Friday, December 12, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
September 19, 2008
Rough, beaten and ragged, the mountains arrive at the sea like weary soldiers having marched the entire continent to it’s bitter end. In a last show of defiance they thrust their spears, spires and towers heavenward and then collapse in a crumbled ice torn mass.
Impossible beauty. Impossible rock shaped and forged in patterns no human sculptor could conceive. Words fail the awe of standing among these giant masiffs of rock and sky, the land of snow and ice, lakes and forests, waterfalls and lagoons of torquoise blue. A kingdom of condors and puma, the guanaco and ostrich, and flamingo and fox. Opposing extremes twisting and pulling, stretching and shaping a landscape where words are yet to be defined to describe a place of such uncomparable strength and draw.
Like Lucy coming through the cloak room into a magical world, impossible was the only word I could muster. I stared heavenward at six condors circling in the skies above, looked north to the horns and towers of Torres del Paine reflected in glacier clear waters, looked down at the straw covered grass blowing in the winds, to the south a river meandering in the plain, and behind through the scented green forests and knew this was God’s palette. Though a painter could capture one view at a time and give their best rendering of that one vista, not one could capture the all encompassing dimensions and th need to look all directions at once, the sharp clear cold air refreshing the lungs, and chilling the hand and cheek, the utter freshness of the purest breath, the sounds of water flowing, grasses blowing, and leaves rustling. These are the aspects the armchair traveler never knows, the sheer wonder and joy, and madness of such incredible fragments of being. When one stands alone in the midst of it all, in a mind stopped by the magnitude and can only form the word Impossible.
Such was my experience that first day in the Parque Nacional de Torres del Paine. I was in a group of 9. Four Germans, 3 brazilians, an Irish girl and myself. We were all in transit on the tourist trail , straight off the Navimag ferry and hitting the next must see on the list.
Rough, beaten and ragged, the mountains arrive at the sea like weary soldiers having marched the entire continent to it’s bitter end. In a last show of defiance they thrust their spears, spires and towers heavenward and then collapse in a crumbled ice torn mass.
Impossible beauty. Impossible rock shaped and forged in patterns no human sculptor could conceive. Words fail the awe of standing among these giant masiffs of rock and sky, the land of snow and ice, lakes and forests, waterfalls and lagoons of torquoise blue. A kingdom of condors and puma, the guanaco and ostrich, and flamingo and fox. Opposing extremes twisting and pulling, stretching and shaping a landscape where words are yet to be defined to describe a place of such uncomparable strength and draw.
Like Lucy coming through the cloak room into a magical world, impossible was the only word I could muster. I stared heavenward at six condors circling in the skies above, looked north to the horns and towers of Torres del Paine reflected in glacier clear waters, looked down at the straw covered grass blowing in the winds, to the south a river meandering in the plain, and behind through the scented green forests and knew this was God’s palette. Though a painter could capture one view at a time and give their best rendering of that one vista, not one could capture the all encompassing dimensions and th need to look all directions at once, the sharp clear cold air refreshing the lungs, and chilling the hand and cheek, the utter freshness of the purest breath, the sounds of water flowing, grasses blowing, and leaves rustling. These are the aspects the armchair traveler never knows, the sheer wonder and joy, and madness of such incredible fragments of being. When one stands alone in the midst of it all, in a mind stopped by the magnitude and can only form the word Impossible.
Such was my experience that first day in the Parque Nacional de Torres del Paine. I was in a group of 9. Four Germans, 3 brazilians, an Irish girl and myself. We were all in transit on the tourist trail , straight off the Navimag ferry and hitting the next must see on the list.
September 15, 2008
The cargo ship Puerto Eden has received its load and passengers. A voice announces its eminent departure,”The ship is ready to sail, will the passengers please come to the decks to observe the final maneuvers.”
The final maneuvers consisted of the ropes being thrown off, the anchor raised, and two tug boats which pushed and pulled to send the Puerto Eden on her way. As the cargo ship made it’s way down the narrow channel groups of lapwing birds flew overhead, a women hoeing on the hillside turned to look, the sky turned pink framing volcan Orsono, and we sailed off into a pink horizon.
As I looked out at the distant shore with the water lapping at the base of snowy volcanoes and the andes gently undulating away into the pink darkness, I realized this was the very Patagonia I had so long dreamed of.
The cargo ship Puerto Eden has received its load and passengers. A voice announces its eminent departure,”The ship is ready to sail, will the passengers please come to the decks to observe the final maneuvers.”
The final maneuvers consisted of the ropes being thrown off, the anchor raised, and two tug boats which pushed and pulled to send the Puerto Eden on her way. As the cargo ship made it’s way down the narrow channel groups of lapwing birds flew overhead, a women hoeing on the hillside turned to look, the sky turned pink framing volcan Orsono, and we sailed off into a pink horizon.
As I looked out at the distant shore with the water lapping at the base of snowy volcanoes and the andes gently undulating away into the pink darkness, I realized this was the very Patagonia I had so long dreamed of.
September 14, 2008
Francisco has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen framing large soulful brown eyes. When he puts on his handspun grey poncho and goat skin chaps and lightly swings onto his steed he is transformed from a skinny kid into a dashing Chilean cowboy.
This handsome gaucho is now escorting me down the gaucho trail from the mountain retreat of La Junta back to Cochamo. We left just after the sun slid into our little valley and melted the frost that crowned the valley floor. There is still some ice on the old alerce wood lining the trail and the horses slide a bit as we descend. Winding through narrow ruts worn deep into the skin of the earth from decades of use the horses heated bodies create little clouds of humidity that remain trapped in the coldness of the trenches as we pass through.
