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?).
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
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....
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
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.
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.....
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.....
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