A day at the spa...Colombian style

While in Cartagena, Colobia, we spent two afternoons at Volcan de Lodo El Totumo, which is a mud volcano about an hour away from Cartagena. Twice, because it was possibly one of the most hilarious things I have ever experienced. Also because we didn't wait for our friend Kaspar, who was coming to Cartagena to meet up with us, the first time we went, and he wanted to experience it as well.

The first time was more hilarious mostly because we had no idea what to expect. We went on a bus with ten other tourists, and on the way one of the guides explained to us that when we get there there are three optional services you can pay COP$3,000 (approximately $1.50) for: photography (a dude will take your camera and take photos of you while you float around in the mud), massages (dudes who will give you a massage in the mud - they definitely do not have any formal training), the bathing service (Colombian women help you clean the mud off yourself and your bathing suit). We were told that these services were all optional, however, try telling that to the washing ladies. They do NOT take no for an answer.

We got off the bus with only our bathing suits and our flip flops, left our shoes at the bottom and climbed up the very steep stairs to the top of the volcano, which looks strangely like an ant hill, and found a group of people in the 'bath' (for lack of a better word), looking exactly like moving statues, covered almost completely with mud. While you are getting into the volcano, a man would greet you at the ladder, and instruct you to take one more step down then sit back into the mud, then lie down on your back. Immediately you erupt into hysterical laughter because the feeling is just soooo strange. The mud is really, really deep, but you can't sink, even if you want to (we tried, both of us pushed down on Kaspar's shoulders and all that happened was that we came out of the mud), and the mud is kind of warm. You would expect that it would be similar to swimming, because it is kinda like that, but it isn't. Not at all. For starters, you have very little control of where you go, and be careful not to get off balance, or you will end up face first in the mud, which is a bit of a problem, because how do you get the mud out of your mouth when every useful inch of your body is covered in mud? Your only real option is a lot of spitting. So, there you are, laying in a volcano full of mud, and the next thing you know, someone takes you by your feet and pushes you towards the 'massage therapists' who immediately begin rubbing your legs, whether or not you want them too. After telling them several times I wasn't interested in a massage, I found myself being pushed to the other end of the volcano, so there was room for the next 'customer'.

The first ten minutes of being in the volcano was something akin to sheer pandemonium. People everywhere were laughing hysterically, people would lose control and fall, face first, into the mud, which would result in even more laughter. However, by the end of the thirty minutes, nearly everyone was laying flat on their backs, relaxing in the mud, which was warm and quite pleasant. Surprisingly, the mud didn't smell bad, which was not what I expected.

After our time was up, we had to get out of the bath and go down to the lagoon to get ourselves cleaned off. The problem with being entirely covered with mud is that your bathing suit becomes quite heavy. Which isn't exactly a problem in itself, however, it does make keeping your drawers on slightly difficult. The entire trip down the stairs and down to the lagoon was quite a challenge, as I was constantly attempting to prevent my bathing suit from ending up around my ankles. Upon arriving at the lagoon we were greeted by a group of Colombian women, armed with basins in their hands; they grabbed us by our hands and did not listen to our protests. We were directed to sit down in the shallow, cloudy water, and they immediately began pouring water over our heads, and rubbing our faces to get all the mud off. The next thing I knew my 'bather' was tugging on the ties of my bikini top, I told her that I didn't want her to take it off, she told me I had to, and the next thing I knew, I was topless! I very quickly flipped around in the water so that I was with my front down, laughing hysterically the entire time. After she washed out my top she gave it back and made me give her my bottoms. Luckily the water was very cloudy. After we had been fully cleaned we walked back to the bus, still laughing.

When we went the second time with our friend Kaspar, the bathing portion of our afternoon was even more hilarious, which I didn't think was possible. I should explain that Kaspar is much over 6 feet tall, with lots of blond curly hair (which is always extremely popular in Latin America, and 6 feet is not exactly a common sight either). When we arrived at the water, two women grabbed Kaspar's hands and pulled him into the water, laughing hysterically. They pushed him down into the water, and began pouring water over him, continuing to laugh the whole time. The other 'bathers' were watching the women bathe Kaspar, laughing the entire time.

If you ever get the chance to go to a mud volcano, go. Definitely, go. People say the mud is medicinal, but I really think the laughter is even better for your soul.

Paradise: Found

Though I am currently in Cartagena, Colombia, last week we were in Santa Marta, Taganga, and then Parque Nacional Tayrona, Colombia, all of which are on the water. And thank goodness, because it is hot hot hot. Santa Marta and Taganga were good, but Parque Tayrona was the real highlight. When I say that I think it might be the closest thing to paradise I have ever seen, I mean it. To get to the beach and 'campsites' you are dropped off approximately four kms from the sites and have to walk for about 45 minutes through the jungle, onto the beach, back through the jungle, before arriving.

We stayed at a lovely place with beautiful white hammocks (which is where you sleep), right on a beach, with jungle and rolling green hills as the back drop. It was so peaceful there (at night there really was nothing to do besides go to the beach, lie in your hammock, or drink the wine we forgot in Taganga), and there were not so many tourists. On the walk to the beach that was swimmable (the beach we were on had extremely strong currents and had taken the lives of more than a couple tourists) there were times we were the only people on the beach. I always knew I loved swimming, but I have discovered the real difference between here and home is that here it is actually hot enough to want to get into water that is not bath temperature. It was so wonderful floating around and then laying on the beach until you get hot enough to go back in.

It was delightful, relaxing and rejuvenating. Paradise, even. So, if you like paradise (and who doesn't?), go to Colombia.

Because its awesome.

Signs it is time to get the hache out of dodge....

And by dodge, I mean South America. We have exactly seven days until we board that plane back to Canada, and though I am having the best experience of my life, I think it is good this time has come. For lots and lots of reasons. I will list them here (and likely forget many of the reasons...). Here we go.

1. Neither J nor I have a properly functioning headlamp. I broke my first one. Bought a second one, however, in my chaotic scramble to get ready to catch the bus to Ecuador after 'Fright night', (which you can read about under 'Love of theme parties? Confirmed.), I stupidly left it behind. Do you know how difficult (and loud) it is to fumble around a dorm room in complete darkness, using only an iPod or digital camera as a flashlight. Not good.

2. Total number of umbrellas we have? Zero. We had two, but J broke her's in Cali while trying to show me a trick (opps). I (again, stupidly) left my umbrella in Cali, as it had fallen onto the dude's bed below me. I checked my own bed for left over belongings, I did not think to check those of my dorm mates. You're welcome, Dorey.

3. I lost my bite plate. I (third time, stupidly...), left it in my sheets at the hostel in Quito, Ecuador. (Sorry, cleaning lady, that was likely gross...). Which is not only potentially an expensive mistake, but is extremely detrimental to the health of my teeth. Do not be surprised to see me back in Halifax a lot chubbier and with shorter teeth - I have a wee bit of a grinding problem. Luckily, there is essentially no stress in my life here.

4. J and I seem to have developed some strange way of communicating, almost like a pseudo language, except its not the words, its a very particular way of using your voice (which is not always fit for public consumption). We have attributed this to spending entirely toooo much time together the past six months. I fear what would happen to us after another six months. Pure insanity.

5. My bronzer is almost gone, and what I have left is a crumbly mess.

6. I am getting so tired of locking up my possessions and having to climb a ladder to get to
my bed.

7. My 'money rash' is getting out of control, which likely sounds strange (and kinda disgusting...) which makes sense, because it is strange and kinda disgusting. You see, in order to avoid having to carry a bag when going out (and to keep our money safe) we generally carry our money in our bras, in the side part, under your arm. The only problem is money is dirty and it's hot here, it is not really so good for skin I don't imagine. So, I am excited to be able to carry a real purse, with a proper wallet and everything! Though, admittedly I will miss waking up with money in my bed. Sometimes (actually, most times) when getting ready for bed I forget to take out the money and it falls off on it's own, resulting in waking up surrounded by pesos, which never fails to make me giggle.

So, thankfully (and sadly) we only have seven more days to wander around, hoping for no rain (especially because it is waaaay too humid for rain jackets, I fear I would suffocate), fumbling around in the dark by the light of my iPod, and subconsciously (in my sleep) try to ensure I am not grinding my pearly whites.

Get ready, Canada, get ready.

I like to move it, move it

I have always been a big believer in the importance of physical activity. For both physical and mental health. My three weeks in Cali were completely amazing and confirmed to me just how important movement is. We spent an average of three hours a day dancing (sometimes more) and I have not felt happier in a long time (which is definitely saying something because I haven't really been unhappy in a long, long time). During the group classes (which were often like Latin dance aerobics classes with amazing instructors) I would notice that I could not stop smiling. I am convinced that dancing is in it's own special league in terms of it's benefits and people's ability to express themselves through it.

One of the things I am going to miss most (about south America in general, but more specifically Cali) is the amazing music and the way that dancing plays such an integral role in daily life here. Though Cali is famous for its amazing salsa, when you go to the clubs you see dancers at all levels, having fun, smiling and just feeling the music. It is amazing and is something that will not be easily replicated in Canada. To make ourselves feel better J and I are getting all the music from Cali that we can, which is helpful particularly because of music's amazing ability to transport one to a specific time or location in our lives.

A great big muchas Gracias goes out to Cali, Jovitas hostel, Son de Luz dance school, and all the amazing people we have met that made Cali the experience that it was. I leave with some sadness, but mostly with wonderful memories, some new moves, hilarious pictures, a happy heart and a whole lot of gratitude that I was able to have this beautiful experience.

Gracias xo

If you like big butts and you cannot lie....