Francisco has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen framing large soulful brown eyes. When he puts on his handspun grey poncho and goat skin chaps and lightly swings onto his steed he is transformed from a skinny kid into a dashing Chilean cowboy.
This handsome gaucho is now escorting me down the gaucho trail from the mountain retreat of La Junta back to Cochamo. We left just after the sun slid into our little valley and melted the frost that crowned the valley floor. There is still some ice on the old alerce wood lining the trail and the horses slide a bit as we descend. Winding through narrow ruts worn deep into the skin of the earth from decades of use the horses heated bodies create little clouds of humidity that remain trapped in the coldness of the trenches as we pass through.
La Junta
September 13, 2008
Tatiana soft brown eyes moisten and tear as she talks about her son. Only seven years old, he has been sent away to live with a friends family to go to school.
“Es muy importante”, she says remorsefully, but she wants him with her. She wants her son to learn and kept him as long as she could, until she had taught him all that she knew. Tatiana and her husband live in La Junta, five hours by horse from the nearest town of Cochamo in the desolation of the mountains.
La junta lies at the base of a ring of snow capped granite domes of staggering beauty. Some have likened them to the grandeur of Yosemite and many climbers come as well to scale their heights. Last year an Argentine man fell thirty feet and hit his head twice. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet and survived.
To get to La Junta one must walk a muddy 15 km track or ride an arduous five hours. This mountain route was used over 100 years ago to bring fish and seafood from Chile over El Paso Frontelizo to Argentina. Meat from Argentina was sent back over the pass into Chile. The likes of Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid are even rumored to have traveled these ancient tracks.
It taqkes 2-3 days on horseback in good weather to cross from the town of Cochamo in Chile to Argentina. In the winter mud and snow and swollen rivers of glacial water descend on the trail making it impassable at times. Thousands of a type of sequoia called Alerce were cut to line the trail and raise the horses and riders above the level of the mud. Some have even quoted the figure as 8 million trees cut for this purpose. Originally laid horizontally, they now lay in haphazard confusion, and the horses slip and slide over the trunks picking their way through maze when it seems like they will break through the weathered wood at any moment.
The alerce tree is famed for its surable hard wood which resists infection. It has been recorded to live up to 4,300 years of age. The Alerce planks we crossed over en route to La Junta did not even look worn in the one hundred years they had laid there.
We made our way slowly through the frigid forests of winter to the meadow and refuge of La Junta with its peaks challenging the sky. Tatiana and Horacio are the caretakers and live in this mountain valley isolated from the rest of chile year round. In the winter when the rains and cold come and the light is only present from 11am to 1:30pm Tatiana spins and dyes her own wool and knits and weaves slippers, ponchos, blankets, and saddle bags for the horses. She has just made her son a new grey woolen poncho and is looking forward to seeing him for a few days. Horacio will leave in a couple days to collect him in town and bring him back to La Junta.
Tatiana soft brown eyes moisten and tear as she talks about her son. Only seven years old, he has been sent away to live with a friends family to go to school.
“Es muy importante”, she says remorsefully, but she wants him with her. She wants her son to learn and kept him as long as she could, until she had taught him all that she knew. Tatiana and her husband live in La Junta, five hours by horse from the nearest town of Cochamo in the desolation of the mountains.
La junta lies at the base of a ring of snow capped granite domes of staggering beauty. Some have likened them to the grandeur of Yosemite and many climbers come as well to scale their heights. Last year an Argentine man fell thirty feet and hit his head twice. Luckily, he was wearing a helmet and survived.
To get to La Junta one must walk a muddy 15 km track or ride an arduous five hours. This mountain route was used over 100 years ago to bring fish and seafood from Chile over El Paso Frontelizo to Argentina. Meat from Argentina was sent back over the pass into Chile. The likes of Butch Cassidy and the sundance kid are even rumored to have traveled these ancient tracks.
It taqkes 2-3 days on horseback in good weather to cross from the town of Cochamo in Chile to Argentina. In the winter mud and snow and swollen rivers of glacial water descend on the trail making it impassable at times. Thousands of a type of sequoia called Alerce were cut to line the trail and raise the horses and riders above the level of the mud. Some have even quoted the figure as 8 million trees cut for this purpose. Originally laid horizontally, they now lay in haphazard confusion, and the horses slip and slide over the trunks picking their way through maze when it seems like they will break through the weathered wood at any moment.
The alerce tree is famed for its surable hard wood which resists infection. It has been recorded to live up to 4,300 years of age. The Alerce planks we crossed over en route to La Junta did not even look worn in the one hundred years they had laid there.
We made our way slowly through the frigid forests of winter to the meadow and refuge of La Junta with its peaks challenging the sky. Tatiana and Horacio are the caretakers and live in this mountain valley isolated from the rest of chile year round. In the winter when the rains and cold come and the light is only present from 11am to 1:30pm Tatiana spins and dyes her own wool and knits and weaves slippers, ponchos, blankets, and saddle bags for the horses. She has just made her son a new grey woolen poncho and is looking forward to seeing him for a few days. Horacio will leave in a couple days to collect him in town and bring him back to La Junta.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Volcanos and condors
September 5, 2008
Tap, whoosh, tap, whoosh and the creaking of springs and boots, and the crunching of snow, and the whistle of the wind was all that could be heard. I had joined Laura, Luis, and Pablo on a ski trek up Volcan Lanin on a picture perfect day of cloudless blue skies and brilliant blazing sun.
