I stared at it, transfixed, as it got closer and closer. I could see the white fringe around its neck, its stout beak, even its flat eye. Amazing! Until I realized maybe that was her baby and i was too close. I imagined her knocking me off balance with a blow from powerful wings, sending me tumbling gruesomely to my frigid death. I had heard that condors, primarily scavengers, were known to abduct baby sheep in their huge talons. I crouched down, fortifying my position, while holding eye contact with her liquid eye. I tried to soften myself, to seem less threating, to somehow appeal to her innate ability to differentiate a predator from a curious, harmless human. She glided even closer, perhaps 10 to 15 ft of cold air between us, and i actually readied myself for the tumbling, bruising, incapacitating, and ultimately fatal fall. Just before her wings swept me off the steep face, she lowered her head, nodding to me in acceptance. Then, without sound, banked to here right, and into the valley of laguna de los tres. Breathless and thrilled, I carefully made my way down to the trail and walked back to the tent, meditating to the rhythm of my footsteps on the condor´s role as worldbridger: taking sustenance and life from what is dead, diseased, and decayed.

divine!

2007-01-08T12:04:00.000-08:00

El Chalten is a still-small town on the edge of Glaciares National Park, at the base of the world famous FitzRoy range. A controversial and gruesome climbing history, extremely challenging technical routes, and ease of access to the base camps makes it a very popular place.

We headed up into the hills... hikes here are not like in the Cascades. There is no sloping green foothills dotted with lakes. From town, (only 600 ft. above sea level) we followed a river gracefully snaking up for only 3 hrs before reaching the campsite (at 1800ft) at the base of a glacier. The overcast skies dropped only a light rain and the peaks surrounding the glacier-green lake were still thick with snow: spactacular but not unlike glacial lakes in the NW. We set up camp, drinking straight from the milky glacial waters rushing furiously by our site. We stayed warm in the afternoon snow flurries by strolling the rim of the moraine holding back the lake at the base of the glacier and gazing at the small icebergs blown across by the strong winds.
After an encounter with a childhood neighbor of Tamara, we went to sleep at 10pm in the dusk light.

I awoke early , ready for the clear morning, but even tho sun shined onto our tent from down-valley, heavy snow flakes hit my upturned face as i leaned out of the tent. We went for a walk, cooked oatmeal inside the tent (to shield the pitifully weak argentine stove from wind) and got ready to leave.

The climbers were more active than the day before and the primarily american dudes chatted about the rising pressure while grasping the barometer. We headed down and stopped halfway to bask in the emerging sun. Sitting on our packs, we looked at each other. You know, it seems like the weather is moving. We could see more and more of the fowing glacier. 15 mins later, a serrated ridge revealed itself. The 8000 ft. range was engulfed and partially liberated by furious winds. One, two peaks were visible. After and hour and 2 cheese sandwiches with radishes, we actually began to believe: the clouds were lifting from Cerro Torre and her 2 sister spires. This was the prize the climbers had been waiting for! (¨In two months, weve seen the top only one time,¨ they had confided in subdued tones.) Clouds rolled over the ridge, but were swept away even quicker by the powerful winds. Just watching the weather change was moving experience. The dynamism of nature: ¨complet calm is death; our beauty lies in movement,¨said Pascal.

On our windy hill, we sat for hours watching the range thru the frame of steep peaks running the length of the valley. Then, piercing the clouds, we saw the 10,000 foot peak of the Torre spire - improbably high; impossibly connected to its base so far below.
We stayed an hour longer and our patience was rewarded. The sharp ridge was clear and bright and lower peaks on either side of Torre broke through. Then, as the wind swirled and moved the weather still clinging to the spire, the Cerro Torre was revealed in its entirety! It was stunning, stupefying. Surreal like a movie backdrop; nearly unbelievable. From the blue glacier, the rock spire rises directly heavenwards undeterred by gravity or glaciation. Mesmerizing in its majesty, like a god-hand sculpture or, rather, a divine muse!

smile at the rain

2007-01-08T11:19:00.000-08:00

¨The worst weather in years!¨
¨It never rains this much here!¨
¨¡que feo el tiempo!¨

We´ve heard it everywhere weve been in patagonia. In literally every town from soggy pueblos on the carretera austral to wind-whipped villages in southern argentina, locals are amazed at the extremity of weather this year.