Then perhaps you should head to Colombia. Seriously. No, I am not suggesting that the Colombian people have naturally larger butts than any other people, but Colombia offers extremely cheap plastic surgery. What does that have to do with big butts, you are likely asking yourself? Well, for some unknown reason it is very popular for women to have butt implants, as well as breast implants. Often on the same woman (that is a whole lotta silicone...). I have a bit of trouble wrapping my head around anyone actually wanting to pay for more junk in their trunk (I have some extra in case anyone wants any....), considering in North America there are industries devoted to helping women lessen the load in their derriere. I initially was just assuming it was cultural, but this week J and I had salsa class together with our teacher, Miguel (who, for the record, is 17 years old). We were talking about the popularity of butt implants here in Colombia and talked about women in north America working hard for smaller bums. As soon as the words were spoken he immediately asked why and looked horrified. He then called to one of the other male dancers on the sxhool's team and told him what we had just said and his response was the same.

Definitely cultural.

We have been in Cali for almost three weeks and we have been going to a salsa bar on Monday nights where there is an overwhelming amount of silicone. I was not aware of this, but there is a reason for that. Apparently the club is often frequented by a lot of the drug dealers (or 'narcotraficantes' en español) go there. Again, what does this have to do with plastic surgery? Allegedly, once they are making good money they will often pay to have their women get a little bit more plastic....

What the h? Anyways, if you like big butts, Colombia is the place for you. However, if you aren't into butts that are strangely shaped and look like someone has pumped them up with a bicycle pump, maybe not the best place to go looking....

Happy 88th Birthday!!

Grandmothers are the best, and I am lucky to have the BEST Oma ever. I have so many wonderful childhood memories of time spent in Komoka with her and my mom's family. I can think of almost nothing I enjoy more than hearing stories about what it was like living in Holland during the war, or immigrating to a country where you do not speak the language.

Yesterday was my Oma's 88th birthday. It also was the date of her wedding anniversary, and much later, the date my Opa was buried. Oma has had such an interesting life, immigrating to Canada in the 1950s, after WW II was over, though that was not her original intention...

She was raised in a Catholic household, along with her nine brothers and sisters. When she was in her late 20s she decided, after working for a period of time as a nurse/social worker/mid wife, that she wanted to become a nun. After speaking with the convent it was suggested that she think about this and that perhaps she should go to Canada and spend some time visiting with her five siblings who had already immigrated to Canada with their families and were running their own farms. While visiting one of her sisters in Ontario she happened to meet a Dutch man who had very recently immigrated to Canada and was staying with her sister. Instead of returning to Holland (and the convent!) she stayed in Canada and six months later she and my Opa were married and less than a year after that she gave birth to my uncle Adrian. Now she
has six children, nine grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren, all of whom love her.

She is truly one of my favourite people in the whole world and I want to take this opportunity to publicly wish her a happy 88th birthday. I wish I could be there to celebrate with a couple games of rumicube and perhaps some dominoes! I hope your celebration is full of things as sweet as you are (like perhaps beer with sugar, her fave...).

Happy 88th Birthday, Oma! Here's to you and another happy and healthy year!
With so much love,
Melissa xo

Smiling in Cali

As I type this I am lying in a hammock at our hostel in Cali, Colombia, which is incredibly famous for it's amazing salsa dancing. I am taking a wee break from reading my very first novel in Spanish (I'm pretty sure it is going to take me three years. Do you know how many words there are in a language?). We arrived in Cali (actually in Colombia) on Saturday, and have since experienced the usual confusion around currency, and I don't really mean just straight conversion, which I can figure out (it's almost 2000 Colombian pesos to one dollar), but more about how much things cost, when is someone ripping you off, and how much money is enough to bring for a night of dancing? It all hurts my head.
On Saturday night we went out with a group from the hostel to this dicey little salsa bar that was packed full of Colombians, many of whom had spilled out onto the street and were dancing outside. I was so pleasantly surprised to see that not everyone was dancing 'Cali style', which is extremely fast and complicated, and I have no idea how to do it. Yet. It was great fun.
J and I went to the zoo here on Sunday, which was fun, though it really was something of a fashion show. There were so many young families there. We discovered that Colombians dress well! Even the little kids are dressed like miniature adults. I felt slightly under dressed.
We completely lucked out with our hostel, they offer free yoga and salsa classes (which is very unusual), and makes me feel so happy. We had our first class yesterday, and then J and I went for a run and then a group from our hostel went to a salsa place where the 'professionals' go (on a Monday!). It was completely amazing. I hace never seen people dance like that before, there was more than one would champion in the club.
We had yoga this morning at 7:00 sm, and this afternoon I start my private salsa lessons.

I can't stop smiling.

South American 'Pee' Walker

Due to time/money/and priorities, J and I have only one week in Ecuador (we gots to get ourselves to Colombia!!). All I can say is that it has thus far been quite eventful. We stayed at an adorable hostel in Baños, which was surrounded by volcanoes and lush green mountains, with a rooftop terrace with beautiful views, and delicious breakfast (homemade bread and jam? Yes, please!). I went white water rafting (alone, poor J was sick, which was sucky), and had sooo much fun. Baños is famous for their hot springs so we went to the baths twice, which is always so relaxing. We also decided to go for massages, which turned into a hilarious escapade in itself. It was basically a couple's massage (though there was a divider between our beds...), which involved the massage therapist climbing up onto the bed for a minute (I'm guessing for a better angle?) psuedo-straddling us, and later nearly got an elbow to the face for nearly tickling my armpits (word of warning, I am extremely ticklish). The whole experience provided us with a LOT of laughs, and some relaxation (you know, the world of traveling is pretty tough). Yesterday we climbed up to 4810 meteres on Volcan Cotopaxi (however, we were definitely driven a gooood distance up the volcano), for about two hours, which nearly killed me. After we took a bus to Quito, where we arrived safely to our hostel.

As always, the altitude was killing me (I am such a wussy), so after dinner I went to lay down. I fell asleep pretty early and slept until around 4 am when I heard some whispering, which sounded strangely like it was coming from J's bed (which was a very, very high top bunk above me). I decided to ignore it and then I heard a really strangle tinkling noise. I thought maybe J had spilled water, or it had started raining, still deciding I am going to ignore this. Until, that is, J leans over the edge of her bed and says to me 'Hey Mel! Wake up for a minute! This girl just peed on my bed!'. Well. I can't think of anything better to grab your attention. I sat straight up, staring at this girl, who looked a bit bewildered. I asked her why she would do that, and she said 'I'm sorry. We are in Ecuador, a South American country. There aren't very many toilets here.' NOTE: there was a bathroom directly outside of our dorm room. J and I both sat there, staring at this girl, looking dumbfounded. I think I repeated a couple times 'You don't pee on people's beds'. Which, believe me, is something I never thought I would say, at least, not to an adult.

She didn't look drunk, but I assume there had to be something going on for her to think that was an acceptable solution to the alleged (false) lack of toilets in Ecuador. The worst thing is that I think I know her. I am pretty sure she was in my rafting group.

Awwwwkward.

After the girl left our room (apparently she wasn't even staying at our hostel, some dude in our room brought her home) everyone woke up and we all had a good laugh. But, only after J made sure she moved all her belongings away from the ladder, as there was a wee bit o' urine running down it.

We have had a lot of random experiences in dorm rooms. I am preeeetty sure that one takes the cake.

Love of theme parties? Confirmed.

J and I just spent last week in Mancora, Peru, on the north coast of the country. It was, in one word, amazing. We had so much fun, and it was the first time I really did not want to leave somewhere.

We stayed at 'Loki', which is a chain of hostels here in South America (with locations in Cusco, Lima, La Paz and Mancora), and they have  reputation for being party hostels. This was our first experience with Loki and we were completely pleased! We arrived to discover that our hostel was really more of a backpacker resort, what with its pool (and loungers), bar, restaurant, beach front location, and beautiful large building and rooms!

Our roomie there was a wonderfully hilarious Vancouverite with an affinity for Halifax (she went to Dal for one year), which earned her major points with us. She affectionately referred to us as 'Canada'.

We started our stay at Loki off slowly, taking it easy on our first night, going to bed early, while Vancouver entertained other guests on our balcony with a bottle of whisky (even at Loki this is definitely not allowed). She informed us (several times) that we were a disgrace to our province (sorry, Nova Scotia), and that she had high expectations for us the next night.

We brought our B game the next night, and mastered the art of adult sized Jenga (so much better than regular Jenga), made some new friends (particularly from Isreal), and somehow ended up at a local's party. I woke up the next morning feeling pretty tired, and wearing my watch in my hair as an elastic (it was a sport watch that was really more of an elastic bracelet with a watch face in it. At this point it was five days old).

Our third night at Loki we had gone to bed and were woken up by Vancouver who was informing us that she was bringing a friend home to have some whisky (she is a good host). She assured us that we did not have to worry, because she and the dude were just friends. He arrives at our room and they are on the balcony when we are able to hear Vancouver say loudly, 'if you try to kiss me, I swear, I'll punch you right in the face'. Not surprisingly, her friend left shortly following this.

Our last night at Loki happened to be Friday the 13th, and they were having a horror party, costumes strongly encouraged. I love theme/costume parties. I love them. The three of us spent the afternoon finding identical Mancora tank tops and red lip stick. We dressed up like 'haunted 222', which was our room number. Really we just looked like zombies, which was okay with us. Vancouver could be heard yelling from our balcony to anyone who was walking past, asking them if they 'wanted to get dead'. Most people wanted to get dead, and by the end of the night Vancouver had definitely spread the zombie love. The night was so much fun and included a choregraphed scary dance to 'Thriller', which was executed on the bar.

It was so much fun. However, we had booked a 9 am bus to Ecuador for the next morning (after horror night? What were we thinking?). I woke up, alone, in our room, missing my flip flops, zombie tank top, one hoop earring, my nose ring, and being completely confused. I was terrified I had over slept and looked frantically at my watch, only to find that the actual watch part of the bracelet was completely missing. Panic ensues, as I am sure I have missed the bus and J is currently en route to Ecuador (which I now realize would never actually happen..). I was running around like a maniac, throwing the last of my things into big mama. I eventually located J at breakfast and discovered that I was up in plenty of time. We caught the bus and made it safely into Ecuador.

