The Very Last Post

After Lencois we flew up to Manaos, an unlikely metropolis located in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Despite the spectacular location, the city is really more of an ugly urban sprawl with few points of interest. At the top of that small list of
worthwhile sights is the 'Meeting of the Waters,' where the Rio Negro meets the Rio Solimoes to form the Amazon river. When the rivers meet, the black water of the Rio Negro runs side by side with the brown waters of the Rio Solimoes for several kilometers before finally mixing. After crossing the Amazon river in a small passenger boat we left Manaos as soon as possible, stopping next in Presidente Figueredo. The small town of Figueredo is known as the 'Land of Waterfalls' to Brazilians, and the outskirts of the town are dotted with black waterfalls surrounded by dense toucan-filled jungle. We spent a couple days camping, swimming and practicing Portuguese with the locals. After shaking off the after effects of downing unadvisable amounts of cachaca the night before, we pushed off the edge of the sprawling Brazilian countryside and entered Venezuela.

Our nickname for Venezuela was the 'black box,' an engineering term describing a system where you dont really know whats going on inside, but you have an idea of how it relates to other systems. In this case we had no idea how the Venezuelan black market worked, or what we would find in the remote southern corner of the country,
all we knew was that some crazy self absorbed dictator ran the show and that somewhere on a northern peninsula we had a flight arranged to take us home in a couple weeks. After crossing the border some things cleared up rather quickly. We found a couple of nice shady 'businesses' that would change our currency on the black market, giving us a rate of 8 bolivares to the dollar instead of the official bank rate of 4.3 pesos to the dollar. Once we had our big wad of cash we set out to arrange a trip to Mount Roraima, the tallest of the table top mountains known as tepuis. The next day we set out on a 6 day backpacking trip led by the local Pemon indians. For the first two days we crawled across the Grand Savannah, crossing rivers, passing through small tracts of jungle, and staring anxiously at the approaching mountain. On the third day we began our ascent. After climbing the
rippling base of the mountain we reached the sheer rock wall, where we began to traverse along a steep and wet trail along the face. After a few hours we reached the summit and the alien land unfolded before us. While most mountains have a summit of a couple square meters, the sprawling peak of Roraima covers 31 square kilometers. The isolation from the jungle and savannah below means that Roraima harbors its own unique species not found anywhere else in the world. In the two days that we spent on top we saw 3 types of carnivorous plants, small black frogs with yellow bellies, phosphorescent worms, tarantulas, and many other unique lifeforms. The equally unusual craggy canyons and bulbous peaks that cover the sandstone landscape helped serve as markers as we walked along the unmarked trails; typical Roraima directions might say 'past the giant flying turtle, through the double arch, right at the balancing phallis, and straight until you reach the 3 story tall car.' Some of the most amazing sights we walked to were the jacuzzi, curvy rock pools with unusual color gradients, and the window, a rock that juts out from the edge of the mountain and offers unbelievable views. At night we slept in a natural cave in the rock and on the third day on top we reluctantly started heading back, already planning the next trip.



On Roraima we had met a Spaniard, Raul, and a Venezuelan, Annette, traveling together, and they convinced us that it wouldn't be just to leave Venezuela without paying a visit to the most popular attraction in the country, Angel Falls. At this point we were really pushing the limits of our schedule, and immediately upon returning from Roraima we had to catch an overnight bus up to Ciudad Bolivar. From there we caught an early morning flight into Canaima National Park. The flight turned about to be pretty exciting as Viviana and I were the only two passengers in the miniature 4 seater plane. Around 11AM we arrived in the village of Canaima and soon were getting loaded into a motorized canoe for the final leg up to the worlds
tallest waterfall. The canoe pushed up some unsettling rapids and passed incredible tepuy filled scenery on the 4 hour trip to the base of the falls. At the end it pulled up to a small island and we began the final one hour walk up to the viewpoint. Angel Falls originates on a tepuy much like Roraima, but with a larger surface area and taller cliffs in some areas. The water collects on top and falls almost an entire kilometer (979 meters) down into the jungle below. Although I had seen pictures before, only when I saw it from up close could I really see just how immense the falls are, made even more dramatic by the carved out rock face that surround them, and the smaller waterfall that sits at the bottom. That night we camped right across the river, sleeping in hammocks with a view of the falls. The next day we returned to Canaima to see some of the sights closer to the village. We visited four other waterfalls nearby, following a trail that led us behind one of them. The rest of the time we passed drinking beer on the beach by the Canaima lagoon and swimming in the shallow black waters. After only three days in Canaima we said goodbye to the waterfall and to the immense jungle that we hadn't even begun to explore, and caught our flight back. This time a seatbelt malfunction landed Viviana in the copilots seat in the cockpit of our little plane.

When we landed we didnt really have any plans for the next couple days, so Annette graciously invited us to join her and Raul on a trip to some cays off the Venezuelan coast. The plan sounded good, so we decided to meet at her house first to get some supplies. This was to be the final episode of the trip, and it started to seem as though we had used most of our good luck in the jungle. When we left the airport I saw a cashew fruit I had always wanted to try hanging from a tree, so I picked it and tried the flesh. It was pretty bland, so I decided to try and crack the nut hanging from the bottom of the fruit. Using my teeth as prybars, I successfully spilled anacardic acid, a powerful skin irritant contained in the shell, all over my lips, causing them to burn and eventually peel over the next week. While my lips began to burn and locals scared me with the dangers of the cashew fruit, it also began to rain, and we decided to delay our trip to the islands. Fortunately Annette let us sleep over at her house, and showed us a number of deliciously unhealthy traditional Venezuelan foods. The following day we headed out, and as the rain started coming down we knew there was only one way to fix our problems: get really drunk. We loaded up our thermos with coconut rum and waded out into the carribean at about 9AM. Around noon, after refilling the thermos numerous times, we bought another bottle and caught a ferry out to the cays. We landed on a tiny picturesque island and kept the party going with water wrestling, acrobatics, and of course more coconut rum. The rum had successfully gotten rid of the rain, but as we all know, bad luck always comes in threes. Without really realizing it, I had been getting ravaged by miniscule 'puri-puri' insects for the last few hours before the sun went down. As I laid down exhausted and itching like crazy, I wanted nothing more than to sleep until noon the next day. This sounded like a good idea until about 11pm, when a couple of boats pulled up to the beach and began unloading boxes. Another half hour later there was a full crew of workers setting up stages, games, and tables, using power tools and lights from a generator located about 10 ft from our tent. At around 5AM this turned into obnoxious music from a loudspeaker, and by 8AM they were already starting the drinking games. Unable to fight the noise, we waded into the sea and caught a water taxi back to the mainland, ready for some proper relaxation back on what is technically US soil, on the beautiful islands of Puerto Rico.

As we lifted off from the Punto Fijo airport and saw the continent sneak away behind us, I tried to summon the memories from the trip and fill myself with the emotion of finally finishing my journey. Of course things never really work that way, and all I
could really think about was getting a nice bed to sleep in and not having to wash my clothes in the sink. In Puerto Rico Viviana and I took relaxation to the next level. The majority of the time was spent eating delicious home cooked food, hanging out with Vivianas adorable nieces, and watching basketball. We made a few excursion during the two week visit, visiting some spectacular beaches such as Mar Chiquita and Playa Sucia. Our relaxation reached a climax on the small island of Culebra, where we spent 5 days catching sun, downing Medalla light, and walking along sand that had the texture of powdered sugar. Puerto Ricos mix of spanish and US culture was an excellent segway back into life in the US, and after 2 weeks I was just about ready to be home.