But its been a good practice in acceptance; we have no control over the weather conditions, so just tighten the hood and smile at the rain...

From the hanging glacier outside Puyuguapi, we waited in the rain (of course) for the passing collectivo. We had already bought tix and the owner assured us it would pass between 2 and 4pm. I heard a rumbling and emerged from the relative shelter of the trees, only to be passed by the van in a splash of mud. But apparently the sight of a dripping, bearded man waiving arms wildly convinced the driver that some emergency had occurred. I caught up with him, smiling, grasping my soggy tickets. He shook his head, said the van was full, told me the owner must have lied to us, and seemed poised to leave us wet and hungry on the muddy route. I resorted to anger, and in impressively rapid and impassioned battle-spanish, i managed to convince him to let us squeeze in. We gratefully accepted the stuffy, 6-hr journey sitting on our packs as we bounced over muddy, rutted roads.

From our destination, the big town of Coyhaique, we took a cargo boat across the giant, low-lying glacial-fed lake (called lago carrera in chile and lago buenos aires in arg) and ended up walking 17km with our packs across the border into argentina. We arrived in tshirts and gratefully sweaty. Los Antiguos lies in a warm, dry microclimate. We spent Christmas there, camped on the sandy shore of the lake (to escape the throngs in the campsite blaring music from car stereos, and drinking calimocho (red wine mixed with coke) while staring for 10 hours at the full sheep - skinned, splayed open, and crucified over a constantly tended bed of coals.) We did wake to an explosion of light overhead: the argentine joy of xmas fireworks - feliz navidad!

mi cumple

2006-12-06T12:30:00.000-08:00

my birthday begins in the tent with my love, waking to the murmur of waves at puerto piramides: a spectacularly magical bay on an arid peninsula jutting out into the south atlantic. Peninsula Valdez is home to sea lions, seals, dolphins, penguins, elephant seals, right whales, and orcas! and right now all but the dolphins are here.

We stroll the beach, hand in hand in the cool breeze, as the strong sun and movement stokes the appetite. After a light breakfast with our neighbors and buddies, rod and jimmy, we lounge in the warm sand like sea lions, content to smell the sea air and lay back, lifting our heads to see whales frolicking in the bay.

We decide, despite the dark horizon, to go on one of the whale watching tours which attracts so many day-trippers in rental cars. The femail right whales (called the "right whales to hunt" because of their massive size - up to 60 feet long and weighing 100 tons!, slow speed, high fat content, and because they float when killed) spend four months here to give birth to and raise their calves in the relatively warm and calm waters.
We boarded the boat just as the sun disappeared and the wind picked up. It was a nearly silent, contemplative ride, bouncing out of this bay and into the next (as the season passes and especially at low tides, most whales are farther out.) I began to have doubts. the weather and lack of whales worried me: did we choose the wrong day to go, the wrong boat? After a week at this beach watching the whales breach from the beach, did we have the misfortune of getting on a poor tour?

20 minutes of calm was punctuated by a sighting of spray and before we knew it, we were literally surrounded by whales! On three sides of the boat we saw them rolling onto their backs, exposing white patterns on dark bodies, and languidly waving side flippers at us. Mothers and their babies rubbed against each other in expressive love. A mother surfaced just 10 feet from our side of the boat, and after spraying us with a massive exhalation of salty whale mucus from her twin blowholes, emitted a sound that was both gutteral and graceful; a deeply resonating groan-song from somewhere deep within her massive body. I could feel it thru my feet on the boat deck. Tamara was moved to tears, and I was sure that she was singing me happy birthday!

We were pulled out of this celebration by a collective gasp of amazement. Looking up to catch a baby whale crashing back into the water after an awkward breach, we realized that there were at least eight more whales near us. They smacked the water with tails and fins and we were treated to the classic view of whales´ tales silhouetted against the horizon. One even held its tail upright for a full 30 seconds. Then began a symphony, a riot, an orgy of whale acrobatics! Diving deep and crashing thru the surface into mid-air, one, two, three young whales launched their 10,000 pounds of sleek blubber nearly completely free of the water!