Only problem is we now both have pink eye.

I completely blame it on Loki.

Totally worth it.

Family Ties

We left Cusco a week ago and I am still thinking about the whole Spanish school/living with a family experience. I always enjoy Spanish school (though have discovered that 2 week stints are much easier on the brain than 4 weeks..too much!), but living with a family made this a much richer (and more relevant!) experience. I found myself thinking in Spanish all the time (even in my sleep!) and believe I benefitted from the experience, academically.

Aside from that it was so refreshing to be in a residential neighbourhood, where people were going about their daily lives - moms and dads picking up their little kiddies from school (so adorable all decked out in their school unis!). It was wonderful to live on a street where the neighbours greet you with 'Buenas tardes' and ¿Como estas? instead of being greeted with offers for cheap massages or various animal noises. The offers of massages generally came from women on the street who were employed by Cusco's various spas (we still aren't sure of the credibility), but sometimes they were from creepy men on the street, like one dude who offered us 'free massage, all night long'. No, gracias.

In the neighbourhood I was living, when people stared they were generally just curious about the giant white girl who was bigger (in all ways) than the men - nevermind the women. The closer you got to the plaza de armas things would get a bit creepier, and a whole lot less authentic, mostly because the plaza and the surrounding streets are directed entirely at tourism, which is the lifeblood of this beautiful and magnificent city.
It has been such an incredible opportunity to see how a 'normal' (whatever that means) middle class, Peruvian family lives and interacts with each other. The family I lived with was so wonderful,  and I loved seeing the family together (they would do adorable things like pull a mattress into the living room for family movie night and all snuggle up), which consisted of the parents (who had been together for 11 years), and their two children, Octavio (8 years old) and Aldahana (5 years old). The whole family was very obviously very happy together and the parents' interactions with each other were coloured with love (for each other and their children), and their lives centered around their children, which made me feel all nice and warm on the inside.

It was such a fabulous experience, they were the best. Plus, they kept calling me 'Meli'.

Love them, love Cusco.

It's the Little Things...

We are into month four of this six month adventure, and I really could not be happier. As I already mentioned, we are in week two of two of Spanish school here in Cusco, and living with Peruvian families, and the family I am living with has two adorable little kids. Cusco really is an extremely beautiful city, we are so high up, it looks like some of the mountains are actually touching the clouds. So amazing, so lucky.  However, the absolute BEST part about all of this is that while we are living with the families, I get my own room. Just me! No one else - not even J! Its the first time I have slept alone in a room in over four months. And, let me tell you, its like riding a bike. You don't forget how. I did not realize how much I enjoy spending time alone. I am certain I would not want to be alone for six months, but it is a nice break every once in awhile.

Last night while I was getting ready to go meet J, I was listening to my iPod, dancing around my room (you can't do that when you share a room with 14 other people). I was overcome with the strongest desire to BURST out singing, which I couldn't do, because the family was all snuggled up together, watching a movie on the other side of my door. I then realized that I haven't been able to really sing since I left Canada. Man. I miss that.

So, in honour of that desire, I decided to make a list of simple things that I so dearly miss. Ahem, so as to not offend anyone, I have not included any humanoids on the list. Here goes nothing.

1. My computer. If only because it has all my photos and my music and is completely accessible whenever I want. Plus, its a LOT easier to maneuver than my iPod.

2. Joe Fresh. Just because its so cheap and awesome. I will likely need to utilize that when I return home in June not able to fit into any of my summer clothes for work.

3. YOGA CLASSES!!!! At a real studio! With a real, live teacher! And other students! I haven't been practicing nearly as often as I would like to (because of space/people/laziness issues), but I am so extremely excited to return to practice. It makes me a very, very happy girl.

4. Kitchen, with real ingredients, and dishes and utensils. And no strangers getting in the way (because clearly I never do that). I miss my own cooking sometimes, and actually cooking. We had done a lot of cooking earlier, but not so much as of late.

5. Stanley. Well, not really Stanley, particularly because I am not a real fan of driving, but I do love driving for a long time for work with the window open and the music blasting (singing my little heart out!).

6. Being able to get ready in my underwear. Another thing you just can´t do in a dorm room. Actually, I suppose you can, but I´m not going to. I think I´ll wait for my own room to do that.

7. Feeling strong and healthy. These days I am only feeling soft and happy. Really happy, so I suppose I can handle feeling soft for six months of my life.

Not a very long list (again, not including all you humanoids...), which I suppose is a good thing, because really, if I wanted to complain, who would want to hear it? Certainly not the people in cold Canada (or perhaps not so cold Canada these days???) with real worries like jobs and bills real life stress.

It really is a wonderful life.

The Dangers of Education

I am currently in the beautiful Peruvian city of Cusco. You know, the jump off point for a little place called Macchu Picchu. Heard of it?

While we are here we did the trek to Macchu Picchu (amazing) and are now starting our second week of Spanish school. We are both living with Peruvian families, which is really wonderful and definitely helps to make the experience more relevant. I'm not sure there is better practice than trying to understand a very excited 5 year old explain to you the joke she just told you in Spanish.

The school we are attending is very organized and interactive. On my last day last week we went on an outing to the central market with the whole class. Because we had spent a lot of time on 'imperativo' (commands...), we had to give each other ridiculous tasks, such as walk up the street with your eyes closed (a little bit dangerous, I thought...), touch your nose, or my personal fave, go ask that little boy if you can do his homework. Believe me, he would not have wanted me to!

During this exercise I was told to hop up the street on one foot, until I reached the guy in my class who was walking up the street blind, approximately 50 meters ahead of me. Because I wanted to do it fast I was frantically hopping one footed up the street, when my right ankle completely gave out. Which was only slightly embarassing. And painful. I'm a bit concerned I have aggravated an old soccer injury. However, it was not severe enough to prevent me from participating in the salsa class or dancing my face off until far too late in the night.

At least I have my priorities straight.

Toilet Talk or 'Everyone Poops'

We recently returned from a 4 day trek through the Andes to Macchu Picchu (which was AMAZING). During our trek the toilet facilities were 'rustic' at best. I've peed in tents that covered holes dug in the ground, found my own 'ecological' bathroom, and yes, even went number two outside. Right beside a pile of llama dung. I figured if it was a good enough spot for the llama, it was good enough for me.  There's a first time for everything, right?

Yep. I went there. The unspeakable. Poop talk. In regular life we all walk around, pretending no one poops. One of the things I have learned during various travels is that certain social rules, that seem to dictate how we interact as humans, are blown right out of the water. While traveling it is completely common to overhear conversations between people who, five minutes prior, were complete strangers, talking about their BMs and their various ailments (which 90% of the time involve the stomach region....).

I haven't decided what it is about traveling that does this to people, but I definitely have some theories.  Perhaps this happens because when you are with someone all the time it is impossible to continue pretending that no one poops. Combine that with the nearly inevitable 'travelers' stomach issues' and you got yourself a plethora of poop talk. (Not from me, of course, but everyone else. Right.) Traveling has a way of bringing relationships to the next level. Never 'tooted' in front of your significant other? Go on vacation together to anywhere in Latin America and I am willing to bet that this will no longer be the case. Just ask J, who's boyfriend now affectionately refers to the three of us (J, G, and I) as the 'poop squad'. How romantic. (In our defense this was following some days in Lima where we were struck with some serious stomach ailments, of varying degrees of severity.....). 

So far, our experiences with toileting have varied immensely, starting with requiring instructions on how to properly flush the toilet in Buenos Aires.

In Uruguay the bus station had my most favourite hand dryer (familiar with the XCELERATOR? You know, the hand dryer capable of making bones completely visible in even the chubbiest of hands). They had hand drying under control but they seemed to have forgotten the toilet seats, which I deem to be kinda important. And so began the development of my hover/squating skills. Apparently this is so incredibly common in bus stations across South America (and restaurants and any public toilet, really. Even the ones you have to pay to use!) I didn't realize then that this would be such a valuable skill over the next five months...

In Bolivia I learned of the importance of ALWAYS carrying TP, hand santizer and small change. Without it you better be prepared to 'drip dry', have dirty hands, and/or hold it.

When we were on an 8 hour bus in Bolivia, I'm pretty sure I figured out why the indigenous women always wear very full skirts. When our bus pulled over to the side of the road/mountain, about 10 Bolivians pile out of the bus (9 men, and a lone woman). I very quickly realize this is their equivalent of a 'rest stop'. The woman got off the bus, and squatted, about four feet from the bus, hiked up her skirt, did her business, and got back on the bus! And she didn't expose herself once in the process. I gotta get me one of those skirts.

Prior to our trek my outdoor toileting experiences were limited to outhouses, port-a-potties, and very few times in the woods. Very few. And my experiences with outhouses included base camp in grade seven during which I tried to hold it until the morning, then couldn't, went to the outhouse (but didn't want to actually sit on it...) and in the process peed on my pyjamas. Not so skilled. Needless to say, prior to leaving for the trek I was a bit worried about the toilet situation. I am pleased to report I didn't pee on my own pants (or anyone else's for that matter...) the whole time. I consider that a roaring success. During our trek we were also lucky enough to get some very good tips from one of the dudes in our group about how to most easily poop in the wilderness. It was top secret, so I can't tell you, but I will say it involved leaning against a rock.

All across this great continent I am constantly reminded (via signs) of the importance of throwing the paper in the bin and not in the toilet. I am quite certain I'll come home still looking for the bin.

These experiences have made me a better traveler and much less worried about buses without bathrooms, primarily due to my newly acquired squatting skills and constant supply of tissue. I have also confirmed (yet again) that it is much easier to be a man than a woman.

I'm not sure there is anything else Ecuador and Colombia can teach me about using the bathroom, but I'll keep you posted.

