Bariloche Argentina

What continent am I on? A-frame houses, endless chocolate shops and Saint Bernard dogs roving the streets. Is this Switzerland?

Taking Chances

Ah the joys of having a bad back. Ever since my hike at Machu Picchu, my hip has been out. For over a month, I have enjoyed shooting pains every time I stand up from a seated position. It usually takes several tentative steps before I am able to walk at a normal pace. I have been self -treating this infliction with a hot water bottle that I purchased in Bolivia. The idea is that the heat relaxes the muscles. Yes, it is one of those water bottles that your grandma fills with boiling water and places at the foot of her bed on cold nights. It looks like an enlarged whoopee-cushion both in color and shape. When I go to fill it in the hostel kitchens, I usually make friends who want to know what on earth I am doing. I have been called a “crotchety old lady” on more than one occasion.

Finally, I find myself in desperation. Many people from all over the world fly to Argentina for healthcare (mostly to the capital of Buenos Ares). The doctors are good and procedures are about a fourth of the cost of that in The States. It’s time to find a chiropractor. I search the yellow pages in Mendoza for chiropractors. I find one. Julie calls to set up an appointment for that evening. The appointment is made and I am drowning in a sea of emotions. I am excited and hopeful that I might find a bit of relief. But more than comfort, I am scared out of my mind. A spinal fusion at 15 has made me a veteran of doctor’s offices. From orthopedic surgeons to physical therapists, I have been fortunate enough to meet some outstanding healers. I have also had the misfortune of putting my trust into the hands of qualified individuals who have absolutely no idea what they are doing. In the best of times I leave a doctor’s office with a new outlook on life, reassured that my situation is not all that bad and will only improve. In the worst of times, I am diagnosed with a new set of issues (vertebra degeneration, arthritis, etc). There have even been occasions where I have left feeling worse than before the visit. One extreme case; after an adjustment I experienced a numb face for a week. As a result, I am hesitant to visit a foreign doctor.

Julie accompanies me to the office, she is my translator extraordinaire. The taxi drops us off at a building with a sign that says “Galeno Rehabilitacion.” We walk into the reception room that consists of a wooden desk with a folding chair positioned behind it and two long padded benches lining the walls for waiting patients. There is no computer at the reception desk, no posters depicting the various bones that make up the spine, no wellness brochures and no display of nutritional supplements. Okay, I can manage this. A man enters the room wearing jeans and a while collared button up short sleeve shirt. He sits down behind the reception desk. Julie explains that we called this morning and are here to see a chiropractor to help me with my hip. The man behind the desk smiles and tells her that he remembers talking with her earlier on the phone. He then asks what my symptoms are. My Spanish is at a point where I can understand most of this, but answering the questions is another story. Julie tells him that my hip has been hearting every time I stand up. In response to my symptoms, he asks where we are from.
“From The United States” Julie replies.
“ Oh wonderful, I went to Disney World a few years ago. I couldn’t believe how long the lines were….and Orlando, what a city.” For a solid five minutes in rapid Spanish he speaks about his trip to Disney world. After we have agreed that Florida is a beautiful place he asks “where is the pain in your hip.” At this moment, I can not figure out if this is the receptionist or the doctor. What the hell is going on? My confidence is plummeting.

I am escorted back into a separate room. The equipment is not state-of-the-art by any means; in fact the appearance of the room would suggest that I have traveled back to the 1970. I remove my shoes as I have at every chiropractor I have ever visited. Through Julie, I am asked to put my shoes back on. This is strange, but okay. The usual back examination techniques, walk in a line (barefoot) so we can see how your body moves, sit in a chair, stand normally, etc. None of these are utilized. I am not given a range-of-motion test, not asked to bend forward to fully expose the extent of my scoliosis, nothing. The unsettling grip around my stomach tightens. The unknown is always more terrifying than the know. This man has not started work on me, but my apprehension is overwhelming. I am asked to lei on my stomach on a piece of equipment that I have never seen before in a chiropractor’s office, gym or torture chamber (not that I am all that familiar with torture chambers, but the movies provide some cues). There is other equipment in the room around me. The only piece that I recognize resembles the Nordic Track that was sold on infomercials far before the invention of such exercise equipment as the elliptical machine. Actually, I am fairly sure my parents have a similar piece of machinery tucked away in the basement, a relic from my early childhood. Lying face down, I realize that this man is indeed my doctor. No one else is going to swoop in and declare the pre-examination complete.