Volcan Lanin is an extinct volcano that lies in the beautiful Parque Nacional Lanin not far outside the town of San Martin de Los Andes from where we had set off. Luis is the friendly guide, Laura is his exhuberant girlfriend and Pablo is a friend of both of them. We were not planning on conquering all of Lanin{s 3776 meters, but crossing the forest at the base and scaling the snowy flanks to about midway.
This was my first time on touring skis which I figured would be a snap. It seemed to be a simple combination of both cross country skiing and down hill skiing, both of which I can perform adequatly. With the touring ski we used a slimmed down version of the ski boot clipped into a moveable bracket that attached to the top of a down hill type ski. [Skins[ were stuck on to the base of the skiis with a type of glue that kept them in place but allowed the skins to be removed once you were ready to ski down. The furry grip of the skins allowed one the traction needed to [walk[ their ski{s straight up the mountain with out sliding back. Well, with only sliding back a few times. What I hadn{t counted on was the weight of this combination. Though the skiis slid well enough and the skins gripped tight to the snow, dragging two skis and boots up the side of a mountain is a bit more work than I imagined. Luckily Laura was a newbie as well and Pablo was similar, so the three of us hung together while Luis charged ahead with the food.
In the forest at the base of the volcano our tapping heels were accompanied by another rat'a'tat'tat from the tree branches above. On closer inspection we found a pair of wood peckers busy at work. The flourescent red of the male{s head flashed against the dark bark of the tree and blazed against the blue of the sky. The female was an ebony black and flitted from tree to tree tapping in unison with her mate.
After the forest we reached a wide expanse of white snow stretching around the base of the volcano and into Chile. In summer this area was devoid of snow and consisted of only black volcanic ash and rock. We had a clear path across the glistening snow before crossing an avalanche path and then climbing the flanks of the volcano.
once our grade increased we raised our heel binding to allow the boots to maintain a level stance while climbing. Then the work began and the noise of creaky skiis and crunchy snow was the only sound as we put our efforts into pushing the skiis up the volcano.
At 1987 meters we were rewarded with one of those amazing views that you can only find among mountains. We were higher than most of the ranges that surrounded us, had a view of Lake Tromen below, and could even see Volcan Villarrica in Chile which had erupted and spewed lava only one month previously.
While we pulled off the skins and clipped our boots down into the bindings to lock the heels, Luis spotted a pair of condors on the horizon. The condors had been eluding me for the past eight months, all through out Ecuador, Peru, Chile, and now Argentina I had sought these enormous birds. In Ecuador there are only about 30 breeding pairs and they are exceedingly rare and difficult to find. Though they once filled the sky as buffalo had once thundered across America, their population dwindled from the onslaught of man. Here in Argentina they were more common, but the sight of my longed for subject made the day complete. With wing spans of up to ten feet they are a fantastic bird and a beauty to behold in their graceful flight. Coming over the ridges to catch the wind currents you could actually hear them before you saw the giant bird. The wind caught the expanse of their feathers and whipped the plumage as if it were the cloth of a sail causing a snapping sound as they rode the currents and sailed over head.
After a few face plants in the tricky wind whipped snow, we scuttled back down our mountain, roared across the level snow plain, dodged the trees in the forest and were once again back at the base.
Volcan Lanin looked the same as we had encountered her, you could not see the tracks we had left behind. She stood in her white snowy robe with the sun fading and casting royal shadows across her white gown. We left and she remained.
Tap, whoosh, tap, whoosh and the creaking of springs and boots, and the crunching of snow, and the whistle of the wind was all that could be heard. I had joined Laura, Luis, and Pablo on a ski trek up Volcan Lanin on a picture perfect day of cloudless blue skies and brilliant blazing sun.
Volcan Lanin is an extinct volcano that lies in the beautiful Parque Nacional Lanin not far outside the town of San Martin de Los Andes from where we had set off. Luis is the friendly guide, Laura is his exhuberant girlfriend and Pablo is a friend of both of them. We were not planning on conquering all of Lanin{s 3776 meters, but crossing the forest at the base and scaling the snowy flanks to about midway.
This was my first time on touring skis which I figured would be a snap. It seemed to be a simple combination of both cross country skiing and down hill skiing, both of which I can perform adequatly. With the touring ski we used a slimmed down version of the ski boot clipped into a moveable bracket that attached to the top of a down hill type ski. [Skins[ were stuck on to the base of the skiis with a type of glue that kept them in place but allowed the skins to be removed once you were ready to ski down. The furry grip of the skins allowed one the traction needed to [walk[ their ski{s straight up the mountain with out sliding back. Well, with only sliding back a few times. What I hadn{t counted on was the weight of this combination. Though the skiis slid well enough and the skins gripped tight to the snow, dragging two skis and boots up the side of a mountain is a bit more work than I imagined. Luckily Laura was a newbie as well and Pablo was similar, so the three of us hung together while Luis charged ahead with the food.
In the forest at the base of the volcano our tapping heels were accompanied by another rat'a'tat'tat from the tree branches above. On closer inspection we found a pair of wood peckers busy at work. The flourescent red of the male{s head flashed against the dark bark of the tree and blazed against the blue of the sky. The female was an ebony black and flitted from tree to tree tapping in unison with her mate.
