Torres del Paine

Hello Friends!

I'm writing this entry from American soil again, and unfortunately my keyboard doesn't have all the cool punctuations like upside-down exclamation points and question marks. Hopefully it doesn't loose too much Chilean flavor. Like the last, this entry is composed of journal entries written by yours truly during the second of two backpacking trips in Patagonia. We hiked the "W" through Parque Nacional Torres del Paine for three nights and four days. It was an experience completely opposite the first trek as the park is an international destination for trekkers. We spoke almost no Spanish; instead we spoke English and heard French, German, Japanese, Hebrew, and more. Enjoy.

There is no entry for day 5 because it was spent in un-noteworthy fashion in Punta Arenas prepping for the trek and hanging out with Eduardo, the owner of the hostel. Come to think of it, I did meet a cool British couple last night--we watched the MTV European Music Awards. The commentary from the Brits was hilarious. I also met a German family with 2 kids aged 14 and 12 who were taking an entire year off school to travel the world. I was really impressed. Apparently the kids were both going to skip a year of school, and instead of moving up a class they're simply going to travel for a year and return to school with the same class.

Day 6 (Day 1 Torres del Paine)

Today began adn the ungodly hour of 6am because the direct bus to TDP left at 7:00 am. We somehow managed to make the bus on time, and it was one of those wierd chilean-bus-comes- to-this-random- corner-at-said-time-instances where you're never sure if you're in the right spot. Jeff and I wandered around looking confused for a few minutes until a couple older guys tipped us off that we were, in fact, in the correct location. We caught the bus ($10.000 pesos = $20 USD) and were on our way. The buses here are almost always way too hot, and there is no way to open a window or cool off. Hence, we arrived at the park 5 hours later sweaty and very ready to be on our way. Once again, the first part of the hike was rough. Jeff and I both agreed that our packs weighed about 15 lbs more than they did on the Dientes loop--probably because we brought a little extra food: 5 chorizo instead of 2, two bulging bags of cocoa, one bulging back of powdered milk, 2 entire onions instead of 1, and 6 bags of spaghetti sauce instead of 4. We resolved to eat a big dinner tonight. The "W" is the most popular route through the park because it takes the trekker to all the most spectacular sights in the park: the Torres themselves, Los Cuernos (the horns) and Glacier Grey. It is designed as a 4 night loop--the trekker hikes during the day to the base of a valley where he/she sets up camp, and then visits each attraction as a day hike. Because we didn't want to pay the 3.500 peso fee to camp, Jeff and I made the decision to hike up another 3 hours (according to the map) to the free camping. This made for a much more difficult hike, and 2 hard hours of hiking later we pitched our tent for free at "Campamento Torres."

Upon arrival we were asked to translate a letter for some german guy who didn't speak a lick of Spanish. His tent had been broken into and he wanted a letter notarized by the park rangers saying what had been stolen so that he could collect his insurance money. We translated the letter no problem. After setting up camp we hiked up 45 minutes to the Torres. They are very impressive, although I've seen them so many times in photos that I feel like I've already been here. We stayed for about 30 minutes and snapped photos then headed down. Dinner was spaghetti again and we'll be having that 2x more this week. Determined to shed weight from our packs we made a ton, and I am stuffed. It's now 10:15 and we're both in bed, ready to sleep. I'm tired and we have a big day tomorrow.

Day 7 (Day 2 TDP)

We slept through the alarm again today and therefore didn't set of till about 10 am. It was a long day of hiking. We left the campsite below the Torres and headed for Los Cuernos. All told I'm sure we did 20-25 km today, most of it with full packs. Almost all day we followed the shoreline of the icy blue glacial Lake Nordenskjold. It is really quite beautiful. At one point we ran into a frantic wife and her tour guide who seemed to have lost a 2 meter tall 40 year-old man named Miguel , a feat I found impressive on the clearly marked trail. He had only been lost some 15 minutes, but these two were going crazy! The woman was crying ad the guide was risking his life peering over a cliff to see if Miguel had fallen. At one point he asked Jeff and I to form a chain and support him as he leaned over the edge. Finally Jeff and I left to notify the rangers, and I don't know what became of it in the end. I think that Miguel had for some reason turned around and headed back to the campsite, and I'm sure he was just fine.

At "Campamento Los Cuernos" we set up camp, had some hot chocolate and headed up the trail to view the cuernos. It was raining so we couldn't see the cuernos very well, but on the opposite side of the valley we could see the Glacier Frances. The glacier(s) cling to the mountainside in impressive fashion. Every few minutes, a big chunk falls off. First you see a cascade of snow and ice that looks like a waterfall. Next, a boom that sounds like a prolonged clap of thunder reaches your ears. It is an incredible spectacle. The hike, although wet and uneventful, was splendid. Jeff turned around after an hour or so because his knee was hurting and I hiked alone for a bit. It was good to be alone, the rain and hour of day made me the only person on the trail. I'm tired, so that's all for now.

Day 8 (Day 3 TDP)

Today was really fun. We headed out of "Campamento Italiano" and toward Glacier Grey. I'm sure we did 25 km again today to reach "Campamento Las Guardas." There aren't as many people here, and the majority that are are hiking the circuit, a longer 7 day trek that goes through the entirety of the park. It rained hard today for about an hour, and I got soaked, but I dried out when we stopped to eat lunch at the refugio at the base of the valley. We ran into Jeff's parents at lunch because they're doing the W in the opposite direction, and Jeff has plans to meet up with them afterwards to go on a cruise. The funniest moment all day was when Jeff's dad dropped trow (aka deck change, changing into shorts from pants) in public. Jeff looked over at just the right moment and saw his dad in his underwear. His facial expression belied perfectly his train of thought: recognition, disbelief, and finally embarrassment. It was priceless.

We parted ways with his folks and headed up the valley toward the glacier. At the last refugio before the campsite, I bought a coke with the intention of pouring it over glacial ice. Unfortunately the campsite sits a solid 100 meters above the glacier (although on the map they're practically on the same contour line) and I wound up just drinking a $2.00 coke. The glacier is spectacular and the spectrum of color is unbelievable: everything from white to dark blue. I sat for a long while and watched in silence. It's so massive, steady and impressive, and it seems to stretch on forever. Actually it kind of does, because the glacier joins up with the Patagonian ice cap that covers hundreds of square miles. It was very quiet, watching the glacier, with not a breath of wind. At times it was possible to hear the slow creaking as it pushed it's way imperceptibly downwards into the lake.

Just before I got into the tent to write this entry we talked to a group of 2 Americans and 4 Israelis. The Israelis were fresh out of the army and they were a riot. They also brought an ipod with speakers, and as I lay in the tent I can hear "How many roads" by Bob Dylan. One Israeli has been dubbed "the donkey" by his friends because he reminds them of the donkey from Shrek, and the comparison isn't that far off. Tomorrow we're considering tagging a 7 hour dayhike up to a viewpoint onto our 5 hour descent to the refugio, but somehow I don't think we'll be capable of waking up at 5:30 to accomplish it.

Day 9 (Day 4 TDP)

Not suprisingly, we didn't roll out of bed until 11 o'clock. I thought it was raining again this morning, but it was just those stupid bugs pattering about between the rain fly and tent. It's the second morning I've slept in because I thought it was raining. Anyway, it was a wise decision not to hike more because we are both exhausted and rather worse for the wear. I think we would have died trying to climb the pass. We hiked back to the refugio where we ate lunch with Jeff's parents yesterday, and then paid $11.ooo pesos to take the boat back out of the park. The fare was pricey, but they did give out free hot chocolate. We ran into the Israelis again at the refugio--they're hilarious. We also met two Spaniards on the boat named Pablo and Miguel.

I should mention that we are paying 2.000 pesos per night for the hostel in Natales, which is far and away the best price in Chile (that's 4 dollars a night). The hostel was a recommendation of the Israelis and it is full of them. The joint is called "Maria Jose" and the sign out front is in English and Hebrew. We were starving when we came back so we went for pizza at "La Mesita Grande" which came higly recommended. It was nice, and it really was a "mesita grande;" everyone in the restaurant sat at the same long table.

ya me voy
Andrius

Isla de Navarino

¡Hola Amigos!

