Where the Giant Ferns Grow

August 16, 2009

With giant ferns, looks are deceiving. What appear to be tree trunks are actually decomposed plant parts. If you touch one, it feels like dirt rather than wood. This “trunk” made of decayed organic matter protects and supports the palm tree-like fronds that sprout up from the top. Clever and resourceful beings.

Our giant fern cloud forest hiking group of six turned out to be a group of three. Except for the increase in cost, smaller was probably better. After stocking up on food for lunch, we took a cab to a spot where we would begin our hike. The giant fern cloud forest is located in Amboró National Park, a huge park that covers an area where the Andes, Chaco, and Amazon Basin ecosystems converge.

The scenery was new, but it was like the other hikes I’d done on the trip- unexpectedly challenging. Though we were at a lower elevation, we were still relatively high up. My lungs still struggled with the thin air. And it was incredibly muddy. The sun was bright and shining that day, but thick vegetation often didn’t allow many of its rays to poke through and dry up the ground. So I slipped and slided down slopes and tried to hold onto the few plants around that were stable and not prickly.

If I understood him correctly, our guide was a university science professor who led tours in his time off. He had a lot of interesting information about the inhabitants of the forest. We saw only one other group the entire day. Our guide told us he’d led a hike earlier in the summer and came across a group of people who were lost in the forest. They were hiking without a guide. When he found them, they were delirious because of their predicament.

After a muddy struggle, we reached the top of the mountain I wasn’t aware we were climbing. There was yet another panoramic view of beautiful mountainous landscape. We perched on the edge to eat lunch, the most amazing spot to eat our random assortment of snack foods.

Our guide eventually convinced us to leave our prime lunch location so we could walk back down the mountain. We took a different route down that was much quicker and had no slippery slopes.

I went to dinner with the English girl and the two Australian sisters. We all talked about making it an early night to get some rest. But as we walked back to the hostel, someone greeted us with, “Ola,” in a thick German accent. This changed the course of our night.

We soon found ourselves at a club down the street hanging out with a group of German guys. Three of them seemed to be in their twenties. There was one older guy that the rest of them referred to as “Papi”. Papi had clearly gotten his night started early and I’m being generous when I describe him as “boisterous”. These guys were full of crazy stories. When they were out of earshot, the English girl let us know she didn’t believe a word they said. She was probably right.

They left to put Papi to bed and head to another bar. We stayed behind to dance to reggaeton and agreed to meet them wherever they were going next. But we couldn’t find it. We found another happening club where couples were dancing away to style of music similar to salsa.

As we entered the dance floor and moved to our own beats, we literally cleared dance floor. People stopped dancing and sat back to watch us. Maybe they did not want to share the dance floor with people dancing as awfully as we were. Maybe they wanted a free comedy show. “Look at those tourists!”

After a good dance workout we decided to head back to the first club to see what was going on. We decided to dance to a few more reggaeton hits before ending our free tourist spectacle. A truly entertaining night for all parties involved.

The Traveler Community

August 15, 2009

Where the hell is that? Why are you going there? These were the questions asked by the confused faces of people I encountered along my trip when I told them I was going to Samaipata. I didn’t have the answers. From what I’d read about it, I sensed that it would a be a gorgeous place with wonderful things to discover. What things, I didn’t know.

I’d made a reservation for a lovely looking little place in Samaipata called Hostal Andoriña. I received a prompt response and an important piece of information: constantly remind the bus driver that you’re getting off in Samaipata. I was taking a Sucre to Santa Cruz overnight bus. According to the hostel, people who were trying to get to Samaipata often woke up to find themselves all the way in Santa Cruz.

As I boarded my bus, I told the guy who had taken care of the ticket formalities that I was getting off in Samaipata. He looked shocked even though “Samaipata” had been written and highlighted on my ticket.

Bolivia is home to the notorious “World’s Most Dangerous Road“, but it doesn’t take a traveler long to see that almost every road in Bolivia is dangerous. Steep cliffs, unsurfaced roads, sometimes no road at all, freezing cold temperatures, vehicle breakdowns, running out of gas– these are the realities of overland travel in Bolivia. I’d read that on the World’s Most Dangerous Road, there are dogs spaced out along the beginning waiting for people to offer them food. People believe feeding the dogs will give them good luck on their journeys. Even though this road had no official extreme title, as we pulled away from Sucre, there the dogs were, waiting for their offerings.