Laughing it up in Lima

As I have mentioned millions of times, we were lucky enough to have both G and JC in Lima at the same time as us. It is always lovely to have company when you are traveling, but it is even more lovely to have company from the place you are visiting, and JC is most definitely from Lima. La Punta, to be exact. This proved to be so wonderful. JC's friends (and family) are still in Lima, so, instead of scrounging around for something to do during the government imposed 'dry weekend' leading up to the country's federal election, we were taken to the birthday party of one of JC's friends in their homes (and by 'homes', I clearly mean their parent's home. People live at home until they are married....maybe I was born in the wrong continent...).

We all showed up at the house and walk in the front door. The first thing we see are the grandparents of JC´s friend. We round the corner and are then able to see that the rest of the party guests are being entertained by a clown for grown ups. And by 'entertained' I mean that he was making the guests do any number of embarassing things, including dances and animal hats and noises. I was very relieved to see that JC was also extremely confused about what was happening. Apparently clowns do not commonly make appearances at 29 year old's birthday parties, even in Peru.

Phew.

Though it was more than a little confusing, the clown did get people up and dancing (even if it did involve a 'rave' whistle). After the clown left the fun and laughs continued and one of the members of JC's entourage thrilled us all with his amazing guitar skills (particularly flamenco).


We spent some time with JC's friends several times and everytime they never failed to deliver on the laughs - though, admittedly they were often at the expense of one of JC's friends who´s English was sometimes humourous, not always on purpose (marimamas = marine mammals). The best thing was that he was always laughing too, and never stopped trying to speak in English (I could really learn a thing or two from him...). He was also a pretty good tour guide.

My time in Lima just confirmed tht which I already knew. Its always good to see the sites and the tourist attractions, but it is always the people you meet and the experiences you have that really take a place or a trip from 'alright' to 'amazing'. Based on our experiences in Lima, it was definitely 'amazing'. And we have JC and his entourage to thank for that.

Thanks. My abs were still hurting days after we left from extended laugh sessions (does that count as a work out?).

South American Ick List

After four months of traveling through this amazing continent, and being grossed out on more than one occasion, I feel I am qualified to present to you the 'South American Ick List'. I can only imagine that I will need to add to this over the next two months.

Get excited. Things that make me say 'ick'.

1. Chilean sewage pipes. Or rather, the smell of them. ICK.

2.  The buckets full of used toilet paper that sit beside the toilets. Sometimes overflowing. I like to refer to these as `poop buckets`. As you can imagine, totally ick.

3. Mangy, stray dogs. Particularly of the long haired variety. They get all dread lock-y and look sort of like dirty rasta dogs. ICK.

4. Bus bathrooms. Once I had to push really hard with my foot to flush and the water flew over the edge and nearly landed on my foot, which was wearing flip flops. Double ick.

5. No toilet seats. I don't understand this, but it happens everywhere, especially in bus stations. Ick.

6. No shower curtain. Big mess, and just generally grosses me out. Perhaps because I feel really exposed. Ick.

7. Dogs mating. Particularly publicly. How rude. ICK.

8.  When the street randomly smells like human urine. Ick.

 Stay tuned for more ickiness....

Conversation With A Crazy Man

J and I have been so lucky during this trip, for so many reasons, but one of the biggest is that we were able to meet up with J's boyfriend (Jose Carlos, to be known from here on in as JC), who is originally from Lima (but lives in Canada). We were also lucky enough to be graced  (no pun intended!) with the presence of another friend from Canada - Grace (or G), who I was lucky enough to travel through Central America with four years ago.
On G's first day in South America, we did some wandering around and decided to sit in the park for some people watching. While we were sitting there, a Peruvian man, who seemed to me to be slightly sketchy, began talking to us. Since I was a bit suspicious of  his intentions, I was not really interested in further engaging in order to continue the conversation. However, G, bright eyed and  bushy tailed, did not seem to pick up on my cues, she continued to talk to him, while I did not say much, except to translate every once in awhile. The man spoke some English and asked where we are from. When G  reported that we are Canadian, he was thrilled, though skeptical, saying that of course G was Canadian, because she is so happy, but that I must be American. Apparently G didn't pick up on my cues, but he did.... The conversation continues and he again asks where I am from, not willing to believe that I am  the same nationality as G, but finally believing I am not American (as I was adamantly denying...). He insists that I cannot be Canadian, and compares my skin with G's as evidence that we cannot be from the same country (in G's defense, she had just spent a winter in Canada, while I had spent three months in the sun. On her report that was the first time she had worn shorts in two years...). He then told me I must be a  Latina (which I took to be more of a compliment than  being told I look like a cranky American).
The differences between our responses to this kinda crazy man really made me aware of how protective I have become of  my safety and my space. Sometimes this is necessary, but it was a nice little reminder that sometimes  the best experiences happen while you are talking to people, and that we should not assume that everyone is out to do something bad. Some people are really just interested in talking to a pasty Canadian and a cranky American.

Plus, if we hadn't talked to him, I wouldn't have been called a Latina. 

Thanks, crazy man.

Bolivia 101

We have been out of Bolivia for approximately two weeks and I have now had a chance to process that which was Bolivia. Here are some tips to make travel through Bolivia a more enjoyable experience:

1. Be patient. About everything. Internet is slow. Don't buy from the first person you talk to. Even if that person is really smiley and has silver teeth. We didn't listen to this advice and we ended up spending an entire day sitting in a jeep in the hot and dusty plaza of a very small Bolivian village, waiting for a waterpump (or a 'bomba' in Spanish) for a 1989 jeep instead of going to hot springs and seeing flamingos.
Lesson learned.

2. Altitude sickness is no joke (have I mentioned this already?). Walk slow, don't eat too much, definitely don't drink too much. I heard, through the grapevine, hangovers are worse when there is less oxygen. Who knew?

3. Never go anywhere without tissue or TP and hand sanitizer. If you are lucky enough to find a bathroom there likely will not be TP or soap. Or running water, for that matter. Small change is also a good idea because you often have to pay for the pleasure of using these
bathrooms that are sometimes clean, but more often are a toilet without a seat.

4. Breathe through your mouth. Bolivia is an assault on most all of your senses, most notably your sense of smell. This skill definitely comes in handy in the aforementioned bathrooms, but
also is handy in the streets, and in the very stinky markets.

5. When someone tells you to take a plane because the road is 'feo' ('ugly' in Spanish), definitely listen. Particularly if that person is Bolivian. We didn't follow this advice either and spent one terrifying night on an old bus rambling down bumpy dirt roads through the mountains, driven by a man who may or may not have been drunk. We don't know for sure but it is extremely common in Bolivia. They also don't always have a driver's license. We flew the
next leg, and it was lovely. 49 minutes, instead of 20 hours. And, in that time they gave us a snack. We were clearly not in Canada.

6. Do NOT touch (or feed, or look at for too long...) dogs that are not on a leash with an owner that does not look sketchy. Unless, of course, you are interested in rabies.

7. If you are a fellow veggie, don't tell anyone unless you absolutely have to. It hurts the
heads (and hearts) of the people in this meat crazed continent. People just don't get it.

8. If you decide to eat at the market stalls, choose your vendor wisely. I would suggest you avoid eating from ones where they are picking things off each other's heads with tweezers. I have no idea what they are picking, but really, is knowing going to make it any better?
Didn't think so.

9. Try the soup! Bolivians make really good soup!

Come with an open mind and a sense of adventure (and these handy dandy tips!) and you are bound to have a wonderfully chaotic, colourful and exciting experience. Bolivia is a beautiful country.

Blame it on the a-a-a-altitude.

We have been in the 'highlands' (or 'Altiplano', for anyone who wants to get technical) of Chile, Bolivia and Peru on and off since the beginning of March. This means many things, including ascending (and descending) in large buses, of varying qualities, sometimes on roads that are not fit to be driven on (particularly on very large, sometimes very old, buses). It means cold mornings and evenings, and midday sunshine strong enough to burn your skin right off. It means very, very little oxygen. The result? Huffing and puffing from 'strenuous' activities. Such as walking up a flight of stairs, or putting on your (enormous and extremely heavy) backpack, or even just turning over too fast in your sleep. Racing heart in the middle of the night? Extremely pathetic. Prior to arriving in the altiplano, I had thought that alitutude sickness ('sorroche') was at the very least an over reaction, at the most some kind of urban legend.

I am sad to report I was wildly mistaken.

So far the worst day of this trip happened on a day after a few too many glasses of Bolivian's finest vino. At altitude. In La Paz, to be specific. I should have known that lack of oxygen would make for a far worse hangover, but I suppose I wasn't that concerned at the time, as I was too concerned with 'getting my dance on' at a crazy place, appropriately named 'Wild Rover'. Generally, one little hangover on six month vacation is no big deal. I mean, its not like I have to go to work. The problem was that we had booked a bus to Copacabana for the next afternoon at 2:00 pm, which required me to do the following: a) pack both backpacks (day pack AND my affectionately (and accurately) named large backpack ('Big Mama'), b) check out of our room (thankfully check out was not until 1 pm), c) drag my hurting self straight up hill with two backpacks that weigh considerably more than they have yet. At altitude. It was clearly some kind of cruel joke that while we were in La Paz J and I had fulfilled all our shopping needs. Because it is so cheap in La Paz, and because we are meeting friends from Canada in Lima, both J and I had stocked up on gifts and souvenirs to send home. We have enough llama sweaters (I believe here they are technically called 'alpaca') and beautiful textiles to last a lifetime. It was great fun (and only a little anxiety inducing. I am the world's worst barterer).  It was just terrible, terrible timing.