When I got off the plane in Punta Arenas on the 25th of November, I really had no clear idea of what I was going to do. I had considered hiking the seven day circuit through Torres del Paine, or visiting Parque Nacional Los Glaciares, a segment of the Argentinian side of Patagonia, but other than those options I had no other plans. With a total of seventeen days to kill in the southern wilds, I was looking for another option. I picked up my backpack from the baggage claim, and walked out into the terminal. One thing I have learned during my travels is that at the information booth of most airports there is a small, free publication written for tourists (always in English) with very good advice. It's usually kind of like a small guidebook; for example, in Buenos Aires there was an article entitled "What to do with only Seven Days in Buenos Aires". The airport in Punta Arenas was no exception. As I sat in the transfer shuttle waiting to go to the hostel, I began to peruse a publication called "Blacksheep". Immediately, an article called "Dientes Circuit Review" by J. Williams caught my eye. The article goes on to describe what is billed as "the southernmost trekking experience in the world". It is well written; here's a sample.

For 53 km the route winds through an other-worldly landscape of mountains broken from the floor of the ocean, where the Andes crumble into the antarctic plate, where tenuous passes from one valley to the next defy truly staggering winds and where spartan vegetation clings to a precarious existence between the punishing climate and the persistent manipulations of the introduced beaver. For the serious trekker, the five day Dientes Circuit is a chance to experience a unique terrain at what is literally the last scrap of land before the legendary Cape Horn and Antarctic sea. And while the route offers many worthy experiences, like awesome vistas that stretch as fas as the Cape Horn straits, it is also impressive for what it lacks, like crowded trails, clearly defined paths and over-crowded refugios. In fact, there are no refugios on the route. There is no entrance fee to pay, trekkers are only required to check in with the Carabineros in Puerto Williams.

I simply had to go. The following are journal entries written by yours truly during the trip. They have been edited slightly for content and grammar, but stand largely un-altered to give you, dear reader, a first hand look at the end of the world.

Day 1 (Monday, 27th November): Getting There

Today was very hectic. This morning, Jeff and I didn't even know if the flight to Puerto Williams, the only town on "La Isla de Navarino", left at 7 am or 9 pm, let alone whether there were seats available. Thankfully we went food shopping last night so we were prepared to set of on any excursion with a duration of 5 days or fewer. We called the airline, DAP, at 7am this morning and asked about flight info. We were told to come down to the office, "al tiro" (right away). Once there, we talked with a very friendly gentleman who did everything in his power to find a feasible manner for us to have 4 days on the island. We tried every combination of flight dates that we could think of. Finally, we reserved a flight down and were put on the waiting list for the return flight. "Come back at three" he said, "and we'll have your answer". At this point we had given up on the 4 day trip and were simply trying to squeeze in 2 days here or there. We moped around for the day, and went back at 3. I'll never know if it was sheer luck or a gift from God, but when we went back he told us that our original flight dates, our "ideal plan" if you will, were available. We were ecstatic! He said to return to the office at 6 pm that same night to catch the shuttle to the airport. With these flight dates we would have four full days on the island and fly back at 9 pm on Friday, the 1st of December. The next few hours were a mad dash for last minute supplies and preparations, but we made the airport on time.

When we arrived at the airport, the check-in attendant asked if we had any explosives or flammable items in our baggage. We looked at our backpacks which contained no less than 1.5 liters of white gas, looked at each other, looked at her, and said "nope." It had been a battle to buy white gas in the relatively large city of Punta Arenas, and it would be nearly impossible to do so in Puerto Williams, pop. 2500. We were sweating the whole flight down, hoping they wouldn't confiscate our fuel bottles, or worse yet, arrest us as we walked off the plane. However, the scenery on the flight down was so spectacular that we forgot our worries. We saw jutting peaks plunging into the sea covered by glaciers crawling in a frozen cascade into the ocean, bright blue glacial lakes, and an endless range of peaks off into the distance.

When we stepped off the plane onto the tarmac, the first thing I noticed was the air. It was as if I had never breathed before--the air was so fresh and clean that I stood motionless for several minutes just pulling it into my lungs. It was the perfect mix of mountains and sea; I was standing in the mountains, next to the ocean. We took a shuttle into town, checked in with the Carabineros, and not wanting to pay for a room, used the last hour of daylight (sunset was at 10:40 and it's only November) to hike to the trailhead and camp. We heated up our chicken sandwiches on the fire, and as I lie in my warm sleeping bag with a full belly, listening to the sound of a waterfall in the distance, I am content.

Day 2 (Tuesday, 28th November):

Right now I'm sitting in my tent with a very comforting bag of Lemonheads in a very uncomfortable position for writing. I'm trying to figure out why I've decided to journal in the first place--I've never done it before--and have concluded that my excess of time, sensory overload, and the need to talk with someone have driven me to write. It's raining outside, and has been since 1 o'clock, although it was snow when we were hiking higher up. We got a late start today, and didn't leave camp until about noon. When we started hiking it was one of the hardest climbs of my life. I was dying. To make matters worse, Jeff hikes like the hounds of hell are chasing him up the hill. I don't know how he does it...I know for a fact he's been just as slothful this semester as I have, but it doesn't seem to have caught up with him in the same way. Anyhow, I think my saving grace were the trekking poles I bought at Sanchez y Sanchez in the "Zona Franca" in Punta Arenas. I paid 4600 pesos for each one and they were worth every one. Anyway this hill was killing me. No switchbacks, steep, slippery and really boring. After a little more than an hour, I reached tree-line where I ran into the British couple we met on the flight yesterday. They first informed me that they were lost (subsequently inferring that I too was lost) and then pointed me in the direction of the trail. They said Jeff had passed by some minutes ago and was now climbing the hill above. I broke through the last of the trees and stopped, agape, at the spectacular panorama spreading away beneath me. I could see the ocean, Puerto Williams, and the mountains of Tierra del Fuego. Wow. Suddenly I felt like I could fly up the mountain, and I did just that. I reached the top of the hill in no time, and caught up with Jeff.

The middle part of the hike was easy--just cruising on the tundra--however the route (not path, there was no path) began to follow the tree line along the side of a very steep mountainside which consisted mostly of loose scree. Occasional patches of snow were a relief to walk on, but they were few and far between. After about an hour, I was fairly sure we were lost. Both what I had seen earlier on the map, and the description of the trail I had in my pocket, led me to believe that the trail was supposed to drop down to a lake. Problem was, Jeff had the map and he was out of earshot and sight of me. When I finally caught sight of him, he pointed up the mountain indicating that we should climb, not knowing that the trail was below us. Unable to straighten his account, I knew I had to climb to meet him--it would be a bad idea to separate now. After a frustrating half-hour climb I had gained hardly any elevation and I was still unable to communicate with Jeff. As if to emphasize the desperation of my situation, it began to snow. At this point I was worried the visibility would drop to a few meters or less which would be a major problem on a slope where every step loosed scree. Also, a total lack of visibility would simply worsen the situation of being lost and separated. On top of everything, I was exhausted. I should mention that at this point I was mad as hell at Jeff for walking so far ahead and not waiting--I would never have done that, I said. To calm myself, I took a knee and organized my thoughts. "No good panicking" I told myself. I happened to glance below and saw three specks: the British couple and Jeff. He must have seen the trail from above and descended. Now at least a 30 minute descent from the others, and really mad at Jeff, I headed down.

When I reached Jeff, the first thing I gave him was a sizeable piece of my mind. I said something along the lines of "I didn't hike this alone for a reason, and it does us a fat lot of good when you have the map, I have the compass, and we're lost half a mile apart!" He apologized immediately, but I was still furious. To sooth my temper, I plopped on the ground and ate my sandwich. Afterwards, I gave him a whistle and told him that if he ever walked that far ahead again I would really let him have it. He put the whistle in his pocket instead of around his neck (if you wonder how that made me feel you have never backpacked with me), apologized again, and explained that sometimes he simply got in a rhythm and forgot to look behind. Still mad, I spat a caustic glob of sarcasm in his general direction and turned to walk. The rest of the day was uneventful--we arrived, made camp, and I made a half-hearted attempt at fishing; I was too tired to give it a real go.