***even now, writing in my journal sitting in this cave at the edge of low tide, i look up to see a whale on its back, flippers in the air, like some gigantic otter waving at me from 40 feet away!**

And it continued. At one point, baby whales (15 to 20 feet long) were breaching all around us, 50 feet away, at the same time. We literally could not even watch them all at once. It was awesome and intoxicating. Free of the camera, we were able to fully be part of their adolescent joy. For a good 10 to 15 minutes this spectacle continued to astound and giddify us. We were soon able to tell when they would breach by the curve of their back and angle of tail as they submerged. Then, as a crowning crescendo, one of the massive (easily 150,000 lbs) mothers lauched herself fully into the air coming directly at the boat! The boat rocked and with that the youngsters settled down, returned to lolling on their backs with mom and we tried to catch our breath.

But it was far from over. A few minutes later, a momma and her baby approached the boat. Rolling onto their sides to get a better look at us, we could see their patterning even thru the cloud-darkened rough waters. Momma came straight to us, poking her head out of the water like a playful dog. So close! really just 2 feet from the boat! I wanted to pet her, and tamara was once again flushed and in tears after holding eye contact with our new friend.

Returning to land, we took our bliss into a restaraunt for a treat of fries and beer for the boys and a hot chocolate (submarino) for tamara. Quite a treat - our first time indoors the whole week.
Soon it was time to make the decision: would dark skies and talk of rain deter my birthday BBQ? Rod, being of rough and tumble australian stock, balked at any talk of abondoning our plans. 20 minutes later, carrying boxes of beer, wine, veggies, steak, sausages, and snacks, thunder rumbled over the desert. Too late to turn back, we chose the most sheltered of the campgrounds´ BBQ pits and opened our drinks.

Luckily, the fire was burning good and hot when the first rain drops blew in. Lucky also we´d had a few drinks. Even I, so easily sunk into cynical abondonment of fantastical plans, grinned at the rain - invigorated, revelling in mother nature´s celebration of my birthday!

Soon a crew of of folks from argentina to ireland joined us as we worked the fire. Chorizos were followed by steak and wine drunk out of a collective pot. But before the egglplant with garlic was done, a raw rain forced us to shelter in the trees, passing around the pot of wine. Impressively, tamara´s campfire chocolate cake came out rich and we ate it, still steaming, in the rain. After a trip to the local restaraunt/bar (which we were far too animated for - straight from the campground, hair matted, eyes wild...) I stumbled home to the tent with my love...

*yes, the camera was stolen. a tricky pair preyed on tamara while i was checking on the tickets at the buenos aires bus station. bastardos! but we´re still smiling (a mal tiempo, buena cara...). many thanks to jimmy for the foto and hopefully more to come.

wild

2006-11-11T16:11:00.000-08:00

Cabo Polonio is wild: atlantic waves crash over rocks and sea lions lounging at the base of a defiant lighthouse. The wrecked remains of 16th century ships lie just below the waters surface. The sun and wind are both strong, but since it is a cape, one of the beaches was always sheltered. From the point, we could walk three hours in either direction down beaches empty but for the shockingly numerous dead sea creatures. (We saw, on one afternoon's stroll, 6 sea lions in varying states of decomposition, 2 penguins, a bunch of birds, dozens of fish, and even a sea tortoise - taking its final breath as we sat with it.)

We spent a week sharing a sweet pink house with good people - paying cheaper rent in exchange for some work, which basically meant we cooked a meal a day for matias and laura, who themselves had just got back from 3 months traveling in Argentina (and surely enjoyed the fresh sprout salads, spanish rice, fresh eggs ala polonio, and the soaked flax seed dessert.)

The Uruguayan town itself is picturesque: sand dunes surrounding a green wetlands of tilting hand-built houses centered around the towering lighthouse. Animals and people run free in Polonio; especially now. Just emerging from a long cold isolated winter, there are none of the

hipster summer crowds who come in from montevideo and buenos aires. Artesans with dready children and solo recluses emerge into the sunny days to gather at el templao - the frontier-style general store, where you can buy anything: wine out of a giant cask, aging meats on hooks, home-made egg liquor, batteries, bread...

Since no cars are allowed in town, the streets are paths of sand through the tough grass and amiable dogs are pedestrians. Cabo polonio was beautiful, but ultimately exhausting and strange: a place where the horses are like dogs, running free and frolicking in packs; the dogs are like little boys, grinning and joining you for a beach walk; and the boys are like little men, gathered on the beach in earnest conversations.

One our way back to Buenos Aires, we spent a few days in Colonia, just across the Rio de la Plata from Argentina. It's a beautiful little town, cobbled streets and colonial architecture. Here's Tamara on the waterfront perfecting her hand stands.

iguazu!