I don't care to recall the walk up to the bus station. I will just say that it was slow. Really slow. And after I arrived at the top (about six full minutes after J had arrived), I nearly took the enormous mirror off the side of  a bus. I wasn't joking when I said Big Mama was fuller than she had ever been. I was approximately four inches taller than I am used to being (with my backpack on, about 7 or 8 inches taller than I am sans Big Mama), and I wasn't aware my 'head' (or in this case, Big Mama's head), was capable of reaching the bus mirror. After getting myself settled on the bus, with only one near barfing incident, I began to feel well enough to eat my first meal of the day (pringles, obviously, which is clearly the breakfast of champions...and I wonder why I am rapidly expanding...) without being very worried there may be a bus/barf incident, which would be a problem, as there most definitely was no bathroom.

Unfortunately, when we arrived in Copacabana (but only after ascending many more meters) we discovered that the hotel we were staying at was at the top of the hill. I thought I might actually die. When crossing the road (so slowly I may as well have been going backwards) a car was approaching (which, in South America can very easily mean impending death) I actually thought for a minute, 'Just hit me. If you hit me I can probably stop walking up this hill'. Thankfully, the car did not hit me and we arrived at very lovely hotel (with a room on the top floor, of course), complete with comfy, clean beds, and a television. Television! That never happens, and was very, very appreciated. So, what started out as the worst day of our trip ended up not so bad. It doesn't take much to make me happy, I guess.

I know that some would blame it on the alcohol, but I, however, prefer to blame it on the altitude.
Excuse me. A-a-a-a-altitutde.

But you eat chicken, right?

J and I had the absolute pleasure of staying with a wonderful Bolivian family in Santa Cruz, Bolivia, for several days, which was such a nice break: our own room, clean bathroom, home cooked meals, drives in cars (not just cabs), informatin on a city from actual people, who live there (as opposed to a guide book) and just generally feeling taken care of, which was an excellent rejuvenation (the connection was that the younger son, who is my age, had been an exchange student with J's family in Germany approximately ten years ago).


The only major issue is that I am a veggie. Actually, perhaps 'major issue' is not really an accurate description, but it was definitely a frequent topic of conversation. I have been a veggie for almost four years, and I was pretty sure I had seen/heard pretty much all possible reactions and responses to this over the years; everything ranging from mild interest (or disinterest) to my dear Oma, who sweetly informed me that God had actually put animals on the earth for human consumption. That wasn't my understanding, but perhaps that's a story for another day.

Apparently, I had not heard everything yet. On our first night in Santa Cruz we were on our way out for dinner when Paul asked us where we wanted to go eat. J kindly explained to him that I am a veggie, which was met with absolute incredulity and some serious laughing on the part of Paul and his girlfriend. He explained to us that he had never met anyone who was a veggie before and that it just was not their culture. In an effort to accomodate my dietary needs, he very sweetly brought us to a food court type place and ordered for me a salad (which was actually covered with ham and chicken. Which I picked off, and he happily added to his hamburger). When we met the rest of the family (and neighbors and friends and maybe a few strangers, we were a bit of a spectacle) I was introduced first by my name and then it was explained that I am a vegetarian, and the new person would be told that I don't eat animals, isn't that crazy? The new person would usually ask 'no animals?'They would all laugh and shake their heads, chuckling to themselves, imagining a life without meat. And not being able to. Wondering why anyone would even attempt such a thing. Another family favourite was telling the story about the crazy Canadian vegetarian who ordered a chicken sandwhich, without the chicken and bacon! Can you believe it?

The family had a large BBQ for us during our stay there. When I say BBQ I do not mean of the North American variety. I mean more meat than you have ever seen in one place in your life. Including various forms of sausage and beef, as well as chicken hearts. Which were offered to me more times than I can count. I would always politely decline, and they would encourage me, assuring me that they are delicious, and they would be reminded by someone there that I don't eat meat. The offerer of the chicken hearts would then remember. Right, no animals. And then shake their head, again, chuckling to themselves.

Our last night there we were having a 'family dinner' at home, during which time both Paul and his mom told stories about how they told their coworkers that there is a girl staying with them right now who doesn't eat animals. Both said no one could believe it and that they had never heard such a thing. And again, with the laughter.

It really was one of my favourite experiences so far. I am nothing if not entertaining.....

Happy St Patty's Day, South America Style

Strictly speaking that would actually mean NOT celebrating at all, as St Patty's Day is not actually a big deal in Latin America (I can't imagine why not?). I imagine in the larger cities, particularly with a large tourist base (for example, Buenos Aires) and an Irish bar, likely had some sort of celebration, however, J and I found ourselves in tiny Cafayate, Argentina. Clearly neither one of us had any anything we had to do, we decided to honour St Patrick by renting bikes and bike to some wineries (which is pretty much the only way I likes to bike - when it involves wine!). By 12:30 pm we had drank approximately 3 or so glasses of vino and were feeling pretty good. In Cafayate, unlike in Mendoza, all the wineries are right IN the city (or at most ten minutes outside of the city) AND it was flat! All things I like. On the way to the second winery I was feeling a little bit deliriously happy, biking down a quiet country road, in the sunshine, surrounded by mountains, at 12:00 on a Thursday in Argentina(!). I couldn't stop myself from belting out a little 'the hills are alive' a la Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.

After our third winery we decided to make a stop at the town goat cheese factory, which was about three kms outside of the town centre. We were only .5 kms from the factory when my back bike tire busted and the wheel refused to turn. I dragged the bike the rest of the way to discover that the factory was closed. We stil are not sure if it was actually closed or if they were on 'siesta', which they take very, very seriously here. (We can't quite figure out business hours on this continent.) We turned around and took turns dragging the bike the 3 kms down a very dusty dirt road, while simultaneously getting eaten alive by mosquitos. But, even that couldn't ruin our lovely, lovely St Patty's Day. Admittedly, the goat cheese empanadas and vino MAY have taken the sting off....

Happy (Belated) St Patrick's Day, lovelies!

This land was made for you and me.

But mostly me. Okay, so not really, but seriously, a town with over 20 wineries in and around it, as well as a goat cheese factory must be at least a little bit made for me, no?

I suppose I should back up a little. The 'land' I am referring to is Cafayate, Argentina, a very small town in northwestern Argentina (about 200 kms south of Salta, which likely doesn't mean much to most of you...). Aside from the wineries and all the goat chesse there is an amazing place called Quebrada de Cafayate (Cafayate Canyon) on the way into Cafayate from Salta, which is what made our bus ride into Cafayate both extremely beautiful and slightly terrifying - there were large parts of the road that had been washed away as recently as two weeks prior because of too much rain. It did not help that J and I were sitting in the front seats on the top floor of the bus, where you can't really see how close you are to things (it often looked like we were going to drive directly over the cliffs).

We arrived (safely) in Cafayate and went to our hostel  (recommended by the lovely Laryssa, a Canadian we had met in Buenos Aires). It was everything she promised and came complete with a very helpful and friendly owner (it did not hurt that he was also extremely attractive). 'Mr. Hot Stuff' (as he will be known forevermore because we never actually got his name), took us on a tour of the canyon, which was beautiful and awe inspiring. One of the best things about local guides is that you can ask them questions and get real answers (and some insight) that is generally more accurate than the assumptions I make (you know what they say about assumptions...).

According to Mr. Hot Stuff tourism has been on the rise in Cafayate for the past ten years, which has been both good and bad for Cafayate and its people, as is often the case. There has been a large increase in jobs opportunities for people, as previously the only options were to work in the wineries. Jobs are obviously a positive impact, however, things have also become extremely expensive in Cafayate (land in particular), which makes it impossible for regular Cafayateños to purchase land. He said that they now say that Cafayate is not for Cafayateños, rather it is for the rich people.

Cafayate is extremely small and the pace of life is quite slow (the prime example of this was 'Norma', who ran the best and busiest (and yummiest!) empanada joint in Cafayate. She was not bothered in the least by how busy they were and she moved at the same pace and maintained the same surly facial expression). It was in Cafayate that I was really able to remind myself that yes, sometimes bad things happen in South America (to tourists and to South Americans), but this can be the case everywhere. I was reminded that there are many more similarities between people than there are differences, and was able to see the people there as they are - people working hard to make a living and provide for their families. It was nice to remember this and to see people as they are, people. Not just a potential assailant (which is sadly sometimes what happens after you have been victimized -whether it was four years ago or four weeks ago, I am not sure that residual fear ever completely goes away), and that is a very welcome change.

Thanks Cafayate (and Mr. Hot Stuff, of course).

Cyclist Extraordinaire, I am not.

I love the idea of cycling. For so many reasons. It is good for the environment, it is cheap, and it is excercise. All things I love. In theory. The problem is, in real life, no matter how I try to convince myself, I just don't like it. It is hard and it makes my knees hurt. To be fair, I would likely be better at it (and possibly enjoy it more...) if I did it more than three times every four years, but that is neither here nor there.

So, this weekend I find myself in a little place called San Pedro de Atacama, Chile. You know, the driest desert in the world. There are so many things to do there, one of which is go by moutain bike to the 'Devil's Canyon'. I thought, okay, I can do this. Even though my last South American bike experience was a bit of a disaster (I blame that completely on the vino and chocolate!), I thought I would give the bicycle another whirl. You know, give it a fair shake. It can't be that bad, right?