Going with it, I lie on my stomach. I am asked to bend my knees so that my shins are perpendicular to my body. Lifting my head, I look into the mirror that spans the wall in front of my face. I can see that my right foot falls a full inch below my left foot. Well fabulous. The man who I have just now recognized as my doctor, stands above me and explains to Julie that he is going to try something called the Thompson Technique. I have never heard of such a thing, but before I know it, his hand is wedged under my right butt cheek applying ample pressure. Suddenly, the table below me gives way with a grinding clunking metal sound. My hip falls as well, forced by the pressure of the doctor’s hand. I have experienced similar treatment in the states, but never with this much noise involved or atop such an archaic chiropractic table. This is repeated several more times.

I am asked to sit in a chair. I know what is coming and I am inclined to vomit. Sweaty hands are placed on either side of my face. He is going to crack my neck. As he holds my head in his hands, I flash back to previous episodes of unbearable pain and loss of feeling in my extremities. Do I stop him? Or do I trust? The moment of consideration is gone with one swift twist and crack, repeated quickly by three more in succession. Please God, Buddha, Allah, Sheba, please do let this man mess me up. He pulls away and asks me to stand.

Okay, so there is a bit of pain in my mid back, a bit in my low back, but overall I feel okay. Even better, the shooting pain in my hip is gone when I stand. Good enough. Thanking the doctor we leave.

As I sit in the cab, I can’t help but feel grateful. Grateful to be able to stand again without shooting pain. Grateful that my face is not numb. Grateful that I found one of 7 chiropractors in the entirety of Mendoza. Grateful to have one more day. For me, there may not be so many more days that my body will sustain such travel torture. I must enjoy this while I can.

Mendoza Wine And Bike

The bus ride through the city to Maipu (pronounced My Poo) leaves us with three new Israeli friends. The “what stop should we get off at” conversation on the bus has tied us together. No longer strangers, we move off in a group to find our tour operator. We intend to rent bikes to ride around visiting the different vineyards that offer tastings and tours. Mr. Hugo’s bike rental is about 100 yards from the bus stop.

As we walk into the bike shop Mr Hugo himself hands us large glasses of wine and tells us to wait a few minutes while our bikes are readied. We make it through two glasses of wine before even mounting a bike. Already buzzed, I am secretly scared of the samplings and tastings ahead. Luckily I check my breaks within the first 100 meters. My back break does not work at all. Visions of flying over the handle bars persuade me to return the bike for a new one.

Round two is more successful. My water bottle and purse are in my handlebar basket. We are off. While riding to our first stop, I learn that one of our new Israeli friends, Illi, aspires to join the Navy Seals. He was so inspired after reading an autobiography about a navy seal who sacrificed himself for his friends/team, that he plans to join the few and the proud. He is even wearing socks that sport the American flag.

We veer off the road and park our bikes at the wine museum. Giant wood barrels stretch out before us. I am handed a glass of wine to drink while I tour the historical collection of machines and instruments used to transform a grape into vino.

Thank goodness I brought a giant cheese sandwich with me on this little excursion. I scarf my food before mounting the bike again and departing for the next vineyard. With a full stomach, I feel more stable as we ride off as a group. We peddle along the poplar lined road winding our way through grape fields.

The view from the terrace at the furthest winery we visit is amazing. While we sample three glasses, we have more opportunity to chat with our random Israeli friends. We learn that Itay, is a self proclaimed ladies-man and that Ellad is of Brazilian descent, but was adopted by an Israeli family. He is on a mission to find his birth mother in Brazil. Who are these people that we have found ourselves spending the day with?

As the wine keeps flowing, we make friends from Germany, Canada, Norway and The States. We chat, of what, I could not tell you exactly. Around 6pm, the winery kicks us out. Back to the bikes. The ride back is concentrated. I take care to watch my speed, every bump in the road and every car. Drunk on wine and riding bikes sounds like something the parents would frown upon. I should be careful. Once we hit Mr. Hugo’s bike shop I sigh with relief. I managed to avoid drunken death. Horaaay.

The Desert

The day starts as any other travel day. Our plans include renting bikes to ride to some ancient ruins in the morning and touring the Valley Of The Moon in the afternoon. The afternoon tour is to be the first of two tours we had already paid for. The second tour taking place the following afternoon is the one I am the most excited about. We will see salt fields and deep turquoise lagoons that we will have the opportunity to swim in. The salt flats specifically are on my “top 5” things I want to see in South America. With our two day stay planned out, I feel quite content. We even have our bus ticket to Argentina booked.