2006-11-11T13:09:00.000-08:00

huge.
iguazu was utterly overimpressive. nearly impossible to take in the reality of its scope. the power of the wind and the volume and the sheer weight of the water as it plummetted 1000 ft was awesome and intimidating. but that was just the beginning. we walked the park for 8 hours and visited a range of other waterfalls. in reality, the whole park was one big waterfall. we ate, did yoga, took pictures, swam, meditated, and just sat with our mouths open allday.
one last detail: befitting the name, a tourist reportedly removed her shoes and lept to her death into the garganta del diablo... on the same day we were there.

anacondas, caimans, and giant aquatic rodents, oh my!

2006-11-10T08:48:00.000-08:00

3 sentences in the guide book mentioning giant aquatic rodents conceived the decision to leave where we had just arrived, and embark on what became a 16-hour adventure. We left rosario, with light hearts and the joy that lies in diving into the unknown, and boarded the overnite bus. Arriving in the small, hot town of mercedes, we navigated past the over-aggressive woman at the hostel, deftly milking her for info without committing to any packaged tours. We boarded a dented mini bus for the nature reserve about which we still knew nearly nothing beyond those strangely seductive aquatic rodents. as we bounced down the rutted road, inhaling 3 hours of dust, gazing out at open fields of cattle, horses, sheep, and the occasionaly emu, we had too much time to ask ourselves, ¨what the hell are we doing here?¨ Then, like an oasis, appeared the shimmering waters of the esteros de ibera. (ibera means, in the indigenous guarani language, ¨brilliant waters.¨) We resisted the urge to dive in, respecting the threat of digit-nibbling piranas, and 8 ft. long caimans, not to mention the infamous anaconda. We slid a kayak into the late afternoon waters, just as it snorted by the bank: the carpincho (capybara.) Now, anything described as a giant aquatic rodent would impress me, but this beast was mesmerizing: like a hamster crossed with a rat, a beaver, and a huge, grumpy dog, measuring nearly 5 feet long and low to the ground. We didn´t know whether to be afraid of its claws or roll around and cuddle with it. We spent 3 days there, exploring the lagoon on foot, in the kayak, and by motor boat. We fought mosquitos to see howler monkeys sprawled in trees, an incredible array of birdlife, caimans close enough to grab, and spent the hot afternoon hours chillin in the shade with the carpincho who had claimed our campsite as his territory. In the middle of the lagoon, the nerve center of life in ibera, most of the aquatic rodents lived on floating beds of plants - aggressively defending their territory. one nite, after a bottle of wine and a feast of garden-fresh produce, we returned to the previously empty campsite. Approaching the tent, we saw a man lurking in its shadows. We attacked! Hurling our quite limited array of spanish threats at what turned out to be a sweet man setting up his own tent! Dario had ridden his heavy argentine bike for 2 days to get here, and we quickly moved past apologies to recognize the mutual connection. Later that nite, we accepted cheek kisses and the invitation to stay with his ex wife and son in the town of posadas. 3 more hours on a red-mud, rutted road, and we rang the doorbell of Ana. Our reservations quickly melted away with kisses of welcome and her manic, joyful energy. To us, she opened her heart and house - a sub-tropical palace of breezes, giant palms, and... a yoga studio where she taught! We shared hours of laughs and full-faced smiles with Ana and her son Ignacio. And Dario actually made it back on our last nite, when we all shared a feast of beef (of course), salad, cakes, and lots of wine...

las fotos!

2006-10-20T17:36:00.000-07:00

...and we´re off!

1. the masses at casa rosada

2. evita´s grave - recoleta cemetary

3. tamara blessed in recoleta

4. recoleta reflection

5. ¨may your travels take you far¨

6. us in la boca

7. stencil in san telmo

8. our street in san telmo

sorry for the fotos not accompanying the text and being out of order - we´re still learning...

love.

paul and tamara

timeless

2006-10-20T15:24:00.000-07:00

Beautiful smiling faces. The porteños are not afraid of eye contact, or of checking each other out from head to foot and then back again, not from a place of judgement, but from the angle of appreciation. Nor are they afraid to share what they know about barrios/neighborhoods, or to give a full schedule of buses off the top of their heads. These are porteños. The beautiful smiling faces of Buenos Aires. The people here are full of laughs and generous offerings of their hearts. What makes the portenos such joyful people? They know how to live large -- with mate´, helados, carne, vino, tango, walking and lots of afternoons in the park.

