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A lesson learned

I could say that the closest I've ever been to miserable was my short stint in Lima, Peru. Not until recently could I figure out what was wrong; Sure, I was broke, but making my way in an unknown city was just another challenge. I was working as a teacher, which is both a fulfilling and humbling experience. The simple act of traveling to and from work was an adventure: Riding decrepit combi buses filled beyond capacity, negotiating the fare with ornery ticket men, and seeing the neighborhoods of one of South America's most expansive cities. I was living in a hostel, surrounded by travelers who told stories over beers and had few cares in the world but to make the next bus. I had found people who shared my situation, and we lamented our lives while converting temporarily to alcoholics and drug addicts. Why in the world were we so sad?

Several times in my young adult life I have been approached with this question, but coming from a very distinct person than myself.
"I am only 33 years old and I am very successful," the man on the bar stool next to me said. He offered me another drink and looked out to DC's frozen night air. "I've done what I was told to do. I completed the equation. A, B then C. I've been to college, went to grad school, and now I have walked my way up a corporate ladder nearly to the top. I've got money, I've got stability, I've got everything I was told I would want. Tell me then," he said, choking back tears, "why aren't I happy?"

A couple more people, all strangers, have confided this to me. Just recently, a close personal friend had a similar breakdown. "Tell me Jenny," she said amongst sobs, "why do you do it? Why do you travel? Do you just feel unsatisfied?" She went on to explain her discontented state of being in the same job, the same city, the same life for most of her 20s. "I envy your freedom," she said.

After thoughtfully absorbing the story, I tell each person the same thing: take the money you've saved up, leave the dog/kids/condo and take off for warmer waters. So to speak. Surely there are several ways to find the peace of mind these people seek: Meditation, volunteerism, extreme sports, religion; Travel is my personal solution, because that's what I've always done and I've always found myself to be content.

Until Lima, that is. I thought about the life my friend had made for herself in San Francisco; She had a cozy apartment and a fantastic family and a great group of friends. Not until after our encounter had it occurred to me what had been missing all the time I was abroad. It wasn't that I was alone, because I wasn't. It wasn't that the city of Lima was an overcasted, polluted and noisy mess. It wasn't that I was broke, or that I was forced to watch my traveling peers move on to new places at their own leisure. It's that I hadn't doubled over in laughter; I hadn't danced wildly; I rarely met someone for lunch to share news and light gossip; I hadn't sung my favorite song at the top of my lungs. My spirit was starved dry of authenticity and genuniness of self.

My friend should travel for a while, and when she does she will realize that what she was looking for was right in front of her all along. For that, I envy her.

mi vida Limeño

We found ourselves equally suprised at the surrounding company.
¨Man, we´re all from the States,¨ Matt said. It was weird that after two weeks living in and working at a hostel, surrounded by people other than my countrymen, there I sat with a Floridian and Coloradan commemorating the late great Michael Jackson.
¨We are going to look back on our lives and remember where we were when he died,¨ said Robin. ¨And it will be Lima f**king Peru.¨ We saluted the King of Pop while his music played on repeat in the background.

***

I haven´t seen all of the touristy things in Lima, even though I´ve been here for well over 6 weeks. But I do believe I have seen a Lima that most don´t see. In fact, most travelers use Lima as a hub for buses and flights to places in the mountains, in the jungle and on the coast. But not me, I squeeze ever centavo out of Lima that I can while I stay free at a youth hostel in the heart of the tourist district.

During the day, I teach English. I have been taken on as a substitute teacher for a big company, and they send me out to different ventures to teach business people how to speak the business language. One job was in a township called Lurin, an hour taxi ride outside of Lima. On the way I was blessed with a private viewing of the slums making up the outer crust of the overflowing desert metropolis. Shacks matching the same brown color as the dirt they were built upon sit slantedly side by side by side by side, topped with corrugated tin roofing. I stared for as long as I could as this area is shamefully fascinating.

Another jobs requires a 45-minute combi ride followed by another 15-minute combi ride to a company that supplies yeast and smells like tomato paste. On the ride out the combi-man tells me to be very careful where I am getting out. One of the passengers echoes his sentiment.
¨You don´t want to get out there,¨ the passenger says. I tell him I have to, but assure him I will be careful. He says he is getting off there too and will help me find my second combi. He actually walked me step by step to the next combi ride and to the door of my company. I was greatful, but this part of Peru didn´t look any different than the place I used to live. I couldn´t figure out why it was so dangerous. ¨I was a couple blocks from here,¨ my new friend said, ¨and got robbed. I didn´t have any money so they took my socks.¨ I was happy not to be wearing socks.