After breakfast, we pick our bikes from the rack of options at our hostel. Julie and I are off. Neither of our bikes are in pristine condition. We joke about their overall shitiness, but feel sure that we will be able to complete the 3km journey on any bike. It’s only 3km. The road is slightly bumpy with washboard conditions in places. However, it is a beautiful day and we can see one of South America’s tallest volcanoes in the distance. We are sure to get some good views as the ruins sit atop a large hill.

We have been riding our bikes all of 7 minutes and are congratulating ourselves on finding the right path when we come to a river. I am surprised by the amount of water for the desert. The red muddy flow is moving quickly and appears to have taken out the dirt road. After looking around for a minute, we spot a make-shift bridge that we are able to walk our bikes across. On the other side of the river, we jump back on and continue to peddle. Less than three minutes later there is yet another river cutting through the road. After looking around for a moment, we realize there is no bridge this time. Pedestrians approaching on the road from the other side have stripped off their shoes and socks. We decide that the river does not look too deep and we should be able to wade across while pushing our bikes. We laugh at the predicament, while we remove our shoes and socks. The water comes to our knees, but we make it across safely. We sit on the side of the bank letting our feet dry in the desert sun. When most of the water has evaporated we reapply our socks and shoes. Off we go again. Less than a minute further on, another river crosses the road. This river looks a little more daunting. A truck is stuck half-way across and the water covers the bottom third of the passenger doors. We are close, we can see the ruins in the distance. We walk up and down the river bank looking for the shallowest place to cross. After about 15 minutes of speculation and watching another more daring biker make the crossing, we strip off our shoes and socks again and cross the river. This time the current pushes at my bike as I cross and I almost fall several times. But finally, with feet soar from the river rocks, I make it. Again, we wait for our feet to dry before putting our shoes back on. Though it has taken us 45 minutes to ride less than 3km, my mood is good. What an adventure. Rivers in the desert. We find it amusing that no one in town, not the woman we rented the bike from, none of the people who we asked for directions had thought it important to mention the two river crossings.

We arrive at the ruins and they are very cool. We also have excellent views of the volcano.

The way back goes much more quickly. Knowing the path that is the shallowest, we cross the first river without much difficulty. We don’t bother to put our shoes back on between the two rivers. The second river is a piece-of-cake and the total time it takes us to get back from the ruins is about 25 minutes. I congratulate myself and Julie on being adaptable travelers. The morning was an adventure and lunch tastes that much better because we worked for it.

Our afternoon tour begins in the rain. Julie, myself and a man from France are the only people of 16 who decide to brave the rain to walk through a desert canon. The rest of the tour group remains in the van. I feel blessed to have the rain. Not only does it suppress the overwhelming desert heat, but I feel alone. The place is not over run with tourists and I find such a sense of peace amid the canon walls.

At our next stop the rain has lightened and more of the group decides to join in on this part of the excursion. We scramble up a mound of sand and salt for a gorgeous view of the strange rock formations that were created by an ocean hundreds of millions of years ago. We notice instantly that our hair is standing on end. The guide explains that the ground is rich in minerals and that this is a place of high energy. Atop the hill, we have a breathtaking view. I can only imagine that this is the closest landscape on earth to that of Mars. Cliffs drop abruptly and the ground is crumpled. Our hair stands on end even more. Lightening strikes in long bolts on the distant horizon and thunder reverberates off the rock. The atmosphere contributes to the otherworldly feeling.

One of our fellow tour members raises his hand above his head. A sound of strong static pierces the air. I try. As my hand shoots up into the air, I can feel a disturbance of energy and my body too produces the tingy sound reminiscent of an outdated radio that is struggling to find a signal. Now everyone is raising their arms and laughing at the sensation and sound. In a moment I am overwhelmed by the energy of this place. I can literally feel it, see it as it pulls at Julie’s hair and hear it every time I extend my hand. As I bring my arm in closer to my body the sound stops. I move my arms in and out realizing that the threshold for the sound occurs about a foot outside of my body (the range of the aura according to most energy workers). I feel happy, happy in a way that I have not felt in a long time. I am part of the energy of this place, connected. I am here, feeling this and it could not be more real. All of my senses are heightened.

The guide explains that he has never seen this before. He assumes that the phenomenon are a product of the rain and lightning. I feel incredibly lucky. For whatever the reason. I, we, these people I am with are blessed to have this experience. We are all laughing together as we raise our arms over our heads and check out how ridiculous we look with our hair standing on end.