Dinner, however, was really fun. We made spaghetti with onion, garlic, green pepper, and chorizo sausage, and it was excellent! Afterwards, we had hot chocolate spiked with a dark green peppermint schnapps resembles mouthwash in color, taste, appearance and smell--but is was a nice touch nonetheless. I remembered, drinking the hot cocoa, that it's my 21st birthday today. Amazing to think that took until almost 10 o´clock for that realization to hit me. Jeff said "shoot man, I guess you're going to have to kill the rest of that schnapps!" I think we understand each other better now, and hopefully the rest of the trip (all 10 days) goes more smoothly. Tomorrow will be long, we've got 15.6 km and a peak to summit if we want to hit a lake with fish in it. Should be no problem because my legs felt pretty good today, and it stays light until about 10:30pm, but we'll have to get an early start anyway. I have had "I want it that way" by the Backstreet Boys stuck in my head all day, and I can't wait to fall asleep and get it out! It's making me crazy. With that, goodnight!

Day 3 (Wednesday, 29th November):

Today was one of the most incredible days of my life. One of the longest, to be sure, but amazing all the same. We woke up at a reasonable 8 o'clock and headed out my 9.00. We knew it would be a long, hard day--15.6 km with 2 ascents and 2 descents. We headed out of the campsite and hiked up above timberline. The British couple buggered out; we saw them heading back when we were leaving camp. Above timberline the landscape was all rocks and snow; there was no vegetation whatsoever. The rock formations, however, were substantially more interesting than most plants I've seen. Because no one has stepped all over them, they have very cool patterns and juttings-out. I took photos of several. We continued climbing upwards toward the Dientes Pass marked by SNUPIE #15 following a fairly decent trail of cairns. SNUPIE is a French system of trail markings--there are 30-odd SNUPIES on the circuit and one follows the blazes from SNUPIE to SNUPIE. After several hours of hiking, we reached a high saddle marked by a huge cairn with a number on it. "SNUPIE 15," we thought. At this point we made 2 mistakes. Mistake A: neither of us looked to see if the number on the cairn was actually 15 and not some other number. Mistake B: I ignored my compass. I should mention that the compass is a little questionable in the first place. It has a tendency of sticking and one is never quite sure which way it's trying to point--factors that made me predisposed to doubt it. Anyway, the directions said to head down the valley to the South, staying to the left of the lakes. My compass showed the lakes to be exactly north of us. Oh well, I thought, either the compass is broken or the magnetism of the poles has reversed and the whole modern world is currently in a state of chaos not seen since Y2K (sarcastic chuckle). All we knew was that we were supposed to hike down a valley to the left of a lake, and that's what we did.

We took off down a field of snow and walked across several avalanche-prone slopes to get down to the lake. When we got there, we couldn't find SNUPIE #16. We walked around for about 1 hour climbing high points, comparing topography on the map, and reading hiking instructions. Everything seemed to fit, but we couldn't find the SNUPIE. Jeff kept saying "we hit snupie 15 and came down, where else could we be?"I wasn't so sure, and that phrase "where else could we be" didn't sit well with me at all. While I'm here, let me add a small sidenote. This saddle above the valley was the windiest place I've ever been. About once every two minutes a blast of wind strong enough to knock you off your feet would come by and, well, knock you over. Having a 45lb pack certainly didn't help things either. I'm not kidding or exaggerating--I had to kneel or crouch repeatedly to avoid being thrown to the ground. It was especially brutal trying to look at a map, and being lost we were doing a good deal of that. The wind was so strong that one could lean back at about a 45 degree angle, as if lying on a large poofy mattress of air. Lost in this wind tunnel, I had the presence of mind to do two things. First I checked my compass, and second I asked Jeff if he actually saw the number 15, not just any number but the number 15 on the last snupie we had seen. By doing both of these things I deduced, correctly, that we had dropped down too early and the lake we were standing by was not in fact the lake we thought it was. The cairn we had seen was snupie 14, not 15. Suddenly everything made sense, and we were able to regain our trail after only a 30 minute walk across the ridge. "From now on", I said, "If we get mad at the trailblazers for lack of cairns, it probably means we're lost." The feeling of accomplishment was really incredible. I had kept cool, made a series of deductions, thought logically, not listened to Jeff, and seen my way through the problem. Although we lost almost 2 hours, we were on our way. We "lunched" at the now-famous snupie #16 and continued on our way.

Over the next 7 hours of hiking the scenery changed drastically several times. First scenery change: old wood forest and spectacular views of the mountain range we had just left behind. The start of the next leg took us upwards toward the peak of a mountain I forgot the name of, and the hike up indicated another change of scenery. The entire peak was a massive pile of shale--each rock between the size of a computer mouse and a remote control. There were a few rocks the size of watermelons, but they were sparse. Climbing was very hard. My legs were already quite spent from the first climb, and the shale was rough on the feet. Not to mention the lack of motivation...who wants to summit a massive pile of garden rock? As we climbed, however, the view became increasingly interesting. We could now see almost the entire Dientes range spreading behind us. Finally, beat and sore we reached the top. The view was really spectacular. On one side were the Dientes in their toothy glory and on the other side we could see Cabo de Hornos (Cape Horn). It was breathtaking. After some quick photos we began to descend a narrow spine covered in shale--to the left a large snow cornice and to the right a steep rocky slope. Eventually we followed the snow on the left down to a shallow lake below.

Scenery change: huge plateau of shale. This part of the hike really felt like the end of the world. We walked for at least 3 km on nothing but rock. It was like walking through xeriscape for a solid hour.

Scenery change: old gnarled forest grove--little underbrush. Very quiet and peaceful feel, and the low lying trees blocked almost all the wind. 30 minutes.

Scenery change: damp thick mossy forest descent. The trail down was incredibly steep, slippery, and incredibly un-ending. My knees were hurting something fierce, and we decided to make ibuprofen stew for dinner. To make matters worse, both Jeff and I fell numerous times due to the wet leaves on mud. The abundance of greenery and plant life was incredible, but the forest had a spooky feel because of the noticable lack of animal life. The only sound was the wind in the trees above and athe occasional bird chirp. 1 hr 15 minutes.

Scenery change: Peat bog. Never-ending peat bog, which was endless and without end. I guess more accurately I should say that the end was always visible but never attainable--like chasing some sort of mirage in the desert. At times we hopped from tuffet to tuffet on firm little green plants. Other times it was like a maze, and one would have to backtrack several meters to find a passable route. We were both very tired with very sore feet and finally, after more than an hour, we reached the woods and the cabin. The cabin was constructed by the Chilean navy in the 60's and refurbished sometime in the 90's. It's a typical, run-down affair with holes in the ceiling and floor, but it had a wood stove and meant that we wouldn't have to set up the tent. We were all for it. The boards were all hand-made, and the floor was so uneven that you needed your "sea legs" to walk properly. There were also various knicknacks left from previous inhabitants, and joy! a fishing net. We started a fire to dry our wet clothes and finally got to take off our boots. At this point it was about 7:30 and I was as tired as I've been in my life. But, I was simply dying to fish so I dragged my weary behind to the lake. Too tired to cast, I threw on a nymph rig with indicator (fancy way to bobber fish) and sat down. Nothing. Soon fish began to rise, so I threw on a big dry. Still nothing. In spite of the lack of fish, the setting couldn't have been more beautiful. The lake was calm--not a breath of air--the fish were rising and the sun was setting over the mountains. Jeff and I were the only people for miles and miles, and it was the sort of moment that only happens several times in a lifetime. I still wasn't catching fish, though, and my backcast was blocked by trees. Finally I got fed up, took off my pants, put on my crocs, tied on a big gnarly cool-looking streamer that mom and dad sent me and waded out into the lake in my shorts. Right away I nailed a big bow. In 30 minutes I caught two big fish and numerous small ones, some of varieties I didn't recognize. The moment was made. I believe the proper word would be "serene." It was a moment to top all moments, and a perfect end to a perfect day. As far as I'm concerned, that place is paradise, and although I will most likely never see it again, I will be able to go there anytime I like.