The next day I missed my stop and got off a couple blocks later. A woman on the street asked me where I was going with a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here-stupid-gringa look. ¨There are chanchos everywhere, miss. Be very careful.¨ I assumed chanchos were bad guys, so I took care as usual. On my walk to the right stop, nothing dangerous stood out, just strange looks from locals.

Each combi ride seems to come with a gringo tax, as I pay more than any Peruvian does to get to the same place. When I argue, they won´t budge. I agree to pay the premium in hopes that it goes to a dangerous community of purse snatchers that will spare me. Not that they would get anything from my purse except for some spare coins and a book of English phrases.

I come back to the hostel in the afternoon, scarf lunch and start my shift behind the bar. The work is relaxed and mindless, and very social. And like any bar job, flirting = tips. I find myself in an exhaustive state by the end of the week, and even the simple opening of beers and pouring of vodka cokes is taxing. I sleep well, even with the bedbugs unabashedly chowing on me in my slumber, and wake up to do it all over again.

Riding home one day, I noticed a bumper sticker that said, ¨Do you spend more time on the bus than with your friends?¨ I laughed with a sigh, and nodded off to a small siesta as my combi bumpedly made its way back.

en route to Lima

Also can be viewed at www.Karikuy.org/blog

I have been backpacking for almost a month now and enjoying the hell out of it. I am making my way to Lima for the Karikuy volunteer program, rather quickly as I have already postponed my arrival date twice. I spent my last couple days in Argentina in the quiet mountain town of Purmamarca, a tiny village set in the montañas coloradas in the northern state of Jujuy. The sun hits these brazen peaks and reflects rich purples, pungent oranges, rusty reds and chilly greens; the colors clash and topple upon one another and I click hundreds of photos in hopes to do it all justice.

The bus to northern Chile leaves only three times a week, and I wait for it early Sunday morning in the biting cold next to a barren highway. At least I am not alone; A German couple puts their backpacks along side mine, and we share our appreciation for the colorful surroundings, our dislike of the temperature, and a mutual gratitude that the other being there confirms we are in the right place to pick up the bus. Besides the roosters awakening, it is quiet. I breathed in this peaceful scene knowing that the next couple days would be spent inside a cramped bus, crossing geographical extremes, eating forgettable sandwiches and attempting to get some sleep.

Here I am at the Chilean/Peruvian Border. It is 6am local time and my taxi parks in line behind a dozen others. The offices are not open yet, so we wait. The border seems a desert wasteland, temperate but dry and unyielding. I try to remember if I brushed my teeth last night; it sure doesn’t feel like it. The hours pass over me in my blurry state. I share a four door sedan with four ladies and a restless baby, and an overweight driver who is itching to get us through. The actual crossing seems hazy at best, lots of filling out of documents and stamping of passports, an x-ray machine, the careless lifting and dropping of luggage. Someone offered me an Oreo and I didn’t even hesitate to shove it in my mouth. I am quite hungry, thirsty and really never thought I’d be this anxious to jump on another bus so that maybe I could catch some shuteye.

***

The bus for Lima leaves at 2pm, “No later,” the ticket lady warned.
“No problem,” I responded, as I knew any more than six hours in a bus station may end in the ultimate breaking of my fragile state. I found breakfast: Fried unidentified fish with a potato and rice, and a cup of watery Nescafé. I am either going to have to give up the coffee addiction or get used to powdered instant for the next month, and who am I to be a snob? The meal left me unsatisfied and hungry, so I left the station to find chocolate.

Finally en route to Lima! My bus company is Excluciva (talk about feeling like a snob) and I am elated: The seats are overstuffed leather Lazyboys that recline to beds, the meals are hot and rather delicious, and the movies are non-stop. After the third flick, I doze off to a wonderful slumber knowing that when I awake, I will finally be there.

2am: We are stopped. There is a commotion in the bus. People seem upset and voices are raised. My brain is too tired to translate what is going on, and I fall back asleep.

6am: We are still stopped and the sun is rising. Yet more commotion and some seats are empty. I exited the bus only to notice we were drowning in a sea of more buses, trucks, tankers and autos. There are people everywhere, many of them on cell phones, and no one looks happy.