After the forest we reached a wide expanse of white snow stretching around the base of the volcano and into Chile. In summer this area was devoid of snow and consisted of only black volcanic ash and rock. We had a clear path across the glistening snow before crossing an avalanche path and then climbing the flanks of the volcano.
once our grade increased we raised our heel binding to allow the boots to maintain a level stance while climbing. Then the work began and the noise of creaky skiis and crunchy snow was the only sound as we put our efforts into pushing the skiis up the volcano.
At 1987 meters we were rewarded with one of those amazing views that you can only find among mountains. We were higher than most of the ranges that surrounded us, had a view of Lake Tromen below, and could even see Volcan Villarrica in Chile which had erupted and spewed lava only one month previously.
While we pulled off the skins and clipped our boots down into the bindings to lock the heels, Luis spotted a pair of condors on the horizon. The condors had been eluding me for the past eight months, all through out Ecuador, Peru, Chile, and now Argentina I had sought these enormous birds. In Ecuador there are only about 30 breeding pairs and they are exceedingly rare and difficult to find. Though they once filled the sky as buffalo had once thundered across America, their population dwindled from the onslaught of man. Here in Argentina they were more common, but the sight of my longed for subject made the day complete. With wing spans of up to ten feet they are a fantastic bird and a beauty to behold in their graceful flight. Coming over the ridges to catch the wind currents you could actually hear them before you saw the giant bird. The wind caught the expanse of their feathers and whipped the plumage as if it were the cloth of a sail causing a snapping sound as they rode the currents and sailed over head.
After a few face plants in the tricky wind whipped snow, we scuttled back down our mountain, roared across the level snow plain, dodged the trees in the forest and were once again back at the base.
Volcan Lanin looked the same as we had encountered her, you could not see the tracks we had left behind. She stood in her white snowy robe with the sun fading and casting royal shadows across her white gown. We left and she remained.
Bariloche, Argentina
September 2, 2008
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
The bus arrived with the snow in the lake district of Bariloche, Argentina. The snow falling was not the dry shrivelled kind that melts on contact, but big fat fluffy flakes that stick to your nose and eyelashes and make you dream of a cozy fire and bear rug.
My plans for hiking among the pines and vistas were derailed by this unexpected onslaught of snow. It snowed and snowed for two days straight and in the end snowed-in Bariloche. The ski resorts were shut, the cars were stuck, and the fabulous vistas of majestic mountains and crystaline lakes were shrouded and unseen behind the curtain of grey cloud that had descended on the town. The next day when I ventured to the slopes of Cathedral mountain with the rest of Bariloche to track some fresh tracks, we got stuck in hour long lift lines and heavy snow that swallowed the weak. The only thing I left with that day was a bad case of whiplash and the continued desire to see a view that eluded me.
Malargue Mexican
August 27, 2008
Malargue is like an old western ghost town in a bad movie between siesta hours of 1pm and 4pm. When the old Andestur bus rolled into this one stoplight town the streets were barren and the shops locked up tight. A stiff breeze was blowing down the main street stirring up little dust tornados and scutteling loose papers and plastic bags in it{s path. The white pitches of the Andes could be seen far off to the north and south as one looked up and down the empty main street.
A lanky mexican, smoking swede, and my straggly self were deposited along with our luggage at a one room bus station on the outskirts of town to fend for ourselves.
Despite the town{s apparent sleep and desolation, Malargue was only an hour{s drive from the acclaimed Las Leñas, [Best ski resort in South America[. I had alighted in Malargue along with the rest of my motley crue to take advantage of the town{s cheaper lodging options outside the high priced resort.
The hostel I landed in [city hostel[ put the term basic to the test. I generaly consider a mirror, bar of soap, night table, and towel basic appropriations, but of these there was none. In an aged wood paneled room the only furnishings to be found were three single beds, and two wooden racks affixed to the walls to serve as the barest form of a closet. THe perk of the room is that it has a gas heater which keeps the room nice and toasty, and even too warm at night.
I was bemoaning the lack of the bare necessities on the bus ride home from our first day on the slopes when the Mexican told me to, [stop complaining, it was cheap[, he said. At the equivalent of 11$ a night, he was right.
Malargue is like an old western ghost town in a bad movie between siesta hours of 1pm and 4pm. When the old Andestur bus rolled into this one stoplight town the streets were barren and the shops locked up tight. A stiff breeze was blowing down the main street stirring up little dust tornados and scutteling loose papers and plastic bags in it{s path. The white pitches of the Andes could be seen far off to the north and south as one looked up and down the empty main street.
A lanky mexican, smoking swede, and my straggly self were deposited along with our luggage at a one room bus station on the outskirts of town to fend for ourselves.
Despite the town{s apparent sleep and desolation, Malargue was only an hour{s drive from the acclaimed Las Leñas, [Best ski resort in South America[. I had alighted in Malargue along with the rest of my motley crue to take advantage of the town{s cheaper lodging options outside the high priced resort.
The hostel I landed in [city hostel[ put the term basic to the test. I generaly consider a mirror, bar of soap, night table, and towel basic appropriations, but of these there was none. In an aged wood paneled room the only furnishings to be found were three single beds, and two wooden racks affixed to the walls to serve as the barest form of a closet. THe perk of the room is that it has a gas heater which keeps the room nice and toasty, and even too warm at night.
I was bemoaning the lack of the bare necessities on the bus ride home from our first day on the slopes when the Mexican told me to, [stop complaining, it was cheap[, he said. At the equivalent of 11$ a night, he was right.