On the way back I stopped by Florida and Georgia to catch up with some family I had been neglecting for far too long. I spent a few days with my grandmother relaxing and sharing stories, then headed up to Atlanta to camp out with cousins, uncles and aunts. We camped on a beautiful lake that has more of my families history in its waters than perhaps anywhere else on the planet. The whole southern trip only lasted one week, but allowed for years of catching up and a reminder of how fun it can be to hang out with family. Then, after over a year on the road, I caught the last plane home.

Now I'm back in my familiar setting. The tropical rainforests of the Amazon have been replaced by the temperate rainforests of the pacific northwest. Gone are the random strangers, sunburns, scarlet macaws, and empanadas. Now I see old friends, hypothermia, scrub jays, and bean burritos (thats American, right?). Goodbye waterfalls, crappy international beer, and reggaeton. Hello waterfalls, crappy domestic beer, and reggae. It's been almost a week that I've been home now, and I'm slowly settling into the normal rythm of life.

Traveling is something that never fits well into anyone's schedule or budgets, but if you can feel the intrigue of exotic places and unique experiences distracting you from your comfortable life, then you just have to make room. When I started planning my trip I had an amazing job, a girlfriend I loved, and a group of friends that will never be replaced. I had to rearrange everything to begin traveling; I quit my job, moved away from my friends, and went 7 months without seeing my girlfriend. When I caught the first 32 hour bus through Mexico my mind was in turmoil as I thought about the challenges that laid before me and the lifestyle that I was giving up in Tucson. Then as I made my way down through Central America new experiences and ideas replaced the nostalgia and worry, and now that it's all said and done I know I'll never be the same person, and never live the same life that I did before.

I wrote this blog at first because I was pressured into it by friends and family, but after only a few posts I realized that I actually kind of enjoyed writing it. Even though sometimes I was writing in a blazing hot internet cafe with mosquitos biting my feet, I found that putting my experiences down in text helped me to understand what was happening as well. I hope that I made them somewhat interesting, and not just a bunch of rambling stories and pointless anecdotes. If there is any message contained in the pages and photos of this blog, I hope that it says that traveling is worth it. No matter what you have to do to make it happen, it's worth it, and if you ignore the urge to explore you will always wonder what awaits beyond the geographical, political, and mental borders of the world.



Here's a few statistics to finish this thing off...

Days Traveling: 424
Countries Visited: 14
Miles Traveled (not including airplanes): 20192
Hours Traveling (not including airplanes): 869
Photos Taken: 7004
Shoe Repairs: 6
Ticks Pulled from Bodies: 25 (13 from me, 12 from Viviana)
Hats Lost: 5

Thanks for following my blog, hope you enjoyed it!!!

Brazil

We decided to keep bussing it up until Rio, at which point we had purchased plane tickets to help us hop across the sprawling landmass of Brazil. On our way north we made a quick stopover at Iguazu Falls, arguably the worlds most impressive waterfall. At an average flow of 61,660 cu ft per second the waterfall is technically a collection of 275 smaller waterfalls that pour off of a giant steppe in the jungle. The curtain of water plummets up to 270 feet and emits a constant roar throughout the forest. Since the falls are located directly on the border between Argentina and Brazil, visitors normally have to choose which side to see, and although the entire falls can be seen from either side, the views differ. Viviana and I chose to walk along the complex of boardwalks on the Argentine side, offering a much more personal experience with the waterfall, although forfeiting the all encompassing view of the Brazilian side. The height of the action takes place in the Devils Throat, where the wall of falling water wraps around in a U-shape, concentrating its hydrolic power onto the rocks below. After walking every boardwalk possible and filling the camera with photos that dont come close to capturing the immensity of the place, we finished the day with a walk through the jungle. The area surrounding the falls was also impressive in its display of wildlife, and over the course of the day we saw a large black and yellow snake, coatis, guatusas, plush crested jays, and a local species of deer. The next day we made a last minute rush to finish our visa applications and once we procured the $135 stamp we headed off towards Rio de Janeiro.

Rio de Janeiro is a city that defies description. From its photogenic contrast of modern structures set in rugged natural beauty to its gorgeous posh beaches surrounded by crumbling favelas, it is very difficult not to be pulled into the intrigue of the exceptional metropolis. Unfortunately, knowing that it would also be the most expensive destination of our trip, we did not have too much time to explore and we quickly set off to see the sights. Our first destination was Christ the Redeemer, the iconic statue of Jesus opening his arms to the world, as if saying ´What?? You want a little of this? I didnt think so.´ The view from the top is truly incredible, and the photos came out even sweeter after having to battle our way through the crowd just to peek over the railing. The next day was reserved for the beach. We set out our towels on the ´beautiful people´ section of Ipanema and watched the parade of nicely rounded body parts pass by in front of our face. We passed the day putting down cachaça (sugar cane liquour) and coke as I accused every muscle bound man that passed of using steroids and Viviana blamed every top heavy woman of surgery. Of course there are many parts of Rio that are better enjoyed when the night sets in, so it wasnt long before we set out looking for a party. The most popular spot in the city is called Lapa, a bar lined avenue that fills with street vendors, tourists, wealthy locals and even some from the favelas, all looking to toss back some caipirinhas and get loose. We were too broke to go into any of the upscale clubs, so we were able to properly enjoy the street scene, meeting a collection of interesting characters and chatting the night away until the sun came up. Of course the next day was uneventful, involving a series of blurry dreams about mosaic staircases and drunken irish people. We awoke late in the afternoon and decided that no visit to Rio would be complete without taking in a soccer game. We signed up with a group of tourists from the hostel and set out to see Botafogo play Vasco, two teams that I had never heard of in my life, but are apparently some of the top contenders in Rio. Even though our arbitrarily chosen team (Botafogo) lost badly, the game was a blast and I finally got to see the fury of flying toilet paper rolls and even help hold up a giant view-impeding banner for a while. The last day we awoke at a more reasonable hour with the intention of going back to the beach, but had to change our plans when the sky clouded over and the sky started sweating on us. Instead we went to the botanical garden, which turned out to be a good decision as we strolled through the amazing variety of plant life. The highlights of the garden were the carnivorous plant greenhouse and a curious family of wild monkeys that had climbed down from the surrounding jungle. To finish up our visit to the worlds most picturesque city we climbed up Morro Urca, the smaller brother of the famous Sugarloaf Mountain featured on every postcard. Urca gave us almost exactly the same view, at a savings of $22, and even threw in a spotting of a hideous tropical opossum on the trail along the way. The final morning we woke up early and caught a bus... but then we got off the bus. Finally, unfortunately, and cheerfuly our cohesion with the land was to be broken, and we boarded a plane bound for Salvador da Bahia.

