Keep in Touch

We got a phone! (In Panama.) You can reach us at 68496294, and I think you dial this first: 0011-507.

Also, if you don't want to keep checking to see if I posted anything, you can subscribe to this blog by entering your email address over on the right of the screen. You'll get an email notification every time I post.

And since blog posts are no fun without pictures, here are some frogs I saw one night in Bolivia.

A Month in the Jungle

Simba

We just finished our month of volunteering at the Jacj Cuisi animal refuge in northern Bolivia. I arrived giddy to work with a puma, but unfortunately found it frustrating and scary. The park lies on the edge of the Amazon rainforest and is home to four pumas, all rescued from the black market or other abusive situations. Each puma lives in its own huge cage, reminiscent of Jurassic Park, and has its own set of trails surrounding it. Two volunteers work with each cat for at least a month, walking it for about 5 hours a day, 6 days a week. They use thick rope as a leash, attached to both the cat and the volunteer with carabineers.

I was assigned to Simba, who was sweet at first. When my partner and I approached his cage every morning, he would leap up purring, eager to lick our forearms in affection. Walking him was alternately exhausting and boring. We weren’t allowed to pull on the rope, but rather followed behind him, doing whatever he wanted to do. If he sat down to nap for two hours, we sat next to him for two hours. If he set off running down a steep trail, I ran shrieking behind him, dodging stumps and branches, terrified that I would trip and get dragged through the brush. If he refused to start his walk, we were supposed to tie him to a tree and wait until he finally gave up and reluctantly started down the trail. This could take over an hour, while I sat wondering why we couldn’t just leave him in his cage on days when he didn’t want to walk. I suppose the novelty of interacting with a puma wore off quickly for me and I felt like I was walking a spoiled, badly behaved dog.

Where we dined

Then there was the jumping. When the pumas attack you, playfully pouncing onto your leg or pushing you down to the ground, they call it a “jump.”  We were trained to stand our ground when this happens and calmly, firmly show the cat that we are not toys. Running or fighting would just excite them to chase us and bat us around like a mouse. Simba was usually fairly calm, but he gets agitated when he meets new people. After my first week with him, we introduced another new volunteer who would be my partner for the rest of the month. The moment I opened the cage Simba lurched out and wrapped his paws around my leg, latching onto my thigh with his giant teeth (I still have bruises from it). I did what I was supposed to – stayed calm, said “NO”, and stuck out my forearm for him to lick. It worked to get him off my leg but then he bit down on my wrist, pinching the skin between his teeth. Pulling my arm away just made him bite harder, and I felt powerless to stop him. My partner managed to distract him away from me, but after that I was a useless volunteer. When he jumped on my partner I screamed and leapt back instead of helping him, and I was constantly scared of being near Simba. I guess some volunteers build wonderful bonds with their cat, but I just felt like Simba was a wild animal who could easily kill me if he wanted to. I understand that he’s playing and not hunting when he jumps on us, but I’ve seen housecats “play” with mice and they usually end up in two pieces.

Where we bathed 

Tk's cat, Luna

That afternoon I asked to stop working with Simba, so I finished my month doing less exciting but more comfortable work at the camp. Tk wasn’t frightened by his puma, Luna, but found the job boring and got annoyed with the royal treatment lavished on the cats. He stuck with it longer than I did, but also switched to camp work after a couple weeks. We started a garden, planted fruit trees, built a compost, cleared trails, and cooked many meals. About fifteen volunteers live there at any given time, from all over the world, plus one Bolivian family who runs the park, and a veterinarian. We took turns cooking communal meals, and Tk and I cooked more than the others since we didn’t work with the pumas.

Building a compost

Super lindo three-stage compost

Garden plot we planted

It wasn’t what I had looked forward to, and we questioned the merit of this organization dedicating so much money ($10,000 a cage plus food and meds) and hours of volunteers’ time to ensuring the highest quality of life for four cats that can never reproduce or be reintroduced to the wild.  Especially considering that the streets of Bolivia are overrun with stray dogs that no one gives a thought to. But I was impressed to see a Bolivian-run organization with a sincere commitment to preserving wildlife.  We made the best of our time there, and I would even like to return in a few years when they have a monkey reintroduction facility. It was fun getting to know the other volunteers, from Canada, the U.S., Australia, France, Switzerland, Germany, Spain, Belgium, Lithuania, and Korea. (Everyone spoke English.) And of course, the jungle was beautiful.

Mad machete skills - clearing a second plot for tomatoes

Now we’re super excited to spend three months in Panama, working with preschoolers and permaculture. 