Day 4 (Thursday, 30 November):

Today was hard. It began on the floor of the cabin where we slept because the beds were really gross. Of course, we woke up late. I had intended to fish but the rain pattering on the roof (and subsequently on my face) had taken the wind out of my sails, not to mention the fact that we were completely bushed from yesterday. We cooked breakfast on the stove and turned our backs on paradaise at 1:00pm. We hiked all day--first through the never ending bog and later following the river up the valley. It was very pretty, very soggy, and relatively exhausting. The descent down from the pass was the worst though...I fell 2x in the mud while descending into the campsite. We finally made camp at 9:30pm, and I am exhausted! Blisters, soreness, chafing... you name it I've got it. Phyisically and mileagewise, this is the hardest trip I've done. Dinner, as usual was the saving grace. We did the red sauce with onions, garlic, green pepper, and chorizo, but this time with tortellini. We also had a fire, which was wonderful. That said, I'm going to sleep.

Day 5 (Friday, 31 November)

Today we awoke late (there's a shocker) but since our flight didn't leave until 9 pm we had plenty of time to get out. We hiked about 3 hours to the road, mostly through marshes and bogs. My feet were sloshing around in my wet boots because I stepped in a stream this morning trying fo find focks for a fire ring. (The only rocks available were in the streambed.) The fire pit turned out really swell, though, so I guess it was worthwhile. We found our way into town, let the carabineros know we were back safely, and headed to the plaza to recoup. We took off our wet stuff, found a restaurant and ordered ourselves some papas fritas. We also talked to a guy who runs a quasi-guiding service on the island, and he told me about some fishing holes where 4 kilo trout were the average. I wanted to cry--we had walked right past several of them yesterday, unknowing. I thought hard about changing my flight and staying longer, but it was impossible to manage. We walked the 4 kilometers to the airport (when was the last time you went straight from a backpacking trip and got on a plane) and took the tiny 20-seater home. We're heading off for Torres del Paine the day after tomorrow, so we'll have one day of rest at the Hostal Independencia (thank God), and then it's off on another crazy adventure.

If I don't get them up before then, the photos from this segment will be shown Sunday night the 17th of December. I'm doing a little talk about my experience abroad and my patagonian adventure. Anyone is welcome to come, simply send me an email and I'll get you more specific details about time and place (stumped405@comcast.net). Hope all is well at home!

ya me voy, Andrius

Pingüinos

¡Hola Amigos!

Today is Saturday, the 2nd of December, and Jeff and I just returned from the southernmost tip of the world: Tierra del Fuego. We did a 4 day trek through "La Isla Navarino" and it was absolutely fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that I'm not going to write a blog about it now. To do the thing justice I am going to wait until I return to the states to post the blog. Because I know you're all hungry for more entries (hah) here's a little one to tide you over.

I arrived in Punta Arenas the night of the 25th, and checked into the "Hostal Independencia" which had been recommended to my by some friends who came down several weeks ago. It is by far the best hostal in which I have stayed in all my time in South America. The owner, Eduardo, is a riot. He's easy to understand, friendly, hospitable, and a wealth of information. I basically spent the first 24 hours picking his brain and pelting him with questions, yet he never got tired of me. On his advice, we took a short tour Sunday evening to a penguin colony about an hour away. By "we", I mean Jeff, Adam and myself. Adam arrived the same day as Jeff and me by coincidence...he had plans to take buses from Punta Arenas to Valparaíso. As usual, the photos tell the best story.

This penguin in particular was very curious; he got close enough at one point that I could have reached out and smacked him upside the head. I didn't of course, but it gives a good idea of the proximity. I sat down to take a better photo, and between the sound of the camera and the "seated" position this guy had to come see what was up. No one else got as close to a penguin while standing, so I think sitting was the ticket.

Penguin assassin--in this pic it looks like he's plotting to "beak-stab" me.

Here's the main colony. We were not allowed to walk through here, there was only a viewpoint.

Please don't eat the wildlife.

ya me voy,

Andrius

P.S. You can always click on the photos to make them bigger...Hope all is well at home.

¡Por fin!

¡Hola Amigos!

Kelsey posted her entry...scroll down to read it!

ya me voy, Andrius

Plans

¡Hola amigos!

This Monday marks the last week classes for me at the U, and I will be completely done with school by Thursday. My plans for after the semester are as follows. Saturday the 25th I fly south to the town of Punta Arenas, in the far south of Chilean Patagonia. It is very close to the southernmost part of the world: Tierra del Fuego. I will be traveling with Jeff, a friend from my program, and during our two and a half weeks in the far south we plan do do a serious amount of trekking. As of now our tentative plans are to hike the Circuit through Parque Nacional Torres del Paine which is a six or seven day loop around the park. From all accounts, the park contains some of the most stunning and beautiful landscape in the world. Any google search for "Torres del Paine" will turn up good photos and websites for those who would like to know more. After that we will head northeast into Argentina and do another loop through "Parque Nacional Los Glaciares" which is also said to be stunning. Time depending we may have time to see some other sights as well, but this being South America one can never be too sure. On the 12th of December I fly back to Valparaíso for a quick 3 day goodbye and then I fly to the good old US of A on an overnight flight that leaves the 15th. I will arrive in Colorado on the morning of the 16th.

That said, blog entries from may become a little bit more scarce. When I have access to a computer I will certainly try to post at least a short update on our progress. However, a large blog complete with photos of the trip south may not appear until December, at which point I can promise the most extravagant entry yet.

Don't tune out completely though because at some point Kelsey will post her entry (when she does post it, it will appear somewhere between the entry of "Buenos Freaking Aires" and "Valle del Elqui", I believe). Also see the recent addition of "Gringos in Pucón".

I wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving and a for those of you in school, a strong finish in your classes. The next time we'll talk it will be from the southernmost part of the world, and until then:

ya me voy,
Andrius.

Gringos en Pucón

¡Hola Amigos!

Last weekend ISA took the last excursion as an entire program, and it was by far the best one yet. We left Thursday night on a tour bus rented exclusively by ISA. I can't quite express how much more interesting a long bus ride is when everyone on the bus is a good friend of everyone else on the bus. Activities ranged from football to soccer to singing Simon and Garfunkel, Jack Johnson, Counting Crows, CCR, Dave Matthews, Van Morrison, etc. accompanied by an instrument called the chorango (it is comparable to a ukelele although it's origin is South American, not Hawaiian). It was a riot.

Friday was occupied by a tour of the sights around Pucón, whose location in the Lake District of Chile made most of the sights water-related; we saw three waterfalls, a lake, and a hot springs. I think this time I'll let the photos do the talking.

Here's the bus we spent the weekend in. We took a day-long tour in it, we rode it up a horrendous dirt road to the volcano, and we took it ziplining on Sunday. Basically we spent a lot of time getting really cozy with each other. This is the same design as the bus we took to the first soccer game in Santiago (I believe I had a rather colorful description of the seating arrangement in that blog, and here's the living proof). This puppy seats 25.

This waterfall is called "Salto el China" and plunges urgently downwards a whopping 73 meters before turning into a tranquil mountain stream again. I needed a wide-angle lens to fit the whole thing in the shot--as it is the spray of the water hitting the pool at the bottom isn't even visible. From my best estimate, and by best estimate I mean the closest I can come to a real estimate without multiplying anything by -9.8m/s^2, it took the water 4 seconds to fall from the top. In other words this shot falls woefully short of giving the proper perspective of the size of this thing. (Try counting one-onethousand two-onethousand three-onethousand four-onethousand in your head and it'll give a better idea.)

The coolest part of the trip was climbing the volcano, Villarica. It is the most active volcano in South America and shoots up to a height of 2,983 meters. Here's the crew in the tourist agency, suiting up. We got the whole setup--ice axe, gators, pants, jacket, helmet, crampons, boots and a diaper-looking thing for glissading (that's the fancy word for sliding down a mountain/glacier/snow covered slope on your fanny). From left to right is Jessica, David, Will, Alex, Ole (center), Hal, Danny, Aubrey, Kelly, Adam and Anne.

Hal, Luke, and I. When you're carrying an ice axe up a volcano, you don't smile for photos. Villarica. I thought the cloud formation over the top was really cool, and I'm hoping someone with more meteorological knowledge than myself can tell me what the name of it is.

The crew climbing up Villarrica. In the background of the photo, a large lake is visible. The town of Pucón sits on the right hand shore of the lake. In case you're noticing a trend, it is difficult to capture a normal photo of Adam; see above photo of the rental shop.