In Salvador we had arranged for another bout of couchsurfing, this time with a university graduate student named Fabio. We showed up at his house and he immediately made us feel welcome by offering us lunch in his comfortable apartment. When he returned to class, we set out to see the historic section of town and to take in the vibrant afro-brazilian culture all around us. Our taste buds reveled in the local flavors of acarajé (bread and shrimp fried in palm oil and covered with spicy sauces) and açai (a smoothie made from a healthy and delicious red berry) while our ears and eyes feasted on the dancing and music from a local parade celebrating international water day. That night we returned to Fabios and started preparing to celebrate his friends birthday at a nearby bar. He drove us down to ´Bohemia Bar´ and we said our congratulations in our broken Portuñol (Spanish spoken with a Portuguese accent). After we had finished off a couple beers our host suggested that we make a move on the bottle of vodka that had remained practically untouched in the center of the table. ´Dont worry,´ he said ´I need to be home by 11:00.´ One drink turned into four and by midnight we were feeling pretty toasty, laughing at the musician/entertainer as he covered classic Portuguese songs to the accompaniment of everyone else in the bar besides Viviana and I. As we reached the bottom of the bottle I found out that I was not to be left out of the action. When the singer asked for volunteers from the crowd for his next number all the fingers at the table pointed at the gringo, and I was hustled up in front of the crowd with 3 other unlucky souls as we were outfitted with bandanas and forced to do our own personal rendition of Menudo. As my shame faded into the night we heard the sound of rain trickling on the roof... then it started trickling on the floor, the bar, the stage, and everything else. The whole bar was soon covered in water from the leaky roof and we decided it was time to call it a night. By this point it was 3AM and our host Fabio was having some communication problems as we asked how to get back. His roommated offered to drive and after I helped navigate with the aid of Vivianas headlamp and a very blurry map that seemed to have printed everything in double. We finally made it home and spent the next day recovering and preparing for our trip to Lençois, a paradise of waterfalls and caves 6 hours towards the interior of the country.

We came to Lençois on the suggestion of our mutual friend Melanie from Tucson, who was coming in a few days to live there. We had done very little research on what the town had, and had zero expectations. Only when we arrived in the small diamond mining town with cobblestone streets and brightly colored walls did we really start getting excited. After checking into a campsite we headed up to the first of several amazing and unique waterfalls we were to see in the area. This one was called Cachoeia Serrano, and consisted of a giant sloping rock hillside with numerous small chasms where the water swirled around, pouring from one to the other. In addition to the unusual rock formation the water itself was completely new to us. In Serrano and many of the other swimming holes around Lençois the water is completely black, forbidding us from seeing more than a foot under the water. The color is said to be due to decaying plant matter in the water, but leaves no odor or foul taste, only an odd sense of mystery. The following day we set off towards our next waterfall, Ribeiro do Meio. This one involved a half hour walk through the forest, and a close call with a coral snake sleeping in the trail. Like Serrano, this swimming hole also has a large flat rock, but this time it leads down into a large deep pool at the bottom. When we arrived no one was in the water, so we were a little hesitant to hop into the large pool that looked liked it was filled with Guinness stout. Soon some locals came to my rescue, and as they showed me which rock to jump off, they also led me up the hillside a bit and showed me what sets Ribeiro do Meio apart from the other falls. With a running start the locals went sliding down the large slab of rock on their feet, skating down the face into the pool below. When it was my turn I tried to show my confidence from years of skateboarding and snowboarding. Before I could even reached the take off spot I slipped and started flying down the rock on my hands and butt. I flopped over a fissure in the rock and splashed into the pool at the bottom, missing a bit of back skin but ready for another go. That night we recovered and used our well-honed haggling skills to arrange a tour of some of the surrounding area for the next day. We visited a cave with multi-colored stalagmites, a section of the national park filled with striking table-top mountains, and another swimming hole called the Devil´s Pool. By the time Melanie arrived that night we were already fully convinced of the beauty of her new and former home. Since we had done the main circuit of waterfalls it was Melanies job to show us the culture and lifestyle of a small Brazilian mountain town, and she did it with style. The first day she showed us how to properly relax in the Bahia style, which involves lying on the rocks in the sun between dips in the river. At night she gave us the cachaça tour, a sampling of 9 different types of infusions, liquers, and batidos (smoothie-style) using various local fruits and herbs. The fine liquors were follwed by fine foods the next day, as Katia, a local Lençoisen, prepared us a number of delicious dishes made from local ingredients like cactus and tapioca flour. By the time we left Lençois we were feeling quite refreshed, prepared for the final mad dash up north. We now have just over 2 weeks left on the continent, and a few important appointments before we leave, so our next bit of rest (and probably my next post) wont come until we are back on US soil.

North

El Bolsón is the perfect place to slow things down and do nothing, and that is exactly what Viviana and I did. We checked into a nice grassy campsite, bought a liter of beer, and began relaxing. A short glance around quickly revealed that we were not the only ones with this agreeable itinerary, and that the town is in fact full of exhausted backpackers, hippies, artisans, and university students squeezing the juice out of the last days of summer. Four days were spent enjoying the artisan/organic food market, chatting with locals, and dipping in the river before we decided to check out El Bolsóns bigger and more popular brother, Bariloche.

Surrounded by a healthy spattering of lakes and mountains, Bariloche is often described as the Switzerland of South America. Although the city center is getting a bit overgrown, the stone block buildings, ice cream shops, and microbreweries lend it a very hospitable feeling. We rented bicycles the first day to tour around through the different lakes, stopping for a swim in Lopez Bay in the largest lake of Nahuel Huapi. The prices in this Swiss land of chocolate and enchantment are also rather European, so we soon decided to get out of town for a few days and climb up some of the peaks around Nahuel Huapi. We started off from the base of the wintertime ski resort and headed up into the mountains, where we spent our first night near a beautiful alpine lake, building a rock wall around our tent so we didn´t get blown off the mountain by the powerful and sporadic wind. The second day proved to be the real test. After climbing a calm ridge we saw that the trail kept going up another ridge, this time completely covered in small loose rocks (scree) that slide you a half step back for every step forward you take. Once we reached the top we had to face the ugly fact that the way down was the same. This time at least gravity was on our side, and by risking a small amount of torn flesh we found a way to slide down the loose rock in a kind of skiing motion, an appropriate way to descend in this part of the country. We made it to the bottom and the trail turned into a beautiful verdant valley, before of course climbing up, and then back down another scree covered peak. When we finally reached the much more protected campsite we checked the clock and saw that it had taken us 8 hours to cover a mere 7km, by far our slowest day on the trail. The next morning we were delighted to find the way out was much more flat, and this time we covered 27km in 7 hours, regaining an ounce or two of our hiking confidence. With one more night of rest we snagged a 23 hour bus to the capital to finally see what all the hype was about.

Buenos Aires has an uncommon duality best described as hermaphroditic. In many ways graceful and passionate, it has an undeniable dark and rough side that shows itself throughout the city.