Ashtanga -- Yes, I found a small neighborhood ashtanga center and tried my first Argentinian mysore class. The practicioners were serious, and my lighthearted/smiling yoga practice was noticed and (it seemed to be) appreciated. The class was on the roof top in a small white tent, with 10 people packed in and pouring sweat. I loved it. Pablo, the teacher, was perplexed by my creative sanscrit-spanish explanations of my poses, but it was beautiful nonetheless.

Contact Improv -- Within 5 blocks of our hotel, we discovered the Espacio Eclectico which holds Contact jams once a week. The timing was perfect and I showed up for the "early jam" from 10pm-midnight. It was a wonderful reassurance that a jam is a jam is a jam, where ever you go a jam is home. The space was filled with great dancers, with the ambiant music of a small violin being plucked. I was home again and within minutes I was rolling around on the shoulders of my dance partner, then inverted and being spun in circles. During those moments of the world spinning underneath me, I left Buenos Aires and was transported to a home that has no name, a place that´s timeless. I was everywhere at once.

bienvenidos a san telmo!

2006-10-19T15:16:00.000-07:00

hi everyone!

things are going great here. the city is starting to feel a little big and loud and dirty, but our neighborhood, san telmo, is quieter and much less fancy than almost everywhere else a foreigner would stay. we often start our day waking at 9, doing some yoga and stretching on the aging and splitting hardwood floors in front of our third story room, which is huge: 25 ft ceiling, balcony over a busy street, double doors to the balcony with the option of swinging open one layer to let in light through windows. we descend the circular stairs of marbled stone past cracked stained glass missing panes and views over the rooftops and apartment buildings in the distance. through the lobby and a ´buen dia´ to the ancient man smoking cigarettes through missing teeth who mans the desk surprisingly attentively. out onto the street and into the neigborhood full of character and characters. we sit at a lovely little french cafe, trying to read the paper and watching the world go by through full length windows. we´ll have a veggie empanada or more likely our favorite - tarta de brocoli - a delicate egg quiche in flaky crust rich with broccoli. tamara sips a little ´cortadito´ - espresso and milk in a tiny cup, served with cookies and a glass of soda water on the side. and then were off into the world...

san telmo - our neighborhood - is famous for tango ('sad thoughts that can be danced') and the site of the first spanish colonial encampment. it is a working class, rundown barrio on the verge of reborn hipness. crumbling colonial facades laced with succulent creeper vines rise above chic boutiques and overpriced antique stores. at the heart of san telmo is plaza dorrego. a pair of heavily made-up tango dancers freeze for fotos: a taught, fish-netted thigh thrown high, eyebrow raised, heads tilted , eyes locked desperately. bright-eyed artesans sip mate while selling hand-made jewelry of hemp and bone and fine metalwork. it´s a creative, artsy barrio - home to la universidad del cine. dark men with long hair and intense eyes holding guitars stride briskly down the street. young people with any conceivable facial piercing smoke cigarettes and sip espressos and liters of beer on cafe patios at noon. men sing out in drunken abandon at 3 am from below our balcony. there are very few of the high fashionistas who populate the upscale neighborhoods in the northern part of Buenos Aires.

as we walk north, we see less of the graffitti which dominates the streets of san telmo. some are simply political protests spray painted in an angry hand, sometimes ranting on for half a block. but most graffitti are amazing hand-made stencils. nearly all are political, although some blatantly commercial images can be seen - sometimes crossed out. the stencil work is truly impressive: they are simple and powerful, while containing sublime details. this particularly moving image speaks of ´la guerra sucia´, the dirty war, of the late 1970s and early 80s in which tens of thousands of people ´disappeared´- often while walking down the street of sleeping at home. in 1976, general iberico saint-jean announced "first we'll kill all the subversives. Then we'll kill the collaborators. Then the sympathizers. Then the undecided. And finally, well kill the indifferent."

the political and continuing economic struggles of argentines seem to have brougth at least the artistic community together. the stencil work reflects this too. in many ways it seems like a public forum; often whole walls are filled with pieces playing off and responding to each other.