The first hour of the drive was fantastic as we rounded the corners of uninhabited mountains and the setting sun illuminated the sky with gorgeous shades of the rainbow. As the sun and the paved road vanished, the drive became a little more sketchy, but not nearly as bad as I imagined. The times that made me nervous where when we found ourselves moving backwards around a bend on a steep cliff. Sometimes the road was too narrow for two vehicles to pass each other.

We made one stop in a town that was in the middle of celebration. Firecrackers lit up the sky, a great surprise after a drive that was increasingly uncomfortable and monotonous. At this stop, I reminded the driver and co. that I was getting off in Samaipata. One of the guys looked annoyed that I was telling him again. But I was determined to not wake up two hours past my destination.

I chatted with the French group I’d hung out with in Sucre and said goodbye. They were several rows behind me and I’d be getting off the bus before them. After a very long stop, we finally left. A few people chased after the bus and hopped on. The chance that you’ll get left behind is yet another dangerous aspect of Bolivian bus travel.

The journey was about 13 hours. I had a great spot in the front row with ample leg room, but a chair that refused to stay reclined. After hours of tossing and turning in my gravity defying chair, I opened my eyes to look at the time. It was just before 6am and if I’d calculated right, we were due to arrive in Samaipata.

I knocked on the door to remind the driver once again that I was getting off in Samaipata. Whaddya know, it was a completely different driver and crew. “Oh, Samaipata?!” I was so glad I got up when I did, because we arrived in Samaipata about 10 minutes later. My broken chair was a blessing in disguise.

At the hostel, I rang the night bell several times before someone answered. I was surprised when a young American girl answered the door. She took my to my room where I immediately went to bed. In the late morning I woke up to sounds of people chatting outside my window.

In the courtyard I found what I didn’t know I was looking for– a traveler community. It was more than the usual coming of age backpacking holidayers; a motley mix of people was scattered about. There were youthful travelers and others with graying hair. Some were flighty, some cantankerous, some effervescent. But regardless of background or personality, you could tell these were all people with an insatiable curiosity about the world. People who felt the urge to move deep in their bones.

There were no barriers in this peculiar community of travelers, and it wasn’t long before I knew a bit about each person there. A Scottish couple, two Australian sisters, a girl from England and I agreed that some or all of us would go on a hike through a giant fern forest nearby the next day.

I peeled myself away from the fascinating assortment of people at the hostel and went into town. In the center of town, there was a main square full of random sculptures and absolutely nothing going on.  At the height of tourist season, it was far from the “major tourist destination” my guidebook described it as. I loved it there. In this sleepy town I felt I was somewhere new and different while simultaneously feeling at home.

I bumped into the Scottish couple and they helped me negotiate a price for a cab to the El Fuerte ruins. Taking a cab is the quick way to get to the ruins, but you can also take a challenging walk. On my way, I passed by the Australian girls trudging up the mountain and hoped they didn’t see me taking the easy way up.

At the top of the mountain where the ruins are, there was a fantastic view of the area. It is amazing how much of Bolivia is so pristine and untouched. The unruliness of the land has saved a lot of it from being destroyed. Not much is known about the ruins of El Fuerte and they were not like any other ruins I’d seen before. I took in sites that were unique to my eyes as I enjoyed a quiet walk around.

Wanderful Words No. 7

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

- Anaïs Nin

This week I became a published writer. A reworked version of my blog entry “5 Travel Memoirs by Women” is now up on Matador Goods. Check it out here.

When the Matador Goods Editor, Lola Akinmade, sent me a message saying my piece was up, a felt happy and… weird. As much as I’ve always loved expressing myself through various forms of art, putting myself out there has been a huge obstacle for me. Of course, like many other people who struggle with the same issue, a fear of failure (and maybe success as well) keeps me from pursuing creative feats. But I’m dismantling the wall of fear, brick by brick. This year has been a good year for taking small steps to achieve bigger things. After all,

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

- Lao-Tzu

Life is Beautiful in Sucre

August 13, 2009

In Sucre, tucked into beautiful buildings are often even more beautiful courtyards. In my search for breakfast, enticed by a sign advertising salteñas, I walked through a lobby into a flowery hidden oasis, pulsating with energy and happiness. Salteñas, somewhat similar to empanadas, are a typical mid-morning snack for Bolivians. I’d arrived during the rush. Large groups of college students sat at tables joking and laughing. At other tables were families of three generations engaged in jovial conversations. While the salteña resembles an empanada, the first bite will show you that it is not. As I bit into mine, hot juice from the pastry dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt. I looked around sheepishly to see if anyone else had this problem. Everyone else was eating their salteñas gracefully with skills acquired over time.