To get to know the feminine side of the city we start at the United Nations Plaza, where an 18 ton metallic flower named Floralis Generica gracefully opens its massive hydraulic petals every morning at 8 AM. From the flower we walk through the sprawling innercity Forests of Palermo until we reach the Recoleta Cemetery, one of the most impressive collections of intricate and audacious tombs in the world. Once inside the cemetery the movement of tourists quickly leads over to the burial site of the highly revered Eva Perón, the former wife of dictator Juan Perón and the instigator of a surprising number of humanitarian and womens rights movements. The narrow paths of the cemetery then continue through blocks of ornate tombs depicting angels and saviors watching over the deceased bodies of Argentinas celebrated revolutionary figures. After leaving the cemetery we descend into the subway to head over towards San Telmo, the heart of the tango culture. As the metal train pushes into the concrete tunnel scrawled grafiti on the walls reminds us of another powerful feminine figure, Cristina Kirchner, who has been leading the country since her husband suffered a heart attack while she was in office. The train pulls into its destination and we climb out into San Telmo to the sight of lively bars setting up for a tango show in the plaza. As the dancers firmly clasp hands and prepare themselves for the seductive encounter we can feel the petals of the flower closing in on themselves way off in the United Nations Plaza.

As the night sets in we start to see the changes. A brightly painted school bus flies by with people hanging out every opening, screaming soccer chants and waving flags for Boca Junior as they head into La Bombonera for the game. The tango show is soon overrun by a group of 15 drummers pounding out tribal sounding rythms, and eventually the dancers give up on their display. Once we can see the bottom of the pitcher of beer we get up and walk off down the block, aimlessly searching for the club with the most appeal. Only a block away we see the ´cartoneros,´ groups of neglected homeless that dig through the trash in search of discarded food and clothing. As we wander through the streets we are continually confronted by the 67 meter tall obelisk, the cities declaration of longevity and stamina after 400 years of existence. A few blocks further we reach the camp of the War Veterans of the Islas Malvinas, forgotten victims of a very well remembered war. Finally we select a dance club, and inside that door we find the masculine and feminine poles of the city mixing very unpretentiously until the early hours of the morning, when the cycle repeats.

Our experience in Buenos Aires was highlighted by a few outgoing and exciting characters. The first of which was Diana, the girlfriend of our friend Yaron from Tucson. With Dianas help we navigated the streets and felt more welcomed as we exorcised the demons in San Telmos watering holes. She also helped us with our experiment with tango dancing, where we learned how to promptly apologize after crashing into the other dancers on the floor. Our next display of hospitality came from Julio and Gabriel, a couple we had contacted through couchsurfing that gave us a roof for a few days. By ´giving us a roof´ I mean our own room in their penthouse apartment located walking distance from the center of the city. Beyond just a place to sleep, they helped us learn a bit about Buenos Aires culture, slang, and perhaps even more importantly, how to properly savor the famous Argentine asado (steak). Our final day even Yaron himself made an appearance, having flown all the way from Arizona just to catch us for a few hours. Or I suppose it could have been his fun loving girlfriend that helped coax him down. Before I leave I feel its only fair to mention a few of the lesser characters we encountered at our hostel during our first few nights in the city. There was Alejandro, a fast talking Argentinian with a drug habit and an excellent impression of sassy Argentinian girls. Then there was the American from Milwaukee, who we had the pleasure of sharing our 20 bed dorm with. In between cigarrettes and bottles of coke he made time to scream and have rather angry imaginary conversations with imaginary people over an imaginary briefcase that seemed to be very important. The dirty-footed-artisan-hippie was a bit harder to get to know. In the day he was little more than two blackened soles sticking out a blanket, and when he finally found his energy around midnight he kept to just singing along with loud music in the lobby of the hostel. Fortunately, Carlos from Venezuela helped prove that it was the world, and not Viviana and I, going crazy, as we shared interesting conversations about traveling and surviving in hostels such as these.

Now we are pushing on north into Brazil, but not without a stop at one of the most incredible natural attractions of the world. But thats for next time...

The End of the Road

After getting back from Torres del Payne it really started to dawn on me just how close I was to my main destination, the bottom of the Americas. As my anxiety rose I decided to make haste down to Ushuaia, the southernmost city before the land crumbles away into a hundred tiny islands toward antarctica.

With only two short 8 hour bus rides Viviana and I stepped off into the town of Ushuaia and began searching for the house of Ricardo, whom we had contacted through couchsurfing. Ricardo was in the middle of some serious construction on his house, but still found space for us in our own room with a view of the street. After
exchanging only a handful of words, Viviana and I set out to celebrate our arrival. We started the festivities with some hefty steaks and sub-par piña coladas and kept the night going with stouts and ales. After a few hours at an Irish bar, chatting with perhaps the only 3 irish people in town, we were feeling nice and warm inside. At around 4AM we stumbled back to the house to find that Ricardo was waiting up for us, perhaps worried we had gotten lost along the way. The next day we attempted to show our gratitude by making a filling breakfast and exchanging anecdotes with our host. I had reached Ushuaia, but still didn´t quite feel the closure I sought, after all I could clearly see the road continuing south out of town. So the next morning we continued down the road into the Tierra del Fuego National Park. With Ricardos help we entered the park before the toll booth opened and were dropped off near the entrance. After a few hours of walking the road came to a sudden dead end in a parking lot and finally the significance of this impasse started to sink in. My original dream of crossing the Americas is complete. From this point on I won´t be going south again, only north, back, towards home. We passed an hour at the end of the dusty road, sharing memories from the trip and contemplating the time and effort it had taken to get down to the tip of the continent without leaving the ground. Here´s a few numbers I have crunched on what it took me to reach the bottom of the continent:

Days Traveling: 347
Miles traveled: 14989
Countries Visited: 12
Hours in Bus: 440
Hours on Boats (Sailboats, Canoes, Ferries): 101
Hours in Cars: 103
Hours in Trains: 40

Total hours in transit to get from Portland, OR to Ushuaia, Arg: 684



That adds up to a whole lot of uncomfortable nights, annoying bus salesmen, cramped up legs, interesting conversations, boring conversations, songs skipped on the Ipod, crying babies, bad reggaeton music, smelly neighbors, and one nervous breakdown.

Next I had to remind myself that the end of the road is not the end of our trip. The following morning we woke up and hit the roadside to start the long ride back up. Our first real destination was El Bolsón, about 25 hours to the north. Bus tickets were running about $150, so we knew we were going to have to ´hacer dedo´ (hitchhike) and it didn´t take long before we got our first ride, which took us about halfway to the next major town of Rio Grande. For the second half we were picked up by an ex-soccer player turned volleyball coach named Luchi. We chatted along the way and when we got to the town he offered us a free place to stay in the dormitory at the community sports center where he worked. We wanted to conitue on north, but two hours of unsuccessful hitchhiking convinced us to take our futbolista friends offer and we returned to the dorm, where we slept extremely well despite the complaints of an angry clown unhappy about our presence. The next day we hit the road again. After a few hours wait a big 16-wheeler stopped and picked us up. The driver, Fabian, spoke slurred spanish laced with Argentinian slang and expletives at a mile a minute and didn´t hold back in showing us every side of his dynamically disgusting personality. Within an hour we got off to cross the border into Chile. We seriously discussed the option of leaving him behind and looking for another ride, but he had already offered to carry us 8 hours up to Rio Gallegos and he didn´t seem at all dangerous. So we continued on. At Rio Gallegos we were all too ready to hop off, but as he pulled into the service station he mentioned that he would be happy to take us further north, all the way to Comodoro Rivadavia, a 12 hour trip exactly where we needed to go. After a hurried discussion in the parking lot we decided to stay on. This led to a painful 12 hours of listening to more wild stories, complete with animated impersonations of all characters involved, as well as watching him throw numerous pieces of trash out the window and into the pampa. Just as I was reaching my boiling point we pulled in to Comodoro where we hurled ourselves from the truck and quickly said goodbye to our chofer. Despite the consistent trash talking, Fabians actions were actually quite noble. He carried us 20 hours without asking for a dime, and even bought us lunch along the way. Nevertheless, we were all too happy to shell out $50 for a ticket to El Bolsón, and now that we are leaving Patagonia, our hitchhiking will probably be limited to short trips only, although the experience was unforgettable to say the least.