We get back in the car and drive off to have a look at a salt mine, some more strange rock formations and salt deposits. These too are quite interesting. My mood is very cheerful and I chat in broken Spanish to the Chilean social workers that are part of our group. We all have a good laugh when I mix up words and accidently insult everyone calling the landscape dirty (sucio) instead of dry (seca).

As we drive back from the tour we chat about our plans for the rest of the time in San Pedro de Atacama. As it turns out, many of those on this tour plan to take the lagoon and slat flat tour the following day. It is at this time that our driver turns around and lets us know that the road to the lagoon and the salt flats has been closed due to the rain. “It hasn’t rained this much in at least five years” the driver explains. He assures us that we will get our money back. In an instant I change. It is as though my mood has been struck by lightning. What? I am not going to be able to go see the white salt fields (it doesn’t matter that I have just seen brown salt fields) and swim in the turquoise lagoons. Dread falls over me. I am suddenly pissed. No one else in the van appears to be fazed by the news. They are still smiling and joking. I try telling myself that I should be happy. I just got an experience that undoubtedly few people get. But no, I am not happy. The smiles on everyone else’s face only make me angrier. How the hell can they still be happy after hearing such news? What is wrong with them? I am pissed at myself too. I could have visited the white salt flats and lagoons in Bolivia, but had been told that the trip on the Bolivian side is very dangerous. 13 tourists had died on the trip in the last 2 years alone. I had decided against the excursion in Bolivia because I knew I could see very similar landscape in Chile and it would be much safer. But no, I would not be able to see it here either.

Back in town we all depart to our respective hotels. Power is out in town due to the lightening. Icing on my cake. It takes all of my energy to hoist a smile on to my face and wish my fellow travelers luck as we all say goodbye.

As we walk in the dark back to our hotel, I feel attacked. The world hates me and even worse, I hate me. What kind of a dumb ass am I? I should have visited the salt flats in Bolivia when I had the chance. I should not have let my hopes get so high. Furthermore, I hate myself for feeling this way. How can I let the lack of one experience so fully piss on another beautiful and unique experience? Tears well in my eyes.

The next morning I wake up pissed off. I am angry because the people next door have woken early and are making an enormous amount of noise as they pack to catch their bus. When I get up to pee, I find that both of the shared bathrooms are full. I stand in my pajamas and wait for ten minutes before someone finally vacates one of the bathrooms. I hate them for taking so long. By the time I brush my teeth, I am in tears. All of this over a canceled tour? What kind of 27 year old world traveler am I? I don’t have to go to work today. I can read and lounge around. Today’s tour is canceled, but I still have innumerable cool things ahead of me on this trip. Why can’t I let go of this one thing? Why can I just relax and roll with the punches? I have been in high spirits for most of the trip. Why now am I falling apart? A viscous cycle is underway. I grow more angry at myself for being angry.

After moping around and a bit of crying I decide to jump right in and be pissed off. I go for it. I fling myself into bed and cry. I tell myself It’s okay to be in a bad mood. It’s okay to be pissed. Maybe it has been too long since I have experienced the dark side of myself. Maybe the overwhelming joy of the day before tipped the scales too much. I am in the desert both physically and emotionally.

The moment I give myself permission to feel like shit, to be pissed at the world is the moment I start to feel better. Not great, but at least not a crying wreck of a person. I am in the desert now, but tomorrow, I board a bus off to somewhere new. This is travel. High highs and low lows.

Travelers

There are so many bizarre people traveling. For all of us, there is a portion of our spirit that craves the chaos, the uncertainty. This component might lay dormant for years, but once fed it returns like a street cat, clawing at the front door, moaning for attention. We are all drifters, more or less dirty; mostly more. Appearance falls to a last priority. Sweat and grime embed everything. There is no concern over what to wear each morning for there are only 4 options. Every item of clothing becomes shabbier by the day, stained and ripped but still worn. No one cares if they have a good hair day. Some even go so far as letting their hair nap into dreadlocks.

We pack and unpack, sleeping in a new bed every few nights. Sometimes we have our own room. Often we find ourselves in a dormitory surrounded by eight or nine sleeping bodies sprawled on bunk beds. More than not, the mattresses we sleep on dip in the middle. This is uncomfortable, but helpful if you find yourself on the top bunk as you are less likely to roll off in your sleep. Towels, underwear and swimsuits hang from ladders and the frames of the bunk beads. Shared bathrooms collect hair and grime. Some of us can’t remember the last time we let the skin on our asses touch the toilet seat. The personality that can handle this over months is an odd one.