El Choro Trail

North of smoggy, dirty, chaotic La Paz, we hiked the Choro trail up and down seventy kilometers of pristine Andean mountains. We set off in sleet and finished three days later with sore knees in a sweaty jungle. I wanted to turn back after the first two hours. I dragged my feet up the black, rocky terrain, disappointed that all we could see was cold mist and an occasional group of llamas. I admittedly exaggerated my wheezing and panting when I told TK that I couldn’t manage this trek – I was too sick and out of shape. (I had seen a doctor in La Paz the day before, who gave me a slew of medications and a shot in the butt for a respiratory problem I’d been battling for a couple weeks.) TK asked me to give it another hour and see how I felt if we reached the summit.

We reached it within ten minutes and I agreed to continue down the trail, as it switchbacked through increasingly warmer and thicker air. The scenery turned greener, reminding me of Switzerland and TK of Scotland. The trail dates back to pre-Incan times and I began to appreciate the idea of walking the same path as ancient Incans. The area remains largely untouched – we hiked for hours without seeing another human and only occasionally sighted a humble house or two, with small patches of potato or corn crops.

Random house after hours with no civilization

At dusk we stopped at a campsite nestled in a valley, set up our tent, and collapsed to sleep without dinner. The last several hours had been steeply downhill on a path of slick stones. The concentration required to cautiously secure my footing for every step was as draining as the physical toll on my knees. I slipped three times and grumbled that this was not a beginner’s hike, as TK had assured me it was.

The second day’s hike led us through gorgeous, lush mountainsides and across rivers in between. It was so refreshing to be surrounded by nothing but green mountains and clean water in every direction, as far as we could see. I forget that places so beautiful and peaceful still exist, where you can easily imagine that humans don’t exist at all.

Rocks laid over 500 years ago. If only they
had chosen less slippery rocks..

In the middle of nowhere, TK finds someone to chat with about farming.
This lady was all alone, tending to her crops on the side of the mountain.

Somewhere around here I realized what day it was and that it was the
first day of class back in Bmore. SO glad I quit school.

Some of the extension bridges weren't in the best shape.

The third day was hot. The climate turned tropical, with more ferns, lizards, snakes, sweat, and sunburn. The trail ended in the small town of Chairo, where we devoured some sandwiches and beer before heading to our next destination.  

Samaipata

El Fuerte ruins

We loved Samaipata! We spent about a week in this cool little town near Santa Cruz. We visited pre-Incan ruins and on our last day camped at a small zoo/ animal refuge nearby. I'm so glad we did because within minutes of arriving, we had monkeys jumping all over us. The zoo only takes in animals that need to be rescued and the monkeys are only caged if they're aggressive. There were ocelots, macaws, tapiers, but we were pretty preoccupied with the monkeys. Here are some pictures:

Caterpillar

A little help from a friend

Potosi and Ojo del Inca

Potosi, Bolivia

Our first stop in Bolivia was the highest city in the country and one of the highest in the world: Potosi, at 4,090 meters. It's cold, windy, and quaint - reminded me a lot of Cusco, Peru. But the altitude took some getting used to. We spent the first day throwing up in our hotel, and watching movies in bed while chewing coca leaves and drinking coca tea. We continued to have headaches for several days and got winded so easily. Seriously, I had to sit down and rest after getting dressed in the morning.

Potosina: "the highest brewery in the world"

Ran into some miners setting up their dynamite

Potosi was founded as a silver mining town and some mining still goes on, even though the working conditions are terrible. They say the average miner dies within ten years of starting, either from accidents or health problems. We took a tour of the mine, which was cool but probably not something I would do again. There were a few too many steep drop-offs and random explosions for my comfort.

The mine was full of superstitions. We passed several little nooks where idols
 like these two were lavished with gifts: cigarettes, booze, and coca leaves,
to appease the mountain and protect the miners from accidents.

We camped one night at a natural hot spring called Ojo del Inca, outside of Potosi. Supposedly Incan kings used to visit it for its curative powers. It was a beautiful place to camp and get a break from altitude sickness.

If you go to Bolivia, go by plane.