Since reaching the bottom I have entered into a very relaxed mood that carries me through the days. Perhaps the only thing that can wake me back up is the realization that at some point the trip will be coming to an end. That means I have had to set a deadline, and soon there will be plane tickets associated with that deadline. It´s looking like we have about 2 months left on the road, but we have packed that 2 months full of activity as we head north through Brazil and possibly into Venezuela. Now in El Bolsón we are just continuing to ride the high of having completed the journey south, and we plan to spend a few days here just enjoying the surrounding mountains and bathing in some sun.

The Grunge Trail

Every day starts out the same. Wipe the dirt off of my eyelids, break down the tent and repack the backpack, complain about the aching calves and hamstrings, come to the realization that this is actually exactly what I want to be doing, and then hit the road. The grunge trail is all about seeing everything and paying nothing, or as close to it as possible.

It really started in Cochrane, a couple of days after my parents left us in desolate Villa Cerro Catillo to return to Puerto Montt. We knew we couldn´t survive in Patagonia the way we had been in the north of the country. Everything down here is three times the price due to the remoteness and difficulties in shipping, and we were already pushing our budget as it was. The first thing we knew we had to cut out was transportation costs, and at first our prospects looked grim. We lugged our bags up to the side of the road in Cerro Castillo and stuck our thumbs out, eager to try out our luck. Then we looked over to our right and noticed two other hitchhikers, then four more to the left. The place was packed with competition, and after a few hours of waiting we admitted defeat and caught the overpriced bus down to Puerto Tranquilo. Upon arrival we hired a boat to take us out to the Marble Caverns, a series of glowing emerald caves carved out of marble cliffsides. The boat passed us through tunnels filled with sharp stone stalagmites and stalagtites submerged in the brilliant turquoise water. When we got back we shook off our awe and searched for a spot to set up the tent. The second major money drain was lodging, since in Patagonia the options are few and the prices are frightening. We soon found an old man who let us set up camp in his yard, and we passed the night sharing wine from a leather bag (called a ´bota´ in spanish) and exchanging stories by his woodburning stove. The next day we got up and decided to give the hitchhiking another shot, but as soon as we got to the road we saw the same roadside battle for open truck beds, and once again were forced to admit defeat and buy a bus ticket. This time we went down to Cochrane, and were happy to see that about halfway down all of the other tourists got off to follow the ´typical´ tourist route, which leads over through Chile Chico into Argentina. Our plan was to head down to the small fishing village of Caleta Tortel about 6 hours further south on the Carretera Austral. Now the roads were all ours.

It only took two minutes on the road outside Cochrane before we got picked up, and we quickly saw how hitchhiking has many more benefits beyond just a free ride. We had been planning to camp near a laguna several kilometers outside of town, and after exchanging a few words with our altruistic chauffer we found out that he owned the entire piece of property for many miles south of Cochrane. He laughed at our idea of camping near the lake and insisted that we stay at a special spot on his property. He parked the car and led us through a gate over to a small field at the top of a tremendous waterfall, where he left us to set up camp and cook our pasta in bliss. The next day we started out again, thumbing the wind and playing hacky sack to kill the time. A couple hours of nervous waiting on the deserted road and we found ourselves the sterotypical ride in the back of a pick up truck. Here we found another hidden merit of hitchhiking: the view. This 3 hour ride took us through absolutely stunning canyons filled with glaciers, waterfalls, and all along the largest river in Chile. We arrived in Tortel rocking the Ace Ventura hairstyle, but smiling from ear to ear.

The small town of Tortel could be taken straight out of a fairy tale. It is set on a beautiful fjord surrounded by mountains and steep islands, but its most unique characteristic is its streets, or lack thereof. Upon arriving everyone leaves their vehicles at a small parking lot up on a hill and begins the walk down into town. In Tortel everything is connected by cypress boardwalks, resembling typical small fishing docks. As we wound through town on the wooden thoroughfares we felt like we were in a fantasy world. Until the completion of the Carretera Austral in 2007 the only access to the town was by boat or airplane, and usually only one or two trips per month were made to the outside world. This atmosphere of self reliance and isolation is still clear in the Tortel culture, although all of this is sure to change with the new road. We spent a couple days exploring the pathways, hiking in the nearby mountains, and drinking wine off the many docks before we continued on, determined to reach the end of the Carretera.

Our luck continued on the roadside again, as a military truck picked us up to bring us over to Puerto Yungay, where a free ferry carries cars and people across a long fjord. This time our driver filled us with stories about the construction of the road and those who had died in the process. He stopped the truck and led us up to a mirador (lookout) he had helped build, which had a sweeping view of the winding canyons below. At Puerto Yungay he left us and we caught the ferry across to Rio Bravo. It turns out that Rio Bravo is nothing more than a shed with a bathroom. Fortunately for us, and for a Slovenian cyclist friend we had met, the shed was left open. We set up our sleeping bags inside the shed and started a big bonfire outside to cook hot dogs and drink more boxed wine. The next morning our approach was simple. There were three ferry crossings each day; one in the morning, afternoon, and evening. The first one came and went without anyone offering us a ride. Not wanting to spend another night in the middle of nowhere we became very discouraged. However, another hour later our misfortune turned into a blessing as we saw an enormous condor sweep down right next where we were waiting. We had been unsuccessfully chasing the condor through 4 countries and we finally got our perfect view of the giant bird. Perhaps it was our satisfied grins that got us a ride from the next ferry, and we cruised on down to the official end of the road at Villa O´Higgins.

At Villa O´Higgins we were stuck. The only way to continue on was to cross the massive Lago O´Higgins, and this wasn´t easy. For starters, there is only one boat that can take you across and it is an expensive tourist boat that takes passengers to the massive O´Higgins glacier. Secondly, once across the lake there is nothing more than a border outpost. No roads, no boats, for 39 kilometers. Along this stretch you cross into Argentina before finally reaching a road that takes you into El Chalten, the typical jump off point for the Fitz-Roy wilderness. Unwilling to return all the way back to Chile Chico to go down through Argentina, a journey which would undoubtedly take three to four days and cost a fair amount, we loaded up our backpacks with food and bought our boat ticket. The lake crossing was uneventful and when we got off we were ready to hike. Normally when we hike we leave a fair amount of unnecessary gear at a hostal so we dont have to carry it, but this time we carried all. After 22km we had finally crossed the border and set up our camp. The next day we trudged on passing along the side of the beautiful Lago del Desierto on a trail plagued with fallen trees and icy cold stream crossings. Finally we had made it, and we quickly thumbed a ride into town with a porteño (as they call people from Buenos Aires) couple on vacation.