So, J and I rent these bikes from a small Chilean man who was running an internet cafe/heladeria (which basically means he sells ice cream)/and bike rental shop. Those things all match, right? So, after he gets all our information and money, we are off, equipped with a map, and of course a picnic lunch (we never leave home without a picnic lunch. Peanut butter and banana on a fresh roll? Yes, please!). The first part I was all impressed with myself. I am clearly not as a fast as J, but I am nearly right with her (which was not the case last time, when I could hardly see her). Things were mostly  flat, and the scenery was so beautiful, I almost forgot I don't like biking. We were the only people on the dirt roads, and we were IN. THE. DESERT. It was amazing. Or, it was amazing. Until things started going wrong. Very wrong. Vertical up a mountain wrong. Did I mention I don't like biking? This leg of the journey improved ten fold after only a minor meltdown resulting in J changing the gears on my bike for me, and I could almost enjoy things again. It really was like nothing I had ever seen before. And, the best thing about riding uphill? Eventually you get to go back down. The way down was awesome (and easy), though my forearms are a bit sore from braking the entire way down, and my bottom still hurts four days later. These bikes were definitely not equipped with gel seats or any kind of shocks. So, here we are, biking in the desert, I am feeling pretty good. Until we reach the river we have to cross to actually get to the Devil's Canyon. We have passed over tiny streams (I thought we were in the driest desert in the world, why is there so much water?!?!?!?) without incident (not even a muddy rear end), but this time J bikes through and her feet go right under water. As I have the benefit of learning from what I thought was her 'mistake', I figure that I will do the improved version. I decided I could avoid getting my feet wet by going really fast leading up to it, and then throw my legs up in the air, to avoid getting soaked. What I had not anticipated was that I needed to keep pedaling in order to get through the water. The result was me, falling off my bike, into the river. I was not terribly happy, but hey, I'm in Chile. How bad can it be? We continue on, get to the canyon (which is really cool), and then have our picnic (always my favourite part of things). After our picnic we turn around to go back to the town. We arrive back at the river and we decide to try something a little different. We decide this time one of us (and by 'one of us', I clearly mean J) will jump across the river, and the other will hand the bikes across, and then follow by jumping. She gets across, no problem, I hand the bikes over (mostly no problem), and then I take a running leap. And I land half in the river. Of course I do. My sneaker is again very, very wet. And now muddy.

The good thing is that we were in the desert. The sun in the desert is extremely strong. So, we arrived back at the hostel with two hours to spare before we had to meet to go on our sandboarding tour, and by the time we had to leave my sneakers were bone dry. Dusty as all get out, but dry as can be. Which is nice, because I am not sure I can imagine anything less comfortable than sandboarding down a giant sand dune with wet sneakers. As a side note, sandboarding is awesome, and soooo much fun. If you ever get a chance to do it, you totally should.

Professional sandboarder?

Maybe.

Cyclist extraordinaire?

Definitely not.

Muchas Gracias, Apple Genuises.

I would just like to take a little minute to send a HUGE shout out to Apple. I know, that is kinda lame, but I feel like I need to express how extremely pleased I am that I chose to bring my iPod touch, instead of a discman (as I did on my last trip...). And I am all about expressing gratitude.

Despite what they may say on 'The Big Bang Theory', I think the peeps at Apple are truly worthy of the title 'genius'. My podular has kept me company (and entertained) for countless hours on multiple bus trips, and I am so pleased with being able to listen to podcasts and even purchase new music if I so choose, which means we can get some of the songs we hear everywhere here (for example, the Brazilian tune 'Chora Me Liga'. It plays EVERYWHERE!). It has also allowed us to have internet at almost every hostel, because they all seem to have wifi (which is incredible to me, and so so different from four years ago, when no one would have had a cell phone with them, let alone a laptop!).

I just felt I needed to send a little gratitude to Apple. So thank you, Apple, for making those potentially brutual bus trips some of my favourite times (well, the gorgeous views help, but still).

Not that they need it.

Baby, you can drive my car.

During the past couple weeks in Chile I have noticed a lot of differences between the cars here and those in Argentina, particularly in Buenos Aires, where the cars were mostly very small. There were lots of Mitsubishis, Fiats, some Kias and, for some strange reason, lots of Jettas with very tinted windows. As I have previously mentioned, Buenos Aires traffic is crazy, and there are about 13 million people living there, so you can imagine they have a small parking situation on their hands. I would never want to drive there! In Chile, for some strange reason, we have noticed there are many more cars that you would see in North America: Fords, Toyotas, Chevrolets, and...wait for it....Mazdas! There also seem to be more mini vans (complete with car toppers) and pickup trucks, both of which we definitely never saw in Argentina. But what I notice most are the Mazda3s, which is making me miss Mr. Stanley. Not driving specifically (and definitely not paying to fill the gas tank), but perhaps just the freedom that accompanies having a vehicle.
Oh, I forgot to mention the plethora of small children (toddlers, really), sitting in the front seat (sometimes on the driver´s lap), or just roaming around the cars. Same cars as in North America, but apparently not exactly the same rules....

This ones for you, Stan. I sure hope grampy is taking good care of you.

Valpo. You should go.

Valparaiso, Chile, that is. It is just called Valpo by people here. You know, like me.
J and I spent about three days in Valparaiso, which is a UNESCO world heritage site. The entire city is built into a very steep hill, overlooking the ocean. When I say the hill is steep, I mean they have encorporated outdoor, public elevator-like devices (called 'ascensors' in Spanish), as part of their public transportation systems. These bad boys are OLD, but they seem to do the trick. All the houses are painted bright colours and there is graffiti everywhere. It was esthetically so interesting, and we loved it there.

I think our favourite part was the day we decided to go for a walk to this museum we weren't terribly interested in, and then decided that instead of actually going into the museum, we would take the public bus to the bus station so we could purchase our tickets to La Serena, Chile, which was our next destination. During our walk we had seen the bus we needed to get on pass numerous times, so we knew we were in the right place. As we were walking we had seen one go down off the main road, so we followed it and decided to wait at  one of the bus stops, which happened to be right under an open window in the house. We waited for about five minutes, until the man from the house came out and in very patient Spanish explained to that we were not actually waiting at the bus stop and that we would have to return to the street we had been walking down. We joined the several other Chilean women also waiting for the bus and boarded when it arrived. We paid our fares (which is always a bit tricky. I never seem to actually know what the fare is), but there were no more seats left. This was a bus, but really more like a large van with lots of seats. It was really the first bus that felt to me like we were in Latin America. Chile, Argentina and Uruguay are all quite developed and definitely have nothing on Guatemala in terms of their bus systems. No chicken buses here!

The bus driver took great joy at barrelling down the hill, taking corners at full speed, shaking up his cargo (read: us). I expelled more energy trying to prevent my bottm from banging into those sitting all around me than I had doing anything else that week. J and I could not stop smiling at the experience, and once we reached the city center, which was where the bus station was located, a Chilean man (who had offered us his seat earlier in the ride) leaned over, and in perfect English suggested that we may want to get off at the next stop and turn left. As we started to walk to the front of the bus we realized that the driver was also looking up to tell us that this is where we wanted to go.

Chileans are so helpful. Valparaiso is lovely. You really should go.

The 'Sassy Princess'....

We arrived in Santiago on Friday (February 25) in the afternoon, after a seven hour bus ride through the Andes! It was amazing. So incredibly beautiful, I almost couldn't believe it.

Well, the parts I saw were beautiful.

I have always had a wee problem with staying awake in moving buses (first year university I had an extra two hours of sleep every day, on account of the bus commute...), and unfortunately after not going bed until extremely late two nights in a row before we left Mendoza did not bode well for me. I am pretty sure that I saw the most important parts of it. It was definitely a slow, uncomfortable ride, mostly because we were squished in a small mini bus/van, instead of the big fancy buses, but the beautiful mountains more than made up for it.

When we crossed the border into Chile we had to go through both Argentine and Chilean customs, which is pretty standard. What is not standard, however, is the process we had to go through to get our luggage into the county. As in Canada, upon entering Chile you have to fill out a form for customs, declaring whether or not you have any fruits or vegetables, and a long list of other products. We did not have anything that was specifically on the list, though we had found peanut butter in Iguazu (which is a little bit like gold here), and I was really not interested in losing it. Anyways, after returning from the bathroom there were three bags that the customs officers were looking at, and of course two of them were ours. I am not really sure if they were trying to intimidate us, they selected our bags randomly, or if they were just thinking our giant backpacks were a bit ridiculous and they wanted to have some fun with us. They made J actually open her bag, and start pulling things out (better hers than mine! She has one big pocket with a zipper, and her bag isn't stuffed. Mine is two separate pockets and is always stuffed to the brim. One wrong movement and it is all over, and I would almost have to start from scratch all over again). After asking us seventeen times if we had dried fruit (I was concerned that one might have gotten in there, making a liar out of me, I was eating a lot of raisins the previous week). They eventually got bored of us, they sent our bags through the scanners a bunch of times, and I blurted out every food I could think of stuffed in my bag, including the beloved peanut butter, the olives from our lovely tour (I also did not want to part with them, but I wanted to go to a Chilean jail much less...because that is clearly what happens when you incorrectly declare things??), and packets of jam stolen from random hostel breakfasts. Apparently none of that was offensive to Chile, so we were in the clear, and we were allowed to enter their beautiful country.

Thank goodness.

We arrived in Santiago, and by the time we got all our stuff off the bus and figured out the exchange rate (only after I had paid the equivalent of about $7 Canadian in bank fees to withdraw $8000 Chilean pesos. Approximately $16 Canadian. I always have a period of extreme confusion when the currency changes...), and found a taxi, we were both so ready to get to the hostel. We had booked one online out of the guide book, so we gave the address and we arrrive at what is definitely NOT a hostel. We are told by the woman at the address, and various people on the street (who were extremely eager to help us) that the hostel that had been there is no longer in existence. The kind taxi driver took us to another hostel in the neighbourhood. They were booked but they were nice enough to contact another hostel in the neighourhood for us and gave us directions to walk there. We arrived at a large purple monstrosity, with no sign on the front and were feeling slightly apprehensive. The old man who was washing cars on the street assured us that this was the hostel.We were greeted at the door by a Chilean dude who was also extremely helpful, and gave us all kinds of tips. He informed us the hostel is called the 'Princesa Insolente', which in English means the 'Sassy Princess'. He also gave us his business card which identified his name, and title, which was 'Latin Lover Host'.

Oh dear.