Portillo, Chile
It was one of those perfectly fabulous days when everything goes your way even though you haven{t planned a thing. From the generic beach comforts of Viña del mar I entered the rugged spine of the andes on a bus bound for Argentina. The driver dropped me off on the side of the highway by a sign that said Portillo and continued on. As I pulled my pack off the dirty ice and snow on the shoulder of the road I wondered if I had done the right thing.
Portillo, nestled as if in it{s own private valley admist the giants of the andes is an absolute treasure. The towering peak of the magnificent Acongua rises to over 21,000 ft to the north. The ski resort has only one hotel and there are never more than 450 people on the slopes. In less than an hour from my drop off I was booked in a room, had rented ski equipment, and was on the slopes with Acongua towering over me. The resort had just recently had a sufficient snow storm to close the pass and trap it{s guest for 2 days. Now on the third day in sky{s of the bluest blue I skiied fresh tracks through angel light powder. It was difficult to keep my eyes on the slopes as I was completely mesmerized and enchanted by the magestic peaks and absolute beauty that surrounded me. The runs were challengeling steep to attract the Austrian and Canadian ski teams who competed in races against each other through out the day.
After the lifts closed at a generous 5pm I settled down in the hot spa on a bank overlooking the alpine lake of Laguna del Inca with the rest of the mountains patrons and watched the sun set on the andes snowy white slopes. After the jacuzzi we all migrated to the cinema to listen to Wendy Fisher, Chris Davenport, and other ski legends who were present giving ski clinics at the resort. Each of these famous skiers talked and showed film clips and footage of the best days of their extreme sport.
After dinner and drinks I finished off one of the best unplanned days ever.
Portillo, nestled as if in it{s own private valley admist the giants of the andes is an absolute treasure. The towering peak of the magnificent Acongua rises to over 21,000 ft to the north. The ski resort has only one hotel and there are never more than 450 people on the slopes. In less than an hour from my drop off I was booked in a room, had rented ski equipment, and was on the slopes with Acongua towering over me. The resort had just recently had a sufficient snow storm to close the pass and trap it{s guest for 2 days. Now on the third day in sky{s of the bluest blue I skiied fresh tracks through angel light powder. It was difficult to keep my eyes on the slopes as I was completely mesmerized and enchanted by the magestic peaks and absolute beauty that surrounded me. The runs were challengeling steep to attract the Austrian and Canadian ski teams who competed in races against each other through out the day.
After the lifts closed at a generous 5pm I settled down in the hot spa on a bank overlooking the alpine lake of Laguna del Inca with the rest of the mountains patrons and watched the sun set on the andes snowy white slopes. After the jacuzzi we all migrated to the cinema to listen to Wendy Fisher, Chris Davenport, and other ski legends who were present giving ski clinics at the resort. Each of these famous skiers talked and showed film clips and footage of the best days of their extreme sport.
After dinner and drinks I finished off one of the best unplanned days ever.
Rosa and Marcos
August 19th, 2008
The table was laid with fine china, silver, and crystal. Prepared meats and cheeses and savory biscuits adorned the table. It was as if an honored guest was expected, but it was prepared for me.
I had met Rosa and Marcos just yesterday, a lovely chilean couple from Punta arenas in the south of Chile. Rosa is the sister of the the swim coach Pedro Ordenas with whom I had swam in the San Francisco bay at Aquatic park to prepare myself for the open water of the Ironman. Pedro has distinguished himself among the bay area swimmers for having swum from Alcatraz to San Francisco 500 times. I am just 498 crossings behind him.
Rosa and Marco spent two days showing me the lovely city of Vina del Mar. The long stretches of beach were reminiscent of Nice in France or Brighton in England. We went to the botanical gardens where the recent rains and flooding had destroyed their ponds and scattered their ducks and swans. Vestiges of spring were present in the soft white and pink blooms of cherry blossom flowers and the magestic magnolias, but the gardens glory was yet to come and resting beneath the light misty rain that fell.
After the gardens we returned to the apartment of Rosa and Marco where she had prepared the table for the ¨onces¨. The onces is a light tea or meal that is eaten around five but called the ¨elevens¨ for a reason I wasn{t able to elicit.
I was reminded of my grandmother{s carefully laid table in the handstitched table cloth, the dishes carefully placed, and the loveing hand that I knew had placed it all.
The table was laid with fine china, silver, and crystal. Prepared meats and cheeses and savory biscuits adorned the table. It was as if an honored guest was expected, but it was prepared for me.
I had met Rosa and Marcos just yesterday, a lovely chilean couple from Punta arenas in the south of Chile. Rosa is the sister of the the swim coach Pedro Ordenas with whom I had swam in the San Francisco bay at Aquatic park to prepare myself for the open water of the Ironman. Pedro has distinguished himself among the bay area swimmers for having swum from Alcatraz to San Francisco 500 times. I am just 498 crossings behind him.
Rosa and Marco spent two days showing me the lovely city of Vina del Mar. The long stretches of beach were reminiscent of Nice in France or Brighton in England. We went to the botanical gardens where the recent rains and flooding had destroyed their ponds and scattered their ducks and swans. Vestiges of spring were present in the soft white and pink blooms of cherry blossom flowers and the magestic magnolias, but the gardens glory was yet to come and resting beneath the light misty rain that fell.
After the gardens we returned to the apartment of Rosa and Marco where she had prepared the table for the ¨onces¨. The onces is a light tea or meal that is eaten around five but called the ¨elevens¨ for a reason I wasn{t able to elicit.