Victory! Me, at the top. It's hard to see, but this shot is of the crater of the volcano. The top was so windy and cold that we only stayed for about 5 minutes--it was practically unbearable. It was one of those situations where the wind could practically support your body weight. What's more, the odor coming from the crater was absolutely horrendous. To take this photo I had to hold my breath. If you want to get an idea of the foulness of the smell, take the strongest salt and vinegar chip you can find, place it on your tongue and inhale. When done properly this will make you cough. Multiply it by twenty and you have "arôme de volcan". I managed to get close enough to the crater to get a shot of the lava, but it didn't turn out very well very because of all the smoke. This was the last photo I took before my camera died, so fishing and ziplining in the rain on Sunday are photographically undocumented. All in all the trip was a blast and it was fun to get the group together one last time before we leave. Hope all is well at home.

ya me voy, Andrius

Huevón.

¡Hola Amigos!

Although I do not believe it to be in bad taste, the subject matter of this particular entry lends itself to being a little more crass than usual. Peruse at your own risk.

Due to my tendency of long-windedness, this starts with a story. Last Tuesday I took a three day trip to Mendoza, Argentina, a town located opposite Santiago on the Eastern side of the Andes. Not having found any friends to accompany me, I decided to travel alone. The trip was relatively uneventful and doesn't really merit a blog in and of itself, but there was one event in particular that sparked my creativity.

The highway to Mendoza is the same that we took on our trip to Portillo (see archives) and is one of the most intense mountain passes I have ever been on: what's more I did it in a tour bus. Midway on the journey one also has to stop to pass through customs and immigration. Between the twisty bumpy road and the 2 o'clock disembarkation in the freezing cold Chilean Andes, sleeping is more difficult than the typical night bus. When I arrived at 5:30 am Wednesday morning in Mendoza, I wanted nothing more than to crash for a couple hours. I went to the hostel and checked into the only room available: a ten-bed dormitory. I went straight to my bunk and laid down. Finally, I would be able to rest.

I was right at the fringe of consciousness when into the room walked seven guys, all about my age. The very first words I heard one of them say were "¡Oye huevón, otro huevón ya está!" ("Hey huevón, there's already another huevón here!). The minute he opened his mouth I knew two things: my roommates were all Chilean, and I wasn't going to get any sleep. Huevón is one of Chile's many modisms (slang), and is so unique that it practically defies translation. Even after three months in this country I am unable to use the word as the Chileans do. I will do my best to define it.

Huevón originates from the word "huevos"; a word that means both "eggs" and "balls" (testicles). It's origin thus being decidedly masculine, the term is generally applied to men, although it's usage among women (and in reference to women) is not uncommon. Due to the verbal sloth of the Chilean population, the pronunciation has been distorted over the years; hence when spoken it sounds something like "wheon" (pronounce it like English and you'll get the idea).

"Huevón" has several meanings. Primarily it is used among friends the way Americans use "dude", "man", "guy", or "buddy." For example, "¿oye huevón, que pasa?" could translate as "hey dude, what's up?" or "what's happening man?" However huevón can also be used as an insult. A close approximation in American English would be "jerk". "¡Vete de mi casa huevon!" might translate as "get out of my house, jerk!" In terms of usage and versatility, the closest English equivalent to "huevón" is a very vulgar four letter work that rhymes with the small black disc used to play ice hockey. Those familiar with the colloquial usage of this word will know that it too can be used as an insult, greeting, and exclamation among other things. Huevón, however, is different. It is not a word you would be afraid to use in front of your mother, for example.

The sheer frequency with which "huevón" is used is actually quite comical. I mean, if I had just one elephant for every time I've heard the word "huevón", I would have a whopping large pile of elephants. Here's an example we were given in my grammar class that illustrates the point well. (Yes, we had a 1.5 hour grammar class on the sole topic of swears, curses, vulgar expressions and the like. The whole class assumed that the professor had just used the curses to grab our interest, and we kept waiting for the tie-in to some infinitesimal grammatical nuance. We were wrong--an hour and a half later, the only things that had changed were that the room was painted blue and we were able to tell people exactly what we thought of them...in Spanish.) Ok, back to the example. Three Chileans are in a Chilean bar (this could only happen in Chile). Friends A and B are seated at the table, and friend C just went to buy another round of beers. Since friends A and B have each purchased a round already, friend C is buying the third and is subsequently a little loaded. As he winds his way back to the table holding three bottles, he fails to notice that there is a small step up in the floor. He trips, and the only reaction his dulled reflexes can come up with is to open his hands to prevent the ever painful nose-bashing-floor-boo boo. In the process all three beers fall and shatter on the ground. At this point, friend A leans over to friend B and says:

"Oye, el huevón huevón, huevón."

Let me explain. The first "huevón" refers to friend C. The second "huevón" refers to his screw-up, and can be treated as a verb: "to huevón". The third "huevón" refers to friend B, to whom the oration is voiced. Thus is "huevón". It can be shouted at a TV during a soccer match, hollered out a car window to a friend, screamed out a car window in a fit of rage, crammed into a sentence so full of "huevones" that you didn't think another would fit, and used to greet a long-time friend or someone you just met. And that doesn't even scratch the surface. At the same time "huevón" means everything, and means nothing. Even in Argentina I was unable to escape it, and you know what they say: "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Ya me voy, huevónes.

Andrius

By tHe WAy

¡Hola Amigos!

Remember the photo I posted earlier of the Andes from the top of La Campana? I mentioned that there was one peak that shoots up above the rest. I learned a few days ago that that peak is Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America at a hight of 6959m (22,831 feet). Really tall, in other words.

ya me voy
Andrius

Club Atletico Boca Juniors

¡Hola Amigos!

One Sunday evening in Argentina, I witnessed probably the most impressive sporting spectacle that I will ever see: a Boca Juniors game. We had a little trouble figuring out what time the game was. You've all been in the situation where everyone you ask gives you a different time; we had start times ranging from 4:00pm until 9:00pm. We were starting to get desperate when we walked by a noisy sports bar in some back alley. I popped in and asked the first gent I saw if he knew the proper time. He did, ("it's at six-thirty and you'd better get there quickly if you want tickets!"), so we dumped our stuff at the hostal and jumped on a bus for the stadium. There had been some heated debate between the two of us about which bus to take, and weren't a hundred percent sure that in the end we had taken the correct one, but the minute we boarded our worries were allayed. I'd say that 50-60 percent of the people on the bus were wearing some form of Boca Juniors apparel, and there was barely standing room. We and everyone else got off at La Boca, and because we didn't know where to go, we followed three teenagers wearing jerseys to the ticket line. I didn't bring my camera to the game because although La Boca is touristy during the day, it is a rather dangerous neighborhood after dark. To illustrate my point, when we were walking to the ticket line I watched as a man taped the passenger window of a sedan, turned around and used his butt to break the glass, then reached in and tore out the stereo. The whole thing took about 30 seconds. We reached the ticket line (heavily supervised by the police), and bought our tickets. I can't remember if they were seven dollars or seven pesos, but the price was irrellevant. The spectacle was worth the price of the plane ticket.

The home stadium of the Boca Juniors, the Bombonera, resides in La Boca, Buenos Aires. The stadium was built in May of 1940 and seats 57,400. It is very large, very imposing, and very concrete (i'm not speaking figuratively here--it's constructed almost entirely of reinforced concrete). We entered the staduim at about quarter till 6, and were subjected to the most thorough pat-down of our lives. I think a pat-down equally thorough in the states would generate a number of harassment suits. Not that I'm complaining; to the contrary I was quite glad for the security. We entered the concrete behemoth and headed up the steps to our seats. We had intentionally purchased tickets in the "popular" section (general seating) because we figured it would be more interesting. Boy were we right.

The stadium has three main levels that span three sides of the stadium. On the fourth side are the box seats. As in most stadiums, the upper levels overhang the lower ones. The popular section is located on one end of the field behind the goal, middle level. We walked around for a while trying to find a place to sit, and eventually worked our way to a seat. What I really mean by this is that we peered over a railing into a pit of blue and yellow for about 10 minutes, then pushed and shoved our way down through the masses to a vacant patch of concrete the size of a large book. In the popular section there are neither seats, nor aisles (that's not entirely true, there are aisles but they are virtually indistinguishable from the seats and therefore are completely disregarded and used as extra seating). Scattered intermittently throughout are large yellow railings that run horizontal to the stairs. (They´re not vertical like a railing you would expect to border an aisle; more like one that would separate the walkway at the top from the seats--you know, the one you lean on when you eat your hot dog at the ball game.) More on the railings later. Anyway, we sat and waited for the game to start.