This morning I relax in a hammock in the common area of the hostel. In addition to mine, there are 3 other hammocks strung around a courtyard. Several large chairs are also positioned facing toward the center courtyard. All of the dormitories and rooms enclose this common area. Dormitory A houses 16 beds. Beside each is a locking chest (assuming you brought your own lock) barley large enough to fit all of your things. In dorm room B, another 14 beds can be found. All told, the 3 dormitories and 4 private rooms house 54 people who shared 4 bathrooms. 54 people all on different schedules, some raise early. Others sleep late and party into the morning.

In the hammock next to me, there is a young mother dozing with her toddler son draped over her body. They are both limp, paralyzed by sleep. The mother’s long brown hair hangs casually over the hammock edge swaying in the breeze. The small child is dressed only in a diaper. His toe-head nestled at his mother’s breast. Their family took a private room at the hostel two days ago, the same day we arrived. Father, mother, 8 year old daughter and baby all on the road.
During the daytime, the parents cook for their children and work tirelessly on beaded necklaces, bracelets made of elegantly twisted wire, and earrings of varied stones and shells. They support their little family from hostel to hostel. Fellow travelers purchase their merchandise, displayed upon a folding table that is carry with them. While her mother sleeps, the daughter has made a small fort out of cushions pulled from the surrounding chairs. I wonder what the children must think of the other backpackers. The Brazilian guy with the snake tattoo over his jaw, the hoards of Israelis recently freed from their mandatory army stint, hippies, holiday seekers, Spanish students, and every oddity in between . Everyone is in a varied state, hung-over, fresh from a shower, prepared to go out on a hike, eating, talking, playing cards, drinking (some as soon as they wake up) or on a lap-top checking email. Lonely planets, cameras, sunscreen, MP3 players, towels, and flip flops are abundant.

I pull myself up from my hammock. I hate having to pee in the communal bathroom. As I hover above the seat, I notice a dried bloody loogie stuck to the folds of the shower curtain. Looks like someone’s coke problem might be getting a little out of control.

I walk by the bare bones kitchen in the hostel. The three Italians that we partied with the night before are in the midst of cooking lunch. The two men are working on something over the stove. Each is dressed in the typical uniform of a male traveler: shorts, t-shirt and flip flops. My eyes immediately gravitate to a giant block of cheese that their female companion is cutting. Real cheese. I have not seen good cheese since Guatemala. She is cutting a chunk off of what looks like a 10 lb block. I stroll over to Gretchen (I hope that is her name). “Hi there,” I smile. Self-consciously she readjusts the fifteen or-so bracelets that she wears on her left arm. Now they nearly cover the many scars that run across her forearm from wrist to elbow. I caught her with her guard down. She was and maybe still is a cutter. I have learned that discussing such things is unwise. Each of us has our own scars, some are just more visible than others. Sensing her discomfort, I try and keep my eyes fixed on the cheese.

“Did you find that here? I have been looking for cheese everywhere.”
“Oh, no. We brought it from Italy.”
“You brought that all the way from Italy?”
“Yeah, we each brought one.” She gestures to her two friends. “We all carry one in our backpacks.”
“What a brilliant idea.” I tell her.

“Hey you cunt.” A guy with a blond mop of hair strolls up to us. He holds a beer in his hand and takes a long pull from it. Despite his rude comment, I smile. I should never have taught Winston, an impressionable 18 year old Austrian boy that swear word. Never again. He asked me two nights ago what the worst word in the English language was. I told him. After that, I spend 20 minutes trying to convey the severity of the word. I made it very clear that this word should only be used in the most extreme situation.

“I have probably only said that word 3 times in my whole life.” I explained, offering up “Douche bag” as a great alternative for every day profanity. Unfortunately, I also had to explain exactly what a douche bag is. But for some reason, he took a liking to the former word.

“You are going to get your ass beat one of these days if you keep saying that.” I tell him.
“Yes, but I like it. I think it is a good job.” He also picked up “good job” from us, but always manages to use it slightly out of context. Winston makes me laugh. He reminds me of myself when I first ventured out into the great wide world.