I was reminded of my grandmother{s carefully laid table in the handstitched table cloth, the dishes carefully placed, and the loveing hand that I knew had placed it all.
Santiago singing
I spent my first day in Santiago walking around in a daze. How strange it was to be in a cosmopolitan city once again. Gone were the indigenous tribes of Ecuador walking about in their brightly colored cloth and the ladies bent over roasting plantains on dime store grills. Gone were the green leafy trees now laid bare, grey and cold in the midst of winter. I walked in a sea of dark skinned ebony haired humanity as I had so many times before for the last 7 months, and yet it seemed more ordered somehow. There was an underground and one could almost feel as if they were on the London tube. The mercado central was full of bantering fish mongers and tubs of iced salmon, cod, tuna, and octopus, giving the feeling you had just been dropped down into the Pike street market in Seattle. The Spanish architecture of looming buildings and Baroque churches had a distinctly European feel. And yet when the buildings gave way to reveal the muddy current of the Rio Mapocho and the rocky hill top park of cerro Santa Lucia, and the clouds parted to offer striking views of the snow capped andes to the east I was unsettled by the unfamiliarity of it all. I sat down in a wooden pew in the beautifull neo'classical church of Catedral Metropolitano admist the soft glow of the stained glass windows and the lofty recesses of the heavenly vaulted ceilings and somehow felt once again grounded. It was confession time and the repentant were kneeling before the boxes yearning for the forgiveness that would make them new once again. The organ was playing softly and a woman was singing a hym that sounded familiar but couldn{t quite be placed. Here in this cathedral in this country tipping toward the south pole I felt the pull of familiarity and comfort. People came here to seek the same God and to seek solace and peace and in the quiet of the common need the bewilderment I felt gave way to wonder once again.
Santiago Blues
Aug 16, 2008
I left Ecuador the same way I came in, on Taca airlines, but this time I flew south to Santiago and I was instantly thrust into a land I had never seen.
The disorientation began at customs when they informed me that I had to go back to pay the reciprocity fee, a fee Chile charges americans because the US charges Chileans a visa fee. I had my 30$ US ready to pay this fee as I had been instructed in Ecuador. When I got to the window, however, the official told me it was 130$. So I went back to customs and had to get a police official to escort me to an ATM machine so I could withdraw more money. Now of course I had no idea of the exchange rate which it turned out was about 480,000 pesas to one dollar. Now try to work out how much you need to pay the 130$ fee when you are jet lagged at what is now 3am in the morning. And then try to work out if you need to put in the figure with the zero¨s after the decimal point, or without and it pretty much just cranked my brain to a full stop. So I withdrew about 30$ the first time and the second time I actualy had the police official typing in the amount because I couldn{t work it out.
So then we traipsed back to the fee lady who told me I would have to go upstairs to change the chilean pesos into american dollars. I looked at her despairingly and asked, ¨I am in Chile and I have to change the chilean pesos back into american dollars to pay you?¨ Yes, was the answer.
I had now been in the aiport customs-reciprocity fee area for an hour and there was not another passenger in sight. With each transaction I was actually regressing slowly back toward the plane and I wondered if there was ever a point when they just made you get back on the plane and return the way you had come.
As I turned to take the pesos to the changing person the lady cleared her throut and said I could pay 30$ US and the rest in pesos as an exception. I nodded numbly and she took my cash in two different currencies and I was ushered back to customs. WHen I finally got to the empty baggage claim area they were just carting off my backpack and I was able to rescue it before it disapeared forever. The Taxi deposited me at the Happy House Hotel and I finaly hit the sheets at 4:15am.
I left Ecuador the same way I came in, on Taca airlines, but this time I flew south to Santiago and I was instantly thrust into a land I had never seen.
The disorientation began at customs when they informed me that I had to go back to pay the reciprocity fee, a fee Chile charges americans because the US charges Chileans a visa fee. I had my 30$ US ready to pay this fee as I had been instructed in Ecuador. When I got to the window, however, the official told me it was 130$. So I went back to customs and had to get a police official to escort me to an ATM machine so I could withdraw more money. Now of course I had no idea of the exchange rate which it turned out was about 480,000 pesas to one dollar. Now try to work out how much you need to pay the 130$ fee when you are jet lagged at what is now 3am in the morning. And then try to work out if you need to put in the figure with the zero¨s after the decimal point, or without and it pretty much just cranked my brain to a full stop. So I withdrew about 30$ the first time and the second time I actualy had the police official typing in the amount because I couldn{t work it out.
So then we traipsed back to the fee lady who told me I would have to go upstairs to change the chilean pesos into american dollars. I looked at her despairingly and asked, ¨I am in Chile and I have to change the chilean pesos back into american dollars to pay you?¨ Yes, was the answer.
I had now been in the aiport customs-reciprocity fee area for an hour and there was not another passenger in sight. With each transaction I was actually regressing slowly back toward the plane and I wondered if there was ever a point when they just made you get back on the plane and return the way you had come.
