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.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
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.....
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, March 25, 2011
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).
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).
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, March 14, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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.
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.
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