As we sat I looked across the length of the field to the section wearing red apparel: the "away" section. It is located on the second deck of the opposite end of the field from the "popular" section, and the location is not coincidental. Surrounding the visitors seating are ten-foot high walls topped with a 5 foot steel fence with sharp points, and above that circular razor and barbed wire. During the game the section was surrounded by about 20-30 police officers in full riot gear. Clearly, there have been some incidents in the past. After the game the visitors were let go immediately, and the "popular" section was released about 20 minutes later...the last seating section allowed out of the stadium.

At about 6:10, the majority of the popular section got to it's feet and began to sing. Things didn't really get going though until 6:20, when the already high energy stadium was infused with the heart-hammering vibrations of a 7-8 man bass drum core. Standing and singing had been a mere suggestion until this point, but once the heavy thudding of the straight-eighth bass drum beats began it suddenly became mandatory. Four guys stood up on the railing in front of Luke and I. To keep balanced, they grabbed hold of a huge banner that ran over the tops of the railings from top to bottom of the popular section. Led by the brave (or crazy) folks on the railing, the whole section began to sing. Keep in mind that this started 10 minutes before the players had even come onto the field. Anyway, I'm up to my neck in this sea of blue and yellow. Standing on a railing in front of me are at least 4 crazed porteños (a porteño is a resident of Buenos Aires), and there are so many bloody banners everywhere I can hardly see. I'd estimate that at any given moment, I could see about 60% of the field. There was no scoreboard, and if there was an announcer, I couldn't hear him. Clearly this experience would not be about watching the game. In fact, one kid in front of me didn't watch a single minute of the game. He stood the whole time with his back to the field singing at the top of his lungs and waving his arms.

So back to these songs. Each song is led by the bass drums, and each is sung for an average of 7-10 minutes. Usually by the time we changed songs I had caught on to about 90% of the lyrics. Now I need to be clear with this; we're not talking about some wussy C-H-I, L-E, ¡Viva Chile! chants. From ten minutes before the players came onto the field until fifteen minutes after the game had ended the entire popular section was on its feet, singing at the top of its lungs. The volume never diminished. Nobody sat down. It was ridiculous. At one point, there seemed to be a bit of a ruckus to my right. I thought maybe a fight had broken out or something, so I asked the girl next to me what was going on. Her reply? "They're not singing." We both cracked up. (Luke thought this girl was just about the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his whole life. Problem was he was standing directly behind me and directly next to her thug-looking boyfriend. Sorry Luke.)

What really got me were the lyrics of the songs. This one was popular, and illustrates my point well (I didn't remember all these lyrics, nor did I catch 100% of them when they were sung by thousands of rowdy Argentinian soccer fans. I looked them up online.)

Boca mi buen amigo esta campaña (Boca my good friend to this campaign)
volveremos a estar contigo, (we will return to be with you)
te alentaremos de corazón, (we will encourage your heart)
esta es tu hinchada que te quiere ver campeón (this is your fans that want to see you champion)
no me importa lo que digan, (it doesn't matter to me what they say)
lo que digan los demás, (what the others say)
yo te sigo a todos partes y cada vez te quiero más. (I follow you everywhere and every time I love you more.)

The translation on that is not perfect, but I think it captures the gist---these are some diehard fans we're dealing with. Most songs begin with the declaration that the singer is in fact a Boca fan. Following is a series of statements that about the never-ending support of said fan, the committment to the team, the unimportance of winning versus losing, and the promise to follow the team wherever it will go. Usually there is also a statement about how inevitable it is that the team will win; my favorite says something along the lines of "if you play with huevos (balls) you can't lose". At the end is another statement of undying love/undying support/etc. I'm not sure if its a conincidence or not that the Boca Juniors play every SUNDAY.

Also while I'm here I'd like to make the point that I didn't see a single drunk fan the entire game. I have witnessed all too many times the drunken crowd dynamic that comes with college football, and this experience was absolutely the opposite. These fans didn't need a BAC that resembles Shaq's free throw percentage to get excited about their team; all they needed was a Sunday afternoon and a bass drum core. Case in point: one of the guys on the railing in front of me looked like the type of bloke that has probably beaten someone senseless with a blunt metal object, or at the very least been present when the act was committed. He was about 24, very well-built and wearing a white wifebeater. He had three prominent scars on his face: one above his left eye, another on his cheek, and a gigantic chunk missing from his chin. I never saw him smile, and the look of ferocity in his eyes never really left. Nevertheless, he was completely sober and he stayed on that railing for 90 minutes of play, shouting at the top of his lungs and encouraging his fellow fans. I really wish I had his photo, but I don't really think I would have been comfortable asking this bloke to pose for a picture.

By far the most impressive Boca fan was the 50 year old guy about 8 rows behind us. He had fashioned a rope to support himself on the railing (instead of using the ever-popular banners). He would alternately whistle loudly (the really deafening finger-in-mouth-whistle) the melodies of all the songs and sing. Why does he win most impressive? When was the last time you saw a 50 year old man with ONE LEG standing on a railing supported by nothing more than a rope for 90 minutes? I bet never.

Anyway, Boca Juniors won 3-1, although I'm not absolutely sure on the score. Like I said, it didn't really matter. Between the people on the railings and the huge banners blocking the field, I could only see about 60 percent of what was happening. I grabbed some photos from the internet to give a general idea of what a spectacle these games are. Enjoy.

This shot of the "popular" section gives a pretty good perspective because you can see the guys standing on the railings. We were sitting right smack in the middle of this section.

Popular section once again. When we went, instead of flying the flag from the top level to the bottom, it was simply used to cover all of the middle section. Luke and I were underneath it with a bunch of sweaty Argentinians for about 4 minutes. It was a riot.

Popular section, again. The banners from the third deck down to the secondblock quite a bit of the view.

Looking at this photo you might be able to figure out why it was that we were only able to find seats on the second deck, middle. All the absolute madness eminates starts there.

ya me voy, Andrius

¡Buenos Freaking Aires!

¡Hola Amigos!

These blogs are getting more and more difficult to write in light of the fact that my English grammar and spelling have gotten progressively worse since I've been here. I don't know if anyone but myself has noticed, but I really am having more difficulty speaking English. Last week I found myself saying "I were going to go, but I couldn't." Yeesh.

The picture to the left is of the widest street in the world, 9 de Julio in Buenos Aires, Argentina. (The pavement you see in the photo is only one part of the road. In this photo the buildings on the far side of the street cannot even be seen.) The white tower in the middle of the shot is the obelisk that stands in the middle of the street. It is very, very tall.

Last weekend I flew to Buenos Aires for a short three-day vacation. (I love saying that because it makes me feel like a high-roller.) "Andrew, what did you do last weekend?" "Oh nothing really, I just hopped over to Argentina for a change of pace." The deal was that Luke (you'll remember Luke from the camping trip to the Elqui Valley) was going to go in September, but was hospitalized for about a week and thus missed his flight. He changed the ticket to last weekend, so I looked into ticket prices and found a rather cheap fare with an airline called "Gol" (it's Brazilian so the flight attedants all spoke Portugese), and decided to tag along. We flew out Thursday evening (on separate flights) and arrived in Buenos Aires, Argentina at 9 o'clock on Thursday evening.