El Chaltèn turned out to be a rather annoying, hideously overpriced little tourist trap and we only spent one day preparing ourselves for our 4 day hike in the Fitz-Roy mountain range. We left in the morning and found the trails to be rather easy after our overloaded tromp across the border. The first night we camped near a glacier that poured out of the mountain into a small lagoon, but it was the second campsite that was truly the highlight. After arriving at the second site we dropped off our bags and went straight up the steep trail to see the extraordinary Fitz-Roy peak. When we started we were bathed in sunshine, but by the top of the trail it had turned to a complete blizzard and we were unable to see even the closest shore of the lagoon that leads to the mountain. Discouraged and exhausted we returned to the camp and turned in for the night. The next morning we awoke to more glorious sunshine, and although the ascent was painful, we decided to hike up to the lagoon another time to try our luck. This time it was gorgeous. The Fitz-Roy peak juts out of the mountain range at a near 90 degree angle like a giant blade of stone. We snapped a couple hundred photos and continued on, making our way to the final campsite of the trip, and finally back to El Chaltén to continue on to El Calafe.

El Calafate is yet another tourist trap, this time fueled by the hulking Perito Moreno glacier located outside of town. In El Calafate they charge for everything, and it took all our skills to preserve our delicate budget. We camped in the municipal campground and hitchhiked our way to the glacier with some traveling Slovakians. One glimpse of the sparkling glacier and the popularity of the nearby town is immediately justified. The Perito Moreno glacier pours out of the southern continental ice field down into the turbid Lake Argentina like a giant icy tongue lapping up cold milk. Perhaps even more impressive than the initial site is the activity of the glacier, as every couple minutes a massive cracking sound is heard and often followed by a huge boulder of ice falling into the lake and sending immense waves across the surface of the lake. A ride on the tour boat brought us up close to the face where we could stare up at the 180 foot high walls and appreciate the intense hues of blue from the shattered ice. Once again a few porteños came to our rescue and carried us back into town where we hurried to escape the dangerous tourist trap.



All of the tourist offices had told us no one would carry us the long distance down from El Calafate to Puerto Natales, the base for exploring the famous Torres del Payne National Park. We didnt want to fork out the $80 price tag to get to the park, so we decided to defy them and give it a shot. After talking with the authorities at the local police checkpoint, they agreed to allow us to hitchhike right next to their gate, and even help us find a ride if they could. Soon we found a big 16 wheeler that agreed to take us deep into the Argentine pampa, completing about half of the journey to Puerto Natales. The driver was nice and informed us on the history of the region before dropping us off at a gas station nicely located in the middle of nowhere. The Patagonian wind blasted in our faces while we waited on the road, but soon enough another semi truck stopped to take us over to the Chilean border. We spent the night in a small town near the border before continuing on over to Chile. Three short rides connected all the border patrol stations and brought us all the way to Puerto Natales, where we stocked up on gear for a 9 day treck through Torres del Payne.

Again using our favorite mode of transportation, a father and son duo carried us into the park, and saved us a further $22 each by getting us in as locals instead of tourists. Then we started right in on to first campsite, about 9 km from the trailhead. Our plan was to complete the ´big cicuit,´ which winds around the back of the park before joining the popular section called ´the W.´ Popular is a relative term, and it took on new meaning as we made our way through the park. On the ´remote´ backside we found about 35 tents at each campsite, and at the popular W this number reached 85, more tents than I had ever seen in one spot in my life. Despite the popularity the hike was amazing. The backside consisted mostly of grassland and lazy rivers, finally pushing through some forested area and up into a narrow rocky pass on the third day. For us it took four. Locals are all too ready to tell you how clean and clear their Patagonian water is, and how purification tablets are completely unnecessary in this pristine part of the world. Following suit we drank water straight from the streams during the whole trip, but on the third morning I woke up completely confined to the camping mat, on the verge of vomiting. The entire day I spent lying around miserably, eating only 10 peanuts and a couple spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, and worrying about the fate of our backpacking trip. Luckily the next morning my immune system had won the battle, and we pushed on. On the fourth night we reached the pass, and our eyes were rewarding with the astounding sight of the Grey Glacier. Although smaller than Perito Moreno, the viewpoint from the pass made this glacier even more impressive in my opinion. The whole thing can be seen stretching 6 kilometers wide and 28 kilometers long as it pours out of the worlds third largest reserve of fresh water. Once we shook off our amazement we continued on along the side of the glacier until we reached the face where it breaks off into a large lake, where we set up camp. The next day marked the official entry point into the W, and we were soon spitting out ´Holas´ to passing hikers until our throats were sore. The next night we saw the ´Horns of Payne,´ large spires of stone that form a sort of caldera around a beautiful river. We continued on, blessed by good weather, until we reached our final night right near the base of the towers. That night the gods got angry and threw buckets of water on our tent, covering everything with the ricocheting mud from the campsite. In the morning we were miserable, and the towers were completely covered in clouds and rain. We packed up our hideously dirty equipment and ran down the trail out of the park. Our food supply was nearly entirely exhausted, Vivianas shoes were tattered and torn, and we were desperate for food that wasn´t in powder form.

We did not delay long in satisfying our cravings. Last night we feasted on hamburgers with bacon, morron peppers, patacones, olives, beer, pisco, and chocolate. Now we are healing, our legs are feeling stronger than ever, and we are ready for the final dash to the bottom of the world. Some of the grunge trail habits will surely die slowly. Camping will probably remain in the routine, and when the situation is right, we will push our thumbs into the road. However we will probably add a bit more comfort back to life as well. In the last 25 days we have camped 22 times, and taken only 3 bus trips as opposed to 15 hitchhiking rides. According to our calculations, in this amount of time hitchhiking and walking has saved us $212 each. We have walked around 140 miles of trails. Today we head to Punta Arenas and then it is just a hort hop to Ushuaia, where the journey south ends and the long return north finally begins.

A Different Perspective

My dad decided to do a little write up from our trip as well. It offers a unique perspective as he is able to compare modern day Chile with Chile as he saw it on his trip, 120 years ago. Besides, you all deserve a little break from my whining and belly-aching... enjoy.


OK, OK. It's time for my take on our adventures with Alex and Viviana in Chile. Ava's disclaimers not withstanding, I'm going to jump in. Seeing the 2 weary backpackers was a sight for sore eyes. I know I did it back in the 70's, but I still found it a little unnerving as they tried to hoist up their 50 pound packs and amble down the road – a very dusty, windy road by the time we left them in the god-foresaken outback of Patagonia.

Things started off great as we celebrated New Year's with throngs of chileans in downtown Santiago. The hills of Valpariso and Viña del Mar, dotted with little tin roofed houses was stunning and the funicular's old technology was a trip. Alex is right; our dinner there was memorable. As we roamed further South. I tried to resurrect memories of my adventures there in the early 70's when I entered the country only a few months after the brutal overthrow of the Allende government and the rise to power of the brutal dictator, Augusto Pinochet. It was such a different time; people invited me into their homes (early couch-surfing) and told me harrowing stories of the last year's events – land seizures by leftest guerillas, CIA agents crossing the Andes to help those on the right, shortages of basic foods and supplies, 1000% inflation, the chaos of complete political breakdown (4 parties left to right) in which people could no longer talk to each other. Now these events seemed more of a cautionary tale for Tea Party America than the Chile of today. Althought there were small traces of those times (Victor Jara CD's), the Chilean people have moved on. The place is booming with construction projects and there is an air of change, and people are super friendly.