After breakfast, I found a bank with a Western Union near my hostel. I went right up to the counter where the teller was incredibly friendly and took care of everything. While he was in the process, I turned around and saw that there was an extremely long line. Had I cut in front of everyone?! Or was the Western Union teller separate? But there were no angry glares from the people waiting and the transaction was quick. I had enough money to make it through the rest of my trip. My backpack was still heavy, but I was no longer carrying the extra burden of worry.

After purchasing a ticket for Samaipata the next day, I headed up a hill to a wonderful lookout point called La Recoleta. Here you can see the entire city and mountains that surround them. Below whitewashed arches covered with graffiti was a lovely restaurant with outdoor seating and a view.

The restaurant was overrun with people speaking with an accent I hadn’t heard in awhile. Americans! It’s funny how jarring your own accent can sound when it suddenly returns to your ears en masse. Besides a couple I talked to briefly on the bus the previous day, I hadn’t met any Americans since I’d crossed the border into Bolivia two weeks before. Experiencing a bit of culture shock, I took a seat away from the group to enjoy my lunch and the gorgeous city below.

I went to the Museum and Textiles and Ethnography, which was indeed “not boring” as the travel agent I’d bought the bus ticket earlier from had described. After seeing all of the textiles, I was delighted when I walked into a room full of Bolivian music and festival history. Andean music is melancholy with subtle undertones of joy. It is incredibly well-suited for the land. I sat at a listening station and heard songs that sent sound-waves of elation through me. The voices were uninhibited and often out of tune. People sung with the kind of abandon reserved for those whose minds haven’t been filled with ideas of what music should be. As a vocalist with perhaps too much classical music education, I reveled in these passionate voices.

I thought back to the sadness I’d felt when driving through remote villages in cold desert. Life was undoubtedly hard in those environments, but music, color, and frequent celebration surely brought beauty to life in such places.

In the early evening, I reunited with the French group. We went up to the roof of the hostel to watch the sunset over the city. They shared my love at first sight with Sucre and gushed about how wonderful the city was. Sucre has surprisingly few tourists. I guess there is not much to “do” there, it’s more of a place to just be. Many backpackers stay on the path that takes you straight up and down western Bolivia that will lead you in and out of Peru or Chile. But if you’re willing to deal with crappy transportation, Bolivia has much more to offer.

The next morning, I saw yet another parade. It was a week after Independence Day so I don’t know if it was linked to that, but I do know that Bolivians love their parades. The French group gave me directions to market near our hostel. I walked into a courtyard full of fruit! Fresh produce can be really hard to come by in high altitude Bolivia, an inhospitable environment for most plants. But Sucre, at a lower elevation, is where a transition to a warmer, more tropical climate begins. I wanted pineapple and strawberries and passion fruit, but bought several oranges and apples, the most practical option for the long drive to Samaipata.

Before meeting up with the French group to head over to the bus station, I had a late lunch in a restaurant overlooking Sucre’s main square. The square was like a condensed version of Sucre, beautiful, joyful and full of life. I’m starting to notice that the places I love most on my travels are not the ones full of sights and monuments, but those full of character and wonderful people. Sucre has maintained an old-fashioned sense of human interaction while clearly looking forward. The city and its people radiate warmth and beauty. I wanted to reclaim the joy that had been lost over the last few days of my journey and in Sucre, I found it again.

Grapes of Rapture

This past Saturday, I joined my friend and her coworkers on a wine tasting trip to Sonoma. Napa tends to take much of Northern California’s wine glory, but there are several other great wine tasting areas near San Francisco that are just as nice and kinder to your wallet. Sonoma is Napa’s more down-to-earth neighbor to west.

Our first stop was Cline Cellars. I found the staff at this winery to be full of character and very personable. The guy who ran the wine tasting had a lot of useful information and entertaining anecdotes about his personal journey to appreciating wine. Cline had fun descriptions for their wine, including one that they claim is perfect for drinking with leftovers. This was a great winery– earthy, old school, and unpretentious.