The best thing was that we soon figured out that this is actually the hostel we had made the reservation with, it was just a new name and address because the old one had suffered extensive damage in the earthquake last year, it had relocated and opened with a new name. So, we didn't lose our deposit, and now we are staying in the world's most beautiful hostel. No jokes. Everything is pink and purple and animal print with some Asian inspired decorations. I pretty much want whoever is responsible for this to come and decorate the home I don't have....

The best thing about it is the kitchen. They have every appliance you could ever want, including a blender, sandwhich maker, toaster, and probably others I can't remember. Tonight for dinner I made a peanut butter banana wrap and then put it in the sandwhich maker. If you have never done this before, stop reading right now and go do it.

DO. IT.

It is so delicious, it was all I could do not to eat eight of them. The kitchen also has a stock of oil and all kinds of spices for us to use. This NEVER happens at hostels. What usually happens is that we buy oil, and then people steal it. Its awesome.

Oh, and I almost forgot about the beds. Which are like real, at home beds. With duvets! I have had a nap every day we are here. For two reasons, one, I think I am getting sick, and two, because it is a delight. The last hostel we stayed at I was scared to touch the beds, so this is a welcome change.

I know traveling isn't supposed to be about where you stay, but sometimes, that is what makes the difference (well, that and the people you meet, of course). It has provided us with a place that felt temporarily like home, which was welcome because the last two hostels we stayed at bombed (anyone headed to Iguazu Falls do not stay at Marco Polo Inn, and those headed for Mendoza, avoid Mendoza Inn). Two nights ago there was a 'tequila night' here, which was quite fun, and ended in debauchery (for some, but not for us). There was even a professional CFL football player here (which we were able to confirm...). It was all a bit crazy.

Anyways, that was terribly disjointed. I was feeling a bit like I needed to gush a litte. We are leaving Santiago tomorrow to go to Valparaiso, a beach town two hours north of Santiago, and I am feeling a little sad. Yeah, I liked Santiago (for real, its beautiful, and clean and the mountains are RIGHT THERE all the time, and today we went on another vineyard tour), but I am most sad to leave the nice kitchen and the comfy bed. But, if I was that concerned about comfy beds and well stocked kitchens, I could have stayed in Canada for a lot cheaper.
Over and out. Valparaiso, get ready. We hear the hostel we are staying at has delicious homemade brown bread and goat cheese for breakfast, so we are really excited about that.

Its the small things, really.

Olives, Bread, Wine and Chocolate? I'm going to have to think about that....

 We spent a glorious few days in Mendoza which involved wandering around the city (which is adorable, and much more chill than Buenos Aires), operation bed bug extermination (cooking all of our belongings in black garbage bags in the very hot Mendoza sun), and washing all of our cloth belongings. Most importantly while we were in Mendoza, we took a public bus to outside the city where we rented bikes from 'Mr. Hugo', who sends you on your way with a bike and a map.

We first went to a wine museum and then to a place where they harvest olives (for oil and consumption), make chocolate, and various liquers. We did a tour/tasting there, which was all kinds of fabulous. Seriously. Shots of liquer at 11:00 am? Yes, please! Various forms of olives (oil, paste, whole, etc), chased by seventeen different kinds of homemade, flavoured chocolate, at 11:10 am? Pretty please! (There was a whole lot of apologizing to my dairy intolerant body...). We then got back on our bikes (which was much more difficult after said bread, olives, alcohol and chocolate), and took the trek to a small family vineyard. There was a lot of construction in the little town we were in so the riding was not always smooth. We did another tour at a beautiful vineyard, learned about wine and did a tasting. While we were eating lunch there, it downpoured. It stopped just in time for us to leave, but only after it had seriously soaked the dirt roads we had just biked. Thankfully the ride back seemed much shorter (perhaps on account of all the wine?), however, it was SO muddy. It was really just funny, mostly because our bikes had fenders on them, unlike the other travellers who were biking by us, who had rented from another company (seriously, you see your options, one of them is 'Mr. Hugo', how do you choose anyone else?), and they had no fenders. No fenders, and terribly muddy toushies. We did get really muddy legs and feet, but it was mostly just funny. When we brought our bikes back to Mr. Hugo, Mrs. Hugo was there to greet us with a glass of red wine in a tiny plastic cup.

We hopped back onto the bus to get back to the city, like regular Mendocinos (I think that is what they are called...). During the ride back a woman became enraged with the bus driver, and they engaged in a yelling match for about ten minutes. It was entertaining, though we weren't always sure what was being said. J is certain she heard her tell the driver that his head is 'full of shit'.

It was a pretty great day.

So, thank you, Mendoza, for confirming my love of bread, wine, olives and chocolate. And the Spanish language. Oh, and reggae music. So, so much loveliness.

I was in need of a little reminder.

Muchas gracias.

Let the 'real' traveling begin.

This past week has taken us to Uruguay (Colonia and Montevideo), back to Buenos Aires, up to Iguazu Falls via a 20 hour bus ride (the falls are as beautiful as you would hope), then on a 38 hour bus ride to Mendoza, Argentina (wine country!).
We had a (traumatizing!) run in with bed bugs (if you've never seen them, trust me, you don't want to) in Montevideo, spent a few days on the beach, experienced Argentine immigration services (and I don't mean at the border), went back to our favorite pizza place in BA for one last Napolitana pizza (and attempt for one last chance encounter with the World's most beautiful waiter), we said good bye to friends, experienced the jungle humidity, and again, experienced the joy of getting off a bus after 38 hours. 
It was all an experience, but one of my most favourite things happened the day before we left our hostel in Buenos Aires for the last time. On my way back to the hostel after picking up my (clean! :) laundry, I ran into the woman who was our cleaning woman for the first four weeks of our stay. The same woman who taught me how to properly flush an Argentine toilet (which I will add, perhaps unnecessarily, is an important skill!). She had many kind words for me (most of which involved having a good time on the rest of our trip, being safe, but make sure that we think about her, and have a good time for her, because she will still be here, working. She stated that if we come back, to come and see her). All this was lovely, but the loveliest was
when she asked me to do her a favour, asking that if I ever get the chance to meet Alanis
Morissette that I tell her that she has a fan in Buenos Aires, Argentina. That would have been adorable enough, but she then began singing (in a beautiful voice), the lyrics to 'hand in my pocket'. It was all so unexpected, adorable, and at the same time, touching that I quickly assured her that of course I would do that for her, should I ever cross paths with Alanis.

This one's for you, Luisa.

I'm broke but I'm happy
I'm poor but I'm kind
I'm short but I'm healthy, yeah.
I'm high but I'm grounded
I'm sane but I'm overwhelmed
I'm lost but I'm hopeful baby
What it all comes down to
Is that everything's gonna be fine fine fine.

Consider her told. 

Just Call Me Butterfingers

Four. Yep, four. That is the number of things I have either completely destroyed, or at least partially destroyed, by dropping them (often repeatedly), since arriving on the continent.


First, there was the balsamic vinegar incident, which was definitely the most public, most embarassing, messy, and mattered least.

Second there was the double whammy converter/ipod charger drop, which has likely had the most negative impact. The bathroom floors here are extremely hard, and in order to charge things you have to plug in your adaptor (which we purchased from a street  vendor, because the one we brought from Canada was incorrect), then your converter, and then whatever it is you are trying to charge/use. At the best of times this combo doesn't work very well. The hair dryer will either work not at all, or will decide to quit for apparently unknown reasons (it sometimes gets extremely hot). While charging my ipod the ipod itself gets quite 'prickly' and does a little vibrate. It is always a good idea not to touch the ipod while it is charging. I could handle all of this, until that fateful day, when I dropped the converter/charger combo right on the very hard bathroom ground. The converter is a bit cracked, but can be very easily pushed back together (we aren't sure how well it is doing its job anyways), the real problem is the ipod charger. I knew for sometime that it was on the downhill spiral, because I could see cracks in it. This week, the unthinkable happened. At first pieces of plastic were merely falling off it. Then one of the prongs fell off, but were easily put back together. I reconstructed it and Jo attempted to charge her ipod, which involved some sparking, and no charging.

As a result, I am off wandering around Buenos Aires, in search of an ipod charger. Not what I was hoping to do on this beautiful day. I would prefer to wander with no destination....just kidding.

Number four is my headlamp (which has proved to be so, so useful). Of course, I dropped it, several times. One of the plastic pieces holding it to the headband snapped right off. Never fear, it still works, it is just better as a necklace now.

Alright, return to my search. Anyone know the word for 'charger' in Spanish? Just kidding. Cargador.

Over and out.

Ciao (for now!) Buenos Aires!

We made it safely to Montevideo, Uruguay (by way of a ferry to Colonia, Uruguay, for a short visit to the adorable colonial town, and then a 2 hour bus ride to Montevideo).
Though there are definitely things I will not miss about the city (that is perhaps a post for another time), there are more things I will miss. First of all, if for no reason other than convenience and comfort, I will miss having essentially everything available to us (including goat cheese!). I will miss the chaos (but perhaps not trying to walk through the crowds constantly), it's beautiful old buildings,it's (very recent, extremely sad and fascinating) history, the fact that the dogs there all seemed to have owners, as opposed to many other large(and small) Latin American cities. I would like to thank Buenos Aires for being HOT in January, for having a subte system that is cheap, efficient and simple (and very hot), but most of all,I would like to thank Buenos Aires for allowing me to feel, for just a little while, like I was a little part of that big, beautiful city.

Muchas Gracias, Buenos Aires.

Walking Contradiction

In Buenos Aires it is not uncommon for people to begin eating supper (even on a week night) until 10 pm. People do not go out to the clubs (or boliches) until at least 2 am (but the music doesn't get good until after 4 am - or so we are told) and things are notoriously late, schedules are merely a suggestion. Service here is a different game than elsewhere in North America, and in order to maintain your sanity it is necessary to adjust your standards accordingly. It is not uncommon to go to the ticket counter (or any counter, for that matter...), ask for something, the vendor looks at you, hears your order and then continues (or begins) a conversation with their coworker. About related things. Like their relationship, television, how hot it is. I sometimes would wonder if they heard me in the first place, but I have since realized that is just how it is. People do things when they are ready, and not a minute earlier. People get to things when they get to them. It's cool, man. No rush.