As we came down to Puerto Montt, I was flooded with more memories of the beautiful little port city. Back then I would wander down to the warf sticking out into the bay and feast on steamed mussels, clams and picorocos ( giant barnacles). Today – A congested, dusty port city with none of the treats. Picorocos are unobtainable now. I had to face it; it was time for me to forget my memories and enjoy our current discoveries. The little island of Chiloe was gorgeous. We hiked through a scrub forest on a wooden walkway. Took a boat ride out to see penguins, otters and flightless ducks. We had a wonderful stay at a new cabana on the beach where we feasted on steak, and later, we stayed at an old farmhouse / Hostel in the rolling hills.

Alex's hilarious encounter with the proprietress at the farm is a memory which will not fade with time. Here is my perspective: Alex is hunched over a ridiculously tiny homemade stove (made from 2 beer cans), sitting under an enormous pot of water, preparing to boil some pasta. It is cold and windy. The stove is not working. The lady of the house stands in the courtyard and watches. Then she announces for all to hear;

“ Eso no tiene futuro.” (No future in that)

Perhaps she was influenced by watching Viviana a little earlier, trying to glue her shoe back together. But the pronouncement left us rolling with laughter and doomed any further attempts with the stove that evening. In all fairness, I have to say that Alex's stove is ingenious. It runs on low octane stuff like alcohol and once it's going it runs great. Best of all: If you lose it, you drink 2 beers and make a new one.

Speaking of humiliating moments, I have a name for the one experienced by Ava and I – with Alex and Viviana in attendance. I call it “The Catch of the Day.”

We went to the beautiful central market in Santiago. The huge, black, cast iron building reminded me of the arboreteum in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park with its hundreds of small windows and a vented roof. The food stalls were surrounded by dozens of small restaurants. As we tried to get seating, first at one restaurant and then another, they began closing up. The market day ended at 5 pm. Finally, a friendly older man swept us to his tables and said he would rescue us and serve us. The menus arrived with a flourish, we had some drinks and filled with a feeling of good fortune we watched as our patron showed us a congrejo del mar (giant sea crab). We marveled at it's size (perhaps two feet from claw tip to claw tip). Yes, we laughed, we'll have it! Alex and Viviana ordered something more modest. And we had a feast fit for a king. We were the last ones eating in the entire place. The evening light filtered through the windows – a memorable setting. Also memorable – the bill. The crab was 49,000 pesos. That is about $100. At every restaurant from then on we had no fear in asking, “Cuanto cuesta?”

Speaking of food. I am confused about Chile. While a huge variety of delicious foodstuffs was readily available, as you can well imagine in country with so many different climates and micro-climates, there really was no discernable tradition of quality cooking or traditional dishes. We did have several delicious meals in Valparaiso and Santiago (at the airport), but once you were on the road all variety and creativity in cooking disappeared. A salad was invariably rows of sliced tomatoes and rows of sliced avocado. Heart of palm? Sliced in a row; no dressing. Meat at a very nice restaurant in Puyuhuapi was tough as leather. Bread was good, but the same – everywhere. Strange. Although, shopping at the new Chilean supermarkets was a lot of fun. And we took advantage of every opportunity to cook.

Alex has well documented our visit to the horsefly infested hot springs. Another memorable experience. I have to say that if a trip is measured by the extremes in its experiences, then this was a wonderful trip. Especially from a looking back perspective. The horsefly incident does raise another issue. Why didn't the river boatman warn us about the flies? Of course the anser is that he had a vested interest which conflicted with that information – he wanted to get paid for ferrying us across the river. But there is more here. The failure to get acurate information was mind boggling. Why didn't the tourist office in Coyhaique, which had been so helpful with other things, warn us that there would be no tickets available on our arrival at the ferry in Puerto Ibanez? Still this fiasco led to the most hilarious moment of our trip – the hostal incident.

Again, Alex has captured the flavor of this strange place and the woman “caretaker” who seemed like something out of a Faulkner novel. When I asked her for towels she told me there weren't any. Then she explained that the towels were wet. That is when I complained to the management (an extended family with children which lived at one end of the building) and discovered the strange status of the deranged woman. She was given full authority to run the hostal and only when communications had completely broken down would the “family” reluctantly intercede. During the night she turned off the hot water. I found the heater and relit the burner so we could have showers. This hostal was more like an asylum. Fortunately, it ended on a truly hilarious note.

The best thing about this trip was how well the four of us worked as a team. Whatever the adversity, we came up with a plan. A word about Viviana: How does she manage to carry that huge backpackand and hitchhike day after day, often setting the pace? I am totally impressed. She gave me permission to rename a character in my novel (currently undergoing a major edit /rewritte) with her name. But I don't know – my character is not as skilled or as versitile as she is. Anyway, I can't wait until you both get back to Oregon so we can do more hiking, camping and hanging out.

Love,

Downer

Chile: The geographic stripper pole of South America

Once again I have let the time slip by without updating my blog, and I plan to apologize to all of my readers. Sorry Mom, grandma, and Viviana. Now then. It didnt take us long after arriving in Chile to realize that we were going to have to search for new ways to save money in order to keep to our budget. The ideas we came up with were: couchsurfing, camping, hitchhiking, and leeching off of my parents during their visit.

We jumped right in with couchsurfing (see www.couchsurfing.org if you are unfamiliar) our first two nights in Santiago. Our host Felipe lived in a nice neighborhood right downtown and opened up his home, heart, and refrigerator to us as soon as we arrived. The second night he held a birthday party at his house and we passed the evening putting back beers and talking about Chilean culture and South Park. The next day I battled through my hangover to greet my folks, who I hadnt seen since March. After a short nap we quickly began the second installment of the new money saving scheme, leeching off the ´rents. They put us up in nice hostal in a historic home downtown and we soon found ourselves eating seafood, proscioutto, and other long forgotten delicacies on the rooftop terrace. The second night was new years eve so around 10PM we headed down to Calle la Moneda to join the celebration. There were thousands of people all giddy to share their drinks, confetti, and few words of english with the visiting gringo family. The night culminated with a massive fireworks display and live music, all right in front of the building where Salvador Allende spent his last living hours decades before. Around 2AM we wobbled back to the hotel, munching on churros and street pizza, ready to get some sleep for our first visit to the coast.

One of the overarching themes of my parents visit was a series of relaxation filled evenings in beautiful places. In Valparaiso this took place in the form of grilled chicken and wine on the balcony of a hostel with an outstanding view of the bay. During the day we walked the colorful graffiti filled streets and rode the funiculars to Pablo Nerudas house. After two days we reminded ourselves that the true grandeur of the anorexic country lay further down, and we began the trip south.