Rolda, a German woman in her 20s is washing dishes in the large wash basin. Rolda has been with her new man for 4 months and is quite sure she is in love. In any other circumstance they would be an unlikely couple, She is German, her lover, Juan is Nicaraguan. They met when Rolda spent several nights at this hostel where Juan works. At 5’6” she stands six inches taller than Juan. The lower 2/3rds of her head is shaved while the upper red -brown mane is tied up in a braid. It hangs eight inches off of the top of her head. Neither fat or thin, she still outweighs her partner by 40 pounds. A black v-neck t-shirt clings to her upper body revealing an abundant view of cleavage. She wears a red and black plad school girl skirt reminiscent of that worn by Britney Spears in her “Hit me baby one more time” music video. When the breeze hits the skirt just right, I get much more than I bargained for. Around her waist is a belt with a fanny pack like pouch that holds her 4 inch folding-blade knife.

In contrast, thin soft spoken Juan, wears a hat and vest. His jeans are the only part of the outfit that feels unlike the standard attire of a 50’s newspaper sales boy. Juan is a professional in the service industry that caters to the come-and-go of backpackers. He is friendly and speaks English well. The two of them take every available opportunity to make out. Juan sneaks up behind Rolda as she washes dishes. While she washes a plate, he sucks at her neck. She is leaving in one week. Upon departure she vows that the relationship will thrive against all odds. Both partners plan to figure out a way around visa requirements for each other’s countries. Her trip back to Germany for the holidays will last just long enough to sell her things.

Unable to watch the PDA any more, I tell the Italian crew that I will catch up with them later. I return to my hammock. I have hardly repositioned myself when Stephan walks over to me. He works at the hostel part time. This strung out French man has lived in Nicaragua for 15 years. The cheap price of coke is enough to keep him here for 15 more, or until he dies from his habit. In Stephan’s world, cocaine has replaced lunch and liquor suffices for dinner. His anorexic limbs swim in his t-shirt and jeans. Blue circles loomed under his deep set eyes. Wrinkles framed the corners of his eyes and the skin on his face has toughened under a consistent assault of cigarette smoke.

“You went home early last night.” He says to me.
“Ya, it was about 12:00. How late did you stay out?” I ask him.
“I’m still out.” He smiles wide, displaying smoke yellowed teeth.
“No rest for the wicked,” I joke. He gives me an all too knowing wink.
“You make me love so much.” He extends his hand for mine. He puts it against his heart. Then releasing it, “I must go finish working.” This kind of behavior always makes me a little nervous. Thankfully I am leaving this afternoon, never to see any of these people again. There will be no good byes. What kind of strange individuals will I meet on my next stop?

Llama Rescue and The Table Of Death

Lauca National Park covers the boarder between Bolivia and the north of Chile. It is not a place all that many tourists visit, so we decided to avoid the crowds and give it a try.

The volcano.

This plant grows over the rocks. It has medicinal benefits for diabetes and asthma. It can live up to 180 years. Every night, it secretes an ooze that covers the entire plant and protects it from the cold. When the sun comes up, the ooze evaporates.

We stopped at a small pueblo in the middle of the reserve. The church in the town was built in the 1600s. Within the church, the guide pointed out this table that was tied to a support beam. Should the table go untied, he assured us, it will walk around town at night. If a family wakes to find the table in front of their house, it is an omen that a family member will die soon.
And that is why the table must be tied up. Makes sense to me.

During one of our small wonderings away from the truck, we encountered a llama stuck in a ditch. Our guide said that the llama would freeze to death if he was not rescued. Julie and I were sure the llama was doomed. Llama bones scattered the ground (sometimes they get killed by foxes or freeze) and we thought this llama would be no different. We started asking ourselves if we should deviate from our tour to drive to a town to get a rope, when our guide pulled off his jacket. Straddling the water, he grabbed the llama by the wool and pulled. The llama gave a giant groan before landing on the bank. The guide explained that llamas are not all that heavy, they just look large because of all the wool.

The wildlife was wonderful; flamingoes, a strange bunny like creature (with spectacular whiskers), Andean geese and of course vicunas.

The town of Putre, where we stayed for 2 nights to access the reserve was one of the coldest places I have ever been.

La Paz, Dead Baby Llama Fetus Anyone?

La Paz is the highest capital in the world. Situated between towering mountains, I struggle to catch my breath climbing up and down the city streets.

The markets are filled with colorful goods and people.

At the witch craft market, you could buy statues of different gods and spirits as well as dead baby llama fetus to bury in your yard for good luck.


There were also some really cool churches and colonial buildings.