As I turned to take the pesos to the changing person the lady cleared her throut and said I could pay 30$ US and the rest in pesos as an exception. I nodded numbly and she took my cash in two different currencies and I was ushered back to customs. WHen I finally got to the empty baggage claim area they were just carting off my backpack and I was able to rescue it before it disapeared forever. The Taxi deposited me at the Happy House Hotel and I finaly hit the sheets at 4:15am.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Black Sheep Inn
The donkey is braying in the cool night air, the calico cat is fluffed up on the picnic table, the fat spider is spinning a web around the hapless beetle, and I have just shoveled a load of sawdust into Van der Ryn's composting toilet. I am staying at the Black SHeep Inn ecolodge at elevation 10,500ft. Not only does the toilet not smell bad, it in fact smells like flowers and has a view of dramatic peaks and the plateau below that rivels the three tier bunk house where I am lodged. The toilet room is also a greenhouse with pretty little flowers and vines growing all around. The water from the sink doesn't go down a sewage line, but instead empties directly into the garden and irrigates it. A ;erfect little system to infuse the toilet room with the eau de flor.
Spent today hiking from Laguna Quilatoa, a mesmerizing blue green lake inside a volcanic crater, back to the Black SHeep Inn. It was a beautiful hike with lupines laying a royal purple carpet all the length of the trail. For dinner a gourmet vegetarian meal of ministrone soup, cole slaw, and corn bread was served. Now it is 9:15pm and I am off to bed.
Spent today hiking from Laguna Quilatoa, a mesmerizing blue green lake inside a volcanic crater, back to the Black SHeep Inn. It was a beautiful hike with lupines laying a royal purple carpet all the length of the trail. For dinner a gourmet vegetarian meal of ministrone soup, cole slaw, and corn bread was served. Now it is 9:15pm and I am off to bed.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Last days
July 20, 2008
It has just stopped raining after another 12 hour stretch. The rain forest is not short on rain.
Had pinchos last night, a local Friday night delicacy. Basically a type of shish kabab marinated meat on a stick complete with greasy fries and seasoned Choclo. Choclo is a type of pale yellow latin corn that has bigger, softer kernels than American corn and is quite tasty. After that headed to Becky’s for movie night from her arsenal of literally 200 movie DVD’s. Not much else to do in Shell on a Friday night.
So it stands that I am down to my last week in this strange rain forest land. Home to the biggest and strangest insects I have ever seen. I have seen spiders the size of my hand, fluffy tarantulas that are actually quite cute, and a odd sort of flat spider that inhabited the corner of my door. Rhinocerous beetles with pokey black horns who always seem to be belly up clawing the air with their insect feet, florescent green bees, walking sticks of various hues, grass-hoppers in the shape of large green leafs, and butterflies in brilliant blues or painted with huge owl eyes.
Some places you are drawn to and they call you back with an almost tangible force. For me these are the mountains and high places of the world. This rain forest holds mystery and intrigue and curiosities of every sort, but it is not where I am drawn, but where I have labored for a while.
So many lives have been touched by this small service I have offered, and in return my heart has been molded as well. Esteban learned to walk in Makuma and Angelita sat up for the first time in months. Juan Eras travels two hours once a week for therapy on his knee and Zoila Herminia Perez wet my arms with her tears when I left. Daniela, our new therapist now has a job in the town of her family, where no work existed before. The hospital now has a physical therapy department and new clinic, a service they had been waiting over eight years to put in place. The lives of certain disabled orphans at the Casa de Fe, “House of Faith”, have also been touched through the work of Dr. Sue Curfman, my previous anatomy professor who felt led to come to Ecuador for a week to provide physical therapy.
“Not that we are competent in ourselves to claim anything for ourselves, but our competence comes from God” 2 Corinthians 3:5
It has started to rain again.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Old Town Quito and Honey Pot door
7/1/08
The sign read, “Look carefully because the goods will only pass once.” It was placed at the top of a small dark brown revolving door in a wall at the Monasterio del Carmen Alto. The Rough Guide Lilli had brought suggested rapping on the door to request goods from the Carmelite nuns. As the nuns were living in complete isolation, they passed objects to customers around a lazy Susan type revolving door, so they wouldn’t be seen.
The sign didn’t give any hints as to what one could actually purchase or how one was to go about the transaction. The guide book listed honey, herbs, and wine as possible choices for consumption.
I thought it was best to get on with it and rapped three times on the small door in the wall resting at about chest height. We waited a few minutes and nothing happened, so I knocked again. This time I heard a muffled young voice ask me something in Spanish that I couldn’t quite understand. I figured I should have the appearance of knowing what I was doing.
I leaned forward and spoke into the brown paint, ”Puedo ver su miel?” “Can I see your honey?” This has to be one of the single most odd things I have ever done. There I was standing in the foyer of a nunnery asking someone I couldn’t see for honey. The lady uttered something in reply and then the door began to move.
Believe it or not, out popped a rather large jar of honey.
“Do you have anything smaller?”, I asked.
“No”, was the answer from beyond.
“How much is it?”
“4.50”, was the reply.
“Do you have any herbs?”, I asked next. I think she asked me what kind of herbs, so I asked her if she had anything for chicken as I couldn’t think what else to ask about herbs from a lady behind a revolving door.
Nothing else came around from Netherland and I didn’t feel right asking a Nun for wine. She wanted to know what else we might like. I told her we didn’t know what she had. The lady at this point seemed a bit bemused and I got the impression that I was somehow entertaining her. In the end she indicated that the shop outside had samples of the wares for sale. As we didn’t want the large jar of honey I thanked her and the honey disappeared around the corner of the moving door.