Using Puerto Montt as a base we rented a car and did our own unique tour of the island of Chiloé and the lakes district. Chiloé is a paradoxical land where brand new cars drive by ox carts, bright green parrots fly over penguin colonies, and when the Johnsons visit, manufactured instant pasta boils on wood burning stoves. The first day we bought some artesenal cheese and hopped on a small launch to go see the local penguin colonies. We watch the tuxedo-clad waterfowl hop along the rocks and also spotted some sea otters and red-footed cormorants along the way. That night we rented a rather homey little cabaña and took our tranquil evenings to the next level with barbecued steak and pisco sours. The second day on the island we cruised down the coast to the Parque Nacional Chiloé, where we hiked through the unique Tepual forest before retiring to camp out on a nearby farm. Here we had the first clash of traveling styles as we attempted to cook dinner for the four of us on my homemade camping stove, before realizing we lacked plates, silverware, and bowls. As I cursed at my malfunctioning bum stove the woman who owned the farm came out repeating ´no tiene futuro´ (this has no future) before forcing us to move inside and prepare the meal on her wood burning stove like civilized beings. The following morning we loaded up and drove back to the ferry, bidding farewell to the culturally curious little island in the pacific.

As we drove out to the lake district we passed by a beach absolutely packed with people to the point where barely a grain of sand shone through the mass of flesh, umbrellas and beer coolers. Shaking our heads we sped on past until we found our own little spot 10 feet from a virtually abandoned beach. That first evening we swam in Lake Llanique and visited a nearby thundering waterfall, as well as a massive ash flow that trailed down from a volcanic peak into the pristine waters of Lake Todos los Santos. That night we perfected the barbecue. The thick steaks were grilled to perfection, there were hot peppers stuffed with local cheese, lots of Royal Guard beer, and in this part of the world the sun lights the sky until 10:30PM, finally parting the way for an overwhelming blanket of stars. The next day we awoke refreshed and decided to drive south a bit in search of some remote natural hot springs on the bank of Rio Cochamó. Swatting the occasional pesky horse fly along the way, we paid a local to take us down the stunningly graceful river to a little rocky outcrop, from where it was only a short walk to the springs. By the time we arrived we already knew we were done for. The one or two horseflies had turned into a hideous swirling cloud, and the more we tried to battle them off the more came in to attack. Already in our swimsuits we scalded our skin trying to leap into the boiling hot springs, and were forced to evade the insects by laying down in the shallows of the frigid and fast flowing river instead. After 10 minutes of this we were more than ready to leave. On our way back to the cabin we saw the true magnitude of the problem. Every construction worker, schoolgirl, and gas station attendant was swatting and squirming trying to the protect themselves, with one exception; everyone on the overly crowded beach we had turned down was taking their sun in peace at the one area that was routinely dusted with insecticide.

After the lakes district Viviana and I caught another 22 hours bus further south, meeting up with my flown-in folks in Coyhaique. From there we rented a 4x4 truck and set off on a journey along the Carretera Austral, a gravel road nestled in the bottom of a lush evergreen valley overflowing with ferocious waterfalls, looming glaciers, and precipitous cliffs. We spent the first night dreaming deeply in a beautiful cabaña made from hand carved cedar logs and powered by a small scale hydroelectric generator. Awoken by the sound of a small gnome-like Chilean woman warming up the woodburning stove, we packed up and set off to see the Ventisquero Colgante (Hanging Glacier). A 6km hike took us close enough to watch large chunks of ice fall from the face of the glacier and tumble down a powerful waterful pouring from a crack in the ice. On the way out of the park we threw a couple hitchhikers in the truck and ambled up to the small hamlet of Puyuhuapi, situated on an idylic fjord. From there we sank still deeper into our relaxed state with the help of a couple of thermal baths. The first was only accessible from the water, so Viviana and I rented some kayaks and made the 1 1/2 hours paddle out to the clandestine springs, given away only by the steam rising from the side of the fjord. While we played in the warm water we watched a group of dolphins swim by not more than 25ft away. These springs were amazing, but the water still wasn´t quite hot enough for us, so later that evening the four of us went over to some more developed springs on the opposite bank of the fjord where we sipped beers and alternated between the three stone pools until we nearly passed out from the heat.

Thermal baths have a reputation for cleansing the body, and apparently our brains had been washed pretty thoroughly. After consulting the map we decided to go to the famous Perito Moreno glacier in Argentina. It was only a few hours drive away, so we caught the bus down to catch a ferry that would bring us the rest of the distance. When we arrived we found that the ferry was completely full, and no amount of haggling or bribing would get us on. Enraged we returned to a coffee shop to search for an alternate route. That´s when we realized that our goal, the town of Perito Moreno, is actually no where near the Perito Moreno glacier. Nor is the national park of Perito Moreno. No, obviously the Perito Moreno glacier is in Los Glaciares National Park, several days further south. It turns out that Chileans and Argentineans have a little bit of a grudge against eachother, and have no interest in helping tourists find anything that is not in their own country. Feeling thoroughly defeated we searched for a hostal in the barren windswept town of Puerto Ibanez. Viviana and I split up for the search while my parents cracked open some bottles of wine and arranged a ride back up north with the owner of the cafe. When we reconvened Viviana said she had found a reasonably priced hostal, but that the owner was a little off. This turned out to be the understatement of the year. We arrived at the hostal and an old woman slowly hobbled over to help us. We asked if we could see the room and she said no, because she didnt have her slippers on. She was gracious enough to allow us to see the room, as long as we committed to staying in it first... So we played the game and she put on her little granny clogs and inched up the stairs. When we arrived at the room she informed us that we were only allowed to use one of the beds in the room, even though there were two of us staying in each room. After trying to make sense of the situation over a few beers and taking in one of the most spectacular and surreal sunsets we had ever seen, we finally laid our heads down to rest. The next morning we packed up our stuff and started down the stairs. Our ride had told us he wouldnt wait, and we didnt want to stay in the town one minute longer than we had to waiting for a bus. Anyone who knows my parents would probably describe them as very laid back people, rarely losing their cool. When they got to the door that morning and found that the old woman had locked us in, that calm demeanor quickly transformed into a wild fury. After fiddling with the lock and emitting a few choice expletives, my mom began banging on the door that led to the interior of the house and screaming out English words that surely had the family and the old woman thinking the house was on fire. Meanwhile my dad was prying at a window, seeing if he could jimmy it open and toss the bags out (perhaps he was also convinced there was a fire). The kicker came when the old woman slowly shuffled across the room braving the hailstorm of Spanish and English words berating her to open the damn door, all while wearing a painfully content and unchanging smirk on her face as she crossed. When she reached the door she gave the knob a slight turn, showing us all that it clearly had never been locked in the first place, and bid us farewell. We left in an odd sort of hysterical laughter and caught our ride back to town.

The last few days we spent relaxing along the carretera, until finally it was time to say our farewells. All in all we had a great time, and Viviana and I really appreciated a break from our dirty dog traveling style with some good food and comfortable beds. Since then, however, we have abandoned all creature comforts as we explore more of southern Patagonia. With the initial success of the money saving plan we have begun implementing the last two elements, hitchhiking and camping. Yet as you already know, this blog has gotten way too long, so I will save the last couple weeks, which I have named ´The Grunge Trail´ for the next post. Although internet is scarce and pricey around here, I promise to do my best to get this one up sooner.

On a side note, these computers wont read my DVD with my photos on it, so unfortunately I havent been able to add any photos to the post. If it works later I will add some, so maybe check back to this post when I post the next one.