Buenos Aires is a massive city, and I believe the population (including surroundings) is about 13 million, a couple million shy of the 18 million New York City boasts for the same statistic. From the plane window, there were lights as far as I could see in both directions. We took a bus to the hostal, dropped our bags, and immediately went out in search of some food. While I'm here, let's take a minute to talk about the food in Argentina. I feel this can be best described by illustration, so here goes. Sunday night, our last night in Buenos Aires, Luke and I decided to be high rollers and buy a meal in the mid-upper price range of 25-35 pesos (3 to 1 on the dollar, so that's about 8 to 12 USD) that we had avoided like the plague all week. (It's amazing how fast one loses perspective on what a reasonable price for a meal is....we were absolutely appalled when we looked at a menu and saw anything over 7 bucks. In the States you can hardly buy freaking McDonalds for that price anymore). We walked around until we found a restaurant that was packed to the gills with people, and went in. It was a relatively nice place with white tablecloths, free bread with anchovies, and a 100 dollar bottle of champagne on the menu. We began by ordering a mid-price bottle of Cabernet, and a large bowl of onion cream soup with floating toast (delicious). Argentina is famous for its steaks, so we ate them all weekend. This night being no exeption, we followed the soup with two large, juicy, and perfectly cooked steaks alongside real mashed potatoes. I'm not good with ounces, but each steak was the size of a potato and I'm sure we would have paid 20 dollars in the States. After that, we ordered a desert each; Luke got a pear baked in wine and I got tiramisu. We also tagged on a glass of champagne each (hey, I said we were being high-rollers, right?). I should mention that by this point we recieved the champagne on the house. Between the two of us, and including a tip of 30% (our waitress was very patient and helpful during our 3 hour eating extravaganza) our bill was 80 Argentinian pesos. I'll leave the math to you, but the point I want to make is that Argentina is CHEAP! Ok, back to Thursday night. Short story short we went out, ate steak, drank wine, ate dessert, and went to sleep. (It really would be comical to leave the spelling errors in here; I just tried to spell sleep s-l-e-a-p.)

Friday we woke relatively early and armed ourselves with maps and a bus/subway guide, and went to see the sights. We started off in the very touristy neighborhood of La Boca in the morning, then moved on to the presidential palace, La Casa Rosa (it's pink), a really cool cathedral, and a pedestrian avenue called Avenida Florida. It doesn't sound like much, but that pretty much ate up the whole day, and we were beat. That night we ate another steak dinner (for the price of two Junior Bacon Cheesburgers™ and a box of chicken nuggets) and headed back to the hostel. The hostel was a positive fiesta of nationalities: Swiss, Australian, Brazilian, Bolivian, Welsh, English, German, Argentinian, Chilean, United States citizens (Luke and I), and one girl from Israel. (Side note: When someone here asks me where I'm from, it doesn't work to say "American" because the if the person is from anywhere in Latin America, he/she will promptly respond "oh, me too! What part are you from?" One has to say "Estadounidense" or "Norteamericano" to get the point across.) We sat and talked with everyone, and eventually decided to go to a jazz concert that a number of people were going to. It was a blast, the band was great, and we went dancing afterwards at a club in San Telmco, one of many cool neighborhoods in the city.

Saturday we did more tourist stuff including an arts market, MALBA (Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires), and a really cool cemetery where Evita is buried. The cemetery is actually better described as a small city for dead people than a cemetery. I guarantee that some Argentinians live in structures that are much smaller than the majority of the tombs. The art museum was particularly cool; we saw Van Gough, Renouir, Gaguin, Degas, Picasso, Monet, Manet, etc. I even recognized many of the paintings (which is saying something because I'm not exactly very "cultured"). The museum has a sculpture entitled "The Kiss" by August Rodin and according to Luke, whose mother is an art teacher, is very famous. We also walked down to a famous pedestrian bridge in the port, which is better described by the picture below. That night we ate another rediculously extravagant meal for the price of a burger and a coke.

Sunday we went to another arts fair in a much wealtier neighborhood, and the Buenos Aires zoo. After the zoo, we went to a soccer game, and it was so much fun and such a cool experience that it will actually be posted as a separate blog article. The rest you already know; we ate a large dinner, went to sleep, and caught our flights back in the morning.

Argentinian flag.

Luke and I by the harbor.

The famous footbridge. As far as I can tell, it really has no purpose other than aesthetic appeal. In case you're wondering, however, the design of said pointless footbridge is actually functional. To let boats through, the whole thing rotates on the large pillar at the base of the spire. The wires are in place to support the weight of the bridge when it is unsupported.

Feeding the camel. I actually fed this same bactrain camel a delicious compressed pellet of hay. It was a very whiskery sensation.

On the left: Luke. On the right: "El Beso" ("The Kiss")

A small city for the dead. The only two visible buildings that are NOT part of the cemetery are the two large, white apartments in the background. The rest are all tombs.

Don't let the picture fool you. This is an intersection of two very busy streets at sunset. I took the picture from the window of the taxi, and I don't know how there aren't any cars in the shot.

ya me voy, Andrius

¡Vacaciones en Chile!

Hello, all!
Given that I am uncertain of this blog's audience, there is not a way to properly address the masses of you who are keeping up with Andrew's shenanigans abroad. This is Kelsey writing; I apologize for my tardiness in publishing an entry here. (As much as Andrew has chided me to write about my trip, my professors are remarkably more pushy and thus my attention has been concerned with school.) Also, recognizing the fact that I am merely a guest author here, I'll try to keep this as interesting as possible, because, frankly, you didn't sign on to hear what I had to say. That said...
I had an amazing time in Chile. (That feels like a rediculous, silly thing for me to assert because I can't imagine not having an amazing time in Chile...it's CHILE!) Although the trip in itself was not without its highlights, I think the most important thing I took away from my week was how very different the culture was than I had expected it to be. In so many words, I'll try and illustrate for you what my "grand adventure" was like. I've never subscribed to the notion that a picture is worth 1000 words, because I think the two (words and pictures) are nothing without the other, so I think the best way for me to portray my trip is to show you my trip. In my opinion, Andrew has done a swell job of defining the Chilean experience thus far, but while I was there, I tried to capture the things that he has perhaps overlooked so that you can get another view of everything.

I'll start with the cities themselves. I was shocked at how large both Viña del Mar and Valparaíso were. I'm not sure how I arrived at this thought, but I had presumed that each of them were slightly smaller than Fort Collins, and roughly 30 miles apart. That couldn't have been further from the truth: practically one city, together they constitute an area roughly the size of downtown Denver with eight times the density. I was agape at the aggregation of humanity everywhere, even late at night. High rises line the streets, which are all as bustling as any major thoroughfare in the states. Busses are omnipresent. The only difference I could sense in the design of the city was that businesses and residences were practically next to each other, as opposed to being separate sections of the city.

This photo gives a sense of the architecture and development in Valpo: everything is built right into the hillside, which rises up from a large half-moon bay. The city is not even remotely accessible; even if a wheelchair could navigate the traffic (noted for its total disregard for pedestrians) and forty-five degree hills, the pavement and sidewalk system are, well, asymmetric at best. (Andrew can attest to the VAST number of times I tripped while we toured the cities. It was absolutely pathetic.)

This photo shows a hill close the the hostel I stayed in. Shortly after I arrived in Valparaíso, Andrew took me down to the ISA office to meet his friends, and then took off to take an exam - leaving me to find my way home. He gave me pretty clear instructions as to how to navigate the system of micros and other public transport in my quest to make my way home, but I was so overwhelmed from a) lack of sleep, b) lack of a way of expressing myself, c) lack of understanding of cultural norms (greeting people, initially, was really hard for me) and d) lack of ability to read street signs and such that I decided it was in my best interest to walk home. This was against Andrew's wishes, but I armed myself with a map of the area and a positive attitude and set out for the hostel. It took a little more than an hour to walk an area of about three square miles, but I was so lost for a chunk of that time that I passed by one particular road about eight times.
Not be deterred, though, I even stopped and asked a lady on the street for some directions. That turned out to be a rather large mistake; not only did I not understand a word that came out of her mouth, I think I may have offended her by not responding. I discovered fairly quickly that, as Andrew's friend Luke puts it, learning Spanish in Chile is like learning English in the Bronx. Chileans commit virtually every language offense in existence: no one pronounces an "s" (ever), so phrases like "mas o menos" come out sounding something like "mahomenah," which is totally unrecognizable to a foreiner; they speak very quickly and slur most of their dialogue; a sizable chunk of their vocabulary is unique to Chile, meaning that words like "aguacate" ("avocado" in English) that exist elsewhere in the Spanish-speaking world are replaced in Chile with another word (in this case, "palta" - that's one I'm not going to forget for a while). I boarded my flight to Chile with total confidence in my Spanish abilities after a total of two and a half semesters of learning the language; needless to say, I was humbled very, very quickly. It is little wonder to me that Andrew was so overwhelmed at first. On the other hand, however, I am absolutely shocked and impressed with the amount of Spanish he has learned in just two short months. He is fully capable of communicating with virtually anyone on virtually any topic; I would call him fluent, though I'm certain he'll protest. I couldn't believe how fast he's picked up the language - complete with accent - after only three semesters of Spanish here in the states. Almost everywhere we went, native Chileans told him that he spoke excellent Spanish for a foreigner, and I think the only reason they knew he wasn't native was because I was with him (and the blonde ponytail kind of gives me away).
The climate was interesting, too. Like most oceanside cities I have visited (all five of them), palm trees abounded, but unlike those other four cities, so did evergreen trees. The ocean breeze kept me rather cool for most of my visit. It warmed up a bit during the day, but I often ended up wearing a down vest by three or four in the afternoon.