The collective word is that the road is blocked due to a miner’s strike. A law just passed exempting artisan miners from selling their products, and in protest they blocked the roads with stones and fires. The police were handling it, but estimated 72 hours until we could hit the road again. Three days?!? No puede ser.

I found the bathroom, which was flooding with brown water and smelled like a barn. Instead I set off to look for a phone to tell Karikuy of my *predicament*. Five blocks down I found a phone outside a hotel who let me use their clean, stocked bathroom. It’s times like these that makes one realize their true creature comforts. I ran into an English couple on my way back and we decided to find some food. All this killed a mere 2 hours…70 to go.

Over that day I watched two more movies, napped, chatted with busmates, ate street meat, and joined the cheers and jeers when the roads were finally cleared at 5pm. All in all it wasn’t so bad; I caught up on eight movies I haven’t seen, made some Peruvian friends, ate the local fare (hopefully not in regret), and in Lima I was picked up by Julio and Josh of Karikuy, and taken back to my new home-away-from-home just in time for bed… 63 hours later.

True Love

It seems there is not a soul for a million miles. We are the modern nomad, fueled by petrol and fiber cookies. The sheer magnitude of this space that I glide over makes me feel small, yet not insignificant. For why else would all this exist if nothing was here to appreciate it? We are the conscience of the world, after all...

O the wonder! To see the Earth´s formation at its purest. Gaze on the fine sands molded by the wind and rain and time. To imagine the millenia of work it took to create these incredible peaks! It´s as if time is shown in its parts, the evolution of a mountain at its rawest. From the soft rolling dunes to the abrupt and flat faced gorges to the jagged and lightly frosted peaks of the Andes. You can see where the water flows and the intricate design it makes on the grandest canvass of all. Nothing could be more perfect than this land. I know we are meant to exist here and now for we appreciate, somewhere deep inside, the magnificence of it all; of the things we could not fathom create, or even recreate, for pictures do it no justice.

THIS is love.

What I learned in Argentina

- All sandwiches come with some form of meat and a fried egg. Man that´s addicting.

-Maté drinking is truly an art form. You can determine where a person is from and whether they like you or not by the way they take their maté.

-It is common to drink anything in a bottle with a straw. This includes water.

-Northern Argentina is a hidden gem of the world. I´d like to spend a good year here, with a car.

-Salta may have the best ice cream in the universe. Okay second to Italian gelato.

-It is not possible to see Buenos Aires in a couple days.

-It is not possible to walk Buenos Aires.

-Don´t ever expect to eat salad.

-Lines on the roads are just suggestions.

-Pedestrians do NOT have the right away.

-Tip the bag man.

-Wine is cheap and really good.

-Even if you speak spanish, you don´t necessarily speak Argentinian spanish.

-Couchsurfing is everywhere!

Mmmmmendoza

If you have ever done a wine tour in Napa, or always wanted to but couldn´t afford it, I´ve got the place for you. Medoza, Argentina, is not only gorgeous, set below the highest peak in the Andes, and reminiscent of a quaint European township, it also happens to be where the best (and most) wine in Argentina comes from. Its specialty? the Malbec. Its price? Unbelievable.

Traveling sola hasn´t yet been a lonely experience, but to go wine tasting alone sempt a little less than thrilling to me. I jumped on the bus at 10am anyway. The ride out to Maipu was 30 minutes and the day was clear and getting warm. I passed several bike rental shops : Bike and Wine, Wines and Bikes, Señor Bike, Doña Wine...and I got off the bus at the highly recommended, family owned Mr. Hugo´s.

There I was presented with a map and a cute green bike with a basket, as well as a cold bottle of water which I was sure to need later. As I paid, three guys walked up joking with one another about their previous night´s antics. I asked where they were from.

"London," the tall ginger answered. I told them I was from San Francisco, and suddenly one of them perked up.
"Me too!" he said excitedly. We compared notes, and turns out he is dating the sister of a guy I grew up with. Small world, as usual.

We took off in our renegade of four bikes to the first bodega, a wine museum actually. As we got our first tastes of Mendoza wine, an American couple joined us for a chat. They are from Minneapolis and teaching English in Valpaiso, Chile. Our bike crew grew to six and we rode down the tranquil, spacious countryside in the midday sunshine.