THE MASSES

we stroll ten blocks north, to the plaze de mayo - political and symbolic center of the city. it is here where soccer victories are celebrated and many, many protests are held. most famous of these are the mothers of the plaze de mayo, who have been gathering here every thursday since 1977 demanding accountability for their family members disappeared in the dirty war (many of whom are still unaccounted for.) it is also in this plaza that the beloved and revered evita addressed the masses. from the collonaded balcony of the glowing casa rosada (pink house) she spoke as wife of president juan peron (and held more political clout with the people) and a former radio soap opera star. but the masses gathered below understood she was also one of them, having grown up in poverty. and this gave her words that much more currency and an almost magical power to invoke hope.

EVITA

"with evita dead, president peron is a knife without a cutting edge." she died of uterine cancer at age 33, struck down at the height of her power. evita now holds near mythical status in the argentine psyche. so we went to visit her. recoleta cemetary is in itself a city of elegant, elaborate graves; a museum of marble mausoleums. it is located in the ritzy neighborhood of shiny malls and shinier shoes. and it is here that the elite aspire to be buried. indeed, as the saying goes, ´it is cheaper to live a long life of luxury than to be buried in recoleta.´actually, evita was initially barred from passing through these ornate gates. her embalmed body, such a powerful symbol, was hidden in a box labeled 'radio equipment' and sent away. no one knows to where. but more than twenty years later, she was smuggled into recoleta - and finally put to rest in the place that so symbolizes the inequalities she fought against.we wandered the labyrinthine passages, gazing up at towering tombs topped with graceful angels, fingers arching delicately heavenward. through this maze of avenues and alleys, a black cat darted by, like an apparition. we followed her, catching glimpses of a twitching tail rounding a corner, until we found evita´s grave: shiny black of heavy stone, adorned in flowers and fotos and inlaid with plaques praising her near sainthood.

YUMMMMmmm

time for a late lunch. we sit down at a local parilla (grill,) the one that is crowded with conversation, smells, and smoke from the grill. there seems to be the equivalent of 3 to 4 cows on the grill and as we the house wine we cant help but giggle at the spectacle. leaning over a pit of coals, like a teepee of flesh, are the entire, in tact rib cages of several beasts. nearby, on the grill the remaining parts of those cows are laid out along the 12 feet of smoldering coals. sausages, both blood-filled and not, flank steak, rump roasts, sirloin, tenderloin, organs, intestines, and countless other cuts which probably don´t even have names in english are all nestled into their proper place by the attentive grillmaster. we order the ´vacio´- a thick, juicy cut of meat from behind the ribs, which probably weighs in at over 4 pounds! along with a large salad, a basket of bread, and our slab of meat, a bottle of red wine with a bottle of soda water on the side rounds out our feast.we´re stuffed and happy. reclining in this carnivorous stupor, i look over again and cant help but be amazed: 2 men enjoying 2 bottles of red wine over a 2 hour lunch at 2pm. they entered the restaraunt, walking slowly, and sat themselves down, exhaling. immediately a bottle was brought out with two heavy glasses, a small bucket of ice, and a siphon of soda water. while one started speaking intently on a subject of momentary importance, the other pours a good 12 ounces of the deep red wine into the glasses. soon the first man gulps deeply from his glass, the sweet wine soaking his thick mustache. the other man, scratching his scruffy beard takes the chance to launch into a monologue punctuated with fiery eyes and emphatic gesticulations. the mustachioed man drops a few ice cubes into the cups and a quick burst of soda water brings them to full. during the course of the afternoon, the men speak passionately and intently to each other. they order empanadas de carne and ravioli in red sauce with chunks of moist meat. then two more hunks of red meat come out, along with another bottle of wine, carried by a paper-thin woman with a scratchy, incomprehensible voice. they are constantly engaged: with each other in animated conversation and with the food and drink in large, whole-hearted gulps and mouthfulls.just do it. just stand up. we´re so lazy after the meal that only the temptation of an ice cream will get tamara up. all that is left to decide is the flavor... there´s dark chocolate, almond, melon, raspberry. and of course there´s dulce de leche and if that´s not enough, try the super dulce de leche. or maybe she´ll go for the apple tart, or kiwi and pineapple. maybe something creamy: russian cream, american cream, banana cream. of course, i encourage her to try the mate or even the whiskey. how about beer flavor?

our love

2006-08-20T13:17:00.000-07:00