That was certainly a strange experience and one I am quite sure will not be repeated in the near future.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Galapagos good-byes
06/29/08
There are no less than 5 sea lions looking at me as I float submerged in the small lagoon off Isabella Island. We have come to see the Islas Tintereras or Shark Islands, where the black tip reef sharks rest in channels among the black lava islands. Unfortunately the sharks were off laying eggs elsewhere, but we could still see the abundance of other marine life. Baby iguanas scattered like rats along the lava path as we walked by. There were sea lions resting on the sandy beaches and larger marine iguanas swimming nearby. As the blue footed boobies and great frigate birds soared over- head, the little Galapagos penguins waddled about and bobbed up and down in the surf. The sun set in brilliant pinks and oranges over the flamingo lagoon as ducks left light trails in the water. As this day set on the majesty of the sea, so our last night in the Galapagos stretched to it’s end.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Fateful ferry
06/28/08
There are 13 people crammed into a boat the size of a large living room sofa. This is the “ferry” that will take us across the water from Santa Cruz Island to Isabella. We’ve already prevented two other passengers from boarding by shouting “no room” very loudly.
As the boat makes it’s way out of our safe harbor, and the boat begins to pitch and roll, we all have second thoughts about the safety of such a passage.
None of us are wearing life jackets because the co-pilot has stashed them all in the storage at the front of the boat. The captain is situated in the back of the boat and can not even see ahead because the nose of the boat is higher than the rear. He is relying on his assistant to peek around the boat by sticking his head out to the side. As we leave the dock the co-pilot dons a rain jacket and glasses even though there is no sun.
As we pick up speed and the boat begins to smack into the oncoming waves, Lilli lets out a yelp with each hit. Everyone is now braced and cringes each time the ship launches into the air, knowing that a hard crack will follow when the underside collides again with the rough water.
The people surronding me make an interesting picture.
I have an Englishman to my left who is getting showered with the spray of the waves. One hand is protectively across his chest where his cigarettes are. He has mumbled to me that his “fags are ruined”. He looks like he is enduring his lot. Next to him is a young student from Florida who is studying at an oceanography institute on Isabella. She looks the most rested, staring peacefully into space and listening to music on her IP3. She is sitting next to a 20 something lad with his IPOD and earphones on, in a zone with glazed eyes. Beside him is a stout girl who is looking after her boyfriend who seems to be hyperventilating and keeps gulping air and looking nervously about. His girlfriend holds a plastic bag ready. Next to nervous boy is a drunken fellow sneaking plastic cup fulls of some liquor out of his backpack. Later on he gives up the guise and starts drinking straight from the bottle. He takes his video camera out no less than 7 times to film the same scene he has seen on the previous 6 shots. Next to drunk guy is the cool dude. He is well tanned with shades on and his music plugged into his ears. Beside him is a latin fellow clutching a satchel. Besides him is a large man who has sweated through his shorts and shirt and the salt rings are already beginning to show. Besides him is a beefy guy who calmly passes around mints to the needy. And then comes the young girl who doesn’t want to be there, here hooded parka pulled over her head and staring out to sea. Lilly has a towel draped over her shoulder to avoid the spray and is beside me. I have just removed my hand for the 5th time from the leg of the british bloke who I just can’t help squeezing for some reason every time Lilli lets out a squeek.
There are 13 people crammed into a boat the size of a large living room sofa. This is the “ferry” that will take us across the water from Santa Cruz Island to Isabella. We’ve already prevented two other passengers from boarding by shouting “no room” very loudly.
As the boat makes it’s way out of our safe harbor, and the boat begins to pitch and roll, we all have second thoughts about the safety of such a passage.
None of us are wearing life jackets because the co-pilot has stashed them all in the storage at the front of the boat. The captain is situated in the back of the boat and can not even see ahead because the nose of the boat is higher than the rear. He is relying on his assistant to peek around the boat by sticking his head out to the side. As we leave the dock the co-pilot dons a rain jacket and glasses even though there is no sun.
As we pick up speed and the boat begins to smack into the oncoming waves, Lilli lets out a yelp with each hit. Everyone is now braced and cringes each time the ship launches into the air, knowing that a hard crack will follow when the underside collides again with the rough water.
The people surronding me make an interesting picture.
I have an Englishman to my left who is getting showered with the spray of the waves. One hand is protectively across his chest where his cigarettes are. He has mumbled to me that his “fags are ruined”. He looks like he is enduring his lot. Next to him is a young student from Florida who is studying at an oceanography institute on Isabella. She looks the most rested, staring peacefully into space and listening to music on her IP3. She is sitting next to a 20 something lad with his IPOD and earphones on, in a zone with glazed eyes. Beside him is a stout girl who is looking after her boyfriend who seems to be hyperventilating and keeps gulping air and looking nervously about. His girlfriend holds a plastic bag ready. Next to nervous boy is a drunken fellow sneaking plastic cup fulls of some liquor out of his backpack. Later on he gives up the guise and starts drinking straight from the bottle. He takes his video camera out no less than 7 times to film the same scene he has seen on the previous 6 shots. Next to drunk guy is the cool dude. He is well tanned with shades on and his music plugged into his ears. Beside him is a latin fellow clutching a satchel. Besides him is a large man who has sweated through his shorts and shirt and the salt rings are already beginning to show. Besides him is a beefy guy who calmly passes around mints to the needy. And then comes the young girl who doesn’t want to be there, here hooded parka pulled over her head and staring out to sea. Lilly has a towel draped over her shoulder to avoid the spray and is beside me. I have just removed my hand for the 5th time from the leg of the british bloke who I just can’t help squeezing for some reason every time Lilli lets out a squeek.
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