Our second bodega had a barbeque that smelled irresistible. This place gave us bean bag chairs and we ended up with a bottle of chardonnay on the grass. One bottle turned to two, the second being an aged Malbec, the best wine I would taste all day. (and for $40 Arg pesos, or roughly $12US, I wanted to send home a crate!)

We skipped the barbeque and kept on to a family winery, where we received a tour and tasting of their Malbecs, which you couldn´t buy anywhere else. They were delicious. The day continued with a tour of an olive oil factory and a chocolate manufacturer, then ended at Mr. Hugo´s with a final glass of wine and a couple empanadas.

When I thought I may be wine tasting alone, I am more than gracious for the fantastic group of people I ended up with. There´s truly nothing better than sharing a bottle of wine and a good laugh with great people in the sunshine.

Me gustan los filmes de Schwarzenegger

If you are a backpacker in Montevideo, you are most likely headed east to Brasil or west to Buenos Aires. I am no exception, and I make my way toward Argentina along with a large caravan of people from all parts of the world: Germany, England, Brasil, Scotland, Canada and the U.S. My new friend Malin, from Sweden, and I are decidedly slower, and watch the hordes race to BA while we sit back in the historic Uruguayan town of Colonia. We ate sausage and drink $3 wine. I tried the local whiskey Dunbar. We said hello and goodbye to what will be our last beach.

The common route to Argentina is a ferry from Colonia, but a more interesting route is to ride north to Carmelo and take a launch down the Rio Plata to Tigre, Argentina. I was stoked on the latter, and Malin tagged along. But as traveling goes, you lose things, you get had, you miss buses. Well, we missed the boat, one of only two that leave daily for Argentina. So we spent the next 12 hours in the tiny, but shockingly noisy, town of Carmelo. We ate sausages and drank $4 wine.

A graying security man of roughly 80 sat outside our lovely boatdock-cum-hotel and drank mate. He chatted with a younger man who seemed to be passing through. The latter asked where we were from.

"Suecia," said Malin.
"California," I said, and the young man cackled.
"Arnold Schwarzenegger! Hahahaha," he responded. I laughed too, because, well, it´s funny.

Later the elderly guard and I shared some words, and he told me how much he loves the Schwarzenegger movies. I told him that Schwarzy wasn´t the worst governor the state has ever seen.

"He´s your governor?!," he asked, apparently not understanding that fact from the previous conversation. "And you have a black president? Things are changing," he exclaimed and let out a loud, gutteral laugh.

Sleeping on plastic chairs in a cement enclosure is not conducive to good rest, believe it or not. We finally boarded the boat at 4am, and I fell fast asleep as did the rest of my fellow patrons. And since the sun didn´t rise until we arrived in Tigre, I didn´t see a damn thing. Why? I am too tired to care.

Learn english in Latin America!

The English speakers of the world have quite an advantage when they travel anywhere. It may be difficult to communicate sometimes, but if any person knows a little of any other language than their own, it is most likely English. I have met several English-speaking travelers so far that know very little, if any, Spanish or Portugues, and they seem to survive just fine.

Even more interesting was Chui, a Taiwanese girl I met in Montevideo. She is traveling alone like myself, and doesn´t speak nary a word of Spanish. But she doesn´t speak English either; she uses English words when she knows them, and her electronic translator when she doesn´t. I thought this was fascinating and inspiring: if this timid Taiwanese girl who is 100-pounds soaking wet can travel solo, anyone can.

"And my English has gotten better!" she says to me, as we sit in a hostel room in Latin America. Increíble.

Would you like kidneys with your intestines?

Montevideo... best and worse, plain and simple:

Best: Cafe de la Pausa: funky bohemian cafe filled with art, photos and old literature. A man dressed in black with a beret and a cigarette sits in the window. The food is tiny but delicious.

Worst: Ciudad Vieja on the weekend: not just dead but abandoned. Does anyone live here anymore?

Best: Parradilla: BBQ everything! Beef, chicken, chorizo, red peppers...

Worst: Parradilla: BBQ everything... cow intestines and pig kidneys.

Best: A bike ride on La Rambla by the water, creamy beaches and colorful rocks

Worst: The waterfront: Tall apartment buildings line La Rambla

Best: Drum show: every Sunday through the streets, drummers line up and people surround them while dancing the samba

and Worst: the water: a saucy dark brown that I wouldn´t recommend dipping in