I spotted this on my walk back to the hostel on my first day: talk about a slice of home! Other than the McDonald's in Viña del Mar, this was the only piece of modern-day Americana I could find. Even the cars are all more European than American. (I guess no one really has use of an SUV there...but then again, most people in the US don't, either, but that doesn't seem to have halted consumption.)
This picture scares me just to look at. The famous ascensor is truly one thing that I would die happy to never see again. Like an outdoor elevator from the '60s, it's basically everything that I've ever been afraid of, rolled into one: heights, confined spaces, and rickety engineering that hasn't been inspected since its inception. It also, as Andrew explained a bit ago, has a track record of coming off its rails and plummeting downhill. The two times I took it (while taking my life in my hands) I was against my will, and truly the only thing that could have made the experience worse was to be confined in one with a serial killer. Andrew tried to distract me by explaining that one has an unparalleled view of the city out the window of the ascensor; while I agreed, I countered that one would have the same view on the stairs. Most of the time, that was my preference. Obviously.
As I wandered around the city that first afternoon, I noticed that a lot of the little houses - which were almost more like apartments in the area of Valparaíso I was exploring - were quite small, but people certainly made the most of their space. Here, the residents have turned their 5'x5' patio into a garden terrace, which I thought was striking. The house that Andrew is staying in is quite similar. His host mother, Maria Teresa (he just calls her Mamá so I'll call her that, too), has a rather large house for the area of Viña they live in. It's quite nice by Chile's standards, I think. I don't want to describe it as cluttered - I think a better word would be excessively decorated - but I was struck by how many more things there were in her house than there are in the typical North American house. Every surface had some kind of painting or dish or trinket on it. Being the bull in a china shop that I am, I was actually a little bit afraid that I was going to break something the whole time I was there. :-)
There were Chilean flags everywhere I looked! I noticed this particularly in very poor areas outside of the city - even when people were living practically in cardboard boxes, they had giant flags waving proudly from the front of their dwellings. Andrew recently informed me that it's an actual law that people have to fly the flag for the 18th of September, their independence holiday.

One of the coolest cultural differences I noted was that in Chile, most of the graffiti was somehow politically motivated. Unlike in the good ol' US, Chilean graffiti has something to say. Sure, it's still destructive, but at least it's not just senseless.
Here, painted on the retaining wall next to the Metro tracks: "Socialismo Sin Estado=Comunismo Libertario" (Socialism without state=free Communism").
Another bit of pointed graffiti: this one says, "DESTROY TO CONSTRUCT." (You probably didn't need a dictionary for that one, though. Cognates.)







Not all of the streetside artwork was benign, though. This is what a typical stairwell, bus seat, and alley looked like. This is sort of the image I have in mind when I think of Chile as a "developing country."





One for posterity.








Alright. By now hopefully you have a taste of what the cities are like, and I can move on to what I really, really enjoy most: the BEACH. I realize that I already posted this photo, but I need to tell the story behind it and I didn't want you to have to scroll up and down over and over between the picture and the story. (I really do have your best interest, dear reader, in mind.) One day, while we were walking down this boardwalk - which Andrew tells me is often packed with people but which we found completely abandoned - a couple of gypsies approached us. (Gypsies! I didn't think they actually existed anymore, or, quite honestly, ever.) They looked exactly how one might expect a gypsy to look, particularly if you've only ever thought of them as fictional characters. (What would you expect a UNICORN to look like if it approached you on the street? Yeah, me too. You get the picture.) Anyhow, they thrust a few tarot cards into Andrew's hand and then demanded that he pick one so they could read his fortune. And I really do mean demanded: when he refused, one of the two of them told him that she was going to read his fortune on his palms. When he refused THIS, she told him, "Okay, then I'm going to read the fortune on your FOREHEAD." (Keep in mind that throughout this interchange they're speaking rapid-fire Spanish and I don't have a clue what is going on; after two minutes of this, I was convinced they were performing some kind of curse on Andrew and I was absolutely freaking out.) In the end, no crime was commited, Andrew paid them something on the order of 20 cents and we continued on our jolly way, being more careful of avoiding the rest of the gypsies on the rest of the boardwalk. (They were everywhere! I couldn't believe it!)
So. The next few shots are from the beach in Reñaca, which is just on the other side of the large bay from Viña and Valpo, and a rather long walk down the boardwalk from where we encountered the gypsies. (We didn't walk. We took a micro.) Now, granted that I'm a bit of a city slicker, but I've spent a reasonable amount of time (considering I live in Colorado) watching the waves roll in off the Atlantic Ocean in Cape Cod, so I wouldn't consider myself a stranger to a large tide. Given that, I COULD NOT BELIEVE HOW BIG THE WAVES WERE IN REÑACA. It was INTENSE. From our vantage point some forty feet from the actual tide line, it looked like the waves were at least ten to fifteen feet high. Take a look at the next few pictures:














(Note the surfer in the right-hand corner.)










Again...see the boogie boarder on the left-hand side, just below the wave? I'm happy to report that he lived through that.



The highlight of my whole trip was just hanging out in the sand on this beach, watching the tide roll in at sunset.








So. Since I've returned, everyone's favorite question to ask is "What did you do in Chile?" I'm having a hard time answering, because I don't feel like Andrew and I really did a whole lot of interesting things...we walked around, we ate out a bunch, we spent some time on the beach, all of which sound like typical activites. (I thoroughly enjoyed every minute, mind you, and since it was Chile, it didn't feel "typical" - but it's hard to describe such commonplace activities with much verve.) It was hard to really get out and explore beyond the cities when I was only there for a week. That said, we spent a day in Quintay, which was rather noteworthy. Allow me to explain.
As you'll remember, Quintay is the little fishing village that Andrew thought looked like New England that he visited a couple of months back. One morning we took a collectivo down there with two goals in mind: watch the tide and eat some fish. It was BEAUTIFUL, and really rather different than I had expected it to be. As you can probably already tell, ¡las olas me fascinan! (The waves fascinate me!) Most of the pictures I took here are of waves, and while I took a bunch, they won't look like much without the full effect of sight+sound+spray, so I'll only post a few.

The photo doesn't do it justice, and the lack of sound doesn't help, either.








This is one of my favorite shots, although, sadly, my camera strap decided to make its debut in the upper corner of the picture. Ah, well, I won't quit my day job.
This was pretty much all I got to see of the village that was Quintay, but it was lovely, rather picturesque; as you can tell by the picture on the left, several clapboard (is that the word?) restaurants lined a small bay where native fishermen caught the day's menu. Andrew and I even got to see them sewing up their nets during the noon hour while several stray dogs chased each other in the surf. We ate lunch on a balcony overlooking the bay, and our view is what you'll see in the picture below.
This is one of my favorite pictures from the whole trip - I think it captures an idealized South America, one that is all coastline and small fishing boats and dirt roads and happy foreign travelers and natives who are kind to them. (I also like it because Andrew is in it.)

After our trip to Quintay, we had one more day of tooling around Valpo before I had to board a plane back to the states. As it turned out, I got incredibly sick on the way home and spent the vast majority of my nine-hour flight in the bathroom. I think my body was just reflecting how my heart felt. Needless to say, I wasn't exactly excited to come home and leave Andrew behind, but there wasn't much way around it.

And now...I think I've reached the end. If, by some miracle of God, you're still reading this and even mildly interested, THANK YOU for putting up with my incredibly long-winded recount; I appreciate your patience. I apologize for my tardiness in posting this entry as well. I'm happy to report, first-hand, that Andrew is alive and thriving in the south and that he's going to come home a better person for this experience. I am very lucky to have gotten to visit him and I wouldn't trade it for the world.