And here is the only exception.

Crossing the street.

Yes. Let me explain a little something here. Traffic in this city is no joking matter. The streets are often one way and it is not uncommon for there to be six lanes of traffic (in the downtown core!). However, this does not seem to phase porteños (the people of Buenos Aires), who will dart across the street halfway, waiting for the busses barrelling down the street full speed, to pass, before continuing quickly across the road to - what? I'm not sure. From what I can tell they just continue walking at a regular (read: slow) pace. It is all a bit confusing.

So, what I have decided is this: they are a people eager to hurry up, in order to continue to move slow.

I don't get it.

Pops and Tots Mullets

During my many (many, many, many) hours spent working at Canadian Tire (I know, who doesn't love a little 'when I worked at Canadian Tire' story...) I noticed a strange phenonmenon. Often, when dudes have mullets, AND children, often times the little dude has a mullet to match his dad's. Generally the results border on child abuse (that will be my number one project when I return to work...), but that is a discussion for another time.

Since we have been here I have been able to confirm that this phenonmenon is not restricted to Canada (or Dartmouth, for that matter). I would also like to state that the mullets I have seen here are far more serious than those seen in Dartmouth. Theses often involve curls, or, as seen yesterday in the park, the extremely long mullet. I must say my favourite is the curly mullet.

This has nothing to with father/son hairstyles, but there is also a very strong presence of 'rat tails' in men (boys and teenagers as well). They come in different shapes and sizes (braided, covered in thread or dreadlocked, or perhaps specific to Buenos Aires, the multiple rat tail...). They are not always at the very back and bottom of the hairline either. We also saw one of the street vendors selling old dreadlocks. You know. Someone else's dead and (extremely) dirty hair. I think it is for cases of 'rat tail envy'.

Its all a bit overwhelming.

The cleanest smelly people in all the land

I have mentioned several times about various roommates we have had. Since Silent Bob and Fabio we have had many roommates, including several random Brazilian girls who only actually slept there during the daylight hours, two Chinese women for one night, a Japanese dude, and the Australian dude, and the random, rotating Brazilian dude.
For the past week we have been sharing our four bed dorm room with two of the cleanest smelly people I have ever met. They came to us after the two Spanish speaking (and we are certain English speaking, but they never let on!)girls left. We weren't sad to see them go as there was a bit of an unspoken war over the air conditioner (the crazy girls, who were sleeping on the boiling hot top bunks) would continuously turn the air off. I don't know how they didn't melt, and I mean that. They also always tried to steal the bathroom, even though they had nothing to do/nowhere to go, and we obviously had Spanish school!
We have been living with these two young Brazilian girls. They are quite sweet, or at least we thought so at first. Our first red flag came during their first night here, when after one of then had a shower and hung up her towel the room was overcome with an overwhelming stink of body odour (otherwiswe known as BO). On the first day of their seven day vacation! I would completely ubderstand if they had been traveling for weeks or months, or had been riding the bus for five straight days (that is how the Australian guy came to us, stinky as they come, straight after five days of busing from Bolivia. But we forgave him.)
Anyways, it's a stink that won't quit and we can't quite figure out particularly what it is, because the skinny one, who we are pretty sure is the number one culprit, has, on average three showers per day. It's all a bit mind boggling.
Anyways, that was overly negative, so I'll end with a positive note. I am thankful for hot showers (I had one this morning after two days of cold showers, and it was lovely. Even I though there was no shower curtain. We haven't quite figured out what has happened to our curtain (it just diapeared one day!) but we have mentioned it repeatedly, with no response. Who knows.
Welcome to Latin America!Things are good in this sweet, sweet continent. And, since I wrote that post about four days ago, we have moved rooms and have two lovely American dudes as roomies (sadly, only until tomorrow! The normal ones always leave so quickly!). Things are delightful, and we even have a shower curtain again!
So many things to be thankful for!

Soccer. South America style.

On our 'South America Bucket List' one of the most important things was to see a soccer (sorry, football!) game. We were sad to learn before leaving that there is actually no football in Buenos Aires in January, because it is summer and they don't generally play in January. We were so excited to find an opportunity to travel to Mar del Plata (a place on the coast of Argentina, approximately 400 kms south of BA), leaving on a bus at 6 am Saturday morning, spend the afternoon at the beach and then travel to the stadium for a 10 pm kick off, to watch River Plate (the Mar del Plata team) play Boca (which is the team from a neighbourhood in Buenos Aires), and the  leave from the game for almost 5 hour trip back to Buenos Aires.

Friday night we had already planned on going out for dinner and then dancing so we decided to go out anyways (like the true Porteñas we are!). We went out dancing, returned to the hostel a little after 5 am, had showers, grabbed our already packed bags and walked to the bus stop. I was able to sleep the whole way and felt somewhat rested when we arrived at the beach. It wasn't too much to look at, but it was HOT and the water was cool. We learned our lesson when we walked from our towels down to test the water and had to break into a sprint on the sand because it was so extremely hot. I am surprised we don't have blistered feet. The water was much colder than I had expected, but it was nice and refreshing. We spent the day with a group of primarily Brazilian (of course!) dudes, an Irish guy, a Colombian dude, and a lovely girl from England. We went to the beach before the Brazilians arrived, because they went to eat first. We were shocked to discover that nearly everyone of them (in all shapes and sizes and ages!) were wearing SPEEDOS!!!!!! I couldn't believe my eyes and could hardly stop myself from bursting into hysterical laughter.

After the swimming and lounging we went to eat a quick dinner and then returned to the bus. Everyone was drinking beer in the streets, and people had already began chanting the cheers of the various teams. We had traveled with two buses, one for the River side (which is where we sat), and the other for Boca. Someone had brought a whistle to add to the atmosphere. We were quite the spectacle for the people who lived on the street.

We finally loaded back onto the buses to make the trek to the stadium. On the way there our friend, James, an older Irish dude was given a polo shirt and told to put it on because he had been wearing a Brazil jersey, which would not fly in the River section, as the Boca colours are blue and yellow! We had been given a list of instructions with general directions like, don't getlost, and if you do, go back to the bus, don't flash your camera around outside of the stadium because it could be dangerous, and the most important, do not EVER cheer for the other team. THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH. Seriously? I still can't really wrap my head around this.

As we drove up to the stadium we passed hordes of peple, many selling various wares on the street, loads of other buses, some filled with Argentines, others with tourists. One of the most prominent things we saw were the police, everywhere! On horses, with riot gear, complete with large sheilds and huge weapons.

The stands were packed, and the whole time there was chanting and jumping. Lots of jumping. The sections behind the nets were reserved for the 'hooligans' (though I am not certain that is actually what that means in English), there were many, many flags and banners, and the River team had their own percussion band that played drums throughout the match. There was fire works and confetti. River lost 2-0, but the last twenty minutes of the match were possibly the most intense I have ever experienced at any sporting event. The energy in that stadium was fabulous. South Americans totally know how to do football justice!

After the game we left (in a giant, giant crowd, moving as one being), and returned to bus, driving back to the city. We got home at about 6:30, had showers and went back to bed. It was a fabulous, fabulous day!

I love this place.

Spanish School Week 2: Complete. Or: My Brain Hurts

Today we finished week two of Spanish school, and I must admit, I feel a little bewildered. Learning another language is the most difficult thing I have ever tried to do. I cannot believe the sheer volume of information necesary to converse and understand how to communicate with others. There is no feeling more frustrating than not being able to accurately express how you are feeling, because you do not have the words (I sometimes wonder if I feel this more intensely than others, based entirely on my tendency to speak constantly and express how I am feeling in English?). We have been meeting people from all over the world, many of whom speak English, in addition to their home language, and often times additional languages (ie Spanish or Portugese). This experience has made me feel ashamed on more than one occasion to be a Canadian who does not (even remotely) speak French, when we live in a bilingual country (people ask all the time if we speak French). I don't know if the difference is in the school system in Canada versus other countries, or a sense that because we speak English, we don't need to speak additional languages. Regardless, this week I have a new appreciation for those who makethe effort to learn additional languages. Because it is hard. Really hard.

My brain hurts.

Is recycling fake?

We are staying at a very lovely hostel, with an enormous common room, couches, free internet (wireless even! I can access it from my ipod!), and a kitchen. In an attempt to save some money, eat a little healthier, and to prevent me from dying of starvation (in most Latin American countries vegetarianism is not really practiced very often, let alone understood. In Argentina things are even more extreme, as beef is so very central to their culture. Each Sunday families gather to have a very large bbq ('asado') with all kinds of beef. Cows are no joke here. My only option in most restaurants is salad, which is much less exciting here than in Canada.) we have been eating at the hostel and cooking for ourselves. I was so pleased and impressed that there is an entire recylcing station here, with separate sections for cardboard, organics and glass and cans. I couldn't stop thinking about how forward thinking this was, as my previous experience with sanitation systems and garbage collection in Latin America has not been pretty. In many places it is still acceptable to throw your garbage over your shoulder and out the window on the bus.

Imagine my disappointment last night when I was finishing chopping veggies when one of the woman who cleans here asked if I was done with the choppings and was ready to get rid of it, as she was emptying the garbage can. I politely declined and told her that I would put it in the organics bin. She told me not to worry, and that they all go to the same place!!!!! Aggghh! The nerve! I was brought back to my Dal days when I realized that they too had the 'recycling station', involving three sections, there were only two garbage bags to catch everything. It makes me wonder, does recycling actually exist anywhere, or is it just something devised to make us feel like we are doing something good?