The border crossing from La Quiaca, Argentina to Villazón, Bolivia marked our first miserable experience of the trip.  We took a night bus and got to the border at 8 am. The customs line stretched 300 meters from the small building where one man stamped passports for the hundreds of people waiting to cross the border. We sat in line for several hours, getting up every ten minutes to move our bags five feet ahead. At one point the line didn’t move for almost an hour and when I went to investigate I was informed that the power went out so the customs desk was closed until it came back on. I’m not sure why you need electricity to stamp passports…

We finally got our Argentina exit stamps at around noon, but the short bridge to Bolivia was completely blocked by a local protest and police officers. So we had to walk a couple hundred yards to a spot where we could crawl through a hole in the barbed wire fence. A shallow river separated the two countries and a line of people fumbled across the stepping stones, half locals, half backpackers. This brings me to an issue that has been the biggest point of contention between me and TK this entire trip. I overpacked. Not only did I pack too much, but I used a big roller bag instead of buying a good backpacking backpack. Roller bags are of course ill-suited for travelling around South America, where flat, clean surfaces hardly exist. I’m barely strong enough to lift the bag, much less carry it upstairs or across small rivers, so TK ends up carrying it a lot. And he’s got a pretty heavy load himself, because even though he’s the world’s lightest packer and only owns about five shirts, he’s coming straight from Paraguay so anything he wanted to keep had to come with him on this trip.

Anyway, we luckily met a friendly Michigander in line, who helped me get my things across the river. Then I wheeled it through a trash-filled field, up some cobblestone streets, and to the end of the line for the Bolivian customs desk. And the same process repeated, inching along the sidewalk for hours. One pleasant surprise was our discovery that Bolivia has delicious street food.  Ladies were selling tucumanes (like spherical tamales) for about 20 cents a pop, so we ate well.

When we were within ten minutes of reaching the front of the line, a customs guy brought us the forms we needed and asked if we had Bolivian visas. Nope. But we brought enough Bolivianos to pay for it. The guy informed us, however, that we had to pay in American dollars. So I ran down the street, asking store owners where the closest ATM was. This led me to a less pleasant discovery about Bolivia: Bolivians give directions just like Paraguayans do – they say “two blocks that way” even if it’s actually ten blocks, or if they have no idea where it is. Half the people I asked told me there was no ATM in Villazón and half said, “two blocks that way.” So I jogged two blocks, and another two blocks, and another and another, until I reached a little bank about 15 blocks from where TK stood in line with our bags. The teller said there was no ATM but I could take out money with a credit card if I had my passport and got in line. My passport was with TK! So I got to know that 15 block stretch of stores quite well, jogging back down to get my passport, up to get the money, and back down just in time to reach the front of the line. We eagerly handed over our passports, our forms, and our 300 US dollars. After looking everything over for ten minutes, they told us they can’t make change in dollars – they needed exactly 270. We said, “no problem, give us the change in Bolivianos.” But of course that wasn’t allowed. So Tk ran out to find a money changer to break the $300. Then more waiting. How long does it take to glue two visas and stamp two entry stamps? Forty-five minutes.

At 4 pm we officially entered Bolivia, after spending eight hours moving a distance that could otherwise be walked in ten minutes. Thank you, South American bureaucracy, for ruining our first day in Bolivia.

Saltared through Salta

Maybe I'm not so good at this blogging thing... Now that we've been in Bolivia for two weeks, let me tell you about New Year's in Argentina.

We breezed through Buenos Aires and Cordoba to reach Salta (in northern Argentina) for New Year’s Eve. Our bus arrived at 11 pm, so we rushed to our hostel, dropped off our bags, and quickly made ourselves somewhat presentable, despite having not showered in I won’t say how many days. (I passed on the cold bucket showers in Cabo Polonio – swimming in the ocean counts as bathing, right?)

Happy New Year - alone in the rain in Salta : /

The hostel owner said that festivities would be going down at two main plazas. We walked to the closer one and found the deadest plaza I’ve ever seen. Everything closed, lights out, except for one fancy restaurant hosting a private party. We strolled by the entrance a couple times, wondering if we could slip in unnoticed and drink champagne with the fancy people. We decided they were boring anyway and raced through the rain to the next plaza, about ten blocks away. We didn’t make it in time for midnight. At 11:59 we stopped by a gas station, on a dark, empty street and watched the clock on TK’s ipod usher us into 2012.

Champagne for me, beer for him

Within five minutes we found the crowds celebrating outside of bars and setting off fireworks in the street. Families were also releasing huge paper balloons with candles below them, so the sky was filled with these glowing lanterns in addition to fireworks and rain.

Around 4 am we wandered back to our hostel, exactly two years since we spoke for the first time... 

How things have changed in two years :).

Lots of mountains

Here's a few more pictures of our time in Salta: 

 

Salta means "jump". The name probably refers to the salt flats pictured here...
but we'll interpret it as we wish.

At our finest.

Tried llama - tastes like beef

A national park dedicated to preserving cacti. Never seen so many in my life.