Next, we headed down the street to Viansa Winery where we had a short tour of their property. After a tasting, we had lunch and then relaxed on the sunny patio which overlooks their vineyard. We talked to a youthful old couple who were originally from Holland. They said they came there every weekend to enjoy a bottle of wine. The woman told us, “We don’t even have to ask for what we want anymore. We just sit at our table outside and they bring us our wine!” That is my definition of aging well.

When we arrived at Nicholson Ranch, we found the perfect spot for our tasting. They had a wonderful patio with a view of vineyard-covered rolling hills, flowers, and extremely comfortable chairs. One of the owners came around to pour the wine while we enjoyed conversation and the late afternoon sun. Here, I felt complete relaxed and content. I was able to peel myself out of the chair for our last stop, Gloria Ferrer, where we enjoyed glasses of sparkling wine at sunset.

Vineyard

Fall Ivy

Wine Tasting at Viansa

Olive Tree

Grapevine Hill

Wine and a View

Amor Fati?

August 12, 2009

As the bus drove away from Uyuni, I looked behind to watch the distance between me and the salt flat grow larger until it disappeared from view. I turned forward to an unknown adventure. I’d slept on my decision, and knew I’d made the right choice to leave the Salar de Uyuni tour behind. Independent travel should be just that—independent. People looked at me as though I’d left India without seeing the Taj Mahal. But feeling unchained from what I’d told myself and what others told me I had to do was extraordinarily freeing. I’d also found that I could bypass Potosi, another backpacker hot spot, and head straight to Sucre that day for 20 Bolivianos (about $2.75) more. It would be a long day of driving, but worth it to go directly where I wanted to go.

We drove through miles of uninhabited Altiplano. Every so often, we passed through a tiny village or saw one in the distance. This journey was one of many on my trip that left me contemplating the complexities of fate. People born in those remote villages would most likely die there. They would probably spend their whole lives negotiating the harsh conditions of the cold and parched high altitude desert. And there I was, nose against the window, just passing through as I’ve done around the world.

We had two stops on the way to Potosi, one was planned and the other wasn’t. The planned one was at Bolivia’s version of a rest stop– a metal toilet with no seat, a kiosk selling nothing of nutritional value, and a “restaurant”. Besides the fact that it was housed in shacks, it wasn’t all that different from a rest stop here in the United States.

Barren desert gave way to beautiful rock formations and full rivers. We’d entered mining country. There were several detours on bumpy paths where men were working along the main road.

For almost the whole ride, our bus had been making sketchy sounds. The noise ceased, and we were brought to our second stop, the unplanned one. The driver tried to restart the bus as he’d done the entire trip, but this time, the bus was stopped for good. We all got off and the driver and co. quickly put large rocks behind the tires so the bus wouldn’t roll back down the hill we’d worked so hard to get up.

The driver and co. unsuccessfully tried to flag down buses that were driving by on a road below us. I was getting nervous about being stuck in Extremely High Altitude, Middle of Nowhere, Bolivia for a night. Finally, a fancy bus we’d seen at the rest stop climbed up the hill and parked behind us. It turned out that the problem was quite simple—we’d run out of gas.

Our drivers siphoned gas out of their tank to put in ours and voila! We were on our way again and very relieved. Once you’re outside of cities in Bolivia, gas stations are nonexistent. Whatever gas you need, you have to take with you. I think many drivers leave unprepared because they know they can borrow some from another driver if they need to. It’s infuriating that they’ll put a bus full of people in that position, but charming that they’re always willing to help each other out.

It turns out that we weren’t too far from Potosi when the bus broke down. We arrived in the early evening. A group of three French backpackers were the only other people on the bus heading on to Sucre as well. Everyone got off, and we stayed on to be driven to the Potosi bus station where we would catch another bus.

At the station, we wandered over to a Cholita selling delicious cheese empanadas. We were starving after a day without any real food. She insisted that we try some beverage in a pot. She scooped it out with a plastic cup and handed it over. I took a little sip to be polite, but wasn’t interested in chugging a mystery beverage when I had a few more hours of driving left.

It was a relief when we finally arrived in Sucre. The French trio invited me to stay at a hostel with them, so we caught a cab together to center of town. We found a hostel and settled in before heading to dinner. After our late meal, we called it a night. It had been a long day. But I felt happy in Sucre. Even in the dark, I sensed that I would love the energy of the city. I couldn’t wait to roam its cobblestoned streets the next day.

Wanderful Words No. 6

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.”

- Miriam Beard